I'm a guest at Sommer Marsden's place today! I answered 20 questions which is supposed to make you want to know me or something...somehow I feel like I might scare more people than I anticipated. Pop over and give it a read!
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Write Club Sunday Excerpt: Not So Soft
Happy Sunday! Thank you for stopping by my blog to take part in the Write Club blog hop.
If you follow me on twitter (@dirtyscribbler), you probably know that I've been working on a femdom story that I'm more than a little in love with. Here is an excerpt of Zuli and Dex's story, Not So Soft. This is a classic friends to lovers story with an extra BDSM twist. Both of these kids are newbies though Dex is already pretty certain he's a sub. This was a gang of fun to write. I hope to revisit these characters again.
If you follow me on twitter (@dirtyscribbler), you probably know that I've been working on a femdom story that I'm more than a little in love with. Here is an excerpt of Zuli and Dex's story, Not So Soft. This is a classic friends to lovers story with an extra BDSM twist. Both of these kids are newbies though Dex is already pretty certain he's a sub. This was a gang of fun to write. I hope to revisit these characters again.
* * * *
Too much whiskey and the wrong type of motivation from my friends landed me at his door at two am, pounding like the PPD and swearing to relieve him of his manhood if he didn't open the door.
"What the fuck, Zuli?" he groaned.
I pushed my way in, slamming the door behind me. His eyes were red rimmed. The room stuck of weed. The pause music from Final Fantasy played on an endless loop, the garish colors from the TV screen reflected against his bare walls and his pale skin. I didn't care if he was high. I wanted, no needed, to confront him. "That thing you said earlier. Say it again."
"What thing?"
I sneered at him. "Don't play coy. You know exactly what I'm talking about. That thing you said outside of the bar. Say it a-fucking-gain."
His hands dropped to his sides. "Zuli," he said softly and took a step toward me. I put my hand in the middle of his chest and locked my elbow, forcing him to keep his distance.
"Say it again, Dexton."
Dex swallowed hard. Adam's apple working against the column of his throat like he was forcing the words up and out of his mouth. I was sure he wouldn't say it again. He couldn't have meant it.
"I love you," he said finally, with a small shrug.
I've never hit anyone in my life. I was bullied in school. My senior year I was jumped in the girls locker room and have since formed a distinct aversion to communal showers and abiding fear of large groups of women. I've never wanted to hit anyone. Not ever.
But the moment those words came out of his mouth my hand whipped out and hit him across the cheek with a resounding crack. I hit him so hard that his chin met his shoulder. For a moment I didn't know what to do. I'd never been in a real fight before, just curled into a fetal position while someone beat the shit out of me. I was sure that was what was going to happen next. He was going to come at me.
But he didn't. He just stood there with his head down. His jaw ticked and twitched, smarting from the blow.
In that moment, I realized that I didn't just expect him to come at me.
I wanted him to.
I charged at him. Pushed him. Slapped him a couple more times. He deflected my blows but didn't hit me back or run away. After about the fifth slap across the face he grabbed both my wrists and held them tight.
"I don't care how much or how hard you hit me. My feelings aren't going to change, Zuliana."
He let go of my wrists and we stood there and stared at each other for a moment, breathing heavy. The anger was still there, burning beneath the surface. Dex's eyes were questioning, confused but resigned to take whatever I had to give.
That was good because I wasn't done.
I renewed my attack. Came at him with my mouth. Taking ownership of his lips and tongue in a way that I knew would leave them swollen and raw when I was done. He moaned into it, hands coming around my waist. I pushed those hands away and preceded to separate him from his clothes.
When I grabbed the hem of his shirt, he lifted his arms to ease it's path over his shoulders. My hands didn't shake or fumble when I reached for his belt. I felt none of my usual nervousness as I unbuttoned his flies. I felt none of that ever persistent awkwardness as I pushed his jeans down around his ankles while feathering kisses over his lower belly. Felt no fear when curled my fingers around the thick, elastic waistband of his briefs and pulled them down, freeing his cock which I graced with a little kiss.
It wasn't because he said he loved me. No…the thought that he loved me all this time still pissed me off, so it wasn't that. It had to be the knowledge that, in this moment, he would let me do anything to him. Anything at all.
I stood slowly, ghosting my breath over his skin so that goosebumps rose.
"Zuli…" he breathed.
The sound of his voice when he said my name in that ragged, desperate way…definitely getting way to fond of that.
I nipped him on the inner thigh and stood.
