Smart Bitches Trashy Books | All of the romance, none of the bullshit.

“What I really need is to get laid to calm the werewolf.”

Thanks for explaining that one, sir! How about another bit of awkward monologue to kick the story forward three paces? Please?

The greatest flaw that tripped me up as a reader - to the point where some of it was just comedy gold - was the dialogue, especially of the dialogue that Dean carries on with himself when he’s alone. Some of it is trite and not much like anything a human would say, shifter or otherwise. And sometimes the narration addresses the reader directly; other times it exists solidly between Sunday and Dean. Details and explanations are repeated, like the definition of “were” as part of “werewolf,” and there’s a lot of Dean thinking to himself, talking to himself, or otherwise remarking on matters at hand out loud when he’s alone.

The very cool part: when they start comparing notes on the differences in their shifting natures, and how different his experience is from hers. Their honesty is what brings them together in a short amount of time, trapped in a very small amount of space, but unlike contrived erotic situations where sex happens for really lame and flimsy reasons, the attraction between Sunday and Dean is built on both their human attractiveness, their animal senses, such as scent, and the revelations they share with each other regarding both of their hidden and dangerous identities. It is not an easy task to bring two people together under a time and space constraint such as those present in category romances. It’s even harder, I’d think, in a category short story. Hauf does an admirable job both building the tension, and building the connection between them at the same time - better, in fact, than some full-length novels I’ve read where one character Must Have Sex lest Bad Things Happen.

The first sex scene, as a result of Hauf’s deliberate effort to craft tension and attraction between them, is surprisingly risky and I’m impressed with the boundaries pushed in the very electric depiction. However, a subsequent sex scene contains the most unintentionally hilarious description of coitus I’ve read in a long time: (highlight to read) “Flesh to flesh, the rasp of her nipples grazing his skin alternated with the giddy hug of her around his erection.” Her vagina was all, like, ‘Wheeee! Hugs for you?!’ AWESOME. 

Hauf uses innovative means to sustain the sexual tension even after they’ve started spinning his lugnuts, delaying half of the pleasure and lengthening the eroticism for both the reader and the protagonists. There’s climax after climax, literally and narratively, and while the set up was a bit slow, like the oppressive air before a soaking storm, once Dean and Sunday get down to business in the flatbed of his truck (Yeah, baby!) I raced for the finish line of the story as fast as my thumb could hit the space bar. (That’s not a euphemism.)

The conclusion returns to the over-explaining dialogue to sum up how their relationship will work, sexually and emotionally, but still, I have to say, the entire interlude was satisfying. I read the whole story over my lunch hour, which was even more satisfying indeed. I can read a category in an evening, but an entire romance over lunch? Boo yah.

Wanna sample some biting short story romance action? The Nocturne: Bites line launches today, and I have five, count ‘em five coupon codes to give away. Just leave a comment, any comment, and I’ll use a random integer generator this evening to pick five happy users who will go off and enjoy their own bite of romance.

In case you don’t know, this book tells the story of one David Hasselhoff, from the (not really) mean streets of Baltimore to Knight Rider to Baywatch to the Berlin wall to Broadway.  The story itself is not very interesting.  What is interesting, and what makes this book so horrendously fun, is that The Hoff™ fancies himself to be some kind of godlike figure.  He would like to have you believe that his life has been devoted, not to making scads of money producing popular but insipid entertainment, but to healing the children of the world.  In the prologue, he tells us:

“In my travels I visited the children’s wards of hospitals in forty countries:  I rarely left a country without visiting sick children.  It became a mission.  The children had absolute faith in the Knight Rider.”

He then tells the following story: “The child was in a coma, oblivious to his surroundings….[The parents] said: ‘Maybe you could hold his hand and the darkness won’t seem so dark.’ After being with the boy for a half hour, I turned to the parents and said:  ‘Can I ask you a question?  How do you retain your faith in God when something like this happens to your son?” They said:  “David, we know there is no hope for our child but we prayed that his hero would come and, David, you came.’”

No, wait, it gets better.  Later on in the book, his Hoffiness tells us the following:

“In the hotel elevator, I spoke to a mother and her teenaged daughter.  ‘Nice to see you guys.’ The daughter started freaking out.  ‘You’re her favorite star,’ the mother said.  ‘Why thank you.  I’ve got to go to work right now, but if you write down your name and address I’ll leave you an autographed picture.’ When I got back to Los Angeles, there was a letter from the mother saying:

‘Thank you very much for the photographs.  My daughter had attempted suicide that morning.  She said she had nothing to live for.  The only person in the world she believed in was you, David, and because you happened to be in that elevator and because you took a moment to say hello, you restored her self-esteem.  She said, ‘I will never kill myself again because I believe that he was sent for a reason.’’

