Eden Butler's Blog - Posts Tagged "eden-butler"

It’s a weird little thing, being a writer.

Our abilities, our experiences as creative people all culminate in the exchange of ideas and notions meant to enable us. We learn from our mistakes. We navigate life with the gift of observance that trickles onto our work, into every aspect of who we become.

We think we know so much, but time has a specific way of making what we think we know very trivial and utterly wrong.

So, we write and experience and learn that our realities aren’t ours at all. They become the result of lessons, of mistakes, of the blatant refusal and eventual acceptance that we have no idea what we’re doing.

I used to believe that writing a great story meant writing something profound, perhaps something life altering. You want to impact change. You want to be the cleverest, the most sincere, the most respected. But over time, it comes down to the story. It comes down to the bits and pieces of life, of all our lives, that are as different and unique as the individuals living those stories. Art is meant to hold a mirror up to life. We’re meant to replicate what we feel and experience ourselves. Part of that is expressing all aspects of the human condition. We are not inanimate objects. We are not mere observers. We love and lose. We cry, we mourn. We suffer, we argue, we let emotions and drama and complete ridiculousness overtake our good sense.

We write the story. We live the story. We are the story.

Then why is it deemed arbitrary or saccharine when those stories are good and happy and filled with passion and love and all those wonderfully horribly, brilliantly emotional aspects of the messiness of life?

So, tell the story you want. Write about dragons and knights and aliens and lovers and sex and tears and loss and all the beautiful disasters that make up your own story.

It’s what I’ve been trying to do.

I’ve been writing a story about a girl who has been loved. Who has been betrayed. Who has been shown the bright beacon of hope and had it yanked from her grasp time and time again. She’s not complicated. She’s the every girl. She’s not trivial. She is genuine. And, in my story, she falls in love. She challenges herself. She wants to get back to the serenity she once owned.

She fails. She tries again and what is left, is her surrender to what she cannot control.

What is left, is her story.

So, I’m about to set forth down a long, crowded hallway. I am walking naked, letting the world see all the scars and bruises and insecurities life has left over my body. I’m parading every flaw, every dank, dirty little secret. It is terrifying. It is exhilarating.

It is who I am. Right now. Today.

This is the story I needed to tell.

I hope you like it and even if you don’t, I hope you’ll appreciate that it came from the heart…from this battered, hopeful, still learning heart.

You. Guys. TOMORROW As the Pages Turn is hosting the #CoverReveal of my new work, the novella, "Behind the Pitch." This is Declan's summarized version of "Chasing Serenity." A description is now up on GoodReads. Check it out.

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1...


And because I love you all so, so, so much, here is another tease of the cover!

Hey guys,
We are SO close to 900 likes on the Eden Butler Facebook page. If we get to 900 by the end of the weekend, I'll post a sneak peek of "Behind the Pitch." Please spread the word!

THANK YOU for all your support and encouragement!

https://www.facebook.com/eden.butler.10

So very excited to show you guys the cover to the second Seeking Serenity book, "Finding Serenity."

Summary:

Mollie Malone's mom skipped out on her. Her biker dad, always loose and easy with the law, still was able to make her feel loved, and to keep her safe. But thirteen years ago, when his luck finally ran out and he landed in prison, Mollie found herself a new family - a group of friends in the sleepy little college town of Cavanagh, Tennessee, where now they all attend the local university.

These girls know about the rotten roots of her family tree but accept her anyway, and the bond between them is so strong and supportive that Mollie is finally able to see past graduation to a future that is bright and secure.

But sometimes the past doesn't stay buried.

Suddenly,inexplicably, there's a shadow behind every step Mollie takes. Someone is lurking in that shadow, threatening not only Mollie, but also the new family she has claimed for herself.

And it isn’t just the past that has Mollie’s life in upheaval. Hunky former Marine Vaughn Winchester - who Mollie really would like to get to know much better - thinks Mollie is just a kid; he's made it clear she wouldn't ever be able to understand the demons haunting him. But if that's what he believes, then why does he keep sticking his nose in her business? And if he thinks she’s such a kid, why does he keep trying to kiss her?

Vaughn’s mind games are frustrating, especially since Mollie knows enough about secrets to be convinced that there's something he isn’t telling her, something he's so far been able to keep hidden. But when that secret is revealed, Mollie is forced into a situation that tests her loyalty and threatens even her closest friendships - just when the shadow of her past returns, and she's going to need them the most.

