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A Mother's Day treat: an exclusive sneak peek from Jamie Brenner's new novel, RUIN ME! by Brenda Janowitz

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Happy Mother's Day!  I'm so thrilled today because we've got one of my favorite authors here, the fabulous Jamie Brenner.  She's giving us a sneak peek of her latest novel, RUIN ME.  I'm a huge fan of Jamie's work-- I talked about her fabulous novel, THE GIN LOVERS, this past February, and now with RUIN ME, she's got another smart, sexy page turner on her hands.

I know that the second you read this excerpt, you are going to hop online and order your copy of RUIN ME-- I'm about 1/3 of the way through and it's beyond fabulous-- but, before you do that, let's hear from Jamie first!





THE MOTHER'S DAY DIVIDE

by Jamie Brenner



Hallmark doesn’t make a Mother’s Day card that reads, “Thanks for being so controlling! In my rebellion, I fell in love in love with someone completely inappropriate – but totally hot.”

I’m thinking maybe they should – because a lot of us have been there.

In a perfect world, mothers are wise creatures who guide us by love and example. And in this perfect world, daughters only emulate their and make them proud. But in reality, we often have to distance ourselves from our mothers to define ourselves, even if just temporarily. Who hasn’t pushed back against a curfew, a dress code, disapproval over a boyfriend? Ideally, these are temporary hiccups. But in some cases, mothers and daughters are so opposite, the divide defines their entire relationship.

In RUIN ME, my heroine needs to step out of the long shadow of her famous mother. Anna Sterling is a powerful art dealer who expects her daughter to follow in her footsteps, and Lulu, a senior at NYU, has her own ideas about art – and life. When Lulu finds her passion and ideas embodied in a mysterious, bad-boy street artist known as GoST, things get dicey. (See above-mentioned Hallmark card).

As I celebrate Mother’s Day, I think about my own bumps in the road – the ones that are behind me, and the ones that are ahead now that I’m on the other side of the fence. Judging from my teenage daughter, I expect I’ll have fodder for at least another book or two on this subject. Maybe more.

RUIN ME

by Jamie Brenner


Chapter 1

There’s a thing that happens at these art gallery parties filled with the beautiful people. Everyone orbits the room pretending not to look at the one person they all want to notice them. They pretend that her glance isn’t the ultimate prize.

I’ve been playing this game my entire life.

The owner of New York’s most prestigious art gallery, she is a pale-skinned, willowy brunette, wears dark-red matte lipstick, and is dressed in all white. There are several ropes of pearls around her neck and a cigarette in her hand—even now, when no one smokes in public anymore. She’s like a living photo from the past, Coco Chanel or Dovima. She is timeless but perfectly of this moment. Elegant, powerful, elusive.

She’s my mother.

“You should stand closer to him so you get in some of the photos,” she says to me so quickly and quietly no one else would have heard.

I immediately cross the room. I’m a junior at NYU, an art major, and girlfriend of one of the hottest up-and-coming painters in New York. But around my mother, I’m still the six-year-old who ignored her warning never to use the scissors without her permission, only to cut my own bangs and ruin my hair for a year.

Hoping to satisfy her, I stand closer to my boyfriend, Brandt. It’s not even his night, but he looks like the star. And in three months, he will be: It will be his paintings on the walls, his sound bites the journalists and bloggers want. But for now, New York magazine just wants a photo of us together for their party section.

“I’m going to get some fresh air,” I whisper to him, uncomfortable with the attention. It’s late, close to midnight by now. He looks at me, his blue eyes shiny, his cheeks flushed from excitement and wine. He is talking to the showing artist, Dustin McBride, whom my mother just poached from Vito Schnabel’s gallery.

A few months ago, Dustin wouldn’t have given Brandt the time of day. But now Brandt is part of the club. Not just an “emerging” artist but one about to have his first one-man show with Anna Sterling.

“I’ll go with you,” Brandt says, but I know he doesn’t mean it. He’s high from all the attention, buzzing with it. Hovering close by is Inez Elliot, my mother’s trusted gallery director and probably the coolest girl I know. She has pale coco skin and bleached blond hair offset by dark eyebrows—Rita Ora on steroids. I smile at her; she looks away.

