WIP Wednesday - The Naked Remedy

I'm in the throes of finishing off this novella for an upcoming Amber Allure pax. The pax is about connections made via communications, like Grindr, online dating, and even letter writing. Mine is called The Naked Remedy and is about a young closeted man in his 20s who falls for a blog owner.

This is how it opens...

*_*_*

I've seen a lot of naked guys online. Don't believe me? Look at the facts. I'm a twenty-six year-old closeted gay man with undiagnosed social anxieties who still lives at home. I do have a job, though. I'm not that pathetic. I'm a sonographer at the hospital which actually pays well enough for me to rent a place of my own if I wasn't so nervous about breaking out of my comfort zone.

So looking at naked men on my laptop? That's been the model of my dating life for the past seven years.

But when I saw him...he might as well have been the first. I stared. A lot. I didn't back out or click forward or scroll down or do anything that would erase him from my screen. It was like I had only just discovered how beautiful the male body could be.

He stood in roiling surf, the pinking sky behind him announcing the coming dawn. His sturdy body faced the horizon, arms thrown out in welcome, the smile he threw over his broad shoulder at the photographer radiating joy, but just as compelling as that were the scars that snaked down his right hip and thigh.

Though light brown hair furred his legs, arms, and even the robust curve of his ass, the twisting scars were devoid of any texture but the badge of long-healed skin. The right calf was noticeably smaller than its mate, more evidence of whatever tragedy had caused the scars in the first place. I felt like a voyeur, staring at the imperfections, but I dismissed my unease. He obviously knew he was being photographed. He'd even stripped down for it.

This was a man who wanted to be seen.

No text accompanied the picture. It wasn't a surprise. People shared other people's pics all the time, and this one in particular hadn't merited more than a few hundred when I stumbled across it. When I scrolled down through the list, however, an anonymous fan added a link with its note.

The dude from the Naked Remedy. He rocks.

The Naked Remedy. I'd never heard of that. A guick Google search brought it up first, though, so I clicked on it to get more information.

I'm not sure if my world changed when I saw the blog or when I first saw his picture. I suppose in the end it doesn't really matter which was responsible. The important part was that nothing was the same after that.

WIP Wednesday - Wild Fragile Vines

Right now, I'm working on finishing a short story for an Amber Pax blog about the second time around. It's been an experiment for me, because it's part epistolary with a non-linear format, with letters and other tidbits interspersed with flashbacks and moments in present day. On the surface, "Wild Fragile Vines" is about Tim, about to turn fifty, as he's getting ready to face guests in his home. He has a box of letters hidden away he dwells on, which introduces us to Devin, the musician younger son of the vineyard owner Tim worked for the last twenty years.

The following is a newspaper interview of Devin:

*_*_*

A TASTE OF CALIFORNIA

March 15, 1999—Austin got a taste of what Napa Valley is growing these days at The Ruins last night with the dulcet tones of California crooner, Devin Mayer. Mayer opened for local band, Cloud Demolition, and lit a low, but steady flame under the dubious audience, gradually winning them over with his smooth baritone and haunting lyrics. With just a stool, a single spotlight, and his guitar, he left the crowd stunned into silence before bursting into enthusiastic applause once he left the stage. They coaxed him back for one more song, and afterward, I got the chance to sit down with him for a drink and a few questions.

Q: You’re a little ways from home. How are you finding Texas? Are we as bad as Californians think we are?
A: Are you kidding? Austin’s great. I love it here.

Q: You’re just saying that because you have to.
A: I don’t say anything because I have to. That’s one reason why I’m here instead of there.

Q: Family problems?
A: Difference of opinion. I don’t come from a musical family. They love me, but they don’t get the music thing. Just like I love them, but I don’t get why I should go into the family business if it’s not what I’m passionate about. Nobody should be forced into a life they don’t want.

Q: And you want a life in Austin?
A: I want a life in music. It just so happened to drop me here for a few months.

It takes little effort to discover Mayer dropped out of Berkeley School of Music after two years, then moved onto a brief stint in Seattle before striking his way east in late ’97, but every time I try to get details, Mayer spins the conversation in other directions. I learn he’s single (“By choice.”), he’s addicted to peanut butter cups (“You will never convince me that isn’t the perfect flavor combination.”), and he knows more about classic Hollywood screwball comedies than anyone else I know under the age of sixty (“You can learn a lot from Cary Grant.”).

Everything changes when I shift focus to his music, though even here, he insists on clarity when I don’t give him the choices he’s looking for.

Q: Do you consider yourself a singer who happens to play guitar, or a guitarist who happens to sing?
A: I consider myself a storyteller who happens to be able to play and sing a little.

Q: So you’re a songwriter first.
A: Yeah.

Q: Then why play? Why not just write songs and hand them off to somebody else to perform?
A: (After he laughs) Is that an oblique way of telling me I suck?

Q: On the contrary, I’m a little surprised you’re undercutting how good you actually are.

His blushing at my compliment temporarily dissolves the calm veneer he’s been wearing until now. Though he’s twenty-three, most of the time he comes across as older, dark blue eyes intense and unwavering as he meets those of whomever he speaks to. This flash of innocence is fleeting, however, and he quickly returns to the eloquence that permeates his songs when I ask specific questions. For the next hour, I listen, admittedly enthralled by his creative process. Each song is personal, starting out as fable before morphing into the incarnations he presents to his audiences. All except for one. The encore that left more than one girl coming up to him during our interview asking if it was available on the EP he’s selling. (FYI: It’s not, which is a crying shame.)

Q: Listening to “Priceless,” someone might think you regret leaving Napa.
A: Really? Why do you think that?”

Q: Well, it’s a love poem to the valley, isn’t it?
A: That doesn’t mean I’m the narrator.

Q: If not you, then who?
A: The world is full of people who see beauty in details others find mundane. Ominous clouds the second before the skies open and drench everything in rain. The first grape to appear on a vine. The problem is, they often get dismissed as mundane themselves when that couldn’t be further from the truth. “Priceless” is about recognizing the value in the details, in those people, while you have the chance. Don’t forget them. The world deserves better than that. They deserve better.

Though I press, Mayer sticks to the vague, but I end the interview convinced he’s thinking about somebody specific when it comes to “Priceless”’s narrator. It could be a father, a mother, a friend. Only Devin Mayer knows for certain.

So to whoever it is, take it from this stranger in Austin, Texas. You’re not forgotten.

WIP Wednesday

I'm working on two short novellas right now for upcoming paxes, one about time travel and one about second chances. This is the current opening I have for my time travel story, tentatively called "Unison."

*_*_*

While nearly everyone on the midnight shift either wore ear protection or listened to music as they worked, Freddie Valek never did. It wasn’t that working in a tool manufacturer’s warehouse was so fascinating he didn’t need the distraction. It was that his imagination was more than enough to keep his brain occupied while his body did the heavy lifting. Literally.

He’d always been a dreamer. Anything could transport him from the moment, from a bird zooming across an indigo sky to more traditional methods like movies and television. Books worked, too, except for the fact that he wasn’t the greatest reader. His imagination worked faster. He could be battling trolls in a war-torn aerial kingdom or marching down the streets of Washington, DC, in hippie clothes protesting the war without ever having to sit for ten minutes trying to figure out why so many of the words swimming on the page in front of him didn’t sound at all like the way people actually talked in rural Kentucky.

He’d thought maybe it might be different when he moved to New York City in 2006. But no, words didn’t match the way people talked here, either.

Some of the guys had given him a hard time when he first started working at the warehouse, calling him a dumb hick because he couldn’t shake his accent, but that stopped not long after he dragged an old-timer out of the way of a forklift backing up into an area that was supposed to be off-limits. He never really understood why that should make a difference. After all, anyone else would’ve done the same thing. It was just common decency. But it did, which made the transition to all the choices the city had to offer that Kentucky didn’t just a little bit easier.

