Jaime Samms's Blog: Stories Between Men, page 8

Book Talk – Junk by Josephine Myles

So here is a kind of character I never thought I would cotton to. A hoarder. I thought Jasper would creep me out a bit, but maybe I’ve just watched the show too much? I don’t know. I really kind of like the guy, though. And Lewis, well, he’s just a dream come true for anyone looking for someone to just be there, to listen, and to be kind. I’m not far into this book yet. Maybe a third of the way, but I am totlly enjoying it so far. Let’s see if I’m singing the same tune once Jasper reveals the “dark secret” hiding behind his hoard. The blurb for the book follows, and click on the cover if you think you might like reading it. I’ll post more as I get further in.

In the mean time, have you ever picked up a book, been pretty sure you might not like the main character, and been pleasantly surprised? Or, the corollary, have you ever thought you were going to love a character, only to discover the character was not what you’d hoped?

Blurb: Letting go is the first step to healing…or bringing it all crashing down.

The Bristol Collection, Book 1

When an avalanche of books cuts off access to his living room, university librarian Jasper Richardson can no longer ignore the truth. His ever-growing piles of books, magazines and newspapers can no longer be classified as a “collection”. It’s a hoard, and he needs professional help.

Professional clutter clearer and counselor Lewis Miller thinks he’s seen it all, but even he has to admit he’s shocked. Not so much by the state of Jasper’s house, but by the level of attraction he still feels for the sexy bookworm he remembers from school.

What a shame that Lewis’s ethical code forbids relationships with clients. As Jasper makes slow but steady progress, though, the magnetic pull between them is so strong even Lewis is having trouble convincing himself it’s a temporary emotional attachment arising from the therapeutic process.

Jasper longs to prove to Lewis that this is the real deal. But first he’ll have to lay bare the root of his hoarding problem…and reveal the dark secret hidden behind his walls of books.

The NEW Canadian Math

Always start with a hypotheses. In this instance, let us hypothesize that working three jobs is a good way to put a small cushion in the bank.

Now. Take your known quantities: Halloween, 4 pairs of winter boots, snow, and create an equation to support your hypotheses in which $$$ stands for a small nest egg in the bank. Solve for $$$$.

Halloween + 1 week / snow + (boots x 4 x $100/pair) = $$$$

snow on November 9 + $400 = $$$

4 pair winter boots – $400 = $$$$

0 = $$$

 

See how that works? You can toss them variables around in a salad bowl with a fork and a nice raspberry vinaigrette, and it still comes out the same: Canadian math sucks. Especially in the winter. Which starts in November. And ends in May. If you’re lucky.

Lettuce anyone? 

 

 

 

 

*Was* I born that way?

Let’s talk about neuroses. Just for fun (And because I just finished a book with a MC who is OCD and has an anxiety disorder.) The book was very good, by the way, and I enjoyed it immensely.

But it got me thinking. Do I honestly think I’m OCD or ADD? No. Um. Probably not. (more on that later) But I do know I’m not the only one I’m related to who maybe looks in the mirror and wonders. Who looks at their reflection and understands that maybe some of the things we do are not what one might call conventional behavior.

That we think about things, worry over things, stress about things that a) are 100% out of our control and b) are 99.9% unlikely to happen and c) at least in my case, don’t even matter a whole lot. Yet we, or I, at least, make little rituals that obviously are not going to influence these things or make them happen or not happen.

I only wish this was my closet

For instance, there’s a pretty high probability I’m never going to completely loose my eyesight in my lifetime. And if I do, there’s a pretty high chance there won’t be anything I can do to control it. Certainly, hanging my clothes in a certain order in my closet so I know where everything is, should I suddenly not be able to see any of it, isn’t going to stop it happening, or change the likelihood of it happening. And lets be honest, if it did, there are a lot more pressing issues to worry about than what I’m wearing, Stacey’s and Clinton’s opinions aside. And if that was really a concern, why wouldn’t I line up my socks and T-shirts in my drawers, too? But I don’t. How they’re folded is another matter, and I have been caught unfolding everything someone else has folded and refolded it before putting it away, just to be sure, even though my daughter knows how I like it, and generally does a good job of doing it that way, just because she’s nice like that.

So, yes, on one level, I have a fairly descent understanding of what’s going on in my brain. On a completely other level, it’s an utter mystery. Because I’ve tried this: I’ve moved the clothes in the closet. Sometimes hung them randomly. Sometimes just moved a dress from one end of the dress section to the other. I’ve done it and gone to bed and couldn’t sleep. Tried going to work, and couldn’t stop thinking about it. Obsessed over this little thing that in the grand scheme of things? Honest to goodness, I know doesn’t matter. But it does. And there’s no explanation as to why. OCD?

