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Friday, February 3, 2017

Here's a snippet from the first book in the series. 


 In New York City, Dan Alexander, star pitcher for the New York Nighthawks, finished his vodka tonic in The Hideout, his favorite club in Hell’s Kitchen in Manhattan. Valerie Downs tossed her blonde hair and trained her brown eyes on him. The next step was taking her back to his spacious, Riverside Drive apartment and screwing her brains out.
His shifted his weight, put his glass on the bar, and stared at his hands. Not happening tonight. It wasn’t as if he didn’t enjoy the sex, but she insisted on staying the night. And the next morning, babbled on and on about her job in advertising and who was fucking whom, professionally and personally. He didn’t like her constant complaints, and he hated gossip. Growing up with three older sisters, he’d had enough gossip by the time he was twelve to last a lifetime.
So, regardless of her curves and ability to deliver a mind-numbing blow job, Valerie was growing old.
“Let’s blow this joint. Get it? Blow?” She laughed at her own joke.
“Yeah, uh. I get it. But not tonight. I’ve got an early practice tomorrow.”
“You’re not pitching ’til Monday.”
“I know. But practice starts tomorrow at nine.”
She made a face, pulling her mouth down in a most unattractive way. He helped her on with her coat and shrugged into his leather jacket. Then, he slipped fifty bucks into her hand.
“I’m putting you in a taxi.”
“Sometimes you’re a real dud, you know that?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry. Just not happening tonight.” He flagged down a cab and helped her in. Her mile-high heels almost tripped her up. He wondered how women walked in those things. And they all wore them. He stood for a moment, watching people coming and going from The Hideout. The women all looked the same. The men too. He smiled. Yes, he was dressed like the other guys.

“Buncha lemmings,” he muttered, as he whistled for another vehicle for himself.

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