Other women are circling—the art groupies, the hipster writer from The Times, and even the new “it” girl model with her heart-shaped lips, pink-edged blond hair, and stud in her nostril. Brandt drinks it all in. He was made for this.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell him.

Outside, I gasp with relief when I feel the humid June air. The streets of SoHo feel like they are running on different oxygen than the freezing gallery. For the first time in hours, my goose bumps disappear.

This wasn’t how my summer was supposed to go, I thought while crossing Greene Street. I’d wanted to be spending this week packing for a trip to Spain with my roommate, Niffer. We’d spent months planning our trip and even knew where we would eat dinner our first night—Els Pescadors, for tapas. It’s where Niffer met her boyfriend, Claudio, last summer. He still works there.

Now Niffer is going without me, thanks to my mother.

I inhale the summer air greedily and walk slowly down West Houston Street in my impractical shoes and sheath dress. The initial elation of escaping the party turns sour as I start to perspire. I’m exhausted.

I always imagined working at the gallery alongside my mother. Dreamed of it, actually. I knew it was my future. But now that she wants me to start this summer, it feels all too soon.

But, I can’t say no to my mother—I never have. And now I’m paying the price for it. Keeping up with her breakneck work ethic is going consume the next two months of my life, as it has consumed all of hers. She only took time off from the gallery twice in twenty-five years: when I was born, and then six months later, when my father killed himself.

My phone vibrates in my dangly, beaded vintage clutch. A part of me dares to hope that it’s Brandt, saying that he wants to get some air, too. “Let’s get pizza,” or more likely, “Let’s fuck.”

I pull the phone out. It’s my mother. “Where are you? Richard wants a quote from you.”

“From me?” Richard is the art critic for The New York Times.

“Yes, Lulu.”

“I’m outside. I just needed some fresh air. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I dutifully turn to head back to the gallery. And that’s when, out of the corner of my eye, I see something.

I look up. Sure enough, on the side of a building, ten stories above the street, a man dangles from a harness. One arm is perfectly still, the other is waving in sharp, methodical sweeping motions. He is holding a stencil in one hand, spray-painting with the other.

I watch, rooted in place, mesmerized as swaths of paint start to form an image. It’s a dark-haired woman. The spray can leaves a trail of colors to form a blue shirt with capped sleeves and a long yellow skirt. The woman’s body appears to wilt, her arm falling to her side. I take in the image from top to bottom. It’s Snow White. She’s beautiful, vulnerable, falling into the legendary sleep that will only be broken by her prince.

He moves quickly, now painting near Snow White’s limp hand. His body blocks my view. Finally, he pushes back on his feet, moving away from the painting. It is now complete, with a poisoned apple dropping from her limp hand.

But it’s not just any apple—it’s the tech company logo.

I gasp. It’s the most exciting piece of art I’ve seen all night, and it’s on the side of a building.

Suddenly, the can of spray paint falls from his hand. It seems to happen in slow motion, tumbling over and over, until it hits the sidewalk with a tinny crash.

The noise attracts other people, and a small crowd gathers at the base of the building. People are pointing. And then, nearby, the wail of a police siren.

But he is not finished yet. With quick, efficient circular motions of his arm, he claims the painting, tagging the piece with the name GoST. And I realize I am witnessing the artist whose brilliant, politically-edged stencil paintings have been popping up all over walls and billboards in SoHo and the Village. A thrill runs through me.

And just like that, he is gone.

Copyright © 2014 by Jamie Brenner


About the author:

Jamie Brenner is the author of THE GIN LOVERS, chosen by Fresh Fiction as one of their Top 13 Books to Read in 2013. Jamie also writes erotic fiction under the name Logan Belle. Her debut novel, BLUE ANGEL, was the first in an erotic trilogy published by Kensington, followed by the erotic romances NOW OR NEVER, THE LIBRARIAN and MISS CHATTERLEY. Her novels have been translated into a dozen languages. She lives in Manhattan, blogs for Romance at Random and Heroes & Heartbreakers, and is busy raising two daughters who aren't allowed to read her books. To read more or contact her, visit jamiebrenner.com or follow her @jamieLbrenner

BUY THE BOOK!!



