Isabelle Drake's Blog

You left your hot pink Stanley — the one covered with stickers you collected at a book conference in New York — at the trailhead. There's sand all over the backseat that will still be there at Christmas. You have a tan line shaped like exactly one sandal strap, somebody said "pumpkin spice" out loud on August 12th, and the pool closes Labor Day whether you've used it or not.

Enter the Painkiller, a drink that takes your small complaints seriously.

This tasty number was invented in the 1970s at a bar in the British Virgin Islands that had no dock. No dock, you ask? Right. To get a drink you swam ashore, which meant your money arrived wet, hence the name: the Soggy Dollar Bar. That may be the highest standard a beach bar can set. You have to actually want it.

The official Painkiller calls for Pusser's, a dark navy-style rum made the way the British Royal Navy issued it to sailors right up until 1970. Nutmeg, clove, caramel, a little leather taste. Swap in a light rum and you haven't made a Painkiller, you've made more of a Piña Colada with ambitions. Pusser's trademarked the name in the eighties, which tells us how seriously they take it.

Maybe you'll take it seriously, too. Maybe you won't. Either way, you'll like the amped-up pineapple and the cool name. And thinking about swimming to a bar out in the middle of the ocean, away from lost mugs, sand, and email.

Grate fresh nutmeg over the top. Not the jar. Ten seconds, like you mean it.

One note: it tastes like a fruit plate but does not behave like one. Pineapple and coconut cream are excellent liars. Make one, sit down somewhere, and let it get to work on that sandal tan. Make two…could be a whole different story.

Make one:

INGREDIENTS

2 ounces Pusser’s rum4 ounces pineapple juice1 ounce orange juice, freshly squeezed1 ounce cream of coconutDIRECTIONSAdd the rum, pineapple juice, orange juice and cream of coconut to a shaker with cubed ice and shake vigorously but briefly to combine.Strain into a hurricane glass or snifter over crushed ice.Garnish and serve with a straw.

GARNISH

nutmeg, freshly gratedpineapple wedge

Books, This N’ That, and a cocktail

The Newsletter

photo: Freutcake

You want cocktails. I have them. There’s a new one every month in my newsletter, shaken together with book news and more good stuff.

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It’s still hot, pumpkin spice season may be on the horizon, but you have summer weekends left. Let’s craft one properly.

Lets' do this quiz and make it happen.

Pick your answer in each set and add up the points 

You arrive at:

7 a.m., before another soul11, like a civilized person4 p.m., for the good lightAfter dark

You set up:

Up by the dunes or in the middle of some trees, away from everyoneRight at the water or wherever the best view isWherever the umbrella or camp chair already isWherever you can see everything that’s happening

In the bag:

Your laptop, which you swear you won’t openA paperback you’ll actually finishThree magazines you won’tSunscreen, cash, and nothing elseIn your glass:
A cold beer, no ceremonyA thermos nobody gets to ask aboutSomething frozen and ridiculousWhatever gets handed to you

Your company:

No one, gloriouslyOne person who doesn’t need entertainingThe whole loud crowdSomeone you met an hour ago

At sunset you’re:

Asleep under a towel or blanketAlready planning next summerStill in the water or wandering in the forestNot going home tonight

6–10: Off Duty

You didn’t come for the beach, trees, or whatever is there. You came for the peace. That’s not antisocial. That’s yours.

11–15: The Competent Hedonist

You know exactly how to have a good time and you’ve built it to run without you managing it. Snacks handled, book finished, nobody crying.

16–20: The Reason It’s a Party

Without you it’s four people looking at their phones. You bring the cooler and make the story everyone retells in February.

21–24: Not Going Home

You saw “after dark” and knew immediately. You’re not chasing anything. You simply want what you want and you’ve stopped pretending otherwise. If I wrote your August story it would come with a warning label, and you’d dog-ear it.

Books, This N’ That, and a cocktail

Sassy, classy, and a bit smart-assy

You liked this one, I’ve got more. There’s a new game every month in my newsletter — along with a cocktail, book news, and more good stuff.

Sign me up

The hot story Wattpad pulled from top five

Salvage

Five linked stories, one book. At By Request Inc., clients name what they want and Dan McKenzie delivers.

