Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Book Spotlight: Southern Heat by David Burnsworth

The Story Behind Southern Heat

What inspired me to write Southern Heat was really a collection of details.  I lived in Charleston on Sullivan’s Island for almost five years. That alone gave me the setting. My landlord had a large second row house with apartments on the back side. Second row, for those who don’t know, and I didn’t until I lived there, means the house was in a line of homes across the street from the beach front homes.  He gave his tenants a lot of liberties, including allowing us to head to the unoccupied second floor with an ocean view patio.  In Charleston, homes built after hurricane Hugo had to be elevated. The ground level was a concrete slab that a lot of people turned into an above ground basement. The first floor was really the second floor and the second floor was really the third floor.  Confused yet?  So, the house was really three levels.  One fourth of July, I climbed onto the roof and had a 360 degree view of the Charleston harbor and fireworks in at least five different directions.

Why did I spend so much time talking about the house?  Because I learned the island way of life there—laid back.  The first rule, and there weren’t really many others, was when you crossed the Ben Sawyer Memorial Bridge onto the island, your problems stayed on the mainland.

The city of Charleston is such a gem.  It is like no place on earth, with its palmetto tree lined Meeting Street, premier shops on King Street, and historic homes on the Battery.  As a single man at the time, I also enjoyed the night scene.  Great bars and clubs within close proximity meant my friends and I could walk and hit three different locations on a Friday night.

I tried to capture the healing magic of the city in my book.  Just as I am not the same person I was when I first moved there, I wanted my protagonist to be changed.  Brack Pelton came into being after several failed attempts, the first being a close carbon copy of Mike Hammer with an office on King Street.  That character and the next one didn’t ring true, and members of the South Carolina Writers Workshop critique group I belong to let me know as much.

I wish I could stay the story just wrote itself, but that would be a false statement.  It took a lot of rewriting, and I mean a lot.  I heard that Robert B. Parker could write a first draft and only have to change a few words to make it his final.  Well, I am not Robert B. Parker.  And my first manuscript took six drafts.  Writing is work.  Fun work, but work nonetheless.

What motivated me to finally put fingers to the keyboard was a feeling that I had for most of my twenties that I was wasting time.  I’d come home from work and park in front of the TV for hours.  Looking back, the shows I watched helped develop my imagination, but I knew I was frying my brain.  My soon-to-be wife could tell I was unhappy and urged me to find my passion.  As I was walking back from the exercise room in the apartment complex I was living in at the time, it hit me that I wanted to write a novel. I’d always liked writing.  The “mistake” I made was mentioning this to my fiancĂ©.  Once we were married and living under the same roof, she took every opportunity to remind me what I told her I wanted to do.  Six years later, I had a contract for Southern Heat and I owe a lot to her.

Title: Southern Heat
Author: David Burnsworth
Publisher: Five Star/Gale
Pages: 304
Language: English
Genre: Southern Noir/Mystery
Format: Paperback & eBook
Purchase at AMAZON

Gunshots echo down an antebellum Charleston alley. Brack Pelton, an ex-racecar driver and Afghanistan War veteran, witnesses the murder of his uncle, Reggie Sails. Darcy Wells, the pretty Palmetto Pulse reporter, investigates Reggie's murder and targets Brack.
The sole heir of his uncle's estate, Brack receives a rundown bar called the Pirate's Cove, a rotting beach house, and one hundred acres of preserved and valuable wetland along the Ashley River. A member of Charleston's wealthiest and oldest families offers Brack four million dollars for the land. All Brack wants is his uncle's killer.
From the sandy beaches of Isle of Palms, through the nineteenth-century mansions lining the historic Battery, to the marshlands surrounding the county, Southern Heat is drenched in the humidity of the lowcountry.

