Jen Frederick's Blog, page 10
August 19, 2015
Kerr Chronicles – New Covers
As many of you may have noticed, the Kerr Chronicles got a face lift when they were re-released through Montlake Publishing.
For those who haven’t seen the new covers yet, check out Losing Control and Taking Control! You can get both Losing Control and Taking Control for FREE with Kindle Unlimited.
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August 17, 2015
The Charlotte Chronicles in Audio
The Charlotte Chronicles is now available in audio!! Happy Listening to the audio readers!
Available at:
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July 22, 2015
Summer Update
I can hardly believe that summer is almost over. I’ve been so busy that I’ve missed most the farmer’s markets downtown but I’ve penciled in a visit this Saturday to get fresh corn, tomatoes and peas. During the summer, I live on my own version of a caprese salad adding in basil from the garden, fresh off the ear corn, and newly picked peas. Okay, maybe it’s not a caprese salad but it does have tomatoes and mozzarella.
I’ve also made good use of a cake pop pan I picked up a couple years ago at Kohl’s. I found a picture on Pinterest of someone using it to make pancakes. And it actually does make pretty good pancakes. We use a regular pancake mix and then cook the round balls for three minutes. One big batch makes about 50 of them and then we freeze them. My daughter eats approximately 10 a day.
But enough about cooking. This summer I wrote a book I’ve always wanted to write. It’s not part of The Woodlands or The Kerr Chronicles. There will be a new book featuring Jake Tanner, BFF of Ian, out in November and a new Woodlands book early next year. Instead, it’s a book about football and love–two of my favorite subjects.
You’ll be hearing more about it in the upcoming weeks. The working title is “Sacked” and here’s a tiny excerpt.
“There are just some things you are born knowing. That you treat your mother with respect. That your family comes first. That bringing down a quarterback is a close to a religious experience as a boy can get. That when you meet the girl who’ll be sitting on the front porch holding your hand when you’re eighty, you don’t let a thing like cool dismissive looks, big brothers, or fucking rules stand in your way.”
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June 2, 2015
New Release: Dirty Boys of Summer Anthology
Today is the release day for the Dirty Boys of Summer Anthology. My contribution is UNSPOKEN. So, if you haven’t read Bo and AM’s story yet, you can get it now for $0.99!
16 full-length sweet and sexy novels
Taken off sale on July 5th – get it before it’s gone!
Are you ready to lose your v-card, fall in love, get naughty, and say good-bye to your good girl persona with these ohhh so dirty summer boys? Intended for 17+, we’ve packed the box with the best in upper young adult, naughty new adult, sweet contemporary, and wicked paranormal.
WHO DOESN’T LOVE THOSE DIRTY SUMMER BOYS? Note: Sunglasses required
IN THIS BOXED SET:
GENNIFER ALBIN, Teaching Roman — Class is in session…
EVANGELINE ANDERSON, The Academy — The Academy…Where things aren’t always as they seem.
AVERY ASTER, Love, Lex — If you love snarky socialites and dominating NYPD motor cops then get ready to laugh your ass off with Love, Lex by Avery Aster.
JAMIE BLAIR, Lost to Me — Lauren has the perfect dress, the perfect guy, and romantic plans for their first time. What she doesn’t plan on is a jealous ex-girlfriend turning her night to tragedy.
OPAL CAREW, Taken By Storm — Some risks are worth taking.
MARISA CLEVELAND, Accidental Butterfly — Dead at sixteen. She was just another statistic. Until she became a guiding angel.
CAREY CORP, The Halo Chronicles: The Guardian — When it comes to boyfriends, “heaven sent” has a whole new meaning.
JULIE CROSS, Letters to Nowhere — Her family may be shattered, but her dreams aren’t
JEN FREDERICK, Unspoken — Bo Jackson’s life consists of sleeping with anything that moves and punching anything that stands still…until he meets her.
RACHEL HIGGINSON, Bet on Us — Fin Hunter has gone all in for Ellie Harris. Will she bet on love or fold before she loses everything?
TAMARA MATAYA, The Sowing — Twenty-first birthday? Check. Strange new powers? Check. Getting through this heinous WTF-ery alive? I’ll get back to you.
DAWN RAE MILLER, Crushed — Having it all has never been so hard.
JULIE PRESTSATER, Before Someday-Part One: The Wait — Before Someday is the perfect combination of sweet and sexy, humor and angst, and a whole hell of a lot of love.
KRISTA & BECCA RITCHIE, Kiss the Sky — Virgin. Sex addict. Daredevil. Alcoholic. Smartass … Jackass. Her five friends are about to be filmed. Reality TV, be prepared.
LYNN RUSH, Frostbite — Amanda gives a whole new meaning to cool…
C.L. STONE, Liar: The Scarab Beetle Series: #2 — Worse than a thief, is a liar.
Buy Links:
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | iBooks | Kobo
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June 1, 2015
Audio Book Lovin’ Series
June is Audio Book Month, and Books-N-Kisses and Viviana, Enchantress of Books are throwing a month long party! Jessica and I will be talking about our Hitman books on Tuesday, June 25th. Make sure to stop by both blogs for all the great giveaways and interviews.
Also, be sure to check out these other fabulous authors being featured all month long!
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May 15, 2015
Last Kiss Release Day Blitz Thank You
I had a lot of fun visiting the blog tour stops today because I love reading other reader’s opinions, no matter what they were. I feel like I can get a sense of what worked and what didn’t for some and that always gives me food for thought. Plus, the effort that you bloggers put into these reviews and posts is really mindblowing. I appreciate and applaud you all.
Jacqueline’s Reads said: Each book gets better and better and Last Kiss is my favorite so far.
Cori from Reading in Pajamas said: Naomi and Vasily are complete opposites yet they somehow fit and the romance is hot.
Hetty from Bestsellers and Beststellars said: I am wild over these two and loved each perfectly laid out scene.
Suzi from Obsessive Reading Disorder said: These two authors have totally nailed it with this book. You get the sense of danger and mystery pounded in to you as you read this novel.
Michel from Smut Book Junkie thought: The Last Kiss was fast paced, action packed, emotional, and sensual.
Thanks for the following blogs for shining a spotlight on Last Kiss.
Fangirl Moments and My Two Cents
Best of Both Worlds: Books & Naughtiness
2 Girls A Book And a Glass of Wine
Confessions of a YA and NA Book Addict
Prone to Crushes on Boys in Books
Angie’s Lil Neck of da Author World
Fictional Rendezvous Book Blog
Book Musings and Wine Pairings
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May 5, 2015
New Release: Last Kiss by Jen Frederick and Jessica Clare
Today is the release of Last Kiss, the third book in the Hitman series written with Jessica Clare.
Naomi: When I was kidnapped I thought only of survival. I don’t thrive well in chaos. That’s why I gave my captors exactly what they wanted: my skill with computers. Making millions for a crime lord who kept me imprisoned in his basement compound kept my family safe. When he was taken out, I thought my ticket to freedom had arrived. Wrong. I traded one keeper for another. This time I’m in the hands of a scarred, dark, demanding Russian who happens to be the head of the Bratva, a Russian crime organization. He wants my brain and my body. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued, but I can’t be a prisoner forever…no matter how good he makes me feel.
