Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 61

A Little Bit o' Het

So...

First of all, I present Eric Burdon and the Animals, doing "House of the Rising Sun", because OMG THEY WERE SO DAMNED YOUNG. I always imagined Eric looking, well, sort of thirty-ish and scarred and tough, but this kid looks barely young enough to be smoking behind the gas station, and his band mates aren't any older.  (Yes, I know they're lip-syncing for the video, but dammit, that kid had to sing this song at least once, right?)

So, since they won't let me embed it in my blog, go see it on YouTube-- it's fairly amazing.

I've actually had my head pretty far down the creativity rabbit hole--honestly, it makes it hard to blog.

But I  HAVE finished a book called Seasons in the Sun (tentatively) and its the first in a series of what should be seven books set mostly in the minor league baseball team called the Sacramento Mud Wumpets.

No, I don't know what a Mud Wumpet is, but seriously, I'd go see them play.

Anyway--

Since the book won't be out for a while--and, yes, it's my first time writing het in a while--I thought I'd give you a snippet of it, just to, you know, get your toes wet.

Also, nothing interesting at all is going on inside my head except knitting and writing the fourth Manny book.

So, here you go.

Mud Wumpets. Enjoy.

*  *  *

August Mortimer eyed the rookie pitcher at the mound in the first inning of the practice game and tried to decide if he had enough juice in his arm to beat the little bastard up.
He stretched, he jiggled, he rubbed, and then he wound, tight, lifting his leg to counterbalance, throwing his arm out, sweeping his leg back and…. Boom! Boofuckinyah!
The rookie cried, “Ouch!” and dropped the ball, and Gus chuckled to himself.
“Gee, Mr. Mortimer, I know you gotta be getting tired, so don’t worry about bringing the heat. We’re just practicing today, right?”
Little prick. Who in the hell was “Mr. Mortimer” anyway?
To his left, Dash Brosnan snickered from first base. “Gee, Augie, you didn’t have to sizzle the poor little bastard.”
Augie was his nickname—the one they put on the stat board when he was batting. Only the people who knew him before pro-ball called him Gus.
“Kid called him Mr. Mortimer,” Roscoe Tennyson drawled from third.
“Jesus. Fry the fucker.”
Gus pulled up a corner of his mouth, narrowed his eyes, and showed his teeth. “Sure.”
Batter? What batter.
By the end of the game—held early because it was officially pre-season--little Elvis Macklemore had to go ice his hand and Rufus Cowell, the pitching coach, was up in Gus’s grill.
“That was mean,” he said, spitting with practiced ease on the concrete of the dugout. He didn’t chew tobacco anymore—just gum. But Rufus was in his fifties, grizzled and sardonic, with jowls and a day’s growth of graying stubble at any time. Gus figured he just liked to spit.
“He called me Mr. Mortimer.”
“Oh, well then. By all means cook your arm and poke it with a stick to shut him down. That’s adult, Methuselah. That’ll get you through another season.”
“Fuck off.”
“Go ice your arm and apologize to the rookie.”
Gus grunted. “He’s too sweet.”
“Make sure he stays that way.”
Fine, fine. Wasn’t the kid’s fault Gus was in a mood. 
He overtook the kid on the way to the locker room. “Ice, kid,” he muttered. “Here—I’ll go to med bay and get you some.”
Kid was sweet looking—not tall, but short like his best friend in college. Curly hair, brown eyes, a sweet little pursed mouth. Yeah. Poor Tanner, following Jeremiah around, loyal as a puppy.
Gus owed that memory.
“Did I say something to make you made Mr—“
“Augie,” he bit out. “Kid—don’t you get it? The minute you take the scholarship, take the paycheck, take the material gain for that thing you love, the clock starts ticking. Nobody likes to hear it—you understand?”
Elvis bit his lip and nodded. “Sorry, si—Augie.”
“You’re straight out of high school, aren’t you, Elvis?”
“Two years of junior college before I took the draft,” he confirmed.
 Gus sighed. “Well, don’t let old bastards like me bother you. It’s a good game. Just, you know. Treat it with respect.”
The kid didn’t smile, but some of the kicked-puppy look faded and Gus felt marginally better.
“Stay there. I’ll go get ice.”
A half an hour later the kid was still sitting in the corner, looking surreptitiously at the guys in the shower, and Gus felt a sort of yank in his chest.
Tanner used to look like that.
He thought about going to say something to him—thought about what it could mean if he spoke up, said, “Hey, it’s okay—don’t grab anybody’s ass, but nobody’s going to know if you don’t tell them.”Thought about how that might freak the kid out more.
Just about the time Gus thought, “Hey, I should text Tanner and find out,” he checked his phone and smiled.
Dinner w/me and Jer Saturday. Bring dessert. Inviting Juniper too. Well, it made sense. The season began in earnest next week. The blessings of a really early Easter and spring training were an extra week on the schedule to have practice games.
Presumptuous much? But Gus was smiling. Haven’t said hi since Christmas!
You could text too, you arrogant fuck.
Course I’ll come over. I might even bring dessert.
Did you see the thing about Juni?
Gus grimaced. Fourteen years, they’d managed to steer clear of each other. Of course, for some of those years, Gus had been playing for Atlanta, but for the last few months, he’d been here in Sacramento, within spitting distance of the first girl he’d ever loved.
Seeing her at Tanner and Jer’s small private Christmas party every year had burned. A different guy, every year, every one of them with glasses and a beard—hell, the last one had a man bun.
All of them wide-eyed at meeting the great Jeremiah Westfall, blind to the treasure at their side.Or at least that’s how Gus saw it—he really was not excited by any of the guys she’d brought in to replace him over the years.
Juni, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be missing him at all.
Yeah. I heard. We’re grownups. We’ll deal.
You’re children, but you’ll still deal. Saturday, seven. See you then.
Kk
Well, good. He’d ask Tanner then, about talking to that poor scared kid. He’d read enough accounts of athletes coming out after their careers to know that one person—one good friend—could be the difference between a decent career and a whole lot of misery.
Watching Tanner and Jeremiah over the last nineteen years had hurt his heart.
He looked at his phone again and thought, You know where she’s working. You can be in town in time to see her before you meet at Tanner’s.
What would the purpose of that be?
You could see her, moron.
Well, yeah.
Alone.
He could ask her how she’s doing. How’s life been treating her. If she managed to find the right manbun to make her happy.
If she’d taught anybody to fix their pitch using physics lately.

