Friday House Guest - Viviane Brentanos

Today's Guest is Viviane Brentanos - A fellow Brit who is lucky enough to life on the gorgeous Greek island of Corfu.

*****

Hello, good evening and welcome from sunny Corfu and a huge thank you for Marc for allowing me the opportunity to rant and ramble. Before I rant, a little about myself…

I was born in Reading UK in 1958. My father is English and my mother is French although there is a strong vein of Spanish on my maternal grandmother’s side. I was educated at various schools before completing Sixth Form College at St Peter's Huntingdon. I somehow managed to collect A levels in English, French and History and I subsequently won a place at Sheffield University where I decided to read Classical Civilization. Once there, however, I decided that I had had enough of the academic life; I found the student mentality rather false and having been brought up in student circles, rather boring. Much to my mother's horror, I gave up my studies and went to London to begin a course as a Canine Beautician.

In 1984, my first husband and I parted ways amicably and I decided to visit the Ionian island of Corfu to celebrate my new freedom. It proved to be a life-changing decision. I still remember to this day, sitting in a café-bar, overlooking the crystal clear azure sea and saying to my friend. "I never want to leave here". And here I still am.

Before you all sigh and say…ah, Shirley Valentine, it wasn’t like that. I came to my beautiful Greek island in 1984 to work.

I am often asked why I don’t write about my life on Corfu. I think people are laboring under the misconception I live in eternal paradise; a life of endless sun, sea, sand and cocktails on the veranda. I hate to shatter any illusions, but it isn’t quite like that.

Thing is, most of the girls who came out here, ended up marrying a Greek and, subsequently, marrying into the Greek way of life. We work, we cook, and we worry over rent, taxes. We bring up our kids, we suffer and stress over their exams, (you wouldn’t believe how tough the education system is here) and their future. Not very glamorous, is it, and most certainly not the stuff of romances. Sorry, ladies. Greek men drop their smelly underwear everywhere also. Not one Gerry Butler 300 to be found.

But – and it’s an important but – what we have here in Corfu is a glorious sense of freedom, the freedom to breath in good clean, sea air. The freedom to state what is on our mind without fear of the politically correct police jumping all over us, freedom for our kids to walk the streets of Corfu town safe, happy and secure. Greece is more than a country. It’s a state of mind. A nation of passion, love and exuberance, a country to holds on and is proud of his history and traditions.  No – it isn’t quite paradise. There is so much that needs fixing. We are in the midst of an economic crisis but the Greeks have heart and solidarity second to none.

And let’s not forget the stunning beauty of my enchanted island. Even after 26 years, it still takes my breath away.  Actually, I am beginning to think the Greek tourist board should pay me.

So… my writing. After all, that’s why I am here. I have been writing romance since my early teens, mostly for my own satisfaction and for my friends but now I really want to work at it. Writing has become my passion. I have always been a "Romantic", often accused of not living in the real world but who wants to do that? I like to call my work Romance with a quirky, humorous Brit twist and I am always striving to make my characters real, characters we can all relate to. I am fortunate to have two novels published: Letting Go – The Wild Rose Press, Dreamweek – Red Rose Publishing  and a further two under contract but more about them in a minute.

Back to my earlier point.  While I have no desire to write about the life and times of an ex-Brit on Corfu, my island has provided me with so much of my inspiration: stunning visuals by the bucket full. Dreamweek and Fragile Dreams are both set on the imaginary island of Kuros. Why didn’t I just use Corfu? Simply because I wanted poetic license.

What I have done is draw on my experiences as a travel rep to provide many of the comic anecdotes in Dreamweek.  Fragile Dreams is a little darker in tone. It touches on the subject of mental cruelty (a subject I  also touch on in Letting Go) and the culture clash that I am sorry to say is much present in some of the Anglo/ Greco marriages I know of.  I am not even sure if cruelty is the right word. Cruelty implies intent. More often than not, it is a simple case of lack of education and inherent intolerance. The irony of it all is that the young Greek women would never put up with the bull I know too many of my Brit counter-parts have to deal with. Why do they do it? I truly believe too many young girls were running from something back home. Too many sacrificed personal freedom for a big house, nice clothes and healthy bank-balance. Sad but true. Heavy stuff for a romance? Maybe but while a good healthy dose of glamour is injected into my tales, I like to balance it with a refreshing, ice-cold bucket of reality. I digress again.

