Stylo Fantome's Blog
August 22, 2017
Muscle Memory excerpt
I shared this excerpt of Muscle Memory with Natasha is a Book Junkie on Monday, and now I'm sharing it with y'all!
MUSCLE MEMORY © Stylo Fantôme 2017
EXCERPT
“I can’t believe I used to be this guy,” Jon mumbled, gently touching the computer screen.
It was a photo of him and her, outside of some nightclub. Delaney looked great in a cute outfit, with her hair up in a bun on top of her head. The guy with her, though, looked completely untrustworthy. He wore a long olive green jacket with a black knit sweater underneath, some jeans with holes in them, and a large pair of boots. He’d just gotten his hair dreaded, and he stared dead eyed into the camera, not even a hint of a smile.
I don’t even look like him anymore.
They weren’t all like that, though. There were lots of him and her smiling together. Laughing. At parties, at stores, at restaurants. Everywhere. Together, all the time.
He was almost through all the pictures when he realized he hadn’t seen any with them kissing. Lots with their arms around each other, but nothing truly intimate. That just couldn’t be possible, every couple had at least one photo of themselves kissing.
After a little bit of digging, he found a subfolder labeled “Private” – jackpot. He shifted to the center of the sofa and balanced the laptop on his knees, then opened the subfolder and clicked on the first picture.
They were standing next to the entrance to a subway stop. He had Delaney’s face in his hands and he was kissing her. Even through the pixels, he could feel the passion. Her mouth was parted, her bottom lipped trapped between his. It sent a shiver down his back and caused his stomach to sink, but he kept looking.
There were so many. Most of the selfie variety, but there were a bunch obviously taken by friends and then sent to him. Him and Delaney, kissing in restaurants, bars, taxis, trains. Everywhere. Anywhere. Holding each other, touching each other.
There was one of her straddling his lap while they were in a booth at some bar. She was standing on her knees and he had his hands up the back of her shirt, and they were staring at each other so intensely, it took his breath away a little.
How could I possibly forget something like that?
But if he thought that was intense, the next batch were even more so. Taken in a dark room, the flash had lit them up like beacons and drowned the edges of the pictures in blackness. It almost felt like he was looking at photographs of dreams.
They were in a bed, flat on the floor, if he wasn’t mistaken. All at awkward angles, yet still beautiful in odd ways. He’d been the one taking the pictures – Delaney’s mouth was in the top of one shot, her bright red bottom lip trapped between her teeth. Her arms were raised, disappearing out of the frame. She’d been wearing some sort of tight gold knit sweater, no bra, and a pair of black underwear. She was again straddling his lap, and his free hand was under her shirt, cupping her breast.
He stared down at his right hand, at his palm. Could feel it tingle. Could swear he remembered the softness of her skin.
In the next shot she was bending over and his hand was on her ass, and the next she had switched positions entirely. She was between his legs, her back against his chest. His arm was snaking down the front of her body, his hand inside those black panties. The tingling sensation on his palm grew.
His favorite picture, though, was surprisingly tame in comparison.
They were in a men’s bathroom somewhere – it was very clear they’d had no shame whenever they’d been together. Delaney was holding up her phone, taking a picture of their reflection in a full length mirror.
She was against a wall, arching her body away from it and pressing herself to him. He was leaning over her, such a tall imposing presence compared to her tiny one. He had a hand in the hair at the base of her skull, and he was pulling. Quite hard by the looks of it. His other hand was on her hip, holding her pelvis flush with his. Her mouth was open in a gasp and he had her bottom lip trapped between his teeth, pulling it slightly away from her.
No nudity. No sex. Yet still. It was like that picture held in it everything he’d been missing for the past five months. Everything he’d forgotten. Sensuality, aggression, pleasure, passion, dirty, raw, naughty, nasty, love.
I loved this woman.
Jon’s pulse was pounding in his ears. The pictures weren’t bringing anything back, not in any literal sense. He didn’t know where that shot had been taken, couldn’t remember where that bathroom was, and had no idea why they’d been in there.
But something was happening.
See Natasha's original post here:
https://natashaisabookjunkie.com/2017...
Pre-Order the eBook here - on sale for $0.99 until Sept. 1st:
US:
https://goo.gl/DrgKp5
UK:
https://goo.gl/HCJBbE
CA:
https://goo.gl/1aEg53
AUS:
https://www.amazon.com.au/d/B074ZM9Y7P
MUSCLE MEMORY © Stylo Fantôme 2017
EXCERPT
“I can’t believe I used to be this guy,” Jon mumbled, gently touching the computer screen.
It was a photo of him and her, outside of some nightclub. Delaney looked great in a cute outfit, with her hair up in a bun on top of her head. The guy with her, though, looked completely untrustworthy. He wore a long olive green jacket with a black knit sweater underneath, some jeans with holes in them, and a large pair of boots. He’d just gotten his hair dreaded, and he stared dead eyed into the camera, not even a hint of a smile.
I don’t even look like him anymore.
They weren’t all like that, though. There were lots of him and her smiling together. Laughing. At parties, at stores, at restaurants. Everywhere. Together, all the time.
He was almost through all the pictures when he realized he hadn’t seen any with them kissing. Lots with their arms around each other, but nothing truly intimate. That just couldn’t be possible, every couple had at least one photo of themselves kissing.
After a little bit of digging, he found a subfolder labeled “Private” – jackpot. He shifted to the center of the sofa and balanced the laptop on his knees, then opened the subfolder and clicked on the first picture.
They were standing next to the entrance to a subway stop. He had Delaney’s face in his hands and he was kissing her. Even through the pixels, he could feel the passion. Her mouth was parted, her bottom lipped trapped between his. It sent a shiver down his back and caused his stomach to sink, but he kept looking.
There were so many. Most of the selfie variety, but there were a bunch obviously taken by friends and then sent to him. Him and Delaney, kissing in restaurants, bars, taxis, trains. Everywhere. Anywhere. Holding each other, touching each other.
There was one of her straddling his lap while they were in a booth at some bar. She was standing on her knees and he had his hands up the back of her shirt, and they were staring at each other so intensely, it took his breath away a little.
How could I possibly forget something like that?
But if he thought that was intense, the next batch were even more so. Taken in a dark room, the flash had lit them up like beacons and drowned the edges of the pictures in blackness. It almost felt like he was looking at photographs of dreams.
They were in a bed, flat on the floor, if he wasn’t mistaken. All at awkward angles, yet still beautiful in odd ways. He’d been the one taking the pictures – Delaney’s mouth was in the top of one shot, her bright red bottom lip trapped between her teeth. Her arms were raised, disappearing out of the frame. She’d been wearing some sort of tight gold knit sweater, no bra, and a pair of black underwear. She was again straddling his lap, and his free hand was under her shirt, cupping her breast.
He stared down at his right hand, at his palm. Could feel it tingle. Could swear he remembered the softness of her skin.
In the next shot she was bending over and his hand was on her ass, and the next she had switched positions entirely. She was between his legs, her back against his chest. His arm was snaking down the front of her body, his hand inside those black panties. The tingling sensation on his palm grew.
His favorite picture, though, was surprisingly tame in comparison.
They were in a men’s bathroom somewhere – it was very clear they’d had no shame whenever they’d been together. Delaney was holding up her phone, taking a picture of their reflection in a full length mirror.
She was against a wall, arching her body away from it and pressing herself to him. He was leaning over her, such a tall imposing presence compared to her tiny one. He had a hand in the hair at the base of her skull, and he was pulling. Quite hard by the looks of it. His other hand was on her hip, holding her pelvis flush with his. Her mouth was open in a gasp and he had her bottom lip trapped between his teeth, pulling it slightly away from her.
No nudity. No sex. Yet still. It was like that picture held in it everything he’d been missing for the past five months. Everything he’d forgotten. Sensuality, aggression, pleasure, passion, dirty, raw, naughty, nasty, love.
I loved this woman.
Jon’s pulse was pounding in his ears. The pictures weren’t bringing anything back, not in any literal sense. He didn’t know where that shot had been taken, couldn’t remember where that bathroom was, and had no idea why they’d been in there.
But something was happening.
See Natasha's original post here:
https://natashaisabookjunkie.com/2017...
Pre-Order the eBook here - on sale for $0.99 until Sept. 1st:
US:
https://goo.gl/DrgKp5
UK:
https://goo.gl/HCJBbE
CA:
https://goo.gl/1aEg53
AUS:
https://www.amazon.com.au/d/B074ZM9Y7P
April 23, 2017
Just a Little Junk excerpt
JUST A LITTLE JUNK
coming May 22nd
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3...
Jodi didn't like where this line of conversation was going. Sure, she'd been high out of her mind, but she'd also been present. She'd known exactly who she'd been doing all that stuff with, every second. Yet he was acting like she was some innocent bystander who hadn't known any better. She pulled away from him.
