S.C. Wynne's Blog, page 5

ASSASSINS ARE PEOPLE TOO.

I was thinking about how everybody seems to need love. Even tough types who pretend they don’t, probably do. Even if it’s just a friend’s love. What is it about having people care about us that makes us happy? I know there are some single people who will say they’re perfectly happy on their own. But they aren’t truly on their own because being single doesn’t mean you don’t have family and friends who love you. 

What is it about being loved that makes you happy? Why couldn’t you be just as thrilled on your own?

ANSWER IN THE COMMENT SECTION AND THE THREE ANSWERS THAT RESONATE THE MOST WITH ME WILL WIN A FREE COPY OF MY LATEST STORY FROM LOOSE ID.

Now here’s an excerpt from Assassins Are People Too:

I stepped into the elevator, noticing my favorite twentysomething blond guy tucked neatly in the corner, holding a huge potted plant. We’d exchanged flirty glances over the months, but nothing more. He shifted his baby-blue gaze toward me and then slowly disappeared behind the fronds of the shrub. Hiding wouldn’t do him any good, because I made it a point to know who my neighbors were. It was safer that way.

The ding of the elevator distracted me from my musings, and when a tall Hispanic guy entered the car, I gave him all my attention. He was new to the building. Something was off. He was sweating way more than was normal for January in New York. I didn’t care for the way he watched me out of the corner of his eye either. He was hunting.

We all rode in companionable silence for a few floors with various people getting on and off. I noticed Slick—that was my nickname for the Hispanic guy because of his perspiration issue—glanced impatiently toward Blondie occasionally. I had a strong feeling he was frustrated that Blondie wasn’t getting off the car. That only made me even more suspicious of him.

As we neared the top floors, I guess Slick came to the end of his patience. He stepped to the side and slammed his palm on the elevator Stop button. The car lurched, and Blondie fell forward, dropping his plant and landing at my feet. Since I’d fantasized about him being on his knees in front of me numerous times, it distracted me just enough to give Slick time to take a swing at me. I barely got my arm up in time to block the punch.

I didn’t like Blondie being too near the action since I would’ve hated for his pretty face to get messed up. “Get in the corner,” I growled at him, wrestling with Slick.

Blondie scrambled back to his favorite spot, his eyes huge. Slick and I traded blows for a few minutes, and I did a few front kicks to show off, but Slick still somehow managed to get a knife out of his pocket. I had to give it to him. He was pretty good. I slapped the weapon out of his fist, and he whacked the side of my face with his elbow. I saw stars for a second. Slick shoved me against the mirrored back of the elevator and put his big, beefy hands around my throat.

This was embarrassing. The last thing I wanted was to die in front of Blondie. I kneed Slick in his groin, and he grunted like a bull, only loosening his grip slightly. Was he wearing a cup, or did he literally have balls of steel? It was hard to say.

I was getting light-headed from the lack of oxygen. How had I let this happen? I’d been too distracted by Blondie, I guess. I was going to pass out. Shit. That meant I was going to die, because Slick wasn’t here to play Twister—he was here to end me.

There was a flash of movement and shards of ceramic pieces and potting mix rained down on my head. Suddenly I could breathe. Slick was at my feet moaning, and Blondie was staring at me as if he wanted to be sick. His plant was in a pile on top of Slick, and I was alive because of it.

He’d sacrificed his rubber plant for me. What a guy.

I smacked the button to get moving again, and the elevator came to a stop at the next floor. When the doors swooshed open, I grabbed Blondie’s hand and pulled him after me, past the half-blind screeching lady from 36B. If I’d been alone, I’d have finished Slick off. It was risky not to. But if Blondie was stressed over his plant dying, he’d probably have a coronary if I killed Slick in front of him. We couldn’t go to my place. That was obvious. But I didn’t want to leave the building immediately in case Slick had someone watching the exits. I slipped into the stairwell, and we trudged up three flights of stairs to Blondie’s floor. From there I headed straight for Blondie’s apartment.

“Open it,” I commanded in a clipped voice when we reached his door.

“How did you know my apartment number?”

“I’m observant.”

 

NO MORE HIDING. IT’S LIVE!

I was a guest on Remmy Duchene’s blog and I thought I would go ahead and reblog what I wrote in case my followers hadn’t had a chance to read it.

Hiding Things

By S.C. Wynne

The idea for Hiding Things was inspired by memories and insecurities from my college days. I was a middle class kid, fortunate enough to get a full scholarship to a very expensive university in Malibu, CA. Most of the kids there were wealthy. Or I should say their parents were rich. I’d never thought that much about what I had and didn’t have as far as money went. I wasn’t a materialistic person then, or now, to be honest. That could not be said of many of my classmates.

I made some really great friends while I was there. But I remember being at parties where everyone was talking about all they’d accomplished and what great aspirations they had, and all I really wanted was to live a happy, simple life. I felt out of place and judged. I now wonder if most of that wasn’t coming from inside of me. Certainly some of it wasn’t. There were those who summed me up as unworthy and moved on to talk with those more like themselves. But what I also learned was most of those kids had just as many insecurities and problems as I did. They just hid them under a more affluent cover.

In the long run I figured out that it would be a hollow and sad thing to fight to be accepted for who I wasn’t.

There are those who will love you for what you have, and there are those who will love you for who you are. I choose the latter. I choose not to hide.

http://www.sc-wynne.com

AMAZON

DREAMSPINNER PRESS

ARe

WORK IN PROGRESS-A LITTLE DARKER THAN USUAL.

