Life Imitates Art, Part 2

I recently posted how real life events mirrored what I wrote in my first hockey romance, On the Surface. A Chicago Blackhawk got sick of the crap a fan was giving him in the penalty box, so he squirted some water at him. In my book, Tim was a Blackhawk who got angry at a heckler and threw a water bottle at him. Isn't it weird? I wrote that scene over a year ago and here, it happens in real life.

I decided to share the scene with those who haven't bought or read the book yet. This is from Chapter 2.

Tim shouldn’t have been surprised when no one recognized him during breakfast at the hotel restaurant. Hockey wasn’t venerated on the West Coast as much as it was in the east and in Canada, and San Diego loved their Padres and Chargers. He didn’t mind. It was actually a refreshing change. In Chicago, the Blackhawks were like royalty. It was rare that Tim went out in public without being recognized. He’d never really minded that much, but he had to admit it was nice to be able to finish a meal in a restaurant without being asked for an autograph.

After tipping generously, he left the Marriott and grabbed a taxi. The seats were torn and taped, and despite the little air freshener that hung from the rearview mirror, it had that distinctive taxi smell—musty leather, stale food, spilled coffee, cheap cologne and a side of body odor.

“Where to?” the cabby said, turning on the meter. Tim noted the name on the ID card, Umberto Garcia.

“The Cadillac dealership off 163. Here’s the address.” Tim handed him a MapQuest printout. Their destination was about half an hour away. Today he was getting himself a fully loaded Escalade SUV.

Garcia studied the printout. “No problem.” The cabby pulled out into traffic. “Late night last night?” the cabby asked.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror, Tim winced. His eyes were redder than the glass of V-8 he’d downed earlier. He’d had so much on his mind, sleep had eluded him until the early morning hours. He had so much to prove and not nearly as much confidence as he would have liked. Usually the extreme physicality of his job wore him out, but training camp didn’t start for two months. The workout on the stationary bike yesterday hadn’t been nearly hard enough to knock him out at bedtime. He also had a personal appearance today, his first as a Barracuda, and he was nervous. And angry that he was nervous. What mattered was how well he played hockey, not how many fans wanted to meet him.

“No. I just didn’t sleep well,” Tim answered.The cabby accelerated as they got onto the freeway. "I thought the Marriott had good beds."

“It’s not the bed. I just have a lot on my plate.”

“Don’t we all. Me, I got a thirteen-year-old daughter who thinks she’s seventeen. Looks like it too, when she puts on makeup.”

Tim nodded. “Makes you want to go buy a shotgun, huh?”

“You got that right.” Garcia met his eye in the rearview mirror. “What’s your biggest problem, man?”

Tim chuckled. “Where do I start?” He propped an ankle on his knee. “I got…transferred here from Chicago. So I’m one of the new guys on the block.”

“But there’s more than one new guy.”

“Yes. A good buddy of mine came here too, actually.”

“So that doesn’t sound like that big of a problemo. Next?”

“Management took a chance on me and are expecting a lot.”

“Can you do what they’re expecting?”

Tim shrugged. “I’m not as young as I used to be.” Garcia's eyes flicked to the mirror. "What are you? Thirty? Jesus. Cut yourself a break."

“Thirty-three. But in my line of work, thirty is practically over the hill.”

As they passed by Balboa Park and the San Diego Zoo, Garcia asked the forty thousand dollar question. “What’s your line of work?”

“I play hockey.”

Garcia twisted his head to glance back. “No shit! Pro hockey, of course. That explains the Barracuda hat.”

“Are you a fan?”

“Sorry. No. Baseball’s my game.”

Figured.

“Yeah.” Tim touched the brim of his cap. “I’m a Barracuda.”

Garcia chuckled as he tapped the steering wheel with his thumb. “No shit. You’re a pro. So when you said transferred, you really meant traded.”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name, man? People sometimes ask what famous people I’ve driven and I’d like to add your name to the list.”

“Tim Hollander. I play right wing. I’m a forward.”

“That’s offense, right?”

Tim laughed. So did Garcia.

