Watermelon Tattoo a High-Octane Thriller by Tony Burnett ➱ Book Sale with Guest Post & Rafflecopter

 

 

Watermelon Tattoo

by Tony Burnett

Genre: High-Octane Thriller, Sapphic Romance 

Naïve but charismatic farm girl, Jacquelyn Benderman, has her life perfectly planned until her town blames her for the accidental death of the local high school's star running back. Feeling like a pariah, she flees to Austin, Texas where her luck seems to change. Her rapid rise to stardom as a blues diva is derailed when an anonymous stalker begins systematically murdering her associates, leaving the police to suspect her. As Y2K approaches, she wrestles with the guilt of falling for her roommate, a Romanian folk singer who survives as a call-girl, while the show band she sings with rehearses for a national tour. Can she protect her new lover from danger? Will the world end at midnight? Is there no hiding place when everyone knows who you are?

What readers are saying about the book:

Burnett has created an unconventional and magnetic character who makes a memorable first impression. Strong characterizations will keep readers engaged in what happens next in this murder tale. — Kirkus Reviews

"Tony Burnett’s novel, Watermelon Tattoo, is one wild ride. This Texas hill country bildungsroman features Jacqui Benderman, a feral, beautiful, and musically talented eighteen-year-old on her journey from daddy Sarge’s watermelon farm to international stardom. Fast-paced, lusty, and chocked full of wry and insightful commentary on self-discovery, the music industry, and religion, this is one great read by a seasoned author.”

—Gary V. Powell, author of Lucky Bastard, Beyond Redemption, and Super Blood Wolf Moon

In his debut novel Watermelon Tattoo, Tony Burnett serves up the fecundity of Texas in temperatures hovering just above triple digits.  Part high octane thriller, part love story, the reader moves fluidly between rural earthiness and Austin's scintillating music scene. We follow Burnett's protagonist Jaqui, a gorgeous 18-year-old with an Ella Fitzgerald voice from a tractor seat to the open mic stage and beyond. Her meth-fueled antagonist is never far behind. The author has an eye for detail, an ear for dialogue, but what's so extraordinary is the novel's ease at blending pacing, plotting, and supple syntax. Spinning cones of dust briefly appeared and disintegrated. This season had ended, for melons, for rain, for redemption.  Burnett's characters all seem set on a kind of liberation, a release from or a rescue of the self. His body-on-body scenes—and be forewarned Burnett writes of coupling in myriad forms—are breathtaking, some down and dirty, others beautifully transcendent.  A thriller that Don Winslow would not be ashamed to claim, the pages turn by themselves.

--Stephanie Dickinson, author of Razor Wire Wilderness

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Family Strife 

Sunday dinner, the family all together in a Norman Rockwell print, but the photographer was too lazy to use the dark room. The negative was on display. Dad, mom, son, but no pop culture trivia, no “how was school”, “ what’s going on at work”, “how about those Cowboys?”.  Obligatory Sunday dinner is how Langley felt about it. Dad was a virtual ghost in his absence. Mom was struggling just to function. Langley had a life no one cared about. Obligatory. Dad had hired help so Mom wouldn’t have to care for the house. Obligatory. Mom graciously accepted even though not being able to be a homemaker was eating away what was left of her essence. Obligatory. Langley squelching the rumors of Dad’s affair with Jeanine Buckholtz. Obligatory since Wednesday, anyway, when he’d stopped by his dad’s office to…  to what?  He couldn’t remember.  It didn’t matter now.  

It was dark, the blinds open. He was halfway to the building when he saw Jeanine come behind and rub Dad’s shoulders. His dad took her arm and pulled her into his lap, kissed her mouth and slid his hand under her skirt. Langley turned back toward the truck, angry, not because his dad was cheating on his mom, not because he had abandoned his family. It was too late for that. Langley was pissed because they didn’t even have the decency to close the blinds.

The vocal void at the dinner table was deafening. The more there was to say, the quieter it became. Screw it, Langley thought. He had important news and nobody wanted to hear it. 

“Sara’s pregnant,” he said. It’s not like the room could get any quieter. His dad took another bite of roast. From the corner of his eye Langley saw one side of his mother’s mouth crack a wistful smile.

“When’s she due?” His mother mumbled.

“Not sure,” Langley said. “She’s only like six weeks in. We’re going to the doctor on Wednesday.”

“I’ll talk to the pastor,” his dad said, “schedule a wedding for the end of the month.”

“We’re not getting married,” Langley stated.

“Yes you are.”

“No, not now, anyway. We’ll see after the baby is born.”

