A Lone Star

An excerpt from my new Romantic SyFy story, now available in The Lone Star Collection (12 Texas Stories). All proceeds from the book support the Lonestar Lesfic Festival in Austin. If you buy the print book and bring it to the festival, I know a whole lot of authors who will sign it up good for you (including me).

A Lone Star

Bad ass. That was the first thought that came to Venn Jules’ mind as she looked over the Lone Starport’s new sheriff, Arnika Verne.  The sheriff stood on the deck of the hovercraft, eyeing the vast sea below, with one hand on her trim neoskene-armor clad hip and the other wrapped around a laser-arc spear like she knew exactly how to use it in a hurry. Which was very comforting, given that Venn herself was too stymied by the Great Orange Kraken’s tentacles, and now also too fatigued from wrestling with it, to keep the kraken from chewing on either her or the Starport’s tidal stream generator.

Operating a new near-equatorial launch facility on the shores of Austin came with more risks to manage than the Governor and his cronies cared to admit; but at least that ass-hat and his merry troupe of brown-nosers had finally seen fit to grant Venn’s appeal to hire some protective muscle. Sexy muscle too.

“Looks like you’re an ass-crack away from becoming Kraken snack,” the sheriff said with a sultry grin. Her accent dripped of Nor-easterner, someone used to the cold horror of the Arclantic ocean, and thus she probably knew fuck-diddle about the warm terrors of Venn’s Gulf of Mexico operations. Venn’s hopes of salvation diminished.  “No shit. Now shoot the bastard in his damn plate-sized eye.”

Black hair whipping in the wind, the sheriff sent an off-hand laser bolt into the Kraken’s beak just a foot shy of Venn’s head and then, in such quick succession that Venn never saw the sheriff move, fired two more bolts into the Kraken’s eyes.  Venn dropped from the Kraken’s failing grasp into the ocean like a stone.

Luckily, she hit the muddy red waves feet first, but the velocity of her fall still sunk her a dozen meters. She knew her immediate-personnel-locator-tags likely tripped on two seconds after being submerged, but they wouldn’t do the sheriff any good toward dragging her out of the water is she didn’t break surface in a hurry--before any of the Kraken’s sisters sensed her presence and dragged her to the blackest deep.  And it would be the Kraken’s sisters, Venn knew, because their males were mostly lame, much like the men of today’s United States of Oceania.

Venn kept kicking hard, but nearly laughed underwater as the words of her cynical birth mother sprung to mind. Men were only good for three things: sperm, hysterics, and a whole lot of indignant insinuating that some ancient artifacts indicated they were really the dominant gender a thousand years ago. “Yeah, and I bet the water and sky were clear back then too,” Venn thought and added broad desperate breast-strokes to her efforts. She spotted what could only be the snout of a monstrous Great White shark speeding through the murky redness in front of her. Another murderous sister hard on her heels. Just great...

Read the rest in the book, available now in print and eBook formats on AMAZON: https://www.amazon.com/Lone-Star-Collection-Carsen-Taite-ebook/dp/B079HWJCQS

Benefiting the Lonestar Lesfic Festival

Reader Appeal?

I tell stories in my head. Since I was old enough to talk. It's how I entertain myself on boring rides or trapped in isolated and confined environments (ICE)--which has come in handy for work many times over and so is justification enough for telling tall tales and strange stories, in my head.

But now as a published author, there are only so many of these stories that I have time to get on paper and that publishers have the time and money to take chances on (no matter how kind and helpful my publisher, Affinity Rainbow Publications). So the deciding factor is reader appeal. 

Will a story appeal enough to enough readers to justify it's opportunity cost?

I'm a reader too, so I do get double the votes...but it's still hard to make that call sometimes. Plus, I like to take chances sometimes and play with the laws of grammar, plot, and genre and this desire to innovate can bias my estimates of reader appeal.

Which brings me to today. I have four novels outlined and ready to start, and no clue which one to try first. All four are lesbian romances. The main differences between them are in tone, point-of-views, and sub-genres. I appeal to those of you who read. I provide snippets of all four novels below. 

Please send feedback regarding which one appeals more to you. You're vote counts--maybe more than my own (depending on how much bourbon I've imbibed) toward which novel gets written up first.

1. A Badge Washed Up - Janey, a middle-aged Black lesbian cook at a beach-side retirement resort finds the honorary police badge of a missing forensic scientist washed up on the shore, but no one will take her questions seriously, so she searches for the scientist on her own. She finds a lot more than she bargains for during the search.

My hands were shaking even though the August heat beating down on the sand was so hot that my eyes felt scorched.  I felt sorry for all the little elders of the Shore Acres Seaside Retirement Resort, with their fair skin, pale eyes, and soft smiles.  But most of all, I felt sorry for the whole world.  I felt sorry for my beautiful dead baby. The injustice of his promising life cut short in his prime burned so rough in my chest that my hands still shook, two years later, whenever I thought about it.

I was walking down the beach on my day off, letting the green Gulf of Mexico wash in and out over my toes.  I kept playing back the last time I saw my son, Saul, alive. 

 “Come on, Momma, I'm just walking one mile up the road.  Julie's house is right on the edge of Orange Grove.  The first house on the left as you turn into the neighborhood.”

“I know you can walk the mile, Saul.”

“Julie is a good kid.  We're really going to work on our project for the science fair.  I promise.” Saul spread his large hands open in front of his body and stuck out his lower lip.

“I know Julie is a good kid, and you know I trust you anyways.”

“So, what's the hold up?” Saul rubbed the palm of his hand over his tight brown curly hair and bugged his eyes out at me.

I watched him shift from foot to foot, one ratty Converse over the other, as he waited for me to answer him.  He was sixteen years of earnest adolescent energy.

I wasn't sure what the problem was, but for some reason, I didn't want him to go out that evening.  I should have listened to my mother's intuition that night, even though I didn't have any good logic to support it.

“It's winter, Saul.”

“It's Gainesville, Florida, Momma.  Low of sixty-two degrees.”

