How Hard Can It Be?

Book 1: Handcuffs & Happily Everafters

by Robyn Peterman

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

An “outrageous, profane, hilarious, sexy and all kinds of wacky” romantic comedy from the New York Times bestselling author of Size Matters (Michelle Rowen, national bestselling author). 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 . . . “A zany over-the-top rompfest.”—Lexi George, author of Demon Hunting with a Sexy Ex “The most f*cked-up bag of wonderful crazy ever.”— Dear Author “If readers are in the mood for hilarious kinkiness woven through a fun romance, then this is the book to try.”— Long and Short Reviews (4 stars)

Release date: January 1, 2013

Publisher: eOriginals

Print pages: 278

Sample

“If you handcuff a woman to a headboard, you need to use fur-covered cuffs. Otherwise you’ll rub all the skin off of her wrists during rough sex, and she’ll bleed like a motherfucker. Blood is just not sexy unless you’re writing paranormal.” The gal with the lesbian haircut delivered that little nugget with gusto.

What in the hell am I doing here? I’m going to kill Oprah. Does anybody actually listen to her “if you can visualize it you can do it” crap other than me? Becoming a famous romance novel writer had sounded like such a good idea the other day. The simple fact that I couldn’t really write had seemed beside the point . . .

My best friend and roommate, Kristy, accused me of pulling a Sunshine Weather Girl again, referring to my embarrassing and very recent attempt to become a meteorologist. Kristy’s reminder was a low blow. I didn’t like to think about that. Clearly showing up at the news station for a month straight wasn’t the way to become the new weather girl. It had resulted in a restraining order, six hours in the pokey, and a feature story on the six o’clock news. My mother told all her friends I was adopted . . . I wasn’t.

So here I stood, in the poorly lit back meeting room of the downtown public library, with ten or so women who looked like seventy-year-old church ladies. Why do women in the Midwest think that really short hair shaved up at the back of the neck is a good look? I found out the bondage gal’s name was Sue, but she went by Shoshanna LeHump. Quite the little fireball, she was dressed entirely in lavender fleece. She explained her husband had threatened to divorce her if she continued to write that garbage under her real name. Her words, not mine. I didn’t know if I was more shocked by her pen name or the fact that she was married.

I glanced around the room hoping to spot Evangeline O’Hara, the famous New York Times best-selling author. She wrote a mean bodice ripper and was the main reason I’d joined this group. I hoped she’d like my ideas and mentor me to stardom. Of course, ideas were a slight problem at this point, but I would continue visualizing like hell.

I was looking forward to discussing Evangeline’s books with her, until Kristy, not unkindly, had reminded me I hadn’t read any of them.

“Turkey Noodle Dooda Surprise served with Tater Tot Casserole can really get your amorous juices flowing,” the one who called herself Nancy gushed. Her floral caftan reminded me of Hawaii. The quintessential grandma had no last name. Apparently she had legally changed her name to Nancy . . . you know, like Cher or Beyoncé or Gaga.

“I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “I thought this was a romance writers’ meeting.” My insides clenched. This couldn’t be right. I must be in the wrong room, or hopefully the wrong building.

“It is,” Shoshanna LeHump said. “Nancy writes romantic cookbooks!”

“Oh, aren’t you a lovely thing.” Nancy smiled and squeezed my hands. “Are you a cover model?”

“Um, no. I’m actually a, um . . . writer,” I white-lied. I do write things. I’m a CPA, for God’s sake. I just happen to write numbers instead of words.

“Shoshanna,” Nancy called out to the handcuff-loving porno granny, “we have a new writer!”

“Fucking awesome,” the Shoshanna woman yelled back, giving me a big thumbs-up.

Shit, this was not turning out the way it was supposed to. These women were very sweet; they’d all hugged me when I arrived like I was a long-lost friend. Okay, that was a little unsettling, but as well meaning as they were, I didn’t want a Bunko group of grandmas who cussed like sailors . . . I wanted Dorothy Parker and the Algonquin Round Table, where we would drink wine and chuckle at our own witty brilliance. Speaking of witty brilliance, where in the hell was the Queen of Bodice Rippers? I wasn’t sure how much more information my brain could hold about bondage, whippings, and hot dishes before it would explode.

“Excuse me,” I said, interrupting Shoshanna LeHump’s in-depth explanation of the benefits and sanitation of butt plugs. “I thought Evangeline O’Hara was a member.”