Purchase your copy at AMAZON

Discuss this book in our PUYB Virtual Book Club at Goodreads by clicking HERE

First Chapter:

“A man doesn’t have the right to avoid reaping what he sows.”
Brother Thomas

Saturday night in the holy city of Charleston, S.C., it was easier to find a cheap motel on the Battery than a parking space near the Market. Especially in July. I bounced over century-old bricks, made a big U on Meeting Street, and headed back.
My uncle wanted to meet for dinner, and I was late.
Three blocks over, a spot opened up on Chalmers Street and I shoehorned my Mustang in. A birthday present to myself, the car had a screaming V-8, chrome wheels, and black paint. Its finish reflected the glow of the gaslights. I hadn’t needed a new car. What I needed was something besides my dog to make me smile, and I was tired of double-shots of Beam.
To save a few steps, I cut down a darkened alley. A quick flash and a loud pop echoed off the surrounding walls. I hit the deck, rolled behind a dumpster, and reached for my Berretta. It hadn’t been there in six months and wasn’t now. The aroma of spoiled seafood from the garbage hit me harder than a bullet.
A voice in the alley shouted like my drill sergeant in boot camp. “Give me an answer!”
My eyes adjusted to the dim light. I peered around a corner of the dumpster. A figure knelt over a body. To get a better view, I stood. My foot hit an empty bottle. It clanged across the cobblestones of the alley. The kneeling man raised his arm. The silhouette of a gun aimed in my direction. I dove back behind the dumpster. He fired. The bullet ricocheted off the steel frame. I needed an exit strategy.
Receding footsteps of someone running echoed in the alley. After a moment all I heard was labored breathing and eased from my hiding spot. The figure with the gun was gone. The body on the ground wheezed. I got to my feet, hurried over to help, and found my uncle staring up at me with his one good eye, the other having been lost in Vietnam and now covered with an eye patch.
“Uncle Reggie!” I fell to my knees.
Blood trickled from his mouth as he said my name, “Brack.” His voice was rough and muffled by the liquid filling his lungs.
Grabbing my phone, I punched nine-one-one.
“Brack,” he whispered, and his uncovered eye closed.
The emergency line rang in my ear.
“I’m calling for an ambulance,” I said.
“Ray.” He coughed. “Ray shot me.”
I let the phone drop a few inches. “Who’s Ray?”
He swallowed hard.
A tinny female voice interrupted, “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
The life went out of Uncle Reggie and I placed two fingers on his neck.
No pulse.
“Sir,” said the operator. “What’s your emergency?”
“My uncle’s been shot. We’re in Simmons Alley.” I placed the phone on the ground next to me, raised my uncle’s chin, and gave him CPR.
In the middle of my second round of chest compressions, the howling intake noise and moaning exhaust of a car engine at full throttle made me look up. Flashing lights bounced off the dumpsters and trash lining the alley.
A patrol car headed for me, and I jerked my hands up in reaction. It skidded to a stop a few yards away. Doors swung open in unison. Two men stepped out and trained their weapons on me. “Police! Freeze!”
One of them moved out of my line of vision.
“He’s not breathing,” I said.
The officer by the cruiser said, “Get your hands up!”
Patience left me. “He’s been shot! Make yourself useful and call an ambulance.”
“Get down!” screamed a voice behind me. A hard shove made me hit the ground face first next to my uncle. The officer jammed his knee into my back, frisked, and cuffed me.
I spit blood and dirt and tried to take a breath. “He’s my uncle. Help him!”
The second officer knelt beside Uncle Reggie and checked for a pulse like I did. “He’s gone.”
It took both cops to lift all six-foot, two-hundred-and-ten pounds of me off the ground. I grunted at the strain on my joints from the handcuffs. They placed me in the back seat of a cruiser and shut the door. One of them rattled off something on the radio. I ran my tongue over a split in the middle of my lower lip. Blood on the front of my white T-shirt mixed with three-century-old soot from the cobblestones. Ten feet away my only family and best friend lay dead. I shook my head in disbelief. The moon cast everything in electric blue.
More vehicles showed up and the area erupted in activity. Gray uniforms and white-jacketed technicians crowded into the narrow passage between the old brick buildings. Cameras flashed. Two suits got out of an unmarked Crown Vic. One knelt beside my uncle. The other spoke with one of the uniforms, both of them glancing at me several times. After a few minutes, the suits teamed up and came at me like two sand crabs ready to make a meal out of a fish carcass washed up on the beach. I saw my wallet in one of the crab’s claws and realized it was no longer in my back pocket.
