Sommer Marsden's Blog, page 111

A million little pieces...

Okay. So it's really 24. I couldn't resist the title though as the other day, I snagged the book by the same title for the man to read. We've both been wanting to read it and yes, yes, I know! It's been out for what? Eighty years or so? Whatever, don't judge me!

In October, I have a paranormal release I'm very, very, VERY excited about. What was meant to be a novella turned into a full blown novel about a werewolf, a human and a vampire. (No lions and tigers and bears in this one, sorry). I am currently writing the sequel.

Along the way, I asked the multi-talented Willsin Rowe, a fellow Excessican, to do the cover. And read the book for me. He did and he did and boy howdy, did he do a good job.

But! I am v. superstitious with titles and covers and all that jazz when it's too far from release. BUT AGAIN, I am dying to show this cover. So (did I mention multi-talented and clever?) Willsin came up with a compromise. A jigsaw puzzle. Twenty-four pieces. Most weeks I'll put up one piece, but some weeks I'll put up two and the whole shebang will be up by the time the book is in the Coming Soon section at Excessica.

Ta and also, might I add, da!

XOXO
Sommer

Piece 1

Wanderlust part 50 (!) "It's just you two."

Part fifty! Holy crow! Can't believe it. We have well surpassed 65K and I have a feeling that this, boys and girls, could end up being the longest thing I've ever written. When all is said and done, that is.

It is pouring, boy child is still sick, I slept better and I have to drag the healthy kid to the dentist to get clean shiny chompers. There you go, you're up to speed ;)

XOXO
Sommer
p.s. those of you on Twitter who sent good vibes and nice juju and happy mojo to the man the other day for his interview thingy, thank you! It went well. Yesterday was the last step in the process and now all is done with but the waiting. We just need that fat lady to sing a happy little ditty and it's all good...
p.p.s. Seeing all the comments yesterday about future installments tickled me pink lemonade because of this particular chunk! heh. you guys rock. :)
p.p.p.s. Stay tuned for a chunk of the new cover to my upcoming paranormal. Have I mentione that Willsin Rowe is a genius?


Wanderlust
part 50
by Sommer Marsden

You can tell how you feel about someone by how you treat them when they are sick. My mother told me that once.

Right around the time he broke her arm—not long before, in fact—my father had been stricken with a nasty case of diverticulitis. Infection set in and he was hospitalized for days. His fever had raged, his body had run hot and pale and he'd lost an enormous amount of weight. I think almost a week passed before they let him return home in my mother's care.

Personally, I thought my mother should smother him in his sleep for the way he treated her, but she didn't. Of course. She doted on him and she waited on him and eventually nursed him back to health.

But it was then that she said to me, "This is how you judge your feelings about another person. Good, bad or indifferent, Aurelia. When someone is sick."

And Johnny was sick. When I touched his face as we barreled down the highway toward the next state, heat radiated off him. He was dry like sun baked sand and he coughed like a dying man.

I was driving. That alone unnerved me.

"We need to get you a doctor," I said, hands shaking and voice matching.

He laughed. "Aurelia. Don't panic. It's fine."

"Fine? You're like a human Easy-Bake oven! I could cook a little cake on your head."

He took the bottle of water from between us and guzzled half of it in a single gulp, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. "I'm fine."

"You are sick."

"Yes, I am sick. I don't know if you are aware, but us human folk get sick sometimes. No need to panic."

"I am panicking," I sighed.

"I can tell."

"What is it?" My mind, not comfortable with illness ran through every wild scenario. Lung cancer, Ebola Virus, Whooping Cough, Tuberculosis, the Plague.

"I think it's the flu," he said.

I blinked. Duh. It was November, almost holiday time, we were traveling, sleeping poorly, fucking our way cross country and eating for shit. We didn't' take vitamins or drink juice or any of that stuff we should.

"Oh."

"So, I need pain relievers, fluids and sleep. That's all, Snowflake. No need to call the Calvary."

"Are you sure I'll take you to the hospital right this moment, if you need to go." I immediately started looking for the roadside signs that broadcast HOSPITAL.

He laughed, it was weak but genuine. "Oh, Really, the hospital requires money."

"Well, they have to give you minimal care!" I blurted.

"How do you know that?"

"Well, I never held a paying job, but I have volunteered my ass off over the years. My mother thought it was important. I have been a candy striper in some of the finest Baltimore medical institutions. And minimal care is required."

"I'm fine."

I rushed on. "And even if you needed more, I'd pay. I do have a credit card."

"That you don't want to use." He smiled. Somehow he looked half his size to me at the moment. And it scared me.

"Don't care. If you need it…" I sucked in a breath and hit the windshield wiper button to clear the glass. "I will use it."

He stared at me, silent. His eyes, even in the crazy highway light shiny with fever. He said nothing but I sensed the confusion...or was it awe?...in his gaze.

This is how you judge your feelings about another person. Good, bad or indifferent, Aurelia. When someone is sick...

I was screwed.

