UPDATE: The winners are…Terra Oenning, Alison Rush, and Tabitha Parrish!
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I love writing short stories. I used to submit short stories to publishers all the time because writing short, getting to The End quickly, gave me a rush. Writing short also gives me a chance to try new things out without a lot of risks. I “graduated” to editing and publishing my own collections of short stories because I love the process of seeking stories from talented officers, making choices regarding which stories work together, editing every precious word, and then sending the book out into the world for readers to enjoy. I’m working on volume #6 of my Boys Behaving Badly Anthologies right now—Cowboys—that I think you’ll like. It releases on October 12th! The book is a big thick volume of shorties, and it’s dirt cheap—just $0.99. No excuses at all for anyone not to pick up a copy! Click on the cover of Cowboys to pre-order your copy now!

You can check out the first five by clicking on the covers. And yes, they are all just $0.99—not because they’re not worth full price, but because the authors of these stories want as many people as possible to devour their stories! They’re a great deal and great way to find new-to-you authors!

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Excerpt From “Bountiful Lust” inside Blue Collar…

Bulldog gave me the evil eye as we walked toward the small, clapboard house on the bad side of town. “Shit goes sideways,” he said, “you stand back and let me handle it.”

I offered him a non-committal nod. “Think Mrs. Holcomb will give you that much trouble?”

He snorted and skewered me with a narrow-eyed glare.

“Ooh,” I said in my best little-girl voice and gave an exaggerated shiver, hoping he’d trip over his big feet. Not that I had to pretend my reaction too much. Something about the big burly guy did it for me. His face was too manly to be handsome—square jaw, crooked nose, laser-sharp blue eyes. Thick, gold-brown hair dusted the collar of his jacket. His six-foot-four, heavily-muscled frame made me feel feminine and soft and all those other useless qualities I despised in “helpless” females. Go figure—the thought of those big, hard hands rasping over my skin made me tremble.

At Mrs. Holcomb’s door, I knocked.

No response.

I knocked again. Still nothing.

Bulldog stepped to the left and peered into the window. “Don’t think anyone’s home. And since this is his address of record…” He backed up and raised a booted foot.

“Really want to knock down her door?” I pulled my lock-pick kit from my back pocket and knelt in front of the knob. A couple of twists of my tools, and the lock snicked. I turned the knob and quickly moved away from the door, giving way to Bulldog as he grumbled something under his breath about smartass women and strode inside.

Bulldog’s big frame filled my view, so I was taken by surprise when he cussed and rushed toward a hallway.

A crash sounded in a distant room. Light from an open doorway in the back glared as he ran through it. I followed, watching as our target ran for the chain link fence and vaulted it.

Bulldog cussed again, placed a hand on the top of the fence, but when he swung over his big body, the thin metal running through the top caved, and he fell to the dirt.

I picked another spot farther down the fence, grabbed a post and swung over, landing on my booted feet and shooting down the alleyway.

Behind me, I heard grunts and more curses, and finally, “Dammit, Buttercup, wait for me!”

I wasn’t waiting for shit. Lenny moved fast for a big boy. He was almost at the end of the alley. If I didn’t catch him quickly, I’d lose sight of him, and we’d lose our paycheck. With my breaths coming fast and sweat trickling into my eyes, I sped up, reaching out with my fingertips to snatch a handful of his shirt. With the fabric in my fist, I drew back and swung him.

He went sideways, but he didn’t go down. He twisted out of my grasp and raised his fists, his eyes widening as he looked me up and down, an ugly sneer stretching across his equally ugly face.

He swung.

But I was ready, ducking beneath and coming up to drive my fists into his fat gut, then bouncing back to avoid the next wide swing.

When he didn’t connect, his swing carried him forward, and he turned.

I rocketed to his back and wrapped my arm around his throat, grasping my fist to keep my arm in place, as he staggered then went to his knees, his fingers scratching my arms before reaching backward to pull my hair.

But he didn’t get a hank. His body crashed forward, bringing me with him, because my arm was trapped beneath his thick neck.

Boots pounded the pavement then slowed.

“Buttercup, need a hand?”

I wheezed, trying to drag in a breath as his weight crushed me against the pavement. “Roll him so I can get back my arm.”

Lenny’s body rolled to his side.

Bulldog lowered his boot then bent to offer me a hand up. His gaze went to the thick scratches on my arms.

Blood ran in rivulets from the deep gouges.

“Goddammit.” Bulldog’s scowl was scary as he blew out a deep breath, and then reached behind his neck to pull his T-shirt over his head.

He tossed it at me.

All I could do was stare at the grayscale tattoos covering his shoulders and chest, disappearing into his jeans.

“Wrap this around your arm. You’re gonna bleed all over my truck.” Then he went down on one knee and locked cuffs around Lenny’s fat wrists. When he stood, he kicked the low-life in the ass.

After we’d dropped Lenny at the jail, Bulldog remained silent as we drove.

My arm stung like hell, so I was fine with the quiet for the first while.

His expression was so dark, I didn’t dare try to make small talk. When he missed the turnoff to the agency, I straightened and darted a glance his way. His narrowed gaze swung toward me, daring me to say a word. I sat back, my heart thudding hard inside my chest. Just how pissed was he?