Eliza Lentzski's Blog, page 2

Happy Holigays and Merry Queermas

Happy Holidays! To celebrate the season, here’s a festive (and NSFW) chapter preview from my forthcoming release, Stolen Hearts, a.k.a. Don’t Call Me Hero, Book 6. I don’t have a release date just yet, but I’m excited about where the story is leading our two favorite ladies.

Going on a date with Julia was a little less dramatic now that we lived together. I could still leave and pretend to be picking her up with a bouquet of flowers, but Julia was too practical for those kinds of chivalrous gestures. She’d always been the one to drive since she refused to ride on the back of my Harley, so anything that might mimic a more traditional date with accepted roles had never really been reality for us.

At the start of our relationship, I’d been so fixated on getting her to go on dates with me that I hadn’t been able to enjoy the organic, unforced way in which our partnership had evolved and grown. We hadn’t even had a proper second date before exchanging the L-word. I knew we didn’t require antiquated gestures and rituals, but it was the only way I knew how to get Julia to loosen the strangle-hold she typically held over the power-dynamics in our relationship. Only when she agreed to go on a date was I allowed to surprise and treat her.

I waited in the living room while Julia finished getting ready. I hadn’t revealed my plans to her despite her repeated efforts to cajole those details from me, but I had given her instructions on what to wear. While the typical Midwesterner was probably most comfortable in jeans and a sweatshirt, Julia favored dressed and fitted skirts. While I had no complaints about the leg-baring outfits, it wouldn’t quite work for my plans for us that day.

I hopped to my feet when Julia entered the room. She flashed an indulgent smile as she finished fastening small, silver hoop earrings. “Thank you for your patience, darling,” she approved. “I know you said nothing fancy, but I just couldn’t decide what to wear.”

Her sweater and jeans combination was sensible, but somehow she’d managed to make the normally relaxed outfit choice look expensive. Her dark blue jeans hugged every modest curve as though they’d been tailor-made for her. The sweater was probably cashmere, and more expensive than any single clothing item I owned, but it was about as casual as Julia could manage if we were actually leaving the condo.

“Good things come to those who wait, right?” I returned.

She balanced on one foot and then the next as she slipped into ankle-high leather boots. “That depends,” she remarked. “Am I going to like whatever we’re doing or wherever we’re going on this date?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” I said in earnest.

Julia arched an eyebrow. “You’re not sure?”

I shrugged. “If you’re the kind of woman I think you are, you’ll be into it.”

She smirked at my response and started to head for the door. “That’s clever.”

“Is it?” I questioned.

She nodded. “Now I have no choice but to like it.”

I took her hand in mine and kissed her knuckles. “Don’t worry. You’ll like it.”

+++

“Figure or hockey skates?" 

If Julia was surprised that our date was to take place at a local indoor ice rink, her features didn’t give her away. When we’d been packing up her childhood home in the previous weeks, I’d lamented how many typical Minnesotan activities we hadn’t yet done together. I wanted to be greedy with her time and blast through my To Do list, but she’d reassured me at the time that we had all of our lives to tackle that list. It was exactly the kind of thing I’d wanted to hear from her, but I still couldn’t wait to start checking off activities.

“Guess,” she seemed to dare me.

I didn’t take long with my decision. “Hockey.”

One might have expected, based on her refined, polished exterior, that Julia herself was delicate like a figure skater. But from what I knew of her childhood, she’d been a tomboy: climbing trees, fishing in ponds, skinning her knees. Julia wouldn’t have learned how to skate with figure skates and their befuddling toe-pick. She would have skated on frozen northern Minnesotan ponds with the same kind of skates as her younger brother, Jonathan. 

I hooked pinkie fingers with Julia while we waited in line to rent our skates. The indoor rink was warm enough that we didn't need heavy jackets, hats, or gloves. 

Julia looked down at our lightly locked hands. “Enjoying yourself, dear?”

Her tone was bright and slightly teasing. 

“I’m totally geeked,” I wasn’t ashamed to admit. “I feel like I missed out on so much being in the military—like ten years of my life was stolen. I missed out on being young and having fun. This is what I should have been doing in my early twenties," I said emphatically, "taking my girlfriend ice skating.”

Julia smiled, no longer teasing me or my exuberance. “I’m happy you finally get to do these things. And I’m even happier that I’m the person you get to do them with.”

“You don’t think it’s corny?" I worried. "Ice skating and holding hands and hot chocolate? Like we’re starring in our very own Hallmark Christmas movie?”

“None of us has a maple syrup company or a Christmas tree farm that needs saving, so I think we’ll be alright.”

My mouth fell open a little at her statement. “Wait. Do you actually watch those?”

Julia curled her upper lip, but otherwise looked unaffected by my accusation. “Not everything I do has to be highbrow. I’m allowed to eat ice cream from the container and watch mindless TV, aren’t I?”

“Of course!” I hastily agreed. “In fact, you’ve just added something new to our bucket list.”

Julia smirked as my excitement returned, but she allowed me the indulgence of just having fun. But in many ways, she was giving that grace to herself as well. Between my PTSD, her chronic stubbornness, and the drama of her father—first his criminal case, then the guardianship trial over her mother, and finally the suspicious nature of his sudden death—so much of our relationship had been interrupted by unfortunate circumstances. Maybe we were finally getting a reprieve from all of that drama. I thought we deserved a break, at least. 

We brought our rented ice skates to a freestanding bench adjacent to the community rink. Beyond the high plexiglass walls, couples and families with small children skated in a slow, wide loop along the boards. A pop version of a classic Christmas song blared over the PA system. 

Julia sat down on the metal bench and removed her boots. She shoved her feet into the hard-shelled skates and began to tighten the long laces. When I didn’t immediately sit beside her to do the same, she looked up at me.

“Is something wrong, dear?”

I chewed on the inside of my lip. “This is going to sound crazy, but can I do that for you?”

“Tie my shoes?” she questioned.

“Lace up your skates so they’re tight enough around your ankles," I said. The air inside of the indoor rink was relatively refrigerated, but I still felt my face grow hot. "My dad used to tighten my laces for me when I was little. I … I’ve always wanted to do that for someone else.”

The critical look on Julia’s features softened. “Of course, darling. You can tighten my skates for me.”

I didn't doubt that Julia’s fingers were strong enough to wedge beneath the nylon laces to pull them tight so her skating would be better stabilized. But I liked the idea of being able to do something for her. She was fiercely independent and rarely asked for help, even from me. She hardly let me pay for things, and she was the one to chauffeur me around. It felt good to do this.

I stood before Julia and grabbed her right foot. I trapped the blade of her skate between my knees so I had better leverage to tighten her laces. My request wasn't the result of a foot fetish—although Julia did have beautiful feet. It was actually very practical. If your laces were too loose, your ankles would rock back and forth when you tried to skate. Floppy ankles were not compatible with ice skating.

Julia was quiet while I worked, cramming my stiff fingers beneath the laces and pulling so hard that either the laces or my fingers might break. I looped the long laces around her ankle twice and then proceeded to tie off her right skate with a double knot.

“I think—.” Julia cut her statement short.

I paused long enough to glance up at her.

“I didn’t mean to speak aloud,” she revealed.

I arched a quizzical eyebrow with the toe of her skate’s blade still wedged securely between my knees. “What’s up?”

Julia looked hesitant; her mouth couldn’t quite settle on either a smile or a frown. “I think,” she cautiously continued, “that you’d make a wonderful parent.”

My fingers shook a little as I moved to her left skate. “Y-You do?”

“I can imagine you tying our children’s skates tight,” she said quietly. “Helping so they wouldn’t fall on the ice.”

I began to feel lightheaded—probably from having my head tilted down for so long while I tightened Julia’s skates, I reasoned. I was too caught up with the new word to appreciate the compliment. Somehow we’d gone from baby to children. 

I finished lacing Julia’s left skate. I set her blade firm on the spongy-rubber flooring that surrounded the indoor rink. “Tight enough?” I asked. I was grateful that my voice still sounded like me. 

I could tell Julia was carefully observing me and my reaction. Was I going to freak out? Did I want the same things as her in the future?

Julia dropped her scrutinizing gaze from my face down to her feet. She seemed to flex her feet inside of the ice skates. “My circulation has been sufficiently cut off,” she quipped, “so I think we’re good.”

I sat down on the cool metal bench to exchange my own boots for skates. Julia waited for me. She stretched out her legs in front of her, stabbing the back of the rounded blades into the black padded floor.

“You’ve got to let them fall,” I finally spoke.

“Sorry?”

“Kids. When they skate,” I grunted. I shoved my right foot deep into my rented skate. “You can’t always keep them from falling. They’ve got to be able to pick themselves back up, you know?”

I glanced in Julia's direction. Her caramel colored eyes looked a little watery. She rapidly blinked, but a few tears seemed to get caught in her long eyelashes.

“Are you okay?” 

She smiled wetly and wiped away the moisture from her cheeks. “Yes, dear. Thank you.”

“Oh. Okay. Good?” I struggled.

Julia stood from the bench and took a few unsteady steps in her skates. "Come on, soldier. Time to impress me with your skating skills."

 

I stepped out onto the ice rink and took an initial, tentative stride. I hadn't been skating in a number of years—close to a decade—but I knew that it wouldn’t be long until muscle memory kicked in. Julia shuffled onto the ice behind me. I wondered about the last time she'd been skating. I had a hard time picturing her going ice skating in Embarrass by herself, but maybe she'd gone all the time. 

I flipped my hips and spun on the ice to face her. She stayed close to the ice rink's plexiglass boards with a leather-gloved hand hovering over the waist-high wall.

"How are your skates?" I asked.

She didn't look in my direction. "They're fine."

I dug the front of my blades into the ice and pushed off to skate backwards next to her. Julia’s own steps were small, shaky, and unsure.

"Don't pick up your feet," I instructed. "Let the skates do the work."

I heard Julia's sigh. "Cassidy, you look like a race horse at the starting gate." She waved at me with the gloved hand not ghosting over the hockey boards. "Go skate a few laps and get it out of your system."

"But, I—."

"Go," she told me. "Then come back and skate with me like a regular person."

I assumed Julia wanted to acclimate herself to the new environment without me hovering next to her, so I did as I was told. Despite my better judgment, I left her by the hockey boards to skate a few independent laps. I crossed my right foot over my left to make a sharp, crisp turn around the first corner. The sound of sharp blades cutting into the ice was familiar and comforting, transporting me back to simpler days. Gaining confidence, I skated faster in a wide loop around the oval rink. I bypassed slower, less skilled skaters, but left enough room to not startle them into falling. 

I quickened my pace so that my long, wavy hair flew loose behind me. We were inside, but my speed had created a brisk wind that bit at my exposed skin. I breathed in deeply, enjoying the familiar smell of the cold ice. The distinct scent took me back to my childhood of skating on frozen ponds that my dad had cleared for my cousins and me. We would spend hours on the makeshift rink until our cheeks were red and our toes and fingers were frozen.

I maintained the elevated speed until my upper thigh muscles and ankles began to burn. Ice skating used decidedly different muscles than running on the indoor track at the police academy or swimming in the pool. I slowed down without fully stopping and looked around the rink in search of Julia. The complex was busy for a weeknight, but not so crowded that I might lose her among the other skaters. She continued to skate close to the wall of the rink, but her erect figure appeared more confident than when I'd left her. I crossed the center of the rink with even, elongated strides to return to her side.

I pulled up beside her and skated with my hands behind my back. “Hey, pretty lady.”

“Hey, yourself,” she returned.

"Thanks for letting me get in a few laps. I didn't realize I needed to do that," I admitted. 

"You were practically vibrating," Julia noted. "Jonathan would get the same look when we went skating as a family," she described. "All he wanted to do was go fast."

Julia held out her hand to me. When our fingers loosely intertwined, she let me guide her away from the safety of the plexiglass boards and their brightly colored advertisements. 

"You're doing good," I praised. "You look more confident."

"I might have to come back by myself and practice," she wryly observed. "I had no idea you were such a professional."

"You can let me be better than you at something," I said, only half teasing. "It's allowed."

I heard her scoff. "Not a chance."

I abruptly stopped before a small boy could crash into our legs and take us down like bowling pins. He and a few other children were apparently playing tag, with little regard for the other skaters on the ice.

I saw Julia wobble. Her hands flailed at her sides as she struggled to stay upright. I hooked my arm around her waist to keep her from falling.

"Goodness!" she breathed out in annoyance. "Where are their parents?"

"Sure you want one of those?” I lightly joked. 

“Not one of those specific children, no.”

I let go of Julia's waist when I was confident she'd regained her footing. We continued to skate after our close encounter. Each lap around the rink became a little faster than the one before. Predictably, Julia had pretty much mastered the whole ice skating thing in record time. 

“So what’s next after this?” she posed. 

I twisted my features in mock offense. “What? Ice skating isn’t enough?”

I heard her dark chuckle. “You know it takes much more to satisfy me, Miss Miller.”

Julia twisted to skate backwards in front of me. She'd started to get a little cocky, a little reckless on the ice. Earlier she'd been clutching the edge of the rink like a lifeboat lost at sea, but now she was literally skating circles around me. When she wobbled for a second time, I wasn't quick enough to catch her. Her arms flailed for only a second before she fell onto her backside.

I bit back a laugh. Julia looked stunned as if she couldn't believe her body had betrayed her. "Ouch. Are you okay?"

She wiped her right palm across the top of her jeans, leaving a snowy residue behind. "I guess that's my punishment for bad mouthing your date," she mumbled.

I reached down to help lift her off the ice, but when I grabbed her outstretched hands and pulled, Julia recoiled and cried out in pain. 

“Shit. What's wrong? Are you hurt?” I panicked.

Julia's gloved fingers curled around her left wrist. “Something’s not right.”

I dropped down to my knees, not caring that the icy surface would seep through my jeans. “Here. Let me see,” I urged.

Julia’s body seemed to fold in on itself. Her shoulders hunched forward and she tucked her hands into her waist. “It hurts,” came her quiet complaint.

“I know, baby,” I said gently. “Which is why you should let me see it.”

I was no doctor, but between my time in the military and on the police force, I did have some basic first responder training.

Julia’s painted lips flattened into a pained grimace. She raised her left hand and extended her arm toward me. Others continued to skate around us, providing us a wide berth, but no one actually stopped to help or see if we were both okay. So much for Midwest Nice.

