Abigail Barnette's Blog, page 23

We’re probably not terrible for being less than fine.

Back in February, I bought a new planner. The Recollections goal planner, for those out there who are planner-addicts. I was finally feeling better enough from my breakdown to return to work. I was energized, confident, and so ready to get back to normal. I set it up with all the goals I wanted to achieve. Reasonable goals, with reasonable deadlines. Re-publish my backlist titles that are no longer available? I could do that at a rate of one per month since they’re mostly novellas. Finish The Daughter by April? Of course! Plenty of time! And in the meantime, I’d even set out a plan for how to keep on schedule with Patreon and recaps here. And IDK if anyone noticed but I totally got better at working!

And then the world ended.

Of course, my world stayed roughly the same, with the exception of not having to leave the house for rehearsals or home school activities. After all, I work here all the time. I was expecting to be at home. And hey, don’t I always complain about having to go places? This should be perfect!

Obviously, this whole “shelter in place” thing has been a boon; after all, without having to do pesky things like taking a kid to play practice, I have more time to work on those goals! I could even get ahead!

Picture this: there’s a global crisis killing tens of thousands of people. Millions will be infected by this pandemic. Every news story seems to be, “perfectly healthy human being your exact same age died two days after going to the grocery store, congrats, you’re fucking doomed.” If you live in the U.S., the President of your country may be actively trying to murder you via medical neglect if you happen to live in a state whose governor won’t praise the orange bastard appropriately. Bodies are being stored in temporary morgues made out of reefer trailers and people are dying alone while their families watch them take their last breaths over Skype.

Feeling productive yet?

Now, I know I’m not unique in feeling like I, personally, should be able to weather this nightmare and turn it into a dream come true of productivity and royalties and being a beacon of distraction for readers. Everyone working from home right now seems to be having the same difficulties. These include:

Not being able to concentrate
Sleeping too much
Not sleeping at all
Sleeping at weird times
Drinking too much
Bouncing back and forth between social media platforms and news sites in a non-stop loop
Panic attacks
Inability to do things that were formerly enjoyable.

Also:

Thinking you’re the only person who’s not handling their shit right now, despite all evidence to the contrary.

That last one is especially difficult for people with mental or chronic physical illness, as the drive to appear “normal” or “not lazy” can powerfully fuck with you. I mean, I spent months trying to claw my way up to “normal” things like, “leaving the house” and “focusing long enough to read a whole page of a book at once.” And now it’s just how we live? And I’m supposed to adapt to that?

I know I’m not the only person out there who’s been thrown a curveball by the entire world’s sudden agoraphobia and depression. All those behaviors people strive to correct or suppress are suddenly just what we’re all going through. Some of it is maddening on an, “oh, when the neurotypical, able people need accommodations it’s possible to make them,” level but it also hits a sore spot in the psyche: am I backsliding if this kind of anxiety and lack of executive function is a reasonable and expected part of life? And if it is backsliding, well, shouldn’t I, with my years of therapy and hard work, be better able to navigate this crisis? I have all the tools necessary. IDK, this feels like an excuse.

My friend Jill sometimes reminds me that there’s a difference between an excuse and a reason. If you’re identifying with this post, if you’re seeing things in here and thinking “hashtag mood,” let’s try to remember that this pandemic isn’t an excuse. It’s a reason. It’s the reason everyone is experiencing those delightful mental illness issues like insomnia or jacked up sleep patterns. It’s the reason you’re having a panic attack, not an excuse to capriciously lose it several times a week (or day). Nobody is living this out because they’re lazy and unwilling to try; they’re living it out because the Grim Reaper is gently elbowing us while we’re watching the news and leaning over to whisper, “Hey, how do you like what I did in Italy?”

But it’s still so hard to grasp that failure to function in the middle of a global pandemic is not the same as failure to function because you stopped taking your meds or going to your therapist. Hopefully, when this is all over, one of the lasting lessons for the world at large will be, “now you understand what life is like for the mentally ill and disabled, so please stop being a dick, we’re doing our best.” But for now, the lesson everyone needs to learn, myself included, is that at this particular moment in history, we do not have any power when it comes to keeping our lives normal. Because there is no normal. And that’s not an excuse. It’s a reason. Be kind to yourselves. And remember that if you struggle to function at the best of times, it’s too much to ask of yourself to be at the top of your game in the worst of times.

The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp, Chapter Five

Need to catch up?

What is The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp? 
The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Prologue
The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter One
The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Two
The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Three
The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Four

The alarms went off at 10:30.

Marcaeus turned away from his standing desk and strode to his office door just as Hobb pushed through it.

“Have the laboratories locked down?” Marcaeus’s jaw tightened as he and Hobb moved fast through the corridors.

“Everything has locked down,” Hobb assured him. “All floors.”

“Do we know what it is?” There had only been two security breaches in the company’s history. One had been a false alarm. The other…

“Security says they found traces of demonic residue in the lobby and the elevator buttons. And on the seventh floor.” Hobb let that settle in a moment. “You know who it is.”

“I do,” Marcaeus acquiesced grimly. There was no way he could allow her to continue her employment now, no way to make her an asset.

Not an asset. A weapon, to be used against her own family. Have you truly allowed humanity to rob you of your morals?

He’d hoped she’d been sincere in her intentions. There had been no reason to put his trust into the notion, nothing but the way her presence in his thoughts pestered him whenever his mind wasn’t occupied with other things. Though that was something she may have accomplished through demonic magic, he could not lay the blame on her; he’d tricked himself.

“Take me to her.”

The bioluminescence lab roiled with confusion and panic. No one seemed to know where to go or what to do; the trees had closed up in response to the pheromones released as a security protocol, leaving some workers trapped at their desks and others roaming the aisles, perplexed and muttering.

The selkie, Ealusaid, approached, armed with an ancient harpoon. “We’re searching the lab now. What shall we do with the intruder?”

Marcaeus reached out warily and tilted the spear into a less ready position. “Let’s begin by not piercing them.”

Hobb frowned down at his holopad. “She’s this way.”

“Who are you looking for?” Ealusaid asked.

“Flicka Star.” What a ridiculous name. He should have seen through it immediately.

The selkie shook her head. “Impossible. Marcaeus, she’s one of our best employees.”

“She may also be a security risk.” He started off down the path into the forest of productivity that had ground to a chaotic halt, the click-clack of Hobb’s hooves close behind him.

Each of the trees had tightened their vines snuggly, their shiny leaves stuck together with sap that cascaded down their leathery surface. Now and then, one of them would shudder and heave; one loudly complained: “Allergies! Bah!”

Hobb grimaced in disgust and wiped a blob of the mucus from his shoulder. “There has to be a less messy way to do this.”

“Here.” Marcaeus stopped before Fiona Trasket’s tree and rapped on the slick pod that encased her. He shook his hand once, hard, slime flicking from his knuckles to land in a shivery glob on the path. “Open, plant. I’m your boss.”

“Oh no, the big scary donkey man might fire me. What would I do if had to live out my days in a park or a real forest? That would be just dreadful.”

“You can live out your days in a wood chipper, for all we care,” Hobb warned.

The tree rustled like a dog shaking off after a swim, splattering both of them gelatinous sap.

Inside the pod, the bioluminescent bulb above the desk glowed at half brightness. Fiona Trasket leaned over her holopad, tapping away. With her huge headphones on, there was no chance she’d heard the commotion around her. Perhaps not even the security alarms. She glanced up at Marcaeus and Hobb, her eyes growing wide.

Marcaeus summoned as commanding a presence as he could muster while dripping with goo. “Ms. Trasket. Come with me.”

* * * * 

The room Mr. Johnson and Mr. Hobb had marched Fiona to had ink-black walls, floor, and a ceiling of stone, all polished to a mirror finish; her image reflected around her, colorless and gray. Already a wraith.

They won’t kill you, she tried to console herself. You may go to jail, but they can’t execute you right here in the building.

Perhaps they weren’t in the building, anymore. The room—the cell—had no door. They’d entered through a swirling portal of silver light that had disappeared once Johnson and Hobb left. She could be in a prison on the astral plane. She had no idea how long she’d been waiting in the lightless, but oddly bright void.

Worse, she had no idea what she’d done to be found out.

A pop! sizzle startled her. The silver portal appeared once more, a spiral of smoke that opened from the center to admit Mr. Johnson. Alone.

He’d changed from his human form, standing before her in a dark blue jacket and crisp white shirt covering his torso. His equine body shone with a coat of deep ebony, almost as dark as the room around them. He flicked his tail and she averted her eyes.

“Isn’t it company policy that you have to have an HR representative present to discipline employees?” She lifted her chin in defiance. “And you’re definitely supposed to have pants on.”

“You must excuse me. Someone’s cubicle sneezed on me.” The clipped tone suggested he somehow held her personally responsible for that. “But congratulations. You’re the second spy in the history of our company to make it past our security protocols.”

“I was in the gifted program at school.” She paused, running over the day in her mind. Sloppy? She’d done exactly what she’d been doing the entire time she’d worked there. Unless… “It was the tree, wasn’t it? It ratted me out.”

And after she’d given it a Toblerone, the ingrate.

“No. It’s the demonic energy around you.” He paced the room, his hooves setting up a ringing echo all around them. “What do you think of this?”

“I think it needs something to dampen the acoustics.” Her head throbbed already from anxiety.

“It’s obsidian,” he said as if they were discussing a kitchen remodel. “It does dampen some things. Dark powers. Charms. Remote enchantments.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know any magic.”

“But the demons you’re working with do,” he accused her. “And whatever you paid them, it was too much. We picked you up the moment you entered the building. The enchantment left a trail wherever you went.”

“That’s impossible.” She looked down at her hands. She would have known if she’d been enchanted. “There’s a glamour. But that’s all. It’s only a glamour.”

“Consorting with demons is a violation of several treaties. You worked on a liminal floor. You could be prosecuted in the astral,” he warned.

The thought chilled her. Depending on which court oversaw her trial, she could find herself in deep, deep trouble. And lately, the mortal courts had been extraditing humans charged with astral crimes as a matter of policy. Her lower lip trembled as she said, “I don’t know any demons.”

“You lie.”

“I don’t. I swear.” Her eyes filled with tears and her shoulders sagged in defeat. “I’m not working for demons. My brother, he sent me…I didn’t want to come here at all.”

Why was she blathering on? You’re a Trasket. You’re supposed to be powerful and strong. People fear your family name.

People. She was no threat to the centaur in front of her.

And so, she took the cowardly road. “He was going to blackmail my friend. He had proof that she’d fallen off the wagon again.”

