A Little Something Underneath the Tree

I want to put sparkling lights and ribbons on everything right now!

I'm so thrilled about the reception readers gave Eli and Quinn. Thanks so much. I really had fun with that story. I'm sure I'll be back to Baltimore soon. Jamie—for all his commitment phobic ways—is just waiting for me to come up with the right man to prove him wrong. And I'm thinking that Eli and Quinn might want to tell me how their spending this first holiday together—without the drama of the Laurents messing things up.

Mel and Bryce seemed to amuse people too. It was a lot of fun writing in first person—especially for a character as sarcastic as Mel. As much as I tried to crack Bryce's noggin, it didn't seem to work. I understood him, but couldn't make him talk to me—except through divas of disco.

So since everything is so bright and shiny, I want to leave you a few presents. These are three videos that have made my days brighter. I can't embed them, because I lack the skills, but I promise they're worth a click. Only number three is NSFW.

First up, this was so sweet it brought tears to my eyes. (And a plot bunny to nibble on my brain.) I spotted it at Towelroad, a great blog for gay news and media.

Then this might not be as coy and playful as when Kurt and Blaine sang it on Glee but I loved both their voices and the more grown-up vibe in their version.

Finally, if you haven't discovered Jonny McGovern, you're missing out on some fun. This is his latest song and video. Not only are the lyrics definitely NSFW, I warn you that the song can be an earworm. Yeah, go ahead and start singing "Dickmatized" while finishing up the shopping at K-mart. That should at least get you through some traffic.

I hope everyone's year is ending with light and love. And maybe I'll have a little piece of fic here for you when I'm back in two weeks.

Juggling Multiple Mistresses

I don't know if I've said this before, but the best metaphor I've ever heard about the book you're writing and the next one is this: "The book you're writing is the wife. The one you wish you were writing is the mistress."

As you may have figured out from the title and my little intro, my writing brain is having a bit of trouble with focus. My time is still heavily devoted to the wife book, but I have three sweet little things tantalizing me with purred promises of how gooooood they will make things. How easy they will be to get into. How they'll do things for me she won't do. Umm. *shakes head* I may have gotten a little metaphorically carried away there. There's even a fourth and fifth one, winking in and out of my line of sight like the shimmer of a mirage. Yeah, carried away again.

I love my wife book. I do. I wouldn't have committed to it, to Dylan and Mike's story, if I didn't. I want to know how it works out. I love hanging with Dylan's sullen attack-first attitude and Mike's ability to make Dylan start to question that attitude. I love that Mike is so smoking hot Dylan can't help himself. Even talking about it makes me regret this time away from them—and get a little weak-kneed.

But damn. Those mistresses.

First, Joey and Aaron appear in the book and if one or the other of them aren't trying to take over every damned scene they're in, they want to tell me about things that don't have any place in this story. Then out of nowhere, this pile of hot-wrong angst downloads in my brain and then keeps popping up to make me put some flesh on those hot-wrong angsty bones. And the more I think about how excited I am about Eli's book coming out in December, the more I want to go back and play in Baltimore with another Bad book.

I've never tried to write two (and start thinking about a third) books at the same time, but I'm not sure I can fight temptation much longer. In the meantime—Yes, dear. I'll get right to it.

(Whispers: Book monogamy sucks.)

To those of you about to NaNo: I salute you. Best wishes with your new wife!

Never Can Say Goodbye

I've probably mentioned this before, but I hate saying goodbye to characters. In order to finish my first manuscript (oh so many years ago), I had to trick myself by imagining the sequel. In fact, other than Hot Ticket I've never finished anything that didn't feel make me want to revisit the characters through a sequel or spin off. For Cade and Elliot in Hot Ticket it wasn't that I didn't love them, it was that they felt complete to me.

So while I was wrapping up Bad Company—and thanks to everyone who's given it a shot—I really intended to start working on the sequel to Life, Over Easy, but one of my characters wasn't having it. If you've read Bad Company you won't have to guess who: Eli.

Eli was one of those characters who sprang to life, fully formed and opinionated, from the second I said, "I need a sidekick here." Not only did he try to make all of Bad Company about him, he wouldn't stop poking me about his own book. After I tried to start the Fragments book a couple of times, Eli kept poking, and I told him to go and dig out a hero. As soon as Quinn started talking, I knew my schedule was doomed. Quinn is the perfectly worst hero Eli could have. Exactly what he's always wanted, except...

Bad Boyfriend is scheduled to be released in December.

I don't think I'm done with the Baltimore books. After all Quinn has a very bitter friend who might need his own HEA, and I love the idea of going back there to hang out with Nate and Kellan and Quinn and Eli. (That is if Nate and Quinn are speaking to each other.) I also have a plan for another book set in Jacksonville so I can go back and see Joey and Aaron and Shane and Kim again. For now, provided someone doesn't get too loud, I've got to figure out exactly how scary John's aura-reading is going to get in this second Fragments book. Everyone else, I love you, but please, take a number.

Bad, Bad, Bad Man

Let's just pretend I have skills and there's a crude image of a penis here to convey the word giant dick, okay?


I'm off to write smut while standing in lines at Walt Disney World again. This year, I think I'll take Tori's Happy World along with me to make it even more subversively fun.

While I'm there, I'll be working on Bad Boyfriend, which is a spin off from Bad Company. I've written characters who are antagonists before but this time I've created a monster. Based on word from beta readers and critique partners alike Peter is a major dick. In fact, I can't decide what his worst behavior is yet. He has his reasons—narcissistic, selfish, dickish reasons—but I don't think I've ever written anyone like him before. I suppose I'll have to engineer some comeuppance for him by the end, but when I started the story, I actually thought he might be redeemable. Redeemable enough for his own HEA in another book. Let me make it clear. That is off the table, Peter. After the crap you've pulled, you'll be lucky if people don't start hoping you die in a grisly industrial accident.