Hell, they even knew he was gay and didn’t give him grief for it. Not like what he’d seen other boys get back home. More proof that this was the right place for him, even those times when it felt like something was still missing.

WIP Wednesday

I'm just about to wrap up Placeless, the next Bay Wolves story. This one is about Keaton McGrath, one of the wolves that was rescued along with Elijah in Boundless. Keaton is a very young wolf, with issues controlling his shifts. This is the opening of the story, our first real introduction to him.

* * *

The wind whipped past my face as I raced over the wet grass, filling my lungs with the stinging air and my nose with the smells of dirt, earthworms, and the tulips and cherry blossoms that bloom so vividly in March here. The trees were a blur, obstacles to navigate through and around rather than stop and enjoy. I wasn’t in Golden Gate Park at five in the morning to appreciate the scenery.

I was here to run.

When you’re an untagged wolf in San Francisco, you take whatever you can to roam as free as you might need or want.

Though I caught the occasional scent of another wolf, I never saw one during my runs. I don’t know why. The park seemed like the perfect place to get out some of the urges that often threatened to overwhelm me during the day. They thrived on randomness, it seemed. Anything could trigger them. A beautiful blonde’s perfume. The slope of a burly stranger’s shoulder. A car backfiring. I’m sure if I brought it up in group, any of the others might be able to explain why it happened, but I would never let it get that far. They might find value in talking about the trauma that bound us together, but I didn’t. I only went because if I didn’t, Corey would find out, and since I relied on Corey’s generosity for a place to stay, I couldn’t do anything to piss him off.

He didn’t know about my runs, either. Another reason why I chose coming so early.

I blocked out thoughts about my day to day, to better concentrate on my few minutes of freedom. Here, now, I was wolf. I couldn’t claim this territory as my own, but I could pretend, and that was all I needed.

Faster.

Around the tree.

Through an unseen puddle.

My lean muscles burned as I challenged them with greater speed.

There was no such thing as too fast.

I lost all concept of time. I measured my run in terms of heartbeats and the color of the sky, occasionally tipping my nose up to see its sooty spread shift and fade. Getting caught by dawn could strip my one liberty away if someone saw me. At best, wolves were considered second-class citizens. At worst, we were feared. If the wrong person caught me out…

I angled toward the tree where I’d stashed my clothes. The worst had already happened to me when I’d been kidnapped for the sadistic pleasure of men and women rich enough to afford my company. I wouldn’t do anything stupid to risk getting trapped again.

Though shifting back into my human form was the last thing I wanted, I did it. I’d been a wolf for almost a year now, and it still wasn’t easy. Where others could change shapes back and forth at will, I had to force my thoughts to images of what I looked like standing on two legs instead of four, with bare skin instead of fur, with the face that looked back at me in the mirror instead of the muzzle I lifted to the moon to howl. Corey said going to group would help me learn how to balance the two parts of me, but what did he know? He was a lawyer, for Christ’s sake. He wasn’t even wolf. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the struggle I went through on a daily basis.

Lowering my nose to the grass, I breathed in and out, waiting for my pulse to slow. Shifting was easier that way. Adrenaline turned me into a walking time bomb. Once it didn’t feel like my pelt was vibrating in time with my heart, I let the shift begin.

WIP Wednesday

I've been working and polishing an m/m story, still untitled, set in the American Midwest in the Depression era, but it's not quite a straightforward historical as it has a soft paranormal aspect to it. This is the beginning, unedited...

------


There wasn't a spot in the whole of Brookburn where the tiny colored flags on top of the tents pitched outside of town weren't visible. The red and yellow wisps fluttered whether Levi could feel a breeze or not, like they were caught in a world of their own making, someplace separate and magical where the wind didn't whip up the dust to get caught in places it had no business being. He even caught them dancing at night, when he climbed out his window to sneak down to the gulley that cut the carnies off from the rest of town. He'd stretched out on his stomach, as flat to the packed earth as he could get, and drank it all in until the last light had been extinguished.

Everywhere he looked was an explosion to his senses. Colors rainbows would've been jealous of. Laughter and music and hushed whispers as shadows would emerge from one tent only to meld into a single entity before disappearing into another. Roasting meat and strong whiskey that made his stomach rumble even though he'd had his full at suppertime. His fingers curled into the dry grass, because he needed to stay put, not make a run for it like everything inside screamed at him to do.

He crept back to the Beckerman home before the night relinquished its hold on the sky. His dreams for the few hours he got before Pap pounded on the door for him to get to his chores left him with a hollow longing in his chest.

"Mr. Trumbull's closing the store tomorrow," he commented at the supper table, staring at the beef he sawed away at on his plate rather than anyone else at the table.

"Now why would he go and do a fool thing like that? Saturday's your busiest day of the week."

Levi had been working at the general store since he was twelve and it became increasingly obvious to his burly father that his only son was built more like his wispy mother. He wasn't short, but he'd always been thin and too scrawny for most of the labor out on Grandad's farm. Pete Beckerman talked Artie Trumbull into giving Levi a job, in hopes the hours helping with inventory and making deliveries around Brookburn would put some meat on his bones.

It hadn't. Levi was stronger than he looked, though. He used that disparity to his advantage as often as he possibly could.

"He says everyone will be at the carnival tomorrow anyway," Levi said in response to his mother's surprised question.

Pap snorted. "And then at church on Sunday like they didn't throw good money after bad just the day before."

"You never know, Pete." Levi and his sister Annie might have cringed a little at the harshness of Pap's tone, but Mom was unfazed as always. She reached for the mashed potatoes to scoop another spoonful onto Pap's plate. "I heard someone over in Jagerstown won a brand new stove in that grand raffle of theirs."

"A stove."

"That's what I heard."

"Those people don't even have homes. How would they find the money for a stove?"

"Mr. Trumbull's going." Nobody in town really trusted the carnies, so Pap's reactions were hardly unusual, but Levi wished he could see what else they offered, the dreams they held out with both hands to anybody who wanted them. Those were all Levi had thought about from the moment the first flyer had shown up on the post outside the newspaper office, though his were buried so deep, they'd need more magic than a few pretty flags and some fast words to set free.

"Well, with the store shut, he doesn't have much else to do, now does he? Some of us have real work to do."

Levi stopped trying then. Pap was just like the soil he tilled, practical, unchanging, ultimately immovable.

WIP Wednesday

I stopped for a bit working on this week because I thought I found my plot bunny for an upcoming pax at Amber Allure, but that didn't pan out, so I'm back to my vampires again.

-----

US Marine Curtis Lenske hung from the wooden cross on the opposite wall. His clothes had long since dried, and his once-white shirt was gray with grime. Blood caked his feet where they had caught on either the sand or something in the sea, but other than a few scratches along his heavily muscled arms and an abrasion over his left cheekbone, no other injuries marred his succulent body.

Felice hovered at the door, waiting for him to notice her presence. To the casual observer, his bowed head might indicate sleep, but she knew better. His telltale heart thudded too quickly to be unconscious, and the minute twitches of his fingers weren’t reactions to dreams. She itched to stand before him and drink him in, but this required patience. She had a strong feeling that Curtis Lenske was not a man who broke easily.

It took nearly five minutes of standing there silently for him to finally lift his head. When he did, he did so slowly, deliberately, like his skull weighed far more than the norm, and he stopped the second his icy blue eyes could meet hers through his lashes. There was no other reaction from him. No taunt. No smile. No grimace of fear. He merely waited, as she was, staring at her with the expectation that she would speak first.

Another five minutes passed where neither of them moved. In that five minutes, her nipples tightened to hard peaks and her stomach growled twice. She spoke only because she was hungry and for nothing else.

“No begging?”

