Crazy, Crazy Nights

This is my last story of 2013! It's quite fitting actually. Since it encompasses several things - faith, belief, the end of one thing and the glorious beginning of another. Neiri is a divorcee who has lost her faith and Roshan Ahsani is the perfect man to help her rebuild it. At the time of the year when one really shouldn't be alone with one's maudlin thoughts of all one's failures. It was a delight to research, to write, to be a little... okay a LOT naughty with.

Enjoy and Merry Flipping Christmas to you all!

http://www.sharaazod.com/ebook/nights-roshan.html

Le Blurb

Neiri Halabi is a Christmas enthusiast and a cat allergist. She just wants to survive her first Christmas alone; with shop bought treats, her basement swimming pool and certainly without swallowing random cat hairs in said pool. Given there's only one other resident in the entire apartment building, it has to be Roshan Ahsani up to no good. While the extravagant building owner may be have a whale of a time keeping large pets and letting them share her space, Neiri isn't about to put up with it. She's going to turn spy and catch Roshan Ahsani at his own game. Shame she doesn't know that tigers are much better hunters...

Le Excerpt

She pressed her hands to her forehead. If she pressed a little harder, this could possibly be not taking place or Roshan would just point to a tiger in a cage and shout fooled ya! No such luck. “I let my grandmother get carried away. She even cursed my ex-husband with no testicles and that didn’t work.”

“Are you sure about that?”

It gave her pause. “The point is, it’s all superstitious, properly ancient madness that I didn’t mean. I didn’t mean to have any of this, least of all for me to be swallowing your moulting fur.”

“I do not moult,” he growled. “I came here because I was called. We have good hearing.”

“Really?”

“Better,” he corrected, adjusting the crease of his trousers with a flick. “It’s been a long time since anyone has called for our protection in that manner. So here I am.”

“That’s why you bought this place? Because my grandmother prayed?”

“Because you did,” he said softly. “Never heard of that? The grain of faith of a non believer being stronger than a whole field of wheat.”

Her grandmother had told her the prayers would only work if she truly believed in them. And in those desperately lonely moments, she wanted someone to come and make it all stop. Make it better. With her hands tight around her grandmother’s as the incense had burned before one of the many statues belonging to her family, she had the briefest vision of a cat padding towards her, growing in volume with each light jog, until it was as big as a man. It had touched her head with an enormous paw and vanished in a puff of smoke. Neiri’s grandmother asked her if she’d seen anything and she flat denied it. Instead, she’d gone to her GP for medication, saying the stress of the divorce was making her hallucinate. Oops.

She warmed her hands on the teacup, watching him for any sudden movements. “And you made Adil change his mind about the settlement?”

Roshan’s face flickered slightly, like a boy working out how to tell his parents he’d done something naughty. “I made him a decent offer which he accepted. It means you’re free.”

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “To owe you.”

“To do me a favour in return.”

Neiri closed a fist around the lapels of her robe. “I can’t give you anything.”

Roshan leaned back and glanced out the huge windows that lined the entire apartment. “Did your grandmother teach you the fertility ritual?”

She made a face of confusion. “Now you’re just making things weird.”

“I assume she would have, since you married.”

“It didn’t work.” She halted and waited until the bitterness wasn’t so sharp at the back of her throat. “It’s a fad.”

“But you know what to do.”

It was something she’d tried a thousand times before. She knew it better than her own name. “It really should be done in autumn.”

“Accounted for.”

“And you can only really do it on a full moon.”

“Indeed. Which is tomorrow.”

Checkmate. She tapped the side of her teacup. “So what, I do this ritual and what… We’re quits?”

Roshan nodded his head. “Absolutely.”

She didn’t quite believe him. Big cat or no, he was still a man. Men always wanted something. “When we say fertility ritual, it means no sex. Not that anything in me works for anything to come of it, anyway…”

“Neiriouri.” The way he said her name… She sat still and stared at him, eyes wide. “It will work. If you do it. And you mean it. Will you do it or not?”

