Bent is broken in body, mind, and spirit. Complications of an injury plague Angel Fire’s legendary bassist. He’ll never play again. Never take the stage with his bandmates. Never soak in the intoxication of the crowd. Music has abandoned him.

At least that’s what he’s told his overly persistent physical therapist, Piper. The woman is petite and vivacious, a pixie with red hair and a spitfire attitude. She doesn’t know when to give up, or when to shove her perpetual positivity into the deepest, darkest hole.

He’s fired her more times than he can count. She should leave him to his misery, but the woman won’t take no for an answer. She challenges him. Pushes him. She never lets up. The fiery pixie is turning his entire world upside down, and that’s pissing him off.

Bent desperately needs Piper to leave him alone—especially since the infuriating woman is now invading his dreams and stirring up his darkest fantasies. But how does someone get rid of a perky pixie?

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Chapter 1

Bent

“Time to get up, Mr. Growly Bear.”

An overly energetic voice sang the annoying nickname with far too much enthusiasm. Bent cringed and prayed he’d remembered to turn the lock on his door. His perpetually positive physical therapist had returned like a bad STD.

He kicked her out. She came back.

He fired her. She showed up the next day.

He locked her out and she was back for another round.

“Go away!” His deep bass rumble did nothing to dissuade the energetic Piper Raines. The wench was like crack on a stick, one perky, nonstop ball of energy.

He hated perky, unless they were tits.

“Not happening!” The lock to his door clicked and the knob turned.

When the fuck did she get a key?

“Forest!” No one else but Forest had a key to his room.

“Forest isn’t here, Mr. Growly.” Her lilting sing-song voice grated on his nerves. Like an ice pick to the eye, her perpetual positivity made him want to punch something.

“Did Forest give you a key?”

“How else was I going to get in?”

“You don’t get to get in. I fired your ass.”

“And Forest hired me right back. It’s for your own good.”

She opened the door and held a bag easily half her size in her arms. The petite redhead hip-checked the door, closing it behind her with a thud. She scanned the room and then frowned. Her pert nose turned up as the corners of her lips curved down.

“Phew! When’s the last time you took a shower?”

About three days ago when she’d chased him into the bathroom and forced him to climb inside the shower. The little wench had even threatened not to leave until she was satisfied he was at least attempting to accomplish the ADL.

A-D-L.

Now those were three foul letters. He hated them. Activities of Daily Living are what they stood for, and he failed at most of his ADL tasks. Piper took that as encouragement to subject him to even more torture.

Sharp and grating, her voice hit the high notes with her crystalline pipes. Ash’s wife, Skye, called Piper’s voice angelic. He had another word for it. Her unusual voice stabbed at his skull and exacerbated the pain of his hangover.

He could use a drink right about now.

Drugs were no-go territory for the band. After Ash’s rehab several years back, the band had sworn a pact to never touch drugs, but alcohol remained firmly on the menu. Ash was the only one who didn’t drink, but the rest of the band had no problems tossing back one or two, or more. He’d tossed more than a few back last night.

“You saying I stink?”

“No.” She dropped her bag and placed both hands on her hips. “I’m saying this whole place reeks. You’re just the worst offender.”

“How can you smell me from way over there?”

“Because you reek! Please tell me you’ve showered since Friday?”

He wouldn’t do that, because he wasn’t a man who lied, especially to beautiful women, even ones as obnoxious as Piper. And he hadn’t showered because—he ran a hand through the dirt and grime of his hand—because it was too damn hard. ADL his ass.

He glanced at his hand: a puny, little freak hand.

That’s what his hand looked like and it was attached to an even worse horror. A pale, skinny appendage had somehow joined itself to his body. The offensive thing had replaced the thick muscles of his forearms and biceps and destroyed all the definition in his arm.

The arm was a foreign looking thing. He refused to accept it as his, and it worked for shit. He couldn’t grasp a bar of soap, brush his teeth, tie his shoes, or hold a damn fork. Thus, no showering since Friday.

Pitiful. Weak. And ruined.

That arm epitomized everything wrong with his life and made a mockery of all that he’d worked for. Like his career.

“Your silence speaks volumes, Mr. Growly.”

“Stop calling me that,” he said with a growl.