He could hear her voice in his head, frustrated, near tears actually, as she sat in the stands of the stadium at Davis... 
Seasons in the Sun
by Amy Lane

Using the Swift

So, I posted a video on FB yesterday of Mate, holding a skein of yarn over his two hands, while Chicken wound the yarn into a ball on the winder. (You can find the video HERE if you follow me on FB.)

One astute FB reader saw the swift in the background and asked why Mate was holding the yarn instead of using the swift.

Well, the thing is, while the swift is invaluable when you have a smooth skein of yarn, if there's a flaw in the skein--if even one strand crosses over-- you can end up with a big, expensive disastrous mess of yarn on your hands.  There were some flaws in the skein, so Mate used his hands so he could move the yarn in a way that would keep it from tangling.

Anyway, I had the swift set up so I could wind the skeins for one project--a big project--so I wound fourteen skeins.

Or, well, I wound eleven skeins last night, and left three for tonight, as well as two more for other projects since I had the apparatus out.

And there I was, winding my own business, (hee) when Squish asked me if she could do it for me.

Now ZoomBoy tries this, and he often, well, fails miserably. When he can get his groove on, he does okay, but if a problem comes up, he tangles, and then he gets frustrated and things go to shit.

But Squish--she enjoys the relaxation, but she also knows how to think before a problem arises.

So anyway. She wound all my yarn.

And enjoyed it.

And as a treat-- and she really DID think of this as a treat-- she wound the skein of yarn with the peacock feathers worked into it that B.A. Tortuga gave me at RT. I've been thinking about B.A. this week, and I just wanted the yarn wound in case I thought of a good thing to do with it.

I'm sure the perfect project is out there.

So, yes. Winding yarn. It's a skill, along with knitting, crocheting, and spinning, just one you don't think about a lot.

It's like doing stretches before learning to dance, or writing fanfic before launching into an original creation--it's a quiet skill, a preparing one.

Relaxing and productive and--according to Squishy-- just a little bit fun.

Yarning

https://www.facebook.com/amy.lane.167...
So I've always been pretty clear about the difference between my writing and my knitting. 
With my writing, I start a project, work to the end, finish the project, and find a place for it.
I feel like I have to do this--it keeps me productive, and, let's face it, when you're working from home--with all your favorite distractions-- having a productivity schedule and keeping to it can be critical.  
But with my knitting?  Any damned thing I want. 
I probably have fifty projects in my archives--and don't even get me talking on my sock archives. 
If I get depressed-- SHINY! If I go on a trip--SHINY! If I need a specific type of knitting for a specific event--SHINY!  
I follow the shiny all the way down the yarn-hoarders hole, and damn the torpedoes!
Which brings me to the thing I'm working on right now.
In a way, it's one of the most frustrating things about myself.  Bar none.
I know what works. In knitting and writing--I know how to follow a pattern. I know what formula works. I've written the formula before just like I've followed the pattern, and the results have been pleasing.
The problem is...
I go off script. 
I LIVE off script.
"Oh yes, you should never combine variegated colors of anything because it's just not going to look like you want it to."
"Don't kill the third person or vampire in a trio."
"Why would you make a sweater without a ruler, or an instruction book?"
"Wait--he's NOT going to end up with the guy he fell in love with as a fourteen year old in a rock band?"
"I don't even want to know how you think those colors go together."
"Oh for Christ's sake, Amy--you KILLED OFF BOTH MC'S!"
"You do realize that if you wash that, one of those colors is going to shrink and the other one... won't."
"Did you have to kill the fucking horse?"
"You know... there's LOTS of patterns out there for what you're trying to do. Lots. So many. You have no idea. Here... links. Lots of links. So many to choose from.So... many... "
"I have never heard of anyone who bought a book because of a coaster."
And so on. *sigh*  
I irritate myself with my inability to stick to the script or listen to reason.
And yet...
I don't.
And sometimes, this works out well. I mean, Beneath the Stain, Keeping Promise Rock, Bonfires--I'm proud of those books, and they all broke some sort of rule about romance--the MC's MUST end up together if they start out together, NO cheating, EVERYBODY needs to be under thirty-- dude.  
The circular shawl I posted pictures of, the shawl with all the ribbon yarn Chicken modeled, the big shawl with the Celtic knot cable, and, hey, all those adorable K-Pop mitts I made last year--those were pretty appealing.  (I spent an embarrassing amount of time looking for the picture of Chicken wearing the ribbon-yarn shawl. Alas, the pictures are gone, which is too bad. I really liked it))
And sometimes the off-script thing DOESN'T work.
Immortal, for example. Didn't really sell. At all. Because it was sad. And written in dialect. And for Christ's sake, Amy, do you know anything about romance at ALL?
And I can't for the life of me explain my devotion to these projects--whether in fiber or prose--except to say that I love them deeply, unreasonably, and madly. 
And this shawl is no exception.  
I'm calling it Storm Surge, because the colors really are turbulent, but when all is said and done, the whole shawl really should look like the ebb and flow of disparate tides on the same shore.
So there you go.
We had soccer this weekend, Mate's modeling Lederhosen, I wrote 8K in two days...
And I've been thinking about my friends in Florida, and Praying for the best for them...
And crocheting Storm Surge. 