God does send angels and sometimes we are his angels.”

Sorry, excuse my earlier statement that El Hoff believes himself to be a God.  He merely believes himself to be an angel.  I stand corrected.

In addition to healing the children of the world, Sir Hoffsalot also describes to us how he was responsible for tearing down the Berlin Wall.  There’s not really any interesting writing here, so I won’t quote it, but suffice it to say that one reason you may want to avoid hasseling the Hoff is that he might single-handedly destroy your entire political system with his singing.

The Hoffmeister spends the rest of the book taking us through the various trials and tribulations of his life.  Highlights include his early years in Hollywood, where he lived in some kind of hippie communal house (actually several), but of course didn’t approve of all the drugs; his days a soap star; the creative struggles he had with others on the Knight Rider set (really, I’m not kidding); the rise, fall, and ridiculous resurrection in syndication of Baywatch; and his failed marriages, one of which is the subject of my favorite passage in the book: 

“All through the New Year of 1986 I spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself and looking out of my window at my avocado tree.  Suddenly, I decided to go to a pet store and buy a wiener dog – I’d always wanted a wiener and I bought one.  I brought him home and said, ‘Well, Wiener, it’s you and me against the world.’” (Note that it is not clear whether he actually named the dog Wiener, or he just hadn’t named it yet at that point, but I hope it’s the former.)

Yup, I think that sums up this book pretty well.  “Well, Wiener, it’s you and me against the world.”

The last thing I want to add, which Sarah may or may not edit out, is that I found it highly interesting that one of the main investors in the syndication of Baywatch was Chris Craft, the boat company.  This is only interesting because the summer camp at which Sarah and I used to work had a Chris Craft boat for many years, and, um, one summer, Sarah and I engaged in (ahem) certain romantic activities thereon.  So, you know, one thing the Hoff and I have in common is that Chris Craft was a big part of our lives.

So yeah, that’s the Hoff.  Highly terrible, but also highly amusing.  With Wiener.

Amelia Hathaway is the managerially inclined sister of the new Lord Ramsey, aka her brother Leo. She also has three sisters, Win, Poppy and Beatrix (sequels ahoy!) and since her brother has sunk into a dark party of alcohol, drugs, and depression following the death of his fiancee, Laura, Amelia has taken charge of the family. And by “taking charge” I mean she manages every detail of their new lives as a titled family with a new estate with a relentless “can-do” attitude that would come across as completely annoying as hell if it weren’t for the humility of her character. Amelia doesn’t get off on bossing her family around - she recognizes that she’s the only one who can take care of everyone, and so she steps up and does so, even if it causes her pain as she realizes that some of the problems of her family are somewhat insurmountable, and that her managerial years have put her on the fast track to spinsterhood.

Cam Rohan, the hero, was last seen in the Wallflower Quartet books as a red-hot dark-haired temptation to Daisy and the factotum to the gambling club owned by Evie and St. Vincent. Cam is half-Gypsy, and as such occupies a miserable border between society and the nomadic, tribal life of the Romany. He’s accepted by some out of fear, intimidation, or, in a few cases, respect, but that acceptance has firm boundaries: because he’s Rom, he’s never an equal, no matter how high he ascends above servant or employee status.

Amelia’s first meets Cam while hunting down her wastrel brother in one gambling hell or brothel or another, an after an illicit kiss, she assumes she’ll never see him again. Never see him again? This is a romance novel, silly woman. Of COURSE you’re going to see him again!

Imagine Amelia’s surprise when she learns that her brother’s new estate borders Lord Westcliff’s, and since Westcliff is married to Lillian (It Happened One Autumn) who is best friends with Evie, who, with her husband, owns the gambling hell that employs Cam (The Devil in Winter), they cannot help but run into one another.

Cam tries to resist his attraction to Amelia, and in doing so focuses on the freedom he’s lost from spending too many years in the company of non-Roma society. Convinced he will be cured of his attraction to her if he leaves English society and returns to his own tribe, Cam keeps trying to leave- only to find that he can’t bring himself to do so. Amelia, no matter how well she may think she has her family’s multiple troubles in hand, needs his help, and the chemistry between them makes it equally difficult for her to stay away from him.

