Will Smella and Deadward find true love, or will Smella’s fish tacos ruin the moment? Is Flabio a real cover model? How many landfills can a vampire fill in an eternity? Find out in ROMANCE NOVEL—the unabridged, unauthorized comedic look at the bestselling vampire series that will leave you wondering who the hell ever believed vampires could “sparkle.” And you’ll laugh…all the way to the bathroom!
Here’s a scene from chapter 11:
Then music from the loudspeakers overhead came to an abrupt end, and the faint echo of Native American pan flutes reverberated throughout the arena.
Smella scanned the crowd for Snake, knowing he must have made his entrance.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea. He was standing at the far end of the arena, a soft breeze ruffling his tall headdress and long dark mane, his bare chest glistening under the glow of the artificial lights overhead.
Slowly, he made his way toward Smella, the breeze picking up slightly, as his hair whipped wildly about his face. The harmony of pan flutes grew louder.
He continued on, the feral gleam in his eyes, making him look like a lone wolf stalking his prey.
Smella gulped, hard, knowing she was the object of Snake Long’s desire.
The current of wind, which was strangely blowing inside the confines of the stadium, strengthened, blowing Snake’s headdress off his head. Shielding his eyes with his hands, Snake trudged on against the gale and onslaught of pan flute music, until finally he’d reached Smella.
The wind and music simultaneously died down as he sat beside her.
Snake took a moment to catch his breath, fanning his face with his hand.
Smella grabbed his large forearm, feeling a jolt of electricity shoot down her spine at the feel of his hot, sweaty skin on hers. “Are you alright?” she asked.
Snake held up a silencing finger. He pulled out an inhaler from the front of his doeskin pants, and breathed in several puffs of medicine.
With a steadying hand on his chest, he finally spoke. “My dad gave me a nickel to tell you to tell Deadward, we’ll be watching you.”
Smella quirked a brow. “A nickel?”
“It’s a tough economy right now, Smella,” he berated her with a condescending tone.
“Alright,” she answered, a puzzled expression in her otherwise vacant eyes.
“Anyway, you should stay away from Deadward.” Snake poked her chest with an accusatory finger. “He’s bad news.”
Smella jerked her head, snickering. “He’s also rich and white.”
“You’ve got a point.” He shrugged. “But just be careful.”
“Oh, Snake,” Smella cried, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face against his lean, hard, sweaty chest. “What would I do without a friend like you?”
Snake pulled her closer, roaming the length of her back with his large hands. Then he cupped her buttocks and squeezed.
Smella moaned against his throat before tracing his collarbone with delicate kisses.
With one swift movement, Snake had pulled her up on his lap.
She straddled his thighs, wrapping two long legs around his back. They groped each other while making out with lots of spit and tongue action.
The room fell hush, but they were heedless of anything else but each other.
With Smella’s assistance, Snake had pulled her shirt over her head, and he was busy struggling with the clasps on her lacy black bra.
After the distinctive sound of Deadward clearing his throat behind her, Smella retracted her tongue and fought against the suction of Snake’s lips.
Wrenching her lips free, Smella came up for air, her body heaving as she panted like a dog in heat.
She wiped a prodigious amount of saliva off her face and angled her head toward the fuming Deadward behind her.
Batting long lashes, she feigned innocence. “Oh, hi, Sweetie. I was just having a chat with Snake.”
“Yeah,” Snake spoke in between gasps. “We were talking about the weather.”
It was then that Smella noticed every cowboy and cowgirl in Pitchforks was standing behind Deadward, eyes as wide as saucers as they glared at her half-naked body.
Smella could feel her face turning ten shades of red. Everyone was staring at her tits, and she was wearing the bargain brand bra she’d gotten from Wal-Mart, not the second skin satin from Victoria’s Secret.
But it was too late to run home and change bras now. So she slid off Snake, retrieving her shirt from behind his broad back, and then quickly dressed.
“I’ll see you later, Smella,” Snake called as he made a hasty retreat through the crowd.
“Yeah, nice talking to you,” Smella called back with feigned disinterest before turning her gaze to Deadward.
He was standing there, blood-stained mouth agape, with a large diet soda in one hand and a popcorn in the other.
“Oh, thanks!” she squealed, taking the snacks from him. “I’m famished.”
Shaking their heads in disgust, the crowd returned to their dancing. Smella could have sworn she heard the women snickering about Wal-Mart lingerie.