“Dark by six 'o-clock, Saul.”

“There is a sidewalk the whole way.  I have to cross one street and there is a stop light there.”  Saul gave me a smile and wrapped one arm around my shoulders.

I said nothing.

“I'll take my hoodie in case it gets cold, and I'll be home by seven for dinner.”

I shook my head and smiled back at him.

“I'll also leave Julie's phone number on fridge for you.”

He was a good kid, an honors student.  He never sassed me and he never complained that we couldn't buy him a car or a phone, or that all of his clothes came from second-hand shops.  He smiled every day and he did his best to make others smile with him.  He tried to take care of me.  He promised to be home by seven for dinner that night because we both knew his dad would probably wander in drunk and smelling like some other woman well after our bedtimes.  Only the good die young.

I don't know when I heard the first siren for sure, but it was fifteen minutes after seven when I sat at the kitchen table in front of our ready dinner plates and got really worried.  Saul was never more than a few minutes late to anything in his life.  He was two days early for his own birth.  He rolled out of bed every morning before his alarm clock went off.  I was staring at our plates of mashed potatoes, green beans, and thin fried pork cutlets as I listened to the sirens outside explode into a symphony.

I thought I would call Julie to see what time Saul left her house, but when I got up from the table my feet took me past the phone and through the front door. 

I found myself running in my socks across the black-top parking outside our apartment, toward the front gates and the sound of sirens. Outside the gate I remember seeing ambulances and squad cars.  I remember tasting my heart in my mouth as I called out for Saul. I remember seeing one of Saul's Converse on its side on the pavement, covered in so much blood that it looked red rather than its usual washed-out gray all over.  

2. Inherent Risks (co-written with Ali Spooner) - DEA Agents Victoria Alvarez and Justine Adrijan want to bust the biggest drug-fueled sex-trafficking ring in history. Will their newly discovered passion for one another help or hinder their quest for justice and revenge?

Justine clutched Tori’s battered Kevlar vest in her white-knuckled hands and inspected the blemish and nick just to the left of the 9mm slug embedded in it. Noises swam around her in the waiting room of Ben Taub Hospital’s ER. Sweat trickled down between her breasts and prickled cold on the back of her neck under her hair. For the thousandth time in the last five minutes, she wished that she was in jeans and a t-shirt with a badge slung around her neck instead of rattling her nerves in the skimpy dress and high-heels of her undercover alter-ego, Sofia Galina.

Dumb-founded she touched the 9mm slug with a fingertip. It shouldn’t have penetrated that well or stuck there that deep. What the hell was the blemish just to the left of it? Almost like a bullet had already nicked it, but she knew the DEA would never issue Tori a previously damaged vest. As realization dawned on her, she murmured a harsh invective. In the raid three weeks ago, she could have sworn Tori had taken a bullet, but Tori had promised them all the shot fired from the crackhead’s .357 had missed wide and gotten lost in the already riddled sheetrock above. “Damn it, Tori. You are a fucking, hot-headed, hero-complexed, asshole.” Justine sneered at the nick in the Kevlar, “You got shot, and rather than take the six weeks of desk duty like someone with any sanity, you hid it and kept this worthless Kevlar.” Justine bit her lip and her eyes watered as she thought about Tori still lying unconscious amidst a swarm of trauma doctors and nurses down the hall. Her caramel skin was so abnormally pale that her dark hair looked like liquid ink in comparison when they pulled off her tactical helmet. Tears pricked at Justine’s eyes.

“Agent Adrijan,” a no-nonsense voice calling her name jerked her back to the present. She looked up and straight into the eyes of Special Agent in Charge of the Houston Division, Vincent Curial. She tucked Tori’s tattered Kevlar under her right arm with the nick safely behind her back and greeted him simply, “Sir.”

“What do you know about Agent Alvarez's condition?” Despite the late hour and unforgiving humidity, Curial looked impeccably professional and comfortable in navy slacks and a pale blue oxford shirt. There was never a sag or wrinkle on him. Rumor had it that the boss had been an undercover bad-ass not too long ago, responsible for bringing down the biggest Venezuelan cocaine cartel in the nineteen-eighties.

3. Beyond Deep Waters - Leigh Rigby's Mama was diagnosed with Altzheimer's last year and the disease is starting to accelerate. Leigh wants to be in town to be with her mother, but she also loves the open ocean and her life as a merchant marine captain the last ten years. She decides to get certified as a Houston ship channel pilot so she can work on the water everyday, but still be home for dinner with her mother every night. The problem is getting certified is proving harder than she thought. There is a lot of difference between piloting in blue water versus brown. To pass the test and get the board's approval she'll need some mentoring; and the board has chosen her mentor.
Thanks to a maritime accident that cost her both of her legs below the knee, ex-pilot, Reyna Guitierrez is building herself a new life (that accommodates her disability) as a maritime instructor and pilot mentor. Leigh Rigby isn't ready for a mentor, she's embarrassed. Reyna isn't sure she is ready to mentor anyone-it just reminds her she has to teach because she can no longer do. Together they learn how to make the most out of the cards fate dealt them and in doing so discover that there is a lot to love about life and each other.

Leigh shook the saltwater out of her hair. Just beyond the last jetty, to her east, over twenty vessels waited to enter Galveston Bay and eventually the Houston Ship Channel. She squeezed the soft brown sand between her toes and sighed. Tomorrow would probably change everything about her life, but for one more Sunday, she was still just an off-duty merchant marine with the sun starting to set on her shoulders and a cold beer waiting in her Mother's refrigerator.

After a quick rinse in the outdoor shower, she slipped on a dry pair of board shorts and settled her long board into the back of her old GMC truck. The ride home to La Porte from Galveston could be any where from half an hour to two hours depending on summer tourist traffic, but she hoped to make good enough time to swing by Shawpee's for a pound of fresh shrimp. Her mother's memories might be fading fast, but she still knew she liked grilled shrimp slathered in TexJoy seasoning for her Sunday dinner.

