Going In Two Directions

GOING IN TWO DIRECTIONS

Vonna Harper

I’m taking a break from writing erotica while focusing on two things. For one, I’m in the middle of a contemporary romance series that revolves around a ghost town. So much fun! There aren’t any real ghosts in the series—or are there?

As for the other thing that’s been claiming a lot of my time and will for who knows how long—My widowed neighbor’s MS is complicating her life and mind. She has no family nearby. Between shock over her husband’s unexpected death and the pandemic, she became a hermit. Then, shocked by the threat of foreclosure, she reached out to me for help. Whatever it takes, her financial advisor and I are committed to getting her into safe housing. The sweetheart deserves and needs a secure roof over her. 

I don’t want my readers to forget me so I’m going to dangle a bit of a carrot in front of you in the form of a .99 book in my dark erotica Carnal Journey series. Carnal Lesson is available as an ebook at Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes and Noble, Apple, and Kobo. Self-indulging Cheri finds herself a captive in a world ruled by powerful men. Their goal—to teach her to submit.

Here’s a sample---------------

Still upset, Cheri headed for her car in the nearly empty parking lot behind the Lounge. Darn her uncle Stevie. Sure he owned the bar, but that didn’t give him the right to call as she was getting ready to leave and insist she work tomorrow night. It wasn’t her problem that the weekday bartender was sick. She had more important things to do than pretend to care about tired businessmen complaining about their jobs. Of course she’d told Uncle Stevie he’d have to get someone else. Of course he’d tried to hand her his tired lecture about how she owed him. Just because Aunt Janet and he’d given her a roof over her head for nearly a year after her mother's death didn’t mean he could order her around now. Mixing drinks put her smack in the middle of the city’s weekend energy. Her job allowed her to be part of the in crowd.

To be part of something.   

At least her feet were no longer killing her, she acknowledged as she pulled her keys out of her back pocket. The sandals she’d put on after placing her heels in her work locker felt good. She intended to sleep in followed by a trip to a new women’s clothing store. She wouldn’t buy anything. Her goal was to compile a want list followed by a few well-placed hints to her lovers. Wouldn’t it be a laugh if all three wound up at the store at the same time and tried to buy the same items?

Trusting she could work things out, she remotely unlocked her new yet paid-for sports car. The headlights came on. Unfortunately, they didn’t do much to get rid of the surrounding dark. Just last week Uncle Stevie had had work done on the lighting back here. What had happened?  

Frowning, she looked around. The only other vehicle was a pickup with a shell. If someone was using the lot to sleep in—

Before she could finish the thought, the truck’s driver’s door opened and someone stepped out. The truck’s interior light revealed little.

“Good evening, Cheri,” a masculine voice said. “Oops, it’s after midnight, isn’t it? Good morning then.”       

What? “How do you know my name?” 

“You’ll learn soon enough,” he said as he headed toward her. “Right now I have certain tasks to perform.”

No one had ever aimed a pistol at her. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t comprehend what her eyes were trying to tell her. “No!” 

“Oh yes.”

Holding the pistol in both hands, he pointed it at her middle. Still not believing this was happening, she spun away. The puffing sound barely registered. Something sharp stabbed her side. A dart had penetrated her silk blouse. Damn it, the blouse was new!

Forget your clothes. Run. Escape.

She sprinted toward the lounge. Her first three strides felt strong, the next not quite so much. Alarmed, she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. She didn’t drink on the job so liquor had nothing to do with how she felt. Daily runs kept the pounds off and she was in good shape.

No matter how hard she tried to pick up the pace, her legs weren’t getting the message. And it wasn’t just her legs. She now lacked the strength to lift her arms. Even her head felt heavy.

The title of this newsletter is Going In Two Directions. Some of you may already know that in addition to Vonna Harper, I also write as Vella Munn. Most of the time Vella focuses on contemporary and historical romances but occasionally her imagination grabs hold and something very different comes out. Case in point, my three book suspense series Feral Justice. Book #1 is Punish which reveals what happens when a trio of large so-called dogs go after animal abusers. In fact, that’s the point of the whole Feral Justice series. The dogs do what I’d love to see done to monsters who abuse innocent animals. Case in point, the following excerpt:

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After a bunch of whines, whimpers, growls, and barks that sounded like a conversation, the trio started walking again. Maybe the greys were deliberately drawing out their approach, letting their victims know what they had in mind.

Victims? What the hell was his problem? He wasn’t looking at Stephen King’s Cujo. Ordinary—ordinary?—dogs didn’t stalk and attack humans unless they had wolf blood in them, were starving, had gone wild or—

“This is freaky,” his brother said. “As long as we don’t startle them we’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, right.”

Closer and closer the grays came, their ears flat and hackles raised. Group courage. That’s what it was. For some damn reason the three had decided to come here and—what?

The lead dog stopped, causing the others to do the same. It repeatedly shook its head, trembling a little as it did. It lowered its head as if in surrender, only to lift it and start walking again. Three pairs of lips curled back. Too many fangs showed.

