Wicked Witch of the West Village-out now

"Wicked Witch of the West Village"
By Anna J. Evans
Ellora's Cave-Exotica
Super Plus novel-paranormal, erotic

http://www.ellorascave.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=9781419914768

BLURB:

Life's a bitch and so is Gail Teril, evil romance editor by day, failed heroine of her own life by night. She's the wicked witch of the West Village and she likes it that way…or at least likes it enough to avoid the scary process of trying to change her wicked rep.

But when a violent nut allergy at a writers' conference sends Gail into a coma and she wakes up in an alternate dimension, she has no choice but to take a hard look at her new life and herself. In a very adult somewhere over the rainbow peopled by sexy barbarian lovers, an evil zombie-making fiend and a green skinned man she knows she could come to love, Gail learns that sex can sometimes lead to power, but only her heart will lead her home.

EXCERPT:

I followed Kathy into the small conference room, feeling like the lowest form of dog shit as I thought back on our conversation and its probable implications. If Kathy said it, it had to be true. Kathy was nice, Kathy was a fantastic friend and Kathy never told a lie. If she said Richard was beyond retrieval she had to be right.

The realization made my stomach twist in an angry knot around my black coffee and two cinnamon rolls.

I'd lost him. I'd really lost him and only now did I understand I probably loved Richard, no matter how many times I'd dismissed him when he pressed me to make some grand declaration. Now he was gone and a part of me wanted to crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head and never come out again.

It was horribly melodramatic and self-loathing inducing, which made me struggle to find someone else to blame. Luckily, a target soon presented itself.

As I sat behind the table and gazed out at the over-eager faces of at least a hundred romance writers, I had to resist the urge to start throwing rotten tomatoes. It was their fault, those damn women who wrote those damn books that I read in spite of myself.

I was an editor of romantic fiction, it was my job to read romance novels, but I didn't have to enjoy them as much as I did. I didn't have to purchase all the newest titles from my favorite authors to take home and savor over the weekend in the name of market research or reread my keeper-shelf novels until the front covers were tattered.

The prolonged exposure had obviously rotted my brain. I should have stuck to my guns in my early twenties until I was transferred to the literary fiction division. But I had stayed in romance, snuggled in like a pig in shit until I was the head editor honcho at the tender age of thirty-two, the top dog on the steaming pink pile of lovey-dovey nonsense that was the romantic fiction department.

So young to be so successful…and so increasingly bitter.

"Welcome and thank you so much for coming to learn more about Handler and Handler." Kathy's bright blue eyes shone warmly out at the audience as if she actually gave a shit that anyone had shown up. She probably did, she was nice. "I'm associate editor Kathy Hewitt, and this is Gail Teril, executive editor."

I waved my hand in brief acknowledgement of my name, then pretended great interest in the folder in front of me as Kathy proceeded to outline the new directions Handler and Handler were hoping to take our Visions of Love line.

I, for one, wanted to start by outlawing anything having to do with vampires--what the fuck is romantic about a man who wants to feed off you like a leech while he moans about his tortured immortality? I also wanted to do away with heroines who weren't at least twenty-three or who hadn't slept with a minimum of four men before Mister Right.

What woman these days hasn't had at least four lovers before she settles down for the happily ever after? Now I'm sure there are some exceptions, but even my brother's new wife--originally from Georgia, sweet as a peach, inside the Baptist Church every time they open the doors--confessed to me that she had three guys before Rick. I had to get her pretty tipsy on wine coolers before she shared the info, but I proved my point, at least to myself.

I was also more than a little tired of the "sweet as pie" crap. Why could the hero be a big jerk who needed "love's tender caress" to "set him free", but the heroine was always a near virgin who saved whales for a living, ran a soup kitchen in her spare time and took in homeless animals and domestic abuse victims? All while teaching the hero how her generous and perfect soul could help even a rake like him learn to love, of course?

Not to mention she's also stunningly gorgeous with perfect tits, no cellulite, skin that's smooth and pore-less sans makeup and no body hair in undesirable places in addition to being the next Mother Mary. I have issues with the omission of body hair maintenance in my novels. You never read about a romance heroine having to wax her moustache. As a half-Cuban woman who inherited more from my mom than thick, shiny, luxurious dark brown locks on my head, I would appreciate my heroine having to work a little to be so goddamned perfect.

But everyone else seems to want the heroine to be beyond reproach, other editors and readers included. I was the only one with a problem. I couldn't identify with most heroines because I was a cranky slut jerk who should have been born an alpha male. If I had, then maybe I would have found a sweet Georgia peach like my younger brother or a sassy, incredibly loyal scriptwriter like my older one. If I'd been a boy, maybe I would have already been tamed by love and become contented with venting my crankiness at work like the rest of the penis-owning half of the population.

Too bad I'd been born a gal and a straight gal on top if it. Double too bad most men weren't into putting forth the effort to break through my gruff exterior to find the diamond in the rough underneath. Triple too bad most men didn't find my take-no-prisoners-get-up-in-your-face-and-call-you-a-cock-sucker attitude particularly sexy.

A shame, that. Girls just love an aloof, bossy, unattainable "bad boy". But what about "bad girls"? Was I a bad girl?

You're the Wicked Witch of the West Village.

I hated my subconscious sometimes. Especially when it was right, even more especially when I'd just screwed up a relationship with a guy who thought my potty mouth was "cute" and had the guts to tell me to shut up from time to time and really make me listen.

Especially when his dick was so unbelievably wondrous and you're never going to get to roll around in bed with him EVER AGAIN.

"I'll take that question," I said with a forced smile, deciding that sharing my opinions on the future trends in romantic fiction was better than sitting there stewing in my own horrible thoughts.

Of course, that's where I made my next stupid mistake. Never open your big mouth unless you're prepared to put your short, fat foot in it.

Fan the Flames...
http://annajevans.com
Ms. Evans is an author who could quickly become habit-forming!
-The Romance Studio