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Blurb
Scary Modsters… and Creepy
Freaks
A fantastical romance involving a girl, the music that
fuels her, and her Ouija board.
Rosalyn possesses a sunny
personality that is laced with quirks. Although she seeks acceptance in a world
where she lives out of time, what she gets is ridiculed for her eclectic
wardrobe and unconventional music collection.
One fateful night, Rosalyn
bewitches Niles, a stylish man whose offbeat character perfectly complements
her own. Unfortunately, he possesses a critical flaw that means relationship
suicide for him and pretty much anyone.
While under the influence of
insomnia-impaired judgment, Rosalyn summons Rock ‘n Roll deity Peter Lane back
from the dead. Not only does he spin her hormones into a frenzy, Peter is also
the precarious puzzle piece that brings sense into her world. When Niles learns
that he can overcome his life-long challenge by helping Peter avenge his death,
how far will he go to secure Rosalyn’s heart?
Author Bio
Enjoying
San Francisco as a backdrop, the ghosts in Diane’s 150-year old Victorian home
augment the chorus in her head. With insomnia as their catalyst, these voices
have become multifarious characters that haunt her well into the sun’s crowning
hours, refusing to let go until they have manipulated her into succumbing to
their whims. Her experiences as an actress, business owner, artisan cake
designer, software project manager, Internet radio disc jockey, vintage rock n’
roll journalist/fangirl, and lover of dark and quirky personalities influence
her idiosyncratic writing.
Links
Purchase:
http://www.amazon.com/Scary-Modsters-Creepy-Freaks-Rinella-ebook/dp/B00J86FUQG/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1395759778&sr=8-2&keywords=diane+rinella
Excerpt 1:
PETER
May 13, 1966 was a day that most
wouldn't give a turnip over. Take a look at this picture. You see that guy? The
smarmy, dark-haired young businessman sitting behind that big wood desk? That's
Ben Stoddard, or as he likes to call himself, Big Ben. I refer to him as Mr.
B.S. He's the one who took me. I mean he took everything—my career, my
happiness, the girl I loved, and my life.
Now look to those four young lads sitting across from him—the ones that
seem as if they've never had a penny to their names. The ones eager to sign on
that dotted line. That handsome devil with the sandy blonde hair and the stupid
grin—that's me, Peter Lane; singer, guitarist, huge chump, and idiot
extraordinaire. I was on top of the world at that moment. We all were. You know
that witticism about how you have to be careful that you don't sign your life
away? It's no joke because that's exactly what I was doing.
We had just been given a new car, a swanky apartment, and unlimited credit
at all the fancy boutiques on Carnaby Street. You've heard of Carnaby, right?
The place where every self-respecting mod paid too much for clothes he couldn't
afford even if they had been offered at fair prices. We were told to dress like
we owned the world because we soon would. A tour was being planned so we could
conquer America just like The Beatles had. All we had to do was sign on that
little piece of paper you see on Mr. B.S.'s desk. We signed it in blue ink from
a fountain pen—but had we known whom we were dealing with we would have pricked
ourselves and used blood.
Two years later I was hovering above my casket, watching people lower my
body into a dark, dirt hole, and cringing at how the once beautiful man had
become broken, burnt to a crisp, and about to be devoured by worms.
Everyone thought it was an accident.
Then
and there I vowed revenge. Plotting it was easy, but finding my way back was
another story.
Excerpt 2:
ROSALYN
A brunette, a raven-haired beauty, and a girl looking like a
peacock all walk into a bar. No, it's not a joke; it's my not-so-mundane life
that generally feels like the setup for a wisecrack.
No matter
how many times my friends and I claim we are going to do something new, every
Friday night we find our tushes planted at Mulligan's. However, today our
weekly Friday night venture truly seemed out of the cards since my friends were
originally too tired from their workweeks to consider anything short of
collapsing. When you are in your early thirties and single you should be
embracing life, not rotting on a sofa. Thus when my friends bailed I detoured
into Warped Records which is both a second home and how I envision my little
corner of Heaven. Some would call the smell of old album covers a dank stench,
but to me it's a musky perfume that seeps into my pores and comforts me with
the knowledge that no matter what fails me I always have my sanctuary.
Among the
bins of paradise and the blaring Siouxsie the perfect gem captured my gaze and
held it for ransom. Before me was a pair of eyes so unlike any other that they
were nearly indescribable.
Piercing?
No. That implies they shot through my skin and reached my heart; however, these
somehow reached my soul. Captivating? Again that was misleading. While they did
hold my attention they also kept me at bay. Perhaps haunting? Yes, they did
indeed haunt me. They also seemed to follow me to wherever I stood. A true
description was so elusive that the color wasn't easily defined. They were deep
blue, yet also flannel grey with a hint of green. In a certain light they
seemed black with specks of gold.
All of
these emotions and colors were brought forth by just one picture—a picture on
an album that had been slipped into plastic and unceremoniously tacked to the
wall, yet somehow it jumped out at me and begged for worship.
“Who are
those guys?” I asked Shane, the store's clerk. Shane's tight black pants, white
Split Enz T-shirt, black suspenders, and short, curly brown hair made him look
like a skinny, nineteen eighties teenager in a forty-something-year-olds body.
