*blows dust off blog*
Hey. You guys still out there?
It's been a while. A lot of has happened. I dropped BLUEST OF BLUE and went on a hiatus. I would love to say I spent all this time writing on the next Scot or the next Geek, but I kind of got distracted with filth.
Good news though. I'm writing again and hopefully the next release will be in March. I know that seems eons away, but the original guess was June. Silver lining!
With that said, I'm gearing up to put DOWN TO ASH and BLUEST OF BLUE in print.
KILT TEASE is already in print and SCOT APPEAL is soon to follow.
The geeks are currently on sale at a discounted price. If you haven't already picked them up, now is the time.
TO ONE HUNDRED is FREE. Tell all your friends.
DOWN TO ASH and
BLUEST OF BLUE are also discounted, not to free though.
And last but not least, I come with the gift of an excerpt. Porter's book is up next. Check out the cover!
Here's a sneak peek to what's to come for Porter and his heroine. (FAIR WARNING IT IS UNEDITED.)
***
Chapter One
We need to talk.
Porter made a face at those words on his
cell phone, from a number he didn't even recognize. He tried to
remember the last time someone had said that to him and it had ended
well.
“Fucking
never.”
“Huh?”
Grady asked without dragging his gaze away from the baby bundled in
his arms. The knitted pink blanket laid recklessly over all of the
baby and half of Grady.
Porter smiled. Grady, usually, the one
who had it all together at all times sat in his living room with only
basketball shorts, one sock and his hair stuck up and slanted to the
left.
As Grady's brother would say, the end of
the era had begun. The comfortable loveseat had been replaced with a
rocking chair. Well, a Cadillac of rocking chairs. You could rock on
your own, or set a timer so it rocked for you. Could massage
all...massage you and keep beer cold or...a bottle—sure—warm in
the temperature-regulated cup holder.
“Is
Izzie asleep?”
“Fuck,
no.”
Which probably explained Grady's hair.
Porter stuffed his phone back in his pocket. Bad news could wait.
“Give her here. Go up with Eva and get some sleep. You look like
you need it.”
Tired blue eyes met his. “How old were
you when Ashley was born?”
“Two.
First memory. She was ugly. Pinched little face, making all this
noise.”
An even more tired smile breaks across
Grady's face. “Nothing's changed.”
Porter sighs. “She's not ugly anymore.”
One of his best friends definitely think so, which was why on a
Saturday night he was sitting in Grady's house, half-assed playing a
video game. Didn’t hurt to check on a friend after said friend had
a baby.
He needed this touchstone. In the past
year Grady had eloped with Eva before having a baby. His sister and
his best friend had also married three months before. Even his other
friend Wade had become engaged.
Nothing was stable and he needed
something to remain the same. Craved it. Upheaval made him edgy and
that's all he'd known for six months, at the least.
With a sigh, “Give Izzie over. She'll
be fine.”
Grady hunched his shoulders then carried
the baby over. “There's breast milk in the fridge if she gets
hungry. Diapers and shit in the closet. And don't be afraid to come
get me if you can't deal.”
Having handed over the torch, Grady
didn't waste a moment to shag ass up the stairs. Porter chuckled and
brought Izzie to his chest. She felt small, fragile in his arm. Her
eyes were wide open and a cross between green and blue.
“You're going to break hearts,” he
murmured.
The sweetest smile he'd ever seen broke
out on her face. He laughed until the toxic gas escaped the cover.
“Jesus Christ, you are father's child.”
His phone buzzed in his pocket again.
Shifting the baby with one hand, he tilted to the side to dig it out.
In person is best.
Porter had always assumed people were
being dramatic when they said their stomach dropped to their knees,
their hearts literally stopped or their blood ran cold.
We need to talk.
In person.
A cold sweat prickled over his forehead.
He glanced at the baby and Izzie seemed to look straight into his
soul.
He didn't have to text the person back or
call to know it was a woman. It was indeed bad news.
It's Iris, btw.
Izzie began to fuss and rub as her eyes.
He rose from the couch to move to the rocking chair. His knees might
have gave out halfway down, but he closed his eyes and rocked.
We need to talk.
In person.
It's Iris.
It was bad news seeded three months ago
when his sister married his best friend. Three months ago when he had
to stand in church, before God, and hand his baby sister over.
“Should
have fucking known,” he murmured to the baby, and she quieted at
the rumble of his voice. “Never could say no to my sister though.
She had asked me to walk her down the aisle and give her away. How
the fuck could I say no to that?”
He glanced down. “Don't tell your
parents I'm teaching you cuss words. We can always blame Wade.”
Her little fist broke through the
blanket's fold to rest on his chest. He offered his finger for her to
squeeze. His gut continued to churn.
Iris.
Fucking Iris.
He slowed his rock and slouched in the
chair. “But I'm the closest thing to a father for Ashley.”
Porter was the one to soothe any hurts
when she skinned her knees or hurt herself when being fearless.
Porter was the one who guided her, sometimes with an overprotective
hand through life. Those two years between them was a lifetime
because he'd taken care of her when it mattered.
He wasn't father but Big Brother meant
something to him.
Literally placing placing his sister's
hand in his best friend's hand, entrusting Victor with his very
heart—Ashley...Porter might have acted a little irrationally
afterward.
What was that saying? Chickens coming
home to roost.
We need to talk.
In person.
It's Iris.
Chapter Two
Three Months Ago
With a long sigh, Iris placed her hand in
Porter's and stepped into his embrace as the music filled the dance
hall. Only a handful of people were on the floor—all from the
wedding party. Ashley and Victor were perched at the head table
watching their friends and family play nice.