Blinking rapidly, she nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I need some things first…”

He took a card from the coffee table and handed it to her. “Call this man. He will bring everything you need for the ritual. Be here. 9:30 p.m. The moon will be at its highest.”

“You can’t believe in this stuff,” she said, nervous laughter lilting her tone.

“You did,” he replied, getting to his feet. “Or else I wouldn’t be here. And neither would you.” He took her hand and tugged her to standing. Gathering the cup from her fingers, he set it down, and then led her from his wonderful flat. In silence, he took her to the lifts and walked with her until they reached her door.

“Until tomorrow.”

She opened her mouth to dissuade him and even managed to get a few words in. “Roshan, I’m not…”

“Faith,” he told her, his hands tightening around hers. “I know it’s been a long time, but have some in yourself.” He took a key from his trouser pocket and opened her door. With a short, almost bowing nod, he turned and walked away.

Well, she thought. That will teach me to snoop.

Sweet Child Of Mine

Look at that?! Makes me feel all traditional and romantic and doing good service in the name of single fathers everywhere! Fathers who have daughters, coz as a Daddy's girl myself, I've made my father suffer. Suffer! The things that man has done with patience and a sigh and most probably several cigarettes after I've gone to bed. So this story is for the Dads to daughters. Fathers who will trek with their daughter to Topshop and endure the trauma so they can buy that skirt everyone's been on about. Fathers who will wear earplugs while their daughters sing along loudly and badly to their favourite boyband who they will marry. They totally will marry every member. Not the fat one though. Fathers who will watch that boy from across the street with suspicion because he is not allowed to look in his child's direction. Fathers who will iron school uniforms, do Design Technology homework before it is burned into a crisp, remember a much needed tennis racket and sneak a cheeky champagne to their daughter just so she knows the difference between the fake stuff and the good stuff. Thank you. You don't get enough credit.

http://www.sharaazod.com/ebook/sweet-child-mine.html

Le Blurb

Liam McNamara has enough on his plate. As a widowed father to a daughter he doesn't recognise, he really has no time for his mother's interference with his love life. She and her church friend can stop handing out photos of him to the single ladies of the congregation and let him try to be the paternal and maternal figure his daughter so desperately needs.

Abigail Yeboah ignores most of what happens in her mother's church. She's focused on her budding business and she's certainly not interested in playing Evil Queen to Liam McNamara's brat. But when Abigail catches his daughter in an act of vandalism, she finally understands it's not only the child who needs her, but the man.


La Excerpt

Abigail carried on clearing down the tables. “I’d like to be home before half eight,” she said. “I’m listening, but I do need this done.”

He leaned over and took the cloth and table spray from her hands. “Hold on a moment.”

His palms were warm and rough around her wrists. It made her freeze. Er...hello? Did she miss a conversation where this was all right? He gently tugged her in front of him, looking her directly in the eyes.

“I’m sorry about Leila’s behaviour. And I do appreciate you being decent, rather than taking her to the police station. It’s what I would have done. I’m sorry for snapping at you. It was uncalled for.”

She carefully pulled her wrists from his grasp and returned to cleaning down the tables. “Don’t worry about it. Nothing was broken.” The sigh that came from him forced her to look up. There was some truth in her mother’s words. The man was lonely. “Do you want to talk?”

“To a professional?” he asked ruefully.

She lifted one shoulder. “To me. I feel like you need to talk to someone who isn’t related to you or your vicar.”

He wavered, rubbing a palm over his beard. “Are you sure?”

No. “I’ve offered, so I’d hope so.”

Bowing his head, he stared at his shoes for a moment. “I’ll drop Leila with my mother. Shall I meet you somewhere in half an hour?”

“Just come back here,” she suggested. “Get a cab, come here. We’ll get on the wine I can’t serve until my licence kicks in. Get a cab home.”

He grinned. “You said the magic word. Wine. My mum was right about you. I’ll see you in half an hour.”