'Finding Serenity' is book two in the Seeking Serenity series.






Excerpt over on LitStack here: http://litstack.com/cover-reveal-find...

Thanks to my girl Ing, we've got some pretty smokin' teasers for the second book in the Seeking Serenity series, "Finding Serenity" which will be out next week!





     

On my blog, right now!!! Go check it out!

Tell me what you think in the comments. Hope you like it.

*bites fingernails*

http://edenbutlerwrites.wordpress.com...

I took a leap of faith and posted my upcoming summer read, "Thin Love."

Here's a small tease. You guys, this guy. Sigh. I am completely in love.

Happy reading!

It’s the cymbals that stop her breath.

Three small taps that break across the crowd, that hum a soft, sweet melody straight into Clarice’s heart. She knows this song. So does Kona and it takes only the small movement of her gaze, weaving around dancing bodies, right to his dark eyes for Clarice to understand he recognizes it too.

He doesn’t watch her, not immediately. Body relaxed against his chair and that wide, long arm outstretched on the table as he moves his glass of scotch between his fingers, Kona’s expression is blank, perhaps bored for the three long breaths Clarice can’t seem to release.

And then, a twist of his bottom lip and his eyes flick right to hers.
She knows he’s remembering it—the song, that night, them alone in her too pink bedroom.

Above her, the lights dim, the party slowing to welcome the heat of dancing bodies and the soft seduction Dave Matthews whispers out from the speakers. But Clarice only half notices how dark the room becomes, how thick the air grows. Kona’s gaze is heated, leveled at her like a kiss across her skin and Clarice can’t take it; not the rush of memory or how the man sitting across this ballroom seems to remember what this song, what that night had meant to her. How it had changed them both.

The sting of recollection is sharp, quick, and she is shocked by how easily she can recover all the emotion, all that consuming fire that just one jolt of memory brings.

When Kona licks his bottom lip, lets that twist on his mouth curve up into a smirk that tells her his memory is long, present in his mind, Clarice stands, backs away from the table in search of lighter air and freedom from the look Kona gives her.

She needs a reprieve from him, from that song that shoots flashes of memory heavy in her mind. She still sees it all so clearly, feels his large hands on her naked thighs, the way his teeth raked across her collarbone. How he cupped her, teased her, how wide he felt inside her.

Clarice suppresses the shudder that chills her skin and slips through the crowd, finding the quiet of the city below her on the balcony. New Orleans shines in front of her—slow activity of blinking headlights, the low, almost unrecognizable refrain of a trumpet in the distance and for a moment she closes her eyes, focuses on that horn, hoping it will vanquish the flash of overwhelming memory.

Behind her, the party continues, that endless song persistent, taunting her and so she moves away from the glass doors, to an empty table hidden next to an alcove, hoping she’ll go unnoticed.
She doesn’t know why she is still here. New Orleans isn’t home anymore. If she went back to Tennessee, there would be no complications. No former college sweethearts who wrecked her life. No hints of him wanting back in to see how much more damage he could do to her.

He hasn’t forgotten. He’s told her that much and there have been too many lingering stares shot in her direction, too many times he saw fit to touch her arm, direct her into a room with his hand on the small of her back.

She knows what he wants, but the idea of reliving the past is too much, too confining an idea.

Hands shaking, Clarice pulls a half smoked joint from her clutch, hurrying to catch a small hit that will numb her to Kona’s stare and those hopeful little hints he’s been giving her for the past three weeks.

One hit, then another, and Clarice can feel the tension leave her, if only for a second.

“That’s bad for you.”

She closes her eyes, cursing herself, cursing that song and the memory she knows pulled him out here.

Clarice hesitates, tries not to notice yet again how much larger he is; how that massive eighteen year old she loved so helplessly had somehow managed to grow bigger, more imposing.

She manages a look, brief and flippant, over her shoulders and blots out his large shoulders, his defined chest, how thick and delicious his cologne smells on the night breeze. “I have a habit of picking up things that are bad for me.” She doesn’t like how easily he chuckles, or how close he stands to her. “Besides, this is only an occasional indulgence.” Kona’s attention moves behind him, to the glass doors before he reaches for the joint. “Hypocrite,” she says when he takes a long drag.

“Occasional, Wildcat, like you.”

