As promised, Cock Fight fans, here is your nice, long and thick excerpt from my 11th novel out tomorrow! Enjoy!Chapter Five: Morning Delights
Carr roused to the stuttering whirr of an old window fan. At first he thought the sound was the death throes of some monstrous wasp that was not going quietly into the proverbial light. That theory was eventually squashed as Carr realized the warm air hitting his naked body rode the stuttering whirr like the waves rode the tides. Still too lost to the vestiges of a deep, fucked-out sleep, Carr only peeked out from his leaden lids long enough to affirm the fan hypothesis. Satisfied now that he wasn’t about to be the last meal to some mutant insect, he let his eyes close once again and beckoned sleep to return with every limp fiber of his being.
It was not to be.
A new sound soon joined the electric tides. The slapping of bare feet against the cement floor of the bedroom became insistent and steady and quickly maddening.
“What the hell are you doing?” Carr mumbled out with a woolen tongue. It was slurred and was rushed out in a single breath so even to his sex-soaked brain it was clear that the jumble of sounds was nothing less than completely incomprehensible. He sighed at his communications failure but didn’t have the oomph to try it again. Hopefully, his lover would get the general idea from the Cro-Magnon grunt and would answer in actual words.
It was too much to hope for.
The pounding of feet only sped up with tiny, measured whooshes of breath now added to the mix. Carr had a sinking suspicion as to what the noise was. With a groan he was sure wouldn’t be heard over the pounding and whooshing, Carr opened his eyes. He found exactly what he had feared.
“You’re running,” Carr stated drily. Thankfully his tongue felt confident enough to string together intelligibly those few words.
Unfortunately, marathon man was too busy running fucking nowhere to notice.
After scrubbing a hand across his face a couple of dozen times, Carr finally felt it safe enough to try to sit up. With a painful wince the reminder of the previous night’s activities let itself be known. “Ow!” he gasped as his asshole throbbed in utter disagreement with his plans of sitting himself up on his butt.
Of course, Mitchell heard the stupid “Ow!” and whipped his head around to the bed. He did not, however, stop running. “Are you okay?” he asked in place of the measured whooshes of breath.
With a flap of his hand, Carr waved off his concern immediately. His fucking ass be damned, Carr forced himself up into a proper seat on the bed. “I’m fine,” he huffed behind a grimace. “Just getting used to the new lay of the land.” Yeah, he was fairly sure that didn’t make much sense, but hell at least he wasn’t the one running his ass off in place.
A crinkle of Mitchell’s brow was the only response Carr got before his lover returned to his focused stare out the old fire station’s window.
Now that he had been stripped from his sleep, however, Carr wasn’t about to let Mitchell just run on in his merry way. Behind a yawn that turned into three, Carr asked, “Is this a thing?”
“What?” Mitchell spared Carr a confused glance before returning to his thing.
“That.” Carr pointed with both his hands at the activity in question.
“What?” Mitchell asked again with no less confusion on his face.
“That!” Carr snapped because if this kid thought for a second that this was normal, there was going to be some post-coital rules laid out.
“I’m running.” The bastard shrugged as he picked up his pace. “It’s a workout… not a thing.”
At least the man was no longer able to speak in complete sentences without stealing a breath between every few words. The speculation that Carr had just been fucked by some kind of government-sponsored robot technology had been disturbing, to say the least. “How long have you been awake?”
Mitchell squinted at the clock hanging above his plywood dresser. “Seven minutes.”
Carr shook his head, disappointed he didn’t get a damned seconds count. “You do this every morning?” Because, really, if that was the case, there should have been some kind of release form for Carr to sign before he’d been given the go-ahead to fuck “Running Feet.”
“Every… other… morning,” Mitchell corrected between measured gulps of breath.
Carr thought it best not to congratulate him on the Lamaze classes just yet. He’d leave that piece of smart-assery for a time when there was more than one thin sheet and one wickedly supportive jock strap between them. Not that Carr was about to complain about the chosen athletic support his lover was so fashionably sporting. It highlighted the bulk and sheer girth of the goods without secreting away any of those hard, pounding muscles.
Carr watched for a minute as the play of muscle and skin and sweat roused Carr’s dick from its morning-after hangover. Maybe he shouldn’t complain about the running. In fact, maybe he should ask, “Uh, what do you do the other mornings?” If it was anything as hot as this, Carr was moving in.
