Jamie W. Matlock's Blog

Love Aced is on sale for $.99 for a limited time (Amazon only!)!!! If you've been wanting to try the book or know someone who has, now is the time!!!

Prologue

I didn't exactly know what I wanted to be when I grew up. Not for a long time anyway. Some people just have it all figured out. Take my sister, Kole, for example. She had been training to be a professional tennis player her entire life. There wasn’t a single moment that hadn't been centered around that goal since the age of six. Her life had been a monotonous routine of waking up, eating the right things, working out, training and competing. Sleep - making sure to receive the full recommended eight hours - wake up the next morning, lather, rinse and repeat.

Me on the other hand? I was a woman who was still sort of trying to figure it out. Which was okay by most people's standards because most people my age were still in college or heading off into the workforce to make their mark on the world. But I was different - not held to the same standards because I had a successful older sister and a demanding father whose expectations towered above most.

I had always known what I was passionate about. It was just an added bonus that I was as gifted at music as I was zealous, and I had been since the day I was born. Or so said my mom who swore that I came into the world singing - red peach fuzz, balled up fists, hazel eyes and chubby cheeks, singing Dolly Parton "Islands in the Stream". Of course, her memories of my first days on Earth were probably diluted by the post C-section morphine, but I liked the story nonetheless.

There were two big differences between Kole and myself. The first being that we only shared half of our DNA. The fact that we were only half-sisters had come as quite a shock to the both of us - news that, initially I hadn't taken well, but had come to terms with shortly after. We shared the same mother, but not the same father. Kole had gotten a break and I was stuck with the uncaring, unfeeling Bernie Masters and all of his shortcomings.

The other difference - and the one that I perceived as being the biggest - was that she was disciplined, liked the structure of being a professional athlete, of being on a schedule. She was somewhat of a checklist super fan and she hated any sort of deviation from that structure. Her inability to simply let go was precisely why she had almost let Santiago Martinez slip right through her tennis induced, blistered fingers. But her focus had ascended her through the ranks, her star rising from being an amateur to touring around the world on the WTA circuit.

I was proud of her and all of her successes. I mean, why wouldn't I be? Her life was admirable. She was a success. But, to me, her life was boring. And, Santiago aside - her magnificently tanned, toned and sculpted Spanish tennis player fiancé - her life had been one big fat yawn. All of that stressing over every minor detail over every little thing, all of that fine tooth combing, the look-before-you-do-anything attitude made me nauseous.

Because I, Kennedy Masters, was more of an attempt-to-color-within-the-lines-only-when-necessary type of woman. I enjoyed the freedom of life. Go wherever the wind blows you. Take each moment as it comes and live it to the absolute fullest. I quite liked the unexpected, not knowing what was going to come next. The fact that I considered each day a blank canvas and my opportunity to paint it was exactly why the musician lifestyle was right up my alley.

There was one very significant, very noteworthy problem with my choice of lifestyle. A musician's salary was shit until you hit the big time. And, admittedly, I was a far cry from hitting the big time. The thing about Nashville was this: While you might've been the best in your city, so too were 'they' and 'they' had all come to this city to pursue the same dream as you. The competition was tough. Making money from performing in this town was even tougher.

Not too long ago, I thought I might've been gaining momentum, finally getting there, but the record deal that I had signed had turned into more of a development deal and my label and I were at odds. Call it creative differences. Whatever it was, it had put me in a funk, my brain on artistic pause. Not a good place to be when your source of income was intended to come from your artistry. Especially since I'd stopped depositing Bernie's checks, given up my downtown apartment and sold most of my things with the intent to make it on my own, to live up to the phrase struggling musician.

Lately, my fingers hesitated over ripe strings, something they had never done. I had killed more trees in the past six months than I had in my entire life, which was saying something considering my affinity towards making basketballs out of lyrical duds. I couldn't quite wrap my mind around the root of the problem, but every time I sat down with my guitar, my brain turned to sludge, which ultimately led my hand to anything tall and strong. I at least had a diligent manager who, although a bit spacey, believed in me enough to land me a gig singing back-up for country music's hottest superstar, McGuire "Mick" Callahan.

Trevor Mathis had found me a week after my arrival to Music City in a dilapidated bar that served cheap pizza and even cheaper beer, singing for the five people who occupied the establishment - all of which were on the payroll. No one would've stepped foot in the place otherwise. The reason for his presence at the rundown shack was still a bit unclear, but besides being a little flaky at times and his habit of sweating profusely under pressure, I couldn't complain with the services rendered. He had, after all, gotten me this gig and although not my ideal set of circumstances, it was at least drawing me a paycheck.

There were a few things that had become alarmingly clear since I had joined the tour: 1) back-up singer's pay was peanuts, 2) I hated pleather and 3) Mick Callahan looked spectacular in jeans. The rhinestones glued expertly to the ass of them spelling out a very manly 'M' on the left pocket and a "C" on the right, sparkled at me from his spot at the front of the stage. The health risks associated with dreaming about rhinestones and firm asses every night was still unclear, but I'd started a journal and was committed to documenting my findings in the future.