Three Cat Lounge

I have to admit, the last week has been a little timed out. ZoomBoy has been auditioning for EVERYTHING, and while on the one hand, 'm damned proud of him, on the other hand, I'm remembering the old days when Chicken and Big T had different daytime destinations and every body had something different after school.

Yeah-- not as easy as it sounds.

Anyway--

I'm tired (no nap!) but excited--I started the fourth Manny book, and the second Bonfires comes after that.

So, busy.

But not too busy to poke fun at my cats, who are draped over the furniture like watches in a Salvatore Dali painting.

And the dog, who can photobomb everything.

So I'll leave this meme with you, and let's hope tomorrow is less hurrying, less hurricane, and more rest and healing for the folks already battered.

Night everybody.

Meme Day

 Okay-- so Wednesdays are my longest days, so I'm going to take the easy way out of the blog tonight.

First we have homemade memes.  Yeah, I know--I got a little excited about the editing function on my phone. I have a very little brain.

But Dewey and Mrs. Poopy Butt-hole were willing models, so enjoy.

And I posted about a zillion pictures of Squish modeling the Pi shawl.  I was planning to keep this, but once it was done, I had the perfect gift recipient in mind, so I think I'm going to keep the scrap thing I'm working on now and which will look horrible on me and anybody else but I will love with my scattered little heart.

My color sense is THE. WORST.  I'm not even kidding.

So enjoy the kittehs, and enjoy Squish. Those of you on the east coast, stay safe and warm and dry.

Those in the Pacific Northwest, stay out of harms way.

Those of you fighting for justice, for DACA, for healthcare, for civil rights--you're not alone.

And for everyone made scared and sad by the steaming pustule on a warthog's dingleberry that cheated its way into power?  Take a deep breath. He's got to pop soon.

Take Me to the Church

So, somebody on my FB group posted that little bit of Justice League Batman...

And suggested (none too subtly) it might be time for some fanfic.

And since the world is scary, and I'm hoping everybody out there is safe and well, this will be my little gift to you, to maybe make the world not so awful for a while.


*   *   *

"Clark, you're going to wear a hole through the carpet."

He loved Diana, but she could be irritatingly pragmatic.

"I'll replace it," he muttered.

"At least this time you know--"

"Undercover," Clark rasped. "Yes. I know. Petty criminals, dirty bombs, idiot scumbag white supremacists. I remember the op."

Diana let out a sigh. "He's been under less than a week," she said patiently. "He's miked, remember?"

Clark remembered. He'd taken a week off of work, faked pictures of him and Selena Kyle in the Bahamas, and spent his spare time trying to take out scumbags who, if everything was good and right and just in the world, would have blown their own damned selves up without hurting any innocent people.

But if everything was good and right and just in the world, he wouldn't be working with a bunch of people who's distinguishing feature had been losing somebody they loved. Everybody, it seemed, except Clark.

Who'd almost lost Bruce about six-dozen times.

"I know he's miked," Clark muttered. He'd been on the com the night before, and had heard Bruce's sotto voce "Goodnight, Clark," whispered in a place where confessing to loving another man could get a dirty bomb shoved up your ass. "I also know we need to do this by the book. It can't be a Justice League save, or the human government will never get their shit together and stop this... this... vile bilious abomination it will gain popular momentum--"

"I don't get that," Diana interrupted. She sounded disgusted and irritated--out of character, but understandable.

"I'm at a loss," Clark agreed. "It's... " He grunted. "But then, we're all genetically enhanced humanoids who let ourselves be led by the dumbest human on planet earth."

"He's a good leader," Diana returned mildly.

"He's the best human I know." Clark slumped forward and rubbed the back of his neck.

"He's right here!" Batman growled over the intercom. "For Christ's sake, give me two hours and stop acting like I'm dead."

Hal and Barry both let out snorts behind them, like oh it was unheard of for anyone in the Justice League to have to pick up little pieces of Batman and sew him back together.

"Great," Clark snapped, out of patience. "I'll be patrolling."

"Uh-oh. Clark--uh, that's... I mean, weren't you going to take a day off when he was--"

But Clark was gone, leaving a sonic boom that shook the Eye-in-the-Sky as he flew for the heavens.

