A Fashionably Dead Diary: Book 9.5, A Hot Damned Series Extra Read online

  A Fashionably Dead Diary

  Book 10.5, A Hot Damned Extra

  Robyn Peterman

  www.robynpeterman.com

  Copyright © 2017 by Robyn Peterman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover by Rebecca Poole of dreams2media

  Edited by Meg Weglarz

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Diary

  1. Monday

  2. Tuesday

  3. Wednesday

  4. Thursday

  5. Friday

  Diary

  1. Monday

  2. Tuesday

  3. Wednesday

  4. Thursday

  5. Friday

  Diary

  1. Monday

  2. Tuesday

  3. Wednesday

  4. Thursday

  5. Friday

  Diary

  1. Monday

  2. Tuesday

  3. Wednesday

  4. Thursday

  5. Friday

  Epilogue

  Get Your Next Satan Fix!

  Note From the Author

  Book Lists

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  I wrote this book on a whim and a dare. LOL It was incredibly fun to write. If you’re a fan of the Hot Damned Series this is for you! A short little ditty from my warped imagination!

  However, writing the story is only part of the journey to getting a book published. There are many people to thank and I’m a lucky girl to have such a talented and wonderful support system.

  Rebecca Poole—your covers are brilliant as are you. Thank you.

  Meg Weglarz—your editing always makes

  me look better than I am. Thank you.

  Donna McDonald—a gal couldn’t ask for tougher, brilliant and more awesome critique partner. Thank you.

  Wanda and Susan—you are the best-est beta readers in the world. The journey this time was extremely helpful and a ton of fun. Thank you

  .

  Wanda—you rock hard and this one is for you. Thank you.

  My family—none of this would be worth it without you. Thank you for being mine. I adore you.

  Dedication

  For Wanda. I’m pretty sure you know this series better than I do!!

  Prologue

  Dear Lover of Lucifer, Astrid and all things Hot Damned aka Fabulous Reader,

  It’s me, Robyn Peterman—the insane creator of the Hot Damned Series—with a little note for you.

  This is a HOT DAMNED EXTRA! It’s short. It’s snarky, fun and it’s short. If you haven’t read Fashionably Flawed, Book 9, you will not understand this and it has spoilers in it that will mess up your enjoyment of Fashionably Flawed.

  If you haven’t read any of the Hot Damned Series, this will make no sense to you whatsoever. LOL

  Sooooo, there you go. This is just a little ditty that I couldn’t get out of my head and thought the true fans of the Hot Damned Series would enjoy. Astrid and Satan are two of my favorite characters and I could write about them for ev-ah.

  Enjoy. I certainly did. LOL

  xoxo Robyn

  Diary

  WEEK ONE

  Monday

  The first day of the scariest month of my life.

  Clearly I fucked someone over and am now paying the price.

  Getting blackmailed sucks. Getting blackmailed by Satan really sucks—hard.

  But I’m not a weenie or a welsher. I’m a semi-materialistic, Prada lovin’ Vampyre-Demon with a bad attitude and a serious lack of skills in both cheating and writing. If I were a good cheater, I wouldn’t be in this heinous position. I lost and now I have to pay. However, the price might deplete the wavering amount of sanity I have left. Not to mention this disastrous adventure is cutting in on nookie time with the smexy dead guy of my dreams.

  Lack of sex makes me a grumpy Vampyre. Trust me. I’m very grumpy right now.

  So I’m turning to you, Dear Diary, to pour out my inappropriate feelings and murderous inclinations toward a family member who shall remain nameless. Who in the Hell am I kidding? I’m gonna name that son of a bitch over and over on these secret pages. It’s Satan or Lucifer or the Lord of Darkness or the Dark Angel—or, as I like to call him, Uncle Fucker.

  And just so you know, I think he secretly likes being called Uncle Fucker no matter how much he protests or blows shit up. Just sayin’.

  Anyhoo, the Devil is driving me nuts and according to most of my loved ones, I’m already a bit unbalanced to start with. I see this redonkulous venture with my Uncle Satan as a ginormous clusterhump that probably won’t end well. I’m prone to property destruction when I get mad. This hobby does not make me popular as you can well imagine.

  If I tell my mate, Ethan, he’ll get pissed at Uncle Fucker and that will go nowhere fast—or it could go straight to Hell in a fiery explosion. Pun intended.

  That’s why I have turned to you, Dear Diary. You don’t have a mouth as far as I know and if you do, I’ll remove it—violently. Please keep that in mind as I tell you all my secrets. I’ve dealt with talking books and walls and they’re a real pain in the ass. So if you turn out to be one of those, we’ll have a problem.

  But honestly, I don’t like the name Diary. It sounds like dairy, which reminds me of milk—which in turn leads me to start thinking about ice cream. I can’t eat ice cream or anything for that matter since I’m dead. I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this. Being a little sensitive about not being able to ingest anything but blood makes me pissy, to put it mildly. If I have to call you something that reminds me of black raspberry chip ice cream, I’ll tear you to shreds. That would be unfair to you since you didn’t do anything wrong. You feel me?