I started at her elbow and worked my way toward her fingers, feeling the solid bones between my probing fingers. When I reached her wrist, Julia hissed and yanked her hand away.

“That’s not good,” I observed with a frown. “I’m guessing a sprain. Maybe even broken bones.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Julia clipped. “I’ve never broken a bone in my life.”

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“I’m fine,” she continued to stubbornly resist.

“You have no choice.”

I’d dragged my buddy Terrance Pensacola halfway across an Afghani desert, but I didn’t possess the strength or skating skills to scoop Julia off the ice. I knew she couldn’t sit in the middle of the ice rink forever though. I popped back up on my skates and circled behind her. Dropping to one knee, I ducked my head and shoulders beneath her right arm. When I stood back up, I lifted Julia to her feet.

Thankfully, Julia didn’t continue to put up a fight. I wondered if the shock or the adrenaline from her fall was starting to fade, only to be replaced with pain. Under ordinary circumstances, she would have been unnerved to be making a scene. She must have really been hurt.

We slowly shuffled from the center of the rink to one of the side exits. This time I didn’t ask for permission to take off her skates. After I removed my own, I all but threw our rented skates at the person working at the skate return booth.

Julia looked unsteady trying to put on her ankle-high boots. Again, I didn’t give her the opportunity to reject my assistance. I stooped down and helped her step into the shoes.

I heard her heavy sigh above me.

I looked up to her beautiful face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“You own me a hot chocolate.”

“Let me take you to the hospital, and I will bathe you in hot chocolate,” I bargained. “Mini marshmallows and everything.”

Julia’s eyes closed and her head tilted forward. “Okay.”

+ + +

Julia was disconcertingly quiet. She held onto her injured wrist, slightly slumped over at the waist. Sitting in the passenger seat of her Mercedes, the color seemed to have drained from her normally light olive complexion.

“We’re almost there,” I spoke aloud. The words were intended to assure her, but probably myself as well.

I had graduated top of my class at the police academy not that long ago. Precision driving had been one of the skills my instructors had found most impressive. But I was no longer trying to stand out from my mostly-male peers. I needed to get Julia to the emergency room.

“Come on, come on,” I muttered at a particularly long red light. I tapped my fingers against the leather steering wheel with impatience.

My palm struck the car horn the moment the light turned green and the car in front of me didn’t move. “Get the fuck off your phone!”

There was no way the other driver could hear me, but I couldn’t help myself.

A light touch to my forearm had me curbing my road rage. “I’m not going to die, darling.”

“I know. But it’s all my fault. We could have done anything, but I’m the one who insisted we go ice skating.”

“It’s not like you suggested we go sky diving, dear.”

We arrived at the hospital a few minutes later. I illegally parked Julia’s Mercedes in front of the emergency room entrance and rushed to the passenger side door. Julia swatted me away when I tried to unbuckle her seatbelt.

“Cassidy. Take a breath.” 

I stood back rather than trying to carry her through the automatic doors. Nervous energy buzzed through my body. It was of the side effects of my PTSD. For other people, once the danger or surprise was over, their body and brain reset. Their hearts no longer raced. They no longer felt panicked. I, however, continued to struggle with my fight or flight reflex.

Julia resumed holding her left wrist close to her body. We walked through the automatic doors together, but once we entered the building, I bolted towards the reception desk.

“My girlfriend hurt her wrist,” I said in a rush. “We were ice skating and she fell. I think it could be broken, but there could be tendon damage, too.”

The receptionist handed me a thin stack of forms attached to a clipboard. “Fill these out.”

I stared dumbly. “But she’s hurt. She needs your help.”

“Fill these out,” the woman told me, “and we’ll get to her in time.”

“In time?” I squeaked.

“Cassidy.” Julia’s voice called to me. I whipped around to see her standing a few feet behind me. “Would you be a dear and park the car?”

Julia Desjardin was the most formidable person I’d ever met. She stomped around court rooms in pencil skirts and skyscraper heels that would have me spraining both ankles. She was fierce. Powerful. Both in public and in private. She’d dominated me in the bedroom more times than I could count. But the woman who stood in the lobby of the Minneapolis emergency room didn’t resemble that person. This version of Julia needed me to get my shit together.

My pulse throbbed in my neck. “Yeah. I can do that.”

+ + +

I had to circle the hospital’s parking structure a few times before I finally found an empty spot. Apparently a Saturday in the weeks leading up to Christmas was prime time for accidents and doctor appointments. Julia had been admitted while I’d driven around, so I’d had nothing to do but sit and wait. Her injury obviously wasn’t life threatening, but that thought didn’t put me at ease. Time passed slowly in the hospital waiting room. I could have gone for a walk—done a few laps around the hospital complex—but I didn’t’ want to miss the moment Julia was released.  

It was late by the time the double doors swung open and Julia reappeared. I immediately stood up on legs made stiff from inactivity. I held two cardboard coffee cups in slightly clammy hands.

Julia walked in my direction. As she approached, my eyes fell to the canvas sling that held her left arm immobile.

I licked my lips. “So?”

“It’s not broken,” she told me. “Just a bad sprain. I’ll be healed up in a few weeks.” She looked at the two cups I continued to hold. “What’s that?”

“Hot chocolate. I got it from a vending machine,” I said. “It’s terrible.”

It had seemed like a cute and funny thing to do at the time, but as it had cooled, the dark liquid had coagulated into a thick, murky mess.

“Will you be terribly offended if I take a raincheck?” Julia posed.

I dumped the untouched cups of hot chocolate into the nearest garbage can.

 

We didn’t speak on the ride back to Julia’s condo. She let me drive the Mercedes without much fanfare, but I wondered how amenable she would be to me helping her with other things. Grocery shopping? Cleaning? Making meals? Showering? Getting dressed? If she didn’t take it easy, if she pushed herself too hard, she would only end up re-injuring herself. Accepting that one’s body had limitations was hard enough for the average person; how would Julia fare?

When I’d been healing up in the VA hospital once Terrance and I had returned to the States, I’d felt invincible compared to my good friend. The nurses had had a hell of a time keeping me in my bed. I could imagine Julia would be a similarly stubborn patient. Her wrist wasn’t broken—her streak of not having a broken bone was still intact—why in the world would she slow down?

I parked the black sedan in Julia’s designated parking spot in the condo’s underground garage. I waited patiently for her to unbuckle her seatbelt and exit the passenger side of the car. I continually examined her face for signs of discomfort or struggle, but Julia had always had a better poker face than myself.

I didn’t hustle to open doors I knew she could handle or push elevator buttons that she could do herself. She stared straight ahead, stone faced, as we rode the elevator to the upper level condo. I unlocked the front door, but only because I retained her key ring from driving her car. Julia wore her purse slung over her right shoulder. With her left arm secured in a sling, I privately wondered how she would have planned on getting to her keys.

Julia stood in the front foyer and slid out of one ankle boot and then the other. We’d missed dinner, but I no longer had much of an appetite. I watched Julia disappear in the direction of the bedroom. I remained in the entryway, full of indecision. Was I supposed to follow, or was I being too clingy?

I took my time with my own boots and my leather jacket. Julia had uncharacteristically left her shoes in the middle of the entryway; I moved them and lined them up with the other shoes in the foyer.

I’d just hung up my jacket in the front closet when I heard Julia call my name: “Cassidy?”

“Coming!”

The lights were off in the back bedroom. The sun had set hours ago, leaving Julia in the dark. No street lights, not even the moon or the stars, lit up the room. I found her standing in the center of the room, with her head tilted down.

“I’m here,” I announced.

“I need your help.” Her request was small, but important.

 “Of course,” I agreed in a rush. “What can I do?”

I heard her quiet sigh. “Undress me.”

I knew she hadn’t intended for the request to be sexy or intimate, but my breath still caught in my throat. I couldn’t help it; she still gave me massive butterflies.

“I can do that.”

I stood before her in the darkened bedroom. Her sweater was going to be a problem, or at least removing it without jostling her injured wrist, so I started with the top button of her jeans. I unfastened it and slid the front zipper down. I dropped to my knees and gently lifted her right leg so I could remove her sock. I did the same to her left foot. I grabbed the waistline of her jeans and shimmied them down her hips, thighs, and knees. Together, we repeated the same routine to remove her jeans as I’d done with her socks.

I sat up on my knees so I was at her bellybutton level. I lifted the bottom hem of her cashmere sweater. I couldn’t help myself; I leaned forward and softly pressed my lips against the bare skin just above the waistline of her underwear.

Julia dropped her right hand to my hair. Her fingers curled around the chaotic tendrils. I looked up to gauge how she was feeling, but the shadows in the room were too dark.

I peeled the front of her underwear down about an inch and placed another soft kiss against the newly exposed skin. I inhaled and took in the scent of her lotion, her fabric softener, and her womanhood. It was quite possibly my favorite combination.

I pulled down the front panel of her underwear a little more. I pressed a second kiss against her fragrant skin. “Is this okay?”

She breathed out a single word: “Please.”

I slipped her underwear down the rest of her hips and thighs until they fell silently to the floor.

I held Julia by the back of her thighs and pressed my face against her. My eyes shut of their own volition as I held her. I felt the warmth of her body, the solidness of her form. I hadn’t been able to get my emotions in check in the hospital, but now my heartbeat lowered and my mind became quiet. 

Strong, needy fingers in my hair reminded me of my mission.

I nuzzled my nose along the thin strip of closely manicured hair until I reached her slightly protruding clit. I placed a gentle kiss against the tender nub before parting her lips. I swirled the tip of my tongue around the sensitive flesh. Fingers tightened in my hair, and I heard her sharp exhale.

Normally this was the moment where I’d dig my fingernails into her thighs or lift her off the ground and tumble into bed so I could properly fuck her. Instead, I shut my eyes. I slowed my breathing and my heart rate. I alternated between suckling her clit into my mouth and drawing slow, lazy circles with my tongue. 

We'd had sex on practically every surface in her one-bedroom condo. We'd fucked in her law office and her parents' closet, in public parks and police cars. But had we ever done this before? Had it ever been soft and gentle and tender?

I left her sex momentarily to place soft, lingering kisses on her quivering thighs. I gently sucked on the sensitive flesh, but not hard enough to leave a mark.

I pressed the tip of my middle finger against her clit and looked up to her beautiful face. Her dark eyes fluttered shut and her lips slightly parted. I could feel her pulse throb through the sensitive nub. I pressed harder until her hips bucked forward and her thigh muscles twitched. 

I placed another digit at the entrance of her weeping sex and slowly worked my finger inside. She was wet and ready for me. I took my time and slowly drew the single digit in and out. I slowly penetrated her as deep as my finger could reach before unhurriedly withdrawing. 

"Cassidy." She sighed my name like a prayer. The fingers on her uninjured hand curled around the top of my shoulder. "That's perfect. Fuck me. Just. Like. That."

I could never deny her. 

Her pussy muscles tightened around my finger. I resisted the selfish impulse to quicken my pace or intensify the force behind each penetration. I continued the slow but steady tempo between her thighs. 

"Rub your clit," she commanded. "I want to see you cum."

I couldn't bite back my needy whine. 

Obediently, my hand slipped past the waistband of my jeans and wiggled beneath my underwear. My fingers instinctively sought out my clit, which I began to rub with vigor.

I heard Julia's soft cry and the fingers around my shoulder tightened. "Oh God."

I'd never been adept at multitasking. I tried to focus on my patient, measured tempo to bring Julia closer to orgasm, but her breathy cries, her sex clamped tight around my finger, combined with the frantic movement of my free hand against my clit, were making it next to impossible. 

"I'm close," I inelegantly grunted. 

"Me too."

I didn't trust I would be able to get her there if I was preoccupied with my own orgasm. I yanked my hand out of my jeans and fell face forward into Julia's naked sex. I twirled the tip of my tongue around her clit before sucking it firmly into my mouth. I buried my finger deep in her pussy and curled my finger inside her. I pressed the flat of my tongue solidly against her clit and licked her hard, over and over again. 

Fingernails pierced the thin material of my top. "Jesus," I heard Julia's groan. 

I continued to undulate the flat of my tongue against her engorged clit. I drank greedily from her sex as my saliva combined with her arousal. 

Julia' knees buckled as if she was still on ice skates, but this time I successfully kept her upright. I could feel the vibrations of her lower body like a miniature earthquake was rattling her foundation. Her mouth fell open, but no fully-formed words appeared. 

The fingers around my shoulder eventually relaxed, but Julia seemed to slump against me in exhaustion. Her breath came in uneven gasps. "You weren't supposed to do that."

"Make you cum that hard?"

She shook her head. "You didn't get to. You stopped."

"It's okay; I'll survive." I wiped at my cheeks with the back of my hand. "Better than hot chocolate?"

Julia's eyes seemed to narrow at the question. "You're not getting off that easily, Miss Miller."

I couldn't help my cocky grin. "Funny. I thought you were the one getting off easily."

 

The bedroom was dark with the exception of the pale moon outside. I'd successfully helped Julia exchange her clothes from the day for pajamas. Her nakedness had resulted in a minor delay, but neither of us had minded. I'd put my own pajamas on and had joined Julia in bed. Even though I would never describe Julia as clingy, she never slept completely on her side of the bed, especially after we'd been intimate. She lay with the length of her body tight against my own. Her bare feet pressed against my calf muscles. 

I curled my body to press more solidly against hers. “I know it’s just your wrist, but I kind of wish your doctor had put you on bed rest.”

Julia’s laughter filled my ears. Her arms tightened around me, but I heard a discernable hiss like she’d unintentionally tweaked her injured wrist.

“You’ve got to take it easy,” I told her. “Doctor’s orders.”

Julia sighed deeply. “The one thing I’m terrible at.”

Idle, lazy fingers twisted my already wild curls. Typically Julia need only play with my hair for a few minutes before I passed out from the soothing, rhythmic touch. It was late, and my brain was exhausted from the day's unexpected events. And yet, a single thought bounced around in my head, refusing to let me fall asleep. 

I set my teeth into my lower lip before vocalizing my apprehension. “I’m sorry I freaked out earlier.”

"You did no such thing," Julia denied.

"I wasn't exactly calm," I countered. I continued chewing on the inside of my cheek. "I normally perform much better under pressure."

"I'm sure you're a cool customer on the job," she said, simultaneously stroking my ego and my hair. "It's different when the person injured is someone you know though, someone you love."