Get Salvage

Daniel McKenzie walked away from the glittering underground world when he enlisted. Military service would give him purpose. Discipline. Control. Or so he thought.

Back in his canyon farmhouse overlooking the LA coast, he's restless. After his best friend drags him to Tigers, one of the city's exclusive clubs and one of his old haunts, he finds himself back in the life he thought he'd left behind. A connection takes him deeper in and soon he is delivering intimate experiences people can't find anywhere else.

Helping couples and singles discover new styles of physical intimacy. A husband who hasn't felt anything since the war. A wife who never confessed her desires. A woman who fled her hometown and the shaming memories there. All encounters contracted, consented to, and finished before the sheets are cold.

He's skilled. He's needed. He's burned out.

Months of shapeshifting for others leave him empty. When he retreats to the isolated Northern California manor where his journey began, he plans to stay alone.

Then Lorelai arrives during a winter storm.

She doesn't come to submit. She comes to heal. And she sees straight through his carefully constructed walls.

For the first time in his life, Dan wants something, someone, that isn't part of a performance. But wanting means risking everything: his control and his boundaries.

✦✦✦✦

“Come with me.” He leaned closer, the sun’s rays making his skin glow. “I dare you.”

Dan’s words hung in the air, taunting her. He’d only dared her on a hunch but it was obvious from the glimmer in her gold-flecked, hazel eyes that he’d guessed right.

This woman didn’t back down from a challenge.

In her tailored suit and high-heeled shoes she was everything he expected but there was something else stirring behind that gaze. A part of herself she didn’t like to think about, he was guessing. A part she was trying to hide. This woman was so different from Tara, Abby, and the women at the beach house parties. They’d been so sexually confident, demanding and open. What drove this woman to Winona?

The curiosity rushing through him was as intense as the lust. But this wasn’t supposed to be about him.

Try telling that to his dick. Because according to his cock, and the rest of his overcharged body, this was all about him getting her bare legs wrapped around his waist.

Her gaze zigzagged across the yard, taking in the shrubs clinging to the clean lines of the fences before landing on his face. “I’m sure you have something better to do than play tour guide,” she said, brushing a few strands of her sleek brown hair from her eyes.

He lifted one eyebrow. “I’m not playing.”

She looked him in the eyes for only a heartbeat, then her gaze fell, inching down his chest over his stomach then zeroing in on his crotch. When her gaze made it back to his face, he said, “You’re a woman who knows what she wants, right?”

Her mouth tightened. “I’m a woman who knows what she needs and what I need is a job.” Despite her unyielding words there was a hint of humor in her bright eyes. “So if you don’t mind,” she gestured for him to open the door.

This time when he guided her, she moved with him, matching his strides as well as she could in the shoes. “You’re a city girl through and through, aren’t you?” he asked, pointing to the fuck-me-hard heels.

“That a problem for you, cowboy?” she asked, lifting her carefully arched eyebrows.

“This look like a cowboy hat to you?” he said, tugging on the brim of his baseball cap. He regretted the quick response as soon as the words passed his lips. She wasn’t judging him; she was simply coming back from his question. And he of all people should understand her reaction.

“What are you then?” she asked, not put off by his reply.

“Not a cowboy.” To take back the edge he’d put into his voice, he offered her the same slanted smile that softened her up earlier. “What are you?”

“Not a city girl,” she said, matching his cocky grin with one of her own.

There it was again, a piece of herself she was hiding from. But he wasn’t going to push for answers. Partly because he didn’t want to get into her business but also because he knew what it was like to have other people assume they knew who and what you were. And he didn’t want any part of assumptions like that.

“Got it. You’re not a city girl,” he said.

“And you aren’t a cowboy.”

The hot story Wattpad pulled from top five

Salvage

Five linked stories, one book. At By Request Inc., clients name what they want and Dan McKenzie delivers.

Get Salvage

Daniel McKenzie walked away from the glittering underground world when he enlisted. Military service would give him purpose. Discipline. Control. Or so he thought.

Back in his canyon farmhouse overlooking the LA coast, he's restless. After his best friend drags him to Tigers, one of the city's exclusive clubs and one of his old haunts, he finds himself back in the life he thought he'd left behind. A connection takes him deeper in and soon he is delivering intimate experiences people can't find anywhere else.