*  *  *

"He's where?" Bruce asked, nearly six hours later, from the BatCave.

"Patrolling," Diana told him. Her usual grim irony slipped away, and she managed to look compassionate. "He was really worried. You were sort of rough on him in front of us."

"He can't worry about me all the time!" Bruce snapped, but inside he was quailing. He felt bad. "I mean it was a simple undercover job--"

"Do you have any idea how nerve wracking it is?" she snapped back. "You're the only one of us who can really go do the whole undercover thing. You and Nightwing--and he hates us. So you disappear for weeks, the whole world, literally the world, Bruce, thinks you're getting laid, and he's... here. Listening for you to give an S.O.S., and we all know you'd have to be dead before you got to the first S."  She sighed. "It's just... hard.  And aren't you calling a little late?"

Bruce rubbed the back of his neck, which was raw from the scrubbing. "I, well, I sort of needed the full Silkwood," he confessed, embarrassed. "And some nuclear blood cleansing. And some other stuff Alfred had to mortgage his soul to get."

"You... you were...sick with radiation poisoning?" She stammered.

Oh God. "Not full blown," he rationalized.

"You... you asshole!"

And she shut down the com.

Bruce coughed through shredded lungs and checked his hand for blood.  Nope. Thank God. That part was over with.  He'd been sick as a dog by the time he'd rounded up the last of the thieves and could name the illegal activities that would get the white supremacists thrown in jail.  Somebody hadn't put a lead wrapper on the bomb. As he'd laid in the infirmary, letting Alfred cleanse his blood from the inside out and hoping his hair didn't start falling in clubs, he'd consoled himself with the fact that most of the white nationalists would probably die of radiation poisoning within their first few months of prison.

No, he wasn't going to fund the same treatment for them--he was having Superman's platelets injected into his bloodstream, dammit, and nobody had Clark Kent inside them but Bruce Goddamned Wayne.

And when he'd come to, all he'd wanted was to tell Clark that he was fine. That Clark could come down now. They could have a mini-vacay in the BatCave. No sunshine, sure, but there was a lovely waterfall, an excellent view of Gotham from the ramparts, and a really amazing giant bed that took a lot of punishment and was ready for some more.

Bruce had missed him, dammit!

Missed him like he missed breathing without pain, actually. He coughed some more. Time for another injection.

Which hurt like a motherfucker, dammit. 

Still, as Alfred finished pumping the concoction into his weary veins, he felt a little more human.

"Would you like me to call him, Sir?" he asked kindly.

Bruce felt absolutely wretched as he shook his head. "No, that's okay, Alfred. He'd miked. If he really cared, he'd come down."

"Well..." Alfred let out one of those sighs that told Bruce he wasn't adulting like most of the human race.

"Spit it out, Alfred." Bruce could not possibly feel any worse.

"Maybe you hurt his feelings."

Oh. Crap. Crap crap crap.

"I, uh--"

"Maybe if he knows you were sick and didn't call him, you hurt them more."

Oh no. This was so bad.

"I... uh... do you think I need, uh..."

"Yes, sir. You need to apologize."  Alfred said it so gravely, Bruce wanted to smack him.

"I know how to apologize!" he snapped. Then he sighed. "But this needs to be bigger than an apology."

"Yes? Flowers?"

"Do we have a rocket to strap them to?" Bruce broke into a burst of coughing which scoured his lungs of the last of his sarcasm.  "No. Something bigger."

"Very good sir."

Barry was the only one at Eye-in-the-Sky who would answer him.  "We're all pissed at you now," he said cheerfully. "Radiation poisoning? And you didn't tell anyone?"

"I was embarrassed," Bruce told him grumpily. "I was afraid my hair might fall out."

"Did it?" Barry was clearly rooting for a yes on that one.

"NO!" He started to cough again. No blood this time! Many thanks for small mercies. "But I need to say I'm sorry."

"To the JL, or to your boyfriend who got his heart ripped out."

"Boyfriend first," Bruce admitted. "But if it's awesome enough, maybe the JL will forgive me too."

"Ooh... I like the way you think. What do you need me to do?"

For the first time since he'd left on the op, in the dead of night wearing hand-me-down jeans and a fuckton of prosthetics, Bruce felt some of the tension in his back lighten up.

"Just put me through to the whole station, and broadcast. Ear piece or not, he'll hear me if you do that."

Barry sounded like an orgasmic puppy. "Ooh... public humiliation. I'm a fan. Can I tape it?"

Bruce coughed some more. "Knock yourself out. Be ready in about twenty minutes--I need some narcotics, or I'm not going to get this done."

The narcotics helped. So did the slippery elm tea. Twenty minutes later, after his last treatment, some good drugs, and one more baking soda shower, he was ready.  He sat at his console feeling loopy as pigeon, and began to sing...

My lover's got humor... he's the giggle at a funeral...



After the quiet beginning, Bruce began to throw himself into it. His voice was wrecked--he knew that--but he could usually hold pitch, and the roughness from being sick actually added a smoky edge to the intensely painful song.

Take me to church! He belted, clenching his fist, losing himself in the prayer, telling the entire world that he wanted his lover's absolution for being a complete dick.

