Guarding the Line ~ Chapter 5

Wow, I was so busy last week, I don't think I saw a single game. Caught the end of yesterday's loss on the radio. The Brave's still have single-digit losses, and for now, still rest at the top of the NL East, but we have a long way to go.

Soft Sounds of Pleasure, compete with new cover art and a few hundred words lighter, should be available on Amazon again by May 1. All other outlets to follow in due time. I sometimes wonder if the people at iTunes read every word before they put something up. Still waiting on a couple of books to go live there. (sigh)

“Why wouldn’t I be?” she replied. “He’s harmless, but irritating. I hate it when guys just think it’s okay to—”  She cut off the sentence, staring at him.

“Touch you without an invitation?” he guessed.  She swallowed hard before nodding.  “Sure, I’d like a beer, thanks.”

He stared at her hungrily as she pulled the tap, lingering over the lush curves of her full breasts, and her waist beneath the form-fitting corset. The pants hugged her ass, showing off more curves he longed to touch.  He’d seen her without the pants, after all, seen her stretched out completely naked except for sinful lace panties. He knew long legs were hidden under that leather and he wanted them wrapped around him.  Stop, he scolded himself.  The last thing she wanted was some other asshole touching her without her consent.

She placed a coaster in front of him before sitting the glass down.

“So, it’s Vee, right? I’m Mike,” he added helpfully. “Thane introduced us.”

“I remember,” she said. “And yes, it’s Vee.”

“What’s that short for?”

“Verity.”  
He picked up the beer, still looking at her. “So, Verity, what are we doing on this break of yours?  How about a dance?”

She laughed, polishing the expanse of bar to his right. “It’s okay. I was just getting rid of Reno.  I usually hide out in my car. Staff’s not supposed to dance, or mingle with the guests.”

“You always do what you’re supposed to do?  That sounds kind of…lightweight to me.”  Damn, those eyes were fantastic.  He’d always hoped they’d turn out to be real.

She cut him a glance that made his heart stop in his chest. “So, a dance with you is supposedly worth getting fired?”

“Probably not. I don’t claim to be the best dancer in the world.  But, we could go somewhere and you could let me see that tat.”

She darted a look around and put one finger over her lips. “Shh, I haven’t come out about that yet, and I have relatives who work here.  The staff gossips like crazy.  It’s seriously a secret.”

“So, I get to see it, or I rat you out.”

“Blackmail’s not very nice.  I think I’d rather risk getting fired and see how badly you dance.”

“Vee, sorry we forgot about you back here. Go take your break, make it a long one.”

They both looked at the woman who appeared behind the bar.

“Thanks, Angie,” Vee replied. “Where’s Sage?”

“In her office, I think.  Do you need her?”

Vee laughed again, a sound he already loved. She glanced toward him, mischief in her eyes. “No, my customer here wants to dance with me.  I just wanted to know if the coast was clear.” 

“Like she’d fire you.” This new woman gave him an appraising look. “Besides, it’s packed out there. How would she see you in the midst of all that insanity?  Go. Take your time.  I got this.” 

The two women bent their heads over the register. Mike downed the beer before tossing a twenty on the bar.  He waited for her to approach him, and felt his heart start to pound as she rounded the bar and held out her hand. He took it, feeling the adrenaline of attraction speed through his veins.

As soon as they reached the crowded main room, the crush of bodies slowed their progress. She wound her way determinedly toward the center of the big dance floor. Talking was out of the question.  The music vibrated through him. She finally reached the place she wanted to be, smiling seductively before turning and beginning to move in time with the music.  She’d selected a place under one of the club’s spotlights, and she danced as if she knew that was where she belonged.

He could hardly tear his eyes away. He watched her hips move in time with the music.  She wasn’t looking at him.  Her eyes were closed, her head tilted back.  He stopped bothering to pretend he was dancing, only watched her. The crowd pulled back a bit, everyone around them watched her, too.  The way she danced was primal, slightly sinful in her complete lack of self-consciousness.  He saw her glance over her shoulders, caught the taunt in her eyes as she spun around, then moved closer to him, beginning a slow torture.

He felt her breasts touch his chest, saw her lean away, only to feel her hip nudge the erection her dance provoked.  He moved with her, but refused to give in to his desire to touch her, mindful of her comment in the bar.  Her hand slipped down his arm, hitting bare skin after skimming over the short sleeve of his t-shirt, tracing an electrifying trail down his arm.  Reaching his hand, her eyes never left his. She brought his fingers to her lips, pressed them to his index finger, just before she flicked her tongue over the rough pad.

He groaned as need throbbed in his cock. With a naughty look, she sunk her teeth into the place her tongue had laved. Shock waves of desire hit his groin. He fought the urge to throw her over his shoulder and find somewhere they could be alone.  He curled his free hand around her waist, underneath her hair, caressing the soft flesh above the low waistband of her pants and slowly drew her body to his.

