About K.V. LaMar
The First Breach:
The In God We Trusted series is my vision—conceived from my lifelong curiosity about faith, power, and the hidden forces shaping our world.
I’ve been fortunate to work with cutting-edge AI platforms, including OpenAI’s ChatGPT, GitHub Copilot, and others, as creative collaborators in the drafting process. They acted as brainstorming partners, helping me outline arcs, test pacing, and refine scenes. But every decision—every character motivation, every word that remains on the page—was ultimately reviewed, edited, and approved by me.
My background shaped this work. I began as a hairstylist in Beverly Hills, creating new looks for iconic women and appearing in fashion magazines from Vogue to Glamour. Later, I founded New Image, a beauty-tech company that pioneered digital style previews for salons worldwide. After selling the company, I finally had the freedom to pursue my deepest passion—writing.
Book I, The First Breach, is the beginning of a six-book epic. Like all art, it is both personal and collaborative.
I thank the technology that helped accelerate the process, but even more, I thank you—the reader—for giving these words your time and imagination. Without you, stories never live.
And this is only the beginning. Kirk is very excited about his next series, one that draws from his years behind the chair in Beverly Hills. Confessions with Every Cut—a raw and dark exploration of the secrets shared in salons will be coming soon.
— Kirk LaMar
Confessions with every cut
Dark Romance
Confessions with Every Cut:
People told me beauty school was for girls and gay guys.
I laughed in their faces.
“Really?” I’d say. “So a man in tights with his hands under another man’s crotch on the football field is macho—but me, with my hands in women’s hair, I’m the gay one?”
That usually shut them up.
I wasn’t there to chase men. I was there because women trusted me. First with their beauty. Then with their secrets.
And oh, the things they told me.
At the shampoo bowl, women confessed more than in church pews. Their eyes closed, warm water streaming down their scalp, the hum of dryers masking their words—it was like slipping into absolution. I became their priest with scissors. A confessor with a blow-dryer. A vault with no key.
But not every secret was about affairs or boredom or husbands who couldn’t make them come. Some were darker. Much darker.
One client whispered how she poisoned her lover after he threatened to expose her. Another told me her husband buried her boy-toy in the desert. One Beverly Hills socialite purred that she used sex to blackmail a senator into killing legislation that would ruin her father’s company.
These weren’t just sins. These were crimes dressed up in lipstick and silk.
And then there was the sex.
So much sex.
One woman admitted she met her personal trainer five nights a week, saying her husband thought she was at Pilates. Another described how her pool boy tied her up in the cabana, her screams swallowed by the water jets.