Ines Johnson

A little magic in your love story…

November 2015 Newsletter

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Get your eBook signed?

Screen Shot 2015-11-23 at 7.57.11 PMI’ve just signed up for Authorgraph! Authorgraph makes it possible for authors to sign e-books for their readers. Really! It’s really cool and really easy.

  • First visit the site at
  • Search or browse for your favorite authors or books -that would be me.
  • Click “Request Authorgraph” (you can include a short message to the author).
  • Receive an email when the author has signed your Authorgraph.
  • View your Authorgraph in your favorite reading apps and devices.

I hope to put my John Hancock on your book soon!

Speaking of me writing something in a book…

I just finished NANO! For NANO I wrote a first draft of the third Cindermama book, tentatively titled “Beau: a Cindermama Story.” It really helped me to figure out what I need to fix in the second Cindermama book, “Rumpeled: a Cindermama Story.” Hopefully, you’ll be reading those two books very, very soon.

Here’s an excerpt from “Rumpeled: a Cindermama Story.” Please note that it’s unedited.

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

Guy Rumpel had said those words to countless women throughout the course of his life as he crawled out of their bed, or left them behind a backstage curtain, or walked out of the bathroom stall. He hadn’t fucked the woman sitting before him at present. This woman wanted to get down and dirty, out in public, with thousands cheering her every move. Frankie Benjamins, sat before Guy looking for an angle to get into the music industry. Worse than the porn industry, the music industry was a cesspool of debauchery, depravity, dissipation, and degeneracy.

“I want it to be you.” Frankie uncrossed and then recrossed her shapely legs giving him a complete Sharon Stone view of her wares. “You’re the best talent scout in the business.”

“A&R,” Guy corrected her.

Frankie raised her eyebrows in incomprehension.

“It stands for Artist and Repertoire. It means I not only find talent, I produce my finds including their image as well as their sound, and manage their careers.”

Frankie had an image. Guy was getting an eyeful of it as her lush silicon spilled over her top, while her fat-injected ass barely fit in the chair. She tapped her acrylic nails on his desk and tossed her purple tresses over her shoulder. She had an image. It just wasn’t an image he could work with.

Frankie pouted her bee-stung lips which were painted a garish shade of red. “Are you telling me you don’t want to manage my assets?”

Another man would’ve been lead by his cock by now. Frankie Benjamins had a third of the American male television viewers fawning over her assets. She was one of the top reality stars on the Music Now Network’s hit show “Sex and R&B Miami.” Her ass-twerking escapades with legendary R&B singer Sammie Q as his side piece, then her 90-day stint as his wifey, had pulled her out of the strip clubs and into the spotlight.

The problem was it wasn’t enough light to get Guy interested. So while Frankie held a good portion of the male population by the balls, Guy didn’t feel a twinge in his pants. “We’re just not right for each other.”

More words he’d used to end dalliances with women he’d slept with once or twice. But this was business. He narrowed his eyes as he took her in anew. He looked at her, not exactly at her, more like just in front of her. Past the garish color of her hair were the flaxen specks of light surrounding her person. When he first spotted Frankie twerking the pole of a gentleman’s club, he’d thought he’d seen the deep yellow of a delicate canary coming off her sweaty, bouncing size D’s. But looking at her today, her aura touched nowhere near the brightness of a lemon.

Guy was loathe to admit that his Sight was a bit off these days. In days long past, Guy could spot a would-be starlette buried under the dark rags of a street urchin, stripper, or socialite. It was his gift. It ran in his family. His mother’s people were descendants of Gypsies who had the Sight. Many of them saw auras and used their visions to predict the future. Others only saw the golden aura of their true love. Guy was able to spot talent. More than that, he had the unique ability to hone that talent, spinning the dim shades of yellow of a person’s aura until it was golden. But these days, his vision was failing him more and more.

Frankie wasn’t the canary in the coal mines he’d thought he’d seen all those months ago. She was more like a speck of dust that had burned itself out with a short life of scheming and hard living. She stood now and rounded the desk. Guy tried to hold in his sigh as he knew where her six inch stilettos were leading her.

“Are you sure we can’t work together?” she purred. “I’m a lot of fun to work with, especially with all the late nights that I would dedicate to my… music.”

She ran one of her taloned fingers down his chest. It didn’t have the desired effect she was hoping for. “Unfortunately for you,” he said, “I think with the head on my shoulders.”

Frankie’s eyes went from seductive to sinister. “Let me be clear; if you give me a record deal, I will fuck you better than any bitch has ever fucked you. I will let you put it anywhere and anytime you want so long as you make me a pop star.”

They stared each other off. He still had her wrist in his hand. Her pulse raced. This was something she wanted more than anything. Guy encountered countless hopefuls on a daily basis who offered him the same trade; a fuck for fame. They thought that was all it took. A few thrusts and then they were a star. But it wasn’t that simple. Guy was the one who always got the short stick. He was the one who’d always have to work his ass off for the pale talent that offered their bodies for his brand of polishing. Frankie was right about one thing: he could make her shine. He could take her pale, flaxen specks and turn them into a gold record. But it would leave him spent. He just didn’t have the energy anymore.

I’d love to know what you think of my new hero, Guy!

All right, I’m headed back into the grind. Wish me words!

Until next month,

Author: Ines Johnson

Ines writes romance novels for women who suck at love. Check out her catalog on

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