Howdy all,

I’ve been working on a story that’s darker than usual. My stuff always has tons of angst, but this one deals with suicide. It’s a New Adult story about a high school senior whose best friend kills himself. He finds out a lot about his friend and himself while dealing with the aftermath. This story was hard to write and easy all at the same time. It’s allowed me to tap into so many forgotten feelings from high school and college it’s been cathartic.

Ultimately, of course, my MC finds his way out of his depression by meeting an equally damaged individual. They help each other become whole again.

Here’s an excerpt: (Be warned there are sweary words)

I’m distracted by my thoughts of how terrified I am at ever making the first move when I hear Rory’s mother call my name. I’m frozen in place. What does she want?

“I’d love it if you’d say a few words, Lane.” She dabs at her red rimmed eyes with her tissue. “You knew him better than anyone.”

Finally. Validation that I was his best friend. I meet Baron’s gaze feeling triumphant. Until it sinks in she wants me to speak in front of everyone. I can’t do that. Does she not realize I never talk in front of people? How does she not know this about me? Why in God’s name did she not at least warn me, so I could have had some time to think about what to say? I swallow against the bile threatening to rise in my throat. With any luck I won’t throw up on the poor unsuspecting priest.

I force myself to walk to her side. I feel like I’m dragging my unwilling limbs along like a zombie. I’m certainly numb enough to be one of the undead. She takes my hand and I’m sure she must feel how cold and clammy my skin is. What should I say? Certainly not what I want to say; Fuck you, Rory, for killing yourself. Rot in hell Rory for leaving me here with all these other nobodies. I clear my throat, stalling for time. She’s shifting restlessly beside me. Well, lady, maybe you could have given me some God damned warning. That would have been nice.

“Rory was my best friend.” Great opening, genius. Everyone already knows this. My throat is like a rusty gate swinging open after years of disuse. Say something witty. Say something thought provoking. Say something. “I remember the first day I met Rory. He stopped some guys from tossing me head first into a trash can.”

That gets a little laugh. Perhaps I’m on a roll, now.

The smell of damp earth is heavy in the air, and a soft breeze blows my hair. Relax. Think about Rory. “From that point on Rory was always my protector.”

I see his face clearly in my mind. I’d had trouble doing that earlier, but now it’s there. I hear his husky laugh, and remember how he smells like the ocean when he hugs me. My heart aches because I never get to hold him again. “No one bothered me because they would have Rory to deal with.”

 I meet his mom’s gaze and there are tears streaming on her face. I gulp, pushing down the emotions that want to bubble up. “He was kind and…”  I’m shaking like a jackhammer as all eyes are on me. “He was sensitive…”

Why are they all watching me so intently? They must think I’m going to say something amazing. I’m not. Sweat trickles down my back and my legs prickle from the heat.  I’ll be lucky if I don’t pass out in the flower arrangements. “He was funny.” A crow squawks as it passes overhead. This moment would only be improved if he let loose a load of bird crap on my head. At least it would distract everyone from how awful my speech is.

Rory deserves such a better eulogy than I’m giving. God I suck. His image comes to my mind and my gut aches. I miss him. It’s like he’s been gone forever and it’s only been a week. I let him down so bad. I should have been more alert. I’m so fucking stupid. He needed me to notice and I missed the signs. I missed the signs and now Rory is gone forever. I’m so fucking useless.

I whisper, “I let him die. I failed my best friend and now he’s dead.”

There’s a gasp from the group of people staring. I drop Rory’s mom’s hand and head straight for my mother’s car. I can hear people mumbling in confusion but I just keep walking in a straight determined line. Why did my mom park so far away? I only stop when someone grabs my arm.

“Wait up, Lane.” I turn to find Baron beside me. He has that same nervous look again. The one that says he knows I don’t approve of him being Rory’s secret friend.

I’m embarrassed because hot tears are spilling down my cheeks. The statue is crying after all. “I failed him,” I choke out.

“No.”

I feel like I’m going to drown in my tears. “I’m a worthless piece of shit.”

“No. God, no.” Baron surprises me when he pulls me into his arms. He squeezes me so tight I feel like I can’t breathe, but I don’t really care. I’m tired of breathing anyway. His body is hard and warm. I can hear his heart pounding under my ear. “He hid it from you. He knew you’d try to protect him and he didn’t want that.”

I nod, even though it’s hard with him holding me so close. “He tricked me.”

Baron gives a tiny, hard laugh. “He fooled both of us.”

“I’m so angry at him.” My voice shakes with rage.

“Me too.”

He lets me go, and I swipe the tears off my face roughly. I don’t know why I started crying. Maybe it’s because everyone was staring at me. I hate speaking in front of people. Now I’m mad at Rory’s mom for making me do that.

Baron grips my shoulder. “Can we go get that coffee now? I can’t take another second of this scene.”

I can’t just leave without telling my mom where I’ve gone. But there’s no way in hell I’m walking back over to that group of gawking people. My hands tremble as I text Kit and ask him to tell mom I’m going to coffee with a friend. Kit and my mom know my only real friend was Rory, so they will probably be even more confused by my text.

I follow Baron to his black sports car. I give one parting glance toward the group of mourners. I’m just in time to see them lowering my best friend in the world into the cold, hard ground.

KISS AND TELL by S.C. Wynne

Here’s my latest from Evernight Publishing.

Beau Dexter is a male escort with zero belief in love. He had a rough beginning in life, and he’s not looking for anything other than a full roster of satisfied clients.