“The baby needs a father. You can’t just have a bastard child!”

“I’m the father. I’ll make that decision.”

“You have to get married. It’s the only right thing to do.”

“Don’t fucking talk to me about what’s right. You won’t, can’t, tell me what to do.  You’re in no position!”

Before he could react Langley felt his father’s fist against his jaw. It shocked him more than it hurt.

“Stop it!” Marjorie said, “Please, this should be a happy time.” She began to cry, Langley went to his mother, ignoring his father, who seemed to be in shock from his own actions.

“It’s okay, Mom. Everything is going to work out. I should leave now, though.” 

“Langley, wait,” his dad said.

Langley turned on his father. “Right now, I’m out of here. I’m not talking to you. I’m pretty sure you don’t want to hear what I have to say.”

Excerpt HOT

It was a perfect song for this trip. Sara was singing along with “Ball of Confusion”. Loud. It didn’t seem to matter to her that she couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. She knew all the words. Her head was rocking side to side with each aggressive phrase, her hand was slapping the steering wheel and she had the little Civic pushed up around 80 down Highway 71. Langley was fixated. His love for her was the one thing he wasn’t confused about. He worried about leaving his mom alone for the weekend, if she was alone. What was going on with his dad? Should he ask? Why did Sara just forgive him so easily for the previous weekend? She seemed to be taking it really well. She did insist on taking her car and camping gear, probably some sort of control issue. It may be just  because his gear hadn’t been out of the closet since he was 14. What worried him the most was he wasn’t sure what his relationship with Sara was. Did she feel the connection like he did or were they just having a good time? He didn’t know the answer and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“Hey, boy!” Sara swatted his leg. “Are you going to kill us some game for dinner or should we stop before we get there?”

“Didn’t bring my rifle,” Langley said.

“Can’t you just chase down a rabbit or two?”

“If you’ll clean and cook ‘em.”

“Hamburger sounds good,” she said, “and a lot less work.”

“Yeah, but soon, I’m starving.” 

“Next town, whatever’s open. We’ll play dinner roulette.”

“No chains?”

“No chains.” She slowed to 60. Neither one of them liked fast food and had decided early on not to support corporate chains. They always ate local. Sometimes it made for an interesting experience. Sometimes, on the main highways, it was hard to find a place. This time they were lucky. The burgers were pretty good but a side of fried sweet potatoes and pecan pie for dessert really topped it off nicely.

“I’m too full,” Sara said. “Can’t move. You’ll have to carry me.”

“Hey! I’m full too. The best I can do is a piggyback ride.”

“Have to do, I guess,” Sara said. So they left the burger bar with her mounted on Langley’s back swatting his butt with her fishing hat. A table of teenagers near the back began hooting at them.

“Yee-haw,” Sara yelled.

They entered the state park in time to find a spot by the water and set up camp before dark.  The RV spots were full but there were enough tent camping spots left that their space was secluded.  They took a dip at the swim beach then walked over to the pier. Getting wet and feeling the breeze from the lake cooled them. The sliver of sun on the horizon burned blood red.

“This is magic,” Sara said “This is why I’m a Wiccan, a pagan. This, this is holy.” She moved to where their bodies were touching. Langley turned and held her in his arms. As they faced each other their bodies fit together like two parts of one object. “This, the way we fit, this isn’t an accident,” she said.

“It feels good,” Langley said, right before Sara covered his lips with hers. As they kissed, Langley smelled the lake water in her hair, felt her fingers in his back pulling him to her, felt his body temperature rise, and her heart beat quicken against his chest.

“Let’s get back to camp,” Sara panted in Langley’s ear. She took his hand, led him off the pier and into the darkness.

Back at camp Sara retrieved a fluffy comforter from the trunk of her car and spread it on the ground at the edge of the campsite near the water. The sun had gone down and the stars reflected off the lake. Sara faced the water and raised her arms to the sky. Langley didn’t know what she was doing.

“Can you help please?” She asked.

“What do you want?”

“Take off my dress.”

Langley stood behind her, reached under her  sundress and slid his hands along her body as the fabric gathered on his arms. He lifted it over her head. She turned to him and smiled then knelt on the blanket in front of him, removed the top half of her bathing suit, then grabbed the waist band of his and pulled him close.  She laid her cheek against his stomach as she slipped her thumbs under the elastic and rolled the shorts down below his buttocks.  She then stretched the front out and down to clear his erection. She let them drop and reached for two handfuls of butt to pull him against her face. She rubbed her face and cheeks against him, nuzzling around and under the protrusion.

