Tag Archives: romance

Hot Blacktop – Ch. 3 – Saint

8 Replies

Stuart “Saint” Paulson looked down at Sienna, his brow furrowed, shoulders tense, his own headache inviting itself in.

“Stay.”

“I can’t do that,” he replied after a long pause. She didn’t respond. She’d fallen asleep. He sighed, went back to the bed, sat down and looked at the woman who had pulled at something deep inside that he’d forgotten. How to feel. Saint didn’t deserve to feel, not after what’d happened to his sister, Becky. Saint didn’t understand why he agreed to take Sienna home in the first place, let alone make sure he tucked her into bed. He couldn’t take care of his baby sister when she’d needed him the most, so why would he be able to take care of Sienna?

Saint’s head dropped down, chin to his chest, and his self-hatred sliced deep with each breathe. He gazed at Sienna, swept the hair out of her face, and skimmed his finger down to her chin, he couldn’t stop and indulged in the feel of her, her hair, her skin. She wasn’t what he would call a stunner. Sienna was…unique. Right now, her skin was pale and drawn because of the headache. Once she was better, he bet it would be flawless and pink as pale porcelain. Her jaw angled sharply down from high cheekbones, almost to a diamond shape at her chin. What softened her face was the subtle slope of her nose, and her big eyes lined with thick lashes that seemed to go on forever. He noticed she was tall when he held her on the dance floor, maybe six foot two instead of his six foot four. Sienna had fit him snug and in all the right places. She was muscular too, but in his arms, she felt soft and pliable. The way her firm breasts pressed into the planes of his chest as he helped her from his truck and then carried her into the house was like a shot of adrenaline. Saint wanted to take full advantage of all her curves. He jerked his hand away and balled it into a fist.

Saint got up, adjusted himself and left the room. Giggles caught his attention at the end of the hall. He took the stairs faster. At the front door, ready to leave, he stopped and looked up.

“Dammit!” Saint turned around and went to the couch that looked uncomfortably short. His ass met the cushion and his hands went to his leather boots, out of habit, he unlaced the right one first and then the left, yanked them off, and tucked the laces in at the top and set them side by side next to a round coffee table with a glass top. He saw that Sienna was definitely a Pilates fan by the large pile of magazines with the title, whatever that was, along with a taste for southern cooking. He ran his fingers through his hair and kicked back on the couch to stare at the ceiling. He extended his legs, his feet settled on an armrest, and he leaned back onto a flower-covered pillow that felt more like burlap than Goose Down.

As he stares into the dark, Saint tried to convince both sides of his brain to refrain from stupidity. But one side conjured Sienna naked in positions that would make Kama Sutra experts blush. The other side said to get the hell away from her before Saint turned to sinner. Few knew that side of him. Close friends knew his anger simmered just below the surface and he was very controlled in all things. Saint didn’t need to get involved with anyone. The sinner didn’t deserve a good girl like Sienna. He was selfish and angry. She didn’t deserve his darkness, not after the little bit he’d heard about the dick she’d been dating. But that was all he had to give.

Saint sat up and started to reach for his boots but changed his mind and lay back down. Anger started to rise, his guilt locked in tandem with it, as it pulsed in his veins. More laughter floated down the stairs. He crossed his arms and glared up at the noise Christoph caused Megan to make.

His jaw clenched in time with his fists as he tried to breathe through the build-up of tension. Just looking into Sienna’s pain filled eyes brought the guilt and regret to the surface, so similar to the final look on his sister’s face when he’d slammed the door. He didn’t need a reminder of what he buried a long time ago.

He looked at his watch. It was only one-thirty. His mind raced around his day, and he tried to forget about Sienna, not to look too closely at his sudden need to know she was okay. He told himself he would sleep and then make sure she had everything she needed in the morning. Then he would get to the shop so he could work on the bike he’d started to build, that’s all he needed. It was a good decision. He rubbed his face hard, and dug his fingers in as he shifted his bum knee on the couch.