The first one to the cruiser’s door was slim and tall with stiff creases in his slacks and shirt. A silver Rolex flashed on his wrist. The second man, half a step behind, had a stocky build. His loosened tie exposed an unbuttoned collar. Both wore short sleeves, a necessity in the sweltering lowcountry.
The stiff-creased crab opened the door. “Brack Pelton?”
“I’m Detective Rogers.” He pulled out a notepad and pen. “This is Sergeant Wilson. We’re with Charleston P.D. and need to go over a few things with you.” He looked at my face. “I see you’re injured. We’ll get someone to check you out in a minute.”
“Thanks.” I didn’t feel the pain.
“Brack?” Detective Rogers paused. “Can I call you Brack?”
I grinned to show off my busted mouth. “Sure.”
“How did that happen, Brack?”
Rogers pointed at my mouth with the pen. “Your lip.”
I gritted my teeth, knowing it wouldn’t do me or my uncle any good to get on the bad side of the police. “I must have fallen. The officers were kind enough to help me up.”
Detective Wilson spoke for the first time. “Good answer.”
Rogers wrote something in his notepad. “So, what can you tell us about the deceased? You said he was . . . .” He flipped a page. “Your uncle?”
“I was supposed to meet him at High Cotton.”
“We can’t seem to find any identification,” said Wilson. “Can you give us his name?”
“Reggie—Reginald Sails.” I spelled the last name.
Detective Rogers wrote it down. “Did he say anything before he died?”
I nodded. “He said Ray shot him.”
Rogers and Wilson looked at each other.
“Did he say it exactly like that?” Wilson asked. “We need to know, word for word.”
The cuffs dug into my wrists. I eased forward and exhaled. “He said ‘Ray shot me.’ I asked him who Ray was but he didn’t answer.”
Wilson said, “Any reason why someone might want to harm your uncle?”
“No. He owns a run-down dive on the Isle of Palms and spends his free time surfing.”
Rogers asked, “Which dive? That pirate bar?”
“The Pirate’s Cove.” It was the only real dive left on the island.
“No kidding.” Wilson’s eyes focused on something past me, as if he was thinking.
I choked and cleared my throat. “No kidding.”
“My nephews love the place,” Wilson said. “All the pirate stuff and that big red and blue bird.”
“Macaw,” I said.
“Macaw, right.” Wilson watched me. “What were you guys doing in this alley?”
“I couldn’t find a parking spot close to High Cotton and ended up on Chalmers. I was late and turned through here to save time and that’s when he was shot.”
Wilson paused and scanned the area. “Where was Mr. Sails?”
“Already in the alley.”
Rogers wrote more. “You didn’t arrive together?”
“No. Like I said, I was on my way to meet him.”
Without looking up, Rogers made another notation. “You see who shot him?”
“Can’t tell you what he looks like. Maybe six feet and fairly stout.”
Both detectives sized me up. Rogers said, “That could describe you.”
I stood, forcing them to back up. “Look, you think I did it? Test me for gunshot residue. Otherwise, get these cuffs off me and go find who killed my uncle.”
“Easy there.” Wilson raised his hands in a calming gesture. “No one’s accusing anyone of anything.”
“At this point,” Rogers added.
Wilson fished his keys out of his pocket and held them up. “Wanna turn around so I can unhook you?”
Murder in the tourist district was rare in Charleston and the TV news got wind of the shooting. Vans from three networks arrived from the opposite end of the street and set up camp. Their lights added to the intensity of the illumination used by the police and transformed the alley into a morbid scene from High Noon. Cameramen floated around along with reporters clutching microphones. Released from the confines of the cruiser’s backseat, I sat on the rear chrome step-bumper of an ambulance within the safety of the police barrier. The detectives kept me company until the paramedics finished cleaning my face.
Detective Rogers said, “We’ll need your T-shirt. For evidence.”
I peeled off my shirt and threw it to him. “Take it.”
Wilson got a green scrubs shirt from the back of the ambulance and handed it and a business card to me. “You’re free to go. If you think of anything else, give me a call.”
“Don’t worry. You’re going to hear a lot from me.” I pocketed the card, slipped on the shirt, and walked through the alley to my car. At the police barricade, I found a spot with the fewest people loitering about and tried to cross the line.
A woman holding a microphone cut me off. “Are you involved in the police investigation?”