Cutting the pace down to a jog from a full-out sprint, Mitchell again looked over his shoulder at his lover and squinted in an approximation of “What the fuck’s with you?”
Carr laughed. “You’ve got to know how pornographically beautiful you are doing that, right?”
Mitchell screwed up his face at the compliment. “You’re crazy, Christianson.”
Flinging the sheet that had been halfheartedly covering his dick off the bed, Carr looked pointedly down at his goofily bobbing dick. “This is the kind of crazy junior goes for. You should know that and adapt accordingly.”
Mitchell finally came to a stop. His breathing was hard but controlled. His sweat-coated skin glistened in the early morning light from the window. His eyes still held the laser focus gleam of a man in an intense workout. In short, Mitchell Boyd looked like he’d just been caught in the middle of a slow but dirty fuck. “Are you always this weird in the mornings?” Mitchell asked with a cocky-assed grin on his face.
“No, this is new.” Carr stopped and considered his partying penis once again. Coming to a conclusion, he looked back up at his lover. “I blame you.”
Mitchell laughed as he grabbed a towel from the window sill, scrubbing his face with it. “I got to shower.” He peeked out from behind the terry cloth and smirked. “Does your little friend there want to wash or dry?”
Said little friend twitched happily. Carr beamed, “I’m not thinking he cares right now as long as he gets some one-on-one action with that fine ass of yours.”
Mitchell grinned as he snapped the band of his jock strap against his hip. “You like my ass?”
Carr shrugged. “Junior’s fond of it, yeah.”
With a put-upon sigh, Mitchell relented, “Okay, wash, dry, then fuck. How does that sound?”
“Efficient,” Carr answered with a dirty smirk.
Mitchell smirked back. “Not if you don’t get your own ass out of bed.”
“Yes, sir!” Carr snapped off a crisp salute. Then, with a spryness Carr hadn’t felt since he was ten, he jumped off of the mattress and jogged obediently right past his lover. Only after he reached the shower did he call back, “Last one in blows the other!”
The hot water ran out way before the men lost their steam.
Did you like? I really hope it tickled you in all the good spots.
So, until tomorrow, when Cock Fight will be available at all the usual suspects (Amazon, AllRomance Ebooks, my publisher www.ravenousromance.com
, etc.) I will leave you with a smile and a thank you for always reading.
Until release day (Wednesday, April 11)…
Release Day! It’s an odd, odd day in my world. As previously noted in my blogging history, excitement equals panic in my odd, odd head. So while I may be bouncing, bubbling and fist-pumping the air in “Hell yeah! You did it!” fervor, my mind is busy calculating my demise.
For example (and don’t you just love my examples?)… the obsessive tendencies I have to beat back with a stick every normal day, steal my stick and beat me soundly in the head with it. It would be laughable if it wasn’t quite so degrading.
I check my publisher’s website. I check the AREbooks website. I check Amazon, GoodReads, my website, my blogs, the sales of my other novels. I google myself. Then I google my book. Then I google all variations of my book’s title with my name. And then I bing it… Ten minutes later (I’ve got furiously fast fingers when my OCD takes over), I start it all again… and again… and again.
Odd, wouldn’t you say?
I’m going to try to be better today. I’m scheduling times that I will force myself to write on my next novel, times to work on my outlines for upcoming projects, times to rework old stuff into possibly publishable new stuff, times to work on the next installment of the Hellesgate series, times to…
See a problem?
Yeah, I’ve now OCD’d my writing way out of control.
Damn. My mind is tricky.
Well, while I battle with my gray matter, I offer to you an excerpt of Stripped Asset in hopes it will nudge you just enough to add Heath and Lachlan to your libraries. I think it’s a nice introduction to the characters. Enjoy!…
Chapter One: In the Orchestra’s Absence
Barefoot and still warm from his shower, Lachlan Hayes stepped out onto his deck and smiled. He would never get used to this spectacular view.
The Pacific Ocean stretched out before his beachside house like a skein of dark blue silk undulating with wave and wind. It was a million dollar view, one the screenwriter had paid $5.2 million for last Tuesday. Chill blades rolled across his bare skin at just the thought of spending that amount of money. He had come a long, long way.
Thirty two year old Lachlan Hayes had always played the role of the loner. He had been born to it, actually. Being an only child of a couple infatuated solely with each other, Lachlan’s formative years had held a certain free-form quality to them, a childhood that was great for the imagination but lousy for the foundation of friendships.