I also know I have other rituals I do obsessively out of very real fears. Like I plot out and print maps and write directions when I’m going somewhere new. I live in terror of getting lost, so I plan and study and make sure I know where I’m going before I step out the door. Why? Because I have concrete experience that if I’m going somewhere alone, even if I’ve been there before with other people, I can get lost. I can get hopelessly turned around in my own neighborhood and get utterly lost. That’s real, and it’s terrifying. My daughter had a better compass in her head when she could barely talk than I do even after a lifetime of this careful, obsessive map studying and direction plotting.

I have very specific routines involving house keys and wallet and phone and the tag to get into the building where I work, because if I stray from the ritual, I will forget something. I’ve always put this down to being easily distracted by the stories, completely unrelated to my life, that constantly scroll through my head. I’m forgetful and distracted and flighty. I always have been. I have ways to compensate for the things I know I’m not good at. ADD?

As far as I know, these aren’t issues other people deal with. I never catch anyone else refolding their laundry or patting their pocket for their phone every time they cross a threshold to another room. So I do look in the mirror some days and wonder. Am I normal?

And my reflection looks back, rather slyly, and seems to defy me to even define that word, ‘normal’. I spent so much effort in my life trying to be normal, that it was a surprise when I recently found a new path in life and had to stop and really take stock.

I’m happily married to a guy who gets me and have been for 16 years now. I have two wonderful, happy, healthy, very bright children and the very real possibility opening up in front of me to make a living doing things I love with all my soul. So if it took this convoluted, laundry-folding, map-making, phone-checking path to get to this place, and there was no other way to get here, then maybe normal is the problem. Maybe it’s time, as Hubs keeps saying to me, to accept that whatever I am, it’s working, and I should just go with it and to hell with convention.

 

Spooky Smutt in the City

Bliss Kiss: After Dark

It’s Sunday again, and as Halloween approaches, we’ve decided to join forces and bring you all a few sexy, paranormal kisses to usher in the spooky season.

Mine is from my paranormal series, The Ageless, specifically, from the second book, Grounded when Ken first learns of his own shifter nature through a very nearly tragic attempt to protect his lover, Mikko, from Mikko’s own past.

As if their disappearance was a signal, and

probably, it was, Ken collapsed. It was all Mikko could do to support him to the ground without letting him fall. He took hold of Ken’s wrist, holding the wicked looking claws out away from where they could do any more harm.

“What….” Ken shifted, gripped Mikko’s arm and held on for dear life. “What did I do?”

“Nothing. Ken, it’s okay.” Mikko clenched his teeth against the sharp daggers of pain under Ken’s fingers as his own blood dripped onto the rocks.

“No. no, no, no. Not okay.” He lifted his hand, still smeared in Darian’s, and now Mikko’s blood, and gazed at his knuckles. “What are those?” The plaintive look he lifted set Mikko back on his ass.

He flopped onto the ground, wrapped himself, arms and legs, around Ken and huddled him close with his face buried in Ken’s hair. He took the bloodied hand, drawing it against his own chest. “I’ll explain it all,” he promised. “Now, I need you to relax, Kenny.”

“Relax?’ Ken struggled in his grip. “Relax? What the hell is happening to me?” His voice rose closer to hysterical with every word. “Claws, Mikko! What…that guy. What was he?” He yanked himself away, his strength still far greater in his half transformed state than Mikko could hold. His long claws raked across Mikko’s shoulder, making him flinch. The strands of energy whipped in lightning streaks around them, tails nipping at Ken’s calves.

Ken gasped, hunkered into a crouch a few feet away, and glared at him through fevered eyes. “What am I?”

“No one ever told you how this goes.” Mikko wasn’t really asking. So many young Ageless had no idea what was in store for them. Mikko hadn’t. He’d been glad of finding Morgan at first. He had been there to explain it all, the transformations, the hallucinations and fevers, everything that came along with moving past juvenile into a fully adult Ageless form. It hadn’t been until Mikko had settled into his powers that he realized Morgan’s intentions had never been benign.

The ropes of energy still writhed about them, and Ken eyed the crackling lights with suspicion.

Mikko had one chance to get it right. Ken had to calm down, control the changes that were happening, or they would take their own form, as they had in Darian and his mate.