"Just find us a hotel. I need to not be in motion. I need a shower and a bed and water and twenty hours of sleep and I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"You're not going to die are you?" The words—half way up—got lodged in my throat. But I coughed them out because I had no choice.

"God, no, Really, honey. No," he said. "I promise you, it will be okay. Do you believe me?"

Strangely, I did.

This time I was the one to saunter into the motel lobby and ask for a room alone. I put Johnny and Really Q Public on the roster. The guy at the desk gave me a look and then laughed, handing me a key. We were in room 169. How places with twenty units had triple digit room numbers always boggled my mind. But that was fine.

I drove the Chevy around, unlocked the door to a truly hideous room done in some pseudo log-cabin meets eight-year-old-boy's bedroom and took the bags in. I turned down the sheets and made sure they were clean.

They were.

Then I helped two hundred some odd pounds of feverish sick man into the room.

"Thank you," he said.

Something in the tone and not the words made my gut ache and my eyes sting. I hushed him and shut the door, locking it. I unbuckled his belt and had a brief moment of fierce arousal when I tugged it from the belt loops, remembering what he'd said. Then I got him out of his jeans and covered him up. I left him in his flannel shirt and tee because the chills and sweats were alternating.

There was no true comfort for poor Johnny.

"I'm going to get you a juice or something from the vending machine," I whispered, kneeling by the bed.

I was terrified. It was a blind kind of fear—with big teeth and huge claws, eating me up. Why? I had always preferred to be alone. Why was I so goddamned scared?

"Thank you," he said again, eyes closed.

"Stop thanking me," I hissed.

He cracked one bleary eye. "Really?"

"Sorry." I stood on weak legs and ran a hand through my hair. "I'll be right back."

As I turned he threw an arm out to me. "Really, I need you—" And then he was asleep. Mid-sentence.

My heart crimped. I stared at him.

Really, I need you—

And it filled my head with a blinding crack. When had anyone needed me? Since my mother? Or ever, to be honest?

He needed me. The end of that sentence was probably: to get me a bucket or to get me a drink or to stop talking…

I laughed and it was a high and shaky sound.

But he'd said he needed me and something in me had hummed to life. Still terrified, but somehow honored. Soothed? Better.

I went to the bathroom and got a washcloth, trying to remember if I had ever taken care of anyone in my life but myself and sometimes helping my mother's nurse toward the end of her life.

I met my own eyes in the mirror.

"Never," I told myself. "It's just you two. And he needs you. He needs you to be the strong one for a few days. So…" I wrung out the rag and then finished. "Don't fuck it up, Aurelia."

Softly, I put the washcloth on his forehead and winced when he woke up. "Sorry," I said. "But I will be right back. With a drink. Are you hungry?"

"God, no," he laughed. "But I feel like I got hit by a truck. I could do with six or seven hundred aspirin."

"How's two extra strength pain relievers sound instead?"

"Sold," he said. Then his eyes slammed shut again and he was breathing raspy but evenly.

I bent to press my lips to his hot, hot forehead and laid a kiss there. This was too bizarre. And very surreal. And mildly horrifying—me being captain of the ship. But it would be okay. It would.

I tiptoed out and found the vending machines. Feeding the hungry metal and glass beast a good chunk of our silver. Then I hurried back to take care of Johnny. Who needed me.

STAY TUNED...

Wanderlust part 49 "like a gentleman"

A very groggy good morning folks. I woke at 2 a.m. with a humdinger of a nightmare. One of those that simply wakes you up instantly. You are asleep and then...AWAKE! There is no transition. So I think I'm still sort of half asleep after finally dozing back off. I don't know what is going on with my poor sleeping mangled mind lately. I'm usually not much of a dreamer...

XOXO
Sommer

Wanderlust
part 49
by Sommer Marsden


Johnny had pulled around the corner to a fast food restaurant and planted me at a small table. The kind of table that has the chairs attached. I rocked myself back and forth, back and forth on that rotating seat, waiting for him the same way a small child waits for a parent.

"Drink," he said. "Pick your poison."

He set a cold soda, a hot coffee, a sleeve of fries and some kind of biscuit in front of me. I sipped the soda and he started on the fries.

I had considered a pill and dismissed it. That was how this whole fucking nervous breakdown of the last 24 hours had started.

The brightly lit space was packed with tired looking parents, hungry, loud kids and old folks. And of course the living dead that were the wait staff. I twisted on my hard plastic perch until Johnny grabbed my arm and said, "Really, I know you're upset, but if you don't stop spinning on that thing I'm going to have to kill you."

That was all it took for me to put my head in my hands and start giggling like a mental patient. "Sorry. Is this…" I waved my hand over our food and swallowed hard. "Is this all we have money for?"

It was his turn to laugh. "No. It was all my brain could pick off that board in a pinch with everyone jostling and crowding up behind me. I was more concerned with getting back to you."

I blew out a long shimmering sigh. "Oh."

