Today it's my pleasure to host author, Minnette Meador. Minnette is in the middle of a blog tour promoting her new book, A Ghost of a Chance. Welcome, Minnette.
Minnette will be giving away a Kindle at the end of her promotions campaign and anyone who comments on her tour, or on her blog, will be entered into that drawing. One randomly drawn commenter from the tour itself will-- in addition-- win a $100 Amazon gift certificate.
Reggie shrugged and rubbed his nose with a long forefinger. “The succubus is drawn to powerful men…psychics.”
“That’s horseshit, Reggie. I’m no psychic.”
Reggie nailed him with a cold gaze and chuckled under his ghostly breath. “Let’s see…you see dead people. Not only do you see them, but you talk to them as well. As a matter of fact, some of your best friends are dead. Sounds rather psychic to me. But what do I know?”
Keenan licked his lips. “Oh.” - A GHOST OF A CHANCE (Resplendence Publishing - June 2011)
Writing about ghosts, angels, and demons was not what I originally set out to do, but then sometimes books take on life (or death) of their own. Keenan arrived fully-grown one fateful evening when I was trying to sleep and I just had to get him down. His problem: He sees ghosts… lots and lots of ghosts…
They were costing him a fortune. The TV, the radio, and even his computer were always on. Lights went off and on constantly. The heat would soar to eighty degrees in the middle of the summer and then plunge to fifty when the winter freeze set in. He couldn’t keep any pets; the instant they came into the house they hissed or yelped in terror and ran away. The neighborhood was full of cats that had once belonged to Keenan.
He couldn’t keep girlfriends either. The closer they got, the more convinced they were that he was on drugs, a serial killer, or terminally cracked. He hadn’t had a girl at his house in years; for some reason they got all heebie-jeebie on him when things started flying around or cold blasts of air unexpectedly lifted their skirts. One girl even had her panties removed, but not by Keenan. He was in the kitchen at the time.
Friends? Forget it. They had a tendency to search for the exit when he told them he saw dead people…and not in the good way. Moviemakers had it all wrong. These weren’t people who wanted release; they were freeloaders who wanted nothing more than to torture the living, especially those who could see them. Keenan had lost count of how many pranks he had endured over the years. Somewhere in the thousands, he was sure.
But this book became a culmination of things I love: ghost stories, Catholic mysticism, psychic abilities, and even history. Add steaming sex scenes, reluctant heroes, a kick ass heroine, and a very special HEA, mix well and you’ve got a modern story of ghosts meet boy, boy meets girl, boy loses girl and ghosts, boy dies, boy gets girl and ghosts back, boy and girl save the world.
I hope you will take a look. I think you might laugh a bit and maybe even cry. Thanks so much to Sarah for sharing her amazing blog site. I’m honored to be here.
by Minnette Meanor
Keenan Swanson is your typical, everyday graphic designer. Well, except for the hundreds of pesky, prank-loving poltergeists that make his life interesting (in a Chinese curse sort of way). He finds his situation precarious yet manageable—until witty, smoking-hot coworker Isabella enters the scene and Keenan decides he wants her all for himself. With a horny succubus who has other ideas, a burly city cop determined to lock Keenan away, and an evil entity who’s hell-bent on using Keenan’s seed to create a living demon, the reluctant psychic realizes he just might not come out of this alive—or with heart intact.
Keenan headed down Thirty-second Street, turned left onto Hawthorn, and ran like an antelope with a lion biting his tail.
When he hit the crowd outside Taps at full speed, he came to a crashing halt and sailed to the ground, taking down two brawny beer drinkers, their respective girlfriends, and an innocent table that was sitting there minding its own business. Four obviously filled pints of stout flew through the air and the contents rained down on the struggling quintet in a dark brown shower, soaking all of them. Two of the empty pints hit Keenan squarely on the back of the head, one after the other.
The tangled pile of human beings and beer began to disentangle itself, but Keenan’s head was spinning wildly. So wildly, in fact, that he didn’t feel himself roughly yanked to his feet and then off of them, or see the swollen fist appear out of thin air until it was too late. All he heard was a distant son of a bitch and the sound of meaty flesh striking cheekbone.
The sparklers that gleamed in front of his eyes reminded him of the Fourth of July on the coast. He found himself down on the ground again.
“…you stupid prick!” The words soaked into his stupor and he squinted up to see six-foot-six of angry male mountain, a pleading red head attached to the man’s arm.
Not that it would have stopped another blow, but Keenan forced his hands into the submissive position and tried to find his voice. “Oh, man…” he said to the mountain. “I’m really sorry. Are you all right?”