“Riiiiight!” Her laughter tinkled like bells. “Because there’s nothing big, scary, and growly about you.”

“I’m not scary.”

Not anymore.

Being weak didn’t sit well with him. Not when he’d always been one of the strongest, tallest, and fiercest men. With the exception of Forest, who was nothing if not a reincarnation of a Norse god, Bent towered over other men.

Ryker Lyons, Angel Fire’s stand-in bass player-recently separated from the Air Force-met him at eye level. But even Ryker’s intensive physical conditioning couldn’t match Bent’s bulk. The rest of his bandmates looked up to Bent, and while ripped, they had lithe frames when compared to the badass of the band. The man who took two, three, or more women to bed with him every night. And that wasn’t an exaggeration. Bent’s brawn elicited respect. His presence commanded attention. And he’d been blessed with above average good looks. Not to mention, he was a fucking rock star. Sex on a stick is what women called him.

He was a man people noticed.

Bent’s muscles bunched upon muscles. Women drooled when presented with his staggering physique. They eagerly ran their hands up and down his powerful arms and fluttered their fingers across his broad shoulders. Invariably, they worked a steady path down the rippling terrace of his abs to discover what lie beneath the Adonis V of his hips. It was there where they worshiped him, sucking at the glory that was his impressive cock.

Or, at least they had.

Before the accident.

Before his arm had literally been bent in two.

Snap! Snap!

Bent blinked at tiny fingers snapping in front of his face. Piper had to practically stand on tiptoe to get his attention, and she stood too damn close. Smelled too damn good, like roses and pixie dust, she was an intoxicating combination.

He took a step back.

“You were spacing out again,” she chided. “It’s rude to ignore someone when they’re speaking to you.”

A downward glance gave him the perfect view of Piper’s twin perky assets. The girl’s body was tight, toned, and fucking hot, and she never wore a bra. The creamy expanse of her breasts filled out her tight tee, lifting the fabric away from her chest and giving him one hell of a view. Her tits weren’t large. A generous B cup, or maybe tiny C’s. Didn’t matter, because he didn’t want anything to do with Piper or her perky tits. Except maybe…

He shook his head and back-pedaled, placing distance between them. But Piper followed. Insistent wench.

She took his lame arm and ran her fingers over the scars. Three operations over the past four months had placed metal and screws into the bones, straightening his arm out, but damage remained. Perhaps, permanent nerve damage.

That had been what his Ortho doc had thought at the last visit. They were to give it another six months. They? He laughed. Like they were a fucking team. It was his damn arm. His fucking hand that refused to work. His fingers which twitched and could barely grasp a cup, let alone finger a guitar or a woman.

He ripped out of her grip. “Stop that.”

“It’s my job, Growly.”

“It’s my fucking arm.”

“Well, no shit Sherlock. Now that we have that established, let’s talk about why you haven’t showered.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“At least we agree you have not in fact showered. Now, why is that?”

Shit.

“Cause, I spent my weekend fucking and drinking.”

Only one of those was true. She didn’t take the bait. Wench simply changed the topic with a beautiful smile and arch of her brow.

“I’ve got something I want you to try.” She said. “We’ll work on holding the soap later. If you won’t do it, I—”

“How many times do I have to say it? You’re not helping me in the shower.” Except she’d helped him shower more times than he cared to remember.

“Like I’d want to get near any of that.” She made a vague gesture at the rest of his physique.

If he didn’t regain the use of his hand by his next checkup, a visit to the neurologist was in his future. And if he didn’t regain use of his arm, the rest of his body would slowly follow. It was impossible to keep up with his demanding gym regimen when his arm didn’t work.

She flashed her cornflower blue eyes at him, fluttering her lashes over the high ridges of her cheekbones. Damn, but why did her eyes have to be the one color he couldn’t resist?

Because God hated him. That was the only answer that made sense.

“Now that’s a lie,” he said with a rumble.

“What’s a lie?”

“That you don’t want a piece of me.”

“Right, because egomaniacs are my go-to kind of guy. Don’t worry Bent, I am most definitely not interested in any of that.”

After the abysmal failure of last night, he couldn’t handle another rejection and countered.

“Don’t knock it ‘till you try it.”