Earlier that morning he’d hosted a slew of manufacturing reps at the track, Paulson Raceway. Several came out to scout talent that he’d been training for this year’s AMA Moto1 and Moto2 Series. The first race was only three weeks away and he had to trim his stable to four racers and two reserves. He yawned. A lot of his kids were going to be disappointed. He yawned again.  Sleep finally tugged him under only to suck him into a nightmare.

“I need some money,” his sister Becky said when he opened his door. Her rancid breath came in heavy gusts. She looked behind her and wobbled reaching out to grab onto something. He stepped back on his crutches so she wouldn’t touch him.

Her body listed the other way as her hand pushed off from the doorframe and he still didn’t help. She continued to sway back and forth.

“I need money.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His knuckles mottled white with the amount of pressure he exerted on the handles of the damned crutches. He wanted to pummel his sister where she stood for what she’d done. “You’re not getting anything from me. Not anymore.”

She started to itch at her arms, her nails dug in where he could see track marks. “Please, Saint. I need…”

“Don’t fucking call me that!” Flames practically fired from his mouth with the amount of anger shooting off him. “You lost that right when you took my one chance away from me. I tried to help you. I would have done anything for you. But you decided your next fix was more important than me.” He was breathing like a bull ready to stampede. “You only get one chance. One. To make it in this life, Sister. That’s it! That’s all anyone gets. You took away mine!” He slams the door in her face.

Saint’s eyes sprang open and he gasped for air.

He sat up and wiped the sweat from his brow. His hands shook. He closed his eyes but could not get that last image of Becky out of his head. She died that night, and he could have prevented it. After a few minutes, he could breathe again, but he was afraid to try to go back to sleep. Yeah, in a couple hours, he told himself, he would make sure Sienna was okay. Then he would get out of her life.

Saint was about to close his eyes but the sound of a car engine alerted him to trouble. It was too early. He reached for his boots.

Hot Blacktop – Ch. 2 – Coffee Break to Girls’ Night Out

4 Replies

lightsThe music was too loud and Sienna’s head was pounding. It was too soon to be wearing a dress so tight she actually had cleavage and spiked heels so tall she felt like she would fall on her face. But Megan said she looked killer when she helped pick it out. And if she happened to come across Layton while out, well, dammit, she wanted to look and feel like a goddess.

“Ugh!” Sienna lifted her hand and tried to block the flashing lights searching for Megan. Her friend would be pissed. But if she didn’t get out of this club this instant, she was going to have a total melt down, witnesses aplenty. When Megan appeared dancing between two very tall, very hot men, Sienna sighed and made her way over to the man sandwich.

Megan’s smoky done-up eyes lit with glee. Her brows dancing in a, look-at-these-hot-guys kind of way. She couldn’t help but smile, until she yelled to the guy behind her, “Dance with Sienna,” she said, “her ex-boyfriend is a total dick.” Megan snuggled her butt to his pelvis so close when she spoke, she could claim they knew each other more than just this one encounter. Why did that notion piss her off? Sienna frowned as a surge of jealousy straightened her spine. Never mind, she shook her head at the thought, and regretted it. Her groan washed out by the music. Grabbing her head to settle the spinning, her bed and dark room her only thoughts. She needed to get home.

The one Megan spoke to finally looked at Sienna. She barely could raise her head to see his stare. Appraising and heated his scan started at her toes, winding his way up and over every inch of her overheated skin making her tingle in all the right places, her pain momentarily forgotten. He tilted his head and his fiery gaze changed to a questioning glance that was surprisingly more open and approachable. She saw actual concern.

Sienna took him in, cataloging his attractiveness. Too perfect. She tried to clear her mind negating her interest she felt stirring. Thoughts of getting involved with another man, with perfect hair and perfect bone structure and well…perfect everything should be the last thing on her mind.

“I’m going home,” she yelled to Megan. Her friend stopped gyrating, turned and gave Sienna her full attention.

“You can’t leave yet!” Outrage rung in her tone, but Sienna knew Megan would let her do what she needed to, if she wasn’t feeling well.