The heavy lighting made an arch over the crowd, spotlighting smiley-faced, drunken women and equally intoxicated men, all donning their finest country western attire, before swinging back to the stage and landing directly on me. I squinted, wanting desperately to shield my eyes from the glaring light, but continued my back and forth dance moves instead, shifting my weight from one foot to the other and adding a mandatory snap after each hip move. I was becoming quite the expert at this particular move. Doing it constantly for two hours straight, multiple times a week had afforded me that luxury. I had already added it to my professional resume under the 'Personal' section. It read: Flygirl who gave up her spot to Jennifer Lopez in the name of being friendly. All jokes aside, if the move consisted of a hip swing and a snap, I was your girl.

I didn't consider myself ripe for this job. The women flanking either side of me were honed, expertly trained back-up singers and had been in this particular area of the entertainment industry for quite some time. They were content with the job title, okay with being pigeonholed into one facet of the business. But me? I'd like to think that I had more to give to the business than this.

I wasn't altogether ungrateful for the opportunity. Far from it, actually. Turning my back on monthly allowance checks from my father - something that I'd taken because I felt that Bernie owed it to me for being such an absolute prick to my sister and for not caring one way or the other about me - had left me with little other choice. It was sink or swim. And I fully intended to swim.

So, I was stuck on this tour making peanuts and singing back-up for a rhinestoned ass. At least part of the equation wasn't unbearable. As the final song hit the last note, Mick turned that exact rhinestoned backside to the crowd, thrust his microphone into the air and slung his guitar over his shoulder so that it hung over his back, affording the audience a glimpse of his scripted name across the expensive wood.

That was the ending to his show. And that was where all of my trouble began.

Chapter One

The crowd screamed and chanted Mick's name, the dark arena dotted with camera flashes and glow sticks. His fans yearned for one more encore that wouldn't come. I wanted a piece of that.

I was riding the euphoric high, soaring from the aftermath of a successful show, of being on stage and hearing the crowd roar, hoping, begging for another piece of you. My ears had that ring to it; the hangover of every concertgoer who had listened to music at a deafening volume for two hours that usually took about the same amount of time to get over afterwards.

I turned to my left, smiling over at Julie Sinatra - to my knowledge, no relation to Frank - who we lovingly referred to as Jewels. I think in large part because she wore so many sparkly, glittering things on her wrists, fingers and in her ears that it seemed only fitting.

"Great show, Kid." She smiled back at me, running a hand through her teased hair. Jewels was an eighties teenager who had yet to realize that that particular decade had left us over twenty years ago. She had once been beautiful, but her face now carried the burden of a life lived on the road and one-too-many whiskey straights.

I fought the urge to tell myself that I was headed in the same direction, and if I couldn't resist the alcohol, my face would bear the same lines. But it was hard to quit when most days the drink was the only thing that seemed to help me cope with the words that wouldn't come and the blank pages that came along with it.

We exited the stage, crewmembers dressed in black ushering us back into a dimly lit hallway.

"Thanks," I responded, my enthusiasm shining through. I couldn't smolder the fire burning inside me from the thrill of a screaming crowd and the rush of performing.

Melissa let out a condescending snort. She flipped her stiff, overly treated curls and rolled the brown eyes that matched the color of her hair. I wasn't sure of Melissa's story, but I was well aware of her poor attitude, and the fact that she considered herself tour royalty.

"What now, Sweets? You got a run in your panty hose from pulling them on and off too many times over the past few months?" Jewels beamed broadly, happy with the opportunity that she had been permitted.

Ouch. Melissa's promiscuity was well known, but publicizing it seemed like a bold move considering her recent overnights on Mick's tour bus.

"Watch it, you'll create a new wrinkle," Mel spat back.

Double ouch. I visibly flinched.

Jewel's mouth shot into a thin line, her eyes allowing a sliver of hurt before she was able to mask the pain from the verbal blow. Jewels being upset - especially at the hands of Mel - didn't particularly sit well with me. I had come to consider her a friend, someone who knew the business from decades of service, someone who had seen and heard a lot of things - knew a lot of people - and she'd taken me under her wing, making sure I knew the ins and outs. She'd made sure that I both knew and understood what type of person Mel was too, and I'd managed to steer clear of her ever since…Until now.

I was ill prepared to give up my current source of income to a woman whose legs couldn't stay planted on the ground, but I didn't appreciate the callousness of her words. I'd never been good at just letting things go or backing down from a fight. Had I been more like Kole, I would've considered my options, realized that I'd be best served by keeping my mouth shut and simply walked away. But because I was just the opposite, I caved.

"You've got a lot of nerve," I mumbled with enough venom in my voice to garner a look of surprise from both women. I stepped closer to Mel, lowering my voice so I wouldn't draw the attention of unwanted bystanders. "Jewels has more talent in her pinky than you have in your entire body," I said, my eyes narrowing, "and if you think-"

"Ladies," a masculine voice drawled out the word.

,p>I froze. I knew that voice. Think, think, think…Shit! When the vision finally formed in my mind, placing voice with identity, I realized my misstep. Clearly I had a strong desire to ruin what little chance I had at a career. I could hear Kole's voice in my head, informing me that my inability to control my temper would be my undoing. That and the fact that you can't put pencil to paper. I shook my head, releasing the last thought from my mind.