He didn’t even blink. “For what?”

Felice shrugged. “To be set free, perhaps. Many men have hung from that particular cross and wept for their liberty. I would not presume that you’d stray far from your predecessors’ path.”

“But you didn’t let them go. Which means you’re not going to let me go. So again I ask you, for what?”

She liked his boldness. Confidence with a fearless attitude to back it up. It was no wonder Octavian had wanted this one as a prize. A disposition such as this combined with that physique made him quite valuable.

“What do they call you?” Long strides took her across the room, his scent more pungent with each step. By the time she stood in front of him, her mouth had watered twice and her pussy was wet. “If I’m going to keep you, I’d like to know what to call you.”

His penetrating eyes narrowed. “You know my name. You took my tags.”

“Your name and what you’re called are two entirely separate things.”

“And what do your vamp pals call you?”

“Mistress. A few have permission to use my name, but I try not to encourage that.”

WIP Wednesday

I'm still working at Throne of Thralls, the het vampire story I posted the beginning to last week. Felice has blown up the boat of a rival vampire, but is sticking around as long as possible to make sure there wasn't a survivor...

-----

The others grew restless when the night began to warm. Sunrise approached, and none had fed. Felice had chosen her companions for this excursion carefully, but even they had their limits. The lack of bodies to wash to the shore and her command for diligence had taken its toll. She was about to give them leave to hunt in the last hour before dawn when a fresh scent caught her attention, and she stiffened, taking a step closer to the water.

Gerard immediately stepped forward as well. “What is it?” He craned his long neck, dark lanks of hair falling against his thin cheeks. “I don’t see anything.”

“Don’t look.” Felice closed her eyes and breathed in. “Smell.”

The others crowded around, too close for her comfort, but she was too absorbed by the incoming aromas to tell them to disperse. Blood, coppery and rich, pumping hard, pumping fast, spilling into the sea as quickly as it could gobble it up. Flesh, scorched and succulent, enough to make her taste buds water and her fangs itch. And sweat. Salty. Hot. The kind of sweat that came from muscles exerting themselves so strenuously that the body was forced to cooling measures.

Someone had survived the explosion. Someone who was now swimming to shore.

A human.

“Get back,” she hissed.

Immediately, they retreated, though the fresh prey tensed their reflexes so they stayed at the ready, just a couple meters behind her. Her features shifted, canines descending, eyes silvery as they turned to the edge of the water. As hungry as her minions were, the spoils were her to take, if she wished, and they knew that. Any moment now, the human would emerge from the sea, and she would know at a single glance whether it was worthy enough to feed from.

And there it was.

The sound of splashing water broke the calm first. Then came the pale slice of an arm through the surface, followed by the bob of a head. Someone fair. Another stroke. More details. The arm was powerful, a circlet of thorns tattooed around the biceps.

A man.

Felice smiled.

He reached the shallows and crawled rather than swam, coughing up water in one breath, gasping for air in the next. The muscle shirt he wore was no longer white, torn along the back and stained with soot and ash, and from his neck dangled silver dog tags that jingled in the silent night. Corded muscles bulged where his arms continued to work, and his dark blond hair was cropped to a mere stubble. Military. He had to be. He had the body of a soldier and the stamina of a fighter.

Then he looked up. Eyes the color of blue ice found her unerringly in front of him, and his sensual mouth twisted into a scowl.

“Well, shit,” he muttered. “Another fucking vampire.”

WIP Wednesday

I've been finishing up other projects and doing editing, so my WIP Wednesday posts have slid to the wayside. However, I'm in the midst of a new project and getting back on track, so today, I'm sharing the opening of it. It's called "Throne of Thralls," and it's a het vampire erotic romance.

-----

Without a moon, the Mediterranean lapped like black ink against the sand, barely disturbing the fine grains. The tourists would be out in full force in the morning, and the sun would turn the sea into the crystal blue of postcards, but for now, everything on the Toulon beach was still and silent, including the small coterie of people staring out over the water. There were five in all, but Felice Dautin was the sole woman of the group. The night swallowed everything but her outline, and she held her head high as she kept her gaze fixed on the horizon.

Soon. She anticipated it would be a splendid display.

From the city behind her, the soft hum of sleeping humans tried to distract her from the passage of time, but as always, it failed. She had not risen to her position of power by being weak. Their wait might be precautionary at best, but it served its purpose. She would watch, unblinking, unfailing, until she witnessed the destruction she’d worked so hard to gain.

A human would have missed the explosion. It might have seen the flare of orange streak across the horizon, but the yacht was too far away from the shore to be visible, and the blast was sucked away by the distance.

But none of the five were human. And when the Serendipity detonated as Felice had planned, all five vampires heard it.

WIP Wednesday

Garen dreams...

-----

Garen dreamed of gossamer winds and pale limbs, both entwining around him in bonds he couldn't break even if he wanted to. Though the air hinted at an approaching winter, his flesh was heated, ready and throbbing as if he waited to spring upon an unsuspecting prey. Here, though, he wasn't a hunter. He wasn't a guard. He had no duties to protect a family that wasn't truly his. He existed because he could, because free will wasn't a privilege but a right.

He could stand tall and proud, dismissing any who claimed otherwise.

When he slept, his thoughts often went to the land of his birth, a lush, verdant paradise compared to Dhivin and its surrounding provinces. In xxx, cities were considered a plague. Villages never grew beyond a few dozen people, because when they reached numbers too great for the earth to sustain, the younger members were forced to move on, encouraged to create their own village, a place to call home that was unique to them and them alone.

Garen had left his village before being requested. His pride had demanded it. He'd outgrown the education his elders could provide, gone through all the books, asked questions they could no longer answer. The only way not to choke on their ignorance was to find different teachers.

He'd never found them. But in spite of that, he continued to yearn for the gentler way of life of his youth, escaping there in his dreams.

Until today, he'd always been alone.

The body curled into his on the thick, sun-soft grass stirred, adding gentle breath to the wind that ruffled his hair. He knew without looking down that it was Klea. The scent of her skin transplanted him from the harsh brightness of Dhivin. Only her generous curves fit against him like this, like a secondary self to master and keep. She moved when he moved, allowing the perfect balance without him having to utter a single word.

His arms tightened around her. He couldn't risk letting her go, not when he'd only just found her.

When he woke up on his narrow bed, the winds that had whispered through his sleep now raged in fury, the storm outside still unsettled. His body was hard, aroused and alert, but his mind wasn't frustrated from the lack of release. If anything, he was more alert, blithely uncaring of the day's cruel magician that usually whisked away the good temper created from his nightly escape. He dressed with speed and efficiency, eager to see Jae and learn what new developments had transpired while he rested.

WIP Wednesday

Still working away at my het romance, still don't have a title for it...

-----


Her hair hung loose over her pale gown, falling over her shoulders to hide the shadows of her nipples from his sight. She'd scrubbed her face clean of the artifice she didn't require to be beautiful, and her wide eyes tilted up at him, made even wider by the shadows hollowing below them. In some ways, she appeared a child caught in the aftermath of a nightmare. In need of comfort. In search of aid.

His initial instinct was to take her into his arms and soothe it all away. He actually took a step toward her before he realized what he was doing.

"Mistress." He bowed his head, holding the pose in hopes that would help him regain some control. His effort was in vain. The vision of her standing there was already burned onto his consciousness.

"Since you're here, I would guess you had no luck tonight." She spoke softly, though nobody was around to hear her. "Did you learn anything at all?"

"No." To admit it aloud hurt more than he'd imagined. "But I will not give up until you're safe."

"I know."

He didn't dare lift his head yet. "You should be asleep."

"So should you."

"It's my duty to watch you through the night. Jae will return at dawn to relieve me."

"And you'll sleep then?"