There was barely a breath between us and I could tell everything in him ached to close it. As much as I wanted to, I didn't give in. I let him sway in the space, begging me to come closer. Then, without a single word, he sank down to his knees. God, why the fuck does that make everything in me feel greedy and grabby? Like I want to bite and tear at him before I fuck him. His hands slid under my skirt to cup my ass and he burrowed his face into the place just between my breasts. This shrunk him down to my size--smaller even. Made me feel bigger and stronger. I sifted my fingers through the soft, slightly long hair at the nape of his neck. He sighed and trembled against me.
"Not so soft, Zuli," he said, his voice muffled in the folds of my t-shirt.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
How does the setting affect your story?
This is my first contribution to the Write Club hosted by Skye Warren. This blog hop was created to fill the void left by Six Sentence Sunday, a weekly blog hop that ended in January. If you're interested in participating, feel free to hop on over to the Write Club to get the deets!
This week we're talking about settings and how it can shape and enhance your story.
If you've ever lost yourself between the covers of a book you know and understand that the setting plays an important role in storytelling. It prepares you for the type of people you are going to meet and the shenanigans (heh!) they may get into. Settings set the tone for the entire novel.
My stories are set in South Philly. Home of the Italian Market, South Street, and the back drop for almost all of the Rocky movies. When I began writing my first book, I think I set them in Philly and South Jersey because I was feeling a little homesick and it was a way for me to explore all my old haunts. But gradually, the setting began to shape and mold my main character Yves Santiago. You know how people from a certain region talk a certain way, like the same foods and carry a distinct sort of attitude? For example, people believe that all New Yorkers are rude (which couldn't be further from the truth) and that all Southerners awer warm and welcoming (double negative on that). People from Philly and Jersey are know to be tough, honest and sometimes a little (or a lot) crass. Yves is all of these things. A tough urban girl who is everything I love about the city.
She has a 'shitty little apartment' on 8th Street. It's on a the second floor of a classic Philadelphia rowhome and is accessed by a dank, dim stairwell that she shares with neighbors that she rarely ever sees. It's a tiny place with a small galley kitchen, crowded with appliances, a shoebox of a living room, an equally small bedroom and a bathroom with a leaky faucet and mildewed grout. It's the very definition of a shitty, city apartment but Yves loves it because it's the first place she's ever lived all on her own.
She spends a lot of time ducking in and out of the dive bars and stores on and around South Street--the Philly equivalent of New York's Village. Her mother lives on a street a few blocks from Penns Landing and on July 4th they have a huge block party and watch the fireworks. This is the city that I remember. A bunch of tight knit neighborhoods where everybody knows everybody and their mother. I hope that comes across in the writing.
Yves Santiago's story spans two books as of right now but the first book begins in summer. To me, it was the best season for the first book because I have so many fond memories of the city at that time of the year. A different city or a different season just wouldn't have worked for me. I love the warmer weather and those long evenings and sultery summer nights made it the perfect time to begin a fling. Yves probably didn't intend for it to last any longer than the warm temps but Elijah had other plans.
I've written no less than seven stories set in my old hometown. Only recently have I tried to set a story in the small Upstate South Carolina town I now live in and I have to admit, the setting doesn't play a big role in the story. Writing this blog post has inspired me to go back in and layer on those little details these that make fictional stories feel real.
Thanks for stopping by?
xx,
T.
This week we're talking about settings and how it can shape and enhance your story.
If you've ever lost yourself between the covers of a book you know and understand that the setting plays an important role in storytelling. It prepares you for the type of people you are going to meet and the shenanigans (heh!) they may get into. Settings set the tone for the entire novel.
My stories are set in South Philly. Home of the Italian Market, South Street, and the back drop for almost all of the Rocky movies. When I began writing my first book, I think I set them in Philly and South Jersey because I was feeling a little homesick and it was a way for me to explore all my old haunts. But gradually, the setting began to shape and mold my main character Yves Santiago. You know how people from a certain region talk a certain way, like the same foods and carry a distinct sort of attitude? For example, people believe that all New Yorkers are rude (which couldn't be further from the truth) and that all Southerners awer warm and welcoming (double negative on that). People from Philly and Jersey are know to be tough, honest and sometimes a little (or a lot) crass. Yves is all of these things. A tough urban girl who is everything I love about the city.
She has a 'shitty little apartment' on 8th Street. It's on a the second floor of a classic Philadelphia rowhome and is accessed by a dank, dim stairwell that she shares with neighbors that she rarely ever sees. It's a tiny place with a small galley kitchen, crowded with appliances, a shoebox of a living room, an equally small bedroom and a bathroom with a leaky faucet and mildewed grout. It's the very definition of a shitty, city apartment but Yves loves it because it's the first place she's ever lived all on her own.