Play nice,
she emphasized as a reminder..
Porter’s hand slide down her back and
stopped at her tailbone. She shook off the shiver and glared up at
him.
“I
swear, if I see one rendition of that messed up running man, I'm
clocking people with my purse.”
“Nice
to finally meet the real you, Iris.” His laugh slid into her like
honey as he set them off to a slow rock.
A flash
came from her left—the photographer had caught the laugh on film.
It would be a good picture. Porter was...handsome. She guessed if she
had to give him any kind of credit. If she didn't kind of hate him,
she might even say Porter was fine as fuck. He had thick lips, brown
skin, sloped cheekbones. A barber must have cleaned up the scruff
along his jaw since it hadn't morphed into a beard but everyone knew
scruff was better anyway.
And it wasn't like she could ignore every
muscled inch of his body since she was plastered against him.
The photographer stepped back. Iris
smiled then was hit with another flash. The moment the woman walked
away, she glared again at Porter.
He was smiling at her. Surprise then
something much warmer settled into her gut. She snorted and swayed
thoughtlessly to the music. “Why are you smiling at me?”
“You
clean up nice.”
“My
boobs do look good in this dress.” She lifted his chin when like
clockwork he dipped his head down to get a peak.
“How
long is this song?” he asked.
She swallowed the laugh. “Four minutes
and eight seconds. I helped pick it out. Now this was before I
thought about the fact I'd be partnering with you.”
“Ashley's
forgiven me but you're going to hold onto a pissed-off torch?”
A corner of his mouth quirked up and then
all she could do was stare. A man shouldn't have the kind of lips
that encouraged obscene thoughts.
“Yup,” she rasped.
He smiled again then dipped her. She
flailed at the abrupt move but he held her steady as he straightened.
“This
means war,” she murmured.
“Yup.
You better hold on.” With his height advantage over her, it was too
easy to bring her arm up. “Twirl, baby, twirl.”
“If
you don't give me my arm back...”
He shook his head then walked around her
like they were doing a tango. He brought her hand up to his lips. It
was supposed to be a joke or to piss her off, but her skin tingled
where his mouth had touched. The way he glanced up, his eyes dark
pools of lust pretty much said he'd felt that small punch to his gut,
too.
He scraped his thumb across the back of
her hand before he dropped it.
Porter moved behind her, resting his
hands on her hips. “We can do the Dirty Dancing moves next.”
“You
want to run your hands down the sides of my breast...without my
permission? In HR we call that sexual harassment.”
“You
invited me to look at your breasts then sucker punched me in the chin
when I tried.”
“Sucker
punch is a strong word.” But she couldn't deny she'd invited the
stare with every intent to block him from indulging. She'd met most
of the Goon Squad in passing. They were interesting, all five of
them. They were also very, very hetereosexual
men. They didn't leer, but they'd conquered the art of glancing at
boobs and asses when one (or rather a pair) caught their fancy.
Iris should have felt bad over laying an
obvious trap for Porter, but at the least he deserved a soft knock to
his chin for the way he’d treated Ashley in the past.
She
finally twirled and smiled at him. “Two more long minutes with me.
Isn't this fun?”
He laughed and tugged her back into his
embrace. “Could be.” He trailed his hands down until they rested
at her waist. “A lot of fun.”
His timbre had dropped an octave and she
had no doubt they'd stopped playing somehow. He dipped his head
again, his mouth brushing her earlobe. “You're beautiful. I should
have just said that from the beginning.”
Her breath hitched. “Is this how you
get forgiveness?”
“This
is how I flirt.”
Her stomach turned weightless, but in a
good way. A very good one. “You looked at my boobs. Has that effect
on men.”
“Nope.
Not why I'm flirting.”
“Then
why?”
Not
that she cared.
Kind of.
Dammit.
“Your
laugh. The fact you wanted to maim me and would have if I gave you
enough leverage.” He lowered his voice. “These hips.”
Never had that line ever worked on
her...until he'd said it, in a voice that was made for dirty talk. He
could have told her she had a fat neck and she'd still probably be as
turned on. And, yeah, her panties were trying to unroll themselves.
Not because he was—okay, he was fine as
fuck even though his brows naturally arched into a frown. His brown
eyes seemed just one laugh away from lighting up. She'd been hellbent
on irritating him and he'd turned the tables on her.
Did she forget to mention he smelled of
spice and leather? It was a testosterone-ladden scent that had
probably felled more than a few women in his past. Simply put, he
smelled like something one should ride, at least once. The latter is
why she wavered for only a moment. From what she knew of him, Porter
wasn't a good guy. Probably wasn't a bad boy either.
He was still waters. Porter was lethal.
One likely either sank or swam with him. Iris was too practical to
flirt with drowning.
The only other thing to save her was the
last strands of the song. She pushed away from him, her face heated.
“Stop flirting with me.”
“Iris...”
Her shoulders went up and she leaned into
him. Porter once again brushed his lips along her earlobe. “I'd
believe you if you didn't keep looking at my mouth.”
Had she? Probably. Thoughtlessly. They
were perfect. Not too big. Not too small. She could easily imagine
him closing his mouth on her clit with one long suck. Or feathering
along her neck. Or brushing her torso.
She spun on her heels, headed straight
for the bar. She needed a cup of ice and a bigger cup of whiskey.
There was no way she'd let Porter use that voice on her again. That
way lay trouble.
****
