When I agreed to review Deep Dirty Truth for this blog tour I couldn’t wait to get started. My gibber glands were excitedly secreting gibber juice at a rate I have never experienced before. I was seriously in danger of over gibbering and passing out with all the anticipation.
But there was a problem.
I discovered that I just didn’t have the time to read and review this book. What was I thinking in accepting this tour? What was I going to? I couldn’t let Karen Sullivan, The Lovely Steph® and Anne Cater down.
My gibber glands went into reverse and I suffered what can only be described as ‘reverse gibberage’ and I despaired.
For days I wailed, and, after a cleansing saline flushing of my gibber-pipes, I wondered what I could do to fulfil my responsibility. Eventually I came to the inevitable conclusion: I would have to ask someone else to review this book and post their review as a guest post.
I started to ask around the bloggersphere for someone who could do this book justice. Someone who could get right into the deep dirty truth of what this book was all about. To my utter and crushing disappointment no one answered me. Not one person. Eventually I got to the very end of my contacts, and then I got to the very end of my emergency contacts. No one. After going through all of my emergency emergency contacts, and then exhausting everyone down my street, even flagging down a coach-load of pensioners on an outing to a matinee showing of the Chippendales, I came to the inevitable conclusion…
… I would have to ask him.
I went to the little box mounted on my bedroom wall; the one protected by super toughened, military grade glass, took out the special diamond tipped ultrasonic hammer, sent a silent prayer to the Lord, Freddie, and switched it on. The little thrum vibrating down the handle from the hammer head tickled my hand as I raised it to the glass and struck it.
The glass shattered, revealing behind it a safe, the combination to which was itself locked away in a safe deposit box in Hong Kong. I had arranged to have it couriered to me earlier, so armed with the code I opened the safe. Inside was a little toughened titanium box, locked with a key that was itself locked away in a safe guarded by a highly venomous Black Mamba snake that only one person in the world could safely wrangle. That person, RIP, sent me the key by secure courier and with it I opened the box.
Inside was a number. A phone number.
I dialled it with sweating hands and a terrible sense of dread and trepidation.
It was engaged.
Of course it was. That is because I was dialling the only other person I knew who loves, er, I mean, admires, Steph Broadribb as much as me:
The Beardy Book Blogger.
May your lord have mercy on your reading souls.
But first, a word from the blurb:
“A price on her head, and just 48 hours to expose the truth, and save her family…
Single-mother bounty hunter Lori Anderson has finally got her family back together, but her new-found happiness is shattered when she’s snatched by the Miami Mob, who they want her dead. But rather than a bullet, they offer her a job: find the Mob’s ‘numbers man’ – Carlton North – who’s in protective custody after being forced to turn federal witness against them. If Lori succeeds, they’ll wipe the slate clean and the price on her head – and those of her family – will be removed. If she fails, they die.
With only 48 hours before North is due to appear in court, Lori sets across Florida, racing against the clock to find him, and save her family…”