“Hell, I told you baseball’s my game.”

“Yeah, forwards are offense.”

They continued on the 163 through a large interchange. The signs said they were in Mission Valley now.Tim relaxed,knowing this guy wasn't going to hassle him about his performance last season or ask about Bottlegate. They talked some more. Garcia was easy to talk to. Part of the job, Tim figured. Cabbies were probably a lot like bartenders, but with wheels. Oddly, the more they talked, the more Tim felt like unloading and he ended up telling Garcia about Bottlegate anyway.

“Wait a second,” Garcia said. “Let me get this straight. The guy actually said that your daughter was better off dead than having a father like you?”

“Yes,” Tim said. The Philly fan had actually said much more than that while Tim had sat in the penalty box. He hadn’t shut up for a full minute, criticizing Tim’s play, or lack thereof, and eventually getting personal.

“What an asshole.”

“Thing is, my daughter had died only a few weeks before that.”

Silence.

“She died?”

“Yeah. Leukemia.”

“Shit, man.” Garcia met Tim’s gaze briefly in the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry to hear that. Really sorry. That’s fucked.”

“Thanks.” Tim gave him the tight-lipped smile he always did when people offered their sympathy.

A few moments passed. “You know what, man? I admire your restraint. I probably would have done a lot more than hit him with a water bottle. I’d probably have killed the guy.”

“I wanted to. Believe me.”

By this time, they were exiting the freeway.

“Well, Tim—can I call you Tim?”

Tim waved a hand.

“Tim, I have feeling things are going to turn around for you,” Garcia said. “I think you’re a determined guy and whatever you put your mind to, you’re gonna do. When’s the season start?”

“Regular season starts in early September.”

“Well, tell you what. You train like hell and you do whatever you have to do to become part of that team, because I’ll be watching that first game. You’re gonna hit a grand slam, or whatever it is in hockey.”

“A hat trick. That’s three goals in one game.”

“A hat trick, then. I’ll be rooting for you.” They pulled up in front of the dealership.

Tim pulled a hundred out of his wallet to pay the fifty-three dollar charge. He also made note of the cab number for later. “Thanks a lot for the vote of confidence. It means a lot. Keep the change.”

Photo credit: Theron W. Henderson

First Line this Morning

I'm (trying to) start Book 3 of the In the Zone series. This is probably my third try. This is typical for me, however. Trial and error is the name of the game for me.

Here is the new beginning for the book. I hope this one sticks.

Alex Sullivan believed in love at first sight, but he seldom mentioned it to anyone. His San Diego Barracuda teammates would have laughed at him. Give a hockey player a gem like that and he’ll jump on it with a vengeance: Photoshopped pictures of his face on a naked baby Cupid on Twitter, fake voice mails in falsetto, “Alex, I just love you so much, from the first moment I saw you, I knew you were The One…” Shit like that. At least, that’s what Alex would do. Any excuse for a good laugh at a teammate’s expense.

If there was one guy on his team he might trust with this information, it was Tim Hollander. Holly had it bad for this nurse he’d been seeing a lot of lately. If anyone could understand Alex’s romantic side, it would be Holly. And yet, Alex still kept quiet, especially because if Tim found out who Alex was mooning over, he would kick his ass.

Photo credit: leoncillo sabino via Creative Commons

Boys Will Be Boys

I am sitting at my computer this morning, revising the book outline for the second hockey book. I've been writing up a storm and haven't been keeping the outline up to date. The outline helps me keep track of what happens when.

Anyway, I came across a scene that I'd forgotten about and thought I'd post part of it here. Part of what I love about writing these hockey books is the opportunity to show guys being their lovable guy selves. I enjoy reading that stuff in other people's books, and so it's not surprising to find it showing up in mine. The scenes with the Barracuda teammates are especially fun to write.

This scene features Calder, the hero of the second hockey book, and his older brother, Hart. Calder is recalling an incident...


-->

Years ago, his mom had picked him and his brother up from a hockey game. For some reason he couldn’t remember, her trunk had been full of heavy boxes. Hart managed to stuff his in, but Calder had to put his in the backseat. As a result, the smell crept out and invaded the car like an olfactory bioweapon.