“I'm a big girl, I'm fine,” she stressed, holding her arms out at her sides.
“Good. Cause I'd hate to lose my best friend over some dumb shit that happened while we were on drugs.”
“Yeah. That would be awful. Can we open this door now?” she snapped, turning away from him and clawing at their exit.
“What, are you mad again?” he asked, sounding surprised.
“Peachy keen. Door, Calhoun. Open it,” she insisted, pounding her hand on the glass, hoping someone outside would here.
“You sound mad, Jojo,” he told her.
“I'm not. I'm claustrophobic. Get me out of here.”
“You're not claustrophobic. Tell me what -”
She let out a shout and gave the door a savage kick. Much to her surprise, it worked – where she kicked it, the frame splintered and simply fell away from the wall. The strike plate and latch were completely exposed, she was able to simply press it down with her finger and the door fell open. She hurried through it and all but jogged down the hallway.
He caught up to her in the huge expanse before the exit, the area they'd walked through three hours earlier, when they'd been looking for the rave. Now they were finally leaving - a little richer, somewhat wiser, and a lot more disappointed in life.
“Cmon, Jo, don't be mad at me. I hate when you're mad at me!” he whined, matching her step for step as they went outside.
“I'm never mad at you!” she snapped, increasing her pace. It didn't make much of a difference – he was like six foot three or four, with long legs. He easily kept up with her.
“Is it because of the sex?” he asked, and she took a deep breath, willing away a blush.
“No.”
“Don't worry – it was pretty good.”
“Pretty good!?” she yelled, whirling around on him.
“Yeah. If that's what you're upset about,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. She held up her hands.
“Let me get this straight – you think I'm upset because I think I wasn't good in bed?” she double checked.
“Don't worry about it,” he said while nodding. “We were stoned, it was crazy, who knew what was going on.”
“Are you saying I wasn't good!?” she gasped.
“No,” he said quickly. “I'm just saying don't feel bad about anything that happened in there.”
“You're a real fucking piece of work, you know that?” she yelled, shoving him in the chest.
“Thanks. And I'm sure the next guy you sleep with, it'll be awesome. You'll be sober, you'll be present, you'll be into it,” he prattled off.
Jo couldn't handle it. She was running on a couple hours of sleep at most, she had a body decomposing in the trunk of her car, said body was possibly a stalker, she'd gotten drugged at a rave, and while stoned, she'd had what she thought was the best sex ever with her life long crush, who then described the incident as “pretty good” – she had officially reached the end of her tether.
So she didn't feel at all bad when she shrieked and punched him in the throat, as hard as she could.
coming May 22nd
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3...
Jodi didn't like where this line of conversation was going. Sure, she'd been high out of her mind, but she'd also been present. She'd known exactly who she'd been doing all that stuff with, every second. Yet he was acting like she was some innocent bystander who hadn't known any better. She pulled away from him.
“I'm a big girl, I'm fine,” she stressed, holding her arms out at her sides.
“Good. Cause I'd hate to lose my best friend over some dumb shit that happened while we were on drugs.”
“Yeah. That would be awful. Can we open this door now?” she snapped, turning away from him and clawing at their exit.
“What, are you mad again?” he asked, sounding surprised.
“Peachy keen. Door, Calhoun. Open it,” she insisted, pounding her hand on the glass, hoping someone outside would here.
“You sound mad, Jojo,” he told her.
“I'm not. I'm claustrophobic. Get me out of here.”
“You're not claustrophobic. Tell me what -”
She let out a shout and gave the door a savage kick. Much to her surprise, it worked – where she kicked it, the frame splintered and simply fell away from the wall. The strike plate and latch were completely exposed, she was able to simply press it down with her finger and the door fell open. She hurried through it and all but jogged down the hallway.
He caught up to her in the huge expanse before the exit, the area they'd walked through three hours earlier, when they'd been looking for the rave. Now they were finally leaving - a little richer, somewhat wiser, and a lot more disappointed in life.
“Cmon, Jo, don't be mad at me. I hate when you're mad at me!” he whined, matching her step for step as they went outside.
“I'm never mad at you!” she snapped, increasing her pace. It didn't make much of a difference – he was like six foot three or four, with long legs. He easily kept up with her.
“Is it because of the sex?” he asked, and she took a deep breath, willing away a blush.
“No.”
“Don't worry – it was pretty good.”
“Pretty good!?” she yelled, whirling around on him.
“Yeah. If that's what you're upset about,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. She held up her hands.
“Let me get this straight – you think I'm upset because I think I wasn't good in bed?” she double checked.
“Don't worry about it,” he said while nodding. “We were stoned, it was crazy, who knew what was going on.”
“Are you saying I wasn't good!?” she gasped.
“No,” he said quickly. “I'm just saying don't feel bad about anything that happened in there.”
“You're a real fucking piece of work, you know that?” she yelled, shoving him in the chest.
“Thanks. And I'm sure the next guy you sleep with, it'll be awesome. You'll be sober, you'll be present, you'll be into it,” he prattled off.
Jo couldn't handle it. She was running on a couple hours of sleep at most, she had a body decomposing in the trunk of her car, said body was possibly a stalker, she'd gotten drugged at a rave, and while stoned, she'd had what she thought was the best sex ever with her life long crush, who then described the incident as “pretty good” – she had officially reached the end of her tether.
So she didn't feel at all bad when she shrieked and punched him in the throat, as hard as she could.
September 21, 2016
JAMESON KANE SUMMER BARBECUE STORY
Shared this on Facebook, then realized that was a little unfair to the people of Goodreads ...
So not this summer, but LAST summer - 2015 - my friend told me that her friend had asked if there would be a "Jameson summer barbecue" story.
... is this a thing? That authors do? I'd never heard of it. And besides that, the idea of Jameson at a barbecue - the sauce, no silverware, lots of people - was laughable.
So laughable, that I kinda loved it and actually started jotting stuff down.
Now, as an indie author, spare time to write is time to work on stuff that will actually be published - "spare time" doesn't actually exist. So a year later, and I only have seven pages done. But once in a great while, it's fun to revisit these old friends.
Today, I got to thinking maybe some of YOU would like to revisit them, too. So here is the very start, and I'll share more throughout the coming weeks. Warning: it may never get finished, please take it for what it is, a bit of fun, Jameson Kane style.
copyright 2016 Stylo Fantome
(this is completely unedited and the first time I'm sharing it anywhere and just for fun - errors will abound. Also, if you haven't read my Kane Trilogy, there may be spoilers)
Jameson rolled his head to one side, then sharply jerked it.
Crack.
“Ah, thank god. I've been trying to do that since yesterday,” he grumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck.
“I told you I would book you a massage. Several times,” Sanders pointed out.
“Why pay money for something Tate will do for free? I swear, first thing when I get home, I'm going to lay down, then have her walk up and down my spine in a pair of five inch heels,” Jameson stated.
“Sounds painful.”
“Sounds delightful.”
The car they were waiting for pulled up, and he slid into the back seat, quickly followed by his sometimes-assistant. Jameson didn't think he would ever get used to it, sharing a back seat with Sanders. The young man had been driving him around for so many years, it was bizarre to suddenly shift. Sanders had resisted for a long time, but when they met up in Switzerland for a business meeting, Jameson insisted on renting a car and a driver. Sanders could either sit in the backseat, or walk.
After four days of walking, Sanders gave up and got in the backseat.
“Why didn't Tatum meet us at the airport?” he asked, smoothing his tie as the car pulled away from the curb.
“Because Tatum doesn't know we're here,” Jameson replied.
“Pardon me?”
“I'm three days early. I wanted to surprise her.”
“Forgive me, sir, but she hates surprises.”
“I know.”
“So why do you do this? It will just make everyone miserable.”
“That's part of the fun,” Jameson grinned.
It was a lengthy drive. Sanders made an attempt to work on his phone, but Jameson took it away, knowing the other man well enough to know he'd try to warn Tate.
“I can only stay for a week,” Sanders reminded him when they finally pulled onto the pebble lined driveway.
“Yes, yes, you keep reminding me,” Jameson said.
“Well, whenever you two want me to visit, it always turns into more. Hong Kong was only a couple months ago, and that turned into a huge fiasco. I was gone for almost three weeks in the end,” Sanders reminded him.
“Never gonna shut up about that, are you?”
“Most likely not.”
“Just enjoy the vacation,” Jameson snapped.
The car came to a stop and the men climbed out. Sanders tipped the driver while Jameson went ahead and unloaded their bags. Luckily, they were both very well traveled, and only one suitcase a piece carried more than enough clothing for just about any kind of business trip.
“I don't see any cars, are you sure she's here?” Sanders asked, looking around as they climbed the steps to the house.
“I'm sure. We sold the Bentley.”
Sanders stopped moving.
