Erica Chilson's Blog

​Chapter One 
 
Raven Mason
 
“How is your day going, sweetie?” Glancing up from her seat at the piano, Mrs. Elsberry’s warm smile has all the stress fading away. She’s never been my teacher, but she’s always been my second mom. Since I’ve never had a mother, I guess you could say I borrowed her from my best friend.
Taunts and insults, a nonstop assault causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. “Hey, jackass!” shouts a dickwad from down the hallway, so I hurry into the classroom and shut the door behind me. The chaos is deadened, but it still leaks around the hinges and beneath the door. The door would have to be a vault to close out all the teenage angst, drama, rampant hormones, and funky ball sweat. 
Welcome to Fairport High.
Home of golden boys, jocks, beauty queens, mean girls, geeks, and the dregs of society destined for a lifetime of towniedom.
Take a guess on which category I belong.
If you’re unsure, I’m hiding out in the music room until the hallways empty, before making my escape to the student parking lot.
“SSDD,” is muttered with a shrug as I shoulder my backpack higher up. One thing about having a teacher as a second mom, there’s no energy wasted on explaining acronyms. If they don’t learn the acronyms, their life at school would be a lamb to the slaughter. “Daily Taryn Update, Mrs. Elsberry.”
“Sweetie, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. Call me–”
“Karen,” is spoken over top of her in a teasing lilt. “When I’m at your house it sounds normal, but here at school…” is trailed off.
Moving farther into the music room, I fiddle with the strings on a wooden guitar. At the beginning of the school year, Karen told me to call it an acoustic guitar, and I’m always lured to touch it. Just an itching craving beneath my skin that drives me to strum, the thin metal an odd texture against the pads of my fingertips.
“Taryn’s good,” is whispered as I gaze down at the guitar sitting on a wooden stool. The music room is an interesting place, so different from all the other classrooms, besides the sorcery in the industrial arts wing. There’s a stage with rows of chairs, each has its own music stand. There are open spaces meant for larger instruments. The piano is centrally located, Karen’s happy place is on the bench. Then there is this lonesome stool, set off to the side near the wall closest to the door, situated in a watcher’s position, invisible and irrelevant and hidden… unnecessary.
Like me.
A secondary character in the novel of my own life, never destined to be the main character.
A wraith in everyone else’s lives.
“She’s obsessed with Billy– not a good idea. The guy is a complete jackass, but she doesn’t see what we all see.” The thin wire feels foreign, the grooves of my fingerprint hypersensitive to the pressure. The twang is sharp, a shudder rolling through my body as goose bumps instantly erupt. Even my ears have an odd, unexplainable reaction. A humming reverberation.
“Desiree and I tried to talk sense into Taryn, but she’s just so happy that someone’s giving her attention. If I push it, I know she’ll cut me loose. She needs me. So I’ll wait until Billy torches her, while stalking the shadows with a fire extinguisher. Even Sage tried to get through her head.”
Do I feel like a traitor for talking shit about my best friend to her mother?
No.
My mother is dead.
Devon’s my brother.
There’s this sense of silence in a family, where if you speak out, it’s a betrayal. Devon and Mom taught me that it’s stupid to keep your mouth shut. Taryn taught me the same. Mental illness is an illness, not a mark of shame. If someone had a broken bone, what would be the shame in telling their mother so they could get some help? The silence is admitting there is something to be ashamed over, a secret kept.
As I spill my guts, I continue to pluck the strings, no song created other than an assault on my ears and the destruction of an artform.
How can you lose a mother when you never had her?
Father? Mother? Dad? Mom? Daddy? Mommy?
Who are these fictionalized personifications?
Mother and father…
Brothers times three.
How do you lose someone who never saw you hanging on the family tree?
Root rot.
Relationships withered when squandered.
Parched yet over-watered.
Too much or never enough, left in a constant state of dehydration or ascites.
Family Tree.
Root rot.
You can’t lose someone who never saw you.  
My needs are irrelevant. Taryn needed Devon more. Devon needed to mentor Taryn. Taryn needed Essie for a purpose. Essie needed Taryn to take Bethany’s place at Primp. I lost my brother, my best friend, and my sister-in-law, all in one fell swoop.
If you love someone, you don’t turn jealous when you lose them. If you love someone enough, love them more than your pride and arrogance, you’re happy they found exactly what they needed to find.
Each other.
I lost them, but I picked up a discarded mother. Seems like a win-win to me.
“Taryn loves Primp– she’s doing good.” Karen and Taryn don’t talk, so I am their go-between.
They live in the same house, revolve around each other like opposing magnets or a planet and its moon, but they never interact. Karen doesn’t get Taryn. Taryn doesn’t get Karen. They love each other, but they don’t like each other. They both like and love me. The mother and sister I never had.
“Raven, sweetie?” Karen whispers from beside me, hesitant to touch me after being burned so many times by Taryn. I’ve seen my best friend fling her mother’s hand off her, then shout in a rage. I don’t judge because I’ve seen it all before with Devon.
Snapping out of the fixation I have with the wood, glue, and metal fashioned into an instrument, I turn to Karen with a genuine smile. Then I wrap an arm around her waist and rest my head on her shoulder, needing the attention and affection like water or air.
Dad has always been touchy feely. The man runs around kissing women on their mouths, women who aren’t his wife. As long as Clover and those women understand it, who am I to judge. Odder yet, he kisses his own sister on the mouth and shamelessly cuddles with her. He’s clingy and over-affectionate with his children. But ever since Devon happened, Dad’s been spread thin.
Around the time Dad started smothering Clover with affection to get her to warm up, around the time Dad went out of his way to constantly seek out Willow, Violet, and Seth, making sure they felt a part of the family, he stopped touching me.
Overcompensation is the term Taryn called it when I vented– my best friend is drowning in therapy-speak, thanks to a stint in a rehab center, support groups, and weekly therapy sessions. Whatever you call it, Dad is spread thin with all the people he needs to cuddle and coddle, to where he forgot I existed, just as he did before Clover and her kids came into our lives.
The lyrics weave inside my head, immortalized the first chance I can get.
Invisible.
Forgotten.
Overpowered.
Alienated.
Overshadowed.
Estranged.
Outshined.
Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.
Their voice is heard above my belted scream.
Sucking. Sucking. Sucking.
Sucking all the attention like oxygen from air.
Suffocating. Suffocating. Suffocating.
Deprived of lifegiving support.
Approval. Validation.
Need a ventilator– an injection of attention.
Fading. Fading. Fading.
Fading away into a translucent wraith.
The addict. The golden boy. The mean girl. The beauty queen… The genius. The superstar. The foundling. The zygote.
They find no competition from a wraith like me.
From a wraith like me.
Fingers move my hair out of the way, a palm rubbing a circle in the center of my back. Lips press against the top of my head, sigh heating my scalp. “Raven, have you thought about taking lessons?”
“On what?” Eyes flicking toward the clock, I have to get out to the parking lot before my siblings steal my car. Wouldn’t be the first time. Won’t be the last. If I bitch, I get told to learn how to roll with the punches– they don’t get told how wrong it is to jack a bitch’s car and make her fucking walk.
“The guitar, sweetie.” Karen squeezes me tightly, then steps away, sensing the time better than I do. “I can set up lessons for you. One of my ex-students approached me about donating some time for students I believe have promise.”
“I’m not one of your students, and I have no promise.” Snorting, I step away toward the door. “I better get going before I have to walk home.”
“Just think about it, Raven.” Karen rests her knuckles on the stool beside the guitar, a defeated expression withering her face. Oversized clothing, drab and dowdy, hiding her body and her personality. Graying limp hair hangs around her face as a shield. Karen is terrified I’ll fade into the background noise like she has.
“I love you,” are the three easiest words I’ve ever spoken to the woman.
“Oh, sweetie!” The ache in Karen’s voice has me turning out of the door and running down the hallways as quickly as possible, because she wished those words came from her daughter’s mouth.
Her real daughter.
If Karen is my second mom, then that means I’m only her second daughter. Her daughter’s best friend since kindergarten. Nothing more than an accident of birth order, forcing us into the same classes until adulthood.
Running in a blur, I charge out the side doors, nearly taking out a freshman who looks lost and confused. Probably missed the bus and is experiencing the mass panic of what the fuck now. Sprinting around cars ducking and diving out of parking spots, everyone in a rush to gain a few extra minutes before the parental units turn into helicopter parents.
A feral growl roars up my throat, feet pounding the pavement. Sliding into a skid to my car door, I smack my palm on the window one, two, three times. Looking sheepish, Ozzy manually rolls the window down on my vintage Camaro.
AKA, the Pussy Magnet.
The beauty is probably worth more than our house.
“Out!” is an order as I hitch my finger over my shoulder. I’m not usually an asshole to Ozzy but this is getting on my last nerve. It’s one thing to give up your entire family, but I draw the line at John Mason’s legacy.
“Sorry!” Seth has compassion enough to actually look apologetic. Little boy cheeks puffing up as he sends a sheepish smile my way.
“No room back here.” Violet leans forward, hands possessively curling around Ozzy’s shoulders from behind, making sure to press him into the seat– a nonverbal signal that his ass is to stay in my seat. “You’re too big to fit.”
“Seth can sit on Violet’s lap. Ozzy can squeeze in back there.” Glaring at them, trying to get them to move, as the eldest of this group, now that Dev and Ren have flown the coop, they don’t fucking listen to me.
Weston sits in the passenger seat, totally tuning me out because he’s watching Sage’s car like a lovesick hawk. After making sure that hormonal asshole survived the last fourteen years of his existence, this is the thanks I get?
“Rae,” Ozzy drawls, sounding put out and frustrated, as if I’m the problem. One car. MY car. Four seats. Five people. The math doesn’t compute if they believe I’m the odd man out. A car that has been in the Mason family for fifty years. I’m the ONLY Mason in this parking lot with a goddamn driver’s license.
“God, don’t let her in here– she stinks.” Violet’s nasty, mean girl, vindictive tone does nothing to me, at least not on the outside. If I showed any reaction, it would only get worse. “Dad–” that stings more than anything. Dad replaced me with a pretty version who asks nonstop questions about police procedure. “Dad says you need to start dressing better. He thinks you’re depressed. I say you’re a faker trying to get his attention.”
“Rae.” Ozzy starts again, running over top of Violet. A hand swats him upside the head, with Seth choking on a laugh. “I have to go to the station as soon as I drop them off at home. I need the car– you don’t.”
That’s the problem with blended families. It was four to three, with Ozzy coming on as the swing vote. But since Dev and Ren moved on, with Weston completely duh over Sage and automatically siding with the twins, I thought I’d find an ally with the outsider.
See what thinking got me?
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Spittle flies as I curl down to fit my head inside the car window, glaring at the twins in the backseat and my nonresponsive traitorous brother in the passenger seat. “This is my car. You’re making me walk home because those spoiled fucking brats won’t shove their asses together… I repeat. In. My. Fucking. Car.”
“Sorries!” Violet sings with sadistic glee, blonde ponytail bobbing on top of her head– how I’d love to yank it. “Outvoted!”
“Sorry, Rae.” Seth only half-ass means it. It’s good to be in the majority. Safe. Cozy. Powerful.
“I’ve got to get to work, Rae.” Shifty gaze and quivering tone, Ozzy is getting impatient with me, like I’m the goddamn problem here.
“Huh? What’s up?” Weston comes back to the land of the living, voice pitched with indifference. “Oh. Hey, Rae. Don’t think you’ll fit back there. Sorry.”
“See, even your brother thinks you’re a fat ass!” Cackling, Violet leans back in the seat, spreading out to show me how very much room there is that would fit my very fat ass. Her palms slap at the back of the seat, gaining Ozzy’s attention.
“Fuck y’all.” Leaning upright, head no longer in the car. “Just fuck y’all.”
Deep breaths. Very deep breaths. Stalking away as my car prowls out of the parking lot like a phantom, I make a beeline toward Sage and his GAYSAGE-plated car.
Are my siblings cunts? Yeah, they are. Everyone enrolled at Fairport High is a cunt. That’s how adolescence works, right? Clover is always whispering that to Dad, usually to stop the Pink Taco Hut from imploding around us.
Leaning against Sage’s car, I’m prepared to wait, because it’s a two-mile walk home and the sole on my sneaker is doing an open mouth impression after a nightmarish gym class.
Violet sees me as competition. Competition for Dad. Competition for Clover. Competition for our brothers. Competition for the new baby. Competition for Ozzy.
I’ve never had a mom. Never had a dad. Always had to be the mother and the father. I’m not sure why Violet is jealous. She’s always had a mom– still has one. She was raised by a dad that kissed the ground she walked on. I feel awful that Sam died, because Dad loved Sam like the brother he never had. Now Violet has Dad too.
For me, Clover is spread too thin to be my mom. The baby is about to pop out, and Clover doesn’t have time for my shit. Dad is spread too thin to step up and actually act like my dad. He’s too worried the twins and Willow won’t feel accepted, to the point he kisses their asses and forgets I exist.
It’s my brothers that I blame. Weston hears the bullshit Violet and Seth say to me, and he just sits there. The worst is when he laughs, then says I can’t take a joke when I get mad. I feel betrayed. Weston sides with my bullies. He thinks he’s exempt from all the bullshit Devon, Ren, and I had to endure to raise him because he’s the baby.
Then there’s Ren, who’s so far up Willow’s ass, if someone asked him about his sister, Ren would automatically think they meant Violet.
Devon. Dev’s got too much shit to worry about. I’m not worth a second thought in comparison.
“Hey, Rae.” Even frazzled and half jogging, not a white hair is out of place on Sage’s perfect noggin, as he heads straight at me. “Hope you’re not looking for a ride, because I’ve got to run to the hospital to grab something from my mom to bring to Ginny.”
“Oh, yeah… no problem.” Stepping away from the car, I wave over my shoulder. “See you tomorrow.” I try not to get to bent out of shape that one of my best friends doesn’t realize it would take no less than three minutes out of his way to drive me home.
Aunt Ginny has Opal now, so she forgot she was my aunt. As Clover’s best friend, Aunt Ginny has always seen the twins as her niece and nephew. She still spends time with them, completely forgetting I exist. Now that Aunt Ginny has Opal, Opal has Sage, Sage has Aunt Ginny, and I no longer have Sage.
The lyrics manifest in front of my tear-blurred eyes as I cross the parking lot with my head down.
Everyone’s got a life.
They’ve got shit to do.
Easily forgotten. Forgotten… Forgotten.
No time for me.
Someone so unnecessary.
Existed when they needed me.
Moving on. Moving forward.
People worthy of their time.
Everyone’s got a life.
They’ve got shit to do.
Easily forgotten. Forgotten… Forgotten.
No time for me.
Someone so unnecessary.
Making it about half a mile, my ass lands on the curb, sneaker torn off my foot and my backpack spilling on the sidewalk. With a heavy sigh, I look around, dozens of cars passing closely by, filled mostly with my laughing and pointing classmates. The elementary kids are pushing and shoving and yelling and giggling at each other on the sidewalk behind me.
A rock in the water, they ripple to avoid me.
With vicious tugs, I yank and pull and snarl at my shoelace. Once it’s free, I slam my foot back into my sneaker, then tie the shoelace tightly around it, hoping the floppy sole will keep its mouth shut as I walk. The flop… flop… flop… was driving me nuts, but it wasn’t as painful as the gravel grinding under my sock.
God, never thought I’d wish for my old life back. Not only is that house closer than the new one, at least the people seemed to give a shit about me. Ya know, because if I wasn’t there, they wouldn’t have clean clothes, a shit-stain-free toilet, or someone to ask them if they did their homework.
Devon was the dad, literally beating the fuck out of anyone who messed with us.
Ren was the distracted working mom who cooked, and I was mom without a life that cleaned and nagged.
Weston was the good, helpful kid who never rocked the boat.
Dad would come home, relieved we were still breathing, happy we were still eating, and surprised we didn’t burn the house down and actually attended school. Dad would fall into his recliner. Ren would give him a beer. I’d hand him his plate. Devon would regale him with the tales of the day. Weston would sit at his feet like a good boy. Dad would be out like a light in less than a half hour.
How times change.
Dad promised better times.
He just failed to say it would be better for him, not me.
Someone so unnecessary.
“Get in!” is called out a window, tires crunching on gravel as a truck rolls to a stop inches from my toes. “C’mon, Lady Mason.”
One of the first thing this boy ever said to me was Lady Mason.
Bent down to pick up the socks and sneakers scattered around the living room, I hear the door whispering open behind my back. “Thank, God!” Flustered, Weston’s been driving me bonkers tonight. “Ren, you’ve got to take the kid out back and run him ragged, before I suffocate him with his filthy socks.”
“Kid,” Ren warns the oversized toddler slumped on the sofa, upset that he’s not old enough to go to the game by himself. “Don’t rush time. You’ll be on the field longer than the rest of us.”
“I’m bored. Already did my homework.” Grumpy and blaming me, nothing is worse than a resentful eleven-year-old. “If Dev would come outta whatever hole he’s hiding in, he woulda took me. But Rae here–”
“Sorry, little asshole.” Snarling, I toss his socks and sneakers in the general vicinity of his annoying face. Reacting as quick as a snake, West grabs them right out of the air. “I’ll get right on aging-up to sixteen, but you’re gonna have to wait a few years before I start bussing your overgrown ass around nonstop, like I’m some soccer mom without a life of her own.”
“Football!” shouts from three boys, and one of ‘em ain’t mine. “Soccer is not in our vocabulary. That game doesn’t exist.”
“Shit!” Pale skin flushed crimson, I jerk upright, because my ass was facing the door.
The ass in question is covered with a silly saying. Juicy. I found a pair of tight sweatpants in Mom’s stuff. A billion years ago, not sure why women displayed sayings over their asses, making it look as wide as a billboard. But Mom had a few pairs and I liked how soft the material felt.
Glancing over my shoulder, I glare at Weston, then my eyes flick to Ren ghosting in the doorway. “You dicks could have said we had a visitor.”
“Well, hello there… Lady Mason.” The boy snares all my attention, but it’s the voice that rolls along my spine and takes root.
That voice.
“Chill.” Ren smacks the smaller boy in the chest with the side of his arm, not that the boy is small by any stretch. Ren is just that big. “Raven is off-limits to everyone, especially new buddies.”
“Huh?” My confusion has the boy laughing at me, a crawling, smoky sound. Across the living room, Weston watches me watch the boy while the boy watches me back.
“I need food!” Ren calls out, always super excitable when he gets back from a game. He’s in the kitchen in two steps, leaving his friend behind. “Now.”
“Me too?” the boy directs at me, asking if he can stay like I’m the lady of the house. Multi-colored hair is flipped in his face, hiding his eyes. Blond but there’s golden and ginger streaks with darker roots. I wonder if it’s shaved underneath– I bet it is.
God, he’s pretty.
Those lips. That voice. That dimple. I bet the eyes are just as captivating.
Aunt Isis said the boy-crazy gene would activate someday soon. Aunt Ginny laughed, said she sensed I didn’t have a girl-crazy gene, that’s for damn sure.
Yeah, this boy activated it. Big time.
“Sure, always plenty of spaghetti.” Looking around, I’m embarrassed by how stinky the house is right now. “Always smells like ball sweat in here.” As soon as the words are out, I cover my entire face with my palms.
“Ball sweat, you say…” the boy is now inches from me, doing the world’s slowest crawl toward the kitchen. “From footballers or…” is drawled out and left dangling.
“From actual sacks?” Weston is going to die tonight. “Been sniffing nutsacks in your spare time, sis?”
“Pretty sure Lady Mason meant it was sweat from football players,” the boy comes to my rescue. “But the sweat definitely is riper from the groin region.”
Giggling at myself, my face is about to burst like an overripe tomato. “The boys reek, but–” shuddering, the boy is far too close, smelling far too good.
Just a small sliver of a pale lavender iris peers out at me from a hank of hair. Yeah, those eyes have to stay hidden for sanity’s sake. The boy would have every girl who met him trailing behind him everywhere he went.
“It’s nice to meet you, Lady Mason.”
“What’s your name?” tongue twisted in a knot, my belly is doing summersaults. Skin suddenly tight and hot.
“Yo, Stone!” Ren calls from the kitchen, answering that question. “Get your ass in here. Raven is not interesting. At. All. Oh, Langdon Ssstoooooone, how much pasta you want?”
“Oh, shit!” Watching the boy run into the kitchen to get my brother to stop hollering, I realize who is inside this house.
“Oh, shit!” is repeated again, causing my baby brother to hit me with taunting laughter. “That’s Jackson Stone’s kid, isn’t it?” And I just made a fool of myself. While advertising the naughty word Juicy across my backside.
Ball sweat.
For a few seconds, I wondered what it would feel like to like-like a boy, but it would be ridiculous to like this boy. Something switches off inside my heart, protecting me from the future legend standing in my kitchen. This boy is destined to break hearts after pounding their pussies into annihilation.
“Lady Mason. Lady Mason,” calls out from inside the cab. “Looks like you have a flat tire on that sneaker of yours.”
Voice smoky smooth, never failing to elicit an embarrassing shudder to roll along my spine and an eargasm to cause an auditory explosion. I’m not special– he is. Langdon Stone has this effect on every member of the global population.
“Ah, here comes Pebbles to the rescue.” Chuckling underneath my breath, I reach out to grab my backpack, then hobble run around the front of the truck. Yeah, my amazing idea with the shoestring made it worse. Go me!
“Seriously, I could kiss you right now,” is an offhand comment as I climb up into the truck. Freezing for a second, I realize how that sounded.
Stone is used to everyone bowing at his feet, getting tongue-tied, and pretty much losing their shit. I’ve developed partial immunity since he’s Ren’s best friend and has seen me through a few terrible stages of development.
“Yeah, so forget I said that.” Snorting at my ridiculousness, I click my seatbelt. “I meant to say thanks, that is.”
“No problem, Lady Mason.” Violet eyes hidden beneath that insane hair are focused on the road, while those croon-worthy lips are curled, creating that inherited dimple a few generations of women have swooned over with Jackson Stone. “It was on my way. Besides…” trails off as Stone pulls up alongside the curb to the Pink Taco Hut.
World’s shortest ride, where I wished it was longer while in the presence of a future legend.
See how fast that was? See how fast Sage could have dropped me off? See how short of a ride someone would have had to sit on someone else’s lap inside my own goddamn car? See how long it would have taken Ozzy to drop the twins off and then pick me up at the school, only to drop me back off at the house– maybe an extra five to seven minutes. Those few minutes ample payment for nonstop borrowing my wheels as if they’re his.
“Thank. You.” Turning to Stone with a serious expression on my face, I try not to cry. “I mean it.” Then I reach down to tear my useless sneaker off my foot.
“Anytime, Lady Mason.” I’d love to think the smile Stone gives me is just for me, but that’s what makes him so intoxicating. One look, one word, one smile, and you honestly believe he only has eyes for you. It’s the Stone legacy at play, and the exact reason he’ll go double-platinum with his debut album.
“Mason would kick me in the nuts if I treated his sister like shit.” Stone means well, so I just nod and smile, as if he didn’t just jab a rusty blade in the center of my back and twist.
“Thanks!” is a perky shout as I hop out of the truck, hiding the bullshit lurking beneath. Stone’s truck rumbles down the street as I hobble across the front yard to the porch, backpack swung over my shoulder with my sneaker dangling from my fingertips.
I ignore the incessant throb, because that Mason in question wouldn’t kick anyone in the nuts for being mean to his sister, not when he’s in love with her biggest bully. The Mason in question hasn’t spoken a word to me in over a month. Oh, Ren’s been in the same location as me, but he hasn’t seen nor heard me.
Not sure when that happened. Maybe it was always happening, but the influx of Websters in our family only made it more obvious.
Yanking the other sneaker off my foot, I pitch the pair in the outdoor garbage can, then walk soundlessly across the porch floorboards. Devon is silent in his footfalls, and so am I.
Sneaking into the house, I make sure the screen door doesn’t creak, because I instinctively sense they’re all bashing the piss out of me. If they do it once, they most certainly do it every single time.
I hope they prove me wrong. Wraith Part One, Two, & Three will be available on Halloween but you can pre-order on Amazon today. Don't forget to add to Goodreads & Bookbub. Click Here for Amazon links 

As I work on the ending of Wraith (Blended #11) I know readers will think that I am undoing any good feeling toward specific characters by the narrators' perspectives on past narrators. (Ravon Mason is the main narrator. However, in the last portion of the novel, we (the reader) hear from three others)

Other than shown via other perspectives from past novels, readers do not know much about Raven. She was the daughter/stepdaughter, the niece, the sister/stepsister/sister-in-law. A quintessential teenage girl. 

Raven Mason is not an unreliable narrator. She sees situations from both her perspective and the other parties'. So it's difficult for her to both be angry and empathetic at the expense of her self-respect, self-esteem, and self-worth. I felt this something many struggle with, especially women, and wished to put the burden to paper.

Reality is perception.

As human beings, we are inherently flawed. I've strived to make sure my characters are subject to the human condition. While in their heads, they justify their actions, and we (the reader) take their sides. They are not good nor bad, merely written to be human. I do this across all of my series.

Since we (the readers) tend to take sides while deep inside the narrator's mind, I worry as Raven makes peace with members of her family and in her community. I fear that our (the readers') perception of these characters will alter, no longer resonating with them or enjoying them as characters. While my purpose is to reveal 3D character, flaws and all. 

I did this deliberately, as I think we need to mull over the motivations of the people in our lives before we take sides or gossip about NOYB topics. Let's be honest here. We are not saints. We all notoriously do this, especially within a group dynamic. We gossip. We pick sides. We generally do not try to be empathetic to the one being vented over or gossiped about, then we use that gossip as if it's gospel. 

This is the plight of Raven Mason, the one vented about by past narrators. The teen girl with the messy bedroom, shown as entitled and spoiled and dramatic by narrators who were either not close to Raven or had their own agendas. This is a dynamic I've shown with Lisa Kline, Tina Kline, Nina Stone, Essie Mason, and now Raven Mason. It is a dynamic that most likely occurs with women as the target. Just as in past installments, as we face the fact that we (the reader) listened to the gossip without using deductive reasoning, and then were surprised when the targeted finally has a voice that they were not at all anything as they were perceived to be. 

During Wraith, it will appear as if Violet, Malcolm, Ginny, Opal, Beth, Oliver, and Taryn are on my hit parade. Taryn's contribution is a bit more complex than the others, so I'm not offering any tidbits about it. 