4. Once Before Again - Miss Dura Waley Inez Craig is the belle of the post-war ball, the cat's meow, thanks to land she inherited from her father that just happened to have several million gallons of oil underneath. While Dura is used to wealth and social standing, she finds herself shocked by the magnitude of her influence now, but still oddly confined by a woman's rightful role in society, and determined to do something meaningful with her life. It's a lot of angst for a young woman, and so she finds no harm in consulting the mysterious new Swami in town touting wisdom--until she is seemingly thrown one hundred years into the future with no clothes and no way home.   Is this just a drug-induced vision that will give her the guidance she seeks or something altogether more? 

Kate Lane thought that April in Houston must have been the poster child for the rhyme, "April showers bring May flowers." She huddled farther under her umbrella, tilting it slightly sideways in hopes of fending off the hell-bent deluge as she trudged home to her apartment from the corner pharmacy. Rainwater sluiced down the deserted sidewalk, flooding her tennis shoes and she gave up the umbrella entirely before the wind could shred it from her grasp. Right about the time she thought at least there wasn't lightening to worry over, a thunderous crack and streak of light hit the street beside her with so much force that it knocked her to her butt.

She bounced. Her umbrella skittered beneath some bushes. Concrete scuffed the palms of her hands and left her right wrist tingling. At least her prescriptions were safe in her backpack she reasoned, as she took stock of herself.

"Hello," a woman's voice meekly queried her from behind.

Expecting to be offered assistance, Kate held up a hand. "I think I'm okay."

"Oh, uh." The woman replied.

Kate shook her head, but the rain still blurred her vision. She sighed, slowly stood up and turned towards the voice.

"I must be dead." Kate intoned as she came face to face with the palest and most thoroughly naked woman she had ever seen. Even in the dim evening rain her eyes were luminous blue and even wet, her long hair piled and braided into an old elaborate style was obviously a glorious shade of amber. "And you must be Aphrodite."

The woman blanched and puked at Kate's feet.

"Or maybe not." Kate whispered.

It is up to you, kind reader. What next?

Lesbian Fiction Books

5 Sure-Fire Ways to Lose at Noveling

Nobody likes to lose and you shouldn't have to when I am perfectly willing to mercilessly unveil my own abject failures to forewarn yours. If I've discovered the antidote, I'll give you that too.

1. Start with a blank page. Blank pages are intimidating.  They look so large and perfect and you're about to scribble it up to shit, and that can really dampen your courage and kill fledgling inspiration as mental rats scurry about ranting, "I have no idea where/ how to start this right." My antidote?  I learned it from a sketch artist. Draw a baseline/ just put down random notes in any order that you can delete or reshape later as needed.  It helps to leave these on that big bad blank page as long as you can, until the end of the project so that you don't experience #2.
2. Ignore your progress.  Writing is an all out bloody war with your best and worst inner demons.  It is a journey of millimeters, one freaking sweaty alphabet letter at a time.  Sometimes even thinking in terms of number of words a day is just too bone-shakingly overwhelming. Antidotes? Mini-reward yourself for each paragraph, or dialogue (i.e. I get a lemon drop as soon as I finish writing this description for the first time, even if it sucks). Find your most unconditionally supportive friend (i.e. Polly Always Positive) and text her a line saying you just conquered the hardest sentence ever.  At the end of each hour, look at the shear number of characters you have managed to fling against your inner demons and that imposing blank white wall...it helps if you shout out like Alexander the Great or Rocky, "I am a conqueror!" (Don't worry about the folks and critters who live with you as they already know you're weird...you're a writer.)
3. Doubt your motives. Some people say you should only write for yourself.  Some say your should only write for others.  And yet some people say you should only write to serve a worthy purpose.  Writing is a noble endeavor and I don't want to belittle it by committing the worst treason and writing for the wrong reasons at the right time (note: that is a muddle  of  a T.S. Elliot quote). I cripple myself at times by trying to figure out why I'm going into screaming battle wielding my keyboard.  Soul-gazing is good sometimes, keeps us humble and compassionate, but not when we're painted-blue and naked running at the idea of NOVELING like a wild Pict toward a Roman legion. There are many antidotes for this, including Hemingway's trick of imbibing enough bourbon, but not all of them are healthy. So I suggest the simplest: be kind to yourself.  Trust that you have many motivations for trying to slay the Novel dragon, and the nobility is in the effort--in the fact that you are running naked at the Roman legion. Later, when anybody asks why you wrote your complete novel or what motivated you to keep going, then you can narrow it down to the right, most noble, reasons.
4. Berate yourself today for messing up or missing yesterday.  The old crying over spilled milk makes you fail twice.  I saw it a lot on the softball field.  The short-stop is so busy fuming at herself about missing the throw to second base that she gets smacked in the head by a line drive during the next play and lets two runs score.  And yet, even though I know better, I still do it. The only antidote I know of is cultivating your self-awareness enough so that you can recognize you're doing this and stop it before you fall into another screw-up today.  Five to ten minutes of meditation a day has helped me a lot--forcing myself to just be in the moment has strengthened my ability to focus.
5. Tough it out alone. One of the things I learned working with high-performing teams in extreme environments (e.g. astronauts) is that the hardest and the most critical thing to do is to take care of yourself first. Put on your own oxygen mask in the airplane before assisting your child with hers. We've all heard it, but we've also heard much more frequently something along the lines of Nike's Just Do It or, "Don't be a pansy." In extremely tough environments (and I do believe writing a novel is definitely one of these), toughing out an injury or sickness may kill you--but more importantly, it makes your whole team vulnerable. If you are struggling, then you owe it to your teammates (your friends and family) to let them know you are struggling so that you can decide as a group how to deal with it before it snowballs into disaster for your relationships and your writing (It's damn hard to take the time to focus on putting words on paper when you're worried about the health of your marriage).  The antidote is recognizing that writing is a team sport and playing it like one.  You feel like a lone, naked, conqueror; but you're not. There are armies of armies chaotically flailing all around you in similar and competing directions and if you coordinate with those closest to you, then you significantly up your chances of winning as well as surviving.