She spends a lot of time ducking in and out of the dive bars and stores on and around South Street--the Philly equivalent of New York's Village. Her mother lives on a street a few blocks from Penns Landing and on July 4th they have a huge block party and watch the fireworks. This is the city that I remember. A bunch of tight knit neighborhoods where everybody knows everybody and their mother. I hope that comes across in the writing.
Yves Santiago's story spans two books as of right now but the first book begins in summer. To me, it was the best season for the first book because I have so many fond memories of the city at that time of the year. A different city or a different season just wouldn't have worked for me. I love the warmer weather and those long evenings and sultery summer nights made it the perfect time to begin a fling. Yves probably didn't intend for it to last any longer than the warm temps but Elijah had other plans.
I've written no less than seven stories set in my old hometown. Only recently have I tried to set a story in the small Upstate South Carolina town I now live in and I have to admit, the setting doesn't play a big role in the story. Writing this blog post has inspired me to go back in and layer on those little details these that make fictional stories feel real.
Thanks for stopping by?
xx,
T.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Do I spend too much time writing about writing?
I spend at least an hour (sometimes) every day, writing about writing. Sometimes it's merely an exercise to get my juices flowing (heh!) so that I can dive into my current project but, a lot of times, it's a journal entry about writing. This writing can range from hashing out characters and plots to just whining and lamenting about the status (or lack thereof) of my writing career. When the entry focuses on current projects, I don't feel so bad about it. In that sense, I consider it part of my daily wordcount. But when it's just me whining I wonder how productive that sort of thing is.
We all know that measuring ourselves next to this or that person as a way to determine our goals or progress is counterproductive but really...knowing that it's counterproductive and attempting to eradicate the behavior are two seperate things. Which brings me back to my question, do I spend too much time writing about writing? Sometimes it feels like another form of procrastination...
kinda like this blog post.
xx,
T.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
The Next Big Thing....
THE NEXT BIG THING BLOG HOP
What is a blog hop? Basically, it’s a way for readers to discover authors new to them. I hope you'll find new-to-you authors whose works you enjoy. On this stop on the blog hop, you'll find a bit of information on me and one of my books and links to two other authors you can explore!
Thanks to fellow author Aisling Weaver for inviting me to participate in this event. You can follow the link to learn more about Aisling and her work.
In this blog hop, I and my fellow authors, in their respective blogs, have answered ten questions about our book or work-in--progress (giving you a sneak peek). We've also included some behind-the-scenes information about how and why we write what we write--the characters, inspirations, plotting and other choices we make. I hope you enjoy it!
Please feel free to comment and share your thoughts and questions. Here is my Next Big Thing!
1: What is the working title of your book?
Well, anyone that follows me here knows that I have a lot of irons in the fire but, the book I'm editing in preperation for possible publication is Having it Both Ways.
2: Where did the idea come from for the book?
Having it Both Ways is the second book in the Yves Santiago Stories. The first of which is In Her Closet. I guess, the characters from the first book had more of a story to tell than I thought!
3. What genre does your book come under?
I like Aisling's idea of Erotic Drama. If such a genre existed I'm sure that's where these stories would fit. Short of that I'd call it Erotica...possibly erotic romance but definitely erotica.
4: Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Heh. I actually gave this quite a bit of thought.
Camilla Alves is definitely how I see Yves.
Isn't she gorgeous?
Tom Hardy would play Elijah. He's a little short but, man...that mouth of his....
And this is Alexa...
Not sure who this young lady is but, in my mind she's Alexa to a T.
5: What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Wow this is a tough one but I'll give it a shot!
Yves Santiago finally has everything she never wanted--love and the promise of forever from the man of her dreams but will she give all of that up for a lover who knows deepest and darkest needs?
Wow this is a tough one but I'll give it a shot!
Yves Santiago finally has everything she never wanted--love and the promise of forever from the man of her dreams but will she give all of that up for a lover who knows deepest and darkest needs?
6: Is your book self-published, published by an independent publisher, or represented by an agency?
It's still deep in the editing/revision process but, hopefully it will be published by an independent publisher (*winks*) If not, I will probably self-publish.
It's still deep in the editing/revision process but, hopefully it will be published by an independent publisher (*winks*) If not, I will probably self-publish.
7: How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
I wrote several versions of this book but, when I finally buckled down to finish it, I wrote it in 60 days.
I wrote several versions of this book but, when I finally buckled down to finish it, I wrote it in 60 days.
8: What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Hm. I not trying to pretend that my book is a special snowflake or anything but, I can't think of a book to compare it to sooo....I guess it is a special snowflake.
Hm. I not trying to pretend that my book is a special snowflake or anything but, I can't think of a book to compare it to sooo....I guess it is a special snowflake.
9: Who or what inspired you to write this book?