While Violet's behavior is not excused, and will be showcased in Wretched (Blended #12) Raven does give her a pass due to her age. I hope this will put readers at ease and not go into Violet's novel with a bad taste in their mouth, so to speak.

I actually wavered in a chicken and the egg scenario on which book to publish first, Wraith or Wretched. I felt as if maybe readers would be more sympathetic during Wraith if they knew Violet's justifications and reasoning, but then I realized Raven wasn't privy to the interworking of Violet's mind, and Wraith is how it impacted Raven. 

After all, a major premise of Wraith is how Hurt People Hurt People. Raven steps out of the cycle, refusing to hurt others after being hurt herself. While Raven could sympathize with Violet, I felt as if I published Wretched first it would undermine the long-term damage Violet wrought to Raven, as if those meaningless justifications gave Violet a pass to harm Raven, where readers would just shrug it off. So readers may dislike Violet when they open up her novel, but that's more realistic than not. 

Malcolm undeniably loves his children, but he was a walking mistake as a parent (since parents are human beings, this is reality most of us face) I do believe that no matter how hurt his eldest children are toward him, the readers will still adore Malcolm as his children still do as well. 

Opal & Ginny, even when I wrote Wanton, I felt they were unreliable narrators, as we (the reader) could relate to their situation, but I (the creator) knew the other side of the story. They're not right nor wrong, nor am I trying to dismantle any love the readers have for them. But they are not infallible. They fixate on how events impact themselves while being insensitive to how it impacts others. They are subject to biases. They see what they want to see from their perspective, then run with it. They hold this thought pattern for life. How they see a sixteen-year-old girl will not alter when she is thirty, which is something many of us do. Not good nor bad, just being realistic. A reader can still identify with them while simultaneously seeing it from another perspective. 

I won't even attempt to explain the dynamic Raven has with Oliver, as I've written two books about it, one of which is a billion pages long. Ha!

Beth, who we last heard from in Wonder. To avoid spoilers, if you know the content of Wonder, you can read between the lines. Dr. Bethany Essex has some issues, and those issues impact her professionally and personally. If you're current, you know Beth has a tight bond with Opal, and through Opal, with Ginny. It's all in good fun- we've all done it. Toss in some wine and have a laugh at someone else's expense. Just imagine Opal & Ginny, sitting around, gossiping about NOYB topics, venting with the girls, and how that might alter how Beth sees Raven, then how seeing gossip as gospel would impact Beth both professionally and personally. This dynamic is also explored in both Wraith & Wretched. Love me some Beth- I'm not doing her dirty. But us ladies, we all get how spilling the tea works. We're empathizing with the person venting, and that person venting has a vested interest in us being on their side, as they unintentionally manipulate the situation to get us on their side. While this sounds like a complex dynamic, it's truly not. Messy is realistic. Welcome to Envy-Landia. 

Raven is not a Mary Sue doormat, but in such a large family dynamic, members slip through the cracks. Those who are not squeaky wheels are often ignored and sometimes forgotten. Wraith presents complex family dynamics, where as long as you are benefitting, your perception of the black sheep alters to suit your own benefit- as long as you're getting something out of it, you won't speak up in defense. Through Raven, I try to show how that makes them just as culpable, more so perhaps.

While Raven truly is not a black sheep, she is surrounded by people who do not like to self-reflect. When they look at her, all they see is a mirror, so it's easier to either avoid her at all costs or tear her down so they don't have to face their own self-truths. *I'm looking at you, Ginny. 

Readers will feel as if I pulled the rug from out beneath the feet of a few beloved characters. "C'mon, Erica! They're awesome!" Of course, they're awesome. It's First-Person, we (the readers) are deep inside their minds. They think themselves awesome, and justified, and right, and kind. This entire post is about how awesome, justified, and right I am. /s JK. 

It's been nearly a decade since I wrote or read anything in Ginny or Opal's voice, yet I distinctly remember how difficult it was to stay in character at times. While wishing to shout at Opal, "You can't say that to Sage or in front of Sage!" Self-reflection was not in her wheelhouse, which was part of the personality traits I created for her. I had to keep in character, where Opal saw herself as in the right, no matter what. How freeing it is to have a character who can voice all the things I wished I could have said in relation to many of these characters. Since Sage is Raven's best friend for life, keep in mind, Sage is the one giving a voice to these things. (Here I am, planting little seeds to grow in a future novel) 

I promise I am not issuing character trait lobotomies or rewriting events to suit the current narrator. As an avid rereader, some series or novels reread dozens upon dozens of times when I wish to evoke specific emotions within myself. While I realize many readers do no reread novels, for those that do, they will get a vastly different experience on a reread. After reading the later books (as the series slowly comes to a close) when they go back to the beginning, they will understand the other perspectives, offering an immersive experience. 

"C'mon, Malcolm. I love ya man but you've got to be kidding me here! Your children are not free-range chickens!" "Do we need to get you an eye appointment to clear up this blindness you're experiencing?" "Willow Monster, leave Essie alone!" "Willow Monster, leave Clover alone!" "Auggie, do we need another intervention?" and so on and so forth... 

Another dynamic explored is various abuses, along with how covert or subtle abuse can be, especially in hidden relationships and within a friendship. If the abuse isn't an eleven, we tend to rationalize or normalize the behaviors. This was a difficult task for me to to be sensitive to all sides, yet also show how all sides are impacted. 

Wraith is a long book but it has rapid pacing, which makes it go by quickly. It has a whole host of uncomfortable truths on family, friendship, and relationship dynamics that shift as you age. I wanted my readers to look outside the book at their own lives as they read, and perhaps admit uncomfortable truths about themselves and how they fit into those dynamics.  

Here I go, back to writing Raven's fellow narrators on a rampage, who are finding great glee in putting one of these aforementioned character in their place. 

Wraith will be available this Halloween. 

Chapter One
 
 
Katya Waters
 
“How’s the burrito baby?” Monica eyes my blouse as the last bite passes my sour cream smeared lips. Making yum-yum noises, I savor that last swallow in answer, finally noticing why Monica is checking out my assets.

Giggling self-deprecatingly in starts and stops, I snatch a napkin off my desk. “Oops! My chin has a hole in it.”

“Before my mom died…” Monica trails off, struggling to get her emotions in check.

I leave her be. After four years of being best friends, we get each other. She’s a bit too much like I am. I sense Monica will finish her thought when she’s ready. She’ll instinctively know my silence is not disinterest but patience in allowing her to put words to her emotions.

Busying myself by balling up the takeout wrapper, I end up licking a long line down the side of my palm, swallowing the messy salsa instead of using a wet wipe. That wet wipe gets used for a greater purpose.

I may eat like a hog now, never having been this heavy in my entire life, but I am not a slovenly mess. Dabbing at my blouse, I’m relieved it’s printed with a pattern of gray checks to hide the fact that my lunch didn’t seem to find its way into my mouth.

“My mom was built more like…” Yet again, Monica finds herself at a loss for words as she sits across from me on the other side of my desk, hand waffling in the air.

After a lifetime of struggling with an eating disorder, Monica came by that naturally after watching the people around her make a woman’s body size a mitigating factor on whether or not they were a good human being.

Thin meant being worthy.

Worthy of attention and love– worthy as a human being.

Worthy of a man’s attention, when it was the women who weaponized this ideal, not the men. Body size is an indicator on worth, mothers twisting their daughter’s mindsets, with their peers solidifying this toxic ideal.

How do I know this?

You’d be pretty if you were thinner.

Such a pretty girl– too bad she’s so dang fat.

If you’d drop a dress size or three, you might get a boyfriend.

As a former teenage girl, raised in a household with both a mother and a sister who always commented on weight before anything else, currently being bullied by an entire city of ignorant women, I swore to never infect my children. The first time I met Monica, I recognized the agony residing deep inside her, spreading like an infection to every facet of her life.

It was hate-at-first-sight, because we were too much alike, displaying our similar rage at the world in differing ways.

“Fat like me?” I offer as a suggestion, the sting of my own words causing me to flinch in disgust.

To say I’m unhappy would be an understatement, no matter how hard I try not to feed into the ideal. My life is not even remotely what I wish it to be, not in my wildest imaginings. No home to call my own, same with the husbands and kids, I’ve looked to outside sources to vent my emotion.

Restraint is the only relatively healthy outlet for my rage.

Lack of love, comfort, and affection, combined with a plethora of disrespect– both from everyone around me and from myself –the deepest of depressions is cannibalizing my identity. I have no fucking clue who I am anymore, but it’s easier to eat my feelings, since there is no resolution to be found. My happiness doesn’t matter, so fuck it.

Fuck it all to hell.

If I want to eat a burrito the size of a newborn for lunch, it’s better than the alternatives.
Running away.

Screaming myself to death.

Dissolving into nothingness.

“Mom was a bigger woman– Dad would make snide remarks.” Monica goes introspective on me again, and my mind scrambles to find a way to change the subject. Alec is due any second for our weekly editors meeting, and Monica wouldn’t appreciate him seeing her break down. “Which is how I ended up being susceptible to anorexia.”

A loaded silence descends, as I’ve been on every leg of Monica’s recovery. The bone density issues. The decrease in organ function. The infertility. The insecurity. The lapses and triumphs.

Boatloads of weed, followed by the munchies.

“Mom thought she was fat– Dad didn’t. He was crazy for her. Mom chose to see his commentary in a negative light.” Big brown eyes roll dramatically, no doubt my transparent facial expressions are giving away the never-ending inner monologue playing out inside my head. “Mom had eye-catching cleavage, and Dad would get snarly, because he didn’t like anyone else looking at her assets. Said he wanted to tear out his buds’ throats for thinking about Mom while they jerked off. But there was no hiding those mammoth boobs.”

“Your mouth to God’s ears.” I mutter dramatically, eyes flicking from the buttons straining on my blouse to the ceiling above. “And they only got bigger with every kid.”

Releasing naughty chuckles, Monica looks mighty pleased with herself, since her recovery meant she gained a pretty décolletage. “Mom always had food going down the front of her shirt. Her giggle was naughty as all get out, as she dug her hand down there, all the way past her wrist, plucking whatever the hell she was eating from her bra, then pop it into her mouth. Said feeding her boobs made ‘em bigger.”

“Your mom woulda been my kind of gal.” I murmur in appreciation, after seeing rare glimpses of that type of personality come out of Monica over the years. The more she trusted me, the more she opened herself up to being vulnerable around me.

“How’s your burrito baby?” I manage to smoothly change the subject to something worth celebrating.
“Oh, Lord!” Kayla steps into my office– I never bother to shut the door. I’ve weeded out our staff until they’re only the ones I trust. Ezra never graces Edge Publishing with his presence anymore, completely forgetting we exist. “It’s Taco Tuesday everyday with this woman.”

“It is Tuesday,” flows in a deadpan tone from my lips, just as Kayla comes to stand next to me. Doing her personal assistant duties, she tosses my lunch into the trash, fetches me a fresh bottle of water, then locates the books I wish to discuss with my editors.

“Speaking of burrito babies…” Monica trails off, eyeing Kayla, leaving it up to me to finish what she started.

This was supposed to be a tag-team effort, woman!

“I made you an appointment, Kayla.” Shifting in my seat, I can sense Kayla’s discomfort flavoring the air. “My calls will be directed to Alec’s assistant’s phone for however long you need.”

“What are you talking about?” Looking vaguely betrayed, Kayla turns on me, foamy blonde hair arcing around her shoulders as she moves. “Don’t you need my help? It’s meeting day.”

Meeting day is a big deal at Edge Publishing.

Vent Day.

Monica, Alec, and I hole ourselves up in my office from lunch until after-hours on Tuesdays, bitching and moaning about every fucking thing in the literary world. We tend to draw a crowd in the hallway– remember how my door always stays open –and Kayla makes sure we’re properly hydrated.

Across from us, a chair scuffing across the carpet has my eyes flicking to Monica. Standing from her seat, shaky hand slowly working a tan blouse from a pencil skirt, the pale white of a half-slip is revealed. After some maneuvering, the undergarment is push down, and a tiny bump is exposed.

“Oh!” Kayla’s chuckle is lighthearted and warm as she plunks several manuscripts onto the blotter in front of me. “You must’ve had a burrito too! Pretty undies.”

Blushing an innocent pink high in her cheeks, Monica is not pretending to be coy. Palm softly cupping her tummy, she gazes at the top of my desk, rather than looking at Kayla or me.

“You’re the first person I’ve told– besides Kat.” Monica gestures at me, still refusing to look me in the eye. The woman is more modest and private than even I am, and that’s saying something. “I’m older, at risk from decades of anorexia, and struggled with infertility for four years with Dex… so I waited until I hit my second trimester–”

“Oh! My! GAWD!” Kayla squawks in a girly, high-pitched tone, nearly causing my ears to bleed, as she stumbles around my desk. “You’re pregnant! Can I touch it? You’re so teeny tiny– you’d never know.”

Wincing inwardly for Monica, teeny tiny is a trigger for her, one I’ve sympathetically adopted over the years. This is Monica’s healthy weight, so to hear teeny tiny while twelve weeks into a pregnancy… but Monica is nothing but pragmatic. She instinctively knows what Kayla meant, along with the intent, versus getting hung up on her own baggage and twisting a passing comment around as a way to get butthurt.

The shine of nothing but pure, radiant love Kayla is glowing toward Monica erases a phrase that has triggered her countless times over an entire lifetime. Not a negative or positive– fact. 

This is Monica’s first, with super tight abdominal muscles– she won’t have much of a baby bump, even close to delivery, and that’s what Kayla meant.

Entire face glowing bright red from embarrassment, Monica isn’t one to enjoy attention. “Dex doesn’t even know yet. I didn’t want to get his hopes up, only to lose it. So I’m going to tell him on Christmas day, then wait until I hit the third trimester to tell anyone but you guys and my dad.”

“Oh, I’m honored.” Beyond touched, Kayla’s palm rests between her heavy breasts, tears of pure joy glistening in her eyes. “I’m so happy for you.” Turning overemotional, she doesn’t understand why Monica is telling her before Dexter.

“All mentions of burrito babies are an inside joke from here on out,” I tease Monica and Kayla. “Unless it’s about me, ‘cuz I love me some food.”

Hiccupping on laughter, Monica struggles to tuck her blouse back in, because she finds me beyond hilarious. The joke goes right over Kayla’s head.

“Don’t you want more kids?” is an accusation if I’ve ever heard one. Brows furrowed in the center of her creamy forehead, Kayla doesn’t understand the pressure I’ve been under. She bought into the lie, even though she’s lived beside me this entire time.

I love the girl to death, but with Aaron as her husband, I cannot trust Kayla with my deepest thoughts, fears, and emotions.

“Put it this way…” Chair creaking as I lean back, the poor thing has too many miles on it, after so many long days and nights for this workaholic. “I haven’t had sex in years… I take my birth control at the same time as my Omeprazole. If I don’t take my meds, I get heartburn by midday. If I get heartburn, I know I missed my birth control… that’s how much I do not want any more children.”

Completely gobsmacked, Kayla gawks at me like she doesn’t recognize me, to the background soundtrack of Monica losing her shit with large guffaws.  

Monica knows my deepest, darkest thoughts, fears, and emotions, so she gets the inside joke. No way in hell am I having more kids, because my husbands see me as nothing but a surrogate they can bully and shame into compliance.

This is not the life I wish to lead, not in my wildest imaginings. In another life, with another husband, I would want more children. But this is my lot in life, and I’m not fucking stupid. I hide my birth control in with my heartburn meds, simply because I don’t trust Ezra as far as I can throw him. He’s the type to fiddle with my pills to give Cort what he desires.

More kids.

More kids carried within my body.

With complete disregard to how used that makes me feel.

 “The reason I routed my calls to Sean’s phone is because I made you an appointment with the OBGYN Monica and I share.” Waiting a few seconds to continue, I check to see if what I said is sinking in…

It isn’t.

“Kayla?” Reaching across my desk, I take her lovely hand in mine, thumb rubbing soothing circles. “I know everyone tries to say it’s a myth about menstruation cycles syncing up when women spend a lot of time together.”

“I don’t understand.” Eyes glassy, bottom lip trembling, nothing but confusion flows from Kayla.
Monica nods at me as she retakes her seat, praising me for my delivery.

“My sister is four years older than me. Yet another myth I’ve proven correct. Her first period brought on mine not three months later. Hormone surges or whatnot. I was only ten at the time. From then on, even to this day, after decades of not living together, our periods are synced. Ava’s and mine are synced. Since we moved to Misery Castle, just about every female goes hormonal at the same time.”
“Our periods are synced,” flows numbly from deliciously pouty lips. Aaron is one lucky bastard. “I always make sure to buy loads of chocolate and salty snacks for the breakroom as soon as I start spotting.”

She still doesn’t get it.

“Kayla.” After another squeeze to her hand, I let go, then sink back into my chair. “I had my period three weeks ago… and you didn’t.”

Palm flying up to cover her mouth. “Oh!”

“So I made you an appointment for this afternoon– take the rest of the day off. Hell, take the rest of the week off. But I need you to get checked out, just in case it’s lady problems and not an unexpected blessing.”

Knees no longer supporting her, Kayla leans on the corner of my desk, blue eyes the size of teacup saucers. “Is there something in the water? First Syn, then Gretchen, now Monica… me? Who’s next?”

“It sounds like a goddamn fertility deity is hovering over Dominion,” is cursed underneath my breath. “With my luck, I’d end up with an immaculate conception.” Kayla flashes me a confused expression. “Ya know, with the fact I’m on birth control and not having sex.”

“Oh,” flows on a shaky chuckle, palm instinctively doing that baby bump cupping business. “This is unexpected.”

“Am I interrupting?” Alec is hanging in the open doorway, spectacled face checking to see if he’s welcome. “I can come back… but we’re collecting a crowd of busybodies out here,” is directed out into the hallway in a louder than necessary voice to warn Edge Publishing’s office force to get back to their spaces and get to work.

“I’ll get refreshments before I go–”

“Sean’s already on it.” Alec thinks he’s helping, but in actuality, he’s hurting Kayla’s feelings.

That server soul of Kayla’s gets bent out of whack if anyone so much as attempts to wrest her duties away from her. Alec and Sean are being helpful and polite, when Kayla will only see it as them trying to prove they can do her job better than her, meaning her position is unnecessary.

Undoubtedly pregnant, tears are threatening to spill from Kayla’s eyes.

“Sean sucks at feeding and watering us, but I think we can survive, even if we have to clean up after ourselves.” Thank heaven above, Alec is intuitive. “Nobody takes care of us the way you do, Kayla.”
Deft hands fall to land on Kayla’s shoulders, Alec rubbing away any slight he may have dealt. “Not like we can ask Alisha to help us.”

“Hey!” Monica acts offended over Alec insulting her personal assistant, but her voice is heavily laced with amusement. “You got me on that. My cousin even forgets to feed her cat.”

The more often Dr. Zeitler forgot to ride the elevator up to his precious Edge Publishing, which was only created to coddle Cort… the longer Cort has gone without writing a publishable book… there was a changing of the guard so to speak.

I fired the majority of Edge Publishing’s staff without Ezra’s consent, not a single person questioning me for my decisions. They don’t treat me as the boss’s wife. They don’t treat me as the senior editor. They treat me as if this is my company, because they trust me to do right by our authors, the books, and the employees.

Besides Monica and Alec, as they worked closely with me since I arrived in Dominion, Kayla was the only employee who remained that had been hired before I came to be at Edge Publishing.

When surrounded by vultures, I needed a sanctuary to call my own, filled with people I hand-selected due to trust. Every employee at Edge was personally vetted by me, with a stringent probationary period. There was a large turnover rate for about six months, but we’ve been holding strong with the same employees for two years running.

We’re not a huge corporation. We have our squabbles. We eat our crow, offer apologies, then move on, because that’s what should happen in a family.

Monica and Alec’s personal assistants complement one another, which is why we practically allow them to do whatever they want, whenever they want. Kayla is more of their mother hen, even though she’s the youngest of the three.

Alec’s husband of seven years was hired as his personal assistant, only to discover he enjoyed creating ironic memes in his spare time at home. Sean now oversees our social media graphics, as I didn’t want to step on any toes in our graphics department.

Alisha was hired as Monica’s personal assistant. Her only employable quality was that she would listen to her boss, because she is the younger, only cousin to a very controlling Monica. Alisha is from New Jersey, the epitome of exactly what you’d expect from that description. She’s not much on working, so we tossed her ass on a sofa with a laptop and gallons of Diet Coke, then let her loose on social media. Alisha is a goddess when it comes to exposure for Edge Publishing and our authors, getting views and likes through the roof.

Monica, Alec, and I have Vent Tuesdays. We bottle up everything from the weekend, as that is when we can best concentrate on just reading, without outside needs in the office demanding our attention. Monday is a no-go, since that is Satan’s day. Tuesday fit the bill best.

Alisha, Sean, and Kayla go out on Friday nights for a drink and calorie-laden appetizers. We pretend it’s not Vent Friday, where the three of them diss the hell out of their bosses after a hard work week.

“I better get going then.” Kayla leans down to kiss my cheek in goodbye, then flashes the office a blinding smile, so filled with adoration and happiness, it’s hard not to have those emotions radiate to my cold, dead heart.

“Call us!” Monica orders just as Kayla slips out into the hallway, an order that will be heeded, because Kayla is conscientious and respectful.

“I have so much to talk about.” Giddy, Alec swaggers over to the far side of my office to fetch a cushioned armchair from the seating area. I did the same for Monica when she arrived, shuffling the hardback chairs to the side of the doorway. Pregnant ladies shouldn’t have to sit across from their boss like a naughty child in the principal’s office.

“I’ll get that,” flows in a gravelly voice a second before Sean steps into the room.

“For shit’s sake!” Alec snaps back, head whipping to the side. The husbands have an odd dynamic, which seems to change with the tides. Not once have I seen them touch outside of neccessity. “I’m not weak.”

Mutt and Jeff.

Alec is a dinky, geeky fellow, with a quick mind and a tongue as sharp as a knife’s blade. Sarcastic, witty, and funny as all hell, Alec and I get along famously. Sean is a mountain of a man, with flannel and a beard, but he’s not playing a role like a hipster. Sean was a stay-at-home husband, working on crafty things he sells on Etsy, before deciding to put in a half-day working at Edge. The ties that bind is the simple fact that those ironic memes Sean was creating were on the verge of being caustic in their humor.

When two assholes collide– the pair met because Sean made a meme out of an image Alec posted, and the rest they say is history.

They bicker like a litter of cats trapped in a sack, not realizing they’re fighting for the same things. Watching this over the past few years has shown me what is missing in my marriage, same as watching Dexter and Monica grow closer by the second.

“I know you’re not weak.” Sean bats Alec’s hands away from the back of the armchair. With zero effort, Sean picks the chair up. “Maybe I don’t want to watch you struggle at something I can do without getting out of breath. Maybe I want to show you how much I appreciate you. Maybe you ought to let me keep my balls.”

Monica and I share a dreamy look, knowing Alec protests too much.

“Maybe I wanna keep my own balls. Ya ever think about that? It makes me feel like you think I’m useless.” Alec mutters unsavory things underneath his breath, as he dutifully follows his husband across the office. Sean makes sure the chair is placed just right, then shoves Alec’s ass on the seat. “You think I’m a child,” sounds like nothing more than the pout of a child.

“Asking for help is not a sign of weakness,” is Sean’s parting comment, after flashing each of us a loaded look, since that is definitely a fault we all share.

Little dog syndrome– the whole lot of us has it.

Our assistants deserve Vent Fridays. Kayla only humors me. Sean gives Alec’s shit right back to him with some of his own added in. Alisha takes the order from Monica, shrugs, then does her own thing, never planning on doing it in the first place. They have our numbers.

“Ladies.” Alec produces a piece of paper with a flourish, lines of precise handwriting covering the page. “Where should we begin? Did you hear about the latest scandal to rock Washington?”

We spend the next hour or so tearing our government to bits from all sides. Monica doesn’t share Alec’s and my political belief system. Instead of fighting it out, or even agreeing to disagree, we usually hear each other out. We may not agree when it’s all said and done, but we feel more open-minded by not being narcissistic enough to assume we’re right and the other side is automatically wrong.

Perception is reality.

Alec is hardcore politically minded. I tend to get riled up, because it’s better than admitting my life is in the crapper. Monica knows how to shut that shit down. Once or twice, Sean pops in to add his two cents, surprisingly agreeing with Monica more often than not.

Raw, open and exposed, left emotionally distraught, we move on, because arguing about politics solves nothing. The only thing we agree on is how no matter the party, politicians are evil incarnate. Negative or positive, the politicians win and the people lose. Why are we fighting over them, filled with smug condescension? As if our team is winning or losing, making us better than the other side. We’re stronger as a whole, so all we’re accomplishing is to weaken ourselves.

We treat this as if a person on a reality program is going off the rails, getting off on the juicy scandalous nature, when it’s obvious the producers are influencing the actions of the contestants. Sleight of hand, like attempting to enjoy The Bachelor after being jaded by the reality of UnREAL. You can’t unsee that shit– The Bachelor is unwatchable now for me, same goes with championing worthless scum.

This is real life, not a game or a reality show.

“I can’t anymore.” Monica raises her palms out in a stop motion. “Let’s not get my blood pressure rising– it’s not good for the burrito baby. Clearly, we don’t agree. Let’s move on.” Slumping into her chair, more due to exhaustion than defeat, “The reading community lost their shit over the weekend. Did you catch that on Facebook?”  

“I feel like a proud papa watching their sons and daughters throw a tantrum over shit that is none of their goddamn business.” Alec is an asshole, but at least he’s entertaining. Eyes glowing bright in fiendish delight, he rubs his palms together in anticipation.

“Let me guess… pseudonyms being called out as tricking readers?” That’s an oldie but goodie that crops up every few months when an author is exposed. “Residing in Misery Castle means I get pulled into the circus, having to deal with monkeys that aren’t my own, which means no time for ghosting on Facebook book groups.”

“Pity.” Alec cocks his head to the side, no trace of pity lacing his voice. Loveable asshole. “Oh, you’re gonna love this, Kat.” An anticipatory grin pulls at his thin lips, changing the overall look of his face.

Monica takes all of Alec’s fun away. “Jackasses are at it again. There’s a goddamn petition going around, where they will boycott the publishing industry if we don’t publish books with the author’s legal names on them. Some are going as far as to want to know the gender, age, and location of the author. Ya know, since only a man should write a man. An older woman should never write a younger woman, as if we weren’t that age at one time in our lives. Someone outside of the south should never attempt to write a novel about small-time life, as if everywhere else is a bustling city.”

