Irreverent, twenty-something journalist, Dylan Hart, is not your average heroine. With a big butt and an even bigger mouth, she has her work cut out for her when she decides to cash-in on the blood-drained bodies of seven prostitutes scattered throughout southern California.
In an attempt to write her first bestselling novel and pay off her ever-growing student debt, Dylan begins the search for the culprit of the media-dubbed Vampire Massacres, diving head first into L.A.’s sanguinary ‘vampire’ subculture. Before long, Dylan finds herself tits deep in plastic fangs, velvet capes, and hooker corpses. Plastic or not, those fangs are razor sharp and out for blood, nosy journalist blood.
With her best friend in tow, and two contrasting boy-babes at her heels, the crew is pulled into an all too real sanguinarian lifestyle and dragged them through a bloody good mystery. Horrible pun intended.
Targeted Age Group:: 17+
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I was pretty drunk…and slamming Twilight, when a bet was forged in blood, or maybe beer I can’t recall which. Write your own book, they said. And I did. That was five years and eight books ago.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Friends, weirdos on the street, voices in my head, they are all susceptible to becoming a character. It’s like a wibbly-wobbly timey-whimey thing…wait that’s not right…
I sat Indian-style on the hardwood floor in Tatum’s house. All of her stuff had been taken out making it a barren wasteland of late fifties architecture. A white rumpled cloth lay on the floor in the middle of the room. Abruptly, as if someone had turned on a faucet, blood began to appear in the center of the white mass. Quickly, the red spot grew into a wet mess of blood seeping through the material and pooling in its wrinkles. I suddenly became aware that under the white cloth was a body. What first appeared to be a lump of innocent fabric was now quite obviously a human figure. As I stared at the blood flowing from the cloth onto the floor, the limbs of the body began to move. First an arm twitched, and then a leg, before I knew it, the torso began to rise from the floor. I sat in an empty space of hardwood and blood with a now moving corpse. As the figure sat upright, the white cloth slid downward exposing a deathly pale, headless torso. Blood flowed from the cropped neck like a morbid water fountain. I clamped my hands to my mouth, stifling a scream. As the cloth fell further, it exposed the full form of a human torso. In the center of the breasts, a large wooden picket protruded gruesomely. The scene was a mirror of Regina’s horrifying death. But this was not Regina. The corpse lifted bound hands toward me. Pleading in their own grisly way. Reaching for me. Tied around the wrists of the headless woman was a thick lock of corn-silk blonde hair.
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