His hot pink English Beat button sold the outfit. In an odd way our obsessions
make us kindred spirits. It may be like we are third cousins, twice removed,
but kindred nonetheless.
“Not a clue.”
Shane absent-mindedly tapped a pencil on a note pad while his hazel eyes sat on
a ragged copy of Rolling Stone that was decades out of date. “How is it
you don't know? You're the super genius that no one can stump.” He sighed,
conceding to the call of duty. “I suppose you want me to halt my important work
and show it to you.”
“If it's
not too much of a bother to pull yourself away from that fascinating article on
INXS that is so old it will soon disintegrate, then yes, please. I would
appreciate your struggle of removing the tack for a lady.”
With the
flick of his wrist, Shane sent the magazine spinning across the counter. “Geez,
you practically live here so I thought you would be more at home yanking the
thing off yourself.”
“Glad to
see that chivalry is alive and well at Warped Records.”
The album
was presented with a bow. “Milady, as per your request.” Shane's smugness made
me grin. “Anyway, it arrived with some other records from a recent estate sale.
Rob seemed to know who they were.”
My eyes
honed in on the price tag. “Six dollars? That's a lot for a potentially crappy
band no one has heard of.”
Shane's
view floated from the magazine to the notepad. “Yep. Six bucks is what this
says. I hung it next to the two hundred dollar, Jagger-signed, Goat's Head
Soup to be funny.”
Four men,
who were partially obscured by a golden overlay of paisleys and swirls, stared
back at me. Their clothes were colorful, slightly Edwardian, and accented with
fur. It was all very fashionable for the nineteen sixty-eight copyright printed
on the back of the cover that held no liner notes. Three of the men felt so
insignificant that they were but mere blurs. All I noticed was the cute one
with the sandy blonde hair and magnetic eyes whose signature started with the
letter P.
My fingers glided over the autograph whose ink
felt as if it were luxurious azure velvet. It also gave off an energy that put
a beat in my head. What really caught my attention was a spot of what appeared
to be dried blood. When I touched it, a fuzz reminiscent of the thrill I get
when hearing a vintage guitar effects pedal vibrated through. I had to have
that album!
Excerpt 3:
ROSALYN
Once home,
it was straight to the family room stereo to listen to The Stones and crack a
beer while dancing to Exile On Main Street. I had to shove aside stacks
of albums that I had taken out of the oversized, shutter-door closet the night
before for reorganizing. With the signed album propped on the sofa, as if it
were an audience, I shed my alter ego by ripping off my tailored suit coat. The
liberation of no longer feeling dressed for a corporate costume party brought
me back to life. The flick of my neck with each shoulder roll sent my
deep-auburn, iron-pressed locks flying. My hips ground while I stared at the
record. I kicked my stilettos across the room (nearly landing them in the stone
fireplace) before shimmying out of my skirt. My butt plopped onto the sofa with
me wearing nothing but my blouse and panties. The man on the album with the
engaging eyes pulled my attention to him. “Who are you?”
From my
cell phone I typed Deep Trance into Wikipedia before taking a swig of beer. As
the details appeared the malty liquid was nearly sprayed out of my mouth before
being choked back. Clearly Rob, the shop's owner, had no clue as to the value
of the album. Easily it was worth six hundred, not the six I thought I
foolishly paid.
Deep
Trance was the third album by the legendary band Love Machine and marked a
departure from their usual pop sound. The album lacked label support causing
some to believe it was intended to fail in order to offset the financial gains
of other bands. The original cover was to depict the band behind an opaque veil
of psychedelic swirls, but management rejected it, claiming that the photo made
the band unrecognizable. A test run of the rejected cover produced a handful of
copies that were likely destroyed.
Love
Machine! “Holy St. Elvis!” The infamous, chart topping, UK band that barely
caught a break in America? That had to mean—
I grabbed
the album while still a little dizzy from my revelation. “This is signed by
Peter Lane!” In a grand master flash I was standing on the sofa, bouncing and
squealing at the top of my lungs, “Oh, my God, Peter Lane! Peter freaking
Lane!” It was a proud fangirl moment—the flipping out over the scribbling of a
dead legend that sat in my hands. My only embarrassment was over how I ever
missed who the guy was. Thankfully Rob missed it too. With a jump I flipped my
legs out from under me and landed my butt on the sofa. “Well, Peter Lane, I
certainly never expected to meet you, such as it is.”
My
deep-brown eyes were more drawn into the image than ever. Peter's impish gaze
seemed so deep and powerful. His eyes were now a solid black, and my mind
started slipping into their void while a haze clouded my peripheral vision.
The sudden
screech blaring from my phone brought my hand to my heart and snapped me back
into the present. One Direction blasted through the air, clashing with The
Stones. Darla was calling. Sometimes my friends' taste in music scares me.
“Hey,” I
answered. My voice sounded oddly detached.
“Drinks!
Twenty minutes! Mulligan's! Meet us there!” came screaming into my ear.
“What
happened to being too tired?”
“Don't
know. Don't care. I just got a burst of energy. Must mean we are not meant to
be at home tonight. Get on it!”