"Yes." For a few hours, at least. Only what he absolutely needed to function before resuming the hunt.

"I can't." Her confession was a whisper, and yet it boomed within his soul. He glanced up at her through his lashes to see her lower lip quivering a split second before she sucked it between her teeth. Even now, she fought to maintain her dignity, to prove to him she was strong, but the simple gesture undid every resolution he'd made for himself. "I've been trying. My thoughts won't settle."

"I could call for Physic Ragan. He can give you something to help."

"No, I've been enough trouble as it is. I don't want to disrupt everyone even more than I have."

Not a single person within the canton would ever begrudge her for this kind of disruption, but he had the sneaking feeling she wasn't fully aware of how warmly she was regarded by everyone. Even if it was his place, he couldn't argue with her on this one point, either. She would never agree unless dire straits required it, and a little insomnia hardly counted.

"What about Shani?" he offered. "She would be more than--"

"Would you come in?" she said, too quickly, as if afraid she'd lose the nerve. Considering the events of the past couple days, he thought that might actually be the case. He was seeing more of the true Klea than he ever had before, and she was far more vulnerable--and infinitely braver--than he would've guessed. "You could just stand by the door. Perhaps knowing you're so close will help me relax."

Such a move was dangerous. Too dangerous. "You'll know I'm close if I stand on this side of the door as well," he said gently.

She looked crestfallen. "I'm not asking for another lesson." The first sign of color was returning to her face, twin spots of bright pink blooming high upon her cheeks. "I just want some company."

"You can have Shani."

"I don't want Shani. I want you, Garen."

The fierceness in her voice surprised both of them. Klea caught her breath, while Garen finally straightened. He'd witnessed hints of the depths of her passions, both the morning she'd first made her proposal and then when he'd come to her chambers, but this surmounted it all. How much did she hold back because of her station in life? What kind of powerhouse could she truly be if she wasn't restrained by this region's stringent social codes? The more Garen discovered, the more convinced he became she was too good for all of it, not just a union with Rey Bonsu.

WIP Wednesday

Halloween and a stupid sinus infection slowed me down a little this past week, so my word count on this isn't as far along as I'd like it to be. Well, and there's a new bunny that distracted me a little bit before I got it under control again, lol.

Klea's station doesn't afford her many friends. Her handmaiden, Shani, is the only one who really fits that bill...

-----

“Mistress?”

Shani’s curious call shattered the spell winding around Klea. Her arms jerked to her side, and she met the handmaiden’s eyes as directly as she could. “Is the bath ready?”

“Yes.” She stepped aside to allow Klea room to enter. The questions were there, lurking in her gaze, but she wisely held her tongue from further queries. “Do you wish privacy?”

Part of Klea did. She wanted free rein to think of Garen without fear of being watched. But being alone would lead her thoughts down darker paths, which wasn’t necessarily best. Besides, Shani knew everything that was going on, as well as had been with Jae and possibly Garen prior to coming to Klea’s chambers. She might have answers to some of Klea’s questions.

“Stay, please.” She stepped over the edge of the polished white tub, the crystals from the sand from which it had been forged glittering in the light of the lamps. The water was hot and silken, perfumed with one of her favorite massage oils, and she sank into it with an audible sigh, closing her eyes as she leaned her head back against the rim.

Water splashed. Shani’s sure hands swept the soft wash rag along Klea’s arms, moving in slow, hypnotic circles that erased all memory. In the water’s sanctuary, Klea was tempted to fall asleep and let Shani see to her ablutions, but Shani would never speak unless spoken to first, and if Klea wanted answers, she had to be the one to address the topic.

“Somehow, I did not see these events transpiring when I rose this morning,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “Who knew accepting a marriage proposal could create such havoc?”

Shani laughed at her small joke. “That seems like something far more suited to one of your sisters than you, Mistress.”

“Perhaps. Though I don’t think they would have waited until the seventh proposal like I did.” When Shani didn’t immediately respond, Klea opened her eyes to find her friend gnawing on her lower lip. “What? Is something wrong?”

Shani lowered her lashes, concentrating on dipping the rag in the scented water. “I guess I just wondered if you’ll still go through with the ceremony.”

“Why wouldn’t I go through with it? It’s hardly Sire Bonsu’s fault.”

“No, but…” She weighed her words while running the cloth over Klea’s arm again. “Nobody wishes to see you hurt, Mistress.”

“I won’t be. The guards shall see to that.”

“I know. Jae and Garen would give their lives before seeing harm befall you.”

Klea frowned. “I thought nobody else was to know of the threats that were made.”

Shani’s attention snapped upward again. “They don’t. Not…directly. But it’s clear someone meant to hurt you this evening, and the servants, well…” She blurted the rest, speaking so quickly Klea almost didn’t catch it all. “Many think you deserve better than the Bonsu house, Mistress. You don’t need this union like the Sire does, and we’d rather you stay here and be safe than go off and marry him just because it’s good for trade.”

Her jaw clicked shut as soon as she was done, and she sat back on her heels like the effort she’d expended admitting the latter had exhausted her. Klea took the cloth from her limp hand and set it aside, sitting up in the bath to speak with her on the same level.

“I’m grateful you’re worried about me,” she said with a smile. “But I’m not entering this union lightly. Too many people depend on this marriage to work, and I don’t want to let them down.”

“And if the next attack succeeds?”

“It won’t. I trust Jae and Garen to do everything they can, and if that means I have to spend the next month locked in my room, then that’s what I must do.” Though admitting that aloud weighed on her spirit far more than it had letting it fester unspoken.

Shani didn’t seem pleased by her response. “It’s hardly a fitting place for you,” she complained. “It would be simpler to call off the ceremony.”

“Perhaps. But the things with the most worth are often those that require the greatest effort. It’ll all work out in the end, Shani. Trust me.”

As Shani nodded and resumed her washing, Klea wished she believed whole-heartedly in her own assertions. So much could happen in the span of thirty days. So much had already happened in just one. If, for any reason, Garen wasn’t quite as quick the next time, or her enemies a little bit smarter, she might not live to appreciate a wedding at all.

The understanding chilled her to her bones. She shivered, in spite of the warm water.

WIP Wednesday

I really need to come up with a title for my WIP at some point, but I'm concentrating at this point on just getting words on the screen for a first draft. It currently stands at 36k and chugging along quite nicely.

Klea has just survived the first attack on her life...

-----

Klea turned her face into his chest, her quick breaths tickling along his bare skin. It wasn’t sexual. She sought comfort, he told himself. Still, placing her gently atop her blankets was more difficult than it should have been, his disloyal flesh responding to her femininity when it had no right to.

He put a safe distance between him and the edge of the bed, though he suspected no such thing existed any more. She tracked his movements without speaking, not arguing when he conducted the rest of his search to secure her rooms. He ended at her terrace windows, spending more time than necessary examining the hinges, the locks, the curtains. There wasn’t even a rough edge where careless housekeeping had splintered at the frame. Nobody had attempted entry from this point.

“Garen.”

It was the first word she’d spoken since coming upstairs, and he turned to see her attempting to sit up. At her first sway, he was there, at her side, bending over to provide a strong arm upon which she could brace.

Her fingers fluttered, hovering over his tense wrist. The fragile skin at the hollow of her throat dipped as she swallowed, and he fully expected the touch of her hand to be just as brittle.

It wasn’t. The fingers that curled around his forearm radiated strength, and she branded his skin with hers as she sat up.

“It surprises me that I was so unprepared.” She spoke with her eyes downcast, perhaps regarding the join of her body to his. “I've grown up with guards in every corner of my life, and yet, this is the first time I’ve ever felt truly threatened.”

“My apologies, Mistress. It should never have happened.”

“Because you would have stopped it?”

“Because I should have.”

