Blade Spencer is the new editor-in-chief of Unabridged—the literary magazine where his ex-lover Angelina works. For three years, since she fled small town Jamestown without a word of explanation, they haven't heard from one another. Now, when they meet again, the past and all the feelings they once had between them come rushing back, making them realize their love has never died. But can they reconcile their new circumstances and the changes that have occurred during the three years they were apart? Neither is the person the other used to know.
Then there is the faceless shadow who hunts them from the dark, driven by obsession and greed...
*This book contains strong language and explicit descriptions of sex.
I always like to surprise you, to experiment with words and genres whenever I write a new love story.
With Unabridged I decided to try my hand at Romantic Comedy, and the result is a chicklit hybrid abunding in humor, but which doesn’t lack introspection.
Personally I adore this story, not only because of the mega-sexy hero, Blade Spencer, but also because of the hillarious incisiveness of some of the more spicy theories of Angelina’s, and of the mysterious character Zorro Kalashnikov. You may not agree with their opinions, but I’m sure you won’t be able to resist their charm. And if you don’t share their views regarding ‘BDSM, Billionaires&Blah-blah-blah’, please remember this is just fiction.
Ironically, it was E.L. James’s Fifty Shades that started everything.
I strolled to my office building—located in a skyscraper in downtown Seattle—at ten a.m. holding my briefcase, which sheltered the precious article I thought would make my career. When I first got the idea, it occurred to me I’d probably make enemies for life by mocking the subject treated in said book, which seems to have more partisans than the Bible. But I waved that thought away. I have the right to express my opinion freely and to hell with anybody who doesn’t share it. After all, it’s a free country, right?
I hoped Howie would share my views, and as a plan B I had prepared an entire speech on why this article should appear in Unabridged—the literary magazine I work for. Howie Stewart is my boss, a fact that never fails to annoy us both. He’s a small, paunchy man with shoulders forever sprinkled with dandruff, and bad breath. The only reason he hired me is because I have excellent writing skills and useful connections all over the city and beyond. That doesn’t diminish our mutual dislike for each other or his opinion of me—which is that I’m an overachieving overly-feminist hunting his job.
Well, it is true, up to a point. I don’t want his job. Being editor-in-chief isn’t my life’s dream at the moment. I’m contented with being a simple editor, because that gives me the chance to make my own schedule most of the time and freelance whenever I have something interesting to pursue.
I glided through the glass doors and headed straight to the elevators, miraculously finding one that was empty. I pressed the button for the seventh floor, then turned to study my reflection in the sideway mirror. My black smart business suit had absolutely no wrinkles, and combined with the magically deceiving powers of a class A pushup bra, made me look like a bombshell. My rather ordinary light-brown-dark-blonde hair has finally grown past my shoulders. The temptation to dye it is still strong, but I keep it under control by repeatedly remembering my last attempt to add blonde streaks at home. That resulted in smoke literally coming out of my head and a very short haircut—enough to keep me satisfied with its natural color and currently healthy appearance.
My eyes are green, but most people mistake them for blue, especially when I use dark-brown eye shadow, like this morning. All in all, at twenty-five I don’t look half bad, if I do say so myself. My nose is a bit long and my chin is a tad pointy, but I have nice lips and white non-bleached teeth to compensate for that.
When the elevator doors opened, I took a deep breath and headed straight to Howie’s office, not giving myself time to reconsider approaching him. Isabelle—my coworker and best friend—had left her office door ajar. I could see her on the phone through the crack—a tiny, 5 feet frame of curly, blonde cuteness—but I didn’t pause to say hi. I continued down the hall to Howie’s office and stopped right in front of the door.
I cleared my throat, took another cleavage-expanding breath and knocked twice. Without waiting for a reply, I burst in and said, in a sing-song voice, “You’re gonna love me!”
“I did, once.”
CHECK OUT THE TRAILER
Not long ago, to my surprised delight, somebody described me as being "charming, witty, supremely talented and dangerously fun". I don't know how accurate this description is, but I'm curious if the readers will find some of these features reflected in my writing. Speaking of my writing, I must mention that living in Romania - which is considered a projection of the enigmatic and much controversial Shambala, the supposed spiritual center of the Earth - is quite a source of inspiration. I have a native inclination to the occult and paranormal, to mystery and philosophy. The woman in me is a romantic and sensual creature. All these considered, I could describe my writing as being captivating, intriguing, sensual in places and, on the whole, a surreal experience. Enjoy!
What inspired me to write Unabridged?
In the past years, every time I blinked I saw or heard of books on BDSM. My reaction to that was to write an essay called Billionaires, BDSM and Blah-blah-blah. That essay has later become an article that my heroine, Angelina Jameson, writes as an editor of the literary magazine called Unabridged. This is in essence a simple love story, but to spice up things you will find several hilarious such satire articles, and if you ladies don’t agree with my character’s views, just think of it as simple fiction. So this is what started Unabridged:
Billionaires, BDSM and Blah-blah-blah.
