of change in less time than it took to blink an eye.
But for now, the child would grow. He would grow up strong. He would grow up devastatingly beautiful. He would grow up knowing he was loved.
And he would be one Hell of a handful.
What did you expect?
He’s the fucking son of Satan.
# # The End… for now # #
Note From The Author
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~ Robyn Peterman
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Excerpt from: It’s A Wonderful Midlife Crisis
This is an excerpt from Book 1 of the Good To The Last Death Series!
GET YOUR COPY HERE.
Book Description
Whoever said life begins at forty must have been heavily medicated, drunk, or delusional.
Thirty-nine was a fantastic year. I was married to the man I loved. I had a body that worked without creaking. My grandma, who raised me, was still healthy, and life was pretty damned good.
But as they say, all good things come to an end. I’d honestly love to know who ‘they’ are and rip them a new one.
One year later, I’m a widow. My joints are starting to ache. Gram is in the nursing home, and dead people think my home is some kind of supernatural bed and breakfast. Gluing body parts onto semi-transparent people has become a side job—deceased people I’m not even sure are actually there. I think they need my help, but since I don’t speak dead, we’re having a few issues.
To add to the heap of trouble, there’s a new dangerously smokin’ hot lawyer at the firm who won't stop giving me the eye. My BFF is thrilled with her new frozen face, thanks to her plastic surgeon, her alimony check, and the miracle of Botox. And then there’s the little conundrum that I’m becoming way too attached to my ghostly squatters… Like Cher, I'd like to turn back time. Now.
No can do.
Whatever. I have wine, good friends, and an industrial sized box of superglue. What could possibly go wrong?
Everything, apparently.
All in all, it’s shaping up to be a wonderful midlife crisis…
Chapter One
“No. Way. Are you freaking serious?” I screamed as I flattened myself against the wall of my laundry room with a thud, trying not to hyperventilate. “There’s a hand in the laundry basket. There’s a hand in the laundry basket. There’s a hand in the damn laundry basket.”
Sliding carefully along the wall so the unattached appendage didn’t jump out and grab me, I eased my way out of the tiny room and sprinted to the kitchen. It had a door that led outside, just in case the hand was up to no good.
Wait. What kind of good could a lone hand in a basket of dirty laundry be up to?
No good. That’s what kind of good a companionless hand could be up to.
“I’m nuts,” I muttered, closing my eyes and pressing my fingers to my temples. Forty was supposed to be the new thirty, according to all the magazines. If this was forty, I was going to take a pass. I’d only been forty for three hours and it was already seriously bad. The solitary hand was the rancid icing on top of a really crappy birthday cake.
Pacing my kitchen and keeping my eyes peeled for more random body parts, I spotted the empty coffee container and almost cried. Handling the ridiculously absurd while un-caffeinated was not going to end well.
“I don’t have the energy for this right now,” I told no one in particular, since I was alone. “Who did I screw over in a former life that I’m dealing with this shit?”
Unfortunately, I’d been seeing semi-corporeal versions of dead people for a few weeks. I’d become the kid from the Sixth Sense except that was a movie and this was real life… and my dead people did not look like Bruce Willis.
Up until now, all my deceased buddies had done was stare and laugh—or so I’d thought. There was nothing quite like being the butt of a cadaver’s joke… that was, if the hand was a joke and not a warning that I was going to be six feet under soon.
“Isn’t it enough that you freaks follow me around? Now