Time, and even the music, disappeared as she melted against him. They barely moved, yet were never still. Her breath fanned his chest. He inhaled the scent of her hair, and reveled in the way her curves felt, pressed against him. Her head fit neatly just under his chin. Her nails raked the fabric of his shirt, up and over the muscles of his back, then down again.  He groaned again, and tightened his grip on her waist, pressing her less gently into his erection.

He felt her move, looked down to see her face tilted up to his, lost himself in those jewel-like eyes before allowing his gaze to settle on the soft, full lips.  He bent his head to kiss her.  Their lips touched, sending another ripple of need through his veins. Her lips parted, and damn, he wasn't going to miss this opportunity. She’d been seducing him for an hour. Time to give her what she’d been asking for.

And she didn’t simply kiss him back.  Oh, no, her silky tongue drove him to new heights of desire.  She tasted like sweet fruit, felt like wet silk.

He felt her stiffen and start to pull away. He let her go, regret singing in his veins. She turned, but not before giving the front of his shirt a tug. Again, she worked her way through the crush of bodies, but he saw several men look at him with envy. No doubt, they’d watched her dance.  His zipper was probably imprinted on his cock for life. He surreptitiously tried to adjust matters before they got off the dance floor.

She walked straight to the closest bar, signaling him to wait. Slipping behind the glossy black length,  pulled two sleek bottles—also black, everything in this joint was black—out of a cooler with a nod to the bartender.

“Let’s go outside.” She rose on tiptoe and spoke into his ear, placing one of the bottles in his hand.

“Been following you all night.”  More like looking for her all his life. Too bad his dreams never showed him what happened next. Guess that's up to me.

He followed her again. This time, she passed the table where his teammates were seated.  Victor gave him the thumbs up as they walked by. Mike grinned, giving them a cocky wave.

Once through the door, he gazed around, taking in the sight. The center of the glassed-in patio held mostly empty tables, each with a flickering candle at the center.  He saw Vee turn to her left, and realized she was talking to a man dressed in black, who stood behind some sort of podium.  He supposed she was getting them a table.  Looking around while the guy consulted a book in front of him, Mike realized the boundaries of the patio were defined by black curtains about seven feet high, draped from red-lacquered poles, above which he could see the lights of the city.  It was oddly disconcerting, that black fabric. She turned towards him, beckoning him again.

He followed, wondering where the hell she was going. Does she want to push back the curtains and look out at the view? Obsidian was on top floor of a building at the edge of downtown Atlanta. He supposed the view was worth looking at, but the scenery wasn't as interesting as the woman he was following. He glanced at his watch, wondering how much time they had before she had to go back to work. She stopped and pulled back the curtain to reveal piles of red and black cushions in front of small ledge set in front of a massive pane of plate glass. He felt his jaw drop.

He stepped inside. She followed, allowing the heavy curtain to swing closed behind her. She evaded his grasp and shoved aside some of the pillows, revealing an upholstered bench running the length of the counter. No fucking wonder his buddies had been grinning, assuming they knew what was out here. The music was muted, a faint throb in the background, allowing him to hear the sounds of lovemaking coming from the curtained hideaways on either side.

To be continued 5/6. Like the story? You can catch up on Chapters 1-4 here.

Kathleen's on vacation this week, but be sure to check in on Jennifer Simpkins. I have to admit, the Yankees are getting the job done, even with some pretty big holes in their lineup. Dang, I really wanted to yank Jennifer's chain this week...but it's early yet. And I'm the patient sort. :p

Thanks for dropping in! Have a great week.

The Magic Touch Giveaway Hop

Hello, and welcome to my stop on the Magic Touch Giveaway Hop.



I confess, I always wanted a magic wand. Car trouble? Poof! On the road again. Noisy neighbor? Shazaam! Duct tape applied. Evil mother-in-law? Kapow! Now your father-in-law has a pet frog and he owes you big time.

Alas, I have no power over frogs, transmissions, or duct tape. The closest I'll ever get to magical powers is writing about them. I decided to write about the magic contained in a certain set of golden, lust-inducing arrows in my (mildly) paranormal/contemporary erotic romance series, Carmine Club. Some of the characters get a little help from Eros, the Greek god of love, The first story, Forceful Negotiations, is due to be released April 25.

Meanwhile, allow me to wave my not-so-magical wand and make everyone who joins my blog or Facebook author page into a winner! Simply join either the blog or my Facebook page, then leave me a comment telling me which format you'd prefer (.mobi, .epub, or .pdf available) and your e-mail address. I'd be delighted to send you a copy of the lead-in story to the series, Breaking Glass, where we first meet Eros. No drawing, no waiting, no checking back to see who the winner is. Easy as abracadabra!

(excerpt from Forceful Negotiations. All rights reserved.)

Drunk on the luscious perfume of lust, Eros danced down the aisle between the males and the gorgeous women offering themselves as slaves to desire. Tears of joy rolled down his cheeks.  Pumping his fist, he turned in a circle, tearing his gaze away from the females to look up. He wished he had his wings so he could hover beside the ornate cornice molding and see everything. This beautiful room seemed a fit temple to worship the pleasures of the flesh. Wiggling his butt, he leaned over to smile into the upturned face of one lovely maiden, admiring the soft curve of her belly and the way her nipples thrust forward.