He heard the whoosh at the second chorus, but knew his penance wouldn't be over if he quit now. He opened his eyes and stood up on shaky knees, his voice giving out on him as he finished the song, the grand romantic gesture, the prayer for forgiveness.

He opened his eyes after the gravel of the last note wore away, just to check Clark's expression, and Clark was there to catch him before his knees gave way.

"I'm sorry," he rasped, and in his ear he heard their friends at the JL cheering, right before Clark said, "Okay guys, he's paid enough. Coms off."

The cheering faded and Clark lifted him up so he could hold Bruce against his chest and hover.

"Radiation poisoning?" he chastised. "You didn't call me?"

"What if my hair fell out," Bruce mumbled. "God I missed you. Did I tell you I missed you? I wanted to say I missed you, but the whole goddamned world was listening in."

"I don't care if they hear," Clark told him, which was a stupid thing to say, because they both valued their privacy.

Bruce was exhausted. God, he'd so wanted to spend the next couple of days having amazing sex and making it up to Clark Kent for disappearing for a week. Instead, Clark was ghosting over most of Wayne manor, probably to take him to sleep.

"I'd marry you," he said with the last of his voice. "I'd totally take you to a church and marry you."

Clark chuckled softly in his ear. "Are you sure? I'm an immigrant, you know. Your country's not to fond--"

"Don't talk about that asshole," Bruce muttered. "He'd want to kill you because you're an immigrant, Green Lantern cause he's brown, Diana because she's a woman--"

"And an immigrant," Clark added dryly.

"And me because I'm bi. He can kiss my rich white ass."

"Not personally, I hope."  Clark pulled down the covers and set him down, undressing him with care.

"Like I'd let that moron close enough to my ass to even smell my farts." Bruce buried his face in his hands. "Okay, so morphine. Really kicking in. That was not romantic. I was trying to tell you I would marry you if I could. That I loved you. That I'm sorry I hurt you by being an asshole."

"That you'll call me the next time you have so much as a hangnail," Clark warned him, swinging his legs up into bed, now that he was down to his skivvies.

"That I'd really like to see you naked!" Bruce complained. "I was gone for a week, dammit! And I practically proposed to you over the intercom to outer space! Don't I at least get to see you in your boxers?"

"Sure."  Clark stripped down to his skivvies and slid into bed next to him. Bruce's skin hurt, and his joints, but the morphine was helping. He skated his hands over Clark's amazing chest and hummed.

"Thank you," he mumbled.

"For what?" Clark kissed his temple.

"For caring."

"For loving you?"

Bruce grunted. "You're as officious as Diana--you know that right?"

"I want you to know that I love you," Clark said stubbornly.

Bruce looked into his farm boy blue eyes, feeling suddenly lucid. "You'd marry me, right?" he asked. Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes. 

Clark Kent--Superman--Man of Steel, Defender of Truth, Justice, and the Compassionate Way, swallowed audibly. "Of course I would. I feel like we're married already. I want to be with you for as long as I live."

Bruce sighed into his arms.  "You'll have to settle. But good. I'd marry you as Bruce Wayne. You know that right? BatMan and SuperMan can't do it--but if I was just Bruce, and you were just Clark--"

"Take me to church," Clark sang softly. "I'd worship..."  He hummed the song like a lullaby, and Bruce closed his eyes and found himself slipping away into a dream where it was him and Clark, in front of their friends, with flowers, and a sparkling ocean beyond the windows of a modern seaside church.

They were getting married.

Kermit Flail--September Morning!

YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!
Hey all-- we made it to September, right?
The sun didn't cook us dead-- that's something!
Seriously--I'm glad the kids are back in school, but at the same time, I miss them. The last two weeks have been lonely--but soccer season has started and life is getting busy--I think it'll be okay!
And of course, there's Kermit Flail!
First we have Jaime Samms, who LOVES herself an m/m/m three-way--and who had a few things to say about her new one, so I included it on the flail!  Of course I adore Jaime from way back, and her writing is lovely, rich and layered--you'll enjoy this!  
Also with us today is E.J. Russell who keeps taunting me with her Fae Out of Water series, which looks AMAZING. She's coming up on my queue, and I'm SO EXCITED--I hope you guys like the latest offer in this series as well!
Andrew Grey is here (YAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!)  and this month's book from him is Ebb and Flow, and it looks lovely and romantic--because that's just the way Andrew rolls!!!
Also with us is newcomer, Roe Horvat, with a novella called layover which looks just lovely, and the delightful Miss Melanie Jayne, with an M/F book called Change of Perception, which, also lovely, also seems a bit mysterious and THAT'S always fun!
My offerings this month are re-releases, but long anticipated ones I think. The Green's Hill Werewolf stories have finally made it to Dreamspinner Press--I'm so excited and I hope you are too!
So this is a good month on the old flail, some het, some m/m/m, some shorts, some hot werewolf menage, and lots and lots of amazing romance--I hope your September is a good one!!! 
YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!!!!

 

Three Player Game
by Jaime Samms
Author's Note: Huge thanks to Amy for always setting this up. I’m super pleased to show off this cover and have people see the book. Ménages are tricky to pull off. Grumpy characters are also tricky, and they don’t always garner a lot of fans. Lee is not the easiest character to love, so I hope he finds his audience out there.