“Ken. Calm down.” Mikko stood, towering over him. “Get up and come inside with me.” He waited a heartbeat, drew the energy into a tight cocoon around them, not quite touching Ken’s bare skin. “Now.”

He could see Ken’s adam’s apple bobbing, see the confusion in his eyes, the fear. He only hoped the conditioning of the past months was enough; that the control he’d patiently worked for would break through Ken’s hysteria, and he would obey. There was no way to control him physically without hurting him and probably destroying any trust he had, if he hadn’t managed to gain an emotional foothold already.

Slowly, Ken rose, his fists clenched, his shoulders hunched forward. His eyes blazed with the fever of the change he was undergoing.

“In the house. Now.” Mikko met Ken’s glare. “You show off your naked ass to the neighborhood one second longer, I’ll paddle it raw. Get inside.”

Ken snorted, held up his clawed hand. “And you’re worried they’ll be looking at my ass?”

“My ass. Get it in the house.”

“You don’t—”

“Now!” Mikko pointed back toward the house, and Ken started violently. “Your second’s up.” He took a step forward fiercely concentrating as he let a band of raw energy slide around Ken’s wrist. A sweat broke out across his brow as he fought to keep it where Ken could feel the heat and sharp blades of light, making him aware of the damage he could do, if Ken didn’t obey. “Don’t make me do it this way, Kenny, please.” He knew he sounded more desperate than a Dom should. It would do more damage than just physical if he had to resort to this.

Ken moved, shuffled his feet, dropped his gaze. “You don’t want me like this,” Ken whispered.

Clamping a hand down on Ken’s forearm, Mikko let the energy slide away and led him toward the house. Forcing some control back into his tone, he gave Ken a little jerk forward. “Don’t you dare presume to know what I want or don’t want. You belong to me, and you’ll do as I say. You wanted this. Or do you forget asking for it? Just a short while ago, you begged me to own you.”

“I don’t forget.”

“Good.” Mikko reached for the door handle and shoved Ken inside ahead of him. “Upstairs and get cleaned off.” He didn’t dare ask Ken if he still wanted the control Mikko exerted over him. He had to keep him under control, at least until after he learned to control his abilities. At the very least, until those abilities settled into one form.

“What about…” Ken held up his hand and this time, when he raised his eyes, the glow, still feverish, was no longer defiant. Just frightened.

Mikko placed a hand over Ken’s knuckles, feeling the cold ridges of sharp bone under his palm. “Once you’ve calmed down, the transformation will reverse itself.” Mikko cupped Ken’s face with his other hand, pulled him close. “You’ll learn to control this, Kenny. I’ll help you.” He laid a tender kiss on Ken’s lips. “Now go upstairs and get cleaned up.”

“You still want me?”

In answer, Mikko kissed him again, deeper, and pulled him against his body. “I do.”

“Ah! Ngh.” Ken pressed against him, body rigid and tense. “Hurts!”

“I know.” Mikko held him, nuzzling his hair, rubbing his back, keeping a tight grip on his wrist as the claws reversed and slowly disappeared. “Give it a minute.”

I know, that was a rather long excerpt, but it took a while to get to the kissing part As always, please don’t forget to head on over the link list and enjoy the other special event Sunday Snogs!

Almost forgot to mention, If you’d like to read the series, I’m happy to get you started with book one: Spinning.  Tomorrow (Monday) after work I’ll pick a name from the comments and be in touch. Happy snogging!

Hot Fall Blog Hop

So where I live, it’s way long past the time when the weather is actually hot this time of year. Guess that’s why we Canadians spend so much time in winter cuddling to keep warm That’s part of the reason I signed up for this blog hop! There’s going to be plenty along the way to keep anyone warm, I hope, and if you comment here, I’ll even help you heat up with a free copy of Face to Face, which comes out next week.

Here’s an excerpt:

“I am.” Skate closed his eyes, gathering the threads of his fraying self as best he could, then opened them again to stare at the ceiling. “I am nervous,” he admitted.

Incredible how three little words felt like gutting himself, right there on the bed, and letting Denny smell the blood, and they weren’t even the important words. Not the ones Denny deserved to hear.

He was safe here. Nothing could hurt him now. Nothing except this. Nothing except daring to reach out and touch what Denny was offering him. Or not touching. Because the uncertainty growing in his lover’s eyes was death itself to Skate, and instinctively, he lifted both hands and rested them on Denny’s thighs, connecting them in a deliberate, purposeful gesture.

Tension rippled through muscles just under Denny’s warm skin. His breath hitched and he shifted, moving one leg, and Skate felt the roughness of damaged skin under his fingertips. He glanced at the ragged mark and frowned.