Hart, sixteen at the time to Calder’s fourteen, had lost the “shotgun” battle, so he was sitting in the back. “Something died in your bag, CS,” he said.

“Whatever, DB.”

Their mom thought that CS stood for Calder’s first two initials and DB meant “dumb brother.” But to the boys it was shorthand for cocksucker and douche bag.

“Mom,” Hart said, “We’re studying about the human body in science class, and I think Calder is constipated and when he sweats, crap comes out of his pores.”

“Hart Griffin, that’s disgusting,” Jenny said.

“I agree,” Hart said. “Let’s open the windows.”

His mom shook her head. “It’s eight degrees outside.”

“I don’t care. I swear I’m gonna puke.”

“Here, I’ll turn the fan on.”

It didn’t help. Even Calder had to admit it. At times, he envied other athletes like basketball players whose protective equipment consisted of one item—a jock. Hockey players, on the other hand, had that and much more, all of it soaked in sweat from each wearing. The odors seemed to build on each other even after washing because sometimes the stuff never dried out between the morning skate and a same-day game.

The noise from the fan provided cover for what Hart said in Calder’s ear. “I swear to God, Satan’s shit smells like fucking flowers compared to your bag.”

Laughing in spite of himself, Calder turned around to sock his brother.

Jenny twisted her head to nail them both with a glare. “What did you say?”

“Shit” wasn’t a word Jenny approved of but would sometimes let go. “Fuck” or any of its permutations constituted a loss of dinner.

“I was saying what’s coming out of Calder’s bag is probably what hell smells like.”

She eyed Hart in the rear view mirror. Calder knew his brother’s expression was now more heavily guarded than the President. He must have passed inspection because their mom said, “It is pretty bad, Calder.”

From that day on in their family, hockey bag smell was referred to as hell stink.

Photo by Mary_Thompson

Re-boot

So, I got this great idea for the hockey book, tentatively titled CHARMED.

Unfortunately, it necessitated a rewrite of the beginning. LOL. I laugh because this is my M.O. I start and restart and restart my books. Such is the life of a writer who plots as she goes. Here's the new opening...

The San Diego Barracudas reload with Locke, Stoccetti and Barringer, but will they be shooting blanks this season? Marc Stoccetti left the Oilers under a cloud, but Coach Marchand thinks the seasoned center still has some pow left in him. Personally, I’m not sure. All three of these guys are on the far side of their prime, but Lord knows the Barracudas are a young team in need of strong, experienced leadership. 

--Breakaway Baby, a hockey blog

“How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

Marco Stocchetti was jogging on the treadmill with his two good friends in the Barracuda's workout room. Christian Barringer had asked the question.

“I was ten,” Marc said.

Simon Locke, captain of the team, laughed. “The fuck you were.”

Marc chuckled. “All right. I was sixteen.”

Barringer nodded. “Hey, I was sixteen, too. Marissa Clairmont.” He sighed. “What sweet fucking pussy she had. I swear to God it tasted like peach pie.”

“I lost my cherry to Alison Chase,” Marc said. “In the back of her car.”

“Oh yeah? What did she taste like?” Barringer asked.

Marc shrugged. “I never went down on her,” he admitted. “But her mouth always tasted like Big Red gum.”

Barringer nodded as he adjusted the speed on his machine. “There was an old lady on my street when I was a kid who gave out Big Red on Halloween. You’d knock on her door and she’d give you one stick. That pissed me off so bad. I used to think she was cheap, but now I realize she was probably just on a fixed income.” Barringer sighed. “Maybe I should look her up. See if she needs some money.”

Locke cleared his throat. “If you two are done with your stroll down memory lane, I’d like to get back to the matter at hand. You can’t have the number sixteen,” he said to Marc. “That’s Carpenter’s number.”

“Shit.” 

Fit To Be Tied Excerpt

You'd think I'd realize by now that readers like to get a taste of the book and the writing before they buy. I'm an avid reader and I never buy a book without reading a little bit of it.

