Fire in the hole, p.1
Fire in the Hole, p.1Debra Anastasia
FIRE IN THE HOLE
Copyright (c) 2015 Debra Anastasia
All rights reserved
Published by Debra Anastasia
Cover art design by Shannon Lumetta
Cover Art Image: jrp_studio - Depositphotos
Editing: Jen Matera - The Write Diva’s
Formatting by LJ Anderson - Mayhem Cover Creations
Fire in the Hole is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author's twisted imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Here’s what you, the brave reader, need to know. Fire Down Below has a sequel. I know; everyone’s super surprised that Amazon allowed me to keep the poop-your-pants book up all this time.
In Fire in the Hole, Dove’s sausage-loving neighbor has realized he’s wildly in love with her lurchingly awkward butt. Johnson is the pharmacist of her dreams until he tells her over Twitter—goddamnit—that he has plans with an ex-girlfriend.
Duke scrapes Dove off her apartment floor and takes her to his cousin’s wedding. As Pissboy and Cross-eyed Knockers tie the knot, Duke could just kick himself in the balls when he sees Johnson and Beth at the same venue driving Dove insane with jealousy.
Will Dove give up everything, even her self-esteem, to get Johnson’s johnson between her legs? Or will the scent of spiced meat inspire Dove to rip off Duke’s sausage-and-egg underwear forever?
Yup. I can publish this. No law against it… yet.
“Reading this book will give you haemorrhoids.” ~EL James, #1 NTY Bestseller
“Please take this garbage and shove it up the hole before it catches fire. Possibly the worst book ever.” ~Joy Fulcher, Amazon Best Selling Author
“Good God. Not again.” ~Tijan NYT Bestseller (who allows payments for friendship)
“Last book came with maxi pads. What's next? An industrial-sized tub of Vagisil?” ~Tina Reber, NYT Bestseller
“I think I'd rather read a bowl of alphabet soup."~Elle Jefferson Queen unicorn
"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on ... why did I agree to read this again?” ~Mary Elizabeth, Mother of Dragons
“Wait... what? Again? Does she own stock in those protective pads?” ~Nancee Cain, Amazing Author
“Hang on to your vagina (or mine), Debra Anastasia is writing another sick piece of shit? WHY????” ~Ana, Ana's Attic Book Blog
“Debra slapped me with her lady lips, pinned me down with her bosom, shoved my face against her hairy legs and threatened me to write this review...it's 'great.' " ~Meghan Quinn, Queen of the Obscene
“Takes an asshole to recognize a crap story.” ~Season Vining, Amazing Author
“I thought seeing the search results for 'Blue Waffle' was the most traumatic experience I'd ever suffered. But no. This book was far worse.” ~Cora Brent, NYT Bestseller
“This book had my anus puckering in fear!” ~Anne Mercier, Amazon Bestselling Author
“Debra broke the hole code! What happens in the hole is supposed to stay in the hole!” ~Rochelle Paige, Amazon Bestseller
“Are you kidding me? My eyes only just stopped bleeding from the last one!” ~Nicki Elson, Author of Romantic Things
“Have the brain bleach on standby!” ~Carol Oates, Amazon Minor Category Bestseller (but major talent!)
“Still no.” ~Jamie McGuire, #1 NYT Bestseller
"I was an innocent person, then Debra Anastasia happened." ~King Midian
"I thought Debra Anastasia was dead." ~Angie Lynch, CEO and President of Shameless Book Club
"So...has to be related to Fire in the Hole or should I say fart?!" ~Pepper Mint, Reader
“This book makes a case of genital warts seem like winning the lottery.” ~Helena Hunting, NYT Bestseller
"This is worse than Godfather III!" ~Daisy Prescott, USA Today Bestseller
“This book is unforgettable, unless you pay for a lobotomy and three rounds of shock therapy like I did.” ~Katherine Stevens, Amazing Author
"Debra Anastasia's work is consistent... consistently bad. Fire In The Hole might be the worst book ever published. Someone, please, please take her computer away." ~K.A. Robinson, NYT Bestseller
"Wait. I was supposed to READ this?!" ~Jillian, READ-LOVE-BLOG
“Debbie Macomber writes one hell of a story!" ~Vi Keeland, NYT Bestseller
"Our do not read list has one author: Debra Anastasia." ~The Rock Stars of Romance Book Blog
"This book was like an itch I couldn't scratch." ~Penelope Ward, NYT Bestseller
“Fire in the Hole is a grand piece of literary genius filled with lyrical prose and elegant writing. It is sure to be the next Great American Novel…ha ha ha, just kidding. The pages I tore out and used to clean my toilet bowl, however, made the porcelain sparkle, so there’s that.” ~Tara Sivec, USA Today Bestseller
“Seriously, Debra, enough with this bullshit. I had to see a therapist after reading the first book. I'm sending you the bill.” ~JM Darhower, USA Today Bestseller
“She's written another book? Guess we have more paper pages to use as TP if we run out....” ~Liv Morris, USA Today Bestseller
"I still haven't read this book." ~Aesta, Aestas Book Blog
“Debra's work is best read by a roaring fire. It's easier to burn the evidence.” ~CJ Roberts, NYT Bestseller
"Gaaaaaaaawd...Please. No more. Make it stop." ~LB Simmons, USA Today
"I caught something that made my vagina itch by chapter 5. Reader beware!" ~Robin Covington, Amazing Author
“It’s clear that she’s obsessed with vaginal issues. Someone should get her some help.” ~Ella Fox, USA Today Bestseller
“Holy shitballs this is raw to the point of eww.” ~Djenii Book, Awesome Reader
I’m sorry, T, D, and J. I’m dedicating this one to you. I do it for every book. Stop looking at me like that. It’s an honor.