The room went silent. Everyone stared at me like I’d grown three heads. All of the lumberjack-looking softball-playing grandmas narrowed their eyes at me.

“Are you friends with that viper bitch whore from hell?” Nancy, the storybook granny, inquired kindly. Her words and her tone did not match. Clearly I’d heard her wrong, but on the off chance I hadn’t, I refused to ask her to repeat herself.

“Um . . . no,” I whispered, a little bit scared. “I’ve never met her. I just thought she was a member.”

Everyone’s smiles returned when they realized I wasn’t best buds with the viper bitch whore from hell. These seniors had some amazing vocabularies. I made a mental note not to get on their bad side.

“Oh, thank God,” Shoshanna LeHump grumbled. “I was worried that stinky hooker sent a spy in to steal more of our ideas.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, shocked. What kind of ideas would a New York Times best-selling author steal from a group of old ladies writing about butt plugs?

“She’s a criminal,” Poppy Rose Petal yelled. God, I hope that’s her pen name. She was a big-boned gal with a blinding fuchsia neck scarf, trim khakis, baby pink sweater, and loafers . . . with a shiny penny in each. “That last book she wrote was Shoshanna’s idea.”

“That’s true,” Ms. LeHump, the handcuff expert, ground out angrily. “The bus tour across Russia was my baby and she stole it. Of course, my bus is a rolling S and M club for amputees, but the basic premise is the same.”

It was time for me to get out of there. If Evangeline O’Hara was even one-fourth as bat-shit crazy as the rest of these gals, I needed to make a break for it.

“So,” Poppy the flower woman asked, “Rena, what are you writing?”

“Well . . . um—” What in the hell was I going to say? I didn’t want to give away any of my brilliant ideas. Wait . . . I didn’t actually have any ideas. Time for a butt-yank explanation. Not to be confused with butt plug. “It’s a romantic comedy about a schoolteacher and um . . . a bus driver.” In my nervousness I spoke a little louder than I’d intended. Evidenced by several of the old girls discreetly covering their ears. Shit.

“Sounds great,” Nancy exclaimed. My God, could she be nicer? “What’s the plot?”

“The plot.” What was the plot? That was an excellent question. “Well, it’s a forbidden love . . . because he’s a former convict and um, they vow to have sex in every room in the school.”

“Fantastic,” Shoshanna LeHump yelled, slapping her thighs and doing what looked like a drunken Irish jig. “Are there any threesomes or girl-on-girl action?”

“No.” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “That hadn’t occurred to me.”

“Well”—she winked at me—“a little girl-on-girl action can really spice up a story.”

Was she hitting on me? I couldn’t tell. It seemed like she was, but she’s married. I’m fairly sure she had used the word husband at one point between her diatribes on cock rings and lubricants. To avoid that train of thought, I continued on with my big fat hairy lie of a plot.

“Anyway, it turns out he was unjustly accused of a mass murder during a hurricane and spent the last five or ten years in prison. Maybe it was seven years . . . I can’t remember exactly. Then he dug his way to freedom, using a spork, right before his sentence was overturned, but now they want to put him back in prison for breaking out. You see, he didn’t know they were going to let him out of the pokey. That’s why he tunneled to freedom.” I sucked in a deep breath and scanned the room for alternate exits. Maybe I could slip out when they weren’t looking . . .

“Oh my God,” the Rosebush Petal woman said, “that’s incredible. How does he meet the teacher?”

“Of course,” I stammered, “the teacher. So he dyes his hair and gets his teeth capped. He had a gap between his two front teeth because his parents couldn’t afford braces when he was a child, and he steals an identity. He goes to the school and gets a job as the bus driver after about four interviews. He’s really worried about the background check because he doesn’t know all that much about the person he stole the identity from.”

“Intrigue, that’s good.” Nancy nodded her approval.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling. Her genuine kindness and encouragement made me feel like an ass for lying, but I was already in too deep. “Then he sees the teacher across the playground during third period and it’s love at first sight.”

“Does she have big boobs?” Shoshanna LeHump asked.

“Um . . . yes. Yes, she does.” I sucked my bottom lip into my mouth and put on my serious face. She had definitely been hitting on me.

“Wait—” My potential girlfriend stopped me. “I thought you said romantic comedy. Where’s the funny part?”

“Oh, the funny part . . . right.” What is the funny part? Shit, shit, shit. “The funny part is when they . . . um, have, you know, sex in all the classrooms. Chalk and erasers get in the way, mayhem ensues. The fire alarm goes off. The chairs are too small . . . Stuff like that.” I was sweating now. I wasn’t sure how much more crap I could come up with.