Helping couples and singles discover new styles of physical intimacy. A husband who hasn't felt anything since the war. A wife who never confessed her desires. A woman who fled her hometown and the shaming memories there. All encounters contracted, consented to, and finished before the sheets are cold.

He's skilled. He's needed. He's burned out.

Months of shapeshifting for others leave him empty. When he retreats to the isolated Northern California manor where his journey began, he plans to stay alone.

Then Lorelai arrives during a winter storm.

She doesn't come to submit. She comes to heal. And she sees straight through his carefully constructed walls.

For the first time in his life, Dan wants something, someone, that isn't part of a performance. But wanting means risking everything: his control and his boundaries.

✦✦✦✦

“Come with me.” He leaned closer, the sun’s rays making his skin glow. “I dare you.”

Dan’s words hung in the air, taunting her. He’d only dared her on a hunch but it was obvious from the glimmer in her gold-flecked, hazel eyes that he’d guessed right.

This woman didn’t back down from a challenge.

In her tailored suit and high-heeled shoes she was everything he expected but there was something else stirring behind that gaze. A part of herself she didn’t like to think about, he was guessing. A part she was trying to hide. This woman was so different from Tara, Abby, and the women at the beach house parties. They’d been so sexually confident, demanding and open. What drove this woman to Winona?

The curiosity rushing through him was as intense as the lust. But this wasn’t supposed to be about him.

Try telling that to his dick. Because according to his cock, and the rest of his overcharged body, this was all about him getting her bare legs wrapped around his waist.

Her gaze zigzagged across the yard, taking in the shrubs clinging to the clean lines of the fences before landing on his face. “I’m sure you have something better to do than play tour guide,” she said, brushing a few strands of her sleek brown hair from her eyes.

He lifted one eyebrow. “I’m not playing.”

She looked him in the eyes for only a heartbeat, then her gaze fell, inching down his chest over his stomach then zeroing in on his crotch. When her gaze made it back to his face, he said, “You’re a woman who knows what she wants, right?”

Her mouth tightened. “I’m a woman who knows what she needs and what I need is a job.” Despite her unyielding words there was a hint of humor in her bright eyes. “So if you don’t mind,” she gestured for him to open the door.

This time when he guided her, she moved with him, matching his strides as well as she could in the shoes. “You’re a city girl through and through, aren’t you?” he asked, pointing to the fuck-me-hard heels.

“That a problem for you, cowboy?” she asked, lifting her carefully arched eyebrows.

“This look like a cowboy hat to you?” he said, tugging on the brim of his baseball cap. He regretted the quick response as soon as the words passed his lips. She wasn’t judging him; she was simply coming back from his question. And he of all people should understand her reaction.

“What are you then?” she asked, not put off by his reply.

“Not a cowboy.” To take back the edge he’d put into his voice, he offered her the same slanted smile that softened her up earlier. “What are you?”

“Not a city girl,” she said, matching his cocky grin with one of her own.

There it was again, a piece of herself she was hiding from. But he wasn’t going to push for answers. Partly because he didn’t want to get into her business but also because he knew what it was like to have other people assume they knew who and what you were. And he didn’t want any part of assumptions like that.

“Got it. You’re not a city girl,” he said.

“And you aren’t a cowboy.”

The hot story Wattpad pulled from top five

Salvage

Five linked stories, one book. At By Request Inc., clients name what they want and Dan McKenzie delivers.

Get Salvage

I spent a chunk of July doing something I'd been avoiding, readingmy own blog.

Not all of it. But enough. I'd been meaning to assess thingsand tidy the place up for over a year, and cleaning means going back through,and going back through means thinking, considering, and making decisions. I’vebeen keeping this blog for over twenty years, so, yeah, a lot to think aboutand go through.

I got to work. I deleted posts that no longer serve anyone:contests that closed a decade ago, giveaways for books that have since gone outof print, announcements about events that came and went while some of you were offliving your best life elsewhere. Nobody needs a link to enter a drawing thatended in 2009. Or do they… No, they don’t.