Klea looked up at that, and her trusting gaze slashed through the command he’d forced upon himself. Garen had no choice but to retreat, unfolding her hand from his arm, then resting it on her lap so he could stand back.

“But you saved me,” she said. “How did you know?”

The memory of the metallic glint flashed before his mind’s eye. “I saw it, though too late. I cannot say for certain the architrave was checked today, but I can assure you that nothing will be overlooked again, Mistress.”

The corners of her mouth drooped. “I preferred it when you called me by my first name.”

He glanced at the door, ensuring she saw his notice and understood. “There's a time and place for that. This is not one of those.”

“Will there ever be one again?”

Yes, he wanted to say. Oh, yes. Then, he would sink to his knees and banish any memory of her near-miss with searing kisses along her delectable curves. He would teach her more of what it meant to know her body’s responses, how it could crave both a firm hand and a gentle touch, all at the same time.

He almost did it. Then and there. She made it so easy, looking upon him as if he was a man and not her slave.

The only reason he didn't was because of the knock at her door.

WIP Wednesday

I've been chipping away at my current WIP, though my writing time slips away on the weekend. It's currently at 27k. I imagine that's not quite the halfway point, though I fear it's much longer than that.

I really should title it soon. :P

Accepting the marriage proposal has broader ramifications than Klea expected.

-----

As Jae launched into yet another diatribe about the puppet Bonsu, it dawned on Garen that if he kept on with the bargain, he would not be present for all the changes he professed to fear. He could be well on his way home by then. Four pearls would be ample payment for his freedom.

Four nights with Klea.

To prepare her for union with a man who would never appreciate the woman she was.

Disgusted, he rose from the bench, scooping up his full plate and cup. Cool tea sloshed over the rim, but he refrained from wiping off his hand until after he’d thrust them into a serving girl’s waiting hands. He didn’t linger to chat, much to her disappointed chagrin.

Jae fell into step beside him, their pace matching from years of service. Garen was thankful he didn’t pursue their conversation. His last desire was to debate a future he couldn’t predict. There were too many variables to account for, though he realized as they turned the corner toward the meeting room that they were not necessarily beyond his control. For the first time since that awful night he’d been captured, he could choose his own destiny. He could decide for himself when to rise, where to go, who to serve. He could be his own man.

Sire Kander beckoned them to approach his desk. Papers were strewn across its surface, and the blue-gray eyes he lifted to greet them were slightly bloodshot. He didn’t appear as if he’d slept at all. He even wore the same tunic he’d worn to the dinner the night before, though now its collar was open and noticeably less stiff.

“I’m reassigning the guard details for the unforeseen future.” He pushed a single piece of paper toward them. “The two of you are responsible for meting out the specific duties, but these are the men you may use. Only these men. No one else.”

Garen picked up the list and scanned it over. Most slave owners would never deign to put something in writing. Most slaves wouldn’t be able to read it. Jae couldn’t. But Zamar Kander behaved as none of the other owners Garen knew. As it was turning out, none of the Kander clan was behaving as they should.

The list itself was unremarkable. Only a handful of men--the best, Garen believed. The outlined duties at the bottom of the page, however, alarmed him.

“You wish to place constant guards on Mistress Klea?” Even Jae jerked at Garen’s query. “Why?”

Zamar glanced at the closed door. “Anything I say to you now is not to be repeated. Not even to your men.”

“Of course, Sire.” An automatic response, but Garen still worried why such an order was necessary.

“I received a visitor late last night in regards to the celebrations. Apparently, there are factions here in Dhivin who do not wish to see the Kander and Bonsu houses joined. Who will do anything it takes to stop such a union.”

Though Zamar did not mention her by name, Garen heard what he wasn’t saying. Klea was in danger. Opponents to the marriage would kill her if they thought it would gain the advantage. There was always an element of danger to the Kander household anyway, but generally speaking, Dhivin was a peaceful city. The Kanders, especially, were held in high regard. This response had to be a response to the Bonsu house.

“Perhaps it would be better for the Mistress to leave now and have the ceremony beyond Dhivin borders,” Jae said. “If the threat to her lies here, she would obviously be safer elsewhere.”

Garen held silent while he watched Zamar contemplate Jae’s suggestion. There was logic there. Before last night, he would have agreed without fail. After last night, he knew he should still agree without fail. Yet, his lips remained seal in wait.

“I have no doubt Sire Bonsu would prefer such an arrangement.” Zamar steepled his fingers and stared at the door beyond them. “But I do not know his men, and I would not trust something so precious to me without being more certain of their abilities. No, she must remain here until she is Bonsu’s wife. Sort through the list to your satisfaction.”

Though Garen nodded in acquiescence to the order, he couldn’t help but wonder why Zamar would wed his eldest daughter into a household he placed such little trust. If he feared Klea would come to harm under the Bonsu aegis, why allow the union to transpire in the first place? Some of the respect he’d garnered over the years for his owner faded with new understanding. Economics. The Bonsu-Kander bond would be a hard one to break, especially with Bonsu’s resources.

WIP Wednesday

I'm continuing on with my het fantasy. Klea offered to pay Garen for his tutelage, enough to be able to buy his freedom. Garen, however, did not say yes. She waits for him the first night to see if he will accept her terms.

-----

The shadows coagulated into something more solid, and the outline of broad shoulders etched in the open window.

Her cheeks burned. Garen.

She was afraid to exhale in case she was dreaming, afraid to blink for the very same reason. She couldn’t see his face. He had yet to cross the threshold from terrace to room, and stood as part of the velvety darkness, but she knew his form better than she knew her own.

“Where is your handmaiden?”

His low voice rippled through her. “At the servants’ celebration.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”Slowly, she released her stranglehold on her bed coverings and stood. “I wasn’t sure you would come.”

“Neither was I.”

“But you’re here now.”

When she took a tentative step forward, Garen finally moved. He held up a hand. “Stop.”

She obeyed without hesitation, though the violent thundering of her heart made it feel like she was still moving.

“I haven't fully decided the wisdom of this,” he said. “I’m not convinced you're aware of what you ask of me.”

Klea felt like laughing. “No, I’m fully aware.”

“Really? Your father trusts me with his life, trusts me with your life, and yet, you’d ask me to deceive him on a daily basis should I agree.”

“He won’t know.”

“I will.”

And there it was. That honor that drew her to him would be the wall she wouldn’t be able to surmount. “Why did you come then?” It perplexed her. He could have let the entire matter drop by simply ignoring her request. “If you don’t want to do this, don’t. I already told you. I don’t wish to compel you into anything you won’t enter freely.”

“Ah, but I never said I didn’t want this.” Though his face remained in shadows, he prowled closer, stepping over the threshold without ever disturbing the gauzy curtains. He wore the loose trousers of sleepwear, and the waistband rode low on his hips, low enough for the rough border of dark hair disappearing below the tie to be visible. “Do not put words into my mouth.”

They were the most commanding words she had ever heard from a servant, let alone a slave. She was so struck by the raw honesty, it took several moments to realize what exactly he had said.

He wanted her. Or at the very least, he wanted what she had to offer.

“So answer my question, then.” Emboldened by his admission, Klea lifted her chin and braved his response. “I cannot put words into your mouth if it is already filled with your own.”

The corner of his wide mouth twitched. “Would a woman who wishes to learn the ways of the flesh prefer to hear poetic lies that feed her ego, or truth that will likely prick it?”

As dismayed as she was by her options, there was only one way to answer. “The truth. Always. I cannot expect you to put your faith in me if you believe me to desire falsehoods.”

His chest rose. Fell. The muscle in his cheek smoothed, and the mask returned. “I couldn't sleep.”

Neither could she. “Why?”

“I think you know why. You offer the one thing I don't know how to refuse. Was it deliberate?”