I was ready to brush past her when a cameraman approached, flipped on the lights above the camera and proceeded to film us. The woman stepped into the brightness and I caught a glimpse of my late wife, Jo, in the reporter’s blond curls and pretty face. The momentary image of her almost made my knees buckle.
The reporter shifted on her feet, stood in front of me, and spoke into her microphone. “Darcy Wells, Channel Nine News. Are you with the police?”
She moved the microphone from her mouth to my face, but I said nothing. Channel Nine was supposed to mean something to me, I was sure, but all I could think about at the moment were the words I had wanted to say to Jo but didn’t.
Darcy Wells aimed the microphone back at her mouth. “Can you tell us what’s going on?” Her eyes did a good job of pleading as she stuck the microphone in my face for the second time.
I spit a glob of blood on the ground away from her, trying to get the taste out of my mouth, and didn’t care it was on film. My forehead beaded with sweat from the sultry night air. “My uncle was killed tonight in this alley.”
Detectives Rogers and Wilson pushed through the crowd and stood in my line of sight but out of view of the camera.
She said, “Did you see the killer? Was there more than one? Who was your uncle?”
I pointed to the investigating officers. “Ask those guys.”
When her attention went to them, I stepped away. I heard her call, “Hey, wait!” But I turned the corner and hurried to my car, hoping the double-parked news trucks hadn’t blocked me in.
The Mustang had just enough room to squeeze out.
Death followed me like a hungry predator. I’d seen enough of it, caused enough of it, and hadn’t planned on seeing any more for a while. Not like that. Not Uncle Reggie. I had to do something or I’d go nuts. The only place that might have some answers was the same place the police would be headed next, if they weren’t there already.
As I wound the Mustang to a hundred and merged onto the Arthur J. Ravenel Bridge, my thoughts converged on what had happened. I thundered over the Cooper River and didn’t let up on the accelerator until the descent on the other side into Mt. Pleasant. If not for the patrol car usually parked at the end of the bridge, I wouldn’t have let up at all.
The small beach-shack my uncle had called home for as long as I’d known him stood on the south side of the Isle of Palms. Sand covered the driveway—the entire yard, in fact. I swung around and parked, the High Intensity Discharge headlights from my Mustang bouncing off palmetto trees. I got out of my car and walked to the house that mimicked my uncle’s lifestyle. In the darkness, I opened the door to the screened-in porch, trimmed in rotten wood and white paint-flake, and eased my way between two old rocking chairs. At the front door I felt the top of the frame for the key, found it, and let myself in.
My uncle had left a light on in the living room. His prized surfboards leaned against one wall . . . vintage Hobies, Webers, and Nolls all waxed to perfection, unlike his car. A newer couch faced a big flatscreen TV. Two shot glasses and a tequila bottle sat on his glass-topped coffee table. Lipstick on one of the jiggers caught my attention.
He’d always said cell phones caused cancer. The one and only instrument for his land line sat in the kitchen. A calendar hung on the wall beside it. Ms. July stared at me with all her naked beauty. I pulled out the push-pin holding it to the wall and scanned the dates. Today, my birthday, had been marked in bold black marker. The previous week had a notation for a Mutt’s Bar.
With the calendar in hand, I walked into the bedroom. My uncle had shown me his version of a safe-deposit box, a hole in the floor covered by loose boards, when I moved to town. He peered at me with his one blue-crystal eye and his trademark grin peeking through a graying beard. “If anything happens to me, here’s some legal stuff.”
“Uncle Reggie,” I told him, “the next hurricane will blow this whole house and all your legal stuff to Columbia. It’ll land on the front lawn of the capitol, right next to the confederate flag.”
He said, “That’d be something, wouldn’t it?”
I knelt beside the bed and lifted a couple flooring boards up and out of the way. In the hole I saw two bands of cash and a stack of papers on top of a moving carton. I picked up the papers and sat on the bed to read them. Nothing popped out at me other than the cash—ten grand in each band. I put the bills in my pocket and carried the carton and calendar out to my car. The police were about to get a whole lot of help to solve this murder. Probably more than they’d want. And I would make sure they found my uncle’s killer . . . dead, if I got to him first.