Seth Fontaine is blind and grieving the loss of his lover five years ago. But even a broken-hearted man has needs, and that’s where Beau comes in.

Neither one of them is looking for anything other than a little superficial fun. But when these two damaged men connect on a much deeper level than expected, Beau’s extreme fear of emotional intimacy almost derails them before they even begin.

EXCERPT:

I peered into the dark room behind her and glimpsed a cozy fire flickering but no other source of light. Two large armchairs faced the hearth where I assumed the mysterious Seth must be sitting.

“You can go in. Just don’t trip over the dog.” Maggie waved and sauntered back down the hall the way we’d just come.

“Don’t be afraid. I won’t bite.” The same voice from earlier came faintly through the door.

I stepped into the room, conscious of Maggie’s warning about a dog, and headed toward the direction of the voice.

“Sorry. I’m having a little trouble seeing you,” I said.

“Ha. That only seems fair.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I found him finally, seated in a large wing backed chair directly in front of the fire. I held out my hand and he ignored it. I figured he couldn’t see me any better than I could see him in the gloom. There was a jingling sound and a fluffy canine of some indescribable breed circled around in front of the fire, and then plopped down with a grunt.

“That’s Felice. She won’t bite.”

Since the dog had done little else than breathe since I’d arrived, I had no doubt my safety wasn’t threatened. “Did you want to stay here or go to your bedroom?” I asked, slipping out of my pea coat and draping it over another chair.

“Well, if we stay down here we’ll have to wrestle Felice for a spot in front of the fire.”

I laughed. “True. She looks very comfortable.”

“What’s your name?”

“Beau Dexter.”

“Fancy.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s me all right. I thought about wearing my top hat, but I decided against it.”

He laughed. “I don’t know if the agency explained I like to talk first and get to know the person I’m going to fuck. Hope that’s not a problem for you.”

I wasn’t used to people being so blunt. But, after all, that was why I was here. “Not at all. For the money you’re paying you could paint my nails for all I care.”

He stood, and he was slightly taller than me, with wide shoulders and long legs. The flickering fire cast shadows on his angular features, and I could see he was handsome in an aristocratic sort of way. “Do you want a drink? Some of the guys prefer to be buzzed when they screw. Are you that kind?”

“I prefer my senses to be unaffected if that’s alright.” I had nothing against having a few drinks with a client, but when I didn’t know them I preferred to be completely sober, so I could cue into what seemed to please them and what didn’t.

“Huh, a man with a good work ethic. How refreshing.”

I couldn’t tell if he was kidding, because he seemed to have a dry sense of humor. “It feels better for me too if I’m not drunk.” I attempted a flirty vibe.

He inhaled sharply. “Interesting. A whore who actually likes to fuck.”

“Depends on the client.” I didn’t take offense at his use of the word ‘whore’ since I had a feeling he was doing it on purpose to see if he could push my buttons. I found sometimes men who used escort services seemed to resent the fact that they liked using escort services.

He laughed and the sound was warm and charming, definitely at odds with his prickly demeanor. “Oh, thank God. You have a sense of humor. The last two didn’t get me at all.”

I smiled but didn’t speak.

“Why are you a prostitute?” he asked abruptly.

Was this him ‘getting to know me’?

I’d never had a John ask me why I had sex for money. Most of them were just happy to get down to business. I weighed whether to be honest with him, or to lie and tell him a story that might seem more romantic. People seemed to respond to things like my mother needs surgery for cancer and she has zero medical insurance, or I’m putting my little brother through college. I think lies made those of us in my profession seem selfless and noble.

“That’s quite a pause.” He laughed. “Trying to make up a lie?”

“No. I have plenty of those ready to go.”

I could make out a white smile in the shadows of his face. “Me too.”

He intrigued me. He was friendly and yet standoffish all at the same time. “What do you lie about?”

“Life. But I lie to myself mostly.” I grinned.

“Do you mind if I ask why you pay for sex?” He was extremely good looking, and seemed intelligent and articulate. I was curious as to why he’d use our service.

“Ah, ah, ah. You haven’t answered me yet.”

Sighing, I leaned against the chair behind me. “I do it mostly for the money. Boring I know. But I also do it because I enjoy it. I have a strong carnal appetite, and I enjoy fucking horny men. Plus, people who pay for sex are different from people you hook up with in a bar.”

“In what way?” he asked softly.

“Well, random people in a club are looking for love, aren’t they?” I tilted toward him as I spoke. “I mean, they pretend they aren’t, and they know the odds are slim. But they just keep hoping.” I held up my crossed fingers.

“And you aren’t?”

I huffed. “What, hopeful? Looking for love? No.”

“Why?” He sounded breathless.

“Because I don’t believe in love.” I lifted my chin. I was slightly nonplussed to be discussing my personal beliefs about such things.

“Uh, oh.” He smirked. “Did some boyfriend break your heart?”

I moved away and ran my hand over my coat. This conversation had certainly taken an odd turn. “That would be a cliché, don’t you think?”

“It would be disappointing. I must admit. I would hope your story is more complex, because you seem slightly mysterious. It would be so boring if you just caught your boyfriend fucking some other guy in your bed, and you swore off love for all eternity.”

“I promise you it isn’t anything that simple.”

He rubbed his hands together. “God, you’re getting me all turned on.”

I laughed and returned to my spot closer to him. “Good. That’s why I’m here.” I leaned in as I spoke and tried to sound seductive.

“Is that a subtle hint you’d rather stop talking about yourself?” That white smile reappeared.