Johnson frowned. It was so heavy, she felt the weight of it on her shoulders.

With a roll of her eyes, she explained, “Fallen off the wagon, meaning—”

“I know what it means. That isn’t why I’m confused.” He walked a wide circle around her. “You’re here because—”

“Because if I didn’t spy on you, Blayde would leak the video to the press. And it could ruin someone’s life.”

“Hmm.” That was all Johnson said, still pacing a circle around the room. “You were spying on my business for your brother, not for your own profit but out of the good of your heart?”

“You don’t have to believe me.” And there was no reason that he should. Her stung pride squared her shoulders in indignation, anyway.

He stopped in front of her and came a step too close; in his true form, he towered over her by feet, not inches.

Are centaurs measured in hands? Like horses?

He leaned down, arms folded across his massive chest, and said, “I haven’t believed you since the moment you stepped into my office.”

That took her aback.

He straightened and resumed his damned dramatic pacing. Are there cameras in here or something? Or does he just like his own reflection that much?

“Whoever your brother paid to glamour you did a terrible job. We knew who you were. We just didn’t know why you were here.” He looked her up and down, not in a lecherous way. He just examined her as though he was trying to gauge whether a painting was level.

“So, you gave me a job?” She waved her fingers toward his face and snapped them. “Would you stop looking at me like that?”

“I’m looking at the demon’s mark on you.”

A cold chill rippled in the air, raising the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck.

“Did you agree to that?” Johnson asked, his voice low and gentle in a way that didn’t reassure her at all.

She swallowed hard. “I’ve never even seen a demon in person.”

After a long silence, Johnson asked, “May I place my hands on your head?”

The request was too strange to deny. She nodded, her heart beating fast.

His hands were enormous; his long fingers rested carefully atop her hair while he cupped her cheeks in his palms.

“Close your eyes.”

The moment she did, a fire ripped through her body. Images she’d never seen flashed sharp and clear, but fleeting. She saw her skin, saw razor-sharp talons gouging lines into intricate sigils. Her blood collecting in a golden bowl. Her brother and sister-in-law standing by.

She’d been lost in the hellish vision for an eternity before the floor spun away beneath her feet and she fell, screaming, back into the present.

“Fiona, stop, stop,” a voice urged her and strong hands closed over her wrists to prevent her from clawing away the bloody marks that had vanished without a trace.

She looked up into the concerned, not unkind face of her boss and whispered, “I swear, I didn’t know.”

He nodded slowly. “We need to get that mark off of you.”

“Do you know how?” Or even what it was? What had been done to her? She shuddered in revulsion, every inch of her flesh suddenly coated with shame.

Johnson shook his head slowly. “I don’t. But I know someone who does.”

He waved a hand at one of the walls and a portal appeared, another swirling gateway out of the doorless cell. On the other side, a meadow of iridescent grass and gleaming gold flowers rippled lazily beneath a bright, but sunless, sky.

“You’ll have to come with me. To Elysia.” He gestured over his humanoid shoulder to his equine body. “Jump on.”

The Big Damn Buffy Rewatch: S0407 “The Initiative”

In every generation, there is a chosen one. She alone realizes that she hasn’t written a Buffy recap for over a year but damn, what’s she gonna do, 2019 was a hell of a year. She will also recap every episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer with an eye to the following themes:

Sex is the real villain of the Buffy The Vampire Slayer universe.
Giles is totally in love with Buffy.
Joyce is a fucking terrible parent.
Willow’s magic is utterly useless (this one won’t be an issue until season 2, when she gets a chance to become a witch)
Xander is a textbook Nice Guy.
The show isn’t as feminist as people claim.
All the monsters look like wieners.
If ambivalence to possible danger were an Olympic sport, Team Sunnydale would take the gold.
Angel is a dick
Harmony is the strongest female character on the show.
Team sports are portrayed in an extremely negative light.
Some of this shit is racist as fuck.
Science and technology are not to be trusted.
Mental illness is stigmatized.
Only Willow can use a computer.
Buffy’s strength is flexible at the plot’s convenience.
Cheap laughs and desperate grabs at plot plausibility are made through Xenophobia.
Oz is the Anti-Xander
Spike is capable of love despite his lack of soul
Don’t freaking tell me the vampires don’t need to breathe because they’re constantly out of frickin’ breath.
The foreshadowing on this show is freaking amazing.
Smoking is evil.
Despite praise for its positive portrayal of non-straight sexualities, some of this shit is homophobic as fuck.
How do these kids know all these outdated references, anyway?
Technology is used inconsistently as per its convenience in the script.
Sunnydale residents are no longer shocked by supernatural attacks.
Casual rape dismissal/victim blaming a-go-go
Snyder believes Buffy is a demon or other evil entity.
The Scoobies kind of help turn Jonathan into a bad guy.
This show caters to the straight/bi female gaze like whoa.
Sunnydale General is the worst hospital in the world.
Faith is hyper-sexualized needlessly.
Slut shame!
The Watchers have no fucking clue what they’re doing.
Vampire bites, even very brief ones, are 99.8% fatal.
Economic inequality is humorized and oversimplified.
Buffy is an abusive romantic partner.
Riley is the worst.
Joss Whedon has a problem with fat people.
Spike is an abusive romantic partner.
Why are all these men so terrible?
Wicca doesn’t work like that.
Alcohol is evil.
Head trauma doesn’t work like that.

Have I missed any that were added in past recaps? Let me know in the comments.  Even though I might forget that you mentioned it.

WARNING: Some people have mentioned they’re watching along with me, and that’s awesome, but I’ve seen the entire series already and I’ll probably mention things that happen in later seasons. So… you know, take that into consideration, if you’re a person who can’t enjoy something if you know future details about it.

So, diving right back into Buffy, since people have been asking for about a year now if I’m giving up on these and the answer is NO I WILL NEVER GIVE UP ON THESE I WILL BE WRITING THESE AT MY OWN FUNERAL. We’ve reached the episode where we really get some answers about the Initiative and it’s the return of Spike, so we all rejoice at our snarky, super problematic fave.

The cold open begins with a voice-over in which Forrest, Riley’s friend, objectifies the women in line in the cafeteria, talking about their nubile bodies and so on. Then, he spots Buffy fumbling to fill a cup at the soda machine.

Forrest: “Oh…check her out. Is she hot or is she hot?”

Riley “She’s Buffy.”

Forrest: “Buffy? I like that. ‘That girl’s so hot, she’s Buffy.'”

Riley: “That’s her name, Forrest.”

I love that joke and I will strive to remember to describe hot blondes as “Buffy” from now on. And that might seem derogatory but obviously I mean it in the most complimentary way possible.

Forrest interrogates Riley as to why he has no opinion on the hotness of Ms. Summers. As she fails to operate the ice cream machine (and ends up abandoning it in a panic as the ice cream overflows onto the floor), Riley explains that Buffy is “peculiar” and he finds her weird behavior off-putting. Then she slips and falls on the floor. I don’t know why the Slayer is so clumsy here, other than that being a way to build false charm in heroines. #6 on this scene, not just for depicting Buffy as a gravity-challenged airhead for the convenience of a male conversation, but also for the contents of the conversation itself which includes Forrest musing whether or not she’s “mattressable.”

After Forrest says that a lot of guys would like to get their hands on Buffy, we cut to Spike, half-conscious and mumbling about killing the Slayer. He wakes up fully to find himself in a small, aquarium-style cell with scientists milling around beyond the glass.

After the opening credits, we join Giles and Xander at Giles’s place, hanging out for some reason. You guys, during my sabbatical, I forgot how hot season four, depressed dad Giles is. He’s made a sketch of the soldier Buffy described to him and laments that since they’re clearly human, he and Xander aren’t critical to the mission.

Giles: “Once again, I’d say that you and I will not be needed to help Buffy.”

Xander: “Really?”

Giles: “Really.”

Xander: “Well, how about this? We whip out the Ouija board, light a few candles, summon some ancient, unstoppable evil, mayhem, mayhem, mayhem, we show up and kick its ass?”

Giles seems to consider this for a minute but then Buffy comes in and Giles reluctantly denounces the idea as unethical.

When Giles asks Buffy if she’s patrolling that night, Buffy explains that she has to take Willow out to a party to try and make her feel better after Oz pulled his bullshit and nonsense. She tells Giles and Xander that they’re going to patrol in her place, then leaves so she can “find something slutty” to wear to the party. Which was actually kind of an empowering remark at the time, when women were trying to reclaim the word so I’ll let it slide.

Back at the Initiative, Spike prowls his cell like the albino tiger of a man he is. A hatch opens in the ceiling and a bag of blood falls in but a vampire in the next cell warns him not to drink it. It’s drugged and once the vampires are knocked out, that’s when the experiments begin.

Spike: “And uh, they are? The goverment? Nazis? A major cosmetics company?”

Vampire: “Who cares? All I know is, one minute, I’m running from the Slayer and the next minute, I’m here.”

Which, of course, makes Spike think that Buffy is behind all this.

Spike: “I always worried what would happen when that bitch got some funding.”

He says he’s going to kill her, no matter how brilliant she is, and we cut to Buffy in class, having exploded a pen all over her notes. Willow approaches Riley after class and tells him that he left Oz’s name off the roll call. Honestly…I don’t remember Oz being in this class. I’m sure it’s not a continuity error and it’s probably just because I haven’t watched the show for like, a year and also I had a nervous breakdown that permanently damaged my brain, but I was like, wait, what? Anyway, Riley tells Willow that it wasn’t a mistake, Oz is just no longer in the class. Willow insists that’s not the case and Oz will definitely be back, at which point Maggie Walsh steps in because obviously her class and her expectations should be at the very forefront of Willow’s clearly distressed mind.

Maggie: “Not to my class, he won’t. An educated guess. You know the rules, you know I hate exceptions, and yet somehow you feel your exception is exceptional.”

Willow: “Oh, but–”

Maggie: “It is. To you. But since I’m neither a freshman or a narcissist, I have to consider the whole class. If your friend can’t respect my schedule, I think it’s best he not come back.”

Willow leaves, close to tears, and Buffy decides she’s had it and confronts “the evil bitch monster of death,” as we’ve seen Walsh so proudly describe herself.

Buffy: “You know, for someone who teaches human behavior, you might try showing some.”

Maggie: “It’s not my job to coddle my students.”

Buffy: “You’re right. A human being in pain has nothing to do with your job.”