You know, I can't be sure. Yves is one of those characters who just popped out of my head fully formed. She just feels like a real person to me. A lot of the times it felt like I was taking dictation instead of writing a story. When I 'created' her four years ago, I didn't know she had so much to say. I'm still taking notes on her. Her character continues to evolve.
You know, I can't be sure. Yves is one of those characters who just popped out of my head fully formed. She just feels like a real person to me. A lot of the times it felt like I was taking dictation instead of writing a story. When I 'created' her four years ago, I didn't know she had so much to say. I'm still taking notes on her. Her character continues to evolve.
10: What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
I'm using this novel to explore real, honest to god, polyamory. Not a menage a trois that lasts a night or a couple of days. The story is bigger than I thought it was but, I think that because the concept of polyamory is so big. Having it Both Ways is already 120k and I know the story isn't over. I'm curious to see how this all works out!
I'm using this novel to explore real, honest to god, polyamory. Not a menage a trois that lasts a night or a couple of days. The story is bigger than I thought it was but, I think that because the concept of polyamory is so big. Having it Both Ways is already 120k and I know the story isn't over. I'm curious to see how this all works out!
Below you will find the three authors who will be joining me by blogging, next Wednesday. Do be sure to bookmark and add them to your calendars for updates on WIPs and New Releases! Happy Writing and Reading!
Tenille Brown
Annabel Joesph
Parker Ford
Tenille Brown
Annabel Joesph
Parker Ford
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Spankalicious--IN PRINT
Spankalicious features my story, The Roll-Top Desk
(<--Click to buy)
Just when I start feeling a little down on myself about writing short stories something like this happens to remind me that I'm doing ok :)
Saturday, January 19, 2013
For Colored Girls who have considered suicide when the rainbow is enuf
Somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff. Not my poems or dance I gave up in the street, but somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff like a kleptomaniac workin hard & forgettin while stealin. This is mine; this ain't your stuff. Now why don't you put me back & let me hang out in my own self.
Somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff & didn't care enuf to send a note home sayin, "I waz late for my solo conversation or two sizes too small for my own tacky skirts." What can anybody do wit somethin of no value on a open market? Did you getta dime for my things? Hey man, where are you goin wid alla my stuff? This is a woman's trip & I need my stuff to ohh & ahh about. Daddy, I gotta mainline number from my own shit. Now wontchu put me back and let me play this duet with this silver ring in my nose.
Honest to God, somebody almost run off wit alla my stuff
And I didn't bring anything but the kick & sway of it. The perfect ass for my man & none of it is hers. This is mine. Notzake 'her own things' that's my name. Now give me my stuff. I see ya hidin my laugh and how I sit wif my legs open sometimes to give my crotch some sunlight. And there goes my love my toes my chewed up finger nails. Niggah, wif the curls in your hair Mr. Louisiana hot link, I want my stuff back. My rhythms & my voice, open my mouth, & let me talk ya outta throwin my shit in the sewar. This is some delicate leg & whimsical kiss. I gotta have to give to my choice without you runnin off wit alla my shit.
Now you can't have me less I give me away & I waz doin all that til ya run off on a good thing. Who is this you left me wit. Some simple bitch widda bad attitude. I wants my things. I want my arm with the hot iron scar and my leg wit the flea bite. I want my calloused feet & quik language back in my mouth. Fried plantains, pineapple pear juice, sun-ra & joseph & jules, I want my own things. How I lived them & give me my memories. How I waz when I waz there. You can't have them or nothin wit them. Stealin my shit from me, don't make it yours- makes it stolen.
Somebody almost run off wit alla my stuff & I waz standin there lookin at myself. The whole time & it wazn't a spirit took my stuff. Waz a man whose ego walked round like Rodan's shadow. Waz a man faster in my innocence. Was a lover I made too much room for almost run off wit alla my stuff & didn't know I'd give it up so quik. And the one running wit it don't know he got it. My stuff is the anonymous ripped off treasure of the year. Did you know somebody almost got away with me? Me in a plastic bag under their arm, me danglin on a string of personal carelessness. I'm spattered wit mud & city rain & no I didn't get a chance to take a douche. Hey man, this is not your perogrative. I gotta have me in my pocket to get round like a good woman shd & make the poem in the pot or chicken in the dance. What I got to do I gotta to have my stuff to do it to. Why don't ya find your own things & leave this package of me for my destiny. What ya got to get from me, I'll give it to ya. Yeh, I'll give it to ya around 5:00 in the winter when the sky is blue-red & Dew City is gettin pressed. If it's really my stuff, ya gotta give it to me. If ya really want it, I'm the only one who can handle it.
Somebody almost run off wit alla my stuff!"
