tells the story of the life she led when her mob affiliations ran deep. There is always a beginning and this is hers. “Welcome to the Vegas Strip. Never has the line between getting whacked and getting whacked off been so thin. This is the kind of book people hide from their spouses and parents. This is the kind of book that your closest friend will want to clear from your home, along with your vibrator and porn, before anyone else comes to liquidate your estate when you kick the bucket unexpectedly. This book is a dangerous addiction that you will not be able to tear yourself away from, teeming with corruption and sex in the City of Sin where one must embrace the gritty elegance of organized crime. It is filled with characters who are far more interesting than anyone you know and dirtier than any of them will ever admit to being. Just two things you should know: don’t judge a hooker, and there is no safe word. You have been warned.”
About the Author:Emma Janson has spent her career in the United States Army and her life exploring herself and her sexuality. Her military life is as diverse as her personal story and as shockingly real. She had an orgy in the barracks, she can sing and toured with the Army soldier show and she served in Iraq and Afghanistan (where she was inspired to write her first novel).Emma was married to her husband of 10 years (also a soldier) and ended up having a three-way relationship with him and her girlfriend for 3 years. She’s still active in the Army, as she has found that it is her calling which is why she writes under a pen-name. Oh, and she has a mild addiction to wearing glitter whenever she puts make-up on. Editor’s note: This Army soldier just had twins!
From Narcoleptic Hooker – First of a four Part Preview – complete book available May 1st.
“I’ll care more once we call the Police or my dad. Let’s get out of here.”
We scavenged for a sharp object to cut the bonds free from our wrists. Surprisingly, in a garage full of
tools, we couldn’t find one small enough not to rip into our flesh during the removal process.
“We should be looking for . . . where the hell did his pocket knife fly off to?”
We scanned the floor near the couch that still held a beef-like aroma, under the vehicle and all around
the body of Jackson; the knife was simply nowhere to be found.
Finally, in the panic stricken moment, our eyes met with an understanding; escape was essential. I
pressed a glowing button that looked like a door bell with my bound hands expecting the garage door to
open. Nothing happened. My plastic police cuffs suddenly felt hotter and more uncomfortable but in a state of shock I could
Kichi smashed the button with her forehead after my astounded pause took too long. She was
expecting the door to recognize her button pushing method over mine but it remained closed as it did
the first time. For a brief second we were reduced to helpless plastic handcuffed hookers in a house
garage, near a dead body.
As luck would have it, the mysterious Grandpa opened the door to the garage and both of us froze with
fear. His thin figure was silhouetted by a light behind his head. He fully expected things to be under
control and at the opposite end of the kidnapping spectrum because he opened the door very calmly,
however, he thought quickly and pulled a gun from his side.
“Where is Jackson?” The barrel moved between Kichi’s face and mine. “Jackson!”
Jackson moaned from the floor. Grandpa shouted over his right shoulder into an adjacent dark room.
“Chucky, get the kid, he is on the floor! You two get down, face down.”
All of it was happening so fast. Where was my Narcolepsy now? I was ready to fall into the trappings of
my disorder to escape the madness but it never, ever comes when it’s convenient for me.
Kichi and I sprawled ourselves onto the cold garage floor. My face turned away from the old man’s
shoes to Chucky helping poor Jackson up.
A calm voice from above me said, “Sarah?”
My eyebrows scrunched, I stretched my gaze as far as I could without moving my head to see Grandpa’s
face. I’ll be god dammed, just when my heart couldn’t pump anymore blood through my veins my eyes
translated to my brain the identity of the mysterious grandpa.
Old man Tucker the fucker was wearing the same fifties outfit he had on hours ago during my visit. He
added a jacket to hide the costume look but it was the same slacks and shoes. I could almost smell my
scent still lingering over his crotch.
I hoped this misunderstanding would be brought to light considering the orgasms we shared. But was
our meeting an advantage to the situation or the plan?
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