I’m the author of SCOT ON THE ROCKS and JACK WITH A TWIST. My third novel, RECIPE FOR A HAPPY LIFE, was published by St. Martin's on July 2, 2013. My fourth novel, THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB, was published by Polis Books on May 6, 2014.

My work’s also appeared in the New York Post and Publisher’s Weekly. You can find me at brendajanowitz.com or on Twitter at @BrendaJanowitz.

Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans? by Christa Allan

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The topic for our latest cycle is setting. Being a New Orleans chick, born and bred, I consider myself fortunate to have such a rich history to draw from for settings for my novels. In 2012, my first (and only, to date) historical released. Love Finds You in New Orleans , which takes place in the 1840s. I discovered that so much of  the landmarks and landscapes of my city are like patina, a richness that forms from fine scratches on silver over years of use. On the surface, those shadows and dark highlights may seem to spoil the luster of a piece, but it actually adds to its value and beauty.



This is how I described my city in the novel to bring it alive to readers:

New Orleans is a city much like the gumbo for which it is famous. Populated by the Indians, founded by the French in 1718, and later inhabited by the Spanish, the Germans, and the British, various cultures have simmered for centuries creating a stew of rich, hearty, and vibrant people.

Called “the Crescent City” because its communities expanded along the half-moon curve in the river, New Orleans is as genteel as it is raucous, as flamboyant as it is understated, and as historic as it is contemporary. In one day, visitors can admire the towering triple steeples of Saint Louis Cathedral, the oldest cathedral in North American; meander into the French Quarter for Sunday bunch and listen to jazz in the lush courtyard of the Court of Two Sisters; shop for antiques along Magazine Street; stop at Plum Street’s Snoball Stand, where the treats are served in Chinese takeout containers; dine on the two-hour Natchez steamboat cruise along the Mississippi; and end the night with coffee and beignets at Café du Monde, the original French Market coffee stand.

Soulful jazz spiraling from clubs on Frenchmen Street, lavender wild irises and pink azaleas splashed along Creole cottages, beads and doubloons tossed at Mardi Gras parades, streetcars clanging along St. Charles Avenue, and fleur-de-lis flocked Saints fans chatting “who dats” all the way to the Superdome—New Orleans wraps her arms around you and hugs you so close, you can feel her heartbeat.


Christa Allan's newest novel, Test of Faith, released in March. You can find her at www.christaallan.com, Facebook, and Twitter. She and her husband live in New Orleans with their three neurotic cats and new dog, Herman. You can find her other novels here.





Lonely no more! by Brenda Janowitz

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It sat in a drawer, gathering dust.  A lonely little manuscript that I never sold.  But I never stopped thinking about it.  I blogged about it, I talked about it, and then a funny thing happened:  I sold it!

And today, THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB makes its big debut!

I really hope you'll check it out.  You can get it on your favorite e-reader:

Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Kobo Books
Apple

And, just for you, my favorite readers, here's a little sneak peek from chapter one:  

THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB

by Brenda Janowitz

Chapter One: Money for Nothing


“Jo, you’re fired,” he says. Just like that.
Fired.
And I’m utterly shocked. I know, no one ever expects to be fired, but I really didn’t see this coming. My mouth is wide open as I stare back at him.
            “Fired?” is all I can choke out. The room begins to spin. That may be because I was out until sunrise last night drinking vodka tonics at an underground club in Williamsburg, but I’m pretty sure that it’s the news that’s doing it to me, not the hangover.
            “Yes. I’m sorry, Jo, but it’s not working out here,” he says. His skin is gleaming when he says it. His skin always gleams. He’s a dermatologist, so it has to gleam in order for him to stay in business. My skin doesn’t ever gleam. At the very most, it shines and turns red when I get hot or embarrassed. I feel it beginning to shine and my hand immediately flies to my cheek, which, of course, only makes it get hotter.
We are in his office when he tells me and he is sitting at his desk, his head framed by his many diplomas and awards that are hung on the wall behind him. They are, as they are always, shining brightly as if they’d been dusted and cleaned that very morning. I look at the picture he keeps framed at the edge of his desk—a photograph of his family taken at a New Year’s Eve party, framed in a sterling-silver picture frame that his wife lovingly picked out for their thirtieth wedding anniversary—and then look back up at him.
            “You can’t fire me,” I say, which I wholeheartedly believe. I really didn’tthink that he ever would or could fire me.
            “I can,” he says, “and I am.” He begins to toy with one of the pens sitting on his desk.
            “I’m your best employee!” I plead.
            “You wore a ‘Save CBGBs’ T-shirt to work,” he says.
            “CBGBs was a New York institution,” I say. He gives me a blank stare. I shrug in response. Is it my fault that this man has no sense of culture? Of history? “What does it matter what I wear under my assistant’s coat anyway?”
            “You know the dress code—scrubs or business casual,” he says.
            “Jeans and a concert tee is business casual!”
            “People can see the prints on your T-shirts right through the fabric,” he says. “And sometimes you wear ones with dirty words on them,” he continues, whispering the ”dirty words” part as if his grandmother is somehow listening from up above and would be appalled by this particular bit of information.
            “Like what?” I ask. Watching him squirm is kind of fun.
            “You know which one,” he says. And then, in barely a whisper, “Free Pussy Riot.”
            “That’s a band,” I say, “not a dirty word.” You’d think a doctor would have no problem saying the word “pussy” out loud.
“Jo, it’s not just the T-shirts. You’ve called in the wrong prescriptions for my patients more times than I’d like to admit.”
            “Some of those drugs have very complicated names,” I say in my own defense. And for the record, they do.
            “That doesn’t mean you can give a patient a more pronounceable drug without consulting me first.”
            “Then maybe you and your colleagues should start prescribing more pronounceable drugs,” I argue. He furrows his brow in response. “But I’m your favorite employee!” I plead.
            “You balanced the company checkbook wrong the last three out of four quarters.”
“You know that I’m not an accountant.” When he hired me for the job two years ago, I knew that there would be some accounting involved. What I hadn’t realized at the time was that I would have to be quite so specific with the numbers. Which is a challenge for me, seeing as I’m really more of a right-brain kind of person.
“But you know how to balance your own checkbook, don’t you?” he says.
For the record, I don’t.
“Of course I know how to balance my own checkbook,” I say and laugh, as if to say, “Doesn’t everybody?” “A business checkbook is much, much different than a personal checkbook,” I explain.
For the record, it’s not.
“I’m your most loyal employee,” I say. My last resort. I find myself alternating between staring into his solid gold, monogrammed Tiffany belt buckle and his shellacked black hair, because I can’t meet his eyes.
            “This is difficult for me, too, you know,” he says, even though I know that it’s not.
“Do you realize how embarrassing this is going to be for me?” I say. Manipulative, I know, but it’s not exactly like I have anything left in my arsenal.
“I thought you don’t get embarrassed,” he replies, looking into my eyes, challenging me.
“I don’t,” I say, frowning like a little girl who hasn’t gotten the piece of candy that she wanted.   
            “Don’t take this personally, Pumpkin.”
            “You can’t call me Pumpkin when you’re firing me, Daddy.”



I’m the author of SCOT ON THE ROCKS and JACK WITH A TWIST. My third novel, RECIPE FOR A HAPPY LIFE, was published by St. Martin's on July 2, 2013. My fourth novel, THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB, was published by Polis Books today!!

My work’s also appeared in the New York Post and Publisher’s Weekly. You can find me at brendajanowitz.com or on Twitter at @BrendaJanowitz.

Does She or Doesn’t She? Only MasterCard Knows for Sure

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by Saralee Rosenberg


The ladies magazine I picked up in the doctor’s office yesterday was called Yo! You’re Old! Or it should have been. Page after page was filled with ads for surgeons, medical spas and treatment centers that were sure of one thing. What my life was missing was a complimentary consultation. No way should I go another day with bags under my eyes, hair above my lips and breasts that do the Limbo. How low can they go?

Of course if I did brave judgment day, I’m no fool. The plan would be to inject me, correct me, and point out flaws I’d already accepted, such as my royal chins- the heir and the spare. Then I’d be escorted down the vanity aisle. Care for a facelift, dermal fillers or laser rejuvenation? They’d probably try to interest me in vein therapy, too- or is it vain therapy?