-Ntozake Shange
(Book: "For Colored Girls who have considered suicide when the rainbow is enuf")
Somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff & didn't care enuf to send a note home sayin, "I waz late for my solo conversation or two sizes too small for my own tacky skirts." What can anybody do wit somethin of no value on a open market? Did you getta dime for my things? Hey man, where are you goin wid alla my stuff? This is a woman's trip & I need my stuff to ohh & ahh about. Daddy, I gotta mainline number from my own shit. Now wontchu put me back and let me play this duet with this silver ring in my nose.
Honest to God, somebody almost run off wit alla my stuff
And I didn't bring anything but the kick & sway of it. The perfect ass for my man & none of it is hers. This is mine. Notzake 'her own things' that's my name. Now give me my stuff. I see ya hidin my laugh and how I sit wif my legs open sometimes to give my crotch some sunlight. And there goes my love my toes my chewed up finger nails. Niggah, wif the curls in your hair Mr. Louisiana hot link, I want my stuff back. My rhythms & my voice, open my mouth, & let me talk ya outta throwin my shit in the sewar. This is some delicate leg & whimsical kiss. I gotta have to give to my choice without you runnin off wit alla my shit.
Now you can't have me less I give me away & I waz doin all that til ya run off on a good thing. Who is this you left me wit. Some simple bitch widda bad attitude. I wants my things. I want my arm with the hot iron scar and my leg wit the flea bite. I want my calloused feet & quik language back in my mouth. Fried plantains, pineapple pear juice, sun-ra & joseph & jules, I want my own things. How I lived them & give me my memories. How I waz when I waz there. You can't have them or nothin wit them. Stealin my shit from me, don't make it yours- makes it stolen.
Somebody almost run off wit alla my stuff & I waz standin there lookin at myself. The whole time & it wazn't a spirit took my stuff. Waz a man whose ego walked round like Rodan's shadow. Waz a man faster in my innocence. Was a lover I made too much room for almost run off wit alla my stuff & didn't know I'd give it up so quik. And the one running wit it don't know he got it. My stuff is the anonymous ripped off treasure of the year. Did you know somebody almost got away with me? Me in a plastic bag under their arm, me danglin on a string of personal carelessness. I'm spattered wit mud & city rain & no I didn't get a chance to take a douche. Hey man, this is not your perogrative. I gotta have me in my pocket to get round like a good woman shd & make the poem in the pot or chicken in the dance. What I got to do I gotta to have my stuff to do it to. Why don't ya find your own things & leave this package of me for my destiny. What ya got to get from me, I'll give it to ya. Yeh, I'll give it to ya around 5:00 in the winter when the sky is blue-red & Dew City is gettin pressed. If it's really my stuff, ya gotta give it to me. If ya really want it, I'm the only one who can handle it.
Somebody almost run off wit alla my stuff!"
-Ntozake Shange
(Book: "For Colored Girls who have considered suicide when the rainbow is enuf")
Monday, January 14, 2013
Layers on layers on layers...
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| from Suicide Girls tumblr |
I'm in love with writing right now :)
And to think...all of this started with one curious word that my brain latched onto and wouldn't let go. That word was thawb. What's a thawb, you ask?
This is a thawb.
A thawb or thobe (Arabic: ثَوب / ALA-LC: thawb), dishdasha (دِشداشَة / dishdāshah), kandura (كَندورَة / kandūrah), or suriyah in Libya, is an ankle-length garment, usually with long sleeves, similar to a robe. It is commonly worn in Arab countries. An Izaar is commonly worn underneath.
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| from Wikipedia |
Here is a bit of what it inspired:
Mmmm….agony…how would that look on him? Jude imagined how his pretty features might twist and contort. How his silken lips would curl back from his teeth and the sounds that would slip from them. She imagined him on his knees--knees so accustomed to kneeling in prayer bending, bowing, beseeching her mercy. The mere thought of it intoxicated her--like drinking too much whiskey in a warm room. She began to sweat. A thin sheen of perspiration formed on her top lip. It felt as if her clothes had turned to ash as she navigated the throng of shoppers and diners on the sidewalk. Jude didn’t even a glance back. The Muslim would follow her. She felt it in her bones. His beast answered hers. A deep primitive calling that propriety, morality and civility could not deny. She ducked into an alley. Leaned against a brick wall…waited…
Mere heartbeats separated the two of them. Three to be exact. Three heartbeats and then his shadow darkened the mouth of the alleyway. He approached her timidly, his body on alert. His hands grasping at his sides. “Jude.”