In order to better understand this excerpt, you should know that Max is an entomologist working late at the Natural History Museum. Sadie brought him some fried rice for dinner and is hoping for a little post Chinese food nookie…

____

As Max cleaned up his dinner mess, he noticed Sadie watching him, staring at him. Her eyes wandered all over his body, but they kept returning to his groin. His cock pulsed in his pants and he tried to ignore it, but she wouldn’t quit. In a few more moments, he’d have a full on erection.

“Don’t do that,” he finally said in desperation.

Sadie looked up. “Do what?”

“Stare at my crotch.”

“Why? As crotches go, it’s a nice one.” She gave him a slight smile. “And from what I can see, it’s getting even nicer.”

That did it.

“You know what? I’ve had enough,” he said, putting his pencil away and organizing his work. His tolerance had reached critical mass. She’d given off enough signals for him. He still had several bugs to label, and although it bothered him to leave that unfinished, his need for Sadie was more immediate.

Besides, the bugs were dead.

Sadie gathered her purse and keys. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s late and you can finish this on Monday.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He stood up slowly and moved close, into her personal space. She didn’t back away, but looked up when he put a hand on her waist. “I’m tired of the flirting games.” Catching her gaze, he said, “If you have any objections to my kissing you, you’d better get them out now.”

Sadie’s arms crept up around his neck and she murmured, “No objections whatsoever.”

“Good.”

Her breath came out in a sigh as their mouths met. Her lips were soft and full and he couldn’t get enough. She tangled her hands in his hair and pressed herself against him as he deepened the kiss. Sexual energy vibrated from her body. He soaked it up like the desert does rain.

Pulling his mouth away, he tugged her elastic top down. “God, Max, yes,” she gasped, holding onto his shoulders. The sound of his name on her lips sent a wave of lust through him.

Her breasts came free and he wasted no time in capturing one with his mouth. The nipple was cool and sweet between his lips. As he sucked it, splaying his hand across her back to hold her still, she arched up and the peak hardened. He switched to the other breast which seemed to swell in his hand and teased it with his tongue.

The clatter of his pencil cup overturning brought him to his senses. He was at work, for shit’s sake. Yes, it was after hours, but Al could wander in at any minute. Surely Max had enough self-control to hold back until they got back to his house.

Reluctantly, he eased away from her. “We can’t do this here,” he said, pulling her top back up.

Sadie lifted her gaze to his and smiled, catlike. Her eyes were luminous, even in the unflattering fluorescent light. Without breaking eye contact, she started unbuckling his belt.

“Ah…Sadie, didn’t you hear me? We could get caught in flagrante delicto,” he said. “Again.”

Seemingly unperturbed, she shrugged, slipped her hand between them and rubbed his erection. Max gritted his teeth at how incredibly good that felt.

“But I think it’s kind of exciting, don’t you?”

“No.” He took a very difficult step back.

She sauntered over to his recently vacated chair and sat down. One corner of her mouth tilted as she said, “But we’re destined to do this.”

“We are?”

“Of course we are.” She rolled the chair over to him and then worked the hydraulic lever until her face was level with his groin. “That’s why we hooked up again. It’s Fate, and Fate is City Hall on a cosmic scale. It just doesn’t pay to fight it.”

He gave a strangled gasp as she opened his pants.

Leap of Faith Celebration - Day 3

Turns out that no one would be brave enough to try cuy. Maybe I shouldn't have answered myself. Maybe I turned people off to the idea of roasted guinea pig...

Since no one wanted to do my Mad Lib, I decided to have a go at it. You were supposed to think up

• a period of time
• a name
• a verb
• four nouns
• an adjective

And here is the Leap of Faith blurb with the Mad Lib words inserted:

A split second ago, Vladimir blew up the Incan flip flops and has since been condemned to a life of pancakes and dirt. Only through tongue will he find forgiveness. But is it his tongue that is required, or that of the young woman who stumbles into his busty world?

Well, that was pretty funny, if I do say so myself! Feel free to provide a list of zany words, and I'll insert them tomorrow.

