Robyn Peterman writes because the people inside her head won't leave her alone until she gives them life on paper. Her addictions include laughing really hard with friends, shoes (the expensive kind), Target, Coke with extra ice in a styrofoam cup, bejeweled reading glasses, her kids, her super-hot hubby and collecting stray animals. A former professional actress with Broadway, film and T.V. credits, she now lives in the south with her family and too many animals to count.
Writing gives her peace and makes her whole, plus having a job where she can work in her underpants really appeals to her. You can check out Robyn's website at robynpeterman.com and also follow her on Twitter and Facebook. She loves to hear from her fans.
Avoidance had become my norm. After too many tours in Afghanistan and Iraq, I’d checked out—on everyone and everything—on life. Ex-navy SEAL. Totally broken man. I’d hit rock bottom so many times, I was sure I was about to fall straight to hell. It would be a welcome reprieve.
Then she found me. Beautiful, insane and more broken than I was. She needed my help. I needed her humanity.
How she found me was anyone’s guess. But she had. She needed rescuing. She needed a hero. I was none of those things.
But for the first time in many years, I wanted to be. I wanted to be her hero.
Becoming an undercover agent for the CIA had been my dream until everything went wrong—wildly wrong. Trapped in a cage with nothing to do but anticipate more torture from the ones I was supposed to trust, I had no choice but to escape—again. This time I’d succeed or die trying.
They’d turned me into a beast and it was time to show them exactly what I could do.
Finding the beautiful man who could help me end my pain was something I’d never expected—or wanted.
It was a complication for normal people. I wasn’t normal. I would never be normal.
Could two broken pieces make a whole? Could we truly disappear with the government hunting us down like animals?
He was Beauty and I was the Beast. Happily ever afters didn’t happen for people like us.
Or did they?
What in the Chicken of the Sea was I thinking to agree to this half arsed Otherworld Defense Agency mission?
I’m the most absurdly good looking Vampire Pirate of the High Seas. Being on the run for my life is very important work… and a freaking full time job. Defending Mermaids from some vicious Sea Hags is going to cut into my pilfering time.
Even though this is a very bad move on my part, I know I’ll eventually agree—too many bounties on my arse to refuse, and the thought of a certain Mermaid makes my roger quite jolly.
However, Tallulah, the leader of the Mystical Isle Pod of Mermaids, isn’t going to be happy to see me… at all. The horrible, sexy, breathtaking woman has been starring in my dreams for too many years to count. Sadly, just when my mind wanders to the really good nookie part, the dream ends with her lopping my Johnson off.
I just hope to Hell and back that the Sea Hags have some outstanding booty to steal. If I’m going to have to regrow my tallywhacker, the treasure had better damned well be worth it.
Running a tourist trap for humans in the Bermuda Triangle had sounded like a fine plan—until it wasn’t. With the Sea Hags gunning for our island and ruining our questionably successful business, I did what any desperate Mermaid would do. I called for backup.
Of course, getting help from the Otherworld Defense Agency is risky as they don’t usually deal with ocean creatures. Whatever. Desperate times call for crappy measures. Chances are they’ll send freaking Pirates. I hate Pirates…
Well, I hate one Pirate in particular.
Hopefully, it won’t be the one seafaring jackhole I despise more than any other. Pirate Doug would be an idiot to show his face here after what he’d done. Not only did the dumbass abscond with our treasure, the son-of-a-bitch took my heart with him as well.
I’ll tear his sorry ass to shreds if he so much as steps even one hairy toe on my island.
What does a hungry, pregnant witch do when her whole freaking town goes on a no carb diet?
I’ll tell you what. She goes on the sly and conjures up some anchovy-chocolate chunk cookies dipped in hot sauce—that’s what.
Of course my cheating gets complicated when all of the magic in the world goes on the fritz. To solve that particular wrinkle, I’ll have to finally find the source of the lurking evil.
Easier said than done. Maybe if I wasn’t pregnant and starving, I could deal with the nasty old witch who resides in a gingerbread house. Add in carb eating fairies who speak French and three rotund familiars who enjoy defacing property with profane graffiti, and what you get is almost more trouble than I can handle in my baby baking condition.
I’m still not convinced I won’t be giving birth to puppies since the smokin’ hot father of my babies is a werewolf, and NO ONE has given me ANY concrete proof to the contrary. Getting knocked up by the werewolf of my dreams was all kinds of awesome in practice, but the reality of becoming a mother scares me more than Baba Yaga’s horrendous 1980’s wardrobe.
Monstrous decisions with enormous ramifications are best handled with meticulous planning—or in my case—after eating a giant mustard slathered jelly doughnut. Neither of those options is possible at the moment, but since there is no way I’m bringing my children into a magicless world, winging it will just have to work.
Wait… Was that a contraction I just felt?
Goddess help us all…
One of these things is not like the others—life threatening community theatre, wire hangers, chipmunks, tree-house sex-capades with a hot werewolf and head-shrinking with a porno-loving rabbit Shifter.