“Back to the cages!” Bruce ordered. “Better the bitches and pups than us.”

“You really…”

If he lived long enough to add up Andrew’s contributions to life, he’d give him credit for figuring that some questions were too stupid to finish. With barely fifty feet between men and mutts, Andrew back-stepped down the row of cages. Bruce grabbed the latch on the cage closest to him. After opening it, he snatched a bitch and threw her and threw her at the greys. She hit the ground, rolled and started squealing.

The lead grey straddled the little bitch and tried to nose her onto her feet. The squealing continued. Judging by the female’s actions, she had some broken bones. One at a time all three greys licked the twisting, yelping female.

Then the lead grey stepped away from the injured mutt and positioned itself so it was looking at Andrew and him. Again it curled its lips and growled from the depths of its chest.

“Shit! Amy!” Bruce screamed. “Amy, get the hell out here with the rifle!”

“Pitchfork!” Andrew bellowed.

Grateful for a plan of action, he stumbled toward the hay they used to cover the shit that fell under the pens. The lead gray stalked after him. Even with the fangs, no-nonsense hackles, flat ears and unmoving tail, the brightness in its too-dark eyes scared him the most.

As he leaned over so he could grab the pitchfork, he caught a glimpse of his brother. Andrew hadn’t looked this dumbfounded since, drunk, he’d backed his pickup into a ditch. Back then Andrew hadn’t been terrified.

“Where’d they come from?” Andrew demanded.

“How the hell would I know?”

His fingers closed around the weapon. He brought it up, clutched it in both hands and started to lift it like he was some home-run hitter.

The lead grey stopped just out of reach. Barked once. Heads low, all three swiveled and headed for Andrew. Bruce half believed he could hear their hearts beating. They walked on their toes like poodles which made him think of ballerinas—deadly ballerinas. Too close.

Determined.

With a plan.

Behind him the caged dogs howled.

Switching his hold, Bruce threw the pitchfork like it was a spear. The prongs struck one of the grays on its shoulder. It yipped. The prongs didn’t stick but they’d drawn a little blood. Then, growling, the beast picked up the pitchfork by the handle and shook it.

“Oh God, oh God.” Bruce hadn’t prayed in years, didn’t believe in a deity. “God, please—”

Snarling, the lead dog leaped. Everything happened in slow motion like the beast wanted Bruce to appreciate the great, graceful body. The mutt Bruce full on the chest, knocking him off his feet and onto the hay. Bruce landed easy, except for his legs folding under him.

Gripping a double handful of hay, he stared up at his attacker. The monster planted its legs on either side of his body. The steel-like torso pressed against his belly. The biggest, whitest, sharpest fangs he’d ever seen were inches from his throat.

You’re mine. The ebony eyes were full of hate. Payback time.

Payback? What for?

Dropping the hay, Bruce struggled to pull his arms from under the dog so he could grab its head and keep the deadly teeth off him. But the dog was all muscle and determination, easily pinning him, not biting.

One of the other dogs growled, the sound coming from hell. “Oh God, oh God, oh God!” Andrew screamed, his voice gurgling at the end.

Another growl followed by a snarl.

“Bruce! Help me!”

Hot urine burned the insides of Bruce’s thighs. He dug his fingers into the solid neck and pushed up. He tried to bend his knees so he could kick. That didn’t work. He whipped from side to side, kept pushing. For the better part of a second, he believed he was stronger than the damn bastard dog.

Then the four-legged wrestler turned its head. Something sharp pressed against the sides of Bruce’s neck. Moist, hot canine breath made his stomach lurch. Sick with fear, he arched off the ground and dug his nails into fur.

Instead of the deadly but mercifully quick bite he expected and now prayed for, the fangs slowly penetrated. Inch at a time. Agony clawed at him. Blood erupted. The metallic smell pushed him over the edge, that and the belief that the cur enjoyed what it was doing.

Had a reason.

He screamed. Anger fought fear and pain, compelling him to press his belly against his four-legged attacker. His fingers cramped, but he kept after the devil.

The fangs continued their measured assault, penetrating ever deeper. Bruce’s mind splintered, started to melt. He clung to the hope that the beast’s jaw would cramp. If that happened, he stood a chance.

Free? He was bleeding out, a hot river running down the sides of his neck, staining hay and clothes.

Someone bellowed, maybe him, maybe Andrew.

Why is this happening? What have I—Mama! I need my mama!

The devil released his throat. Shaking its head and frowning, it backed away.

House. Gun. House. Gun.

Somehow Bruce rolled onto his stomach and got his hands and knees under him, started crawling. Teeth like skewers sank into his ass cheeks. He tried to scream but only a gurgle escaped.

Where’s the damn pitchfork? The bat? Gun. Kill—kill.

One stumbling crawl-slide followed another. Teeth buried in his other ass cheek. Losing balance, he plowed nose first into dirt.

Mama!