Kicking his heels together, he made his way along the row of carts, pausing before each woman to inhale deeply. Desire was such an intoxicating scent. How beautiful they were, each breath making their breasts dance to tempt the males, each soft moan inflaming the men’s desires.

He and Willa were going to get along just fine, he was sure. When the humans were sated and sleeping, he’d pick out his abode. He could scarcely believe his luck. He wouldn’t need his bow. These humans were primed and ready. His head began to spin. Eros could drink for days and only get his tongue wet, but a good gust of lust made him drunker than a sailor on shore leave.

He worked his way down the row, shaking his hips in glee, stopping to smooth a curl here, or run his thumb across a lower lip there. He reached the last cart, giving Teague Tillis an admiring once-over. Peter had sent him to help a friend of hers find his way back to his true love not long ago. An accidental brush of his wings against the artist that day had told Eros what she desired and he hadn’t forgotten the experience. He would’ve traded a precious arrow for just a single feather to slip between her thighs or along her cheek, so he might feel what she felt at this moment. Leaning close enough to kiss her lips, he whispered, “They all look strong and virile, my dear. And you’ve never looked more beautiful.”

Selling herself for desire’s sake seemed noble and brave to Eros.

If you're a glutton for my brand of magic, I'm writing a novel on the blog, with a new chapter posted weekly, on Mondays  Not a bad way to put off the reality of your workweek for just a few minutes longer. You can read the intro and first four chapters here.  The story is based on my belief there should be a downside to having magical powers, to make up to the universe for circumventing the natural order of things. In Guarding the Line, every time magic is used by the race known as the adorii, an unsuspecting human pays the price. 
 As part of the Magic Touch Hop, we are giving away envelopes of swag to the first 100 participants who sign up. No requirements other than filling out the form you can find via this link. Each envelope will be different and filled with random goodies. http://blog.kallysten.net/2013/04/magic-touch-swag-bonanza_19.html


Click the Linky image blow, and presto! You'll be taken to the list of participating blogs, where in addition to the swag giveaway, you have a chance to win on 52 different blogs . Now, that's magical :)

Thanks for stopping by!

Guarding the Line ~ Chapter 4

Big week. The Braves swept the Nationals and are still firmly perched atop the NL East. I have re-edited Wildly Inappropriate and the story will be available again by the end of the week. And...my daughter's having a girl!

Six days later, Verity Alexander studied her reflection in her vanity mirror. The tattoo had been worth every penny, she decided.  Things were looking up all the way around. Her editor had salivated over the outline and first three chapters of the new story. And, she’d found the ring. Not that the ring was necessarily a good thing. She was still trying to get a reading on that. Her crystals had remained stubbornly mute, as had the gazing ball. She hoped the problem was on her end. a lack of use. With the Watchers in her home, she hadn’t been willing to open her mind to her gift often. The less the Triscaro knew about her, the better.

The sound of the phone interrupted her musing. She grabbed for the phone with one hand and a hand mirror with the other, still studying the tattoo. “Hello?”

“Vee, it’s Sage. I need a favor, please, please, please. You know I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate.”

“You want me to bartend tonight?” Vee guessed. Sage wouldn’t be begging otherwise.

“That damn Garrity. You were right about him, I caught him stealing last night and fired his ass, but I can’t find another bartender and get them trained overnight. I need you for a week, maybe more because Avery’s in Jamaica. Please, Vee,” Sage wheedled. 

Verity felt the same tangle of feelings she always had toward Sage. Love and exasperation. “I’ll help you, but I’m not splitting my tips.”

“No problem, I’ll kick in your percentage. Be here by nine? The door code’s changed.  7776. Gate code is still the same.”

Vee repeated the number that unlocked the employee entrance door. “For a minute there, I thought you were going patriotic.”

“Huh?”

She swallowed her sigh. Sage lived in the moment. And, she’d never been forced to attend school with humans and learn American History the way Verity had until she’d turned twelve. “See you at nine.”

 “I’ll get somebody to prep your bar.” Verity disconnected the call before Sage guilted her into coming in earlier to slice up fruit.

Vee stood in the staff locker room, trying to untangle the strings of jet beads dangling from the hair comb in her hand.  Sage insisted that female staff wear one of two approved hair ornaments, and Vee wasn’t about to use the roaring twenties style headband with feathers.  She could just imagine pieces of the stringy black-dyed ostrich feather landing in someone’s drink as she worked. When the final two strands of beads came loose, she gave her hips a little shake in celebration.

She brushed her hair away from her face, and caught the two strands above each ear, securing them behind her head with the comb, letting the rest fall free down her back.

Glancing at her watch, she realized she needed to get to her post. She gave herself a final once-over in the mirror, turning to look over her shoulder as best she could. The sign on the mirror reminded her to wash her hands. Out of habit, she tucked the small tin of healing ointment into her front pocket before slamming the locker closed, though the ointment had worked so well she doubted she’d need it tonight. The tattoo hadn’t itched the way Thane assured her it would.