“My head’s pounding,” which proved truer then she would have liked, when the song changed and the bass got even deeper, harder, and possibly even louder.

Sienna swayed as flashes of light in her vision made standing more precarious and the pounding in her head not even related a little bit to the music. The light turned to a vibrating rainbow of zigzags, the strobe lights on the dance floor nowhere near the plethora of color needling her eyes like fractured glass. She felt hands wrap around her shoulders.

“Are you okay?”

Sienna blinked and the man that went with the voice bent at his knees to look into her eyes. Her vision cleared in what she knew was only a short reprieve. Grabbing onto the man so she wouldn’t fall, she realized she was moving, bodies pushing and swaying into her, with each jostle her nausea grew.

“Megan?” She questioned, her voice floating away into the sea of bodies.

“I’m right here baby-cakes,” her best friend said, “Stuart’s got you.” She heard a masculine laugh behind her that was deeper than the man’s that was helping her. The other man must have been the one grinding on Megan earlier, she thought. Then she realized Megan had told her her rescuer’s name.

“You don’t look like a Stuart,” she mumbled, the pain in her head making speech her words slur.

He leaned in and touched his lips to her ear from behind. She would have shivered from delight, him being so close, but her head hurt too damn much. “Call me Saint.”

The next thing Sienna knew she was leaning against a very large, very tweaked out F-150 Ford Pickup.

“Sienna, Saint is going to drive you home.”

“What?” Her mind was reeling with all the things wrong about that statement. Her mind screamed the words, “I can’t go home with a complete stranger,” but the words came out on a whisper. The next thing she knew Saint buckled her into the seat. “Megan? Megan!” Both her hands held her head still as she struggled not to vomit.

“Right here, honey.”

Sienna turned her head and looked down. Megan stood at the open door.

“Stuart,” she said and then laughed as a growl came from the driver’s side. “I mean Saint, is driving you home and his friend and I are going to follow behind to make sure you’re all tucked in and comfy in bed. Her brows danced up and down again. She tended to do that when she was drunk. Okay, so her friend was useless right now as it related to driving. Great! She whined in her head. Then moaned again closing her eyes leaning back against the headrest, taking deep inhalations through her nose and out.

“I’ll be right behind you,” she said.

“Mmm.” That’s all she could utter. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

“You all set?” the low voice next to her said.

“Mmm hmm.”

Her door slammed and she flinched. Saint started his truck and they took off. Sienna wanted to look behind her and see if Megan was following in the car, truck, whatever, behind them, but she was afraid if she moved even a millimeter, that vomit that threatened earlier would decide to make an appearance.

When the truck stopped, she didn’t move, trying to concentrate on anything but the pain. When her door opened and arms went under her knees and behind her back, and Saint lifted her into his very strong arms, she let herself fall against an extremely hard and sculpted chest. Yeah, she thought. That would do it. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

“Baby, keys.”

“Huh?” she muttered.

“Baby, I can’t open your door if I don’t have keys.”

“Oh, right.” Opening her eyes slowly, as if superglued shut, she looked around for her key. “Where’s my purse,” she finally asked.

She felt a feather light touch across her cheek. That felt nice. “It’s in your hand sweetheart.”

“It is?”

She started to float down until her feet hit her porch. Not steady on her stilettos she didn’t let go of Saint. Lifting her hand, she stared at her purse hanging from her wrist as if she’d never seen it before. Saint laughed softly, took it from her and opened it, reached in and grabbed the key.

He unlocked the door and helped her inside. He went to turn on the lights and she said, “No! Leave them off.” Sienna swayed on her feet, her voice too loud in her head. Her belly sunk and flipped with acid, her knees started to shake and sweat started to bead on her face. She needed her bed. She took a step forward and, sure enough, started to go down. And then she wasn’t. Arms lifted her up and she was floating again.

“Saint?”

“I’m still here.”

“Okay.” She could feel the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile as he held her close, but she didn’t dare look. Any movement would bring on more nausea. She needed darkness, quiet, and if possible she needed to be completely still until she could sleep.

