TOMORROW 7 PM PST. JENNIFER ANN’S INTERVIEW: THE AUTHOR OF: Oceanside Marine : see trailer, excerpts, & from another work

TOMORROW
7 PM PST.
JENNIFER ANN’S
INTERVIEW

THE AUTHOR OF:

Oceanside Marine summary:
Fresh out of the Marine Corps, Braden Kendall has settled into a comfortable routine in SoCal with his 3-legged dog and a handful of good friends. Despite being undeniably handsome and perceived as a lady’s man, he’s lonely and tired of meaningless hookups.


After becoming pregnant in her teens, Katie Walker dedicated her life to raising her two sons, putting any romantic notions aside until they flew the nest. Now that she’s on her own and free to date, she struggles with putting her needs first.


Though Katie and Braden aren’t related by blood, their families are intertwined by marriage, making a relationship seem forbidden. Katie always found the cocky Marine attractive, but their considerable age difference made him off limits. Little does she know, Braden has been crushing on her for years and can’t get enough of her quirky personality. When they meet up in Vegas for a family celebration, Braden tries to convince her that their age different and families don’t matter. Will Katie be able to push aside her insecurities and survive the scrutiny of those closest to her in order to have a future with Braden, or will their relationship be over before it has a chance to begin?



Forgiveness in the MC doesn’t come easy…

They say you can never go home again, but I was out to prove them wrong. After a three-year absence from the only home I have ever known, the Inferno Glory MC was not welcoming me back with open arms.

Until Colt Sawyer sweeps me off my bike, makes me feel like a woman again, and shows me pleasures I have never dreamed of.

Colt thinks he can save me, but I am not the MC darling everyone remembers me as, and no amount of scorching hot sex or whispering sweet nothings in my ear will change my hardened exterior.

Or at least that is what I thought.

He’s offering me passion, forgiveness and protection. And once secrets start being revealed, the protection he provides me may be the only reason I survive the Inferno Glory MC.

Warning: This story involves steamy sex with multiple partners and tattooed alpha bikers. If you’re looking for a hot and dirty ride, this is your book.

Strong Language about to be read! 18 yr.+

The electric vibration between my legs and against my hands is beyond amazing as I gaze upon the bright colors of spring whizzing past and inhale the delightful smells of freedom as the warm wind whips through my loose hair. I’ve waited three very long years for this moment.

Three fucking years.

A person would be amazed at what can transpire in a matter of a thousand days, give or take a few. In that precious amount of time that was stolen from me, the bitch who set me up got married and gave birth to a baby boy. The country elected a new president. My little brother graduated from high school and became a man. My favorite band released two new albums. My asshole boyfriend left me for some skank he met at the gym.

And my father died.

Meanwhile I was behind bars, fighting for my life. Between dueling gangs and crazy bitches who threatened to rape anyone with any object they could get their hands on, it’s a miracle I was able to escape unscathed with my dignity still intact.

It’s odd to see my now sculpted arms from hundreds of hours of push-ups jetting out to the handlebars of my baby, though the change makes me proud. Some of the women I met were broken down by the system and turned to drugs, becoming shells of their former selves. I refused to lose control of my own destiny and made the best of the time I was given by keeping both my body and mind fit.

The sleeve my friend Jimmy started working on just weeks before I was locked away catches in the remaining sunlight, reminding me I need to make it my priority to get it finished. Now, even more than before, the whimsical La Catrina skull celebrating the dead means so much more with both my parents and nearly everyone else I’ve ever loved in the grave. Money’s not a problem when you’re the sole beneficiary of your wealthy grandparents’ estate, so at least I don’t have to worry about how to pay Jimmy or affording a place to stay.

Another biker approaches in the other lane. A smile stretches across my face when I subtly move my arm down to my side and flash him the sign of respect, the feeling of camaraderie that I’ve so desperately missed. When he returns the gesture, I holler with uncontrolled delight.

I’m fucking back!

Tires gliding across the highway, boots precariously dangling over asphalt, fresh wind filling my lungs; this shit is my religion. Riding started out as something I did with my father when I was old enough to walk and he was still healthy. He taught me everything I needed to know about a bike—from how to change the oil and check the tire pressure to the etiquette of traveling in packs. My ‘uncles’ were his club brothers and I spent most my life around vulgar men who liked their alcohol strong and their women loose.

Kids hanging at the club as much as I did wasn’t the ‘norm,’ so my father kept my hair trimmed short and threw a baseball cap on me, as if to trick the guys into thinking there wasn’t a young lady within the mix.

For the most part, it worked, until around sixteen when my large breasts appeared and my face began to thin out, making it undeniably obvious I was a woman and not one of the guys. My ‘uncles’ became uneasy with my presence, so my father encouraged me to hang out with ‘girls my age’ at school who were into sports and boys. By my junior year of high school, I had surrounded myself with preppy dirt bags and had completely sworn off club life. My head was so far up my ass that I was into dresses, makeup, and football players—girly girl on the outside and hardened biker daughter on the inside. Talk about a walking contradiction.

After my father was diagnosed with lung cancer the first year I was away at college, I tested for my motorcycle license and spent a good chunk of my inheritance on a brand new black Sportster 883. Riding became a way to escape my reality with nothing more than the wind in my face and the smell of the earth filling my lungs. Being kept from both my father and my bike for so long was nearly the death of me.

When I pull into the club’s parking lot on the edge of town, a crippling feeling of déjà vu strikes my core. The metal one-story structure looks exactly as I remember it: plain and obscure, easily mistaken for an out-of-business repair garage without any markings or signs, even though two of the big doors on the side have been welded shut.

Shit. How can a person have so many fond memories tied to a mere building? I don’t care if I ever return to the last house my father and I owned because this is home. Despite having a troublesome childhood void of a mother’s influences, my father tried like hell to do the best for his baby girl and gave me the kind of life everyone deserves.

Parking beside a long row of black Harleys, I sit frozen to my seat, staring at the building as if expecting it to come to life. I could’ve asked for a furlough to attend my father’s funeral, but I was too pissed that I wasn’t there to say goodbye when he took his last breath and it would’ve been downright impossible to face my ‘uncles’ who were crushed for not being able to keep me out of prison despite their best efforts.

A man emerges from the back door of the club, strutting in my direction without looking up. I’ve seen my share of badass bikers over the years, but there’s something about the hot hunk that’s so very different from the rest. The dude’s face is chiseled and square like the kind of manly-man I fantasized about hooking up with while on the inside. Wavy brown hair hangs down to his angular jaw covered in light stubble, somehow putting his incredibly kissable lips on display.

He has the usual veteran biker’s collection of various patriotic and Harley tattoos running up his muscular arms and disappearing beneath the short sleeved button-down bearing the club’s logo. From the sizable bulges beneath his shirt, I imagine he’s impossibly cut and capable of great strength. When I picture myself running my hands across the solid muscles, I can’t help but shudder.

Shit. I may have just moaned out loud.

Lord help me, he’s the perfect mix of beautiful model and surly bad boy that makes me want to spank his ass and ravish the rest of him.

Swaggering like he owns the place and has nowhere else to be, his black boots crunch against the loose gravel as he hums a tune beneath his breath. Clad in blue jeans, leather jacket hooked on a finger over his shoulder, it looks as if he’s headed to the fucking runway.

As he flips a stray lock of hair behind his ear, beautiful sky blue eyes land on me.




Jennifer Ann
Author of Contemporary Romance

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