Vasily: At a young age, I was taught that a man without power is a puppet for all. I’ve clawed—and killed—my way to the top so that it is my heel on their necks. But to unify the fractured organization into an undefeatable machine, I need a technological genius to help me steal one particular artifact. That she is breathtaking, determined, and vulnerable is making her more dangerous than all of my enemies combined. But only I can keep her safe from the world that she now inhabits. Soon, I must choose between Naomi and Bratva law. But with every day that passes, this becomes a more impossible choice.
Buy Links:
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | iBooks | GooglePlay
Excerpt:
Chapter One
ONE MONTH AGO
Vasily
“You think to lead the Petrovich Bratva?” Georgi Petrovich cries from far down the table. He is so far removed from the main branch of the Petrovich family tree he barely warrants a place here. “You aren’t even blood Petrovich!”
“Am I not?” I ask. There’s no need to raise my voice. Any emotion indicates weakness. I am not a weak man. “What makes a Petrovich?” I stand then and begin to walk around the table. “Is it blood? Then half of you should be executed on the table for failing to have the requisite DNA. Who shall go first?”
I point to Thomas Gregovorich, a loyal member of the Bratva for at least two generations. His father served in the KGB during the Cold War.
He gives a small nod in deference acknowledging that the Bratva was a true brotherhood made up of allegiances rather than blood.
“Or you, Kilment, when we took you and your brother in when you were left orphaned on the street, did you believe you became a true Petrovich when you made your first kill? Conducted your first job? When we speak of the Bratva, we speak as one voice. What is done to one, it is done to all. Or does that maxim no longer hold true, Georgi?”
There are low murmurs of approval and Georgi sits back, folds his arms, and looks petulantly at the table. We are meeting today to discuss the future of the Bratva after the death of Sergei Petrovich. A death I helped orchestrate, and many suspect it, which makes it difficult for me to enact my next step—to kill Elena Petrovich. Two Petrovichs dead so close together smells of a coup. We are an unstable lot, and lopping off the head of this snake would result in chaos. In order to achieve my ends, the Bratva must be stabilized.
However, in this den of iniquity, it is not love that holds the loyalty of each man. It is fear. The Petrovichs have held power over us all by setting us one against the other. To rise above, I have eliminated all weaknesses.
What sets me apart is all that I am willing to do. Each of these men at the table has had limits. I have none.
The men that sit at this table are divided. Some view me with awe and respect, and others with disgust. The latter are the ones I respect, because a man who would kill his own sister, a man such as I, deserves to be in a dungeon, locked away from all of humanity.
Instead I stand here as the potential leader of this room of villains and thieves. And it is a position I seek, not because I lust after power, but because if I control the Bratva, then nothing is out of my reach. I have one goal now.
“Will you kill your mother to save the Bratva, Thomas? And you, Pietr, when your sister whispers to her lover Pavil Ionov, do you worry that she’s telling secrets? Or Stefan, your son, I saw him the other day holding hands with . . .” I stop behind Stefan’s chair and rest both hands on the back. I can almost feel him inhale the fear. “. . . a smart young thing. They looked to be enjoying themselves.”
Pietr coughs. “So you are willing to kill us all to maintain hold of the Bratva? That is not a good reason to follow you.”
“No, but you all know that I will sacrifice everything and everyone to protect the brotherhood.”
They are all silent because unlike the others, my sister, Katya, is gone. Disposed of by my own hand at the order of Elena Petrovich.
I end my stroll around the room behind my chair. “I am the one who led us away from munitions and dirt to telecom interests. In less than a decade, the Bratva’s primary businesses will be legitimate, which means that you no longer have to hide behind your armored vehicles. You no longer have to rely on bodyguards that could be bought off. You need not fear the KGB or the militsiya. You can invest in your futbol teams and mansions in Londongrad without fear of reprisal.”
Leadership means effective utilization of the carrot and the stick. I lead with the stick. Always. The Petrovichs believe in only the stick. For them the carrot does not exist or is viewed with suspicion.
The boyeviks—the young muscle our old warlord Alexsandr groomed from urchins on the street to protect the brotherhood—grow tired of the constant threat to their homes and family. They sleep with one eye open, their hand over their heart, wondering if the brother next to them will be killing their mother or raping their sister in retribution for some Bratva infraction.
The older generation such as Thomas and Kilment and those who sit on the Petrovich Bratva council are loath to hand over the power of this organization to me, a mere foot soldier sold by his father to repay debts. With Sergei dead and the vicious Elena the only real Petrovich remaining, I am left with a choice. Attempt to wrest control of the brotherhood from the old guard or walk away.
And I would walk away. I have some money stored but I’ve been a Petrovich for a long time and there are many enemies that would crow over my death. No, in order to survive, the Petrovich Bratva must remain strong.
If I have learned anything, it is that people with nothing are victims. It is those with power and money and might who have the ability to protect others.
Thomas rubs a hand across his jaw. “There is one thing you could do.”
“That is a legend, Thomas,” Kilment groans.
“I will do it.” Legends persist because people believe, and if belief means I can bring down Elena Petrovich and secure a peaceful future, then I will pursue this foolishness until the painting is mine. Their desire to recapture the past is absurd and yet another reason the old guard should be replaced. “You wish me to procure the Caravaggio.”
Cries of wonder and confusion fill the room.
“So you know,” Kilment says flatly.
I pretend no ignorance, for it is a story that Alexsandr shared with me long ago. “I know that a famous triptych painted by Caravaggio once hung in the palaces of the Medicis in Florence, perhaps the Careggi Villa. It was commissioned as an altarpiece but considered to be too profane, as many of his pieces were judged. It was gifted by the Medicis to Feodor the First, who then lost it, and Russia entered the Time of Troubles. When the Boyars rose to power in the seventeen hundreds, it is rumored the painting was recovered by Peter the Great. Citizen Petrovich’s grandfather was gifted this set of three paintings and it hung in the great hall of the Petrovichs until it was lost, sold, stolen during Sergei’s time. Many say that he who holds it, holds the world.”
Thomas nods at this recitation, but Kilment looks unconvinced.
“It is known as the Madonna and the Volk,” I conclude. The Petrovichs loved the painting because the woman who sat for Caravaggio was purportedly a true Mary Magdalene—a whore. And the Volk? It is a man wolf who is eating Mary, and despite the gruesomeness of the depiction, there is an expression of ecstasy on her face. Volk, too, was seen as a play on the old Russian criminal rank of vory. Thieves, wolves at the door. We were the predators. Everyone else is prey. I saw it only once, when I was given to Elena Petrovich like some birthday treat. It seemed fitting that Sergei sold it to fund some sordid perversion of his own. “But why is it that it is of any importance? It is a mere painting.”
Thomas stares at me. “It is a symbol of our wealth and power, and we have lost it. And no Caravaggio, one of the greatest painters of all time, can be dubbed a mere painting. It belonged to Peter the Great. It is priceless, one of a kind. Why would we not want it? That it is in the hands of someone else is shameful, a blot against the Petrovich name. Now more than ever, we must show our enemies we are strong.”
“So you want it, but why is this your loyalty test? Have I not proven myself again and again? Have I not shed the blood of my own family for the brotherhood?” I spread my scarred hands out as if they hold the proof of my allegiance.
