We lost a legend just a few short weeks ago. I, like many, shared my despair to see a master of machismo, a sultan of shade, a conqueror of tunes say farewell to a world that never truly deserved the beauty that he was. This is my brief, hilarious–in my humble opinion–dedication that sums up precisely how I felt about a man that was truly never a man at all… Continue reading
Yes, I’m a day late, I know. Let’s all just save the criticism for the newfound love between October’s Very Own and the Queen of Tennis, eh? No? (sigh) Instead of yelling at Nikki, how about we read an excerpt of “Until the End of Time”? Unbeknownst to me, apparently quite a few of you have been waiting for the heavens to crack open and rain down a bit of Sansone once again. Well…anyone recall THIS blogpost from a few short months ago when I hinted that a favorite couple would be returning? You guessed it! Blackwell & Sultana are back again!
His Nyssa wasn’t that volatile. She was a thinker, slow in action, fast in reason. The first time that they had sat on the opposite side of that door had been different; very, very different…
“Luuucccy! I’m hooome!” Sansone called in the midst of pushing open the front door while attempting to balance an extremely hot paper bag full of Cuban food from a local eatery in one hand while the other held his leather work satchel. Luciano, his brother, kept referring to the bag as his purse. He’d taken said purse and beat the big bastard with it until he’d grown tired. Continue reading
So I may be writing an incredibly violent sociopath… wait… why am I stating that as though it’s a new thing? Fairly certain I’ve written violent sociopaths before right? (counts on fingers) There was that one Jericho brother. There was Nico–and man was he a dick. There was the asshole that shot Maddox–which really only served to piss me off because WTF? However, there’s a major difference between those sociopaths and this one in particular–he’s the hero. Well…sort of the hero. Maybe hero adjacent? Er…or not. You decide.
I had preconceived notions about what would take place between Nala and Simeon. Ideas that seemed simple enough. But as I’m finding out, nothing is ever as simple as I desire it to be…
“I’m not surprised,” he murmured from just over her shoulder.
Nala turned slightly, her eyes questioning. “About…?”
Simeon motioned to the painting with a nod of his head and padded closer, his bare feet making a barely perceptible sound on the cool, glossy hardwood of his studio’s floors. “That you were drawn to this. That you followed the breadcrumbs.”
She watched him for a moment. “Why?” Continue reading
Originally Mr. Ashleigh Thyne was supposed to be no more than two tons of comedic fun meant to hover in the background and tease Noel Haddon relentlessly about his obsession with Alana’s legs. It’s become abundantly clear that I should have known that wouldn’t work out as planned because it never works out as planned when I have a set character persona in mind. Two tons of comedic fun? Check. Quiet and storyless? Negative. The moment he opened his mouth I knew I was–for lack of a better term–screwed. Following the moniker I gifted him with, The Barbarian brutally raided my mind and wouldn’t leave me in peace. I spent time gas-lighting Janet about how he would have no tale but Jesus did he argue that point to no end. And so “Beauty & The Barbarian” was born. Generally when I create characters, I start from the name and build around it. Continue reading
There comes an inevitable time in every tale where my hero finds himself drawing his line in the sand without the slightest bit of hesitation. Of course my heroine reserves the right to pull away from that and slap him ugly but there a some men who just won’t be stopped…
“I don’t think we can be friends anymore,” Mackenzie told him softly. “I think the lines are blurring. And it’s my fault. Because I haven’t made them clear.”
Ashleigh’s knuckles tapped relentlessly now. “Stop shouldering things, Mac. Stop making excuses for others. Stop trying to tell me that we can’t be friends, that I can’t still have you because of that guy who isn’t even half of what you need.”
“And how would you know? Where have you been the last three years to tell me what I do and don’t need? Why is everyone trying to tell me what I should do and who I should be with? Why does it seem like what I want doesn’t matter?”
Good. She was angry. Anger he could work with. Impassive or cool Mackenzie was different. That Mackenzie was too composed, too rooted in logic to get a read on. But if she was upset—emotional—then that meant there was a conflict happening. One that he’d unknowingly stumbled upon. Continue reading
“My mind moves like a Tron bike,”–Kanye West, circa Yeezus. It was an album I was reluctant to listen to, much less buy for all the obvious reasons you’re already justifying at the moment. Kanye the man, I could live without. Kanye the musician? Adore. Him. That line happens to be one of my favorites. Particularly because I can relate. Any and everything that shoots past my line of sight is liable to become a carefully woven tale of crazy slap-fights, insults involving satan and smexy time that makes my round little pudding face go hot during edits. Continue reading
No, sadly one is not speaking of shifters on this fine day. You’ll have to settle for a run-of-the-mill Papa who’s gained quite the fanbase already. Take a look and you’ll see who it is I speak of…
The jingling of his phone as his car took off through Buckhead drew an annoyed sigh from him that immediately stopped at the sight of Mackenzie and Arista’s faces pressed together as they poked out their lips and crossed their eyes. He answered on the second ring. Continue reading
…until her. Until small tigress with gilded eyes and fierce tongue pushed her way into heart. It was…strange feeling, this. For so many years I assumed I could not change. For many of those years I had no desire to change. But she altered that. And for the life of me I cannot understand why. Hard man. I am hard man. I am hard to talk to, deal with, understand. No softness. And empathy does not exist. But I want it to. For her. I want empathy to exist. I want to be softer. I want her to talk to me; to understand me. I fear that choices stand in the way of this. That ruthless behavior has made me little more than animal in her sight. She has to see me differently. I need her to see me differently. Continue reading