I spun around slowly, my features shifting into a smile. Had I not been so busy hoping that he hadn't heard my outburst and thinking of ways to maneuver my way out of a self-created, sticky situation if he had, I would've appreciated the view.

"Mick," Mel purred.

"Melissa," he acknowledged with a small nod, before his gaze leisurely found mine. His eyes slid down to my breasts, then farther South to my hips before retracing their tracks back upwards.

Shit, shit, shit. My heart was palpitating - an action that I didn't appreciate considering the ease with which I typically handled these situations. The brim of his signature Stetson hung low, almost covering his eyes, casting a dark shadow across the bridge of his nose that danced along his cheeks. He pinched the brim with his pointer finger and thumb, tipping it forward as a greeting before sliding it just far enough back to afford me the luxury of those stunning blue orbs.

He had melted panties off of hoards of women with those eyes. I was as sure of that fact as I was unsure about my music career. My brain was throwing up red flags left and right. Blue eyes mixed with a muscular build and a firm ass just so happened to be my favorite male cocktail. Not good.

My heart was not supposed to be doing crazy happy dances...Not for the talent. I could hear Trevor's voice in my head telling me that, absolutely, under no circumstance, was I to drool over, lock lips with or fall into bed with the key players. Mick Callahan was definitely a key player, and I was definitely contemplating all of the above.

"Are you okay?" he questioned, a smirk playing upon his lips.

I shook my head, shaking Trevor and his warnings from my mind. Somewhere amidst my thoughts of lust, he had spoken to me and I hadn't heard. Hence the reason for the disturbed look he was giving me. I had been too busy calculating the amount of real estate on his lips that I'd like to nibble to make any sense of what he'd been saying. I cleared my throat, pulling myself together with a casual smile.

"I'm sorry. I just can't hear very well," I said motioning towards my ears. Blaming my social clumsiness on the aftermath of the loud music seemed like a good enough scapegoat. "What were you saying?" I tilted my head to the side, narrowing my hazel eyes in question.

"What's your name, Sweetie?" His lips formed the words like he was making love to them, his velvety voice gripping each well-aligned disk as it traveled down my spine.

Normally I wouldn't have appreciated being called Sweetie by someone I barely knew. But staring at him now, the front half of the man whose back half had been pined over and dreamt about since I'd joined the tour, I deduced that I would afford him this one slipup. I knew I should've walked away right then and there. But I, unfortunately, was interested, curious and had been presented with the perfect opportunity for revenge. Nothing would make me happier than making Mel squirm in her pleather.

Mel huffed from beside us. It was just enough to break his concentration and momentarily refocus his mind so that intentionally omitting my name wouldn't seem so obvious. He shot her an unappreciative glance that left little to the imagination about what it was that he meant. Whatever they had had, was over. Finished. Done.

"I'd like to have drinks with you. Celebrate you joining the tour," he drawled, lifting the hem of his shirt as he looped his thumbs through the belted jeans. I couldn't help but notice the fist-sized belt buckle that shone back at me, his initials scrawled across the front of the silver metal.

Wonder if his underwear is branded too…My body went rigid with the thought.

"I've been on the tour for almost a month," my mouth retorted. The three hundred dollars left to my name came to mind, reminding me that I needed to tread lightly - maybe be a little less Kennedy and try to channel some inner-Kole. "I'm sorry," I said with enough politeness to make it sound sincere.

The bitter taste that the apology left in my mouth was made tolerable only when a vision of my former downtown apartment came to mind. I had apologized to keep this job, I rationalized. I was homeless, probably label-less and had only a suitcase full of clothes, a small storage unit outside of Nashville that I probably wouldn't be able to pay the following month and my mom's guitar to my name.

He chuckled - seriously laughed out loud. His thick chest heaved up and down with the sound, drawing my eyes to the sculpted pectorals that were clearly visible through his form fitting 'Born to be a Rebel' t-shirt. "Feisty. I like that," he admitted, his voice dipping low and doing that soft, velvety caressing thing that I didn't appreciate. "Sometimes I get so caught up with the tour that I don't notice. Tonight, I noticed."

Must've been the exceptional dance moves.

"That's nice," I managed. I didn't like the fact that my voice came out an octave higher or that it cracked on the second word, making me seem like a complete idiot where the male species was concerned. At least the words were noncommittal.

"Yeah, it is," he mumbled, his eyes unable to hide their own curious intrigue. He hadn't taken the words as they'd been meant. He had seen them as a challenge. A challenge that he had already mentally accepted.

"Mick, I do hope that we can continue discussing what we started discussing on your bus last week," Mel cut in, her voice dripping with innuendo.

Bless her heart. She hadn't understood the blatant look that had just been conveyed.

"No, I think we covered it," he said indifferently, his eyes never leaving mine.

I was fairly certain that the 'it' in that equation had been referring to her body. And by the words 'I think we covered', he undoubtedly meant her body with his. I cursed myself for going there and feeling a tiny inkling of jealousy afterwards. Yes, I had given ample amounts of REM time to his backside, but I had little to no interest in actually pursuing a romp in the sack with him, much less give notice to his fruitless extracurricular activities with anyone else.

For my own selfish reasons, I watched on eagerly as Mel's lips formed into a pout. Being spurned in front of us was ten times worse than being spurned in general. I considered it a point for The Good Guys.