Next up, the labels. If you'd clicked one before, or lookedat them, you might have found a mess. I had eighty-three of them. There werelabels used once. There were three different ways of saying the same thing. Igot them down to twenty-three, so now when you click "cocktails" or"horror" or "pin-ups," you actually land somewhere with awhole shelf waiting. Cheers to that.

Here's what I didn't expect: reading your own archive is astrange experience. There's the version of me who was brand new and terrified.The one who wrote about a signing like it was a moon landing. Posts aboutpublishers that no longer exist. Whole years where I was clearly figuringsomething out in public without knowing it.

And a lot of Ellora's Cave.

If you were reading erotic romance in that era, you knowwhat I mean. EC books had their own culture. Can I define it? For one thing,less careful than a lot of what came after. They weren't trying to berespectable or mainstream. That was rather the point.

Which brings me to what's next.

Back in March at BookLoversCon in Vegas, I kept meetingreaders who were hunting for those old titles. Not politely curious. Actuallylooking. Talking about how they were different and why. It turns out there's anappetite for that particular vibe that never went away, and the books have beensitting quietly out of reach.

That got me thinking about the four EC stories of mine thatwere just languishing on my hard drive, feet up, cocktail in hand, but alone.

After I unpacked from BLC, I dug them out, dusted them off,and started making plans to get them back out into the world.

More on which ones, and when, very soon. In the meantime,the blog is tidier than it's been in two decades — have a look around, click alabel, see what turns up. Twenty years is a lot of cocktails, zombies, andpin-ups.

From Mistress of the Undead

Belmont pushed himself off the floor, shuffledto the bathroom, not bothering to flush the toilet after he pissed. Stillnaked, he made his way to the kitchen, set the kettle on, grabbed his Frenchpress. He reached into the cabinet over the sink for the bag of coffee beansbut all he found was an empty space. Rolling onto the balls of his feet, hereached further back, felt around the vacant space, smacking the bottom of thecabinet.

“Don’t bother looking. I drank it all.”

Hayden froze. Waited for his brain toprocess the voice. Still reaching in to the empty cabinet he called over hisshoulder. “Belmont?”

“Who else?” The old man grumbled. “I triedto stay awake but gave up around five. They must’ve brought you in after I fellasleep.”

He slammed the cabinet closed then crossedto the front room. The old man sat on the couch. His clothes scattered acrossthe floor. Thankfully, this time, his ancient dick was covered by his stripedboxers. “They brought you here too?”

“Turns out, I never left,” Belmontreplied, giving Hayden’s naked body the once over.

Hayden stalked to his bedroom, grabbed thecover off the bed, wrapped it around himself then shuffled back to the frontroom. “You been here the whole time?” He dropped himself into the chair. “Itwas only one night, right?”

Instead of having the decency to coverhimself up, the old man just sat there, his sagging chest and spindly old kneesexposed. “I knew they’d bring you back once they got what they wanted and yes,only one night.”

Hayden sank into the chair. “Shit.”

 “That’sthe way they do it. Fucks with your head, doesn’t it? Makes you wonder if itever happened?”

That pretty much summed it up. “You’vebeen through it.”

“Actually, no. But I’ve seen it happenenough times.” The old man paused, then looked Hayden over again. “What’d theydo to you?”

No way. He was not ever going to admit toany of that. Did not want to talk about Matthew touching him. Did not even wantto think about what he’d done to Mattie. “I need coffee.”

“Get dressed. We’ll go get some. My treat.”He shoved himself forward, bracing his palms on his thighs as he stood. “It’sthe least I can do. I ate your stash of Girl Scout cookies.”

Hayden spotted the torn green box on the floorbeside an empty can of tuna. “Those were from last year.”

“You think I cared?” he asked, pulling onthe pocket-laden travel khakis he’d tossed over the back of the couch. 

Hayden pointed at the TV. “You chargeanything on pay-per-view?”

“What?” He zipped up the fly his pants. “Youmean like porn?”

“No dude. Like on Prime.” He grabbed thetrash from the floor and took it to the kitchen.

“I watched some Breaking Bad on Netflix.”

“Not the Walking Dead?”

Belmont waited until he’d come back intothe front room to reply. “Very funny. No. I like Walter. He proves that oldguys aren’t useless losers like you think.”

“That’s an actor reading a script. You getthat, right?”