Fucking right on, Buffy. There’s no reason at all that Walsh should even be discussing another student’s enrollment status with Willow, especially not like, “Oh, hey, I’m kicking this student out of my class.” I know that Walsh is supposed to be no-nonsense and strong but she’s really just a bully.

After Buffy leaves, though, Maggie tells Riley that she likes Buffy, to which Riley responds once again that Buffy is “peculiar.”

Over at Xander’s basement, there are a lot of weapons and tactical gear. Where did they come from? Oh, just from Xander’s convenient Army Man Halloween costume two seasons back. Giles even points out that hey, it’s been a while since this plot device has been used, and Xander explains that while he still remembers some stuff, a lot of “training” hasn’t faded. He struggles to load a handgun, which Giles takes from him and easily loads, fully comfortable handling a firearm. So, yet another one of those skills that Giles has that is surprising and never fully explained. It’s stuff like that which lends the character mystery and keeps him from being a one-dimensional stuffy adult stereotype and I live for these moments.

Xander’s Mom: “I made a nice fruit punch for you and your friend. Would you boys like some?”

Giles; “Is it, um, raspberry fruit punch?”

While this is funny, it’s 100% out of character for Xander’s mom, who is usually portrayed as uncaring and cheap.

At UC Sunnydale, Riley tells Forrest about how unbelievable it was that Buffy stood up to Walsh. SFD passes by and Forrest asks him what Buffy is like. SFD tells them that Buffy is clingy and says a bunch of shit about how she is in bed.

Douchbag: “You know the difference between a freshman girl and a toilet seat? A toilet seat doesn’t follow you around after you use it.”

And Riley straight up punches him in the face. Which would be an amazing and likable thing for him to do, until he’s outside with his friends and trying to figure out why it’s okay when they say shit like that about other girls but it wasn’t okay for SFD to say it about Buffy. Know why? Because he likes her.

#38 and #41. The verdict is that it’s fine when they talk about other women that way, just not when it’s one Riley is romantically interested in.

In his cell at the Initiative, Spike is unconscious. Assuming he’s drugged, a scientist takes him out of the cell and puts him on a gurney, presumably for dissection or something else nasty. But wait! Spike isn’t really drugged at all. He grabs the scientist by the throat and says:

Spike: “Sorry, can’t stay. Got to go see a girl.”

We cut to a commercial and when we come back, all hell has broken loose on the Spike situation. He fights his way free and lets the other vampire prisoner out. They make a run for it and Spike sacrifices the other vampire dude to save his own skin. Like a villain does. Because he’s still a villain at this point.

Willow is in the dorm, listening to sad music and nursing her broken heart when Riley knocks on the door.

Riley: “Gee, I hope I’m not interrupting anything really depressing.”

Ah. So he’s not there to check and see if a distraught Freshman is okay after leaving his class basically in tears. Nope, he needs her to turn off her sad music and help him with his dilemma. He wants to ask Buffy out.

See, Riley? This is why nobody likes you. You show up, you see that Willow is having a hard time, and without addressing that or asking her what she’s doing, you’re like, hey, can you pause your life real quick and address my issues, even though we don’t really know each other that well, I have friends of my own, and you’re clearly shattered right now? #38 coming in for another flawless landing.

The whole scene sucks. At least, Willow throws a bucket of sadness all over Riley:

Willow: “Okay. Say that I help and you start a conversation. It goes great. You like Buffy, she likes you. You spend time together, feelings grow deeper. And one day, without even realizing it, you find you’re in love. Time stops and it feels like the whole world’s made for you two, and you two alone. Until the day one of you leaves and rips the still-beating heart from the other, who’s now a broken, hollow mockery of the human condition.”

And this is kind of where Riley gets the hint, saying he understands if she doesn’t want to help him. But then, of course, he keeps going on.

Willow: “Why should I trust you?”

Riley: “Just sort of hoping you’d think I have an honest face.”

Willow: “I’ve seen honest faces before. They usually come attached to liars.”

Cynical!Willow might be my favorite Willow.

Riley finally decides that maybe now is not the time, so he heads for the door. As he leaves, Willow throws him a bone and tells him that Buffy likes cheese and is going to a party that night.

CUT TO MY FAVORITE THING IN THE WHOLE SHOW:

Harmony, you’re frickin’ awesome.

So, let’s talk about my controversial #10. The last time we saw Harmony was when Spike was trying to find the Gem of Amara, and he staked her to test its effectiveness. If someone stakes you, that’s pretty much a breakup. But Harmony tackles the situation like a total champ. She doesn’t get her shit and move out of Spike’s house. No no, friends. She just takes his fucking house. She straight up doesn’t give a shit and starts hanging tacky crap everywhere. And she is totally unbothered by the fact that she hasn’t seen Spike since he ran off to get the ring back and potentially kill the Slayer. Okay, whatever, do your thing, I don’t care if you live or die. That’s a pretty cool move. Every time we see one of the core cast go through a breakup, it’s steeped in pure heartbreak. Meanwhile, Harmony is moved the fuck on by the time you’re out the door. Harmony is a SURVIVOR.

She’s not cool with him just showing up again, either. She acts as though she’s going to run into his arms, then slaps the shit out of him instead.

Harmony: “Bastard! You dumped me and staked me and hurt me and left me and–”

She turns on a dime immediately when Spike tells her he missed her. All is forgiven, now that he’s back. And you might be going, “Jenny, how is she a strong character when she goes right back to her abuser and physically assaults him,” but let me tell you, I’ve known a lot of real strong women who did that. This is part of her arc; even strong characters have to have lessons to learn or their stories would be boring.

We join Xander and Giles on their patrol, already in progress:

Xander: “Every man faces this moment. Here. Now. Watching, waiting for an unseen enemy that has no face. Nerve endings screaming in silence. Never knowing which thought might be your last.”

Giles: “Oh, shut up.”

And that’s the whole scene. And it’s brilliant.

Buffy and Willow arrive at the party and Willow surreptitiously finds Riley to give him advice on how to get close to Buffy:

Willow: “Okay she’s wearing the halter top with sensible shoes. That means mostly dancing, light contact, but don’t push your luck. Heavy conversation’s out of the question.”

But she’s still not a hundred percent behind the concept of romantic love again:

Willow: “And remember if you hurt her, I will beat you to death with a shovel. A vague disclaimer’s nobody’s friend.”

Riley finds Buffy and chickens way out, asking her if she’s done the reading for class. To which she responds with this face:

You’re doing great, Riley!

Still on patrol, Xander is muttering to himself about Giles’s insistence that they split up and wander around separately. He stumbles through some bushes and spots Harmony throwing a bunch of stuff in a pile and pouring lighter fluid on it.

Xander: “Harmony.”

Harmony: “Xander?”

Xander: “That’s close enough. I’m warning you, I’ve been highly trained to put this through your heart. No mercy, no warning.”

Harmony: “I can kill you where you stand.”

Xander: “Bring it on, then.”

What ensues is the most pulse-pounding fight scene ever committed to film:

Okay, so it’s actually just them sort of slapping at each other. Harmony does call Xander a “sissy” at one point, which some people feel is a homophobic thing but I don’t really want to see that argument hashed out again out so I’m just going to mark it #23 and call it a day. Ultimately, they end up putting each other in headlocks and pulling each others’ hair until they decide to call it a draw. Harmony tells Xander that Spike is back and out to kill the Slayer, and she’s burning his stuff because he’s too obsessed with all his nefarious schemes to spend any quality time with her. She’s decided not to take him back and lights up all his stuff to rid him from her life.

At the party, Willow and Riley sit on a couch and watch Buffy dance. Willow continues to coach him through trying to ask out Buffy, until a Dingos Ate My Baby song comes on and bums her out. Willow leaves the party and tells Riley to use it as an excuse to stay with Buffy. When she leaves, Riley relays Willow’s message about leaving the party. He’s about to make his move when Xander bursts in and cryptically warns Buffy about “unfinished business,” at which point she rushes off before Riley can even ask her on a date. Forrest and Graham rib Riley about his failure to woo her, and mention they need to go downstairs.

Aha, a viewer might ask themself, but aren’t they on the ground floor of the house? Why yes, they are. They are on the ground floor of a house…built right above the Initiative!

This is the big reveal, folks. After a retinal scan clears the three of them, a mirror opens to reveal an elevator with a voice recognition security system. As they hurry down the industrial stairs to the main work floor, Riley laments his chances for a normal romantic life.

Riley: “The problem is, what kind of girl who’s going to go out with a guy who’s acting all Joe Regular by day then turns all demon-hunter by night?”

Graham: “Maybe a peculiar one.”

I heart this setup. I heart it so hard. I wish Riley had been a completely different character because he’s the worst (please sing that in your head like Jean-Ralphio), but the concept is so awesome. They’re both pretending to be normal to each other while secretly hiding similar double lives. WHAT? That’s adorable.

Again, if it weren’t Riley.

The camera pans around a creepy looking, foil-covered room where people in lab coats and scrubs and masks and such are milling around doing experiments on various monsters. The masks are what get me. Only a few people are wearing them and it’s like…are you gonna get a demon sick? Is that the logic behind wearing that?

Look at how funny this is:

This is one of those times that a show is like, “We want to do something that looks medical!” and they just throw in anything they could think of. Why does that demon need an IV? What do the leather restraints on his legs do when his arms aren’t tied down? And I just noticed that for some reason, they appear to be wearing sunglasses. Where are you gonna need those in a facility where you’re housing vampires as test subjects? I know this isn’t a documentary but damn, I feel so sad that they didn’t invest just a little bit more worldbuilding here. They just kind of tossed stuff together and went, “Good enough,” on the season’s Big Bad.

Riley, Graham, and Forrest all report to an off-screen commander. The camera cuts to Maggie Walsh, who says something cryptic about “Hostile 17” escaping. Having just been delivered the shock that Riley is a part of the weird shadowy monster operation and Professor Walsh is the head of it, we cut to commercial. This was a pretty sick reveal, tbh, when I first watched it. I was like, “What the helllllll….”

On the other side of the commercial, Walsh hands over command to Riley, who gives a bunch of orders to the commandos. They all set off in search of Spike.

At Giles’s place, Buffy is furious that her night off has been interrupted, and by Spike of all jackasses. She tells Giles and Xander that she’ll just go kill Spike real quick and get him out of her life forever but her confidence clearly doesn’t reassure the guys, who are just kind of resigned for waiting for her while she goes off into danger. Xander does give Buffy a flare gun to use in case she needs help.

Not sure how you’re gonna spot a flare gun from inside Giles’s apartment.