“Yes.” The confession slashed at her hope. Now he would see her as manipulative, when in truth, all she wished was to guarantee an agreement. “Does this mean you’re going now?”

“No. But this is a dangerous game you play. You have no notion what kind of lover I might be…Klea.”

He uttered her name like a test, weighing it upon his tongue in deliberation as if to see how she would react. She was certain it wasn’t how he anticipated. Just the sound of his voice had been enough to make her nipples tighten, but now, hearing him address her as a woman and not as his Mistress, her body hummed to have more.

WIP Wednesday

People are going to start getting whiplash from all my different WIP excerpts. But after reviewing my outline for what I was working last week, I realized one of my major plot points relied on the heroine cheating. Not on the hero, but well, that's a hard sell in romance, regardless. So that story has been shelved, yet again, and I went to my WIP folder to see what else I might want to work on.

I chose a het fantasy piece that I've been chipping away at in bits and pieces. I originally wrote it as a short story and realized it needed to be longer. It's set in an alternate world, in a land of sand and raging storms. The heroine, Klea, is the eldest daughter in the canton's wealthiest, most influential family, and she has finally agreed to accept a marriage proposal. She doesn't love the man, but it's a strong union for the families economically. She's actually in love with her father's head guard, a man that was captured from a different land and sold into slavery. Before she gets married, she wants to experience passion and comes up with a scheme to finally get what she wants.

-----


When he strode toward her exit, Klea backed away, reluctant to lose sight of him but knowing she must for a few precious seconds. Her heart pounded, and her skin scorched, too tight around her soft curves. She had been planning this meeting for weeks. It needed to go perfectly, but the thought of actually speaking to Garen, of giving voice to the words she practiced every night before falling asleep, had her breathless with excitement.

He hummed under his breath as he stepped into the murky corridor. Klea swallowed as she listened to him approach, holding her ground even when her feet wished to run in the opposite direction. The rest of her had different ideas, and it was the tingle through her thighs, the flush along her neck, that kept her from fleeing.

Garen rounded the corner and took only a single step before noticing her presence. He immediately straightened, broad shoulders lifting, head bowing. “Mistress,” he murmured. Just the deep rumble of his voice was enough to make her blood run icy hot.

“Hello, Garen.” Somehow, Klea managed the greeting without sounding like an infatuated idiot. “May I have a word with you, please?”

Her request made him glance up through his lashes, his slim brows drawing together into a quick frown. “Is there something amiss?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Hidden in the pocket of her dress, her fingers toyed with the soft sack she’d brought along, her bargaining power found form. In reality, its contents did nothing for her, but now, caressing the soft silk offered needed comfort. “How are you?”

A moment passed before he responded. “I am well, Mistress.” He weighed each word, his black eyes gleaming in confusion. She had never been so bold to inquire after his wellbeing before.

Now that she had his attention, Klea’s long-practiced speeches escaped her. It was hard not to stare at his beauty, the slight slant in his eyes, the wide mouth. With his shoulder-length hair pulled back at his nape, it sharpened the angles of his face so they appeared even more sculptured. The entire effect heightened the sense of danger he always exuded.

Garen cleared his throat. “Is there some service you require, Mistress?”

“Yes.” She latched gratefully onto his query and gestured toward the hall that led away from her father’s quarters. “Will you walk with me?”

She phrased it as a request, but Klea knew he wouldn’t refuse. Couldn’t. Garen fell into step beside her after only a cursory glance in the other direction, his arm solid and warm where it brushed against hers.

Klea took a steadying breath. “I have been meaning to speak with you for quite some time.”

“I hope I have not given you reason to doubt my service. I assure you--”

“Oh, no.” She was hasty to cut him off. The last thing she wanted was to remind him of the differences in their stations. “I simply wondered…have you ever considered purchasing your freedom?”

He visibly started, halting in his path. When she stopped and looked back at him, he regarded her with more than a little shock.

“Have you?” she prompted when he didn’t respond.

The hesitation warred in his eyes. “Has someone told you I’m unhappy, Mistress?”

“No, but I didn’t ask if you were unhappy.” Klea edged a step closer. “Your freedom, Garen. Do you ever consider what it would be like to have it?”

He was an exemplary servant. Even now, in the face of direct interrogation from a member of the Kander household, Garen struggled to provide the answer that any other would have offered without hesitation. It would likely be a lie, of course. Servants rarely uttered truths that might deem them rebellious. But Klea was counting on Garen to be different.

His powerful hands balled into fists at his side, but when she noticed, he thrust them behind his back. “Every day, Mistress Klea.” His nostrils flared. “And I would say so to anyone who insisted I tell them.”

Of course, he would. Only the most honorable men were entrusted to serve as family guards. Klea expected nothing less.

“I’m not here to condemn you.” Her hand tightened on the sack. “I’m interested in making a trade with you.”

Though he didn’t move, Garen tensed. “I own nothing of value.”

No, she wanted to tell him. You are someone of value.

WIP Wednesday

I've settled on what to work on next. I have a 40s ex-hitman for the mob story that's been languishing in my WIP folder for years that I adore. The only problem was, it was always too long and I didn't feel like I could cut it. Like...way too long. Written before I really understood what the genre wanted.

But after looking through what I had, and considering my obligations over the next few weeks, I thought, "Why not? Let's give it a shot." So that's what I'm in the process of reworking.

It's not titled yet. I now hate the original title, so I'm going to wait until I've finished my revisions and see if something new jumps out at me. Or if something jumps out while I'm working.

This is from the first chapter...

* * *

Sometimes, really bad days can start with birds singing outside the window.

At first, Deacon Rook thought it was the neighbor’s radio and just buried himself under his pillow, burrowing his cheek against the cool cotton of his sheets in an attempt to drown out the noise.

It took five minutes to remember the idiot neighbor was on vacation.

With a groan, he lifted his head, black curls matted in obscure patterns from sleep, and squinted against the California sunshine that streamed in through his open window. The birds perched in their nest on the top of the telephone pole not six feet away. He scowled.

One of these days, he'd remember to close that fucking window before he went to sleep.

Thinking of it as falling asleep was generous, but at that exact moment in time, the last thing he needed was to consider the greater ramifications of what his passing out for the third night in a row might mean. Better to focus on the pounding behind his eyeballs, or the sandpaper that currently comprised his throat lining, or even the fact that he’d slept in his last pair of clean trousers so now looked like something that had been lost at the bottom of a linen basket for the past century. It didn’t help, of course, that the incessant chirping from outside was sharpening into long, pointed needles, pricking his brain into shock with each shrill note, scraping down his spine until it felt like each vertebrae was raw from the tonality.

The gun from the nightstand was in his hand before he could think, its single shot rupturing the morning calm to shatter the upper pane of the window. As he’d intended, the bullet went low, missing the nest to imbed itself in the telephone pole, but the birds reacted exactly as he’d hoped, flying away in a dither that quickly left the room in silence.

Deacon collapsed back onto the mattress, the gun dangling from his hand over the side of the bed. The noise wouldn't be reported. Another advantage to already living in a high-crime neighborhood.

The harsh jangle of the phone was almost as bad as the damn birds. He shot up, dropping the gun to grab the receiver before a second ring melted his brain. “What?” he barked.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!”

It was unnatural for anyone to be that chirpy at this hour of the morning, but the gaiety in his partner Ruby’s voice was enough to smooth the roughest edges of his temper. “How do you know I wasn’t already up? I could’ve been entertaining, or in the shower, or doing naughty, naughty things that would make you blush brighter than your name, Red.”

She laughed. “I was the lucky one stuck on the stinky end of your feet when you passed out last night. Seeing as how you'd sleep through the entire day given half a chance, odds were pretty good that you’d still be in bed at ten a.m.” There was the slightest of hesitations, and he heard the faint doubt creep into her voice. “You…weren’t doing anything bad, right?”