“I still haven’t heard why you use hookers.” I glanced around the room. Now that my eyes were adjusted to the gloom I could see there were some nice, expensive pieces of furniture. There were wall to wall bookcases, and a Georgian-style leather top writing desk that would easily go for three thousand dollars. The walls were adorned with tapestries and ornately framed paintings. “Rich guys don’t usually have any trouble getting laid, especially good looking rich guys.”

“Oh, well thank you. But unlike you I actually do believe in love.” He spoke quietly. “Or at least I did. I’ve had my chance at it and now it’s gone.”

The poignant tremor in his voice got to me. “What do you mean?”

He sighed. “I lost the love of my life. Well, I didn’t misplace him or anything. He died.”

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged. “It was five years ago.”

“Still, I’m sure it’s very painful.” I touched his arm and noticed he moved away ever so slightly.

Laughing gruffly, he crossed his arms. “Well, even a man with a broken heart has needs. That’s where you come in.”

“I’ll do what I can to help you forget.”

He smirked. “No. You’re here to help me remember.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sex helps me feel alive again. I don’t really love people that much and I keep to myself mostly. When I do force myself to go out and socialize, it’s hard not to resent the happiness other couples have because I’ve lost Darren. I’m afraid losing him has changed me for the worst. Most of the time, I walk around like a zombie trying to feel something. Anything, really.”

I was touched with an urge to help him. To please him. Hopefully, he could grab a few hours of pleasure with me and he’d feel renewed on some level. I could see his handsome features fairly well by now, and I had a sudden urge to kiss his full lips.

He sucked in a breath when I touched his belt buckle. “What are you doing?”

“My job.” I leaned in and kissed him. His warm lips parted in surprise, sending a little zip of excitement straight to my balls. When the lip lock was over I said, “I came here to fuck you, and I’m going to do that now.” Once his buckle was undone, I slowly lowered the zipper, noticing his crotch was bulged. Good. He was already turned on. That made my job a little easier.

He swallowed loudly, and his breathing sped up. “I thought we might go upstairs first.”

I chuckled and pushed his pants below his hips, aroused by his gasp. “No.”

“Okay.”

“Have you ever been fucked bent over a chair, Seth?” I whispered.

He shook his head, and his clean male scent reached my nostrils. “No.”

“You’re going to love it. You’ll see.” I pulled a packet of lube and a condom from my pocket, and I turned him slowly until his back was to me. “Bend over.” I ran my hand up his spine, kneading the tense muscles.

He hesitated and then complied. “Be gentle,” he said softly.

“That’s not really what you want, now is it, Seth?”

Amazon

Evernight Publishing

EDITS SOMETIMES FEEL LIKE A TRIP TO THE DENTIST

Editors are my partners in crime. I know this intellectually. But still, whenever I see edits sitting in my in-box, I must admit my stomach clenches. I instinctively brace for what’s to come.

 

Some publishing houses are pretty intense. Others do a lighter edit. But they are all centered around pointing out how you did something wrong, or could do it differently. Just like the doctor with that damn tooth drill, no matter how much you floss and brush, the dentist always finds something you could have done better. Right? It’s the nature of the job.

But I also want to point out that I love my editors. LOVE them. Without them it would be a terrifying world. Sometimes I can’t believe the stuff they catch that I didn’t notice. I’ve accidentally changed the spelling of names, or mentioned someone is under twenty-one and then proceed to have them drinking wine at a restaurant. Hair colors change without warning. I would be lost without their watchful eyes. They protect me from myself. Plus, if you have a good editor they will give you positive feedback as well. I’ve been so fortunate to have great editors who encourage me and also enlighten me.

Every time I sell a story to a new publisher there’s a nervous anticipation until I meet the new editor. Will they get my voice? Will they understand my snarky humor? I’ve been so fortunate to have fantastic editors. We trade little funny comments back and forth. They make me laugh out loud a lot. I get a ton of strange looks from people who don’t understand why I’m guffawing at my computer.

The other side of the coin is editors are amazing in their ability to not take things personally. It’s such a relief to me that when I do disagree on something they don’t become offended. They are wonderful about accepting that we authors don’t always agree with them. I’m in awe of how beautifully they keep their egos in check. Editors discuss everything so rationally. It calms me because I know they will listen to my concerns, and not steam roll over me. That takes a special person to be able to do that.

I still remember my first edit. (I’m eyeballing you, Kathleen.)I had so much to learn. I still do. And I didn’t understand that many times editors are simply making suggestions. You don’t have to accept them. (Unless it’s house style or something non-negotiable. Like changing the capital of California to Santa Rosa because you think it’s prettier there than Sacramento.) In the beginning, I thought if an editor pointed something out I HAD to make the changes. That was definitely terrifying, and a bazillion times more stressful than it needed to be. Yes, a bazillion. You heard me. I’m grateful that my editors insist on how important it is for me to love my story. They encourage me to not make changes that will ruin the book for me.

I guess these feelings I have are normal. I like it when something is normal about me. No one likes to be corrected or criticized. Even when you know the other person is right. The more seasoned authors I talk with even get stressed when edits arrive in their in-boxes. That’s comforting to know. No matter how long you’ve been writing, or brushing your teeth, there will always be more to learn.

I’m glad I have my editors along to guide me. I’m thankful for Kathleen Calhoun, Sue Adams, KC and Elizabeth London for all they have taught me and continue to teach me. I’m so proud and happy to work with them. I’m secure in the knowledge that they have my back. I won’t make a fool of myself if they have anything to say about it. And luckily they do have lots to say about it.