Southern Heat Tour Page

About the Author:

David Burnsworth became fascinated with the Deep South at a young age. After a degree in Mechanical Engineering from the University of Tennessee and fifteen years in the corporate world, he made the decision to write a novel. Southern Heat is his first mystery. Having lived in Charleston on Sullivan’s Island for five years, the setting was a foregone conclusion. He and his wife along with their dog call South Carolina home.

His latest book is the southern noir/mystery, Southern Heat.

Visit his website at

Connect & Socialize with David!

Release Event and Giveaway: CAMP PAYBACK (Camp Boyfriend, #2) by J.K. Rock



Camp Boyfriend #2

Young Adult Contemporary Romance

Released April 29, 2014

Published by Spencer Hill

Amazon | Barnes and Noble

Alex has big plans for camp this year, starting with making it the best summer ever. Having fun and breaking some rules will get her the payback she wants against her parents and her ex-boyfriend. Because of his disgusting texts, she's headed to a super strict all-girls school in the fall. Then she meets Javier and revenge doesn't seem nearly as important as getting to know the troubled loner determined to keep a low profile at camp. But Alex's trouble-magnet personality and Javier's need to stay in the background don't mix nearly as well as their irresistible chemistry. With her home life eroding under her feet and her last year of summer camp speeding to a close, Alex wants to make her mark on the world and squeeze every bit of fun out of her time with Javier. Too bad her old plans for revenge turn back on her just in time to ruin everything. Will she lose Javier too?

About the Author

J. K. Rock is the pseudonym for YA writing partners - and sisters-in-law - Joanne & Karen Rock. Although they started out sharing an annual shopping trip, they ended up discussing their favorite films and books, joining the same book club and talking about writing... a lot. Their debut novel, Camp Boyfriend, is the first in a three-book series plotted during family pool parties. Their creative partnership is unique in that they enjoy passing a book back and forth, each adding a chapter and fine-tuning the chapter before. Years of friendship has yielded a shared voice and vision for their work that makes writing a pleasure. Learn more about Karen and Joanne at

Also in the Camp Boyfriend Series

Camp Boyfriend #1

The summer of her dreams is about to get a reality check.

They said it couldn't be done, but geeky sophomore Lauren Carlson transformed herself into a popular girl after moving to a new school halfway across the country. Amazing what losing her braces and going out for cheerleading will do. Only trouble is, the popular crowd is wearing on Lauren's nerves and she can't wait to return to summer camp where she's valued for her brain instead of her handsprings. She misses her old friends and most of all, her long time camp-only boyfriend, Seth. This year she intends to upgrade their relationship to year-round status once she's broken up with her new, jock boyfriend, Matt. He doesn't even begin to know the real her, a girl fascinated by the night sky who dreams of discovering new planets and galaxies.

But Matt isn't giving her up without a fight. As he makes his case to stay together, Lauren begins to realize his feelings run deeper than she ever would have guessed. What if the guy she thought she was meant to be with forever isn't really The One? Returning to Camp Juniper Point was supposed to ground her uprooted life, but she's more adrift than ever. Everything feels different and soon Lauren's friends are turning on her and both guys question what she really wants. As summer tensions escalate, Lauren wonders if she's changed more than she thought. Will her first big discovery be herself?