Time to go to work.  The VIP bar opened at nine. She prayed someone had actually been assigned to do the prep.

She entered the quiet room and quickly went to work, logging into the computerized register. She occupied herself by setting up the bar back the way she liked it, and checking to be sure every surface sparkled as customers started drifting in. 

Soon, she was busy, too busy to notice when her sister appeared behind the bar.

“Vee, you saved my life.”

Again, Vee thought silently, giving Sage a quick hug. “Don’t mention it. The tips have been fantastic. Don’t you have better things to do than supervise me?  And,”—she shoved her sister aside playfully—“you’re in my way. Oh, and ask somebody to haul up a new keg of Budweiser, would you? I was ashamed to sell the last beer I tried to pour; it was almost pure foam, so I’ve been giving the guy free Bud Light.” She nodded in the direction of the customer who wanted that brand.

Few things annoyed Sage more than her staff giving away profits, Verity knew, hiding her grin. “You could’ve paged somebody,” her half-sister grumbled.

“Like I have time to figure out that complicated intercom system?” Vee plunked the six glasses onto a tray. Brushing past Sage, she delivered the order to the group of eight seated at the long bar.

Customers piled into the bar and Vee once again lost herself in the simple task of filling drink orders, keeping the long bar as sparkling as possible, and washing up glasses. The music seemed to grow louder, if  possible, but she found herself enjoying the band, going so far as to dance a bit as she poured shot after shot of alcohol into glasses, and crafted the elaborate drinks Obsidian featured.

Stacking her tray full of ornate drinks, she spun and felt her elbow connect with the heavy gallon jar of maraschino cherries. A full-blooded adorii could have used her powers to slide the fruit to safety. All Verity could do was clutch the tray of drinks and watch the sticky mess explode. Cherries bounced and rolled everywhere at her feet and the juice splashed everything from her shoes to her elbows. Tips had been good, but not when she deducted the cost of her leather pants. Dammit.

*****

Mike Reardon entered the VIP bar, hoping to find a spot quieter than the crowed main room. The music thrummed painfully in his temples and he wished like hell he hadn’t agreed to come out with his teammates. All he wanted was a quiet place to have a beer and lick his wounds. His run of inexplicable errors was killing him. He needed something to change his luck. Victor and Paulo insisted what he needed was to get laid, so they’d dragged him here. Not that he was in the mood for talking, much less trying to pick up a woman. All evening, his teammates talked about nothing but baseball, a topic he was sick of at the moment.

All the tables in the  room were full, but the long bar itself was empty. He didn’t see a bartender as he slid into a seat. Suddenly, a head popped up, followed by the rest of a delicious female form. Her back was to him, but Mike stared in disbelief at the reflection of the woman’s face in the mirror behind the bar. She looked like the woman he’d seen at Thane’s, the gorgeous, nearly-nude woman, getting an enormous tattoo. She wore a long-sleeved shirt so he couldn’t be sure. The bar was too dim to tell if the eyes were the same unusual color as those belonging to the girl stretched out in Thane’s chair.

She suddenly fired a towel at the sink, grabbed a new one, shoved it under running water, wrung it out, and disappeared once more.

His headache receded. He relaxed in his seat, patiently waiting for her to surface.

The blonde head popped up a few moments later, her back still to him. He couldn’t take his eyes off her reflection in the mirror. Suddenly, she whirled.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were waiting. What would you like?”

You. “Bud draft, please.”

She chuckled, but she swiped at her pants, eyes still lowered. Fine by him, he’d just watch while she fussed with the tight black leather pants. But he wanted a look at her eyes.

“That keg is empty. I’ve been waiting on a replacement all night. But,” she continued, leaning forward and lowering her voice and finally raising her eyes to his face, “the good news is, I’m giving away shots out of spite for being ignored.  Interested?”

Oh, he was interested, all right. Those eyes were definitely lavender. The view down the snug top was definitely interesting. “Sure, that sounds fine.” Mike forced the words past a suddenly-dry throat. She didn’t recognize him, apparently. And he was having trouble talking. Maybe because he’d seen her before, and not just at Thane’s. It hadn’t hit him until after he’d left the tattoo parlor, but he’d actually been seeing this face for a long time.

Come with me now to see what the other Baseball Babes, Jennifer Simpkins and Kathleen Grieve have in store for us today. Feel free to post anti-Yankee sentiments on Jennifer's blog post--she'll totally understand :D

Guarding the Line ~ Chapter 3

Welcome back! At 5-1, my Braves are off to a great start, sitting atop the National League East. I got to listen to a couple of games while I worked on the edits for Carmine Club this past week, as well as edits on Immortal, a vampire thriller I'm editing for author Kim Faulkes. 