I’m eternally grateful for my editors. I have nothing but warm fuzzy feelings toward them. I wish I could say the same about my dentist.

 

 

New GFY THE FIRE UNDERNEATH by S.C. Wynne

I guess I have a little thing for firemen since this is my second story about firemen. They’re both GFY also. I know some people don’t like the GFY type of story, but I find them entertaining.

What do you suppose it is that makes us fond of the GFY storyline? Is it because we love the idea of temptation? Is it giving into our hidden desires is titillating to us humans?

Why do you enjoy GFY stories? Go ahead and leave a comment below if you would be interested in a free copy. I’ll pick one of you little rascals so you can indulge your GFY fetish. :)

Be sure to leave your email in your comment so I can send the winner their free e-book!

 

 

AMAZON LINK

ARe LINK

 

BLURB:

Firefighter Joe Allegretti has some flames that need putting out the minute he meets sexy fellow firefighter, Dallas Williams. But the heat he’s feeling has nothing to do with the burning buildings nearby.

Not counting one curious kiss with another guy in college, Joe has always dated women. But as soon as Dallas appears Joe can’t seem to ignore the scorching fire underneath that rages for the other man. But Joe struggles with what others might think of him if he dates Dallas openly, and Dallas isn’t interested in hiding what he feels for Joe. Joe’s a brave man, but is he brave enough to fight for what he wants?

 

EXCERPT:

The first time I saw Dallas, he appeared like an archangel from the burning church. Or at least, what I always imagined an archangel might look like. Tall and imposing, he strode confidently through the black smoke swirling around him like a heated tornado, and he carried Father Bronte over his shoulder like he was a feather pillow. I grabbed the padre and helped lower him onto a nearby stretcher.

“Is everyone out?” Father asked weakly. Then he fell into a coughing fit that would have made a pneumonia victim sound healthy.

“You don’t need to worry about nobody but you at the moment,” I muttered, shaking my head, and holding him down gently as he tried to sit up. “We’re in charge of saving souls right now.”

The EMTs approached, nudging me out of the way, and descended upon Father Bronte with needles and oxygen masks. Dallas and I moved back so we didn’t get stuck by mistake with one of the syringes.

Two guys from my truck ran into the building to take our places, and I pulled off my mask while Dallas did the same. His smile was white against his tanned face, and his blue eyes were rimmed by long, black lashes. I wasn’t the kind of guy who usually noticed things like that, so I was embarrassed when I did.

“Thanks for the assist,” he said, checking the back of my helmet. “Allegretti, is it?”

“No problemo.” I stuck out my hand. “Yep, name’s, Joe Allegretti. Fourth generation firefighter.”

He hesitated and pulled off his soot covered gloves. Then he grabbed my hand in his strong grasp. The warmth of his flesh against mine did weird things to my knees. What the fuck is wrong with me?

“I’m Dallas.”

“You a probie?” I asked. It was an innocent question, but he looked like I’d accused him of running off with my Aunt Marie’s silverware.

“Is that some kind of a joke?” His bright gaze that had seemed so warm and friendly earlier now looked rather hostile.

I laughed. “I only ask because I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Well, I’ve never seen you around before either, but that doesn’t mean I’d call you ugly and kick your dog.”

I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve and grimaced. “Let’s start over. I’m Joe, and you are?”

He grinned, and oh, Jesus, it was pretty too. “Dallas Williams. Not a probie.”

“You should just introduce yourself that way from now on. It’ll save a lot of trouble.”

“I might have to do that. You’re the third guy today who asked me that same question.” He glanced over his shoulder toward Father Bronte. The older man seemed to be doing better now, and his cheeks had some pink in them. “I’m no probie, but I’m new to this part of town.”

“You with 55?”

“I am now.”

It was obvious the fire was winding down since the smoke had stopped billowing from the steeple, and most of the crews were pulling in the hoses. Dallas scanned my face and his eyes stopped on my mouth. That strange fact sent a little shiver of something through me. Not an unpleasant shiver either.

“You’re Engine 480?” he asked.

I nodded. “Best damn house in the city.”

One of my guys high fived me on the way past. “Hellz yeah.” He continued on his merry way without another word after his show of solidarity.

Dallas held back a smile, but I could see amusement in his pretty eyes. “That’s going to come as a huge surprise to the boys at my house.”

“Pfft. You boys at 55 like to dream big.”

“That’s because everything about house 55 is big.” He wiggled his brows and I flushed.

“It’s weird I’ve never seen you around before.” I moved toward my truck as I spoke, and he followed like he didn’t want to stop talking with me.

“Not really. I was at a small house in upper Buffalo. I kind of miss the small town thing, but I was looking for a little more action, so I transferred to 55.”

“This city will keep you plenty busy. We got lots of pyros and lousy drivers. Never a dull moment around here.” I slammed shut one of the locker compartment doors on the engine. “It was nice to meet you, Dallas.”

“Today’s my birthday, so I guess God was smiling on me.” A lock of blond hair fell onto his forehead as he spoke, like a supermodel photo shoot arranged from heaven above.

My stomach warmed and I wrestled with the perplexing attraction I was feeling for this guy. I wasn’t into dudes. Never had been, really. Okay, I’d kissed a guy once in college when we were both drunk off our asses and curious. But since then I’d only been with women.

“Why you working on your birthday? Shouldn’t you be in a hot tub somewhere with a bottle of bubbly and a redhead?”