Actually none of these things are even remotely like the others, but it’s my life and I’m going to make the pieces fit into a perfect puzzle—even if I have to shove it together and glue it with magic.
New leaf, new leaf, new freakin’ leaf.
Caring for people wasn’t in my repertoire until I landed in Assjacket, West Virginia. Falling in love wasn’t anywhere on my agenda. It’s messy. However, I’ve been told messy is what showers and therapy are for. I’m hoping that info is correct because Goddess knows I’m trying.
Never until now have I been a witch that wanted it all—the guy, the job, the friends and the place called home. Now I just have to fix my slightly irresponsible and somewhat unstable witchy ways so I deserve it.
I’m going for perfect…or at least a loose definition of the word.
Messy…here I come.
Witches and glitches and testicle obsessed cats… Oh my.
One dilemma down and approximately 74,876,283 to go. I think being the Shifter Whisperer is hard—or Shifter Wanker as I enjoy referring to my new job—but healing wounded Shifters is easy compared to finding and eliminating the lurking freaking evil.
Throw in a ghost, a potentially explosive ex-cellmate, a long lost dad and a smokin’ hot werewolf who’s convinced he’s my mate, and suddenly it’s party time—from hell.
And this is my mission?
Life is getting messy and I don’t do messy. With feelings I didn’t know I was capable of having, and the word love being thrown around like a football on Super Bowl Sunday, poofing away with a magical twitch of my nose is becoming more appealing by the moment.
But to show I’m not a weenie, I’m gonna pull up my big girl panties and hurl some fireballs at Baba Yaga's older than dirt warlock posse if they don’t pony up the info I need. If I don’t burn the town of Assjacket down while trying to save it, I’m donning my red cape and playing who’s the big bad wolf with a for real wolf who’s hotter than any fireball.
I just pray to the Goddess my heart doesn’t get burned in the process…
Released from the magic pokey and paroled with limited power is enough to make any witch grumpy. However, if you throw in a recently resurrected cat, a lime-green Kia and a sexy egotistical werewolf, it's enough to make a gal fly off the edge.
Not to mention a mission...with no freaking directions.
So here I sit in Asscrack, West Virginia trying to figure out how to complete my mysterious mission before All Hallows Eve when I’ll get turned into a mortal. The animals in the area are convinced I'm the Shifter Whisperer (whatever the hell that is) and the hotter-than- asphalt-in-August werewolf thinks I'm his mate. Now apparently I'm slated to save a bunch of hairy freaks of nature?
If they think I'm the right witch for the job, they've swallowed some bad brew.
I never planned on going back to Hung Island, Georgia. Ever.
I was a top notch Were agent for the secret paranormal Council and happily living in Chicago where I had everything I needed – a gym membership, season tickets to the Cubs and Dwayne – my gay, Vampyre best friend. Going back now would mean facing the reason I’d left and I’d rather chew my own paw off than deal with Hank.
Hank the Tank Wilson was the six foot three, obnoxious, egotistical, perfect-assed, best-sex-of-my-life, Werewolf who cheated on me and broke my heart. At the time, I did what any rational woman would do. I left in the middle of the night with a suitcase, big plans and enough money for a one-way bus ticket to freedom. I vowed to never return.
But here I am, trying to wrap my head around what has happened to some missing Weres without wrapping my body around Hank. I hope I don’t have to eat my words and my paw.
***This novella originally appeared in the Three Southern Beaches collection released July of 2014. This is an extended version of that story.
Where does a Demon go when she gets deported from Hell?
Kentucky. Eden, Kentucky to be more specific—where nothing is exactly as it seems.
My name is Dixie. I’m a Demon—a lousy Demon. I’m a twenty-one year old virgin and I have a battery operated boyfriend. My magic is iffy at best and downright dangerous at worst. Leaving Hell to represent my race is not high on my list of things to do.
Hell was exact. Hell was simple. All I want to do is get to home base with the hotter than Hades Demon of my dreams and work on my dark side so Satan, my dad, will get off my ass.
Instead I end up in Kentucky looking for the Balance of Chaos, avoiding pole dancing classes with Mother Nature and finding out my invisible friend is a silver skinned destructive weather pattern.
And if that isn’t craptastic enough, the damn Sword of Death is missing again and who ever has it wants the King of the Underworld dead. Seriously.
With new powers emerging daily, keeping my Demon side, horniness and general disgust under wraps doesn’t make it any easier to fit in with the humans. Thankfully my priorities are in line: get laid…save world…try not to blow up kitchen appliances…and get laid again. I was ready to rumble.
All I want to do is go back to Hell, but with the balance of good and evil in my hands, I’m stuck in the garden of Eden. Oh well, what the Hell. Someone has to save the world before there’s no world left to save. Might as well be me.
When you get time off for bad behavior, romance is the last thing on your mind--but good old-fashioned lust is a whole different story. . .