The problem with sharing your head with the universe was, the universe had little regard for traffic rules, much less the consequences of showing you a place you were destined to go when you were doing eighty-five miles an hour on the busy by-pass around the third most populated city in America. Glaring in exasperation at the faded red bricks on the front of the building she’d seen in the gazing ball as the structure flashed by on her left, Verity slapped the small lever to activate her right turn signal. Trying to scoot her car in between a tractor trailer and a pickup in time to dive off the exit ramp was futile. The man driving the pickup flipped her the bird. Hello, Atlanta. The tea was sweet, the accents slow, but give a human male here a damn truck and he seemed to think the vinyl-clad front seat was a throne and the interstate his kingdom.

“Asshole.” The next exit was two miles ahead. Huffing, she slowed enough to merge right, falling in behind the older Chevy. Few adorii lived in Atlanta, explaining why more pickup drivers hadn't been turned into one of the trees these dude's favorite garments mocked. A tan and white pit bull hung his head over the tailgate. Drool splattered her windshield. Glaring at the tight choke collar around the dog’s neck and the leash attached to the toolbox lining the front of the bed, Verity’s temper flared. “May the Goddess seek a kinder master for your pup, and in her wisdom, make you unable to get it up.”

She doubted her impromptu curse would have any effect on the redneck poking along at fifty-five miles an hour. A call to Animal Control might be more effective. For the pit bull, anyway.

She didn't question why the shop was still lit this time of the evening, two hours after the closing time painted on the door. Peering between the faded trio of painted balls on the dirty glass, she spied a clerk. The door opened when she tugged on the handle.

“Just closin’ up. You can look around, though.” The man's grayed head remained bent over an old-fashioned brass cash register. Verity stepped over grass-crusted weed eaters and power saws, uninterested in the spinning racks of second-hand DVDs. The jewelry case held a wide array, but her gaze was drawn to a faded velveteen-covered tray filled with white and yellow gold bracelets. Lying atop an open slot in the back, she spied a gold circlet too wide to fit into a slot.

The shop proprietor slammed the resister drawer closed. Verity tapped the glass when he turned. “May I see that one please? The wide one, at the back?”

“Interesting piece. I never could figure out what this was. It might be an infant's bracelet, but if you look close, one edge is lined with small tines.” His heavy key ring jingled while he paged through the large selection, but another sound rang inside Verity’s skull. Impatience made her shift from foot to foot. It seemed an hour passed before he placed the object in her outstretched palm.

Verity held the weighty item close to her face, squinting in the dim light, trying to read the elaborate carvings. She doubted this human could ever guess what the band was designed to do. She had no desire to enlighten him. “How much?” Slowly turning the band, frustration made her fingers stiffen, causing her to nearly drop the piece. The letters were recognizable, but the words they formed made no sense. She couldn't interpret the phrase or name, but her heart rate increased. The metal felt too warm to be of this world, far warmer than the air in the chilly pawn shop. Could the clerk not feel the unusual heat?

She’d never seen a fidelis ring before, but she’d heard many whispered stories about them. Humans had once shackled the loins of their women to ensure faithfulness. The adorii princesses of old had these bands made for their consorts once they were betrothed. Refusal to don the fidelis ring was grounds dissolution of the engagement, or grounds for divorce after the union. To her eye, it appeared the weight alone would combat a full erection.

Though she could see no hinge, she knew the item bore a hidden clasp, opened only by an incantation. The ring didn't interfere with the male organ’s basic functions, but she could imagine the small barbs sitting just below the cock head  waiting to impale any man trying to have sex while wearing it, and only the person who'd bespelled the ring could remove it. rubbing her thumb across the shot, sturdy teeth, Verity shuddered, feeling sympathy for males who’d been trapped in a far more barbarous manner than any animal.

“Eight fifty,” he stated.

Without hesitation, she ceased her scrutiny of the ring, disturbed by her find. Why she’d been guided to a cock piece was a mystery she had little inclination to solve. Perhaps knowledge of the ring’s whereabouts was all that would be required of her. Verity dropped the fidelis piece onto the old man’s hand wordlessly, suppressing a shudder. A sense of unease slithered up her spine, watching him bounce the circlet in his open palm. Owning the cruel thing felt wrong, but leaving him in possession of the ring made her equally uneasy. Artifacts belonged in their normal realm.

She’d let the Fates decide. She had every dime of her savings with her, but had only two hundred dollars to spare. Sliding the bills from her back pocket, she laid them on the counter. Her heart hammered, watching the clerk’s watery brown eyes move from her cash to his merchandise. Her offer was far too low. He could scrap the ring for far more… but why hadn't he? The object was useless to a human. The ring’s only value in this realm lay in the gold. In the adorii realm, the pretty bauble meant a life of indentured servitude.

 “With tax, that’ll be…” he tried.

Verity shook her head, extending her hand with reluctance. He dropped the ring into her palm and swept her cash off the counter.

 “Gonna try it on?” Sarcasm dripped from his tone.

“I know it fits,” she replied, shoving the ring into the front pocket of her jeans and hurrying out the door. She didn't want to think it might have been made for a male in her family line.  

