PJ Jones began writing Romance Novel in the spring of 2009 when she was seriously ill, thinking that this book would be her last dying legacy for mankind. After you read this book, you will probably wonder if she was trying to seal her fate in hell. Who knows? But PJ Jones has conquered her illness and is much better now. But you probably don't care, as long as her writing is funny. PJ Jones is also an avid reader of real romance novels. So why does she poke fun of them? Consider it comic relief.
Blurb for Romance Novel
Smella Rosepetal must find a millionaire husband to finance her baby’s heart transplant. She flies home to her deputy father’s ranch in Pitchforks, Texas, where she falls in love with Deadward Forest, a wealthy environmentalist vampire.
When a deranged murderer is on the loose in Pitchforks, killing romance heroines, Deadward assumes Smella would be safer without him. Smella turns to her childhood friend, Snake Long, for comfort. But Snake doesn’t have the money to save her baby, so Smella places herself in peril in a desperate hunt for a rich husband.
Time is running out for Smella’s baby, and she must escape the Australian Outback, then face down Flabio, an overweight and disgruntled, aspiring cover model, plus enraged vampire wives and their homosexual, vampire, cowboy husbands, a jealous were-gerbil, James Bond, a drunk rodeo clown and Smella’s strange boyfriend who wants to drain her blood, yet is repulsed by her smell.
Introducing FLABIO by PJ Jones
When I began writing ROMANCE NOVEL, FLABIO was initially meant to be a minor secondary character, but after falling in love with his ‘mannly’ dialog and quirky mannerisms, I knew he had to have a bigger role in the book. FLABIO is introduced during a modeling shoot for a domestic violence ad, though he tries to manipulate the shoot by dressing as a rogue pirate and passionately embracing his ‘lover’. He’s angry when the photographer makes him ‘let his beer gut show’ and pummel the girl. Later, he becomes irate with Gus, his agent, when Gus tells him he’s ‘just too fat for romance’. That’s when FLABIO decides to take action. If he can’t join them, he’s determined to kill all romance heroines, and believe me, romance heroines abound in this novel.
Alisha wanted me to bring FLABIO to today’s blog, and he’s been dying to be back in the spotlight. Bear with him. He has this habit of speaking in third person.
Hello, this is FLABIO, God of Romance and Lover of Women. FLABIO has small problem. FLABIO needs woman so FLABIO can be real lover. FLABIO enjoys eating funnel cakes, romantic strolls on beach, eating donuts, shopping at Pottery Barn, eating blueberry muffins, going to movies, and eating spaghetti, hotdogs, and pizza. If you are good cook, and don’t mind to eat smaller portions, possibly only crumbs, of your meal at dinner table then FLABIO is man for you. Sorry, one meal not enough to feed God of Romance, who needs much good food for making strong muscles.
Please, ask FLABIO any questions and he’ll be sure to answer. Here’s a scene FLABIO’S infamous modeling scene from ROMANCE NOVEL.
Long flaxen hair blowing in the artificial breeze, the bronze-skinned model flexed his bulging biceps while crushing the voluptuous blonde to his chest. Crying out, she surrendered her body to his mercy.
He was a man in his prime; a god among mortals. Women desired him, men envied him. Who cared that he wasn’t as rich or as successful as his Italian cousin by a similar name? The time had come for a new king of romance.
“Hey, Flabio,” the pock-faced, aging photographer with a bad comb-over, called from behind a wide-angle camera lens. “Could you look a little more angry?” he whined with a totally unattractive, nasaly pitch. “Maybe pull back your fist like you’re gonna pummel her.”
A look of indignation and shock crossed Flabio’s dark eyes as he jutted his prominent chin. “But we are lovers!” he snapped in a thick, yet superficial, Italian accent.
The photographer rolled his eyes. “This is a domestic violence ad, not a cover for a romance novel. Maybe you could pretend like you’re strangling her.” He motioned to Flabio’s puffy pirate shirt, with pearl buttons and double-stitched seams. “Unbutton your shirt and let your beer gut show.”
Flabio’s square jaw dropped before he narrowed his gaze at the photographer. He shoved the girl with such force, she nearly fell over. He ripped his shirt off, revealing a distended abdomen and two fleshy man-boobs. Palming his fist, he stalked the girl.
With wide eyes and trembling limbs, she squawked like a deranged chicken, running circles around the studio.
“That’s good,” the photographer moaned. “Rough and dirty.”
Excerpt
“I wouldn’t drink that poison if I were you.”
He spoke with a slight accent, reminding Smella of a lonely soul from another place, another time. Or maybe just a British guy trying to sound like he was from nineteenth century Boston.
Smella’s eyes widened. Her gaze shot to the beer, then back to the stranger. “What poison?”
“You can’t pin anything on me!” The bartender hollered while stumbling backward, before falling against a shelf of beer mugs.
Locked in the stranger’s dark gaze, Smella ignored the sound of crashing glass. She was more interested in his perfectly kissable blood red lips and the cold, impenetrable aura that radiated off his stony features.
“Alcohol destroys your kidneys.” The stranger flashed a subdued smile, revealing pearly white, jagged teeth.
“You’re right.” Turning down her lips in disgust, Smella pushed away the offending glass. “Thank you for berating my choice of beverage. Throughout this novel, you may occasionally behave like a total control freak, but I know you are only concerned for my well-being, and because I am a woman, obviously I’m too stupid to act in my own best interest.”
Somewhere in the darkest recesses of her mind, she thought she heard the obese bartender scream, “Help me! I’m bleeding everywhere!” But she refused to let him ruin the romantic tension that she was trying to build with the tall pasty stranger. Leaning toward him, she playfully batted long lashes while twirling a lock of hair around her finger.
But the stranger didn’t respond to her flirtation. He was too busy pinching his nose and making a gagging sound.
She scooted back. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” He spoke through a wheeze. “I have to go.”
In a flash, he was gone.
Smella was confused, bewildered, frightened, rejected, vulnerable, hurt, self-conscious and irritated.
But never mind her PMS.
She was more concerned about her awkward encounter with the kind stranger.
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