“You sold my car?”
Jameson smiled.
“Your car? Funny, I'm pretty sure I bought it. Besides, not like you're ever around to drive it anymore,” he pointed out, taking out his keys to unlock the front door.
“But … but … that car …,” Sanders stammered.
“I'm joking. It's getting detailed, they'll deliver your precious baby later today.”
“Forgive me for saying, sir, but you are not funny.”
The house was quiet, which surprised Jameson. Usually when he got home from work, if Tate was already home, there was some sort of noise filling the house. The woman simply couldn't keep quiet. A TV blaring, music blasting, or even just her talking to herself while she attempted to cook.
“Tate?” he called out, jogging up the stairs. His bedroom was empty, as were the two guest rooms that flanked it. The bathroom was empty, as well. Downstairs he found the gym, kitchen, and library in the same state.
“Pool,” Sanders stated, meeting up with him in the living room.
Jameson nodded and led the way. A door at the back of the room gave way to the conservatory, beyond which lay the swimming pool in his backyard.
When he walked outside, the first thing he saw was Tate. She was at the other end of the pool, walking in his direction, her head bent down as she looked at a magazine. Closer to the house sat a lounge chair, and fair skinned girl with carrot colored hair was stretched on it. Jameson's grin turned wolfish.
Jameson loved when Tate would invite Rusty over. He liked Rusty. It wasn't because he harbored any sexual feelings towards the girl – it was because he made her nervous. Scared. He loved that, loved knowing he frightened her, and usually took every advantage to play up to his nickname, “Satan”.
But before he could say anything, another person entered the picture. Jameson stood completely still as he watched a man walk across the lawn. The younger guy was wearing board shorts and flip flops, no shirt. He shouted something to Tate, and Jameson recognized his voice.
“Do you know him, sir?” Sanders asked in a steely voice. Normally, Sanders getting all protective would've made Jameson laugh, but at that moment, he was too busy thinking of the different places on his property that he could bury a body.
“Yes.”
The man was a junior broker, Richard Klimas, and he had started at Kraven Brokerage the previous fall. He and Tate had met at the company Christmas party, and it had been obvious from the start that Rich liked her. They were close in age and were both energetic. Add to the mix that Tate pretty much embodied sexuality in general, and boom. The man was in love.
Or rather, the man was in lust.
“Why are you reading!? It's gorgeous out, you're by a pool, you're in a bikini! You should be swimming!” Rich was laughing loudly. Tate laughed as well.
“Eh, today is more of a sun tan day,” she replied.
“Oh, I think it's a swimming day,” he teased. She shook her head.
“No, but you can totally feel free to -”
As Jameson watched, the younger man suddenly rushed at Tate. She barely had time to look up from her magazine when Rich ran into her, wrapping his arms around her waist while throwing them both into the pool. Tate managed to shriek before they hit the water. Jameson narrowed his eyes.
“I am going to hope that he is a friend of yours,” Sanders added, and his voice almost sounded angry.
Well, angry for him.
“No, he's not,” Jameson answered.
So not this summer, but LAST summer - 2015 - my friend told me that her friend had asked if there would be a "Jameson summer barbecue" story.
... is this a thing? That authors do? I'd never heard of it. And besides that, the idea of Jameson at a barbecue - the sauce, no silverware, lots of people - was laughable.
So laughable, that I kinda loved it and actually started jotting stuff down.
Now, as an indie author, spare time to write is time to work on stuff that will actually be published - "spare time" doesn't actually exist. So a year later, and I only have seven pages done. But once in a great while, it's fun to revisit these old friends.
Today, I got to thinking maybe some of YOU would like to revisit them, too. So here is the very start, and I'll share more throughout the coming weeks. Warning: it may never get finished, please take it for what it is, a bit of fun, Jameson Kane style.
copyright 2016 Stylo Fantome
(this is completely unedited and the first time I'm sharing it anywhere and just for fun - errors will abound. Also, if you haven't read my Kane Trilogy, there may be spoilers)
Jameson rolled his head to one side, then sharply jerked it.
Crack.
“Ah, thank god. I've been trying to do that since yesterday,” he grumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck.
“I told you I would book you a massage. Several times,” Sanders pointed out.
“Why pay money for something Tate will do for free? I swear, first thing when I get home, I'm going to lay down, then have her walk up and down my spine in a pair of five inch heels,” Jameson stated.
“Sounds painful.”
“Sounds delightful.”
The car they were waiting for pulled up, and he slid into the back seat, quickly followed by his sometimes-assistant. Jameson didn't think he would ever get used to it, sharing a back seat with Sanders. The young man had been driving him around for so many years, it was bizarre to suddenly shift. Sanders had resisted for a long time, but when they met up in Switzerland for a business meeting, Jameson insisted on renting a car and a driver. Sanders could either sit in the backseat, or walk.
After four days of walking, Sanders gave up and got in the backseat.
“Why didn't Tatum meet us at the airport?” he asked, smoothing his tie as the car pulled away from the curb.
“Because Tatum doesn't know we're here,” Jameson replied.
“Pardon me?”
“I'm three days early. I wanted to surprise her.”
“Forgive me, sir, but she hates surprises.”
“I know.”
“So why do you do this? It will just make everyone miserable.”
“That's part of the fun,” Jameson grinned.
It was a lengthy drive. Sanders made an attempt to work on his phone, but Jameson took it away, knowing the other man well enough to know he'd try to warn Tate.
“I can only stay for a week,” Sanders reminded him when they finally pulled onto the pebble lined driveway.
“Yes, yes, you keep reminding me,” Jameson said.
“Well, whenever you two want me to visit, it always turns into more. Hong Kong was only a couple months ago, and that turned into a huge fiasco. I was gone for almost three weeks in the end,” Sanders reminded him.
“Never gonna shut up about that, are you?”
“Most likely not.”
“Just enjoy the vacation,” Jameson snapped.
The car came to a stop and the men climbed out. Sanders tipped the driver while Jameson went ahead and unloaded their bags. Luckily, they were both very well traveled, and only one suitcase a piece carried more than enough clothing for just about any kind of business trip.
“I don't see any cars, are you sure she's here?” Sanders asked, looking around as they climbed the steps to the house.
“I'm sure. We sold the Bentley.”
Sanders stopped moving.
“You sold my car?”
Jameson smiled.
“Your car? Funny, I'm pretty sure I bought it. Besides, not like you're ever around to drive it anymore,” he pointed out, taking out his keys to unlock the front door.
“But … but … that car …,” Sanders stammered.
“I'm joking. It's getting detailed, they'll deliver your precious baby later today.”
“Forgive me for saying, sir, but you are not funny.”
The house was quiet, which surprised Jameson. Usually when he got home from work, if Tate was already home, there was some sort of noise filling the house. The woman simply couldn't keep quiet. A TV blaring, music blasting, or even just her talking to herself while she attempted to cook.
“Tate?” he called out, jogging up the stairs. His bedroom was empty, as were the two guest rooms that flanked it. The bathroom was empty, as well. Downstairs he found the gym, kitchen, and library in the same state.
“Pool,” Sanders stated, meeting up with him in the living room.
Jameson nodded and led the way. A door at the back of the room gave way to the conservatory, beyond which lay the swimming pool in his backyard.
When he walked outside, the first thing he saw was Tate. She was at the other end of the pool, walking in his direction, her head bent down as she looked at a magazine. Closer to the house sat a lounge chair, and fair skinned girl with carrot colored hair was stretched on it. Jameson's grin turned wolfish.
Jameson loved when Tate would invite Rusty over. He liked Rusty. It wasn't because he harbored any sexual feelings towards the girl – it was because he made her nervous. Scared. He loved that, loved knowing he frightened her, and usually took every advantage to play up to his nickname, “Satan”.
But before he could say anything, another person entered the picture. Jameson stood completely still as he watched a man walk across the lawn. The younger guy was wearing board shorts and flip flops, no shirt. He shouted something to Tate, and Jameson recognized his voice.
“Do you know him, sir?” Sanders asked in a steely voice. Normally, Sanders getting all protective would've made Jameson laugh, but at that moment, he was too busy thinking of the different places on his property that he could bury a body.
“Yes.”
The man was a junior broker, Richard Klimas, and he had started at Kraven Brokerage the previous fall. He and Tate had met at the company Christmas party, and it had been obvious from the start that Rich liked her. They were close in age and were both energetic. Add to the mix that Tate pretty much embodied sexuality in general, and boom. The man was in love.
Or rather, the man was in lust.
“Why are you reading!? It's gorgeous out, you're by a pool, you're in a bikini! You should be swimming!” Rich was laughing loudly. Tate laughed as well.
“Eh, today is more of a sun tan day,” she replied.
“Oh, I think it's a swimming day,” he teased. She shook her head.