Payback, Karen style J
By J.K. Rock

In our April release, CAMP PAYBACK    , our main character, Alex Martineau, is determined to get payback against her parents and her ex-boyfriend. His disgusting text prompted them to banish her to a super-strict all-girls school when summer’s over. All she has is two months to have fun and get into a little, innocent trouble. And I can relate! As a teenager, my eleventh grade Social teacher took discipline to Hitler level. In fact, he was impressed with the Nazis and spent a lot of time making fun of the ‘weak’ Mussolini and the Italians in WWII. This really bugged me and my friend Laura because we were the only two Italians in the class, besides hot Greg Brienza who slept through most of class and never noticed.

I was one of those girls like Kayla, the main character in our third novel in the series, CAMP FORGET-ME-NOT, who never said her real thoughts out loud. I was too afraid of making other people upset or that they wouldn’t like me. But my best friend, Laura, was- and still is- like an extension of me. I could tell her anything. We talked a lot about how much we hated our Social teacher for making insulting comments about Italians. Worse yet, Mr. M would point to Laura and I (and a dozing Greg) after saying them and ask us if we agreed. As if! Since Laura was quiet (in front of adults) like me, she just shrugged. But inside, she was boiling too, especially when Mr. M made jokes to get the rest of the class laughing at Italians.

Christmas came and a brilliant, but risky payback plan came to us while we were in the mall. We passed a store that sold cheap lingerie, and I commented how funny it would be to give something like that to our uptight teacher. To my surprise, Laura hauled me in there and we bought the tackiest set of red, ruffled, see-through lingerie I’d ever seen. We couldn’t stop laughing every time we pulled it out of the bag. Since we were having a sleepover, we wrapped it up that night and put a big bow on it. We couldn’t wait until Monday to sneak it onto our Social teacher’s desk. For the first time, ever, I couldn’t wait to get to school. Before Social, I asked to go to the bathroom before the bell rang. I grabbed the present from my locker (hidden in a bag) fast-walked to Mr. M’s room and peaked in. Luckily he wasn’t there and I put the present on his desk before dashing back to my other class. I gave Laura a thumbs up as we walked to his class, and we had to hold in our smiles when we took our seats.

Mr. M came in after the bell and made a big fuss when he spotted the present. He exclaimed at what a nice surprise it was from our class and since everyone was basically afraid of him, no one denied that they’d given it to him. It took every ounce of will power not to look at Laura as he undid the elaborate wrapping, lifted the box cover and pawed through the layers of tissue paper. His dumfounded, shocked expression was priceless when he held up the lingerie, trying to figure out what it was. The class was hysterical with everyone laughing and finally, I could give in and join them. It was awesome. Mr. M got so mad that his face turned purple, especially when Greg Brienza (who’d woken at all the noise and seen the gift) fell backwards in his chair from laughing so hard.

Laura and I, ‘the innocent quiet girls’, got away with this payback prank. To this day, no one- except now you- knows we were behind it. It became a legend in our class and school and- poor Greg Brienza- got detention for ‘distracting the class’. Mr. M blamed him and muttered something about Italians… but it was the last negative thing he said about our nationality. Justice was served!

Find out more about the camp series and us at or Order Camp Payback in print or ebook at (Amazon) or (Barnes and Nobles) and follow us on facebook at or on twitter at and


Javier’s Letter
By J.K. Rock

In Camp Payback, our main character, Javier Kovalev struggles with a lot of guilt that, because of his unplanned birth, his mother had to drop out of college and struggles to make ends meet. As a result, enough bad checks have landed her in jail and him in foster care. He’s attending Camp Juniper Point when a friend of his mother’s convinced his case worker not to send him away to a group home across the state and far from his mother’s jail. He’s been guilty of breaking curfew by running away to visit his mother. But Helena, his mother’s friend, persuaded the foster care system to give Javier this one last chance to prove himself by working with her at the camp where he learns to cook. However, he doesn’t want his mother to know he’s working through his summer, as you’ll see in this letter he writes to her.

