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Chapter Four: A Woman Named Loring
“Buried? For some reason he cringed at that word. His bad feeling about all of this was just getting worse.” (page 53)
Release Day! The foreplay has come to its end. All the soft nuzzles of lips upon nipples, all those sweet kisses on the best of those unmentionables have now disappeared. What remains between us this day is the climax.
Let the thunderous waves of pleasure come, let ecstasy rock the boat you lay upon.
Lay all of your defenses down.
Give in to the hot rush that wants to devour you.
Scream as the orgasm takes hold of your soul and shatters it. Relish the devastation, suck it dry.
And know that tonight, tomorrow, for all time to come I am here to bring you more…
Bet you never had a “Please buy my book” quite like that, huh?
*tosses her salesman’s hat to the floor and kicks it out of sight*
Now back to the blog…
Anybody want to take my shift in my brain today? Seriously. I am bone tired of being so… weird. And I can’t even be weird in a cute and snuggly way. No, I have to be weird in the “Jeez, I hope it’s not catching” way.
Take yesterday as an example.
I spent most of the morning and all the early afternoon literally revving myself up to go to the Fed Ex place (a place I’m very unfamiliar with). There was a very important contract I needed to mail to a new publishing house (details to follow in the next days). Well, by the time I got up the nerve to actually go I had wasted the majority of the day worrying about it. Yeah, dumb, I know. Believe me, I know.
Did I go to the Fed Ex place? Yes. Did I get it mailed? No. After a “comedy” of nervous errors, I was told (while holding on to 2 completed forms and a big envelope I had just bought) that they couldn’t mail the contract to a PO Box.
Yeah, I know this kind of stuff happens all the time to everybody. Fortunately though, for everybody’s sanity, everybody isn’t operating with my brain set.
So, I dragged my pitiful self back home, curled up on the couch and called my Mommy. September 19th was officially shot to h-e-double hockey sticks and I’d gotten zero accomplished… except, of course, for the knotted up stomach and the exhaustion-laced nausea.
Yep, sometimes I wish with all my soul that somebody else was Chloe Stowe and I was a woman named Loring.
Until tomorrow and the afterglow…
P.S. *nudge, nudge* “A Woman Named Loring” is one of the title chapters of the day. Got it? Good. Even I get lost sometimes following my line of thinking.
Chapter Five: Home Away from Home
“His eyes popped open and a world of harsh, electric light swallowed him. Trapped in an ice cold fire he couldn’t understand, Cane began to struggle.” (page 65)
Can you hear it? The bell is ringing.
Finally, Cock Fight
can step into the ring and fight for itself.
I feel like a gym-mother, a woman who’s spent all her time preparing her son to step into the ring to floor the competition and kick some royal publishing ass…
Yes, well, moving on…
As my final act as doting gym-mother, I offer the hungry crowd a summary of the chapters and excerpts of my 11th novel. Consider it the program to the main event… a main event I sincerely hope you will all enjoy.
And with one final tweak to my boy’s boxing gloves and a kiss to the tip of his most adorable nose, I push my baby out into the ring.
Until next time…
Chloe Stowehttp://www.ravenousromance.com/modern-love/cock-fight.phpPrologue: The Cage“The air was thick with sweat and beer.” (page 1)Chapter One: Blue Crab and Cold Beer“Leverage.” Mitchell didn’t bother sugarcoating it. “That’s what runs my world. You have got to grab it whenever you’re given the chance.” (page 17)Chapter Two: The Love Story of Isadora“Back and forth he kicked his loafer clad feet under the table, looking all the world like a boy who’d just gotten out of his cereal box a new riddle to solve.” (page 37)Chapter Three: Clooney, Newman and Grant“He wasn’t Rocky, no matter how many times Aldo played that damned “Eye of the Tiger” song.” (page 54)Chapter Four: Arrhichion of Phigalia“All he wanted to do was to make this man, this beautiful soul, crest in uncontrolled ecstasy.” (page 80)Chapter Five: Morning Delights“Pacing back and forth in front of a spectacularly naked man was another new experience for him. Hell, he was popping cherries all over the damned place.” (page 94)Chapter Six: A Gentleman Caller“With a slow turn of the knob, Darian peeked out of the slit of an opening. He frowned. “Did they send you to tell me that he was dead, Mr. Christianson?” (page 99)Chapter Seven: Sticky Dick“Finally, the honey fell from Mitchell’s thigh, dripping slowly down to the inner curve of Carr’s hip.” (page 121)Chapter Eight: Galas and Other Such Albatrosses“The anxious yearning for approval in his eyes reminded Mitchell of a cat who’d just dumped a headless squirrel at its master’s feet. Mitchell didn’t know whether to offer Carr a warm bowl of cream or to swat him silly with a broom.” (page 126)Chapter Nine: Soft Drink-Tinted Lights“Neither man knew it, but it was the only goodbye they would be allowed that day.” (page 142)Chapter Ten: Overheard Lullabies“Maybe he could borrow the boy’s peace just for a minute, just long enough for him to remember how to breathe again? He’d give the boy his peace right back. He didn’t want to steal it. He just wanted to share.” (page 147)Chapter Eleven: On the Back of a Dolphin“Reeking of foul cigarette smoke, Carr limped determinedly down the long, third floor hospital corridor.” (page 157)Epilogue: The Banana Man“The waves were fickle, wanton in their desire to be nothing less than maddeningly unpredictable.” (page 164)
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…
It’s Release Day! And Hellesgate, Kansas is jumping. It’s rocking. Heck, Hellesgate would be filling up the sky with bottle rockets if the place didn’t have a long, sundry history with any word with “fire” in it.