“Shouldn’t we get in the tent? What if someone sees us?” Langley asked. His voice sounded foreign to him.

“Are you scared?” She asked.

“Well, no.”

“Doesn’t the breeze feel good on your skin?”

“Yeah.”

“You look like Apollo in the moonlight. Let’s stay out here where we have room to move. We’re not good with cramped places, remember?” Without waiting for an answer, she took a testicle in her mouth and rolled it around with her tongue. It was settled.

“Lay down,” Sara instructed. Langley stretched out on the quilt. “No, on your stomach.” Langley flipped over. He no longer had any control of the situation. Sara shucked her bikini bottom and straddled his hips. She leaned forward enough to place her finger nails at his hairline.  Gently but firmly she pulled them down his neck to the center of his back, spreading her fingers just below his shoulder blades. The goose bumps on his skin let her know she was getting through to him. When she reached his waist line, she balled her fists and leaned into the sinewy muscles beside his spine, pushing back toward his shoulders. Once she reached his neck, she repeated the procedure, several times. Each pass extracted a moan of pleasure from Langley. As she leaned forward after several strokes she realized she was leaving a dampness on his butt. She made no attempt to hide it. In fact she leaned into it. Langley’s moans lengthened. On the final upstroke Sara opened her hands and slid them out along Langley’s arms, examining the muscles and tendons by touch. She leaned over and breathed the scent of Langley’s neck as her pebble hard nipples danced on his skin. She left a streak of wet below his waist as she slid down to meld with him. The humid words in his ear, “You can turn over now,” and she dismounted.

They didn’t notice the coyotes singing as they frolicked in the moonlight. The breeze no longer felt cool against their glowing skin.  They were ravenous in their love without a thought to man nor beast outside their conjured world.

The tent they had so meticulously assembled got no use. They had neither the energy nor desire to untangle once spent. They cocooned in the comforter, legs laced, on the shore and drifted into the decadent oblivion of post-coital bliss.

Excerpt 3

The rain subsided to a slimy mist by the time she dropped off Katrine. She navigated her coupe through the deserted downtown streets. The girl’s offer seemed to fall in the “too good to be true” category Jaqui had recently become suspicious of. How did Katrine benefit? Well, Jaqui owned a car. Cool, no problem, She would be glad to help with rides. Drinking buddies? Buddies of any kind, okay with Jaqui. Even the musical collaboration seemed like something that could be mutually beneficial. Katrine was undoubtedly overflowing with talent and passion. Still, Jaqui felt something more, something inexplicable, almost desperate in Katrine’s offer. Maybe, Jaqui thought, it was her own paranoia.

Jaqui pulled her car between the two dilapidated fourplexes to the alley parking area. The rain had all but stopped and a sliver of a moon hung behind a thin fog directly above. Jaqui turned off her ignition and sat for a moment staring at the entrance to her ground floor apartment. Something was off kilter. The tiny blond hairs on her forearm stood at attention. Her keys, instead of finding her palm, spread between the fingers of her right hand, a rudimentary weapon. Her dad’s lessons in self-defense spun through her brain as her pulse increased. Why? What is it? Then she realized, she had left her porch light on knowing it would be dark when she arrived home. It probably just burned out, she figured, but her body wouldn’t buy it. She scanned the parking lot and jogged to the door. When she inserted her key into the deadbolt she found it unlocked. She always locked it. The doorknob, though, was locked. She had to use her key to open it. Taking a deep breath and crouching, she flung the door open hard against the wall. The tiny apartment was only a living area, a small kitchen partitioned off by a breakfast bar and a single bedroom that you had to go through to get to the bathroom. The only light on was in the bedroom, not how she left it. She felt electricity coursing through every cell. She left the door opened back against the wall. 

“Who’s here,” she hollered. Anyone here? Come out!” 

The rooms were silent. She turned on the living room light and crossed to the kitchen. Reaching over the bar, she retrieved a dirty carving knife from the sink and held it against her waist as she approached the bedroom. The door was partially open. She kicked it wide. No one. She checked the bathroom, pulled back the shower curtain. All clear. She went back, closed the front door and secured the deadbolt.

Still holding the knife, she began to investigate. Someone had been here. The closet door was open as was the medicine cabinet. The doorknob had been locked. She checked the windows, both locked. Someone had a key. She looked for clues. The kitchen appeared undisturbed. On the coffee table in the living room the magazines were neatly stacked, not her doing. The bed was still unmade but she wasn’t sure exactly how she’d left it. The closet, however, was a different story. The hanging clothes were pushed to one end, boxes were scattered. Her prize pair of exotic royal python boots had been removed from their box. A pair of her nylon lace panties, that she was fairly certain had been left on the bathroom floor, was stuffed into the top of one boot. When she pulled them out she found them soaked in a snot-like liquid. She realized it wasn’t snot and it was still warm. She dropped them in the toilet and flushed. As they swirled away she fell back against the door as bile began to erupt from her stomach.