I nodded beneath her loving touch. 

“I’m not a delicate thing,” she tentatively started. “But I do love it when you treat me like I am.” 

“Really?” I arched my neck so I could see her face. Her words surprised me. She always seemed too stubborn and proud to truly accept my help.

“Don’t give up on me,” she said. “If you ever feel like I’m shutting you out, call me out on it, okay? But be gentle—like you were on the ice today.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said with a small nod. “But when you get stubborn, my instinct is to retreat and lick my wounds.”

“None of that,” she chided, “unless you’re licking me.”

I was tired, but never that tired.

November Update

It’s been a while (July!) since I’ve provided you with an update on my writing and upcoming projects, so better late than never!

It’s actually been pretty busy since Sour Grapes was released in June. I’ve been overwhelmed by the ratings and reviews (736 and counting), making it my highest rated/reviewed novel to date. Ya’ll are awesome. I’m also excited to announce that Sour Grapes will be released in audiobook, my second project with Tantor Media on February 7th! That seems like so far away, but here are some other recent projects to keep you busy until then:

The Woman in 3B, audiobook, Tantor Media, October 25th

This is my first project with Tantor Media. I was admittedly nervous about giving up so much control (and royalties) to have a media company produce the book instead of doing it on my own, but Stefanie Kay really kills this narration. I think you’ll love it. It’s available now wherever you get your audiobooks!

Sapphic Bumps in the Night, iReadIndies, October 31st

I contributed a short story to this Free sapphic anthology, titled “Checking Her Out.” It’s only available for a limited time on BookFunnel, so get your copy today!

“Checking Her Out,” Extended Version. Consider this the Taylor Swift 3:00am version of Midnights. I was limited to 10,000 words for the sapphic anthology, but that wasn’t enough words for me to get this entire short story out! It’s not quite novella length (15K), so I’m offering the extended version for free on Wattpad. If you’ve never used Wattpad before or don’t have the app, don’t fret! You can directly access the story here. Just click “Start Reading!""

Stolen Hearts, a.k.a. Don’t Call Me Hero 6 (forthcoming)

So this one isn’t out just yet—and I still have a long ways to go—but I hope you’ll all be waiting with bated breath for the sixth novel in Julia and Cassidy’s love story. I’m looking to get a lot done during NaNoWriMo. A release date is forthcoming!

That’s all for now! Keep in touch!

Juicy

The woman seated on the other side of the desk was trying to distract me from my work. I leaned a little closer to the outdated computer monitor as if the change in position would help me ignore the noisy sounds she made while she ate lunch. Despite plenty of room elsewhere on the farm, including the employee picnic bench, she’d been spending most of her lunch breaks with me in the vineyard office. I didn’t mind; I loved that she wanted to spend more time with me, especially considering the rocky start we had, but Lucia tended to eat with gusto, smacking noises and all.

I made a disgruntled noise before removing my blue blocker glasses. “Babe, I’m trying to finish this email to our wine club members.”

Lucia’s eating noises abruptly stopped. “Sorry,” she apologized with a grimace. “Am I being too loud?”

She appeared genuinely repentant rather than offended. The sheepish look, like she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, made her look younger than usual. A rigid routine of sunscreen and wide-brimmed hats to shield her skin from the worst of the UV damage already gave her a more youthful appearance. It was hard to stay annoyed with someone who was so in tune and mindful of my own emotions. That sensitivity had been one of the reasons I’d fallen so hard and so quickly for Lucia Maria Santiago despite all of the road blocks we’d both set up along the way. But remarkably, we’d been able to overcome our differences and initial animosity to get to this place.

Another noisy slurping noise interrupted my mental musings. I glanced sharply across the desk. Lucia looked embarrassed by the loud noise. She wiped at her mouth with the sleeve of her denim shirt.

“Sorry. This pear is super ripe.”

“Can you and your super ripe pear get a room while I finish this email?” I sighed.

 “I’ll be quiet,” she vowed. “Promise.”

I rolled my eyes a little before returning to my email. I mumbled the most recent sentences to myself to get back on track. My fingers click-clacked on the ancient keyboard that was yellowed with age. I’d been bugging Lucia for updated office equipment, but she insisted that if it wasn’t broken, that I’d survive. Normally I would have pouted to get my way, but that would only result in her reminding me that as a wine collective, all of our profits went back to the employees—not new tech that I used once a month. It was a pretty humbling and convincing argument.

I read and re-read my email before I was satisfied it contained no typos or confusing language. We’d only recently kickstarted the wine club, so I wanted to make sure everything was perfect for its launch. I’d made enough mistakes—all very harmless, but no less embarrassing—during my first few months as the vineyard’s owner. Now as an employee and no longer the person signing the paychecks, I wanted to do everything right the first time. As Lucia had once said to me, I didn’t want people to think I was getting lazy now that I was sleeping with the boss. 

I realized then that said boss was being remarkably quiet. I looked over the computer screen to where Lucia still sat.

“What are you doing?”

Lucia sat in her usual chair, but with her head tilted all the way back. The pear she’d been noisily slurping earlier was perched in her mouth like a golf ball on a tee.

“I’m being quiet,” Lucia garbled around the half-eaten pear.

I clicked the send button on my email and shut off the computer monitor. “No, I mean, why are you sitting there like a pig with an apple in its mouth?”

Lucia remained in the same awkward position, her back straight, but with her head leaned back. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just call me a pig.”

I stood from my office chair and rounded the desk. I carefully plucked the green pear from Lucia’s open mouth and took a bite of my own. Sweet juice squirted into my mouth, and I immediately wiped at my lips with the back of my hand to keep from making a mess. “You’re right,” I remarked around the bite. “It is juicy.”

I sucked at the tips of my fingers to remove any lingering, sticky residue. I was acutely aware of Lucia’s stare as she regarded me from her chair. I felt her dark eyes sweep down my form before she licked her lips, slow and with purpose.

“Come here.” Her voice had become a low rasp, deeper than her usual smoky register.

I kept my distance. “Why?” I asked. Suspicion crept into my tone.

“I’m still hungry.”

Lucia stood from her chair in a single, fluid motion. Her hands touched my hips first before her palms ran up my sides, rounded my breasts, and then swept up my loose hair.

I looked toward the closed office door. I wasn’t sure who had closed it—Lucia or myself—or even when the door had been shut in the first place. “Lucia, your dad … and Natalie … are just outside.” 

“Then you’ll have to keep quiet.”

The fingers that had woven into my hair perceptively tightened before Lucia pulled me in for a bruising, urgent kiss. Her tongue swept across the front of my teeth before I eagerly sucked her into my mouth. I could taste the sugary juice from the shared pear, but I knew she tasted even sweeter elsewhere. 

Her kisses dropped to my neck. I pulled my long hair out of the way to grant her easier access. My knees threatened to buckle each time her teeth scraped against my skin.  

I sighed and leaned into the more aggressive touch. "Fuck, Lucia."

"Shhh …" she hushed me, a reminder of the probable audience who might overhear us through the flimsy particleboard door. 

A desperate whimper vibrated in my throat. I hated limitations. I was supremely mindful of our place and situation, but I was forty years old; hadn't I earned the right to scream if I wanted to?

"Should I stop?" she posed. She nuzzled her nose against me and licked at the hollow of my throat. "We haven't really started; I could leave right now."

I tightened my grip on the front of her denim work shirt, which was all the answer she required. 

Her fingers found the top button of my jeans and then the zipper; she tugged hard, pulling the heavy material past my hips and halfway down my thighs. My underwear had no choice but to follow. She sucked her middle and forefinger into her mouth, although I doubted I would require the extra lubrication. One hand went to the top of my shoulder as if to steady me while the other penetrated between my thighs. I felt her fingers bump against my exposed clit before they sought my willing and waiting entrance.

I gasped sharply, but hopefully quietly, when her fingers entered me. First to one set of knuckles and then the next. The hand that had gently rested on my shoulder now pressed against me. I inelegantly shuffled backwards with my jeans trapped around my knees until my naked backside bumped against the office desk. 

Lucia leaned into me, and her mouth reconnected with mine just in time to swallow my next moan. Her fingers bottomed out and she roughly swiped the pad of her thumb across my clit. I groaned into her open mouth, desperate to reciprocate her touch, but selfish enough to sit back and enjoy whatever she intended for my body. 

Lucia dropped to her knees while her fingers remained inside of me. A mantra, a chant, formed in my mind as my unfocused gaze wandered above Lucia's head: The office door has no lock. The office door has no lock. The office door has no fucking lock. She licked hard against my clit and all other thoughts flew from my brain. 

Her fingers began to move inside of me while her lips remained latched around my clit. I clawed my short fingernails across her back, although with her thick button-up shirt I had no way of knowing if she could feel me. 

When I failed to choke back another breathy gasp, Lucia returned to her feet. She removed her fingers from my unsatisfied sex, and I partly worried my lack of discretion would cause her to stop altogether. 

A peculiar look crossed her features. "Do you need help staying quiet, jefa?"

Even though I was no longer the vineyard's owner, and our roles had reversed, Lucia had a habit of returning to old habits in moments precisely like this. 

"M-maybe," I stammered.

She stood between my parted thighs—parted as far as the jeans and underwear hanging around my knees would allow. She hovered two fingers—the same two fingers that had so recently been inside of me—in front of my mouth. She touched the tips of her fingers against my lower lip. I poked out my tongue and licked across her fingertips, tasting my arousal on her. 

I tentatively sucked her fingers deeper into my mouth and kept my eyes trained on her features. I watched her nostrils flare. I observed the way she bit her lower lip. I caught her hard swallow and the way she worked the muscles in her throat. We both needed a proper fuck—no barriers, no limitations, and no clothes—but now was not the time. We'd have to be satisfied with whatever moments we could sneak into the workday. 

Lucia withdrew her fingers from my mouth and returned them to my overheated and neglected sex. She stroked me up and down, manipulating my clit with each passage of her fingers. I sighed with some satisfaction when her fingers entered me once again. I gripped the edges of the desk when those fingers began to pick up pace. Over my own heavy breaths, I could hear the tiny squeak of the desk's metal legs scratching against the flimsy area rug and the solid concrete floor below. If she kept this up, she was going to fuck me clear across the office. 

I tightened my fingers around the desk's edges again, not to hold on, but as something to distract me from calling out her name and every colorful curse word I knew. 

Lucia leaned in close, the rhythm and pace of her fingers never slowing. I could smell the fabric softener we shared from using the same downtown laundry. I could smell her fragrant deodorant as she worked up a sweat unusual for a late November afternoon. She kissed me again, and I was happy for the opportunity to groan into her mouth. 

I pulled away from her kiss, but only for much needed air. "You feel so good," came my whispered praise. I dropped my grip on the desk to cradle the sides of her face instead. "You're fucking me so good, baby."

Lucia's eyes shuttered from the gentle touch. "I want you to sit on my face," she quietly growled against my mouth. "I want your juices dripping down my throat like that pear. I want your cum spilling down my chin," she told me, her voice pitching up. "I want to lick you clean."

My nostrils flared and I wordlessly nodded, unable to do much else. 

"Rub your clit," she told me. 

My hand dropped between my thighs and I unabashedly rubbed the sensitive nub as if my life depended on it. 

"Oh shit," I choked out. 

"Cum for me, June," came her quiet instructions. "I want everyone to know what I do to you."

My hips bucked frenetically against our combined efforts. Another gasp and unsuccessful attempt to muffle the obvious evidence of our activities had me careening over the edge. 

"Cumming--fuck! I'm cumming!" I bit down on my lower lip to cut short any additional telling noises, although I suspected it was already too late for that. 

My breath came in short, ragged bursts as I continued to come down. Lucia pressed soft, adoring kisses to my now sweaty forehead. 

"Jesus," I breathed out. "I don't know how you expect me to go back to work after that."

Lucia grinned, clearly proud of her ability to unravel me so efficiently. "So no more afternoon orgasms? Is that what you're saying?"

I grabbed onto her sturdy forearm and squeezed. "Don't you dare," I scolded. "I may stop showing up for work if that happened."

I hopped off of the desk, which was noticeably in a different location than before, and began to pull up my underwear and jeans to their own original position. 

"Dinner tonight?" I proposed. I didn't worry about sounding too eager or clingy. We were well beyond that level of coyishness.   

"Three nights in a row?" Lucia clucked. "Aunt Clara is gonna think I like your cooking better than hers," she warned. 

Dinner, or at least time together beyond working hours, was nearly an every evening occurrence since I'd returned to Calistoga. Lucia still slept most nights back in her childhood bedroom, however, in Rolando's house, adjacent to the vineyard's property line. When I'd returned to work at the vineyard, Lucia had moved back in with her father and Aunt Clare. I felt guilty for making her relocate after she'd just set-up an independent space in the farmhouse, but neither of us had wanted to rush things or put too much pressure on our nascent relationship by moving in together so soon.

The farmhouse had plenty of space and extra bedrooms, but I wanted Lucia as my girlfriend, not a roommate with whom I had sex. She'd promised me she didn't mind moving back in with her family, and I'd chosen to take her at her word. When the time was right, I trusted we would have that conversation to take the next step in our relationship and move in together. I wanted to see her every day, and not just at work. I wanted to wake up next to her every morning, but I could be patient. This was new, uncharted territory for both of us. 

"I wouldn't want to upset Clara," I chuckled. "Maybe you could come over for dessert afterwards? Maybe something with pear?" I tried to tease.

I doubted I would be able to shake the visual of me sitting on her face any time soon. 

Lucia's features suddenly become serious. "You don't have to share. You can have all of me," she said.

"Oh, that-that sounds nice," I managed to sputter. 

Lucia was generally economical with her words. She was reasonable and frugal when it came to the business of the vineyard. But when it came our relationship, I'd found her to be unexpectedly open, transparent, and honest. It was a side to her that I was still getting used to. 

She pressed her lips solidly against mine, not quite chaste, but also signaling that she had to go. "Dinner, dessert, and a movie," she decided. "I'll bring the DVD."

 + + +

Without the assistance of a mirror, I had no way to tell if my skin was flushed or even the status of my hair. I couldn't hide out in the vineyard office until the end of the workday, however. I took a shallow breath and walked beyond the sanctuary of the private office. The barn was largely empty, all of the full-time employees elsewhere on the property. Only our tasting room manager, Natalie, remained. 