Sienna heard loud bangs and giggling. Megan had followed them home as she said she would. When she hit soft comforter she thanked God for the respite.  It wasn’t much, but she would take it.

“Do you need anything sweetheart?”

“Pill. Larger orange bottle. Bathroom cabinet,” she said, just audible.

She heard him moving around and didn’t care if he ran across her tampons or condoms. All she wanted was a migraine pill. Sienna felt the bed depress and a calloused hand wrap around her neck, lifting her head up. She cracked an eye open and saw what she needed. It wasn’t at all the man holding the pill.

“Open up, baby.” She pressed her lips tight. This man was a stranger. What was she doing? On a shaky inhale she opened up, he set the pill on her tongue, which was so intimate she didn’t know how to feel at the moment. Saint tipped the glass to her lips. She took a sip and swallowed. With the utmost care, he let her head come down onto her pillow and gently swept away the hair falling in her face.

“You going to be alright now?” He asked.

“Mm hmm.” His fingers caressed her cheek again. Why did that feel so nice? God! She didn’t need another man sneaking in behind her already shattered shields. Layton had done enough damage to them already. Her trust of any man should be non-existent. But somehow, this man taking the utmost care with her made her feel safe.

Giggling interrupted the contemplation of all her bad choices.

“Oh, sorry,” Megan whispered, snorted, as she fell into the room.

Saint got up and looked down at her.

“You coming, man?” she heard Hot Guy Number Two say.

“Yeah,” Saint replied. He started to walk toward the door, Megan and Saint’s friend exiting before him.

Saint had just walked under the doorframe about to leave when Sienna blurted one word she wanted take back—the concept so asinine–the instant it floated past her lips.

“Stay.”

Idea Spring

2 Replies

shower

I had a thought about a story I’m working on, it just happened to be while I was in the shower. Of course, it was gone before I could write it down, which is as frustrating as an itch I just can’t quite reach. It’s the one place not conducive to paper, pencil, a computer, or recording device.

What’s funny is most authors have these moments. Kimberly Kincaid, author of the upcoming book Reckless, A Rescue Squad Novel, which you can pre-order at Amazon.com, recently shared one of her own on Facebook. She was in line at a big-box convenience store and saw they had double sided bra tape by the register and a great way to deal with a sex scene popped into her head and she had to record her musings. Messaging back and forth with her this morning, she clarified, “…it made me think how funny it would be if a heroine was taped into a dress when she really wanted it off…” In the checkout line, she started furiously whispering the scene into her phone. If you want to read how the scene turned out you’ll have to keep your eyes peeled for the second book in A Rescue Squad Novel series, her current W.I.P.

Other places I’ve had ideas spark are in my car. I can use my phone to record the idea but only while at a red light, and I pray the idea doesn’t flit out of my head before that happens. The doctor’s office is another, which can be embarrassing, since it is usually pretty quiet and my ideas can be pretty steamy in the romance department. Most of my ideas spring open while I’m at the bookstore when I’m actually getting some quality ideas down.

Because I’ve been concentrating on my next W.I.P. I’ve not had time for anything else. Unfortunately, that means the piece, be it fiction or non-fiction, I would have written for this post is still up in my head. Therefore, I thought I’d ask a question instead:

What are the top five places, not including in front of your computer, where your writing ideas spring?

 

Black Wings

5 Replies

The sun lit fire to the still and quiet water as it set. It was the exact opposite of how Melanie felt. Her insides boiled like an acid stew, her shame the meat of it. What she’d ended had poisoned her so deep that she would never be clean again. Beholden to her creator, she’d done even worse to herself. Time had stopped, holding its breath to see what she would do next as she sat on the black beach, the place was not familiar, but there was nowhere to go. All she knew was she was dead.

Callum had made promises, promises that had held Melanie together for a long time. To find out they were all lies…

The picture of his lean and muscular body came to her mind. He always got out of bed without a care about his nakedness. She lay sated after a forceful and wild coupling. He had marked her skin, making it red, his grip tight and unforgiving, just how she liked it. When she stared at him as he dressed, she had become quite aware of what he was doing when, with a satisfied and smug smile, he pulled out a gold band and slid it on his ring finger, slicing apart her heart as if he held the knife himself.