Bonus Helpers:

I like the old adage (or maybe it's a misquote from one of the Roosevelt's) -- If you never try, never start, then you have already failed in the most miserable way imaginable.  The good news is that like most failures, this failure too may be overcome by applying fearless effort.
While there are hundreds of ways to lose at writing anything, there is ultimately only one way to win: apply your ass to a chair and start slashing at that big white wall in your own proud warrior fashion. You are mighty every single pen stroke and keystroke, forging something tangible out of seemingly nothing.

Have you discovered alternative antidotes? Please share them.

"This is my pen. There are many like it, but this one is mine...

 I must master it as I must master my life. Without me, my pen is useless."

Reality tells taller tales than fiction.

Fans and editors sometimes ask and criticize how authors plot outlandish events and happenings that just really couldn't ever happen. Right?
Well, I'm sorry, Virginia, there might not be a Santa Claus, but there is a bum in a Santa Claus suit who really does roam the beaches of Honolulu gifting cookies in April.  And I have seen dozen of drunk Santa Claus look-alikes on a lawn during the Houston's Lights in Height's Festival.  And there was that Santa stripper with herpes I saw in an ER room once...

Anyway, my point (and I do have one) is that it is very easy to fall into what I will call the "Jarring Too-Reality Trap" when plotting my stories.  

I've seen and discovered some very weird things while  researching things for my novels, A Walk Away and Catch to Release.  Even weirder things than I see in my day job riding along with first-responders and extreme environment teams to do job analysis (and some of those tales are indeed tall--like the time I got to stand under a 20G centrifuge for people in Russia's Star City).
As a writer, I'm incredibly tempted to work in those very real and very weird things into my stories. It's quirky flavoring, something that I love as a reader myself, but that temptation can cause a backlash of disbelief or confusion so strong that it leaves a reader hating my story and it's ridiculously real events.
And that's a problem. Not that I believe I will ever learn enough to know how to write to please everyone (I'm not sure I'd want to either), but I do believe that fiction serves a purpose.  I think fiction is supposed to help us deal with our world more mindfully by entertaining us enough to read through many different mental simulations or rehearsals where we can see how various people handle and process emotions and situations.  Fiction is an engaging way for us to learn interpersonal skills and discover social insights, without any boring lectures or dangerous missions.  So it's a problem if I shock too many readers out of that opportunity with a plot event they can't reconcile with probability, but it is also a thin line--I mean we read fantasy and much of those stories include events that are no where near probable, but we don't mind because in their established universe they sound probable and real.

So what I have learned to help avoid the "Jarring Too-Reality Trap" so far is:

1. Yes, it is cool that a South American radio novella star really did serve as a cartel hit-woman by arranging murderous accidents for her targets in the 1980s and that would make a good twist--but any weird reality-fueled twist probably requires a lot of narrative exposition to establish that as a viable probable reality for my readers.
2. Feedback from editors and betas can really help you see when your true facts are too true and the reader will likely doubt any explanation you might provide in narrative.
3. Society and popular culture decide the final truth you can get away with in your fiction. For example, in reality 95% of those who receive CPR outside a hospital die, and it isn't really helpful for injuries like gunshot wounds.  Also, those 5% who live don't usually live long or ever return to normal. CPR works best on cardiac arrest victims, and then it still only helps around 15% of the time. But thanks to  TV, many readers believe that CPR can save a main character and restore them to 100% functioning within a day or so.  If you don't want to promote that fallacy, then you have to plot carefully enough to avoid any situation where the reader thinks "they should just do CPR to save that character, that is what would have happened in real life."
4. Limit my quirky reality flavoring to two events per novel or less.  A little probably goes a long way? I mean would you believe me if I told you I once used a Rock Flounder to pull myself to shore, without swimming, through a cloud of jelly fish? Or that I saw a man who had died instantly from a 15 mph auto accident even though he was wearing a seat-belt, driving a decent car in the US, and had an airbag that deployed correctly?  It just doesn't matter how true it is if I overwhelm you with too much truth to process in one reading.
5. I have to remember to serve one premise. The purpose of my writing anyway, even if it isn't the purpose of all fiction, is to create a story that engages readers and empowers them to learn something about their own social and interpersonal experiences; so if I want to accomplish that then everything in the story should serve the story's premise first and foremost.  For example, the premise of Catch to Release is that the best way to protect the ones you love is to show them you love them so they don't do stupid things that get them hurt trying to get more love and attention.  Anything that doesn't support that premise, I tried to cut despite it's veracity (or not) otherwise.  The jarring too-reality events I kept where the ones that support that premise--sometimes being a hero means helping your loved one be her own hero, so she can defend herself from our improbable, unbelievable reality at times.

Have you discovered any tips or tricks for avoiding the "Jarring Too-Reality Trap" in your own writings?  Any too-true funny or scary stories of succumbing to the trap that you want to share in the spirit of Halloween impending?

#BeMightyWrite

Holding wild hawks was deemed too real by a beta reader for the scene I wrote about counting them in A Walk Away.

Emerald Envy

A Free Romantic Historical Lesfic Caper in Brief

Emerald Envy

I hefted the carved flat emerald in its newly set platinum and diamond pendant necklace. There was no way to wear it inconspicuously through the streets of Paris. Even on a bitter winter night like this, it would bulk out my thin wool cape too much. Some opportunist would see a tall thin woman with a promising bulge and figure out that they had little to lose in trying to jostle it loose. I also didn’t trust any of my pockets to support the monstrous weight of the emerald I’d lifted from an Indian Mogul two weeks prior.

There was nothing for it. I had to get the emerald and all of its flashy new diamonds to Jacques “the madman” Coquin before he slit Madeline’s pretty throat just to satisfy his grudge against me for being the better thief. Holding my lover hostage gave him all the leverage and he knew it. The millions I would have made selling the newly fitted emerald to the highest mob bidders on Chicago’s diamond street were nothing compared to the wealth of joy I found basking in Madeline’s bright smiles. Some treasures are priceless.