Dreamweek is currently on release through Red Rose Publishing in digital form. I am hoping to see it in print soon. Fragile Dreams, its sister, has a release date set for September 16. 2010.

And if this is not enough to keep my little promo legs a running, I am delighted to announce my single title contemporary, Written in Stone, is contracted to the new and very exciting publisher, MuseItUp Publishing under their MuseItHot division.  Written in Stone is one tale not set on a Greek island but it is a tale dear to my heart. The theme is simple. We must learn not to place people in convention’s tightly packaged boxes. Love is more than about sexual orientation. It should be and can be about the joining of minds and soul.

http://corfu-author.tripod.com/

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ErFCzdFawZA

Meet Don Luis de la Costa

Today Don Luis de la Costa settles in to tell us a bit about himself and his books.

*****

My “normal” milieu is difficult to define. One of my all time favorite stories has been a riotous biker adventure story that spans a week of travel as they traveled toward an annual festival buried somewhere in the warmer, more favorable climes of the Southern region of the country, and all the drama that ensures. STARbooks Press also put out my second novella, Men, Amplified, whose central character contains many of my own personality traits, and a few actually personal experiences. Conversely, the two pieces of that I imagine have garnered the most attention – Battery Drain and Mission First – are more Kafka-esque sojourns through syllogistic science fiction logic, and for those perhaps you’ve heard my name. Recently, however, I’ve branched out, or, more specifically, managed to find acceptance for, a few pieces that are clearly outside of what one might consider my ‘normal’ experience: in the paranormal venue.

The first of these to see the light of day was a girl/girl vampire piece accepted by UK based Xcite Books for their “Spirit Lovers” anthology. The second, and much more central to the them of this post is a self-published anthology that includes pieces which either represent or cut across genre and gender lines: “Mythos” which comprises stories loosely based on the action in Alice in Wonderland, Clash of the Titans, and a few other classic mythological themes, which you can find on my Amazon Author’s page.

Self publishing is a concept that has, continues to, and for the foreseeable future will receive a great deal of attention in the media related to the publishing industry for the very same reasons that green energy startups get blasted by those in “power” (most specifically, those producing power): the big fish want to remain the big fish, and not be reduced to the status of guppies, even though, from a strictly Darwinian standpoint, the guppies may be better adapted to a new environment.

Allow me to stop here, for a moment, and share a maxim from Spanish which is one of the guiding principles of my own writing: “Es mejor no escribir nada, que aumentar el número de libros malos que hay en el mundo.” Quite literally – “It is better to write nothing, than to increase the number of poorly written books in the world.” Also permit me to offer my extensive memory of having read a great deal of poorly penned purportedly Pulitzer prize potentials pitifully packaged and portraying paladin-style physiques Photoshopped into the front cover. Almost to a one, they are from larger presses, and it is bothersome to consider the concept that these pass for a section of ‘literature’ which should contain every respectable property of a mainstream work of fiction, simply with a bit of erotic content added. Beyond that, there are some startling new talents whose sole mode of expression, despite there being an actual dearth of authors writing for the bigger houses who can produce desirable material. The rise of what is affectionately termed ‘urban erotica’ – stories whose basis is American big city life, can but does not always include elements of gang activity, and frequently focuses on underrepresented communities, which appeals to a certain cadre of folks, initially began as a few unique authors with self styled covers, hawking their wares on the city streets, until suddenly several publishing houses had to acknowledge the fact that these were credible revenue streams.

So what is the point? You may ask. Publishing your works has been notoriously difficult over time, at least, until the advent of Web 2.0. I would posit that push button publishing platforms have, as a secondary effect, created an entire strata of folks who fancy themselves ‘writers’ simply because they have the immediate validation of seeing their words online, and so begins the conflict. Does participation in social media, logorrheic journal writing, and 140 character short messages necessarily a writer make? I am, for better or worse, a proud member of the partition that thinks not. However, that doesn’t mean that self-publishing using the widely available platforms (CreateSpace, Smashwords, etc.) can’t work. Get a hold of a writer’s group that can review your work, join the discussion groups inherent to the platforms mentioned above, and a beyond that, re-read your story and see if it makes sense, because we are all legends in our own minds – especially me. Inform yourself of the perils and the benefits, Mitzi Szereto has written a few interesting blog articles regarding this, to which I have commented on occasion, but there is wide writing on the topic. Also, don’t forget about the legal implications, consult others who have done it, or find legal advice where you can, and don’t be afraid to pay for good advice. Whatever your message is, make sure it is one that engages, is clear, entertains, and is communicated well within the pages of your story, and uses language appropriate to the telling, then go about the design and implementation phase, which is very much going to be a whole different ball of wax (and for which you may also need to bring in help) but is not an entirely untenable situation. Lastly, have fun with it! This is your work, after all, and it needs all the love, sweat, and tears you put into the story for the package. If you simply see the process as a process, a means to achieving an end, it will go much smoother.

