In case you are interested I’ve included a sample Chapter One of BEAUTIFUL COLLISION below. If you like the sample chapter there is a link to click that enables you to receive 2 more FREE chapters.
Author Archives: Tee G Ayer
Until last week, my life was pretty normal for a sixteen-year-old. Until I spent that awful night trapped in the janitor’s closet in utter darkness. Until the dreams began — suffocating, panic-filled dreams. My best friend Kyla stays with me, but the dreams still continue. And I wake each morning with cuts & burns on my skin. I don’t recall inflicting them.
And then there is the blood on my hands and my sheets when I wake up.
I’m afraid of myself.
I’m afraid I am a killer.
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We love Christmas, I think everyone who knows me knows how much I adore the silly season. Not so much the crowds, or even the presents. I’d be just as happy with a Christmas without gifts but its too fun to pass up right? Who doesn’t love giving and receiving gifts?
So usually we do roast turkey for Christmas dinner but this year we decided we will do a spit roast for a change. Now since our family isn’t large enough to justify a full lamb, or even a half one for that matter, this is what we roasted on our spits.
Believe me- they were all delicious. Not often I experience that state of fullness that makes me want a long nap :)
And for dessert of course, we had to have trifle – no choice in it.
And mince pies!
So here’s hoping that your Christmas Day is filled with happiness and food and much much love.
Merry Christmas everyone.
Hope everyone is having an amazing holiday season. For our little family, the holidays are quite special. Being far away from extended family on special occasions can be hard, which is why we have tried to create a special atmosphere, with our own special traditions.
Yes, we do presents too, just an excuse to spoil each other, of course.
And Christmas Eve dinner is special too. The glazed ham is something we look forward to for the whole year :)
So here it is.
Christmas Eve is usually a small affair for us, but I love to create a special atmosphere. Hence the table setting. Not as fancy as I’d like it but it will do :)
The only thing missing is the white stuff- ever since I was a kid I’ve wanted a White Christmas. Gotta put that in the ‘Maybe SomeDay’ pile.
Lasty, what’s playing? What better way to bring o the season’s jolly spirit than Michael Buble.
Hope you all are having a special time. Remember, everything in moderation, peeps.
Have a safe one.
November has come and gone, and if you are writerly, or readerly, you might have some idea of what November represents.
National Novel Writing Month.
A month in which hundreds of writers push themselves to write a novel in four weeks. The goal is 50 thousand words in the month. Reach the goal and you win NANO.
Now, my only gripe with NANO is who in the hell ever thought November was a good month to sit down and write without interruption? School exams? Uni exams? Diwali, Halloween, christmas cake baking and don’t forget the tree? Worst month of the year. Really.
So, did I do NANO this year? Kinda.
A group I belong to had a bunch of members with a bunch of screaming deadlines. Needless to say, I was one of them. We decided to do a mini-Nano in the hope that we will all reach our wordcount goals.
So we wrote.
And wrote some more.
And when I finally completed my project after 2 weeks of writing, I’d finished with 65k, writing 35k in 8 days. Some days I wrote 8k and some days I wrote 5k but I pushed myself and I reached my goal.
And let me just say that there is a strange mysteriousness about writing THE END. It marks the completion of the projection, the achievement of a goal, the acknowledgment that you weren’t just mucking around and that you were actually doing something with your time instead of surfing the net, or scrolling through FB.
I think finishing any project you start is a momentous thing. I still have a cross-stitch that I haven’t completed from ten years ago and it bugs me like crazy- when and if I ever find it, I swear I will finish the damn thing. Maybe frame it too.
The beauty of completing a project is that you can see for yourself that no matter how hard things get, there is nothing stopping you from reaching your goal. Nothing except you, that is.
The one thing that always gets me when writing is the 70% slump. Somewhere toward the end of the manuscript, I hit a wall. Back when I first started writing it took me weeks to get past it. But the more books I wrote, the better I got at finding ways to overcome that slump. Now my 70% slump may last an hour, if it happens at all.
Each book is different, each one is a completely unique writing experience, and what they give you is practice. You learn new techniques, you stop making old mistakes, maybe you learn to outline better, or make better notes. And, at the end of the day, you walk away with a completed novel.
What can you not do if you don’t have a completed first draft? Yup, you can’t edit it, or submit it, or publish it.
So the lesson is in the completion.