I took out my handkerchief and wrapped it carefully around the sharp edges of all the jewels’ settings, encasing the pendants' glory inside the silk bundle. I sighed and shoved the mass between my corseted breasts as firmly as I could manage before draping Madeline’s heaviest brocaded scarlet scarf around my head and shoulders. Satisfied the folds of the scarf held enough obviously fabric lumps to satisfy the curious looks of second-glancers, I pulled on my navy wool cape over top and quickly inspected the results in the looking glass.

My image reflected someone who would likely be taken for a normal middle-class woman hurrying homeward. I left our modest flat on Rue Claire and hurried down the stairs to the street. One of those new-fangled Bugatti 35B’s roared around the corner on brass and rubber wheels, making an unworldly racket against the cobblestones on its way toward the Champs-Elysees and all of the park’s Friday night pre-opera festivities. At least there was a reason for people to be out in such cold tonight, I realized that would help me pass unencumbered to Jacques' little cabaret.

I kept pace with pockets of other people walking when possible, glancing around to see if and when Jacques' men might pick me up, but I spotted no one threatening until I arrived in the alley backing the cabaret.

Two of Jacques' goons, one flat-footed, the other with a nose like a hobnail vase, barred my way.

Hobnail-nose grabbed my shoulder with an iron grip and chuffed in French so thick I could barely interpret, “What do you want here?”

I suppressed my wise-acre urge to retort nothing before kneeing him in his fruit basket, and answered like I remembered Madeline’s life was at stake instead, “My name is Lissette Tatum and Monsieur Coquin is expecting me here now.”

Hobnail-nose gaped at me and didn’t ease his grip any. I peered expectantly at the flat-footed goon, who looked a shade brighter than the other one. Flat-foot nodded and smiled, his voice strangely high pitched, “Yes, Madame Tatum, you are on the list as they say.”

Hobnail-nose turned loose of me and pushed the door open with the heel of his right boot. Flat-foot stepped aside to give me room to pass and gestured with one hand. “Monsieur is waiting in the first dressing room on the left.”

I walked from the cold dark bricked alley and into a warm ocher plastered and gilded hallway. My boots looked cheap and worn-out against the white marble tiles, but I forged ahead like I owned the place anyway. A regular woman of the modern era, Ms. 1926, I kidded myself. My heart was pounding and my hands were shaking. I was a steel rose when it came to sleight of hand and seduction thieving, but heavy-hitting was way out of my league. I was desperate to get Madeline and I out of this place still breathing, but I wasn’t smart enough to spot any leverage for keeping us safe. Once I gave up the Mogul’s emerald, Jacques would surely just kill us both, but if I didn’t try he would undoubtedly kill Madeline or worse. Thoughts of his brutish mustache blemishing Madeline’s pale velvet skin renewed my anger and determination as I lifted a hand and rapped twice on the door the flat-nosed goon had indicated.

Several deep breaths passed and no one answered. My pulse quickened. I lifted my hand to strike my knuckles against the wood again, but before flesh glanced wood the door swung open slightly. Madeline’s hand slipped out, grabbed my wrist and tugged me into the dark room. We stood practically nose to nose in the silence as she reached around me and pushed the door shut again with a firm click.

Irrational joy at the sight of her unharmed stunned me mute. Dumbstruck at her smiling green eyes peering up at me in the dim room, I stammered my words together, “Where’s, What’s, did the madman, I mean Jacques.”

Madeline pressed two cool finger tips against my lips. “Shh. It’s fine. I am not hurt. I took care of him, but we need to leave and quickly.”

“How?”

She gestured behind her and I peered into the dimness. Jacques lay sprawled out on a velvet love seat in the corner with a large knot looming on his temple. His eyes were closed and a full bottle of absinthe lay in his lap.

Madeline took my hand. “He was stupid enough to give me the bottle of absinthe so I could check out the quality before he poured us a drink.  I clubbed him with it.”

“Is he dead?”

Madeline pulled me to the door. “No, he is breathing.  You can feel his mustache moving, but we will be dead if he wakes up and finds us here.  I was just waiting for you.”

I hesitated. “We can’t go out the back.  Those two goons I came in through will make a ruckus.”

Madeline stepped very close to me. “We can go out the front.  No one here has seen either of us and it’s crowded. Listen.”

I tilted my head and heard the sounds of the crowd, clinking glasses and shuffling chairs, thrumming along the walls.  I pulled Madeline in close and kissed her full on her warm lips, relieved to be together and potentially still wealthy despite Jacque’s emerald envy. “You’re my hero.” I realized she was a true partner, as in love with as I was her.

She smiled. “I know.”

Cover Art for the Story

This story was written as a #NaNoWriMo warm-up and as such was limited to a 1,000 word short story featuring the Mogul Emerald Necklace. Bonus if I include ninja space monkeys (which I couldn't). 

Catch to Release debuts in top 100

On it's third day of release, my second novel has broken into Amazon's top 100 in the Lesbian Fiction, and Lesbian Romance genres.  I am unbelievably excited and extremely grateful folks are reading it.  Thank you so much for your interest.  I hope you enjoy the story.

I'm very proud to be publishing with Affinity and to be a part of their supportive and talented crew of authors.  I hope you will check out some of their highly entertaining books too.

For those of who have asked, copies are Available now from: Affinity eBooks; Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bella Distribution, Smashwords including Apple iBooks

Novel Preview: Catch to Release

Chapter One – Bang, Bang. Got Me Good.

Addison Weller pushed open the underground garage access door beneath the courthouse and glanced over everything before she ushered the Honorable John Errington through the door ahead of her. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She listened and heard only the hum of the industrial heating system, but a prescient tingle tapped lightly over her spine. Reaching her left hand inside her jacket, she put the tips of her fingers on the butt of her FN 5.7 pistol. She placed her right hand lightly on the back of the Honorable John Errington.

