Check out this gorgeous cover of THE MOTHER ROAD by Meghan Quinn! Be sure to
read the excerpt too!
THE MOTHER ROAD by Meghan Quinn
NA Romantic Comedy
Release date: January 12, 2016
Cover Designed by: Indie Solutions by Murphy Rae
Blurb:
Never in a million years would I have pictured myself as an axe-wielding, dragon
lady, chopping up multi-colored flannel shirts into my very own plaid mulch. But
here I am, chopping away my frustrations.
It all started when my brother, Paul, convinced me to go on one last family road trip
across the Mother Road with him and my dad.. Just like old times, right? Wrong.
What Paul fails to mention is his best man, Porter, will be joining us, who just so
happens to be my childhood crush and the man who broke my heart four years
ago.
What is supposed to be a fun, family bonding experience across Route 66 turns into
a war
of pranks, awkward moments and bathrooms full of dirty flannel shirts and day old
beard clippings. Paul’s know-it-all attitude and Porter’s devilish charm brings me to
the brink of my sanity on my seven day trek across the United States with three
bearded men in a small 1980’s RV.
Excerpt:
“Marley, put the axe down and step away from the flannels,” Porter says, hands
extended, as if he wants to help.
“You’re not in a good frame of mind. This is not who you are. You’re
not an axe wielding psychopath looking to make a pile of long sleeved cotton into
your very own plaid colored mulch,” Paul tries to convince her.
“Buttons, please put the axe down. We can talk about whatever is bothering you.
Please don’t chop up Daddy’s Americana flannel shirt.”
Let’s
pause for a second; do you see those three men standing to the side, fear in their
eyes, sweat at their temples, with their hands clutched at their waists and their
asses tight enough to pop open a bottle of beer?
Yeah, those three,
they’re the reason why I’m foaming at the mouth, gripping an axe three sizes too big
for my body with my heels dug deep into the wet and muddy ground.
That’s me, Marley McMann, the brunette in the “rustic” orange bridesmaid dress
with a bouquet sticking out of my hair and a pile of multi-colored poly-blend barf
rags resting in front of me, waiting to be minced into my very own personal hamster
shit shavings.
I’m not usually threatening to slice the buttons off of
men’s clothing with a lead shiv big enough to cut down a knotty vagina-looking
sycamore tree. But I’ve had my limit.
There comes a time in a girl’s life
when she has to reach deep down into her soul, clear the pathways of her inner
goddess, and let out her nuclear Satan. You know what I’m talking about.
The crazy.
Don’t try to act like you don’t have it; every woman does.
Let me paint you a picture. It’s that time of the month; its shark week,
as some may say. The civil war is being reenacted by your ovaries and death is
scatted over your fallopian tubes. You’re crippled over in pain on your couch, half a
Snickers bar hanging out of your mouth, a heating pad pressed against your innards,
and a blanket wrapped around you as if you’re a cocktail wiener in a Pillsbury
croissant. The Hallmark Channel is airing that Mario Lopez movie you’ve been dying
to see and not because the plot looks good, but because you want to reminisce on
your Saved by the Bell days. Mario is the only thing getting you through this time of
need, that and the chocolate drool slowly dripping into the back of your throat.
You’re content, minus the battlefield in your uterus, when all of a sudden,
out of nowhere, the mister in your life flops on the couch, causing a ripple within
your cocoon. Your heating pad shifts and your Snickers bar falls to the ground. The
swoon-worthy shot of Mario with his shirt off gets switched to some stupid sporting
game just as the mister lifts his ass in your direction and blasts two large farts.
Can you feel the monster start to awaken?
You try to remain
calm; you tell yourself it’s going to be alright…until one simple crack of his knuckles
rings through the room. You lose it. Your eyelids flip inside out, fire shoots out of
your vagina, and your toenails grow to exponential pterodactyl lengths. You’re at his
throat, scratching his jugular with your toes until you’re satisfied enough with the
human carnage you’ve turned him into.
That moment right there, that’s
where I’m at.
In all honesty, I’m a pleasant human. I have my own
beauty blog and live in sunny Los Angeles, where I pay an ass ton of money to live in
a two-bedroom apartment the size of walk-in closet, but I make it work. You know
those hidden Murphy beds? I have one; be jealous. I get to work from home, test out
different cosmetics, and write about them. I’ve got a pretty easy going life, or at least
I did.
It all started when Paul, my older brother, decided to get married.
No, this isn’t one of those stories where I talk about the evil soon to be sister-in-law
and how she’s ruined my life. I actually adore Savannah; she’s perfect for my
brother, minus the big eyes. I swear she blinks three times less than the average
human.
This is about the week leading up to my brother’s
wedding…the week that I now refer to on my blog as the journey of three beards
and a mascara brush.
Confused? Don’t be; you will
understand very quickly where I’m coming from.
About the Author:
Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a
sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady.
She is known to bust out and dance if "It's Raining Men" starts beating through the
air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may
be humped.
Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for
three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male
voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she
decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through
her head or start writing them down. She decided to go with the cheaper option and
started writing... enter her first novel, Caught Looking.
Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy
lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged
children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what
kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a
good boob squeeze!
Like me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.co
m/meghanquinnauthor
Find me on Goodreads:
Visit my website: http://authormeghanquinn.com/
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