I had tried to gauge him since my meltdown in the car. I had tried to read his emotions to see if he had disconnected with me in any way. If he was angry or sad or done with me. All I could get at the moment was a sincere concern and a bizarre patience. I simply did not get this man. Every time I thought he'd go left, he went right. Every time I expected a two-step he did the Tango.

"Now, where in the world do you think your wallet went?"

"I don't—" But then I stopped. I saw it all unwind in my mind like an old movie jittering along on its reel. "I dropped my purse," I breathed.

"When?"

"When I went to the convenience store while you were asleep. I didn't really drop it, though—"

"Let me guess. Someone bumped you?"

I nodded. My face flooded with heat. I felt so fucking stupid. "He bumped me and everything spilled out."

"And then he helped you pick it all up," he sighed. "Like a gentleman."

I snorted. "A gentleman with sticky fingers. I am so stupid."

"No, you are an average person who wouldn't think that way until it's happened to them. He snagged the wallet when he was helping you."

I sipped the soda and took a fry. How fucking gullible was I?

"Look, Really," he said, taking my hand. "I know how you feel about anyone at home knowing where you are."

I couldn't stop staring at his fingers grasping mine. He was touching me. He didn't seem to hate me so far. Weird.

I waited.

"But I think you need to report it because of your driver's license and all that shit."

"What?" I was so fucking tired. I felt slow and muddy headed.

"I think we should report the theft because of your ID—"

"Oh!" I said. The light bulb had finally gone on.

I grabbed my purse and dug and dug. After all this shit, I was getting a smaller purse. And then I was going to staple it to myself so this would never happen again. "He didn't," I sighed. Relief flooded me and I felt weak.

I waved a small green pouch at him and smiled. "ID, my one credit card and…" I opened it up and rifled through it. "About one hundred and eighty dollars."

"What's that?" he was half smiling, half laughing.

"My change purse."

"And a platinum card and almost two bills is your change?"

"It's easier when I go shopping to slip this into— never mind. You know as well as I do that less than two hundred dollars won't do shit."

"But I have money. My last few paychecks went right in an envelope. My rent was so low it was almost a joke. And a big strapping strong-like-bull man like me can pick up day to day work along the way if need be." He winked. "Between us, we might get to California. And then…" He smiled.

"And then?"

"We work. Have you heard of that before?"

I considered throwing my change purse at him, but remembered that I had unleashed on him to the Nth degree and he was still sitting here with me. He had taken it like a man, and though we hadn't discussed it, he wasn't headed for the door. Or punishing me with silence.

"I have, actually. Not that you'd believe me. But still—we have what? Maybe a few hundred bucks."

"And a platinum card," he said.

I blinked. "Nope. No, no, no. Consider that thing no more valuable than the plastic it's made out of. I won't use it."

I was my own person. I was free to go and no one was chasing me down. Dad had shown no interest—much to my somewhat pained shock when we got down to brass tacks. Jackson was leaving me be. I might be on my own but the thought of using that card as a crutch gave me an ache in my chest.

I could feel the tightness in my jaw, the tension there as I stared at him. He reached out and touched my face, brushed my bangs out of my eyes and said. "Okay, that's fine."

"But we do have it. Just in case."

Just in case hell freezes over…

Johnny smiled and then coughed. And then he coughed again. Before long I was pushing my soda to him and making him drink.

"You okay?"'

"I'm sure I'm fine," he said. "Just a tickle in my throat. From eating all that crow," he said.

I winced. "Yeah, about that—"

"Don't' say another word, Snowflake. I deserved it, both barrels and all."

And then he coughed again.

In the car, we merged back onto the highway and I pushed my head against the cool glass. The watercolor world swept by as Johnny headed us toward Nebraska. I had never been to Nebraska. Knew nothing of Nebraska. Knew very little about the meandering route we were traveling. Each mile brought me closer to the man beside me, each mile marker brought me a touch closer to the Aurelia I was searching for. Each state put some distance between the me I did not want any more. The life that seemed to be drowning me.

I watched anonymous houses and buildings, I watched jersey walls and highway sound barriers, I looked into opens skies and I shut my eyes to the sound of Johnny beating his thumb on the steering wheel.

He didn't hate me. I had told him the truth and he didn't hate me. I hadn't crushed, dented or mangled him. I had not broken his heart or his spirit. I had told him the truth and he was still standing. He was still talking to me. If anything, we seemed more in synch.

I had never experienced it before. I had heard of it, but thought it was the bullshit romance novels and chick flicks were made of. But no, it seemed to be true. And now that I was experiencing this strange symbiosis—I was terrified. Scared to breathe or fuck it up. I was a woman balancing a tray of China, maneuvering a floor scattered with marbles. The wrong move and I could fall on my ass and all the fragile beauty I was just starting to see could come crashing down around me.

"Go to sleep, Really," he said, patting my leg. "I can tell you're whipped."

"Whipped," I laughed. "You wish." But my eyes started to drift.

"We'll see. Maybe if you're good," Johnny said.