Out on the sidewalk, she hurried around the corner, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw the rims were still attached to her car. Her visit to the pawnshop had been brief, but in this neighborhood, a car could be stripped in the blink of an eye by those who made a living dealing in stolen car parts. First, she locked the ring in her dash, glad to have it out of sight. With a twist of her key, the big motor roared to life.

A half hour later, when she pulled into a different parking lot, it was fully dark.Verity eased the car into a parking space in front of what might’ve once been an old dry cleaning establishment.  Rather than ‘One Hour Martinizing’, the neon sign in the front window advertised tattoos. Twisting around despite the twinge of pain, she rooted in her back seat for a pair of sweatpants, an old t-shirt, and a robe. With her items clasped to her chest, she hurried inside, shoving her purse over one arm.

A bell on the door tinkled when she stepped inside, but the huge man she’d come to see lay sprawled on a cracked vinyl sofa leaking urethane foam. Easily more than six-four from his boots to the top of his bright red hair, the tattoo artist overwhelmed the shabby love seat.
“That new baby must be kicking your ass, Thane.”
He opened one eye to glare at her. “Who knew something so small could make so much noise?”
 She laughed as he sat up and scrubbed his hands over his eyes.  “Birth control is widely available, so I hear.”
“Yeah, yeah. I swear, Vee, I’m thinking about getting snipped. How long is this gonna last?”

 She placed the jewel case holding the computer disc into his outstretched hand. “In one way or another, until you’re dead, I hear. You ready to get started, or do I need to buy you a power drink first?”

He scrubbed his face with freckled hands.“Yes, Miss Slave Driver, I’m ready to get started. Damn, I used to be a bad ass. Now my life is full of pushy women. I got your stencils ready, and I’m almost awake. Cleared my schedule today, except for one VIP customer. I decided to let him roll in, just in case you decide to puke, pass out or quit. My money’s on all three.”

She fished the thick stack of cash out of her purse and fanned the bills. “We could bet the whole amount. If I sit still for the entire thing, and don’t wuss out like you seem to think I’m going to, my tat’s free. Deal?”

He eyed her confident expression. “Hell no, something tells me I’d lose. And frankly, I need the bucks. Kid keeps going to the doctor.” She watched him count the bills. Twenty-seven new one hundred dollar bills would pay a lot of pediatrician's bills. “Perfect, I’ll get Averill to do your paperwork when she gets here. Let’s go, girlfriend. I know how long you been waiting for this.”  Rising from the sofa, Thane detoured behind the counter to put the money in the safe before following her to his work space. 
She'd already shucked off her sweater and jeans. Standing in front of the mirror, braiding her hair to keep the mass out of his way, Verity saw the revulsion on his face, he couldn't hide fast enough. You’d think an old motorcycle gang member would be used to looking at scars. He’d seen the damage as they’d discussed her tat, but only in sections, not all at once. The ink was to be her way of taking back control, her way of turning ugliness into something beautiful.

“Uh, sorry,” he mumbled, realizing she’d caught him staring by looking in the mirror. “As soon as I get these stencils placed, you can put on your robe. Or I can work around it now if you like. The bra’s got to go, though.” His voice shook. “It’s not much, but at least the motherfucker left your face alone, Vee.”

She ignored the last comment. “Got over being shy a long time ago. You might as well get a good look at what you've got to work with.”

The former Hell's Angel enforcer turned away, picking up the spray bottle containing liquid soap and a disposable razor while she tried to get her anger under control. She needed his skill with a tattoo gun, not his pity. It was unbearable to dwell on the idea a man who’d once led such a rough life was revolted by the sight of her scars.

Who would want her now? She'd never been a candidate for an adorii mate and the Triscaro had rendered her unfit for a human one. Standing rigid while Thane applied her stencils, Verity bit her lip till she tasted blood.

~*~*~*~*~*

To be continued April 15. If you missed the first episode, you can read it here.

Thanks for dropping in. Now, come with me and check on the other two Baseball Babes, to see what Jennifer Simpkins and Kathleen Grieve have in store this week. 