Blurb:

Vince’s life has improved immeasurably since he moved to Bluewater Bay two years ago. He’s gone from working for a man he hated, to helping found a company he believes in. And he and his boyfriend, Pete, have built a delicate balance of power between them that keeps them both grounded and thriving.

Almost, anyway.

Pete’s job on the set of Wolf’s Landing is demanding. He needs lots of downtime off set, and that’s where Vince’s firm but gentle control isn’t always enough. And for Vince, Pete’s constant high-energy needs are turning out to be more than he can handle alone.

It’s no surprise to either of them, then, that sparks fly when Vince’s coworker Lee enters the picture. Outwardly, Lee is tough and confident, but when a bad back confines him to Pete and Vince’s spare room, the cracks start to show and his desire for connection begins to peek through.

Pete and Vince both like what they see under Lee’s prickly outside, but now the three men must learn that love isn’t about beating the game—it’s about balance, trust, and letting each other in.

Buy at Publisher 





Far Out of Water Series
by E.J. Russell
Once upon a time, there were three brothers, nobles of the Seelie Court of Faerie, who set out to seek their fortunes. The eldest—

Scratch that. Rrrrrewind.

Nowadays, when tales are told in 140 character bursts on tiny LED screens, rather than spun out by the glow of a midnightcampfire, even Faerie’s elite have to get with the program.

The Kendrick brothers have traded longbow for briefcase, battle steed for Harley, and enchanted harp for electric guitar. But while they’re finding their feet in the modern world, instead of finding their fortunes, they stumble straight into love.


Bad Boy’s Bard (Fae Out of Water #3)

by E.J. Russell
As far as rock star Gareth Kendrick, the last true bard in Faerie, is concerned, the only good Unseelie is . . . well . . . there’s no such thing. Two centuries ago, an Unseelie lord abducted Gareth’s human lover, Niall, and Gareth has neither forgotten nor forgiven.

Niall O’Tierney, half-human son of the Unseelie King, had never lost a wager until the day he swore to rid the Seelie court of its bard. That bet cost him everything: his freedom, his family—and his heart. When he’s suddenly face-to-face with Gareth at the ceremony to join the Seelie and Unseelie realms, Niall does the only thing inhumanly possible: he fakes amnesia. Not his finest hour, perhaps, but he never revealed his Unseelie heritage, and to tell the truth now would be to risk Gareth’s revulsion—far harder to bear than two hundred years of imprisonment.

Then a new threat to Gareth’s life arises, and he and Niall stage a mad escape into the Outer World, only to discover the fate of all fae resting on their shoulders. But before they can save the realm, they have to tackle something really tough: mending their own broken relationship.

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The Layover
By Roe Horvat


Eight years ago, Ondro Smrek fled Slovakia and the bigotry that drove his first lover to take his own life. The demons proved impossible to outrun, though, and now, desperate for somewhere to belong, Ondro is returning to start over. During a layover in Basel, Switzerland, he meets Jamie, an American living in Scotland who is as brilliant as he is beautiful.

Jaded Ondro never would have guessed he could fall in love during a brief layover—until now. When he is put in a position to offer Jamie comfort without hope of recompense, Ondro doesn’t hesitate. Soon, he catches a glimpse of the home he longs for. But with their separation looming, confessing his feelings would only lead to pain and humiliation. Life has taught Ondro not to hope, but then, he never believed in love at first sight either.


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Ebb and Flow
by Andrew Grey

To achieve happiness, they’ll have to find the courage to be their own men.

As first mate on a charter fishing boat, Billy Ray meets a lot of people, but not one of them has made him as uncomfortable as Skippy—because he’s drawn to Skippy as surely as the moon pulls the tides, and he’s almost as powerless to resist. Billy Ray has spent his life denying who he is to avoid the wrath of his religious father, and he can’t allow anyone to see through his carefully built façade.

Skippy is only in town on business and will have to return to Boston once he’s through. But he doesn’t count on Billy Ray capturing his attention and touching his heart. After all, his father has certain expectations, and one of them is not him staying in Florida.

Billy Ray doesn’t realize just how much he and Skippy have in common, though. They’re both living to please their fathers instead of following their own dreams—a fact that becomes painfully obvious when they get to know each other and realize how much joy they’ve denied themselves. While they can’t change the past, they can begin a future together and make up for lost time—as long as they’re willing to face the consequences of charting their own course.

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Dreamspinner Press





A Change in Perception

by Melanie Jayne
How could I be so wrong?
I thought Cress had it all. She was smart and beautiful, with a loving family.
She was destined for great things.
So why is she working as a nanny and living in a dump?
The truth is hard to comprehend, but I know one thing:
I’m no knight in shining armor.
But when she looks at me, I want to be.


How can I convince him?
I was never the Golden Girl, and my family was never what it seemed.
I’ve always hidden behind a shy façade, doing what others
expected of me.
Brian is the brilliant lawyer. I’m a girl who couldn’t handle suffering.
He deserves better than me.
He just doesn't know it. 
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Note: These two books are re-releases of the Jack and Teague and Katy stories once available at Torquere. They are a part of The Little Goddess series. More info HERE. 


The Green's Hill Werewolves, V. 1

By Amy Lane

In the world of the Little Goddess

Teague Sullivan and Jack Barnes work in the dangerous gray area between the natural and supernatural worlds, helping people who get separated from the safety of Green’s Hill find their way home. Teague's in the game for redemption—but Jack's in the game for Teague.