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Don-Luis-de-la-Cosa-author/252258166023

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/donluisdelacosa

Wednesday Words - “Eternally & Evermore”

I’ve been a bit absent on the blog for the past couple of weeks – luckily I’ve had my guest posts to keep things ticking over. I’m working on a few what I hope will be interesting posts and I hope I can get one of those up tomorrow, but in the mean time I’m serving up an excerpt from my summer release, Eternally & Evermore.

*****

“William! Oh my, God! It’s really you!”

Will turned towards the voice just in time to be crushed in a bear hug. Amy held him so tightly he could hardly breathe. He gasped for air when she finally let go.

“Sorry,” she said as she ran her hands down his arms to take hold of his. She stepped back, pulling his hands away from his sides and looking him up and down. “It’s just... It is so good to see you.”

“It’s good to be seen.”

“I’ve missed you.” She hugged him again. “Missed you so much. I wish we...” She stepped back, and held his hands again. “No. No. I promised myself I wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Dwell on the past. You’re here now and that’s what counts. So what if we lost twenty years.”

“It’s no time at all really.”

She smiled the smile he remembered from his youth that could light up a sports stadium. It spread from her lips to her eyes and her face flushed as she swung his hands gently and shook her head. “Well. Look at you. All grown up and sexy.”

“And nearly bald.”

“Bald is sexy. I like bald. Sign of virility.”

“So I’ve heard. But look who’s talking about sexy.”

“Me? No. I’m old, fat and ugly.”

“You’re a woman in her prime. And I’ve seen more fat on catwalk model.”

“Liar. Look at me. I need to lose at least a stone. And I look ancient.”

“You look wonderful. Can I get you a drink?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“What would you like?”

"I'll have a Champagne Supernova."

Will nodded to the barman.

“Ice, Madam?”

"Of course."

Her voice was subtly different from what he remembered. She still had the melodic tempo that Walminsterals were famous for but her rich tone was deeper, more coloured. Will leaned against the bar and drank her in. Her golden hair was folded up high on the back of her head except for two thick strands which hung down to frame her face. She wore an elegant long dress of dark blue velvet that matched her eyes and clung to the gentle curves of her slender hourglass figure.

“You’re staring,” she said.

“I can’t help it. You’re even more beautiful than I remember. More elegant. More like a lady.”

“Flatterer.”

“Always.”

The barman placed Amy’s drink on the counter. Will picked it up and handed to her than paid the barman. He held up his own glass of Scotch. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” She sipped her drink then stepped forward and put the glass back on the bar. She placed a manicured hand on the lapel of his suit, brushed away some imaginary dust and then straightened them. “Nice suit.”

“Italian.”

“Armani?”

“How did you know?”

“Good guess. I had a feeling you’d choose designer and you never struck me as the Gucci type.”

“You always knew me better than I knew myself.”

She half-smiled. A sad smile which hinted at regret. “Maybe I did.” She sighed. “You’ve certainly done well for yourself from what I’ve heard.”

“In some ways. My career, I guess.”

“And love?”

“I’d hardly call a thirty-eight year old divorcee a success in love.”

“How long were you married?”

“Seven years.” He shrugged. “Not long is it?”

“It can’t have been all bad.”

“It wasn’t. We had some good times. And, of course, if I hadn’t been married, I wouldn’t have Sophie.”

“Your daughter?”

He nodded. “She’s amazing. She was just five when Lynn and I split up and a parental divorce is supposed to screw kids up. But she’s the most unbelievably down to earth girl. I don’t know anyone who’s got their head screwed on quite as tightly as she has.”

They had wandered away from the bar as they talked and arrived back at the table Will had been sitting at with Bobby earlier. Amy sat and crossed one leg over the other. This opened the slit in the side of her dress, revealing her black nylon covered leg. Will sat next to her and tried hard not to stare.

“Enough about me,” he said. “What have you been up to all these years?”

“Oh, you know. This and that.”

