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EXCERPT: Perversion by T.M. Frazier

๐™๐™Ž๐˜ผ ๐™๐™ค๐™™๐™–๐™ฎ ๐™—๐™š๐™จ๐™ฉ๐™จ๐™š๐™ก๐™ก๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™œ ๐™–๐™ช๐™ฉ๐™๐™ค๐™ง ๐™ค๐™› ๐™ฉ๐™๐™š ๐™†๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™œ ๐™Ž๐™š๐™ง๐™ž๐™š๐™จ, ๐™.๐™ˆ. ๐™๐™ง๐™–๐™ฏ๐™ž๐™š๐™ง, ๐™—๐™ง๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™œ๐™จ ๐™ฎ๐™ค๐™ช ๐™–๐™ฃ ๐™–๐™ก๐™ก ๐™ฃ๐™š๐™ฌ ๐™ฉ๐™ง๐™ž๐™ก๐™ค๐™œ๐™ฎ ๐™ฌ๐™ž๐™ฉ๐™ ๐™–๐™ฃ ๐™–๐™ฃ๐™ฉ๐™ž-๐™๐™š๐™ง๐™ค ๐™ฎ๐™ค๐™ช'๐™ง๐™š ๐™œ๐™ค๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™œ ๐™ฉ๐™ค ๐™ก๐™ค๐™ซ๐™š ๐™ฉ๐™ค ๐™๐™–๐™ฉ๐™š ๐™–๐™ฃ๐™™ ๐™– ๐™—๐™–๐™ก๐™ก๐™จ๐™ฎ ๐™๐™š๐™ง๐™ค๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™š ๐™ฌ๐™ž๐™ฉ๐™ ๐™ฉ๐™ง๐™ž๐™˜๐™ ๐™จ ๐™ช๐™ฅ ๐™๐™š๐™ง ๐™จ๐™ก๐™š๐™š๐™ซ๐™š.

PERVERSION, book one in the all-new Perversion Trilogy is coming September 25th and we have the first sneak peek for you!

Love is supposed to be magical.

Ours is suicidal.

The first time I met Emma Jean Parish,

she conned me into taking her p*ssy.

Her ๐‘๐‘Ž๐‘ก

When she was sixteen,

she manipulated me into giving her

her very first kiss.

At eighteen she gave me ๐‘’๐‘ฃ๐‘’๐‘Ÿ๐‘ฆ๐‘กโ„Ž๐‘–๐‘›๐‘”.

She's a con artist.

I'm a criminal.

I use her.

She manipulates me.

The attraction between us is explosive.

When it detonates

we could both wind up dead.




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Emma Jean

When I was younger, I fell in love with magic. I learned every card trick there was from library books and unmasking magic TV specials. I used to put on shows for Gabby that included escaping from complicated knots and trick handcuffs. But whatโ€™s magic besides a sleight of hand?

Itโ€™s a lie.

And lying is what Iโ€™m damn good at.

My ability to spin a tall tale or two lead to stealing wallets and conning people into taking stray pets for the thrill of it. Now, Iโ€™m using it to earn for Marco. The thrill is there, but itโ€™s muted, hindered, lost under his pile of mounting threats.

The inside of the casino smells like stale cigarettes, spilled beer, and burnt coffee. Weโ€™re not supposed to be in here. Itโ€™s Bedlam territory. But thatโ€™s also why itโ€™s perfect.

It isnโ€™t like anyone would recognize us here.

Weโ€™ve made friends with a few of the cocktail waitresses by giving them a small cut, and they donโ€™t ask questions or ring any alarms when they see us working. Iโ€™ve also been straightening my hair over the last few years since my crazy curls stand out like a reflector on a dark highway. Iโ€™ve dyed it a few shades darker than my normal honey blonde to help blend in.

Tonight is starting off well. Gabby and I are working a con weโ€™ve run a few times before.

Gabby walks away, her long dark hair swooshing behind her. She gives me a nod as she passes me by on the slot machine Iโ€™m pretending to play. Sheโ€™s just faked losing an expensive engagement ring at another slot machine. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she frantically looked around for it, then loudly announced a thousand-dollar reward would be waiting at the casino cage for whoever returned it.

She is flawless. She should be an actress. And in another life, she would be.

But we donโ€™t live in another life.

We live in Lacking and belong to Los Muertos.

Our lives are not our own.

A few people casually look around the area, then return to their machines when they donโ€™t find the ring Gabby was ranting about. They wonโ€™t either. Because itโ€™s not there.


It's go time.

I strut over to the area Gabby just left and put a dollar in the machine. While the wheels spin, I pretend to pick up the dime store ring I already have in my hand. By the time the machine dings to tell me Iโ€™ve lost my dollar, Iโ€™m turning the ring over, inspecting it like I donโ€™t have half a dozen more just like it in my drawer back at the apartment.