I touched uncertain fingers to my hair as I crossed the length of the barn to join her at the bar area. When I'd first come into ownership of the winery, our tasting room was little more than a few pieces of mismatched furniture and a makeshift bar that had been constructed from old oak barrels. Under Lucia's leadership, more money and resources had been allocated to the tasting room, giving Natalie a guest-reception area anyone would be proud of. 

"Hey, Natalie," I greeted as I walked closer. "Need help setting up for tours?"

Natalie paused her prep work—mostly setting up clean glassware and carafes of water at each station—long enough to appraise me.

"So I guess the Will-They or Won't-They storyline has run its course?" she remarked.

I shook my head, not sure to what she was referring. "What do you mean?"

Natalie unobtrusively pointed in the direction of the open office door. "We, uh, we heard."

Apparently we hadn't been as quiet as I'd thought. 

I could feel my cheeks burning. "Who's we?" 

Natalie offered me a sympathetic smile. "I've never seen Rolando move so quickly. Once the noises started, he bolted straight out of here."

I covered my face with my hands. "Oh my God." 

Even though we hadn't exactly been caught in the act, it was still horrifying to know that Lucia's father had heard us having sex. He may have suspected as much the early morning he'd shown up at the farmhouse to tell me the Jefferson's vineyard was on fire and Lucia's truck was still parked in front of my house because she'd spent the night, but now he basically had irrefutable evidence about the intimate nature of our relationship.

"You don't need to worry about Rolando," Natalie assured me. "Worry about me."

I looked up from my hands. "You?"

"If you break her heart," she smiled sweetly, "I know where you live."

THE END

(for now!)

Reading as Rebellion

Yesterday was the final day of Pride Month. The corporate logos and brands have shelved their rainbow colors for another eleven months. Major media outlets have moved on from producing their “Top 10 queer things” lists. And we in America will move on to a dubiously named “Independence Day” as our next holiday on the calendar.

I wanted to use this opportunity to show my gratitude for your support of queer-run media, content makers, and authors who make it Pride Month every month. After all of this chaos settles, we’ll still be here. I’ve been thinking a lot about that phrase—we’ll still be here—since June 24th when 2/3rds of the Supreme Court decided that guns have more rights and protections than American women, when all I’ve wanted to do is scream into my pillow rather than celebrate the final few days of Pride. I’ve previously written about the challenge of writing romance novels and happy endings when everything feels so ugly and hateful everywhere else. I’ve described the work it takes to turn off all the outside noise to write about love and other sweet, hopeful things. But we do. Because we have to.

Back in the 1980s, a literature professor named Janice Radway wrote a remarkable text, Reading the Romance: Women, Patriarchy, and Popular Literature. In it, Radway interviewed 42 midwestern women and simply asked them why they read romance novels—a genre that’s often disparaged in academic circles or amongst those only interested in so-called “highbrow” culture. And what she discovered was remarkable. Despite what others might describe as the “formulaic” nature of romance novels, the simple act of taking time for themselves, time that was all theirs, was a kind of female rebellion. If they felt unappreciated, under-nurtured, or simply exhausted from their routine, taking time to read, no matter what it was, was a form of self-care. As one woman described, “We read books so we won’t cry.” That line has always stuck with me, but perhaps even more so since June 24th.

I think for many authors, writing is also an act of self-care. Even though this isn’t my full-time job, I view writing sapphic novels as much more than a hobby. It’s much more than a side hustle. It’s a necessity. And it’s also a privilege to be able to shut out the outside world, turn off the news, and avoid social media to just write. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do this not-Pride Pride month of July.

Thank you again for your support of sapphic literature and my most recent novel, Sour Grapes. I’m closing in on 300 rating and reviews on Amazon and have been really pleased with folks’ reception of June and Lucia. I have a second story for them floating around in my brain, but I’m currently plotting out Don’t Call Me Hero, book 6—tentatively titled Stolen Hearts. I’m more of a pantser than a plotter, however, so that plotting won’t be for much longer before I earnestly launch back into Cassidy & Julia’s Minnesota world.

Take care of yourself and be gentle with others.

best,

Eliza

Sour Grapes is here!

Happy Pride Month, everyone!

I’m so excited about my latest release, Sour Grapes, published just in time to kick off this month of celebrating and recognizing our community. It’s been a year (ugh) since my last release, book 5 in the Don’t Call Me Hero series, so I hope you’re ready for this brand new story and its new couple.

Sour Grapes was really inspired by a vacation I took with my wife back in December of 2019 to celebrate 15 years of being together. We had the good fortune to visit Napa Valley and stay at a really beautiful property on a vineyard. The setting was off the charts, so I tucked it into my “To Write” queue and set to writing the novel immediately after wrapping up Julia and Cassidy’s latest adventures from Grave Mistake.

I didn’t set out to make Sour Grapes a slow-burn romance, but the characters took a while to even tolerate each other; a romance would have to evolve from an initially prickly meet-cute. I hope the wait for their first kiss and (this book!) will be worth it. As always, I’d love to hear what you think of this new couple—let me know! Communicating with readers on social media is one of my favorite things and one of the biggest things I miss about writing fanfiction, back in the day. And if you enjoyed the book, I hope you’ll consider leaving a review. It’s the best kind of word-of-mouth PR we indie authors can get!

Next up, I give myself the rest of the month off to recharge my creative juices before diving into a new project. I’ve promised you that Book 6 in the Don’t Call Me Hero series would be next, and I fully intend to keep to my word. My wife and I have another trip to Napa coming at the end of June to celebrate her birthday … who knows? Maybe I’ll be inspired for a Sour Grapes sequel if you all enjoy this first installation. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy Sour Grapes. It was a real pleasure to create and evolve these characters and their love story.

Prost,

Eliza

Sour Grapes - Chapter Preview

I’m so excited for my next novel’s release and to introduce you to these new characters. Here’s a Chapter Preview of my upcoming stand alone novel, Sour Grapes, available next month!

Chapter One  

My in-car navigation system and the directions on my phone’s map application didn’t match. My phone told me to continue driving straight while my car’s navigation system said I needed to turn around. I’d never possessed a talent for navigating from Point A to Point B, and reliance on technology had only made my sense of direction worse. Alex used to say that I couldn’t find my way out of a paper bag. It was one of the things we’d routinely fight over after I’d managed to get us famously lost even with the use of a smart phone. 

I slowed down and peered beyond the lazy back and forth of my car’s wipers at the stretch of indistinguishable county highway before me. I touched my forehead against my steering wheel and sighed in defeat; I was lost. This, combined with the fact that it was a rare rainy day in Napa County, seemed to signal that maybe I was making the wrong decision. 

I pulled over at the next gas station along the empty rural roadway. At first glance, the business looked abandoned—the name on the sign was a person’s instead of a corporation, and the gas pumps had no option for credit card transactions—but the gas prices affixed to the analog sign reflected current rates. I heard the distinct sound of a bell as my car wheels rolled over a black hose stretched across the rain-soaked concrete.

I intended on going inside the small shop, but before I could even unfasten my seatbelt, a figure in a yellow rain jacket, its bright hood covering the person’s head, hustled outside and approached the driver’s side door. I rolled down the automatic window and kept my car running. 

The gas station attendant, an older man with a tan as deep as his well-earned wrinkles, leaned his head toward my open window. “Fill it up?” he questioned.

“Sorry, no,” I apologized. “It’s electric. I’m just looking for directions.”

The man leaned back and sucked on his teeth. “A winery,” he guessed.

I felt simultaneously ashamed of my electric vehicle and of my destination.

“Your high-tech car doesn’t have navigation?” he posed.

“It does. And I’ve got a phone,” I said. “But they can’t agree on where I’m supposed to go.”

The man grinned, slow and wide. “The robots are fighting. Or maybe they’re working together to drive you off a cliff.”

His teasing caused me to bristle. It pained me to ask for help in the first place without being the target of ridicule. “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” I said tightly. “I’ll figure it out myself.”

The man held up a finger. “Hold on, sweetie. Just a second.”

He turned on his heels and trotted back towards his store. He threw open the glass-pane door and disappeared inside. My car continued to idle while I stared out the still-open window. Errant raindrops splashed on the window sill and ricocheted in my direction. I wanted to close the window while I waited for the man’s return, but it seemed like an obnoxious move; he was the one in the rain, not me. 

The door of the gas station shop opened again and the man in the yellow rain jacket reappeared. He shuffled back to my car, still smiling despite the persistent rain.

“What you need is a time machine,” he announced. He sounded proud of himself.

“Time machine?”

He tapped a thick stack of multi-colored paper against the open window sill. “This, my dear, is called a map. Back in the Dark Ages, this is how people traveled.” 

I stifled the urge to roll my eyes. Despite my desire to drive away, maybe splashing the gas station attendant in the process, I needed this man’s help. 

He unfolded the accordion-style paper map to a close-up of Napa County and spread it across the window sill. “Where are you trying to go?” he asked.

I had to consult my navigation app. I hadn’t yet memorized the address. “Lark Estates. It’s supposed to be just off the Silverado Trail.”

The man peered at the details on his paper map. “Bachelorette party?”

“Pardon?”

“The vineyard,” he noted, “are you going to a bachelorette party or something? Seems to be all the rage these days.”

“Oh,” I said, catching on. “No. No bachelorette party. I, uh, I just bought the place.”

I internally winced. God. I sounded so pretentious with my electric car and my San Francisco parking decals, driving to the vineyard I had just bought.

The man looked up from the map. I watched his eyes travel from my face to the back of my vehicle, which was packed high with luggage and whatever household items I didn’t think I could survive without. “Fancy.”

I wanted to launch into the complicated history of how I—June St. Clare, a forty-year-old graphic designer from the Bay Area—had come into possession of a twenty acre micro-winery in Napa Valley. But it was a long story, and the man in the yellow jacket was still standing in the rain, which was progressively getting worse.

I smiled mildly instead. “How about those directions?”

 

The gas station hadn’t been very far from the property. A few more turns off of the county highway, and a handful of miles down narrow paved roads, led to the property that had only recently come into my possession. The purchase was so recent, the For Sale sign was still visible on CA-128. I put on my blinker even though there were no other vehicles on the road and turned onto the long driveway that served as the entrance to Lark Estates. 

I’d only been to the vineyard once. We’d been staying at a Napa bed and breakfast that had included a complimentary tour and tasting at the micro-winery. I’d never heard the term before that day, but it was exactly what you might expect; the property only produced about 10,000 cases of wine each year. The big producers in the area spilled more wine in a year than what this vineyard created. But that was exactly why Alex had wanted it.

I leaned forward in the driver’s seat to get a better view of my surroundings. A thick fog had settled across the road; without the morning sun, the cloud cover had gotten trapped in the valley. Gravel churned beneath my tires. I drove slowly, yet the treads still spit up small rocks that pinged off the bottom of my car. 

My eyes swept back and forth across the lean landscape as I continued down the long, vacant driveway. The grounds looked much different in April than in the idyllic late summer when Alex and I had made our first and only visit. I remembered tall, blooming, wild flowers and ample sunshine. But the sky was currently grey, and the native flowers hadn’t yet bloomed. The valley was immersed in a thick fog, and instead of lush, green vines crowded with tight bundles of grapes, the vineyard was barren of all life. 

A few hundred yards into the property was a large barn that doubled as a tasting room as well as the production site for the wine itself: de-stemming machines, a juice press, and giant steel fermentation tanks. Like many of the smaller wine producers in the area, access to the tasting room was by appointment only. The parking lot adjacent to the barn was empty. On a drizzly, overcast Tuesday in April, no one had apparently scheduled a visit to the winery.

I didn’t stop at the barn. I continued to slowly drive down the bumpy gravel road and beyond more acreage of hibernating grape vines. The dormant vines were neatly spaced from each other like rows of solemn soldiers awaiting their orders. I’d never been this deep on the property before. The public tour had brought us into the corrugated metal barn that served as the public-facing space and production room, and we’d also been taken into the subterranean cellar where hundreds, if not thousands, of French oak barrels sat, each at their own stage in the wine-aging process.

At the edge of the property sat a white farmhouse. The previous owners hadn’t lived on the vineyard, and the dilapidated structure was evidence of that fact. Alex had been excited about the prospect of us fixing up the farmhouse together. I didn’t know the first thing about home improvement apart from the HGTV shows I watched. I’d always lived in apartment complexes and condos. When something broke, I called the property manager. I didn’t even know how to operate a lawnmower.

Alex hadn’t let my lack of home-owning experience dampen her excitement about the property though: “Don’t worry about it, babe,” she’d told me. “I’ll take care of everything.”

I pulled to a stop and parked in front of the farmhouse, mildly aware that I’d have to arrange for an EV charger to be installed on the property, otherwise my electric car would be useless. I exited my vehicle and shut the driver’s side door behind me. I scanned the horizon for something—I didn’t know what—for some sign of life, maybe, for some indication that this was the right choice. But the landscape offered me nothing. No joy. No life. No sense that I’d inherited more than a strange forest of bald, miniature trees or perhaps rows and rows of old men, bent over their walking sticks. 

I opened the back hatch of my vehicle and began to unpack the back of my car. I expected a small moving truck to arrive later in the week with the rest of my belongings. If I’d been more organized, my things would have been waiting for me at the farmhouse. But Alex was the organized one, not me. If she had a spreadsheet for everything, I had post-it notes clinging precariously to various unstable surfaces.

I grabbed a small table lamp and a piece of luggage and carried them to the front door. My best friend Lily had offered to help with the move, but I’d stubbornly refused the kindness. I didn’t know what I’d been trying to prove, or to whom, by insisting this was something I needed to do on my own, but now I was regretting not having the extra set of hands or at least a friendly, familiar face amongst these unfamiliar surroundings. 

I cried out in surprise, but not pain, when my foot landed on the first step of three that led to the farmhouse’s front porch. Instead of a solid foundation, my foot went straight through what turned out to be a rotten board. I stared down incredulously at my right leg, half of which had disappeared into the step. I didn’t linger for long, however, as I immediately considered all of the creepy crawly things that might be living under the front stoop. I wretched my foot free, miraculously unhurt.  

I was more careful ascending the final two steps; the boards were more generous than the first and thankfully didn’t fail me. I looked down to the first step and the new foot-shaped crater. A mental To Do list began to take shape in my mind: Fix the front stairs. Install an EV charger. 