Despite this Lachlan flourished. He excelled at all his private schools. His summer tutors lauded his dedication to the literary arts and could do nothing but applaud the enthralling, complex plays ten year old Lachlan would write for his toy soldiers and teddy bears. It was at these tutors’ behest that the boy’s parents had sent their child to a prestigious arts academy in New York City. It was a move that would do nothing but say good things about such self-sacrificing parents.
Lachlan lived with a housekeeper in his own studio apartment from the age of twelve to eighteen.
At eighteen years and one day, Lachlan bolted to Berkeley. And while he had his friends and drinking buddies during his college years, he found himself spending his summers and holiday breaks relishing his time alone. He was comfortable within his own skin, a fact that peeved his girlfriends and bothered the shit out of his one boyfriend.
Sex was great. Lachlan loved sex. He could happily do it all day and all night for six days out of seven, but that seventh day he needed some time alone. At times, he craved the solitude, thriving in those hours with only pen and paper by his side.
It came as no surprise that he had as of yet to have a serious relationship.
The lack of that significant other in his life, however, wasn’t even a speck of disappointment in his existence this fleeting afternoon. The southern California sun soon rid him of the $5.2 million goose bumps. Her hands were warm and guileless across his chest and arms, cocooning him swiftly in the security of her heat.
The lawn chair of teak and dark blue cotton called to his still half asleep brain, promising a long late afternoon nap under the clear June skies.
In nothing but pajama bottoms, Lachlan rubbed his short thick mop of blond hair and shuffled across the patio, surrendering to the chaise’s siren call.
As his light blue eyes began to flutter closed, he thought to himself what an absurdly perfect day it had been.
After an all-nighter of tweaking an already sold script, Lachlan had collapsed across the white down comforter of his king-sized bed just as dawn trickled through his windows. Until four o’clock, even the tiny, annoying twinges of hunger hadn’t awakened him from his deep and dreamless sleep.
A power bar, a glass of milk and a forty-five minute shower then followed.
Now, he was going to let Lady Sun do the job of drying his body and hair for him.
Life was indeed perfect.
Life stunk for Heath Isles at the moment. As the twenty-seven year old landscape architect slammed his truck into park on the pristine, hill-clinging residential street, he wadded up his latest speeding ticket and tossed it into the back of his cab.
Grabbing a sketchpad, a notebook of already copious notes, and his camera, Heath climbed out of his truck and immediately cursed the time.
“Where the fuck did those two hours go?”
It was a rhetorical question of course. Even the rose bushes along the side of his new client’s house knew the answer. Traffic was hell in California. With the day that he was having, Heath wouldn’t have been surprised if he tripped over one of Dante’s rings about now.
Determined not to add a broken knee to the day’s cache of goodies, the man slowed his pace as he picked his way through the overgrown path that led to the house’s private beach.
He had never met Lachlan Hayes himself, since the writer’s manager had handled all the details and the initial introduction to the much neglected grounds through a couple dozen 8x10’s, Heath just hoped that Mr. Hayes understood screwed up work hours.
Heath Isles could not afford to lose this job.
Ducking under a broken limb of a pinion pine, Heath came to a full stop as the beach finally came into view.
The property was stunning. It had all the bones any landscape architect liked to work with and just enough of the overgrown, neglected quality to it to give the architect’s creative juices a healthy jolt of “I’m broken. Fix me.”
Heath had always loved the fixer-uppers the best. While he had had his share of new construction commissions, the properties of faded glory or untapped potential were his favorite types to dive into. He would then devote all his skills to the project until the land’s God-given beauty was revealed.
Heath smirked at the thought. His job was hardly as haughty or important as all that sounded. Just because he had the degrees to back up his ideas, he knew he wasn’t any different than most gardeners who just wanted their places to look good. It was exactly this ability to see his work through the eyes of both the “common man” and the “aristocracy” that had made his career so successful. Heath Isles appealed to everyone.
Heath outright laughed at that. The California court system sure as hell didn’t find him appealing and his father’s ex-wives out and out hated “every single one of his measly, greedy guts.” Ex-wife number one had a knack for color in her hatred. While ex-wife number two had perfected the uppity sneer to the point that words to the lower half of society had been deemed utterly useless and wasteful for years. She merely pointed at someone that disturbed her upper crust sensibilities and let her kennel of lawyers loose on their sorry asses.
