Like all good tales of iniquity, this one began in a run-down trailer park in rural Alabama in 1979. An only child, too poor for the diversions of luckier tykes, and jacked up on too much sugar, I resorted to using my imagination as my primary source of entertainment. Monsters didn't just hide in my closet; it was a portal for all kinds of creatures, both humanoid and not, and not all of them were bad. Tiny, mischievous people hid in my Hee-Haw overalls and stole my mother's jewelry when she wasn't looking, and convinced me to do things like eat an entire can of chocolate frosting and then try to steal my neighbor-down-the-street's pony.
And then, cable happened, and late nights were spent sneaking into the living room to watch soft core porn and horror movies. However, I can only lay partial blame for the warped adult I've become on Cinemax. No seat belts, lead-based paint, half-drunk parents who chain smoked Marlboro reds next to gaudy ashtrays filled with crushed butts-there are a thousand tiny things that led me down the path of a middle-aged woman who alternately writes smut and horror, depending on the day and how much coffee I've had. Quite simply, I write the books I want to read, and hope that a few others will too. Enjoy!
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Her Arcadian Lovers
by Rae Owens
Two men, one woman- that's Andrea's idea of a perfect date night. It's too bad that her seemingly perfect boyfriends are hiding a secret that will shake her whole concept of reality.
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