My stomach rolled, my body warmed, inside of me delicate hidden muscles flexed with arousal. Because what had jumped vividly into my mind was the worn, thick swath of leather he called a belt. And what it was like to see him yank it from the belt loops of those faded Levi's.

We'll see…

STAY TUNED
fabulous change purse here. But YOU need to fill it. two hundred dollars and platinum card NOT included :)

O...M...G

Do you remember this? Well, you're not seeing double. That buckle is not on Etsy any more. It is on my desk (well, in that pic I took, it's on my table). Tada! How awesome is the man I married who spied it on my little blog and then bought it for me here.

Tada!

XOXO
Sommer

Thank you, Thank you!

We did really well on our sales for Quarter 1 of 2011. I'm not sure what happened, but as I sat and tallied, I was shocked. Over 150 copies in total so far. And I haven't gotten all the numbers. As a thank you to readers, I'm putting the Dirtyville: 13 Tales of Small Town Naughty and Kinkyville: 13 More Tales of Small Town Naughty on sale for 65% off on ARe for the next two weeks. So, for a buck-oh-five a pop you can see what all the sales are about. :)

XOXO
Sommer
p.s. see! I'm not the only one who finds socks stimulating :)~

Wanderlust part 48 "Don't tell me a lie"

Jacques Callot, The Seven Deadly Sins (ca. 1620) - Anger


Monday. *sigh*. Okay, six hours sleep [this is what happens when you stay up till eleven to catch the encore presentation of The Killing since Breakout Kings is on at ten and roll into bed at midnight]. And tonight, a dinner guest so I have slow simmered Chicken Caccitore to make and bread pudding. Ole!

Here we go. We are up to...oh, 266 pages or so of this little ditty I like to call...

Wanderlust
Part 48
by Sommer Marsden

We slept the day away and traveled through late afternoon and into night. Iowa was a blur to me. My mind still dealing with everything. I had come to a weird Zen place of detachment over some points of my life. Of my character.

"Hello?" Johnny said.

"Is there anybody in there," I sang. It was the first thing that sprang into my mind

"Just nod if you can hear me," he sang back.
Something in my chest twisted, but I ignored it. "Is there anyone home?" I sighed, doing my best impression of Pink Floyd's Comfortably Numb.

"Well, is there?" he asked, breaking the spell.

"Yeah. I'm just ashamed."

"Of being human?"

"Of needing a pill to get me through something."

He frowned, flicking on the wipers as the sky spit cold water onto our windshield. The mist was enough to be annoying, not enough to need the wipers on full blast.

My stomach rumbled. We'd had a fly-by-night 'meal' of snacks from the car.

"If you'd had a few drinks would you be having a fit?"

"No."

"If you were a rough and tumble guy you would have gone on a bender and hit someone. Or another person would have fucked someone. Or run six miles. Or went shopping and spent hundreds of dollars. You simply popped one little pill. One prescribed pill," he reminded me.

"When you say it, it sounds so logical."

"It is logical."

"It scares me."

"Why?" His eyes darted to me for a second before returning to the road.

"My mother used to take pills," I said. "To cope. With my dad."

"Ah…But you're not your mother."

Anger slammed me like a fist. So sudden and unexpected it stole my breath. "Stop," I said.

It was the first time I think I'd said that to him.

"You're not your mother, Really. But you let your father have his control over you in other ways. And you're angry."

"Leave it alone, Johnny," I said.

"You have anxiety for a million reasons. Guess what? Join the ranks. Join the army of humans trying to get through every day." He reached past me to the glove box and opened it. Withdrawing the pack of smokes, he sat back. I watched the thick muscles in his forearm dance and move. I said nothing. "You're human and you needed to cope. It's life. We all have to find a way."

"Shut up," I said. The words slipped free of me like wisps of air. They hovered there in the silence of the car behind the thump of the wipers. They tinted the air like smoke,

Silence.

"Really—"

"Shut up!" I roared, turning on him. My entire body knew I was going to turn before I did. But there I was, torque in my seat, my seatbelt gnawing at my throat. I stopped yelling. I simply forced my words out one at a time. It was like spitting out shards of glass. "You're so fucking clever, are you? You're so fucking smart?"

He stared at me. I could not see the blue of his eyes but I could see the intensity of his gaze. He had slowed but we were still moving, but it was almost as if he were driving but looking solely at me.

It didn't even scare me. I simply didn't care.

"I never said—"

I didn't let him finish.

"I don't care." I ran my hand through my hair, it was shaking so much it got tangled in my bangs. "I don't fucking care. You want to play Doctor Freud—"

"I'm more of a Jungian," he said, with a wry smile.

I felt my temples throbbing. "I don't care if you're a Martian! You think you're so superior? So smart and so wonderful at analyzing. Why the fuck don't you turn that brilliant mind on yourself, Johnny? Why don't you pick apart and dissect and carve up why you had to force a three way with me and some woman I loathed. Why did you pick her? And why did you make me?"

"I didn't force you," he said, his voice low and steady.