A solitary businessman watched them from over the hood of a black sedan forty feet to their left. Weller noticed he was immaculate in a navy suit, white shirt, and pale blue tie. His face was smooth and regular as milk, until he reached inside his jacket. One of his brown eyes darkened and squinted in an aim as he pulled out a Sig Sauer P299.

Weller drew her heavy FN 5.7 smoothly. Her left forefinger brushed the safety off as she slid her gun over the crisp linen of her suit vest with a soft rasp. She tossed her head to clear away a dark brown wisp of hair in her sight-line. She leveled the gun. Adjusting her own aim to the poor lighting and the lack of breeze underground, she strained to hear over the adrenaline roaring in her ears. With one long, sure step forward, she brought her own body between Errington and the Sig Sauer’s speeding bullet before firing her own weapon.

The two shots fired so quickly that John Errington wondered if he was dreaming them. For a brief second he thought to protest when Weller pushed him to the oily ground in front of a black BMW. Then Weller’s stillness rested heavy on his back, and her weight behind her forearm spread across the back of his shoulders. He listened carefully to hear her breathing. He heard silence.

“Weller?” Errington shifted his face off the floor just enough to talk.

Under the tunnel of parked cars, he saw a man in a navy suit, arm outstretched but still holding a smoking gun, and a pool of velvet blood creeping over the oily floor. The man blinked at Errington as their eyes met, but the man didn’t make any other movements. Errington watched a sigh fall from the man’s lips to the floor. He swallowed, and asked again, “Weller?”

Weller’s weight lifted with such speed that Errington was too stunned to sit up.

He heard the steel door to the garage bang open and lifted his head to watch Weller wheel around to face the door with her FN 5.7 aimed and ready.

Errington let out a long shaky breath. One of Weller’s team members, the exceedingly tall one with short brown hair, filled the doorway.

Errington rose to his knees as Weller lowered her weapon, and he heard her request, “Wimberly, call 911, and then call Jim O’Rourke at the Chicago DSS field office and tell him we’ve eliminated a hitman. He’ll get the investigation rolling.”

Errington stood and watched Wimberly nod before leaving to comply with his boss’s request.

Weller offered a hand up. “Would you like to see if your phone charger is still in the car now?”

Errington tried to swallow the leaden fear bubbling in his stomach, but only managed to throw up on the floor between his wingtip shoes.

Chapter Two – Stage Fright, Stage Right.

Shay Greenaura played the guitar like most people played a piano, with all ten fingers intimately involved. She thought of her guitar as another woman with a driving pulse that she could bend. The cheers of the seven thousand or so souls watching her play rushed over and around her like waves washing against stones at the sound of every clear note she struck. Sweat stung her eyes and she tossed her head to free the tangle of blond curls sticking to her forehead. She sang out the closing note and leaned into the tightening of every muscle in her small body. Her voice broke free and clear beyond the roar of the crowd for a last, lingering second. Wolf whistles and cheering rolled over the stage. She was already drunk with the calm, wonderful weariness of giving all of herself to her passion, her music.

Thirty feet away at the edge of the stage, a solitary man in a horde of exuberant women watched Shay touch the hands of her fans and smile at each one as she walked off the stage. The man eyed the crunchy-granola hippie chick next to him and decided she would do fine. All of these liberated, self-righteous women ultimately just want to go home and be given some order, some direction, to soften the chaos of freedom. He would seduce her first, as he knew she believed she wanted to be seduced. Then when she learned to trust him, he would ram order into her with each hammer of his cock and beat her to the edge of senseless before he silenced her life into eternal order. He smiled to himself and smoothed one hand over the Greenaura logo on his T-shirt. He would use the hippie chick for today. But, one day...one day soon...Shay Greenaura will be my bitch. That thought made him hard in his jeans. He caught the blue eyes of the petite blond hippie chick with a shy nodding smile calculated to earn her interest.

†

Gloved hands pattered on a keyboard in a dim public library just minutes before closing time on a rainy Tuesday. A YouTube video of Shay’s latest concert rolled on in a minimized window, while in a larger desktop window, Shay’s blue eyes crinkled with a grin in a candid still shot. The photo was a nice close-up of Shay in pajamas, at home on a winter night, snuggled up on the sofa with her daughter, Iva. The pleased photographer slashed a warning over the photo in Jack-the-Ripper-horror font, “I WILL KILL IVA. SLOWLY. SO YOU CAN WATCH.” The photographer saved the creation to a jump drive, careful to erase the file properties, pocketed the drive, and erased all history folders before leaving the library.

†

“This is the Chasten Scorn show coming at you live on Talk Time Satellite Radio. We are all ready to ridicule and beguile Robespierre Greenaura, bass-guitarist and pansy brother of the infamous liberal dyke singer, Shay Greenaura. Say hello to the folks, RobO, you know the drill.”

“Hello, world. I’m Rob Greenaura and I can take the Scorn.” RobO flashed Chasten a wide self-deprecating grin and patted the thinning hair down on the top of his head.

Chasten shrugged his hoodie smooth over the back of his neck and smiled broadly. “Then let the games begin. Our first burning question, RobO, is—and we have done our research, so we do have some dirt—why is your sister quickly becoming a rich and famous musician with a cause, when you were the first one with star ambitions?”

“That’s too easy, Chasten. I never had any star ambitions. I just liked crooning cover songs, and I was floored and amazed that my baby-sister wanted to play along.”

“Aw, come on, man. Aren’t you even a little jealous that the scrawny no-name drummer of your Frank Sinatra cover band achieved all of this success as a singer and a songwriter, while you were stuck tagging along?”

“Well the cover band was mostly for fun anyways. I never expected it to feed us long-term. Our dad died when I was ten and Shay was four years old, and our mom wasn’t exactly reliable even before she died, too. So, I’d already been working as a busboy, and then as a bouncer for several clubs in DC, before I started trying to sing for more money. Shay had an after-school job, but she learned to play the drums so we could take home more of the band’s pay.”

“Got tired of ramen noodles?”

RobO chuckled. “Honestly, we got tired of living without power because we couldn’t pay the utility bills. Even when Shay wasn’t at work, she followed me to the gigs so she could have air conditioning and light for free for a while each night.”