“Nevermi…” Denny swallowed.

“No pretending,” Skate reminded him. “You disappeared that night. Just before we came back.” He let his fingers skim the sensitive, barely healed scar. “Somebody hurt you.”

Denny’s cheeks went white and his eyes bleak. He scrambled up, rooted in his jeans pocket and came back with a grubby five dollar bill, which he spread onto the nightstand. “Last time,” he said, staring at the money and speaking in a tone that sounded like an echo of an old, worn out promise.

He blinked and suddenly his lashes were wet, spiked together, and spots of pink infused the too-light pallor of his face. “I wasn’t even worth—”

Skate pulled Denny back onto the bed, back into his lap. They were never going to get through this if they stopped to catalogue every mistake, every regret, every scar. He forced himself up to a sitting position where he could lean on the headboard and once more spread his hands over Denny’s warm, smooth, perfect skin. The edges of the scar tissue, rough under his fingers, only serving to remind him exactly what his man had been willing to do for him, and exactly what he had, right here in his hands, that he was never going to let go of.

“Last time,” he said firmly. “The last time, Denny, because from now on, only one who touches you is me.” He leaned, peering until Denny lifted his head enough to look into Skate’s eyes. “You’re mine now.”

“Always was,” Denny whispered.

Please, please follow this link to Reme’s post and find the other authors. Apparently, wordpress doesn’t like the code. And rest assured, when i am released from the evil day job, I will definitely post your comments. Thanks so much for stopping by!!!!

Fall Blog Train!

Do you have a favorite fall memory linked to a train? What do you imagine you would see if you were riding a train in the fall? Join the authors of Wild Child publishing and Freya’s Bower as we take an Autumn Train Ride through our blogs.
Prizes will include
 

Four $50 gift certificates (two for Wild Child and two Freya’s Bower)
An awesome swag package that includes:

Bookmarks
Books
Wild Child T-shirt and mug
Wild Child and Freya’s Bower bags
Four handmade, crochet coasters by Kit Wylde
An autographed copy of Rosemary and Rue by Seanan McGuire
A rare DVD copy of the Matheson/Furst classic “Up The Creek” (lovingly used)
One ebook copy of Nita Wick’s short story, The Dream (previously published as part of a Freya’s Bower anthology.)
Book trading cards
Signed Dangerous Waters poster
of “Battle for Blood: The Blood Feud”
winner’s name as a character in Kissa Starling’s next sweet romance story.
A Yankee Candle
more…



So for this post I thought it would be a great opportunity to make something up. To that end, I give you Brad and Jacob, one Canadian young man on his way to university, and one immigrant on his way to becoming a new Canadian citizen. I thought it would be fun, and who knows. Maybe they’ll get a whole story all to themselves one day.

A train-riding veteran by his third year of uni, Brad knew how to pick the most deserted car: move toward the back, but not near the snack car, and not next to the observation car. Even if no one sat in the car next to it, everyone dragged their hyper kids through your comfort zone to get them more pop and chocolate, make them sit and play Sorry, and watch the endless parade of pine trees. Because kids loved that shit. That’s why they screamed that their sister was cheating and their brother was a booger nose and proceeded to pound on the dice-rolling bubble in the center of the board game until they cleared the car.

Carefully shutting the observation car door behind him, Brad continued on, leaving that gem of an argument behind. The next-to-last car on the train was usually the most quiet. Everyone always assumed the last one would be best, but by the time they got there, they discovered everyone else had had the same idea, and the car would be full and smell like feet and onions.

“No thank you,” Brad murmured to himself as he entered the coveted next-to-last car. It was perfect. There was an old couple. The wife was doing some sort of needle work and she smiled up at him in that kind, old-lady way as he passed. The husband had earplugs in and the little black-out eye covers on. He snored very faintly. It was a small price to pay for being the only other occupant of the car, Brad decided, and chose a seat close to the middle of the car, next to the baggage rack.

He stored his suitcase and pulled his backpack onto the seat beside him, luxuriating in the fact he had all the room in the world to stretch out. The luggage rack meant no one behind him to care if he pushed his seat all the way back, and the fact he’d chosen the seat with the emergency exit meant he could be fairly certain that no one would want to sit with him. People didn’t want to be responsible for saving the old ladies and children if the train crashed.

He settled into his seat and sat back, ear buds in place, gaze drifting to watch the gold and red kaleidoscope of fall leaves zip by. He was about to drift off when the car door opened and a man about his own age shuffled through from the end car. He was dragging his suitcase and balancing his backpack on one arm, a coffee and muffin in his hand.