“No, but you can totally feel free to -”
As Jameson watched, the younger man suddenly rushed at Tate. She barely had time to look up from her magazine when Rich ran into her, wrapping his arms around her waist while throwing them both into the pool. Tate managed to shriek before they hit the water. Jameson narrowed his eyes.
“I am going to hope that he is a friend of yours,” Sanders added, and his voice almost sounded angry.
Well, angry for him.
“No, he's not,” Jameson answered.
December 24, 2015
Kingsley's POV scene from Best Laid Plans
On my facebook page, we had a vote for which scene people wanted to see from Kingsley Law's point of view. The winner was when he first sees Lily to when he first meets here.
Thanks everyone, for all the Law Love ;)
DAY FIVE
Of course, vices are never a good thing, but particularly so when a job or livelihood depends on stealth and accuracy. Hence why heroin addicts are rarely stock brokers, or brain surgeons.
Kingsley Law liked to smoke. A lot. A nasty, disgusting habit, for sure, but one he'd had for so long that he figured quitting now would be a waste of time - if he was going to die from it, it was just going to happen.
He couldn't, however, light up whenever he wanted, and that was his main issue with that particular bad habit.
He couldn't smoke on the job. Or at least, he wouldn't. His own personal rule. It was too telling - a mark might see the cherry burning at the end, or the smoke. Or just smell it. No, cigarettes were not good when trying to achieve stealth, so he refrained from smoking while working.
But goddamn, did it make him agitated.
He was quick by nature, so usually it wasn't too much of a problem. He was all high-energy, that's why most of the jobs he took required little research or preparation. Show up, shoot the guy, get paid, leave. Boom.
Sometimes, though, he found himself in situations that did require time and patience. Like the situation he presently found himself in - crouching beneath the window of a hotel room, watching his mark have sex.
God, they had better call it quits soon, or I'll just shoot them booth so I can have a smoke. At least my view is good.
That was an understatement - the woman was fantastic. Kingsley had never met her before, but she had an outstanding body. Well proportioned, with curvy hips and breasts that could make a man weep. She also knew how to use her body very well. The man she was on top of had no complaints.
Kingsley frowned. The man. The only thing tainting the erotic image in front of him. Of course, he knew the man. Considered him a friend. Fellow mercenary Marcelle De Sant hadn't been in the business as long as Kingsley, but he was easily as good, in a rough and tumble manner.
That's what made the whole thing bizarre. The last time they'd spoken, Marc had told Kingsley he'd be out of communication for a while, on a big job in western Africa. But then a month later, Kingsey got a call from his contractor. Someone wanted to hire him for a hit. The target?
Marcelle De Sant.
He was being accused of stealing a ridiculous amount of blood diamonds from a Russian Bratva boss. Not good. The woman, Kingsley wasn't entirely sure of her name, had been hired to transport the diamonds. At the time Kingsley had been hired, it hadn't been known if she'd been kidnapped by De Sant, or was an accomplice.
Kingsley figured it was safe to say she was most definitely a willing participant.
As fun as it was watching his friend have sex, Kingsley decided to retreat for the time being. Surely, they had to stop at some point. So he went back to the room he'd broken into and he began getting his gear ready.
Of course he wasn't going to assassinate his friend. Kingsley had morals, shockingly enough, and a strict code of ethics to go along with it. A payday was always nice, but loyalty meant more to him. He would find out what was really going on in Africa. De Sant wasn't rash, nor was he stupid. He would never do something as stupid as steal diamonds from the Russian mafia, especially after he'd already stolen them once before, from a Liberian gang.
No, something strange was most definitely going on. Kingsley chain smoked while he changed his outfit and tried to work it out in his mind. The girl was definitely involved. There'd been no back story on her, no one seemed to know anything. When he'd flown to Africa, the only real information he'd had was that Marc and the woman had both worked for the same bratva, and had gotten into several shoot outs in Mali and near the border of Mauritania. Then, on the news, Kingsley had watched a report about a high speed car chase in the countries largest city. The whole city was up in arms about it, the car stolen had belonged to a member of the French embassy. The man was not happy.
Has to be De Sant. Only he can piss off a whole city in just a matter of hours.
Goold ol' Law would have to sweep in and save the day. Or at the very least, De Sant deserved to die at the hands of a friend. Someone he respected. Not some two-bit, low life assassin that took any old job. Please. Kingsley had style. De Sant deserved to die with a little style.
Let's hope it doesn't come to that. De Sant, you better not have gotten yourself into more trouble than you're worth, and if you have ... I better get some of those bloody diamonds.
*
Using a listening device, Kingsley listened at the door to Marc's hotel room. He hadn't gone back to the backside because when he'd looked around a corner using his mirror, he'd seen that the glass door was open, its curtain billowing in the breeze.
All he could hear, though, was someone breathing heavy. Covers rustling around. It had been several hours since the renegade outlaws had been rolling around in the bed, they must've fallen asleep.
Will have to be quick.
De Sant was good, but Kingsley was confident in his own abilities. He picked the lock on the door easily enough, then he got his gun out and ready. He didn't want to shoot his friend, but would if it came down to it.
It turned out to be unnecessary. He pushed the door open and moved into the room while still in a crouch, his gun leading the way. But no one fired at him, no weapons were leveled in his direction. He slowly stood up, his eyes darting all over the small room, and he quickly realized the woman was sleeping alone in the big bed.
He looked at her again to double check that she was sound asleep, then he took quick strides to get to the bathroom. He shoved open the door, pointing his hand gun into every corner, but that room was empty, too.
He frowned and glanced out the open glass door. Normally, he'd go check the patio. But as he watched the breeze play with the gauzy curtains, he decided that would most likely be a very bad idea. He smiled to himself and looked back the bed.
She is quite delicious ...
He moved back around the bed and stood over her. She had gorgeous red hair and it was splayed across her pillow in thick waves. Her lips were parted, like she was just about to say something. He wondered what her voice was like, if she had an accent.
If she's open to sleeping with more than one man at a time. I've run out of cigarettes and I only have so many vices to choose from.
She began to stir in her sleep. Kingsley glanced at the open glass door, then took a step back from the bed. She yawned and slowly sat up, propping herself up with her arms behind her. While she sleepily glanced around the room, he put his gun back into its holster that sat against his spine.
When her eyes finally found him, her reaction was pretty much as expected. She gasped and immediately began squirming across the mattress, trying to get away. He sighed and stepped forward, grabbing her arm and yanking her off the bed.
She surprised him a little when she immediately swung an elbow at his head. It was clumsy, she was at the wrong angle to do any damage, but still. He'd expected shrieking or crying. Possibly fainting. Yet as he held her wrists together behind her back, he could feel the anger rolling off her. As he started pushing her forward, he asked her to not be difficult.
"Fuck you."
Ah, a fighter. And an American, if her accent was anything to go by. Splendid. She would be a handful, he could already tell.
She launched into standard hostage stuff - asking him to wait, begging him to listen, explaining that whatever she'd done, it wasn't her fault. When she stressed that she was still doing her job, he couldn't help but push her buttons.
"... you were very impressive. Very flexible," he teased her about the bedroom gymnastics he'd gotten to witness earlier in the day.
He had to admit, he was a little shocked when directly after that, she pressed herself back against him. That very luscious ass he'd been admiring just hours before was now rubbing very intimately against his crotch.
"You have no idea how flexible I can be," she whispered back.
Bloody hell, she's good. Maybe I will kill De Sant, and help her instead. Help her with any damn thing she needs.
Of course, though, De Sant had to show up and ruin the party. He babbled one about her just saying that, saying anything, to get free. Apparently, she'd pulled the same routine on De Sant. Of course, Kingsley wasn't so stupid that he would've fallen for it - no, he just wouldn't have minded taking her up on it at a later time.
Since the woman actually wasn't of any importance or use, Kingsley shoved her to the floor and took the opportunity to draw his gun. It was only fair - De Sant had one on him. They eyeballed each other, neither quite trusting the other.
De Sant seemed to think that Kingsley was actually there to kill him. How insulting. That he could think that; that he could have so little faith in Kingsley. Offensive, really. Kingsley taunted him, while at the same time contemplating actually shooting the other man. Just a graze, something to teach him a lesson.
But then all hell decided to break loose - and hell was apparently a curvy redhead with a real bitchy attitude.
Kingsley was on his back on the ground before he even knew what had happened. One minute he was staring at the ceiling, and the next he was staring into a pair of very angry eyes as the woman straddled his waist.
When I imagined myself between her thighs, it didn't quite go like this ...
Her hands were in his hair, beating his head against the ground, and he would've laughed if hadn't been busy trying to not to bite his tongue off. She was truly something else. Something that was going to kill him, if given half the chance, and Kingsley Law simply refused to let himself be killed at the hands of a woman.