His mother was what? He disappeared, leaving her speechless, holding the cloth and cleaning spray like a doofus. Crap, did she have makeup in her bag? Hurriedly finishing the cleanup, she closed the café and rummaged through her bag to find a bit of blusher and lip-gloss. A little powder toned down the shine on her nose, but nothing was going to rescue the tired T-shirt printed with Books Are Friends or her torn jeans. She brushed a hand over her cropped hair—the cut that made her mother cry for two weeks straight. It did provide endless compliments as to how it emphasised her jawline and the shape of her eyes and drew attention to her mouth. Still, she looked boyish. Hell, Liam had more hair on his head than she did. What was she doing? Why was she getting overexcited about a grieving man?

Just as she thought about how to tell him to keep his widowed arse at home, he strolled back into the café.

“You should lock that,” he said, pulling one of her mismatched chairs from the table and sitting down. “Where’s this wine you promised?”

“Aren’t we bossy?”

“We,” he pointed his thumbs to his chest, “are in need of alcohol. A lot of.”

She bolted the front door, picked up a bottle of Pinot and a corkscrew. “You open that. I’m getting some food.”

He perked up. “Food? What do you have?”

“Goat cheese tarts to start and chicken parmigiano.”

His mouth parted for a moment before he burst out, “Jesus Christ, you fucking angel.”

“Calm down.” She laughed. “Just open the wine and I’ll bring it out.”

In five minutes, she brought out the warm tarts with onion marmalade. The smile in Liam’s eyes was enough to make her feel weak and all too aware of her femininity. “Before you say, this was all made fresh this morning. I just put it in the oven to reheat.”

“This is such a luxury, I can’t tell you.” His praise was all in his groan of appreciation after his first mouthful. “I’m a cheese monster.”

“Good for you,” she teased, taking a sip of wine. “Don’t you cook?”

“I have to. But I’ve been cutting corners recently. Trying to feed a twelve-year-old who thinks you’re Satan out to ruin her life means food needs to be done in fifteen minutes or less. I used to bake.”

Abigail choked on her tart. “You used to what?”

“Bake,” he said, barely pausing in between forkfuls of tart and salad leaves. “Bread, cakes, quiches. We’d do it together.”

Abigail tried not to tense, but the sensation invaded her shoulders. The image of his demon child and his perfect wife all laughing and giggling, throwing flour at each other, did not sit well in her stomach. “Why don’t you? Any more?”

“No incentive.”

“Come on. Having fresh bread is always an incentive.”

“Nice idea,” he murmured, flicking his eyes up from the plate to rest on her. “What’s happening with your licence?”

Normally, people only ever stared that intently at her to request service or more chocolate cake. “Refused for some unknown reason. Probably because Mrs. Dalbury-Scott’s husband is the local councillor. He deals with licences and she’s called The Library a ghetto.”

The woman had an issue with Abigail ever since she offered a breakfast and tea menu for local schoolchildren at a very reduced price. It was to help out struggling parents who had to rush to get their children to school and themselves to work. More so, it ensured those children ate well before and after a long school day. Apparently, Abigail was simply encouraging riffraff into the area and alcohol would increase the number of ASBOs the council would have to give out. Abigail wouldn’t put it past Mrs. Dalbury-Scott to imperiously command her husband to refuse the licence without thinking. Only to be petty and completely fuck up Abigail’s revenue.

Liam’s brows rose. “Does she know half the kids from her daughter’s fancy school are here every day?”

“Like yours?” she countered.

“Without the egging. I’m sorry about that... You don’t want to listen to me complaining about my child.”

Not really, but if he carried on talking she’d try to ignore what he was saying and instead focus on his voice—deep and smooth and as rich as the wine they were enjoying. “You wanted to talk. So talk.”

Can't Hold Us

An Army of Me and You is now available on Shara Azod's site! This story means a lot to me. I said in another post how I've military family and corrupted a few military men. (No, that's a lie, they corrupted me.) More than that, I hope I've conveyed just how difficult it is to leave behind everything to start a new life in another country to save your life. How it never goes away, but like most things, gets easier. No preaching. Just two people coming together after extraordinary circumstances. 