Spike breaks into some kind of office and looks up Buffy’s dorm room number. Note, Spike can use a computer. Angelus straight up just chucked a monitor on the ground and thought all his problems were solved. Jerk. But this does subvert #15.

Riley and the commandos are sneaking around the campus when they spot Buffy sitting all alone on a well-lit bench.

Forrest: “Just thinking. If you were Hostile 17, living off the crap we feed them, what would you rather eat than that?”

Riley: “You want to use the girl I have a crush on as bait?”

Forrest: “I can tag a hostile at fifty yards.”

Riley: “Denied.”

Forrest: “She’d be safe the entire–”

Riley: “I said denied, agent.”

Forrest: “Did you just pull rank on me?”

I’ve always felt like this was totally fucking weird. These guys are in the military. Why is this conversation so personal? Why is Riley saying, in essence, that it’s unacceptable to use Buffy as bait because he has feelings for her, when the point he should be making is that it’s wrong to use civilians as bait. It would have been such great foreshadowing for when Riley breaks away from the Initiative later in the season. He’s working with an organization that has no qualms about endangering civilian lives. We could have just seen that Riley is opposed to that. Instead, we saw that he’s cool with it as long as it’s not a civilian he wants to fuck. And Forrest is somehow offended that his commanding officer actually gave him an order, so…how did he make it this far in the military that he’s on a secret project like this?

In an effort to get her out of harm’s way, Riley ditches his tactical gear and walks up on her like he’s just out for a late-night stroll. Buffy is awfully fidgety and evasive and tells him that she needs to be alone. They bicker over whether or not Buffy needs help or even whether or not she should go home. Riley admits that he feels boys should protect girls, which, you know, goes over great with Buffy. Then they hear a scream and both take off in different directions.

Willow is still laying on her bed with her sadness. When someone knocks on the door, she blithely says, “Come in.”

In Sunnydale.

A town full of vampires.

That need to be invited in.

Vampires which she sometimes fights.

Alongside her BFF the Slayer.

#8, Willow. You should know better.

Obviously,  it’s Spike behind the door and he’s just been invited in. Willow tries to run but he corners her and tells her she has a choice: she can either die or he’ll make her a vampire when he’s done killing her. Then, in a scene that is disturbingly too much like a rape scene, Spike turns up the music to cover her screams and pins her to the bed, biting her before we cut to the dorm hallway, where people aren’t hearing the struggle or Willow’s cries for help.

Hey, you know what none of the dormitory doors in this hall have? Peepholes. BTW, that’s going to be an issue in another episode real soon here, as well.

So, while Willow is being attacked, we go to commercial.

When we come back, things have not gone according to Spike’s plan. Much like, you know. Every single one of Spike’s plans. How is this dude not dead yet? He’s so bad at being a vampire.

Something has gone terribly wrong:

Spike: “I don’t understand. This sort of thing has never happened to me before.”

Willow: “Maybe you were nervous.”

Spike: “I felt alright when I started. Let’s try again.”

He tries to attack Willow but recoils in agony. A third attempt to bite her results in the same reaction.

Willow: “Maybe you’re trying too hard. Doesn’t this happen to every vampire?”

Spike: “Not to me, it doesn’t.”

Willow: “It’s me, isn’t it?”

Willow feels totally rejected, pointing out that Spike is just settling for her when he really came to kill Buffy.

Spike: “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d bite you in a heartbeat.”

Willow: “Really.”

Spike: “I thought about it.”

Willow: “When?”

Spike: “You remember last year? You had on that, uh, fuzzy pink number with the lilac underneath.”

He promises that if he could bite Willow, he would, and she tries to cheer him up by telling him he’s still terrifying.

Using a thermal camera, the commandos spot Spike in the dorm, where Willow is still being nice to Spike. She tells him he’s being too critical of himself and they can wait a while and try again, before she regains her senses and bashes him over the head with a lamp. As she runs for the door, the power in the building goes off and the heavily armed commandos storm the halls.

Way to be sneaky, y’all.

The commandos come up on Willow as she cowers on the floor and in Riley’s haste to protect her from being shot, they’re jumped by Spike. All Spike can do is clutch his head and howl in pain, though. They put a sack over his head and try to subdue him. Forrest wants to take Willow and quarantine her to make sure she hasn’t been turned. I feel like it would be pretty easy to check on the spot, tbh. They have a thermal camera they’re using to track people’s body heat. Just like, you know. Point it at her.

The commandos are about to drag Willow off when Buffy intervenes to save her. Unfortunately, this allows Spike to escape, as well. Buffy and Riley fight each other but can’t see through the haze of smoke after Buffy shoots the flare gun as a distraction. Riley gets his ass kicked and orders everyone to retreat.

When Riley and the commandos return to Maggie Walsh, she is pissed. Riley tells her that “the implant” works and Hostile 17 can’t hurt anyone.

So…how did he fight those doctors in the Initiative headquarters? It just conveniently didn’t start working until it would be humorous and/or convenient to the plot?

The final scene has Buffy and Riley making up from their argument and agreeing to go on a date and I’m just skipping past it because their romance bores the shit out of me. But, Buffy does tell Riley that he’s “peculiar,” which I think is an adorable callback.

If it were someone other than Riley.

And a very merry Half-Price Chocolates Eve to you, dear reader!

Guess what today is?

IT’S ANNOUNCE ANOTHER BACKLIST RE-RELEASE DAY.

Next up is Double Header, the sequel to Long Relief. Though I no longer write M/M for various reasons, including staying in my own lane, I really liked writing this one way back in 2012 and I’m happy to be able to offer it now as an Amazon exclusive and a free read with a Kindle Unlimited subscription. Double Header is available for pre-order right now and it will release on February 18!

When Javier Vargas was traded to the Grand Rapids Bengals, he didn’t just leave his team behind; he turned his back on the love of his life. Now, shortstop Zach Martin is playing for the Bengals, as well, and Javier can’t believe he ever walked away from the scorching heat between them.

Being a Bengal brings its own complications for Zach, who’s tired of never setting down roots. Playing beside Javier, Zach is constantly reminded of their passionate nights—and the pain of his loss.

Javier screwed up one chance with Zach, and he’s not about to let a second one pass him by. With scandals swirling all around the team, Javier has to decide whether to risk the life he’s built for himself or lose the only man he’s ever loved, again.

 

Amazon and Kindle Unlimited

The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp, Chapter Four

Need to catch up?

What is The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp?

The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Prologue

The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter One 

The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Two 

The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Three 

Trasket Tower loomed over Manhattan as a gaudy gold slash against the sky. The family name rose in blinding white letters sixteen feet high against the top of the building and, in case it had been missed, in slightly smaller letters above the massive, two-story entrance.

Fiona shuddered in revulsion as she passed through the gilded lobby; her father had come from nothing, as he’d been fond of telling everyone. Truthfully, that “nothing” had been more than most people could have claimed. Private schools, Ivy League universities, a high-ranking position in the family business; Trasket Sr. had taken those advantages and reinvested them in his children as if they’d been strategic business moves and not his own flesh and blood.

Which explained why her brother viewed her that way, now.

Only one elevator led up to the private family quarters and of course, it was the most conspicuous. Two guards stood on either side of the gaudy gold-plated doors. They stepped aside with courteous nods.

Perhaps the only thing Fiona and her brother had in common was their mutual hatred of their father’s taste. Nouveau riche, Blayde called it, though Fiona wasn’t sure the term applied to a man who’d come from a long line of wealthy, but not megarich, men. Their father had simply loved to flaunt his fortune, even if it was a child’s cartoonish idea of luxury.

It was some small comfort to know that though her brother hated the decor in his inherited fortress, it couldn’t be changed, per the conditions of their vain father’s last will and testament. Blayde was forced to reside in a tacky tower of greed, while she was free to live as she pleased, in a townhouse without a single glimmer of gold to be found.

Tonight, though, she had to make her report and endure the monthly dinner that kept her allowance rolling in.

When she stepped off the elevator, her shoes clicked on the spotless Italian marble floor. Alabaster busts of generic ancient Romans lined the long entry hall. They weren’t originals, as far as she was aware. Like everything about her father, it was only the appearance that mattered.

The butler, a tall man with a long face and bushy brow approached from the archway at the other end. “Mistress Trasket,” he said with a deep bow.

“Arnold.” Mistress Trasket, indeed. There was nothing noble or royal about them, no matter how her father might have wished there had been.

“Your brother and his guests are assembled in the drawing-room for drinks before dinner. Shall I show you in?” he asked.

Most likely, he’d been ordered to do so. Blayde’s wife loved putting on airs and graces as much as Father had. The formality also served to remind Fiona that Trasket Tower was no longer her home. Julia had made it clear from her wedding day that she, not Fiona, would reign over the Trasket kingdom.

“No, thank you. I know the way.” I’ve been here longer than you, prick.

“I should announce you,” he began, but she quickened her pace and ignored him.

Even the drawing-room appeared exactly the way their father had left it. Blood-red velvet curtains framed the windows and mahogany paneling shrunk the space visually to claustrophobic proportions.

“Fiona,” Julia said, rising from her place on the hunter-green leather sofa. “We didn’t know you’d arrived.”

“Please, don’t blame Arnold. He suggested he should announce me.” She didn’t make any excuses. Julia could stew about Fiona’s blatant disregard for the house rules all night if she’d like.

Blayde sat in his usual spot, the high-backed black leather wing chair that her father had once used as a throne. “Fiona, we have a guest joining us this evening.”

A figure emerged slowly from the shadows. Even the light of the fire in the hearth couldn’t warm the tone of the man’s pale skin. His long hands, each topped with a gnarled black talon, rested on the front of his elaborate black silk robes, and his long raven hair blended seamlessly into the void-like fabric. He moved with predatory grace toward her and extended his clawed hand.

The man chilled her to the core of her being.

His eyes flashed red.

He was no man.

“This is our newest board advisor, Erlik of Tartarus,” Blayde said with a smug smile. He so delighted in catching her off guard. Julia raised her eyebrows as she sipped from her wine glass, clearly enjoying the moment, as well.

“Mr. Erlik,” she said, holding the stranger’s boiling red gaze. She wouldn’t give her brother or his awful wife the satisfaction of a reaction. “Arnold mentioned that my brother had a guest.”

“Oh, then he spoiled our surprise,” Julia simpered with feigned disappointment.

“And where are you from, Mr. Erlik?” Fiona asked, making the same small-talk she’d made in these situations for her entire life.

“Elrik, please,” he said simply, a slow-growing grin spreading to show dagger-sharp teeth. “And Tartarus should have been…obvious.”