He grabbed her around the waist and rolled them forward, reversing their positions. She didn't miss a beat and pulled him flat against her so she could almost bite his ear off. He didn't like hurting women, rarely took jobs that involved them - he didn't want to hurt her. She was a novice at best, her moves were amateur to the point of being comical. But so help him god, if she left a mark on his splendid self, he was going to break her arm right in half, and then possibly remove her front teeth with a pair of rusty pliers.
He wanted to neutralize her, so he wrapped his hands around her throat, squeezing hard enough to cut off her air supply. She gasped and feebly swung at him, of course to no avail. Good. She needed to learn a lesson. Gorgeous as she was, it was simply rude to bite a strange man. At least, it was rude if he hadn't explicitly asked for it.
His fun was cut short, though, when De Sant held a gun to his head.
Oh my, he is fond of this she-devil. I guess that means I won't be getting to know her better. Pity. She doesn't know what she'll be missing by not getting to sleep with me.
Kingsley was a little shocked when De Sant asked the woman whether or not the trigger should be pulled, though he wasn't surprised when she told him to do it. There was a tense moment, then Marc put his gun away.
Oh, thank god, I thought I was going to have to shoot the bastard for a moment.
Hugs and laughs were exchanged, and the two men quickly slipped back into the easy going friendship they'd always enjoyed. The woman, however, didn't appreciate that at all. She'd climbed to her feet and was almost foaming at the mouth, all while glaring poison darts at Kingsley.
Silly woman, she doesn't realize that just turns me on even more.
Marc went to introduce him, and he finally said the hellion's name - Lily. What an odd name for such a tough girl. Aside from her very lovely body and almost angelic face, there was nothing feminine about her. If she'd had a gun on her, Kingsley had no doubt that he long since would've been shot.
"... what law?" she was asking, falling into confusion over his name. He'd long since gotten used to that being an issue for him and he always took advantage of it when he could. He made sure to smile his best smile and to stare directly into her eyes as he leaned down and kissed her hand.
"My law, darling. Kingsley Law, at your service."
Anyone else saying that, it would have sounded ridiculous. Only he could pull it off with such precision, and he was very aware of it. He kept smiling even as she pulled her hand away.
Goddamn, it feels good to be the Law. Now, let's see how long it takes me to solve this little diamond problem for them.
Thanks everyone, for all the Law Love ;)
DAY FIVE
Of course, vices are never a good thing, but particularly so when a job or livelihood depends on stealth and accuracy. Hence why heroin addicts are rarely stock brokers, or brain surgeons.
Kingsley Law liked to smoke. A lot. A nasty, disgusting habit, for sure, but one he'd had for so long that he figured quitting now would be a waste of time - if he was going to die from it, it was just going to happen.
He couldn't, however, light up whenever he wanted, and that was his main issue with that particular bad habit.
He couldn't smoke on the job. Or at least, he wouldn't. His own personal rule. It was too telling - a mark might see the cherry burning at the end, or the smoke. Or just smell it. No, cigarettes were not good when trying to achieve stealth, so he refrained from smoking while working.
But goddamn, did it make him agitated.
He was quick by nature, so usually it wasn't too much of a problem. He was all high-energy, that's why most of the jobs he took required little research or preparation. Show up, shoot the guy, get paid, leave. Boom.
Sometimes, though, he found himself in situations that did require time and patience. Like the situation he presently found himself in - crouching beneath the window of a hotel room, watching his mark have sex.
God, they had better call it quits soon, or I'll just shoot them booth so I can have a smoke. At least my view is good.
That was an understatement - the woman was fantastic. Kingsley had never met her before, but she had an outstanding body. Well proportioned, with curvy hips and breasts that could make a man weep. She also knew how to use her body very well. The man she was on top of had no complaints.
Kingsley frowned. The man. The only thing tainting the erotic image in front of him. Of course, he knew the man. Considered him a friend. Fellow mercenary Marcelle De Sant hadn't been in the business as long as Kingsley, but he was easily as good, in a rough and tumble manner.
That's what made the whole thing bizarre. The last time they'd spoken, Marc had told Kingsley he'd be out of communication for a while, on a big job in western Africa. But then a month later, Kingsey got a call from his contractor. Someone wanted to hire him for a hit. The target?
Marcelle De Sant.
He was being accused of stealing a ridiculous amount of blood diamonds from a Russian Bratva boss. Not good. The woman, Kingsley wasn't entirely sure of her name, had been hired to transport the diamonds. At the time Kingsley had been hired, it hadn't been known if she'd been kidnapped by De Sant, or was an accomplice.
Kingsley figured it was safe to say she was most definitely a willing participant.
As fun as it was watching his friend have sex, Kingsley decided to retreat for the time being. Surely, they had to stop at some point. So he went back to the room he'd broken into and he began getting his gear ready.
Of course he wasn't going to assassinate his friend. Kingsley had morals, shockingly enough, and a strict code of ethics to go along with it. A payday was always nice, but loyalty meant more to him. He would find out what was really going on in Africa. De Sant wasn't rash, nor was he stupid. He would never do something as stupid as steal diamonds from the Russian mafia, especially after he'd already stolen them once before, from a Liberian gang.
No, something strange was most definitely going on. Kingsley chain smoked while he changed his outfit and tried to work it out in his mind. The girl was definitely involved. There'd been no back story on her, no one seemed to know anything. When he'd flown to Africa, the only real information he'd had was that Marc and the woman had both worked for the same bratva, and had gotten into several shoot outs in Mali and near the border of Mauritania. Then, on the news, Kingsley had watched a report about a high speed car chase in the countries largest city. The whole city was up in arms about it, the car stolen had belonged to a member of the French embassy. The man was not happy.
Has to be De Sant. Only he can piss off a whole city in just a matter of hours.
Goold ol' Law would have to sweep in and save the day. Or at the very least, De Sant deserved to die at the hands of a friend. Someone he respected. Not some two-bit, low life assassin that took any old job. Please. Kingsley had style. De Sant deserved to die with a little style.
Let's hope it doesn't come to that. De Sant, you better not have gotten yourself into more trouble than you're worth, and if you have ... I better get some of those bloody diamonds.
*
Using a listening device, Kingsley listened at the door to Marc's hotel room. He hadn't gone back to the backside because when he'd looked around a corner using his mirror, he'd seen that the glass door was open, its curtain billowing in the breeze.
All he could hear, though, was someone breathing heavy. Covers rustling around. It had been several hours since the renegade outlaws had been rolling around in the bed, they must've fallen asleep.
Will have to be quick.
De Sant was good, but Kingsley was confident in his own abilities. He picked the lock on the door easily enough, then he got his gun out and ready. He didn't want to shoot his friend, but would if it came down to it.
It turned out to be unnecessary. He pushed the door open and moved into the room while still in a crouch, his gun leading the way. But no one fired at him, no weapons were leveled in his direction. He slowly stood up, his eyes darting all over the small room, and he quickly realized the woman was sleeping alone in the big bed.
He looked at her again to double check that she was sound asleep, then he took quick strides to get to the bathroom. He shoved open the door, pointing his hand gun into every corner, but that room was empty, too.
He frowned and glanced out the open glass door. Normally, he'd go check the patio. But as he watched the breeze play with the gauzy curtains, he decided that would most likely be a very bad idea. He smiled to himself and looked back the bed.
She is quite delicious ...
He moved back around the bed and stood over her. She had gorgeous red hair and it was splayed across her pillow in thick waves. Her lips were parted, like she was just about to say something. He wondered what her voice was like, if she had an accent.
If she's open to sleeping with more than one man at a time. I've run out of cigarettes and I only have so many vices to choose from.
She began to stir in her sleep. Kingsley glanced at the open glass door, then took a step back from the bed. She yawned and slowly sat up, propping herself up with her arms behind her. While she sleepily glanced around the room, he put his gun back into its holster that sat against his spine.
When her eyes finally found him, her reaction was pretty much as expected. She gasped and immediately began squirming across the mattress, trying to get away. He sighed and stepped forward, grabbing her arm and yanking her off the bed.
She surprised him a little when she immediately swung an elbow at his head. It was clumsy, she was at the wrong angle to do any damage, but still. He'd expected shrieking or crying. Possibly fainting. Yet as he held her wrists together behind her back, he could feel the anger rolling off her. As he started pushing her forward, he asked her to not be difficult.
"Fuck you."
Ah, a fighter. And an American, if her accent was anything to go by. Splendid. She would be a handful, he could already tell.
She launched into standard hostage stuff - asking him to wait, begging him to listen, explaining that whatever she'd done, it wasn't her fault. When she stressed that she was still doing her job, he couldn't help but push her buttons.
"... you were very impressive. Very flexible," he teased her about the bedroom gymnastics he'd gotten to witness earlier in the day.