  Yes, I’m violent, but I’m also fair.

  The reasonable thing to do here is to think of a new name for you. How about Shelia? Do you like that? Please don’t answer. I’ll have to kill you.

  Shelia it is.

  In order to keep at least a tenuous grip on my mental health I’m gonna spill my guts to you.

  You’re welcome.

  So Shelia, this is the farked up conversation that started it all…

  Read it and weep. I did.

  “Apropos of nothing, do you know how to write? Satan inquired. “You’re constantly reading all those trashy romance novels.”

  “Okay, that was kind of random and they’re not trashy,” I told the smug butthole and added an awesome eye roll to annoy him. “They’re fun and why in the Hell would you think I can write? Because I can read?”

  “Well, yes,” Uncle Fucker shot back defensively. “I’m looking for a ghost writer.”

  “For?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at the crazy man.

  “For my autobiography. There’s so much misinformation out there on me. I thought I’d straighten the masses out, by letting them know my point of view on my favorite subject.”

  “And that would be you?”

  “But of course, Satan replied with his typical devastating grin. “I’m the most interesting person I know. We shall discuss this later.”

  “How about we discuss it when Hell freezes over?” I suggested.

  “It’s getting a bit chilly down under,” he told me with a wink.”

  And that’s how we ended up playing ca
rds. Winner takes all.

  Satan won. Satan also cheated.

  I lost. I didn’t cheat. I’m fucking writing his autobiography.

  However, it’s a duet instead of a solo effort much to my great horror. Satan’s been showing at the Cressida House every day and dictating this catastrophe to me. Already the sticky fingered bastard has stolen more of Ethan’s office supplies than I can keep up with.

  Whatever. It’s one month. I can survive one month.

  Shelia… do you think I can survive a month with Uncle Fucker?

  Don’t answer.

  I’ll have to kill you.

  xoxo Astrid

  Tuesday

  The second day I spent in Hell on Earth.

  Dear Shelia,

  Get a freakin’ load of this one. Satan wants to start every chapter with It was a dark and stormy night. I told him he couldn’t plagiarize Snoopy and he came back with a really boring lecture on the original idiot who penned the purple prose. I can’t even remember the dude’s name. That’s how boring it was. I almost fell asleep.

  For your amusement and my own therapy I’m gonna give you a peek into my Hell. Make sure you’re sitting down.

  It went something like this…

  “It was a dark and stormy night.”

  “You’ve got to fucking be kidding me,” I muttered, giving Uncle Fucker an impressive eye roll that would normally earn me an agonizing retribution. Thankfully he let it go.

  “Hmm, let me think,” he said putting his finger to his bottom lip and feigning deep thought. “No. Not fucking kidding at all.”

  “This just isn’t going to fly, dude,” I mumbled, scrolling through the massive manuscript and trying not to laugh or scream.

  “What’s the problem?” Satan inquired, tossing his black Armani sport coat on the leather couch and gifting me with an eye roll of his own.

  Secretly I had to admit his was better, but he’d had millions of years of practice. I’m only thirty.

  “You can’t start every freakin’ chapter of your autobiography plagiarizing Snoopy.”

  “Why not? And for your information, the original wordsmith who penned the terrible purple prose was Edward Bulwer-Lytton in his novel Paul Clifford—not Snoopy.”

  “Mmmkay,” I said, squinting my eyes at him. “But still, Uncle Who-shouldn’t-be-writing-an-autobiography-at-all,” I went on, hoping to talk some sense into him—like that was even possible. “Why would you choose to start every single chapter of your memoir with, It was a dark and stormy night?”

  “Because it was.”

  “Can’t argue with that logic,” I muttered and typed it. “Alrighty, so what’s next?”

  “Should I discuss the month long orgy with the Elizabethan Court or do you think a play by play of when I served up Nero some of his own medicine—you know a little burning, boiling, stabbing and impaling—you get the drift.”

  Sheila, this conversation went on for hours. I’d like to tell you all, but I’m pretty sure my instincts for self-preservation blocked out large portions from my memory. Trust me, I was shocked, appalled and weirdly fascinated. Of course when he got to the part about sawing Caligula in half every other Monday, I was done. Unfortunately he wasn’t.

  “Astrid, Astrid, Astrid,” Uncle Fucker said with a sigh and a shrug. “If one chooses to saw people in half, then one shall be sawed in half on a regular basis once they reach my neck of the Universe.”

  “Pretty sure I just threw up in my own mouth,” I choked out.

  “Impossible,” Satan stated. “You’re a Vampyre. Keep typing.”

  “Fiiinnne,” I snapped, changing the subject abruptly. Even though Caligula was getting his just desserts, I really really really didn’t want to hear the specifics. “How about we start at least one chapter with ‘It was a dark and stormy morning’,” I suggested, staring at the computer screen so I didn’t roll my eyes or set the Devil on fire—setting Satan ablaze never went over well. And damn it, he was correct. As a Vampyre, I didn’t have the luxury of puking, but his story definitely made me regret my lack of ability in the purging department.