He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face as if that would slough the exhaustion from his brain. “Just using my little chickadee for target practice again.”

“How many times have I told you to leave those poor birds alone? They’re defenseless little creatures, and I think the female is going to be laying eggs soon---.”

“Relax. They’ll live to sing another day. But don’t be surprised if Ma Bell comes a-knocking, demanding I replace that bloody pole.”

“Oh. Well. That’s all right then.”

“There a reason for this little wake-up call? Or do you just take extreme pleasure in making sure I’m as miserable as possible by waking me out of my stupor?”

“We’ve got a new job. I wanted to give you the heads up so that you’re presentable when Henry and I show up on your doorstep. The last time you were that smoked and we came by, you almost blew Henry’s head off.”

She was probably right, but he'd have to take her word for it. The specifics of that particular incident escaped him at the moment. “And this couldn’t wait until tonight?”

“It’s kind of an important one---.”

“They’re all important to the one doing the hiring, pet. Aren’t you the one who keeps nattering on about the client, and the client’s rights, and keeping the client happy? No reason this one can’t wait until I pull myself together---.”

“Deacon, they’re willing to pay us fifty large if we drop everything else we’re doing to take this. Half now. Half when the job is over.”

He’d been leaning over, scanning the floor for the cigarettes he had a funny feeling he’d knocked off the nightstand when he’d gone for his gun, but as soon as she mentioned the money, he froze. Fifty thousand dollars. That was a lot of dosh. He hadn’t seen money like that since he’d gotten out of the game, and there was no way Red had ever seen it. Henry probably had, but not since they’d hooked up, so it would certainly explain their eagerness to get started on it as soon as possible.

Slowly, Deacon straightened, and did his best to keep his voice as even as possible. “Gimme time to get slicked up. I’m feeling like something the cat coughed up. Be here in an hour?”

“With bells on.”

As he set the phone back onto its cradle, his eyes were pensive as he stared at the peeling wallpaper opposite him. Twenty-five now. Twenty-five later. That would clear a lot of debts. Hell, that would clear all his debts, as well as settle him up with Red and Henry. They deserved more than what they got by working with him, but bugger if he knew why they stuck around like they did. He didn’t want to argue with it, though. The three of them made a good team, and he wasn’t about to muck up the best professional arrangement he’d ever had by letting a bout of self-loathing take control. Wasn’t worth the trouble it would cause.

Fifty thousand dollars.

A man could do a lot of damage with that kind of money.

WIP Wednesday

I've finished edits and kind of in between projects while I try and figure out what I want to do next. The smart thing would be to tackle one of the many WIPs on my computer, right, lol? If only I was that smart...

Actually, this is one of the few that I'm considering. It's an m/m historical set at the end of WWII called "I Will Sing You Morning." It's one of those that I love but then remember all the research that's involved and wonder if I have time to tackle the way it should be.

This is the very beginning:

*****

Until the man screamed, Josiah Ladley thought the nurses had put a corpse in the bed next to him. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Though the bigwigs were constantly ordering new construction, more wounded came pouring into Fort McHenry from the Western Front every day. Beds were at a premium. Sometimes, there just wasn’t anyplace else to put a body.

This one wasn’t dead, though. In the wee hours of the morning, when the ward held its breath in anticipation of dawn, a choked cry erupted into shouts, loud enough, clear enough, pained enough to yank Josiah from sleep.

He bolted from the bed, immediately alert as the trenches had taught him, and knelt in the darkness, groping blindly for the writhing man. His hands skidded over the shirt glued by perspiration to the man’s chest, the fabric cool, the body hot. Not blood, he reminded himself. Night sweats. Big difference.

“Hey. Buddy.” He finally found his shoulders and shook him carefully. He had no idea where his injuries were, and he didn’t need the nurses scolding him for trying to help. “Wake up.”

Eyelids shot open. Josiah couldn’t see him clearly, but what little light filtered through the small, high windows made his eyes glow as his body went rigid.

“What…where…”

The questions were just puffs of air, barely formed and quickly called back. A hand emerged from beneath the blanket and clamped over Josiah’s wrist. The strength in the grip was enough to loosen his hold, and he sat back onto his heels as the man slowly turned his head to look at him.

“You were dreaming.” Just because he’d been screaming wasn’t reason to think he might actually remember what it was about. It might be better all around if he didn’t, actually. Josiah had a few of those he’d be more than glad to see the back of. “You need me to call a nurse or something?”

The man didn’t let go. His fingers wore calluses like armor. His gaze remained unblinking, and Josiah would have added unseeing if it wasn’t fixed purposefully on him. Whatever had been wounded, it hadn’t been his arm or sight. But there were a legion more places on a man’s body to bear the aegis of war.

“No,” came the quiet answer. “Don’t get no one.”

The accent was broad and flat, but Josiah had talked to enough soldiers overseas to know it came from someplace in the Midwest. He’d bet this one was a farm boy, gone off to defend the beliefs his country stood for, against Krauts and others he’d never heard of before the Great War. For some reason, though he’d known a lot of greenhorns, he regretted this one suffered from nightmares awful enough to make him scream. Even if they all screamed.

“You can let me go anytime,” he joked, jiggling his arm a little. He waited until the broad fingers uncurled then fell limply back to the bed, before sticking out his hand. “I’m Josiah.”

“Bill.”

Though Bill hadn’t returned his greeting, it was good enough to know his name. “You sure you don’t need me to get you anything? It’s not a bother. Maybe a glass of water or something.”

“No, no.” These denials were firmer. “I just want to go back to sleep.”

“The nurses can give you—”

“The nurses can’t do nothing for me. Neither can you. Leave me alone.”

The last thing Josiah wanted to do was to leave Bill alone so he could return to the nightmares that would wake up the whole ward next time. He didn’t really have much choice, though. A man who didn’t want help would fight it every step of the way. Josiah was too tired to be the one to try and fight back.

He stood and nodded, though Bill wouldn’t be able to see it in the dark. “You need anything, I’m right here.” His leg hit the cold bedframe as he edged back. “Have a good night, Bill.”

Slipping back beneath his blankets, he couldn’t even hear the other man’s breathing. Maybe he was a dead man, after all.

With night sweats.

WIP Wednesday

I'm in the middle of finishing my Christmas short for MLR, but since it's so short, I'd rather not pull anything from it. Instead, I'm going to post from All the Devils Here again, the sequel to Two Lives in Waltz Time. This is the first time Quin meets Colette, though they're both dreaming so neither realizes it's actually happening.

* * *

Sunlight dappled the sidewalk through the trees, scattering onto the grass to merge with the shadows. A flock of birds suddenly took off, their wings battering the air, but they were the only living things Quin could see, no matter which direction he turned. That wasn’t right, not for Central Park in the middle of the afternoon. The theater where they did the Shakespeare was around the bend, he realized, and he jogged the few feet necessary to reach the back entrance.

Empty seats, just like the rest of the park. But there, at center stage, sat the sultry young woman who’d been in his room with Maddy.

She sat with her legs stretched out in front of her, her head and torso angled back as she leaned on her hands. The sun turned her hair to golden honey, the curly ends trailing almost to the stage. She was oblivious to Quin’s approach, lost in her own world it would seem, but that simply meant he had freedom to watch her without either of them being self-conscious.

Her accent didn’t do her any favors, though neither did the nose stud. She looked like she should be running wild on the Highlands centuries earlier, with the wind whipping a long skirt around her legs and curvy hips, somehow out of time in an entirely different way than most of the women he’d grown up knowing. Not a shrinking violet, though, not with the flash of intelligence he’d seen in her brown eyes. This one would stand up for what she wanted, what she believed in, with her hands firmly on her hips, and her gaze locked with her opponent’s.