"But-" she began, clearly not understanding when to quit. She was persistent. I had to give her that.

Mick shifted his weight from one leg to the other, tapping an impatient, pointed brown leather toe. "Now, Mel, you remember the conversation that we had," he said coolly. He urged her into response when she didn't answer. "Right, Sweetie?"

I was trying not to take offense to the fact that he'd used the same term of endearment on me less than ten minutes prior. I frowned. What was I doing? Hoping to ruin my career and lose my manager? I had to get a handle on the situation. There had to be a way that I could win where Mel was concerned but still be able to pay next month's rent on the storage unit.

Mel didn't respond, but it didn't seem to bother Mick in the slightest. "Now, where were we?"

There wasn't meant to be any confusion about whether or not he was flirting with me. Because he was. Very openly. My brain turned on to auto pilot. Flirting I could do because flirting was in my comfort zone. Flirting involved a lot of shooting from the hip, something I did with ease. "You were just about to apologize for ignoring me for the last month."

His eyes showed surprise at my candor. Men like Mick usually took the reins in conversations because it left little to no room for you to be caught off guard. He crossed his arms over his chest, giving an agreeing nod. "I suppose I owe you that, Miss…" He narrowed his eyes, the intrigue still highlighted there. "I didn't catch your name."

I ran my tongue across my lips to moisten them, but I suppose that one could've taken it as me flirting. Mick surely did because his eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. "No, you didn't," I agreed, turning on my heels and marching in the opposite direction.

There was a part of me - the part that was attempting to keep me on course and in check - that prayed he wouldn't follow. But there was another part of me - a very miniscule, very annoying part that so often got me into trouble - that wanted nothing more than for him to follow.

And, deep down, I instinctively knew that he would - could almost hear the heels of his cowboy boots slapping the concrete - because I understood men and the basicness of their needs.

There was a lot you could count on in most men - especially a man like Mick. For starters, men wanted what they thought that they couldn't have. It was in their DNA. I think it had something to do with the whole, "Me Tarzan, you Jane", I make the rules bullshit. In addition, men liked a challenge and they loved the thrill of the chase. Blame it on evolution and the fact that they were natural born hunters. Women like Mel - the easy kind - failed to understand this point and it was to her detriment that Mick would probably never look her way again.

So with those two thoughts in mind, I continued my walk down the hallway, my conscience being torn in two very different directions.

To say that I was shocked when I felt fingers slide firmly around my wrist would've been an outright lie. What did surprise me, however, was the hammering that began in my chest in response to being whirled around suddenly, kinetic forces slamming our bodies together. I tried shoving off of his chest, sure that it was necessary because I wasn't the least bit comfortable with the shakiness in my limbs that the sudden nearness had created. His arms linked around the small of my back, my knees betraying me by buckling beneath me. "Whoa," he said, tightening his arms around me, the action bringing my body completely flush with his.

I struggled against his grasp, inwardly cursing the limp noodles that had replaced my generally lean legs.

"Uh, uh, uh," he chided. "You didn't think that you were getting off that easy, did you?"

I swallowed long and hard, gulping down more air than saliva. "Quite frankly I wasn't considering getting off at all," I spat, my brain buzzing from the scent of his cologne. The mischievous gleam that entered into his eyes was a direct result of the mistake that I'd just made. Shit! Kennedy Masters did not make mistakes like this!

"Oh you would if I had anything to do with it," he said into my hair. He tucked a stray strand behind my ear before running his tongue under the lobe, biting down gently. "It would be the only thing you'd be able to consider."

I craned my neck back to look at him, mostly in an attempt to make sure that he didn't nibble my ear again, but also in an effort to say my next statement. "If your tongue ever gets that close to me again without my consent, you won't get it back," I managed. I was surprised at my own restraint considering my immature, buckling knees. "Now, if you'll excuse me," I grumbled, feigning annoyance. I sidestepped him with every intention of marching the rest of the way down the hallway, getting a shower and hammering back a few shots of whiskey to help me sleep his scent away.

"Wait, I'm…I'm sorry, okay?" he offered hesitantly. I stopped dead in my tracks. "I shouldn't have assumed…" he started again. For reasons beyond me, I turned back towards him. He tore his hat from his head, revealing a marine-style buzz cut, scratching his head above his ear. "Shit, sometimes I just do things and I don't think about them," he admitted.

I sucked in the side of my cheek and began to nibble. I could relate. I did that more often than I cared to admit. I couldn't even begin to count the times that I'd been chastised about that particular trait of mine. Generally, I made it a point to figure out a way to make said trait into some sort of virtue, but I knew the truth - that it often led to poor decision making that left me in even stickier situations on the back end.

"Let me start over," he offered, placing his hat back on his head. "I assume that you already know who I am, but let's pretend that you don't. The name's Mick. Mick Callahan."

He had just eaten a slice of humble pie in front of me and dammit-to-hell if he didn't look sexy standing there with pie on his face and an apology tumbling from his lips. Try as I might - and I was really trying because it would've been in my best interest - I couldn't walk away, couldn't force my body to move in the opposite direction. Plus, I still was in the revenge business and was well aware that Mel had yet to peel her eyes from us.

