You never know who'll be in your corner. Help can come from surprising sources. Enjoy this scene from Grading on Curves. When Curt spotted Casey in the science wing on Monday, he beckoned to him. “I’ll catch up,” Casey told his friends. The kid ambled over and Curt forced a casual smile. “How’s the arm?” “Fine, I guess.” Casey gave him a curious look. “That’s good.” “What’s up?” “Um, can we step in here for a second?” Curt tipped his head toward his empty classroom. Casey glanced at the clock in the hall and hesitated. “I don’t know.” “I’ll give you a pass to your next class, if you need one,” he offered, understanding perfectly. “Okay.” They walked in and Curt dropped his voice discreetly. “How’s your mom?” Casey’s eyebrows shifted north by a quarter inch. “My mom?” “Yeah.” “Fine,” he answered slowly. “You could call her.” “I’d like to, only—” Feeling even more awkward all of a sudden, Curt rubbed the back of his head and admitted, “I don’t have her number and you guys aren’t listed in the phone book.” Casey snorted, flipped open his notebook, and gave the end of his mechanical pencil a click. He scribbled away then tore off the sheet and handed it to him. “I put her work number on there too, just in case.” They both laughed at how weird this was. “Thanks. Do you need that pass?” Curt asked him. Casey looked at the clock. “I think I’ll make it.” “If you have any problems, tell your teacher to talk to me.” “Don’t worry, you’ll get the blame.” Curt grinned and waved the paper in his hand. “Thanks again.” “No problem.” Casey chuckled and took off running. *Take a chance on a younger man and read Grading on Curves today.
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It's Teaser Tuesday and I'm sharing a scene from Friends and Lovers. Enjoy. The gym was dark when they got there, but Wes had his own key. He let them in, locked the door behind them, and flipped a switch. A single fluorescent fixture flickered on way up high, providing just enough light to navigate by.
“Instead of boxing tonight I thought we’d practice some self-defense moves since I can’t seem to get you to drop by my class.” “Because I already took a class,” she said for the umpteenth time. “Then you’ll have no trouble showing me what you know.” Lauren went back to the putrid green dressing room and changed into shorts and a tank, then cut through the large musty main gym. The entire space was dark now. Whatever light escaped through the connecting door to the smaller gym was sucked up into the high rafters and neutralized. Lauren screwed up her face at the smell of stale sweat mingled with years of accumulated dust. Circling around the boxing ring she headed right for the only light in the place and took a peek inside the door. There was no sign of Wes. She took a tentative step into the room. “Wes?” A hard arm clamped around her so suddenly Lauren screamed. Her feet left the floor, and a heavy hand covered her mouth, cutting off the sound. Mute and immobilized, she fought to squirm free, but when that failed, she shifted to inflicting damage instead. Unfortunately her arms were pinned in such a way that she couldn’t even bend her elbows. She was just short of outright panic when she was thrown down on the mat and pinned. “That was pathetic, Lauren.” Wes scowled. She tried to free her hands, get him off of her, but couldn’t. “You’re coming to class or you’re taking private lessons—you decide.” She glared up at him and tried to buck him off using her hips but he was serious weight. It was useless. “Get off of me.” “Fight back.” “I’m trying, damn it.” “I thought you said you knew this stuff.” “I thought I did.” “And now you’ve lost your purse. Shit, you’ve probably been raped. Maybe you’re bleeding down some dark alley while your attacker drives off in your car with your pin number written on his hand. That’s if you’re lucky. He’ll probably just kill you rather than risk letting you live to identify him.” “If you’re trying to scare me, it’s working. So give me a clue.” “Hell no. Your life is on the line, Lauren. Do you care enough to fight back?” Lauren threw her knee out to the side and brought the inside of her foot up to smack Wes in the back of the head with it. He laughed at her. “Is that all you’ve got?” “Screw you!” She was getting seriously pissed off now. “Take me down.” “Oh, you’re going down,” she grumbled testily. She wanted to punch the smirk right off his gorgeous face. Twisting and writhing, she fought to free her hands but his grip was like iron. “You’re going to pay for this,” she snarled. “I’ll make it easier for you.” He transferred her right hand to his left, and holding both of her wrists tight, he used his free hand to stroke down the center of her chest, the heat of his hand taunting her. To Lauren’s annoyance her nipples bloomed, ripe for the picking. Wes smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Something on your mind?” “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Ignoring her irritated taunt, he circled first one then the other with his index finger, lightly tracing the faint impressions of her areolas. All the fight went out of Lauren and Wes relaxed. His face was just as serious only now in a different way as he covered her breast with his hand and squeezed gently. She moaned with pleasure and arched into his palm. Wes found the bottom of her shirt and hauled it up, exposing her bra. With a flick of his fingers the front clasp gave way and now it was Wes’s turn to groan. He shifted back to take a nipple into his mouth. Distracted, he made it easy for Lauren to wiggle one hand free. It was less easy to keep her own mind focused