Dear Mom,
How are you? Did you get a new cell mate yet? Hope she doesn’t snore like the last one. Or pace all night like the one before that. It must be really hard to sleep there. I wish you were home, but you’ll be out in a few months and then we’ll get a place together again, like the old days. I can even cook for you because Helena’s taught me some things in the kitchen besides the Venezuelan recipes you taught me to remember dad.
But I’m doing more stuff than cooking. I went on this hike with this muscle head marine/counselor we call Bam-Bam because he’s an explosives expert. He took me up Black Balsam Knob Mountain which made me crazy tired. We climbed for hours and when we got to the top, we had to set up camp, like finding firewood, putting up our tent, cooking, and stuff. But it was good. Peaceful. It was something, standing on top of the world. Or it felt like it. It was like I saw everything differently, even myself. This time around, when you get out, there isn’t going to be any more trouble. I already got offered a cooking job from this catering company so I can help out with the bills now. No more worries.
I watched some fireworks on July Fourth with this girl, Alex. You talked to her on the phone. I wish you hadn’t told her you call me Javi because now that’s all she calls me. I like her, but I’m not allowed to date campers, even though we’re the same age. Plus, her parents run that famous ‘Wholesome Home’ blog about raising perfect kids. I don’t think they’d approve of their perfect daughter hanging out with a kid who’s one stop away from juvie. But that’s the thing, Mom. She’s not perfect and that’s what I like about her. She’s got a temper, she’s passionate, she’s funny and not some phony like a lot of the girls. She doesn’t try to fit in with everyone else. She’s stands out- at least to me. But her ex-boyfriend, Vijay, is making it hard for her to have a good summer and I feel sorry for her. I want to be with her, but if I get caught up in all that drama, they’ll kick me out of camp and I’ll go straight to the group home where the kids are even meaner and I’m bound to get in a fight that’ll land me in juvie. I’ve got to stop thinking about Alex. But- she’s hard to resist. I’ll stay strong, Mom. Promise.
‘Night, Irene,

I hope you liked Javier’s letter as much as his mom will J Find out more about the camp series and us at or Order Camp Payback in print or ebook at (Amazon) or (Barnes and Nobles) and follow us on facebook at or on twitter at and


Casting Call for Camp Payback
By J.K. Rock

Like all writers, we dream of seeing our books made into movies. If Camp Payback could become a movie, here’s the dream cast we’d put together:

Alexandra Martineau- Zendaya Coleman
Javier Kovalev- Tyler Posey

Vijay- Siva Kaneswaran
Yasmine- Keke Palmer
Julian- Beau Michoff
Siobhan- Jessica Lu
Rapheal- Logan Lerman
Nia- Selena Gomez
Cam- Chord Overstreet
Brittany- Emily Osment
Eli- Cody Simpson
Hannah- Bella Thorne
Jake- Liam Hemsworth
Kayla- Amanda Seyfried
Nick- Nicholas Hoult
Trinity- Tonya Kay
Seth- Alex Pettyfer
Piper- Bridget Mendler
Rob (The Hottie) counselor- Zac Ephron
Bruce (Bam-Bam) counselor- Josh Duhamel
Emily- counselor- Reese Witherspoon
Garrett- Andrew Garfield
Brooke- Michelle Trachte
Buster- Kellen Lutz
Camp Director (Gollum)- Paul Giamatti

That’s it! The dream team… that we will truly dream about J Find out more about the camp series and
Us at or Order Camp Payback in print or ebook at (Amazon) or (Barnes and Nobles) and follow us on facebook at or on twitter at and


Alex’s Makeover Blog Post
By J.K. Rock
In Camp Payback, one of our heroine’s biggest challenges is learning how to deal with her parents’ blog, “Wholesome Home” on parenting. Alex has been the poster child for “what not to do” too many times, and this summer, she’s had enough.

For example, before she goes to camp, she needs to do TV appearance with her family and her mom chooses her clothes to be super conservative. And she’s never had makeup. Ever. Well, at least not that she can wear around her hometown. Thankfully, at camp, all bets are off on her look and she can do what she wants. So when her father asks her to submit a blot post feature on the Wholesome Home blog about dressing appropriately as a teen, you can imagine she would struggle with what to say…

Dressing Appropriately
Thanks, Dad, for giving me a chance to voice my opinions on the Wholesome Home blog! I’ve learned a lot from you and mom about dressing appropriately and I’m happy to share what I know.