I sighed, struggling beneath the weight of my luggage and my new reality. “What the hell have you done, Alex?”

+ + +

After unloading the boxes and luggage in the back my car, I went to bed early. It was only a two-hour drive with traffic from San Francisco to Calistoga, but I was fatigued from more than the rainy drive. I didn’t bother to unpack any of the moving boxes or my luggage; there would be plenty of time for that later. I’d had the foresight to pack a small bag with toiletries, however, along with pajamas and clean sheets so I hadn’t needed to rummage through every box to find what I needed for bed.

I claimed the downstairs bedroom for myself. The upstairs had two additional bedroom-shaped rooms and a larger bathroom than the smaller three-piece bathroom on the ground floor, but I wasn’t ready to spread out and claim the entire house as mine. I’d never really lived someplace on my own. Alex and I had lived together nearly as soon as we’d started dating, close to twenty years ago. Before that I’d had roommates in college and before that I’d lived with my parents.

Being alone in my San Francisco condo I’d once shared with Alex hadn’t felt too out of the ordinary. Alex often traveled for work, especially over the past few years as she tried to make as much money as possible for our ‘early retirement.’ Plus, I’d been surrounded by my belongings, which fostered familiarity. But now, I was in a strange, empty home, on a property that I didn’t know, in a part of California that I’d rarely visited. It made me feel like an uprooted plant, ripped from the soil, with my raw and vulnerable roots left to dangle in the wind. The metaphor was appropriate, perhaps, considering my new location. I needed to find a soft place to land, somewhere to re-establish my life, a place where I could recover and eventually thrive.

I woke up the next morning feeling disoriented. I’d slept without dreaming with a little help from my new best friend melatonin. I hadn’t been able to fall asleep lately without the assist. I was looking forward to going into town for a strong cup of coffee and a preliminary grocery run, just to get the lay of the land, but a shower beckoned me before I could make that happen. 

The pipes in the walls of the downstairs bathroom made a disgruntled noise when I first turned on the shower. The old metal groaned and loudly clanged; after a worrisome lag, hot water shot out of the showerhead. The vacant farmhouse reminded me of a grumpy old man who’d been sitting in one position for too long and was now being asked to move. Everything creaked and groaned and complained when I pushed a button or twisted a knob. The hot water stayed hot for the duration of my shower, however, so I considered that a victory.

After showering, I inspected my naked figure in the foggy mirror above the bathroom sink. I’d lost weight in recent months; without Alex to cook for, I hadn’t found the energy or inspiration to prepare a real meal. Cereal, salad in a bag, and the occasional sandwich had served as dinner as of late. But I hadn’t resorted to frozen TV dinners—yet.  

I twisted in the bathroom mirror and continued my appraisal of the woman who stared back at me. The woman in my mirror’s reflection wasn’t quite a stranger, but she was different. Everything these days was different. 

Despite having recently celebrated my fortieth birthday, my skin was still youthful with minimal lines or wrinkles. My breasts were full and firm, although not quite as perky as they’d been in my twenties. My stomach was flat with some definition, although my hips had definitely become more full since my college years. 

God, I reflected with a wistful sign, college felt like a lifetime ago. I’d secured a graphic designer position at a marketing agency in San Francisco straight out of college. I’d gradually worked my way up to Creative Director of the agency after a dozen dedicated years filled with late nights and truncated vacations. At the time I’d told myself the sacrifices would all be worth it. But then I’d given all of that up for Alex’s master plan.

The farmhouse wasn’t in total disrepair, but it was definitely rough around the edges. The kitchen appliances and basement laundry might have been older than me. The aged windows throughout the house were definitely not energy efficient. I could already anticipate how they might shake and rattle during a thunderstorm or how much the winter chill or summer heat would sneak beyond their single pane of glass. 

I opened the cabinets in the kitchen, equal parts curious and horrified by what I might find. No one had lived in the rundown farmhouse in some time—human at least. I prayed I wouldn’t stumble across the decomposing remains of any former wild animal tenants.

I found an impressive collection of cleaning supplies stored beneath the kitchen sink. The sight of so many disinfectants and surface cleaners momentarily derailed my plans to drive into Calistoga for groceries. Everything would be better once I had a cup of coffee, but I knew myself too well; until the farmhouse had been scoured from top to bottom, I wouldn’t be able to unpack and get settled. The cobwebs, dust, and grimy buildup would have to be vanquished first. I resolved to unpack all of my boxes and to clean the whole house from top to bottom that day. I hadn’t been able to control much since leaving San Francisco; having a clean and organized living space would be the first step to regaining control of my life.

I was up to my elbows in Comet scouring powder in the kitchen’s enamel-coated cast iron sink when I heard a knock at the front door. It was cold that day—sunny but brisk—and I’d opened all of the windows that hadn’t been painted shut. I’d left the front door open with only the screen door between myself and the elements to air out the house and make sure I didn’t pass out from cleaning supply fumes.

I heard an upbeat, female voice call to me from the front porch: “Yoo hoo!” The screen door rattled against the doorframe with a second knock.

I stopped my obsessive cleaning to greet whomever was at the front door. As I walked closer, I spotted a woman peering through the door’s worn screen.

“Hi!” she called to me, her voice as chipper and bright. “Is your husband around?”

I pulled off my yellow rubber dish gloves and held them loosely in one hand. “Husband? I’m sorry—I think you have the wrong place.”

The woman consulted the screen of her phone and made a humming sound. “I’m looking for Alex Marchand. I was told he’d just bought the property.”   

“Oh. You mean Alexandre Marchand,” I spoke through the closed screen door. “Alex is a girl.”

“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry! I saw the name on the paperwork and I just assumed.”

I wiped my hands on the back of my jeans. “Don’t worry. It happens.”

The woman continued to look flustered by her faux pas despite my assurances.

“What can I do for you?” I asked. That she knew of Alex’s existence but not her pronouns was curious. 

“It’s more like what I can do for you.”

“Come again?”

“I’m Belinda Reynolds,” she introduced herself. “—the seller’s real estate agent. The Mitchells had a conflict, so they asked me to give you a little tour of the place and make some introductions with the staff.”

Belinda Reynolds was a short, and aggressively perky woman. Everything about her appearance seemed to ooze money and luxury, from the designer sunglasses perched on her nose to her tailored blazer and skirt. The sticker price on the oversized SUV idling in front of the farmhouse had probably cost more than twice my own car.

I touched a self-conscious hand to the loose bun fixed on top of my head. “I’m sorry. Who are the Mitchells?”

“The previous owners.” The woman gave me a curious look as if she was starting to doubt I actually belonged on the property.

“Oh. I-I didn’t know their names,” I struggled. “Alex took care of all of those details.”

The realtor—Belinda—peered through the closed screen door that separated us and looked beyond me. “Is Alex around? I’m sure she’d appreciate the tour, too.”

“She … she won’t be able to join us today. But I can fill her in on all the details afterwards.”

I opened the screen door, but only long enough for me to exit and shut the main door behind me. The woman digested my appearance as I stepped outside. I hadn’t consulted my reflection recently, but I imagined my disheveled appearance. I’d pulled my hair back in a haphazard top bun. A rolled blue bandana served as a headband to keep the flyaways out of my face. My clothes had become grimy like a dust rag. I wore an old, tattered sweatshirt pulled up to my elbows. Stains of various shapes and sizes covered the material. My jeans were similarly old and a boot-cut fit that was no longer fashionable.

Standing on the front porch, Belinda looked torn. Who was this messy woman squatting at Lark Estates? She was taking my word that I was supposed to be there. In a different scenario, she might have pressed me harder for why Alex couldn’t come along on the tour, but she’d already tripped over Alex’s gender and pronouns. I doubted she wanted another opportunity to offend me.

Belinda affixed a tight, but cheerful smile to her painted lips. “Okay,” she chirped. “Let me introduce you to your head winemaker first and then we’ll do some exploring.”

“Watch your step,” I announced in warning. “That last step is a little tricky.”

Belinda looked down at the steps that descended to the gravel driveway and at the obvious foot-shaped hole in one of the wooden planks. “I suppose you’re second-guessing waving that home inspection,” she chuckled.

“Yeah,” I returned with a nervous laugh. “But Alex really wanted this property, warts and all.”

 

It wasn’t a long or arduous walk between the farmhouse and the tasting barn, but Belinda insisted on driving us in her car. She claimed to be a full-service realtor, but she probably didn’t want to muddy her designer boots in the soft, uneven terrain. I flipped down the passenger seat visor to inspect my face and hair. I licked the pad of my thumb and wiped at a dark smudge just below my right eye. I didn’t know if it was old, traveling mascara or if the farmhouse was really that dirty. 

As we approached the large, metal barn, I began to second guess my outfit. First impressions were terribly important, so why was I about to meet the vineyard’s head winemaker in clothes I wouldn’t even go to the grocery store in? I considered asking Belinda to turn us around so I could freshen up, but before I could vocalize my misgivings, she’d parked her SUV and had shut off the engine. 

“You’re going to love Rolando,” Belinda gushed, exiting the vehicle. “He’s one of the Valley’s most respected winemakers. You and Alex really lucked out. This place practically runs itself.”

I climbed out of the SUV and stared up at the tasting barn. Hidden away in the farmhouse, I’d fallen into a false sense of comfort. Owning and managing an actual vineyard had existed in the abstract for such a long time, but now it was going to become a reality. 

Belinda opened an unmarked door on the side of the barn and gestured for me to go inside. I sucked in a deep breath as I walked through the barn door. The bottoms of my tennis shoes scuffed against poured concrete. 

“We’re not open to the public, miss,” a clear male voice called out. “You’ll have to make a reservation on our website for the tour.”

“Oh … I-I’m not a tourist,” I fumbled. The interior of the barn was dark, and my eyes struggled to adjust to the dim lighting. A single figure sat alone at a wooden picnic table only a few yards from the door.

The man was older, maybe in his late sixties. His face was deeply tanned with fine wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes. His denim shirt hung loosely on narrow shoulders that curved forward. He had a full head of hair, dark grey in color, with lighter streaks of silver near his temples. His hair was combed and parted to one side.

Belinda entered the barn just behind me. “Good afternoon, Rolando!” she greeted. 

“Belinda?” The man sounded confused by her presence. “Que pasa?” 

“I’m here to introduce you to …” She turned in my direction and blinked a few times. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”

I realized I’d never told the woman my name. “June,” I said quickly. “June St. Clare.”

“June and her …” Belinda stopped again. She didn’t know who Alex was to me and obviously didn’t want to make another mistake.

I swallowed. “My partner, Alex. But not like business partner. Like, life partner.” God, I sounded so stupid.

Rolando stood from the picnic table, abandoning the remnants of a sandwich and an apple. He wiped at the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. “Forgive me. The Mitchells told me they’d found a buyer, but I didn’t realize the sale had already gone through.” 

I held out my hands. “Please, don’t let me interrupt your lunch,” I insisted. “There will be plenty of time for introductions later.”

Rolando nodded his head. “If you want to drop by tomorrow morning, I can give you a tour.” He gestured to the barren, sleeping landscape beyond the barn’s windows. “There won’t be a lot to do outside for a few more weeks, but I can orient you to the production side of things.” 

“That would be great,” I enthused. “Thank you.”

I would have been satisfied to return to the farmhouse and come back later the next day, but Belinda was still committed to giving her version of the property tour. She corralled me back into her SUV and continued to drive away from the barn and the farmhouse. 

I stared out the passenger side window as we bumped along a gravel roadway deeper onto the property. The horizon seemed to stretch on forever with only a few gnarled oak trees to break up the monotony. 

“It’s not much to look at, huh?” I thought aloud.

“Nothing above ground, no,” Belinda agreed. “But beneath the soil, the vines are expanding their root systems. They’re storing carbohydrates in their trunk. Kind of like me after a big bowl of pasta,” she joked. Her laugh was sharp and loud. 

“So as you know,” she continued, “the property is twenty acres with seven of that planted with cabernet sauvignon. The property includes the barn, which we just saw, and the farmhouse. Unique to the area, you’ll also find natural hot springs scattered around the property. The Mitchells had planned on building a day spa until they ran into some health issues and had to sell, but you and your wife might consider following through with those plans.”

I licked my lips, taking it all in. “Maybe down the road. Right now I’d like to make the farmhouse a little more livable before considering new construction.”

“Of course.” Belinda bobbed her head as she drove. “If you change your mind, the Mitchells included the city-approved blueprints for the spa construction with the property’s other paperwork. No sense re-inventing the wheel.”

The land became more wild and the road less groomed the deeper we ventured onto the property. My throat constricted as the drive continued. Twenty acres hadn’t sounded like much land when Alex had first proposed the purchase, but as Belinda continued to drive toward the edge of the property, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. At least there was no grass to mow.

“How big is an acre?” I wondered aloud. 

Belinda hummed in thought. “Mmm … about the size of a football field.”

I was no sports fan, but I tried to picture twenty football fields attached together. Before my anxiety could completely take over, Belinda slowed her SUV, and the vehicle came to a rolling stop. She put the car in park, but kept the engine running. “Come look,” she encouraged. “You need to see your multi-million dollar view.”

I exited the vehicle and followed Belinda to the property’s edge. A metal stake in the ground signaled the property line. We stood at the top of a gently rolling hill, not quite large enough to call itself a mountain, but high enough that it offered an expansive view of the valley. A wide river wound back and forth in the distance. A thick bank of clouds had collected on the valley floor. 

“Not too shabby, right?” Belinda observed.

I hugged my arms around my torso and inhaled. The view was a far cry from the congested city vista we’d enjoyed at our condo. I considered myself a city girl, but I’d enjoyed vacations Alex and I had taken to more rural locations. This was no vacation though. 

“Not bad at all,” I murmured.

Not too far in the distance I spotted a formidable log home on a flat piece of land in a small clearing. 

“Who lives over there?” I pointed.

“That’s Rolando’s house,” Belinda revealed. “The Mitchells sold his family an acre about thirty years ago. It’s probably the only reason he hasn’t gone to another, bigger vineyard. I’m sure he gets other job offers all the time.”

I peered down the rolling hill at the wooden construction below. The home looked rustic, but more updated than the farmhouse. Half a dozen of the same hunched-over dormant vines I’d seen elsewhere on the property had been planted close to the house. “He has his own vines?” I questioned aloud.