Finishing the book will give you something to edit, and to publish while you grin like a crazy person.
Finishing the book will give you writing muscles, train you better to write the next book.
Finishing the book says you can flip the bird at the naysayers and at that pesky devil on your shoulder that kept whispering in your ear that it was all just too hard.
Finishing the book will give you a sense of achievement, the feeling that yes, you are the kind of person that completes things, that can go the hard yards, that can accomplish what you set out to achieve.
And finishing the book also means you can start writing the next one :)
And let me add here that this doesn’t only apply to writers and writing. It’s applicable to all things in life that are difficulty to do, that take guts and stamina to achieve.
You just need a goal. And dedication.
It’s December and Christmas is around the corner (categorically my most favourite time of the year). As it happens it’s also time to reflect on 2014 and decide if 2014 kicked my butt or was it the other way around?
In terms of health I’d say 2014 won hands down. There were far too many says spent on the wrong side of the bedcovers, but I feel I more than made up for it on the my good days.
In terms of books published here is a quick list of 2014’s releases:
Jan – Lost Soul (SkinWalker #2)
Mar – Retribution (Angels #1)
May – Blood Magic (SoulTracker #1)
July – Pyros (SkinWalker 0.5)
Aug – Blood & Gold (Kali #2)
Sep – Requiem (Angels #2)
Oct – Last Chance (SkinWalker #3)
Dec – Dead Wrath (Valkyrie #4)
Dec – Beautiful Collision (Desperation #1)
Dec – Sugar & Spice Anthology
That’s 9 books and one anthology published in 2014, so I’d guess I beat 2014 ;)
Needless to say I am a little in awe. I spent so much of the year head down, nose to the grindstone I guess I didn’t stop much to realise I was meeting and exceeding my goals. I have to admit there were many moments that I spent bemoaning the fact that I wasn’t writing fast enough or releasing fast enough, but I promise to do better in 2015.
What’s in store for 2015, you ask? This is what I have on the cards, not in order of release, and not set in stone either:
Thriller/Horror Standalones – ongoing line
#5 Dead Silence – Series Complete
Hand of Kali Series
#3 Time & Fate – Series Complete
Desperation – NA Contemp
#2 Beautiful Conviction – Series Complete
Angels of the Irin – Extended series (9 books)
SoulTracker Series – extended series (9 books)
#2 Dark Sight
#3 Demon Kin
#4 Soul Tracker
SkinWalker Series – extended series (6 books)
#4 Blood Promise
#5 Fire Mage
Looks like a lot, right? To be honest they may not all make it to publication in 2015 but I will certainly try.
Any questions about the upcoming books or the current series please leave them in the comments :)
Release Day Blitz ~ Sugar and Spice Anthology
Sugar and Spice Anthology
RELEASE DAY BLITZ
December 19, 2014
Sugar & Spice and everything nice…or is it? This collection of sweet and sexy romances is sure to warm your heart *and* get it racing.
Maverick by Anna Cruise
International surf sensation Kellen Handler has it all – fame and fortune and more women than he can count – but he’s riding his own personal wave toward disaster. Can PR genius Gina Bellori rescue his reputation…and his heart?
Fever by Melissa Pearl
Two showers and one song that will change their lives forever…singing in the shower will never be the same after Ella and Cole hear each other for the first time. Is it possible for two people to fall in love after one duet together? And can they find each other before life-changing decisions will set them on opposing paths?
Escaping Me by Elizabeth Lee
The last thing Cole was looking for was a girl like Whitney, and she sure didn’t expect anything serious with the town’s bad seed. Sometimes the one you think isn’t for you turns out to be just the person you need.
Finding My Forever by Heidi McLaughlin
Women find me. I don’t chase. I know what they want and they know I’ll deliver. But after one look, one touch, one night…Now I’m the one doing the chasing.
Girl With Guitar by Caisey Quinn
Touring with Country Music superstar Trace Corbin is hardly a dream come true since he’s pretty much drinking his career down the drain. If Kylie can’t pull Trace out of his rut, he’ll pull her and her dreams down with him.
Draw Me In by Megan Squires
He’s a young, up and coming businessman with the keys to his family’s Italian wine enterprise. She’s a fine arts student, navigating life in the Big Apple, her pencil and sketchpad in hand. They meet. They fall in love… But it’s not that story.