First, it’s important to dress according to who you are and not who other people want you to be. If jeans and boots are your thing, you shouldn’t force yourself into dresses and sweater sets to please other people. Your clothes say a lot about you, so they should be honest. Doesn’t Wholesome Home suggest honesty is the best policy, after all?

Next, I take a lesson from my father’s teachings about frugality. Don’t buy new when used will do! So when my t-shirts start to get too short on me, I fringe the hem and make a cute midriff baring top. Or if a stain on a shirt is too obvious, I get out my Bedazzler and use the rhinestones to create an appropriate message. “Girl Power” is a can’t-miss phrase that mom and dad will have to approve, and it totally works for me.

For more thrifty shopping, I believe in the Army-Navy store. Someone else’s castoffs might be your go-to wardrobe items. Combat boots are always a good deal here, and they are so practical for snow. Another practical purchase is a leather jacket will keep you warm for years to come. At 75% off the original price, you won’t find a better deal.

Finally, a word about makeup. This is one area where I might have to disagree with my father just a teeny bit (sorry, Dad!) as he doesn’t approve of putting anything on a clean face. But I’ve also been taught to hide my flaws whenever possible, so doesn’t concealer just make sense? I leave that one open for debate!
To read more about how Alex lets her hair down when she’s away from home, check out Camp Payback and the rest of the books in the Camp Boyfriend series!

Learn more at or Order Camp Payback in print or ebook at (Amazon) or (Barnes and Nobles) and follow us on facebook at or on twitter at and

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Cover Reveal: Drawn #2 by Lilliana Anderson

Drawn #2
Lilliana Anderson
Genres: New Adult, Romance

Drawn - Obsession 

Choose your hero wisely. Have you ever wanted the power to decide who the heroine of a story will ultimately end up with? InDrawn, we met Etta and watched as her obsessive relationship with Damien sent both of them into world of darkness and self-destruction. We also met Aaron, the constant in Etta's life - the man who was willing to do anything it took to keep her safe.

Two Men. One woman. A decision that will change everything...

That decision is yours... 

Three years have passed since Aaron rescued Etta from Damien. In that time, things have changed, and they have made a life together. 

When Damien returns, demanding what he feels is rightfully his, Aaron will have to stand his ground or risk losing everything he holds dear. 

Their love, trust and commitment will all be put to the test in this tale of fighting for those you hold dear - even if the consequences could be catastrophic. 

In Drawn - Obsession, we follow Etta, Aaron and Damien. They will walk the path you set them on when you make the choice to support Aaron. To support Damien, you will need to read Drawn - Redemption. 

Drawn - Redemption 

Choose your hero wisely. Have you ever wanted the power to decide who the heroine of a story will ultimately end up with? InDrawn, we met Etta and watched as her obsessive relationship with Damien sent both of them into world of darkness and self-destruction. We also met Aaron, the constant in Etta's life - the man who was willing to do anything it took to keep her safe.

Two Men. One woman. A decision that will change everything...

That decision is yours...

Three years have passed since Damien lost Etta. His obsessive and irrational behaviour drove her away and destroyed his life.

For three years he has languished in prison. Every day he had but one thought - Etta. She is the holder of his soul and he can't see a life without her in it.

When he is finally released and tracks her down, he is faced with something he didn't expect. His daughter, and Aaron.

Damien needs to redeem himself in the eyes of the woman he loves. He needs to prove to her that he is the kind of man she can build a life with - even if that means telling her all of his secrets and possibly ruining everything for good.

In Drawn - Redemption, we follow Etta, Damien and Aaron. They will walk the path you set them on when you make the choice to support Damien. To support Aaron, you will need to read Drawn - Obsession.



Australian born and bred, Lilliana Anderson has always loved to read and write considering it the best form of escapism that the world has to offer. Besides writing Angelien's biographical trilogy, she also writes contemporary romance and drama all based around Aussie characters.

When she isn't writing she is a wife, and a mother to four children. She has worked in a variety of industries and studied humanities before transferring to commerce/law at university.

She currently lives a fairly quiet life in suburban Melbourne.

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