“ASL?” Snorting, I just toss my hands up in the air. “Fucking idiots. What is this? Pre-Myspace days, where age, sex, and location were precursors to every interaction?”

“Your age is showing.” Chuckling darkly, Monica is losing her shit, finding our plight, and what has been the downfall of the publishing industry, entertaining as fuck.

“Readers see their favorite authors as celebrities.” Monica is the rational one.

Alec isn’t. “They’re pissed after being burnt dozens of times, with those asshats who made up personas to get more sales. Sob stories, crowdsourcing, and whatnot.”

“Maybe get a clue?” Chin shaking left and right, Monica’s chestnut hair swishes around her cheekbones. “We’re selling a product. The book matters, not some bullshit personal story the author puts out there. If they’re selling themselves, maybe we need to ask ourselves why? If they’re a popular bestseller, why would they need to beg for money? Readers have zero right to an author’s private information, as has been a publishing standard since the dawn of literature, but authors are yanking readers into that sacred space to make a quick buck, because they suck at storytelling.”

“Social media!” Alisha shouts from the hallway, evidentially leaving the comfort of her sofa for Vent Tuesdays. Probably Sean moved the sofa outside my open door, with a bunch of them crowded on the cushions. “Stop living in the stone age, people! Play the game or it plays you!”

“Good thing we have you, cousin.” Monica rolls her eyes. “Now shut up and at least pretend you’re not eavesdropping.”  

“I will say…” Eyes glued to the door, checking to see if I can catch a glimpse of who is ghosting out in the hallway. “Those who have posted apocalyptic bullshit, they have zero longevity. They pretty much disappear after they make their quick buck, then shit goes back to normal. Whatever happened over the weekend, it will be replaced with another injustice in a few days, and the cycle will continue thereafter, because no one can leave well-enough alone.”

“Same with politics!” Alec shouts, still pissed Monica took the pleasure of dishing the gossip away from him. A heavy groan flows in from the hallway, sounding suspiciously like Sean.

“Had to go there, didn’t ya, bud?” Monica raises an eyebrow, waiting for a reply. Alec keeps his trap shut– smart man. “I told Alisha to stay out of it. I know. I know. She doesn’t listen to me. So I said I’d fire her if she so much as pressed a reaction on a single post featuring this insanity.”

“I’m behaving,” comes softly from the hallway. “Promise.”

“We all know you have half a dozen alias accounts, girlfriend… Behaving? Pfft!” flutters Monica’s lips in a sharp hiss. “Joseph Carmen got into a bit of a bind over the weekend. An author behaving badly fiasco.” Monica drops the bombshell, causing me to wince.

“That’s his final strike,” I spit in disgust, the author’s attitude always rubbing me the wrong way. “His contract was up for renegotiation after this last book. We won’t be signing him again.”

“Good,” Monica agrees, hair bobbing from a sharp nod. “I sicced PR on the mess.”

“Let’s move along onto the books we read over the weekend.” All this doom and gloom drags me down, when I’m already at my lowest. With a stabbing fingertip, I tap the cover page on all three printed manuscripts on my desk blotter.  

“I think I’m going to have to pass books featuring the romance tropes onto you guys from now on. I was tempted to slit my own wrists after reading these bags of shit.”

“Are you having a problem with the gays again?” Alec taunts me, knowing it digs the knife in deeper. There’s a fine line between loveable asshole and cruel calculator, and Alec usually crosses that line on a daily basis. “Or is it romance in general this time? It’s supposed to be fantasy, girl. Obviously, we know no one acts or reacts like that in reality.”

“Hey, you’re one to talk.” Monica is quick to come to my defense. “You’re the one who goes on and on every week about how unrealistically gay men are portrayed in novels. With all that sappy purple prose and impossible sexual positions.”

“An asshole is not a vagina!” Alec bites off in a seething tone, getting worked up, voice getting louder and louder with each word spoken. “There’s no such thing as a goddamn boy pussy! My nipples are not called fucking tits! I don’t have tits! I don’t have a pussy! I’m gay, not a goddamn woman! I’m allowed to find that offensive.”

Working this closely with gay men, being married to gay men, I have learned that their misogyny rivals that of white, conservative males. Everything derogatory being pitched at gay men is based on degrading women. Instead of understanding how women were born oppressed by this bullshit, they lower us even more to prove they are better than us.

Ranting, Alec is offended because vaginas, tits, and pussies are insulting, because to have vaginas, tits, or pussies makes you a lower life form.

Frankly, I just hate men in general, no matter their orientation.

“Kat casually mentions she’s in the wrong headspace for romance, and you give her shit. Being dismissive and assholey, when we agreed with you about the boy pussy!” Monica lobs back. “So quit acting like we’re the numbskulls who wrote that insanity. Last year, we rejected the majority of the manuscripts you bitched about. Meanwhile, you championed all the ones Kat and I wanted to boot. It’s a good thing Kat has veto power, because most of those you wanted us to keep were received poorly in the literary world.”

Fingertips squeezing the bridge of my nose, eyes clenched shut tight, with a deep breath, I let it all go. “I shouldn’t be made to feel badly about myself when I read a novel. Gender, orientation, religion, or even political leanings, all it does is make half of the readership feel like shit.”

“Remember how you always say it’s the character, not the author?” Alec prompts, bringing up a major discussion we’ve had over the years. “You preach how a well-rounded character has flaws. A perfect character comes off as one-dimensional and preachy. If a guy is sexist because he has mommy issues, it doesn’t mean the author is sexist.”

“This is different.” Sighing, eyes still clenched tightly, I try to put the chaotic emotions into words. “I read as an escape. My job is to make that escape amazing for readers. Lately, most books are trying their damnedest to harm women. I cannot read MM Romance any longer.”

Leaning forward, a crimson nail taps on a title that is obviously LGBTQ in nature. “What’s in this book?” Monica gets a clue. “Why is it a trigger?”

“I cannot continue to publish books that denigrate women,” is said in a firm, authoritative voice. “No differently than when we flagged manuscripts that come off as racist or bigoted. Widespread misogyny shouldn’t be ignored because it only affects women. The majority of the time, these books vilify women, using them as nothing but a beard or an incubator, or they make them the zany, insufferable bestie. Out of a hundred MM Romance novels with villains, at least ninety-five of those villains are women.”

“Let us gays have something to call our own.” Alec doesn’t get it, blind to the blatant misogyny on every single page. The hate. As if lowering women somehow rises men, gay men in particular. “It’s a book about two boys who kiss boys– leave ‘em alone. Leave the pussy agenda out of it.”

“Pussy agenda?” Monica gasps, with a few more echoing her from the hallway, the loudest belonging to Sean.

“This book!” Enraged, I pound the side of my fist on the manuscript that needs to be set on fire on the author’s doorstep, like the bag of dog shit it is. Coming to my feet, I lose all restraint.

“This book brings the pussy into it, not the other way around. The romance is between an out-and-proud fitness trainer and an in-the-closet married man with three kids. They spend pages upon pages making fun of the housewife, blaming her for every issue they have as a couple. She is vilified, her sexuality torn to shreds. At its core, that is not dirty hot or romantic– it’s disgusting. These so-called heroes the readers are championing, they’re actually pieces of shit cheaters who get off on blaming women for their issues. The ending is where the woman is left alone, called fat and unwanted– insinuating that if she were hot and skinny, the gay husband wouldn’t have strayed, as if being gay is a choice –going as far as to joke about how she deserves to die alone, because how dare she be upset with her husband, calling her a bigot who doesn’t understand, where they get to act like weekend dads to complete their family.”

Monica and Alec gape up at me as I pour all my rage into a book that hit far too close to home.

“Edge. Will. NOT. Publish books like this anymore.” Breathing deeply, I can barely grit the words out. “The majority of our readers are middle-age women. It’s not just MM either. Contemporary romance is littered with older men and twenty-year-old naïve girls who are younger than their adult children, always making the women the age of the hero out to be desperate and slutty or dried-up and overbearing. The median age of heroines is in their early twenties, as if our lives are over once we hit thirty. Our only worth is whether or not someone wants us, while celebrating silver foxes. As a subliminal message, our readers are not the demographic shown in the novels as the romantic lead, as if we don’t deserve love but our cheating ex-husbands do. Our readers are those discarded in the novels. These are books written by women for women, filled with internalized misogyny. I cannot even count how many times I’ve read in a book where men give the best head because women hate the chore–”

“In lesbian fiction,” Monica cuts me off. “The men are always saying the women just haven’t been fucked by a real man. In MF novels, the men are always said to be the best at eating pussy. Exactly when does a woman get to be good at something?”

“Well, in an MM book, it makes sense for the man to be giving the head.” Alec tries to be the voice of reason, not getting it. Mansplaining. “I’ve never been blown by a woman, but I can attest that men give amazing head.”

“Yeah? So why do I read that in every genre?” Monica volleys back at Alec. “Kat’s right– MM readers say how badly they want to escape into books about two boys kissing each other, because that means we don’t have to feel insecure. Books with women are filled with judgment, shaming, and pressure, and we want to escape into a world where women aren’t in the equation. Yet the author and publisher are drawing us back into it, when we are the largest demographic reading it.”

“Just let us vent in our books, ladies.” Alec is known for lashing out when he is proven wrong, because he can’t let shit go, so what he says next doesn’t take me by surprise. “We don’t want your pussy, doesn’t mean no one does.”

“You want a book to call your own?!” is shouted at Alec. Licks of fiery red covering my vision, I am about to fall over the edge of the abyss. “We women can’t even claim ownership of FF novels, without internalized misogyny seeping in. In this book.” Finger going numb, I stab the goddamn thing. “The wife is blamed for being fat and ugly, so she deserves to be cheated on, to be gaslit, to be abused and neglected, as if she was the one who lied about wanting her husband and loving him. As if she was the one who asked him to marry her, knowing it was all fake. A lie. All wrapped up in a pretty bow of gay romance. If he’s gay, why is he blaming his wife for him not wanting her because she’s fat, ugly, used up, and old? Do. You. Get. It. Now?!”

 “I–”

“I. LIVE. THIS!!!!!” Bellows out of my throat, unable to contain the rage anymore. Face stinging red, veins throbbing in my forehead, every muscle coils in my body. Shame hits me full force. Instantly I feel horrific for using Alec and Monica as a convenient target.

Slumping back into my seat, tears of rage, shame, and hopelessness spill from my eyes. “I’m sorry. So goddamn sorry. I live this– I don’t want to read it, having it thrown back into my face. I’m not the only wife on the planet who has lived this. This isn’t fantasy for us. This isn’t our fault. I’m in a Facebook group with over half a million women who were unwittingly used as beards, all our stories so similar. We shouldn’t be shamed on the pages of a novel by a writer using us as a source of entertainment.”

“Kat, I–” Looking horrified, expression stark, Alec is at a loss for words. “The wife holds no blame. Any man who uses a woman to hide in the closet is a piece of shit. He’s a user and an abuser. Not saying he doesn’t deserve to find love, but he shouldn’t at the expense of his wife’s self-worth. He’s incapable of wanting her, because he’s gay, not because she’s undesirable.”

Uncontrollable shaking starts at my toes and moves in jarring waves up my body, until my teeth are chattering. Breath coming in harsh pants, the sensation of drawing in air from a straw has panic roiling in my veins.

“You say you want books where you can vent about women?” Staring down at the manuscript, tears splatter to dampen my blouse. “These same books are read primarily by women. Should the cheating husband get to exploit our stories after using us as a beard, giving the same-sex couple a happily ever after, featuring our stolen children? Do they deserve a place to vent, a place to not be held accountable for their heinous behavior? Or should the story be told from the used and abused?”

Monica is silent, watching on with glistening eyes. While Alec gets a clue and realizes it was a hypothetical question.

“As editors, that’s the question. Who owns the right to tell this story, and who is the true villain of the tale? As a publisher, and one of half a million beards, each bringing unique talents, we’ve found less than a dozen books from our point-of-view, yet thousands upon thousands where the husband is made to look like he’s in the right, as if the wife isn’t his victim. So take your books and keep them, because I won’t read them, nor will Edge publish anything so deeply ingrained with misogyny. If you want to claim a book featuring two boys kissing each other, either leave the abused wife out of it, because that’s her goddamn story to tell, or handle it with compassion, with the character asking for forgiveness and seeking self-awareness after destroying another for his own self-serving needs.”  

Monica fetches the manuscript off my blotter, holding it far away from her body with only a few fingertips, as if it’s contagious. “Where’s your lighter, my fellow pothead?” is said with nothing but amused affection. “I know you have one on your person. Let’s burn this cocksucker in your bathroom sink.”

“To be the devil’s advocate…” Alec trails off, not appreciating the cocksucker usage. “We’re all cocksuckers here, just saying. But if you burn the book, the sprinklers will be activated.”

“Shredder then.” Monica hops up, striding around my desk. “C’mon, bitch. Tear the title page off this pile of shit, and let’s get to shredding.”

Somewhere in the middle of me rage-shredding a manuscript by an author whose unsigned contract is resting on my desk, Sean tugged Alec from the room, firmly shutting my office door for the first time in years.

Immature?

Unprofessional?

I could give a fuck less as Monica and I act like less than editors. We bond, not as besties, not as sisters, but as women.

As the red wash fades, I find myself sobbing against Monica’s newly acquired assets, face pressed against her blouse, leaving tear stains on the fickle fabric. “Usual time, usual place, one last test.”

“No,” is muttered in abject horror, body shuddering in my best friend’s arms. “I cannot live through doing it again.”

“Not a final test for them, Kat– a final test for you. If they fail, which we both know they will, it will be the closure you need.” Fingers dig into my shoulders, pulling me upright with a harsh yank. “Leave them!”

“I don’t have an alternative– I won’t fade away like the woman in that book, because you know Cort is not letting me take our children with me. Everywhere I go, I’ll be seen as a horrible person, with an empty soul because I abandoned my children.”

“As if they don’t make you feel that way right now?” Blunt, the bitter truth falls from Monica’s lips, because she doesn’t believe in pretty lies. “You aren’t that woman in the book. You need to empower those ladies you met online while you’re at it.”

“How?” comes as a pitiful whine of a child who still needs the support of her parents and isn’t getting it, to the point I fucking hate myself. “They’ll call me a bitch and a gold-digging cunt. They’ll blame me, as always. Women never win, when will we learn that sick truth?”
​
“Live the best version of yourself.” Monica holds me at arm’s length, eyes connecting us in a way I never allow myself with many. Vulnerability takes trust, and I give Monica my trust. “Don’t give two fucks about what anyone thinks about you. The best revenge is to be happy. Be happy, that’s how you win. Be happy, Katya Waters– no one deserves it more than you do.” 

​
Prologue
 
 
Caleb Green
 
“Hey, bub.” Levi hooks an elbow around my neck, herding me in the direction of the bar area. The lights and sounds of Restraint are beating at my brain, skin beading with a cold sweat, pulse skyrocketing. “Stop looking so fierce– you’ll be the one to end up starting a riot.”
​
Raw and on edge, I can’t allow the overstimulation to get the better of me, as it batters all my senses, leaving them in tatters. It was a battle in a never-ending war that actually got me out of Green tonight, and I can’t risk being placed back into captivity.

Stanton is in overprotective brother mode, the intensity worse for the fact that he is the head of our family. What he says is law on three fronts– as the Green patriarch, the head of our organized crime syndicate, and the elder of our founding family.

Since I set foot on Dominion soil, I haven’t had a second of privacy, barely taking a shit unaided– I can sense someone is always lurking outside the bathroom door. Levi has taken it upon himself to sit on the closed toilet seat and chatter at me while I shower, which means I wear my boxers into the shower, then toss them at him, because no one is going to see that mangled region of my body.

Stanton and Syn are terrified, rightfully so, after they guessed I’m suffering from PTSD. They fear suicide, because after living life in survival mode, with laws differing than those of man, it’s difficult to assimilate back into civilized society. Not to mention the fact that I lost the bulk of the men who had been by my side during the entirety of my enlistment.

Suffering in a state of endless mourning, the guilt eating up my insides as I second-guess my decisions during that last raid– the order that annihilated my men and my ability to function as a man. The confidence in my competency to lead has been reduced to ash.

Fearing a setback, Stanton wouldn’t allow me to take my rightful place at his side, lording over Dominion and our territories. Instead, he chose his ballerina mafia princess, who had cut her teeth in Las Vegas, which was decidedly a more bloodthirsty territory.

After jumping every time someone opens or closes a door in Stan’s apartment, where I’d find the nearest cover, after cataloging what could be used as a weapon against overly touchy feely, well-intentioned relatives, tonight is about busywork and getting me out of the house.

I was ordered to accompany Levi and Gwen to Restraint. A ruse of sorts, where I was to protect my companions, which is laughable, considering I’ve never bested Levi, and he’s never bested me, and who the fuck would ever harm harmless Gwen. In my weakened state, I could easily be brought down by a teenage girl.

The irony of going to a club– a sex club no less –when my brother had effectively lobbed off my remaining nut by coddling me and treating me like a fragile pussy.

They had an intervention of sorts, because I refuse to talk about my tenure with the United State Marine Corps, because everything I could say it classified. It’s best to not even think it, lest it spill from my loosen lips. It’s nothing but a hornet’s nest of pain, each sting painful enough to incapacitate me.

Busywork, babysitting, trying to give me a purpose since everything I’ve strived to achieve has been torn from my grasp, and they don’t know the half of it, because I refuse to speak a word. Not only am I bunking with my bloodthirsty niece, now I’m watching over Ezra’s brainchild.

The founders are unsure if Ezra is going off the rails again and self-sabotaging while taking us down with him, or if something far more nefarious is going on. I’ve been tasked to find out, but they all know it’s a bullshit job to give me something to do, instead of counting the remaining seconds of my life. No military. No cartel. No sex. No kids.

No future.

If there is truth to the threat, I’ve been approved to head a security unit. While the founders may feel like they’re throwing me a bone, security is what I excel at, especially combining individuals into a cohesively functioning team. They at least managed to make me look forward to something in this dreadful existence I call a life.

“It would be another setback in a journey of many.” Somehow, even above the music assaulting my eardrums, Gwen’s soft voice carries from the other side of Levi. I’ve known this woman since birth, at one time she was supposed to be my mother figure– she just about bowled me over by wearing a pair of jeans and a tank top. Blonde and petite, Gwen is surprisingly blending in with her surroundings, appearing to be an indiscriminate age with her hair in a ponytail. “Do try to change the ferocious expression on your face, Caleb.”

No matter the looks, a woman who is shorter, smaller, and appears to be younger than me, manages to cut me off at the knees by treating me as her child.

Laughing lightly, whether it’s for show is anyone’s guess, Levi turns on the frat boy charm. A happy-go-lucky smile is tinged slightly with smug confidence. A pair of worn-out jeans and a tight t-shirt lowers his age into the range of twentysomething. That shaved head is hiding the fact that he has honey brown curls that takes away from his serial killer image. But the severity of his skullcut is lessened by the deep tan from two weeks of running the pavement on Dominion’s streets at my side. Nonstop doubletakes, those brown contacts covering laser beam eyes are driving me to distraction. If I hadn’t known Levi since birth, I wouldn’t know what to make of him.

Leviticus Wilson is a consummate actor, and I know him better than anyone else on this planet. But as he perfectly mimics a college kid, I barely recognize his facial expressions, the loose way he carries his taut body, and even his voice has lost that raspy threatening edge that I find more comforting than terrifying.

Our motley crew threesome is something to behold. After Aaron almost pissed himself at the main entrance, sputtering and waving us through, followed by Roarke’s eyes bulging out of his sockets, we’re slowly weaving our way through a club that is breaking a half dozen fire codes– firefighter Levi just finished listing those off, most falling on deaf ears as the music assaulted us.

Arm wrapped lightly around Gwen’s waist, looking like lovers seeking a bit of a thrill to liven up a dull relationship– in actuality, Levi is protecting his mother-in-law. Bro-ing it up, Levi’s got his other arm wrapped around my shoulders, elbow hooking my neck– in actuality, he’s keeping my shit together.

“Instead of resting bitch face, you’ve got resting warrior face, my brother.”

Eyes cutting to the side, I show Levi just how much I appreciate his nonstop hilarity, just as a douchebag with a death-wish steps in front of me, forcing me into a standstill. Smarmy, sweat licking at his brow, face bloated from alcohol, he reminds me of the men who pay for sex– the ones who knock the whores around and demand a refund, even though the ladies gave the man everything he paid for and then some. This lowlife is the type of guy who will drug a drink and take advantage, then say the woman wanted it.

I know the type– I was reared by this type. Satan and his lieutenants.

Only this guy doesn’t have the smarts Satan had in the tip of his dick. 

That arm hooking my throat tightens, stopping me from lashing out to snap that motherfucker’s neck. “Toto, you’re back in Kansas,” is a low warning rumble from Levi’s chest, meant only for my ears. “I’m good at cleaning up messes, but I ain’t that good.”

Recognizing his death flashing before my eyes. “My bad.” The dude holds his hands up in the universal sign of ‘I’m harmless’ then slowly backs away. A few seconds ago, he was filled with alcohol-induced courage and fueled by mob mentality, about to shout at me to watch where I was fucking going, probably razz me a bit to increase his dick size, judging by the posse of nutless wonders at his back.

Just because I’m below average height, taut body hidden beneath loose clothing, doesn’t mean I’m not the biggest predator in this club, one that is running off pure adrenaline, instinct, and survival of the fittest.

Those assholes aren’t fit to survive. They’re not fit enough to reproduce, but a man like me had that torn away in an explosive burst during a roadside bombing.

“Nope.” Arm swinging me to the right, nearly cutting off my oxygen supply. “That’d be a big nope, killa. Might feel good for a split-second, but then you’d hate yourself. Then you’d use it as an excuse to atone for your sins. Not on my watch, bub.”

The only response Levi gets is a death glare.

I am not suicidal.

Doesn’t matter if I use big or small words, bellow it loudly or whisper it all quiet, no one believes me when I promise not to put a cap in my right temple.

“I’ve been going through eye-witness accounts on the past two riots.” Gwen is smart to reroute us back to the subject at hand. Those hypnotic blue eyes miss nothing, completely at odds with the innocent maiden expression on her face. “That man was probably paid to get someone riled up, and he chose you, Caleb. Rightly for the fact that you look like a ticking timebomb. Wrongly for the fact that you’re here to stop a riot. I assume,” she tacks on, not trusting me anymore. 

A toxic stew of grief, shame, and decimated confidence slam into me all at once. “And I almost played into his hands.”

“You’ve got the look of a man with demons riding you, my brother.” That arm hold turns into more of an embrace. Everyone keeps acting as if I look differently to them than who I see gazing back at me from the bathroom mirror.

“We need alcohol.”

A brow lowers in confusion, while a pretty face upturns in my direction. Levi and Gwen stare at me like I’ve grown a third head.

“Not to drink.” Scoffing, I jerk out from beneath Levi’s hold. They all assume I’m dosed with the psychotropic drugs I’m supposed to be taking, so I’ve been living the life of a monk. “As a prop. I’m not a sociopath like you motherfuckers– I need a prop to excuse the fact that my face looks like I’m about to commit mass slaughter.”

“Fine.” Gwen eyes me, the trust everyone had in me before I left Dominion as a teen has turned tenuous at best since I returned a wounded hero. “I’d feel safer near Kristal anyway.”

“Uh!” Twisting his face up, Levi glares at his mother-in-law. “What am I, woman? Chopped liver? Been protecting your ass since I was sixteen.”

Those angelic eyes roll, and a montage of every human being Gwen’s brought into this world plays out inside my head, dominated by Syn mostly. All disrespectful eye-rollers, the whole lot of them, especially Torian.

Anger dissipating in an instant, Levi releases the filthiest laugh I’ve ever heard– not playing a role in an MdJ production, that is the laugh Levi employs when he’s around those he trusts. A laugh he inherited from his mother. The laugh that has quivers of pleasure roiling up and down my spine.

Asshole.

It’s the uninhibited, joyous laughter Levi always released after coming down my throat. I swear to God, seventeen years later, I can still taste it coating the back of my tongue.

If that imagined taste can’t get my dick hard, nothing ever will, not after being conditioned to rise for Levi since I learned what a hard-on meant.

Sharing a look with me, it’s not the same with those contacts covering his gaze, but an entire conversation takes place between us in less than a second. “You’ll be okay.” Levi assures himself, following after Gwen as she weaves through the crowd toward the bar Kristal is manning.

Doing the only thing I can– my duty –I follow.

Slipping into recon-mode, my eyes miss nothing. I shrink into myself, trying to cloak the fact that I’m the biggest predator here. All around me, the alcohol flows easier than water, the lust-inducing thump vibrates at our feet to reverberate up our legs and throughout our bodies. Dancers gyrate against one another in a mating dance that hammers home the depressive state of my mangled junk.

Ominous yet thrilling, a thick yet heady scent lingers in the air, raw sex with the possibility of violence. Sighing deeply, the pheromones swirling around me draw the tension from my taut muscles like the most potent of drugs, deeply lulling me to momentarily forget about the possibility of my own impotency.

Strategically placed, I realize this isn’t babysitting duty or busywork, not by how hypervigilant those spread across the club appear. The patrons none-the-wiser, except for a few who are sensitive to the suffocating energy coalescing.

Dexter is spotted first, hiding against the far wall, arms crossed over his glistening chest– brow heavy with determination and concentration.

A vibe, but it’s always been as if I have a homing beacon set on Syn– her post is by a key-coded door at the rear of the club. Eyes sharp with the promise of justice.

A few paces to the right, Roman Alexander is stationed at the mouth of a hallway, the flare of an Exit sign glowing from above, promising restrooms and emergency exits, and most likely offices and storerooms lining the hallway.

A dozen strides from me, Gwen is belly-up to the bar, chatting openly with a beaming Kristal Harris, with Regina Regal glaring her down for some unknown reason. Oh, right– Gwen has either fucked or birthed the majority of the men in Regina’s life.

The crowd parting like Moses and the sea, none other than a Whittenhower strolls through as if he owns the world. Tall and fit, with the world at his fingertips, that blond, blue-eyed young god of Dominion is none other than Daniel Whittenhower II, otherwise known as Pretty Boy or Whitt.

Captivity hasn’t been very productive on the networking front, not that I’m much of a joiner. If they didn’t show up to the only founders’ meeting I’ve attended, I haven’t laid eyes upon them yet.