“Kiss me,” Jude demanded. There was only a moment of hesitation before he leaned in and pressed his silky lips to hers. Instantly she was overcome by his heady scent. Jude loved the smell of men. Not the artificial smell that they layered on but their true primal smell. The musk that clung to their groin. The scent of clean sweat under their arms. The salty tang that met her tongue at the first taste. Spices and hard work clung to the Muslim’s skin. His hand cradled the back of her head as he slipped his tongue between her lips to delicately taste her mouth. His tasted of basil and mint.
She grabbed him by his beautifully embroidered collar, spun him round, and pressed his back against the grimy exterior wall of the bar that flanked the alleyway. “Raise your thawb,” she demanded.
“No.” He pushed off of the wall and loomed over her.
She smiled and he narrowed his eyes at her--two predators sizing each other up.
The heat between them built to a frightening intensity until Jude leapt at him with a hungry little grunt. His mouth met hers with brutal force that nearly split her lip. This was not kissing. This was a fight. Her hands groped and scratched with abandon. Her teeth bit, intentionally drawing blood. The Muslim tried to overpower her. He was male after all. It was an inclination he couldn’t resist.
She pushed him hard, slammed his back against the wall again. His heart under her hand beat quick and frantic, like someone terrified, like someone who might, at any moment, break into a run.
Anticipation made every inch of her flushed and sensitive. The knife strapped to her inner thigh throbbed like a living thing. She wanted it in her hand. It was small. Custom made. The tiny hilt fit between her middle and forefinger but the triangular blade was lethal and sharp--meant to puncture, designed for close precise work. She liked to do it up close. With the perfect angle and a forceful thrust she stole breath and life. Their dying sounds mimicked those of pleasure as their life ebbed. Sometimes, the moment before they died a look of ecstasy would glint in their eyes.
'til next time kiddies!
xoxo
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Just a tiny taste....
Most of you know that I've been working on multiple projects since Nanowrimo when I did my #4novellas4weeks. While I only completed two novellas (one of which may never see the light of day) I discovered that my creativity flows better when I dedicate a specific amount of time to a project then move on to the next--wash, rinse, repeat. This week I'm writing Agostina and Julian's story, On Her Skin. Julian is the sweet, not-so-shy guy Yves hooks up with in the beginning of In Her Closet. Agostina is all new and I must say, I'm really beginning to fall in love with Aggie and her twisted, pervy, tattooed group of friends, a couple of whom starred in another novella of mine Best Laid Plans (which I will be releasing independently). This story is definitely shaping into more of a traditional romance. No kinky bits. Just regular old sweet romance...with my usual peppering of angst because it makes it more interesting for me to write and hopefully for people to read.
Also, I've decided to make some major changes as far as this series is concerned. I'll fill you all in when I have all the particulars in order but for now, send happy thoughts my way.
Here's a little excerpt of Agostina and her friends Dexton and Zuli:
From the day I turned thirteen and snuck out of my mother's house, I've been frequenting the bars on South Street. I'd been kicked out of more than I can remember. Banned from quite a few too. So it was no surprise that the moment that I hit the pavement bouncers and patrons called out to me. They hugged me and wondered where I had been. Filled me in on the latest shenanigans of the usual suspects--that's what we called our crew. It was hard to say no when they offered to by me a beer. The sweet smell of hops and barley floated out to me on the street and every part of me called out with a thirst that I'd never felt before. I nearly gave in. But then I saw a familiar face standing on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. A pretty, scrawny, little tattooed hooligan with his mouth crooked into a smile. He dodged out into traffic to get to me. Before I could even say hello his mouth was smashed against mine.
Dexton…
In our crew of Unusual Suspects, Dexton, Zuli, Lennox and I were the tighter than the laces on a punk kid's Chuck Taylors. Dex was a tattoo artist who worked at the same shop and Zuli was his best friend turned lover or…something like that. Lennox was my boyfriend. We were a rag tag bunch but the three of them were the closest thing to family that I had.
"Agostina Malone! Where have you been? Zuli's across the street. Hey Zuli!" He waved over a curvy, brown-skinned beauty. Her face broke into an instant smile.
"Aggie!" She dashed out into traffic just as recklessly as Dexton had and threw her arms and legs around me. I oof'd then laughed and hugged her back.
"Goddamnit, I missed you, you sexy devil! When did you get out?"
"Two days ago. I'm staying in a halfway house out in West Philly."
"Two days? Why is this the first time we're hearing from or seeing you?" Dex asked a frown creasing his dark brow.
I shrugged. "You know…I just…"
"It's fine," Zuli interrupted. "You look good," she said with a nod.
"She always looks good." Dex kissed me on the temple and threw an arm around my shoulders. "Come on, let's go back to the shop. Everyone has been asking about you."