“The Caravaggio has been lost to us for years. Many of us have tried to find it but have failed,” Thomas admits. “If you find it, you will show yourself to be a man of resource and cunning, a man who is unafraid. You will restore the pride to the brotherhood and prove your worth as a leader.”
I hold back a lip curl of disgust at this. Leadership is not running around the world seeking one painting. Leadership is moving our assets out of dangerous and risky ventures and into more stable enterprises. Leadership is generating loyalty by providing a way for the members to feed their families and protect their loved ones.
This is a snipe hunt, an impossible task designed to make me fail and appear weak amongst those who would support me. Or worse, in my absence they will eliminate those they deem a threat. To kill me here would generate a revolt.
No, this is not about a painting. This is punishment, revenge, retribution. But I am one step ahead of them. I guessed that this is the task they would set before me. They think I will be gone long, chasing my tail for months. I will be happy to prove how wrong they are.
Thomas sits back and looks around the table. He has been a member of the Bratva for a long time. They respect his voice. “Bring us the Madonna, and the Bratva will be yours.”
I smile and raise my palms in a gesture that says fait accompli. “Then it is done.”
I am not so sanguine two hours later as I sit across the table from Ivan the Terrible. Ivan Dostonev is the leader of the Dostonev Bratva, an organization whose base is in St. Petersburg. The Dostonevs posture that they are descendants of confidents of the tsars. Perhaps they are, but we are all criminals. We bathe in the blood of our enemies and eat our own young.
“I hear the Petrovich Bratva is troubled, my friend,” he says with studied casualness. Ivan has held power not because he is particularly clever but because he is a man of his word—a rarity in these parts. People trust him—and fear him. He trades in favors and you do not know when your favor will be called in, only that when the time comes you must heed his call or reap terrible consequences.
I owe this man a favor, and I knew from the moment I saw his name on the screen of my phone that my reckoning had arrived.
“When there is a change in leadership, some are disconcerted. That will change,” I reply.
“My people tell me that the council has set a challenge for you. Meet it and the Petrovich brotherhood is yours.”
I meet his boast that he has infiltrated our organization with my own. “And my people tell me that your son has no interest in following in your footsteps. What will happen to the Dostonevs then?”
“Bah! Vladimir is young. He wants to drink and fuck. Let him have his fun.” He swallows his vodka and gestures for me to drink. I do, tipping the glass and allowing the clear liquid to coat my tongue and glide down my throat. “Enough of the niceties. Fifteen years ago, you asked a favor of me. I granted it. Now it is time for you to repay your debt.”
“Of course.” There is relief in finally discharging my debt. For so long I’ve wondered, not what I would be asked to do, but when. The uncertainty will soon be behind me. “What is it?”
“I want you to bring me the Caravaggio.”
His request astonishes me.
“Why does everyone love this painting?” I’m truly bewildered.
He holds out his arms; heavy jewels adorn nearly every finger. Put him on a throne and one would easily mistake him for a prince of old. “I’ve always wanted it. It hung in the palace of Peter the Great. It was commissioned by the great Cosimo de’ Medici.”
“And you thumb your nose at the Petrovichs.”
He grins. “That too.”
“No.” I refuse tersely. “Ask something else.”
“I want nothing else.” He waves his hand. “You know they are setting you up. This painting means nothing to them. They want you out of Moscow so that they can weed out those amongst your young soldiers who look up to you. The old guard will not give up power so easily.”
I stare impassively. The old guard is senile. Their plays are so obvious they are read by outsiders. “I did not know you had interest in the Petrovich holdings. You’ve always said Moscow is full of peasants.”
He flicks his fingers in disgust. “I do not want your precious Bratva. I have no interest in your businesses. And frankly, Vasya, neither should you. Let the Petrovich Bratva burn. Find me the painting and you can bring her home. Fifteen years is a very long time to have not laid eyes on your precious sister. What would you do to have your family restored to you?”
I fight not to bare my teeth at him, to not jump over the table and strangle him until pain replaces his smug smile.
“I know they expect me to fail and be distracted for months, but when I return with the Caravaggio, they will not be able to deny me. They have prepared their own shallow graves.”
“So you have found it?” He quirks his eyebrow.
I shrug but do not answer.
“Well, well. I am impressed, Vasya. It is a shame I did not find you all those years ago. You would have made a marvelous part of the Dostonevs. Still, I want the painting. You will have to find a way to bring me the painting and still gain power within the Bratva. For you see Vasya, if you do not bring the painting to me, I will summon your sister home and she will become exactly what you do not wish—a target for all your enemies. I helped save your sister once. It is easy enough to help kill her, too. Choose your course wisely.”
“They are setting you on a fool’s errand,” Igorek announces as I enter my office. He is standing next to the single window that overlooks a dirty alley and the brick wall of the building next door. Igorek is a young warrior with a brother and a mother to protect. He worries, for good reason, that he and his loved ones would be imperiled if I am gone for a long period of time. He is not the only one who has invaded my sanctum. Aleksei, an enforcer whom I trained with as a boy, is also present.
“Only if I cannot return with the Madonna. When I present the painting to them, they will be forced to back me. I will remove Elena to some dacha in northern Russia, and we will jettison any who would hew to the old ways.”
“Merely remove her?” Igorek raises an eyebrow.
“What else would I do with her?” I meet his inquiry coolly, for speaking out loud of the murder of Elena Petrovich would not be met in all quarters with approval. She needs to die, but I cannot kill her until the Bratva is firmly under my control.
“Mne pofig.” He shrugs. I don’t care.
Of course he cares or he would not suggest it. I, too, care, but it is not the time or place. “Once the Bratva is mine, then we will talk about protecting our own.”
“Fine, so you look for a painting that has been lost for decades?” Igorek is skeptical.
Aleksei, whom I’ve known longer, is much less circumspect. “The Madonna? Holy Mother of Mary, are you crazy? Did killing Sergei cause you to lose your motherfucking mind?” Aleksei kicks at a chair and stomps around the room, looking for more things to break. I pull down a Meissen vase that is part of a set we’d recently discovered being transported inside a large set of ornamental—but very cheap—concrete dogs imported from China. Peddling antiques is more lucrative than I had anticipated. We started just a few years ago, as part of my goal to supplant income from the sale of krokodil and humans.
Sergei had been lured to the easy money, but trafficking in drugs and people is not only dangerous but also short lived. The problem with Sergei was that he lacked vision. Now he’s dead, his body dumped in a hog lot so that the only thing he’s possibly seeing now is the inside of a pig’s belly. An ignominious end to the crime boss of one of the largest brotherhoods in Russia, but a fitting one.
“It’s out there.” I sit at my desk and check my emails. I’ve been searching for the Caravaggio for months now and while I have not found it, I believe I have discovered a person who can.
“You should shoot yourself now and save yourself the misery.” Aleksei exhales grumpily and seats himself in one of the two low-backed leather chairs in front of the desk. I suppose it is my desk now. Once Sergei sat here and before him Roman Petrovich.
I hate the Petrovichs, all of them, both dead and alive. They had promised me safety but delivered only fear and torture. But my revenge will be to rule over this entire Bratva until the Petrovich name will be only known in connection with me, Vasily.