“Does he have to go back to prison?” a rather rotund gal with kind eyes and no eyebrows named Joanne asked. She clearly had a violent relationship with her tweezers. More impressive was her purple Minnesota Vikings sweat suit. It made her look like a giant grape.

“No, no, he doesn’t,” I said with finality, hoping we’d move on to someone else.

“Does the teacher ever find out about his past?” Nancy inquired.

“Nope.” I smiled. “I’m going for that ambiguous feeling. Kind of like real life.”

“Fucking brilliant,” Shoshanna bellowed. “I still think you should consider a little threesome action. Maybe with the principal or one of the lunch ladies.”

“You might be right.” My enthusiasm sounded forced, but I hoped if I agreed, she would shut up.

“You should listen to LeHump,” Poppy the Plant said. “She made three hundred thousand in sales last year alone.”

“What?” I gasped. I had no idea so many people wanted to read about sticking things in their butt. As impressed as I was with that number, I couldn’t possibly add a scene with the teacher and the bus driver and the lunch lady. It wasn’t true to my vision. What am I thinking? I have no vision. I just pulled the most ridiculous premise out of my rear end and now I have a vision?

As I silently contemplated the merits of a threesome with the lunch lady, the mood in the room changed abruptly. The tension grew thick and the hair stood up on my arms. The women scurried around like ants in a rainstorm. What was going on? Were they offended that the bus driver didn’t come clean about his past? I could change that part. Maybe he should tell her . . . After all, he’s not really guilty of killing anybody. I mean, he did steal an identity, but he found the driver’s license in the garbage in back of a fast food restaurant when he was scrounging for burgers. He was starving, for God’s sake . . . couldn’t they understand that?

“She’s here,” Nancy hissed. All eyes flew to the door.

“Who’s here?” I whispered urgently. My breakfast doughnut was threatening to make a reappearance. Why in the hell didn’t I leave at the first mention of bondage? I was scared to death and I had no idea why.

“The skanky, book-stealing, bottom-feeding slag,” Shoshanna LeHump said quietly. “Don’t look her in the eye—she’ll suck out your soul.”

“Put Rena behind you,” Nancy frantically barked to Shoshanna. Her muumuu flowed wildly around her, making me dizzy. “The smelly skank-hole always goes for the new ones. Protect her!” she hissed.

LeHump shoved me behind her. She was strong for such a tiny thing. I was starting to hyperventilate. What in the hell had I gotten myself into?

A small almost inaudible whimper rippled through the room as she entered . . . Ladies and gentlemen, Evangeline O’Hara was in the house.

An eerie hush fell over the room. I could feel Poppy the Azalea Bush trembling next to me and Joanne was picking at her face where her eyebrows used to be. Nancy and LeHump held their ground, but they were half the women they had been only five minutes ago. We stood huddled together like a herd of cows. There was a lump in my throat and my heart was bouncing around in my chest like a Ping-Pong ball; I knew everyone could hear it. What in the hell was happening? With extreme caution, I peeked out from behind Shoshanna’s head.

What the fuck was that? That couldn’t possibly be Evangeline O’Hara. Could it? My God, the picture she used on her website had to be at least thirty years old . . . maybe forty.

She prowled the room like a panther . . . with a limp. It had to be the shoes. I’d seen shoes like that only in magazines. They were so high, I didn’t know how she didn’t teeter off. Her body was skeletal thin. But her boobs . . . her boobs were ginormous and didn’t move as she circled the mound of terrified women pressed together in the middle of the room. She was draped in turquoise silk. The same color as her eyes. I’m positive she slept with them open, not by choice . . . by necessity. They’d been lifted to her eyebrows. She looked like she’d just come out of a supersonic wind tunnel; her face was yanked back as tight as a drum. There wasn’t a line on her forehead or around her eyes or mouth, but her neck resembled a flesh-colored rotten prune. Clearly her vision was impaired, because if she got a gander at her neck . . . Hoo Betty. My guess was that misplaced pride in her frighteningly abundant cleavage blinded her to the saggy neck.

There’s just something inherently wrong with an eightyish-year-old woman sporting the triple-D bosom of a twenty-year-old centerfold model. Although to be fair, she was kind of cadaver-ish chic, similar to Cher.