"Well, you sure as fuck gave me an impossible choice. You didn't tie me up and force me at gunpoint, but you did force me…emotionally," I whispered. "Why did you have to force a wedge between us that even if I can move past I will never ever forget?"

"I thought—"

"Don't tell me a lie," I snapped. Then I rushed forward before I lost my nerve. "You did it on purpose. So you couldn't get close to me. So you wouldn't f-fall—" I shook my head, angry at myself now. "So you would make me angry," I quickly backpedaled.

Then I forged on. "So I wouldn't be able to forgive you. You wanted me to leave. To be hurt and hate you and leave. Because if I left, then you were free to pawn it off on me. It would be my fault. I couldn't handle you. King Johnny and his wayward soul. Big bad Johnny who'd been shit on by the world and was helpless to love or be whole or be undamaged again."

He stared and I breathed hard.

"You did that so you could blame me when I walked out. It wouldn't be that you were scared or you pushed me away or you were f—" I stuttered here, feeling like I might throw up. "Feeling something for me," I soldiered on. "And it scared you. It would be my fault. Mine."

He turned his face to the road now, splotches of light from oncoming cars lit his face. He wasn't going to answer me. I had hit a nerve. Hit it? I had severed it. Fine. That was fucking fine.

"You thought I would leave. Anyone would have. Anyone not st—stupid," I shuddered out the words now. It was like sicking up my feelings for him to hear.

"Anyone not stupid and weak and pitiful would have. But I didn't. And I don't know why."

Lie.

I grabbed my purse, rummaging. "Please pull off the highway. I need a soda. I feel sick," I whispered.

The anger had gone out of me now. The rage had withered and died. I was left with gray ashes of angst clogging my gut and my throat, I could taste it on my tongue.

He veered toward the exit ramp, flipping his blinker on. I watched him out of my peripheral vision. I was afraid to look at him—half afraid he would leave me at this pit stop and just go.

Whatever. If he did, he did. I would not die. I would not cease to be. I would go the fuck on. I was learning that.

In the parking lot, I popped the car door without saying a word. I was now expecting that it would be a long silent ride. Before I could get out he put his hand on my leg and I stilled. I risked looking at him, despite the fear of what he might say. His hand came up behind my neck and he tugged me in—almost gently—and kissed me.

When he pulled back, I bolted. Afraid of saying anything to turn the tide of emotion in our little bubble of existence.

Inside the store, I blinked against offensive fluorescent lights. I grabbed two sodas and a candy bar. I felt like someone had pulled a plug in my heel and all my lifeblood had come rushing out of my body. I was a husk, an empty shell, and the shell needed sugar.

"Three seventy-eight," the pimply teenager said to me at the register.

I dug in my bottomless purse for my wallet. I dug and I dug and I dug and then I wheezed. "Um, I'll be right back." And I ran to the car.

I nearly fell in, all of me shaking in horror.

"What is it? Where's your soda?" He could tell I was upset because instantly he touched me. Those soothing touches you see horse handlers use on their charges.

That made me laugh. I was a fucking horse. The laugh unrolled like a long red ribbon from me and I put my head down, cackling. "Fuck, fuck. Oh my fuckety fuck. What the hell. You stupid stupid cunt…" I was babbling.

"Really?"

I put my head up, tugging my hair hard enough to make me wince. It helped me focus. "My wallet," I breathed. "My wallet is gone. All my money, all the money. That we need. Gone."

STAY TUNED

Snippety-doo-dah...

A bit of my story Racing To The Altar from the fabulous Ms. Tyler's new book With This Ring, I Thee Bed. This was one of those stories that was equally thrilling and terrifying. Because I really, really, REALLY wanted to get what was in my head on paper correctly. Because if I did it correctly, it would be great! And it took much stroking from my lovely editor to assure me that I had in fact pulled it off. The Raunch Dilettante even agreed in her nifty review.

So, Alison had to stroke and stroke and stroke my ego to assure me. Okay, so she only had to stroke me two times to assure me. After that, I was just milking it because I like it when she um...strokes me.

:D

See you Monday!

XOXO
S

Racing to the Altar
Sommer Marsden

I eyed the billboard as my foot mashed on the gas. The thought flittered through my head, cops hide behind big billboard signs like that... But I mashed it anyway. My speed crept from 68 to 74. I was late. I was so fucking late it wasn't funny. I was racing to the altar. Hell bent for matrimony.

Kelly and Tina and Tracy all awaited me at the church. No doubt pacing the small bridal room where they were to do my makeup and my hair. I could picture Kelly fretting as she ticked off the time in her head. How much time we had and what that time would allow. Up do with accent braids? Chignon? Traditional bun? She would kill me!

I shot past the sign advertising Rock Hard Gym and my stomach bottomed out when I saw the lights, my body tingling the way it does when I ride a roller coaster. The cherry lights atop the cruiser came on in a flash of crimson, and I gnawed my bottom lip.

Cop.

I pulled to the side of the road.

