Airhead, meet Viper…tidbits from the Red Carpet: Extract – The Wolf in Armani





“Mr Morgan, may I have a few moments of your time, please?”

I grind my teeth and turn on my heels, wheeling us around to face the voice’s owner.

Game face Bryn. Canting my head, I slide a panty-melter cocky smile in place.

Taking my turning to her as my acquiescence, a skinny blonde who’s familiar in a not-sure-where’ve-I’ve seen-her-before kinda way, sheafed in a snuggly rainbow-coloured glittery dress, shoves a microphone up in my face.

Raising a brow, I take a step back, my eyes darting to her hand, before sliding back onto her face.

She retracts it slightly, a blush creeping across her chest and up along her throat. “Terribly sorry Mr Morgan,” she mouths.

“Not a problem, just didn’t want to have that thing sticking out of my mouth all night,” I deadpan, hiding my irritation behind a swift smile. She shifts on the spot, and pats her short blonde hair with the hand not aiming the microphone at me.

My eyes glance down at the oversized piece of sound equipment in her fingers. It has a glittery CF printed around each side of a square pod placed around the base of the mouthpiece, and at the top of the handle.

It reminds me of a metallic ice-cream cone, and I stare at it before looking down into her eyes, my seductive face shifting into place.

She swallows, her eyes glazing with lust, and satisfaction warms my blood as she visibly melts beneath my heated gaze.

Blinking out of her spell, she turns to the cameraman behind her, gives a whirling signal with her index finger and spins back to me. The cameraman readjusts his load on his shoulder as he settles himself to the left hand side of us. Fiddling with and then pressing some buttons, he holds his free hand up and gives her three fingers, which he gradually counts down to one lone finger, points at her and as a red light flickers above the lens, she smiles, and then opens her mouth, gazing into the camera’s shiny eye.

“Hello everyone this is Summer Green from Channel Five’s Chic Fashion Network.” Large smile. Pause. “And I’m talking to Sydney’s society darlings, Mr and Mrs Morgan.”

She sets those baby blues onto me. Flutters spiky lashes, heavy with black gunk. “So, Mr Morgan, Bryn. May I call you that?” She purrs huskily.

Straightening, I smile disarmingly and I just know my green eyes are dazzling her. “You just did.”

Confusion clouds hers, before clearing and once again sparkling beneath the spotlights which sweep in great lazy criss-crossing arcs across the forecourt of the hotel where we’re all gathered like stunned mullets.

“Bryn, I must say you look very dashing tonight. I simply have to ask, whaaat are you wearing?” She gushes, drawing out the ‘a’ in that phoney way of fame-hungry-whores.

Clothes you dumb bitch. “Armani.”

She titters, shifts her stance. “Lovely.” Her eyes dart to Melinda, and I notice them harden a second as she stares. Melinda doesn’t notice, she stands straighter and sticks out her sizable chest. “Mrs Morgan, Melinda darling —” annoying fame-whore croons.

Melinda giggles.

My teeth gnash.

The reporter, Summer, continues her useless babble, “— you look stunning. You simply must tell our viewers about that beautiful dress.” Wide, white smile. “Who are you wearing?”

Melinda fiddles with her dress and I swallow a growl as she takes a deep breath preparing to verbally vomit all over us. “Oh thank you Summer, you’re much too kind. This,” she slips from my grasp and does a small twirl before replacing her arm around my lower back. “This dress is from a sweet little boutique in Paddington, Elegant Affairs. Have you heard of it dear?”

Summer’s lips crack wider. “No, that’s not a name I’m familiar with.”

Melinda sniffs. “No doubt. It’s invitation only. I expect that’s why you haven’t come across it before.” You whip-tongued cunt. Summer’s eyes flash. Melinda ignores her. “Well Summer dear, it’s a one off that the gorgeous owner, Talia made specifically for this evening.”