"Kennedy Masters," I said, shaking his extended hand, intentionally making a show of allowing our palms to touch a little longer than was necessary.

He held out a casual arm for me to take. Promising myself that this leisurely stroll down the hallway would be the end to both this charade and my revenge on Mel, I looped my arm in the crook of his, a little surprised when he clamped his arm down over my hand, tugging me closer to his side.

"Where we headed?" I questioned absently, with absolutely no intention of joining him.

"To my bus for a nightcap," he admitted. He apparently sensed my hesitation, bringing his other hand to drape over my arm. "I promise to keep all body parts away from you if that's what you want."

Because that was supposed to make me feel better.

His words were a challenge. He didn't believe that I could resist, and I was just the person with the wrong state of mind to try. God, I knew that I shouldn't, knew that nothing good could come from this little rendezvous, but I loved challenges. Especially those that involved sculpted chests, perfect lips and baby blues to match. "Now, what kind of self-respecting woman would be caught dead on a tour bus alone with a man?"

"A women who appreciates very expensive, aged whiskey."

My mouth was already watering. My mind was willing my tongue to say no and my legs to walk in the opposite direction. It was attempting to remind me of my plan and that sticking to it was the best course of action, but the careless side of me was winning. I could feel it in my bones. I wanted the whiskey, to feel the burn that would ultimately numb the insecurities that I was feeling about my career's future and my alarmingly absent abilities to create.

"Now you're talking my language. Lead the way, Cowboy."

The words stabbed at my conscience and I regretted them and the decision that they signified as soon as they left my lips, but I followed him through the maze of hallways anyway, my arm linked firmly in his. We emerged from the labyrinth of hallways that made up the underground of the arena five minutes later, a running bus parked in the large open space.

As we rounded the front of the bus, Mick's driver gave us a perfunctory wave. I resented the knowing look that crept onto his face. He had just high-fived Mick with his eyes, more indication that this was a bad idea. I shot daggers at him with my own.

The moment that I stepped onto his bus, the luxury inside wrapped itself around me. The bus that the back-up singers shared with some of the crew was meant to transport people from city to city. Mick's bus was meant to be lived in. It was beautiful, chalked full of expertly crafted leather and marble counter tops, smooth edges and masculine decorations. It was Mick defined.

The cold shot glass being pressed into my hand and the smell of the whiskey that followed brought me into the present. When I turned to Mick, I saw fire in his eyes. My mouth went dry. Nothing about this situation was good, and it was very quickly going from bad to worse with every moment that I stayed. I raised the glass a couple of inches in the air in a salute before gulping its contents down in one fluid swallow.

"You didn't even give me a chance to toast to anything," he mused, tiny crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. He took the glass from my hand and headed towards the kitchen area. The Jim Beam bottle beamed at me from the countertop, a white, frozen outer layer clinging to the outside of the bottle.

"You didn't toast fast enough," I retorted.

Where in the hell had that response come from? I needed to exit stage-right…now.

"I'll remember that next time," he said, downing his own shot before pouring us both another and returning to my side. "Wouldn't want a woman to drink me under the table."

"I thought men like you liked it under tables," I quipped, smashing my eyes down sharply over my own stupidity. I was a human wrecking ball, unable to stop myself from saying careless things. Honesty was the policy I tended to lean towards. Honesty seemed to get me into a hell of a lot of trouble, which was precisely where I was currently headed.

He took his hat off, placing it onto one of the leather couches and took his shot with the expertise of someone who knew how. We seemed to be equally matched in that department.

"I thought we were toasting to this one," I said, attempting to shift subjects. I threw my neck back, the whiskey burning the back of my throat on its way down. If I couldn't manage to remove myself from the situation, at least I could try and enjoy the Jim Beam.

"Men like me like it in a lot of different ways, Kennedy. Usually my women do too," he insinuated. He allowed his statement and all of its meaning ample time to sink in. And it did…all the way to the region between my thighs. Christ. "And we are toasting, but I have a good feeling that I'm going to need every drop of alcohol I can get tonight."

"I could take offense to that."

"It wasn't meant to offend, Sugar. Actually, quite the opposite," he said, refilling our shot glasses again and handing mine back to me. "You're the prettiest thing I've ever seen and I'm going to play hell sticking to my word earlier. These hands are finding it difficult to just be friends."

"I'm sure you tell all of your women that," I challenged, trying to fight the pink from making its way to my cheeks. His flirting abilities - much like his drinking abilities - ran parallel to mine. He was good. The situation was not.

"Only when it's true."

Good and honest. Most men would've lied, told me that I was special or different to get into my pants. Not Mick. A part of me respected his honesty because I offered the same thing to those around me. But there was another part of me that resented the truth and wanted the lie. I couldn't digest the need or make sense of it, wasn't entirely sure that I really wanted to.

"Let's toast," I offered.

He raised his glass. "To new friends and the endless possibilities."

New friends maybe, but I'd be damned if it turned into anything more. I threw the shot back with the same urgency that I had with those before it. I closed my eyes, shutting everything else out as I enjoyed the burn. I felt the pad of his finger slide up my neck, run over my chin and stop just below my lower lip. I froze. My eyes popped open to see him standing a half a foot in front of me, his gaze zeroed in on my mouth. His upper lip tilted into a grin as he pulled his finger from my lip and dipped it into his mouth, enjoying the whiskey that had been intended for me.