This man is the taller, prettier version of his scarred sire– the broody writer I have seen several times in the past two weeks, since he’s always shoved up Levi’s ass. I was introduced to Grant’s youngest spawn the first night of my arrival. Niel is nothing like I expected, looking more like the Atwaters than the Whittenhowers, mind more twisted by Machiavellian plots than Machiavelli himself, which leaves the only possibility for this obvious Whittenhower man to be our resident Pretty Boy.

Stunned, frozen solid in the middle of the floor, with a swarm of packed bodies surrounding me, I watch as Whitt walks in a bubble of his own confidence, wearing tailored trousers and a heartwarming, sunshiny smile.

After eating and breathing blood, sweat, tears, death, and destruction for the better part of two decades, beauty still hurts to gaze upon. The first time Levi hugged me, I bawled like a pussy for nearly an hour while my entire family waited on the other side of a closed door.

It was too much, too soon. Too kind. Too compassionate. Too loving. That hug broke the bitter dam I’ve erected since I was a teenager, and I can’t seem to repair the protective barrier surrounding my soul.

Green is filled with the brutality and loyalty of family, MdJ meetings are much the same. Seeing innocent aristocracy, glowing with angelic beauty in a city as tainted as Dominion, deep in the seedy underbelly, waltzing through a club catering to deviancy, my brain can’t compute.

Gaze tracking the boy through the club, following his arm… Whitt’s palm is softly resting above the swell of a woman’s ass. Owning the world, he probably owns this woman too. No matter how innocent appearances may be, Whitt’s neck is taut, eyes searching the shadows as he escorts the woman to the door Syn is manning, like the woman is precious cargo he’s been entrusted to protect.
​
Recognizing the way Syn’s cheeks clench, it’s guilt not disgust that is revealed as she takes in the woman approaching her. Then her eyes soften, not because Whitt is her brother, but who could ever stay angry when looking at his beauty.

Curiosity has me slipping through the crowd, eyes glued to that door, the black pleather catsuit my beacon. Skin-tight, every movement is revealed as she takes smaller steps, the shiny material drawn across the swell of her ass and the curve of her hips and her rounded thighs.

In a club packed with women hopped up on alcohol, lust, and violence, why did this woman draw my attention?

She’s wearing a pleather catsuit– I’m not into this silly BDSM shit. I live in reality, with no room for fantasy. I don’t need to whip a person to get off, not when I’ve been held against my will and tortured. I don’t need genital mutilation when I’ve protected villages from the awful fate, then suffered it myself. I don’t need to playact acts of sexual violence and dubious consent, when I spent my childhood being taken against my will.

Not the catsuit, it’s the bloodred hair cascading to tickle at Whitt’s hand that is beaconing me forward until there’s only a dozen feet separating us. Longing slams into me, the fierce hunger to slide my fingertips through the strands– pet her like a cat.

I seriously need to get out more, it’s no wonder my brother is terrified and sent me with babysitters. I can’t be trusted to behave like a rational human being in public. Place a rifle in my hands and Marines at my back, and I thrive. Shove my ass in with normal, everyday humans, and I’m out of my element.

Pet her like a cat? For fuck’s sake!

Possessively glaring at Whitt’s elegant hand resting far too close to her voluptuous ass, the air is knocked out of my lungs– it’s just a split-second, not long enough to discern eye color –the woman looks over her shoulder, probably sensing someone was staring a hole through her ass, but it was long enough for our souls to connect.

A smoky fog descends, washing away what is happening in reality and replacing it with a fantasy.

That glorious mane of hair flows with lifelike movement as her head hitches back, creamy neck exposed for the tiniest of kisses from my lips. Throaty laughter vibrates against my mouth, as we become a tangle of arms and legs on a sofa, playing and wrestling over the remote.

“Daddy?” Gigantic blue eyes, sandy curls, a button nose, and a pointy chin, a little boy from my past gazes up at me. He’s me. I’m him. This is what I looked like in the mirror before Satan and his lieutenants started creeping into my bedroom in the dark of night.

“Daddy?” The sweetest, childlike, most beautiful voice to caress my ears is speaking to me. It’s not me from my memories– this is my future, and he’s calling me daddy. “Stop being mean to Mommy.”

The little boy crawls into our laps, chubby hand knocking my lips away from his mommy’s throat. He called her– the woman with the fiery hair wearing that indecent catsuit –mommy.

I’m daddy.

She’s mommy.

“Hey, bub!” An arm wrapping around my neck is just muted background noise as clarity descends. The woman is getting away from me, escorted by Pretty Boy, with Syn acting as the Ferryman to Hades.
Struggling to get out from beneath that ironlike arm, “I–”

“What are you doing?” Voice filled with nothing but confusion, Levi fears I’m losing it. The door is closed, effectively locking me out. Head tilted, sighting me down like a hawk after prey, Syn is staring at me with one eye while communicating with her husband with the other, silently conveying, “Wil, keep our boy’s shit together, will ya?”

“What is your malfunction?” Playfully dragging me to and fro, Levi effectively snares me in a headlock. “Why are you creeping on Ezra’s wife?”

Ezra’s wife?

The pallor of death sucking all the blood from my system, the fantasy I erected bursts apart and reality descends.

Fifteen seconds…

It only took fifteen seconds to change my world view.

Fifteen seconds to give me hope.

Fifteen seconds to erase the fact that I’m missing a nut, my junk is marred and functionless, and I probably can’t get it up, and if I could, I probably can’t get off, and if I can, I probably can’t make that son that starred in my fantasy.

Fifteen seconds where I felt nothing but hope, and love, and warmth, and contentment, and trust, and purpose, and happiness.

All it took was two words to decimate me. Break me. Annihilate me in a way a roadside bombing couldn’t. Fifteen seconds ago, I didn’t know what it felt like to be happy, where I could easily function in this apathetic state, only to have that happiness torn away from me.

Ezra’s wife.

“Good God, never let Ezra see you look at Kat like that.” Levi’s laughter isn’t taunting, but that’s how it hits my ears, filters through my body, to combust my heart. “He’d gut you in your sleep, then masturbate with your entrails.”

Vibrating as every emotion a person is capable of feeling hits me with force. Fifteen seconds ago, I could function in this numbness, but I’m no longer numb, and now I fear everyone was right… I fear looking in the mirror to see the ghost of who I once was staring back at me.

I may have survived my wounds, but it left me dead inside and out.

Touch light and soothing, a small hand pets the nape of my neck, pouty lips nearing my ear but never making contact. “The drive to rescue the damsel in distress is strong in you,” Gwen whispers to me, making sure even Levi can’t overhear.

There’s a cadence in Gwen’s voice, a quality she possesses that reminds me of my grandmother. I haven’t seen my grandmother since I left for basic training, because she has a witchy way about her when she asks if I’ve got a woman yet. When I tell her no, Grandma always replies that I’ll know when I’ve found her, just like how Mom knew in an instant when she met my stepdad.

Fuck. Me.

Ezra’s wife.

Shit! Levi called her Kat… and I was fucking fantasizing about petting her hair like a cat.

Kill. Me.

With only a few feet separating us, there are tears glistening in Gwen’s eyes, almost as if she understands that I’ve finally admitted to myself just how close I am to ending it all, no matter the promises I’ve made to my brother.

“Maybe it’s you who needs to be rescued,” Gwen flutters against the shell of my ear, hand cupping my shoulder for stability. “Marriages don’t last forever. Maybe you’re the hero of Katya’s story, but maybe she’s the unlikely heroine of yours.”

Hell breaks free from the earth’s crust, the sights and sounds of combat surround me. Stampeding humans not realizing they’re making it worse for all of us, punches are thrown as Levi and I fight to keep Gwen safe.

Getting my own dick out of my ass, I want to tear my remaining nut from my body for being so distracted by my own bullshit that I didn’t realize a violent riot was erupting around us.

In the ruckus, Syn and Dexter charge across the club toward the bar. “Fate! Fate!” is shrill with panic from the bravest, most ferocious woman I’ve ever met. “Kristal! Help Fate!” Struggling against the current, I try to get to Syn to help, because it’s bad judging by how terrified her voice sounds.

“Regina!” Dexter’s booming voice joins the fray, the edge of hysteria lighting fear in my veins more than active combat ever did. “Regina!” Even from this distance, I can tell the crazed woman is beating a man to death, the guy who got in my way and tried to start shit with me. Fist landing after fist landing, Regina renders him into a bloody pulp at her feet. Hand jerking at her shoulder, Dexter tries to tear Regina off her prey, only to be backhanded by her. “Regina, you’re killing him!”

The steel door slams open, clipping a group of men struggling against one another, rebounding to hit them several times over, and I expect demons to pour out next. Whitt flies out the door, voice pitched with terror. “Dalton! Somebody fucking help Dalton!”

“Pretty Boy!” Dexter manages to scream over the riot surrounding us. “Either get your fucking wife out of here or get your sisters!”

“Dalton!” Whitt bellows to anyone who will listen. Catching sight of me, never having seen me before, he looks me dead in the eyes. It could be the fact that he must recognize his mother clasped to my chest in a protective embrace, or it could be the instinctive radar all founders possess to recognize their own kind. “Same code as the gates. Go!”

Loyalty never an issue for Levi, blood is thicker than water, and the stronger the blood tie, the stronger the loyalty. Levi flees the riot, leaving everyone to their fates, his driving force saving his brother.

With renewed purpose, I take lead. 

I haven't written a blog post in well over a year, and I felt the need to just ramble a bit. 

Last year was crazy for me, nonstop working. While this year feels like I'm treading water with nothing being accomplished. A few hazards popped up unexpectedly- I don't feel like getting into any of that -which twisted my emotions, tossing productivity and focus out the window. 

The words are stuck in my head. The stories and plot threads rich and multifaceted. It's not a matter of sitting at the keyboard and pouring the words on the page. Those words exist, they just refuse to reach my fingertips. 

My confidence has taken hit after hit. It's hard to be real with yourself, to the point you remove an entire series from sale to be rewritten, without admitting defeat. The triumph was rewriting those books the way they should have been written the first time around, but that in and of itself means I made a mistake to begin with. I admit it. I accept it. I changed it. But that doesn't mean it doesn't have an impact on my confidence. 

Hero is the redheaded stepchild who is getting the brunt of my lack of confidence. Up and down. Left and right. Sideways and straight. I'm all over the place. The plot doesn't change, only gets better as I step away. There is so much pressure, after rewriting Restraint - Integrated, simply to create a strong foundation for Hero, only to fear I'll muck it all up like I did its predecessors. 

I will never rewrite another novel again. Not a single one. What I publish from here on out, it will be its final form forever. That puts pressure on me to write the book the way it deserves. I don't mean editing and formatting, as those things can be fixed. The plot, the flow of words, the motivations of the characters. I can't put myself through republishing rewritten work again. 

This sets me up for failure. Performance anxiety.  There are many drafts, that's not what I'm trying to convey. It's the confidence that what I publish is the best it can be. 

I want to share something with y'all, using it as an example. 

Hero (which is now Heroism, but I will still call it Hero) is refusing to be written. The muse puts up a roadblock, because the closer I get to the finish line, the more confident I'll have to be in order to hit publish. That's not the example. I'll shed light on the progress of that later.

The muse is a master of creation, but she gets bored easily. A bored, unfocused muse is catastrophic. I have to feed her, and feed her often. 

I write tomes. 500 - 700 pages on average per book. But some of those books are closer to 1000 pages, a few much longer. That is a lot of pressure. To help curtail this pressure, I fed the muse Wexler.

What's Wexler? 

A short novella, featuring Auggie Kline's dad, set in the Blended universe. In case you're curious, Adam Wexler from Wicked is a dual-narrator with Patrick Kline. Good Girl - Widow was the winter and spring. Warped - Wager was the summer. Wicked was in the past. Wonder was far in the future. Wexler is the fall in the current time frame, with Wayward running alongside all the others. 

I got about halfway through a short novella, and the pressure came back, because this novella seeded the much-larger, much-anticipated Wayward. The content is deep and dark, but fast paced, with a message of hope. It matters what I write in so few pages. The muse went limp as soon as she realized this. 

It's like I had ED for writers. Not writer's block. Performance Anxiety. 

Wexler is currently half completed, shelved in a folder, awaiting the muse's attention, along with many, many other projects with a similar fate. 

Here is the example, only I'm working through it, learning about myself as a writer. 

Followill. 

Last Wednesday, I woke to a daydream/dream of sorts, with a story rapidly solidifying in my mind. So I sat with my laptop and wrote out a few chapters. That night, as I struggled to sleep, I decided to make changes. That's how the writing process works, as frustrating as it may be.

In a long-standing series, there isn't much wiggle room. You know the characters and their universe, almost as well as your own life. It's like a long hallway, with a few doors here or there, able to branch off to rooms you already recognize, but you'll still be in the same house. You can't go anywhere, except to wander around the various rooms, maybe discovering things you hadn't realized were hidden there. If you go out the front door, the series is finished. If you go out the back door, the series will head in a new direction. 

A blank slate. A new project, something from scratch that you're breathing life into from nothing, it's a puzzle without a picture. The pieces continually need to be rearranged as the picture solidifies. Sometimes the puzzle forms a picture, but that last piece refuses to fit. So you tear it apart, dump the pieces back in the box, shake it up, and try to put it together again, hoping against hope that it will eventually fit.  

30,000 words into Followill. The story changed. I have a beta-reader who points out when I tell vs show. Storytelling is a narrative where the characters aren't in the moment. Showing is based on placing the character in the thick of it. One is where the reader gets suffocated under a pile of info-dump, the other flows organically in an easily digestible treat.

I kept hearing Diane scolding me as I reread passages. There's a lot of story to tell that isn't happening on the pages, and even I as a reader hates that. I went back to the beginning, reworking the entire draft, trying to eliminate it by showing it in the now. Then I hit the same roadblock. Found myself back into telling.

Another sleepless night. Another epiphany. Another reworking from the beginning (at this rate, I'm just happy it's only 75 manuscript pages to keep reworking) I hit another roadblock. Didn't write yesterday at all. My house on Sims Mobile is looking pretty swank though.

Another sleepless night, too many in a row. 

Something shifted last night. Delusion? Sleep deprivation? I don't know. But the newest epiphany removed most of the telling. Instead of reworking those same 75 pages, because I'm sick of those pages, I'm writing this blog post. 

This is where a lack of confidence kills a book. If I closed out the document, put it in a folder, and let it go with the rest its ilk, it would never see the light of day. Unlike Wexler above, Followill and the others are not in a series, where it is dependent on them being completed to move forward. Wexler will see the light of day, when my writer's ED vanishes, because the novella is not independent of Wayward. If Wayward is to exist, Wexler must be completed. 

Under pressure. Pressure pushing down on me... Under pressure. Under pressure. Pressure. (did you just sing that? Because I know I did) 

Instead, I look at Followill as a learning experience, just as I did when I started writing Hero and discovered that 11 books, some well over 1000 pages long, had to be rewritten, or the series was dead. Dead and in a folder, never to see the light of day. 

I promised I wouldn't write anything else until Hero was finished. Not just a promise I made to my readers, but most importantly, a vow I made to myself. But the muse dies when she is not creating. She goes quiet, resentful. She is an entity of creativity, and with her death, there goes my imagination. It's the confidence in feeding her that is my malfunction. 

Lessons learned, a journey of honing my craft awaits, the muse will be fed by breaking my vow, if only for a short while. 

As soon as I'm done writing this post, I will go back to page 1 and fix those issues in Followill. Remove the telling. Slowly weave in the new changes to remove the telling. Then get back to a place where I can let the muse run with wild abandon, and start the process again. Over and over, until my confidence returns. The confidence in my abilities. The confidence in my stories. 

This is a lifelong marathon, not a sprint to the finish line, leaving me unable to race again. 

Now, onto what you really want to know...

What's up with Hero?  

Hero is approaching 300,000 words.

What does that mean? 

If you're not in the publishing industry, you might not understand why some authors/publishers use word-count instead of page-count. Page-count shifts dependent on the device vs print- it's not an absolute and up to interpretation. I'll see x-amount of pages for a specific word-count listed, and wonder how the publisher managed to bloat a 200-page book into 400. Even I get confused when a book is listed as say 400 pages, when my 400-page book has twice as many words. A writer's version of penis envy, since it fits with the overall ED theme I have going here...

I use word-count for all working drafts and ebooks because it's accurate. Page-count will only be used on books published into print, where I personally numbered the pages. Again, that is up to interpretation, as font size matters. I'm not a size queen. Again, PE, some bloat the font to make it look longer. All I care about is a full story that offers me escape. Don't care if it's 20k or 200k. But length matters to some. I only mention it when giving updates, simply because I'm notorious for being long-winded and fear y'all think I'm slacking off. 

By saying Hero is currently 300K, that is my way of justifying why it's not on the shelves. My way of offering proof that I am not twiddling my thumbs and making no headway. 

What's the industry average?

On average, a full-length novel in my genres is between 50k-120k. Many books we read, a quick little escape, are 35-60k. Authors from major publishers, who release one book per series a year, generally those books are averaged 120K. 

300k. 

Hero is 300k in 6 months. Just a little over halfway finished, maybe closer to 2/3. 

I'm not treading water. In 6 months, Hero is the length of what some authors output in 3 years. This is not me saying I'm better than anyone because my book is longer (the longer it is, the more hassle it is- trust me, this isn't a good thing). It's me weighing why the book is not for sale. I feel guilty for breaking my vow of taking a step back, but 3 years worth of work shouldn't be rushed. As that is the lesson I learned from the entire series needing to be rewritten and republished.

In the breaks I've taken during this 6-month journey, major changes have occurred. Epiphanies, like I used as an example with Followill. Hero wouldn't be the cerebral-f@ck it will become, without those steps back to let the story marinate, then evolve. 

The pressure and performance anxiety stem from allowing the book time to become what it needs to be, to allow the muse to become inspired, to ensure I will never regret what I publish. There's no takebacksies anymore. 

What's new with Hero?

Hero has a new title: Heroism. It's dual-narration, and Hero is masculine singular. Hero has a new cover for the same reason. Lips were zipped on whether or not anyone liked the cover, so I'll go by the loaded silence that like is not the emotion felt.

As its creator, do I think the cover fits the content?

Yes. Do I wish Kat's hair was more crimson? Yes. Is the cover final? Yes, unless I can somehow isolate that hair, because I am unhappy to report that her skin is the same shade as her hair, and we don't want a Kat with red skin. Snorts. I spent a good 3 days on that hair. I'll try again at another date. Maybe I'll learn a new trick or two before the book's release. 

What happens next?

When Hero finally reaches the beta-reading process, I will work on updating my website, formatting a slew of books for print, as well as promos. In the mean time, I have to do right by Hero, by the muse, and for my sanity, which means I have to work on something else. There's a reason most authors either write standalones or numerous series, as no muse would be satisfied being stifled, and it would harm the story. 

What's Followill?


Followill is both a town and a surname. 

Clearly it's still in its inception phase. Rayna Scott is a 17 year-old girl, deep in the south, interacting with a prominent family from the other side of the tracks. This coming-of-age angst fest is filled with struggles, heartbreak, triumphs, and failures. Going by the path set, it will evolve into a duology or trilogy, on the short side for me.  

Will Followill see the light of day, when the others have not?

Yes. But I'll be a headcase before, during, and after, fearing readers' reactions, because I'm writing out of my comfort zone. A young woman of color. Venturing away from LGBTQ with a girl who only has the feels for boys. Relocating from the Mid-Atlantic and Northeast to the deep south.

Writer Rule: write what you know. I'm ditching those rules.

Par for the course, I have to lob angst bombs at the girl, witnessing her struggle to avoid them, drive through them, or suffer because of them. You can take me out of my comfort zone, but you can't take away my need to emotionally torture my characters to witness how they will react. 

Will Hero ever see the light of day?  

I'm known for short writing bursts, where I bang out an upwards of 50-70,000 words in a session, anywhere from 3-10 days without a break. One of those sessions would net me the foundation of an entire novel. Two of those sessions would finish Hero. I write based on my mindset and emotions, neither are in the right place for Hero at the moment. Never fear, Kat and Caleb run in my blood. I even have the foundation and outline created for the next in the series, Thief. 


Thanks for listening to me ramble- Erica Chilson, the wicked writer isn't feeling too wicked or much of a writer at the moment. Like every novel in creation, humans are also a work-in-progress.

Over the past three years, no doubt a large portion of my fanbase has wondered why I took the M&M series off-sale and began writing it from scratch.

Don’t worry, I hear you.

One camp doesn’t want to reread, so this causes problems, because the rewrites demand a reread of the series. If not, all new books will make absolutely no sense. I’ve lost fans due to this, and I did so with the understanding that this would happen.

Another camp was eager for new books, and they didn’t want to have to wait for me to rewrite thousands of pages. They waited patiently for a long time, but have since lost interest as the rewrites are coming at a snail’s pace.

Then there is the new camp, brand-new readers who are waiting for the next installment, not realizing it’s a rewrite.

Lastly, are the countless readers who pass over my books due to ratings- rating reflecting the original copies, which were light-years different than the final editions published today.

I take full responsibility for all the above. This was a decision I didn’t make lightly, and I already foresaw the consequences before I acted.

As a writer, my sole responsibility is to my craft. My story comes first. I owe it to my characters and the world I’ve created for them to inhabit to do them justice. This translates over into giving the reader the best possible finished product.

When I first started writing, it was addictive. Fans were contacting me nonstop, wanting more. I was cranking out words as quickly as possible, yet it wasn’t fast enough. My first year writing, I sold more books than I have in the rest of my career.

During that year, the books were coming so quickly, I was too new and ‘young’ in the craft, that I was only thinking like a writer who wanted to give her fans what they wanted, and as quickly as possible in our instant gratification world.

This speed translated into proof that I wasn’t yet an editor or publisher, both of which are important aspects in the literary world.

I’d grown up, deciding three years ago it was more important to be proud of my work, to give my characters the respect they deserve, than it was to make money, doing so with the knowledge that I could lose a large portion of my fanbase in the process.

The story comes first.

In the past three years, I’ve re-released 7 M&M novels, while actively writing two other series. This has also been a point of contention with my fans, because they feel I should be concentrating on M&M, and every book I release is an insult to them, refusing to read those other stories on principle.

Rewrites are an entirely different beast than writing a book from scratch. I’m not talking about editing a book- completely overhauling it. Last night, as I tried to explain it to my mother. “It’s like a finished puzzle that no longer fits- the type that has no outside border. Someone knocks all the pieces to the ground, so you’re struggling to put it back together. Suddenly, the cat runs in, and you’re finding pieces scattered around the house for months. You’re always worried you missed a piece, but you can’t tell because it’s the type without a solid border, and this freezes you into inaction.”

You can’t just sit down and organically write, allowing the words to flow, because changes you make in book 2 affect book 3, 4, 5… 17. You have to weigh the choices, more so than if you were just writing a new book.

It’s stressful. There’s a lot of pressure put on me to perform. The muse isn’t pleased, as she wants to create new stories. Not that she doesn’t want to create more in M&M’s universe, just not spend time focusing on a rewrite.

Writing a book is about creativity. Rewriting a book is in the absence of creativity. It doesn’t feed that need, and that compounds the problem. This is how Rusty Knob was born, believe it or not. I needed to create, because I’m a writer. Rewriting is about editing and publishing, and I couldn’t sit down and rewrite 12 books in a row, completely devoid of creativity.

That’s why I will write in M&M for so long, and then you’ll see another book and another. This doesn’t mean I haven’t been ‘trying’ to rewrite the books. I have to be in a good mindset, I have to have my creativity topped off, to be able to function during a rewrite, because my brain has to be firing on all cylinders to remember what happened in book 1 to connect it to book 13, and how it affects the book I’m actively rewriting.

It’s highly complicated, and not just remembering grammar and punctuation rules.

Last night, as I started chapter two of King, I took a long bath to relax. It took me eight hours to rewrite one short chapter, when ordinarily I can do that in less than an hour when properly inspired. Now, imagine doing that for 40+ chapters each over 12 books.

There are times where I will highlight and delete several chapters in a row, and just start over fresh, as this saves me considerable time. 

Last night, I was so stressed out, I got out of the bathtub and wrote a plot outline and three chapters of a standalone title, in less than two hours.

You read that right. It took me eight hours working on turning four pages into a seven-page rewritten chapter, but only two hours to write three chapters of a brand-new book, with brand-new characters, not attached to any series of mine.

I woke to write this blog post and will be continuing onto chapter two of King when I’m done. (we have no satellite tv or internet thanks to a storm, so you won’t be seeing this for a bit after I’m done)

I will continue to use this new novel to spark creativity while I work on King and beyond. Hopefully this will relieve some of the pressure. I chose a standalone, as this will make sure I don’t get too involved in a series of mine and end up writing several books in a row. A small cast of characters, and what may become a novella.

I’m not asking for sympathy– I’m trying to explain the process, explain why it’s been like pulling teeth.

I LOVE M&M. It’s my baby. Katya and Ezra were the first characters I put on paper and brought to life that I knew would see the light of day. I’d written other stories, but I knew no one would ever read them.

After writing twelve books in the series, then going back to Restraint, the side characters were no longer side characters. They had enriched lives, major backstories, and they connected to each and every other character.

When writing new, these side characters are one-dimensional. Flat. They are created to push the main character into situations and scenarios, and I don’t want to be ‘that’ type of writer. I want my side characters to be as vividly real as the main character.

Upon the rewrite, knowing every facet of these ‘side’ characters, the motivations changed. The reasoning as to why they act/react to one another shifts.

As I rewrite, I breathe life into otherwise flat characters. I give them a voice. I alter who gets to release what information. Does that information belong to our current narrator? Who best to voice this? What is this character going through at this time that needs to be addressed and not written away in a later book? What doesn’t the narrator know, as they are not a mind-reader in this first-person perspective voice?

That’s the theme of every book I’ve ever written, why I use first-person. In our daily lives, we are all unreliable narrators in the wide scope view. We only know what we know. We only see what we see. We only bring to the table our experiences and how they shaped us. Our view will vastly differ from another, even if we share the experience together. This I’ve tried to get across. So upon the rewrite, I’ve found this a challenge, voicing motivations that weren’t present the first time around.

My re-readers will understand. The best way to show this (for new readers) is Dexter’s perception of Dalton, and then our perception of Dalton as we read his book. We do this to people every day of our lives, only seeing them from our perspective. Case in point, Katya is a heroine, until Regina and Faith’s jealous view of Katya shifts our opinions. We do this in real life, every day, unable to recognize we all take on the view of the person we are interacting with, instead of seeing someone clearly.