Secretly he hoped she jumped at the chance. Women were all the same. Eager cunts who only wanted one thing from a rock star.

“Considering I don’t know where that thing’s been, I don’t think I’ll be knocking that…that…” Her face reddened with frustration. “That thing anytime soon.”

He laughed.

“What’s so damn funny?”

“That thing?” he parroted back. “What’s wrong Piper? Afraid to say the word dick?”

She rolled her eyes, but then her gaze slipped, and landed right on his crotch. Exactly where his dick had taken notice and was now standing proudly at attention.

Fucking Piper could be fun. Except the thought of a meaningless fuck with her twisted his stomach. Now that was new.

Where had that come from?

“I’m not going to discuss your thing,” she said. “Unlike the brainless groupies who think you’re God’s gift to womankind, I know better. And I have no interest in your…your dick. What I do have an interest in is my job and your future. That begins, and ends, with aggressive physical therapy.”

He didn’t care about the damn future. He cared about right now. About the heavy ache in his balls which hadn’t been released in far too long.

With the pale, withered excuse of an arm attached to his body, his dick hadn’t been getting the workout it was used to. The groupies drew back. Shock, horror, and worse—revulsion—showed in their expressions. Girls no longer crawled to his feet, or fell to their knees before him. Bash, Spike and Noodles hogged all the attention, while he suffered through unsatisfying fist-fucking, forced to jack off with the wrong damn hand. And he’d tried with the bad hand. God how he’d tried. But how was a man supposed to chase his release using a hand that didn’t work?

His gaze cut to the unused guitar sitting in the corner of his room. He’d tried to play it once, well over a month ago, right after his cast had come off. The arm had revolted him then, but he’d had no idea how broken he really was.

Bent and Broken. Now wasn’t that the worst joke?

It wasn’t funny at all. There was nothing funny about broken dreams.

Piper spun on her heels and headed to the bathroom. A few seconds later, she had the shower turned on.

“You have ten-seconds to start your shower.” She popped her head out the doorway, her red pixie hair stuck out in all directions and her long bangs framed the fierceness of her baby blues.

“Or what?”

She lifted her phone. “Or I call for back up.”

“You said Forest was off gallivanting around the globe.”

“He is, but Ryker is just itching for my call. I can’t wait to watch him toss you in the shower.”

Knowing Ryker, he wouldn’t just toss Bent in, he’d crank on the cold water first, then shove, and hold Bent under the frigid stream. Ryker was used to going without the creature comforts in life.

Bent tilted his face to the ceiling and closed his eyes. “Fuuuuuck!”

His pixie didn’t play fair.

Get your copy of Bent’s Story, Hearts Collide, in the next installment of the Angle Fire Rock Romance Series

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An Angel Fire Rock Romance; a Stand Alone Novel
When you mix Hot Rockers with Military Special Ops You get the Whole Package!

Take a peek at the first few chapters…..

You can read Chapter 1 here

Chapter 2 continues here….

An Angel Fire Rock Romance; a Stand Alone Novel
When you mix Hot Rockers with Military Special Ops You get the Whole Package!

Chapter 1

Hell would be paradise compared to this wasteland. Every breath seared Major Tia Meyers’s lungs. The air was too damn thin, sucked away precious moisture, and crisped the soft, spongy tissues of her lungs. The fault lay in the rugged, mountainous terrain of Afghanistan. Her lips cracked. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Sweat didn’t linger long enough to dampen her fatigues. And her head? It pounded with each step.

She sipped water from the tube attached to the CamelBak tucked into her ruck. She hadn’t peed in hours. Frankly, that wasn’t such a bad side effect of dehydration. As the only female member of a six-man team, not having to squat in the middle of the desolate landscape came as a welcome relief. She would pee when she was dead.

“Doing okay, T?” Lieutenant Colonel Mike Collins called to her over his left shoulder.

The determination of his stride pushed the entire team forward at a relentless pace. He didn’t ask how any of the others were doing. He didn’t need to because the rest of the team was male. Assumptions were a bitch, but she learned to fight the battles that truly mattered and ignored all other slights against her gender.