The one word, “married,” echoed throughout the small one room cabin that they had been coming to for over six months, bitten out through her swollen pink lips, as she lost all control.

Melanie had screamed her rage making her throat raw, attacking him with fists, teeth and nails, making him bleed for what he had done to her. His grunts joined their struggle until he grabbed her by her arms and threw her away onto the bed. Melanie looked around, her eyes wild, until they lit on the knives in small kitchen. Before Callum knew what she was doing, as he drew on his coat and headed for the door, she grabbed the biggest blade and launched herself at him, the knife coming down and into his chest over and over as she kept yelling, “Bastard, bastard, bastard,” with each strike of the knife.

She yelled the word now at the still water, the scream so powerful, if she had had super powers the water would have rippled as if hit by shockwave after shockwave of sound. She looked down at the blood congealed on her wrists, hers and Callum’s blood mixed as one. The tears that came did not wash away her sin.

“Melanie,” the male voice boomed all around her, behind her, inside her. She froze, her hands digging into the sand as if she could hide the gaping wounds she had cut into her skin. Afraid to move, afraid to speak she waited for her punishment.

“Melly. Stand up.” Her entire being, down to her soul, jerked with the word. She stood instantly, her body not in her control. Fear raced up her spine. The only person who had ever called her Melly was her mother. Social workers had taken Melanie away from her. She was only six.

“Turn to me, Melly.”

Her body shook as she complied with his command. The choice to turn was her own as she stamped down her fear of what might happen.

Melanie’s mouth went dry as a surge of heat, so strong, went straight to her core, almost causing her to fall to her knees. He was the most magnificent man she had ever seen. His chest bare, the muscles forming like he were a god, his skin tone glowing bronze to the suns red, the black designer slacks he wore fitting as if born to him, and his eyes hot as he took her in from her polished toes to unruly golden hair. She shook her head back and forth. Melanie shouldn’t be feeling anything for anyone. She didn’t deserve to feel good.

“You turn to me freely?” She shrugged her shoulders, not willing to show how much he unnerved her. There was nothing really to say anyway. Melanie was ready to accept whatever punishment she deserved.

His gaze bored into hers as if he was reading her soul. Maybe he was. Eyes firing brighter than the sun, she couldn’t cover her own as invisible arms came around her holding her body still. There was no need. It was as if the light was coming into her, filling, pressing to every corner of her mind; peeling away all her layers, her secrets. Everything.

She sobbed.

“I know what you have done to your lover.” She said nothing. He came closer lifting one of her wrists. “You dare take your own life.” His words reverberated through her making her shiver.

“There will be an agreement between you and me,” he said, his arms wrapping around her in truth, his light surrounding them both. The light was cold and fractious. It wasn’t warm, as she would have thought, making her bones ache and her want to wrench herself from his arms. His grip tightened. “The agreement is really no agreement at all. You are mine, one of many in my army, but special nonetheless. Your sins demand it.” His hand reached out as he looked down on her, as his fingers stroked her cheek and came down to her neck and back to her nape. He gripped hard and she sucked in a breath. “For taking your own life you are mine to command and do with as I will it.” She thought about what she had done to Callum.

With a piercing tear, Melanie’s body arched as his fingers became claws tearing through her skin and bones, just below her shoulder blades, reaching in and taking hold. She screamed and screamed. The pain was so great she couldn’t see and collapsed, but his arms still held her until he drew his claws out, his hold now onto something else that felt foreign yet a part of her. Her breaths bellowed from her chest and out of her mouth, her distress searing his skin. Her heart beat frantically banging against his chest as he held her with one arm, when suddenly, she saw lustrous black wings, spread so wide behind him, she stopped breathing. And when he let her go raising his arms behind her back she tried to step away but then he yanked hard on something that was…attached…to her.

“Oh, God!”

