By: Stylo Fantome

Mission Statement

I not only write, I read. A lot. Probably more than is healthy. There are a lot of things I love about self-publishing/indie authors, and a lot of things I'm not a fan of. Just personal preferences, no disrespect meant. So when I decided to self-publish, I made some promises to myself to try my hardest to avoid doing those things I didn't like seeing/happening in other stories. Now I would like to make those promises to you, the reader:

I promise to never leave you hanging. If I write a story with a cliffhanger ending, I will only publish it when the second part is completely written.

I promise that all cliffhanger sequels will be published within 16 weeks – maximum – of the first part. You will never have to wait six months, or a year, or years, for a sequel to any cliffhangers that I might write.

I promise that, while I am an unsigned indie author, I will never raise the price of any part of a series above $2.99. I will not “hook you” with book one, two, and three at $1.99 and/or $2.99, and then suddenly book four is $4.99. I refuse to pay for series that are like that, so I will never do that to you.

I promise that if I am lucky enough and blessed enough to have fans, I will interact and communicate with them as much as possible – you are who this is all for, after all.

If at any point in time, I fail to live up to any of these promises, you have my permission to tar and feather me, beat me, leave me for dead, or worst of all – call me out.

No work is ever really completed, no story ever completely told, but I will always try my hardest to bring you my best.

Thank you for reading.


For the street team ladies.

For fans.

For Jameson.

For my own sociopathic tendencies.

For dirty words and dirtier sex.

For not being afraid.

The Kane Trilogy



“Something is wrong.”

“I am aware of this.”

“She's acting weird.”

“I am aware of this, as well,” Jameson sipped at his coffee, his eyes scanning the newspaper he was holding.

“Something happened, in Paris,” Ang continued pestering him.

“Yes, I think it might have something to do with you showing up with her sister in tow,” Jameson commented, flipping a page.

“Well ..., yeah, but not just that. Something else. Something is wrong,” Ang stressed.

“I am aware of all of this. I'm the one who goes home with her at night, you know,” Jameson reminded him. Ang grumbled, but didn't say anything.

He's becoming immune to me. Hmmm, I'll have to try harder.

“I may have fucked things up in Paris, but you fucked things up in her brain,” Ang finally retaliated. Jameson chuckled, turned another newspaper page.

“She seems to have gotten over that. In fact, she doesn't seem to be angry at me at all, anymore. So really, I'm not sure why I'm here. I've been benefiting from your little mistake every day since I got home,” Jameson said. Ang leaned over the table.

“You've been benefiting from me ever since you two started having sex – I'm the one who got to sleep with her for five years, you know,” Ang said in a mocking voice. Jameson finally glanced at him.

“Angier, it's hard to call dibs on her sexual prowess when I was there first,” he reminded him.

“Get fucked, Satan.”

“I have been – every day.”

“I hope you enjoy all the hard work I put into her, I -,”

“Can we please stop talking about her as if she is a car that both of you like to have sex with, thank you,” Sanders finally interrupted. Both men looked over at him.

Ang had called Sanders, asked to meet with him, to talk about Tate. Of course, Sanders had told Jameson. Jameson was not about to let either of them have any conversations about her without him, so he had invited himself to their little lunch meeting. Ang hadn't been too happy, but Jameson had to give it to him. Tate was Ang's main concern, so for her, he would tolerate being in the devil's presence.

“What is it, exactly, you would like me to do?” Jameson asked, sighing heavily. Ang leaned back in his chair.

“She doesn't listen to me anymore,” he started.

“You two go out, all the time,” Jameson pointed out. It was a fact that did not make him happy.

“Yeah, but she doesn't really talk anymore. We used to talk about everything. Now, it's all ..., fluff,” Ang tried to explain.

“What is fluff?” Sanders asked. Ang shrugged.

“You know, shit. Stuff. Nothing serious. She's fun, and she flirts, and she always wants to be doing something, and it's driving me nuts. I tried to talk to her about that day, in our hotel room, and she just acted like I hadn't even said anything. I get the feeling if I brought up her hospital stay, the same thing would happen,” he told them.

“So, what? You want me to ask her to relive some of the most emotionally painful moments in her life?” Jameson clarified. Ang snorted.

“Fuck off. I just want her to not be a robot anymore.”

Jameson blinked. It was a good description. A sexy robot, preprogrammed to say all the things she thought everyone wanted to hear. He glanced at Sanders, who was staring into his salad. Of the three of them, Sanders was probably the closest to her, emotionally. If anyone knew what was going on, it would be him.