“What is your plan?” Igorek asks.
“There are rumors on the deep web of a collector who has not only the Madonna but the Golden Candelabra as well as a few other holy relics.”
“Wonderful,” Aleksei scoffs. “You know not of but rumors. Even if these rumors are true, one would have to assume that these artifacts are owned by a capitalist and are held in a safe that is virtually impenetrable. Just shoot Elena Petrovich and be done with it.”
“If I kill her, who else will I have to kill? Thomas? Kilment? All of them? How about you, Aleksei? Or Igorek? And do I just kill the male members or every issue to the fifth cousin?” Aleksei pales at his name, at the mention of his family. “While it is better to be feared than loved, each act of ill will toward one’s own people must be done only when there is no other action. If bringing this painting back means new leadership without bloodshed, it is worth the risk.”
He is unconvinced by my speech, but he has a new wife and a child coming. Either of those could be used as bargaining chips against him.
“Igorek, you talk to the others, prepare them for my absence and be on watch.”
He nods. “How long will you be gone?”
“Not long.” My inbox dings and I read the email swiftly. Finally. I give the two a ghost of a smile. “There is one person who can find the source of the postings on the dark web. One person who can lead us to the Madonna. And one person, I suspect, no modern security system can withstand. The Emperor.” I lean back in my chair and point to the computer. “The Emperor appeared out of nowhere eighteen months ago and built an untraceable trading network for drugs, guns, flesh. And each of these transactions were paid in digital currency that flowed back to the Emperor in the form of tribute. He has made a fortune. A man who can create that? There is no bit or byte that can hold secrets from him.”
“And you think you’ve found him?” Igorek asks.
“I know I have. He is in Brazil. He is in the employ of the Hudson gang or perhaps another local. But Brazil is the base according to the information we have been able to glean. I have paid for information that should be delivered to an associate of mine. With that, we should be able to locate and extract the Emperor.”
“And how will you get the Emperor to work for you?” Aleksei is still dubious.
“By giving him whatever it is that he wants.”
Chapter Two
NOW
Naomi
Everything is so much easier when everyone follows the scientific method. Science doesn’t have emotions. Science doesn’t base findings on anything but science. If you have something you need resolved, you formulate your question, do your research, hypothesize, test, and analyze your data. It’s all very logical and regimented, and it works.
Unfortunately, most “normal” people don’t like the scientific method. They prefer to live through emotion. And by that, I mean they yell.
A lot.
For example, I’m sitting in the passenger seat in a van, and the driver is yelling at me. He’s shouting something at me in a language I don’t understand. Some Eastern European language. If I had a clear mind, I might try to mentally look for root words to determine the language, but everything is confusion. Five minutes ago, my brother Daniel was in the back of the van, bleeding, but now he’s gone. His girlfriend, too. It’s just me and this stranger who yells and drives very poorly.
This is all very confusing.
He bellows something at me again. I don’t know what he wants, so I scream right back. I’m not sure if we’re all supposed to be screaming, or if I’ve missed a cue somewhere.
The man glares at me, shakes his head, and turns back to driving. “Bozhe moi,” I hear him mutter. He looks angry, but at least he’s not screaming any longer. I’m still not sure why we were screaming in the first place.
An hour ago, I was the Emperor. Captive of Hudson, hacker extraordinaire and cybercriminal misappropriating funds in exchange for the safety of my family. Now, I’m just Naomi Hays again.
My wounded brother appeared with the screamer and a new girlfriend. Together, they busted me out of Hudson’s compound. It was all very A-Team and kind of fun until someone shot a gun and a window shattered near my head. The sound sent me spiraling.
As an Aspie, when I spiral, I get lost in myself. I lose track of what’s going on and turn inward in my mind, where it’s nice and quiet and safe. I’m out of my spiral now, and in the meantime, my brother has disappeared in all this noise and confusion. All that’s left of him is his blood. It’s everywhere, too—on my hands, in my hair, covering my arms. Blood’s so unclean.
Right now, germs and DNA are all over me. I hate germs.
I also hate new places, new people, travel, and loud noises. Considering that I’m in a speeding van covered in someone else’s blood and a stranger is yelling at me, it’s safe to say I’m out of my comfort zone.
So I shut down again. I curl into a ball and rock myself, humming my favorite song—“Itsy Bitsy Spider”—to myself. I need to focus. I can’t function in chaos. I think of the notes of the song and imagine viewing them on a computer synthesizer. I picture them dancing across the screen in waves. I imagine them, each note a flash of color in the melody.
Eventually I’m so wrapped up in the song that I don’t notice anything anymore. My world exists of nothing but a nursery rhyme, and I repeat it over and over again to myself in an endless loop. When the song ends, I start it back up again, my lips moving and mouthing the words. Soon, it becomes a game to see if I can start and stop the song with no breaths in between.
I’m back in my happy place, lost in my mind, utterly content. The only thing that would make me happier is a computer keyboard at my fingertips.
A hand waves in front of my face. “Girl,” a voice says. “Emperor.” Fingers snap at my ear.
This interrupts my soothing melody, and I blink rapidly, coming back to the world again. I’m not the Emperor right now. The Emperor is a powerful hacker, surrounded by computers, mistress of her domain. Right now, I’m just Naomi Hays. And Naomi is pretty powerless.
I’m tempted to fake a seizure. It’s my “go to” when a situation gets too difficult. Hudson and his men never figured out that I was faking. They’d always shoot me full of drugs and leave me alone again for hours, and then they’d be careful not to “antagonize” me again because Hudson didn’t like it when they set me off. My fake seizures kept me safe, and the urge to do one now rises.
The man snaps his fingers in front of my face again.
“You interrupted me,” I tell him, since he seems to want a response from me. “That’s rude.”
The look he gives me is incredulous, and I suppose I’ve misinterpreted his reaction. Maybe he was snapping his fingers in time to my music? I hum a few more bars experimentally, but he only snarls something at me in that strange language.
He doesn’t seem very happy. Maybe he needs a happy place song, too. He’s pissy and insolent, but he’s not hurting me, so I hold off on faking a seizure.
For now.
“Get out of van,” he tells me, this time in English. It’s heavily accented English, but it’s clear he’s not from Brazil. He’s too pale all over, and people from Brazil are lovely warm tones in skin and hair and eyes. He opens the door of the van and gestures at the street.
I’m not wearing shoes, and I look at the street, imagining my feet touching it. The broken pavement looks filthy. I don’t approve. The van is dirty, too, but I already have its germs. Walking onto the street would mean an entirely new set of bacteria, and I don’t like the thought. “No.”
The pale man puts a smile on his face that’s supposed to be friendly, I guess, but it looks about as fake as one of my own awkward smiles. “Come,” he tells me. “We abandon van before police arrive. Come.”
The second come is a command. “Are we going home or back to the compound?”
“Home.”
Oh, good. I’m tired of this place with its noise and its blood. The man waves something at me to direct me out of the van again—a gun. Huh. I wonder if he was the one shooting earlier. Who was shooting wasn’t important to me, so I didn’t pay attention.
I can’t tell you why I’m in a van with this stranger. I can’t begin to guess what he wants. I don’t know where he’s from, where we are, or what day of the week it is, but I can tell you pi to the 3,262nd decimal place. I can recite lines of complex computer code from heart. I can pull apart a car’s engine and then put it back together again without a manual.