Belmont ignored his jibe. Hayden let itgo. Binge watching Netflix and eating an entire box of stale cookies would’vebeen preferable to what he’d been through the past fifteen hours. “Fine. Let’sgo get a coffee.”

Read the rest in Mistress of the Undead 

If you are a reader who also drinks, and if you're here, I'mgoing to assume yes on both counts, this cocktail was practically invented foryou.

If you go looking for this recipe online there are versionseverywhere, and some of them have gone completely off the rails. Blue curaçao?Crème de menthe? We are not doing that. We're doing the version from GregSeider, a New York bartender who also wrote Alchemy in a Glass, which means hehas both the credentials and the vocabulary to be trusted.

His Tequila Mockingbird is a spicy margarita riff builtaround something we don't use nearly enough in cocktails: watermelon. And Iknow, watermelon sounds like it should be easy, but it's actually a bit of adiva. Too little and you can't taste it. Too much and it waters everythingdown. Get it right, though, and you have something bright and juicy and just alittle dangerous.

The good news is you don't need a blender. Just a muddler,some fresh watermelon, a jalapeño (yes, trust me), blanco tequila, fresh limejuice, and agave syrup.

Muddle the watermelon and jalapeño together first, shakeeverything up, fine-strain it into your glass, and what you're holding is thisgorgeous, fragrant, fire-engine red cocktail that goes down embarrassinglyfast.

Consider it emergency preparedness for hot weather. Or aTuesday. No judgment here.

INGREDIENTS

1 slice jalapeño

3 watermelon cubes (each about 1 inch cubed)

2 ounces blanco tequila

3/4 ounce lime juice, freshly squeezed

3/4 ounce agave syrup

DIRECTIONS

Muddle the jalapeño slice and watermelon cubes in a shakerto extract the juices.

Add tequila, lime juice, agave syrup and ice, and shakeuntil well-chilled.

Fine-strain into a rocks glass over fresh ice.

GARNISH

Garnish: sweet mint spring or lime wheel

this recipe from liquor.com

1. It's the first real warm Saturday of the season. You:

A) Drive to the nearest body of water with a tote bag full of snacks and a book you've been saving since March.

B) Text five people "what are we doing today" and let chaos decide.

C) Open every window, put something good on the speaker, and spend the morning just… existing in it.

D) Start planning. Itinerary, reservations, the works. Summer doesn't organize itself.

2. Your summer drink is:

A) Whatever's cold and comes with a little umbrella.

B) Something spicy...a jalapeño margarita, obviously.

C) A big glass of iced tea on the porch, no rush.

D) Champagne. It's always the right answer.

3. Pick a summer shoe:

A) Sandals you've had for six years that go with everything.

B) Sneakers because you never know when you'll need to run toward something fun.

C) Bare feet, honestly.

D) Wedges. You didn't come here to be comfortable, you came here to look good.

4. Your ideal summer read:

A) A big, sweeping romance set somewhere beautiful.

B) Something with a plot twist you didn't see coming.

C) Literary fiction you've been meaning to get to...finally, the time.

D) Whatever everyone is talking about right now.

5. The summer playlist is:

A) Nostalgic — songs that take you somewhere.

B) Whatever has the best beat right now, shuffled.

C) Something moody and soft for slow mornings.

D) A bop from beginning to end, no skips.

6. You're packing a beach bag. What's in it?

A) Sunscreen, a book, snacks, a spare book in case you finish the first one.

B) The bare minimum...travel light!

C) Everything you need to be comfortable for six hours, carefully considered.

D) Nothing that won't photograph well.

7. Summer dinner is:

A) Something on the grill with people you love.

B) Wherever looks good when you're hungry; spontaneity is the whole point.

C) A recipe you've been wanting to try, made slowly, with music on.

D) A restaurant with a patio and a good wine list, booked ahead.

8. How do you know summer is officially starting?

A) The first evening where it's still warm enough to sit outside after dinner.

B) Someone texts you something spontaneous and you actually say yes.

C) You slow down without guilt for the first time all year.

D) You have a plan, a reservation, and an outfit already picked out.

 

Summer is basically knocking on the door with a bottle ofrosé and zero apologies, but before you dive in, let's figure out what kind ofsummer you're actually having this year.