“Ah. So, you’re a…demon?” Ah, so you’re in synthetic textiles? They may as well have been the same sentence, from her politely interested tone.

“You won’t impress her, I’m afraid,” Blayde said, lifting his rocks glass of amber liquid to gesture to her. “She works with astrals.”

The demon’s grin widened, reaching almost to his ears. The papery skin at the corners of his mouth bunched up sickeningly. “I’m sure you’ve seen far more interesting sights, then.”

“Perhaps you’ll share them with me, sister. After dinner, perhaps?” Blayde took a long drink, allowing his order to hang in the air.

The hell she would sit down at a table with a demon. “You know I would normally love to, but I fear tonight I won’t be staying. I hate to be rude to your guest, but something rather important has come up. You did say earlier that you wanted to speak to me privately?”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Blayde’s face, but he quickly disguised it. “What a shame that you won’t be joining us. You’ll be missed, I’m sure.”

Julia tossed her gleaming red hair over her shoulder. “I’m sure Erlik won’t mind if you step away for a moment. I’m more than capable of entertaining him.”

Fiona was certain that Julia was.

The thought of it made her skin crawl.

She followed Blayde from the room, down the long, black-marble and gold hall to what used to be their father’s study. Only weeks before, she’d stood in the same room, helpless as her brother blackmailed her with threats to her closest, dearest friend.

“Have you heard from Larkin?” Blayde asked casually as if he’d read her mind.

Fiona hadn’t. In fact, the last time she’d spoken to the pixie had been to warn her that she wouldn’t be in contact for a while due to some family business. How could they spend time together when Fiona was betraying all astrals by spying for her brother? How could she risk him getting more “evidence” with which to blackmail Larkin?

But she answered, “Of course. Even with her busy tour schedule, we make time to talk.”

“As close as lovers,” Blayde mocked her.

“Better than a demon.” The words shot out before she could consider the fallout they would cause.

Her brother’s shoulders stiffened. “My relationship with Erlik is purely business, I assure you. I don’t have a taste for monsters.”

Your wife does. Fiona shuddered, fighting against the vivid imaginings her too-creative mind conjured.

A biometric scanner unlocked the door to the study, and Blayde ushered her inside. Once the door was closed behind them, he dropped any pretense of small talk. “If you’re not staying for dinner, tell me what you know and get out.”

“I don’t have to come to dinners at all, you realize,” she reminded him. “You’re the one holding the threat of bankruptcy over my head.”

“Then perhaps it’s a good thing you have your cushy new job.” He paused. “Wait, I got that for you, too. And I can take it away.”

“Why would I want it?” She scoffed in exasperation. “I work in a tree. A sentient tree that can read my thoughts. It knows why I’m there, Blayde. You were so out of your depth, thinking you could use such a clumsy ruse to spy on them.”

“Has this ‘sentient tree’ told anyone?” he asked.

“No,” she admitted hesitantly. “I bribe it with chocolate.”

“I sent you there to punish you and you’re living out one of your childish Alice in Wonderland fantasies.”

“To punish me?” Of course, that had been his aim. “I thought I was there to save the Trasket name and protect the glory of our legacy.”

“That, too. But I know how it galls you to lie.” He smirked, quite pleased with himself.

When had he become such a bastard? She could remember a time when they’d gotten along. They’d ridden bikes together through the cold halls of their father’s palace, gone on day trips with their nanny to the indoor beaches and domed parks where the most privileged children in the city played. There had been virtual reality games, evenings with cocoa and animated films from their parents’ childhood.

Then father had stepped in to take over Blayde’s “education.” The change in him had been swift and now he grew worse every year.

“You’re just like him,” she managed, choking back despair.

Blayde’s face transformed in fury. “Don’t you ever compare me to that…that…freak of a half-man!”

He thought she compared him to John Johnson? Her brother could only wish to run a company as smoothly and successfully as Chiron Corp. All Blayde could do was threaten and wield his power like a cudgel. “Not him. Father.”

Coldly, Blayde replied, “Thank you. He was a great man.”

“Sure.” She refused to venerate him for her brother’s edification. “What do you want? I’m tired.”

“Yes, having to do a day’s work is likely exhausting for you,” Blayde snapped. “What do you think I want? Information. That’s what I sent you for.”

“And here I thought it was to punish me.” No. She wouldn’t let him draw her into a petty fight that would only result in Larkin losing. “I’m still working on the bioluminescence project.”

He shook his head in frustration. “I told you, bioluminescence isn’t what I’m after. Anyone could tell me about Chiron’s electricity elimination initiative; it was in all the holobriefs weeks ago. I need something more or else I’m wasting my time.”

“No, you’re wasting my time. I don’t know why you believe I’m somehow going to become privy to top-secret information within weeks. There’s only so much I can do.” For which she was exceedingly thankful. She didn’t want to betray the astrals when everything they did, they did for the Earth.

“There is something you can do.” He tapped the edge of his desk, lost in thought. “Surely there must be someone there who would be interested in exchanging information for the privilege of sleeping with a Trasket daughter. Imagine how triumphant they would feel, knowing they were deflowering the daughter of their enemy.”

Fiona’s hand balled into a fist that she deeply wished she could let fly. “You misjudge them. You can’t see anything beyond your human perspective. They aren’t ruled by lust. They have eternity to slake theirs. They aren’t motivated by profit, either. All they want is to heal the planet and keep us from dying.”

“Well. Look at that.” Blayde smiled cruelly. “You had information, after all.”

She didn’t like feeling as though she’d been tricked. “What do you mean?”

“If all they care about is saving the planet, then they won’t care what I’m up to.” He waved a hand over the holopad controls on his desk. A schematic appeared. It took a moment for Fiona to realize that she was looking at a battleship.

Reveling in her confusion, her brother continued. “While you’re off frolicking with the fairies, I’ve been exploring other options. The denizens of Hell, as it turns out, are interested in profit. That’s why we’re signing a contract with them. We supply the steel, they supply the clean-burning brimstone, and we sell these revamped Destroyers to the Navy.”

“Feeding the war machine.” Her stomach went hollow. “Why are you so determined to hurt the astrals? They’re just trying to help us!”

“Help us straight into communism,” he argued back, and in his words, she heard the voice of their father.

She shook her head. “What happened to you?”

“Common sense,” Blayde snapped. “We were born to this privilege. This status. It’s our birthright, and you’d give it away for the promise of some fairy-winged future.”

“If the astrals hadn’t helped us, if they weren’t working so hard for our survival, you’d have nothing to spend your fortune on!” She shouldn’t waste her breath, she knew; she’d had this fight with her brother before, and with their father before him. 

“The Earth would have healed. There was no proof—”

“The seas swallowed whole countries!” she shouted. “They’re only just now rebuilding. How has your worship of our father made you so ignorant?”

Blayde took a deep breath and paced behind his desk. “I had hoped it would not come to this. I’d hoped that preying on your affection for your friend would be enough to move you to act in the family’s best interest. But I see more…drastic measures are necessary.”

A chill gripped her limbs as if someone had opened a window onto a wintry night. “What do you mean?”

Blayde nodded, not to her, but someone behind her. She turned; not fast enough.

The demon’s clawed hands closed over her head before she could scream.

September Patreon Appreciation Video

I’m catching up on all my unfulfilled obligations from that time I was crazy last year! Wow! Here, for your “cringe” as my embarrassed daughter called it, is Patreon Appreciation: ASMR Edition. It’s literally the worst ASMR video you’ve ever seen.

Thank you to everyone who supports me here on this page. Please enjoy the buttons. And the demons.

The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Three

Need to catch up?

What is The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp?

The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Prologue

The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter One 

The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Two

In the six weeks since her arrival, “Flicka Star” had consistently arrived at work on time, completed her training faster than most mortal new hires, and earned the goodwill of everyone in her department. She didn’t ask questions or attempt to learn anything beyond her own responsibilities.

If she were a spy, she was a poor one, indeed.

In his office, Marcaeus pushed one of the dark wood wall panels. It sprung open to reveal a mural of a labyrinthine coral reef surrounding a kingdom of twisting spires and glittering columns. He activated it and stepped through, directly onto pier six of the Atlantica off-shore research facility. A huge ship blocked some of the unrelenting sunlight; built off the coast of Morocco, very near the hidden city of Atlantis, it was far brighter and hotter than Marcaeus enjoyed.

“Mr. Johnson!” a booming voice called over the noise of the waves crashing against the concrete pillars that hoisted Atlantica’s complicated system of walkways and tubes far above the ocean.

“Aterian.” Marcaeus lifted his hand.

The merman approached in an above-surface vehicle, a wheeled Paper Nautilus shell crafted from Atlantean glass spun in the blue-green shades of the sea. The vessel of the vehicle held salt-water up to the gills that scored Aterian’s broad, onyx-dark ribcage.

“I was surprised by Hobb’s call. I thought you had lost faith in our project here,” Aterian said bluntly. Most astrals were direct, but perhaps none so much as the merfolk. His silver eyes held no hint of judgment or the passive-aggressiveness Marcaeus would have expected from a human making such a statement.

“Not lost faith,” he explained. “It was only my intent to keep my distance for appearances. Our competitors in the non-compliant sector are circling.”

“Understood.” Aterian put his vehicle in motion once more and indicated for Marcaeus to follow. “Allow me to show you the progress we’ve made on the engines.”

Marcaeus remained in his glamoured form; human shoes navigated the occasional water-slick more safely than hooves.

They entered a huge elevator and plunged down, below the surface. Violent bubbles pounded themselves against the strong Atlantean glass, obscuring any view Marcaeus might have had of the coral reef that Atlantica’s facility had nurtured. Saving the oceans had been the first concern of astrals and mortal scientists; Atlantica had made huge advances in climate repair technology as a result. Yet the merfolk refused to sell their secrets. More than once, Marcaeus had insinuated interest in a possible merger, only to be summarily shut down. Capitalism had driven the mortals to cause the climate problem and the merfolk staunchly believed that no problem could be exploited to solve itself.

The elevator doors opened onto a cavernous underwater lab, more submerged airplane hangar than the shimmering vision of gold and pearls the name of Atlantis evoked. Dark-skinned mortals in stark white coats walked with purpose across the steel grate floors; Aterian had recruited scientists from all over the Origin Continent, of which Atlantis had once been a part before Olokun had brought the kingdom to dwell within their protection. All around the lab, merfolk moved through water-filled tubes, off to their own destinations. One wall was a single pane of glass, revealing Atlanteans and divers working below the surface on the bottom of the ship Marcaeus had spied topside.