Today I'm posting a short excerpt from Leap of Faith. I hope you enjoy it. I even hope you buy it!

Sometimes what seemed enchanting at night lost its glamour by light of day, especially when it came to men, but even in the bright sun Amaru was one spectacular example of masculinity. The man was all muscle, not a scrap of fat on him, and although his face wasn’t handsome in the classic sense, the rugged, primitive strength Kira saw there was just as appealing as any of the pretty boy looks she might find on the pages of a men’s magazine.

He thrust his head under the stream, washed his unshaven face, then combed his hands through his hair. The water ran in rivulets down his neck to be soaked up by his tunic. Until today, she’d never considered necks to be particularly sexy, but if her lips had had free will they would have been on his neck like magnets on a fridge.

Reluctantly, she pulled her eyes back up to his face, but judging from his smile, he knew she’d been ogling him and he didn’t mind one bit. In fact, still grinning, he said, “It is already hot today and I am somewhat sweaty from working the garden."

And sweat never looked better.

Then, to her shock and delight, he stripped off his tunic to reveal his magnificent body clothed in nothing but an honest-to-goodness loincloth. Having never seen a loincloth in person before, she realized now how little they actually covered.

Her lips suddenly had a different destination in mind.

Question for today: Would you prefer your hero garbed in a loincloth, chaps, a tux, or a kilt? Answer in the comment section and you may win a free book at the end of the week.

Excerpt "Monday": Secrets of the Jin Hakku

A bunch of romance writers I know participate in Excerpt Monday once a month. The deal is we all post a little snippet of something we've written and read everyone else's. Last month it was a lot of fun, so here's Round Two! (Note: Because of technical difficulties, I have to publish this on Sunday.)

This 500 word snippet is from Secrets of the Jin Hakku, just released in print (the Torrid Topaz anthology) from Ellora's Cave. It's also available on it's own.

Warning: The following contains a whip, M/F/M, and anal mischief.
____________

“Look alert now, girl,” Kai said. “I have a potential buyer coming in a few moments.”

Again, Hana started slightly in surprise at this turn of events but recovered quickly. The slave market game was another of their favorites. Joran wondered which persona she would take on tonight.

“I told you before,” she said, lifting her chin imperiously. “I’m not for sale. You are making a grave mistake.”

Joran smiled as he handed Kai the quirt. He might have known she’d choose the furious princess after having just played the wholly subservient prostitute.

“My father will have you flayed alive when he discovers what has happened.”

“You have no idea how many others have claimed the very same thing,” Kai said. “It’s never true. Now listen carefully. This buyer has paid for a privileged assessment. Do you know what that means?”

Hana spat forcefully in Kai’s general direction. Chuckling silently, Kai leapt out of the way and exchanged a look of amusement with Joran before clucking his tongue and giving her rump a sharp taste of the lash.

“Ow!”

“Behave or you’ll get worse than that. Now hold still while I put this in you. He might want to explore your back passage.”

Hana hissed as Kai inserted the oiled konsu, giving it a slight tug to make sure it was set in place.

“There we go. Just in time,” Kai said. “Here he comes.”

That was Joran’s cue. Assuming an arrogant expression, he took her chin in his hands. Hana flinched, her nostrils flaring, but she said nothing. The reddened mark on her rear explained why.

“She’s a beauty, is she not?” Kai said. “Feast your eyes on this unusual adornment, how the dragons are poised to devour her.”

Joran grunted noncommittally. Grasping her throat with one hand, he took hold of her breast with the other. He squeezed it, hefted it in his palm. Hana turned her face aside, but submitted. Her nipples were hard. He flicked one of them with his index finger.

“Those luscious melons are as responsive as any you’ve tried before. I’ve had a turn at them myself.” Kai poked her with the handle of the quirt. “Arch your back, girl. Let him get his mouth on you.”

With a falsely apathetic sigh, Joran lowered his head and took a sweet, sweet peak into his mouth. Hana made a muffled sound as he sucked. Again and again he swirled his tongue around, teasing with nips of his teeth, pulling with his lips. When he finally let go with a smacking sound, her nipple was swollen and red and she was panting but trying not to show it.