The media whore stiffens and steps back, her eyes hungrily roaming over me before glancing around, looking for fresh meat to bore to death on camera. “Well thank you both for your time. Please have a lovely time tonight. Bryn,” — my hand fists — “Melinda.” She signals cut to her cameraman and toddles off, snagging another couple before they can make their escape.

“Well that was a fucking waste of time,” I grunt out through my smile.

“Hush Bryn, someone might hear you.”

“Who gives a fat fuck? What’s this shit show in aid of anyway. I’d like to know what I’m wasting my time over.” I dig my fingers into her hip, smiling tightly as she releases a sharp breath.


* * *

Extract from the Wolf in Armani copyright (c) Jennifer Crowfoot 2016

New work, The Wolf in Armani: extract Chapter One.


The following is a (rough) first draft from my new work-in-progress – THE WOLF IN ARMANI

This extract is liable to change before publication.

* * *



Would I lie to You?



Fucking stupid woman.”

Looking away from the laptop’s screen and up to my closed office door for the tenth time in five minutes, I growled through gritted teeth, violently pushed my wheeled chair back, and stood. Tugging my shirt cuffs down over my wrists — in part an involuntary habit, but to a greater extent, helping to conceal the riotous splashes of colour painting my arms, I walked around from behind my polished walnut desk, and strode to the door.

Turning the handle like I was wringing my secretary’s neck, I yanked it open, stuck my head out and bellowed, “COFFEE! Miss Brennan, where’s my bloody coffee?”

Raising my arms, I wrapped my hands about the frame, bracing my weight as I leaned forward, looking down the short hallway and out onto the glossy floor of the luxury car dealership of which I was Owner slash Manager.

“Miss Brennan!” I yelled, my knuckles whitening as my fingers tightened on the metal sleeves which ran vertically up and down each side of the doorcase stopping just below the lintel.

There was a crash, a mumbled curse and then a flurry of activity as my secretary emerged from the storeroom situated towards the back of the office space, her arms held to her chest and loaded up with bundles of glossy advertising material and what looked to be a couple of reams of Copypaper. Upon seeing me, she skidded to a halt, her sensible heeled shoes squeaking like vicious rats on the polished Italian floor tiles.

Her mouth opened and closed as if she was stuttering in ancient Egyptian, while behind thick, old fashioned cat’s eye style glasses, watery blue eyes widened. She blinked, frozen to the spot like some form of human-topiary.

I swallowed down the surge of saliva which flooded my mouth, my fingers gripping the doorframe until I was sure there’d be dints left behind in the metal covering. The skin on my nape, and along my arms prickled as a powerful surge of excitement sparked through my body — heated my blood — when I recognised the emotion brimming in those ugly eyes…fear.

I discreetly scented the air, and just like the calculating predator I took pride and even revelled in being, I rejoiced in the promise of a hunt.

A chase. A kill.

Not this one though. She was safe. But like a dog rolling in shit, I mentally rolled in the delicious waves of unease wafting from her, even as I simultaneously recoiled from the thought of laying my hands, or any other body part on her.

It had been awhile in-between outings and I was growing antsy.

The fact I was reacting at all to her palpable emotion — despite her particularly un-pretty exterior — was proof perfect of the storm brewing within me. The darkness embedded and hidden just below my heavily tatted surface clawed, writhed and gnawed. It needed an outlet that went beyond the skills of the over-priced, bored-faced, skinny whores I usually threw money at to service my particular desires, and keep the monster in check.

I came out of my head to see her plain face drain of colour as she noticed me standing there watching her, my hands braced on each side of the doorframe, a scowl set on my face.

She blinked again, her eyes widening like a possums behind the telescope-like magnification of her glasses. A high wheeze escaped her as she scurried over to her desk, placed just to the right and down ten feet away from my doorway, bent, huffed and opened her arms, depositing her load noisily onto an already overcrowded workspace.

“Please clean your desktop Miss Brennan. How do you think that fucking shit looks to potential clients and visiting company heads?” I grunted.