“There it is,” Aterian said with a nod toward the boat. “The Leyden.”

Marcaeus moved out of the way of a woman pushing a cart with some type of large, metal component on it, then proceded to the window. The open sea was not an element he particularly wished to explore. He was far more comfortable with a stream running through a wood or the thunder of a river dashing over rock. Though it was large, the ship still seemed far too small when compared to the vast depths below.

“Should it be bigger?” he mused as Marcaeus pulled to a stopped beside him. 

“The saltwater capacitors do have a limit to what they can achieve,” Aterian explained. “If we make them much larger, the deionization and resalination equipment will lead us to a point of diminishing returns. You do wish for these ships to carry cargo, correct?”

“Of course.” Marcaeus nodded. Though he didn’t understand exactly how the saltwater powered electric ships would operate, he trusted Aterian and his team.

“I know your kind are not fond of the element of water but these vessels will be safe and seaworthy. And they will help restore the balance of the seas. Olokun has given their approval and a guarantee of safe passage.” Aterian opened his hand, revealing a glowing blue tattoo on his palm, the mark of a God’s blessing.

Marcaeus sucked in a breath. “Far be it from me to doubt an Oshun.”

“It would be wise not to.”

Atlanteans hadn’t acquired a sense of sarcasm.

“Walk with me. Tell me of these competitors you fear,” the merman said, initiating the controls on his shell vehicle.

All through the laboratory, scientists and engineers moved aside, nodding their heads in deference as Aterian passed. Too many ears, Marcaeus decided. Too many humans, too easily tempted by profit.

“You are safe to speak here,” Aterian assured him.

“That Trasket whelp,” Marcaeus said though clenched teeth. “He’s sent a woman to infiltrate our company. His sister.”

“I know her,” Aterian said, surprise tilting his voice. “We met at the Ocean Summit in Portugal last year. She had some very passionate ideas about climate reform.”

Alarm straightened Marcaeus’s spine. “You’ve spoken to her about—”

“About nothing specific,” Aterian interrupted. “I am not a fool. But it does seem strange to me that a member of that family would care about the fate of their planet. I know that humans lie but she exuded such conviction.”

“Perhaps she’s a good actress,” Marcaeus mused. “Deception seems to come naturally to her clan.”

Aterian just made a noncommittal, “Mmm.”

It didn’t rest easy on Marcaeus’s mind. The element of water ruled the Atlanteans, making them more sensitive to emotion, human or astral. If Aterian hadn’t sensed any deception, perhaps it didn’t exist.

More troubling, Marcaeus didn’t want it to be true of her. She’d come to him with a fake name and a glamour…could that have been out of fear she couldn’t get hired by a company whose values aligned with hers if “Trasket” was the first thing HR saw on her resume?

He’d spent several long nights wondering about her and excusing it as work.

“Have you heard anything?” he asked, though anything Aterian might have learned in confidence would never be revealed, no matter how it might affect Marcaeus’s business interests.

“I hear many things. You must be more specific.” Aterian led the way back to the elevator.

“Have you heard anything about Trasket sending moles to astral-run companies?” Marcaeus stepped inside and the doors closed. As they rocketed toward the surface once more, he clarified, “Mole meaning, someone sent to spy.”

“Ah. Not the…” Aterian grimaced in distaste and waggled his webbed fingers to imitate a small mammal’s scurrying feet. Atlanteans distrusted most land-based creatures. “No, I have not heard any rumors of such. But I rarely hear them, anyway. We’re isolated. Our mortal workers rarely leave the compound and they were chosen by our finest truth-seers.”

Atlantean truth-seers were creatures feared even by the Gods. Their ability to discern the motives and character of any being, astral or mortal, was legendary.

“Do you—” Marcaeus began and stopped himself.

“This woman has unnerved you.” Aterian’s brow furrowed. “If you’re so afraid of her, why not simply fire her?”

“Because…” He hesitated, searching for words. “I thought it would be strategic to feed her false information to confound Trasket.”

“Not strategic,” Aterian corrected him. “Conceited. You wanted to feel power over him.”

Marcaeus scoffed in annoyance.

“An unethical man would try to court her. Humans sometimes mistake physical intimacy for trust,” Aterian observed mildly. “If you truly enjoy tormenting mortals on such a base level, I have no doubt Trasket would object to a romantic liaison between you and his sister.”

“Do you think so little of me?” Marcaeus shook his head sadly. “Perhaps I have spent too long in the mortal world. I don’t enjoy their intrigues but I don’t know how else to best them. They’re actively fighting against the progress that saved their world and their species in pursuit of money they won’t be able to spend when the mortal plane has burnt all around them. There’s no logic or reason but—”

But Fiona Trasket didn’t feel like a mortal. And that wasn’t logical or reasonable, either.

“But I admit, I’m intrigued by this woman. It’s as though I can feel her goodness buried under layers of…” he tried to finish, but couldn’t.

“Have you been struck by Eros?” Aterian asked bluntly.

“Of course not!” Eros-struck for a mortal? The Gods would never—

The Gods would, of course. They grew more meddlesome by the day. But even they wouldn’t be so cruel.

“I am trying out humor,” Aterian said with a nod of self-approval. “It appeared to uncover something you do not wish to examine.”

“No mortal has puzzled me so,” Marcaeus admitted. “I wish I had some equivalent to your truth-seers.”

“You could always consider conversation,” Aterian suggested as they reached the portal. “Get to know this mortal. See if she is willing to reveal her truth to you without compromising your own character.”

“I will think on it,” Marcaeus agreed without conviction. For he knew he would think on it. Too much.

And that was exactly why he didn’t care to know her better.

Jealous Haters Book Club: Beautiful Disaster chapter 5 “Parker Hayes” or “Obvious Foil”

First of all, I was so certain that I had written like eight of these recaps. Then, I went back and read through them to refresh my memory and I realized there were only four. But they’re long, like books on their own, because these chapters are fucking endless. Expect to see shorter chunks going forward every now and then, so I can actually deliver recaps to you.

Since we last met, something interesting happened on Ms. McGuire’s Facebook page back in the day before my mental breakdown. About seventy of you sent me screenshots but unfortunately, I couldn’t get them posted here or make snarky comments about them until after January 1, 2020, in what was already supposed to be The Year of Minding My Own Business.

I guess if someone is mentioned in something, though, it is their business. And I’m a total bitch and am more than willing to keep this boring-ass “literary feud” going because I genuinely dislike this MAGA garbage woman.

I was like,  “Awww, thanks for constantly thinking of me, Jamie!” because our only direct altercation online ever was about her celebrating the fact that one of my publishers wasn’t paying authors and was suing blogger-turned-catfisher Jen Frederick for reporting it on her blog. That entire mess was a thousand years ago (and we mutually blocked each other on all social media that night) and since McGuire is an anti-vax hardcore conservative who’s firmly pro-Kavanaugh, I haven’t really felt the need to keep tabs on her. But somehow, she needed to name-check me in a conflict with another author that arose when McGuire chose to fat shame a child.

No, seriously. This whole thing stemmed from an incident where she questioned whether or not a fat teenaged dancer was really practicing as much as she claimed in an inspirational video because McGuire was certain that no once who danced as much as the girl in the video could possibly be fat. I was not involved in any of it, in any way. I hadn’t even heard of the associated drama. If I’m Quebec, she’s Rio de Janeiro, that’s how far apart we are where social media is concerned.  But wow, she sure jumped to my name. Maybe “fat” is just a concept she associates with me in her mind.

My only thought here was that McGuire hoped she could bait me into joining her fat-shaming drama, but the author who went full Wolverine on her ass did a fine enough job. So, all McGuire achieved was yet another self-delivered blow to her public image.

But in her defense, I’ve heard that clown college is actually quite stressful.

On to the recap!

When we left off, the big party that Travis wasn’t going to take Abby to because he doesn’t date and he doesn’t think of her as a girlfriend but also he gets pissed off if she so much as breathes in another guy’s direction was coming up. At the beginning of chapter five, he walks in after Abby has gotten dressed:

A bustier that elongated into a short skirt, it was admittedly more daring than what I had worn in the past. The material was thin, black, and see-through over a nude shell. Parker would be at that party, and I had every intention of being noticed.

I’ve really missed Abby’s hypocrisy. It’s so refreshing to finally read a heroine in a New Adult romance participate in exactly the same behavior that she finds slutty and reprehensible in every other woman on the page. Because remember, when women want Travis’s attention, they absolutely suck in the most whorish way possible.

Travis tells Abby she looks amazing and she describes what he’s wearing, a white dress shirt and jeans, in case you were dying to know. They get in Shepley’s car and Abby notes that it’s awkward to sit next to Travis.

They arrive at the party:

Travis brought me a red plastic cup full of beer and then leaned in to whisper in my ear. “Don’t take these from anyone but me or Shep. I don’t want anyone slipping anything into your drink.”

Travis, do you actually think you need to tell a woman in college that she could get roofied at a frat party? Like she didn’t know before?

I rolled my eyes. “No one is going to put anything in my drink, Travis.”

Okay, apparently he did need to tell her.

“Just don’t drink anything that doesn’t come from me, okay? You’re not in Kansas anymore, Pigeon.”

If anyone at this party seemed like an unsafe person to accept a drink from, it would be Travis. But we know that beneath his sex-crazed exterior, he’s got a heart of gold. That’s why he must control what Abby consumes, not Abby.

An hour into the party, Travis asks Abby if she wants to dance and she says no, she’s too tired. I would have assumed she was too drunk, based on how heavily she drank in those last few chapters.

He put his hand on mine and began to speak, but when I looked beyond him I saw Parker.

Uh-oh! Abby is going for the wrong guy, readers! Panic! She might not wind up with the violence-prone, psychologically abusive, pathological boundary crosser! She even goes onto a balcony with Parker and asks him some uninteresting stuff about the frat before asking him if he’s a business major.

“Biology, with a minor in anatomy. I’ve got one more year left, take the MCAT, and then hopefully I’m off to Harvard Med.”

Harvard is a sure thing for Parker, as he’s a legacy admission and that legacy involves a lot of donations.

Ugh, Abby, this rich guy who’s going to be a doctor is so not the one for you! Don’t you see, you belong with the guy who beats people to death for money and uses the communal couch in his apartment as a pussy juice sponge!

She tells Parker that she hasn’t decided on a major yet, and jokes about being unexceptional.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. I noticed you the first day of class. What are you doing in Calculus Three as a freshman?”

I smiled and twisted my hair around my finger. “Math is sort of easy for me. I packed on the classes in high school and took two summer courses at Witchita State.”

