This Tuesday at The Tiki Hut - Sam Cheever

This Tuesday, I'd like you to meet award-winning urban fantasy author, Sam Cheever.

Sam Cheever writes fast paced fantasy and romantic fiction with feisty characters who deal with life's little challenges in unique and often hilarious ways. As a reader Sam is very impatient. She quickly loses interest if a story doesn't have a good pace and snappy dialogue. Sam's inability to focus in a backwash of human angst and subtleties works out well for her readers, since she writes the way she likes to read.

In her real life, Sam lives on a hobby farm in Indiana with 10 dogs, 4 horses, 2 barn cats, 2 daughters, and one husband. Not necessarily in that order.

To learn more about the author and her work, visit her website at http://www.samcheever.com/ and her blog at http://tweenyouandme.blogspot.com/ or come friend her at http://www.myspace.com/samcheever.

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The following appeared in the Monday morning edition of the Chicago Tribune.

Pithy Prose from the Perky Poppy Pelham

The recent surprising rash of head bashings, dog poop flingings, and excessive Tarot card readings in Grooster Indiana are stark reminders of the frail architecture upon which a small town is built. As a survivor of these events, the Perky Poppy Pelham, pithy news babe for Grooster Indiana’s Grooster Rooster, is in a good position to do a post mortem on them.

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Gentle Readers, you are all no doubt aware that Grooster Indiana recently underwent some truly astounding events, which rocked the very foundations of our formerly innocent little town.

Not since the Habidary twins decided to host a clothing optional church social have the citizens of Grooster been quite so outraged. Even the sight of old man Warner’s wrinkly Mr. Winky, newly released from his tidy whities and wobbling dangerously close to the punch bowl in the church basement, failed to provide the level of horror brought on by recent events in the park. Grooster’s unsuspecting inhabitants have taken a rhetorical slap upside the head with the painful resurrection of the violent Ding Dong incident from 20 years ago and the infiltration into our formerly pristine little town of drugs and Satanism, along with a series of vile kidnappings.

It’s been almost too much to bear.

When one of our citizens takes up with thugs and indulges in thuggery, that is reason for great concern. But when that thuggery spreads to cloud the innocence of our unblemished youth, that is a truly frightening occurrence. Not only did recent events drag a fair number of Grooster’s youth into debauchery and unlawful dealings, they also spotlighted the more craven among us, giving rise to a new fear among the populace of what lies behind the familiar faces they pass on the street.

On a more personal level, this reporter has learned what it means to be beslimed, besmirched, and beleaguered as I engaged the enemy in the park and used my considerable reporting acumen to single handedly uncover their ugly deeds for all to see. It remains doubtful if the local police or the DEA, led by a truly yummy male specimen who favors cowboy hats and tight jeans, could have solved this case without my invaluable help. Holding that knowledge close, I retain a certain proud aspect to my step and a satisfied tilt to my chin.

But alas, I do bear a few scars from the experience.

Accosted by dog poop, having my wardrobe insulted by the spandex wearing lispy types who frequent Homo Haven, and losing a few inches of my dignity after being talked into not only buying but also wearing a head scarf made of gently used men’s underwear, I am like a wobbly old war veteran, a bit tattered and torn, but still feisty and forging onward with determination.
All of us in Grooster, in fact, are stronger for having survived the recent events in Grooster Park. And although I suspect we’ll greet each other in passing now with a slightly more reserved manner, the camaraderie built on mutual survival creates a bond that will carry us through the healing process nicely.

Unfortunately, though, as I gaze at the bottom of my new sneakers, splotched disgustingly with a brown and smelly mash that was no doubt acquired as I traversed Dog Poop Alley on my way to work this morning, I’m reminded of poor Ben Fecious, whose stint as park pooper scooper was cut lamentably short by the application of a baseball bat to the side of his head. Making me realize that, alas, there are still a few loose ends to be gathered up.

As always Gentle Reader, I’ll keep you posted.

Poppy Pelham, Rooster Crime Scene Correspondent, back in all my former glory to report the news to Grooster, Indiana.

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Title: Dancing With TadAuthor: Sam CheeverPublisher: Red Rose Publishing ISBN: 978-1-60435-203-0Buy Dancing With Tad

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He pulled her through an exit and dragged her to a small, red, sports car. The car bleeped as he unlocked it. After opening the passenger door, he pushed her gently into the seat. “Get in and buckle up.”

Clancy scowled at him and as soon as he started around the car, she grabbed the door handle and jumped out. She didn’t get far.

Thadeous grabbed her arm and pushed her back against the car, holding her there with his body. His eyes were filled with hostility and something deeper — scarier.

Lust.

Clancy didn’t like the hostility, so she did the only thing she could think of to get rid of it. She leaned forward and placed her lips on his.

Thadeous responded immediately and passionately. His lips crushed hers as his long, hard body pressed her into the car. His arms slid around her shoulders and one large hand cupped the back of her head, holding her against him as his mouth ravaged hers.

Clancy gasped as he forged a heated trail down her chin, then back up to her mouth. He forced her lips open and subjected her mouth to a demanding and sexually charged assault with his tongue. Clancy moaned and lifted one leg to wrap it around his thigh, pressing herself into him like a dog in heat, helpless against the tide of lust that swamped her.

Suddenly he pulled away, nearly panting, and swore softly.

Clancy drooped visibly as his hot, hard body left hers, taking with it something that she hadn’t felt in years. Something, she decided in that moment, she’d desperately missed. “What? What’s wrong?” Her voice was breathless, too.

He shook his head and touched her swollen lips with a gentle finger. “I’m not going to do this while you’re under the influence. When it happens, I want to be sure you know what you’re doing and have made the choice willingly.” He gently nudged her back into the sexy little car and Clancy sat.

She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the seat, and took deep breaths as he walked around the car and got behind the wheel. They drove to her house in silence, both of them lost in their thoughts and trying to deal with the Tsunami of emotion their kiss had stirred up. When he pulled up in front of her house, she dragged herself out of the emotional daze enough to be surprised. “You know where I live?”

They climbed out of the little car and he came around to her side. “I know lots of stuff about you.” He told her with a secretive kind of smile. Clancy frowned. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

He cocked his head at her and leaned close, his lips mere centimeters from hers. “Why? Do you have something to hide from me, Clancy Rogers?”

She exhaled slowly and carefully, her hands finding his waist almost against her will. Shaking her head, she leaned into him and met him halfway. This time the kiss was sweet and gentle, filled with promises that neither of them intended to honor at that moment.

He left her after demanding dinner the following night. “I need to find out about this.” He held up the drug filled condom she’d given him in the mall.

Clancy sighed and nodded. “Seven o’clock then. You might as well come here. I’ll cook.”

He gave her that slow grin. “Be still my heart. A home cooked meal.”

Clancy shook her head and turned to let herself into the house. “Don’t get too excited. You haven’t tasted my cooking yet.” She heard him chuckle as she closed the door behind her.