She thought about calling Katrine. Instead, she wedged a chair under the front doorknob and sat down at the kitchen table. Her hands were trembling as she poured herself a triple shot of bourbon. She downed it, placed the carving knife under her pillow, crawled under the sheets and cried herself into a fitful sleep.

Can you, for those who don't know you already, tell something about yourself and how you became an author?

Sometime around the third grade I wrote my first short story. I remember how the actual physical act of writing was slow and torturous for me. That is about when I realized that those 26 letters and a couple of dozen symbols held magic! The story I wrote was a romance set on the beach but I don’t remember much else about it other than there was something in it that required I hide it from my parents. I kept it buried in my closet and took it out occasionally to reread it, hence, my first experience with revision. I must have worked on it for several months, hiding it deeper in my closet with every revision. There was a horse in it, the story, not the closet. Although since I was about 9 years old there may have been a horse in the closet too! That’s what my family did - raised horses, not necessarily in closets but some of the stalls were pretty small. Where was I? Oh yeah. Well anyway, while I was at school just before summer vacation my Mom decided she would clean and organize my closet as a birthday present. She found the story. Therapy was discussed, as was punishment. Ultimately I was told not to do it anymore and I was no longer allowed unsupervised playtime with my girl cousins. At this point my writing career could have gone either way. I could have obeyed my parents or found better hiding places. I guess you figured out which path I took. I was a rebellious little $#!t I wish I could remember what I wrote in that story! I’m fairly certain I could get it published in an online lit journal.

What is something unique/quirky about you?

I bought a white ‘73 Chrysler Newport at a car auction for $200. I took out all the windows and windshield, welded the doors shut, and drove it in the demolition derby several times. My oldest kids were in elementary school at the time and before I entered the competition I went to the Habitat for Humanity store and bought the brightest paint they had. I let the kids put their art all over the car. Once I won (last car moving) and received enough prize money to cover the cost of the car.

Tell us something really interesting that's happened to you!

I was kicked out of a motorcycle gang for not being a big enough jerk. I’d explain more but I’m thinking of using it in a story.

What are some of your pet peeves?

C’mon, let’s keep this positive!

Where were you born/grew up at?

I was born in Clute, Texas, home of the Mosquito Festival, in the shadow and fog of Dow Chemical Company and its affiliates and suppliers. It’s known as Daddy Dow to the hundreds of thousands who work there and most likely the instigator of my Parkinson’s Disease. I grew up in Brazoria , a little town about 12 miles up the diseased colon known as the San Bernard river.

What are you passionate about these days?

The world seems to be going insane with the hate and violence we perpetrate on the innocent and downtrodden. I’m appalled at the number of mass shootings, never-ending wars, and elected officials who have no connection with their constituency but vote their donors' agenda without considering the consequences. If we can’t solve these issues I’m afraid we;re done for!

What do you do to unwind and relax?

I have a saying. “I haven’t been in a hurry since 1986.” I’m pretty laid back most of the time.

When did you first consider yourself a writer?

Being a writer has always been a part of who I am. I’ve gone through phases where I concentrated on different genres. For instance, I spent 20 years in Austin as a performing singer-songwriter. That’s where a major part of the setting for Watermelon Tattoo came from. I’ve also written poetry and nonfiction. I wrote a column in regional newspapers promoting organic gardening, green building, and off-grid living.

Which of your novels can you imagine being made into a movie?

All the fiction I write has a cinematic component. I visualize the story then write what I see.

As a writer, what would you choose as your mascot/avatar/spirit animal?

The peregrine falcon. It’s fast and deadly efficient like my best antagonists.

Award winning poet and songwriter, Tony Burnett is the Executive Director of Kallisto Gaia Press. He served as President of the Writers’ League of Texas from 2013 to 2017. His poetry, short fiction, and environmentally focused nonfiction appear in over 70 publications. His previous books include the story collection, Southern Gentlemen and a full-length poetry collection, The Reckless Hope of Scoundrels. He resides in rural central Texas with his trophy wife and several rescue dogs who pay him no mind unless hungry. His hobbies include poking wasp nests with short sticks and wandering aimlessly about. He hopes you enjoy meeting his imaginary friends.

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