That’s just how my mind works.
I’m special, people say. That’s one of those “kind but not kind” words people use when they don’t want to say what they mean. I don’t know why they don’t just say it aloud. It doesn’t bother me. I’m autistic. Asperger’s, actually, though I suppose we don’t call it that anymore. But I’ve been Aspie for years now, and still am, in my own mind. It means I function differently than most people. I’m inside my own head more than most, and I don’t know how to deal with people. I’ve been called everything from Rain Man to retard. I’m not, though.
I’m like one of the computers back in my garage apartment at home—wired differently for optimum efficiency. I like to think of myself as a custom build. Different from the basic model, perhaps a little clunky at first glance, but the interior’s so full of bells and whistles that you overlook the quirks. Mostly.
The man snapping his fingers at me is clearly unaware that I’m an optimized computer. He gestures at me with the gun again, then sighs and rubs his neck. He glances down the street, then puts his gun away and holds out his hand. It’s a friendly gesture, but the look on his face is anything but, and I don’t know how to interpret this.
Friendly gesture or not, though, I don’t like touching. “I don’t want your hand,” I tell him. “It’s dirty.”
His scowl darkens. I’ve probably offended him. My fingers move along the brim of my favorite baseball cap, a nervous tic of mine.
His gaze moves to my cap. He reaches forward and snatches it off my head, then tosses it into the nearby street.
I make an outraged noise. How dare he? That’s my baseball cap. I glare at him and then climb out of the van to retrieve it, braving the grimy streets. Now it’ll have to be washed, just like my feet.
“Finally, she moves,” the man mutters, and shuts the van doors behind me. “Come. We get new car. They will be looking for this one. Come.”
I don’t know why anyone would be looking for that van—it’s all shot up and there’s blood on the inside. But he seems to know what he’s talking about. I shrug and follow his lead.
We’re in a dirty street in Brazil, in one of the favelas. It’s filthy-dirty. Perhaps these people don’t realize how much bacteria can breed in just one puddle. I did a science experiment once because my mother hadn’t believed me when I said things were unclean. She believes me now. One sight of the mold that I’d grown in the pantry to show her, and she’d become a believer.
“Come,” he says to me again. “We take that car.” He gestures at a nearby junker.
It looks like it’s filled with germs. I wrinkle my nose, but there aren’t many cars in this area that seem like better choices. And I don’t want to stay in this squalid area for longer than necessary, so I follow along. He says he’s going to take me home, so he has to be better than the guys that kidnapped me.
“Can I drive?” I ask. I’m not a great driver—I tend to stay distracted and in my own mind a bit too much to pay attention to things like street signs. But I do love to drive—I love the speed of it, the feeling of freedom.
“Nyet, I drive. I know area.” He tries the door of the car, but it’s locked.
“Is that your car?”
“Do you always ask so many questions?”
I do, actually. But this seems to be a chastisement, so I quiet and don’t offer to drive again. Strangers are always so prickly and difficult to read.
He looks around again, grabs a nearby rock, and then smashes it through the window. Glass rains down and he sweeps it aside with a sleeve, then unlocks the car door and opens it. More glass is brushed onto the concrete, and then he hunches under the steering column. Long moments pass, and he cusses.
I adjust my cap again and glance around. This man is stealing someone’s car. No one’s coming out to stop us, though, and I wonder if he’s a frightening man. Am I supposed to be frightened? I have a hard time reading emotions, and so I don’t get scared of the same people that most do. But I remember Daniel’s girlfriend looked alarmed when this man glared at her. I study him as he crouches at the floorboard and jerks a panel off of the car.
He’s a large man. Enormous, really. He’s taller than anyone I know, and his arms are as big around as a tree trunk. His blond hair is cut short, and his clothes are crisp. That’s good. I like neat clothing. Messy people have messy minds. He carries a gun, too, I remember. Maybe that’s what makes him scary. I mostly find guns interesting. All those moving parts working in harmony.
After a moment, he swears again and jerks at the wiring. “Are you trying to steal this car?” I ask, since he looks like he needs help.
“Shut up.”
“You’re not very pleasant.” Even I know that this man’s an ass.
“Unless you want bullet in brain, shut up.”
I don’t want a bullet in my brain, actually, so I quiet. But I continue to watch him fumble with the wiring and fail miserably at hot-wiring the car. It’s obvious this man’s not an Aspie like me. If he were, he’d be able to actually figure out which wires start the ignition.
After a long moment, he swears and emerges from the front seat, a dark scowl on his face. He glances down the street. “Come. We walk.”
“We’re not taking this car?”
“Nyet.”
“But you just broke the window—”
“Walk,” he snarls.
I consider this for a moment, then climb into the car’s front seat. “Do you have a knife?”
He stares at me. “Come, we go.”
This man’s favorite word is apparently come. Maybe he needs to learn more English. I will suggest a language website for him to visit later, after we’ve figured out the car situation. “Did you want to take this car? I can hot-wire it for you, but I need a knife.”
He stares at me for so long that I wonder if he didn’t hear me. Then, he shifts and takes a pocketknife out of his slacks and flips the blade open, pointing it at my face.
It’s an inch from my eyeball. Not an ideal place to hold a knife, but all I can see is that it’s perfect for what I need. I smile and pluck the blade from him. “Thank you.” I take it and jam it into the ignition, then pound on the end until I’m sure it’s shoved in hard. Then, I give it a twist. I gun the gas pedal, admiring the way it purrs. Oh, I like this car. It’s not pretty on the inside, but the engine is clearly refurbished. “There we go.” I beam at it and pet the steering column. I love cars. Then I look at the stranger to see if he’s as impressed with my handiwork. “On some older models, you can break the locking pins in the ignition. I’ve used a screwdriver in the past, but your knife works just as well.”
He arches an eyebrow at me—it looks like a blond caterpillar. Then he gestures at the passenger seat. Right, I don’t get to drive. I brush a few crumbs of glass off the seat and then slide over. He gets in on the driver’s side and pulls away from the curb.
Not a word of thank you. Hmph. Disgruntled, I buckle in and try not to touch anything that I don’t have to.
Germs, you know.
“You’re not a very good thief,” I point out to him.
“I am not thief,” he says in a rather unpleasant tone. “I am boss.”
Buy Links:
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | iBooks | GooglePlay
The post New Release: Last Kiss by Jen Frederick and Jessica Clare appeared first on Jen Frederick.
April 27, 2015
Unrequited Blog Tour Thank you!
I had a lot of fun visiting the blog tour stops today because I love reading other reader’s opinions, no matter what they were. I feel like I can get a sense of what worked and what didn’t for some and that always gives me food for thought. Plus, the effort that you bloggers put into these reviews and posts is really mindblowing. I appreciate and applaud you all.
Roxy from Bad and Dirty Books said: I have fallen in love with another of the Woodlands men. Finn is probably the most gentle and sweetest of them so far.
Love N. Books said: Another fabulous book in this wonderful series!!!
Gia from Amazeballs Book Addicts said: You can’t help but root for them to over come everything and be happy together.