Clarice doesn’t watch him too closely, doesn’t want to be consumed by his thick lips pinching on the joint or the wide veins on the top of his hand as he holds it. Instead, she looks at the waiter who steps outside to collects a few empty glasses. From the open door that never-ending song blasts out like a feather touch; teasing, reminding.

Their eyes meet again.

“I never hate hearing this song,” he says, moving closer to pass back the joint.

She thinks, at first, she’ll play dumb, but he knows her tells, was a master at recognizing when she was lying. It’s pointless to act like she doesn’t remember. How could she not? He’d taken her on her pink sheets. The collection of stuffed animals she’d long ignored, fell from her plush covers with every moment of their bodies as this song played on repeat.

“You haven’t forgotten, have you, Wildcat?” Kona watches her lips circle the blunt as she inhales, her tongue flicking out to wet her dry mouth.

“No, I haven’t.” She looks at him, hopes he doesn’t notice the heat she feels warming her neck, across her face as he stares at her. “How could I forget?”

He takes the joint when she offers it and their fingers touch, then join when he throws it on the ground so he can lean over her, back her in between his massive arms resting on either side of her head.

“You wore a Black Crowes t-shirt and nothing else.” He shifts his fingers through her hair, pushes a few strands off her forehead. “I remember your hair was wet.” Kona twists a curl between his fingers.

Then Clarice is shaking, swallowing hard when he abandons her hair completely and runs his fingers over the thin strap of her dress. “You weren’t supposed to be there,” she says, hypnotized by how good his fingertips feel against her shoulder, across her chest. “I had a shower because it was so hot that night.”

“It got hotter.” There is a quiver moving his lips and she can’t tell he’s fighting a smile or frown. “Sweet like candy…” he says, moving too close for breath, for control. Every detail is seared into her mind and the heavy timbre of his voice, the gentle fingering of her skin with his calloused hand only heightens the memory.
He smells the same, feels the same.

She feels the embers threatening to blaze.

“You felt so good, so tight around me, Wildcat.”

Oh God.

She can’t look at him, can’t let the memory take over. But his fingers lower, move down her arms, his enormous chest comes forward and she releases a soft mew of surprise when his thick thighs rub against her legs. He’s so close that she can do nothing but raise her eyes.

“Dirty little rascal…remember that, beautiful?”

“I…I do.”

She doesn’t stop him when he kisses her. She lets herself take in the heat of his massive body, lets it work over her skin. She inhales him—his scent, the hot rub of his tongue against hers, along her bottom lip. At first, she thinks she won’t react; that she’ll push back the sensation, ignore how sweet he tastes, how hard he feels against her. But then he holds her arms, leans into her until her back rests against the brick wall behind her and Clarice is lost.
Kona still makes low groans in his throat when he kisses her; still has the softest lips, the most demanding, wide tongue.
She can’t help herself. He’s an addiction, her favorite drug. She wants a hit. She wants a million hits of him.

Her hands work up his arms, his immense shoulders and his groaning deepens, becomes a growl of pleasure when she returns his attentions. Their mouths aren’t frantic, but they do match each other. He pushes, she pulls, like always, like habit, and it is a delicious drugging dance; one she didn’t know she’d missed.
She feels the swift lick of disappointment when Kona pulls back, but it disappears with his fingers holding her face and the tips smoothing just over her cheekbones.

“My dirty little rascal,” he says, but he doesn’t return her smile, seems struck by how close they are standing, how easy this has been, to fall back into old habits. It was returning…their reactions to one another were primal, instinctual. Un-fucking-avoidable.
The song ends, but Kona hasn’t stopped examining her face. His breath is still hot and panting over her cheeks. It would be easy, so fucking easy, to let him consume her. Every touch is a recall of all the dangerous, desperate emotions Kona sparked in her. Every look dulls her memory, makes her forget how he hurt her, how he broke the promises he swore he’d always keep.

Kona leans in again, somehow moving closer, another hit that will edge her toward overdose and she stops him. The rational part of Clarice’s mind pushes back the sensation of his touch and the embers are extinguished.

“Wait.”

He pauses, but doesn’t move away from her, doesn’t move his fingers from her skin.

“Wildcat, come on.”

“What are we doing?” Clarice knows that expression. It hasn’t changed in sixteen years. Kona’s face is calm, but he frowns, forehead wrinkling in his agitation and Clarice stops another attempt of his lips against her mouth. She pushes him back, palm flat against that tempting chest. “How’d this happen?”