Teague is damaged, haunted, and about the loneliest man Jack has ever met, but Jack sees beyond Teague's scars and gruffness to the kindness and bravery underneath. Teague is pretty sure Jack's a green idealist—a scarred old dog like Teague will never be good enough for a sweet young pup like his Jacky.

When Jack is injured, the two hunters are sucked into the paranormal world they’ve been defending. Teague must reevaluate everything he's believed about their relationship. While Teague is sorting out his life both with Jacky and as a member of Green's Hill, Katy steps into the mix. She’s loved Teague since she was a child, and that love has only gotten stronger now that they’ve survived into adulthood. Teague Sullivan, who has lived “without” since he was born, is suddenly given all the things that make live worth living “with.” Does Teague have the courage to reach for two lovers and a place on Green's Hill?
Available at Amazon 9/5
 
The Green's Hill Werewolves, Volume 2
by Amy Lane
In the world of the Little Goddess
n the world of the Little Goddess
After a rocky start and some unexpected battles, Teague Sullivan may have found a home at Green’s Hill. With Jack and Katy by his side, he has the chance to achieve a happiness he only dreamed of during his impoverished childhood.

But much of Teague’s happiness depends upon being worthy of serving Green and Lady Cory, two leaders he’d die for and two people who gave him a chance to be a good man. Teague needs to serve them to feel worthy of love, but Jack resents anything that takes Teague away from his lovers, even his duty.

The three of them, Jack, Teague, and Katy, perform a delicate dance with an uncertain crescendo. What's more likely to destroy them? Jack's jealousy, Cory's wrath, or the true enemy, the rival wolf pack with the insane leaders who are trying to take over Green's turf? Teague Sullivan, who never thought much of himself, is suddenly the crux of everything he's ever loved. Can he become the man and alpha wolf his people need?

Rainbow Fest

 So, I know that somewhere out there, a straight person is going, "Huh. Rainbow Fest. Why do THEY need a celebration all their own?"

Well, the obvious answer is THEY need a safe space to celebrate being THEMselves in a world that is often harsh to people whom are deemed different.

But the less obvious answer was all around me today.

I went with the Sacramento Author's Group, led by our fearless leader, J. Scott Coatsworth, and met by my amazing friend Kim Fielding.
Mate came with me, as general muscle, and we ventured into the 106 degree heat of the day (Yes, I know. 106 in September is obscene) to set up a booth and sell books, and generally make people aware we're out there. (I know--it seems unfathomable, but people still aren't aware that gay romance is a thing. It surprises me too.)

We kept auspicious company.

Besides the Skivvies Club (underwear--go figure!) we were surrounded by the Coalition for Youth--that's ALL youth, with special services for LGBTQ youth, Women's Health Services--free pap smears, breast cancer screening, and birth control, a place that gave self defense lessons (not pictured), and The Golden Rule, which was a non-judgmental place to go for STD screening, including HIV screening and prevention.

Uh, not to put too fine a point on it people, but these health and counseling services benefit everybody.

Even the Lavender Library, which is exclusively volunteers and donated books, creates literacy and educational opportunities.

There was also a booth for shelter and counseling from and for spousal abuse.

And music.

And free drinks at Faces.

And a place in the food court that made kickass fries.

So the more obvious answer is THEY need to be safe. The less obvious answer is that we ALL need a safe place for health care, a safe shelter from violence, a safe person to ask to help us defend ourselves. We ALL need a friendly counseling ear. A place to celebrate. A place to cut loose and be free. A place to dance.


And if you belong to a group that is routinely marginalized, is routinely at risk for having its rights taken away, routinely fighting for basic safety, then this safe place is even more important.

So no--this place was not meant for cis straight men or women. But my husband helped me cart stuff there, and my friend and I talked to the participants and took pictures and marketed our books.

 And we were welcomed warmly. And allowed to feel safe.

Safety really SHOULD be a right. Events like Rainbow Fest or Pride are all about reinforcing that idea.

Everybody should have a safe place.

EVERYBODY should have a safe place.

 And everybody should have a group of people that treats them with respect and pride.

The hot, shirtless young men were from Faces--
their job was to wander the
 streets, look amazing, and offer drink tickets. They
 were VERY kind about allowing me to take pictures. 



The even asked me to join in.

Bless them! 

Jack and Teague and Katy

 So, I've got Kermit Flail on Monday to remind you all about this, but since Kermit Flail should be mostly about other people, I thought these guys should get their own post!

Some of you know that I took two breaks from the Little Goddess series. There was the big-ass long one between Rampant and Quickening, which was punctuated with The Green's Hill novellas to keep me from missing the place too much, and there was a shorter, two year gap, when I wrote the two colossal Bitter Moon books. (These books were later split by Harmony Ink into four volumes.)

The Bitter Moon books were epic fantasy-- there were a few love scenes, of a very mild variety.

Frankly, I needed to write sex.

So, Supernatural had just come out and while I dabbled a little in fanfic, I needed my own world, and I needed the guys to be MY guys and not Sam and Dean, and I needed the Little Goddess people because I missed them.