Begin with Goodbye by Kelly Walker
Justice is a myth, and true love is a lie. In Begin With Goodbye, Sam will go home to confront her sister’s rapist, but she might find more than she bargained for.
Beautiful Collision by T.G. Ayer
Life on the run is hard enough. Gray doesn’t need love to complicate her world. And the last thing she needs is to fall for the wrong guy.
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Despite the dark glasses, I blink against the sunlight as it stings my skin. But I keep my eyes firmly on my mark. The girl is easy to track. Inexperienced. Naive. Thinks she isn’t being followed. It’s there in the false confidence of the way she walks, the way she holds her shoulders. Maybe it’s because I’m good at my job. Good enough that my target will never know how long I’ve tracked them, or how much time I spent watching them. I’m hoping it’s because I’m better than most at my job.
Otherwise the girl is a danger to herself.
I’m standing beneath a tree, amidst the bustle of midday sidewalk traffic, the shadows of the branches and sparse leaves providing meager cover in the baking sun. I’m watching as Sara Roshkov hurries across the busy road toward the entrance to the San Francisco Public Library. I have little idea what she’s come to the library for, which makes me more than curious. I can’t imagine she’d be loaning out a book; not now, when her life is in such turmoil. That leaves the option I don’t like – meeting someone.
The thought spurs me to move and I wait only until she’d reaches the top step before I jog across Larkin and enter the building after her. The cool air is a shock against my sweat-covered skin and I’m momentarily blinded going from bright sun to shaded interior. I keep my sunglasses on, habit and protection. She’s hurrying up the marble stairs and I pause to watch her, pretending to admire the high, glass ceiling of the atrium. I follow her up the stairs and watch her enter General Fiction. My shoes don’t make any sound on the stairs and I know she has no idea she’s being followed.
Her hair is short and black today, a wig she’s been using since she arrived in San Francisco. She keeps her neck straight and stiff. Seems she knows not to appear as if she’s looking over her shoulder. I’m not sure what she’s learned from her father but she sure has to learn a lot more about running and hiding so the likes of me won’t find her.
I’ve been tracking her for a while now and I feel a pull of something as I watch her. There is a fragile air to her and she’s lost weight, the hollows of her cheeks proof that life on the run doesn’t exactly involve luxuries like three square meals a day. And Sara Roshkov is used to a life of luxury considering the family she belongs to.
I follow, grabbing a book from the bestseller shelf beside me, keeping sufficient distance between us that she’d see nothing suspicious should she turn around. What she would see is a young guy, black jeans, black tee, black sneakers, much like her own dark clothing. The hoodie I’m wearing is equally nondescript, the ball cap plain too. Nothing I wore would stand out in a person’s memory should they spot me. My black hair is short, the style efficient and easy to maintain. Again nothing to remember me by.
She sneaks a look over her shoulder as she enters an aisle up ahead but her eyes graze my face and her gaze seeks further beyond me. I flip through the book and then enter the aisle next to her. She’s facing me and I can watch her through the stacks without her seeing me. She’s already halfway down her row, finger running along the covers as she searches for her book.
It feels a little voyeuristic but hell, the full scope of my job is inherently voyeuristic. I keep my attention on her as her finger stops on one particular book. Her expression is satisfied; she’s found the book she wants but before she takes it off the shelf her eyes cloud, the gray darkening to dark metal; a moment of doubt that shows on her face as if she battles the monsters within.
As much as I can read people, their eyes, their body language, it’s what goes on inside their heads that eludes even the best of us. Nobody can train you for that.
She straightens her back and then tilts the book toward her. taking it down from the shelf with extra care.
She flips to the back of the book and slowly the pieces fall into place. Someone has left something for her in that particular book. There are a number of possibilities but it’s clear that someone is helping her. Is it someone within her family? Roshkov had always kept his personal life totally private. Not that our surveillance hadn’t picked up on his many mistresses or his other extracurricular activities. The man was involved in everything from human trafficking to drug-running. No wonder his wife, having left for St. Petersburg a year ago, is still to return. Something is rotten in the Roshkov paradise perhaps?
Now, as I study his daughter I wonder if her mother is the wife in Russia or is she the offspring of one of Roshkov many affairs? There is too much we still need to know about Sara and perhaps we will get our break soon. One thing I do know is that she has a heart, that there is a goodness in her.