Heather from Books Need TLC said: I swooned over Finn’s dirty mouth and I loved Winter’s compassion.
Reviews of a Book Maniac said: Steamy and sexy. Heartbreaking and swoon-worthy.
Michel from Smut Book Junkie said: Read this book! It will pull at your heartstrings.
Kim from Tammy and Kim Reviews said of Finn and Winter: They were so good together. They had a fun rapport, could understand each other, and had good chemistry.
Rachel from Tammy and Kim Reviews said: I love the way these roommates (and their girlfriends) feel like family and care for each other like brothers and sisters.
The Book Quarry said: Some serious panty melting scenes that need a warning sign, and beautiful moments.
The Tome Tender said: Unrequited by Jen Fredericks is filled with tough decisions, heartbreaking drama and sexual tension as taut as a garrote.
Lovin’ Los Libros said: I really loved Finn and Winter and I thought the epilogue couldn’t have been more perfect for these two.
Zili in the Sky said: The sexy scenes are intense and very graphic – if this isn’t your thing then be warned. Both of their POV’s were smutty and dirty.
Kristin from Book Lovers Obsession said: You get all of the feels with her books and this book is no different.
Maine Book Momma said: These two characters understood one another and that forged a deep connection. The author layers that with incredible passion and chemistry that entices you to read page after page until their journey is complete.
Obsessive Reading Disorder said: You know it is going to be a HEA but the ride to get there has some tension, some romance, some laughs and those oh so steamy sexy times. Jen Frederick can suck you in to a story like no other.
Reading is Sexy Book Blog said: I have enjoyed this series and getting to know all the characters. I am a huge fan of Winter and Finn, and I was loving this story.
Carmen from Book Aholic Confessions said: The drama and angst were in perfect proportion to the events and obstacles Finn and Winter had to overcome to get to the end of the road they were on.
Kawehi’s Book Blog said Finn: was one of those loyal and reliable heroines that you couldn’t help but admire due to this honorable tenacity to do the right thing and go for what he wants.
Michelle from All Romance Reviews said: The tagline on the cover says it all- They have no good choices, not even each other.
Amanda K Byrne said: While there some bits to Unrequited that didn’t quite work for me, Finn and Winter definitely did.
Harper from Bridger Bitches Book Blog said: You wont regret the read and you most definitely wont regret getting tangled up in the Woodlands series!
Michelle from Four Chicks Flipping Pages said: Unrequited by Jen Frederick was one of those reads that was devoured in one sitting. It is a story that truly showcases the growth of characters.
Book Hooked said: I was on tenterhooks throughout as this had a depressing element to the story(not meant in a bad way), you are just routing for things to work out between the two. This book is emotional, sexy with a touch of angst.
Sammy from I Love Book Love said: Jen Frederick has such a way with words, she makes you feel like you’re right there within the story.
Making It Happen said: I abso-frickin-lutely loved Finn. The hotness factor aside (and what a factor it is), he is loyal, dedicated, and totally devoted to Winter.
Shel and Court from Must Read Books or Die said: Jen Frederick knows exactly how to grab my attention and keep it…which is very unfortunate when you start one of her novels late in the evening and have to be up at 5 AM for work (note to self: don’t start any of her books thinking you’ll put it down..because you won’t).
Will Read for Feels said: Unrequited wasn’t my favorite read in the series, but I liked that Jen explored different types of characters and that she was able to force Finn and Willow to grow in multiple aspects.
The Wonderings of One Person said: I am still trying to catch my breath after this intensely sweet and beautifully heartbreaking story!
Tracy from Bayou Book Junkie said: I loved the chemistry Finn and Winter shared. It was off the charts and the sex was beyond hot and plentiful, something that can be expected in Jen’s books.
Hetty from BestSellers and BestStellars said: Unrequited is fast paced and exciting. There is entertainment on each page that kept me reading nonstop.
Amy from Books to Breathe said: I adore this series and will be anxiously waiting for whatever Jen gives us next!
Shy from BYO Book Club said: This was a new author to me but one I definitely recommend to steamy romance fans. I certainly intend to look for more by this author.
Fidah and Heather from FMR Book Grind said: While it wasn’t perfect, it was one of the best new adult novels I’ve read this month.
Gemma Reads Too Much said: The sex in this book is intense and passionate; Finn and Winter are most definately in lust with each other!!!
Sherry from Recommended Romance said: If you enjoy steamy romance, a swoon-worthy man, and a lot of heart don’t miss Unrequited.
Sarah from Book Drunk Blog said of Finn and Winter: They were cute, and sexy, and fun, and loving, and caring. I loved them as a couple.
Shannon from Cocktails and Books said: Each of the couples had something special that drew readers to them, but I think Finn and Winter’s story, their history and the lengths he’d go for her made them my favorite.
Thanks for the following blogs for shining a spotlight on Unrequited.
Wicked Faerie’s Tales and Reviews
2 Girls A Book and A Glass of Wine
An Aussie Girls Wild Book Addiction
Prone to Crushes on Boys in Books
Twin Sisters Robin’ Book Reviews
Angie’s Lil Neck of da Author World
The post Unrequited Blog Tour Thank you! appeared first on Jen Frederick.
April 20, 2015
LIFT Giveaway
This week I’m participating in the LIFT Giveaway! My contribution is a signed copy of Last Kiss.
Week 3 of LIFT doesn’t let up! We have such incredible donations from amazing authors this week.
If you missed the LIFT t-shirts, there’s still a chance! Reserve yours in our “round two” LIFT order today! Don’t be left out when we have LIFT selfie day!
This week’s MegaGiveaway benefits The Autism Spectrum Disorder Foundation.
Thank you to the generous authors donating!
The post LIFT Giveaway appeared first on Jen Frederick.
April 12, 2015
New Release: Unrequited
Today is the release day of Unrequited, book 4 in The Woodlands series.
Tattoo artist Winter Donovan loves two people: her sister and her sister’s ex-boyfriend. She’s spent her whole life doing the right thing—except that one time when she found Finn O’Malley hollowed out by his father’s death. Then she did something very wrong that felt terribly right.
Finn can’t stop thinking about Winter and that night. Now he’ll do anything to make her a permanent part of his life, even if it means separating Winter from the only family she has.
Their love was supposed to be unrequited but one night between one grief stricken guy and one girl with too big of a heart results in disastrous consequences.
Buy Links:
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | iBooks | Kobo | GooglePlay
Excerpt:
Chapter One
March
WINTER
I didn’t know which one of us looked more surprised when Finn O’Malley walked into the Riverside Café at about ten minutes before midnight. The café was experiencing a lull in the post-late night, pre-bar closings time period, and there were only two customers: myself and a man in his fifties over by the counter.
And now Finn.
“Winter,” he said, his tone a cross between disappointment and disbelief which I understood immediately. He’d come to this run down café—far from where he lived and worked—to…well, I wasn’t sure what he’d want other than get away from anyone who might know him.
And there I sat. The girl who’d had an enormous, unrequited crush on her older sister’s high school boyfriend. And said older sister might have been the worst girlfriend he’d ever had. If my speeding heart was any indication, my crush was far from dead.
“Finn. Good to see you.” He looked terrible—or as terrible as Finn could ever look. Tall with dark hair set against ivory skin and the lean, muscular build of someone who did manual labor for a living. Finn would never look bad.