He looked desperate and exhausted. Brad guessed he was on day three of a cross-country trip, and in search of a safe place to crash for a few hours. Idly, Brad watched as he nearly dropped the coffee, did drop the muffing and step on it in his attempt to rebalance the coffee and backpack and let out a low string of really vile curses. When Brad looked into his face, the luminous glint of too-tired eyes swimming in tears sent a thrill of goose bumps over his arms.

“Shit,” he muttered, and pulled out his ear buds. “Here.” He stood and took the coffee from the other man, grabbed the pack as it was about to take a dive to the floor and block the guy’s passage, then slipped back into his own seat to let the guy by. “Put that away, first off.”

The man stared at him, mouth partly open, cheeks flushed pink.

“In there,” Brad pointed to the empty racks behind him. “Plenty of room.”

“The other was…full,” the man said quietly. He smiled and it was shy and damn near sweet enough to make Brad’s teeth hurt.

But it did have him smiling back, wide and goofy, because the man was cute. His pale, hazel eyes were still shining, though he seemed a little calmer, and his creamy skin, still flushed, was scrubby over his square jaw and lean cheeks. He had high cheekbones, though, and thin, pert nose that left him looking delicate despite the beard shadow and strong chin. Sandy brown hair tumbled in messy waves over his forehead and collar.

“Back car is always pretty full for some reason,” Brad agreed.

“Here is nice.” The man nodded and stowed his large case, coming back to take his coffee and backpack. “Quiet.”

Brad agreed. “Roomy.”

The man’s brow furrowed and he tilted his head. “Rooms?” He looked around. “I don’t…”

“Lots of room,” Brad clarified. “Space.” He swirled a finger through the air to indicate the near-empty car. “You can spread out.”

“Ah!” the man smiled wide and nodded. “Yes, I see. Roomy. Yes.”

English, apparently, wasn’t this guy’s first language. Brad tried a quick question in French, but that only got him another puzzled look and he repeated himself in English. “Been on the train long?”

“Ah.” Another vigorous nod. “Yes. Days. You? Are you from here?”

Brad stifled back a chuckle, since ‘here’ was a few hundred miles north of nothing much, really. “Timmins, actually. Farther north. I got on the train in Sudbury and will change in Toronto to go to Ottawa.”

His new friend’s face lit up, and the smile he directed at Brad was about a thousand watts of gorgeous. “Ottawa! Yes! Me, as well.”

“Where are you from?”

“Lithuania.”

Brad blinked at him. “That’s one hell of a train ride.”

That got him a startled stare and he did chuckle. “Where did you get on the train?” Brad retook his seat and stretched his legs out, surprised when the man took the seat next to him, tossing their bags, after a questioning look at Brad and waiting for Brad to agree, onto the empty chair across the aisle.

“Vancouver. Am Jokubas.” He held out his free hand and offered another dazzling smile. “Jacob, you would say.”

“Jacob. I’m Brad.” They shook and another sweet chill zinged through Brad at the man’s warm strength. “Vancouver, huh? Long way to Ottawa from Vancouver.”

“Yes.” Jacob stared down at his coffee cup, clearly miserable. “Is true. I made wrong connection somewhere. Winnipeg, I think?”

“Didn’t the guy at the door look at your ticket?”

“There were so many. Kids from a school, it was chaos. I sat and waited. We were far along the track by the time he came to me. It was mess. I end up in Thoms…ville? Is in Manitoba?”

“Thompson. Yeah. Shit, dude, that sucks.”

Jacob tilted his head again “I’m sorry?”

“Bad luck,” Brad said. “You went pretty far out of your way.”

“Yes. And I have to change trains again, in Toronto.” His pretty eyes got big. “If I go wrong way again, I will miss my chance.”

“Chance at what?”

“I take my oath in Ottawa. Become Canadian.” Once more, he offered up that smile and Brad’s gut twisted just a little bit. “I will be Canadian Citizen. If I don’t get lost. They said take train, easier, less chance to lose myself.” He smiled, more sheepishly this time. “Even me.”

“You won’t get lost,” Brad assured him.

“I have special talent for it. Especially when I am so tired. But if I sleep and miss my stop…” He fiddled with the lid of his coffee cup, which he had yet to sip from. “It has been a long trip.” He sighed.

Brad took the coffee from him and set it into the cup holder near the window. “Sleep,” he said. “I’ll make sure you don’t miss your stop.”