since her body was humming like a harp, but somehow she managed it. She teased her fingers down his shoulder and ruffled the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Wes shifted to the next nipple, releasing her other wrist in order to support himself while he massaged her with his newly freed hand. Lauren’s eyes narrowed, and with a feline smile, she combed through his hair, lulling him into a comfort he shouldn’t take for granted. Without warning, she yanked his head back and cut him across the throat with the sharp edge of her locked hand. Wes rolled to his side and coughed, trying to draw air. He was staring at her in disbelief as she leaped to her feet and took a defensive stance. “What the hell was that for?” “You challenged me to get free. I found a way.” His eyes locked on her jiggling breasts and he grinned. “Works for me. Nice breasts, by the way.” “Are you serious?” “Well, I like them.” “Aren’t you mad?” “No. You used what you needed to. I respect that. Fight dirty when you have to. You distracted me, it worked. No fault in that.” “You’re amazing.” He gave her a cocky smile. “Word gets around.” She snorted, not even remotely prepared when his leg kicked out and swept her feet right out from under her. Lauren crashed to the mat and they were right back where they’d started only now he was kissing her for real and her hands were free to roam where they willed. Wes scooped up Lauren’s breasts and pressed them together, nuzzling and nipping both. “Beautiful,” he said with a reverent sigh. No longer interested in hurting Wes, all Lauren wanted to do was touch him, anywhere and everywhere she could reach. “If you’re going to stop me, you better do it now,” Wes warned. Lauren flashed a naughty smile and pushed his head down to her jutting nipple. “Not when I’ve got you right where I want you.” Her eyes fell closed as his warm mouth sealed over her. *Get caught up in this gripping and intense romantic suspense today. The question of how soon we move our characters from searing glances, hot make-out sessions, and frustrated teasing into the bedroom is a big one. I like to give my hero and heroine time to move beyond their attraction and discover what's on the inside of their love interest before I allow them to take things to the next level.
Of course, there are exceptions. My hero and heroine in Friends and Lovers both carried a silent torch for the other for fifteen years. I figured they'd waited long enough. They had a lot of pent up longing that needed to be unleashed. It was the right move. But in general, I really do want my characters to be interested in more than the pretty package. I've read a few books that seem to focus exclusively on the superficial attractions. They invariably disappoint me. These are supposed to be love stories, after all. There has to be more to recommend the hero than rock hard abs and a killer smile. I want characters to have substance too. I suppose this is why I read very little erotica. I prefer stories heavy on the romance with nookie thrown in, not the other way around. It's funny, how much time I spend thinking about this subject. Will my characters go to her place or his, or maybe the nearest sturdy surface? Are they prepared or will they have to abort the mission when neither has a condom? How neat is the guy? Is his bedroom going to be littered with dirty clothes? Could his bedding be deemed a biohazard? For the most part, I try to adhere to the three date rule. That gives the couple time to move beyond the getting-to-know-you small talk and into deeper conversation. The second date is a nice place to intensify the physical attraction and introduce more touching and exploratory kissing. He might even make it to second base before one of them realizes they're moving a little too fast and pulls back. Independent reflection often follows a loaded scene like this. They both need to take stock, decide what they want, where they hope this might be going. Only then do I stand aside and let them pounce. By then, I understand these characters better too, Except now, they're calling the shots and I'm merely taking dictation. This is no longer my story. It’s become theirs. Sweetheart, meet Sassy. I love assertive heroines striding confidently through their own stories. It's great to see women with backbone and a saucy little swagger when the hero's gaze is locked on them. Simply by revamping the heroine—or vamping her up, depending on what you're reading or writing—you change the flavor of romance. These ladies are more likely to go toe-to-toe with the hero rather than stomp their foot like a petulant child and storm off to do something rash as soon as his back is turned. Arguments can still be heated, but they're more productive and rational. It's that independent spirit I find so appealing. She doesn't necessarily need the hero, but she wants him. That alone levels the playing field and changes the dynamic of the central relationship. It's less about pursuit and more about the seductive dance between the sexes; the toying, the teasing, advance, retreat, and finally, the inevitable satisfying surrender of both. The heroine is in a power position. She isn't passive, but rather, provocative. Oh, she'll probably drive the hero crazy sometimes. He's going to drive her nuts too. Are there any relationships out there where this isn't the case? But those rubs make the modern romance feel so familiar. We recognize aspects of ourselves in these characters and that's what makes us warm to them. I find there's more balance in modern love stories. We didn't take anything from the hero by eliminating the