He had to admit, he was a little shocked when directly after that, she pressed herself back against him. That very luscious ass he'd been admiring just hours before was now rubbing very intimately against his crotch.
"You have no idea how flexible I can be," she whispered back.
Bloody hell, she's good. Maybe I will kill De Sant, and help her instead. Help her with any damn thing she needs.
Of course, though, De Sant had to show up and ruin the party. He babbled one about her just saying that, saying anything, to get free. Apparently, she'd pulled the same routine on De Sant. Of course, Kingsley wasn't so stupid that he would've fallen for it - no, he just wouldn't have minded taking her up on it at a later time.
Since the woman actually wasn't of any importance or use, Kingsley shoved her to the floor and took the opportunity to draw his gun. It was only fair - De Sant had one on him. They eyeballed each other, neither quite trusting the other.
De Sant seemed to think that Kingsley was actually there to kill him. How insulting. That he could think that; that he could have so little faith in Kingsley. Offensive, really. Kingsley taunted him, while at the same time contemplating actually shooting the other man. Just a graze, something to teach him a lesson.
But then all hell decided to break loose - and hell was apparently a curvy redhead with a real bitchy attitude.
Kingsley was on his back on the ground before he even knew what had happened. One minute he was staring at the ceiling, and the next he was staring into a pair of very angry eyes as the woman straddled his waist.
When I imagined myself between her thighs, it didn't quite go like this ...
Her hands were in his hair, beating his head against the ground, and he would've laughed if hadn't been busy trying to not to bite his tongue off. She was truly something else. Something that was going to kill him, if given half the chance, and Kingsley Law simply refused to let himself be killed at the hands of a woman.
He grabbed her around the waist and rolled them forward, reversing their positions. She didn't miss a beat and pulled him flat against her so she could almost bite his ear off. He didn't like hurting women, rarely took jobs that involved them - he didn't want to hurt her. She was a novice at best, her moves were amateur to the point of being comical. But so help him god, if she left a mark on his splendid self, he was going to break her arm right in half, and then possibly remove her front teeth with a pair of rusty pliers.
He wanted to neutralize her, so he wrapped his hands around her throat, squeezing hard enough to cut off her air supply. She gasped and feebly swung at him, of course to no avail. Good. She needed to learn a lesson. Gorgeous as she was, it was simply rude to bite a strange man. At least, it was rude if he hadn't explicitly asked for it.
His fun was cut short, though, when De Sant held a gun to his head.
Oh my, he is fond of this she-devil. I guess that means I won't be getting to know her better. Pity. She doesn't know what she'll be missing by not getting to sleep with me.
Kingsley was a little shocked when De Sant asked the woman whether or not the trigger should be pulled, though he wasn't surprised when she told him to do it. There was a tense moment, then Marc put his gun away.
Oh, thank god, I thought I was going to have to shoot the bastard for a moment.
Hugs and laughs were exchanged, and the two men quickly slipped back into the easy going friendship they'd always enjoyed. The woman, however, didn't appreciate that at all. She'd climbed to her feet and was almost foaming at the mouth, all while glaring poison darts at Kingsley.
Silly woman, she doesn't realize that just turns me on even more.
Marc went to introduce him, and he finally said the hellion's name - Lily. What an odd name for such a tough girl. Aside from her very lovely body and almost angelic face, there was nothing feminine about her. If she'd had a gun on her, Kingsley had no doubt that he long since would've been shot.
"... what law?" she was asking, falling into confusion over his name. He'd long since gotten used to that being an issue for him and he always took advantage of it when he could. He made sure to smile his best smile and to stare directly into her eyes as he leaned down and kissed her hand.
"My law, darling. Kingsley Law, at your service."
Anyone else saying that, it would have sounded ridiculous. Only he could pull it off with such precision, and he was very aware of it. He kept smiling even as she pulled her hand away.
Goddamn, it feels good to be the Law. Now, let's see how long it takes me to solve this little diamond problem for them.
July 30, 2015
SIGNING SCHEDULE
So at this time, I am only committing to three signings a year. Being from Alaska, they take a lot of effort and travel time for me, and I have a day job, which is hard to get away from, not to mention the fact that I am moving late next year.
Maybe in the future I can do more, but I never want it to get out of control, where I'm attending more signings than I am writing. They are a blast, but writing takes its toll.
So for 2015 and 2016, this is what I am doing:
November 7th and 8th, 2015:
Rebels & Readers Author Event
Huntington, West Virginia
http://www.rebelsnreaders.com/rarae-2...
*HUNTINGTON WILL BE THE CLOSEST I GET TO THE EAST COAST IN THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE
June 11th, 2016:
San Fran Golden Gate Author Event
San Francisco, California
http://sfgoldengateauthorevent.blogsp...
July 9th, 2016:
Romance Author & Reader Event
Edinburgh, Scotland, UK
http://www.rarevents.org/
http://www.eventbrite.com/e/romance-a...
October 6th, 7th, and 8th, 2016:
Claddagh Author Event
Dublin, Ireland
http://claddaghauthoreventdublin2016....
Maybe in the future I can do more, but I never want it to get out of control, where I'm attending more signings than I am writing. They are a blast, but writing takes its toll.
So for 2015 and 2016, this is what I am doing:
November 7th and 8th, 2015:
Rebels & Readers Author Event
Huntington, West Virginia
http://www.rebelsnreaders.com/rarae-2...
*HUNTINGTON WILL BE THE CLOSEST I GET TO THE EAST COAST IN THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE
June 11th, 2016:
San Fran Golden Gate Author Event
San Francisco, California
http://sfgoldengateauthorevent.blogsp...
July 9th, 2016:
Romance Author & Reader Event
Edinburgh, Scotland, UK
http://www.rarevents.org/
http://www.eventbrite.com/e/romance-a...
October 6th, 7th, and 8th, 2016:
Claddagh Author Event
Dublin, Ireland
http://claddaghauthoreventdublin2016....
June 4, 2015
EXCERPT FROM WORK-IN-PROGRESS
On my Facebook page, I gave the option of showing never before seen teasers, or an excerpt from my next book.
The overwhelming vote went to excerpt.
*************************
(UNTITLED) © Stylo Fantôme
WORK-IN-PROGRESS - QUOTES ARE SUBJECT TO CHANGE, THIS IS A COMPLETE ROUGH DRAFT
SET TO PUBLISH IN THE FALL
She made her way up to his room slowly. She didn't want to come off as too eager. They'd been playing cat and mouse for a month, under the assumption neither would get caught. Now that it was time to eat, she wasn't quite ready to be the mouse.
The door to the third room on the right wasn't locked. She was cautious as she opened the door, in case it wasn't his room, but the first thing she saw was the black duffel bag he'd taken off with, followed by the clothing he'd been wearing. She moved into the room and shut the door behind her.
She could hear the shower running, so she took her time, looking over the space he'd been living in for the past month. It was simple. A room. A bed that was little more than a cot. A small table. One small chair. There had been electricity downstairs, but there didn't seem to be any in his room. Three mismatched, stout candles were burning on the table, and that was the only light source.
She heard the water trickle to a stop, so she made her way back towards the bathroom. Just as she grasped the knob, she felt it turn from the other side, and the door started to pull away. She smiled.
Samesies.
She lost her smile the same moment a hand wrapped around her neck. She let out a shriek as she was yanked around and slammed against a wall. The hand was replaced by a forearm; a much more effective body part for choking someone. She gritted her teeth, slapping at the arm that was restraining her.
“It's me! It's me!”
Marc looked surprised. And angry. He backed off a little and she sucked in gasps of air. His forearm moved to her collar bone, still holding her in place against the wall. She glared right back at him, resisting the urge to plant her knee in his testicles.
“What the fuck are you doing here!? How did you find me!?” he demanded, then his eyes darted around the room, as if he thought she'd brought people with her.
“You weren't exactly hard to follow, you idiot. You walked here,” she growled.
“I thought you were talking with the Brigadier.”
“I was. It wasn't a very long conversation.”
“I told you, I don't let anyone know where I sleep,” he reminded her, his voice low.
“Well, I didn't come here with intentions of sleeping, so we're still good.”
That got through to him, and he finally smiled at her. The pressure from his arm let up, but he leaned more of his body against her, lining them up from the hips down.
“I told you to meet me at a bar,” he pointed out, lowering his head to brush his cheek against the side of hers, then dipping down to rub against her neck. She heard a sharp inhale, like he was smelling her.
“Sometimes I'm not very good at listening.”
“I have to be out of here in a couple hours.”
“I only need a couple hours.”
“That's it? I had such high hopes for you.”
She snorted and moved her hands to his waist, yanking his towel away.
“And I had high hopes that your mouth would be good for something other than talking. So far, it's a disappointment.”
He kissed her in a way that made their first kiss seem like a church greeting. His tongue was present and forceful in her mouth, his hands moving to press heavily against her chest. She moaned, reveling in the feeling of being touched. Of actually wanting to be touched.