โ€œWould you look at that?โ€ I mutter to myself loud enough so others around me can hear.

A man in an Adidas jumpsuit with a potbelly taps me on the shoulder. โ€œIโ€™ll take that. I saw the woman who dropped it. Iโ€™ll go return it to her.โ€

Liar. You just want the reward.

โ€œThatโ€™s so nice of you,โ€ I say. I hold it out, about to drop it into his hand when I pull it back. โ€œI bet thereโ€™s a reward for something this valuable.โ€ I start to walk around the man. โ€œIโ€™ll take it up to management. Maybe, they knowโ€ฆโ€

โ€œHere,โ€ the man says, holding up a hundred-dollar bill. โ€œTake this. Iโ€™ll take it to her. I justโ€ฆyou know, as I said, I want to make sure it gets back to the right person.โ€

Youโ€™re not even a good liar.

Sometimes, itโ€™s just too freaking easy. And this scam wasnโ€™t even an Emma Jean and Gabby original. We saw it a long time ago in a movie starring Jennifer Love Hewitt. Doesnโ€™t anyone else watch movies?

I shrug and pass him the ring. Plucking the bill from his hand, I tuck it into my bra. โ€œThanks,โ€ I say before quickly making my way toward the large glass front doors. Itโ€™s Thursday. Marcoโ€™s money is due in two days, and weโ€™re short this week.

Really short.

I walk slowly and wave goodbye to the valets with a smile on my face. โ€œAny luck, tonight?โ€

One asks me.

โ€œI think so,โ€ I answer with a smile. Once Iโ€™m down the sidewalk and out of view, I scramble to the side of the casino where I kick off my heels and change from the sequined dress Iโ€™d stolen from a dry-cleaner into a pair of cut-off shorts and my yellow Keds.

Now, all I have to do is wait for Gabby.

I donโ€™t have to wait long.

โ€œRun!โ€ Gabby yells, darting from the doors of the casino with two large men wearing tight black security t-shirts close behind. Running from security is terrifying enough, knowing that weโ€™re running from members of the Bedlam Brotherhood kicks it up a notch.

I grab my backpack and sling it across my shoulders. I move as fast as I can until Iโ€™m running right alongside her. We race through the gates, cross the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by two cars. We duck into a hole in a fence and run through one backyard after the other.

โ€œOne of those cunt waitresses must have tipped them off!โ€ Gabby says, through shallow breaths. Sheโ€™s barefoot in a black mini-dress hiked up to her ass to give her long legs room to run. Her long thick hair is wrapped around her face, sticking to her mouth.

We hit the sixth backyard. Without another word, we separate behind a clothesline. Weโ€™ve mapped out this escape plan a thousand times, but this is the first time weโ€™ve ever had to use it.

When I make it into the central part of town, to the Los Muertos/Bedlam border, I can no longer hear the shouts of the security guards. I lost them.

Hopefully, Gabby did, too.

I use a tower of stacked-up wooden pallets on the sidewalk like a ladder to scale a concrete wall, then drop down into the alley.

I grow more panic-stricken the longer I wait for Gabby. I bite the inside of my lip, pacing back and forth along the high wall. The Bedlam Brotherhood runs the security at the casino. If they catch her and find out who she is? Or worse? Who her brother is? They'll... I shake the thought from my mind. Sheโ€™ll be fine.

She HAS to be fine.

Please be okay, Gabby. Please.

Iโ€™m trying to catch my breath and pull myself together when I hear a clink echo through the alley as if someone dropped some spare change, followed by the sound of something heavy dropping to the asphalt.

โ€œGabby?โ€ I ask into the darkness. Thinking itโ€™s her, relief washes over me like rain on a barren desert.

My only answer is the flickering of a fluorescent light mounted high on the roofโ€™s edge of the adjoining building. And the hiss of what sounds like a cat behind a dumpster.

I walk over and peer around it. โ€œGabby? Are you hurt? Say something!โ€ I whisper-shout.

Someone moves from within the shadow. โ€œGet out here, Gabby. Weโ€™ve got to go before Marโ€ฆโ€

The light flickers again, for just a second. That second is all I need to see that the someone slowly stalking toward me is not Gabby.

Itโ€™s a manโ€ฆtwice my size.

โ€œWho are you?โ€ I ask, shuffling backward as the man cloaked in a black leather hood emerges from the shadows. The front of his jacket is open. Underneath, he's shirtless, covered in a sheen of sweat, and more tattoos than visible skin all the way up the front of his throat. His muscled chest and abs flex with each step he takes. The hood shadows most of his face, but when the lights flicker again, yellow eyes glow from within.