She flushed and sagged as if her bones had melted.

My mind ran away with pyro images of sizzling flesh, charred smoking bones.

My dick twitched in my pants at the thought.

I’d never done that.

The idea was…intriguing if nothing else, but I knew I’d never act on it. Too fucking risky. I wasn’t gonna be anyone’s gaol bitch. Besides, disposal didn’t get me off. It was the game of cat and mouse, and the subsequent sex that got my motor revving; got my cock steely hard and throbbing to the point of pain.

A rustle of paper broke my wandering chains of thought, and remembering why I’d come to the doorway in the first place, I focused on the silly bitch at my side. “Oh and by the way Miss Brennan. Coffee? As in mine. Does that request ring a bell?” I raised a brow in question. She remained silent, her heels clicking as she shifted from foot to foot. Dumb slut. If she wasn’t — usually — so proficient with her job, I’d sack her on the spot and personally kick her arse out of the building. Fuck me.

I tilted my head and tried again, “Where is it? Are the beans coming in by Brazilian carrier pigeons or something? You need to grind them by hand? Jesus Christ.”

Another high wheeze. Eye bulge.

Is she asthmatic? Choking on her own stupidity?

For fuck’s sake.

She cleared her throat, her attention diverting between me and her desk, thin hands busily shuffling and moving papers around. Her ministrations made no difference whatsoever, it still looked like a dust-devil had whipped and spun across its surface.

“I’m so sorry Mr Morgan. I hadn’t forgotten, it’s just that the copier ran out of paper, and then one of the salesmen buzzed to ask me to see if we had any more copies of the specs and pamphlets for the new Lotus due in. I just got —”

Releasing the grip on the doorframe, I straightened, and sighed, realising losing my shit over a cup of coffee was ridiculous at best, insane at worst. I didn’t need rumours about my state of mental-health circulating through my workplace. Didn’t matter a solid fuck if I was the boss, mouths would still flap, just with more caution and stealth.

I sent her an easy smile. A disarming smile. “Okay. Fair enough. I apologise for my quick temper.” She blushed and smiled. Her eyes softening behind the thick lenses with my easy words and charming tilt of my lips before she bent to the disaster on her desk.

“How ‘bouts, I go and sort them out?” I asked, walking out and standing over her as she continued with her shuffling. She stopped at my presence, straightened and stepped back, pushing her glasses up her nose.

I shoved my hands into my pant pockets, my fingers playing with the lighter I had in the right one. “Who was it needing the pamphlets? Rodger? Tony? Stuart? You’re my secretary, they need to know that pulling you away from your duties to fetch shit for them isn’t in your job criteria. Fuck me, they’ve got legs. The lazy turds can get that shit themselves.”

She looked blankly at me for a second before her mouth dropped. Panic at causing trouble flashed across her features. She was so easy to read. “Oh, no. No, it’s alright Mr Morgan, honestly I didn’t mind fetching it. I was going to the storeroom anyways.” She swallowed with an audible gulp. “Copypaper you kno….” Her voice trailed off at the sour look I knew I was presenting her with as she defended the lazy bastards who ran the front of the showroom. “I’ll make that coffee straight away sir.” Turning away she made for the break room before stopping and twisting about on the spot. “Oh, I nearly forgot.” Returning to her desk, she rummaged around in the pigsty before straightening and handing me an envelope sized slip of paper, Morgan’s Luxury Vehicles printed on the top.

Raising a brow, I took it, glancing down at her neat script looping across the white paper, my eyes scanning the words.

“Your wife rang earlier,” she said in explanation, a timid smile curving her lips, her manner now calmer, at ease, now that I hadn’t stormed off, all guns blazing and torn my sales staff new ones.

Her directive was unnecessary, I’d already ascertained my wife’s name in the writing. When I glanced up from my hand, my secretary was once again walking in the direction of the tea-room. “She wants you to call her asap,” she finished cheerily before rounding the doorway and vanishing from sight.