"Uh…I don't know--"
"Everyone misses you, Aggie. Just pop in to say hi--"
"Dex--"
"She's not ready for that, Dexton," Zuli interrupted, her voice steely. She looked me in the eye, squeezed my hand. "Have you talked to Ox?"
Just the mention of his name took me right back to that night. The confusion, the panic, the all consuming terror I felt when I came to with my car wrapped around that telephone pole and him…in the snow motionless, bleeding--
"No, I haven't. I wrote him when I was locked up. Sent him some money. All the letters came back. Return to sender. They never accepted my calls…I don't think he wants to see me."
"You know that wasn't him. His mother never liked any of us. She's probably the one who sent back those letters."
"Why would she do that? She knows how much I love him--"
"I suspect that's why." Zuli touched my cheeks, wiped away tears that I seemed to be crying without even trying. "He asks about you all the time."
"He does? You've seen him? How is he?"
"He's good. I mean, he's better. Not like he used to be but, yeah, better."
Dexton squeezed my shoulder. "You should go see him, Aggie."
I nodded. "I know. I will."
"So what are you doing down here? Have you eaten yet?" Dex asked. He was probably the skinniest guy I know. He even borrows my jeans sometimes but, I swear, he could put away more food than the Eagles' offensive line.
"No, I actually need to hit up the thrift shops. My stepfather packed up my condo and well, long story short, a lot of my stuff is damaged beyond repair so…"
"So great!" Zuli looped her arm through mine. "Let's head down to Retrospect!"
I spent the rest of the afternoon hanging with my friends like it was old times. Zuli helped me put together a few looks--she was a pro at digging up secondhand gems and could make a twenty-five cent shirt and a two dollar skirt look better on me than anything I could have bought new. We stopped by the art supply store where I bought drawing and coloring pencils and a sketchbook of good heavy paper. I even bought a bike. A big red and white Swinn with a basket on front and everything. It all felt good and normal and I almost forgot about that everything that happened last year. Almost. Then Dex suggested we grab a quick bite at The Village Whiskey in Rittenhouse Square.
The Village Whiskey was one of those secret places known and frequented by locals where you could get a good, juicy gourmet burger and fries fried in duck fat that wasn't so pretentious that they frowned on the likes of us. Not to mention the fact that they had an extensive whiskey selection. We loved the place. It was next to impossible to get a table but we managed to eat there at least once a week.
My belly rumbled and I could nearly taste the combination of a juicy burger and a good full bodied whiskey on my tongue. Dex was already hailing a cab. I fought the urge to climb in behind them when one pulled up to the curb.
"Well, come on, gorgeous. You know how hard it is to get a table. It'll be gone if we take too long." Dex beckoned me with an outstretched hand.
God, it was so tempting and so fucking easy. I could climb in the cab with my friends, pass the hours with drinks and good times. But how long before I ended up right back where I started?
I backed away and shook my head. "No…you guys go ahead. Hope House has a curfew…I really should be getting back."
"Fuck that curfew--"
"Dexton!" Zuli exclaimed, lasering him with a look that would make the burliest, bodybuilder wet their pants. She climbed out of the cab and pulled me into her arms. I melted into the embrace. Zuli understood. "I'm proud of you," she said then gave me a soft kiss. "You call me okay?"
"I will."
Zuli gave me another quick squeeze and jumped in the cab. I stood there after the car pulled away. The craving crested in me, making me feel weak. "I'm stronger than this." But was I?
I dug through my bag until I found the business card Lorna Ruiz had given me. The line barely rang before she picked it up.
"This is Lorna Ruiz," she chirped.
"Lorna…it's Aggie. What time is the next meeting?"
Also, I've decided to make some major changes as far as this series is concerned. I'll fill you all in when I have all the particulars in order but for now, send happy thoughts my way.
Here's a little excerpt of Agostina and her friends Dexton and Zuli:
From the day I turned thirteen and snuck out of my mother's house, I've been frequenting the bars on South Street. I'd been kicked out of more than I can remember. Banned from quite a few too. So it was no surprise that the moment that I hit the pavement bouncers and patrons called out to me. They hugged me and wondered where I had been. Filled me in on the latest shenanigans of the usual suspects--that's what we called our crew. It was hard to say no when they offered to by me a beer. The sweet smell of hops and barley floated out to me on the street and every part of me called out with a thirst that I'd never felt before. I nearly gave in. But then I saw a familiar face standing on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. A pretty, scrawny, little tattooed hooligan with his mouth crooked into a smile. He dodged out into traffic to get to me. Before I could even say hello his mouth was smashed against mine.