Guarding the Line ~ Chapter 1

The setting sun dipped behind the bank of clouds above the distant Atlanta skyline, revealing lace made of gold. Something soft, like the inquisitive touch of a kitten, tickled her hand. Verity Alexander tightened her fingers around the nuzzling, full-blown rose pressing into her palm, wishing she dared use their power. Her imagination painted an image of the three women approaching, each writhing in pain while the sweet-scented vines bound them, slowly driving sharp thorns into their flesh. She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath.          When she opened them, she noted the gazing globe centered in her front garden was still a charcoal-tinted orb. Exhaling slowly, she tried to send her growing tension out of her body with the expelled breath. She’d dreamed of this moment for months. An illusion of serenity would better serve her.        Oncoming twilight darkened the shapeless robes worn by her uninvited guests, but Verity knew the fabric was the color of human blood. Watching the women known collectively as the Triscaro move closer, her hatred toward these rulers of the adorii world seemed to scorch her veins, even while her heartbeat danced in anticipation of their message.         Her sentence was up.        Inhaling again, she studied the gilded clouds, seeking serenity from their beauty. The slow-moving group came to a halt at the edge of the drive, as though sensing the violence in her thoughts. They were wise to remain cautious here. This garden surrounding her home was not what it appeared.        “Verity Lavender Alexander.” Pallora spoke, she thought. Though hoods obscured their faces, it was always Pallora who spoke. “Your sentence, as well as Sage’s, will be lifted at moon’s zenith. As the one bearing the mark of her punishment, you may have the honor of informing your sister.”       Some fucking honor. The hated voice was the one haunting her dreams. The sound turned her determination to be civil to thistledown in a thunderstorm. What was the point of being obsequious now? Metaphorically kneeling before these cruel bitches wouldn't change their mindset. If Dignata, Verax, and Pallora were expecting Verity to be gracious, she hoped they handled disappointment better than they wielded power.        Squaring her shoulders, she stared into the dark cowl shrouding the face of the oracle who’d spoken, annoyed by her inability to see her condemner’s eyes. “I am as I was named. I reiterate my innocence. Sage and Rosemary are innocent as well. The Line may have been crossed, but not by one of my family. Your fear has become as acid, dissolving your wisdom.”          She sensed Dignata was the most offended by her caustic words, though she couldn't tell the three apart. Sage’s conviction meant the Alexander family had fallen from aristocracy to outlaw in adorii society. The shiny scars lacing Verity’s back seemed to tighten. Pain lanced her, but she’d be damned before she’d show weakness before these women. Her father was a demigod in his own right. Rex Hin may have rejected Verity when he learned of her mother’s trickery, but his blood still flowed in her veins. The Triscaro hadn't yet spilled it all.        “Blame not me, Verity. One you love deceives.”        “Speaking of deceivers, when will Rex Hin’s sentence end? Will you set my father free or do you fear he is still a threat to your rule?” Overhead, the clouds reformed, dividing into dark, roiling shapes above and a wide swath of gold below, as though the Goddess also mocked this rotten bunch.         The air around Verity began to shimmer, betraying her anger. Pallora’s silence was underscored by the roar of waves crashing against the cliffs fifty yards behind the spot where the Triscaro stood. The pounding of the ocean echoed in her pulse and seethed in her ears. The blood-draped trio turned as one, showing her with their backs what they wouldn't deign to say. Her father wasn't getting off his conjured island prison any time soon.        She didn't give a damn whether Rex Hin ever set foot on shore again, but Sage and Rosemary cared. Adrienne, Verity’s mother, cared. Adrienne cared about little else, in fact. Over the roaring waves, Verity heard another sound, the musical tinkling of her charms, signaling the all-clear. The prickling, uncomfortable feeling of being watched by unseen eyes eased. Janus had called his minions home. Verity blew out a harsh breath, relieved to be rid of the spirits. Rats. Informers. Tattletales. Whatever. Their absence felt like the first kiss of spring.        Her hated watchers formed a leaden fog around the Triscaro, as though they knew it would be wise to protect the women’s backs. She stared until they were gone, caressing the rose head, regretting she hadn’t taken the rare opportunity to send them on the attack. The ruling sisters were reluctant to set foot out of the adorii realm. For them to come here meant… she wasn't sure what it meant, but a smile crossed her lips. She’d known they were coming. Known, despite their ‘sentence’. Half-breed she might be, but Verity had powers from her Wiccan side the triumvirate could not suspend.        A fingernail of moon appeared above the clouds. Closing her eyes, Verity tried to let go of her anger, focusing instead on the pull she felt from the fat quarter. Desire pulsed in her feminine tissues for the first time in eleven lunar cycles. Not tonight. Soon, she’d find a willing male and give in to her burgeoning desires, but now she had an appointment to keep. When she opened her eyes, the gazing globe had returned to its silvery state. Verity smiled at the reflection of the roses, topped by a circular reflection of the dusky gold and blue clouds overhead.        She was free. Stepping off the porch, she moved down the front walk. When she passed the pedestal supporting the decorative ball, she let her fingers skate across the smooth, yet slightly wavy glass. The mercury-filled piece felt warmer than the evening air, drawing her attention.        The curving image on the ball began to move. The deep red reflection of the surrounding rose petals began to fold in on themselves, turning into rectangles that became bricks. The bricks piled onto one another. The round image of the sky became a square, then a dirty display window. When all motion stilled, the image had resolved, not into a reflection of anything around her, but a dilapidated storefront. Verity thought the building looked familiar, but the sphere warped the image to the point she wasn't sure which realm it was in, human or adorii.        No matter. If the building was important, it would find her.        Bunt!  Who the fuck laid down a bunt with two outs in the bottom of the ninth? Cursing aloud, Mike Reardon charged toward the ball rolling slowly away from home plate. It was too much to hope the fucking thing would go foul. He didn't glance at the rookie, now hurtling down the first base line. Mike's entire focus was on the nine-inch sphere of white leather, held together by precisely one hundred and eight red stitches. Halfway to home plate, the damn thing lost all momentum. Charging hard, Mike extended his left arm, palm up. He was taking a risk, trying to scoop the ball up with his glove alone, but this was the top of the ninth in a goddamn exhibition game and he still didn't know whether or not he’d earned the starting job as Atlanta’s third baseman. So, fuck it, he was going for broke.        Leaning over while still running flat out, Mike’s attention diverted to the piece of supple leather he wore on his left hand. His cleats churned the rust-toned infield dirt. It seemed to take forever before the tip of his short infielder’s glove touched the sphere. Flipping his wrist, he grinned when he saw the ball jump into the air. Snatching the ball with his bare right hand, he dug his cleats into Turner Field, trying to stop his forward momentum, knowing he’d fall. Twisting at the waist, he pulled the fist grasping the ball level with his ear before hurling the ball toward the first baseman. The force of his throw and the torque put on his frame by his competing motions threw him off his feet, but falling was something he had a lot of experience doing.                      Tumbling over the snowy chalk line marking foul territory, Mike rolled to a stop and got to his knees. Cameras flashed all over the stadium, blinding him. Gulping a lungful of air, he held it, barely able to see the ball fly across the infield for the spots before his eyes and the roiling infield dust. He strained to hear one voice in fifty thousand.        The blue shirted man behind the first base bag balled his right fist. “Yer out! Ball game!”        Yes. Mike pumped his fist, looking around at the roaring crowd in the stands. He was officially off work now—well, after an interview or three—and Mike knew exactly how he planned to celebrate. A new town and a new team meant it was time for new ink. To be continued on April 8th. Now, jump with me over to the blogs of my two baseball-lovin' pals and see what Jennifer Simpkins and Kathleen King Grieve have in store today on the baseball theme. Together, we're the "Baseball Babes", so named for our mutual love of the sport. All season, the three of us will be posting on a baseball theme every Monday. I'm going to kill two birds with one stone and rewrite this  older WIP, since my hero is a professional baseball player.  Also, Breaking Glass is now available on Amazon! How would you tell your lover you wanted a ménage with his best friend?  Free spirited, passionate Jillian picked the wrong moment to blurt out her fantasy, causing her husband Dylan to turn so cold she asked him to move out. Now, rather than celebrating their sixth wedding anniversary, the Carmichaels are headed for divorce court. Enter Eros, popcorn-loving owner of those passion-tipped points. When a hot jolt of lust doesn’t melt Dylan’s hard heart, what’s a demoted demigod to do? It’s gonna be a long night, because Eros has been given only one to rekindle the Carmichael’s love.