Fucking great. My lips thinned and scrunching the note up in my fist, I stormed back into the office, the door slamming behind me.

 * * *


*** The Wolf in Armani extract, Copyright Jennifer Crowfoot 2016 ***


♪ ♫ ♪ Wicked Good release day ♪ ♫ ♪

Come join the sexy, Aussie bad-boys of rock band Wicked Intent, as they sing,




as they entertain their way (in more ways than one) around Oz.



(Rated 18+)

Now live and happenin’ on Smashwords!!!!


rock musicians playing at a live concert

Extract ♪ ♫ ♪ WICKED GOOD ♪ ♫ ♪ Ned Kelly and Drum Monkeys

♪     ♫     

Lou shook his head when Steve held a dripping bottle towards him. “No, thank you,” he murmured, his lips curling up like a stallion scenting the air. Seeing our raised brows, he cleared his throat and pointing at the Esky, deadpanned, “I’ll have a Whiskey if you’ve got one in your portable ice-chest.”

Ha-ha. So not funny deadshit. If the dude wasn’t a fucking genius-type-savant on the Gibson and my Boss, I’d vote we piss him and the spazzy, black-eyed turd the hell off.

I’d keep Lila though. She was an asset, who just happened to have great assets. One’s I wanted more and more to investigate in a hand’s on way.

Steve screwed his nose up at Lou’s request, almost as if he’d been asked for a bottle of stale piss. He sighed. “Nup, none of that nasty shit, you’ll have to wait ‘til ya get back to the hotel for that mate. Ya choice at this moment in time is water, water or fucking water.”

“Dude,” Danny piped up, pointing at Lou with the hand holding his drink, “Ice-chests went out with the First Fleet and bushrangers, y’know? After Ned Kelly invented the bar fridge. Or did he invent cigarette lighters? Dunno, can’t remember learnin’ that part of Aussie history. Hated history. Boring as all shit.”

He shrugged. “Coulda been stoned that day too.” Taking in a mouthful of water, he swallowed, and with his next words he proceeded to demonstrate to everyone why he’d barely scraped through High School, “Anyway, my point being Mr Boss-man, it’s the Twentieth century fucker.”

He rolled his eyes, sighing heavily as if he was trying to explain the complexities of the Theory of Evolution with a single-celled amoeba. A dead and long decayed one.

I had to chuckle. Dude actually rolled his fucking eyes like a chick.

At the sound of my amusement, he turned those narrowed spit-fire hazel weapons on me briefly before looking once again at a bemused Lou, telling him, “Get with the fucking program man.”

Rhys laughed. “It’s actually the Twenty First century,” Professor Rhys corrected in an amused tone, adding beneath his breath, ‘you dumb deadshit.”

Danny cocked his head and turned his eye-weapons on Rhys, glaring up at him with the force of a thousand mega-tonnes of radioactive annoyance. “Whatever cunt. Who gives a shit what century it fuckin’ is anyway? Go bang on ya gorilla nuts with ya sticks or something,” he snarled, chugging back his water, effectively ending the stupid conversation.

One which he’d started in the first place.

His silence didn’t last long.

“Got any of those giant chocolate frogs on ya?” He asked magician Steve.

Steve shook his head. “Sorry dude. Ate ‘em already.”

I’m fairly sure he was lying outta his arse.

“Oh.” Danny bobbed his head, swiping his tongue across his bottom lip. I could almost see the cogs spinning in his head. “No worries man. Got a stash back in my room.” Danny fell silent as he sucked on his water bottle, no doubt contemplating stuffing his face with the chocolate frogs. “Hey Williams.”

“What?” Rhys groaned.

Danny cackled and swiping his free hand through his curls he pulled his lips in, snuffling through his nose as he suppressed more laughter before snorting out, “Whatcha call a sexy chick on a drummer’s arm?”

“Jesus, Forrester, you’re a pain in my arse.” Rhys scratched the underside of his jaw. “Okay, I’ll bite. What?”