Dexton…
In our crew of Unusual Suspects, Dexton, Zuli, Lennox and I were the tighter than the laces on a punk kid's Chuck Taylors. Dex was a tattoo artist who worked at the same shop and Zuli was his best friend turned lover or…something like that. Lennox was my boyfriend. We were a rag tag bunch but the three of them were the closest thing to family that I had.
"Agostina Malone! Where have you been? Zuli's across the street. Hey Zuli!" He waved over a curvy, brown-skinned beauty. Her face broke into an instant smile.
"Aggie!" She dashed out into traffic just as recklessly as Dexton had and threw her arms and legs around me. I oof'd then laughed and hugged her back.
"Goddamnit, I missed you, you sexy devil! When did you get out?"
"Two days ago. I'm staying in a halfway house out in West Philly."
"Two days? Why is this the first time we're hearing from or seeing you?" Dex asked a frown creasing his dark brow.
I shrugged. "You know…I just…"
"It's fine," Zuli interrupted. "You look good," she said with a nod.
"She always looks good." Dex kissed me on the temple and threw an arm around my shoulders. "Come on, let's go back to the shop. Everyone has been asking about you."
"Uh…I don't know--"
"Everyone misses you, Aggie. Just pop in to say hi--"
"Dex--"
"She's not ready for that, Dexton," Zuli interrupted, her voice steely. She looked me in the eye, squeezed my hand. "Have you talked to Ox?"
Just the mention of his name took me right back to that night. The confusion, the panic, the all consuming terror I felt when I came to with my car wrapped around that telephone pole and him…in the snow motionless, bleeding--
"No, I haven't. I wrote him when I was locked up. Sent him some money. All the letters came back. Return to sender. They never accepted my calls…I don't think he wants to see me."
"You know that wasn't him. His mother never liked any of us. She's probably the one who sent back those letters."
"Why would she do that? She knows how much I love him--"
"I suspect that's why." Zuli touched my cheeks, wiped away tears that I seemed to be crying without even trying. "He asks about you all the time."
"He does? You've seen him? How is he?"
"He's good. I mean, he's better. Not like he used to be but, yeah, better."
Dexton squeezed my shoulder. "You should go see him, Aggie."
I nodded. "I know. I will."
"So what are you doing down here? Have you eaten yet?" Dex asked. He was probably the skinniest guy I know. He even borrows my jeans sometimes but, I swear, he could put away more food than the Eagles' offensive line.
"No, I actually need to hit up the thrift shops. My stepfather packed up my condo and well, long story short, a lot of my stuff is damaged beyond repair so…"
"So great!" Zuli looped her arm through mine. "Let's head down to Retrospect!"
I spent the rest of the afternoon hanging with my friends like it was old times. Zuli helped me put together a few looks--she was a pro at digging up secondhand gems and could make a twenty-five cent shirt and a two dollar skirt look better on me than anything I could have bought new. We stopped by the art supply store where I bought drawing and coloring pencils and a sketchbook of good heavy paper. I even bought a bike. A big red and white Swinn with a basket on front and everything. It all felt good and normal and I almost forgot about that everything that happened last year. Almost. Then Dex suggested we grab a quick bite at The Village Whiskey in Rittenhouse Square.
The Village Whiskey was one of those secret places known and frequented by locals where you could get a good, juicy gourmet burger and fries fried in duck fat that wasn't so pretentious that they frowned on the likes of us. Not to mention the fact that they had an extensive whiskey selection. We loved the place. It was next to impossible to get a table but we managed to eat there at least once a week.
My belly rumbled and I could nearly taste the combination of a juicy burger and a good full bodied whiskey on my tongue. Dex was already hailing a cab. I fought the urge to climb in behind them when one pulled up to the curb.
"Well, come on, gorgeous. You know how hard it is to get a table. It'll be gone if we take too long." Dex beckoned me with an outstretched hand.
God, it was so tempting and so fucking easy. I could climb in the cab with my friends, pass the hours with drinks and good times. But how long before I ended up right back where I started?
I backed away and shook my head. "No…you guys go ahead. Hope House has a curfew…I really should be getting back."
"Fuck that curfew--"
"Dexton!" Zuli exclaimed, lasering him with a look that would make the burliest, bodybuilder wet their pants. She climbed out of the cab and pulled me into her arms. I melted into the embrace. Zuli understood. "I'm proud of you," she said then gave me a soft kiss. "You call me okay?"
"I will."
Zuli gave me another quick squeeze and jumped in the cab. I stood there after the car pulled away. The craving crested in me, making me feel weak. "I'm stronger than this." But was I?
I dug through my bag until I found the business card Lorna Ruiz had given me. The line barely rang before she picked it up.
"This is Lorna Ruiz," she chirped.
"Lorna…it's Aggie. What time is the next meeting?"
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