I have to have that in my mind at all times during a rewrite, and it’s stressful to say the least. Hundreds of characters and their motivations, as to why they ask and do specific things, to ensure there is no shock-value writing, character trait lobotomies, or characters acting out of character.

As my New Year's Resolution, I made a promise to complete the rewrites and release a brand-new M&M book during 2018. This promise wasn't to myself. This promise wasn't to my readers or fans. This promise was to my characters and the universe I created for them to dwell within. 

Below, I will show you the difference a rewrite makes. The original edition of King vs the final edition. You’ll see what I mean, and as to why it is such a struggle for me to make this happen.

I will show the differences between passages, then I will post the first chapter of the final edition. I’d like to hear your opinions about the changes.

Thank you, and I appreciate you listening to me release some of the pressure in this vent.  KING: Chapter One FINAL  Daniel Whittenhower II: aka Whitt | Pretty Boy | Regina’s Sunshine
 
The excitement is palpable and completely choking me– suffocating me with anxiety. Dalton’s fingers turn white under the onslaught of my nervous, sweaty grip.

“Shh…” Dalton whispers into my ear, fingers squeezing back, doing his damnedest to even me out. “This is the right thing to do.”

I want to scream, but right for whom?!

Reading me as only a lover could, he says in English that is heavily accented with French, “You. You’re doing the right thing for you. This isn’t just about your family. This is the event that has culminated since the very beginning of your life.”

Sucking in a fortifying breath, I close my eyes. I want to cover my ears and release the primal scream of a caged predator, the guttural sound reverberating off the walls of the bus. The excited murmurs and sharp conversation around me drill into my skull. As we sit, crammed on the bus, I question every decision I’ve ever made in life– every choice, every crossroads I’ve come to pass.

I’m only twenty-four as of this morning. Am I old enough to head a family? Do I have the ability to take on the responsibility for all these people? How will my grandfather react? What of my aunt and father? Should I let them into our family home, when it’s better if they stay where they are?

Even the guy holding my hand is brand-new to me, and I fear the truth will upset what we’re trying to build. I’ve stood by and plotted, brooded, been bitter while showing the outside world this happy-go-lucky man I am not.

Is this what I really wanted after all, or did I play into their hands somehow?

The Gates has been a ghost town since we were hit by the media frenzy, everyone I love has been trapped in hiding. Something has to change– someone has to take charge. This is my part to play, and I instinctively know we’re all puppets in the larger scheme of things.

The only person I know who can take on the responsibility of our family is Queen, with the tenacity of a marching general. As if sensing I’m thinking about her, she seeks me out, flashing me a sad half-smile. That smile and its following look of encouragement fills me with confidence that only Queen can infuse within me.

I can do this, I repeat to myself for the billionth time today.

We’re all on a bus, driving through The Gates, because it made more sense to travel in a singular vehicle, one in which the media would think beneath us, versus creating an easily divided procession. Most of us will be staying at Misery Castle indefinitely, with the others wishing me a happy birthday– most of whom are my relatives that don’t realize I know they are.

So many secrets, and I vow to myself to be the one who reveals the truth.

I can’t look away from my wife, even knowing I should, especially as I hold onto Dalton’s hand like a lifeline. I’m barely holding on to either of them. Queen is getting closer to Marcus and my sire, emotionally distancing herself for what’s to come. Life and lies have built walls between Dalton and me. I can’t truly have either as long as I hold onto both. There is no having my cake and eating it too with Queen and Dalton.

Queen’s emerald gaze captivates me– her hold over me is infinitely stronger than the delicate fingers entwined with mine. Since I met her when I was only five, my entire life narrowed down to focus on getting her. Now that I have her as my wife, there’s no way I can keep her.

Today marks the end of that dream, and I don’t want to let it go.

Queen is the ultimate mother. An unexpected surprise for those who don’t know her as well as I do. She is engulfed in the loving embrace of children– hers and those she’s adopted in the depths of her heart. Children, and adults alike, instinctively know Queen is a safe haven that harbors you from the violent nature of life’s storm.

A tiny Marcus Zane is cradled to her chest, a breathtaking woman-child is fused to her left side, while my soft baby sister is leaning on her right shoulder. My brother, his girlfriend, and my dainty cousin sit in the seat in front of Queen. Turned around, Azrael crawls from her big sister’s arms, wanting to cuddle with her twin against Queen’s chest.

I find Whitney with a scowl on her face, glaring at Ava. I nod to the small space on our seat, not wanting my blood to sit with strangers. Strangers to her, not me– Kayla is one of the nicest women I know. Whitney’s next to us in a flash, leaving a scant inch between Dalton and herself. She only cuddles with her mom, with our grandmother, and Queen. Whitney will be all over Adelaide when she sees her again. But the rest of us, she holds herself apart from.

“I just ask one thing of you, Whitt,” Whitney implores me, leaning around my boyfriend so she can look me dead-on. She reminds me of the Adelaide I knew before she went off the deep end– completely self-contained and sure.

Whitney’s light blonde hair is in a perfect ponytail. Her feminine business suit makes her look way beyond her years, not the girl who hasn’t even reached eighteen yet. Dalton’s vivid green eyes quizzically inspect the girl. Seeing the two of them so closely packed together brings a smile to my lips. My effeminate, Emo boyfriend next to my Harvard-bound cousin, it’s amusing in the extreme.
“What’s your request, doll?”

“Just hear him out, okay?” I give a slight tilt to my head in ascent. No need to ask who Whitney’s asking about. “I’m sure he has his reasons.”

“I’m not sure I want to know what they are, though,” I murmur in the din of the bus. My voice washes out as the occupants’ combined voices overpower mine.

“Whitt,” flows as a shrill hiss, Whitney used to always getting her way. “He’s your father,” she states, not knowing the truth of my parentage yet. “Grandfather loves us. We’re all he has left– Grandmother is staying with Mommy and Daddy on the campaign trail. Whitt, don’t do this to us. To him,” she stresses. “I agree that you should be our patriarch, but don’t take his family away along with his home and business. He needs us more than we need him, and we need him a lot!”

“Whitney, have I ever been the vindictive sort?” I think back to how nasty I’ve been to my cowardly sire, the man I miss more than anyone, and feel a pang of regret. I’ve treated my grandfather even worse, always knowing there was something else riding beneath the surface. “Don’t you realize I have reservations and doubts plaguing me?”

Resentful isn’t a strong enough word to embody how I feel about the men in my family. My grandfather lied to me for life, by saying I was his son, while treating me as lesser. My sire treated me as his baby brother, attentive and affectionate, actually giving a shit about my hopes and dreams, then he unexpectedly died and left us behind.

I spent my childhood raising my abandoned brother, while aching to be with Queen and my baby sister, putting plans in place for us to be a whole family again… only to discover that my father is alive, a cowardly rat who’s lived half a city away from me all this time.

As for my birth mother and my many siblings and their children, I drove by their houses several times per day, just as I am now, never knowing they were related to me, believing the lie that Daniel and Priscilla Whittenhower were my birth parents. My siblings looked me in the eye, took me places and spent time with me, but they never once admitted I was their brother.

I am the son of Grant Whittenhower and Gwendolyn Meyers. The biological grandson of Jackson Whittenhower, which is why the claim to everything Whittenhower is mine, because my father threw it all away. Katie and Ade are not my sisters as everyone was led to believe, but rather both my aunts and my cousins, as my grandmother had children with a pair of brothers and lied about it– Jackson and Daniel.

I am the brother to Fate Simpson, Boyd Spencer, Faith Simpson, Bianca Green, Niel Whittenhower, and Ella Whittenhower. The uncle to Torian Spencer and Zane Zeitler. The brother-in-law to Gretchen Spencer, Levi Wilson, and Dalton Fontaine. The cousin to Whitney and Priscilla Preston.
​
I am the husband to Regina Regal, adopting my biological brother and sister as my own children.
My namesake, Daniel Whittenhower is not my father, as it states on my false birth certificate. He’s not my grandfather, as it states on my sire’s false birth certificate.

Daniel Whittenhower is my great-uncle and my step-grandfather, sitting in my seat as the Whittenhower patriarch, that position is owed to me by law of primogeniture, since the death of my birth father. As long as the resurrected James Atwater doesn’t stake his claim, it’s all mine… and I don’t know if I’m ready for it.

Now I’m keeping secrets from Dalton, never naming those siblings, because of secrets that aren’t mine to keep. When he finds out how I kept him at arm’s length, didn’t trust him with the truth, as he poured out his past to me… finds out his ex-wife is my sister.

My boyfriend is my unknown ex-brother-in-law… Dalton almost broke up with me when he discovered he had sex with my wife in the dungeon at Restraint so many months ago.

Game over.

My fingers tighten around Dalton’s, terrified he’s about to disappear from my life.

“Just go easy on Grandfather,” Whitney murmurs, then sits back against the seat, effectively cutting off the conversation, using Dalton to hide from my view.

Queen catches my eye again, and I know she’s eavesdropped on our conversation. She holds no judgment on anyone– she’s a forgiver to my grudge-holder. Once a week for years, she sat with her enemies and found a common ground. If she can forgive my grandfather for the heinous acts he perpetrated against her, maybe I can forgive what he’s done to me, but I’ll never forgive what he’s done to Queen. Never.

No matter what, a point of contention in our relationship is the one I refuse to forgive, the one Queen defends even when her heart bleeds bitter blood. Grant is the one I refuse to forgive, and it makes me respect Queen less and less as she continues to defend and love that spineless rat.

We’ll see when I set foot off this bus where it comes to my sire’s false sire…

“I’ll try with Daniel,” I answer Whitney, but it’s for my wife’s ears.

Queen smiles back at me, rubbing her cheek on the fiery hair on top of Azrael’s head. She just wants us to be happy and together, and to hell with the past. But if someone disrespects Queen by betraying her second chances, she’ll be the first one to cut them from our lives.

Once we pass the first of three gates to my familial estate, the excitement ratchets up by several degrees. Everyone is excited, save me. The anxiety hits me out of nowhere. Sweat beads on my spine, bumps well up on my skin. My heartrate accelerates to the point I can feel my blood rushing through my veins. My chest rapidly rises and falls, pulling me toward hyperventilation. I rub moisture-slicked palms on my pant legs, the charcoal gray fabric darkening.

Closing my eyes tightly, I draw in a deep breath, one I don’t release until I finally open my eyes. Watching the scenery of my estate flash past me from the bus window, I’m thoroughly entranced by the vividly green, heavily wooded landscape that the three-mile drive winds through.

I’ve always felt a sense of pride overwhelm me when I gazed over the land that was always meant to be mine, and eventually that pride would transform into resentment as the lies surrounding my birth hit me.

With Daniel stating I was fourth-born, none of this was to be mine.

Jackson was the first born. Even though he had no legal children, I was always confused as to why Grant was the heir apparent, and not Daniel. Daniel is an honorable, ethical person, loving his brother so fiercely he would never begrudge Grant of his legacy.

As the first son of the first son, all of this was promised to Niel’s from his conception, because Grant never expected to become our patriarch.

I’m not the fourth-born of the second-born– I’m the first of the first, Niel is the second, and this estate is MINE!

As is the way of my kind– the elite –the land, the castle, and the businesses my great-grandfather built, passes from eldest son to eldest son.

Primogeniture.

Rich asshole entitlement aside, nothing is more infuriating than knowing a billion-dollar legacy was torn from me as surely as I was torn from the family tree, no matter how much I love the Whittenhower heir apparent.

Now I look over the landscape and know without a shadow of a doubt that this property is mine. I feel it to the core of my soul– the rightness of it. My sire took himself out of the legacy, leaving me the opportunity to lead my family as the eldest male.

One day, I will step down and pass the responsibility to my adopted son, my blooded-brother, Niel. At seventeen, he isn’t ready, but a few years from now, he might be. If he isn’t, I will break the line– I will pass it to whomever is most capable, male or female. Any children I have in the future, grandchildren, cousins, or nieces or nephews– anyone with Whittenhower blood running through their veins. It’s time to start a new generation of Whittenhowers– a new legacy built on honor and respect, not primogeniture.

The millions of dollars’ worth of property don’t fill me with the pride, but that single thought alone does. I’m about to instigate change. This is for the betterment and health of my family. I can do this. I need to do this. Not because I am the only one capable, but because I want it– I crave it.

The anxiety bleeds out of me as we crest the knoll that takes the bus through the final gate– large and looming, stone-walled with a black iron, ornate double gate opening electronically. Revealed is the foreboding Misery Castle with its flying buttresses and guard gargoyles.

A sharp gasp emanates from my companions– all who have never been here before and some who are frequent visitors. My family lights up with pride and the thrill of homecoming.

As of late, the Whittenhowers weren’t as wealthy as the Holdens and Zeitlers, our equivalent in Dominion society. But that was until my grandfather pulled Regina into our family through coercion, intimidations, and threats. Almost twenty years ago, he saw the potential of a young woman who would irrevocably change our lives.

Misery Castle was built well over a hundred and fifty years ago when the Whittenhowers were at their peak– revolutionaries, innovators who influenced the direction of our great nation. The city of Dominion, New York was founded by several families who settled in this area, using their old money and power to create the world we live in today, reaching every branch of government.

The bus follows the circular driveway, giving its passengers a slow view of the large, sprawling manse. Whittenhower Estates, known to me as Misery Castle– a moniker Queen aptly created –looms four stories overhead.

One of the largest privately-owned homes in our country. Its stone masonry and arched leaded-glass windows lend to a gothic, gloomy appearance. But not as much as the gargoyles that sinisterly hang from the eaves and line the walk to the entrance of the estate. Double doors, each nearly four feet in width and heavier than a bastard, rise almost ten feet on the front of the familial castle.

 This castle was erected as a fortification during the construction of Dominion. The three most powerful families took point. Misery Castle looms over Dominion itself. Shadow Haven Estates watches over Crestview, which we call The Gates. Serenity Lake, the Zeitler property, was the first to be erected, used during the construction of the castle, but has since burned to the ground. Dexter rebuilt a smaller facsimile at the head of The Gates.

Pride at being a large part of history– whether it was for the greater good or to our detriment remains to be seen –infuses me, lending me the confidence to pull on the mask of the entitled rich pretty boy who can do anything and everything he sets his mind to. Unlike who I am– the boy who is about to shit his pants out of pure terror.

I pause for a moment as the bus idles at the walkway to the limestone staircase, leading to the main entrance to the castle. My eyes linger on the malevolent splendor, drinking in my home.

Expectant gazes draw me from my confusion. Dalton squeezes my hand– oh, right, it’s my home now, so I’m the one in charge. I have to lead them. I have to invite them inside.

As I stand with my shoulders drawn back, pretending I’m more confident than I truly am, all sound ceases, even breath from our lungs. My boyfriend and cousin stand to allow my exit. On my way by, I kiss my cousin on her cheek, and she freezes in surprise. Whitney and I were never close growing up, closer now that Queen demands it, but we never bonded. Whitney follows me as I’d hoped.

I pause at the seat where Ella sits with Queen. Catching on, Queen hands the twins off to Ava and Spyder. Mother and daughter join Whitney and me in the aisle. Niel instinctively knows what to do, grabbing for our youngest cousin’s hand. Priscilla, delicate Prissy, who at fifteen looks like a tiny sprite or faerie.

As I step from the bus, I sense his presence just as strongly as I did that first day back at the brownstone. The man who now calls himself Jamie sits in a car behind the bus. I wonder if he’s having second thoughts, as this was meant to be his. When Grant gave up his legacy, he abandoned us too, which is unforgivable in my book.

As my family and I exit the bus, I change my mind. I refuse to storm my own home. I have no need to take by force that which is rightfully mine. I don’t know where this revelation is coming from, but intuitively I know the Whittenhowers are already mine, without ever having to fight for them.

My companions empty from the bus, all staring upward at the imposing manse. As if sensing the change in me, they all stand back– no one will enter the great doors until I offer the invitation. They won’t pass its threshold until I am the King of Misery Castle. 