Kona’s shoulders sag and finally, her skin is free of his touch.
“Memory lane,” he says.

“That’s a dangerous place.”

“If you say so.”

“I can’t do this with you.” She takes a breath. “I can’t ever do this with you again.”

His anger isn’t quick, not the instant snap of frustration she’d always known from him, but there is no humor on his face and despite her small rejection, he hasn’t moved his arms from the brick behind her. “Why the hell not?”

“I told you. We were not good together. I can’t…” Another slow breath and Clarice tries to calm, to ignore the heavy scent of his skin filling her senses. “I won’t be like that again.”

Too easy, she thinks, reminding herself how effortlessly Kona consumes her. Moth to flame, eager to die in the fire. She hated who she was with him, most days. She hated that she forgot good sense, any smidgeon of reason when he was around her. She didn’t like who she’d been at eighteen and it was that girl, that unbalanced, obsessed girl, that Clarice had been running from all these years. She wouldn’t let that girl return, not now, not even for Kona.

When she slips out of the cage of his impossibly large arms, Kona reacts, old habits flirting to the surface. He grabs her arm and for a quick second, Clarice feels her teenage self return. His fingers are hot on her bicep, licking heat, anger, passion, through her limbs and Clarice fears the sensation, hates that she loves it so much, that she’d missed it more than she wants to admit.
Just like that, she’s ready to react, to fight and it takes all Clarice’s strength to repress that inclination. “Don’t…”And at her small warning, Kona jerks back, hands up as though she burned him. “You see what I mean? Three weeks and we’re flirting with past behavior.”

“I’m sorry.” Clarice thinks that he might be telling the truth. He fans his fingers through his hair, eyes rounded as though he can’t believe how he’d reacted. “Please,” Kona says, taking a tentative step forward, voice easy, calm. “Don’t leave.”

She doesn’t want to see that expression on his face; the one that tells her he’s different, that his overwhelming presence is no longer dangerous. He’d fooled her once. He won’t get a second chance. A quick shake of her head and Clarice turns away from him, tries to focuses on a plane above shooting away from the city. Kona’s breath warms her neck and Clarice cringes at how much she’d missed this—him, her, the heat, the passion and it is like refusing the best high she’s ever had. She wants it so desperately, wants to forget all his sins just for a moment, just for one small taste of how good he made her body feel. “If I don’t walk away right now, I’m going to kiss you again.”

Kona’s low voice is heady, firm and Clarice has to tighten her eyes closed when his fingertip slides down her spine. “I want you to.”

“I can’t. We…no, we can’t.”

“You’re scared,” he says, mouth hot against her neck.

“I’m petrified.” Despite herself, Clarice leans back, lets Kona wrap his hands around her waist.

“I would never hurt you. You know I’d never touch you, not like that.”

No, he never had. Not once. She’d slapped him and punched him because she was angry, because they were twisted, because they both got off on it. But Kona had never returned the favor. His wounds ran deeper, cut wider.

“You’re no good for me. You were never good for me.” Clarice turns, takes a step back so she can look at his face, so she can see how determined he is to change her mind. “I was a crazy person with you. Obsessed. I can’t relive the past.”

“I’m not the same person.” Kona pulls her forward, gripping her waist in his too large hands until their bodies are flush, until Clarice can feel the hard, delicious planes of his chest and the corded muscles underneath his pants. She knows he won’t hurt her. She knows he won’t let her go. Kona takes her face again, moving her chin so she’s forced to look at him. “You’re not the same, Wildcat and that was a long time ago.”

And then Clarice lets that girl sneak to the surface. She lets her take Kona’s mouth, pull his shirt so that her tongue licks against a wide expanse of tempting, copper skin. She lets that girl enjoy Kona’s mouth, his hands, the way he feels hard, demanding against her, until the night darkens, deepens and her rejection, though halfhearted comes again.

Kona stops pushing, stops demanding and before he leaves Clarice out on that balcony, he reminds her why she’d loved him in the first place. He reminds her why she should love him again.

“I only know one thing—no one sets my skin on fire like you do. No one. Not one person has ever made me feel like I’m alive like you. That hasn’t changed, not in sixteen years. Don’t try to pretend it isn’t the same for you.”

© Eden Butler, 2014

Okay...FINALLY I have a newsletter. Sign up here for stuff you may not see here. :)

http://eepurl.com/VXQXD