Me? I’m sick to my stomach, have heart palpitations galore and keep getting lost in delusions of colossal failure. The pink elephant in the corner that keeps smiling at me I’m pretty sure isn’t supposed to be there and the voices in my head are spitting and calling each other ninnies. Yep, it’s release day and if I can’t be sedated through this, I’m more than happy to share some of its madness with you.
Just to be clear, before any frantic phone calls to the mental health officials are made, the pink elephant and the ninnying voices are only colorful exaggerations of the muted chaos currently tripping through my mind.
My nerves have never been ho-hum or hum-drum. There has always been a bright and blinding array of moods and colors to my anxiety. For instance, today is a fervent, jumpy kind of nervousness. My mind is pinging around my skull like some kind of freaking pinball desperate to find all the bumpers, be they one blaring success or “You f***ing suck!”
This kind of nervousness is easier to handle than most. It’s by no means pleasant but it is doable with the proper medication and the proper walls to bang my messed up head against. Also aiding in today’s mental health color scheme is the fact that I just signed the contract for the next two novels in the Hellesgate Series. Knowing that Matthew and Cane have enough interest backing them up to sustain books 4 and 5 is a huge appeasement to my pink elephant… you know, the one not sitting in my corner.
Before I start freaking out my readers and see the pity vote reflected in my book sales numbers, why don’t I leave you all to your own lives? One last request before I release you: please, help me spread the word about today’s release. Tweet, facebook, whisper “Shafts of Torchlight, Shafts of Torchlight” incessantly to your cubicle mate. Any help would be greatly appreciated on that front. Thanks.
I’m off to put the meat on the bones of my tenth novel for Ravenous: Stripped Asset
. It should be released in early February so I will see you again real soon with more previews and more ugly truths. Thank you again for reading my words both here in my blog and in my novels. Never doubt for a moment that you guys feed my sanity. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
Until next time…
As release day for book #3 of the Hellesgate Series nears (tomorrow, folks!) and the last reindeer of our WWII love games has arrived, I’d like to take a few moments to re-introduce you to Shafts of Torchlight’s locale, a crazy little place called Hellesgate…
Hellesgate is a little town of about 500 citizens in southwestern Kansas. It has a post office, a small store, a gas station, a granary and a row of neat tiny houses running up Main Street. At first glance, Mayberry comes to mind, but fair warning: there are no Opie’s here.
Bingham Daughtry is an old, old man who runs the post office. He was a sniper in the Korean War and never got out of the habit of calling his gun his best friend. He’s famous for his hard lemonade and the senility he flirts with daily. He is a loyal man who says what’s on his mind and who defends the few he calls his friends with vigor and when necessary with violence.
The Eastons, Iona and Elwood, run an apple orchard on the outskirts of town. Iona babies her apple trees and her husband with an equal but fierce passion. While the couple were never blessed with children of their own, they were blessed with Cane, their nephew. Having raised him since he was a baby, they consider Cane their own and would gladly defend him with their lives.
May Shaw is an eccentric girl. A beautiful woman in her twenties, she is as slight as a thistle and as winsome as the prairie wind. She loves Cane Summerfield with a passion which frequently crosses over into the obsessive. Her stalking tendencies have mellowed some through the years but her incendiary love of Cane has not.
Jefferson Shaw is May’s brother. With all the passion with which May loves Cane, Jefferson hates him with equal fire. Convinced that Cane has somehow wronged his sister, Jefferson has vowed to destroy Cane’s life… that is if he ever sobers up enough to figure out how.
This is Hellesgate, Kansas. It is an environment rich with love, hate and fire. It is the bed in which Cane Summerfield and Matthew Archer’s love was sparked and their family was born. I hope you will drop by for a visit tomorrow and be sure to bring your friends and enemies – after all, there’s something for everybody (be it murder, mayhem or momentous love) in Hellesgate, Kansas.
However, Matthew and Cane’s love and adventures are by no means limited to Kansas. Denver, Colorado plays a crucial role in Shafts of Torchlight, a backdrop to a dangerous night in which lives are threatened and love is tested…
Chapter Seven: Sleet in Denver
“Standing there alone at a frosted window Matthew missed the brush of arm against his arm, the tickle of breath against his neck, the sound of his own voice tangled in the sound of his husband’s.” (page 85)
Well, I believe I have flapped my jaws enough for today. Tomorrow I’ll give you a recap of the histories of Matthew and Cane and their little girl, Sahara. Until then, I leave you with the final reindeer of our WWII games…
I imagine Blitzen to be…
An assassin. He is a man who is sent in as a war’s last resort. He must blend in, get lost among the maddening crowd… until the final shot can be had. He trusts no one but his own gun. While he once hated his role as reaper, he views it now as a mission of mercy. The atrocities of the war have changed him, hardened him. In the mirror, Blitzen no longer recognizes himself. Who he will be after the war, if there is an “after the war” for him, only God knows. Until then his crosshairs are set on only one man… a man who is responsible for hundreds of deaths or so the intelligence alleges. When the truth of his target’s actions come to light, will it be enough to convince Blitzen to betray his own orders to save one good man’s life? Or will his own heart feel the cold death of his own assassin’s bullet?
Until tomorrow (Release Day!!!)…
Chloe Stowe and her Hellesgate homies.