He realized he was semi-erect by the time he reached the edge of the stage.

“Hello,” he said, and knew immediately it was a dream. He’d spoken aloud. He hadn’t done that since Dubai.

She turned her head and immediately smiled. Like she’d been expecting him. “Yep. I knew it. The accent is to die for.”

“You mean you don’t know me?” That was a shame. He would have preferred some measure of familiarity in his own dream. Of course, considering how long it had been since he’d found any woman physically attractive enough to dream about, perhaps he should just be grateful she was there at all.

She rose and wiped her palms on the back of her black jeans, drawing his attention yet again to the swell of her hips. “Well, we haven’t been formally introduced.” She thrust her hand out to him, advancing a few steps closer. “Colette Weir. And you’re Quin, right?”

Though her grip was firm, his hand almost entirely engulfed hers, making him long for a moment to find out what else he could cover completely on her soft body. He let her go, but she caught his wrist and turned his palm upward, tracing over its hard calluses.

His pulse leapt. Such a simple contact shouldn’t have turned him on so much, but the contrast of the delicacy of her touch with the surety of each stroke was a tantalizing combination. “What were you doing in my hospital room?” he asked.

“I found you.”

“But why did you stick around?”

She looked up then, finally dropping his hand to stick hers in her back pockets. “Because you didn’t have anybody else.”

The innocent observation choked off the response he would have made. He turned out toward the empty seats, imagining what they would look like filled with a hungry audience, all eyes eagerly glued to the stage as the actors played out the story. His gaze drifted toward the section Cash had been in. Did he understand the irony of the play he’d chosen for their date? Probably not. But then, he didn’t seem to understand why Quin was there in the first place.

“Here.” Her small hand curled back around his, tugging him downward. He had little choice but to sit as she had been, with her legs stretched out beside him. “This is the best view in the house.”

Glancing at her perky profile, Quin wasn’t so sure about that. But in that moment, in this dream, he wouldn’t correct her. He wouldn’t tell her how grateful he was for her company, or how he liked the way her hair gleamed in the warm sunshine. He would take the comfort she offered and hold it close.

For all his mistakes, he refused to let his life signify nothing. And if he could find strength in a dream version of what was likely his guardian angel, then so be it.

WIP Wednesday

Since Moon-Touched has gone on to the editing phase, I'm choosing another WIP to showcase today. A while back, I started a sequel to Two Lives in Waltz Time, my paranormal time travel release from Samhain. It's called All The Devils Here, and continues Cash and Maddy's story as well as introduces another couple, Quin and Colette. This is from Quin's introduction into the story...

*****

He stared at a ghost.

Ghosts appeared out of nowhere, echoes of the people they used to be. They created havoc not through what they did, but through their mere existence, shocking those who witnessed them and inevitably frightening them away. Whether they held malice or not mattered little. The end result was always the same.

Even with a blade inches from his carotid, Cash refused to yield to fear. Because Quin Brenner would always be his friend, no matter how many years separated them.

“You’re still the master of shrouds,” he said, with a smile he had to force. “I never knew you were there.”

Quin glanced at Maddy. “She did.”

Hearing Quin’s voice without seeing his lips move sent an array of goose bumps down Cash’s spine. That was actually harder than seeing the scarring mutilating his old friend’s face.

“I didn’t know.” The fact that Maddy piped up to answer Quin’s allegation meant she heard him, too. Cash tucked away the little tidbit for dissecting later. “Not that it was you, anyway. Or anyone.” Her wide blue eyes tilted up to meet Cash’s, silently imploring him for clarification.

“Guess my girl’s got more gifts than I realized.” Cash curled a protective arm around her waist, but when he attempted to retreat a step, Quin matched the movement with his own slide forward. The sword never bobbled. “Now is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

“I think we were both supposed to be dead, mate. Put the blade down so we can talk.”

Quin made a soft snorting sound under his breath. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“It wasn’t?” Cash pretended to pout. “I must be losing my touch.”

“Cash…” Maddy’s gaze had returned to Quin, and while she held herself stiffly, she gave no other indications of alarm. “Why don’t you introduce us?”

“Don’t. Let the girl go.”

The mere fact that Quin didn’t want Maddy included in this was enough to convince Cash to keep her around, at least until he knew more about what was going on. “Bit rude, isn’t that? Especially since you’ve made such a sparkling entrance. That deserves names, at the very least.” He swept a free arm between them. “Maddy Cardinale, Quin Brenner. Quin’s part of the old gang, the one I told you about, remember?”

He didn’t want to clarify any further, not with death written across Quin’s features. He just hoped Maddy would understand the reference.

Her sharp inhalation said she did.

“So now that introductions are out of the way,” he went on, “let’s say we do something about the sword. Can’t very well buy you a pint and catch up on old times if you’ve got me shished and kebabed.”

“I’m not here for fun and games. Let the girl go, and I promise you, she won’t get hurt.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Maddy said before Cash could chime in. Infuriatingly, she stepped more in front of him, placing herself in direct line with the deadly blade. When they got home, he was going to have a serious talk to her about her predilection for getting in the way. She’d already taken a bullet that was meant for him. Once should have been more than enough.

“So be it.”

Sparks danced from the tip of Quin’s sword. Cash barely threw his arm up in time to shield her from the magic leaping across the distance.

WIP Wednesday

Sometimes I think I will never be done with this story. My family hasn't had the greatest week and my writing time has been severely curtailed. I have a ton of editing to do on this before I submit it, so I'm not even sure what's going to end up surviving, lol. Oh well, let's find something to share anyway.

*****


Mention of Amy drove Andre’s eyes to the house, giving Thomas valuable seconds to study him without fear of being caught. He’d worn his hair loose today, and the sunlight filtered through the ends, gilding his skin more golden than usual. His strong profile should’ve been captured on Roman coins, or something else equally magnificent. The more Thomas saw of him, the more convinced he became he belonged elsewhere, not in some backwater town that couldn’t see what it had. Even with the scars, he’d bet Andre could model. He was hotter than anybody Thomas saw gracing his magazines.

When Andre came back to him, a definite sadness pervaded the pale depths of his eyes. The hand that had been branding Thomas’s stomach lifted, and a shadow fell across his face when the same fingertips that had caressed his abdomen now fluttered over his brow.

Thomas closed his eyes automatically. A smart man would push the contact away. He knew what Andre was doing, this soothing of his torturous thoughts, and would have laughed at ever submitting to such vulnerability. He was stronger than that. He didn’t need another man’s gentleness.

At the same time, nothing had ever felt so good. The firm press of their bodies that morning had been exhilarating, the taste of Andre’s skin delightful, but this surpassed all of that. This opened a door in the back of his heart he’d locked the last time he’d been left alone. He’d vowed he didn’t need anyone else again, and he’d stuck to that promise for over a year now. Until the call from Pastor, he’d been content with the solitude he’d embraced.

Now he’d met a man even more lonely than him. Someone bearing the physical scars of fighting for what he loved. Someone who continued to walk along the fringe of the very thing that had nearly destroyed him and did so willingly, because he preferred it to the alternative. Andre’s strength in the face of that overwhelming force put Thomas’s to shame. After all, what kind of strength came in running from life?

A sigh escaped his lips. The strokes along his forehead went down the side of his face, tickling at the edge of his beard, to feather over his mouth. Just as gentle. Just as giving. His tongue darted out, and there was the salty skin he remembered, the heat more so because it had been warmed by the afternoon sun. He licked at the callused pad, picturing the long, slender fingers dancing across his body as he tasted it.

Hands like that were sinful. The things they could do. Pulling him apart. Putting him back together. Delving deep and deep and deep until the line of separation between them disappeared. Thomas topped more than he bottomed, but for this man, he’d crawl on his hands and knees to be taken and consumed. Something told him Andre would make it worth it.