If it wasn’t for his little brother, Heath would have gladly ignored his ex step-moms’ existences altogether. As it was, however, Heath now found himself in a heated custody battle for the eleven year old Clay Kilduff. A brother Heath didn’t even know existed six months ago.
One year ago, the father Heath never knew, either growing up or at any time in his adult life died, leaving Clay behind as his sole heir. Clay’s mother had died when he was just a baby. The boy had grown up in a string of boarding schools with only holiday visits from his father. It wasn’t until six months after learning the news about his father that Heath accidentally learned about Clay. The boy stood to gain a huge inheritance. It was the reason why he was being fought over like hot property by the two very greedy but very rich ex-wives.
Clay couldn’t be allowed to grow up in either woman’s house hold. They both viewed the eleven year old as nothing more than a financial asset, one that some garden boy/thief was trying to strip out of each of their bank accounts. Love and affection were nothing but messy means to the end as far as the ex-wives were concerned. They only brought out these foul emotions when in front of the judge or other influential members of the court. Of course, if the press happened to stop by, they would roll out a particularly stunning version of motherhood for the cameras to capture. They were just that kind of ladies.
Heath’s declarations of affection and concern about his young brother’s well-being were turned around by the ex-wives to appear as nothing more than the machinations of a gold-digger who was seeing his only opportunity to reach the higher echelons of the financial world slip through his grubby fingers.
The “dirty, money-hungry bastard” theme had become an early favorite in the child custody hearing. Less than a week into the court proceedings they were already becoming slimy. Heath didn’t want to drag this disaster out so he played what he thought would be the ace up his sleeve. Heath signed a legal document stating that he would never touch a dime of his brother’s money. He would provide for Clay by his own financial means. Clay’s inheritance would stay completely untouched until, as their father’s will provided until Clay turned twenty-five. The brothers’ lives wouldn’t be rich, but they would be good, and Clay would always, always know that he was loved every day of his life.
Unfortunately, Heath’s ace made little impression on the ex-wives or their attorneys. They simply argued that Heath would just be biding his time, earning Clay’s loyalty until the boy reached his financial maturity. Then, the women held, Heath would strike, and Clay would be helpless to turn down the brother who had raised him.
Heath had been struck fairly speechless at that response and had decided that any other grand gestures he’d leave in his back pocket until the bitches weren’t looking. Running off to Mexico with Clay was one of those gestures. It was a very, very last resort and had only entered his head as a crumb of a half-baked, crazy idea. It was there, however. The possibility was there and growing more and more likely after every bad day in court.
There were a lot of days in court to be bad, too.
Last Monday, the hearing had entered its fifth week. Every motion that could be filed was filed in triplicate by the ladies’ squadron of lawyers. Delays were asked for and received with such regularity that Heath was beginning to suspect that the judge had a weekly lunch date set up with each of the attorneys, except Heath’s own, of course.
“They’re gutting you, son. Trying to bleed you dry.” Heath’s lawyer had colorfully confirmed his own suspicions. “Those women know you’ve got a damned limited budget. They’re just going to wait you out until your money well runs dry.” Unfortunately, Heath’s lawyer was more adept at turning all things legal into cowboy-ese than actually winning a case, but he was all Heath could afford.
The ladies’ “gutting” technique was sadly running right on their malevolent schedule. Heath had to work a stupid amount of hours at some really stupid jobs. While he had to be careful to take jobs that would not hurt his professional reputation as a certified landscape architect, he was not beneath vicious amounts of manual labor. He quickly found that by doing most of the “grunt work” of his commissions himself, he was able to save a healthy chunk of the fees. Admittedly, he was pushing his body and his amazing stamina to its outer limits, but he was pulling enough cash in to keep his lawyer happy in cowboy boots and trail mix.
It was worth it.
Clay was worth it.
With that determination alone, Heath Isles made his way down to the shore.
I hope you enjoyed it and that it tickled all of those good buttons inside of you.
Thank you again for reading and taking time to share a little bit of my world. I will now hand the stick over to my OCD and see what craziness this release day will wrought.
Until next time…
Day Twelve is here!
The end and the beginning.
No, it’s not quite as Biblical as that, but it has surprisingly (utterly surprised author
right here) worked out perfectly time wise, because…
Hard Wood, Soft Heart is out today!!!