“I think it was ‘Fifty Shades Of Grey’ that started it for me. I heard about it from a couple of friends, who were head over heels excited about said book, so naturally I was intrigued. First, I read the reviews, and was even more intrigued by such contradictory opinions. Some said the book was brilliant, others said it was a literary catastrophe. After reading a few pages, I was inclined toward the second category, but went on reading, still curious. After another dozen of pages or so, I forced myself to read strictly as research, to see what exactly it is about this kind of literature that has inspired a mass phenomenon. With all my good intentions, I stopped at about half. It was impossible for me to finish the first book, even though I’m a very perseverant person. Not even the holy purpose of research could force my brain to go on absorbing that read.
Why? I asked myself that, and plan to make an analysis right here, one that every woman should make. To my astonished amazement, I noted that BDSM related books have become a true current, one that sells billions of books annually, most of them enjoyed by women.
The first thing that occurred to me during this study is the fight women have carried for thousands of years to be emancipated and considered equals by men. Ever since Eve’s proverbial appearance on Earth, we’ve struggled to be recognized as being as good as men, in every domain known. So why in the world—I wonder—would women enjoy, even want to be submissive to men in any way? When have smart, self-sufficient women, with self-respect, turned into females begging to be dominated in the most absurd ways? When had this regression from women to females taken place, and why? It’s beyond my understanding.
We fought for liberty and emancipation, to have our opinions, votes and rights equal to those of men, to be independent in every way possible. Yet now, in the secret corners of our dirty little minds, we dream of perverted billionaires who want to cuff us, whip us and use us as inflatable dolls? Granted, too many women in our days look like copy-pasted Barbies, pumped and stitched in places one couldn’t imagine, but still… If one looks like a doll, it doesn’t mean she has to act like one.
You want to be dominated? That’s just fine, it’s the law of nature. Every woman likes the man to be on top now and again, most often than not. But from this very natural feminine instinct, to lowering yourselves to the status of collared submissive, it’s a road of thousands of years of evolution.
Even this word, ‘submissive’, personally gets on my nerves. True, I am a militant feminist and I’m very proud of that. That is what brought us where we are and that will make women heads of states. Can you imagine a powerful woman, a woman in control, who knows she is smart, strong and capable, enjoying BDSM?
Can you imagine Cleopatra—one of the most representative female figures in history—with her ass in the air in front of Caesar, getting a whipping or wearing a leash? For Heaven’s sake! If there has been any whipping going on in that royal tangle, I bet she was the one to do it! A woman like that would never dream of being anybody’s submissive. Isn’t that the model we should all follow, instead of the young, stupid, helpless bimbo who actually likes to be bonded and trampled by a man?
And how about real men? Yes, we will talk about men too, of course. This is not by any means an exclusive kind of reading. Do you think a real man would feel the need to subject a woman to practice BDSM with him so he’d be able to dominate her? Do you think real men need that kind of sick artifices to feel strong and confident, or to get it up? I don’t. I, like many women my age or older, have grown with the classical heroes of Jane Austen, Mary Stewart, Sandra Brown, Jilly Cooper and so on. Can you picture one of the dashing men we all dreamed of putting on a mask and a leather gay-ish outfit, and smacking our asses with a whip? Because I can’t, and honestly, I wouldn’t want it. I don’t understand what it is about the so-called ‘art of domination and submission’ that turns on normal people, healthy men and women, with healthy fantasies. Now women don’t want to make their own money, they dream of being bought—I mean, swept off their feet—by billionaires who lock them in their castle basement and do shameful things to them. And this is supposed to be erotic?
Every overweight, unkempt housewife dreams about muscled hunks who fuck them blind, instead of dragging their big asses to the gym and making themselves look good for the men they have at home. Fine, they’re no Brad Pitts, I’m sure. But if you’re not an Angelina Jolie, what claims can you have? Instead of reading stupid books and stuff your faces with chocolates, while your men crave for other women, you should do something about it! And then, maybe your husbands/boyfriends/lovers will start doing something about their own appearance and attitude. If not, there’s always a better one waiting for the chance to have a great woman at his side.
Today’s culture has degenerated beyond measure. A semi-naked bimbo rubs her crotch while screeching something unintelligible and millions of people go crazy in ecstasy.
This, along with what I was saying above, makes the difference between women and cavewomen, men and cavemen. It’s your choice on which side you’d rather be, but before choosing, I felt the obligation to the feminine race to spread some light and thoughts over the world, to make you all see what exactly you like, or think you like, so much. —Angelina Jameson.”