Collins led their team. He was their trauma surgeon and the shortest man. Only a few inches taller than her, he barely broke six feet. All the others on the team were ripped and stacked, alpha males with plenty of muscles and endurance and egos too big for their heads. Tall and wired with ropes for muscles, Collins was lean, whipcord strong, and demanded nothing but the best from his team. A person might discount him, but his endurance put the rest of the team to shame. The man ran ultra-marathons for fun.

“I’m fine, Colonel,” she said, stepping up her pace. Damn, when had she fallen so far behind?

Technical Sergeant Ryker Lyons glanced at her, his eyes narrowing with concern. As their team’s respiratory technician, she worked closest with him and dealt with his overbearing protectiveness far too much.

If he were an ugly bastard, she’d be able to deal with his looks and assumptions with far more grace, but Lyons had been breaking hearts from the day he was born. A stunning man, he had a smile that made it impossible to hate him. A prominent jaw framed his face. Twining cords of muscles shaped and defined his entire body. Everything about him was strong, powerful, and male. From his thick arms to his broad shoulders, his physique continued down to a ripped abdomen angling to muscular thighs. No one feature made Lyons handsome, but those eyes of his turned women stupid, needy, and horny as fuck, and his smile, at once genuine and mischievous, was a heart-thudding, sexy-as-fuck, irresistible force. The pull was real, irresistible even. When he lifted his cheeks and broke out that grin, his entire being illuminated with charisma and sexual charm. She fought the force of it every day.

If it wasn’t for her fiancé waiting back home, she might give in. Not that she’d ever sleep with Lyons, but he had certainly starred in one or two of her dreams along the way. She was engaged, not dead. Afghanistan nights were long and lonely, but dreams were harmless things.

He had lots to say with his eyes. His concern and overprotectiveness were more frequent than she liked. Beneath his look, a simmering lust lingered, and his eyes were as suggestive as they were protective.

People often spoke of the color of a person’s eyes, as if that were important to their character. She didn’t have a preference. Hers were the darkest brown, nearly the same color as the coal black of her hair. Her fiancé, Scott, had chocolate-colored eyes, deep wells of affection and love. She could lose herself in them for hours. With her olive complexion and his natural tan, they would make stunning babies one day.

Lyons’s eyes were a brilliant Amazon green—bright, vibrant, and shocking. They said people with green eyes were lustful creatures, and Lyons had her believing that myth because he never lacked female companionship. The problem was, when he turned those eyes on her, she would stare back longer than socially acceptable, and she hated how her thoughts tangled. She was probably sending the wrong signals to a man she had little interest in. Not that she could help herself. It was nearly impossible to look away.

Tempered by a ferocity barely kept in check, Lyons had been created to protect and defend those weaker than himself. Whatever he held dear, whomever he cared for, they bore the full brunt of that innate intensity. His fuck-me gaze brought women to his bed and taunted her at every turn. Not that there would ever be anything between them. Not only was she engaged, but she was also an officer. He was enlisted. That, more than anything, would keep them apart. Besides, his bed was an ever-revolving fuckfest of horny enlisted females. If he had any interest in her, which he didn’t, she would shut him down. It didn’t help that he was a horrible tease and probably couldn’t turn it off if he tried.

Even if it wasn’t for her fiancé, rules and regulations against fraternization would keep her and Lyons separate. The worst part? Lyons knew he was a badass. He was a force of destruction, a bad boy with the girls, and he tore through hearts with the same ferocity he brought to the field. Arrogance came with that knowledge, and he wore it like a badge of honor.

She didn’t have time for games like that or men like that.

Lyons’s gaze continued to linger. His eyes strayed to the heavy pack on her back, and then he returned his attention to her face where he traced every feature, as if he were absorbing her into his soul. Her jaw clenched, and she hooked her thumbs under the shoulder straps of her ruck and jogged past him. He met her glare with an uplift of his left eyebrow. His grin, complete with requisite dimples, filled his face while he took humor in whatever was going on in that head of his.

Staff Sergeant Mike Warren huffed beside Tia. The silent one of the bunch, their surgical tech carried the blades, the retractors, forceps, sutures, and everything the surgeons needed in his pack. Many people overlooked surgical techs, but Warren carried himself with a quiet dignity and an endless reservoir of strength.

Each member of the special ops surgical team was vital to saving lives at the front lines, behind the front lines, and basically anywhere in between the lines.