My face creased up and I shook my head, looking between the pair of them.

Danny threw his arm out and bounced his hand up and down as he pointed at Rhys. “A fucking tattoo, drum monkey.”


Extract: Wicked Good copyright (c) Jennifer Crowfoot 2016




♪ ♫ ♪ Extract from WICKED GOOD: Chapter 11. If Pigs Could Fly ♪ ♫ ♪

We’d been buckled up like astronauts in our space-shuttle first class seats for ten minutes, before the rest of the poor harassed bastards travelling cattle class were herded in. Chatter, crying kids, coughs and nervous laughter accompanied what I assumed would be the ritual of the other passengers being directed to their seats, jammed together three apiece and then strapped down.

Finally the cabin doors were shut, locked and my ears popped as the cabin began to pressurise.

The engines fired, purred then whined as the revs picked up. Subtle vibrations travelled up through my body as the shiny, polished crew strutted up and down the aisle working it like they were at a fashion show. Up in this end the staff mainly consisted of pretty-boy pricks whose bovine-like eyes lingered on, and stroked me as they passed by, waving their sylphlike arms and swinging slender hips as they babbled on about masks and emergency exits.

It was a load of shit and I tuned out. I didn’t want to know about how to jump out of a crashed plane with a plastic Halloween mask jammed on my face. And that was even if I survived and wasn’t burnt to a crisp, or had become a mangled part of my seat. Face mask intact, of course. Safety fuckin’ first.

Finally, they exhausted their rehearsed speeches and fucked off.

With a deep inhale and shuddery exhale, I listened to the growl of the powerful BMW turbines as the pilots upped the revs. Resisting the urge to get up and demand they let me out, I dragged my bottom lip through my teeth and turned to the window, watching the busy terminal slip away, the massive complex rapidly turning into a Lego-like model, as the Qantas A330 smoothly taxied out towards the long runway facing Botany Bay.

We paused, idling on the spot, and resting my forehead against the glass, I worked out that we were now stuck in a line-up, our plane being third in line to take off.

Fuck me. My leg bounced on the spot. My fingers tapped on my thighs. And I silently wished we were there already, and out of this damn steel Baked Bean can. I hated flying, not that I’d ever admit that to anyone. It wasn’t natural to be fucking about in the clouds in something that probably weighed as much as the Titanic.

Look how that cunt fared. Hit an ice cube and sank like a fat arsehole.


Extract, Wicked Good copyright (c) Jennifer Crowfoot 2016

♪ ♫ ♪ Extract WICKED GOOD: From out of the mouths of babes ♪ ♫ ♪




The tiny fingers patting my tats suddenly leave my skin and tangle into my hair.

Connecting us.

Twist. Tug. Twist.

Closing my eyes, I inhale, hold it and then release it in a shuddery exhale. Flicking my eyes back open, my arms pull him closer, his breaths hot against my chest, his heartbeat swift as a hummingbird’s wings through his tiny chest. Poor little bastard.

“It’s okay little dude,” I whisper into his hair. “No one will hurt your mummy. I promise you,” I reassure him. He yawns, the sound jerky as he sniffles softly at the same time, trying to hold back the scared, confused tears of a five year old. “Wiam,” he drawls around another yawn.

“Yeah buddy.”

He tugs my hair, pulling my head down to his level, and placing his lips against my ear, his breath’s warm as he tells me, “Daddy tolds mamma you have shit in you brain ‘cause you eat dugs.” What the fuck? He snuggles in closer, tucking his head beneath my chin before adding, “That yukky. What’s dugs? Can I have some too?”

Halley inhales sharply. “Lucian that’s a naughty word,” she gently chides, completely ignoring the uncalled for reference to my habits. Habits that prick had no business talking about and bringing up. Especially in front of his kid. She clears her throat and continues, “We don’t say that. We say poo, baby boy.”

I flash her a fierce look which she blatantly ignores.