Yes, you will no longer be forced to rely on my daily ramblings and teases for a taste of new Chloe Stowe
romance/smut/adventure/true love. You get the real deal now with no silly asides from the author. You, my friends, are the lucky ones. I’ve got to live with the asides-thing 24/7… kind of like an extra toe. See how lucky you truly
So, without further adieu…
Chapter Eleven: Creosote Bushes and Bearpoppies
“The key slipped into the lock with surprising ease. Saul was shaking so bad he had feared that he’d need some kind of back up just
to get into his door.” (page 162)
So we end with bearpoppies. How many multi-day teasing blogging events end with bearpoppies? You guys must have
a very eager leprechaun in your pocket. Luck is just raining down on you in four-leaf clovers.
I hope I’ve been able to bring a smile into your lives and perhaps a little insight too. Humbly, I ask you to consider adding Hard Wood, Soft Heart into your library. I really do think you’ll enjoy it.
Well, until the next time we meet, please pick up a milkshake on your way out. Any flavor you want, babe, you’ve got it.
Until next time, everyone…
Day Eleven arrives with the elusive Chapter Three tied, gagged and flung over
its shoulder. Yes, it did take a while for my mad skills (inside joke here,
folks) to realize that Chapter Three’s tease had been passed over. It was kind
of like one of those prison breaks where the inmate skips out with the laundry
truck and nobody notices that Prisoner #3 is missing until bed check. Oh yeah,
classic bad warden here. I apologize and will relinquish my billy stick
Until tomorrow brings the end to the Twelve Days of Hard Wood, Soft Heart
Spectacular, I think I’ll keep swinging my stick at my side and bask in my
delusion of grandeur until the very end. In keeping with said theme, I’ll have
the officers drag in Prisoner #3 right now (and if there’s any man-on-man, rough
and tumble“manhandling” going on in my facility, I expect all parties to take
detailed notes for a future novel)…
Chapter Three: Animal Tactics
“Saul Tidewater’s resistance was dead in the water and starting to stink…”
Admittedly Prisoner #3 is a scrawny little fellow, but what he lacks in bulk
he makes up for in grit and gristle.
Well, folks, Prisoner #11 (yes, that would be Chapter 11. I am taking this
metaphor to the embarrassing end) is doing push-ups in his cell, getting ready
for tomorrow’s release. Luckily, the extra day #11 had to serve for bad behavior
has only resulted in a little extra ink on our man’s posterior. But since he is
bringing up the rear, it only fits that his end is a bit more colorful than even
Your visiting a prison, guys. All you’ve got for your refreshments is stale
bread and water… unless, of course, you’ve got a carton of cigs or some baseball
cards you’re looking to trade for?
Day Ten arrives on the bus with the College Game Day crew. Yes, Tallahassee
is jumping this morning as ESPN and the University of Oklahoma come roaring into
town for tonight’s HUGE football game of #1 Oklahoma vs. #5 FSU ! Go Noles!
In this electric atmosphere of man on man tackles and beer and the
possibilities of celebratory sex with pom-poms and big foam Number One’s, I
think there is little window dressing left to be done for your Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten: Between the Polite and the Psychotic
“It was a little like watching an old black and white movie stuck on pause.
The dark, broken silhouette was not moving.” (page 155)
So, the plot thickens. I mean, really, was there ever any doubt? This is me
we’re talking about here, folks.
As an added bonus to all my loyal teaser-readers, I’d like to make the grand
announcement as to the title of my next novel, my 8th for Ravenous Romance… Are you ready?… Are you piqued
and pumped?… Are you fired up for the first Chloe Stowe story about a cop?…
Well, ready or not, Peak and Thrust will be here this November!
To celebrate my first foray into the world of shields, blue walls and hot
interrogations, I provide you today with coffee and doughnuts, two staples of
Only two more teases to go, guys!
It sounds like some kind of action/adventure/spy movie, doesn’t it? Probably starring Matt Damon, Morgan Freeman and perhaps in an odd bit of casting John Travolta as the president. Tossing in Cate Blanchett into any film is always a good move so we’ll give her the female lead. For my own personal consumption Ryan Gosling and Scott Caan will also have to be present. Believe me, their talents will be put to very good and very frequent use...
Yeah, ok, I have no idea where that little tangent sprouted from but let’s all just ignore it was ever there and move on like dear Ms. Stowe is actually sane. Agreed? Good.