She hefted the pack on her shoulders. A glance at Lyons revealed the faintest shimmer of perspiration on his brow, but with the dry air, it disappeared between one moment and the next. She felt better about not being the only one pushing herself. They all forged ahead, pitting their endurance against the rigorous terrain.

Collins raised his fist, and everyone came to a sudden stop. They took a knee and crouched on the ground.

“Five minutes,” he said. A glance at the map had his features screwing into a mask of concentration.

She crab-crawled over to him, balancing the weight of the pack. It almost pulled her over, something she wouldn’t live down. Seventy pounds? Yeah, she’d be a turtle trapped on its back. Lyons would laugh his ass off. Warren would offer a hand. Collins would do nothing. He demanded she pull her weight and not slow down the team. For him, she had to earn every breath. The other two members of their team—their orthopedic surgeon, Major Drummond, and their emergency doc, Major Marks—might as easily help her or not. Those two tended to keep to themselves, which was fine. Their arrogance annoyed her most days, but they were beyond phenomenal physicians, smooth as silk under pressure.

“Need help?” she offered.

The terrain they humped could challenge the best navigator.

“We’re off target,” Collins said.

Agreed. It looked like they were hiking along the wrong ridgeline.

He waved a hand. “It feels…empty.”

Empty was an understatement. They’d been hoofing it for ten clicks. Dropped in far behind battle lines, their team headed into a hot zone. Wounded men, too critical for aeromedical evacuation, waited for her team to stabilize them before help could come. In this case, it meant emergency surgery in the field.

A glance upward revealed a featureless expanse of faded out blue. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Nothing but a bright ball of fiery brilliance blazed down on them, but even the sun seemed washed out. The air tasted dry and lifeless, and there was nothing but rock and sand as far as the eye could see. The entire world was desolate.

She examined the map. “Sir,” she said, pointing, “we can cross here.”

Indeed, the ridgeline they were supposed to be traveling lay across the valley from the one they occupied, but there was a way across.

Collins cursed and gathered the team. “Change of plans,” he said.

Everyone gathered round. Collins confirmed her assessment. If they were off course, it needed to be reported to command and control and their new route verified. Lyons lumbered over. He carried the radio gear, making his pack outweigh all the others.

Lyons called their position in, and while he spoke to command, she took a load off and shrugged out of her pack. Protocol demanded she keep a low profile, but she couldn’t help but stretch out the tight cords of the muscles of her neck and shoulders. The physical part of this job never let up.

The high-pitched whine of a bullet sounded moments before ricocheting off a rock to her right. Lyons leaped up, plowed into her, and slammed her to the ground. Her helmet hit a rock and cushioned her head from impact. Lyons’s entire body covered hers, every rock-solid muscle clenched with murderous intent as he protected the sole female in the group.

“Take cover,” Collins called out.

The team flattened themselves against the ground, providing minimal profiles to whoever had them in their sights.

She shoved at Lyons, not moving him an inch. “Move,” she said.

As he lay on top of her, his jaw clenched. “Not on your damn life.”

His gaze lingered on her face, radiating his primal need to protect. Time slowed down as the lethality of the moment sank in. A crescendo of what-ifs passed through her mind. What if she’d been a little more to the right? What if the shooter had better aim? What if she’d been hit? Or worse, what if she’d been killed?

Fear was a mind killer, and she had no time for it. So, she turned her fear into anger and directed it at Lyons. She could damn well take care of herself, but what she hated most were the vibrations humming in her veins with him lying on top of her. Perhaps he felt them, too, because his grin grew impossibly wide, even as the furrow in his brows deepened. The man was a master at expressing disparate emotions within the same glance. His left knee pressed between her legs, spreading them and making their relative position entirely too intimate. Under different circumstances, it might be considered a prelude to something more.

Whomever their sniper was, the bastard had either run out of ammunition or bravery because, after ten minutes, there were no more shots fired. Ten long minutes of Lyons lying on top of her with their faces entirely too close.

Tia’s team was armed and packed some heat, but medical gear filled their rucks, not bullets. It was impossible to know who was shooting, so they could be pinned down by a band of insurgents or a goat farmer with a rifle and a handful of bullets. Either way, that shooter had her team hunkered down and her trapped beneath Lyons.