Therein lies my biggest problem with the book: can I truly believe in the happy ending for Cam and Amelia? Because this seems to be a continuing arc involving older stories from the Wallflower Quartet (though it was enjoyable to see those characters again) and a new arc that may follow the courtships of Amelia’s sisters, the answer to that question may lie in future books - and really, I want the answer to be in THIS book. Unfortunately, it’s really not. No matter how devoted to one another they may be, Cam is still half-Gypsy, and by choosing him, Amelia is electing to occupy that rather frosty border of polite society that doesn’t 100% accept her husband, and in turn won’t 100% accept her. Even though her family is new to the peerage and skirts that chilly border of society on their own terms, being married to a half-Gypsy exposes her to a great deal of prejudice and rejection, and it’s hard to believe in their happy ending as a result.

The other complaint I have is that there are times when characters speak or ruminate on facts of Roma society, language or culture that sound less like actual people talking or thinking and more like a lecture on Romany life. I tagged those pages with the thought, “Tidbits of research ahoy!”

However, no matter how stilted the dialog may have been at points, Kleypas clearly did her research, and it makes for a rich and layered story that touched on Irish and Romany legends and folklore, and the prejudice and violence that Romany tribes endured at the time. In addition, there’s a touch of the paranormal in the plot that, instead of taking over the story and making it into some kind of historical romance-caper, add to the larger story or stories that will be told with the likely issue of each sister’s romance. 

Wait, no, there’s one more thing I have to say - and I’m really only getting this out of the way so I can talk about what I did like about this book - and that which I liked I liked a LOT. This may be the first time I’ve griped about a sex scene or scenes, but it seemed that during every sexual encounter between Cam and Amelia, he was in control and orchestrated the entire sequence of their intimacy. While having the hero remain in control of the sexxoring can be very delectable for me, having him control things every time? No thanks. Not only did it get repetitive but it didn’t ring true for Amelia’s character. I kept waiting for her to try to take charge of their sexual adventures in some way, or at least show some of the spunk and relentlessness with which she approached the other parts of her life, but it didn’t happen. Except for a scene where she hides in his bed, Amelia never got to climb in the saddle first, so to speak, and take the reigns of their sex life, and I wish she had.

Now for the good parts. The one thing that Kleypas does consistently well, and that makes for the comfort factor in her books that I mentioned earlier, is her development of heroines and their friends and sisters. Kleypas is brilliantly skilled at writing loving, caring, supportive relationships between women. They’re not all perfect visions of perfection having perfect superficial friendships that consist of shopping and tea. From the earlier quartet of friends to a new family of sisters who lean on each other in a realistic and truly caring fashion, Kleypas’ heroines are profoundly likable, and that makes reading about them more than pleasurable. I, as a reader, like them, and more importantly, they genuinely seem to like each other. Really, I don’t know many women like the ones she writes, in romanceland or in real life. Even if the sisters in this novel don’t fight nearly often enough, the ways in which they take care of one another is truly touching.

There is one scene I read three times in which Amelia is horrified to see her brother offending their host at dinner, and before she can divert attention from her brother’s conduct, her sister’s pet lizard escapes his home in her dress pocket and starts meandering down the dinner table. Not only is it hilarious, but the lecture Amelia gives her sister immediately afterward had me giggling out loud.

Most often I read romances to witness that spark and start of a loving relationship between the hero and heroine, but the growing skill that Kleypas demonstrates in writing loving relationships between sisters and female friends adds an entirely new type of relationship to follow and enjoy. Loving families, even dysfunctional, slightly daffy and troubled ones, are rare in romanceland, and when I find one that is genuinely rendered and pleasing to read about, I am more than comforted and definitely happy.

The Leopard Prince is an innovative and profoundly different type of romance: the heroine, Lady Georgina Maitland, is a wealthy woman with several estates. The hero, Harry Pye, is her new land steward. He’s her servant, though that doesn’t mean she’s not fascinated with him, though it does mean that he tries his damndest not to notice her.

There are two subplots and themes at work here, and Hoyt does a marvelous job of weaving them together, though the potential third, the fairy tale Georgina tells through the story, lost me after the second or third installment. The first, the story of Harry and Georgina, is woven through the second, which is really Harry’s story - and as a result, this book is very much in my mind a hero-driven story.

