Rock Hard Roots Blog Tour

B3 Tours Presents:

The Rock Hard Roots Blog Tour

Books: “Real Ugly” “Get Bent”

Real Ugly Blurb

Turner Campbell is an asshole.

I f*cking hate him.

But I can't get enough either.

He sings like an angel and f*cks like a devil.

If I could, I'd run away and never look back because to tell you the truth, I think this man 

might be the death of me.

***

Naomi Knox is a bitch.

I can't f*cking stand her.

But I can't stop thinking about her either.

She looks like an angel and plays like a devil.

If I could, I'd f*ck her good and forget all about her, but to tell you the truth, I think this 

woman might be my last saving grace.

EXCERPT:

Through my sunglasses, I see a face just offstage, hiding in the shadows with a

Turner.  Turner fucking Campbell is watching me screw this crowd with my axe,

and I can't breathe.  For a moment, I'm afraid my fingers are going to slip, and I'm going

to blow this whole gig, but the inner me, the one I dragged out, turns up the notch on my

smirk and slides my tongue across my lips.  Oh my god!  What the hell am I doing?  I

flick it out and suck it back in, melding into Wren, sliding against him like we're

screwing back to back.  And I don't even like the guy.  I don't like either of these guys,

but I can't stop myself.  The music's taken over me, and will do what she fucking pleases.

I watch Turner watching me, and see that his brown eyes are glittering dark, like a

night sky filled with stars.  It's so off-kilter with his personality that it really throws me

for a loop.  Once again, I find myself having trouble hating him.  Seem to be having a lot

of trouble with my loathing abilities as of late.  Guess when I get onstage, I am just

Our duet ends and Wren pulls away leaving me cold.  And in the middle of an

Luckily, Amatory Riot has functioned as a unit long enough for the others to

follow me, modifying our song right then and there.  The crowd goes fucking wild, and

the air escapes my lungs.  The lights overhead shift and I find myself bathed in color.

My eyes shift to search for Turner again, and I'm glad I'm wearing these shades.  If he

knew I was looking for him, I'd never live it down.

A gasp goes up on my right and Turner appears out of nowhere, snatching my

mic from its stand and grabbing Hayden around the waist.  He makes a little come on

gesture at me and then leans forward and grabs my lips with his.

I don't stop playing; I can't.  Even if I wanted to, I couldn't stop the burst of

fucking power that's just taken hold of me.  I'm both a victim and a master to it as it

draws my hands along the neck and plucks strings with a violent fervor that both scares

and amazes me.  Hot wet heat takes over my mouth and pulls the rest of the inner me out,

and then I'm kissing Turner back hard and fast and furious while the world's most intense

riffs are just pulled straight through me, cutting me up and bleeding me over the stage.

When he pulls away, our eyes lock tight, and I know he can see right through my

shades, through my head, and straight down into me.  It's a trick; it's gotta be.  I want to

remember the way he spoke to me on the phone, the way he left that poor girl half-naked

over the PA speaker, but I can't seem to grab any memories that haven't been made right

here, on this stage.  What else is there? my soul asks me as Turner uses the cord of the

mic to spin it in a circle and snatch it back in one tattooed hand.

My solo comes to a natural end, and I fall right back where I left off, taking the

band with me, opening my ears up to Turner's voice as it slides into the microphone.  It's

unbelievable – my words from his lips.  I step back and Hayden moves up beside him,

doing her best to out sex her colleague.

I don't think it's even possible to out sex Turner Campbell.

He grabs the hem of his shirt and slides it up, flashing his taut belly and a sea of

tattoos against pale, sweaty flesh.  His fingers rub the dark hair above his jeans and then

drop the fabric back into place, much to the dismay of the crowd.

“Tearing me up, shredding me inside; my walls are coming down in flames.”

Hayden's voice slides in alongside Turner's and for a split second there, I'm jealous.  Of

what and who and why, I have no idea, because I fucking hate them both, and they

deserve each other, but …  I brush the feeling aside and slam my axe to bits with my

pick.  “If you break me, baby, be prepared to pick up the pieces.”

Three.  Two.  One.  And the song is over, and my pick is flying out across the

crowd and landing in greedy hands.  Sweat pours down my face in sheets and my body is

wracked with violent trembles.  Turner spins around and grins at me as the crowd

explodes into a riotous fervor that makes the bouncers nervous.

AMAZON 

Get Bent Blurb

Naomi Knox is missing.

I don't even f*cking know whether she's dead or alive.

What I do know is that she's the air I need to breathe.

She's my redemption, an all consuming fire that burns in my blood.

And I'll do anything to find her. Anything. Even if means the end for me.

& & &

Turner Campbell is searching.

But he has no f*cking clue what it is he's searching for.

There's darkness all around and enough secrets to choke.

There are angels, and there are devils. It's impossible to tell them apart.

Light needs to be shone on the truth, but there's no one left to hold the torch. The line 

between life and death is blurred, and the players are all thoroughly entrenched in the 

game. The question is: am I still one of them?