Insurgents had been in the area. That was the reason they’d been sent out. There’d been a firefight, and men were down. Reports said the enemy had been neutralized. There shouldn’t be a shooter. Helicopters would be sent in soon, but before that, she and her team had lifesaving surgery to perform for two of the men attached to the special operations unit they’d been sent to assist. One had a collapsed lung. The other had his guts torn up. Their field surgeries stabilized and saved lives but weren’t pretty.

Getting to their target quickly couldn’t be more important.

Instead, they found themselves plastered flat against the heat of the rock. She found herself sandwiched between the hard ground and the unmoving physique of Lyons. His eyes bore into her, green fire lashing out, and the bastard refused to budge.

“Get off me,” she said, trying yet again to roll him off her body.

“No,” he said.

He was a man of few words, so she was surprised to get that much out of him.

“You’re making yourself an easy target,” she said.

“All the important bits are covered,” he said with a grin.

“Not your ass.”

“Oh, glad you care about my ass, T,” he said with more sarcasm than that comment deserved. That was the way with Lyons. He had no filter and no idea how to turn off inappropriate thoughts.

“The only reason I care about your ass is because, if something happens to you, we have to split your ruck.”

“You mean,” he drew out his words, toying with her, “the others will pick up the slack. You’re maxed with what you can carry.”

She’d punch him if it wouldn’t hurt her fist. Not only was Lyons packed with muscles, but his battle gear was also hard Kevlar. The ceramic ballistic plate on his chest pressed against hers, putting painful pressure on her breasts. She bit back a groan.

“I pull my weight,” she said, exacerbated. Like his sarcasm, her words were threaded with more defense than they should be.

With a shove, she moved him enough to wriggle out from underneath his weight. He landed with a thud and a whoosh of breath. Served him right.

“What’s wrong T?” he teased. “Get nervous when the man’s on top?”

Her glare could’ve frozen hell, but with Lyons, it only amped up the heat simmering in his gaze. The man simply didn’t know how to turn off his fuck-me eyes. Fortunately, she had the best defense.

“You wish. I’m taken, Lyons, so stop trying.”

“Oh, everyone knows you’re taken,” he said. “You talk about your douche-bag boyfriend all the time.”

“Fiancé, Lyons,” she bit out. “Scott is my fiancé.”

“Right,” he said with a cheeky grin. “A douche bag who’s sent you what? One letter in the last two months. I’m telling you, if I had a woman like you, I’d send a letter a day with flowers and chocolate, minimum. I’d probably write a poem or sing you a song.”

“Well, good thing you don’t have a woman like me because I hate flowers. They wilt and die. Is that really what you want to tell your girl?”

He arched a brow. “What do you mean?”

“That your love for her is as fleeting and fragile as a wilted flower? Scott doesn’t do crap like that because he knows what that kind of gesture means to me.”

“You’re fucked in the head, T,” he said. “Can’t you just let a guy be a guy? Or is it always about who has the bigger balls? I feel sorry for the douche.”

“Stop calling him that.”

“What? Douche?” He shook with a soft laugh. “Hey, I just call it like I see it.”

“And how is that?”

“That guy has to be a total pussy—”

“You don’t know shit.”

“Really? You’re telling me there’s a heart under those brass tits?”

“Sergeant!” Collins cut Lyons off. “Show a little respect.”

She didn’t need Collins’s interference but appreciated him putting an end to Lyons’s shit-talk about Scott. Lyons shutting the fuck up topped high on her list of priorities, right after not getting shot.

There weren’t any more shots fired, but Collins wouldn’t risk his team until he was certain it was safe. Until they had eyes in the air, they were stuck on the ground. Good thing they had drones.

Read Chapter 2 here

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Ellie!

THREE DAYS and Heart’s Desire will be released! I’m very excited to get this book out into the world. It’s a wonderful blend of Rock Romance and Military Special Ops. When you open the pages, you’ll be transported to the rugged terrain of the Afghanistan mountains as you complete a grueling mission under relentless heat. You’ll be introduced to Major Tia Meyers, Certified Nurse Anesthetist for the Air Force Special Ops Surgical Team. She’s the only female of this elite six-man team. If that isn’t hard enough, her respiratory therapist, Technical Sergeant Ryker Lyons makes it hard to focus on the mission with his good looks and indomitable charm. That’s okay, though, because Tia has someone waiting for her at home, at least until a Dear Jane letter finds its way to her. Once that happens, the spark will fly between Tia and Ryker. How does that make this a rock romance? LOL…you’ll have to read the book to find out.