“So you took your underage baby sister along to clubs like The Bottom Line bar for her safety?”

“Ha! No, of course not. Have you met my sister? I took her along for my safety.”

Chasten laughed boldly at the punchline in a deep rumble that was obviously playing it up for their listeners. “Point taken, RobO. So you taught your baby sister to play drums so you could keep her out of trouble and use her for slave wages?”

“Sort of. She actually taught herself to play drums by watching every night, I guess. I didn’t have a clue until one night when our regular drummer got too pissing drunk to stand up and we were about to go on without any drums, she slipped in behind his kit and started playing.”

“But how did she get from behind the drums to strumming a guitar and singing then? And how did you end up behind those drums?”

“We were waiting in the alley to go on at some scummy joint above a nice restaurant one night. Shay picked up Glen’s guitar and sat on his amp fiddling around with it—just like she did just about every time we waited somewhere, but that night she started singing along. Some poem she’d been scribbling all over the back of envelopes and receipts. A more upscale club owner, Jane Karsen, walked out of the restaurant after dinner and heard Shay singing. She handed Shay her card and asked us to play an early evening gig at a coffee house she had just opened called the Daily Grind. Since the time slot allowed us to still play our regular gig that Friday, we went to the Daily Grind first. Shay and I played that gig with her singing and me playing the bass guitar. We had to borrow both guitars from Glen the first few weeks, but then found I found a three-piece jazz drum kit and an acoustic guitar on sale in some pawn shop. After that we played any gig we could get anyone to book with either of us singing lead.”

“The masses just liked your sister best.”

RobO rolled his eyes and shrugged. “No accounting for tastes, heh?”

“What about this Greenaura crap? Couldn’t you guys make up a better stage name?”

“It’s our name. Our father gave it to us. All I know is that it means ‘from the village of Greenaun,’ which is in County Mayo, Ireland. Our father was of Irish descent, but his family had been here so long, and suffered so many separations, that I don’t think he knew much more than that. At least, he never told me more than that.”

“What about your mother?”

“She was part Italian and part Polish. She kept a list of family births and deaths in the front of her bible, but I don’t think she ever knew where or how her own parents or brothers ended up. I think they gave up on her before we were even born. I don’t remember any grandparents or uncles or aunts. None of the names on her list have led to anyone alive so far.”

“You heard that, world. If you’re related to these shady Greenaura musicians, please let us know. Maybe RobO will get sentimental and cut you in on the inheritance. Right?”

“Sure thing, Chasten, we’ll split our whole stock of Irish whiskey and all our bail bonds with anyone who can show they’re remotely related.”

“Now don’t be so damned generous, you bastard. Tell us how the hell you got from sleazy clubs in DC to Chicago in the first place.”

“Well, it’s really kind of a long story. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

Chasten smirked. “No, but I’ve gotta ask you to tell it anyway. How else am I going to get a balding, middle-aged drummer to fill out an hour long show? I’ll interrupt you when I need to.”

“Okay. You asked for it.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Our mom died just a few months after I turned eighteen, but Shay was still only twelve-years old. Child protective services gave me the choice of assuming guardianship for Shay, but they advised against it since they didn’t feel I could take care of myself well enough yet. I opted to let them place Shay into the foster system for three years until I turned twenty-one and got a little more practice at raising myself.”

“So you left your little sister hanging in the wind?”

“Yeah, but in my defense, I thought I was doing what was best for both of us. It wasn’t until Shay and I were back together that I realized just how wrong I was.”

“So what happened?”

“The foster family Shay was placed with over those three years essentially used her as a drug mule and beat her into secrecy.”

“Whoa! Holy Cow!” Chasten’s eyes grew wider. He leaned in toward RobO to listen.

“Yeah, I know. Unbelievable, right? I had my doubts, too, until Metro PD showed up on our doorstep one morning to question Shay. The foster parents had been busted for dealing at a little league baseball game. Based on their subsequent accusations against Shay, and the evidence they handed over in Shay’s old school back-pack, the DA was pressing charges against Shay for possession with intent to distribute.”

“So then what? As far as I know Shay Greenaura has no criminal record.”

“No, she doesn’t. But it scared the hell out of us since we knew it was her word against the foster parents’ implications—and we didn’t think that stood much of chance in convincing any judge. Lucky for us, the public defender worked out a deal. If Shay agreed to serve as a witness for the DA against the foster parents as needed, do 500 hours of community service, and serve two years of probation with active drug counseling, even though she swore she never used any, then the DA would not press charges.”

“Okay, so how does that get you from Washington, D.C., to Chicago?”

“Well, Shay testified and the foster parents were convicted, but then they appealed and the conviction was overturned on a technicality, not too long after Shay finished her two years of probation with counseling. We were both afraid the foster parents would try to cause her some sort of misery in retribution. During the counseling, Shay saw something about a mission and shelter in Chicago called Second Start. I started poking around their web site and saw that they specialized in helping young adults get another start after drug-related misdemeanors. It seemed like our only real chance out, so we started saving for two one-way bus tickets to leave.”

“And you gave up your cover band and your gigs to go?”

“I did give up the cover band. We couldn’t take the other band members with us, and we didn’t have any connections in Chicago to restart the band, or knowledge of the club scene there to arrange any gigs.”

“But?”

“We kept our pawn-shop instruments. Shay and I played for money every chance we got on the way to Chicago, and all around the Second Start shelter once we got there. Many folks at the shelter helped us get paying gigs and promoted our work. Shay is a natural and it was easy for her star to rise once people could see her perform. She came out of her shell of fear and insecurity, too, and found a sense of belonging in the community.”

“Aww. How rainbow-from-the-ass-ends-of-butterflies lovely is that?”

“Yep. A regular happy ending. For me, too. I met my wife Sylvia there. Syl had been arrested for possession of cocaine as a minor before escaping from her rich bitch parents in the suburbs to the Second Start shelter in downtown Chicago. The three of us just bonded, and when Syl got a job in the city’s permit offices, she started networking with vendors who were willing to mentor us all on promoting our music. Everything worked out for the best.”