“Yeth mamma. I sorry.” His fingers stroke the tats painting my chest. “Wiam.”


“I wuv you Wiam-daddy.”

Oh fucking Christ. Jesus. My heart melts at his words.
“Love you too little dude,” I murmur truthfully into his sweetly scented hair. He sighs and goes limp in my embrace as he readies himself to succumb to sleep.

Carefully lifting him, I flop down onto my arse, stretch my legs out before me, and place him back down on my lap, wary of tripping Halley as she walks past and silently sets the table.

Cradling the side of his face inside my large palm, I bend my head and kiss the damp mahogany cap of his thick hair, possessively cuddling his little Minion-PJ clad body to my front.

A front which is rigid with barely, supressed fury.

Unclenching my jaw, I rest my head back against the cupboard and look up at my lover who’s watching her sleepy son wriggle around on my lap, before wrapping his other arm around my waist and kissing my chest before yawning again.

I know exactly what she sees. A bulky, long-haired, tattooed, pierced motherfucker cradling a half-sleeping child. Like watching a porpoise surfing. Fuckin’ goes against nature.



Extract from Wicked Good, copyright (c) Jennifer Crowfoot 2016


♪ ♫ ♪ Wicked Good. Extract: Ninja Turtles and Princess Mummys ♪ ♫ ♪

***The following (unedited and first draft) extract shows a scene between my rockstar, Liam, and his girlfriend’s five year old son as they discuss Ninja Turtles and the joys of having a princess for a mummy.***



Lucian tugs on my jeans, drawing my eyes down. “Wiam. Wiam. ‘Scuse me Wiam.”

Swallowing down my uneasy feelings, I push it to the back of my mind and bite my top lip to stop my laughter at his infectious bubbly impatience. He wouldn’t like it if I laughed at him, and despite him not being my own flesh and blood son, I’d never deliberately hurt his feelings. I always try to treat him with the love, care and respect he deserves from a father-figure.

“Guess what Wiam?” He bounces on his toes as he impatiently waits for me to react so he can spill his news. I’m too slow though, because he sighs and blurts out, his voice high and squeaky, “Mamma stopped beetle man from dwowning.”

He proudly holds up the lucky wet nunchucks-wielding ninja turtle clutched in his tiny hand.

Apparently they’re all the rage again. What goes round, comes round. I remember playing with them as a kid.

My eyes flick up to my woman, and my chest swells with the force of my love for her. “Wow, did she? You’re a very lucky little boy, ‘cause your mummy’s so brave and beautiful. She must be a magic princess. What do you think little man?”

He tips his head to the side, strands of ebony hair plastered to his cheeks. “Yeth, mamma’s a pwincess. Are you a pwince, Wiam?” I snort. Not fucking likely. His mouth splits open in a glorious smile, showing me the gap in the front of his teeth where he’s missing one tiny upper milk tooth. My throat tightens and I swallow around the sudden lump as he looks up at me through dark eyes so like his mother’s.

I run my hand down over his damp head. My hand so impossibly large on his small head.

“How’s my favourite spaceman going?” I ask him, my stomach tightening as he giggles.

“I not a pace man Wiam. You a silly snodage.”

I’ve been called many things, but a fucking silly sausage is a first.

“I a beetle, like him is.” To demonstrate so I don’t get any more confused, he shoves the stiff toy right into my cock.

Wincing, I turn, place my beer on the counter, and crouch down to his height, scooping him into my open arms and sitting him on my thigh as he makes the turtle bounce and hop over my chest. Thank Christ. “Can I dwaw some nice pictures on your tummy Wiam? You don’t have many down here. I’m bestest at dwawing in all my class. Mrs Green tolds me,” he proudly announces as he drags the toy’s stiff plastic legs over my lower gut while Halley softly laughs as she sets up plating our dinner.

It smells fucking unreal and I swallow noisily as my mouth floods.



Wicked Good copyright (c) Jennifer Crowfoot 2016