He ran his gaze over my auburn hair and he smirked. “The night is young.”

Oh, fuck. Was he coming on to me? The fact that I wasn’t immediately repulsed actually worried me.

I laughed and jumped a little when the Captain leaned on the horn of the engine.

“We got another call, Allegretti,” he yelled at me. “Stop flirting and get in the truck.”

I felt like it was my face that was on fire now, instead of the church. “I guess I’ll see you around.” I waved and headed for my company.

“If you feel like wishing me a proper happy birthday I’ll be at Soronto’s around eleven tonight.” Dallas wasn’t shy, that was for certain. “Ask your mom if she’ll let you come out and play with me.”

I shook my head and climbed into the truck, ignoring the curious glances of my fellow firemen.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

I wanted to take a second to thank all of the readers, and fellow writers who have supported me by buying my books during the year. I hope you have a wonderful holiday season surrounded by friends and family! Be sure to eat too much and drink too much, and laugh way too much! :)

S.C.

FALLING INTO LOVE IS LIVE!

My latest M/M romance is available at Looseid.com today! It’s a story about a guy who needs a change and his New Year’s Resolution is the catalyst to that. I’ll give you a little teaser down below!

“Randall said they aren’t going to be able to give us our final paychecks for a while.”

“Those asshats,” she growled. “Randall spends money like it grows on trees, but they can’t pay their employees?” Her eyes were wide with disbelief.

“Apparently.”

“I’m sorry, Chris. I’m sure you’ll find something better.” She patted my arm and rested her hand on my wrist, giving it an encouraging squeeze. I finished off my wine and refilled my glass. “Well, there go the skiing lessons, I guess. I hear they’re not cheap.”

She straightened suddenly and snapped her fingers. I half expected a lightbulb to appear above her head. “I just remembered an ad I saw yesterday in the WANTED section of the paper.”

“Organ donations?”

“No.” She snorted.

I swallowed loudly. “I’ll kill myself before I ask my dad for money.”

“I know.” She gripped my hand. “Now hear me out before you reject my plan.”

“I love how you have such faith in your idea,” I said dryly. “It’s very reassuring.”

“It’s just that sometimes you’re a tad stubborn,” she murmured, drumming her fingers on the table. “You were a waiter before you started at the gallery, right?”

I nodded, looking at her suspiciously because her expression resembled a mad scientist. “Yes. And I was a barista before that, and a dog walker, and I worked at a stationery store. What about it?”

“I only care about the waiter gig. They loved you at that Italian restaurant. If you hadn’t fucked the head chef, you’d still be there no doubt.”

“He hit on me first.”

“It doesn’t matter. The point is, you have restaurant experience.”

“Don’t tell me that’s your big idea?” I looked at her like she was crazy. “You want me to go back to waiting tables?”

“Listen, it’s different. You can kill two birds with one stone.” She slurped her wine, superbly confident in whatever plan she was about to unload on me.

“I don’t think I’m the only one who’s drunk at this table.”

“Oh please. This shit is like drinking Earl Grey to me.” She held up her glass dismissively.

“You were saying?” I prodded.

“Right. You know Muddy Mountain? The ski resort?” she asked, perky as could be.

“The big lodge north of here?” I tried to remember what little I did know about the place. I’d never actually been there, but I had seen brochures. Expensive, full-color, glossy brochures.

“Yeah. The one that famous actor built.”

“What about it?” I asked.

“The lodge is expanding and looking for help.” She seemed to think she’d told me something amazing. She watched me expectantly.

“I think I’m missing something.”

“They’ve been running ads for months, looking for servers for their main restaurant,” Jenny said.

“Let me get this straight. Not only do you want me to go back to waiting tables, you want me to do it three hours away from my home?”

“Pretty much.” She nodded.

“You do realize that’s a crazy idea, right?”

If that seems interesting pop on over to Looseid.com and grab a copy! 

sc-wynne.com

Creativity is such an odd thing when examined.

 

 

 

Every now and then it strikes me how odd us humans are. And I mean that in a good way.

We create books, songs and paintings and then we hold them out to others, much like Stuart from Mad TV, and we say “Look what I can do!” 

It’s such a funny thing really. I mean people will assemble and pay money to have others sing for them, or read to them. Humans love to be entertained. We need to hear the stories and see the pictures other humans dream up. It’s wonderful that there are the ones who need to express themselves and the ones who are interested in what others have to say. And the majority of us are probably a mixture of both.

These made up books, songs and movies actually make us cry, and laugh. The stories stick with us for days sometimes and we can’t shake that make believe world. I remember reading A Separate Peace as a teenager and I was depressed for days. But I loved that book and how it made me feel. Ordinary People did the same thing to me.

There are entire multi-million dollar industries based solely on people making up stories for others to enjoy. We pay some actors millions of dollars to pretend to be someone else just so we can experience the moment with them. We re-read and re-watch movies over and over, wanting to feel those initial emotions from the first time all over again. Humans crave this hijacking of our brains. Cats…they like to play with string. Dogs like to chase balls. Humans? We’ll pay good money just to be dragged away from reality for an hour.

Strange as creativity seems to me sometimes, I’m so thankful for it. I’m honored to experience other peoples stories and songs. I’m so happy that I get to share my thoughts and emotions through my characters. It’s cathartic, and fulfilling and it feeds something deep inside me that nothing else could.

www.sc-wynne.com

 

 

 

FLASH FICTION HOLIDAY BLOG HOP!