“Did you ever graduate?” The last he’d heard, she’d been struggling with her course at Westmouth University and considering dropping out.

She shook her head. “It wasn’t for me. I tried. I really did. But, honestly, after we... After us, I lost motivation.”

“So you went back home?”

“Yeah. I have a small unit in the Parkway Centre.”

“Selling what?”

“Ladies fashion.”

“Nice. Business good?”

She cocked her head. “So so.”

“You found him then?” It was Lizzie. She sat next to Amy and placed her half full glass on the table.

“He was propping up the bar, looking lonely.” Amy grinned.

“So you thought you’d keep him company. You are such a saint.”

“Heaven sent,” said Will.

Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Listen to him. Was he this much of a smooth talker when we were at school. I don’t think he was.”

“No,” said Amy. “He was a nerd. But he was my nerd.”

“Should I leave you two alone to talk about me?”

“No need,” said Lizzie. “We can talk about you just as well when you’re here.”

The music faded out and the DJ announced that the band was about to take the stage.

“These guys are great.” Lizzie said. “Local boys. I was lucky to get them—they were booked up but had a cancellation.”

Amy picked up her glass and drained it. “Come on.” She stood and held her hand out to Will.

“What?”

“I want to dance.”

“Should you?” Lizzie asked. She sounded worried.

“It’ll be fine,” Amy replied. “It’s only a dance.”

Will drained his glass too and allowed Amy to lead him to the dance floor. During the hour long set, the band played a mixture of fast and slow songs, allowing Will and Amy to hold each other close for a few dances. They went to sit back at the table when the band took a break. Bobby and Julie were sitting there with Lizzie.

“Hi, Will,” Julie said. “Looking good.”

“You too.”

“Thanks, even though I know you don’t mean it.”

Will opened his mouth to say he really did mean it, even though he didn’t but Bobby piped up instead.

“You were busting some funky-arse moves out there, mate.”

“Yeah, right. I was dancing like my dad. It was embarrassing.”

“At least you were dancing,” Julie said with a pointed look at her husband. “Some people won’t dance at all.”

“Hey,” said Bobby, holding his hands up in defence, “I just didn’t want to show any of you up. You know, with me being such a great mover and all.”

“Didn’t want to show yourself up as a freaky dancer,” said Lizzie.

“Whatever,” said Bobby. “Who wants another drink?”

Bobby took the drinks order and Will decided to take the chance visit the lavatory. He was standing at the urinal when a voice from behind him said, “Well, well, well. I really didn’t think you’d have the bollocks to show up.”

Friday House Guest - “My Publishing Journey” by Rebecca Savage

Please welcome today’s guest, Rebecca Savage.

*****

An avid reader can become a prolific writer. Such is the case with me. I started out in my teens reading Louis L’Amour. I have one hundred ninety of his paperbacks and fifteen of his books bound in leather. I read them all, loved them and saved them. I only read one romance during my teens, titled The Daring Deception. Lately I’ve tried to find it so I can buy it, but I haven’t been successful in my attempt to locate it. I only want it for nostalgic purposes, since I had no idea I’d eventually become a romance junkie and writer. In essence, that book was my romantic beginning.

I never read another romance until 2003 when I graduated with a Masters in History and decided to read something for fun. A friend of mine always carried a romance novel in her purse and read constantly. I borrowed a couple of books from her, and the rest is history. I was hooked.

I read all kinds of romance, but only write contemporary suspense/intrigue. I had a top secret clearance in the Air Force when I served as a Morse Code operator/supervisor, so I seldom have to research, yet. I’ve done a bit of digging to confirm things I already suspected to be true, but mostly I write from experience or imagination and stick to the facts as much as possible.

I read books from August 2003 until May 2004, and I was lying on the couch reading one day and thought, “What would I write if I wrote a book?” I like action movies that make you think, a story with a good plot with a hero and heroine trying to figure out what’s affecting their lives, bringing them together, and pulling them apart. I started there. I decided to write a suspense/mystery, since neither the reader nor the characters knew who was after the hero/heroine, although sometimes both the reader and characters do know who the villain in my works is, but the villain is allusive.

So, all those books I read, and still read, were a learning process, just as everything else in my life has led up to where I am now. I was a good student, a good military leader, a good reader, and I hope I’m a good writer. Only time and sales will tell.