He rolled his tongue around, sampling the small amount of liquid that he'd just wiped from my skin. "That tasted better than it should have."

That sounded better than it should have. I felt my body flush, the heat galloping across my skin. "I thought you weren't going to touch me unless I approved."

"I thought I wasn't either," he responded. His voice had turned low, husky and downright sexual.

I scowled up at him, angrier with my reaction towards the act than the actual act itself. It had left me at a complete loss for words, which didn't happen often. The internal struggle was staggering - the pull of right and wrong, the difference between want to do and need to do weighing heavily on my mind. I heeded the internal warning and opted for the alcohol instead. "Don't let it happen again," I managed, reaching the bottle and refilling my shot glass.

He held his hands out to the side as I passed by - a silent apology. "My mistake," he mumbled, looking like he actually meant it.

"It's just," I began, the exasperation that I was feeling towards myself seeping through. "Does that really work for you?"

"Does what work for me?"

"One touch and they just melt," I answered. I didn't like that I was currently doing the melting in which I was belittling.

"I don't know," he answered, shrugging. "I mean, yes, sometimes." He paused, mulling over his answer. "A lot of times," he corrected, a boyish grin snaking onto his face.

"That must be real convenient for you," I noted, being mindful of how lightly I needed to tread.

"I'll admit, it's nice to know that the scale generally tips in my favor." He made his way towards me, eyeballing me as a panther would his prey. "How am I doing as far as you're concerned?"

I took precautionary steps backwards, my backside coming into contact with the marble I was marveling over earlier. "The jury's still out," I squeaked out, clearing my throat afterwards. "Listen, this has been fun, Mick, really, but this is where it ends," I said, patting the muscles that now stood before me.

I headed towards the door on wobbly legs. It was imperative that I remove myself from this situation - now more than ever. The alcohol was kicking in, doing its job, and my inhibitions were lowering.

"Not so fast," he said, grabbing my wrist and whirling me back towards him. I nearly toppled into him in the process, my arms acting as a cushion between us. "You're not going anywhere. I fully intend to have overnight company, and I fully intend on that company being you."

Overnight company. You. His words replayed over in my mind, my instincts to run taking over. My body jolted as I attempted to pull away. He wrapped his arms tightly around me. "What in the hell?!?" I managed, feeling the bus begin to move.,/p>

"On the road again," he answered, a devilish twinkle in his eye. He leaned forward, placing his lips to my left ear. "Hang on, Sweetie. Looks like you're stuck with me. Next stop, Nashville, Tennessee."

Love Strung Releases January 21st, 2015.

I’m so excited to be working diligently on LOVE ACED’s follow-up, LOVE STRUNG, but I love my debut novel so much, that I oftentimes can’t get Santiago and Kole out of my head. So, I’ve decided to offer some teasers…

Teaser 1:

Santiago charged towards me, too swiftly for me to make any attempt of escape. He backed me into a corner, planting both of his palms along the wall on either side of my head; our bodies flush once more, his manhood pressed firmly against my stomach. He thrust his hips forward, burying his member even deeper into my midsection.

“You think this is about some competition? You think this is for anyone who wants it?” he questioned through clenched teeth.

When I didn’t reply he repeated the action again, thrusting forward, urging me into response. My breath caught in my throat, and any response that I could’ve managed was quickly squelched.
“Answer me, Kole.”

“Stop this, Santiago,” I demanded.

He grabbed for my hand, placing it over his shorts and tightening my fist around his erection. I attempted to pull it away, but his hand stayed firmly around mine.

“This is for you, Kole. No one else,” he fumed. “I wish I could change it, no? Stop this attraction. Have you and be done with you. But I cannot. And I will not watch you kiss another,” he bellowed. “Not while you are with me at my home, no? Not when I know how you react to my touch. You are begging to be kissed, begging to be touched…be made love to. If anyone will do it, it will be me,” he seethed, his hand tightening around mine. “Understand this; no one will turn you inside out like I will. No one.”

~~~~~

That Santiago….And the tenderness…

Teaser 2

“I can’t go back to my father,” I admitted, barely above a whisper. “I-I’m not ready. I need more time,” I stammered. I glanced down at my hands, gathering the courage to confess my next statement. Brief moments of contemplation ticked by before the words tumbled from my lips in a hurried whisper. “I’m not ready to leave you.”

“Say it again,” he demanded, his hushed tone mirroring mine. I sensed the urgency there, like he didn’t believe what he had heard and needed to hear it again for confirmation.

My eyes flickered up to his hesitantly, still a little embarrassed at my admission. What I found when my gaze met his was comforting. In this moment, he seemed every bit as vulnerable as me, like his plea to hear the words again had split him open and exposed his most guarded secrets to me. The need to touch him became terribly strong, like I needed to bring his vulnerable body to mine and somehow mold them together to make something whole, something less unsure and unsteady.

I grabbed at his hand, the closest thing to me, and tugged him forward. His face now only inches from mine, strong and serious and waiting. “I’m not ready to leave you,” I whispered, finding that the words came out with much more ease the second time around.

“You do not have to leave me, Kole. Not unless you choose,” he responded.