 

Mostly A's? The Golden Hour Girl

You don't need a plan, you just need good light and goodcompany. Your summer is warm, a little nostalgic, and full of the kind ofmoments that feel like the cover of a novel. You are, essentially, the vibe.

Mostly B's? Chaotic Sunshine

Your summer is spontaneous, loud, and slightly unhinged inthe best possible way. Things happen around you. You're the friend people textwhen they need an adventure and the one with the best stories in September.

Mostly C's? Slow Burn Summer

You are not rushing anything. Your summer is intentional,sensory, and deeply satisfying — long mornings, good food, the kind of quietthat actually recharges you. Underrated aesthetic. Extremely healthy.

Mostly D's?  MainCharacter Energy

You have a vision for this summer and you are executing it.Outfits planned. Reservations made. Standards high. You're not waiting for agood summer to happen to you — you're producing it yourself.

The past couple months were filled with conference travel. 

In early March, I attended an academic/literacy conference in Baltimore. It's an event I've attended on and off for over a decade. When I first started attending, I went as an MFA student. The faculty of the MFA program I was attending told us the event was a blast - super fun! I am, and was back then, all about having fun especially if it involves books and writers. So, expecting the sort of fun I typically had at a writing event, off I went. 

As it turned out, as I figured out the first time I went, it was not that kind of fun. I found the other attendees to be a tad stuffy at times. No laughing in the halls. Very literary. As it turned out, it was a serious event filled with serious people. I did have the promised "good time" but it took some rethinking on my part. Once I caught on to the serious nature of the event, I decided not to tell anyone I was a romance author. Meanwhile, over the years, I continued attending that event as an academic and editor while also publishing romance and attending actually fun events, like BookLoversCon. 

This year, these two worlds collided. I was asked by a small press to sign copies of the multiple genre anthology that contains my essay, How to Write an Erotic Romance Novel. The editor invited me to bring some of my romance novels to sign alongside the literary anthology. Photo below! Doing this meant explaining to people who stopped by that I was both Melissa Ford Lucken, serious literary author, and Isabelle Drake, author of romance, erotic and not, and horror (sex-cult zombies!). As you can imagine, this caused much confusion and some disbelief. 

Why are you both people?

Which do you like better?

Why do you write that when you could write this?

I had no answers for these Very Important Questions.

I did have a good time, though. So, I'm counting the event a success. 

Motivational speaker and personal improvement expert Jaya Vinar is out of control--or so people keep telling her. When her boss pairs her with a handsome personal consultant, things get even more out of control. She wants to scare him off, he wants her in his bed. Only one can win. And neither is exactly who they’re pretending to be.
Sometimes wild, and rocky, starts lead to even wilder, and happier, endings.

Excerpt

The Troy, Michigan hotel bar was circled by oil paintings ofthoroughbreds grazing on rolling hills. Thanks to the wall paneling and brassfixtures, it was businesslike and sophisticated, yet still cozy.

An ornate mirror ran the length of the bar, reflecting thebrightly-colored liquor bottles. The only person seated in the row of tallstools was a brown-haired man in a nondescript navy jacket and khaki pants. Aglass of white wine sat in front of him and his full attention on his phone.

She stood back, watching him, a plan forming in the back ofher mind. The idea rose up out of her recently shredded self-confidence,clawing its way to the surface, and pulling itself together like the shamefulhussy that it was. She should’ve considered all the ramifications of thebeastly plan, but she didn’t.

She unbuttoned two more buttons on her beige blouse thenshimmied to reveal some cleavage. Once done, she fluffed up her hair, marchedover to the bar, and slipped onto the stool beside the brown-haired man.

She settled onto the seat, crossing her legs slowly.

He didn’t look up from his phone, but the bartender spottedher and came over.

“What can I pour for you, Miss?”

She leaned to the right and nudged the man beside her. “Whatdo you think?”

He blinked behind a pair of round glasses.

She touched her collarbone then ran her fingertips down thefront of her blouse, pausing at each button before dropping her hand to herlap. “To drink.” She tipped her head toward the bar. “What do you think Ishould get to drink?”

“Ummm…”

She tapped her fingertips along the inside of her thigh. “Asa professional, I’m sure you have an opinion.”

Get you copy on Kindle.