Grab your copy of Heart’s Desire now. It’s available on Amazon, iBooks, Nook, and Google Play. You CLICK HERE to snag your copy and get swept away in this amazing all star romance.

The release of a new books is always an exciting endeavor. Months of preparation goes into the writing, marketing, and release of a book, from concept to writing, revisions to edits, it’s a joy to bring these characters to life. I love to create characters and put them into difficult situations. From there I sit back and let them work things out. They generally surprise me with how creative they can be. At some point in the writing, I’m no longer creating. My characters take on life, personalities, and toss me their own twists and turns. This is what makes writing so much fun. I’m never really sure where the story is headed until the tale is spun out at the end.

I like to watch people and I use people from all around me, but I always instill a little bit of me into the characters, and Jet! (he’s in all the men in some shape or form) I try to give them some of my own values, but just a touch…a hint.

Major Tia Myers is a strong female who is working hard in a man’s world. I’m a bit like her. I was in the Air Force and drew heavily from my experiences when writing this story. I’m also medical, although I’m not a CRNA. TSgt Ryker Lyons is a character I drew from many of the respiratory technicians I’ve worked with over the years. And the setting for Bagram comes from the stories and pictures all my brothers and sisters in arms shared with me over the years.

HEART’S DESIRE is a rich tale of love and sacrifice. It’s about following your dreams and never letting them go. I’m very proud of this story. It was a joy to write Tia and Ryker’s story, and I know you’re going to enjoy them too.

HEART’S DESIRE releases this Thursday, June 7th. You can grab your copy on Amazon, iBooks, Nook, and Google Play. Just follow this link!

An interview with Major Tia Myers from

Heart’s Desire

Grab your copy now!

Major Tia Myers takes a seat on the folded metal chair. She holds herself with a regal presence and has me feeling a little uncomfortable. Odd, since as an reporter it’s usually me putting those I interview in the hot seat.

“Usually, I tell people to get comfortable, but…” I gesture to the bare office devoid of creature comforts. Like Major Myers, I’m also sitting on a bare metal chair. The only other piece of furniture is a beat up desk. Thankfully, we have air conditioning.

Not all are so lucky.

She gives a low, sultry laugh. “This is the Ritz compared to what I’m used to.”

We share a moment. Laughter is the best icebreaker when sitting down to interview a stranger.

This woman is knock dead gorgeous and I’m having trouble placing her ethnicity. Dark hair, dark eyes, and olive skin, she reminds me of a Greek Goddess. I decide Mediterranean blood runs in her veins. I won’t ask outright. I’ll find out when I dig into her background.

I’m a little excited to be honest. The flight into Bagram Airbase was long and grueling. I lost count of the number of countries I hit before getting here and my first class accommodations kept downgrading. I went from the lap of luxury crossing an ocean to practically sitting in the lap of a soldier on the final troop transport in. I wasn’t really in his lap, but those seats are pretty cramped and set tight together. The U.S. Military certainly doesn’t waste money on comfort or convenience. I’m lucky to be here at all, with the delays, and I’m told Major Myers could get called out at any minute.

“I appreciate you taking the time to answer some of my questions.”

She arches a brow, and I’m reminded she really didn’t have a choice. What is it they call it in the military? Oh, that’s right. I’m sure her commander volun-told Major Myers she would do this interview. At least she’s still smiling.

“It’s my pleasure. You work with who exactly?” Her question hangs between us.

I’ve been assigned to complete a human interest story about women in the military, specifically women who operate in special ops units. Secretly, I’m taking notes. I want to write a novel about a woman like this, but I do have a job to do first.

“I work for the local station. We’re hoping this piece is elevated to a national spotlight.”

“That sounds exciting. I’m sure it would be a great boost to your career.”

It definitely would. I’ve never done a national piece before. There’s lots of interest surrounding women in the military, those serving in special ops roles bring a certain incendiary reaction. I’m hoping to capitalize on that.