Women playing with their hair for male attention is something Abby has complained about more than once.

After mentioning that they talk for an hour, Parker brings up the gossip about Travis and Abby:

“It’s just unusual for Travis. He doesn’t befriend women. He tends to make enemies of them more often than not.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve seen more than a few who either have short term memory loss or are all too forgiving when it comes to him.”

Parker laughed. His white teeth gleamed against his golden tan. “People just don’t understand your relationship. You have to admit, it’s a bit ambiguous.”

And of course, Abby just cannot fathom what’s so ambiguous about the fact that she hangs out with Travis all the time and like, lives with him and sleeps in his bed. Okay, those things don’t really come up but let’s be honest: by now, Abby should have at least some inkling as to why people think they’re more than friends. Even when Parker offers to take her home, she tells him she lost a bet and is staying with Travis but doesn’t elaborate further.

Yet, people have the gall to assume she’s dating Travis. The utter cheek.

You’re probably thinking, “Wow, we’ve gone to this party with Abby and we’ve yet to hear anything about how much Travis hates every woman other than Abby. Fear not, gentle reader:

I trotted down the stairs to find America and passed a sullen Travis, who seemed annoyed with the drunken girl speaking to him.

Phew. For a second, it seemed like Abby wasn’t The Best Girl.

When she says Parker is going to take her home, drama inevitably ensues.

He glared at America, and then pulled me around the corner, his jaw flitting under his skin.

To flit is to move quickly. Or flee your debtors. Either he’s on coke or his jaw owes him money.

“You don’t even know the guy.”

I pulled my arm from his grip. “This is none of your business, Travis.”

“The hell if it’s not. I’m not letting you ride home with a complete stranger. What if he tries something on you?”

From the guy who is a habitual stranger trying things on women. Plus, she does know him, from school. Her friends know him. And he doesn’t have a reputation as a violent womanizer.

I crossed my arms. “Stop it, Trav. You’re being a jerk.”

He leaned in, seeming flustered. “I’ll kill him if he touches you.”

Abby is like, IDK, I like him, and Travis becomes furious.

“Fine. If he ends up holding you down in the backseat of his car, don’t come crying to me.”

This is the love interest of a hugely popular romance franchise telling the heroine, in essence, “I hope you get raped.”

Of course, when she tries to walk away, he grabs her again and says he didn’t mean it and absolutely she should tell him if Parker tries anything untoward.

The anger subsided, and my shoulders fell. “I know you didn’t. But you have got to curb this overprotective big-brother thing you’ve got going on.”

Travis laughed once. “I’m not playing the big brother, Pigeon. Not even close.”

Gosh, like, why does everyone think that like, Travis wants to date me? He doesn’t even like me that way. There have been zero clues that he has a romantic interest in little ole unexceptional me.

Abby goes home in Parker’s Porsche 911 GT3, so like. Marry him, get that cash, then divorce him if you don’t love him, Abby. Be smart. Your only other option is a jagweed.

Parker took me straight to Travis’s, keeping to the speed limit, my hand in his. He pulled behind the  Harley, and like before, opened my door. Once we reached the landing, he leaned down to kiss my cheek.

And this is the guy she doesn’t end up with because it’s more epically romantic if she gets with Travis.

Let’s compare.

Travis

Drives too fast with Abby on his motorcycle with inadequate PPE, showing zero concern for her safety.
Treats college like one endless fuck parade.
Violently grabs Abby, has physically hurt at least one other woman on the page.
Expresses his feelings for Abby through possessiveness and lack of boundaries.
Is a constant ball of barely contained rage looking for any excuse to harm other men.
Makes his money beating other people nearly to death.

Parker

Drives carefully, as though he cares whether Abby lives or dies.
Studies and has a plan for a successful future.
Doesn’t physically restrain Abby in an attempt to prevent her from leaving him.
Expresses his feelings for Abby through conversation and interest in her feelings.
Is a pretty chill dude who hasn’t threatened anyone with physical violence.
Has family money, so he doesn’t have to resort to fight clubs.

But Travis is so dreamy!

When Abby opens the door, Travis is standing directly behind it, which means he’s been waiting and listening to the entire conversation, waiting for her to open the door so he can glower at Parker. Of course, Abby falls because all early New Adult books featured heroines with catastrophic inner-ear disorders, and Travis catches her by the arm. Parker makes a joke about giving a “humiliated, stranded” girl a ride home from the apartment, which Travis doesn’t appreciate. When Abby joins in on the teasing, Travis uses the nickname she doesn’t like.

“Pidge?” Parker asked.

“It’s, uh…short for Pigeon. It’s just a nickname, I don’t even know where he came up with it,” I said. It was the first time I’d felt awkward about the name Travis had bestowed onn me the night we met.

So…help me out, because I did recently have a mental breakdown: do I have false memories of her not liking the nickname before?

Travis stands in the doorway while Parker and Abby say goodbye.

“Don’t you mean good morning?” I said, watching him trot down the stairs.

“That, too,” he called back with a sweet smile.

Travis slammed the door, and I had to jerk my head back before it caught me in the face.

HOW IS THIS BOOK ON VARIOUS “BOOK BOYFRIEND” SHELVES ON GOODREADS?!

“But he’s just being protective because he loves her!” Just like he protects her from her own shoes.

No, seriously. When Abby tries to take off her shoes, this happens:

He sighed and walked over to me. “You’re gonna hurt yourself,” he said, hooking his arm around my waist with one hand and pulling off my heels with the other.”

Thank god the pulse-pounding danger of a grown woman taking her shoes off resolved safely.

Of course, there’s a description of them removing every piece of clothing to get ready for bed. I know this gets compared to Lady and the Tramp fanfic in the comments but damn, it’s the slowest “and there was only one bed!” fic I have ever read. Plus, the scenes of their nightly routines are written so robotically that it’s like watching a slow indie drama about a fractured marriage shot in cool neutral tones.

“I missed a fight tonight,” he said. “Adam called. I didn’t go.”

“Why?” I said, turning to face him.

“I wanted to make sure you got home.”

Let me just…

raise this up a little…

Travis is using a classic abuse tactic. He chose to deprive himself of something so he can use it as ammunition later. Your bad behavior caused me to miss out on something. Don’t you feel bad about that? But Abby (and anyone else) shouldn’t fall for this tactic. She didn’t ask him to miss the fight, nor did she expect him to wait around for her “safety,” as she wasn’t unsafe.

For the most part, Abby doesn’t fall for it, telling him that he had no obligation to watch out for her. He says he did it because he felt bad about his obnoxious threesome and she says she doesn’t care about that. He asks why she didn’t sleep in the bed with him that night and her excuse was that she couldn’t sleep.

“You slept just fine in the recliner. Why couldn’t you sleep with me?”

“You mean next to a guy who still smelled like the pair of barflies he had just sent home? I don’t know! How selfish of me!”

Travis winced. “I said I was sorry.”

Sorry is not a magic word. She doesn’t owe you payment for your sorry.

At this point, Travis starts stroking her hair and kissing her forehead and talking about how he was worried about how mad she would get but it’s worse that she doesn’t care.

“What do you want from me, Travis? You don’t want me to be upset about what you did, but you want me to care. You tell America that you don’t want to date me, but you get so pissed off when I say the same thing that you storm out and get ridiculously drunk. You don’t make any sense.”

He asks if the reason she talked about him behind his back with America is because he said he wouldn’t date Abby.

“No, I meant what I said. I just didn’t meant it as an insult.”

“I just said that because,” he scratched his short hair nervously, “I don’t want to ruin anything. I wouldn’t even know how to go about being who you deserve. I was just trying to get it worked out in my head.”

I used to have this friend, and I’ve probably already mentioned this in these recaps, who would go out on a few dates with a girl and he would be like, “We’re working on the relationship and ironing out our differences,” and I would always think, you know, if you already have to work on a relationship due to serious differences two weeks into it, maybe she’s not The One. This is several tiers above that on the pyramid of relationship dysfunctionality. Abby and Travis are constantly working on a relationship they don’t have and neither of them wants.

Look, I know the sexual tension is supposed to be palpable here because they’re in a bed together and they’re supposed to be fighting this internal battle or something? But it’s not reading that way at all.

Anyway, they go to sleep and Abby wakes up at three in the afternoon. She has to go take a shower because it’s the only god damn thing anyone does in this book. So much so that it’s creeping into my own writing; I just had to cut several mentions of characters wanting to take a shower. America comes in to pee and to have a conversation that is wholly unnecessary to the story because it’s full of shit we already know:

 

“I hear you have a date tonight. Travis is pissed!” she lilted.

“At six! He is so sweet, America. He’s just…” I trailed off, sighing. I was gushing, and it wasn’t like me to gush. I kept thinking about how perfect he had been since the moment we’d met. He was exactly what I needed: the polar opposite of Travis.

This has already been established, so I can only assume that the entire point of this scene is that the author could wedge in more of the hero’s “concern” for the heroine:

The toilet flushed, and the faucet turned on, making the water flash cold for a moment. I cried out and the door flew open.

“Pidge?” Travis said.

America laughed. “I just flushed the toilet, Trav, calm down.”

“Oh. You all right, Pigeon?”

He just busted into the bathroom when America was in there. He didn’t know if she was done on the toilet or changing her clothes or something. She doesn’t matter, because Travis has a moment to be heroic/possessive.

“It’s really too bad you two couldn’t get on the same page. You’re the only girl who could have…” She sighed. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter, now.”

America, it is not your friend’s job to fix this broken man. Because he’s not fucking broken. He’s a spoiled brat. He gets everything he wants and if he doesn’t, he lashes out. He can’t make up for that by pretending to protect Abby from tap water.

So, Abby gets ready for her date.

I curled my hair and painted mmy nails and lips a deep shade of red. It was a bit much for a first date. I frowned at myself in the mirror. It wasn’t Parker I was trying to impress. I wasn’t in a position to be insulted when Travis accused me of playing games, after all.

Okay. So, she wants to fuck him, he wants to fuck her, they’re both awful people, book over, right?

Ha ha ha, just kidding. Do you know how far into this book we are?

Twenty. Fucking. Five. Percent.

Jamie McGuire is truly the Victor Hugo of banality.

So, even though Abby is straight-up admitting she’s into Travis, she’s still gonna go on a date with Parker. I’m not really gonna criticize that choice too much because while Abby doesn’t deserve better than Travis, she’s at least making the smart choice for, you know, however long this Parker thing lasts before Travis beats him up and wins her heart or Parker becomes a rapist or something like that.