“I guess so,” Belinda shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him about that. That’s as far as my intel goes.”

I turned to the real estate agent. “Thank you, Belinda,” I said in earnest. “I appreciate you stopping by. You’ve been very thorough.”

“Oh, I’m happy to help!” she gushed. “The commission on the property is more than enough to pay for my son’s college, so I feel pretty indebted to you gals.”

The reminder of just how much we’d sunk into the property and how much we’d mortgaged our future on this gamble shattered my temporary moment of euphoria. I cleared my throat: “Glad to have helped.”

“Do you want me to come back tomorrow and show Alex around?” she offered. 

I wrapped my arms tighter around my torso and continued to stare across the picturesque vista. 

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

I could feel Belinda’s eyes on me as if she expected more of an explanation.

I couldn’t explain why I wasn’t more forthcoming with the realtor about why Alex hadn’t been around for the tour. I’d had plenty of time to wrap my brain around our situation; I’d had months to adjust to what had happened. But it almost felt like Coming Out all over again—when people would ask me about Alex, I found myself getting tongue-tied and making excuses instead of just telling them the truth.

Alex wouldn’t need a tour of the property. Alex was dead.

Grave Mistake - Behind the Scenes

It took a long time: a full year to be exact, but my latest novel, Grave Mistake—book five in the Don’t Call Me Hero series—is finally here.

Doomscrolling seriously impacted my productivity after releasing The Woman in 3B last summer. I never suffered from writer’s block between then and now; I just couldn’t stop reading the news. And after all of that anxiety and rage-producing reading, I had a really hard time switching gears and writing a love story. I would go months at a time without writing a single word. In fact, between October and February I might not have written anything at all.

Because I’m self-published, I have no deadlines. I’m able to write whenever and whatever and publish when I please. But this also means I don’t have an editor breathing down my neck with looming deadlines. It takes a lot of self-discipline to be a prolific indie author. By April, I had written about 150 pages. I gave myself a deadline. I would finish Grave Mistake by Memorial Day. So I buckled down, put the blinders on, and wrote at least five pages a day until the novel was complete.

And now that I started, I can’t seem to stop. I traditionally give myself a month off before I start researching and writing my next book, but this momentum is too good and writing is so addictive. Reading a good book is an escape from reality, but writing a book can be an even better mental vacation. I obviously don’t have a release date for my next novel just yet, but I can share that it will be a standalone that takes place on a vineyard in Napa Valley, California. And like with Anissa and Alice in The Woman in 3B, I want it to be more than *just* a romance novel. In addition to a budding romance, expect issues of social and racial inequities to be explored. 

But before I put Grave Mistake in the rearview mirror, I do want to spend some time reflecting on this latest DCMH installment—and I obviously want to know what YOU thought! My origins as a writer are in fanfiction, where you post one chapter at a time and get immediate feedback in real time. The biggest thing I miss from the fanfiction world is not having that frequent interaction with readers. So let me know: Did anything make you laugh out loud? Did any lines or passages strike you? Did anything choke you up? *cringes* What did you think about the sex?

My goal for the new book was really threefold: 1) to expose more about Cassidy’s military experiences through additional flashbacks, 2) to solve a mystery but also refocus the series on Cassidy & Julia’s relationship, and 3) to reveal more about Julia herself.

Readers frequently ask if I’ll ever write a story from Julia’s point of view. The simplest, most straight forward answer is no. I did an alternate POV story once—Hunter—the prequel to the Winter Jacket series, and ya’ll: it was HARD. I’d gotten so used to seeing the world through Elle’s eyes that it was jarring to make the switch to Hunter. Most importantly, however, I never want to tell a story that I’ve already told before. While it might be interesting to know what the love interest was feeling when the protagonist did something in a previous book, I’d rather continue to write new storylines and move the story forward. In Grave Mistake, I wanted readers to get more of Julia, so you and Cassidy learn more about this enigmatic woman’s past, particularly her childhood in Embarrass. Many readers are also keenly concerned with discovering Julia’s age, but that might be a secret I take to the grave :) 

Happy Pride and Happy Reading!

 Eliza

Grave Mistake - Chapter Preview

We’re a little over a month away from the official release of my new novel, Grave Mistake — book 5 in the Don’t Call Me Hero series. I’m so excited for you to read Cassidy & Julia’s latest adventures! I really appreciate everyone’s patience as I slowly worked on this fifth installment. As a Thank You, here’s a preview of the first few pages!

Prologue 

William Desjardin was dead. I’d said the statement over and over again in my head. I was familiar with death, but that didn’t mean I was at ease with it. The sudden permanency of it would be forever startling. You would never see that person again, never get to talk to them or ask them questions. They’d never tell you another joke or share another secret. They were just gone. One minute my buddies were laughing and celebrating after a successful directive, the next, they’d been obliterated by an undetected IED as if they’d never existed in the first place.

My parents hadn’t raised me to be religious, and the concept of an afterlife had never caught on during any of my tours abroad. Plenty of Marines carried religious paraphernalia with them—a holy book, a rosary, a picture of their god—but just as many carried a lucky rabbit’s foot or some other good-luck charm. I considered them all the same.

Julia’s suitcase was packed in the trunk of her Mercedes. I’d watched her fill the luggage with meticulously folded blouses and pencil skirts. The more outfits she packed, the more I wondered if she planned on coming back. The postal mail had been put on hold. She’d asked a neighbor to keep an eye on the apartment and to water her houseplants in her absence.

I’d been surprised she hadn’t put up more of a fight when I insisted that I come along with her to Embarrass. I didn’t own proper luggage, so she’d let me borrow one of her suitcases. 

I’d informed Captain Forrester that there’d been a family emergency. Stanley and Sarah would hold down the fort while I was away. I kept the details sparse. 

Julia’s Mercedes idled at a stoplight. Embarrass, Minnesota was just over three hours away, a straight shot north on I-35. Talk radio played quietly in the background. Julia’s hand rested lightly on the automatic shifter in the center console. I put my hand on top of hers and squeezed.

I was in it. I was there for her. She may not have been ready for marriage or babies or whatever that next step looked like for us, but I wanted her to know that I was there for her—for better or for worse. And I hoped that for the time being, that would be enough.

CHAPTER ONE 

“How did Embarrass get its name?”

“Hmm?” hummed the woman in the driver’s seat.

I twisted slightly in the leather upholstered passenger seat to face her. The oversized sunglasses obscured the upper half of her face, hiding her expressive caramel-colored eyes and her dark, manicured eyebrows. She’d chewed off most of her bright red lipstick over the nearly three and a half hour drive from the Twin Cities. When she wasn’t engaged in banal conversation with me, either her top or bottom lip had been trapped between her upper and lower rows of teeth.

“Embarrass,” I repeated myself. “Where did the name come from? Was there a Mr. Embarrass?”

Julia shook her head with barely a glance in my direction. Her eyes were trained on the stretch of open highway in front of us. “It’s French. French fur traders named it after the Embarrass River. Riviere d’Embarras.”

Her tongue didn’t stumble on the accent, which made me wonder if she knew the language. It wouldn’t have surprised me; she was just about the most accomplished person I knew.

“Riviere d’Embarras.” I tried to make my words sound like hers, but with less success. It sounded more like river duh bare ass out of my untrained mouth.

“It translates to River of Obstacles,” she told me. “The river is narrow and shallow, which made it hard to navigate in their birchbark canoes.”

“River of Obstacles,” I quietly contemplated.

When Julia didn’t continue her history lesson, I returned to staring out the passenger window.

When we’d left Minneapolis, the fall colors had been past their peak. But two hundred miles due north, the season was just starting to hit its stride. Deep reds, rich oranges, and vibrant yellows painted the horizon along the interstate highway. I wasn’t one of those people who went wild about fall—apple picking, flannel shirts, and pumpkin spice everything—but even I could admit how pretty the season could be, especially in northern Minnesota.

It was the kind of road trip I’d rather be taking for recreational reasons though. I imagined convincing Julia to get on the back of my Harley Sportster and we’d ride at our own pace, on our own schedule, stopping now and again to stretch our legs or grab a meal at a rural, roadside diner. Julia would look devastating in skinny jeans or maybe even leather pants. And I’d make her wear a helmet no matter how much she complained about it messing up her hair.

We’d take that trip someday, I told myself. But for the moment, I shelved the imagery of Julia on a motorcycle to pay better attention to the real thing beside me.

The faded wooden sign was in need of a fresh layer of paint, but I could still make out the words that had welcomed me the first time I’d driven my motorcycle into town only a handful of months ago. Embarrass, Minnesota. The Cold Spot.

I couldn’t help but recall the chilly reception I’d originally received from the people of Embarrass. I’d arrived in the small, northern town as an unproven stranger, knowing no one beyond Larry Hart, chief of police, and his wife, Marilyn. My dad had been friends with Chief Hart since childhood, the two having grown up together in my hometown of St. Cloud, Minnesota. 

A strange feeling of nostalgia swept over me as we passed familiar Embarrass landmarks. The stately Victorian home that served as a bed and breakfast where I’d spent a night when I’d first arrived in town; Stan’s diner—where the restaurant’s namesake held court at a u-shaped countertop and locals occupied red vinyl stools; City Hall—the cream-brick building that housed the city’s various municipalities and police department; the local grocery store that made me realize I didn’t know how to cook; the church where Grace Kelly Donovan went to mass every Sunday with her parents; the laundromat and the second-floor apartment that had been my home for two months.

We continued past the concentrated main street businesses and turned right at a four-way stop. Another five miles out of town brought us to the red brick home with the blue door and stately white columns where Julia’s grandparents had once lived. The house—a mansion, really—had become Julia’s own home once she’d returned to Embarrass after her brother Jonathan’s death.

Among the dense forestry and sprawling farm lands, the columned mansion just didn’t fit in. A farm house or a log cabin wouldn’t have earned a second glance, but Julia’s home looked architecturally out of place. The home seemed to have that in common with its owner. After attending college and law school in Minneapolis, Julia had had a hard time assimilating back into small-town life, although I wasn’t convinced she’d ever felt like she’d belonged. Her discomfort had earned her a reputation among the town as standoffish and unapproachable—the antithesis of Midwesterners who were typically known for their friendly and earnest openness. Luckily, I hadn’t originally met Julia in Embarrass, or she might never have given me a second glance. 

I stared out my car window at the sprawling home. “It looks bigger than I remember,” I spoke aloud. 

I typically had visited Julia’s mansion at night when I was on duty. The imposing home looked even larger in the daylight.

“That’s what she said.”

 Julia’s retort was routine instead of playful. Her mind must have been too full to make room for the juvenile joke. 

Julia parked in the half-circle driveway in front of the stately home. I climbed out of the passenger side and stretched from the road trip. I was only twenty-eight years old, but the combination of cooler weather, sustained inactivity, and my military injuries made my body feel at least a decade older. 

I retrieved our suitcases from the rear trunk and dragged them up the short front stoop while Julia unlocked the front door. She had packed one of her larger suitcases for the trip, which had produced an uneasily joke from myself about if she was planning on coming back to the Twin Cities after her father’s funeral. 

We hadn’t been together long enough to go on an actual vacation. We’d gone out of town together, but it had been for another funeral—Geoff Reilly’s funeral in Fargo, North Dakota. I had been witness to too much death for a lifetime, and I’d attended two funeral services in as many months. The first, the funeral service of another former Marine who’d I’d been in the same squad as, and the other, a young woman who had taken her own life from shame, guilt, depression, and a misguided scheme that her toddler daughter would benefit more from a life insurance policy payout than actually having her be in her life.

I rolled the suitcases over the small bump in the entryway and paused in the front foyer to remove my boots.

“You don’t need to do that,” Julia stopped me. “Your shoes are probably cleaner than the floors.”

The floors looked immaculate as ever to me, but the house had been closed up for several months. 

I retied the laces on my boots and straightened. My gaze swept around the familiar interior of Julia’s home. The grand foyer with its lofted cathedral ceiling and impressive crystal chandelier. The white marble floors and inlay medallion. I instinctively knew the closed door to my right led to Julia’s den where I’d find stiff, yet cozy furniture, an oversized fireplace, and two crystal tumblers inside an ornate built-in cabinet.

I let Julia take the lead. I followed her deeper into the home with our suitcases rolling behind me. Julia’s heels click-clacked against the tiled floor, and yet the house was still eerily silent, a fact exacerbated by the drop cloth covering most of the furniture. The detail produced a haunted effect throughout the home. 

We passed the grand staircase that led to the second floor master bedroom with its oversized, dark wooden furniture. Mixed memories flooded my mind of the various encounters that had taken place in the luxurious house. The central hallway opened up to the kitchen and a high vaulted ceiling. An impressive L-shaped island dominated the space, second only to the back wall that was nothing but windows.

I whistled under my breath. “Yep. Still intimidating.”

Julia smiled warmly at my reaction. “I miss this kitchen every day.”

I planted a fake scowl on my face. “Well now you’re making me jealous. How can I compete with a farm sink and pot filler?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something, dear.”

I lifted the suitcases that flanked me. “Want me to bring these upstairs and we can unpack?”

Julia glanced at her watch. “That can wait. I know we just got here, but I’d really like to see my mother.”

“Has anyone told her what’s going on yet?” I asked.

Julia shook her head. “No. The staff at the assisted living facility have been waiting for me to get here. Her nurse thinks it’s best if I’m the one who tells her about my father.”

Julia pinched the bridge of her nose and her dark eyes shuttered. It was the body language of a woman accustomed to being in control, trying not to feel overwhelmed. This trip was so much more than planning a funeral. Julia wasn’t just burying her father; she was gaining custody of her mother as well. Either one of those things could have been overwhelming on their own, let alone having to deal with them simultaneously. And I knew how her brain worked. Julia was obsessively organized. She would never be satisfied unless both duties were handled with the utmost care and with attention to every small detail.

“How do you eat an elephant?” I offered.

Julia’s hand stayed in place, but she opened one eye and trained it in my direction. “What?”

“How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time,” I explained. “I know your To Do list is only growing, and it feels like you can’t possibly do it all, but the good news is, you don’t have to do it all at once, and you don’t have to do it alone.”

Julia opened her mouth. I knew it was her habit to not ask for help, not even from me. She was proud and stubborn and self-sufficient. I was all-too familiar with the combination of qualities because I was the same way.