Checkmate Mistress & Master of Restraint #7 Chapter One​ ​Screw it!
Queen sits around for no man, especially Whitt.
Playing pretend by living in denial, I only take the strength from my conversation with Jamie, leaving behind everything else that will completely debilitate me. Dragging in a deep breath, the force filling my lungs so quickly they burn, I let it out in a rush as I escape the Zeitler private room at Restraint.
Conversation flows down the hallway to reach my ears, so I step softly when what I truly want to do is stomp as I march into battle.
I never got a good look at the dungeon since I was blindfolded, then I was in a state of emotional shock. The shock has worn off, taking Jamie’s words to heart.
What’s done is done. What I do next is all on me.
Taking another page from– don’t go there, Regina –Jamie’s playbook, I linger at the head of the hallway, taking it all in while forming a battle plan before charging forward.
Shithole.
An emotionless wasteland of gray upon gray upon gray, no doubt Ezra’s brainchild. The narcissistic, lunatic doctor is probably paying homage to the color of his own eyes. Cold, in both feel and temperature, the dungeon lives up to its name.
Radiating warmth in the cold with his darker skin and amber gaze, Marcus is so full of life, smiling blindingly at something his cousin says, but the humor doesn’t reach his eyes– he doesn’t belong in such a lifeless environment. I don’t know Dexter well, but my impression is that he’s a warm person whose tastes run even hotter. Tan and vivacious, Cortez is always the center of attention, and he deserves a better place to shine. Whitt– my sunshine shouldn’t even be in here.
The only inhabitants fit for this desolated wasteland are Ezra and Faith, both paler than death, with Ezra’s hair and eyes just as pale. Faith’s fury runs red hot, and I have a feeling the man had a hand in turning the adorable child into the faithless Syn. There is a balance between the pair, as if they are connected and communicating even with distance and silence separating them.
I was meant to be here, to bring life into this cesspit of self-created and self-inflicted misery.
“Niel was showing off his armpit hair during our ‘how to be a megalomaniac’ training yesterday afternoon, and I thought for sure Daniel would shit a brick.” Animated, Whitt is telling Ezra a story about my son in a voice filled with pride and affectionate humor.
My gut clenches, twisting in on itself, because not only does Whitt know Niel inside and out, I have a feeling Ezra knows my son almost as well.
Soon– I’ll give Whitt anything he wants as long as I get my son back.
Gracing us with a rare smile, Ezra goes from corpse to angel. “You don’t know Daniel very well, Pretty Boy.” Ezra shakes his head, white hair tumbling to brush along his forehead. “How is that even possible? Daniel is the one who helped tutor me through med school.”
Shocked, Whitt gasps, “My Daniel?”
“Yes, your Daniel.” Chuckling, Ezra sounds so much like Cortez, all heads whip in his direction. It’s obvious to all, Ezra truly enjoys Whitt’s company, almost as a centering force. Collectively, everyone relaxes and takes a deep breath, like Ezra’s mood influence theirs. “Pay attention to the man, Whitt. He’s a font of endless information, and a very good teacher.”
“Daniel is an arctic blast in my home,” Whitt mutters, expression glazing over with hurt. “Since it was Niel disrupting our lesson on the stock exchange to count his short-hairs, Daniel indulged him.” Handsome face turning away, I can barely make out, “I would have gotten my fingers swatted with a ruler.”
“Ah, good ol’ Hillbrook punishments, alive and well in Misery Castle.” Smiling broadly, Cortez insinuates himself into their conversation. “Does the carpet match the drapes?”
Head thrown back, Whitt is a glorious sight, but the sound of his laughter nearly brings me to my knees– Grant. Nodding his head up and down while laughing, he forces out, “Yes. The carpet is even redder than the drapes, and the dang kid announces every new hair on his body.”
“Ah– he’s just rubbing it in because you couldn’t even grow a partial beard until last spring.” Cort is being his usual snarky self.
“Ass,” Whitt murmurs while wearing a fond smirk. “Niel will have a full beard in the next two years or so, mark my words.”
“And you’ll still be baby smooth,” Cort taunts while patting Whitt’s flushed cheek, causing Ezra to laugh. “I have no room to talk, and neither does he.” Cort thrusts a finger in Ezra’s direction. “Baby smooth for life.”
“Whitney bought Niel a flannel shirt for his last birthday, and Prissy got him a shaving kit.” Face a brilliant shade of red, Whitt looks so much like his father, to the point I’m thankful his voice is all his own. “They even managed to get Daniel to call Niel Lumberjack for the day.”
Ezra and Cortez clasp their fists above their hearts, looking touched, and it confuses Whitt.
Deciding I’ve seen enough, I break away from my hidey hole. “The Ezes realize how Daniel meant it in a different way– Jackson,” I announce. “Wild and crazy Jack. My son inherited his manliness from both sides of the family, even if Grant was smoother than a baby,” I mutter wryly, realizing it doesn’t hurt as badly as I thought it would. “No doubt testosterone bleeds from my son’s pores.”
“Hi!” Whitt chirps, looking beyond embarrassed, either because he was caught gossiping about the family I was excommunicated from, or because an hour ago he ordered me to fuck his friends…
“Um… this is awkward, Reg.” Cortez has the decency to be ashamed of himself for earlier. “I– I don’t know what to say, or how to say it.”
“Bad position for a word-weaver to be,” Ezra adds in, but he doesn’t look ashamed or apologetic. Just business as usual for Dr. Ezra Holden Zeitler.
I ignore the billion elephants towering over us in the dungeon. “One question– does Daniel tutor Whitney and Prissy, or just you and my son?”
A collective breath is taken, almost as if they all thought I should punish them for my horrific initiation. I should– but I won’t. As Jamie said, no one held a gun to our children’s heads. I had a choice to stay and participate or leave, and I need to honor my choices’ consequences.
I’m not allowed to play the victim or the hypocrite.
“Daniel is an asshole,” Whitt snarls, lips curling aggressively to showcase his perfect teeth. The feral expression is at odds on his handsome face. “But he teaches us one-on-one, in groups, and all together. A Whittenhower is a Whittenhower is a Whittenhower. Katie said he had done the same with Grant, her, and Ade.”
“And that makes him an asshole, why?” I coax, knowing Daniel is an asshole because he can’t help himself, but I don’t know where this animosity is coming from.
“Because Niel, Whitney, and Prissy were taught from birth, and Daniel ignored me. I wasn’t taught lessons until he needed me to keep Niel focused, that’s why.”
“Grant didn’t want this life for you, Sunshine.” I reach for Whitt, but allow my hand to fall to my side. “That’s why.”
“And why should my dead brother get a say in my upbringing?” Whitt spits, causing all of us to jerk back, giving us the emotional equivalent of whiplash.
“About that– it’s time to talk.” This time when I reach for Whitt, he doesn’t allow my indecision. His warm hand wraps around mine, then gives a reassuring clench. “Breakfast? I’m starving.”
“I could eat.” Whitt nods his head, humming to himself.
Our fellow Masters of Restraint look around at each other with unease, wondering if they are invited, or maybe they feel the discomfort wafting in the air like I do.
“Regina?” Marcus walks toward me slowly, as if waiting for me to faint like a delicate flower after the night I’ve had. “The rest… the rest of your initiation? My room? You and Whitt?”
“Nope.” I pop the P. Eyes narrowing with defiance, I glare Marc’s way. “Not happening, and I feel more than insulted that you actually thought it would.” 
“None of this was of my making,” Marcus snarls, amber fire blazing my way. “If you want to disobey, it’s not my problem.”
“Getting soft, old man?” Ezra’s words are light and humorous, but filled with barely suppressed rage. “Just because you’ve finally found a lover, doesn’t mean Regina shouldn’t be held to the same standards as the rest of us.”
“Standards? Don’t you mean warped perversions and cerebral torture?” I murmur, causing Cortez to snort.
“More like mind fucks,” my partner-in-crime adds in. “Mixed with literally fucks.”
“I didn’t say Regina was my lover, did I?” Marc’s careless words wound. “If I had, do you honestly think I would have allowed her to suck my cousin’s dick and fuck my adopted son?”
“Harsh,” Dexter breathes, sounding as pained as I feel. “Regina definitely owned it, though.”
Allowing myself a half-second pity party, I close my eyes in a slow blink and release the breath I was holding. By the time I’m drawing in a fresh breath, I pretend I’m not bothered by Marc’s dismissive attitude about the past eighteen months we’ve spent together.
“It’s true.” Marcus shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “I wouldn’t pass my lover around like a party favor.”
“Judgmental, much?” Cortez jumps to my defense. “I don’t know what game you fuckers are playing, but this dungeon is now neck-deep in bullshit. The stench is rank.”
“Marcus, Maître du Jeu placed you in charge of Restraint’s BDSM chapter, and it’s your job to make sure all rules are adhered to. If Whitt and you negotiated for Regina’s initiation, then all duties must be met.”
“Ezra!” Syn barks loudly, like she’s calling a dog to heel. “There is MdJ business, then there is family business–”
“Which is one in the same–”
“Ezra!” Syn stalks across the expanse of the dungeon to grip Ezra’s arm, nails biting in. “You made use of Regina’s body. I suggest you thank her for that and move on. She’s not fucking Whitt in your room this morning.”
“Then I’ll have Pretty Boy ink in that M on Regina’s hand, and we’ll be done with this bullshit.”
“Even you don’t have that authority,” Syn seethes, and Ezra’s skin actually blanches paler than usual. Impressive. I assume either Syn has the authority, or knows who does.
Another puzzle piece slides into place, and the elephants in the room get harder and harder to ignore.
“Fine, Master.” Ezra wrenches his arm out of Syn’s grip. “Judge, Jury, and Executioner, you have Whitt ink in Regina’s M. Then Marcus can go fuck his lover behind closed doors, just like our precious Grant always did. Let’s be realistic. Their love nest is the brownstone, so she’s probably fucking Jamie too, which means she knows who he is. Who here doesn’t know Alex is Roman Alexander? Regina’s bud from the hood? She’s probably fucking him too. What about Stanton Green? Is Regina still in contact with Stanton?”
“Cort?” Syn addresses the last person she’d ever speak to. “Is Ez off his meds again?”
Yanking his partner to his side, Cortez looks about ready to pass the hell out. In a low voice, he warns, “Shut the fuck up, Ezra, before Faith kills you.”
“Is Regina screwing Stanton too?” Ezra glares my way. “Let’s fill the brownstone so Regina can fuck her way through MdJ.”
“What?” Marcus and Dexter murmur slowly in unison, more confused than I am. If my brain wasn’t spinning its wheels, I’d be launching myself at Ezra and clawing his perfect face to shreds.
“Jesus Christ!” Whitt tries to dislodge his hand from mine, no doubt envisioning wrapping his fingers around Ezra’s throat. For a split-second, I almost allow it– I almost help. “Don’t speak of Queen like that, Ezra. I thought we were friends.”
“Daniel.” Ezra releases a resigned sigh. “We’ll be friends for life. What’s one more fuck in Regina’s long list of fucks?”
“Oh, my Lord.” I groan, with Syn growling in the background. “I’m a grown fucking woman! A mother of two, and a business owner. I’ve had sex with two people until tonight, asshole. It’s your fault I doubled that number because you can’t shit and get off the pot by screwing your own partner.”
“Way to take ownership in the state of your own vagina, Regina.” Ezra does not like me.
“Since you obviously know Roman, I’ll be sure to have him lecture you on the perils of slut-shaming, asshole. Your dick has been inside everyone in this room, or theirs inside your ass, except for Whitt. I bet given the chance, you’d bend over and beg him for it. Is that your problem? Are you jealous he’s waiting to do me first?” Lips twisted in disgust, “You can have my sloppy seconds.”
Whitt has the common decency not to comment on that, but his shudder speaks volumes.
“I’m not jealous.” I thought Cortez was the pouting champion, but Ezra… Ezra wins hands down. “Whitt deserves what Whitt wants. We’ve all had to endure and adhere to ridiculous machinations.” Ezra’s voice is as cold as ice, and just as sharp. He speaks at me, not to me. “Why should Regina be any different?”
“Because anything that happened after the M was inked on my hand had nothing to do with my initiation, and you know it, Ezra.” If he can use his asshole voice, then I can use my mom tone. “Because all of you warped motherfuckers may have thought Whitt and I were going to fuck, but Whitt and I knew it wasn’t going to happen.”
Facial expression twisted with indecision and confusion, Marcus gestures to Whitt. “You sure about that, Regina? All I’ve heard since young Daniel hit puberty was how you were going to be his first. I concealed your presence in the brownstone because I feared he’d cut my dick off for touching you first. He’s under the impression you’re Whittenhower property, but has since said I was okay since I was Grant’s best friend.”
A grumbling rolls through the dungeon, everyone in agreement, including the idiot holding my hand.
“Whitt was trying to humiliate me tonight, not get into my pants,” I admit the painful truth.
“What?” Marcus is taken aback. “Regina, I’ve been going insane with fear and worry for the past two months. This was not about humiliation.”
“Yeah, it was.” Whitt has the balls to admit it. “I know Queen will eventually give in, but I knew it wouldn’t be tonight, and I can’t believe you all thought it would be. You don’t know Regina very well if you thought differently.”
“Why?” Ezra and Marcus say in unison, with Cortez looking sad, Syn confused, and Dexter enthralled with the drama.
“Just as Whitt seems to be the only person in this dungeon who truly knows me, I’m the only one who truly gets him. Whitt wanted to humiliate me because I’m a goddamn liar and a hypocrite of the highest order. Which is why I want to speak to Whitt in private, to put it all on the table once and for all, and then to apologize.”
Whitt squeezes my hand, while every muscle in his body relaxes at once.
“All I know is if this is how this organization is run, by temper-tantrum-throwing children playacting adults, then it’s no wonder this place is a shithole.” I tug Whitt’s arm, pulling him toward the nearest door. “I’ll be back later tonight to get Restraint in working order, membership included.”  Chapter Two ​Walking hand-in-hand with Whitt is surreal. Neither of us speaks but it feels like the years melt away, like there was never a moment’s separation. What is hard to wrap my mind around is how the man walking next to me is nearly the same age Grant was when we were together, looking like a perfect clone to his father. But instead of serenity and solace as we walk in silence, anticipation and veiled aggression flavor the air.
Whitt and Grant are not the same beast, and I’m unsure how to go forth, so I take Jamie’s sage advice. The watcher knows us all best.
“Um… Obviously we have no car.” I stumble over my words. “Unless you want to jack Ezra’s ridiculously expensive SUV.”
As we walk out the side door to Restraint and into the damp morning air, the rising sun casts an orange glow on the parking lot. Whitt turns to look at me with his eyebrow raised wryly. “I could call Albert, but…”
Whitt makes me feel uncomfortable, more so than when I was around Jackson and Daniel at the same time. I feel like a lost child again, one who knew nothing of the world, and I’ll never learn the knowledge the man at my side possesses. It’s the same feeling Marcus elicited in me when we first met. I hope this tension between Whitt and me dissolves quickly, before it gives him the advantage to bulldoze right over me.
“So… we can walk, or do you want to leave everyone stranded?
“Walk it is.” Whitt’s voice sounds like he holds all of my secrets and finds me cute. “Syn is a detail-oriented person, so I highly doubt she left Ezra’s keys in the car. Unless you learned to hotwire in the hood.”
“Ha-ha!”
This is so fucking bizarre on so many levels. Jesus Fuck, uncomfortable is an understatement. After fantasizing about our reunion for more than a decade, this is not how I envisioned it.
Feeling many eyes on me, I wonder who is hiding in the shadows. Ezra’s Aaron and Roarke? Who watches Faith’s back? I have no doubt Ezra and Faith are at the very top of Maître du Jeu’s food chain– founders’ council, not its BDSM front. Does Jamie have Roman and Kristal haunting our every step? Whitt is with me, so where is Albert, or even Martha? Is that how this enforcer business works?
Add paranoia to my discomfort.
“We could catch a cab and go home.” Hope lingers in Whitt’s voice, but I’m not ready.
“I can’t, Sunshine.” My stomach clenches as my feet take me to the sidewalk, with Whitt following at my side. “Daniel… I can’t go back there, not after how I left things.”
“Hey,” Whitt breathes softly. “We need to talk, and I could eat, remember? So let’s do breakfast and see where our conversation takes us. Plus, I long ago learned not to speak in public or private with so many listening ears, and I’ve often wondered when my private words were used against me in conversation when I uttered them when I was alone.”
“Yeah, the first time I was in Cort’s car, Marcus was listening to our every word, and I didn’t know until afterward.”
Marcus is one of the most intelligent creatures I’ve ever met, so I was a bit surprised at how shocked he appeared to be when I explained how easy it was to hijack his surveillance and use it against all of us.
Even our ears have ears, so maybe I’m not being paranoid after all. 
“Fucking lovely,” Whitt hisses, hand clenching around mine. “There is some bizarre shit going down, even Niel has noticed. We’ve tried to talk to Daniel about it, but he brings Diane in, and the pair of them tell us to leave it alone.”
Testing the waters– always testing the waters… “Are they terrified or resigned when this happens?”
Whitt thinks about this for a block or two, and I have no idea where he’s leading me. “Terrified is not an emotion Daniel ever exhibits. But I guess frazzled would be the best way to describe it, which is major for that man.”
I mull that terrifying information over. “I doubt Daniel and Diane know exactly what’s going on then, just that they know shit is going down like we do.”
“I know more than most,” Whitt admits, causing my steps to falter.
“You hate me,” I blurt out. “I can tell you know the truth.”
Pace slowing, Whitt whispers, “Do you ever feel like everyone in your life is betraying you by omission?”
I can barely swallow around the ball of guilt threatening to suffocate me. “Yeah, I do, and that answered my question, didn’t it?”
Voice emotionless, “Yeah, it did,” Whitt replies without hesitation.  
Whispering softly, because to speak louder would make me choke on the words. “I believe you’re the only person I know who has never betrayed me, Sunshine. Yet I betrayed you by omission, even if I didn’t want to.”
Swinging around, suddenly furious, Whitt drops my hand and faces me. I bite back laughter at how the Denny’s sign illuminates his blond hair like an angelic halo. Eyes narrowed, muscles taut and coiled for attack, fists clenched, Whitt asks the question I’ve been asking myself.
“Why did you?”
Body slumping in defeat, “I don’t know,” flows from my lips like a coward. “Because I’m a mother, and the thought of someone going against my wishes with my children kills me, and I know this firsthand. For that reason alone, I kept Grant’s wishes.”
“My father’s wishes?” Whitt challenges me.
“Yes, your father’s wishes.” Jamie’s words ring in my head. Own it. “I won’t apologize for not telling you when you were little. I was building a life with your father, trying to hold onto my own son with my fingertips, all the while trying to survive. I agreed with Grant’s reasons, and I still do, even seeing the formidable young man you’ve grown to be.”
“Why?” Whitt breathes, sounding just as defeated as I feel. “Why didn’t he think I deserved my legacy? Why don’t you think I deserve it?”
“No,” I cry, reaching for Whitt. Tugging him roughly into my arms, I hold him, rocking back and forth while I tell the truth. “Your father wanted you to have the life he wasn’t allowed to lead. A life of his own choosing.”
“Was it because I’m gay?” Whitt sniffles against my neck, rubbing his cheek along my jawline.
“Partially,” I admit, and Whitt jerks as if struck. “But not for the reasons you believe. His marriage to Cora, your conception, along with Niel’s, it was all forced on Grant, and he didn’t want you to live like that. Being gay, it would have made it even more of a nightmare, to be forced to marry, bed, and make children with a woman.”
“I could do it.” Pulling away, Whitt acts, sounds, and looks like the boy I’d grown to know and love. “I’m stronger than they think.”
“I know, but you shouldn’t have to do it.” Hand moving on its own accord to cup his cheek, for a moment, I’m confused by touching and looking at a man who is Grant’s doppelganger. It takes me ten seconds of blinking back tears to see Whitt instead of the man I lost.
“What your dad wanted for you, what your grandfathers wanted for you, your grandmother and your aunts and uncle, and what I wanted for you, is for you to grow into your own man, with your own passions, to find a man who will love this person we all love so dearly. That is why.”
Whitt looks away from me, hiding the tears staining his cheeks, and my hand falls back to my side. “Okay, that makes sense in regard to why Daniel didn’t shove his lessons down my throat before Niel and the girls were ready, but I guess it also explains why no one told me Grant was my dad.”
Eyes scrunched in confusion, I try to get Whitt to explain. “What are you reasoning out?”
“Over breakfast– c’mon.” Whitt grabs for my hand to tug me into Denny’s of all places. “I feel eyes on me. There’s a man over there by the bench watching us.”
As Whitt pulls me into the diner, I check out the guy acting disinterested in us. Blank. Nondescript. Closely cropped brown hair, jeans and a leather jacket, and a cellphone in hand as if he doesn’t even notice us. But I’ve seen him before– often.
“Have you seen Stanton Green recently?” I ask Whitt when we come to stop before the hostess station.
“No, why?” Whitt looks at me crosswise. “That’s twice Dominion’s lord of the underworld has been brought up, when I hadn’t heard his name in ages. The last I remember of him was having forced playdates with Toddler.”
“Toddler?” I snort at Whitt’s insulting nickname for Binks. “Well, people age, but they tend to still look similar. That guy out there, I’ve seen him before. I don’t know his name, but he was friends with Caleb Green before Stanton’s little brother was shipped away to military school.”
“That’s disturbing. If you’re one to keep tabs on people, you should know Caleb joined the Marines and is stationed somewhere playing GI Joe,” Whitt murmurs, then turns on the charm for the hostess. “Hello, darling.” The dimples pop and the crystalline blue eyes shine, and the fifty-something woman is about to swoon. “Could we have a booth with a front window, but away from the door? Please and thanks.”
As Whitt’s passenger, I trail behind him and the hostess, who has perfected the art of walking slowly, in case we get lost in the twenty feet from here to there. “Thank you.” Whitt’s charm is still turned up to swoon, but if he adds flirting to the mix, I’m out of here.
Eyeing the man who utterly terrifies me, yet makes me want to pull him into my arms and never let him go, I slide into the booth. Flipping the well-used coffee mug over to signal I want some, I wait the hostess out as she lingers and bats her eyelashes at Whitt.
“Dear God,” I groan. “There should be a warning label on your forehead.” Laughing to myself, I shake my head back and forth. “So, if you haven’t seen Stanton, then I guess you haven’t seen Binks, either.”
“Toddler?” Whitt visibly shudders. “Fuck no.”
So much for that segue. Uncomfortable in the extreme, I pretend to look at the menu. “Um… so I should probably tell you­–”
“That she’s my sister?” Whitt fills in the blanks for me. Voice dry enough to catch fire, “I figured that out when I was six– thanks.”
Hands stilling, I drop the menu to the tabletop with a loud clank to my coffee cup. “Why did you wait to confront me?”
“I thought you’d tell me when you were ready, I guess.” Whitt’s finger goes line-by-line on the menu. “I figured out Grant was my dad because my sisters didn’t seem to take as much of an interest in me as he did. As my mother, Priscilla always deferred to Grant. If he wasn’t my dad, then why would she?”
“PedoBear– holy fuck!” Covering my mouth with the back of my hand, my conversation with Kristal rears its ugly head. Laughing, I decide Kristal is a cunt of the highest order, but one with a warped sense of humor.
“What?” Whitt’s eyebrows scrunch together in confusion, but his lips are twisted with amusement. “Grant was not like that. I mean, I always thought Jackson’s kissing on the mouth was a bit much, but I think that was to get a rise out of Daniel.”
“Nail. Head.” We’re interrupted by a gobsmacked waitress who can’t stop drooling over the young man seated across from me. Whitt, wearing expensive clothing like a second-skin, is a sight to behold in a diner of all places. “All-American Slam with white toast and coffee, please.”
“Fit Slam and grapefruit juice,” Pretty Boy requests, earning a sigh of pleasure from our waitress.
“For serious?” I volley across the table at the kid as soon as the girl shuffles away. “Fit Slam? Meanwhile, the middle-aged woman is eating enough to feed a horse.”
“Middle-aged?” Whitt has the good sense to roll his eyes. “You’re only thirty-one, right? Almost thirty-two? You seem to have forgotten that I’ve seen you naked, and even with being gay, I enjoyed the view.” Noticing the flaming blush on my cheeks, he changes the subject before my attitude turns dicey. “As for the caloric mindfulness, Daniel has me on a double course load.”
“So much for living your passions,” I mumble underneath my breath. “Grant would be pissed.” –I refuse to use present tense.
 “Well, up until I reached the age of majority, Daniel was my governing authority.” Animosity replaced by a softening of his features, Whitt’s voice shifts to affectionate. “Double course load: business and art. Half for him, half for me.”
Angry at myself, I voice my private thoughts. “I want to hate him, but I can’t.” Thankfully the waitress passing out our beverages saves me from explaining.
“I spend my days at the university. When I return to Misery Castle, Daniel forces me to sit at his desk with him– the old bastard pretends it’s not for my company. Like I’m still in elementary school, he goes over my homework, while trying to override my professors. If the TA teaches one of my classes, Daniel calls up the Dean, saying he’s going to pull Whittenhower funding.”
“Good times?” I lift my coffee mug and clink Whitt’s juice glass in a toast. “Same Daniel, different decade.” Voice fond, but still holding a wealth of sadness, “At least you don’t have Jackson going livid crazy on your professors with Grant trying to play interference.”
“Daniel would embarrass you, too?” Whitt’s laughter is a sucker-punch to the throat. All is not lost forever. “I have no life. School. Daniel. Waiting for the kids to get home from school so Daniel can get his rocks off on teaching us whatever for the night. I sit on my ass, so that’s why I avoid fatty foods.”
“Jeesh. You’re nineteen, Whitt– live a little.” I wait a moment in the silence, then coax him to continue. “But don’t stop talking. Gimme more.”
All the charm Whitt had bestowed on the wait staff was pale in comparison to the high-wattage smile he flashes my way. Mouth drying up, breath hitching, all I can do is stare across the table as he indents his dimples.
“No one but the youngsters give a shit about what I’m doing unless I’m not doing as I was told.” The sadness makes a reappearance by lurking in the depths of his eyes. “My favorite part of the week is when Prissy’s trainer visits. Gymnastics. God, that guy is hotter than Hades. Straight. My gaydar is faulty, and I mistook his impressive bulge for a ‘happy to see me’ showing.”
Grinning, I chuckle underneath my breath at the crestfallen expression on our waitress’s face as she delivers our breakfast platters. She doesn’t even respond to Whitt’s, “Thank you, darling.”
“So much for Cinderella finding her Prince Charming at Denny’s,” I tease, doing my damnedest to hold back the laughter trying to escape.
“Prince?” Scoffing, Whitt looks more than mildly insulted. “Try KING, Queen.”
“King Whittenhower.” I try for teasing again, but it sounds like reality to me, which is terrifying. “So nothing fun besides ogling Prissy’s trainer? How are your art classes? Do you tattoo often? How did you end up at Restraint?”
“Teddy– the trainer’s name is Teddy. He is the highlight of my week for spank-bank material. Art class is still class, and I’m sick as fuck of formal education because I’ve been doing it since I was two, which is why I ended up tattooing in the first place. Not as often as I’d like, but Kristal and Syn humor me when I have a new design. Restraint–” Whitt’s wicked grin is so wide I fear his lips will split in the center.
“There’s a story behind that, I take it.” Amazed, I can’t look away from Whitt. Just sitting here, listening to him speak, is the highlight of my decade. I’m not even hungry, and I don’t care that my food is getting cold.
“Daniel is boring, as you know.” Whitt winks at me, the pisspot. “By the time I hit sixteen, I was getting angrier and angrier with every passing day. Daniel is also a weirdo, like he wasn’t put off on my being gay. He would hand me books on things I’d rather experience than read.” Voice warping until it’s a facsimile of his grandfather’s, “You have to be safe, Daniel, and don’t have sex with a woman unless you plan on procreating. Condoms are not infallible.”
In between chuckling, I nosh on a piece of bacon. “That is the Daniel I remember.”
“Yeah, well… it sucked having him quiz me on how I was feeling and why I was feeling it. Since I’ve never stopped chasing Ezra around–”
“Obviously,” I mutter dramatically for effect.
“Ha-ha! On a whim, I told Daniel I wanted to train with Ezra, and he actually said yes. I was flooooored,” Whitt draws out. “I ended up with Marcus, but Daniel was still proud of me, saying I was like Jackson.” Whitt leans across the table and whispers conspiratorially, “What does that even mean? Jack wasn’t gay, was he?”
“I would get so frustrated with Daniel and Jackson, where I’d war with myself over hating and loving them, to the point Grant would feed me juicy bits and pieces to keep me from killing the men. So unless you truly want to know, don’t ask.”
“Don’t be a bitch, Queen.” Smiling, Whitt points across the table at me. “I’m trying my damnedest not to be pissed at you, so if you’ve got the goods, you better produce ‘em.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I make Whitt suffer while I make a sandwich out of bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast. After a few bites, where the poor guy is practically vibrating with anticipation, I put him out of his misery.
“Jackson was a hellraiser in his time. Naughty, bisexual, and without morals, the man’s worst nightmare was his heart meds, because they took away the use of his cock.”
Empathizing, Whitt grunts in pain.
“Before I go on, I need to know if you know who Grant’s father is.”
“Jackson? Daniel?” Whitt doesn’t even bat an eyelash at my question. “I was the little kid hiding in the draperies. If you don’t think I saw Jackson and Priscilla making out, or Jackson hugging Daniel, and Daniel looking confused, like he was being boiled alive… I’ve asked Daniel more than a hundred times, and I even went to the source– Priscilla. But I always get a different answer each time.”
“Really?” My wheels begin spinning again, giving me a migraine. “Grant always assumed it was Jackson. Anyway, since he couldn’t get it up, Jackson found more cerebral pursuits.”
“BDSM?”
“Yes, and I’m pretty sure Daniel’s boiled alive expression was due to the fact that if he had let him, Jackson would have been more than happy to live a life of incest because it was the most perverse thing the dying man could do. As I said, Jackson was a hellraiser, living every moment on the edge, and that’s about as far off the edge as one can get. Grant was always thankful Jack’s cock didn’t work, because he feared him manipulating Daniel in the bedroom.”
“Manipulating Daniel?” Whitt sounds incredulous as all get out. “Pfft… yeah, right.”
“Daniel is… a complicated man. A scholar thirsting for knowledge to make up for his lack in sex drive, which is why he asked the who/what/where/why/when/how about you being gay. Daniel is incapable of feeling arousal. While he loves Priscilla romantically, it’s not sexual. So he’s all mixed up in the head, finding affection to be a form of sexuality, which is how Jackson could have abused and manipulated him.”
“What?” Whitt’s jaw drops. “Come again?” 
“Daniel is asexual.”
“Dammit!” Whitt’s fist hits the edge of the tabletop, never looking or sounding more like Jackson and Daniel. “Now it will be impossible to hate that man.”
“I warned you,” I remind Whitt, not even bothering to hide my smile at his befuddled reaction. “Grant told me via Jackson how a very bad man got a hold of Daniel when he was a boy, and it fucked him up. He had no sexual urges at all, and can’t distinguish between affection and sex, so he doesn’t do affection except with Priscilla because she’s his wife and that’s par for the course.”
“Daniel doesn’t like sex?” Poor kid looks faintly ill. “At all? I mean, that is life’s greatest gift.”
“No sex drive. No urge. No looking at a woman or man and getting hard. Daniel sees masturbation as another body function to be performed daily, and sex a duty you do with your wife. But Grant assured me that Daniel enjoys the act itself, just doesn’t have an on-switch to tell him to engage in it.”
“The only time Daniel has ever touched me was the one time he slapped me.” Whitt’s revelation hurts my heart. “But like clockwork, about ten minutes before Niel gets out of school, Daniel is practically vibrating with need. He greets Whitney and Prissy, and looks genuinely happy to see them, but he acts like I have the plague. Niel– I’ve never wanted to be jealous of the most important person in my life, but when Daniel takes Niel into a huge hug and kisses his forehead, I die a little bit on the inside each time.”
“Jesus,” I whisper, eyes slipping shut from the pain etched across Whitt’s Grant-like features, then realization strikes. “I don’t even need to see my son to know he’s growing up to look similar to Jackson. So while I find looking at you to be a comfort, I can’t imagine how Daniel feels to look at you, or to look in the mirror and see what he’s lost.”
“Regina,” Whitt cries out, and he hardly ever calls me by name. “That makes me feel worse. You suck in the comfort department.”
“I wasn’t finished.” I reach for his hand, both of us forgetting the pretense of eating breakfast. “Jackson was Daniel’s safe haven. But more so, the day Jackson died, Daniel and I had a conversation about good versus bad touch, and I taught him how to touch Niel. I had him hold Niel, using it to abate his grief. I gave Daniel permission to touch my son, and he took me at my word, and pushed all of the loneliness he must feel over Jackson and Grant into Niel.”
“How am I to continue hating him?” Whitt hangs his head, looking sadder by the second. “The injustice kept me going.”
“Hate Daniel on his actions, not for his inaction. As for you looking like Grant, it wasn’t until Grant turned twenty-one that Daniel began touching him, realizing he was old enough and big enough to tell him no. Daniel’s terrified he’ll inadvertently violate one of you. You’re not there yet, Whitt. So if you want Daniel’s affection, then you have to stop looking at him like he’s the Antichrist and just give him a hug.”
“I don’t… I don’t think my balls are big enough yet.” Whitt looks down at his hands. “Every day since you left, I’ve hated Daniel for making you leave. I was hiding in the draperies when Marcus told Daniel, and I was still in the study when you were told.”
“That’s–” sob lodged in my throat, I nearly suffocate until I choke it out. “That’s how you found out your dad died?”
“Yeah, but see…” Whitt closes his eyes, unable to look at me. “You lost Grant that day, and had to give up Niel, but I lost my dad… and you. Daniel broke after Adelaide dragged you out. We all lost you both, and he couldn’t handle it. He even begged Ade to bring you back, and had Albert looking all over Dominion for you. But you never came back, so I can’t forgive Daniel, no matter how fucked up in the head he may be.”
“Ade never– Fuck!” I suck in a large amount of air, filling my lungs to bursting, and then let the agony out with my exhalation. “I was in a bad place myself, truly believing Daniel was right about ‘a son for a son’, to the point I doubt I would have come back if Ade had asked. Some days, I still think I’m punishing myself. Other days, I feel like I was never enough. For a few seconds a day, I feel like I lost the life I was meant to lead, and I’m just wandering aimlessly.”
Whitt’s laughter has my eyelids popping open. Quickly drying the tears on my cheeks, I begin to wonder over his sanity.
“I was raised in a motherfucking castle as the throwaway son, watching my little brother be treated like a pampered prince. Overlooked, my birthright was torn from me, and I’m so enraged I can barely breathe most days. Whittenhower Estates and all its holdings should have been mine. Jackson to Grant. With Grant’s death, Daniel would have been a placeholder until I reached the age of majority. But with all these secrets and lies, my legacy is gone. Take that for aimless wandering.”
Breathing through the pain, I slide the plates in front of me out of the way and to the side, then I slump forward with my forearms on the tabletop. “Did you want it in the first place?”
“Yes, goddamnit!” Whitt states with great passion. “We always want what we’ve been denied, especially when it was ours in the first place. So what if I’m gay? I don’t need to make a kid when I can use the Whittenhower prince and princesses as my heirs. Jumping over me wasn’t a way to avoid the inevitable, but a slap to the fucking face. Just as it was Jackson’s decision to give the reigns to Daniel, it’s mine for when Niel gets control.”
“You need to ask yourself if you truly want the burden, if you’re capable of shouldering it, or if you’re just being spiteful because you were denied.”
“My roots were torn out of the family tree, Regina. Do you get that? Imagine Curtis and Ella Regal without your name beneath theirs.”
“Whitt, I understand that more than you could ever know.” Resting my head on my forearms, I speak to the tabletop. “My own son isn’t even in my family tree.”
“Bullshit,” Whitt spits. “I’m not going to do the ‘who has it worse game’ with you, but I can assure you Niel’s real birth certificate is in the safe in the study, and it has yours and Grant’s names on it. When I was snooping for it, I found my own birth records instead. So I’m not going to debate whether I want or deserve what’s mine, because it’s rightfully mine, and that’s all there is to say about it.”
“Agreed,” I mutter in defeat, unable to process all Whitt just said.
“As I said before, Niel is my favorite person on the planet, but it doesn’t lessen the hurt that I was somehow deemed unfit at the age of five for my own legacy, while the very thought of a baby yet to be conceived was. It negates all the good I remember from Jackson and Grant, and highlights the cold relationship I have with the man who is legally my father. I just–”
After several long moments, I ask, “What?” assuming Whitt is waiting for me to coax him to continue.
“It’s not about greed or power– I just want to prove I’m worthy. Then, when I’m ready, I’ll pass the torch to a Whittenhower who is ready and willing, and it doesn’t mean it has to be Niel, or my kid if I ever choose to have one. Hell, it could be Ella even. I don’t believe in the way our family has been run so far, and that is what I want the most.”
“The power to change our lives for the better?” I perk up, feeling the first stirrings of positivity in my belly, the addictive surge of power.
“Yes.” Whitt’s eyes glint as if succumbing to the same high I’m experiencing. “There is shit going on around us that I don’t understand. There are more skeletons in Misery Castle than we have closets. Everything in my world is built on secrets and lies, and I want to tear it down to the very foundation and rebuild it again. But I need help– your help, Queen.”
“What’s your game plan on the Whittenhower front? Because I can help with some of the secrets and lies and the shit going on around us we don’t understand.”
“Thank you!” Not only is relief etched across Whitt’s features, it’s prominent in his voice. “I’ve been going through life alone, Queen. Other. I see Niel, Whitney, Prissy, and Ella as a group together, and the rest of my family in neat little boxes. But then there is just me. All alone.”
Reaching across the table for Whitt’s hand, I assuage his fears. “You’re not alone anymore, Sunshine, and you never were. I promise.”
“The heir to the Whittenhower throne matures at the age of twenty-four. Daniel believes he has another decade to rule from his brother’s seat, not realizing I know who I am and where I came from. So that means I have a little over four years to take my legacy back, and I need your help.”
“How?”
“I am the unknown heir apparent, and I need to become the guardian of the heir presumptive to ensure the welfare of every Whittenhower, those who are employed by us, and those who rely on us. I can’t sit back and allow Daniel to take control, or my baby brother who is not ready by any stretch of the imagination. So I need you to help me become the guardian to my own heirs.”
“What?” I slur. “I haven’t been schooled in the finer points of primogeniture since I was in utero.”
“You said Jackson, Daniel, and Grant bypassed me for your son because they wanted me to have a different sort of life. But what about what Prissy wants? Daniel is already looking at who to betroth to Whitney and Niel, and they’ve yet to reach fourteen. What about their lives and wants? What if Niel wants to sit in a dark room all day and write anime? Whitney is so serious, she could probably make a better politician than the asshat Daniel and Kent would try to marry her off to. She shouldn’t be the first lady of anything, but the lady.”
“I get that, and I’m on board with helping you so that every one of our family members can be who they should organically evolve into, not who they are predestined to become.”
“Good, then I hope you won’t tear my head off when you hear the solution.” 
“Out with it,” I demand.
“By law of primogeniture, Jackson had three heirs: Me. Niel. Ella. If anything were to happen to us, the line moves to Daniel as Jackson’s only brother. With no sons, the line would fall to Katie, leaving Whitney and Prissy to be the heirs. But that’s neither here nor there since I still breathe, and I will fight to my last breath to make sure my brother and sister are healthy.”
“Whitt,” I warn. “Stop with the foreplay, and spit it out.”
“I need to be the guardian of my own heirs, Regina.” Eyes darting away, Whitt refuses to look at me. “If they were my children instead of my siblings… I found Niel’s birth certificate, and I have it on my person to give back to you, to give you your son back. You are in possession of Ella. Technically Daniel has no hold over Niel, except for the fact that he is his grandfather, and would probably die without him.”
“Daniel!” I use Whitt’s given name to get him to get to the point.
“There’s method to my madness as to why I said you needed to have sex with me– why I kept guaranteeing you would.” Taking a deep breath, Whitt finally drops the bombshell. “Because you’ll have to consummate our marriage to make it legal. After we marry, after you allow me to adopt my brother and sister– my heirs –we will be King and Queen of the Whittenhowers, and no one will ever be forced to marry, or make children, or go into a profession that isn’t their passion. We need to do this for the greater good of our family.”
Heart beating out of my chest, a cold sweat beads along my spine. “Now I understand why Marcus was petrified of you.” Slumping forward, I cover my face with my palms. “I… I’m at a loss for words, Whitt.”
Leaning over the table, Whitt whispers so softly I have to struggle to hear. “I know Grant loved you, and I know you’ve been beside yourself with grief and loss. But Grant was far from perfect. He never treated you how you deserved.”
“Whitt,” I mutter weakly, heart breaking for a billion and one reasons, but mostly for the lie I’ve told myself for the past eighteen months, only because it hurts less to lie to myself than to accept the truth.
“My father was a coward. If I had been in his position, with you loving me as a man does a woman, I would have married you before God Himself, and every person I’ve ever come into contact with.”
“Grant’s not you,” I try to remind him.
“I know– thank God. But I am not a coward, and I know you will never marry me as a woman does a man. But it doesn’t matter, because I wouldn’t be as proud to call you my wife as much as I would be to call myself your husband.” 
Checkmate (M&M #7): soon-to-be re-released in both ebook & paperback. Also available in the Queen Omnibus edition. 