I wrote a trilogy in summer 2004 while off for the summer from teaching. I wrote another trilogy in summer 2005. I joined RWA in October 2005, after searching for a publisher on the internet and seeing advice to join organizations like RWA and local chapters. That’s how I ended up at CRW, but not until March 2006. Teaching slowed down the process. Darn those daytime jobs.

CRW taught me so much. My first meeting I learned writing is a business and how to write a query/synopsis. I had no idea there were such things. I also learned how extreme the competition is. I had no idea so many writers existed and wanted to be published or what a game it is. I learned it’s all about persistence and taking the steps to get there. I also learned I’m a fly by the seat of my pants, character driven writer, not a plotter.

After joining RWA/CRW I went back to those first six novels and began self-editing based on things I learned about craft: voice, passive, throw away words, POV, etc. I started submitting to agents, editors, and publishers. I took any and all advice from the rejection letters and fixed anything I was told was wrong.

I didn’t start working with Critique Partners or judging or reviewing for magazines until this year(2007). I wasn’t ready, even though I might’ve thought back then I was. I had to climb the ladder. I had to learn craft and even technical programs. I had no idea what track changes on Microsoft word was. I know. Seems silly, huh? Like everyone should know these things.

When I first started coming to meetings, I thought I was so writing illiterate, and I was. Terms most writers are comfortable with totally escaped me. I didn’t know what POV was, or lots of other things. I didn’t go to college to be a writer. I wasn’t an English major. I’d never been a journalist. I worked on a Masters in History. So my background was foreign to what most successful writers have under their belts.

That didn’t stop me. I just kept plugging along. I had no idea how long it’d take. I thought I’d submit and get published. End of story. Boy, what an eye opener the past few years have been, and when I moved from South Carolina and could no longer attend CRW meeting, I joined MORWA in St. Louis, Missouri.

I landed in a few writers’ woes and pitfalls along the way, but my writer friends have shown me the right way to do things. I submitted to an online agency, and it turned out to be bogus. I paid eighty dollars for my stuff to be looked at, and they tried to weasel me out of more. Thank goodness CRW stopped that mistake.

So my fist pitfall was a hoax agency, and then I contracted with an e-publisher that went out of business, but just kept my work and didn’t tell me anything. Come to find out, my editor was holding my ms, and after the ninety days – thank goodness for that clause – she emailed me and told me of the issues within the company. That company no longer exists.

I was allowed to pull my work from their company and resubmit elsewhere. I did. I got a contract for the trilogy I penned in 2005. I signed with The Wild Rose Press: Fueled By Instinct, Cloaked In Assassination, and Destination Ever After. My other trilogy wasn’t ready yet. It was my first attempt at writing, and I’d worked on it, but it took a lot more tweaking to ready it. Now I’ve published it with Champagne Books, and the first book released in January 2009 and made the bestseller list for February 2009 and is listed as Best Book: Coincidence, Combustion, and Consequences are the three titles in that trilogy. I also have a book published by Double Dragon/Carnal Desires: Guard My Baby.

In the meantime, I wrote another story in 2006 after joining CRW. I submitted to Harlequin and was asked for a full ms. The editor liked it, but not enough. I sent that story to an agent, along with a note saying Harlequin asked for a full. When Harlequin rejected, she did, too, but she asked to meet with me in Dallas at nationals.

I wrote another book after RWA nationals and submitted it to her. She liked it and asked for me to fix a couple of things. I made the changes and resubmitted. She asked for one more thing. I fixed that, too. She asked for one more thing, and I’m in the process of doing those changes now and will resubmit soon.

In other words, it’s all about not giving up. I suppose there’s a time to quit, but as long as a writer is not at a stand still – work on something else while going through the process of one edit – then it’s not a bad thing to take awhile working and dealing with a possible agent/publisher.

*****

“Guard by Body” by Rebecca Savage

Blurb:

A hard core CIA covert ops expert like Nash Kincaid takes everything seriously, especially his mission to retrieve classified information from his contact, take it to the right people, and stop the deaths of thousands of children at the hands of home-grown terrorists.

A librarian with a wild side could throw a ringer into his plans, but Ayden Devlin takes most things seriously, too, even when she decides to live out the lives of the characters in the books she reads by helping her sister Leigh, a spy for the CIA. She lets Leigh insert classified information into her mouth where there’s a missing tooth, so she can safely transport the info to Nash.

