One very special town. A whole lot of very bad — and very hot — Dawgs. Prairie Dawgs, that is…
Anne Kane — Hustle: A game of pool turns into a sexy seduction, Prairie Dawg style.
Lena Austin — Bad Dawg: One OTR trucker. One leather-clad biker. One very special town.
Marteeka Karland — Hot Dawg: Selene’s hot pink Harley is pointed straight to adventure, Dawg Town style.
Camille Anthony — Puppy Dawg: It’ll take both hell and high water to set two stumbling lovers on the path to each other.
Tuesday Richards — Mad Dawg: Bryce’s bad started when he dodged a prairie dog and laid down his prized motorcycle… Can the day get any worse?
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Excerpt from Hustle (Anne Kane)
Kaylee paused and stared at the prairie dog town that spread out endlessly across the flat terrain. Hundreds of the cute little critters popped their heads out of their burrows and started to whistle the minute she’d stepped out of her sporty little Miata in the parking lot of the Prairie Dawg Saloon. The full moon tonight must be affecting the furry little things.
She ran her fingers through her hair and pushed her way through the front doors of the saloon. The subdued roar of conversation she’d heard from the far end of the parking lot stopped as every male in the place turned to stare at her.
Great. She’d come here to blow off some steam. After a hellish day at work that culminated in that bitch of a boss firing her in a very public display of jealousy, she didn’t need a whole room full of people staring at her. She glared at the two men closest, a couple of burly biker types she’d normally drool over, and they quickly looked away. She turned her head to glare at the room in general and felt a surge of satisfaction when the men shrugged and went back to whatever it was they were discussing.
Pleased with herself, she stalked over to the bar and hopped up onto a barstool. A nice cold bottle of beer would go a long way toward helping her mellow out. She spotted the bartender talking to a dark-haired man farther down the bar. He straightened up when she caught his eye and headed toward her.
“Evenin’, ma’am. Name’s Bucky.” He studied her with open curiosity. “I don’t recall seeing you around before, but you look mighty familiar.”
Kaylee rolled her eyes. That had to be the lamest pickup line in the book, and she didn’t dignify it with an answer. “Give me a cold beer. Please.”
“Comin’ right up.” He gave her a bucktoothed grin and waddled off toward the cooler.
She eyed up his plump figure, struck by his amazing resemblance to the prairie dogs that lived in a huge warren of dens and burrows outside of town. The locals occasionally grumbled about the antics of the cute little rodents, but they were fiercely protective of them. “They may be a dang nuisance,” Aunt Cee often said, “but they’re our nuisances, and nobody’s going to hurt a hair on any one of their plump little butts.”
Well, cute as the prairie dogs were, a plump butt didn’t send any shivers of excitement down her spine. She swiveled on the bar stool and surveyed the prospects. For a notorious biker hangout, the action looked tame. Sure, most of the guys sported at least some leather…
“Blake. It must’ve been Blake.”
She turned back to the bar, frowning as she accepted the frosty bottle from Bucky. “What must have been Blake?”
“Sorry, sometimes I’m a bit hard to follow.” He gave her an apologetic shrug. “Blake was a real nice guy, friend of just about everyone here. He came in one day, bragging about this girl in town, real looker. Said he was going straight, going to marry her. Got picked off by a damn eagle the very next morning.” Bucky shook his head sadly. “Never did figure out who the girl was, but it must’ve been your mama. You’re the spittin’ image of him, and the scent is unmistakable.”
Kaylee stared at the chubby bartender in alarm. She assumed an eagle would have to be a rival biker gang, but what the hell did he mean by “scent”? Surely, he didn’t think she smelled like some guy he used to know! She picked up her beer and edged away from the bar. The last thing she needed today was another person flipping out.
A movement at the back of the bar caught her eye as a dark-haired biker sauntered across the well-worn dance floor. Snug fitting jeans showed off his tight butt as he leaned over an ancient jukebox and pushed a few buttons. An old country tune filled the air, and the man straightened, turning to face her.
Kaylee sucked in a deep breath as molten heat ignited deep inside her and she felt her pussy dampen. He caught her gaze, dark eyes smoldering with passion as he sauntered over to one of the well-worn tables and picked up a long-necked bottle, taking a deep swig. Tall and lean, he wore a tight tee shirt and a worn leather vest with those jeans. No plump butt on this one. Despite the sudden feeling that she was in way over her head, Kaylee found her herself drifting in the direction of the jukebox.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Anne Kane lives in the beautiful Okanagan Valley with a bouncy little rescue dog whose breed defies description, a cantankerous Himalayan cat, and too many fish to count. She spent many years trying to fit in and act normal, but finally gave up the effort. She started writing romance in 2008, and her fate was sealed when she won a publishing contract with Red Sage Publishing and just a month later Changeling Press accepted her first submission. Since then she has published more than thirty stories in a variety of sub-genres, all with a happily ever after.
She has two handsome sons and six adorable grandchildren and enjoys spending time with them whenever she can. Her hobbies, when she’s not playing with the characters in her head, include kayaking, hiking, swimming, playing guitar, singing and of course, reading.
A funny thing happened on the way to the grave…
In 2006, I was diagnosed with Pulmonary Sarcoidosis and given two weeks to live, whereupon I promptly discharged myself against medical advice, since, as I stubbornly informed the doctors, I could die at home far more comfortably than at the hospital. Resigned, I prepared to meet my maker. But then…
I got an idea for a new story. No way could I check out before finishing it. So I did. Then, another idea came, and another… These tales are all begging to be told and I couldn’t possibly ignore their vehement cries.
So there you have it. A new motivation to continue bringing you the stories I love to tell and that you love to read. As always, I encourage you to embrace adventure, even if the only journey you undertake is through the pages of a book. Enjoy every moment of this life we’re gifted with. Whatever you do, keep reading!
Someone cursed Lena Austin with “may you have a life so full you’ll have many tales to tell your grandchildren.” Lena’s a “fallen” society wench with a checkered past. She’s been a licensed minister, hairdresser, Realtor, radio DJ, exotic dancer, telephone service tech, live-steel medievalist swordswoman, BDSM Mistress, and investment property manager. Not necessarily in that order. She never finished that degree in marine archaeology, but did learn to scuba — she’s got a lifetime of “Research material!”
Hey, why waste these stories on kids who won’t listen anyway? Writing them down is a nice way to spend her retirement. What? You expected an ex-BDSM Mistress to take up crocheting or something?
Erotic romance author by night, emergency room tech/clerk by day, Marteeka Karland works really hard to drive everyone in her life completely and totally nuts. She has been creating stories from her warped imagination since she was in the third grade. Her love of writing blossomed throughout her teenage years until it developed into the totally unorthodox and irreverent style her English teachers tried so hard to rid her of.
Tuesday Richards is a stay-at-home mom of two adorable (sometimes) children. She spends her time writing, reading, and taking care of the home she and her husband built together. With Love, Support, and Togetherness Tuesday is able to pour her imagination into her writing and pray her editor doesn’t kill her slowly! As for her name? No, her parents were not high or drunk — she was named after “Tuesday’s Gone” by Lynard Skynard.