She wrenched her neck around and gasped. Mirroring his wings, were a pair of wings so black, so grand, they sucked up all the light. She had no words.

Melanie looked up into this being eyes, not a man at all. “What are you?” she whispered grabbing onto the taut skin of his shoulders, her balance unexpectedly shifting.

“I am what you are.” He paused, taking her shoulders and bringing her up so her lips were an inch from his. “I am vengeance!”

She licked her lips as her eyes dropped to his.

“And you are mine.”

His lips came down hard on hers and somehow she knew that the promise in his kiss was more than anything she had ever known, the warmth that starved the original chill suffusing them both, sealing something between them forevermore.

Dancing on Stilts

6 Replies

The paradigm shift was like a blast to the heart of me, peeling back the shadows that have long lingered, filtering in the sun and enlightening my mind. It hasn’t happened at the best time. The shift starts to move, its future on stilts. A small man with dollar signs for eyes looks up at me poised to run the sharp and wicked teeth of a saw across my newly born legs. I don’t know which way I’m going but I know I want to get there.

A step forward and I’m racing to catch up momentum carrying me, my balance precarious. I stop, hop and readjust. The stilts are very uncomfortable. I try again when a fork in the road appears before me. Which path do I take? There’s the black one. It’s poured and rolled to perfection, the double yellow line telling me not to cross, to stay on course, my destination is directly ahead. I see a sign adjacent to the road written in gold telling of untold riches dead ahead. The other road is uneven, made of dirt, rocks and clay, the dust a cloudy mass, making the road barely visible. I inch forward and test the road with a single stilt. I watch it disappear and pull back quickly, stumble, and nearly fall.

A sudden breeze brushes my skin and it carries a familiar young whisper. Should I turn back? No. But I answer, sending my voice on the same wind. A sense of calm turns the voice away and I look back to the path. The way is clear. There are large gaping holes and no lines of sight to help me on my way, no signs telling me what might wait for me ahead. These boarders meander to mysterious pockets of forest calling me, small voices daring, beckoning me to enter. What lay in the hidden knolls, waiting for discovery? My heart tells me to go.

Hugging one stilt, fortifying my choice I look ahead before I move. From this height, what I see on the craggy path makes me smile. Letters large and small paint a picture of wild passion. Structures thin and wide made from the trees, burst above the canopy dotting the landscape opening wide the sounds like a hurricane. However, each comes with trappings and danger, my mind spinning with the flux of images, the barrage of letters making my mind spin and my fingers twitch. Are they trying to tell me something? My breath hitches and my heart races but I look further ahead trying to see where it all ends. The images change to ones of hope and love. I reach for them, want to grab hold, and never let go, their light embrace a wish in my heart, each a start helping build something beautiful and lasting.

Then I look down and see the small man. He smiles and I shiver, his small flat and pointy teeth seeming huge as if I were seeing them through a magnified glass. He taunts me. He knows my weaknesses.

“Leave me alone!” I yell, stumble, and right myself quickly, the wake and power of my words causing a ripple in the vast line of trees.

The little man laughs. I make my way to the dirt road.

The little man claws at my stilts with one hand, banging the terrible saw on my tall wooden legs. I wobble and tip back. Bending at the waste, my momentum carries me toward the road. I hold on tight afraid I’ll meet the ground.

If I fall, will I be able to get up again? To find the end of this journey where I can start a new one, it is a chance I have to take.

I, jump, and lift my legs dancing out of his reach trying to flee, kicking him away. In a flash of light, he is below me again banging and banging and banging, laughing. He forces me one way when I’m leaning, reaching for another. I kick him off again and run, gripping tight to the handles of the stilts praying I won’t fall and I’ll find my way.

When the uneven road connects with the burden attached to my feet, I sigh with the reprieve. I am careful. My balance strengthens. My confidence grows. The dirt road is mine and the little man is far behind, but I still feel him watching. My eyes look to the road ahead. My dreams are there. I don’t care that it is laden with potholes and dust storms. I will dance around the ruts and cover my eyes through the storms until I get to the destination that awaits me.