Nash and Ayden meet in a biker bar, and a hit man tries to kill Ayden. Nash throws his body in the path of a bullet to save her. A bullet grazes Ayden’s head and knocks her out cold. When she comes to, she and her rescuer have to establish trust. They don’t know each other, and the mission has gone awry. It takes time to convince each other of their respective honesty and identity.

It takes no time at all for them to realize they’re hot for each other, and not much more time to realize it’s more than heat. Love blooms, stoked by building passion, the flames rising higher with each new dangerous encounter.

Will they survive to share their love and lives?

***

Excerpt:

Who the hell sends a librarian to do the job of an undercover CIA agent?

Covert Operation Expert Nash Kincaid - at least that's what his latest passport said - sat in a seedy biker bar, sipping on his tap beer, waiting impatiently for a librarian - of all people - to show up and make a Top Secret information drop.

He scowled and scoffed silently into his foamy brew at the very balls of his friend and fellow comrade in arms, the man who'd set up this preposterous rendezvous. How the hell had Ace ever gotten it in his head that some stuffy old bookworm would be suitable for a transfer of classified information? So what if this Ayden person happened to be Ace's partner Leigh's sister? That didn't mean she could pull off something like this.

And who the hell is the amazing-looking chick that just walked in the door?

Nash's eyes widened, and his blood simmered beneath the surface. He let his eyes wander down, and then roam back up, the woman's sexy form. Her slim but amply curved silhouette stood out against the shadows of the barroom. Bright neon lights poured over her sexy outline, illuminating her body in vibrant red and yellow hues, cascading over and around her like waterfalls of color for her to bask in. She wore a skin-tight muscle shirt and a short leather skirt. The shiny, sequined material clung to curvy hips, stopped inches above shapely knees, and topped off endless, toned legs. Her fiery hair hung loose, reaching her narrow waistline, flowing like a billowing sea of red. Nash wanted to grip her waist with one hand, run his other through all that mass of organized tangles, hold on tight, and plow into her beckoning body like a madman.

Okay, so maybe her body didn't beckon him, but he sure as hell wanted it to.

Wednesday Words - “Dead Men Get No Tail” by Misty Malone

Today’s excerpt comes from Misty Malone’s Dead Men Get No Tail, which is available from Phaze.

Clay Parkinson doesn’t understand why he’s suddenly having erotic dreams and tempting thoughts about Jack Bowman, especially since Clay is straight.  Or so he tries to convince himself.

Worried about not leaving a legacy, Jack Bowman plans a fake funeral so he can enjoy the accolades while still alive.  Clay can’t figure out why he hates the idea so much, until he realizes he’s accidentally fallen in love his with best friend.  Desire warring against common sense, Clay will do anything it takes—including a date with the class dominatrix, his first visit to an adult toy shop, and a book about the Ins and Outs of sex—to figure out what he wants, who he wants, and, eventually, how to get him.

*****

Clay turned the lock and slumped against the wall.  He slid down until he was on the floor and surrounded by half-empty bottles of carpet cleaner and vomit dust.  He pulled his knees to his chest, trying to calm the unwelcome thud in his chest. 

Jack had come up with some really stupid ideas before, but this had to be the worst.  A funeral.  A fucking funeral!  It didn’t matter if it was fake.  It was still Jack, lying in a coffin, pretending he was dead.

A shudder ripped through Clay. 

Death was a very real thing to him.  And here were his best friends, mocking it and planning a party?

Fuck!

As it always did, the anger drained out of him, leaving weary resignation behind.  Of course he would follow Jack and Dominic and Miles into this mess.  He always did, no matter how moronic the idea.  They were his friends.  They made him feel normal. 

Of course, he couldn’t say the dreams he’d had this past year were exactly normal, either.  Especially not the one where he’d found himself on his back in a grassy field with Jack on top of him, kissing him, sucking his neck, making him shiver, making him forget all the reasons why he shouldn’t enjoy the feel of his best friend’s hand slipping lower, down over his stomach, squeezing his cock.

Oh, God.

Clay shoved his hand into his jeans, barely pausing to undo the zipper, desperate to feel the heat of skin on skin.  He stroked himself once, twice, then groaned. There was a reason he shouldn’t do this, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it was.

He whimpered as a wave of pleasure washed over him. A hard, urgent squeeze and he was swept up and over, a climax so intense he wondered for a moment if he were going to survive it.

The orgasm tore through his body, a pulse of release that spiked again just when he thought it had finally ended.  His body shook, strung tight.  He hated how good this felt, how much he craved it, even though his mind screamed that it was wrong.