As for your Day Nine tease, here it is…
Chapter Nine: The Irony of Sirens
“Mercer knew the refuge like the back of his hand and would have no trouble driving out of there in the dark. Besides, he liked watching the million stars pop out of the dark heavens. When he had been a boy he had thought it was some kind of magic trick. He remembered his mother laughed when he’d told her that. He never told her anything like that again.” (page 134)
On the novel front, I sent back the final edits for this fine romantic masterpiece yesterday. Word on the street is that Hard Wood, Soft Heart should be out the middle of next week. Pardon me while I “Hooray!” Please feel free to join in. There’s naughty confetti in the bowl by the front door. But let’s be careful out there everybody. Nobody wants a metallic penis in their eye… at lease I don’t think anybody does. We’ll just assume not.
As for all of those looking for their through-the-keyhole peek at my rather screwed up life, here it is…
How do I decide what to buy at the grocery store? Simple. It all depends on two things.
One: my mental health of that shopping day. Yes, folks, it fluctuates more than the stock market so I never know until I wake up what I’ll be able to pull off normally that day. Cool, huh?
Two: where in the store the food is located. I’ve got to be having one darn good sane day to get me to the meat section. Frozen foods take too long to find what I’m looking for so they’re usually off my list. In fact anything that I don’t know where it is in the store is a no-no. Me wandering through the aisles is a bad, bad thing. Thankfully the produce and bread are usually fairly close to the door so they’re usually good to go. What I'm actually hungry for never has anything to do with it…
Ok, everybody’s head away from the keyhole for the day. I’ve got you some fresh produce on your way out today. Please pick up an apple, plum or watermelon and enjoy the few fruits that have somehow survived in the weeds of my insanity.
As Day Eight arrives with the raindrops, I must apologize for Day Seven never reaching your airwaves. I am sorry to all of you who made the effort to drop by and found no one answering the door. As punishment the naughty half of myself is offering herself up for a spanking. The rest of me just hopes that I am forgiven and that two chapter teases in one day will help to soothe any sore feelings. Yes, I am essentially bribing you with smut… hey, but if you’ve got to get bribed ain’t hot men and sex the way to go?
Moving on quickly, I will not clog up any of your lives with my nonsensical brain matter today. Tomorrow, however, there will be no holds barred… It could get messy in here, folks. Just saying.
Chapter Seven: Behind Dusk’s Curtain
“The weeks passed in a lazy rush of sex and longing… Their moments together during this time were tiny treasures in their own right… memories to hold to in the dark nights to come…” (page 115)
Chapter Eight: Under the Joshua Tree
“The “if you die, I die” Saul left unsaid. He hadn’t come to accept that part yet himself. He wasn’t about to ask Mercer to do it first. (page 131)
As you may have noticed, drama has apparently hit our young men and their love lives! I’d cut and paste in a drum roll here if I had any idea what I was doing. Alas, I do not and can only offer you a suspenseful silence to see you to tomorrow… of course, I can also offer you the New York style cheesecake sitting at the door. Please take a piece or two and enjoy your man-sex-cheesecake bribe.
I hope to see you all back here for Day Nine!
Until tomorrow (really, this time)…
Good morning and welcome everyone to Day Six of the Twelve Day Hard Wood, Soft Heart Teaser Spectacular!
We’re half way there and to celebrate this monstrosity of self-promotion, silliness and smut a special surprise awaits you as you leave. No peeking!
To even out the silliness that was yesterday’s post I thought I’d give you all another glimpse into my world of crossed brain wires and brick walls. I hope this little window into my life doesn’t bore. It’s meant to encourage others in a similar situation and to enlighten those who are blessed not to know anything of which I speak. So here it goes –
My daily life is full of brick walls. Not just any ordinary brick walls either, but the kind that spring up out of literally nowhere and refuse to be torn down by prayer, explosive or tenacity. Let me give you an example…
One morning I wake up, get my sh*t together and head outside to my backyard deck with an orange juice in hand. I do it every day. I enjoy it, but I’ve never thought anything about it. Who would? Well, this one morning I put my hand on the knob of the back door and my mind simply refuses to allow me to turn it. There’s no explanation forthcoming from my head as to why I can no longer go out that door. I just simply can’t.