Here's the blurb:

The irony of Madeline Mpoyi's choice in a career was never lost on her. Being that her days as a girl in a war torn village, suffering the horrors of an innocent Rwandan child started off as anything but sweet most would find it incredibly funny that as a woman she'd be manufacturing treats to send to the soldier that saved her life. Or at least she thought it was the soldier that saved her life. Errr...technically it is...being that he has the same name and comes from the same bloodline. Although Major Nathaniel Goldsmith Sr. has long retired, his son is carrying on the family tradition as a Captain in the army. A Captain that has come to depend on both Madeline's sweet letters and even sweeter care packages. And it would seem that said Captain has Madeline in his sights...eager to sample whatever else she's willing to offer...

And this is the excerpt:

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m driving. Borrowing my father’s run around for a bit. He barely uses the other three.”

Madeline tucked a twist under her scarf. “You’re quite privileged, aren’t you?”

“In many ways, yes. Not many people come home to a few cars in the garage that they can borrow.”

“A few?”

“Five.”

“Who needs five cars?” she blurted.

He ticked them off his hand. “The Land Rover, the truck that pulls the horsebox, a Mercedes, a Jaguar, and my mother’s Bentley.”

“No one needs five cars.”

Cain gave a shrug. “They’re all old enough and ragged enough to be worthless in today’s value. I won’t say it’s not nice being privileged. I wouldn’t get free sweets otherwise.”

“Or free truffles,” she added.

“Or kisses.”

Madeline’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t have anything called kisses...” Her voice trailed off as she took in their circumstances. That sweet chin of hers was balanced on the edge of his left hand, and his right cradled the small of her back. Until he’d touched her, he hadn’t fully appreciated just how badly he wanted to kiss her. He watched as the rise and fall of her chest increased in speed, mimicking his uneven breaths. Her mouth parted, and the flash of her pink tongue flicked off his brain switch. All instinct based, he lowered his head and pressed his mouth to hers. He’d only meant to kiss her goodbye. Or rather, see you later.

As soon as he tasted her, all his thoughts were on Madeline naked, underneath him, thighs parted and cradling him against her soaked sex. His hand moved from her chin to lightly stroke her face, the skin so soft beneath his fingers. He trailed his hand over her side, tracing the shape of her waist and the flare of her hips. Madeline moaned under his mouth, the sound sending a thrill over his body.

“Um,” she gasped. “Can we... Not in the street?”

He barely lifted his lips from hers to send her a frown. “Where?” With her lower body pressed to his, his mind transported him to the back room of her shop. He could sweep the chocolate aside, perch her on the edge of the table, and lift the skirts of her vintage dress. Within moments, he could be buried inside her, rocking them both to satisfaction.

army-you-me.html

Army of Two

You wouldn't know because I've never said a word about it, but I have the army in my blood. Family who served proudly, men who trained at Sandhurst. My divine late godfather was in the Royal Air Force - like a freakin' boss. I was honestly considering the Navy, before I remembered I don't like getting up early. Or exercise. Or boats. And I will admit that it only takes the words 'I'm in the army' for the elastic of my knickers to be tested. Sorry I had to take it down to that level for my own good.

I didn't fancy putting any of those experiences on paper. It's all a bit too close to home - the waiting around for one lousy single page letter or a two line email (I mean what the fk, I know you're bored, but come on!); the arguments with people who pretend to be pacifists and despise the military but have no problem smacking a bottle over someone's head if they've had too much to drink; the heart stopping moment when you watch the news and hear the words "a soldier was killed today..." until you remember that you'll be informed before they make it public or you freaking hope they would.

Nothing fun or romantic about it as far as I knew. But writing is my therapy. I understand better if I can make up a whole story around it. So I'm pretty close (please God, thank you) finishing this tale and putting it to bed. If only the stupid thing would stop making me cry... Let me watch a few episodes of American Dad and I'll be fine. American Dad or Confessions of a Male Stripper. That'll do it.