“You are very kind. But I can’t—”

“You can. Get some rest. We’re going the same way, and I’ll make sure you make it to the court house, or wherever you have to be on time.”

“You would do this?”

Brad shrugged. “Sure.”

“Canada.” Jacob smiled softly. “I love this country.” He sank down into his seat, head on the rest behind him and closed his eyes. “Canadian people.”

“We’re awesome,” Brad said, trying not to think about how awful it was that his sole reason for making the offer was to be able to keep looking at the amazing sight that was Jacob from Lithuania. He glanced out the window at the fall colours, resplendent in their vibrancy as the train slowed to allow a freight to pass them going in the opposite direction. Canada was a pretty beautiful place. Next to him, Jacob shifted and his silky hair slid across Brad’s neck as his head came to rest on Brad’s shoulder. He’d always thought of fall as the fresh new start to all things good, and as he shifted to make a better pillow for Jacob’s head, he smiled to himself. It was going to be a great new year.

Jaime Samms

 

Jaime has been writing for various publishers since the fall of 2008, although she’s been writing for herself far longer. Often asked why men; what’s so fascinating about writing stories about men falling in love, she’s never come up with a clear answer. Just that these are the stories that she loves to read, so it seemed to make sense if she was going to write, they should also be the stories she wrote.

 

These days, you can find plenty of free reading on her website. She also writes for Freya’s Bower, Pink Petal Books, Dreamspinner Press, Total E-Bound and MLR Press.

 

Spare time, when it can be found rolled into a ball at the back of the dryer or cavorting with the dust bunnies in the corners, she’s probably spending reading, drawing, gardening (weather permitting, of course, since she is Canadian!) or watching movies. Well. She has a day job or two, as well, and two kids, but thankfully, also a wonderful husband who shoulders more than his fair share of household and child care responsibilities.

 

She graduated some time ago from college with a Fine Arts diploma, with a major in textile arts, which basically qualifies her to draw pictures and create things with string and fabric. One always needs an official slip of paper to fall back on after all….

 

Website: http://jaime-samms.net/

facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?i...

Livejournal:http://dontkickmycane.livejournal.com/

Deviantart: http://dontkickmycane.deviantart.com/

Twitter:https://twitter.com/#!/JaimeSamms

Amazon Author page: amazon.com/author/jaimesamms

 

Please visit these sites for more chances to win, the more you visit the more chances you have to win. We have 46 participating authors. You can stop at as many or as little blogs as you wish. At each stop, you will find either two chances to enter per blog to win some awesome prizes. If you visit all, that’s 92 chances to win! There will be five, lucky winners.

Take the Blog Train and Visit These Blogs for more chances to winMarci Baun/Kit WyldeCritters at the Keyboard

Teresa D’Amario

Judith Leger, Fantasy and Comtemporary Romance Author

Writing

The Fictional World of Jaime Samms

Follow Where the Path will Take You

The Wandering Mind of Lizzy P. Bellows

Where Love and Magic Meet

Kissa Starling

Marianna Heusler

Hell’s Ambrosia

C.M. Michaels

The Shadow Portal

The Blog Zone

Blog By iMagine

Ardyth DeBruyn Author Blog

Shadows of the Past

Dear Reader

Cassie Exline — Mystery and Romance

Sarcastic Rambling & Writing

That’s What I Think

Sue’s Random Ramblings

Make Old Bones

Elements of Mystery

Molly Dean’s Blog

Kenzie’s Place

The Forbidden Blog

David Huffstetler

Cassandra Ulrich

Carol Marvell

Andrew Richardson

Nick Lloyd

Fiddleeebod — land of stories

Nita Wick’s Blog

Ruth G. Zavitsanos

Too Poor for Texas

Jenn Nixon

City of Thieves

Musings and Doodles

Husein

The Western Writer

Bike Cop Blog

The Character Depot

Allen Currier

Tracy Holohan

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100 Sunday Snogs!

I haven’t had the pleasure of joining in all 100 Sundays since this Sunday Snog fest began, but I’ve joined in a fair few, and it’s been pretty wonderful. This week, it’s the 100′th Sunday of the great tradition, and I’m happy to join in agian, and support the Doctors Without Boarders cause Miss Blisse and the others have decided to contribute to. It’a great cause, and I’m proud to support it.

And on that note, a little bit of a kiss-it-better scene from Off Stage: Right, when Stan gives in to his need to try and make the pain, physical, and heart-felt, go away for the man he’s quickly falling for. (and because it’s a special occasion, today, it’s a nice chunk of the scene to celebrate)

 

Krane pushed Damian upright and slipped around to kneel on the floor in front of him. He proceeded to unwrap Damian’s left hand. He didn’t take his time or be gentle. “Look at what he did to you, Trevor.”