L.C. Chase, Thorny Sterling and Kris T. Bethke came up with a little flash fiction blog hop idea and it sounded like fun so I signed on. I can’t wait to see what all the other authors come up with!

My story is called Christmas Lessons and it’s inspired by this photo that L.C., Thorny and Kris found:

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blog Hop!

Here’s my free story! Enjoy. :)

Christmas Lessons

 

I probably should have stopped after the third egg nog and rum. But I was pissed off at Trace. The tinsel on the tree moved lazily from the chill seeping in through the windows, and the little red and blue lights blinked on and off between the green branches. Christmas Eve. Wasn’t this the time of year you’re supposed to be snuggled up on the couch with your significant other? Maybe tearing each other’s reindeer sweaters off in a fit of unbridled passion? Instead here I sat, alone. Sadly guzzling my holiday beverage from a snowflake glass.

Everybody had warned me not to get involved with Trace. Brad, he’s immature.  He’s incapable of falling in love. God, what a fucking sap I’d been. But when I thought about his husky laugh, or the way he wrapped his arms around me, resting his chin on my shoulder when we waited in line at the movie theatre my stomach fluttered like a teenager on a prom date.

I checked the time on my cell. Midnight. Awesome. Should I just call him and tell him never mind? Would I feel better about myself if I took a stand? Maybe a text would be better. That way he couldn’t talk me into anything. He had a way of doing that to me. Come on, Brad, don’t go to your family’s house this year for Christmas. Stay home with me. It’ll be amazing. You don’t want to leave me all alone, do you?

“No, Trace. Of course I wouldn’t leave you all alone on Christmas Eve. Only a heartless prick would do that to someone,” I shouted at the fireplace, and a log fell, sending sparks up into the chimney. “You need to fucking grow a pair and end it with him,” I mumbled to myself, dropping my hands to my lap feeling drained. The little pair of ceramic pug dogs on the hearth watched me with a pained expression. Jesus, even the statues had a date for the evening.

The doorbell rang and my stomach jumped. I sat there for a few seconds and the buzzer sounded again several times. Rising slowly I went to the door feeling numb. He stood on the porch looking gorgeous. Did he have to look so innocent? His black hair was ruffled from the cold wind and he was flushed, his eyes glittering in the light from the foyer.

“Now, I know you’re mad, but hear me out.” He started speaking the minute the door opened.

I stared at him trying to summons something other than the lust that radiated through me at the sight of him. God, he smelled so God damned good: cinnamon, vanilla. Whatever the mixture of fragrance was it made him smell like a delicious man cookie.

“You’re late.” I hated that I sounded like an angry fish wife. I’d hoped to come across calm, assured, unaffected by whatever this was I was ending with him. Was it a relationship? Were we just fuck buddies? I didn’t know anymore.

He shivered. “Can I come in?”

“I think you should go home.”

His perfect brows rose. “Are you kidding me? I just braved a snowstorm to be here with you.”

I waved my hand at him. “Don’t do that. Don’t start acting like I’m in the wrong here. You were supposed to be here at eight. The Moroccan chicken was delicious by the way. Yours is in the garbage disposal unfortunately.”

He dropped his head and sighed. “Brad, please let me in so I can explain what took so long.” He allowed a small, sexy smile and my gut tumbled. “I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

Well, we wouldn’t want that.

I exhaled impatiently and stepped aside. “Make it quick.” I held my breath as he walked by so I wouldn’t be seduced by his enticing scent. “But I have to tell you unless you were busy brokering world peace don’t get too comfy because you’re going home in a minute.”

He stood in front of the tree, and peeled off his jacket, supremely confident I wouldn’t be able to follow through on my threat of throwing him out. Couldn’t blame him really. I too was unsure if I had it in me. He was wearing a horrendous red and white blinking Santa Claus sweater and he watched me expectantly. It was so awful I was unable to hold back the laugh the erupted from me.

“What the hell is that?” I pointed toward his glowing shirt.

“This is me doing something for you for a change.” His smile faltered when I frowned.

“I’m not following.” He started to approach me and I took a step back. “I can hear you from there.”

“Aww, come on, Brad.” His pretty mouth turned down and my heart knocked against my ribs. How was it I felt like the bad guy for disappointing him?

“A corny sweater doesn’t make it all better.”

He grimaced. ‘No, I know that. I’m late because I drove to Buffalo to pick up something for you.”

I widened my eyes. “That’s a two hour drive each way.”

“Tell me about it. I made really good time. I did round trip in three and a half and during a blizzard too.” He puffed his chest out.

“I think you may have a brain freeze of epic proportions.”

“Brad, come on.” He ignored my go away motions and he pulled me in for a hug.

“You’re such an inconsiderate jerk,” I grumbled all the while melting into him as his hard thighs pressed against me, his lips finding mine. His kiss was warm, and gentle. I wanted to push him away but I didn’t.

Just one last kiss and then I’ll send him packing.

He lifted his head and studied my face. I could feel his heart pumping in his chest, like he was nervous. Trace was never nervous. “I know you didn’t go home for Christmas because I asked you to stay in town with me.” His voice was soft.

I nodded and buried my face into his throat, inhaling the spicy scent of him feeling sick at the idea this might be the last time. I was hurt he’d left me sitting here all night alone and I knew I couldn’t let him treat me like this. No matter how much I wanted to ignore his behavior tonight, I deserved better.

“You know Trace, I’m not in my twenties.” I pulled back and met his curious gaze.

He frowned. “Neither of us are.”