But even if they offered me a deal like the You Pick Two at Panera Bread, I wouldn’t know where to start. Fix my teeth? My tush? My tummy?  Is it the letter “T” day on Surgery Street?

Sadly, the articles in the magazine were even less uplifting. “One Month to a New You.” But I don’t want a new me. I want a new kitchen. One that has room for vending machines. “Love the Way He Smiles At You.” Trust me I’ll get the same reaction if I’m holding a steak in one hand and a beer in the other. “How DOES She Do it?” Yes, please tell me how my adorable neighbor, the one with the new eyelids, has time to juggle an affair with her personal trainer and still run the holiday bake sale.

I get it. Everything old is new again… unless our credit cards are maxed out. And while I don’t begrudge women like myself who want to maintain a youthful appearance, I am saddened by how many feel pressured to enroll in the Joan Rivers School of Aging.

Recently I ran into a former neighbor and in the middle of our chat she whispered, “Have you had work done?” To which I replied, “On my house?” She looked at me as if I’d just arrived from Planet Cold Cream but the question gave me chills. Was a Botox party in my future?

Frankly, the women I respect most are flawed but fabulous. While they may have more rolls than a bakery, hopefully the only knife they touch is to butter more bread. As it was with our mothers and grandmothers, true beauty should be measured by living a life with meaning.

Besides, no matter how hard we try to fool the mirror, we can never fool the stairs.

Saralee Rosenberg is the author of A LITTLE HELP FROM ABOVE, CLAIRE VOYANT, FATE AND MS. FORTUNE and DEAR NEIGHBOR, DROP DEAD. She has just finished her first novel for younger readers, THE MIDDLE SCHOOL MEDIUM. Visit her website. www.saraleerosenberg.com

The Power of Sherlock Holmes

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by Sara Rosett 

Photo: Cyril Thomas 
According to Wikipedia, the first Sherlock Holmes story appeared 127 years ago in 1887. The novel, A Study in Scarlet, struck a cord with readers. 

The publication of a several short stories in 1891 in The Strand Magazine vaulted the main character of Sherlock Holmes to popularity that continues to this day.

Sherlock has become a stable of the entertainment industry. Besides the nearly endless list of plays and feature films based on the books by Arthur Conan Doyle, we also have the popular modern day version from the BBC, Sherlock, as well as the alternate-universe TV series, Elementary, which is a “what-if” spin-off that takes the basic premise and turns it inside out: what if Holmes was a recovering drug addict and Dr. Watson was a his female sobriety companion? 

Then there are the TV shows that don’t actually feature Sherlock Holmes by name, but are not so subtle homages to the character. The Mentalist, House, and Monk all feature main characters who make seemingly uncanny deductions to solve mysteries.

Derivative works can be found in the literary world as well. Laurie R. King and Carol Nelson Douglas have both written spin-offs. The Brothers of Baker Street is another modern-day mystery series featuring two brothers who work at a modern office at 221b Baker Street and become embroiled in mysteries. There are books about young Sherlock as well as a new novel, a continuation of the Holmes stories, which was authorized by Doyle’s estate.

Why do we love Sherlock so much? I think it comes down to two essential elements:

First, we’re fascinated by the character. “Brainy is the new sexy,” says Irene Adler in Sherlock, but I don’t think there’s really anything new about smart being sexy. I think readers and viewers have always been attracted to intelligent characters. Sherlock himself is a puzzle. We want to figure him out.

Secondly, we love a mystery. The mental challenge—the game of wits—draws us in. Can we sort the clues from the red herrings as cleveryly as Holmes?

I know there are other reasons Sherlock continues to fascinate. What are they? And I’d love to hear which is your favorite Sherlock story or spin-off.

Sara Rosett writes a cozy mystery series (Ellie Avery series) and a suspense series with a dash of
romance (On the Run series). As a military spouse Sara has moved around the country (frequently!) and traveled internationally, which inspired her latest suspense series. Publishers Weekly called Sara’s books, "satisfying," "well-executed," and "sparkling."

Sara loves all things bookish, considers dark chocolate a daily requirement, and is on a quest for the best bruschetta. Connect with Sara at www.SaraRosett.com or sign up for her newsletter list here. You can also find her on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, or Goodreads.
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