~~~~~

Oh, and the way he made demands of her at times…

Teaser 3

I had barely found the right temperature underneath the showerhead when I felt his presence behind me. I opened my eyes, ignoring the burn that direct contact with the water caused, before turning to him. “You know, it’s not really appropriate to share a shower without asking. Locker Room Etiquette 101,” I pointed out. It had been meant as an attempt to lighten the mood, to hide the nervousness that his unexpected nudity had ushered in. His piercing stare told me that my humor hadn’t been well received.

“When the person underneath is mine, I do not ask, no?”

~~~~~

Those are just a few of the many reasons that I love Kole and Santiago. Hope you do too!

I will say this about Kennedy’s story, as is characteristic of her (which you catch a glimpse of towards the end of Love Aced), her story is much more fast-paced. Kennedy doesn’t seem to be fighting quite as many emotional demons as Kole. But, what she is facing, is getting out of messes that her leap-before-you-think attitude creates!

Stay tuned for teasers from LOVE STRUNG. I think you’re going to like it…

JWM

I just love rubbing elbows with other book nerds (and I mean that in the most flattering, completely awesome-est way!). Being a book lover turned author, it's great to know what everyone else is reading, enjoying & drooling over.

It's also a great way to get feedback on my book (soon to be books)! Happy reading, All!

Mwuah!!! <----That was an air kiss. Hope you 'caught' it. ;)

I’m not supermom. Yes, I’ll admit (although I’d like to think that I’m pretty damn close!). I think there’s this huge push for moms (on top of being a size two 3 months after birth) to be Supermom. I think it’s crap. Hogwash. I feel like you can be a good Mom without being Ms. Betty Crocker or cooking a meal out of Rachael Ray’s latest cookbook every night. Most days, my husband is completely fine with a frozen pizza or chicken fingers, and I assume my kid(s) will be too. I just don’t like the pressure that society is placing on us moms. I think some of social media is to blame - Pineterest specifically. I’m not saying I don’t like it, but I probably won’t be the mom who makes Minion Cupcakes or Rudolph droppings (or whatever the hell you call the popular Christmastime, Chex-mix stuffy stuff).

I’ll be a great Mom. My kid will know her ABC’s and 123’s, but she’ll probably try to Judo-chop her Kindergarten teacher or the first boy who attempts to steal her swing at recess, and I hope that’s okay. Because I’m not perfect, and I don’t expect her to be. I hope she’s kind and courteous and creative. I hope she’s fierce and stands up for what she believes in, stands up to the bully on the playground, taking up for her best friend. (The following shamelessly quotes a Rascal Flatts song:) I hope her dreams stay big, her worries stay small and she’ll never have to carry more than she can hold. (End potential plagiarism.)

In short, I won’t be the perfect Mom and I don’t think following a Pinterest guideline will make a perfect child. Your child won’t learn how to fail and dust themselves off because you decorated your house perfectly for Halloween. Your child won’t learn the differences of right or wrong because you handmade Christmas t-shirts for their entire classroom. You do the best you can and you go from there.

I think the real reason I’m attempting to figure this out, is because in being a new Mom, you still struggle to be yourself. You want to remain true to YOU, without jeopardizing your responsibilities. And I think that’s really important. I write. It’s my guilty pleasure and oftentimes I struggle with working 40+ hours a week, being a Mom and a wife and doing the thing that I love - that thing that could make money, but doesn’t yet. And my goal is to keep trying, keep plugging away. Because that’s what I would want my child to do. That’s the thing, at the end of the day, that I can use as an example to her. I can, without hesitation, encourage her to follow her dreams, encourage her to dream big. And if she does heed to my advice, then it won’t be because of some hand crafted Valentine’s invitation, it won’t be because I made George W. Bush shaped cookies for a President’s play. It’ll be because I set a good example. It’ll be because I showed her how to carry out your dreams by living my own.

Moms, I believe that you don’t have to stop living because you’ve had children. You need to start following your dreams to set an example as to how they should follow their own.

Dream big, Little One. Let no one or no thing every hold you back, tell you that you won’t succeed. Success is measured by achieving YOUR dreams and only YOU can measure that success.

~JWM

I had indicated in an earlier post and on my author profile on Amazon that Love Strung wouldn’t be out until late 2014, but what the hay? I’m all in! This is my written promise to myself, my family and anyone out there who might be reading this, that I’m going to set a two month MAXIMUM for the release of Love Strung. Anyone who knows me BE WARNED: I am going to be suffering through long days and even longer nights, my sleep will be limited along with my patience.

On a side note and as a gift, I’m posting more song lyrics…Wheeeee!

================================

The ties that bind,

Are slowly starting to unwind.

I thought in time,

You’d unleash these inner demons

Happy to just be mine.

But I was wrong.

(Chorus)

So I strike the match

Turn it in to a flame.

I’m burnin’ down these walls

That were built in your name.

Can’t carry the burden of your hurt

It’s too tough to tame.

Started out well,

Fresh and brand new.

Play pretending to be happy when you were gone

Was all I could do.

But there was a shift

And an emotional divide.

You held my heart

And I became the burden at your side.

I was the emotional glue

That held us together

The comfort and reassurance

Through bumpy roads and stormy weather.