“Right.” I cleared my throat and took a step back, crossing my arms across my chest defensively. “You know the holidays mean a lot to me and I stupidly blew off my family to be here with you.”

“I know.”

“Then where the fuck were you?” My composure slipped.

He swallowed hard and he held out his hands. “You’re probably going to think I had a stroke or something, but early this morning I started thinking about how much you love the holidays.”

“So you decided to let me spend Christmas Eve alone?”

He winced. “Shit. No.” He glanced down at his silly sweater. “You told me your family always wears horrible holiday sweaters, right?”

I nodded and squinted at him.

“My epiphany hit me so late this morning I didn’t have much time to pull anything together.” He put his hands on either side of my shoulders. “Wait here.”

Turning before I could stop him, he disappeared out the front door. I stood there listening to the clock ticking and the fire popping wondering what the hell he was up to.

He came in carrying a bunch of packages which he dumped on the table. Breathing hard he turned to me grinning. “I got all the stuff you and your family usually have on Christmas day.”

I frowned and approached the table. “You did what?”

He stood with his hands on his hips. “I bought the Camellia smoked ham you guys always have, and I got those French onion ring things to go on top of that green bean casserole dealie you love.”

I stood with my mouth hanging open and he laughed nervously.

“That’s why I went to Buffalo. I called every place locally and nobody had the ham you and your family always have. So I drove up to Buffalo to this little Polish deli that had two hams left.”

I plopped down on one of the dining room chairs and stared at him and then at the bags. “You drove two hours each way to get me a ham?”

“Merry Christmas?” he said uncertainly holding his hands out in a sweeping gesture. When I didn’t say anything he hugged his body and sighed. “I thought you’d be happy.”

“I’m in shock.” He’d paid that close of attention to me when I’d talked about my family holidays?

He knelt before me and took my hands. His dark lashes rested on his smooth cheeks and he spoke quietly. “It occurred to me when I asked you to stay here with me for the holidays that I was in real trouble.” He glanced up with a semi-guarded expression.

“God, how I wish you would speak English right now,” I muttered frowning.

He exhaled sharply. “I feel like I’m being so obvious.”

“And yet I’m confused.”

“I’m trying to say I don’t do holidays. Holidays are how I dump guys. Nothing says I don’t want anything serious with you like avoiding someone you’re fucking on Christmas. It’s not like I have a family that I’m visiting, right? I just choose not to spend the holiday with them and they usually get the message.”

My heart tightened in my chest. He was being amazingly open with me right now, it sort of made me feel unbalanced, but happy. I thought back to sitting here alone tonight and how ready I’d been to be dumped. “I assumed that was why you weren’t showing up all evening.”

A line appeared between his brows. “That’s what I’m saying. Something’s wrong with me.” He really did look concerned.

“Hmm. So you got me a ham for Christmas.” I laughed.

“And green beans, wine, potatoes.” He squinted and then snapped his fingers. “Oh, and that cabernet you like so much.”

I pulled him to me and trapped him between my thighs planting my mouth on his. He gave a tiny groan and pushed his tongue between my lips, deepening the kiss. When I finally lifted my head I was breathless and we held each other tight, as if we were at the top of a roller coaster about to plummet.

“This is a turning point for us.” I spoke slowly waiting for his response.

“Yes.” I heard him swallow next to my ear. “The whole drive to Buffalo I was excited. I couldn’t wait to surprise you.”

I pulled back and fiddled with Santa’s button eyes on his sweater. “You should have called.”

He studied my face. “Yeah. When I saw how pissed off you were it occurred to me.”

I laughed feeling amazingly light hearted all at once. “I get to have a real Christmas dinner with you?”

He grinned and then his frown returned. “God, you do realize I don’t know how to cook at all, right?”

I smirked. “Not surprised.”

“I mean I literally burn water. I stink at it big time.” He stood and riffled through the bags.

“I know how to cook. I usually help my mom do the entire meal.” I squinted at him searching the bags. “What are you looking for?”

“Found it.” He pulled an apron out and held it up. It was lime green, with a big black buckle and legs painted on the front with elf shoes. “I bought a Christmas apron.”

I chuckled. “You expect me to wear that thing?”

He winked and pulled me in close kissing me gently. Then when the kiss ended he added. “The apron is for me. You’ll be cooking naked I hope.”

“What?” I asked, laughing. “You expect me to cook Christmas dinner au natural?”

He wiggled his brows. “Well, I should get what I want for Christmas too.”

I looked at the clock on the bookcase behind his head. “You know technically it’s Christmas day, right?”

“Yep.”

“How about you put your apron on and I give you an early present?” I grinned and led him toward the bedroom.

“You’re getting me all turned on you’re so assertive tonight.”

“I did have three eggnogs and rum while I was waiting for you.” I slipped the neck of the elf apron over his head, and tied the straps behind his back.

“Was that before or after you dumped my helping of Moroccan chicken down the drain?’

I sighed. “I was lying. I put your plate in the oven so it would stay warm.”

His mouth softened. “I knew you wouldn’t let me starve.”

I leaned my forehead against his. “I can’t believe you remembered all that stuff I said about Christmas dinners at home.”

“It was a surprise to me too.” He grinned winding his arms around my waist. “So we’re good right?”

“God, as insane as it seems we’re really good.”

“Okay, well then let’s get our elf on.” He tugged me.

“Technically, I’m about to get my elf off,” I said, and we stumbled into the bedroom laughing.

If you like this story there are plenty of full stories for sale on S.C. Wynne’s website!

Merry Christmas!

S.C. Wynne