Her mouth was a train wreck. It was a cross between a fish and a duck, and it didn’t quite close. Between the mouth and the eyes, she appeared to be in a constant state of surprise. Her plastic surgeon should be shot. I idly wondered if food fell out when she ate, although it didn’t look like she ate much. I couldn’t look away. I pulled on my bangs, forcing my eyes to the floor, trying desperately not to make eye contact. There was no doubt she could suck out a soul.

“Hello dahalllings,” she purred, and her voice was a mix of Harvey Fierstein and Marilyn Monroe. Her bodyguard, a big burly man in a black suit somewhere in his fifties, quickly put his arm out to steady her as she almost tumbled off her designer stilettos. “Shoshinka, my love, how are we doing today?”

“Fine,” Shoshanna growled, “until about three minutes ago. And my name is Shoshanna.”

“Of course,” Evangeline laughed. Her laugh reminded me of ice breaking off trees after a horrific winter storm. Deadly. “You have such an amusing sense of humor, Shoshushu.”

Shoshanna’s body tensed like a coil about to spring. I gently put my hand on her back to calm her. Her small body shook beneath my touch. Why were these women so scared, and why were they taking this mean old biddy’s crap? I held my breath, watching in fascination as Evangeline’s bulging eyes scanned the crowd. Nancy pushed me down so the scary hag wouldn’t see me. Their protectiveness confused and touched me. Their fear was palpable, but my own terror began to ebb away . . . replaced by anger.

Five minutes ago this room was filled with joyful, kind women who had passions for butt plugs and dishes made with cream of mushroom soup. They’d taken me in and hadn’t laughed at my book idea, and it certainly wasn’t much of an idea. Although with some work . . . Focus, I needed to focus. I needed to save these women. These gals were protecting me. They didn’t even know me and they’d thrown their bodies in front of mine so the viper bitch whore from hell (Nancy’s words, not mine) couldn’t eat me.

My sense of justice had gotten me in trouble before, but that was baby stuff compared to what was about to go down . . .

“So girls—” Evangeline took a seat with a lot of help from her bodyguard. I knew my eyes should be trained on the floor like the rest of the group, but I couldn’t keep myself from looking. I wish I had. Her silk sheath hiked up during her descent to the chair, exposing an ungodly amount of spray-tanned, pickled thigh. She crossed her toothpick legs, and I realized with sickening clarity that she was going commando. I bit my lip to tamp down my gag reflex, but I knew it would be weeks before I had an appetite again. “I’m curious if anyone has any new ideas.”

She waited.

And waited.

“I bet you are,” Shoshanna muttered under her breath.

“What was that, Shorunka darling?” she asked, grinning evilly. “I thought I heard something unpleasant.”

“It must have been your conscience, dear.” Nancy smiled, speaking in a loving tone.

“I don’t think she has one,” Rosebush Flower Petal burst out, her voice sounding fragile and shaky.

“I don’t think she has one,” Evangeline mimicked Rosebush Gal with an evil hiss. “Well, she doesn’t. And all of you stupid, unattractive old women should know that by now, so cough up the ideas,” she shrieked.

Eyebrow-less Joanne was hyperventilating behind me and Flower Power seemed seconds away from fainting. This would have been funny if it wasn’t real, but it was . . . very real, and these lovely, albeit strange, older gals were terrified. If these ladies couldn’t stand up for themselves, I’d do it for them . . .

“I have an idea.” I shimmied my way out of the huddle and stood in front of her. Holy shit, up close she looked like a wax figure from Madame Tussaud’s Museum.

“No, Rena, no,” Shoshanna moaned in agony. An icy blast of fear shot through me at Shoshanna’s tone, but I figured if I gave Evangeline my idea, maybe she would leave, and my cute little ladies could have fun again.

“Ah, what have we here?” Evangeline eyed me from head to toe. She enviously fingered my long blond hair and winced at my snow boots. “Some new blood. How lovely of you ladies to bring me a gift. Especially one so breathtakingly beautiful.”

Good God, are all these old women lesbians?

“She’s not for you,” Shoshanna said through clenched teeth, stepping forward to stand next to me. “She’s not even a writer.”

Ouch, that stung. Of course Shoshanna was correct, I’m not a writer. I knew she was trying to save me from the plastic surgery experiment gone awry seated in the chair, but I wish she had come up with a less hurtful defense. I put my arm around my little bondage-loving new buddy in solidarity and to let her know I was fine.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the viper spat, pushing Shoshanna away from me with the pointed toe of her shoe. I quickly averted my eyes to avoid the peep show she insisted on performing. “What’s your name, pretty girl?” Evangeline asked in a silky voice.