But grief had hollowed out his cheeks, and his shocking blue eyes were bloodshot. His inky black hair stood in clumps around his head as if he’d run his fingers through it multiple times. He wore a gray T-shirt that hugged his strong frame but had dirt smudges all over it. His worn jeans displayed dust and grime.
He worked in construction—or more accurately, he flipped houses, the last I’d heard. Not that I kept up on the doings of Finn O’Malley that much.
His eyes shifted around the restaurant, as he probably wondered how he could take a seat away from me and not appear too rude. I solved his dilemma by grabbing my purse and library book and sliding out of the booth.
“I was just going,” I said.
He licked his upper lip and I about died on the spot. But I was an adult now. All of twenty-two years. Crushes might have made my heart squeeze and my knees shake, but they didn’t paralyze me. Giving him a tight smile, I walked toward the door. He didn’t move, and unless I was going to walk around a table or two, I’d have to brush by him.
So I did.
And smelled him.
And suddenly I couldn’t leave.
The sour, sweet stench of alcohol was so strong I wondered if he’d poured a bottle of vodka over his head. It was a familiar fragrance because my sister had been wearing it regularly for the past ten years. Her alcohol addiction, among other things, was a reason Finn and she were exes when many people had thought they’d get married out of high school.
I backed up. “Did you drive here?”
The side of his mouth quirked up—not quite a smile, more of a wry acknowledgment of my thought process. “I’m not drunk,” he said. “I…it’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.” I started back toward the booth. “Come sit with me. My book was boring anyway.”
Good manners drove him to follow even if he didn’t want to. He dropped into the opposite bench, and I pushed my water glass toward him.
“Thanks.” He drained it in three gulps. I was way too fascinated with the motion of his throat and the way that his Adam’s apple signaled every gulp. He set the glass down carefully as if almost surprised by his own sudden thirstiness.
Due to his long arms, his folded hands reached halfway across the table. I kept my arms locked by my side so I wouldn’t accidentally on purpose touch him.
My role was friend, not girlfriend, no matter how many inappropriate fantasies I’d dreamed up when I was a girl.
The waitress came out and delivered another glass of water and refilled my now empty one.
“I’ll have a burger. Plain. Order of fries,” Finn rattled off without looking at the menu. He pointed at me. “You want anything?”
I shook my head. “I’m good.”
The waitress left, and Finn stretched his long legs out and leaned back into the booth, looking completely wiped. If I moved my legs, even a little, I’d brush against him. I stayed still because I wasn’t sure what I would do if I touched him. Something embarrassing, no doubt.
“What are you doing here?”
Clearing my throat, I managed to form a coherent answer. “I just got off work. Closed tonight.”
Surprised, his eyebrows shot into his forehead. “What are you doing that has you working until midnight?”
“I work at Atra, the ink shop two doors down.”
“Oh,” he started and then stopped. “I thought you were working at a marketing firm.”
A tendril of pleasure sprang to life at the idea of Finn keeping track of me. We may have been friends once, but my sister was the connecting thread. And when she’d snapped their tie, Finn and I had drifted apart like florets from a blown dandelion.
He’d floated one way and I’d floated another. We’d lived in the same city going on three years now—since he got back from attending an out of town university—but the first time I’d seen him since he and Ivy had broken up had been at his father’s funeral a month ago.
“No, I was downsized but I still do freelance design work for them and a couple other companies, but my primary job is commissioned artwork at Atra. I also help around the shop, doing bookings and stuff. Tonight I had a late consultation with a friend of Tucker’s. He owns the shop,” I explained and then shut up, not wanting to ramble.
Finn nodded as if he found this interesting. “Sounds like you are putting your talent to good use. I always thought your work was tremendous.”
“Thanks. So what brings you here?”
He looked around. The man hunched over his coffee at the counter hadn’t moved. “I just got off work too.”
“I thought you were flipping houses?”
“Like you, I had a change in jobs.” His voice was grim. It didn’t take a genius to guess the change wasn’t a good one like mine was. Or maybe he was just angry about life right now, which he had every right to be.
“I know this sounds like a stupid Hallmark card, but it does get better.” I couldn’t hold myself back any longer. I placed my hand over his folded ones. “I promise.”
He tilted his head back, and his eyes fluttered closed, his ridiculously long lashes feathering across the top of his cheeks. Was he shutting out the pain or me? Or everything?
After long moments of silence, so long and so quiet that I could hear the hum of the refrigeration unit that held bottles of soda and beer behind the cash register, he spoke. “When I was thirteen, my dog Hunter died. Dad and I had bought him when I was four. He’d developed some kind of doggy liver disease, and we had to put him down. That was the worst kind of pain, I thought. But that was like a pin prick, while Dad’s death is like a dull knife dragging itself across my body one painful inch at a time.”
I bit down on my lip so I didn’t cry in front of him. I remembered that pain, and hated that someone I cared about had to suffer it too. “I’m not going to say it’s easy to get over a loss like that; only that it does happen—eventually.”
He snorted, a rough and unhappy sound. “I have been drinking. Not going to lie about that.” His eyes opened halfway, which was probably for the best. The piercing blue came off as too beautiful to be real and too mesmerizing to look away. “But not tonight. Tonight I decided to throw my bottles against the wall instead of drinking them, and because I’m a stupid fuck, I failed to realize I was standing in the splash zone.”
The food arrived before I could respond. He pulled a napkin from the tabletop dispenser and shoved half his fries onto it. “Eat or I won’t be able to.”
Obediently I put a fry into my mouth and watched him dig in. Grief or no grief, he was still eating, which was a good sign. And he didn’t seem drunk. No slurred words, no inappropriate comments.
“Sorry I jumped to conclusions,” I said after polishing off another fry.
“Don’t be. With your past, I can see why you’d be concerned,” he said between bites. My past. He was referring to dealing with my sister’s addictions, which had spiraled out of control after our parents died when she was nineteen.
“She’s better now,” I said. “If you were wondering.”
“Really?” Disbelief was clear in every long drawn-out letter.
“Really. She hit a bad place shortly after her release, but she’s been clean for…” I counted in my head, “almost thirty days.”
“That’s good. Good for her and for you.” He popped the rest of the burger into his mouth and washed it down with the entire glass of water.
“Did you chew that or inhale it?” I laughed, remembering the days he’d linger in our kitchen eating anything and everything Mom would cook.
“I haven’t eaten since noon so if I could have just pressed it into my face and absorbed it via osmosis, I would have.” We shared a laugh, just a small one, but I was breathless by the end. His smile was too much for me, and it was the first one I’d seen from him for so long. It lit up his eyes and revealed the deep creases on the corners of his mouth and his even, perfect white teeth.
“No burgers on the west side of the city?” I joked to disguise my growing and uncomfortable desire for him. Now was not the time nor the place. He was not ever to be mine.
His grin grew wider. “Why do you think I’m here? Trying to avoid being seen by my roommates. I don’t know if you met them at the funeral?” I shook my head. I’d only had eyes for Finn. “I live with four of them. Adam Rees is one.” Adam was a friend of Finn’s from high school. He had a famous father. That was about all I remembered, but I nodded anyway, and he continued. “Their idea of helping me cope is to get me involved in increasingly dangerous activities.”