Welcome back to Rusty Knob
Here is a tasty treat: chapters 1&2
*18+ due to sexual content Chapter ONE 
Brennan Kennedy “You’re doing great, Mrs. Hoffman,” I encourage as I steady the woman, placing my hand firmly on her back to remind her not to slouch while performing squats. “One more rep– you can do it.”
“If you say so.” With an exerting grunt, the forty-something woman tries to finish a set for the first time. “My God, Brennan, how you push me.”
Chuckling sardonically, I help the woman to her feet, then hand her a towel to wipe away the sweat beading along her neck and enhanced décolletage. I do what any red-blooded man would do, pretend I’m the cloth as it wicks away the moisture.
“Thank you, Brennan.” Mrs. Hoffman blushes a beautiful shade of pink while I flatter her with my appreciative gaze. Breasts swelling more as her breathing deepens, her nipples bud against her sports bra.
“Hard work should always be admired.” Voice light, I can’t help the flirty tone from sneaking in. “You’ve improved since I’ve taken you under my tender loving care.”
“Tender?” Mrs. Hoffman’s lips slide into a smirk. “It’s a good thing my husband is willing to give me a massage after our workouts.” Swatting me with the damp towel playfully, she calls me a beast.
“Mr. Hoffman appreciates the results.” I waggle my eyebrows exaggeratedly and preen a bit when she pats my torso.
“Charmer,” is her parting comment as she sashays her firm ass to the locker room, where Mr. Hoffman is waiting to ravish his wife.
“Playing cupid again, are we?” Tony hops on the Stairmaster, a taunt and a challenge in his actions. My coworker is equally jealous and covetous of me. “That old man is gonna have a heart attack one of these days after you get his wife’s motor running.”
Gazing heavenward, I grab a clean cloth to wipe down the equipment in my area. “You know nothing of marriage, bud.” With a swift kick, I eject him from my machine, ignoring how amazing his calves look. “Most people cheat because they are missing something inside of themselves, not within their marriage. Mrs. Hoffman is crazy over her husband. She just needed her confidence built back up so she felt what Mr. Hoffman was already trying to tell her.”
 “Then what’s wrong with your marriage, bud?” To add insult to injury, Tony whips off his shirt, showing off years and years of hard work turned into muscular perfection. Professionally, Tony is a work of art, but he doesn’t even get a twitch out of my dick, which is why he’s perpetually pissed at me.
Working in a gym is a blessing and a curse. As the resident bisexual, it’s my job to make sure everyone feels good about themselves. Surprisingly, even the straight guys ask if they’re looking good enough to date.
Morgantown, West Virginia is like an oxymoron. As a college town, we’re not as backward as Rusty Knob. Most of the clientele of Sweat it Out are students or those employed with a degree. They’re a bit more open-minded than the folks in my hometown, but not by much. The fact that I’m a man’s man who still loves pussy puts their minds at ease. They simply ignore the other half of my persuasion until they ask for advice on what to wear– how the fuck should I know?
I’m the only one who knows Tony wears women’s underwear underneath those tiny shorts and craves sucking dick. His cowardice outweighs his physical strength.
I won’t deny it; the fit women have my tongue dragging on the ground. Roundness: tits swaying in sports bras as they jog on the treadmill and bubble butts jiggling in yoga pants as they tackle the Stairmaster. Don’t even get me started on the visceral reaction I get from camel toe– gross to everyone who doesn’t want to get in those pants.
On the flip side, I have a thing for the geeky guys who look like I used to. Awkward, unsure, a bit insecure, and it makes me feel like the man when they come to me for guidance. But in the end, their hard work makes me proud yet sad when my geeky clients evolve, especially those who turn into muscle-heads. The bodybuilders don’t do a thing for me– it’s not what flips my switch. Even I wish I had backed off a while back. Now when I look in the mirror, I feel like my excess size is trying to compensate for my lack of height.
When I was soft, my wife didn’t want me. Now that I’m hard, she doesn’t want me either.
No shit, right?
Perils of falling in love and marrying a lesbian. I’m pretty sure if I grew a vagina, Jesse still wouldn’t have me. Every time my dad looks me in the eye, he’s biting back, “Son, I told you so.”
I haven’t been laid since we found out our daughter was conceived, since I’ll forever pretend that I didn’t cheat on Jesse the night before we got married. It would take a heinous motherfucker to do such a deplorable thing.
Never happened.
Ever.
It was a goodbye.
For now.
I never talk about Jesse– our relationship is sacred. “My marriage is what it is.” I shrug one shoulder, counting the minutes until the end of my shift. I love my job, just not the cock-measuring politics. “I don’t wear the ring because I have to create an illusion, just like servers–”
“And strippers and whores.” Tony raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to deny it.
No can do.
“For the Mrs. Hoffmans of the world, I’ll gladly put up with being solicited day in and day out.” Tilting my head to the side, I size up Tony. “I’ve never been unfaithful to my wife. I can look my fill and make my clients feel desired and wanted, but I never act on it.”
“More’s the pity.” Tony’s checking me out at the same time, tiny shorts failing to disguise the reaction he has to me –nothing on my end.
Raising an eyebrow like a villain, “Challenge?”
“Fuck, yes!” Tony shouts, startling nearby patrons. “You’re such a fucking cock-tease, Bren.” He snaps my ass with a towel. “If you hadn’t bulked up, you would have found yourself on the wrong end of a bad situation.”
“Laps?” I lope off toward the exit with Tony following me like a faithful puppy. “Is there a right end of a bad situation?”
“Yeah,” Tony answers both of my questions. “Being the assailant.”
“Jesus,” I hiss, feet padding quickly down the stairs. “You’re a sick fuck, bro. A real sick fuck.”
With a wink, Tony brushes by me, making sure too much of his body comes in direct contact with mine. “I’m always up for who can do the most laps, because even if I lose, it’s still a win for me.”
“How so?”
Walking backward, wearing the most devious grin I’ve ever witnessed, Tony terrifies me sometimes. “You. Soaking wet. In nothing but a Speedo.” Laughing evilly, he hammers the final nail in the creepy coffin. “I let you win just so I can watch those powerful thighs and arms move you through the water, and how your round girly ass sticks up like a shark fin.”
“Bro, I’ma drown you.” I warn with a lunge.
 
-*-
 
It took half a semester before I realized higher education wasn’t for me. I’m more of a guy who likes to work with my hands– use my body as a machine. After this personal trainer gig is up, I’ll be apprenticing at Kennedy Construction. Sitting in lecture halls, discussing things that I’ll never apply in real life, it felt like I had fire ants crawling on my flesh.
I am a married father, a homeowner, with a fulltime job I adore– I don’t need a degree to prove my worth, and I sure as shit don’t need a degree to be happy.
I’m not Kade– Mr. I’m Going to Stay in College Until I have a billion PhDs. My brother is more worried about appearances than just accepting who he is and being happy. Kade was qualified for whatever job he wanted two years ago, yet he won’t go home and stay home.
For the past four years, I’ve been working as a personal trainer and stay-at-home dad. Right after high school graduation, I’d bought a house for Jesse, me, and the baby, with a room for Kade to sleep. It took even less time for Kade to vacate our place, which he was only using three times a week while he worked on his graduate degree, than it did for me to turn college-dropout. By the third awkward night, Kade had found an apartment to call his own. It didn’t take long before Wynn and Jack decided dorm life was too claustrophobic, after having all of Rusty Knob as their domain, before they invaded Kade’s efficiency apartment and made it their own.
Poor Kade– it’s Wynn and Jack’s apartment now, but Kade pays for it, which means I’m actually paying for it.
If it wasn’t for those idiots, I would have moved back to Rusty Knob, forcing Jesse and our daughter to follow me. I’m just biding my time until Wynn graduates next month, then I’m moving home, with or without them.
But not without my daughter.
“You’re late,” is my wife’s barked greeting as I walk in the front door after a ten-hour shift at the gym. “I missed my art class earlier because Becca was sick and couldn’t babysit. Answer your phone next time– it could have been an emergency.”
Sighing deeply, I think to myself how this is exactly what a man wants to walk into when he comes home. But then I remember this was my choice, and I pushed Jesse into it. After how I was raised, I dreamed of a nuclear family.
My mom died, taking my baby sister with her, and then our lives turned to hell when the Probsts set their sights on us. Using extortion to gain control of our family’s wrongful death settlement, the last hope of me ever having a mom, dad, and siblings went out the window. Now my family tree is exactly the stereotypical bullshit people use against West Virginian natives.
Since I didn’t have it as a kid, I wanted it as an adult– a wife being the only person I’d ever touched sexually or loved, with a gaggle of kids who were happy to see me when I came home from work.
I wanted it, yet I failed to give that to myself or my daughter.
‘Treat the wife as if she’s always right, even when she’s wrong’ is not my usual style. If Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. A happy wife is a happy life. I don’t subscribe to any of that unbalanced thinking, because it breeds bad behavior I don’t want my daughter to witness. Jesse is my best friend more so than my wife, and we don’t do that enabling bullshit. But, tonight, I’m too tired to argue.
“You’re right, Jesse.” I step into our living room, shutting the front door behind me, then allow my gym bag to drop to the floor with a harsh sound of finality. “A class you attend at the YMCA is more important than the job that’s paying our bills.”
My petty, passive-aggressive bullshit causes fury to radiate from my wife’s cold, blue eyes– I know I’ve overstepped our boundaries. Jesse contributes financially, and her art does matter. I just don’t have the time to deal with her tonight.
“It’s not like–”
“Don’t!” I warn, raising a single fingertip, instinctively knowing my wife will bring up how none of us need to work.
Blood money.
Goddamn blood money I’d give back in a heartbeat if it meant I could bring my mom, unborn baby sister, and granddaddy back to life. They died, and the money we received brought nothing but terror into our lives. At first, everyone had their hand out, saying they were Kennedys so they deserved their cut.
My dad was a shell of a man– a walking zombie –and Uncle Donny was no better. To lose one person, you grieve. To lose the heart, the future, and the patriarch of your family, that is debilitating. I was a small child who grew up way too quickly, because I had a job to do– someone had to take care of my dad and uncle by showing them life was still worth living. Then we had the bright idea to do good with our unwelcome wealth, and we began revitalizing Rusty Knob and educating its natives.
Probsts.
Every time Jesse brings up how neither one of us has to work, I see red– the crimson wash of blood staining my hands. It was only a blink really– a two-second view of an object tearing my dad apart. Dad was larger than life to me until that very moment. A superhero brought down by the villain I thought was an ally. With the scent of terror and piss filling the air, that blink in time will last a lifetime. Blood ran down Dad’s body to pool on the floor around his knees, with Sean’s sated cock laying against Dad’s thigh– that destructive piece of flesh painted with my father’s blood and shit.
Sean, the guy who wanted me to call him Uncle Sean– the guy who would laugh and play with me– he had committed the most heinous crime one human could do to another, with the added torture of doing so in front of the man’s brother, woman, son, and best friend.
Blink.
It only takes a blink to change the trajectory of your life.
A car exploding into a fiery ball on a freeway, with blood money to erase the loss, as if human life has a monetary value.
Blink.
The terror of a ‘not a boy, yet not a man’ having to make the decision to leave his father to protect the twins, then run into the night, using the Kennedy blood running in his veins to direct him across their land and through the woods to Gillette Holler.
Blink.
A sight that can never be unseen, removing all traces of innocence and altering how sex is viewed as a weapon, violence– an act of dominance instead of an act of love.
Blink.
Every time anyone brings up how much money I have, I remember the metallic flash of a gun butted against the nape of Dad’s neck, and the sheer terror on Uncle Donny and Willa’s stunned faces. White as a sheet is just a saying– one we visualize. But one can’t truly know the horrific impact of seeing a loved one’s complexion turned to a shade of death unless they witness it firsthand.
Blink.
The loud crack of gunfire next to my ear, where it took seconds in the ringing silence to realize Dad was still a live, and it was just Corbin meting out justice.
For nearly a decade, I’ve hidden the nightmares spawned by the red-wash as the front of Sean’s head exploded outward, painting the sofa, spraying across the floor, and blowing all the way to the kitchen cabinets, with his brain matter splattering Dad’s back and Uncle Donny and Willa’s faces.
Blink– I had to blink dozens of times until my mind brought reality into focus, because at first I couldn’t compute the macabre scene.
Why?
The lust and greed of green.
If the Probsts would’ve brought Octavia forward, telling Dad and Uncle Donny how Granddaddy had been naughty by getting another man’s wife knocked up, none of that would have happened.
Kennedys are an honorable people, and Octavia would’ve been given a third of Granddaddy’s money without hesitation. But the Probsts were greedy, violent people, and they didn’t want their own half-sister to have her cut– they wanted it all.
Money is the root of all evil, and even the attempt by my wife to bring it up almost drops me to my knees.
On the verge of throwing up, I issue weakly, “Just go.”
Without a backward glance, Jesse leaves our home, with her blonde ponytail the last thing I see. Slumping down onto the sofa, I stare at the door she just exited.
Passing ships in the night.
I work days at the gym while Jesse stays home with our daughter. Our next door neighbor’s home-schooled foster kid pops in once a day when Jesse wants to run errands or help out during art classes at the YMCA. As soon as I come home from work, I’m a stay-at-home dad. Jesse bolts like lightning, not coming back until the wee hours of the morning just before I head out to work.
Jesse works until last-call at an artist bar. She sets up her easel, along with a few other artists, and they paint while being observed. The patrons drink and eat to make the house a profit. The finished pieces are sold, and the artists are tipped– combined, the tips and the sale of their paintings are the wages. Some of Jesse’s pieces have sold for a pretty penny.
Jesse is damned good, and I’m proud of her, but I miss her more. 
I was home late tonight because I don’t have the luxury of a babysitter doing my duty for hours on end during the day. I took an hour for myself to challenge Tony to let off some steam, then he and I just sat in the sauna and stared at the insides of our eyelids to de-stress.
For eighteen years of my life, Jesse was my best friend. Just Jesse, Franny, and me. Jackson and Wynn hovered on the outside, never truly wanting in, with a few of our basketball buddies breaching the surface from time to time.
We lost Francis to California, where he’s finishing his design degree and will never look back. Jesse was just as artistic, but her medium was oils instead of fabric.
I’m not sure what I added to our friendship besides being the one who posed in Frantastic Designs while Jesse memorialized the moment. The weakling is now the brawn, without an ounce of artistic ability, and the only common denominator between us is my purple stripe on the rainbow.
Small town. Small circles. No common threads needed besides proximity. With the distance of time separating us, highlighting how truly different we are, we’ve slowly drifted apart.
It didn’t used to be like this. When we were first married, Jesse and I shared a bed but not sex, many laughs, and a life– a future.
We were closer than close, able to tell the other anything, no matter how damaging it may have been. I’m only faithful in our marriage because of my beliefs, which have nothing to do with Jesse. Never once did I ask her to remain celibate, and this was without judgment or explanation.
I’m Jesse’s husband.
I used to be her life-long best friend and sometimes lover.
I am not her father.
 But in the past few months, Jesse has turned into a nag who expects me to be a mind-reader. To read a mind Jesse doesn’t even understand herself.
 Just as I told Tony, a cheater cheats because of something within them. When Mrs. Hoffman began training with me, she refused to voice her issues. She felt undesirable, completely blinding herself to the actions of her adoring husband. While training, she would express how he wasn’t attentive enough, but it was her inability to see outside of her insecurity to notice what Mr. Hoffman was actually providing. He could have doted on her hand and foot and she would have been dismissive and oblivious. It took me flirting with her to light a spark, when neither of us truly wanted the other. With the spark lit, Mr. Hoffman’s fire engulfed the insecurities until it was too hot to dismiss.
I’m not blind, nor deaf, nor dumb. Jesse’s the one pulling that bullshit now. I never judged, nor will I ever. Jesse’s resentment, her assumptions of how I feel without asking me or hearing me, that is on her.
My wife is one of the reasons I celebrate my bisexuality, because I can’t stand head-games with people who don’t even realize they’re playing them. Just like Mrs. Hoffman, why should their partner have to solve them like a broken Rubik’s Cube? Most men are exactly what they seem. The ones who aren’t, I don’t plan on fucking anyway. As for the emotionally stunted women, no fucking way. Never again. I won’t allow my daughter to grow up to be like that.
Most fathers worry about having a daughter who is promiscuous, while I’m worried she’ll be a manipulative head-case. I don’t care who my daughter has sex with as long as she doesn’t jerk him around on a leash, mess with his head, and make him feel like a moron.
My dad was my mom’s ‘yes man’, and I will never go down that road. Willa and Dad seem to draw strength off of each other, and that’s what I want out of my partner.
The wife is always right, no matter what, and we’re all to tee-hee and blush and feel guilty, even when she’s dead wrong, because God forbid the wife got upset. Meanwhile, I’m not exactly sure how my wife, who is three months younger than me, who has grown up in the same town, went to the same schools, and has had the same life experience as I have, suddenly became wise beyond her years while I remained an idiot the instant we were married.
I will not raise my daughter to mother her misfortunate husband, unlike how Jesse was raised to treat me. Immediately after we married, I was no longer the friend, but the bumbling husband without a brain in his head, and my friend was suddenly a genius wife who is always right.
I may not have a mother, but I refuse to allow my wife to treat me like her son. It’s been a struggle I’ve refused to relent on, because my self-respect is involved.
Our marriage was supposed to be built on friendship and our mutual adoration for our daughter. Regardless of the bizarre balance Jesse thinks we should have, our marriage won’t crumble because of our sexual orientations, or from one of us finding someone we want to be with instead. It will crumble because one of us refuses to communicate with the other.
To admit my depression is to admit defeat. The end of my marriage won’t be the failure; the dissolution of our friendship will be.
That’s all on Jesse, because Lord knows I’ve tried.
A light thud has me on my feet in an instant. Without hesitation, I find myself down the short hallway, standing outside of my daughter’s bedroom door. Resting my ear to the wooden panel, I listen to her chat animatedly with her doll babies.
All stress dissolves with the sweet cadence of Honor’s voice.
Chapter TWO 
Kaden Marx “We need to eat.” Try as I might, I can’t remove Mr. Octopus Hands from my body. “We need to cook, or at least order some takeout before Jack gets home from work. It’s only fair.”
Blue eyes shining with lust, Wynn sits on my lap, grinding my dick into his fleshy behind. “Jack will be home soon,” he reminds me, and not for the reasons one would think. The little shit is an exhibitionist, just begging for an audience outside of little ol’ me.
Remember my Durango? Wynn even came out with spectators.
All activity thus far has been by the cover of darkness, thanks to the fact that we live in a two room apartment. One giant room housing the efficiency kitchen, the couch and TV, and two beds trying to be as far apart as possible– the only privacy is in the shitter, but there’s no lock on the door.
I can’t complain since I split half of my time here and the other half back at my house in Rusty Knob.
Wynn keeps edging closer and closer to the point of no return with Jackson, not realizing what he’s up to until it’s too late. I’m good with whatever, but Wynn’s conscience might not be.
My ex-roommate, Dan… yeah. I’m the voyeur to Wynn’s exhibitionist, so I get it.
I spent three years watching Dan have sex with just about every girl on Penn State’s campus, not realizing he knew I was watching while jerking off. By senior year, Dan unexpectedly fell for a guy– a guy he paid to give me a lap dance. In a burst of jealousy and possession, Dan tore Uriah wide open. Dan became obsessed with Uriah, to the point the scholar almost flunked out.
I was Dan’s best man when he married Uriah, and let’s just say the bachelor party will forever be showcased in my spank bank.
I spotted Wynn as a freak from the time he first sprouted wood– innocently addictive. There’s no way in hell I’m not going to give him everything he desires.
“C’mon.” Fingers wrapping around Wynn’s thick wrists, I try to pry him off of me. He just twists his fingertips into my shirt, getting a better hold. “It’s not fair how we mistreat poor Jackson– he’s not our bitch.”
“You’re the hog.” Wynn leans forward, nipping at the tip of my nose with his front teeth. “This place is spotless thanks to yours truly.”
Chuckling underneath my breath, living with a man who thinks he’s auditioning to be the next Betty Crocker and another who is compulsive, bordering on obsessive about cleanliness, is both a blessing and a curse. It’s like having two witty, snarky, intelligent yet smoking hot wives who take care of everything, but the downside is they are both on the rag at the same time and I fuck neither of ‘em.
The buddies join forces and try to put me in my place on a daily basis.
Filthy fucking pig is exactly what I am. It’s my lease, and they are here under my sufferance. So they can bitch until the landlord complains, and all it will sound like is music to my ears.
Only fifteen pounds lighter than me, and an inch shorter, yet somehow he’s stronger than I am, there is no way I can move Wynn without his consent. “Up!” I say more firmly, when I usually indulge Wynn in whatever the hell he wants. I’m the driver at all times, but the adorable passenger is giving the directions.
“You’re leaving in the morning.” Wynn actually pouts, pale skin pinking beautifully, and it takes everything in me not to throw him on the floor and screw him into the next millennium. “For three whole days.”
“Little shit,” I snap, not enjoying this guilt trip game Wynn plays. He’s a twenty-two-year-old pain in my ass, and waiting for him to grow up is slowly killing me. “We’ve been doing this bullshit for four years, true? So get off of me and deal.”
“I. Want. You.” Wynn’s chiseled features come closer and closer with seductive intent. The little bastard knows exactly how to strum my fiddle, and it’s terrifying to contemplate when he finally masters the instrument. “I want you, Kaden. Now.”
Head jacking backward, I grunt sharply, “Christ!” as Wynn grinds his ass against my erection.
“Fuck me.” Wynn’s heat-seeking pink tongue locates its target in record speed. The reverberation as he speaks into my mouth makes its way directly to my cock. “Or let me fuck you.”
The day Wynn figures out I’m waiting on him to take it, is the day I’ll die and go to heaven. All he has to do is tear open my fly and sit on my dick, or jerk my legs apart and impale me, and I’ll let him do whatever. But the little shit is too selfless and polite to figure it out, so I’m good for now.
I made a promise to myself when Wynn was still a kid, how I’d never take from him– ever. I’d give, he’d give, and we’d both receive.
I’m not taking Wynn’s virginity– he has to give it to me.
Shivering with a mix of anticipation and intense arousal, “Youscareme,” comes out in a jumbled mess as teeth attack my throat, leaving a necklace of marks behind.
Laughter vibrates my damp flesh. “I’m no longer Teenage Wynn, remember?”
“Adult Wynn is way scarier,” I admit without hesitation, while curling my fingernails into the sofa cushion to stop myself from totally annihilating his ass. “Smarter. Stronger. Older.”
“But you’ll always be smarter, stronger, and older than I am, Kade– no fear.”
“Bullshit.” I jackknife off the sofa cushion as Wynn’s mouth travels south, further and further south. The sound of my zipper lowering is deafening in our cavernous apartment.
At least Wynn’s no longer pinning me to the cushions… but his skilled mouth renders me immobile.
“How was school today?” Blue eyes roll up to stare at me through thick lashes. “Good day, I take it?” Fingers wrapping tightly, I’m engulfed in a firm hand, right at the base of my cock, nails digging into my nuts. “Bad day, maybe?” my voice breaks.
Wynn blinks, clearly annoyed by my evasion tactics, but he doesn’t look away. Saliva-slickened lips widen, ruddy skin pulling taut until white, as my flesh passes between and into the seductively evil recesses of Wynn’s mouth.
Brain blanking, just like every other man on the planet, I forget what my malfunction is as soon as lips wrap around my cock. Wynn learned this nifty trick in how to short circuit a guy’s brain via blowjob 101.
As with everything, Wynn excels in oral ministrations.
“Christ!” I gasp out on a laugh, back arching, fingers curling into the cushion to stop from gripping blond waves. “Do whatever the fuck you want, Wynn, but I ain’t gonna last.”
When we have privacy and unlimited time, Wynn works me from back to front, missing no inch of flesh from my tailbone to my bellybutton. But we’re on a time crunch against the clock, because Jackson will be home from the hospital at any second.
Shit quality but still mind-blowing intensity, I pop the instant Wynn adds teeth. “Motherfucker! I’ma punch you for that one day!” I scream loud enough to alert the Thai restaurant beneath us. “Knock all your goddamn teeth out.”
Jerking like I’m having an epileptic fit, Wynn taunts me with maniacal laughter while nicking the head of my dick until blood is drawn. Body beaded with sweat and lit by aftershocks, all I can do is gaze in wonder as Wynn tucks me back into my jeans, and then pats my package like it’s a good boy.
“Something to remember me by as you rub one out while you’re in Rusty Knob.” Wynn rises to his full height, staring down at me sprawled on the sofa like my world just burst into flames at my feet.
Weak, I reach for Wynn, wanting to give him pleasure too… and get some vengeance.
“I’m good.” Wynn jacks up his pant leg, then cups the wet spot growing over his bulge. No doubt, while giving me head, the horny bastard rubbed the heel of his palm on his jeans until he popped. “You gotta get up and cook us supper while I shower.”
Mouth slack, “The fuck?” falls out.
“Don’t you remember? Jack’s not our bitch.” Wynn’s taunting laughter flows as he swaggers across our apartment.
Completely lax, I stare at the ceiling while listening to the shower flowing. It takes me a few more heartbeats before I get it. “Wynn Erastus Gillette! I’m not your bitch!” is bellowing out of my throat just as the front door opens.
“Hmm… somebody ought to explain that to Wynn.” Always cute as a button, especially while wearing scrubs with storks carrying babies printed all over the light green fabric, Jackson smirks at me, knowing exactly what just went down. “Jesus, I’ll have an order of whatever you just had.”
“Be careful,” I warn, then deadpan, “My meal bites back.”  Want more? 
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Best Reads of 2015, according to the Wicked Writer The old adage is that in order to hone your craft as a writer, you have to be a reader first. At the beginning of December, I'm closing in on 200 books read. Not at all my highest yearly quota, but better than last year. Excellent, in fact, since I also wrote 2,100+ pages within 6 books and am currently working on another. 