Damian turned his head so he wouldn’t see the mess or the scratched out tattoo.

“Look.”

“You d-don’t know him like I do.” He couldn’t get his voice above a whisper, even now.

“You know him so well you anticipated this?” Krane gripped Damian’s wrists and lifted. “If you know him—” He dragged in an audible breath and tempered his tone. “If you know him this well, then why? Why push him? Why let him do this?”

“I didn’t let him!” Damian’s skin crawled as he tried to pull free. The beginning of a bone-deep shaking started in his hands, but soon spread through his entire body. “I made him.”

“Trevor.”

“Don’t try and tell m-me it w-wasn’t my fault. I g-got him th-that mad.” He twisted his hand, hunched his shoulders, but there was no making himself small enough to hide from this. “I b-b-broke him. Should have b-b- been h-home. N-n-not h-high.”

Why could he not get a single word out, suddenly? Like there was a tennis-ball sized knot of phlegm in his throat and he had no control over his own tongue.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only sharpened everything else: the stink of antibiotic cream and celery juice, the scent of Stanley’s aftershave. The feel of him there on one knee in front of Damian, watching. Waiting.

“Trevor,” Stanley said softly.

Damian tried to wipe the back of one hand across his face. It only reminded him of the implacable hold the other man had on him. It made him wince at the sharp pain of his cuts and kept him aware of how the other man was watching him, seeing him fall apart. Seeing how he couldn’t blink back the tears fast enough. Seeing the snot running over his top lip.

“L-let me g-go,” he croaked. He could barely hear the words over the roaring in his head.

“Trevor.” Stanley shuffled closer between Damian’s legs. He gently put Damian’s hands down and took his face between warm, huge palms.

“Wh-wh-what?” Damian glared at him through the dampness.

“Whatever you did that you think was deserving of this, Lenny very deliberately ruined that tattoo. He purposely caused you a great deal of pain. Why?”

Stanley’s face kept wavering in and out of focus no matter how hard Damian tried to zero in on his features. He shrugged. “Bec-cause I h-hurt h- him f-f-first, I g-guess. T-t-too many t-t-times.” He swallowed convulsively. “F-f-f-”

“Shhhh.” Stanley pulled Damian to him, cradling Damian’s head against his body.

Godddamn, but everything about the man was so warm. Steady.

“F-fuck,” Damian whispered. His throat ached. His eyes stung and his lashes stuck together. He thought his head might explode, and he was sobbing like a little kid all over Stanley’s powder-blue dress shirt. The one that matched his eyes and hugged every plane of his chest just so.

“You’re going to be all right,” Stanley assured him.

“I’m f-f-f—” Damian growled. “F-f-f-fuck!”

“Calm down.”

Damian pushed free of Krane’s grip, ignoring the pain of shoving the comfort away. “I am c-c-ca.” He banged a fist on his thigh in frustration. The pain eclipsed everything. A white-hot sheet of flaming agony sizzled through him and he thought the top of his head might blow off.

“Breathe.” Stanley had him by the wrists again. The hold anchored him. Stanley’s voice steamrolled over Damian’s frustration and finally, he managed to draw a deep breath.

“I’m c-calm,” he muttered, cheeks flushing with heat.

“You’re stuttering,” Krane pointed out.

“I d-d-d-don’t—”

“Don’t stutter?”

“D-d-d-on’t f-f-finish m-my w-w-w-ords!”

“You’re right.” Krane nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He stroked a thumb along Damian’s palm. “I’ve never heard you stutter before. Not even when you’re drunk.”

“I d-don’t st-st-st.” Damian slowed, concentrated. “I do n-not stutter,” he said. “Anym-more.” He wrung his hands, not so much in an attempt to get free, as to feel the way Stanley’s fingers tightened ever so slightly when he did. “I outgrew it. T-took v-voice lessons wh-when I w-was ten or s-so. To get over it. It w- worked.”

“So what’s going on here, then?” Stanley released one wrist, but before Damian could find a way to complain, Stanley cupped his face instead. “Talk to me.”

“T-t—” Damian bit his lip. “T-talk to you ab-bout m-my stutter?” He tried to smile, but it was a limp effort. “Wh-why?”

“Because if you haven’t done it since you were ten, and clearly, you’re doing it now, and you can’t control it, then something is going on in there.” He tapped the side of Damian’s head. “And I want to know what.”

