♪ ♫ ♪ Wicked Good release day ♪ ♫ ♪

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

play,

and, 

play-the-hell-up,

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

 In….

WICKED GOOD

(Rated 18+)

Now live and happenin’ on Smashwords!!!!

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/623512

 

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

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♪ ♫ ♪ 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.”

“Hmm.”

“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

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♪ ♫ ♪ 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

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♪ ♫ ♪ WICKED GOOD ♪ ♫ ♪ Meeting Lila.

Holy fuck, if I thought she was beautiful seated, she’s perfect now that I get a good look at what she’s been hiding. Tall and slim, she’s shaped like an hourglass, with curves to fucking drool over.

Placing the cigarette in the hand holding her drink, she extends the other to Danny and then Rhys, who’s managed to shift his arse over to us, his eyes never leaving her face.

Her lips tip up in a secret smile.

Well fuck me, she didn’t stand to shake my fucking hand. Come to think on it, she didn’t shake my hand.

My generous ego deflates a tad at the realisation that I’m not quite the sex god I’d imagined.

She licks her pillowy lips and they both squirm on the spot. “Hello gentlemen. I’m Lila and I’m your new Media Liaison.”

Their eyes bulge, and I can almost see the mice running frantically as the wheels in their heads spin to help them absorb this news.

Mr Dickhead and Mr Deadshit.

Rhys’s eyes drop and he licks his lips. Raising his arm, he rubs at the back of his neck, bicep bulging like he’s got a pumpkin inserted beneath his inked skin. “Ah, okay,” he mumbles to her tits. “Cool. Didn’t know we needed one.”

She leans into them, her long plait swinging forward, the delicious colour shining like a polished ruby in the light. Rhys groans and rubs at his neck harder, while Danny and I drool as her blouse gapes.

Holy fuck we’re pigs.

“Apparently your new boss thinks that you do,” she counters, her voice dropping to a husky purr as if she’s divulging a state secret.

I shut my gaping mouth and scowl as I watch their jaws drop at the boner-inducing honey-tone of her voice.

Yeah, we’re totally fucked.

 

 

♪    ♫     

 

 

Wicked Good

Copyright (c) Jennifer Crowfoot 2016.

068086ead23b825f24fbaae18514c23d

 

Extract: ♪ ♫ ♪ Wicked Good ♪ ♫ ♪

“So, how are you and your friends enjoying the party?” Lou inquires breaking the silence in the room, his glass raised, sharp eyes studying me over the rim.

I open my mouth to answer, and then lose my train of thought. What’s that smell? My nose crinkles as the pungent odour of a match being struck drifts around me. The bitter scent thickens, and I startle as a black garbed set of legs silently appears at my side.

“Your drink, Mr Donahue,” Belcebu utters, bending forward and extending the same tulip shaped glass that Lou has, filled to halfway with the syrupy honey-coloured liquid. “No ice. Of course,” he adds, his lips turning up in a sly grin.

I take the glass from him and take a sip, rolling it over my tongue before swallowing. Jesus, this’s top-notch shit.

Lou splutters and tosses his head back, roaring with laughter. After he catches his breath, he shoots me an amused glance and winks. “We’re going to get on well Liam. I love your wicked sense of humour.”

Frowning, I lick along my bottom lip, the taste of luxury lingering there in a missed drop of whiskey. Fuck this’s good shit, I think absently as the smooth taste of the alcohol caresses my tastebuds.

“Isn’t he hilarious?” Lou inquires of his companions, the hint of snootiness in his lilting tone suggesting he’s discussing a cute kitten who’s just learned to shit in the litter box and not on the carpet.

Belcebu snickers softly. “If you say so Sir.”

“I do.”

“Oh he’s something alright,” a sensual voice concedes, and in my ears I hear the soundtrack to hot and sweaty sex in each of those four purred words.

Concentrate dickhead. I’m not screwing the Boss’s…guest? Girlfriend? Wife?

Definitely a fatal move for my career, not to mention the shelf-life of the band. I mentally shake my thoughts away from sex and back to Lou’s earlier quip.

He likes my humour? I didn’t make a joke. Yet.

“You’ve lost me mate,” I remark off-handed.

Silence settles in, broken only by the faint echoes of the party beyond the closed door, and the gentle ticking of an antique grandfather clock set in the room’s far right corner. I sip my drink, for once enjoying the serenity of silence, until a thought occurs to me.

Leaning to the side, I rest my elbow on the armrest, and blurt out, “You keep pet tigers or pigs here somewhere? I coulda sworn I heard some savage snarling shit happenin’ earlier.”

 

Wicked Good copyright (c) Jennifer Crowfoot 2016.