“What are the most urgent things on your list?” I cut her off before she could get started on the excuses.

“I need to see my mom,” she said. “She’s been temporarily placed in a nursing home at the outskirts of town. There’s not really another option for her right now, but I want to make sure she’s comfortable.”

I nodded gravely. “And then what?”

Julia released a long, loud breath. “And then I need to meet up with the funeral director to make arrangements for the wake and the burial.”

“Okay. And what else?”

Julia gestured to the stainless steel appliance in the corner of the room. “The refrigerator is empty.”

I immediately perked up. “Great. It sounds like we’ve got a plan. Go visit your mom and visit with the funeral director. I’ll take care of the groceries.”

I grabbed onto Julia’s hand to stall what I was sure was another list of excuses. “Let me do this one small thing. You’ll actually be doing me a favor. Otherwise I’ll go crazy with not being able to help.”

The framing of my statement coaxed a small, knowing smile from Julia’s lips. It was a small thing—a small victory, that smile—but it was something. “Okay,” she allowed. “I’ll let you go grocery shopping.”

I tugged on the hand I held and pulled her closer. “I mean it, Julia. You don’t have to do this alone. I know you’re used to it, but we’re a team.”

Her eyes shifted low and she toyed with the bottom hem of my Henley shirt. “I know,” she reluctantly capitulated. “But I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”

“You’re right. You’re not,” I readily agreed. “But that’s what I’m here for. Let me lighten your load,” I urged. “I can do more than be good in the bedroom.”

Julia’s nostrils visibly flared. “Miss Miller.”

+++

There was an exaggerated bounce in my step as we left Julia’s house for her parked Mercedes. The feeling was fleeting, however. My hand paused on the passenger door handle as a realization sank in: “We only have one vehicle.”

My shoulders slumped forward. I instantly deflated. I’d been so excited about the prospect of being able to help Julia, but because we’d driven to Embarrass together, there wasn’t a second car for myself to run errands.

“I’ll grab my father’s car from his house and you can take the Mercedes,” Julia offered.

I cocked my head. “Are you sure? I bet I could call Grace Kelly for a ride.”

“You’ve driven my car before,” Julia pointed out.

It wasn’t what I had meant, but if she didn’t object to driving her deceased dad’s car around town, I wasn’t going to make a big deal about it either.

It was a short drive from Julia’s rural mansion to the Embarrass home where she’d grown up. The two-story home was set back on a little hill with concrete steps carved into the earth. The red brick home with blue shutters was far more modest than Julia’s countryside estate, but it was still one of the larger homes within the city limits. 

Julia parked her car in the center of the two-car wide driveway. Yellow police caution tape still sealed the front door of her parents’ home. I hadn’t considered that the house might still be an active crime scene. 

I reached across the center console and lightly touched her arm. “Do you want me to call Chief Hart or David? You shouldn’t go in there without a police escort.”

Julia continued on as if she hadn’t heard me. “Isn’t that what you are, dear?”

She exited the car, leaving me to scramble after her. 

“Julia, you can’t go in there,” I called out. 

Instead of walking towards the front entryway, however, she strode toward the attached two-car garage. She pressed a series of numbers into an exterior keypad and the electric garage door began to lift.

“I don’t have to go in the house,” she explained. “My father keeps his keys in his car. Kept,” she corrected herself. “My father kept keys in his car.”

I stood to one side of her car while Julia entered the garage. The two-car storage space was filled with cardboard boxes and storage containers. A set of golf clubs leaned against one wall. I felt torn between my loyalty to her and my dedication to the badge. Technically, we probably shouldn’t have been on the property at all, but no one had thought to barricade the driveway or the garage.

Julia opened the unlocked driver’s side door of a charcoal grey Jaguar. Her upper body disappeared as she leaned inside. I continued to wait outside, nervously crossing and uncrossing my arms. My attention vacillated between Julia and the street out front as if I expected David Addams to drive by at any moment in the police department’s dark brown squad car. 

Julia reappeared, jingling a slim ring of keys in one hand. “My mother always hated that he kept a spare set under the driver’s side visor,” she said. “His inflated ego thought no one would be bold enough to steal the Mayor’s car.”

My elevated heart rate started to return to normal, but the open garage door still felt like a giant target.

Julia’s heels clicked on the black pavement as she returned to me. “Do you need money for groceries?”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “No, I don’t need money. I’m not your kid.”

She frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m nervous.”

“Nervous? About what?”

“Seeing my mother.” Julia wrung her hands in front of her body. “I don’t know what she’s going to be like. Does she understand what’s going on and why she’s not in her regular house?”

I clasped onto her worrying hands and held them steady. “She’s going to be so happy to see you.” I held her uncertain gaze and said the words with as much conviction as I could muster.

Julia wet her lips. “How do you always know exactly what I need to hear?”

I had no answer, so I shrugged. So much for being good with words.

Julia let out a shaky breath. “Okay. I’ve been delaying for long enough. Time to do this.”

“I could go with you,” I offered again.

Julia shook her head. “No. I appreciate the offer, but your presence would probably just confuse my mother more, and my meeting with the funeral director should be brief enough.”

I nodded, admittedly relieved. I didn’t do well in hospitals, and I was even less comfortable in assisted living facilities. Plus, I would only sit awkwardly at the funeral home. Would Julia really want my input on picking out her father’s casket? I felt far more confident with my grocery store task.

“I’ll see you back at the house,” she told me. The words seemed to be for her own benefit, reassuring herself that the challenging day would soon be over.

She pressed her lips to mine in a deep, yet chaste kiss. When we parted, she ran the pad of her thumb over my mouth to remove any lipstick she’d left behind.

“Call me if you need me,” I urged. “Really.”

Her lips ticked up in a small smile. “Thank you, dear.”

After exchanging keys, Julia began the slow walk back towards the open garage door. I opened the driver’s side door of her Mercedes and paused to watch. Her arms hugged at her thin frame, her head tilted towards the ground, and her forehead furrowed in thought.

“You’ve got this, babe,” I called out in encouragement.

Julia stopped and turned back to me. “Cassidy, promise me you’ll buy at least a few vegetables?”

“Kinky,” I shrugged, a playful grin on my features, “but okay.”

+++

Happiest SZN

(Mild spoilers for Happiest Season)

If you’re a follower of my blog, you know I love movies. There wasn’t a whole lot to do where I grew up in northern Michigan, so most weekends my parents drove us half an hour to the closest Big Town (i.e. someplace with a stoplight, Walmart, and a KFC) to go to the movies. Sometimes we’d even see a new movie on both Friday and Saturday night. And in that darkened movie theater, I was transported to another place, and sometimes another era or world. It was probably at the movies where I first suspected I might be gay—particularly when I went to see Titanic SIX TIMES in the theater and couldn’t stop thinking about Rose.

 I don’t pretend to be a screenwriter, but I am a storyteller. I’ve also suffered through just about every queer film ever produced, particularly in the lean years when we were thirsty for representation that even just a lingering glance between two female characters would sustain me (and prompt me to scribble away at some fanfiction worlds where they would inevitably fall in love).  

I am admittedly obsessed with Hallmark/Lifetime Christmas movies. Even when it’s not December, my DVR is filled with my favorite films. I love every trope, every predictable storyline, every Candace Cameron Bure dimpled smile. So when I read the news that Kristen Stewart and Mackenzie Davis were going to be starring in a new holiday rom-com, written and directed by Clea Duvall, I hadn’t been so excited for a film since Carol. And, boy, did I excited about Carol. But when I learned that Happiest Season was going to be a Coming Out film, my excitement waned. Again? It’s 2020, and we’re going to do that again?

I’m not going to join the chorus of folks who think Mackenzie Davis’ character was horrible and that Kristen Stewart’s character should have run away with Aubrey Plaza—that’s not my axe to grind. Instead, I’d like to spill a few words on why we don’t have to be satisfied with this film.

Yum.

I’ve written about this elsewhere, but I’ve been out of the closet for a long ass time. I also don’t think that being a lesbian is my only defining feature. I’ve got a PhD in American history. I write books. I probably love my cat too much. I’m bonkers about sports and New England Double IPAs. I’m an avid hiker. Oh, and I also have a wife. So when I write love stories, the Coming Out experience is never an issue. With the one exception of Second Chances, no one is forced back into the closet. No one has to be a dirty little secret. No one has to experience homophobia from their own partner. Instead it’s things like age, or distance, or occupations, or socio-economic status that challenge my would-be couples.

I never take for granted that my sexuality has not alienated me from my family or friends or my job or housing. I’m writing from a place of privilege, for sure. However, I still have to frequently Come Out, because we all know it’s an everyday occurrence. But maybe I don’t need to be reminded of that constantly in my Christmas rom-com films. 

Where are the films where two gay ladies, who have never met before, get stranded at an airport on Christmas Eve and then they fall in love? Or the lesbian land developer who travels to the remote, small town with the intention of buying up all of the land to build luxury condos, only to end up falling in love with the lesbian who runs the local Christmas tree farm. Or sisters who switch lives for a week. And the gay sister—who is a high-powered advertising executive in real life—falls in love with the small-town lesbian baker who recently entered a gingerbread house contest. These are the holiday movies I want to watch; I want to suspend my disbelief that we live in a world where two people don’t have to make a big deal about their sexuality and can just fall in love because one is a hopeless optimist who loves Christmas carols and hot chocolate and the other one is a cynic who rekindles their love of Christmas when they go on a scavenger hunt with the other main character at an Arts and Crafts Fair.   

For me, Happiest Season was more for straight audiences than it was for us. It’s hard to articulate why I feel this way, but I do. And I’d love to hear your reactions to the film in the Comments.

Between Lifetime and Hallmark, 70 new Christmas films were produced this year. And of those 70 movies, only one centers on a gay couple. The Christmas Set-Up (which premieres on Lifetime on Friday, December 12th) will feature a real-life married couple, who play former high school friends who reconnect while one of them (a corporate lawyer from NYC) is visiting his family in Milwaukee. I recognize that these networks are only just starting to produce films starring people of color, interracial couples, those of non-Christian faith, etc., but I can’t wait for the day when we don’t have to pin all of our hopes and dreams on one film.

Spooky SZN

Today is Halloween, but 2020 has been scary enough. Here’s a little treat from Cold Blooded Lover, Book 4 in the Don’t Call Me Hero series. I promise I’m still working on Book 5!

Cold Blooded LoverChapter Fifteen

You guys still coming tonight?

My phone chirped with a new text message from my friend, Brent.

You bet, I responded. Just waiting for Julia to get home from work.

Hurry up! came his typed reply. This beer isn’t going to drink itself!

I followed up Brent’s text with one of my own: Have you left work yet? Where are you?

I stared at my phone, but received no response from Julia.

Since returning from Duluth, Julia’s workdays had been getting longer and her time with me was getting shorter. We both had stressful careers, and it was easy to let those jobs completely take over our time. It was one of the reasons I was really looking forward to Brent’s Halloween party, not just for the opportunity to see my friends, many of whom I hadn’t seen in a while, but to also spend some quality time with Julia. 

My knee bounced anxiously as I watched the hands of Julia’s grandfather clock continue to move.

I heard a key in the front lock, followed by the apartment door opening. Julia’s heels clicked on the marble tile in the entryway. 

“I’m home,” she called out. “I just got your text. I met late with a client and then traffic was murder. And I had to go to two stores before I could find any candy,” she complained. “Who sells out of candy on Halloween night?”

Julia appeared in the archway of the living room where I continued to sit on the couch. Her work bag hung from one shoulder, and her hands were filled with plastic convenience store bags.

“Did you forget about tonight?” I asked.

Julia paused in the hallway. She blinked and shook her head. “Am I forgetting a month-a-versary or something?”

To be honest, I had no idea when we considered the start of our relationship. The first time we’d met? The first time we’d had sex? Our first official date? The pacing and chronological order of our relationship ‘firsts’ had been anything but orthodox.

“No, Brent’s party, remember?”

“Oh. That,” she said, her tone flat. “I’m not going.”

I hopped up from the couch and followed her down the hallway towards the back of the apartment. “What? But it’s tradition!” I protested.

Julia frowned at my reaction. “I hadn’t realized it was as serious as that. I was really looking forward to relaxing and handing out candy here. I never got trick-or-treaters in Embarrass,” she seemed to pout. “I lived too far out of town.”

“Plus, their parents were probably scared of you,” I quipped.

She curled her lip, but offered no words in self-defense, most likely because I was right. 

My colleague on the Embarrass police force, David Addams, had once referred to Julia as a pitbull, and Grace Kelly Donovan had dubbed her the Ice Queen. Julia’s sharp edges had softened some since moving away from her hometown to the Twin Cities, but she still exuded a confidence and class that could come across as haughty or unapproachable.

“We live in an apartment complex, babe; you’re not gonna get trick-or-treaters here. Please come with me?” I wasn’t too proud to beg. 

“I’ve had a full day of work, Cassidy,” Julia sighed with annoyance. “I have so much catching up to do because of Duluth. I don’t have the energy to pull double-duty tonight.”

“I had a full day of work, too,” I pouted. I knew I was whining, but I’d really been looking forward to going to the party with her.

“Yes, but you’ve got youth on your side,” she claimed. “Go. Have fun. Hang out with your similarly young friends.”

A frown tugged at both corners of my mouth. “You’re not that much older.”

In truth, I had no idea how many years separated us. I knew she was older than me, but I didn’t know by how much. Every time I brought up the topic of our ages, she deflected or ignored my question.

“Please apologize to Brent for me.”

My entire body sagged in disappointment. “You’re really not coming?”

“You could stay home with me?” she proposed. “We could order Chinese and handout candy together. Maybe watch a scary movie later?”

A twinge of regret settled in my gut. She was proposing the perfect night in, but I’d been looking forward to this party ever since I’d decided on a costume.

“I already RSVP’d,” I begged off. “It would be rude not to make an appearance when Brent is expecting us.”

She arched a quizzical eyebrow. “When did you become the etiquette queen?”

“I guess some of your good habits are rubbing off on me,” I huffed.

Childishly, I left the room before she could respond. I grabbed my police academy duffle bag from the bottom of the closet in the guest bedroom and shoved my costume inside. I made a big show of storming into the bathroom and loudly shut myself inside, even though I had no idea if Julia was even watching.