“What did I tell you, my lord? If you think that was something, wait until you fuck that tight, juicy kachi.” Kai applied the whip lightly to her thigh. “Spread your legs now and be quick about it. His lordship doesn’t have all day.”

____

And here are some other folks who, like me, write hot. Click on the links to read some more interesting snippets!

Leah Braemel, Contemporary Erotic Romance (R)
Evie Byrne, Paranormal (R)
Jax Cassidy, Erotic Contemporary (R)
Cate Hart, YA (R)
Inez Kelley, Rom Com (R)
Ainslinn Kerry, Paramornal Romance (R)
Elise Logan, Paranormal/contemporary (R)
Suzanne McLeod, Urban Fantasy (R)
Annie Nicholas, Paranormal Romantic Suspense (R)
Vivienne Westlake, Historical Erotica (R)

Ella Drake, Erotic Paranormal Romance (NC-17)
Kirsten Saell, Erotic Romance/Fantasy (NC-17)

Excerpt from Across the Line

Here is an excerpt from Across the Line. Becca lives in Ithaca, N.Y. Calder lives in San Diego, California. They are going to the wedding of one of his teammates in a week or so.

Ding ding.

Calder got a text message from Becca around ten, just as he was brushing his teeth. It was pretty late in New York, so he was curious. The text came with a picture. He hoped it was a naked picture, but didn’t think he’d be that lucky.

It turned out to be a snapshot of a red-faced, blurry-eyed Becca in a bar with Savannah and a couple of women he didn’t recognize. They all had half-empty martini glasses in their hands.

Wish you could have been here, hunkman.

His toothbrush sticking out of his mouth like a cigar, he laughed and texted back, Are you drunk?

In the picture? Yes. But that was an hour ago.

What about now?

Pretty much.

Worry furrowed his brow as he pictured her crappy little compact car crumpled against a telephone pole. Call me when you get home so I know you’re safe.

Home already, she replied.

He was typing in a reply when another text from her arrived. And I went shopping today. I got pretty stuff.

Pretty stuff. Whoopee. What did that mean? Shoes, probably. Or nail polish.

Something for the wedding.

He put his phone down, rinsed and spit. Ding ding.

A dress and…unmentionables!!!!

Holy fuck. That got his attention.

Are you impressed that I can spell that in my condition?

He ignored the question and was in the middle of typing “Picture or it didn’t happen” when she texted, I’ll send you a picture. Hold on.

What followed was the longest minute of his life.

His dick got hard during that minute. He paced in his bathroom, eager and anxious. He hoped it was taking a long time because she was putting said unmentionables on. The tension was as high as when he was taking a face-off.

Ding ding.

His phone had gone dim. He cursed as he woke it up.

You know, never mind. I think I’d rather surprise you.

“FUCKITY FUCK, FUCKED-UP FUCKERY.” He inhaled hard through his nose and fought for calm.

Please? He wasn’t above begging. Doesn’t have to be a full-body shot. Just the bra. On you, of course. Please please please.

A long pause.

He counted to five, breathing deeply like a Buddhist priest trying to meditate.

No picture.

Nothing.

The screen timed out again.

FUCKITY FUCK—

No. I really want to surprise you at the wedding.

He wanted to cry. Is there nothing that I can bribe you with? Money? Jewelry? A car?

No. You’ll just have to wait!!! Hahahahahahaaaaaa!!!! But it’s all red.

Fuck. Becca in red lingerie.

G’night.

Even in an extreme state of arousal and an even more extreme state of frustration, he chuckled. He was going to get back at her, somehow, some way. Just because she was tipsy during this texted mind fuck didn’t mean she was off the hook. What goes around comes around, baby. When pranked by a teammate, Calder always reciprocated. It was a matter of pride. One-upmanship was not a game he usually lost, not even with girlfriends.

He’d spend some time devising a suitably devilish plan, maybe involving handcuffs, but he had to get rid of his pesky hard-on first.

Photo credit: Chris Corwin and Wonderlane via Wikimedia