And theyโ€™re locked on me.

My โ€˜save your assโ€™ mode kicks in.

The man is blocking the only exit. My only other chance of escape is to scale the same wall I used to drop into the alley.

I keep moving backward as he approaches until my back hits the wall. I look left and right for something to use to climb on.

Thereโ€™s nothing but emptiness.

My stomach sinks, but surrender is not an option.

I swallow hard as the alarm bells scream in my head for me to run. Somewhere. Anywhere.

Thereโ€™s nowhere to go!

My legs tremble. Fear crawls like a million spiders along the backs of my legs. I push myself further against the wall as if I can squish the feeling away, but itโ€™s useless.

Fear consumes me. Swallows me whole.

He continues toward me. As he gets closer, I realize itโ€™s not just sweat glistening on his skin. Thereโ€™s something else splattered across the tattoos on his chest and on his stubbled jaw.

It almost looks like wet paint.

My breathing stops when heโ€™s close enough that I can make out the tattoo on the front of his throat.

A bleeding black rose.

The symbol of the Bedlam Brotherhood.

Iโ€™ve heard stories about Grim. The man in the hood. The executioner for Bedlam. They were all terrifying, but not nearly as terrifying as the reality of coming face to face with the man himself.

โ€œWe didnโ€™t do anything,โ€ I blurt. โ€œI mean, we did, but it wasnโ€™t a big deal. Iโ€™llโ€ฆIโ€™ll give the money back. Just tell your men not to hurt my friend. It was all my idea. Let her go, and you can take me.โ€

โ€œWho the fuck are you?โ€ he asks. His voice is so thick and deep I feel it more than hear it.

Shivers erupt all over my body.

He raises his arm, revealing a long curved blade.

For the first time in my life, I canโ€™t seem to be able to hide my fear with my wit or sarcasm. My throat tightens. I canโ€™t swallow, never mind speak. Iโ€™ve lost my words completely, along with my nerve.

The manโ€™s blade drips red onto the pavement from the serrated tip.

Every fear response I didnโ€™t even know I had runs rampant. Iโ€™m holding my breath. My muscles tense as if running was still an option. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck prickle my skin as they stand on end. I raise up to my tip-toes and push back, trying to make myself disappear into the wall.

I glance from the knife back to his chest, then back again. The splatters across his skin?

Itโ€™s not fucking paint.

Before I can process what the hell is happening, he switches from slow-stalking mode into hyper-speed, pinning my wrists above my head. His hard, bloodied chest pushes against me, smearing blood across my white tank top, forcing the back of my head to connect roughly with the wall.

โ€œIโ€™ll only ask you this one more time. Who the fuck are you?โ€ His low guttural growl rattles my bones.

His unblinking, angry, golden eyes lock onto mine. Without the fluorescent light, theyโ€™re more golden brown than a glowing yellow. As much as I want to, I canโ€™t look away. He could be the last person I ever see.

The thought is just the spike of adrenaline I need.

โ€œLet me go,โ€ I say, finally finding my words. I try and jerk my wrists from his grip with no luck. Iโ€™m trapped. My fear and anger rise to the surface, but I shove it back down. Fear wonโ€™t get me out of this situation, so it will have to wait for its damned turn.

He digs his rough fingers into my skin. โ€œAnswer me. Who the fuck are you?โ€

The bite of pain only makes me angrier. I throw his question back at him. โ€œWho the fuck are you?โ€

He glances down at my rapidly rising and falling chest before pinning me with his stare. The corner of his mouth tugs up in a half-smirk.

โ€œSo much confidence for someone who's trembling,โ€ he says with an amused glint shining in his demonic eyes.

I shrug. โ€œMaybe, Iโ€™m just not a fan of enclosed spaces,โ€ I say through gritted teeth.

โ€œYou didnโ€™t answer me,โ€ he says.

โ€œWhy do you have blood all over you?โ€ I answer him with yet another question. โ€œYou know, if you were committing some kind of crime back there, you should be more careful. I recommend a bleach bath and death by fire for your clothes the first chance you get. If itโ€™s self-harm, Iโ€™m sure thereโ€™s a helpline you can call.โ€

He cocks his head to the side. His nostrils flare. His face is only inches away. I can feel the heat from his body against mine. His cool breath flutters against my neck.

Iโ€™ve never been this close to a man before. My trembling grows. My inner thighs shake sending a rippling wave of something very unfamiliar coursing through the center my body. I try and press my legs together to stop it from happening again, but when he uses his knee to wedge my legs apart, caging me in even further, it only grows, uncoiling from within like a

slinky being pulled apart at the ends.

I swallow hard as the stubble of his jaw presses against my neck.

โ€œName,โ€ he demands, his voice raspier than before.