PRINT YOUR NAME
I acknowledge the gorgeous human whose name is printed above.
And Jen Matera and SoapyMayhem. And Helena and Shannon. Nina, too. And my agent, Rachel Marks. And Erika, Katherine, Tijan, Teresa, Kelly, Nancee, Pam, and Pams. Family, friends, blogger friends, Twitter friends, Facebook friends, the Google + posse (kidding, no one uses that thing) My Street Team!!!!
All you all.
Return to Poughkeepsie
Poughkeepsie Begins (coming 11/22/2015)
Late Night with Andres
Fire Down Below (Gynazule Volume 1)
The Revenger (coming 2015)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CONNECT WITH DEBRA ANASTASIA
OTHER TITLES BY DEBRA ANASTASIA
SNEAK PEEK AT HELENA HUNTING'S PUCKED UP
Dove Glitch smeared some sad snot on her downstairs neighbor’s T-shirt. She pushed herself up to a sitting position using Duke’s stomach as leverage. His abs were insane. And that creeped Dove out. He was like a Ken doll but with a huge, disgusting set of balls and a hairy asscrack.
Dove slumped into Duke’s couch like a boneless chicken.
Fuck sitting up. Fuck everything. Fuck the pharmacist. Holy hairy eyeballs, I wish I was fucking the pharmacist.
Johnson Fitzwell had sufficiently ruined her entire life, her big ball of happy and her just everything by Tweeting –Tweeting—that he had plans with his ex-girlfriend this weekend. The ex-girlfriend, Beth, who had jumped Dove in the bathroom at the Olive Garden on her date with Johnson and tried to kill her. Well, almost kill her. Okay, they weren’t going to kill her, but the chemicals they held over her head had been scary and the tiny manicure scissors that Beth and her group of friends had used to cut Dove’s dirty blonde hair might have done some damage given a copious amount of time.
Duke was talking, and she didn’t have the energy to try to translate his man-words so that they any sense. Nine times out of ten, if she responded, “Burned sausage is a sin,” he would guess she was paying attention.
Duke had saved her that night in the Olive Garden bathroom. He always seemed to be near when she was at her lowest. Which was either very sweet or marked him as the harbinger of her doom. In the Olive Garden, he’d waltzed into the ladies’ bathroom and did some serious intimidating with his dick in its cast from Dove’s failed attempt at piercing it. In the end, she was able to finish her date with Johnson, and he was none the wiser to the whole event.
Just thinking of Johnson made her pussy sit up and beg. He was taller, smart, had blond highlights and green eyes and just everything a girl could ever want. And they had had a moment together, being real during sex –or at least she’d had a moment.
She heard her name and lolled her face in Duke’s direction. He pushed a lock of her sex hair away from her face. She sneered like he was wearing a Taser-laden insignia ring. His thick finger yanked on a knot. A fuck knot. From the fucking. Sigh.
“Ouch,” Dove said without any enthusiasm.
Duke pulled his meaty phalange from her tresses. And soon, he was manhandling her off his couch and pulling her up the stairs. To her sex apartment. Her dead sex apartment. She bet it smelled like ass and victory in there. Duke opened her door, and yup—it did smell like the Braveheart of the gluteus muscles.
“So… you want to come?” Duke was hopping all around, looking nervous and alert.
I came so hard last night I burst blood vessels around my eyes. Stupid pharmacist and his knowledge of womanly parts.
“No.” Dove didn’t want to go anywhere.
She wanted to lie around in her reindeer robe until it fell off her. She never wanted to shower again and then she could always have this “fresh from the bodily juices of Johnson” feeling. She wanted to check her teeth for pubic hair. Somewhere in her head, she finally acknowledged that Duke was not, in fact, talking about spiced meat.
“I always add a guest when I RSVP to a wedding. That way—two meals. You’ll have to share your entrée with me. Unless it’s veal. I don’t trust veal.” Duke shuddered like he’d been shanked by veal in the past.