EXCERPT:

I tap the vein in my right arm with two fingers and check the rubber tourniquet that's

wrapped around my sweaty flesh, making sure it's pulled tight.  I'm trying to set up a

good injection site, so I can take the syringe I've got clutched between my teeth and shoot

up.  It's the only way I'll get through this.  The only fucking way.

“Turner!  What the hell is going on in there?”  I slump against the wall and ignore

Treyjan's hoarse shouting.  He's been out there all damn morning, screaming his friggin'

head off.  I don't want to hear it anymore.  He's driving me nuts.

I pull the syringe out of my mouth and slide the needle into my skin, hissing at

the rush of white hot pain when it punctures my vein.  I press the plunger down and wait.

A few seconds later, I feel it in the back of my throat.  It tastes like fucking victory, like

accomplishment, like I'm king of the fucking world.  I yank the needle out

unceremoniously and toss it into the trash can.  It lands on top of a mountain of used

condoms and tissue paper, and it's probably unsanitary as shit, but I don't care.  I don't

care about anything right now except Naomi.

“Turner, get your fucking ass out here now!”

I rip the tourniquet off next and lay it on the counter, clutching the sides of the

sink as I lean over and cough.  Good meth always makes you cough.  And it makes you

feel so fucking good that even a nightmare like this starts to look like a dream.

“Are you slamming meth in there, motherfucker?” Trey screams, and he sounds

like he's about to burst a damn vein this time.  I lift my eyes up and stare at myself in the

mirror.  It's not a pretty sight.  I look like shit.  Jesus Christ.  Have I been walking around

like this for three days?  My eyes are bloodshot and ringed with purple, and my lips are

pale and cracked.  I look like a Goddamn zombie.

“Don't get your panties in a wad, bitch,” I call out to him, standing up and

sniffing, letting my eyes fall closed for another minute.  At least now I don't have to

worry about how I'm going to get through another day.  The drugs will take care of that

I reach over and unlock the door.

Trey doesn't waste any time opening it and throwing me a death glare.  I ignore

him in favor of putting on some eyeliner.  We have a show tonight, and I want to look

good.  Hell, I have to look good or I'm not getting onstage.  My pain is private, not

something to hang out for all to see.  I'm not on display here.

“You got a hard-on for me or something?” I ask him, pretending that everything's

alright, that my life has not just gone from bad to worse, that the breath has not just been

suctioned out of my fucking lungs.  “I can't even shit in peace anymore?”  Trey looks

down at the garbage, up at the tourniquet and sneers.

“You're just gonna get high everyday now?”  I shrug, applying black around my

eyes, making sure it's thick enough to hide the circles.  Women love eyeliner on guys

anyway.  Or at least the women at my shows do, the ones with the piercings in their

noses and the tattoos on their hips.  I want to pick one of them up and fuck away the pain,

but I can't do that to Naomi.  For the first time in my life, I can't even imagine screwing

I look up at the ceiling as my brain seizures with false pleasure, misplaced hope,

“What are you now, Mother Theresa?  We've gotten high everyday since we were

sixteen.”  I pretend not to notice that Trey is wearing Travis' cap.  Or whoever's cap.  Still

haven't figured that mystery out.  There seem to be a whole shit ton of them floating

around right now, and that's kind of the least of my worries.

“Not like this, Turner.  Not fucking like this.  What are you doing?  You're gonna

kill yourself.”  I don't tell my best friend that I don't care, that I'd rather die than live

without Naomi Knox.  I mean, how fucked up is that?  Love sucks balls.  Everybody

always acts like it's the one thing worth living for, that spark in the fire that pulls you in,

that strokes your hair back and lets you know that everything's going to be okay.  Well

now that I've fallen into it, nothing is okay.  Nothing will ever be okay.  I sipped from

love's wine and now I'm drunk as shit without a place to lie down.  My happy ending, my

saving grace is lying dead in a morgue, cut up and fucked up, so mangled they can't even

identify her damn body for sure.  Oh, they say it's probably her because if not then, I

mean, where the shit is she?  Where?  Where?  Where the fuck are you, Knox?  With your

pretty blonde hair and your sunglasses and your fuck you all attitude.



Author Bio:

C.M. Stunich was raised under a cover of fog in the area known simply as Eureka, CA.

A mysterious place, this strange, arboreal land nursed Caitlin's (yes, that's her name!)

desire to write strange fiction novels about wicked monsters, magical trains, and Nemean

Lions (Google it!). She currently enjoys drag queens, having too many cats, and tribal

bellydance.

Always a fan of the indie scene and 'sticking it to the man,' Ms. Stunich decided to take

the road less traveled and forgo the traditional publishing route. You can be assured

though that she received several rejections as to ensure her proper place in the world of

writers before taking up a friend's offer to start a publishing company. Sarian Royal was

born, and Ms. Stunich's books slowly transformed from mere baking chocolate to full

blown tortes with hand sculpted fondant flowers.

C.M. is a writer obsessed with delivering the very best and scours her mind on a regular

basis to select the most unusual stories for the outside world.