Wrong to have Jack’s name on his lips as he came.

Clay’s chest was so tight he thought he’d suffocate.  The burn in his lungs reminded him he needed to breathe.  He leaned back against the back wall and turned his head, thankful for the cool cement against his hot face.  For several moments he concentrated on just breathing in and out, nothing more than that. 

Other than his raspy breaths, everything was silent.  He couldn’t even hear the others downstairs.  Maybe they’d left?  Maybe they’d finally given up on this stupid idea and gone back to do some actual work for finals?

Yeah, right. And maybe if frogs had wings they wouldn’t bump their asses when they jumped.

Clay buried his flushed face against his knees.  He’d just gotten off, thinking about his best friend.  His male best friend.  “Fuck, what’s wrong with me? 

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

Clay nearly jumped out of his skin.  “Jack!” he shouted to the closed door.  “Damnit, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to give you a coronary, Clayface.”  Silence.  “So, um, you wanna open the door, or do I have to talk to the splinters all night?”

Clay sighed and shimmied out of his hoodie, then tied it backwards around his waist to hide the uncomfortable evidence of what he’d just done.  He wiped his hand on the back wall, then unlatched and opened the door.

“I’m—”

“—sorry.”

Clay smiled.  They always spoke over each other.  He liked the idea that they knew each other’s thoughts so well. He held up his hand.  “No, I’m sorry.  I overreacted.  I should just go and let you guys finish up.”

Jack had a shit-eating grin on his face.  “Not before you kiss me good-bye.”

Clay wanted to wipe that smirk off his face…or suck it off, or…oh God, what was he thinking?

Oh right, he wasn’t.

Jack stared at him, unblinking.  It made Clay squirm.

“Jack?”

“You don’t want to say anything, do you?”

“What?”

“On Saturday.  That’s why you’re not into this.  You don’t want to say anything at the funeral because you agree with Laura.  You don’t think I’ll leave any kind of legacy behind.”

Clay couldn’t stand that kicked puppy look on his friend’s face.  Knowing he shouldn’t, he pulled Jack close and hugged him, as if a simple touch could convey everything he felt.

“No, Jack,” Clay murmured.  “Never that.  It’s just…there’s so much to say to say about you, I’d never be able to stop.”

Against him, Jack took a deep breath.  God, the way his chest moved—

Clay closed his eyes.  I am not getting turned on by the way he breathes.

Jack half-eased out of Clay’s arms.  “Then what is it?  Why don’t you want to do this with me?” 

Clay closed his eyes.   “It’s your funeral, Jack.”

He snickered.  “That’s a really bad pun.”

Clay sighed.  Was Jack twenty, or two?  “Funeral.  As in your death.”  He wrapped his arms around himself, mostly to hide his trembling hands.  “I…I’m not okay with that.  I don’t want to think about you dying.  About any of you dying.” 

And me, left behind, alone.

Again.

That miserable look in Jack’s eyes faded away.  “Is that what’s bothering you?  Everyone knows it’s a fake funeral.  It’s our last prank before leaving college for good.  Don’t you know me well enough to see I want to go out big?”

Clay ducked his head and glanced up nervously, a slow flush warming his cheeks.  “Well, yes I do know you.  And I thought you had me figured out, too.”

Jack grinned.  “I figure we need a drink.  What do you say we finish up here, then hit the bars?  Just the two of us.”

It was easy to forget his terror, when Jack smiled at him like that.  Jack grabbed Clay’s shoulders.  The heat from his hands coursed over Clay’s skin like hot water, melting something he hadn’t even known was frozen. 

“This thing is about celebrating life.”  His face split into big, lopsided grin.  “And that’s enough drama.  Come on.  We’ve got a coffin to build and mass quantities of alcohol to consume.”

Clay shook his head.  Some things would never change.

Like the way he felt empty inside every time Jack wasn’t touching him.

*****

www.MistyMalone.com : A new voice in town, Misty hails from the Big Apple itself.  A Taurus with a penchant for angsty romances gone wrong and good ol' fashioned epic fantasy, Misty writes male/male romantic erotica.  Her short stories can be found at Ravenous Romance, and her longer works at www.Phaze.com, including Dead Men Get No Tail, and her forthcoming historical fiction, The Consort.

Check out the book trailer for Dead Men Get No Tail online at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TTg_IZCRy7k.