There is no way for me to tell what the book hides and any attempt to find out will likely jeopardize the mission. I could pass her by and steal the book from her without her even realizing it happened. But that won’t help the case.
She has what she wants, so now she heads out, and her shoulders relax a little. She thinks the coast is clear. I allow her that misconception. I hang back as she leaves the library, keeping my distance as she exits the building and heads back into the sunshine.
I’m her shadow as she hurries to a fast food joint where she buys a couple burgers and then keeps moving. I follow, my awareness turned on to full blast.
She heads further west, into the Tenderloin area of San Francisco. It didn’t surprise me that she’d chosen one of the most dangerous parts of the city to hide out in. What does surprise me is that she’s had the guts to stay there this long, hiding among the homeless and the drug dealers. People get killed every night in this area and so far she’s survived. If anything she is resourceful.
I’ve watched the building in which she’d found a place to sleep, cased the place once when she’d left for a soup kitchen a few blocks away. Other than that, I just watch and report back on her activities. Despite my impatience that we were too slow in getting info, despite my need for us to reacher the next level of this investigation in which we take Roshkov down, despite all my personal feeling I must remain clearheaded, keep my head in the game.
Now I watch her enter the deserted building as I lean against a light pole and pretend to light a cigarette.
I hear the buzz in my earwig that indicates someone is being patched through.
“Eagle, come in, over.”
I press the button on the comms. “Eagle here, over.” My eyes don’t move from the mark.
“This is HQ, do you have a situation report, over.”
“All quiet here, over.”
Release Day 10th December 2014
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Despite everything I’ve experienced in my life I have never expected to know what it feels like to be hunted.
Now I know what the deer feels like when the hunter has her in his sights, has the barrel of his rifle aimed at her head, finger slowly pressing down on the trigger. Every step, every breath I take feels like it’s on borrowed time and I hate it with such a passion that it makes that iron fist that always holds onto my gut, tighten with vicious enjoyment.
My muscles in my throat are taut as I turn my head and allow my eyes to travel up and down the busy street. I squint against the sun streaming down on my head. It’s cheerful brightness mocks me. The oversize sunglasses help against the glare, and maybe it helps to hide me a little too. I don’t know. If someone is watching me right now I’ll never be able to tell. I plan to get better at it soon.
Or else I’m going to be the one looking down the barrel of a gun.
My heart thuds as I cross Larkin and enter the cool hall of San Francisco’s main public library. I push the sunglasses up onto my head and scan the hall as I keep moving. The atrium is enough to stop any visitor in their tracks, high and airy and all glass, but I don’t stop to stare because I have a purpose. I’m not here to sight-see. I follow the signs to the first floor, worn sneakers silent on the marble floor tiles.
As I move I tug the leather cuff on my right wrist, ensuring it stays in place. The leather hides a truth that I’d rather not see. Call it denial, but I haven’t fallen apart yet so out of sight, out of mind has helped me this far.
I enter General Fiction and inhale the unique scent of books; ink and dust and paper. I hurry along the silent aisles, reading off the spine labels under my breath, in search of Songs of Innocence and Experience by William Blake. I smile, thinking how strange that Alexei would even know who Blake was.
But maybe I am being naive. How would I know what kind of life Alexei had led when I’d known him for only the briefest time. I hadn’t seen the old man in weeks and a few times I’d wondered how smart it was to have contacted him in the first place. He’d given me his card, yes, but that didn’t mean I should have used it. It didn’t mean I should have made him part of my problem.
My heels squeak on the polished wood floor, and the sound echoes around me. Too loud. I look around from beneath nondescript black bangs that skim my eyebrows, the edge jagged much like the rest of my short wig.
I look around. The room was far from empty, with the nearest person being a young guy his nose in a book as he stands beside a showcase of the latest bestsellers. He’s harmless.
My heart thumps and I try to calm my nerves. I’m careful, I’m aware. Nothing’s going to happen. And yet . . . I’m still nervous. I slip into a row and immediately I’m hemmed in by shelves that rise a foot higher than the top of my head. If I’ve disturbed anyone or drawn attention from the wrong sort, I can’t tell now.
I lift my weight onto the balls of my feet, and hurry down the aisle. Moving quickly, I find the B’s, and run a finger along the spines until I reach Blake. It takes seconds to find Songs, and I feel a sudden stab of fear. What if someone’s loaned out the copy I need? What then? Keep coming back for that particular copy? How would I explain why I want that specific book? Why hadn’t I thought this through?