What fascinated me most was Hoyt’s exploration of class, and the different worlds that Harry had to simultaneously exist within - Georgina is his social superior, but as her steward he has access to parts of her world, a world that those he supervises would never see. But he also lives and works among those for whom the estate is their life and livelihood. He has to both care for those who live and work on the estate, while explaining to Georgina how important her decisions are and how they affect those same people. His job is to guide her towards a profitable estate, while advocating for everyone beneath her whose lives depend on her estate, and he exists between those people, not quite fitting in with them, or with her.

Hoyt does a masterful job of depicting how different classes of people interacted personally, and I read and re-read the scenes where Harry talks with ancillary characters. The use of language and colloquialism was intriguing. I learned a great deal about the difference in dialogue and the manners used among lower classes, and those varied encounters established Harry as a character who seems more real than most heroes.

He’s not cardboard or manufactured from Ye Olde Deck of Romance Cliches; even when discussing the most horrible aspects of his childhood, he maintains a realistic perspective and still manages to break my heart with his candor to Georgina. When he says, after telling Georgina the circumstances of his birth, that “All little boys love their mothers,” I literally had to stop reading for a moment and wipe my eyes. He’s a hero who is not afraid to admit his vulnerability to those who have earned his trust, and instead of coming across weaker for having divulged so much, he evolves into a marvelous character. Can you tell I’m crushing on this guy? Seriously, I am.

What I found most delicious was Harry’s confidence. He was a bastard, plus he had an active, identifiable and powerful enemy, whose villainy and vitriol was most often so over the top I literally expected his end would come when his head exploded all over the walls, and yet despite those circumstances against him, Harry had a deeply sexy confidence in himself, especially once he realized that Georgina returned his feelings of attraction. It became a pleasure for him to take care of her as well as of her estates. Certainly an uncommon balance and rebalance of power in a romance novel relationship.

Sadly for me, Georgina was not his equal in characterization or in depiction. She made several really doofy decisions in the course of the story, and while I respected that she did not waver in her belief in Harry, even when others tried to frame him for horrible crimes committed on her land, I wished she’d been at least as solidly crafted as Harry. She resembled the fairy tale she told through the story: not quite real, and somewhat nebulous in purpose.

Yet when I look back on this book, or pick it up to flip through it, Hoyt’s exploration of the status differences located between labels like “bastard,” “nobleman,” “gentleman,” and “honorable man” continues to enthrall me with subsequent re-readings. The degree to which this book continues to resonate in my mind is as much a testament to her prose as to her characterization, and I’m looking forward to her next novel.

The book kicks off with an old archaeologist geezer handing off a quartz artifact to a not-so-old archaeologist colleague and telling him that the quartz artifacts are actually the Sweet Savage Thunderer’s children, and that after you collect all four--GOTTA COLLECT THEM ALL, like prehistoric Pokemon--and give them to a living member of the Lost Tribe of Indians, it’ll end their curse.

Curse? What curse? Ah, see, ages and ages ago, a tribe of Indians killed the children of a supernatural being known as the Thunderer. Thunder dude’s pissed, so he kills a buncha tribe members in retaliation, and then curses the rest of them to live in everlasting fog. The Creator, however, takes pity on the schmucks and gives them a chance to redeem themselves: every generation (which, according to the book, is about 50 years--goddamn, that’s a big generation), champions are picked from the teenage boys of the unimaginatively-monickered Lost Tribe to head out into the world to save the tribe’s infanticidal asses. Something about forgiving enemies. Forgive my vagueness and my eagerness to get this over with, because I think my brain started melting down around page 5 of this book, and the damage proceeded apace with every excruciating paragraph.

After telling this story in one long, atrocious infodump, the old geezer, he bites it, and we move on to the plotline proper. So, years later, Not-so-old archaeologist geezer dude is excavating a site in Montana with his family in tow, including his beautiful, precocious pre-pubescent red-haired daughter named Effie.

What? Come on. It’s an Indian romance. Of COURSE the heroine is going to be white, and of COURSE she’s going to have red hair. The slightly rebellious may write a blonde heroine, and the really, really crazy might have a brunette or even a half-breed heroine, but I’m pretty sure that if you try to go beyond the bounds and write a historical romance between, say, two Native American characters or (SHOCK! HORROR!) a black person and a Native American, the Indian Romance Mob will send Tony out to break your kneecaps (or possibly to throw you into the trunk of his Caddy) and remind you of your place.