But the glue is about to burn beneath the flame…

( Repeat Chorus)

The glue is gone.

If tearing us apart was your aim

Then strike up the band

Because you’ve won.

I’ve got nothing left to give.

(Chorus 2)

I struck a match.

Turned it into a flame.

Burned down the walls

That were built in your name.

I no longer carry the burden

Of you or your games.

Copyright 2013 - Jamie W. Matlock

=======================

Toodles, folks!

JWM

I love writing romances, but I also love writing song lyrics. They just spring to life out of the blue and oftentimes I find myself keying them into my iPhone’s notepad setting at random moments during the day (Yes, I’ve done it while driving. Yes, I’m ashamed. No, I don’t need any comments or hate mail to tell me that it’s wrong!).

The above referenced song is mentioned briefly towards the end of Love Aced, and I wanted to share it with all of you. This is definately something that I’ll do often in the future, as so many lyrics spring into mind because of the stories that I’m writing. Consider it an extra token of my appreciation if you’ve purchased the novel, read it and were curious enough to find out more about me by tracking me down via the internet.

The song is written by Kennedy (Kole’s younger sister who is the protagonist in Love Aced’s follow-up, entitled Love Strung.) for Kole.

So, without further adieu:

You slap her in the face

Without sayin’ a single word.

Truth be told

She’s given you more than you deserve.

You should know

The meaning of being hurt.

Your heart should bear the same wounds

That you’ve inflicted on her.

(Chorus)

Hope you can handle,

When the tables turn.

Hope she takes it easy on you,

When all her lessons are learned.

Looking to you for guidance,

Like a daughter should.

You’ve shown her the violence,

That only a cold heart could.

You should have been the man

That guided her life.

Told her how special she was

When she did everything right.

(Chorus)

Hope you can handle,

When the tables turn.

Hope she takes it easy on you,

When all her lessons are learned.

She’ll rise from the ashes

Leaving you in her wake.

Don’t be surprised

When you’re alone and feeling sorry

For all of your mistakes.

(Chorus)

Hope you can handle,

When the tables turn.

Hope she takes it easy on you,

When all her lessons are learned.

She’s gonna get her revenge

And your reign over her life

Will meet its bitter end.

Copyright 2014 - Jamie W. Matlock

So, because I’ve decided to chase after my dream of becoming a REAL, money making author, I thought that it would be a good idea to create a space so that I could share, vent, market, etc. and also allow folks to get a better idea of who I am - an opportunity to connect with me if you so choose (And I hope you do!).

I’m just a normal girl who’s aspirations to write were always put on the backburner. I always thought that writing was a form of leisure for me, a way to escape. Most certainly not a career. Writing was my side dish. That thing that I did when I had all of my real life ‘chores’ done. I went to college, got my big girl degree and joined the workforce.

Bland. Boring. Yes, I’m aware.

Then something happened. The first year that my (now) husband and I were dating, I kinda sorta illuded to the fact that I wrote in my free time - novels, song lyrics, etc. and had my whole life. Now, I thought that he was going to be a real guy and explain to me how stupid the idea of writing was. Something like, ‘Don’t you know there’s no future in writing? It’s a one in a million shot.’ At which point I would respond with something snarky (as I so often do!) like, ‘Tell that to Nicholas Sparks who’s first novel sold for a million.’ But he didn’t. Instead, he encouraged me. Dared me to write a novel. I even drafted a contract that he had me sign stating just that.

Fast forward a year. And then another. And possibly another. I’m pretty sure that I intentionally lost count.

I finally got the courage to pluck the characters from my brain and put them into Word format. I took my time, all the while perfecting my manuscript, all the while thinking that I’d never finish. I’d write seriously for a week or two and then set it aside - working, moving, getting married, honeymooning and, eventually, having a baby girl. Life happened and I - like I had so often done before - had pushed writing aside, neglecting my love for it and refusing to nurture the one thing career-wise that made me happy.

I was about 3/4 through my manuscript, not having touched it in months, when I gave birth to my beautiful bundle of joy. I remember very clearly (well, as clearly as you can remember things when on a post c-section morphine drip) thinking that I needed to finish my book. I wanted this little girl (like so many mothers do) to chase after her dreams, climb mountains, take down fences…You get it, right? And wouldn’t it seem hypocritical of me to encourage her to do all of those things when I hadn’t done it myself?

So, I did.

Finally I finished my novel. Wrote and revised a million times and told myself that I needed to let go, release it into the world. There’s a lot of story in between the ‘I finished my manuscript phase’ to ‘I’m a self-published indie author’ and I promise to write about that in the near future. But for now, I’m happy with the fact that it’s out there. I’ve set my baby free and am working on the baby’s little sister (the follow-up to Love Aced, entitled Love Strung) and have devised a new mantra: ‘writing, no longer my side dish’ because I’ve made it a point to make it my main dish. And I’ve given myself a doable deadline: ‘late 2014’ because I am a worker bee by day and a mommy by night and a writer when I can.

Please head on over to Amazon, B&N or Smashwords and download the sample, then the book, then enjoy…then leave me a review. Let me know what you think!

~JWM

My debut novel, Love Aced: A Sports Romance. Buy it. Read it. Review it.