She scratched her nails along his hips and went to dip down between them, but he was quicker, and he grabbed her wrists, slamming her arms against the wall above her head. She gasped and automatically tried to resist, but he just squeezed tighter, pushed harder. Cat and mouse was over, the roles had been established. If he didn't want her to move, then she wasn't going to be able to move.
Does that mean I'm in the mouse trap?
The overwhelming vote went to excerpt.
*************************
(UNTITLED) © Stylo Fantôme
WORK-IN-PROGRESS - QUOTES ARE SUBJECT TO CHANGE, THIS IS A COMPLETE ROUGH DRAFT
SET TO PUBLISH IN THE FALL
She made her way up to his room slowly. She didn't want to come off as too eager. They'd been playing cat and mouse for a month, under the assumption neither would get caught. Now that it was time to eat, she wasn't quite ready to be the mouse.
The door to the third room on the right wasn't locked. She was cautious as she opened the door, in case it wasn't his room, but the first thing she saw was the black duffel bag he'd taken off with, followed by the clothing he'd been wearing. She moved into the room and shut the door behind her.
She could hear the shower running, so she took her time, looking over the space he'd been living in for the past month. It was simple. A room. A bed that was little more than a cot. A small table. One small chair. There had been electricity downstairs, but there didn't seem to be any in his room. Three mismatched, stout candles were burning on the table, and that was the only light source.
She heard the water trickle to a stop, so she made her way back towards the bathroom. Just as she grasped the knob, she felt it turn from the other side, and the door started to pull away. She smiled.
Samesies.
She lost her smile the same moment a hand wrapped around her neck. She let out a shriek as she was yanked around and slammed against a wall. The hand was replaced by a forearm; a much more effective body part for choking someone. She gritted her teeth, slapping at the arm that was restraining her.
“It's me! It's me!”
Marc looked surprised. And angry. He backed off a little and she sucked in gasps of air. His forearm moved to her collar bone, still holding her in place against the wall. She glared right back at him, resisting the urge to plant her knee in his testicles.
“What the fuck are you doing here!? How did you find me!?” he demanded, then his eyes darted around the room, as if he thought she'd brought people with her.
“You weren't exactly hard to follow, you idiot. You walked here,” she growled.
“I thought you were talking with the Brigadier.”
“I was. It wasn't a very long conversation.”
“I told you, I don't let anyone know where I sleep,” he reminded her, his voice low.
“Well, I didn't come here with intentions of sleeping, so we're still good.”
That got through to him, and he finally smiled at her. The pressure from his arm let up, but he leaned more of his body against her, lining them up from the hips down.
“I told you to meet me at a bar,” he pointed out, lowering his head to brush his cheek against the side of hers, then dipping down to rub against her neck. She heard a sharp inhale, like he was smelling her.
“Sometimes I'm not very good at listening.”
“I have to be out of here in a couple hours.”
“I only need a couple hours.”
“That's it? I had such high hopes for you.”
She snorted and moved her hands to his waist, yanking his towel away.
“And I had high hopes that your mouth would be good for something other than talking. So far, it's a disappointment.”
He kissed her in a way that made their first kiss seem like a church greeting. His tongue was present and forceful in her mouth, his hands moving to press heavily against her chest. She moaned, reveling in the feeling of being touched. Of actually wanting to be touched.
She scratched her nails along his hips and went to dip down between them, but he was quicker, and he grabbed her wrists, slamming her arms against the wall above her head. She gasped and automatically tried to resist, but he just squeezed tighter, pushed harder. Cat and mouse was over, the roles had been established. If he didn't want her to move, then she wasn't going to be able to move.
Does that mean I'm in the mouse trap?
April 12, 2015
Call Me, On the Line, You Can Call Me, Call Me, Any Time ...
WAYS YOU CAN REACH ME:
Friend me on here and post on my profile.
Ask a question on my profile - I have that option available.
Ask a question on any of my book pages.
Comment on any of my reviews.
Comment on any of my status updates.
Comment on any of my blog posts.
Or easiest of all - send me a message. My profile is open to accepting any/all messages.
OTHER WAYS TO REACH ME:
www.facebook.com/stylofantomeauthor - my Author page, where you can post directly to my timeline or send me a message.
www.facebook.com/stylo.fantome - my profile page, where you can friend me, message me, or post to my wall.
www.amazon.com/author/stylofantome - my amazon author page, you can open up discussions with me and other readers.
Twitter: @StyloFantome
Instagram: @stylofantome
e-mail: stylofantome@gmail.com
mail: PO Box 615, Sitka, Alaska, 99835
MY PA is Rebeka Perales, creator of Triple B's Badass Book Boyfriends blog, she can also be found on FB and here, and can reach me. Also, a multitude of book blogs have read me and/or communicated with me, they probably know a way to get in touch with me, or know someone who knows how.
SO IN CONCLUSION:
There are a multitude of ways to talk to me. I am very open to communication. In fact, pretty much the only way I can't be communicated with, is via reviews for my own books. This is a no-no, even I know that, so I try to refrain from commenting on reviews for my own books. So if you want to ENSURE that I won't/can't respond to something you've said about me, then leave a review.
But like I said, I'm incredibly open. A lot of us authors are, particularly independent ones. So feel free to drop me a line.
Just a friendly suggestion.
Friend me on here and post on my profile.
Ask a question on my profile - I have that option available.
Ask a question on any of my book pages.
Comment on any of my reviews.
Comment on any of my status updates.
Comment on any of my blog posts.
Or easiest of all - send me a message. My profile is open to accepting any/all messages.
OTHER WAYS TO REACH ME:
www.facebook.com/stylofantomeauthor - my Author page, where you can post directly to my timeline or send me a message.
www.facebook.com/stylo.fantome - my profile page, where you can friend me, message me, or post to my wall.
www.amazon.com/author/stylofantome - my amazon author page, you can open up discussions with me and other readers.
Twitter: @StyloFantome
Instagram: @stylofantome
e-mail: stylofantome@gmail.com
mail: PO Box 615, Sitka, Alaska, 99835
MY PA is Rebeka Perales, creator of Triple B's Badass Book Boyfriends blog, she can also be found on FB and here, and can reach me. Also, a multitude of book blogs have read me and/or communicated with me, they probably know a way to get in touch with me, or know someone who knows how.
SO IN CONCLUSION:
There are a multitude of ways to talk to me. I am very open to communication. In fact, pretty much the only way I can't be communicated with, is via reviews for my own books. This is a no-no, even I know that, so I try to refrain from commenting on reviews for my own books. So if you want to ENSURE that I won't/can't respond to something you've said about me, then leave a review.
But like I said, I'm incredibly open. A lot of us authors are, particularly independent ones. So feel free to drop me a line.
Just a friendly suggestion.
March 23, 2015
Where is This Coming From?
So I was perusing some shelves, doing some general lurking, and have discovered some misconceptions.
Several people have shelved "My Time in the Affair" as a short-story, or as a novella.
It is not. It is a full length novel, over 85,000 words. Kindle sets the book length based on kindle parameters, which basically means nothing. If I were to print this book in Arial 12pt font in a 6x9 paperback, it would be almost 300 pages.
But in a word doc., at Arial 12pt, it's 170 pages.
See?
So I go by word count - I almost wish it was a requirement to list them on Amazon and Goodreads. For me, personally, I consider anything less than 70,000 words to be a Novella (Completion was 50,000 words). I would probably never buy a book that was under 30,000 words - just personal choice.
Most literary agents won't look at a manuscript that has less than 70,000 words, and they prefer at least 80,000, but less than 100,000. I go by that guideline for my own books.
I have also seen shelves like "Waiting for Entire Reading List" and "Series" - this book is a stand alone, not a series.
I have also listed all this information in the synopsis.
So no worries! There's no waiting for books two, three, and four, and no buying it only to find out it's teeny tiny.
Just your standard novel.
.... that might make you cry and hate me at certain points, but sometimes that's good ;)
Releases May 2nd
Pre-Order now and get the special price of $0.99 - will have a standard price of $2.99 after May 7th.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00UTTDXM4
Several people have shelved "My Time in the Affair" as a short-story, or as a novella.
It is not. It is a full length novel, over 85,000 words. Kindle sets the book length based on kindle parameters, which basically means nothing. If I were to print this book in Arial 12pt font in a 6x9 paperback, it would be almost 300 pages.
But in a word doc., at Arial 12pt, it's 170 pages.
See?
So I go by word count - I almost wish it was a requirement to list them on Amazon and Goodreads. For me, personally, I consider anything less than 70,000 words to be a Novella (Completion was 50,000 words). I would probably never buy a book that was under 30,000 words - just personal choice.