I didn't have time for a ticket. There was hair to be done, makeup to be applied, panic to be embraced. I had to go over my vows and make sure the seating arrangements were perfect and check the church to ensure that Uncle Sal was not next to Great Aunt Dot (or they would kill each other). I had too much to do. And at the end of it all, hopefully I would be lawfully married and not insane. Then Jackson and I would run off to Nova Scotia never to return!

Okay, so we were returning. The point was that we had to make it through this stressful, heart pounding wedding and reception before we could escape. And all I really wanted was to be with him. Somewhere quiet. Just me and him and our lips pressed together, making out like horny teenagers the way we did when we weren't tasting butter cream frosting or picking out dye to make shoes match dresses. I sighed, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. In my head, I was already pleading my case. Figuring out what I would say to Officer Friendly to get off with only a warning.

"Do you know how fast you were going, Miss?" he asked into my semi-open window. My heart shot up into my throat and my stomach dropped to my feet. I opened my mouth, but he cut me off. "I asked you a question, Miss. Do you know how fast you were going?"

"Too fast?" It was all could think to say.

The good officer laughed. "Obviously, or I wouldn't be here would I?"

His eyes studied me and I studied him. He'd pulled his aviator sunglasses down to peer at me, his mouth twisted in a wry grin. Bright blue eyes like an autumn sky, lush lips, peppering of dark stubble along his jaw. I thought it would be fairly easy to cut paper with his cheekbones, and I was struck, sitting out here in the bright October sunshine, by how utterly gorgeous he was. Nearly beautiful, to be honest.

"This section of road is zoned for 55 miles per hour, ma'am. You were going over 70. Were you aware?"

"No," I lied. He put his hand on the door and I rolled my window all the way down. My eyes went to his thickly muscled forearms, and my head felt swimmy. I'm a sucker for thick forearms. But I had a wedding to get to.

"I think you knew, and you were speeding anyway." He leaned into the window, crowding my space. He had a teardrop shaped birthmark above his left thumb. I inhaled deeply and tried to think.

"I'm sorry?"

"Are you sure? You don't sound sure."

This officer, this man, this amazing specimen was nearly leaning headfirst into my window. So close to me and my jangling nerves I swore I could feel the invisible particles of his energy mixing with mine. It was downright dirty was what it was, because my pussy was responding to the heady mixture of fear and excitement and attraction. "Yes, I am absolutely sure that I am sorry," I said and any idiot could tell I was lying.

"I don't believe you," he said. He put his pad in his pocket and ran his finger along the seam of rubber that protected my lowered window. I watched that finger trace and fought the urge to cross my legs. This was crazy. This was silly. I should ask for my ticket and leave. I should make him let me go right this instant. My bridesmaids and others would be foaming at the mouth by now. I. Did. Not. Have. Time. I didn't have time for this insanity!

"I assure you, sir."

"You're lying."

I felt blush crowd my cheeks. I blew out a sigh, trying not to think about church parking, place settings, snippy caterers and my betrothed's mother's insistence that we had some ridiculous disgusting red velvet groom's cake.

"I don't lie," I lied.

Wanderlust part 47 "Do we fuck too much?"

Bleh. Just up a little while ago. The last few hours of sleep were plagued by dreams of people pursuing me and telling he I was a terrible writer. No shit. And I woke up all shaky and freaked out the way I tend to when a dream scares me to a certain level. The man is making me coffee and I'm wondering how I let these things bother me. I guess a better question is, how do I not?

Bottom line is, i can't do anything about the dream but let it pass. So pass it will. Here we go. Wanderlust, ahoy...

Wanderlust
part 47
by Sommer Marsden

I floated on it, the pill and the feel of him touching me. I kissed him almost desperately, though my body felt light and untethered.

"Hurt me," I said in his ear. His fingers delved and dipped into me. His hand moving as he gauged my arousal.

"No."

I gasped as my body tightened around his fingers, my hips moved up. Writhing like I was underwater, twisting in a wave. A mermaid caught in her own net of pleasure. His mouth bullied mine, his tongue hot and sweet on my tongue.

"But I want it," I murmured.

Johnny rested his lips to my ear, his voice no more than an exhalation. "You might want it, but it's not what you need."

I did need it, didn't I? I needed that sharp bite of pain to focus me, to cleanse me, to soothe me. He turned me on my side to face away from him and I thought about struggling but didn't. When my back was to him, Johnny hooked my leg with his big arm, draping the hinge of my knee over the crook of his arm. His teeth scraped the back of my neck, his chest pressed to my shoulder blades. I could feel his heart beating. He moved me so I opened for him and then he entered me from behind.

I bit my lip. Wanting to beg him to do what I asked, but what he was giving me was too good to shut off. He moved slow. He didn't talk.

The room was lightening with dawn and I succumbed to his will. He kept his lower arm wrapped around my waist, the other still held my leg. His cock filling me and stretching me. Teeth crimped flesh over my pulse and I felt that flutter and burst of uneasy arousal. The potential for pain pressed to my flesh in the guise of his beloved mouth.

"Right now I want to give you what you need," he said.