Life undercover isn't exactly one big party--not when you're a DEA agent--but it sure beats a desk job. Except when you screw up big and someone has to go in and clean up after you. In that case, even paper-pushing sounds better than babysitting an erotic romance writer with as many enemies as there are euphemisms for "throbbing manhood."
I've been taking down drug dealers for so long, playing bodyguard to a woman named Shoshanna Lehump sounds like nothing more than a giant pain in my ass-- and being partnered with the gorgeous egotistical jerk I never should have slept with in the first place just makes a bad situation even harder--especially when he pursues me as diligently as we're supposed to be chasing the bad guys...What's a girl have to do to get a happy ending anyway?
Welcome to Hell.
The Hell where the Prince of Darkness is hotter than Hades, Hell Hounds smell like brownies and the Seven Deadly Sins are addicted to Facebook…Not to mention the soundtrack in the Underworld is Journey. For real.
I should have known no good could come from offing my parents in the space of twenty minutes no matter how psychotic and evil they were…
Now I find out my family tree includes almost every deity and mythological being alive while Ethan, the one and only love of my undead life has a limited time down under before he turns to dust. In the land of Sin, you’d think I’d get some nookie time with my man, but no. Baby Demons, cousins and grandparents put the kibosh on that. Blue balls are the new normal. What the hell does a half-Vampyre Half-Demon have to do to catch a break?
Apparently find a freakin’ sword, calm Mother Nature’s unmedicated mood swings and make sure Mister Rogers keeps his sticky fingers to himself during weekly poker with the Devil.
And I have three days to do it.
By all that’s unholy, I thought Ethan’s Vampyre family was crazy…Trust me, they have nothing on the Demons.
A few hard truths...Don’t bet on Hasselhoff, Bigfoot might actually exist, and searching for the impossible may lead you to your heart’s desire...
It’s a big fat hairy deal when I lose yet another bet to my best friend, Rena. Not only do I end up attending Bigfoot meetings with her kooky Aunt Phyllis, I find myself traveling with a band of reality TV, Sasquatch-hunting nut-jobs! Not to mention a suspiciously shady film crew. As if those little nuggets weren’t enough to send me on the express-train to Crazytown...I stupidly swore off men!
Clearly all this would mess up any gal’s social life, but the worst part of the story? The minute I send my libido on vacation, I meet Mitch. Yep, Mitch, the sexiest cop ev-ah. The hottest, best kissing, finest tushied, SINGLE guy I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’d rather be hot on his trail than anything that involves the word Big or Foot. But sometimes what you’re hunting for has been right in front of you all along …
Vampyres don’t exist. They absolutely do not exist.
At least I didn’t think they did ‘til I tried to quit smoking and ended up Undead. Who in the hell did I screw over in a former life that my getting healthy equates with dead?
Now I’m a Vampyre. Yes, we exist whether we want to or not. However, I have to admit, the perks aren’t bad. My girls no longer jiggle, my ass is higher than a kite and the latest Prada keeps finding its way to my wardrobe. On the downside, I’m stuck with an obscenely profane Guardian Angel who looks like Oprah and a Fairy Fighting Coach who’s teaching me to annihilate like the Terminator.
To complicate matters, my libido has increased to Vampyric proportions and my attraction to a hotter than Satan’s underpants killer rogue Vampyre is not only dangerous . . . it’s possibly deadly. For real dead. Permanent death isn’t on my agenda. Avoiding him is my only option. Of course, since he thinks I’m his, it’s easier said than done. Like THAT’S not enough to deal with, all the other Vampyres think I’m some sort of Chosen One.
Holy Hell, if I’m in charge of saving an entire race of blood suckers, the Undead are in for one hell of a ride.
After all was said and done, the disgusting novella meant to destroy a story stealing New York Time’s best-selling author’s career was successful. Rena, an accountant with no discernible literary talent, and her band of adorable porno writing grannies came up with the worst piece of literature, (and I use that word loosely), that was ever written. Amazingly enough, it became a cult classic. Who in the hell knew there was an underground need to know and love a Time-Traveling Vampire Warlock with erectile dysfunction and his conjoined lady loves, Laverne and Shirley?
Apparently the need is there and now so is the full version of their story . . .
What happens when an accountant decides to grab life by the horns and try something new? Apparently a pirate named Dave, a lot of pastel fleece, and blackmail--just to start with. . .
Visualize and succeed, Oprah said. I was sure as hell trying, even if my campaign to score a job as the local weather girl had ended in a restraining order. Okay, TV was not my strength. But a lack of talent has never stopped me before. Which is why I've embarked on a writing career. I mean, how hard can it be to come up with a sexy romance?
Leave it to me to wind up in a group of porno writing grannies who discuss sex toys and apple cobbler in the same breath. Also leave it to me to leak an outlandish plot idea to a bestselling author with the morals of a rabid squirrel. And only I could get arrested for a jewelry heist I didn't commit--by a hunky cop whose handcuffs just might tempt me to sign up for a life of crime. Maybe I've found my calling after all...