Damian wanted to know too. He met Stanley’s—Krane’s—gaze and shook his head. “It’s better now.”

He hesitated, but what the hell? At some point, Krane had stopped being his manager and begun to be something else. Someone else. He lifted his captured wrist and a flush of warmth wended through him when Stanley’s grasp firmed. “Why does this make it better?” He glanced at the containment Stanley’s grip offered.

Stanley didn’t look away. His gaze was so steady, so serene. So very, very soothing. “You have to work that answer out for yourself. I can ground you, Trevor, but why it works, what you really want it to be, that’s something only you can figure out.”

“Grounded.” Damian nodded. “That’s how it feels.” Because grounded sounded so much better than safe or kept, even in his own head. He closed his eyes and drew a smooth, deep breath. Stanley’s fingers tightened to just this side of painful and Damian shivered, deep down where no one could see it.

“Look at me, Trevor.”

Damian kept his eyes closed. “I can’t,” he said honestly. Stanley would see what that grip did to him if he opened his eyes. He’d see inside to that quivering part of him, the secret no one was allowed to see.

“Trevor.”

“Fuck, I hate it when you say my name like that.”

“Why?”

“Because. It sounds….” Like Stanley already knew his secret.

“Why?” Stanley asked again, insistent.

Damian smiled. “You do hang onto things until you get answers, don’t you?” He tried to make light of it as he finally opened his eyes, but Stanley wasn’t smiling.

“I want to hear you say it, Trevor.”

Damian twisted his hand, frightened, suddenly, that Stanley would never let go, and terrified that he would.

Stanley released him.

“Please.” Without thinking, Damian scooted forward.

“Please what?”

Damian held his hands up between them. They shook, but he couldn’t help it. “Don’t let g-go.”

Stanley smiled. “I have to clean those hands,” he said. “And bandage them now.” He ran his fingers down Damian’s cheek. “I am not letting you go.”

“Promise.” Damian mouthed the word, unable, yet, to give voice to the need opening up inside him.

“Is that what you really want?” Damian lifted his hands another inch.

Instead of taking him by the wrists again, Stanley lowered both Damian’s hands to his thighs, cupped his chin, and kissed him.

“Soon,” Krane said. “You’re not ready yet. But I will keep you safe while you figure things out. That, I promise. Even when you don’t like it or want me to.”

And don’t forget, there are tons of authors participating this weekend! Check them all out. You can find their links on Victoria’s page by following the linky. Happy snogging!!!

Shiny! New Cover

So I got the official cover for Not as Easy as it Looks! Check it out!

Griff and Don and Howard have a great story to tell, and it will be out this fall. When I have a date, I’ll share for sure

I love cover day. Thank you, Paul Richmond, for the beautiful cover and  and Dreamspinner for yet another dream come true.

Let’s Go Back in Time…

If I’ve ever shared this snog, I think sufficient time is past for me to do so again. It’s from Moving Day, one of my older Freaya’s Bower releases and I always liked this kiss. In my opinion, there needs to be more like it. I’ve always been a great fan of best friends falling in love after years of knowing one another, and finally getting it right and getting together.

His lips tightened. He didn’t want my excuses. The elevator opened, and my neighbour, Melody, and her daughter stepped out. Jay glanced at the open doors. I was out of time and out of ideas but one.

I yanked his attention from the elevator by grabbing the front of his coat and pulling him close enough to kiss. For a split second of frozen hesitation, I thought I’d made a mistake, but then he kissed me back.

It was a long kiss, sloppy and imperfect. I’d been saving it up for a lot of years and was too frantic to do it right.

Finally, he gave me a little push, but I held on to him, my hands tightening on his clothing, instinctive refusal to let him go forming tight fists of my fingers.

“Mickey, they’re staring.”

Sometimes, characters take some time to get things right, but you know that old adage, practice makes perfect.

Check out the other author snogs linked to Victoria’s Post, and enjoy a coffee and bit of sexy fun in short bursts

Blurb:

Mike Paloso can’t count the number of times he’s helped childhood friend Jay Charles move. No home of his own, Jay’s content to follow his boyfriends, but each breakup means a new pad until the next guy comes along. This time there’s been no breakup, no new pad. Instead, Jay’s inherited one hell of a fixer-upper from his latest, late, beau, and Mike has to find a way to repair Jay’s broken dreams and mangled heart along with the house.

With every reno, there comes some demo, but Mike’s not sure he’s ready to dismantle his life to rebuild Jay’s.

Buy: http://www.freyasbower.com/index.php?...