The more I read, the better I write. Practice makes perfect. 

I'm also a reviewer for Wicked Reads- my brainchild. With the magical Angela G at the helm turning our budding blog into a well-oiled machine, Wicked Reads truly does feed my addiction one book at a time. Most of the books listed below were ARCs offered by the publisher for review, a handful were recommended, and the rest were happy accidents.

A little about my reading style, since we all read differently. INTJ, meaning I'm an introvert who thrives on logic and ethics, and loathes bullshit and small talk. I'm also highly empathetic in person, which is uncomfortable to say the least. To de-stress, as reading IS work for a writer, I'm a gamer, an online shopper, a Facebook stalker, a Food Network foodie. My favorite shows are Black Sails, Game of Thrones, How to Get Away with Murder, Fargo, and Shameless. I'm about to try the Vikings and The Affair. Since I'm a serious person, in books I adore witty banter, dry humor, love-hate relationships, and a slow build to the climatic 'event'. Not a fan of insta-anything, be it love or lust. I'm not much on over-the-top comedy. As a realist, the more lifelike the better.

Page length? I've read books I wish were longer, but I read more where I wish they were shorter.

Call me Goldilocks. I want it just right.  Not too much of anything, especially the overuse of sex to distract the reader from a plot hole or weak storyline. Don't get me wrong, I write sex for a living, and am a HUGE fan of smoking hot between the sheets action. But I'm a character-driven type of reader, so there better be something tying those lusty scenes together. 

As you can see, the majority of my books fit into the LGBTQ category. It's also what I write. Hmm... I don't believe out of 20+ of my creations that I have a single one that is entirely 'straight'- all are a little bit bent, dark, and most certainly twisted. 

What do I seek in a book? What makes it the best? Is it the best book ever written? Nope.

The unexpected. I love to be surprised, because I usually see where the author is headed, can spot where the author unpainted themselves from a corner, or end up playing editor. I tend to give out more 5 star ratings to genres I'd find impossible to write. But, if I was thoroughly entertained, I don't care if the book was lacking.

*Not all titles were released in 2015. My best list includes the books I read in 2015.
*the book titles are linked to the corresponding Goodreads page. Just click the title to be redirected in another tab.
*most books were reviewed for Wicked Reads. If you wish to read the reviews, visit my Goodreads Author profile, or press the buttons to visit Wicked Reads & Wicked Reads: YA Edition for a wide array of reviews from our stable of reviewers. 
* Denoted reviewed means an ARC was provided by the publisher for Wicked Reads, or Wicked Reads purchased a copy for reviewing purposes. Not reviewed is my personal copies, which may or may not have been reviewed on Goodreads, but were rated.

-Erica Chilson Best Book of 2015
MM Dystopian Science fiction Y Negative: Kelly Haworth Most Entertaining Series
MM contemporary Romance Straight Guys
Alessandra Hazard M/M series
​Straight Boy (Straight Guys #0.5)
Just a Bit Twisted (Straight Guys #1)
Just a Bit Obsessed (Straight Guys #2)
Just a Bit Unhealthy (Straight Guys #3) Best Book of 2015
Dystopian Science Fiction Nexis: A.L Davroe Most Read Author Anyta Sunday Rock (standalone) M/M | Young Adult | Taboo |
Taboo for You (Standalone) M/M | GFY | Friends-to-lovers | Mature characters | Children | 

Above were both 5 star reads. The following series received a mixed bag of ratings from me, but I did enjoy it as a whole. 

Enemies to Lovers: #1 - 4 MM Best MM: not reviewed
contemporary romance Carte Blanche: Nash Summers 
​Knights of Ocean Ave: Tara Lane
Knave of Broken Hearts: Tara Lane
The Backup Boyfriend: River James
The Boyfriend Mandate: River James
Family Man: Marie Sexton & Heidi Cullinan
Better Than Good: Lane Hayes (Better Than #1)
Better Than Chance: Lane Hayes (Better Than #2)
Tonight: Karen Stivali Best MM: reviewed
contemporary romance Love on the Web: Neil S. Plakcy
Not my Boyfriend: Monica L. Anderson
The Truth as He Knows it: A.M. Arthur (Perspectives #1)
Borrowing Trouble: Kade Boehme
Taste in Men: Douglas Black 
Blueberry Boys: Vanessa North
Status Update: Annabeth Albert Best Serial: not reviewed
New Adult contemporary Dirty: Cheryl McIntyre 
Getting Dirty (Dirty #1)
Playing Dirty (Dirty #2)
Talking Dirty (Dirty #3)
Fighting Dirty (Dirty #4)
Staying Dirty (Dirty #5) Best MM: reviewed
Historical Parnormal Romance Damon Snow: Olivia Helling
Damon Snow & the Nocturnal Lessons (DS #1)
Damon Snow & the Incubus Rake (DS #2)
Damon Snow & the Viscount Temptation (DS#3)
Damon Snow & the Nocturnal Confessions (#4) Best His-Ro: reviewed
​MM Historical Romance ​One Indulgence: Lydia Gastrell (Indulgence #1)
One Glimpse: Lydia Gastrell (Indulgence #1) Best His-Ro: reviewed
​Historical romance Midnight Meeting: Gina Conkle
Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight meetings #1)
Covenant Garden Cubs: Shana Galen
Earls Just Want to Have Fun (Covenant Garden Cubs #1)
​

Best UF|PNR|SF
Urban Fantasy| Paranormal Romance | Science Fiction Wildcats: Rachel Vincent (not reviewed)
Hunt (Wildcats #0.5)
Lion's Share (Wildcats #1)
Black Blade: Jennifer Estep (reviewed)
Dark Heart of Magic: Jennifer Estep (Black Blade #1)
Cold Burn of Magic: Jennifer Estep (Black Blade #2) Wicked Reads Best Young Adult
MM: not reviewed Exiled in Iowa. Send Help. And Couture.
Chris O'Guinn
Gives Light: Rose Christo (Gives Light #1)
Openly Straight: Bill Konigsburg
Simon Vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda: 
Becky Albertalli
Silence: Sara Alva Best Young Adult
reviewed Placid Girl: Brenna Ehrlich 
Welcome to Hickville High: Mary Karlik (Hickville High #1)
Hickville Confessions: Mary Karlik (Hickville High #2)
Paint my Body Red: Heidi R. Kling  Best DARK
reviewed Come Sit By Me: Thomas Hoobler Best DARK
MM: reviewed Mark of Cain: Kate Sherwood
Cravings Creek: Mel Bossa
Spectacularly Broken: Sage C Holloway 
Suicide Watch: Kelley York (not reviewed) HA!HA!
this has to be a joke
Gaygent Brontosaurus: The Butt is Not Enough
Chuck Tingle
​(Click to check out my review on this craptastrophe)

​ Wicked Reads: YA Edition

It's been a very, very long time since I blogged about anything. February to be precise. A lot has changed in that time frame, & I just felt like experiencing a cathartic release. 

Excuse the fact that I'm just going to ramble about anything that needs to be ejected from my thoughts. I'm not into force. Much. So it's your choice to read my words. I'm known for offending everyone equally. 


I've had a lot of stress on my shoulders, weighing me down and muting the muse. Let's write about the muse for a moment. All artists have one. But for a writer, the muse is usually from within. So, when I call my muse a workaholic, manic lunatic, I'm essentially calling myself crazy. 

I am. 

I like to say I'm introverted to get people to back off. I am, but it's the Muse who is issuing the edict. I do like conversation, when I feel like having it, with whom I feel like engaging. But the truth of it is that I have a few dozen voices in my mind at any given time, so the thought of making inane small-talk is suffocating. I mean, I can't pay attention to anything a random stranger in the middle of the supermarket is saying to me, and I look like a bitch with my resting bitch face snapped into place. Trust me when I say you don't want to know what I'm truly thinking. The nicest words that come to mind are "shut the hell up so I can hear the voices in my damn head!" 

Now, when I'm informed we'll be having a visitor, I can prepare myself for a one-on-one conversation with someone who is family or friend of the family- someone with a history I know, and I have somewhere to lead in a conversation. Contrary to popular belief, I do have a lot to say, and it all has meaning. So I won't apologize for not giving a shit where you got your hair cut or the shade of your nail polish (unless I compliment it and specifically ask you where you got it). & this doesn't make me a horrible, self-absorbed human being. It's because I don't have room in my mind to accommodate worthless information when I retain everything I hear, see, and experience. 

I'm a good listener. I'm an excellent advice giver. I'm always in your corner, so don't expect me to forgive the person who hurt you, even if you have. I didn't forget what you told me while crying on my shoulder, so when I see or hear TSTL behavior, I mentally punch you in the face for being an idiot. (Ya know, when you tell me bad things someone says about you, and then I'm supposed to forget it and be happy you're deluding yourself into believing you're happy with this person) Yeah, that might make me a bitch, or that might just make you stupid. Your call. 

So I spend most of my time inside my head, hanging out with the Muse. So it's very jarring when I have to hold a conversation. This is the mind of madness. And, frankly, I'm happy just the way I am. Those voices in my head are of my creation, and they make up the worlds I put to paper. 

Resting bitch face: Nope. I'm thinking. Let me think unless it's important, as you might be murdering one of the greatest story threads of my career simply because you had to tell me about something your cat did ten years ago (and I've never met you before and will never see you again after you've recharged yourself by draining my energy, stranger dear. You'll forget me, but I won't forget how angry your rudeness made me). & yes, I know I sound like a c***. But go ahead and talk about something that actually means something to you- connecting with me is not wasting my time. & yes, there is a helluva difference. 

The Muse is in control of me at all times. Sometimes I rebel, which leads to disastrous decisions and a long time inside a quiet mind, which means I cannot work. The quiet is disconcerting, like being suffocated in silence because a part of you ceases to exist. 

For anyone who knows an introspective person who loves the quiet (someone who begs for you to turn off the TV or turn down the volume on any noise) you need to realize that chaos inside their mind is no different than hearing 50 outdoor concerts at once, all contradicting and driving them into madness, while being bombarded with opposing emotional stimulation (& for someone like me who feels what you're feeling, I just want you to take your chaotic self away from my bubble, because I don't know if I'm feeling nucking futs, or if you are) So it's not selfish to NEED peace, and your non-important questions and demands can wait until it is important, especially if you're feeling antsy or needy. (seriously, an empath has to determine which of us is actually feeling what. The more energetic you are, the more you drain me) 

I'm getting older. I just turned 37 in July, and my personality is finally maturing. Perhaps not in a way that makes people happy though. I guess you could say my balls dropped, and I'm finally putting myself first. I'm not mean. I don't yell. & I don't pull asshole shit. That does not make an adult. That simply makes an asshole. I'm blunt, but not in a way that hurts. If you're impressing your will on me, expect to be shut down immediately. But I will not emotionally harm you in any way other than you actually having to hear the word NO for once in your life. Deal with it. 

So, I'm 37. Single. Married yet haven't spoken to my husband in nearly 5 years (haven't seen him either, and he lives 2 miles from me). I said to my mother today, "I'm not like most people. Lord knows how you would have reacted to the same situation." Bloodshed. That's how she would have reacted. 

At my age, with no prospects of coupling, I've come to the conclusion I'll never be a mother. But that's probably for the best, as I'm about as cuddly as a rattlesnake. There are some personality types that drive me nucking futs. Needy. Stage 5 clingers. In constant need of validation. I have this thing where I scent out weakness in people, and it's a good thing I never use this for evil. I think my higher than usual empathy helps balance this out. You hurt; I hurt. But with a kid, I could be very nurturing if they needed it to survive and to flourish. But if a person is just sucking me dry to feel good about themselves, I run for the hills. 

Validation comes from within. No one else can validate you. Ladies? Did you hear me? No one can validate you. So take your daddy issues and your low self-esteem, and pitch that shit in the trash. You be you, and fuck what someone else thinks about you. The only opinion about you that should matter.... is your own. 

If you can't sleep at night, fix your shit. 

Do I think I'm the greatest thing since sliced bread? No. Do I think I'm beautiful and everyone should love me? Absolutely not. I own a mirror. I know what my strengths and weaknesses are, and I know I'm the only one who can make myself stronger- who can change me. To me, I don't need the validation of material things, a handsome mate (trust me. Handsome doesn't equate good or balanced). I don't need an ego stroker. I've learned to self everything. Self-soothe. 

Self. 

I don't need to be the most beautiful, or the thinnest, or the youngest. My value is between my ears, not between my thighs, and I feel pity for any person who truly believes sex and beauty are the quantifier of life. There isn't a giant bedpost being notched somewhere with a winner being announced as the most beautiful because some Joe Blow said so. 

"OMG! He thinks I'm pretty!" (Yes, I realize that sounds like a teenage girl, but I've heard so many women older than me saying shit like that that I want to punch them in the face) He, who is probably an idiot, and we women are treating him as if he is godly just because his dick gets hard when he looks at us- and he lies about it not getting hard for our friends. 

"How do I know I love you, baby? 'Cuz my dick gets hard!" (actually heard that one a lot)  He's a guy. He'll get hard when he eats yummy cake. And none of us can compete with cake, so why are we competing with each other. If you have to fight to get him, to keep him, maybe he's the one who isn't worth it. 


Women have this thing about hating other women as if it makes them better somehow, to the point they don't realize they are hurting themselves. 


"He picked me over you, bitch!" Too bad he'll probably pick someone else over you later on, because you obviously don't think you're enough or you wouldn't use another person betraying someone else to validate you as being enough! 


"I'm better than you because my bought me this name brand

There also isn't a prize given away for the most virtuous. "Slut!" Unless you're a virgin or a lesbian who's avoided penetration, we've all have a D in our V. It doesn't matter if it was one or a billion, there is no odometer on our vagina. So take your shaming bullshit and pitch it in the trash with your low self-esteem. 

You be you. 

You're awesome just the way you are. The individual. Not the societal clone. 

You being you makes you happy, so be you. Be happy & stop comparing yourself to others. Stop needing to be validated on whether or not you have 'one up' on someone else. What others have or don't have, what others achieve or don't achieve, has absolutely nothing to do with you. There is no total being tallied in the ultimate winner in life. Learn that. Let it sink in. Be happy. 

I know my family looks at me as if I'm odd (I'm sure you are too). Whispering whether or not I'll ever date, like I'm somehow hung up on my ex or I'm wounded from the events of the past. I'm positive some are questioning my sexual orientation at this point. You want to know my orientation? Hmm? It's called, "I don't want to put up with anyone's bullshit." That's what it's called. It's called, "I'd rather hug myself than settle just because you think normal means to be coupled." 

I like me. Me, myself, and I get along famously. & someday my prince will come. I really don't care. Prince? Pauper? How about someone I share a mental connection with, someone who gets me and knows when to back off, or understands that me not engaging them doesn't mean I forgot they existed (we run on Muse time, not anyone else's). Someone who is cerebral- another artist who understands the muse is in control, and their muse has to play nicely with mine. Basically, they have to understand the manic phase of working on a project with maddening absorption, and that it doesn't make either one of us selfish to need to go through life on this roller coaster of insanity. Will this person be a man? A woman? I bet you're curious. I don't care. It's the connection that I care about, so I'm looking at the human being, not a descriptor. 

Validation. 
 
Sure, I'd love some accolades once in a while. I'd love something to show for all of my hard work. Yes, seeing good things said about my books fills my happy meter, and the bad tugs me down. But it doesn't lessen the work I perform. Whether anyone reads my books or not, they still exist. The dollar earned does not dictate the quality of the art. Art is subjective. So love it, hate it, your opinion doesn't change the art. 


I've had a lot going on, stressing me out, making me stress-eat. I've gained a few pounds I want to beat myself up about, but I'm not a masochist. My clothes are tight... so I decide to knock my shit off and put myself first. That cookie ain't giving me a hug. Those M&M books out of publication aren't giving me a hug. The Muse, she's the one who gives the best hugs. 


The Muse said 'fuck it all!' Fuck it. Do what makes you happy, what inspires. Are my fans getting upset about Hero? Fuck yeah, they are. Are my Blended fans getting antsy for Warped? Um, yeah. You bet your ass they are. Do I have many fans for my Rusty Knob series? Nope! Do I care? Nope! Not really. 


It took the Muse 9 months to rewrite Restraint & Unleashed, and she couldn't find Dexter in our mind. Dexter was speaking to me quietly but not truly telling me a direction to go. But he assured me Dalton and Regina were eager for me to hurdle Dexter's book and tackle theirs. But the Muse had other ideas. 

Nine months for two books... or 8 weeks for Rusty Knob & Tarnished. Which do you think was inspired? I thought I'd lost that manic high of writing until my eyes can't stay open, and I realize it's been 72 hours since I slept last, can't remember when I took a bath or even ate, and taking a piss is just a necessary interruption. 

It's a high unlike no other.

What's this mean for M&M & Blended. It means either the Muse will get to work on Dexter or have her fun in Rusty Knob until the series has met its conclusion (which is half written already. With only 4 short novels and two small novellas. Taking 3 manic writing sessions each. I mean, I've written two books since mid-May) 

I do know when I hit M&M, I'm going balls to the wall until I'm done. Not a true rewrite like with Restraint. I never planned on changing much of Queen anyway. So, if the Muse doesn't go straight into Stainless (which I feel she probably will) I do plan on going nuts with M&M of Restraint until I hit Hero. 

It's the Muse's call. She's the creator, and you have to be patient. 

Will I lose fans? Probably. But it's a risk I'm willing to take, because my creative genius only cares about her own opinion of her work, being as she's the one with the ONLY say-so. 

Will the tiny fanbase of Rusty Knob care that Tarnished will be a straight book? Probably. I was reading a review of a book last night (I didn't like the book, and I won't apologize for it) and readers had skipped the one prior simply because it was a straight book. 

I'm serious. 

Now, that is f'n madness. But then again, I had readers skip Dalton simply because he was gay. Which was even greater madness considering there wasn't a book in M&M that didn't have LGBTQ elements. C'mon!

What confuses me the most about this phenomenon of refusing to read a book with a female in it when it's an M/M series, is the fact that the very people refusing to read it have a vagina. 

For almost nine months straight, I read nothing but M/M and actually lost touch with reality. I lost touch with the fact that I'm a woman, and it's perfectly healthy for me to think that I wasn't gross, and that a man would indeed get off on touching me. Just like every man isn't straight, every man on the planet isn't a closeted gay man. They aren't gay-for-you. They are straight, and they love lady parts too. Hell, as a woman, I love lady parts too, just not as much as I love manly bits. I've seen this happen to other women, where they get blinded by nonstop M/M books, and reading books where the female author is calling a labia 'gross folds' really makes me angry.

It's the opposite of what we are trying to accomplish within the genre. Everything is normal for someone. Being gay is normal for the gay person. Being straight is normal for the straight person. To think that there are entire universes out there in literary land comprised of only gay men, and all the women in the books are simply a means to an end to create children (or not in MPreg) or to inject conflict into the lives of the men is insanity. Every female is the villainess, the wacky TSTL bestie or sister, and the nagging mother or ex-wife. 

How dare another woman sink their claws into the male characters who belong solely to the female readers and the hot male partner with which they find their HEA?

Seriously, I wrote half the book in one session, the next quarter in another, and this last quarter will be written the same way. It was inspired and completely at the Muse's will. So skip it like others skipped Dalton (who happens to be one of my most intriguing characters) simply because you're bigoted against a specific sexual orientation (oddly enough, in the case of straight women denouncing anything but M/M- your own orientation). When my stories are about the characters and their lives, not about their sex parts. 

Yeah, I had to get that out there, knowing it will rankle some. 

I understand if you truly don't like reading a straight book or a gay book, but I'm hoping to challenge your thinking on why that is the case. What switched off your sexuality, to the point you forgot what part is between your legs? What made you decide that it was 'gross' to read about love, no matter who is in love with whom? 

I understand not liking a specific genre. Like I've been reading Urban Fantasy lately (revisiting an old friend), but I know that not everyone will like it. But when we are talking about human sexuality, when we are all sexual beings, that is a totally different thing. It's not about genre. It's about some bias that is rooted deep down inside of you, and I think you need to explore the why of it. 

So all I've written above is a manic mess. I get that. I went out into the world at large today, and was inundated by humanity. & it worried me a bit. I fear for intelligence in general. I am terrified about the lack of common courtesy... 

The assholes who were clogging up grocery store aisles like they owned the f'n world. & the idiot woman who thought I, the one without a cart, and the 5 ppl with carts behind me, should wait and move backwards so she could 'turn around' in a packed aisle (no one was in front of her blocking the end), while the woman in the other 'lane' blocked traffic with her three kids standing in front of shelves while they all spoke on their cell phones and pretended they were the only people on the planet. Then the cashier who didn't speak to the customers until AFTER they checked out, and refused to check out the customers behind them until she had had her conversation with complete strangers who would never see her again. (Farmer boy, God Bless you for taking note of my real bitch face and telling her that you didn't have time to discuss your cattle with the cashier) 

Don't get me started on Lowe's. Don't.

A woman couldn't spell my email address today: wickedwriter.ericachilson... I said, word for word. "Wicked. Writer. Dot. Erica. E. R. I. C. A. Chilson. C. H. I. L. S. O. N." When I looked to check whether or not to accept it, she had written Rider. (Which gave me a chuckle. I'm a deviant, all right. But a wicked RIDER or what? D? ahahaha) I said, "Nope. Writer. As in a person who writes. W. R. I. T. E. R." Well, it ended up being wirter.ericachilson... no wicked, and not spelled properly. 


Lowe's. She didn't work at Lowe's but she could have been hired there. (I issue an apology for anyone who works at Lowe's on behalf of the 6 idiots who couldn't sell a dishwasher last week. Who wanted us to exchange the imaginary/digital order that they got wrong the first time. I'm sorry you have to work with such people. Truly)


I invented a new sport today. Grocery Shopping Football. The end zone is the end of the aisle. Leave your cart with your shopping companion. The ball is the items you need from the shelves. You're the offensive line, and the defense is the assholes who are clogging the aisle. Weave around them, grabbing for the ball (the product) and make a run for your cart at the end zone to score a touchdown. 


Seriously, it's so much easier than trying to push your cart through the chaos of assholes. Just put your real bitch face on, snarl a bit, and charge between those fuck-faces having meaningless conversations or playing with their phones, and their kids are nearly getting run over by carts... just weave and get your shit and get the hell out of there... 


and then get home to the little bit of peace and happiness you carve out of it. 


-peace!