A Hot Man and a Quickie ~ 'Baseball' Means 'No'?

The hot man:

While I do enjoy a good game of football, I'd love to persuade gorgeous romance cover model John Quinlan to pick up a baseball bat for his next shoot. Perhaps that's because I have baseball on the brain right now. Come on, Opening Day! 

Places to stalk John:

http://irishjohnquinlan.blogspot.com/

http://www.johnquinlan.org/

http://twitter.com/johnjquinlan

Baseball  made an appearance in my excerpt today,too:

The quickie: (excerpt from Forceful Negotiations, Carmine Club V.1)

What's that? Oh, yeah, I did change this cover again.  (blush) This is the final version, pinkie swear. 

Jane merely smiled and pressed her palms to her knees, locking her elbows. “You understand this is role play, Cameron?”

“I understand no means no.” The frost in his tone should have painted her office walls whiter than that damn ballroom. He stared over her shoulder, refusing to look at the woman, though he felt her scrutiny. Instead, he looked at the neat row of her diplomas, framed in black. The wall behind them was painted dark beige or light brown. He couldn't decide what to call the color. He did know what to call the obscenity written on the paper she wouldn't take from him. Rape. How many times had he promised a jury no woman had ever asked to be raped?

“In this case, ‘baseball’ means ‘no’.” Jane’s statement sounded so ludicrous, he turned to look at her. “That’s her safe word, the word that causes all activity to cease immediately, no matter what may be happening. She wants this, Cameron. It’s her fantasy.” Jane leaned forward so abruptly her glasses slipped down her nose. She laid her hand on his knee. “Cam, you went into that ballroom. You picked her. You touched her, maybe even intimately. A connection was formed. Despite the titillating idea of illicit sex, what happens here is quite different. These women bare themselves so they can get some sexual healing.”

Looking away from her beseeching eyes, Cam narrowed his gaze on the row of diplomas again. “Then she needs a shrink.”

“No, what she needs is for you to get in touch with that man you've muted, the less civilized one lurking inside.” 

Her voice. Dear God, Aphrodite’s voice came from the throat of this plain woman. It was like audible sex. He didn't want to listen, but her words seemed to penetrate his brain.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Speaking of baseball, starting April 1, I'll be writing a novel in

 weekly installments, right here on my blog. Guarding the Line 

is a paranormal baseball romance. How's that for genre-

bending? You can read the premise here. 

Thanks for dropping in! See you next week, when hopefully, I'll

 be announcing the release of Breaking Glass.