“What have your roommates made you do?”
“What haven’t they made me do is the question. I’ve been to strip clubs, paintballing, ATVing, a firing range, rock climbing, fishing.” Finn tapped a finger on the table to punctuate each activity. “I’ve got two former Marines living with me, and I think they’re planning to push me out of an airplane. So I can’t go home.”
“You can stay with me,” I said with a nonchalant shrug.
His eyes drifted around my face, lingering on my lips and then dropping lower. I could feel my unbound breasts tighten under the cotton of my T-shirt. I hated bras and was small and perky enough I could get away without wearing them. The only problem was I had fat, eraser-sized nipples, and right now they were pointing directly at Finn. He stared at them for what seemed like an eternity.
“Is that right?” His voice was husky.
The air in the room disappeared, and I barely had enough breath to croak out, “No, Ivy’s there. She and I live together now. Have for—” I paused, not wanting to bring up her recent incarceration, “—for a couple of months,” I finished awkwardly.
He made a noise in the back of his throat, one I couldn’t decipher. “So have you been seeing anyone?”
I didn’t know what to make of that. Why was he at all remotely interested in my love life?
“No, not recently. Not since—”—” I broke off again.
“Not since Ivy got out of prison,” he said dryly.
“You heard?”
“I heard.” He was done with the subject of Ivy and that was okay with me. It made me uncomfortable to talk about her while I was perving on her ex-boyfriend.
Anxious to change the subject, I asked, “What about you?”
“I don’t think what I’ve been doing constitutes as seeing anyone. Not since my dad died. Not feeling it.” His blue gaze pinned me against the booth. I heard what he wasn’t saying out loud. He had been sleeping around and from the interested way he was eyeing me, the suggestion was I could be next. “I’ve been trying not to feel for a while but tonight? Maybe tonight should be different.”
It wasn’t a question; it was an invitation. And all the teenage feelings of longing and lust rushed over me until I was dry mouthed and full of want.
He looked out the window, considering something, and then back toward me. “You had a crush on me for a long time. Am I taking advantage of you?”
I didn’t pretend I was confused about what he was asking, even though it was a bit mortifying to be confronted by my unreciprocated feelings. I shook my head. “No. I think it’s the other way around.”
“It’s not. Why don’t we get out of this place?” He stood and threw two twenties on the table and waited for me to lead the way out.
I was acutely aware of his large frame behind me as I walked carefully across the tiled floor to the entrance. The heat of his body nearly burned me as he pressed against my back to reach around me with a large, work-roughened hand to push the glass door open.
He placed a hand on my lower back and guided me to his truck. It was a monster of a thing with big black tires and a menacing silver grill.
“You really expect me to climb into this thing?”
He opened the door and in one swift motion lifted me onto the seat. “I forgot what a bitty thing you are.”
“I’m not small. You’re just very tall. With a very large truck.”
His hands didn’t release my waist; instead, he moved closer. I opened my legs to make space for him.
“Don’t worry, Winter. Everything’s going to fit fine.” With a firm hand on my neck, he drew my face down to his. I heard his lips part before I felt them press against mine.
A thousand thoughts tumbled in my head. Would Ivy be okay with this? Should I really be taking advantage of a grief-stricken man? How were his lips soft and firm at the same time? Could I have an orgasm from just kissing? Was this whatlove felt like?
His mouth took mine in a firm possession—no hesitation. He wanted this if notme. And I took what he gave me because when did a girl ever get to kiss the boy she’d crushed over for years? Hardly ever.
Only in the movies.
I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and dug my hands into his hair, giving into every desperate desire I’d always tried to stomp down.
He groaned and pulled me tighter to him, the seat somehow perfectly situated at groin level so I felt the strong, heated evidence of his desire through our jeans. He rubbed his tongue along the edges of mine. He outlined my lips and then stroked the flat of his tongue against the roof of my mouth.
Even if I hadn’t had a crush on him, I would have been weak-kneed. Finn O’Malley knew how to kiss. He wasn’t just thrusting his tongue into me, he was exploring me, learning me, tasting me.
A large hand cupped one breast and squeezed it tightly. I cried out, part in pleasure and part in surprise at how the slight pain felt so good.
“Too rough?” he asked, pulling away.
I shook my head. He gave a half smile and yanked down the vee of my T-shirt until my bare breast popped out. The overhead light had gone off in the truck, but there was enough moonlight that anyone coming out of the café could probably see what we were doing.
But any concern I had ended when he placed his mouth over my ripe nipple. With the same lavish care he took kissing me, he explored every inch of my breast. The top received a dozen wet kisses and tiny nips. The areola he licked thoroughly, and the nipple was sucked on so hard and with such long draws that I felt as if a string connected my nipples to my pussy. A string I hadn’t known existed.
While he sucked, he made low growls of delight that fueled my lust. I squeezed my legs around his hips, drawing him closer, drawing him inside where only he could relieve the painful ache between my legs.
“Fuck,” he rasped, breaking our connection and backing away. The cool spring air made my taut nipple tighten even more. “Not here.” He gently straightened my T-shirt and then tucked me inside the truck.
We drove a short distance to a chain link fence that opened upon a press of a remote.
“What is this place?” I tried to catch my breath. Peering out the window into the dimly lit night, there appeared to be nothing but bare land filled with machinery and surrounded by fences. Beyond it was the river.
“My new job. Left to me courtesy of Mr. Sean O’Malley.” There was a faint twinge of bitterness. “Dad wanted to stamp his signature on the city and chose this downtown revitalization project. But then he died and left it to me, so I don’t know whether to love or hate him.”
“It’s okay to feel both. Love and hate,” I clarified unnecessarily.
“I suppose you’re right.” He stopped the truck in front of a trailer.
“You can cry you know. I did a lot of that.”
“I like to have my emotional release come a different way.”
“Like what?”
He shifted in the truck seat to look at me. His hand reached out to cup my face. “You’ve grown into a very beautiful woman. I’d very much like to take you inside the trailer and fuck you against the wall.”
“That’s kind of a coarse invitation.”
His thumb ran over my lower lip, using some of the moisture of my mouth to wet my lip. I shivered, and a grim but knowing smile spread across his face.
“It’s the only kind I’ve got in me. All the tender emotion has been eaten up by my dad’s death. I want to lose myself in you, Winter.”
He got out of the truck and opened my door, giving me an expectant look. Was I in or out?
I knew what he was saying. It wasn’t that he loved me, wanted to date me, or wanted me to be his girlfriend. He’d probably be disappointed if he saw me next to him tomorrow morning. He’d lie awake wondering if he had to chew off his own arm to escape. He was offering a hard fuck in his trailer, not lovemaking in his bed.
I knew all of this and still wanted him.
Maybe the sex would burn away his mystery, and I wouldn’t internally sigh when I heard his name. Maybe it wouldn’t. But it was a risk worth taking, and I planned to get my money’s worth.
“How many condoms do you have?” I answered boldly.
His eyes glittered in the moonlight. “How many do I need?”
“Depends on your stamina and recovery time.”
“Honey, you’re going to have a hard time walking out of the trailer when we’re done.”
My heart ached at his words, but I took his hand and followed him inside.
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