“Rena,” I could hardly raise my voice above a whisper. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.

“Rena what?” she pried. The bodyguard took out a pad and pen from his breast pocket.

“Rena Gunderschlict.” There was an audible groan of dismay from the pile of ladies behind me. I knew my last name was awful, but I didn’t think their reaction was to my name . . . it was the fact I’d given it to the idea-stealing hag.

I experienced a surge of panic as the bodyguard wrote it down on his pad. He was formal and official, causing me a hellacious flashback to my recent arrest downtown at the news station after my pathetic attempt to become the new Sunshine Weather Girl.

“So, Rena, my dear,” her strangely hypnotic voice urged me on, “what’s your idea?”

There was no way in hell I was going to tell her about the teacher and the convict bus driver. I wasn’t sure if the girls were blowing smoke up my butt about my story or if it’s a best-seller in the making. Just in case, I wasn’t giving it to the walking Botox experiment. I’d simply have to yank another one out of my rear . . .

“Well . . . um . . . there’s this pirate,” I started.

“Yes?” In her excitement she leaned forward, giving me an unfortunate view of the perky round globes attached to her eighty-year-old bony chest.

“Yep, a pirate,” I said, looking everywhere except at Evangeline’s bosom. I rocked back and forth in panic, having no idea what was going to come out of my mouth. “And he kidnaps these beautiful twins during an earthquake. It was about a four or so on the Richter scale. He’s never seen anything as gorgeous as these young women in his life.” I glanced over at Shoshanna, who discreetly moved her hands to her breasts. “They had ginormous breasts.”

“Ahhh, yes,” Evangeline cooed. “Tell me more.”

“Right, so . . . he steals them in the middle of the night from their mansion in Sydney, Australia. Once he gets them on the ship, he realizes they’re conjoined.” I stared at the ceiling, praying for divine intervention, or a power outage.

“Holy shit,” Shoshanna choked.

“Be quiet, Shoshoodoo,” the viper hissed. “Continue,” she demanded.

“At this point he realizes he only loves one of them. The other one is a total bitch.”

Evangeline clasped her hands greedily. “What’s her name?”

“Whose name?” I asked.

“The name of the one he loves.” She rolled her eyes at my stupidity.

That was really alarming. Bulging eyeballs with permanently open lids should not be permitted to roll. Ever. “Oh, her name is, um . . . Shirley, but it just so happens that the pirate is a time-traveling vampire warlock.”

“I’ve never heard of that.” Intense astonishment touched her waxy face.

“Of course you haven’t,” I stammered. A wave of apprehension swept through me, and I started to sweat. “There’s only one in existence.”

Her head whipped around to her bodyguard, “Are you getting all this, Cecil?” He nodded his huge head and kept writing.

Cecil? His name was Cecil? That so didn’t work for me. He looked like a Butch or a Rocky. “So . . .” I had no idea what was going to come out of my mouth next. I needed to wrap this baby up or I was going to pass out from anxiety. “The pirate—”

“What’s his name?” the pantiless meanie asked.

“Um . . . Dave, his name is Pirate Dave. So Pirate Dave time-traveled to the future with the conjoined twins to John Hopkins Hospital.”

“What year?” she asked, reaching out to touch me with her claw.

I backed away, feigning deep thought. “1974.”

“Why 1974?” She sounded bewildered.

“Pardon my rudeness, but if you keep talking, I will never finish.” I made eye contact and held it. She narrowed her eyes. I narrowed mine . . . and waited.

“Fine,” she snapped, “I’ll be quiet.”

“Good. Anyway, Pirate Dave held his massive sword to the surgeon’s neck and demanded that he separate the twins. So the surgeon did and Dave gave him three bags of gold and some Elvis trading cards he found when he visited the 1950s. He magicked up some limbs for his love and her bitch of a sister because . . . um . . . it would be too hard to live a regular life, you know, missing half a torso and arms and legs and half of your butt and . . .” I stopped. The entire room watched me, mouths agape. I didn’t take that as a good sign . . . I skipped the rest of their physical description. “So they time-traveled back to the year they were from.”

“What year?” Evangeline bounced up and down with excitement. Her boobs did not.

I paused and gave her the evil eye. Her bouncing stopped and she looked passably contrite. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“The year was 1492. The very same year that Columbus sailed the ocean blue. But what most people don’t know is that Pirate Dave discovered Americ. . .