“So you’re not miffed about giving up your whole chance at fame and fortune to look after your sister?” Chasten’s voice played the tonal registers of false incredulity.

Shaking his head, RobO gave a sheepish grin. “Nope. I just want to keep my family safe. Shay and Syl experienced so many things because there wasn’t anyone who cared to keep them safe.”

“Safety is more important than fame and fortune, hey?”

“Yes.”

“But you never get bummed out about it? I don’t believe you.”

RobO half nodded and played with the zipper on his green pleather jacket. “Well, sure, sometimes. Sometimes I feel I still can’t really keep them safe. Sometimes I get tired of my brilliant little sister’s talent for change, evolution, learning, personal growth. Whatever you want to call it. Getting caught up in all the hubbub associated with that talent can be overwhelming and tiring at times.”

RobO shrugged out of his jacket and pushed up the shirtsleeve on his left forearm to reveal his tattoo. He held it up to show Chasten. “That’s why I have this tattoo that says ‘it is what it is’ right where I can see it when I drum. I think everything, including change, power, and growth is good in moderation. Some things you still just have to accept and make the best of. I just have to accept that I can do more good behind the drums, supporting my sister and hopefully keeping my family safer, than I can pursuing my own fame and fortune as a singer. Sometimes what it is should be enough.”

“Jeeze. Deep thoughts by RobO, folks.”

“Yep. It is what it is. Don’t you enjoy being a penny-ante shock DJ, Chasten Scorn?”

“Oh no, I’m not going to answer that. This isn’t about me. In fact, it’s time for me to ask you the question that matters most, RobO…what giveaway did you bring to appease our audience members?”

RobO smiled and reached behind him to pick up a hard-shell guitar case. “I’ve brought one of Shay’s custom, green-pearl-sparkle, semi-hollow, body guitars.” He unlatched the case and lifted the guitar out to show Chasten the sparkle beneath the studio lights.

“Well folks, I’m looking at it right now, and it is a thing of beauty even if you don’t write lesbian-folk-pop songs. The first caller who can correctly name RobO’s Frank Sinatra cover band wins.”

†

Shay pushed open the steel exit door a crack and found a score of people crowding the alley behind the Maddux Theater in St. Paul. She quickly pulled the door shut again. The cold air fanned in behind her and washed over the entire sweaty band at her back.

“What’s up?” RobO asked from behind her.

“They alley is lousy with media, fans, and,” she sighed, “protesters.” She looked at the ratty concrete floor and a dewdrop of sweat beaded down the edge of her nose to splash against the top of her boot.

“No other exit gets any better, I’m sure.” RobO’s voice was calm and smooth.

“Let’s just do it.” Fallow, her drummer flexed up and down on the tiptoes of his green Chuck Taylor’s.

“I’ll go in front.” RobO nudged Shay away from the door.

Shay rubbed her palms over her face and pressed herself close to RobO’s broad back.

†

The crowds parted around RobO letting him through. After twenty or so steps, he turned to smile at his sister and found that he could no longer see her. The crowd around him was looking behind him and shouting.

Hoots of “Shay, over here,” and growls of “Jesus can still save you, sister” echoed around him. Smartphone cameras flashed. Bodies pushed past him.

The rest of the band was lost in the sea of people. Everyone and everything sparkled dewy with the night’s humidity.

RobO spotted a small blond head bouncing above the writhing mass of humanity and turned to push his way back to Shay.

This alley, this venue, the security isn’t built for this level of recognition. RobO used his arms in a breaststroke manner to swim through the crowd to rescue his baby sister. I’ll never keep her safe.

An early cover concept draft.

A Love's Luck Teaser

Affinity eBooks has published an all-holiday anthology, It's In Her Kiss, and all proceeds go to the Montrose Center, home to dozens of LGBT-affirming social and civic organizations all working to help families enjoy healthier and more fulfilling lives.  It's In Her Kiss is available  from Amazon or directly from Affinity.

My story, Love's Luck is a blatant homage to Gabriel García Márquez. It takes place in Houston (home of the Montrose Center) and spans several underrated holidays from St. Patrick's Day to Bastille Day.  Here's a teaser:

March 17, 2015 (Saint Patrick’s Day) 6:30 p.m.

We were married in front of two hundred of our closest friends and family on this very spot three years ago on Saint Patrick’s Day. We’re both Irish—well, Irish-American. In fact, my name is Cara Patrick, and my wife’s is... was Rebecca Irish. So Saint Patrick’s Day was an easy way for us to remember our anniversary. Not that we needed it.

By our second anniversary Becca was gone. One minute we were walking the Celtic Gardens beside the handsome old Santorini’s warehouse where we got married, quietly celebrating our second anniversary before heading off to the other festivities, and then I was walking along alone. The police gave up about six months in after failing to find any evidence Becca might have been abducted.

I can still hear Detective Garza shuffling his feet on our front stoop, staring gently back at me as he announced, “Cara, you know, sometimes people just leave by their own choice without telling anyone. Maybe in a fugue state, or maybe just because they don’t have the guts to explain themselves.”

But I know Becca. That isn’t her style. She plans and announces everything well ahead of time and then repeats herself. She’s a little obsessive-compulsive. She has a joke about how all psychologists are a little wonky in some way—that it’s part of why they go into psychology in the first place. She wouldn’t go anywhere without explaining herself and leaving a detailed itinerary with emergency contacts and phone numbers. Then again, how could anyone have taken her so easily from right beside me without making a noise?

So here I am, back at the scene of the crime, on our third anniversary. . .  


The anthology features several love stories ranging from New Year’s Day through to Christmas with contributions from Alane Hotchkin, Erin O’Reilly, Erica Lawson, Ali Spooner, Jen Silver, Annette Mori, Charlene Neil and TJ Vertigo. We hope you enjoy what’s ‘in her kiss’ and take this opportunity to give to a worthwhile charity at the same time.