“I have to say, I was a bit nervous about picking up the woman Travis Maddox is in love with…from his apartment. You don’t know how many people have accused me of insanity today.”

“Travis is not in love with me. He can barely stand to be near me sometimes.”

“Then it’s a love-hate relationship? Because when I broke it to my brothers that I was taking you out tonight, they all said the same thing. He’s been behaving so erratically–even more than usual–that they’ve all come to the same conclusion.”

Everyone is telling Abby that Travis is in love with her. Like, a dude who barely knows him is like, yo, I happened to notice he’s in love with you, and she’s still like, naw, lil’ ole me? I’m not skanky enough.

Parker drove to the restaurant at exactly the speed limit, using his turn signal appropriately and slowing at a reasonable rate for each yellow light.

So boring and different compared to Travis, am I right? She even comments on that, telling Parker he’s a cautious driver and Parker is like, oh, not like Travis on his motorcycle and she’s all, let’s not talk about Travis. They go to the restaurant and it’s super rich people swank. And wouldn’t you know it, they run into someone Parker knows:

A woman approached our table. Her blond hair was pulled into a tight French bun, a gray streak interrupting the smooth wave of her bangs. I tried not to stare at the sparkling jewels resting around her nec, or those swaying back and forth on her ears, but they were made to be noticed. Her squinty blue eyes targeted me.

She turned quickly away to look at my date. “Who’s your friend, Parker?”

“Mother, this is Abby Abernathy. Abby, tis is my mother, Vivienne Hayes.”

I extended my hand and she shook it once. In a well-practiced move, interest lit the sharp features of her face, and she looked to Parker. “Abernathy?”

I gulped, worried that she had recognized the name.

How would she have? I realize there’s this dark secret that made Abby leave Witchitaw, but Abernathy isn’t a particularly conspicuous name.

Parker’s mom tells Abby that Parker is leaving for Harvard, and Abby is like, you must be proud, and the evil blonde Vivienne (no joke, E.L. James is mentioned in the acknowledgments as being a mentor or some shit) is like, we are.

I was amazed at how her words were so polite, and yet they dripped with insult. It wasn’t a talent she had developed overnight. Mrs. Hayes must have spent years impressing her superiority upon others.

I just can’t get over the “evil blonde!” thing that happens in all these generic wannabe romances. What’s interesting is that every book I’ve sporked so far on this site features the blonde bitch, except for Handbook For Mortals, which featured a brunette bitch. And she was written by the only blonde author so far. Are women really this fucked up and competitive about hair color?

Even Parker thinks his mom is a treacherous predator, describing her as a piranha and apologizing to Abby for having to meet her.

So, obviously this date builds more chemistry with Parker through interaction between the two characters.

We talked endlessly about the food, Eastern, calculus, even the Circle. Parker was charming and funny and said all the right things. Various people approached Parker to greet him, and he always introduced me with a proud smile. He was regarded as a celebrity within the walls of the restaurant, and when we left, I felt the appraising eyes of everyone in the room.

Here’s what I’m loving. Besides the fact that they’re talking about the super-secret fight club nobody knows about right out in the open in an environment where people seem very invested in Parker and will no doubt be eavesdropping. Abby is introduced in the story as wearing cashmere and pearls and being too uptight and goody-goody to go to an underground fight. She is exactly the type of girl Parker’s mom would be impressed with.

Also? That’s the date. That’s the whole date. They go to the restaurant, meet his mom, we get a paragraph about them talking about stuff, and then Parker is like, well, gotta take you home so I can study for my test tomorrow. He takes her back to the apartment and asks her for a second date, which she agrees to, and they have a good night kiss.

Once again, when I turned the knob, the door yanked away and I fell forward. Travis caught me, and I regained my footing.

And once again, he’s been listening the whole time and mocks the fact that Parker calls Abby “Abs.” When she points out that he calls her pigeon, he says:

“You like Pigeon,” he said defensively. “It’s a dove, an attractive girl, a winning card in poker, take your pick. You’re my pigeon.”

“It’s what Tramp calls Lady and that’s where I got the idea!”

Also, a pigeon in poker isn’t a winning card. It’s a really, really bad player.

They go into the bedroom to get ready for bed and Abby tells Travis about how great her kiss with Parker was and how soft Parker’s lips are, etc.

Travis stripped down to his boxers, and sat down with his back to me. A bit slumped over, he looked exhausted. The lean muscles of his back stretched as he did, and he glanced back at me for a moment. “If you had such a good time, why are you home so early?”

“He has a big test on Monday.”

Travis wrinkled his nose. “Who cares?”

The foundation of this “friendship” with Abby was studying for tests.

So, there’s about a page left in the chapter and not much happens it, so I’ll sum it up. Travis asks Abby about the date, she tells him everything about it, he seems happy that she enjoyed herself, and her phone rings. Parker waited until after midnight to call her and is like, LOL it’s tomorrow. He asks if Monday night is a good time to go out, and she’s like, yes, and Travis gets annoyed. And that’s it.

I don’t get this. Like, I legitimately don’t understand how this book is so boring, yet has so many devoted fans. There’s absolutely no reason for the main characters not to get together. They both want to. The only thing holding them back are their weird principles that are never justified with any sort of motivation in the text. It’s long, it’s slow, the characters do the exact same thing in every chapter (get ready for bed, get up, shower, talk about their conflicted feelings, do something to make the other one mad, go to bed, get up, shower, etc.). There’s no sense of tension. Just frustration that two bad, manipulative people are manipulating each other and enjoying it so god damn much that they don’t want to stop and therefore will continue inventing drama throughout the rest of this neverending trashmare.

“We all have a lawyer friend!”

This is going to be quick and dirty, everyone. It started out as a Twitter thread that got too long. But I think it’s important.

I need to address something that is going to sound like an attack on specific individuals. I promise, it’s not. Because it’s not those specific individuals I see doing this. Keep that in mind as you read this post.

With the RWA stuff going on, we keep seeing a lot of tweets that say, “Don’t people know how many LAWYERS we have in the romance genre?!” They’re right. There are a lot of lawyers in romance.

But there are more people with working-class jobs.

While it’s awesome that we have people well-versed in the law who are willing to throw their knowledge into the ring as a tool to help the genre, it’s starting to feel a little bit like, “See, we’re valid because we have smart lawyer-type people!” Yes, the genre has been dismissed as, “Oh, those are written by bored housewives.” But just because that’s used as a dismissal by other people doesn’t mean we should throw those bored housewives under the bus in order to convince people that the genre is valid. Because here’s the thing: those people you’re screaming “LAWYERS! LAWYERS! LAWYERS!” at? They’re not listening anyway. They’re never going to change their opinions.

And the people I don’t see tossing around, “LAWYERS! LAWYERS! LAWYERS!” seem to be…the lawyers. It’s almost like they view their profession as a normal human job and not a paid superhero position and don’t see their involvement in the genre as the sole reason it’s a force to be reckoned with.

It’s starting to really sound like, “Romance isn’t THOSE people. It’s SMART people.” As if bored housewives, people who don’t go to college, disabled people who turn to writing when they’ve been denied access to or accommodation for secondary education, etc. can’t be as creative and intelligent as everyone else. As if the only way our work deserves respect and acknowledgment is if we can disavow the reality that there are far, far more people who come home from working at a supermarket or a daycare to squeeze a few hours of writing in between dinner and bedtime. If we removed their contributions to the genre, the shelves would be bare. There is room to celebrate and be proud of the genre without ignoring the diverse backgrounds and circumstances that led each of us to become romance authors.

And it’s a hell of a lot more intimidating if we frame ourselves as sleeper agents that have infiltrated the courts, factories, farms, schools, and families.

State of the Trout: New Year, Not-New Book! And other business-type things you know I don’t like to talk about.

Hey everybody! It’s the very first day of 2020, and most of us are looking into the next decade with a “clean slate” mindset with regards to our resolutions for the roaring twenties. Today was the day I had planned to get back to running but it turns out I’ve just left my running clothes hanging up in the bathroom since the last time I used them way back in September. They needed a wash back then, too, let me tell you. Since Facebook tells me it’s bad luck to do laundry on New Year’s Day and OCD tells me that’s probably true and I’m putting my whole family at risk if I dare to clean the only sports bra I have that fits me, I guess I’ll be putting the miles off until tomorrow. I’m pretty nervous, truth be told; I haven’t run since breaking my foot. I’m a little afraid that I’ll start out and like four steps in the whole thing will break again.

But that’s not why I’m here today. My running goals and broken foot don’t really affect you. You’re probably wondering why I even told you about them. Because my family is tired of hearing about it. That’s why.

Anywho, I told myself I would also come back to work on January 1st, and here we are. With actual, real work to present to you. If it had required a load of laundry, I wouldn’t be here. Just keep that in mind.

Back in the early days of the ’10s, I wrote a series of baseball romances for an indie publisher. Later, I got the rights back and intended to republish them but I’m very much like Walt Disney in that I like my head to be cold and also I keep moving forward. Going back to work on something I already wrote feels like rolling backward. But one of my resolutions for the year and the rest of my career, basically, is to treat my business more like a business and make those tough business decisions that won’t keep everybody happy. As a result, any backlist that I release is going to be Amazon-only. Not because I don’t appreciate my readers on other platforms but because the amount of time and frustration I invest in putting work on other platforms (I am easily overwhelmed, friends) has actually held me back from re-releasing the old work that I could be making money from. So, please don’t hate me as I re-release my old stuff on a single platform. I still plan on selling new work wide.

So, back to that baseball romance I was telling you about:

Billionaire entrepreneur Maggie Harper has lived and breathed baseball since birth. But being the coach’s daughter never prepared her for team ownership, and all the business savvy in the world can’t help her navigate the complications from a sizzling one-night stand with a player who definitely wants something more.

After pitching a disastrous game that cost the Bengals the championship pennant, veteran reliever Chris Thomas knows his days as a player are numbered. There are more important things to be worried about than the sexy new team owner, but Maggie’s hot-and-cold act is driving him to distraction. A woman has never come between him and the game before, but now he has to make a choice between his love of playing ball and his rapid fall for Maggie.

Caught between doing what’s right for the team and what’s right for them, Maggie and Chris have to decide what’s more important: a championship season, or a chance at love?

Preorder now at Amazon.com!

 

Long Relief will be out January 7th, so I hope those of you who don’t already own it haven’t spent up all your Amazon gift cards yet.

So, with that, this State of the Trout is concluded. Happy New Year, and gosh, I really hope 2020 is gonna be great for everybody in Trout Nation.