Aaaanyway. So Effie overhears her father talking about these mysterious quartz figures, and this is yet MORE infodumping and set-up, because Meanwhile, In a Parallel Dimension, One Infinitely Foggier Than Ours…

...a kid named Red Hawk is picked to be the Lost Tribe’s champion when all the other boys are unavailable for one damn reason or another. And he somehow wanders into Our Dimension, and stumbles across Effie taking a swim, and there’s some hilarious and utterly brain-damaged musing on Red Hawk’s part over whether Effie is some sort of magical sea creature because he can’t see her legs (she’s wearing pantaloons and she’s up to her waist in water, ya dipshit) and also some stumbling over OMG Effie is half-naked, but of course she has nothing to be ashamed of, she’s a child and of course so’s Red Hawk (and really, did that have to be noted in any way, shape or form?), and they frolic together like children do, and lo, it was magical, and they exchange little tchotchkes at the end of their frolic, and then before they part, little Effie says--I shit you not:

“I don’t know why I should say this to you,” she said, “for I know that you cannot understand me--and perhaps that is why I feel I must say this--but I think I have fallen in love with you.”

OK, Christ, hurrying on with the plot now, because summarizing this is seriously starting to sap my will to live...so yadda yadda yadda, years pass, Effie becomes a budding young archaeologist in her own right and is tasked with heading an expedition to find the rest of the figurines, and along the way some very literal Dei ex Machinae (Dei ex Aqua, actually), show up and push Red Hawk in the right direction so he becomes her guide, and they instantly fall in love, and some bad guys try to foil them (you know who they are instantly because they’re the people who inspire doubt in Red Hawk), more bla bla bla, the quartz figurines are eventually found via the machinations of even more gods and spirit guides (is that a spoiler? Do I even care?), and voila, Sweet Savage Thunderer has his kidlings back, the social ramifications of Effie marrying Red Hawk are not so much glossed over as packed, struggling, into a gunny sack then drowned like unwanted kittens, and ba-bam, Happily Ever After.

If I could pick one major thing from the embarrassment of riches that is raised by the question “So what’s wrong with this book, really?” it’d have to be how it manages to make the wrong step at just about every turn. It is quite uncanny. To start with, it uses malapropisms with unparalleled panache; besides the old man’s shaking subsisting, Effie goes to have a tête-a-tête with the river. But that’s not the worst of it. Worse than the malapropisms is the way the book is facile in all the wrong places (the relationship between Effie and Red Hawk and its ramifications; the motivation for the villain; the sufferings undergone by the Lost Tribe; the deep-seated anger Red Hawk feels towards the Thunder God for slaying his parents--I could go on) and convoluted in places where simplicity would’ve served (the weird explanations offered as to what archaeology is--is this book aimed at first-graders? COME ON; inexplicable character touches like Red Hawk’s klutziness; dragging in the extraneous gods into the plot).

And to add insult to injury, things happen in strange, disconnected fits and starts. The characters will be puttering along, and OH LOOK, the villain sub-plot will meander its way into the narrative, only to drift away again; and look, Effie’s feeling doubts about playing Bury the Meat Hatchet with Red Hawk, except not really, la dee da; and OOOH hey, we’re supposed to look for artifacts, that’s right, let’s give some half-assed details about an archaeological dig, hur dee hur; ooh, lookit, Red Hawk’s communing with the earth, isn’t that speshul? Etc.

So yeah. This book is terrible. So very, very awful on just about every level.  I started dog-earing pages every time I encountered something egregiously, horribly bad, and I kid you not, about 3/4 of the pages are dog-eared. The poor book can barely stay shut. But you know what?

Still not as bad as cassie Edwards. There’s a line, you see, the Edwards line; other books may approach that asymptote, but none may touch it. There’s no mathematical function that would allow any book to cross the Edwards Line. Which is why I had to create a whole new grade category for this book, i.e., F+. To give it a D- implied that it still kind of sort of maybe passed, but it doesn’t. It fails. On just about every level, it fails. It just doesn’t fail on quite the same catastrophically painful level as an Edwards novel does, largely because this book, while not exactly elegantly-written--or even, y’know, coherent--doesn’t quite feature Edwards’ trademark random ellipses and exclamation points, and really, those are what push the excruciating experience of poor prose that one critical half-notch to “completely unbearable.”

And if there’s one good thing I can say about this book, that would be it. It’s horrible, but it’s still no Cassie Edwards. Damn with faint praise, indeed.