I stiffen with fear.
Get a grip, Gray. Don’t borrow trouble. That’s what Dad used to say. Don’t go worrying about something that hasn’t happened yet, Gray. If you want to worry, just let the crap happen first. You never know, you just might have nothing to worry about in the end.
Taking a deep breath, I tilt the book toward me. A fine layer of dust coats the tops of the surrounding books and only my copy is clean. I slide it out and I hold its weight in my hand, then flip open the back cover.
My heart slams against my ribs. Please be the right one, I pray even when I know praying is stupid. What use are prayers when nobody hears them. I run my fingers over the paper that covers the hard surface of the inside cover. There. A small bump beneath the surface. Just where Alexei had said it would be.
I shut the cover and exit the stacks, forcing my gait to remain relaxed, my neck to stay calm. Anyone watching would see a girl with short cropped dark hair, long bangs, sloppy jeans and sneakers, off to the tables to read a book or to study. Not a girl so scared out of her wits, that the hands holding the book have a slight tremor to them.
I force myself to stroll to a desk at the far end of the library, one that’s hidden from prying eyes. I sit and try hard not to look around. Nonchalant. I have to act like I have no care in the world. It has taken weeks to learn to stop looking behind me all the time, to learn that even from a distance a person could notice the small things like the tightness in your neck or shoulder that indicates awareness and the desire to flee, that indicates fear. Sure, I’d learned not to look like I was running from something, but that didn’t mean I’d stopped completely. So, I can’t afford to get careless.
I whisper the words under my breath, like a prayer, over and over again. ‘Get careless, get dead.’ It’s kept me alive so far.
I calmly set the book on the table before me. I can see the age of the paper, yellow with ragged edges. I reach for the knife inside my bag, it’s nothing more than a letter-opener but it will do the job. I slide the sharp edge beneath the overlying paper glued to the hard back cover. The glue stretches, like strings of a stubborn cobweb. The knife slips through them, snapping the threads and releasing the paper to reveal what hides beneath.
A slim brown envelope.
Alexei had come through for me. I slide the envelope out of the space and close the book softly. With a sigh of relief, I shove the envelope into my stained backpack before throwing it over my shoulder. I grab the book and saunter back to the stacks to return it to its place. Then, my heart thudding, I head out of the library and down the stairs slowly, as if I have no place to be.
Emerging into the sunlight, I slide my sunglasses onto my face and skip down the steps. I scan the street, the cars, the bus that slows down at the stop, the trees across the street. So many faces but none seem interested in me. I don’t give myself the chance to enjoy any sense of relief. I turn and head home.
Or what I consider home for the next five minutes. I used to hear people say ‘Home is where the heart is’ but what about when you don’t have a heart or if you have no place in the world that you care to be in? What then? Well, then even a cardboard box under a bridge somewhere will do. Nobody even looks at the homeless anymore. And it saddens me that I must take advantage of the cold heart and the blind eye of society.
I have to make one stop before I am on my way. Hiding isn’t easy when you can’t cook yourself a meal, when food must be stolen or begged for, or the cheapest takeout available.
I walk in the direction of the nearest burger place. It doesn’t matter which one, as long as I can grab a couple of dirt-cheap burgers. I stand waiting for my order, head down, scanning faces beneath my lashes. I’m always watching, always searching.
The boy in the black jeans, skateboard in hand, could be anyone. FBI, undercover cop, killer for hire. Or maybe he’s just a kid with a skateboard. I sigh to myself, the ‘always on edge’ feeling rests against my chest like a tangible thing. Like one of those round weights that fit on the end of a barbell, maybe a fifty pound weight will be appropriate for what hangs around my heart.
My order is called and I grab the bag and head out into the fresh air, breathing deeply of sunshine and suspicion as I walk faster and faster. When I look behind me, skater boy is watching me, bag in hand. Then he crosses the street and rips his paper bag open, his eyes only for his burger.
I suppress the sigh of relief, then snap my gaze back to my route, the roundabout way I use so as to lose anyone who may be on my trail. I’m always careful, doubling back, watching out for anyone suspicious, eyes always peeled, bones always tense, jaw always tight. So much tension, but my life depends on it.
Chapter 2 to be posted Monday 8th Dec
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