I finished my epic story, ‘Borderline Normality.’ Phew! And breathe!

Check out the Short Story Section on the site for a preview and watch this space for final publication of the full-length novel.

Boy, was finishing that book emotionally intense.  It’s a full-on, nail-biter of a read. In the words of one reviewer:

“If the eyes are the windows of the soul, then the mind is surely the portal to madness. Borderline Normality by Lauren Lloyd is a testimony to human emotions. Beautifully written, powerful, thought provoking and terrifying. How far can an individual go in the pursuit of self-gratification. I know these people, I live amongst them, I share some of their characteristics. I am equally bewitched by them and afraid of being them. Another must read from Lauren Lloyd.”

How do you move on from that?

AHA! Readers, I did it.

My new Work-In-Progress is a rollercoaster. Another Psychological Thriller.


I bring you….. THE OHANA

Here is just a teasy excerpt from the beginning.

A tasty aperitif, Ohana-style.





Footsteps in the corridor. I hear purpose in the stride. There’s always purpose.

Some bear cruelty, some enjoy it. A rare few relish it.

The small boys born to torture animals eventually grow up.

I know before the door flies open who owns that stride. I feel his purpose every day. I hear those footsteps in my nightmares.

My senses are on high alert. The adrenalin rush, racing heart, compulsion to vomit. The footsteps are all I think about. He makes it so. I am his prisoner. Despite the games, we both know it. I’m never getting off.

The door flies open. He fills the frame.

Alessandro is incapable of humanity. He’s never needed it. Years yearning for tenderness, sensuality even, but it’s never been part of his DNA. Not even as a child. Some are treated badly. Some are born monsters.

“Celeste.” The way he announces my name induces a terror designed to make reason
disappear. He commands.

I play my role admirably. I deserve an Oscar. Immediate and complete compliance, even though we dress it up in verbal sparring to prove I have fight and am worth the effort. Pseudo-Self-Respect. Anything real was killed off long ago.

“Sandro.” I learn that not shortening his name irritates him. Part of our elaborate ritual. A fake intimacy to feed the ego, along with my reading of his mood and how he should be touched. He trains me impeccably. I’m almost addicted to the attention and the bruises. Alessandro is for juniors, colleagues and other women. I’m special after all. I feel it, I can tell you.

He kicks his shoes off, takes his trousers off, tossing them onto a chair and unbuttons his shirt. He leaves it to flap open, exposing a hirsute, muscular torso, as he throws himself on the bed beckoning to me.

I feel the bile rise.

I’ve been on the Ohana two years now.

One hundred and eighty metres of luxury superyacht, capable of accommodating sixty plus guests in positively palatial surroundings. That’s in addition to the substantial and loyal crew. The family. My family.

Two years of sun, blue skies, blue sea in all directions. Not a cloud or a landmark in sight.

I used to think I was lucky. What woman wouldn’t want a life at sea in a luxury yacht anchored off the East Coast of Sardinia? Are you mad?

Sardinia. At least that’s where Alessandro told me we were once. We could be anywhere now. Where we are doesn’t matter. We don’t exist in this reality. I hate the colour blue. Blue kills the soul. Hell is a luxurious blue prison.

Smoked salmon, caviar, fresh fruit platters, Grade A-Plus cocaine, a cannabis buffet. You have anything you want on the Ohana. Unless you want freedom or the guts to let yourself feel anything.

“Come,” Alessandro pats the bed beside him. I’m a faithful dog.

I know before he asks that I take off my silk robe.

I’m hoping at least I get to keep my bikini on.

I oblige and lie down next to him.


“My Celeste.” He sighs into my hair. “Where would I be without my girl? The one beauty I rely on. Come.” He leans back and intimates that I should lay my head on his chest. My skin throbs from his roughness. “Babbo is irritating the shit out of me. The weekenders arrive tomorrow. He’s done nothing. Useless fuck.”

He spits the words as though poisonous.

He feigns a derisory, affected Babbo-accent.

Weekenders, oooo. He’s an excited, old worm on heat, Celeste. Disgusting maggot! Wants to play the big-man at the rich boy’s party. Make sure the entertainment is sorted Alessandro, make it good, yes? make them compliant, Grade A supplies mind, endless champagne. Fuck’s sake, endless champagne? To soak his decrepit body in so his tiny cock doesn’t fall off? He gets the kudos. I do all the leg work. Ohana would be a steaming pile of shit without me and my contacts.”

He finishes with an emphatic flourish worthy of a King. No, worthy of a God finally stating, 

I am Ohana.

He believes it.


“What time do the Mice arrive?” I stroke his chest, as required. He is calmer at least.

That’s what he calls them, Cats and Mice. Fat Cats are the city bankers, the politicians, the paying corporates.

Mice are the paid guests, brought out to The Ohana by a series of boats and runners for the Party Extravaganza. They don’t know they’re Mice. They think they’re Fat Cat Equals. Lucky souls elevated to heights of luxury for the weekend. Eager, excited, exploited. Students, Young Professionals, Adventurers, Lost Souls. Paid and made to sign disclosure agreements.

What happens on Ohana stays on Ohana. Ohana operates in a bubble. No-one knows it exists. The authorities are paid enough to make it invisible to map or radar.

After the Weekender, the Fat Cats go back to the city, happy and sated, until the next time. The Mice are transported home, happy, rich and silenced.

The Ohana has a few resident Mice. Those with nowhere to go and nobody to miss them… like me. But mostly the Mice go back to their day jobs, whatever they be, happy that they played Fat Cats for a weekend.

“The Mice have started to arrive.” Alessandro throws me a ‘Ohana Task’ he’s made. I don’t even look at it. It will be something about some sexual act, or inviting a third into your twosome, taking a line or inserting a line somewhere exotic. I always manage to lose the worst of them before the time comes.

Mice and Cats have to abide by the same rules.

The Ohana Family has long tendrils for those that disobey. People that break the rules disappear silently.

Mice and Cats must be respectful.

Mice and Cats must be consensual.

If a Cat has to ask how much a Weekender costs, he can’t afford it.

Cats are invite only. The select elite are offered the chance to purchase a ticket. Few decline.

No Camera’s

No Phones, there’s no signal out here anyway.

A Weekender makes the Family how much? On average, five million net, give or take. That’s without the wheeling and dodgy dealing.

Business deals and connections are all part of the package. The Authorities get their cut for their blind eyes.

Who would know what happens out here? Five million per weekend? Not bad earnings.

“You pull Babbo? I pull Sicily?” He puts his hand on my shoulder.

I nod.

“One weekend soon, Celeste, we’ll do the old mule. Slide a knife in, finish him off. He’s weak. He’s old. All this is destined to be ours. Yours and mine. You belong to me Celeste, always. Remember that. I look after you. You’re Family.”


A body turfed into the expanse of blue is a body that disappears. A week is all it takes for the sea creatures to dissolve you and for your bones to disappear. I’ve seen it happen too often. Not much these eyes haven’t seen over the past couple of years.



Does it pull you in?


Drop me a note. Make contact. It is my mission to keep you all entertained.

Feedback and contact are what makes it all worthwhile.


The Ohana by Lauren Lloyd

Copyright © 2021 Lauren Lloyd

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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