I shut my eyes tight for a beat, trying to gain composure, control, something that will help me as I try and reason my way out of this. โ€œListen, I didnโ€™t see anything,โ€ I blurt. โ€œThat is if you did anything. Iโ€™m not going to call the police if thatโ€™s what you're worried about. I wouldnโ€™t anyway, even if I saw something, which I didnโ€™t.โ€

His brows knit together in a harsh line. โ€œWhy?โ€

His question confuses me.

โ€œWhy what?โ€

โ€œWhy wouldnโ€™t you tell the police?โ€

Because Marco owns them.

โ€œLetโ€™s just say that I havenโ€™t exactly been a model citizen myself tonight. Letโ€™s face it. If the police around here werenโ€™t being paid not to do their jobs, half this town would be locked up.โ€

I take a deep, shaky breath. โ€œEspecially people like us.โ€

He stills. Thereโ€™s no more talking. Only heavy breathing and a battle of wills. He releases one of my hands. I think heโ€™s reaching for his knife. My blood turns cold. I can feel my face pale as my heart starts beating as faster and faster as if it wants to get in as many as possible before the end.

Iโ€™m surprised when he doesnโ€™t go for his knife. Instead, his hand travels slowly down my chest into my cleavage.

โ€œNo, donโ€™t!โ€ I say, but itโ€™s too late, heโ€™s already yanked on my locket.

โ€œPlease just give it back, and let me go,โ€ I plead. Feeling like itโ€™s my real heart he's torn from my chest. โ€œItโ€™s the only thing in this world that means anything to me. Besides my best friend, itโ€™s all I have.โ€

I hate the desperation in my voice, but itโ€™s the truth.

Heโ€™s silent for a moment. He raises his arms. I flinch, raising my arms over my face

defensively. But when nothing happens, I lower them, just in time to see him push back his hood, revealing his face.

โ€œWhy?โ€ I ask, closing my eyes knowing full well that the only time a criminal reveals himself to a witness is right before they take them out.

โ€œLook at me,โ€ he demands, holding my face in his hand.

โ€œNo!โ€ I say, shutting my eyes tighter.

โ€œLook at me!โ€ he bellows. Heโ€™s on me again. This time, he holds my head in his large rough hands. โ€œOpen your fucking eyes so you can see me.โ€

With no other choice than to get my head squished like a turtle under a car tire, I do as he demands. Opening my eyes, I blink through the haze, and when it clears, Iโ€™m met with tousled, medium-length, light brown hair, slicked back on the top, shorn close to head on the sides. His nose is slightly crooked like itโ€™s been broken a few times before. The stubble on his square, defined jaw is a few days over needing a shave. A jagged scar runs through his chin like an angry white lightning bolt.

Heโ€™s the most fucking beautifully terrifying man Iโ€™ve ever seen.

Heโ€™s searching my eyes for something, but I donโ€™t know what.

โ€œWhy?โ€ I ask in a whisper.

His hands release mine, but he doesnโ€™t step back. He leans in closer, speaking against my cheek in a rumble of a whisper. The strange feeling from earlier comes back as a zap of electricity bouncing around my insides looking for somewhere to ground.

Iโ€™m breathing heavy. Our lips are so close, almost touching. He slides one hand off my face, snaking it around my neck, pulling me closer. He starts to answer in a rumble of a whisper, causing goosebumps to rise on my already prickled skin. โ€œBecause I want you to see the face of the man whoโ€™s justโ€”โ€

โ€œWhere the fuck are you?โ€ calls Gabby from the other side of the wall. โ€œI lost them!โ€

The moment, whatever it is, is now broken. The man releases me so suddenly I brace myself against the wall to keep from falling. I turn my head toward her voice.

โ€œGabby!โ€ I shout back.

My heart is beating out of control. Out of habit, I raise my hand to my chest, seeking familiar comfort.

I look up. The man in the hood is gone.

And so is my locket.

T.M. (Tracey Marie) Frazier never dreamed that a single person would ever read a word she wrote when she published her first book. Now, she is a five-time USA Today bestselling author and her books have been translated into numerous languages and published all around the world.

T.M. enjoys writing what she calls sexyโ€˜wrongside of the tracks romanceโ€™ with morally corrupt anti-heroes and ballsy heroines.

Her books have been described as raw, dark and gritty. Basically, what that means, is while some authors are great at describing a flower as it blooms, T.M. is better at describing it in the final stages of decay.

She loves meeting her readers, but if you see her at an event please donโ€™t pinch her because she's not ready to wake up from this amazing dream.

Join Frazierland:

Twitter: @TM_Frazier

Stay up to date with T.M. by signing up for her mailing list:

For Text Alerts: TEXT โ€œTMFRAZIERโ€ TO 77948

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