The blonde woman in the mirror glared back at me. “Stupid,” I mumbled to myself. 

I didn’t really know what I was doing with my hair, but I tossed it over one shoulder and contained it in a loose braid.

I exited the bathroom and strode purposefully toward the front door. “Don’t wait up,” I called from the foyer. “I’ll probably be out late.”

Julia chose to ignore my bratty tone. There was no way she couldn’t have heard it. Her steps were more careful than mine as she walked toward the front door with a glass of red wine in one hand. “What happened to your costume?” she asked.

I hugged my duffle bag closer to my chest. “I’m going to change at the party. I don’t want my Lyft driver to laugh.”

“Is your costume funny?”

“I guess you’ll never know.” I knew I was being unfair, but I was too disappointed at that moment to be civil or polite.

Julia immediately frowned at my words. “This is really that important to you?” Her tone softened from its usual refined edge.

“No,” I lied. “It’s just a stupid party.” 

I felt ridiculously emotional. But I also felt betrayed and disappointed. I didn’t want her to know how affected her dismissal had made me, however. Because I felt like a child who hadn’t got their way, I did my best to choke down the truth.

I kissed her cheek hastily, my lips barely making contact with her skin. “Don’t wait up,” I repeated. “I know you’ve had a long day.”

+ + + 

I know you’ve had a long day.

My retreating words to Julia replayed themselves over and over again in a loop as I sat in the backseat of my ride share. I’d meant my words to sting and to make her feel guilty. I didn’t know how they’d affected her, but by the time my Lyft driver dropped me off at Brent’s apartment, I didn’t feel like partying anymore. 

I pressed a button in the front lobby to be buzzed into the apartment building and walked up the two flights of stairs to Brent’s apartment. Even if I had never been to my friend’s apartment before, I still would have found the location of the party. The rhythmic pulse of deep bass filtered through the front door and into the apartment hallway.

I discovered the front door unlocked and the narrow foyer empty. I still had to put on my costume, so I made a detour to the powder room. I opened my duffle bag and sighed at the icy blue sequined gown inside. I’d been so pleased with my costume—not for the novelty of the idea—but with how unexpected it would be on me. I’d wanted to see Julia’s amused reaction, and after the party was over, I’d looked forward to her making good use of the blue gown’s thigh-high slit.

I carefully removed my civilian clothes and slipped on the long dress, but all of the joy had been sucked out of the evening. I’d wanted to unwind on the holiday with my friends, but I’d wanted Julia to be a part of that as well.

I left the bathroom and wobbled towards the kitchen in thrift-store high heels I had no intention of ever wearing again. I turned the corner and found my closest police officer friends gathered around the granite kitchen island of Brent’s bachelor pad. I made a cursory scan of the open floor plan. The apartment was crowded. I saw a few familiar faces, cops I recognized from the academy or from the Fourth Precinct, but there were even more people I didn’t know. I’d always wondered how Brent had come to know so many people, but I’d never thought to ask.

My cheeks flushed red when I heard my friend’s wolf whistle and laughter at my appearance. 

“Amazing costume, Cassidy!” Brent approved. 

He was, predictably, dressed like a Nordic Viking. He recycled his costume every year. His broad chest was barely covered with a leather vest. A plastic hat with a giant horn positioned on either side threatened to spill off his head whenever he moved. 

“Here. Hold this,” he instructed. He pressed a replica powder horn into my hands. “I’ll get you a beer, Your Highness.”

I peered down at the mystery liquid sloshing around inside of the horn. I didn’t dare take an experimental sip, however. I liked myself too much for that.

I smiled and waved my free hand at the other party attendees whom I knew: my friends Angie, Rich, Adan, and his girlfriend Isabella formed a tight half-circle around me.

“Interesting costume choice,” Rich smirked at me.

I crossed my arms across my chest in a defensive position. With the exception of the aggressive thigh-high slit, the aqua-blue dress wasn’t revealing, but I still felt uncomfortable. I never wore dresses or skirts if I could help it. 

“Hey, at least I put in some effort,” I retorted. “What are you supposed to be?”

Rich didn’t appear to be wearing a costume at all. There was nothing special about his blue jeans, and the t-shirt he wore had the word ‘Life’ screen-printed across his chest. I was almost afraid to ask.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He pointed to the center of his chest. “I’m the Life of the Party.”

Rich’s pun produced a groan from me and my other friends. He looked too pleased with himself, however, to be concerned by our reactions. 

“Where’s Julia tonight?” he asked. “Trouble in paradise?”

I smiled tightly. “No. The thought of hanging out with you assholes …” I couldn’t finish the cavalier lie. I stopped myself. “She had a long day at work. She apologizes for her absence.”

“That’s too bad,” he clucked. “She makes hanging out with you almost bearable.”

I didn’t suppress my eye roll.

“How’s Grace Kelly?” I asked.

“You would know if you called once in a while.”

My mouth fell open. “Wow. I haven’t gotten a guilt trip like that since I last saw my mom, Rich.”

“Shut it, Rookie,” he scowled. “Maybe I just miss my friend.”

On a normal day, I would have taunted him without mercy for being so honest and vulnerable. Maybe I was premenstrual, but I hugged him instead.

I could feel Rich’s arms and shoulders stiffen. “Easy there. I’ve got a girlfriend. You do, too.”

I pulled back and swatted at his chest. “Shut it, you goon.”

Brent eventually returned with a bottle of recognizable beer, thankfully, and not some mystery mead he’d whipped up special for the party. I exchanged his Viking horn for an IPA.

“How’s Cold Case treating you?” he asked.

I took a grateful preliminary sip. “I’m starting to get the hang of it, I think.”

“That’s great,” he approved. “Working on anything interesting?”

A strong arm flung around my shoulder. “Party foul! No talking about work!” My friend Angie pulled me close. Her breath smelled like alcohol.

Angie had teased her hair out to a small, puffy halo around her head. She wore a long leather jacket, bell bottom pants, a midriff, and big golden hoop earrings.

“Pam Grier as Foxy Brown?” I guessed. 

“You know it, girl.”

Angie pulled a snub nose .38 special out of her leather trench coat and posed. I assumed the gun was fake, but with cops—who knows.

Over the next hour or so I made small-talk with strangers whose names I promptly forgot the moment they introduced themselves. I got my picture taken numerous times since I was the only Disney royalty at the party. My friends danced and drank and laughed at juvenile pranks, but I felt like an outsider. 

As much as I wanted to be in the moment, my thoughts continually strayed to the woman I’d left behind. I periodically checked my phone for messages from her, but either Brent’s apartment building blocked all incoming messages or Julia hadn’t bothered to text me. Even though she’d been the one to bail on our plans, I couldn’t help feeling guilty about how I’d stormed out of the apartment. 

I had just gotten to the bottom of my second longneck beer bottle and had a decision to make. I could grab another beer and be on the road to getting good and drunk, or I could call up a ride share car and head home early. Rich and Angie were engaged in a heated conversation if her wild gesticulations were any indication. Brent was chatting up a pretty woman dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, and Adan and Isabella looked cozy together on a couch in the living room. 

I grabbed my duffle bag which contained the clothes I’d worn to the party and quietly exited Brent’s apartment without saying any goodbyes. My friends would only make me feel guilty for bailing on the party so early.

+ + + 

I didn’t quite know what I’d find when I returned to the apartment. I entered quietly in case Julia had decided to go to bed early. The front of the apartment was silent and dark. I didn’t need the lights on to maneuver around, so I didn’t bother turning on any overhead lights. 

I didn’t call out to find out where she was. My heels clicked on hardwood floors until I made it to the master bedroom. My shoes sunk into the carpeting as I hovered in the doorway. 

Julia’s normally meticulously arranged wardrobe was strewn haphazardly across the bed and had collected in piles on the floor. Empty hangers littered the ground like land mines. Julia herself was half-dressed in only a bra and black dress pants.

I announced my presence with a question: “What happened in here?”

Julia’s attention snapped from the closet to the doorway. Her dark eyes looked wild and unfocused. Her ribcage heaved as if she’d been exercising. I saw her take in my unorthodox outfit before she launched into her explanation.

“I never got a costume. I had no intention of ever going to that party with you, so I never bothered to even come up with a costume idea. I was selfish and stupid, and I thought you’d just do what I wanted and would skip your party to stay home with me.”

I held up my hands. “Hey-hey … calm down. It’s okay. It was just one dumb party.”

“That’s not the point,” Julia resisted. “I’m manipulative, Cassidy. I only think of myself and not how my actions impact others. I act as though I expect you to bend and give in to all of my petulant demands.”

I teetered in my glittery high heels. “We all have our flaws. Do you see me complaining? I do what I want. Like tonight—I still went to Brent’s party.”

“Then why are you home so early?” she posed.

She had me there. I dropped my eyes to the floor. “It wasn’t any fun without you.”

“See?!” Julia exclaimed as if I’d proven her exact point. “I ruined tonight with my selfishness.”

“But I don’t want to force you to do stuff you don’t want to do,” I said, shaking my head. “I wasn’t going to drag you to Brent’s party tonight like some cave man.”

“You shouldn’t have to drag me anywhere. I need to learn how to compromise better.”

“We’re still new to this.” I couldn’t help defending her from herself. “We’ll figure it out.”

Julia hung her head. “Do you still want me to go to that party with you?”

I waved away the suggestion. “It’s not a big deal; it was kind of dying down by the time I left. I guess we’re all getting old.”

“Are you hungry? Did you eat?” she asked. “I could still order Chinese?”

My mood brightened at the prospect of food. “I wouldn’t say no to that. Do I get to pick the scary movie, too?”

Julia initially curled her lip, but, remembering herself, her mouth quirked into a smile. “Nothing gore porn, okay? My stomach can’t handle it.”

I thrust my fist in the air in victory.

“Now when are we going to address this outfit of yours?” Julia remarked. Amusement colored her tone. “Where on earth did you get that thing?”

I looked down at the blue sequined dress wrapped around my body. “I ordered it online.”

“I’ve never seen you in a dress before,” she remarked, still smiling. “Although I’m not exactly sure this counts.”

I smoothed my hands down the sequined material. “Do you like it?”

“Not at all.” Julia gave me a predatory leer. “You should probably take it off.”

“Nuh uh,” I clucked. I took a self-preserving step backwards as Julia began to stalk toward me. “You’re not going to distract me from a scary movie and takeout food with sex.”

“Are you sure about that?” Julia slipped one bra strap off of her gently sloping shoulder and then the other so that only the back clasp held her bra together. I involuntarily squeezed my thighs together.

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to convince you?” she questioned.

“You don’t play fair,” I scowled. She was manipulating me again, but amazingly I didn’t mind.

Julia stepped closer, one step at a time. Her dark gaze held me frozen in place.  Her hand went first to my waist as she slowly walked in a circle around me. I felt a blush grow on my cheeks, a combination of embarrassment and excitement. The costume was ridiculous and so unlike me. 

With my hair tied back in a loose braid that draped over one shoulder, the back of my neck was exposed. She pressed her warm lips against the base of my neck. Her fingers toyed with the thin, gauze material that covered my upper back before I felt her take purchase of the dress’s zipper.

“Let it go, darling,” she rasped. “Let it go.”

The fastening let loose, exposing my shoulder blades. As she released more and more of my skin from the dress, she trailed her mouth and tongue down the top of my spine. She took her time with the zipper, causing my anticipation to heighten. My whole body seized with a shiver at the feel of her talented tongue marking a path down the center of my back. I’d discovered that my scar tissue was incredibly sensitive, and Julia took full advantage of that discovery. It was she who had helped me embrace all of my scars, or at least not feel so damned self-conscious about them.

She pulled away suddenly, her mouth no longer on me. I heard her frustrated noise.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“You’re stuck.”

“Stuck?” I echoed.

“Your zipper,” she said. “It won’t go any farther.”

She tugged again at the zipper that traveled down the length of my back. The scooped neckline of the dress tightened around my breasts when she pulled, but the zipper wouldn’t budge. 

“I’m sorry, dear,” she clipped. “It would appear that you’re trapped in this outfit for the rest of time.”

I tried to reach the top of the zipper myself, but the mechanism had gotten jammed in the center of my back, just out of my reach. No matter how I contorted my shoulders or twisted my arms, my fingers could only uselessly brush against the metal fasten. A claustrophobic feeling began to rise in my chest. 

“Julia!” I complained. “Do something!”

She pressed her palm flat against the exposed skin in the center of my back. The simple touch of her skin on mine instantly calmed me. I heard her chuckle. “Wait here, Princess. I’ll save you.”

She disappeared momentarily from the bedroom towards the front of the apartment. I heard the sounds of drawers or cabinet doors being opened and closed. When she returned, she held a silver pair of scissors.

My eyes widened at the sight. “What are you going to do with those?”

She experimentally snipped the scissors in the air. They even sounded sharp. “Rescue you, of course.”

She returned to the stubborn zipper at the center of my back. “I hope you weren’t planning a repeat performance,” she remarked.

I didn’t have time to ask what she meant before I felt the almost icy touch of metal scissors against my skin. I immediately jerked away, but she held firm to my shoulder. 

“Hold very still,” she warned. Her mouth was close enough to my ear to ruffle the hair that had escaped from my loose braid. 

The scissors slipped under the fabric of my dress. The cool metal felt like an icicle. The sharp blade began to slice just above my exposed skin. 

“Wait!”

I felt the scissors pause. “Don’t you trust me?” she asked.

“I trust you, I do,” I promised. “But if you have to cut off the dress …” I bit down on my lower lip. “Could you …”

Julia and I were experimental when it came to sex. We pushed each other’s limits and tried new things that might make the other person uncomfortable. What I wanted to ask of her, however, brought a blush to my cheeks.

The scissors were removed and Julia spun me around to face her. I felt her knuckle under my chin, and she raised my head so my gaze met hers. She kept her hand there so I couldn’t look away. My request was stuck, just like that damn zipper. 

Her warm caramel irises searched my face. I hadn’t intended to make her worry, but she looked concerned. “What is it, darling?”

“The scissors,” I gulped. “Instead of cutting down my back, would you …could you …you know, uh …cut up?”

She dropped her hand from my chin. 

I immediately panicked. “That’s a weird question. Never mind. Forget I said anything. What you were doing was fine.”

Her nostrils flared and she spoke very calmly, very quietly. “Get on the bed, Your Highness.”