I shook my head, my eyes stinging with tears all the sudden. That stupid pill should have taken care of the irrational tears and the anxiety induced mood swings.

"You deserve to get what you need," he said.

I shook my head again.

"Yes, you do." He soothed the spot his teeth had worried with his tongue and I shivered.

I shook my head again but said nothing as he readjusted his hips and thrust in at a different angle. An angle that nudged my G-spot so that a pleasant heaviness filled my limbs, my womb.

"No," I said.

"Yes, Really," he countered. "Where were you?"

"Walking."

"Doing what?"

"Making amends."

"Punishing yourself, I suspect."

"Maybe some of that," I laughed. But it was a sad laugh. A tired laugh. The laugh that showed up when the fear did.

"This is what you need, Snowflake. Kindness."

I opened my mouth to answer and a sob hitched up out of me so unexpectedly my body shook with it. The arm around my waist held me tighter even as he splayed his fingers low so they brushed my mound. Not touching my clit—not yet—but promising it.

When he pulled my top leg up a touch higher, I let him, to help him open me up, get his cock deeper. Johnny levered me forward just a bit, so that I bent at the waist just a enough, and when he did that, I started to come. The friction of it all—the goodness of it all—so fucking unbearable, I couldn't do anything but let myself fall into it. At the tail end of that orgasm, he slid the arm under me lower and his fingers found me. Rubbing with swift slippery circles so that I came again almost immediately.

He let my leg go, bent me forward a little more and wrapped my hair in his fist, holding me tight, fucking me hard and coming with a satisfied grunt.

"There," he said, almost conversationally.

Outside a car door slammed, muted back drop noise to our breathing.

"There," I echoed, wiping the wetness off my face. My chest still ached from all the fucking feelings.

He rolled to his back and pulled me against his chest.

"Do we fuck too much?" I asked him, the shell of my ear resting over his heart so the steady pound filled my tired mind.

"There's no such thing," he chuckled. "Not when you—"

I was almost asleep but his sudden silence roused me. "When you what?"

"Nothing, Really. Go to sleep, sweetheart."

And I was too tired to argue. I was almost under when, with a thick tongue, I blurted, "I took a pill."

Silence.

"Was it a pill you were meant to take?" he asked. I could feel he had gone on alert. As if I'd crawled out of this bed to score some illicit drug and had proceeded to OD. It almost made me laugh. But I was too exhausted to laugh and too touched that he even cared. All of me felt numb and calm and drowsy.

"Yeah. They're mine. I just never ever take them," I mumbled. "Ever," I added.

"Why?" He was touching my hair in the dark. It was the most soothing thing I could imagine feeling. His hands in my hair, stroking.

"They make me weaker than I already am," I confessed. And then I fell all the way under to darkness with Johnny's fingers tangled in my hair.

STAY TUNED...

random phone shots!

Last night he slid off the back of the sofa--dead asleep--in this position. Then I took a pic. Then another pic. Then this pic...I like to call it EXTREME closeup. :)



This was from our travels a few weeks ago. A sign on a local bar that has been altered to amuse the patrons. Finally remembered to get it off the phone...

XOXO
Sommer

Wanderlust part 46 "the sweet angel tones of things that brought oblivion"

TGIF, all. I'm supposed to go out today but am not sure if I am going to. Still not feeling up to speed. Still off and a bit weak. I guess I'll see how my coffee settles. Bummer, I was looking forward to today--I guess we shall see. But for now, on with the trip :)...

Wanderlust
part 46
by Sommer Marsden

It was just fucking. That's all it was. Some fun. Some freedom. Loads of sex. I reminded myself of this as I studied the teardrop stain of fluorescent light on the ceiling. There was a crack in the cheap shades that covered our motel room windows and just enough light seeped in from the parking lot to make me antsy.

Have you ever been in love, Aurelia? For real?

I couldn't shake his words or my reaction inside. Or my denial of my reaction with words. I turned onto my side, watching the rise and fall of Johnny's chest as he slept. He'd tossed and turned like some haunted man but finally had flung one arm over my hip and had settled.

I listened to him breathe and realized that I could not follow suit. I was having a panic attack. It had been a long, long time since my silent and sinister friend had sidled up to me to spend some time, but here it was. My lips tingled and my ears rang, my chest was full of cotton stuffing and sawdust. And Johnny slept on.

Despite the inside clamor for freedom and air and movement, I took the time to gently tug his arm free me and reposition it. He'd been driving forever, it seemed. And after his question to me and my answer that I had never been in love, he'd seemed to recede into himself. His jaw tight, his fingers clenched on the steering wheel. No doubt remembering his lost loves: wife and son and how this, what we had, was nothing but a soft pale comparison to that.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I put my head down and tried to regulate my oxygen. I blew out the stale air in my lungs hard, sucked in a drowning woman gulp of air and held it for the count of four. Then I repeated the whole fucking thing until my heart stabilized. Until it stopped doing the floppy fish jitterbug in my chest.

"Fuck," I breathed.

Johnny murmured and turned. I stood, my legs weak and watery. My stomach echoing the same.