So I wrote five novellas--just shorts, that I put up on my old website and told people about.  Originally intended to be a one-off, the five books formed a plot arc of Jack and Teague and Katy--three people desperately in need of redemption. I finished Rampant just about the time I started writing for DSP, and I realized hey, there might be someone out there who would want to pick these guys up.  Now, at the end of Rampant I had left Teague, well, half dead, mostly, and in an unlikely place, the private fairy hill of some friends of Green. When Torquere (a now defunct pub) picked up my werewolves, I offered to write an unreleased novella, to finish out the plot arc.

When I wrote Quickening (which, like the other books of the Little Goddess, had been written as one volume and released as two because when I have worlds enough and time, I write hella long books) I included the adventure in Monterey because it related to Cory's pregnancy.  She'd jumped out of a helicopter without knowing the risks, and that was a sore point between her and her lovers.

For those of you wondering about The Green's Hill Novellas, those were the three shorts I wrote after Rampant--Guarding the Vampire's Ghost, Litha's Constant Whim, and I Love You, Asshole. Sprawling, yes--but I really had in mind a supernatural Melrose Place--yes, we have our main players--Cory, Green, Bracken, and Nicky--but everybody has a story.

So these are the stories in The Green's Hill Werewolves. 

YES, they can be read independently. But if you want to know the order, it goes as follows:

Vulnerable

Wounded--1 &2

Bound--1 &2

The Green's Hill Werewolves, V1, and the first story of V2

Rampant--1 &2

The Green's Hill Werewolves, second story of V2

The Green's Hill Novellas

Scorched Haven (a short on my website)

Quickening--1 &2


Now, I feel like I need to say a word about Katy here.

I was writing this book while I was teaching in a diverse area, nearly ten years ago. Representation wasn't a thing then--and the kids had read my other Little Goddess books. They liked that I had Arturo who was from South America, and that I had Mario who was Mexican and La Mark who was gay and black. They asked me to write more characters who were, in their words, "like them."  I wrote Katy with those kids in mind--and her original accent was quite thick. I had stunning, strong Latina girls in my classroom, going back and forth between English and Spanish as they spoke--I loved that sound. I thought it was wonderful--I wanted to capture it, make it real. Katy's backstory had already been imagined when I sat down to write, before her ethnicity. So in case anybody was wondering--no, I don't think all Mexicans are high school dropouts and drug addicts--I just wanted THIS character to have a miserable backstory.  In fact, if you look at a lot of my guys in my gay romance, you'll see a lot of similarities between them and Katy. She's just a tiny, lovely woman instead of a muscular hot guy.

I toned down Katy's accent in future edits--I didn't want people to be distracted by fears of appropriation or stereotyping. I simply wanted her to sound like the kids I loved--but when these books were recovered and re-edited for Dreamspinner, I hadn't been in the classroom for over six years. (My daughter's classroom will have the same accents in it--her best friend speaks English and Spanish and this makes me happy :-)  But I kept her background. Katy and Teague are real to me--they're survivors of a quiet class war, and their inclusion of Jack, spoiled rich kid with a lot to learn is one of the central conflicts of the story.

So for those of you who JUST picked up the Little Goddess series this summer--this is the massive werewolf backstory. For those of you who have been asking me, "Hey! Where did Jack and Teague and Katy go?", now you know. They've just been waiting their chance to come out pretty and gussied up and shiny.

Volume 1 is out on Monday.

Volume 2 is out about two weeks later.

I hope you enjoy their stories.

Solve for X

So, ZoomBoy and the phone have been working out well.

ZoomBoy, this morning as Squish and I are leaving: Mom, I'm going to have detention.

Me: Why?

ZB: I forgot my math book.

Me: Would you like me to bring it to you?

ZB: Please! It's in the basket of clothes near my bed.

Me: Groovy.

Later:

Me: It's in the attendance office. I told them you'd come by during lunch.

ZB: THANK YOU!  4x=4x -- solve for x and you'll know how many thanks I give you

Me: I'm going to guess it's infinity.

ZB: Yes!  Today is club day, can you pick me up at 4?

Me: Sure. A good thing you didn't have detention.

ZB: INFINITE THANKS!

So my spawn are grateful, and that feels good. Of course, he originally told us to get him at 4, and then at 4, he told us 5.  Squish and I were okay with that--we stopped by a used book store to look around, and Squish got a sequel she hadn't known was out.

But, while at the used book store, I saw the above picture, and I was, well, very surprised.

I asked, "So, why divide the intrigue authors like that."

The two girls--young, a little clueless, went, "Uh, there were too many for one section. They were to organize them."

"Not alphabetically."

"Too many. No, there's just too many authors."

"Hunh." (Ellery's least favorite word, that, for those of you who have read the Fish stories.)

And this was when ZoomBoy texted me and I had to run. I was going to ask them if they had LGBTQ authors, and then, I thought, "You know... why don't I just trade in a couple of author copies for store credit and sort of sneak them in there..."  Because I have Dreamspun Desires, and I'd love to just have them hanging out in category romance.

At the very least, I'd like to figure out how to have a reasonable discussion about, "You do realize this looks sexist as fuck, right?"

But, like I said, clueless clerks, small independent store, lots of dusty shelves in a conservative area.  But proof that sexism can be found in many places--even around a forgotten corner where it shouldn't be at all.