She straightens out the front of her BDU overblouse–battle dress uniform–I make a note of the military acronym. Despite her initial smile, she appears uncomfortable and definitely is only humoring me.

I launch into a well practiced speech. “Well, I think there’s a national dialogue about women serving in combat. I’d like to open up a conversation, explore the pros and cons. I’m certain you must have faced some opposition to securing your position on the team?”

“Special Ops is difficult for everybody, being male or female doesn’t really matter. There are many men who don’t have the physical or mental makeup to survive in this role. Many women as well.”

Her answer sounds scripted, reminding me how often she’s had to defend her selection to the Special Ops Surgical Team. I stare at the woman before me, in awe of her beauty, and take a moment to see her without the lens of her femininity framing my assumptions. Major Myers is a tall woman, a few inches short of six feet. She’s well proportioned, not overly built with muscle, but solid. There’s a presence about her, a power, and beauty, and grace. She confuses me. I don’t think that’s the best way to describe her but it’s the best I come up with. She’s tall, lithe, but there’s a deadly air about her, a seriousness she wears like an old friend reminding me this woman has seen the horrors of war. Facing danger is a part of her job. I can’t relate to that and feel inadequate in her presence.

“Well, let’s start with some basic questions before we dig too deep in to other things.”

“Other things?” She’s arching that brow again. “You mean like how do I stack up against the men? Do I pull my own weight? Do they have to do more because there’s a woman on the team?”

I cringe because I’d hoped to save those questions for later, after I’d warmed her up to the interview. Fortunately, a knock on the door interrupts us, allowing me to regroup. Whoever it is doesn’t wait for an answer and barges in.

My jaw drops as I look upon a chiseled masterpiece of male splendor. I’m not over-exaggerating. He’s stunning with blazing green eyes and a grin designed to wet panties. He’s an alpha’s alpha, tall and stacked with muscles bunching on top of other muscles. I’m not drooling, although I can’t help but take a quick swipe at my mouth.

He acknowledges me with a quick jerk of his chin, then turns his heart-stopping green gaze on Major Myers. Something flickers in the air between them, a smoldering heat I don’t think I’m imagining. Only Major Myers barely moves. Her lips thin and a scowl creeps across her face.

“What’s up Lyons?” Her tone is abrupt and she gestures to me. “I’m a little busy right now.”

“Collins wants to debrief our last mission,” Lyons says with a twinkle in his eyes and heat smoldering in his gaze.

He has eyes only for her, and has completely forgotten about me. Which is fine. It gives me a chance to take him in and jot down a few notes for my novel.

“He told me to track you down and tell you to meet at the Med Center.” There’s a smile on his face and a light in his eyes as he looks upon the Major.

She shifts in her seat, the only acknowledgement of Lyons’s presence.”He set this interview up with Colonel Vane. Tell him I’ll get there ASAP.” Turning back to me, she dismisses Lyons.

He doesn’t seem fazed and flashes a mischievous smile. “I’ll tell him, T.” Turning to me, he tips his head. “Sorry to interrupt your interview, Ma’am.”

I can’t help but smile back, beaming at the brief seconds he acknowledged my existence. When he leaves, I look to Major Myers and can’t keep the unadulterated lust from my voice. “Who was that?”

She shakes her head. “That’s Tech Sergeant Lyons. He’s the RT on my team, and word to the wise?”

“Yes?”

“Stay far away.”

“Is he married?” I can’t help it, I’m interested in Lyons.

“No.”

I shake my head. “How do you manage to work alongside that?” I jab at the door with my pad of paper.

“With Lyons?” She laughs. “It takes a whole lot of patience. Now, if you’re going to get your interview, we’d better hurry. Collins doesn’t like being kept waiting.”

I’m no longer interested in my interview. My mind is spinning with these two. What is their story? Because I’m certain there is something simmering beneath the surface.

An Angel Fire Rock Romance; a Stand Alone Novel

When you mix Hot Rockers with Military Special Ops You get the Whole Package!

Heart’s Desire is releasing on June 7th! Preorder your copy now and read all about Major Tia Myers, aka ‘T’ and Tech Sergeant Ryker Lyons.