My jeans were on the round table by the window. This horrible hotel room had one king sized bed, one table, two chairs, a dresser and a pull out sofa in the corner. The predominant color seemed to be baby shit yellow.

I snorted at my train of thought and then silenced myself. No time for hysterical laughter, I thought. Get dressed and get out. Move. It would help settle the itchy crawling restlessness that zipped and skittered below the surface of my skin.

Through the taunting crack in the shade I saw the sky purpling. When we'd left the rest stop it had been very late. Very late had bled into very early. And I couldn't settle.

No sense in unsettling Johnny too.

I grabbed my jacket and my bag and silenced the door with a firm hand when the wind tried to whip it wide. In the parking lot, I shivered against the wind to distract myself from the fact that I was shaking with adrenaline.

My body was betraying me once again with false terror. Triggering a fight or flight response though there was no villain, no danger.

"To pill or not to pill," I said to myself but pushed my hands in my pockets and started to walk. I had no idea where I was, no idea if it was safe. I did know that I was so full of chaotic energy and false fear that I would be a worthy adversary at the moment.

But there appeared to be no danger. Just a pre-dawn ink stain on the sky and early traffic. I walked.

I walked the side of the road, passing a few houses that looked as if they dated back before the busy road I stood on. They were old, dilapidated and sad in a proud sort of way. The neon beckon of a convenience store lit up my side of the road ahead and I walked against the wind wondering what the fuck I was doing.

I knew as soon as I saw the pay phone bank set outside the double doors. A few people wandered in and out looking stunned to be up so early. I knew how that felt. The pills in my purse called out to me in the sweet angel tones of things that brought oblivion.

I shook my head, passed the first two pay phones—now becoming extinct creatures in the age of cell phones—and finally found the one that worked. The last one.

I picked it up and wiped the receiver with my jacket. Then I wiped it again, pushing away the thought of what kind of germs might be on the dark, hard plastic. Then I set about dialing.

It was answered on the third ring and the words burst out of me.

"I'm sorry," I blurted.

"Really?"

I could hear the muddy headed confusion in Jackson's voice.

"Don't talk," I said, softly. The wind tried to scoop up my voice and toss it away but I huddled to shelter the receiver. "I want to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the times I ran from you and to someone else. I'm sorry that I can't love you right. I'm sorry that I have hurt you and god, Jackson, I hope that bitch Gina is fucking you blue." I laughed wildly and the scurried forward in my never-ending march of stupid words. "Because you deserve it, Jackson. You deserve for someone to dote on you and do you and love you and be whatever it is you want. Someone who isn't stupid and selfish and scared and angry. Someone who isn't me."

I swallowed hard. I did not want to cry. I wanted to get this out.

"Really, baby, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said. "Are you?"

"I—" He hesitated and I picked at a thread on my coat, waiting. "I am okay. I have…about Gina."

I laughed again, hearing the crazy edge to it. "It's fine. Do it. Do her. Have fun, go crazy. Fall in love," I hissed.

"Really, honey—"

"Stop being nice to me, Jackson!" I yelled.

"I can't," he said.

Then I did cry. "You have to."

"No, I don't. And if you want to come home…"

"I don't think that's going to happen," I said. "But I had to tell you. I had to say I was sorry. Because I am."

"I know."

I hung up before he could be nice to me more. Then I walked into the convenience store, grabbed a soda, fished an anxiety pill out of my makeup case with trembling fingers and swallowed a pill right there at the register. I tried to remember the last time I had stooped to taking one—for that was how I saw it, as a weakness—and I couldn't recall.

I was half out the door when the guy bumped me and my whole purse went tumbling down. Crap flew everywhere and my soda rolled away, turning to brownish white foam in the bottle.

"Christ, sorry, lady. Look at me making a mess. I guess I'm not awake yet." His brown eyes were tired and wired and I sympathized.

We stooped there in the doorway, the two of us, gathering a whole slew of papers and hair clips and lipsticks and shoving them back into my bag.

"I'm really sorry."

"It's fine," I said. "It is."

And it was, because the pill was kicking in. I had remembered the doctor saying that. There's no shame in it, Aurelia. And this should make you feel better, this particular drug fast acting. Quick to work, quick to leave your system. And you only take it if you need it…not every day.

That was my thing. No chemical crutches for me. My comfort came in different forms.

I walked back to the hotel as the sun started to spread peach and pink blemishes across the mask of the sky. I crawled into bed feeling slower inside. My pulse had calmed, my mind too. I was more balanced—blissfully easy and relaxed.

Johnny rolled to me. "Did you just come in?"

"Yeah. I had…some anxiety. I needed to walk around."

He gathered me close to him. "You okay, now?"

"I am."

"Good."

Then he pushed my thighs wide and his fingers found me. His lips met mine in the dark and that fast, that easy, I was wet. He slid his fingers further, pressed his palm against my clit as his fingers pushed deeper. I clutched at him, kissing him back. Moving against him.

STAY TUNED...