“Duke, you asshole. I want to go to a wedding about as much as I want to stick dynamite in my pussy, drink lighter fluid, and hump some flint.” Dove knew she should fix her robe or her tit would pop out.
Fuck you, floppy tit.
“No, it’s cool. This’ll be the perfect wedding. Pissboy is marrying Cross-eyed Knockers. It’ll be epic.” Duke sat on her coffee table and pressed down while he passed gas. The resulting noise sounded like a jet breaching the sound barrier. “That was the rare F-14 ass shout-out. You’re a lucky girl.”
“Pissboy and Cross-eyed Knockers?” Dove was wallowing in her despair, but still her interest perked up like cold nipples.
“My cousin, Pissboy, who wets himself if he sneezes when he gets drunk, and his nasty girlfriend are bumping uglies legit.” Duke cracked his toe knuckles.
“‘Cross-eyed Knockers’? How’d she get her name?” Dove looked at her tit again. It was cresting like a moon… or one of those expensive birds at Petco.
Fuck those birds. Shitters.
“She’s cross-eyed and has huge fucking knockers.” Duke shrugged. “Me and my cousins aren’t brain surgeons.”
“Nah. D, I’d rather lick a gorilla’s butt after food poisoning.” Dove finally covered her boob when it was too close to the exit.
“Pissboy is allergic to pollen, and the count is insane right now. He’s going to be like an unmanned firehose.” Duke showed no signs of giving up.
“I have nothing to wear. And where is this thing?” Dove saw Johnson’s footprint on her carpet. Next to it, she saw the two indentations from her rug-burned knees.
Damn, that round had been good.
“It’s about five hours away. My sister has a free bed in her room. And I’ll pick out your clothes.” Duke grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “You can’t sit around moping all weekend. Fuck that shit. All for a guy who gives it to you up the ass by accident?”
“How the hell do you know that?” Dove sat straight up and leveled a hard stare at him, pulling her hand away. Johnson had indeed tucked it in her turd hole a few times. No one should know that information. Least of all the guy downstairs, no matter how close they were as friends.
Duke stood and stretched as if her sudden rage was nothing. “When I was outside lighting my dick on fire, I heard you guys. Close your fucking window if you’re not making a porno.”
Dove slouched down again, her anger deflated. Of course Duke had heard that part. That’s how Dove’s life went. She finally had the man of her dreams dating her and sexing her, and now her whole relationship was in the crapper.
She wanted to swallow Twitter and have her whole nervous system rattle when Johnson tweeted. She wanted to cyber stalk him, find his house on Google Earth, and generate a street view to see into his windows.
She checked her phone. No new tweets.
“Okay, fine. I’ll pack your bag.” Duke got an empty trash bag from under her kitchen sink and shook it out with a snap.
“You’ll need all this shit?” he called from the bathroom. Dove heard bottles being thrown into the bag.
Duke moved into her bedroom. “Let me guess, your idea of getting dressed up is your fucking yoga pants and a booby top? We’ll stop and get you a dress.” Duke came out of her room with a full sack like a trailer park Santa.
He wasn’t wrong; sitting around waiting for Johnson to tweet about his time with Beth would be torture. She could sit around listening to her heart breaking, or she could go watch a grown man piss himself.
“How crossed are her eyes?” Dove asked.
Duke gave her the shit-eating grin of victory. “So fucking crossed that she can see herself change her mind.”
Dove stood and accepted her defeat with a nod. She’d go to the wedding with Duke and his sister. It would probably beat letting Johnson Fitzwell’s time with Beth strangle her. And she could keep track of his whereabouts from her phone.
Yeah, be breezy. Be too cool to wait by your computer.
As Dove went to get dressed, her heart remained rooted to the spot in front of that very computer, waiting for something, anything, that would tell her he didn’t consider last night a mistake.
But the sometimes-Frenchman—according to Duke, who didn’t trust Preston at all—had a pull on her. He was her gravity, her reason to breathe in when she’d wasted the energy on breathing out. If she were a fish, he would be her gills. If she were a snail, he would be her trail, her proof of existence.
Every noise behind his door blew her imagination wide open. One good creak was like gasoline on a brushfire: stupid and explosive. He hadn’t noticed her yet, but she was betting she was lost in the translation. His French accent was sexy and mysterious.
Tonight he was playing music, and from the loud toasts he was announcing, either he had a crapload of people in there with him or he was talking to himself. The soundtrack from Annie was wafting from under the crack of the door like a ripe whiff of the ’80s.
Shannon sucked in a huge gasp of shocked flavored air when the man of her dreams pulled open his door, which happened to be the object of her obsessive fixation. He had a bottle of wine in one hand as he staggered into the hallway. He belched and did some wobbly deep knee bends.
Fire in the Hole by Debra Anastasia / Romance & Love have rating 3.6 out of 5 / Based on25 votes