So like most of you, I tell myself “Just do it! Don’t think. You have to do it so do it.” Yeah, well, that doesn’t work. Next comes the logical approach, trying to think through the reasons why my mind might be balking about going out that door. Unfortunately I can find no reasons. Even when I’m able to perhaps catch a glimpse of a shadow of a possible reason to this stupidity, it doesn’t help. All the logic and common sense and coping mechanisms in the world doesn’t get that brick wall between me and the back door down. I’m literally, figuratively and physically stuck.
Yeah, I know. It sounds silly, ridiculous, funny even. But it’s not… at least not for the crazy girl on the wrong side of the brick wall. Sometimes when I’m standing there, I hate my mind – never my life but my mind I could really put a freaking beat down on my brain.
So what do I do, the curious reader might ask? Do I never go out my back door again? The answer is a painful “maybe.” Just as my brick walls are wont to pop up out of nowhere they occasionally start to crumble in their own inexplicable time.
Maybe in a few months, my brain will let me talk myself through that door.
Maybe it will be years.
Maybe it will be never.
So, the curious reader asks again, what do I do?
I go out the window.
I go in through the back gate.
I jump my fence with my orange juice in hand and spend my morning on my deck.
Simply, I find ways to get around the brick wall. I can’t tear it down but I am a darn good escape artist. I will usually get by it somehow. So pardon my scraped knuckles, my skinned knees, the spilled orange juice on my shirt. I’m just trying to live here. I’m just trying to get out that door.
Ok, on to the appropriately named sixth chapter of Hard Wood, Soft Heart…
Chapter Six: Dirty Little Secret
“The road was bumpy. Saul didn’t mention that though. He figured it was fairly obvious. Besides, he really didn’t want to engage the man. Mercer was driving. It was definitely an inappropriate moment to play vacuum cleaner and suck the man’s brains out through his cock like a straw…” (page 96)
Now, for your surprise! After suffering through me and my brick walls, you have definitely earned a sneak peek at the cover for my seventh novel! So once the thunderous applause has died down to an excited murmur, you can check it out here… http://www.facebook.com/#!/photo.php?fbid=212132328851213&set=a.106121559452291.9606.100001633419040&&theaterOn your way out please help yourself to a handful of M&M’s. I think we all need the chocolate after that touch of mortar and brick insanity.
As Day Five comes roaring into town on the back of a mid-September Monday, I think a nice rosy shot of romance is called for.
I’m usually very careful with my more blatant shots of romance. You know, a little goes a long way, especially in the m/m world. Too much of it and it overwhelms the literary stew. The flavors and the unique tastes of each of the other ingredients can’t be compromised by such a strong spice or everything becomes a gooey mish-mash of daisies and cupids and hearts drawn on foggy windows… Honestly, not one of my men would be caught dead in such a fluffy pink casserole.
Don’t get me wrong. Fluffy pink casseroles have their places… just not usually in the mouths of alpha males.
Personally, I like to imbibe my meal with romance in a more roundabout way. You know, in the staging. If we continue with the culinary allusions (and heck who doesn’t love a good culinary allusion?), I guess you’d say that I like to pick out a nice romantic pot for my men and their juices to stew in. I try to come up with situations that when two strong testosterone-filled characters are put in them they have no choice but to bubble up into delicious love. That way all their manliness is still there for us to nibble on, to swirl around in our mouths and massage with our tongues…
Sorry. Culinary allusion was quickly slipping into naughtiness. We wouldn’t want that, now would we?...
Chapter Five: Gentle Obscenity
“As one low, slow song bled away into the next, the men silently stared into each other’s eyes as if searching out and finding their place in the other’s soul.” (page 79)
Yes, I do believe the mid-September Monday is a little more digestible with a helping of pink fluffy casserole. See? Not even Chloe Stowe can resist the taste of pure romance every once in a while.
On your way out today, please grab a flute of chilled champagne. Enjoy those tiny bubbles everyone and make your Monday merry!
Day Four is here and it’s reflective.
On the anniversary of a day when so many “mere” mortals became heroes and so many loves were lost until heaven, I think I’ll just give you my daily teaser and let you get back to spending your day with your cherished ones be they family, friends, lovers or four-legged guardian angels….
Chapter Four: Sugar-Coated Damnation
“Mercer looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Personally, I think you rock the well and truly fucked look…”” (page 64)
Today, on your way out, please enjoy some beer in honor of the first Sunday of the NFL season!
Until tomorrow, God bless you…