heroine's dependence on him. What we did is give him a woman fit to stand beside him and worthy of his love. Maturity is bliss. Read Shadows and Doubts and understand exactly what I'm talking about. I think the husbands and significant others of romance writers are a sterling breed. If they're anything like my husband, they have to be tolerant of all the man candy pictures we save -- purely for research and inspiration. It takes a secure man to watch us fall in love over and over again with our creations without showing a hint of jealousy. He has to be cool and unfazed by the fact that we're visualizing and writing love scenes he'll have no part in. There's something special about a guy who can carry on with what he's doing, without raising an eyebrow, when the wife yells down to him, "Is there a hyphen in hard-on?" He knows she's about to describe some other guy's equipment, at least to some extent, and it has nothing to do with his. Talk about a strange world. None of my heroes have ever resembled my husband, and yet, there's a little of him woven into each and every one of them. He may not be sporting those biceps or abs. He's got years on these characters, but if I was going to be completely honest here, the fantasies I've created would have been flat and lifeless without the inspiration of the man in my life. I fashioned the image, the qualities and emotions I've found with him have given them depth. *originally posted 2/21/2013 This 'lovers from the opposite sides of the tracks' story has an added complication. Can Dani accept what can't be changed and love this Tarnished Hero? Unsettled and in the mood to vent on someone, Hero decided to drop by the Sea Sprite. Brady should be awake by now. He’d always been an early riser, though who knew what his habits were now that Kate was living with him. For all Hero knew, they were still tangled together in their bed. He was relieved to see Kate sitting out on the deck. She was soaking up the early sun, a mug of coffee balanced on her stomach. He leaped lightly onto the boat. She shaded her eyes and smiled up at him. “Morning, Hero. Brady’s inside.” “Morning, Kate. Thanks.” The smell of chorizo and onions perfumed the cabin. Brady looked over from his frying pan and grinned. “Hey. Making breakfast burritos. You want one?” Hero fell back against the counter with a grunt. “Not sure. I’m a little pissed at you right now.” Ignoring his scowl, Brady repeated the question. “Do you want a burrito or don’t you?” “Yeah, I do.” Brady nodded at the carton of eggs and small mixing bowl sitting on the counter. “Then crack a few more of those in there.” Hero whisked the eggs, working hard to keep his irritation focused but it wasn’t easy when his stomach was rumbling and his mouth watering like mad. Sliding the bowl toward the cook, he resumed his brooding position against the counter. Brady glanced over while turning the sausage and onions in the pan. “So what did I do?” “You neglected to tell me Margarite has a daughter when you threw me to the barracuda.” “Danica’s back?” Hero gave him a slow serious nod. “Her name is Danica?” “Mm hmm.” Hot oil spattered Brady’s hand and he jerked back. “Son of a bitch.” Lifting the pan, he turned down the heat then brought the burn to his mouth. “Nice girl.” “She’s not a girl. She’s—” Hero trailed off when her image returned to him in exquisite detail. “Beautiful.” Even he caught the hopeless reverence in his tone. Brady’s eyebrow hitched upwards. “Oh yeah?” Hero shook himself, feeling a little dazed and depressed all over again. “I’m screwed, man. I saw her and it was like a shot to the heart. Pow. You know what I’m saying?” Brady snorted and nodded. “Oh yeah.” He cleared a space in the middle of the pan and poured the eggs into it, pushing and turning them frequently to cook them through. “I see your dilemma.” Hero heaved a sorrowful sigh. “It’s worse than you think.” “How so?” “She busted me using Margarite’s private shower this morning.” “And Margarite was—?” Brady left the question hanging there. “Meeting a friend for breakfast.” “Ah.” “So her daughter—” Hero went on. “Dani,” Brady supplied helpfully. “Dani was stretched out on the unmade bed when I came out of the bathroom wearing a towel.” Brady grimaced. “Ooo.” “Tell me about it.” A pained expression on his face, Hero asked, “Ever see a conniption?” Brady threw his head back and laughed. “I can only imagine.” “If I’d known Margarite had a daughter like that, I never would have touched the woman.” “Sorry, man. It didn’t even occur to me. When I think of Dani, I still see this cute little teeny-bopper running around the docks and down the beach, always underfoot, trying to score beer to impress her surfer friends.” Hero chuckled at the thought. “I can’t even picture it.” Getting himself a cup of coffee from the pot, he sobered. “So how old would you say she is?” Brady sprinkled cheese over the concoction in the pan, his brow furrowed as he considered the question. “She must be what…twenty-three? I know she finished college.” Hero dropped his chin to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose as he shook his head. “College graduate.” He sighed in resignation. “It just gets better and better.” “Wish I knew what to tell ya. Sorry to say, I don’t see this happening.” “Me neither.” More than a little bummed, he reached into a cabinet for three plates. “How about that last meal?” Brady’s eyebrows shot up. “Gallows humor? Not exactly your style.” “It feels pretty over to me.” “That’s the spirit.” *Enjoy this rich girl-poor boy forbidden love story today. |
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