  “But it was night,” he countered—for the umpteenth time.

  We were now on chapter eleven of who knew how many and they’d all started exactly the same.

  “I knooooowwww,” I grumbled. “But don’t you think it might be a tad bit boring to start every single chapter the same way?”

  The blast of red lightning that blew up the coffee table was alarming, but I was relieved he didn’t incinerate the couch. I love the couch.

  “I’m gonna take that as a no,” I mumbled, waving my hand and dousing the fire. “Alrighty then, keep going.”

  “King Henry the Eighth was a fat bastard and a total ass. I explained to him countless times that the sperm determines the sex of a child, but he kept beheading his wives regardless of the information.”

  “Umm… are you serious?” I asked, my mouth hanging open.

  “Completely.”

  “You actually want me to write that?”

  “Of course, but add that he smells putrid and every Tuesday in Hell I behead the porcine shit. It’s delightful and I think the world should know that the son of a bitch squeals like a girl every time the guillotine drops. Also, it makes me look good.”

  “How in the Hell did you come to that conclusion?” I asked with a wince as I pictured the scenario.

  “It will make me popular with feminists.”

  I was speechless and he was clearly batshit crazy—although he did have a decent point. As my fingers hesitated over the keys, I observed the Harbinger of Evil eyeing my couch. I love my couch. I typed out the farked up mess and waited for more.

  Sadly he didn’t disappoint.

  Shelia, I don’t have it in me to regurgitate anymore. Thankfully I’m already dead or today would have killed me. You don’t even want to know about the month long orgy Satan participated in. Those Elizabethans were some kinky motherhumpin’ weirdos. I’ll just say this… gross greasy food and sex toys made of horsehair were involved. I’m going to have to bleach my brain to forget that one. If you want to read it you can pull it up on my laptop. BUT, do that after I leave the office. If I see you doing anything un-book like, I’ll have to kill you. Oh, and if you puke while reading, clean up after yourself. I don’t do bodily functions now that I’m dead.

  Have a nice evening.

  xoxo Astrid

  Wednesday

  I had no clue it could get worse—I was wrong.

  Dear Shelia,

  It was a dark and stormy night…

  Motherhumpinbuttboats.

  Douchecanoeswearingassjackets.

  Killmenoworimgonnaripthedevilsheadoff.

  Ifhesaysorgyonemoretimeimgonnablowhimup.

  Buttblastingfuckedupassholesonfire.

  Souleatingassmonkeyswithblacksocksandsandals.

  Hedidnotjustsayheshunglikeahorse.

  Yeshedid.

  Ohmyhellinaugustinaparkahesinsane.

  I’m sorry, Shelia. It’s been a long, long, long, long, loooonnnngggg day with the Devil. My uncle is delusional. Today he tried to list all of his paramours over the years—he’s been alive forever—like for eternity. I fell asleep about 834586437653 names in. He got all pissy and left is a huff. It was awesome.

  I’m truly trying not to swear anymore because my son, Samuel, is a repeater. It’s just fucking alarming to hear a two year old say shit and asshat—you feel me? Sooooo, I’m gonna get some of my potty mouth out on paper. It’s therapeutic… kind of. I actually spoke all of this aloud as I wrote it, but I’m hiding in my closet so I’m safe. I have a fabulous closet.

  If you were a real person I’d let you have at it in my closet because I’m dumping some disturbing shit on you. However, you’re a book… Right?

  Well, just in case you’re not just a book, you can borrow my Birkin bag. BUT do not let me see you with it. Ever.

  Thank you for listening. Don’t speak. I’ll have to kill you.


  xoxo Astrid

  Thursday

  Just another abnormal day in my life.

  Dear Shelia,

  It was a dark and stormy motherhumpin’ night…

  Today Satan stared at himself in every shiny surface in the room as he waxed poetic about waterboarding really bad dudes and dudettes that end up in the Basement of Hell. He spoke derisively for three hours straight about Elizabeth Bathory. I’d never heard of her, but that’s no surprise, I skipped history in high school on a regular basis. History class usually fell during happy hour at Humphrey’s Hamburger House. They had that awesome rabbit turd ice in their sodas. I really miss rabbit turd ice—not as much as I miss chips and extra hot salsa, but a lot. An extra large Coke with that nugget ice was only seventy-five cents during Humphrey’s Happy Hour. I’m sure you can see my dilemma. And honestly, I could have lived for the rest of eternity without knowledge of Elizabeth Bathory and been really okay with it.

  No such fucking luck…

  Old Elizabeth was heinous and trust me, I know heinous. My mother and father take the cake for that honor, but skank-loser Elizabeth was truly horrid. That asswank of a sub-human being used to bathe in blood and freakin’ eat live young girls—thought it would keep her young and beautiful. If her picture on the internet is anything to go by she was smoking some serious crack. She was never put on trial so Satan now puts her on trial on a daily basis. And she has to eat herself. Gotta say as much as that makes me want to gag up my insides—which is impossible since as I mentioned earlier I’m dead—I’m kind of proud of my Uncle for that one.