Most literary agents won't look at a manuscript that has less than 70,000 words, and they prefer at least 80,000, but less than 100,000. I go by that guideline for my own books.
I have also seen shelves like "Waiting for Entire Reading List" and "Series" - this book is a stand alone, not a series.
I have also listed all this information in the synopsis.
So no worries! There's no waiting for books two, three, and four, and no buying it only to find out it's teeny tiny.
Just your standard novel.
.... that might make you cry and hate me at certain points, but sometimes that's good ;)
Releases May 2nd
Pre-Order now and get the special price of $0.99 - will have a standard price of $2.99 after May 7th.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00UTTDXM4
March 9, 2015
Some Things I've Learned(ish)
FB Groups and Goodreads are awesome-pawesome. I'm a reader, after all. I like to read reviews and status updates and follow along with posts and see book suggestions.
But now that I'm a published (indie) writer, it's changed. It took me a while to catch on, but it really has, and I think a blogger leaving a comment on a review on Goodreads said it perfectly.
“Goodreads is for readers, not authors.”
Plain and simple. And I think – just my own opinion! – that we have to make a choice. Which comes first? Am I an author, or am I reader?
To preserve my career, author should come first. To remain true to my roots, reader should come first. Why does anything have to come first?
Because now when I'm in a FB group and I see people speaking negatively about a book, and a friend of mine wrote that book, my feather's get ruffled. That's my friend. I've read that book. It's a good book. And they're getting kind of mean. Yeah, still technically just “reviewing”, and no, they're not bullying, but they're being mean and nasty about their opinions. WE wrote these books, they are extensions of ourselves, of our imaginations, of our beings. Readers don't often understand that, or understand the depth to which that goes, so yeah, I get defensive.
And then I think “what will saying anything do? It will make people snap back, it'll start a ruckus, it'll create a FB fight, no one will pay any attention to your point anyway, and now an entire group on FB hates you, over what is essentially a book review.”
Solved that problem. And I'm not stupid enough to ever even consider doing such a thing on GR – y'all don't play.
And in that same breath – sometimes I see an author post something on GR or in a FB Group, and the reader in me gets HER feather's ruffled. What business do they have stepping in? This is a talk between READERS, the author has no place, and has effectively disrupted the entire conversation. JERK. Why can't they just butt out and learn that it's about their book, NOT THEM? That they're NOT one of us anymore!?
BOOM. I just yelled at MYSELF. Choice made. I guess I'm an author first and foremost. Now I have to pick and choose my battles - what is REALLY worth jeopardizing fans and sales for.
It doesn't make negative comments hurt less. It doesn't make rude conversations less annoying. It doesn't make blatant lies and fake reviews any less maddening. It doesn't make me wish that people would learn to think before they speak any less. It doesn't make me think it's okay for people to just say WHATEVER they want about something. But for the most part, it's not my place to voice an opinion on any of that. My place is behind a keyboard.
Now if I could just heed my own advice, maybe some writing would get done!
But now that I'm a published (indie) writer, it's changed. It took me a while to catch on, but it really has, and I think a blogger leaving a comment on a review on Goodreads said it perfectly.
“Goodreads is for readers, not authors.”
Plain and simple. And I think – just my own opinion! – that we have to make a choice. Which comes first? Am I an author, or am I reader?
To preserve my career, author should come first. To remain true to my roots, reader should come first. Why does anything have to come first?
Because now when I'm in a FB group and I see people speaking negatively about a book, and a friend of mine wrote that book, my feather's get ruffled. That's my friend. I've read that book. It's a good book. And they're getting kind of mean. Yeah, still technically just “reviewing”, and no, they're not bullying, but they're being mean and nasty about their opinions. WE wrote these books, they are extensions of ourselves, of our imaginations, of our beings. Readers don't often understand that, or understand the depth to which that goes, so yeah, I get defensive.
And then I think “what will saying anything do? It will make people snap back, it'll start a ruckus, it'll create a FB fight, no one will pay any attention to your point anyway, and now an entire group on FB hates you, over what is essentially a book review.”
Solved that problem. And I'm not stupid enough to ever even consider doing such a thing on GR – y'all don't play.
And in that same breath – sometimes I see an author post something on GR or in a FB Group, and the reader in me gets HER feather's ruffled. What business do they have stepping in? This is a talk between READERS, the author has no place, and has effectively disrupted the entire conversation. JERK. Why can't they just butt out and learn that it's about their book, NOT THEM? That they're NOT one of us anymore!?
BOOM. I just yelled at MYSELF. Choice made. I guess I'm an author first and foremost. Now I have to pick and choose my battles - what is REALLY worth jeopardizing fans and sales for.
It doesn't make negative comments hurt less. It doesn't make rude conversations less annoying. It doesn't make blatant lies and fake reviews any less maddening. It doesn't make me wish that people would learn to think before they speak any less. It doesn't make me think it's okay for people to just say WHATEVER they want about something. But for the most part, it's not my place to voice an opinion on any of that. My place is behind a keyboard.
Now if I could just heed my own advice, maybe some writing would get done!
February 23, 2015
HEA wha....!?
Something I have been thinking about A LOT. HEAs are funny things to me.
I am a firm believer in the HEA. Never say never, but I will be shocked if I ever deliver a non-HEA to you - I grew up on Disney movies and When Harry Met Sally. The boy ALWAYS gets the girl in the end, that's the way it's meant to be.
But apparently, that's not enough for some people.
I find it ... interesting, that to so many people, an HEA seems to be defined by getting married and having babies. Really? Seems ... archaic, to be quite honest.
Not that it's not okay. I just think there are LOTS of different ways to get an HEA. Maybe it is getting married and having babies.
But maybe it's running off into the Tuscan sun and living as lovers for the next 20+ years.
Maybe it means living in Cambodia and the only children you have are the ones you adopt.
You know the actress Tilda Swinton? Well, she's married and has children. She ALSO has a boyfriend, who travels with her. Basically a man for when in country, and a man for when abroad. It works for them. That's their HEA.
I also like a bit of mystery. It's enough for me to hear the proclamation of love and to be given enough info to make a safe assumption that whatever is their version of an HEA, happens. In When Harry Met Sally, you don't SEE the wedding, and you don't SEE their children. But you can assume those things happen. So I'm good.
I can't imagine having the movie continue, with Harry and Sally going about their everyday lives. Whose turn is it to do the dishes? Did you remember to call the people about the broken furnace? Where are my car keys!? Did you remember to tell your boss you need to leave early for parent/teacher conferences?
Fuck that. Not very romantic to me. No, I like leaving it with him shouting his love to her on a sidewalk, and the fade out of a kiss.
And this is just me. I get that those "every day" things happen in real life, and people like to read about those things. Awesome pawsome.
But don't let them define what an ultimate HEA is. Just because YOU need those things, doesn't mean everyone else does. A marriage and babies don't define love anymore than crazy wild sex does.
It's all fantasy, man, so I'm gonna live it up.
Hell, maybe even ride off into the Tuscan sun with TWO lovers ...
I am a firm believer in the HEA. Never say never, but I will be shocked if I ever deliver a non-HEA to you - I grew up on Disney movies and When Harry Met Sally. The boy ALWAYS gets the girl in the end, that's the way it's meant to be.
But apparently, that's not enough for some people.
I find it ... interesting, that to so many people, an HEA seems to be defined by getting married and having babies. Really? Seems ... archaic, to be quite honest.
Not that it's not okay. I just think there are LOTS of different ways to get an HEA. Maybe it is getting married and having babies.
But maybe it's running off into the Tuscan sun and living as lovers for the next 20+ years.
Maybe it means living in Cambodia and the only children you have are the ones you adopt.
You know the actress Tilda Swinton? Well, she's married and has children. She ALSO has a boyfriend, who travels with her. Basically a man for when in country, and a man for when abroad. It works for them. That's their HEA.
I also like a bit of mystery. It's enough for me to hear the proclamation of love and to be given enough info to make a safe assumption that whatever is their version of an HEA, happens. In When Harry Met Sally, you don't SEE the wedding, and you don't SEE their children. But you can assume those things happen. So I'm good.
I can't imagine having the movie continue, with Harry and Sally going about their everyday lives. Whose turn is it to do the dishes? Did you remember to call the people about the broken furnace? Where are my car keys!? Did you remember to tell your boss you need to leave early for parent/teacher conferences?
Fuck that. Not very romantic to me. No, I like leaving it with him shouting his love to her on a sidewalk, and the fade out of a kiss.
And this is just me. I get that those "every day" things happen in real life, and people like to read about those things. Awesome pawsome.
But don't let them define what an ultimate HEA is. Just because YOU need those things, doesn't mean everyone else does. A marriage and babies don't define love anymore than crazy wild sex does.
It's all fantasy, man, so I'm gonna live it up.
Hell, maybe even ride off into the Tuscan sun with TWO lovers ...