So you can have a little idea of what I'm talking about, here's a bit of Peter in action.


Excerpt

When Quinn straightened from brushing his teeth, the face in the mirror scared the shit out of him. Christ. I'm my grandfather.

It had been cold in the kitchen while he sat at the table, surfed the internet, and pretended not to listen for Peter's car in the driveway—or for any breaking news involving fires—so he'd thrown on a sweater Peter's mom had given him for Christmas. And now with the off-brand matching luggage set under his eyes, the gray at his temples and the old man brown wool, he looked like his grandfather. After his heart-attack.

No wonder he and Peter hadn't had sex in….

Hell, Peter it's been three and a half months.

Did you fill out some kind of survey? I've worked eight days straight and I'm thirty-six fucking years old. Do you mind if I pass out now?

Yeah, I remember how fucking old you are. Especially since your birthday was the last time I got laid.

So watch porn. You're always on the damned computer anyway.

…add two more weeks to that conversation and it added up to four months. Quinn was starting to wonder if he'd forget how to do it. Maybe he couldn't blame Peter just dropping off to sleep when he came home and found dead grandpa in their bed. Ten years as a fireman's partner could leave anyone with gray hair and worry lines.

He'd thought about an affair—about Peter having an affair—but the checks Peter was bringing home meant he was telling the truth about working all the overtime. And Peter was in such a panic that anyone would find out he was gay that he'd be afraid to go near another man.

Peter's truck growled into the driveway and Quinn dropped his toothbrush in the holder. He was too short on time for a dye job, but at least he could ditch the grandpa sweater.

He traded his sweats and saggy boxers for a close-fitting pair of black briefs and shivered his way under the covers.

He thought about trying to pose, but Peter had always been able to see through Quinn, so he just propped himself up against the pillows and hoped it didn't look like he was in a coffin. Hubert's tags chimed in warning, giving Quinn time for the futile hope that the big St. Bernard mix wouldn't shake his shaggy head and send drool around the room.

Hubert yawned and then Quinn was wiping his cheek from the spray as Hubert shook off sleep and climbed out of his bed, stalking stiff-legged out to meet Peter in the hall.

Peter's keys hit the kitchen table and Hubert's tags jangled as Peter rubbed his head and neck. "How's my old man?"

Hubert whined and after a satisfied sounding yawn, made his slow way back to bed.

Peter slammed around in the kitchen for a few more minutes, leaving Quinn to wonder if this was a beer or orange juice before bed kind of night. Beer meant on the couch for TV, ignoring the bedroom, orange juice meant he might come to bed in a few minutes. Quinn heard him in the hall.

"Hey. You're still up."

Something was different about the man Quinn had lived with for ten years, like he'd shrugged off something that had been hanging on him for weeks—months—maybe this whole past year. It was in the broad shoulders, the steady hazel eyes, the way he stood straight in the door of the bedroom and offered Quinn the first smile he'd seen in who knew how long.

"You're home early."

"Lupi's back from his suspension. We can finally stop covering for his ass."

"Shit. I was counting on those big paychecks so I could run off to Vegas."

"Yeah. Right. Like I can see you dropping something bigger than a nickel in a slot machine." Peter pulled off his shirt, reaching over his head, arms crossed dragging the material up from behind. Something about the familiarity of that quirk eased the ache Quinn had been wearing under his scalp for so long he didn't notice it until it was gone.

Peter was back. And they were going to be okay. The weirdness was gone, just one of those bumps in the long, long road.

"Hey, I can spend someone else's money no problem. And it's not like you'd even notice I was gone." He said it lightly, but Peter looked up from where he was folding his pants across a chair, lips twisted in a grimace.

"Sorry." Quinn said quickly.

Peter stared at him until Quinn wondered if they were back to the land of weird. Then Peter's face relaxed, like he'd made up his mind not to get all pissed off again. "Not tonight, okay?"

Quinn's throat went dry. "Got something else in mind?"

For a big guy, Peter could move fast and quietly—maybe he snuck up on fires. He had a hand on Quinn's ankle, yanking him toward the edge of the bed. "Yeah. Get your slut panties off so I can suck your cock."

(Ahem. Sex ensues.)

Quinn was on his second cup of coffee, Hubert keeping his feet warm under the kitchen table when Peter came in with a cardboard box in his hands, wearing sweats and a purposeful expression.

"Jesus." Peter jumped. "I thought you'd be at work."

"It's winter break. We have the week off."

"Right. I forgot." Peter slid the box onto a counter.

Quinn gestured at the box with his coffee cup. "Early spring cleaning?"

"Not really. Shit. I can't believe I forgot about winter break."

"It's okay. I figured you'd be working. I didn't have plans." The last time they'd had vacation time together had been…three years ago.

"Quinn." Peter sat down clutching at the table like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

The coffee was barely warm, but the sip Quinn had just taken burned all the way down his throat. Tension strung rusty wire through his neck, under his scalp, warning prickles erupting on the skin.

"What?"

Peter's face got still and calm. Did he use that face when he was keeping people from running back into a burning building after someone they loved? Quinn had a sudden premonition that he was about to know what that desperation felt like.

"I've been dealing with some stuff."

"I noticed." A preliminary skirmish, no casualties.

"I've been with other people. Not a lot. Just sometimes."

"Okay." Quinn managed to keep that word even, despite the flare of panic. Christ, how many? Were you safe? When the hell did you manage that in your double shifts?

"Do you remember the Christmas party? When I asked you to come get me?"

Cops and firemen and paramedics drinking. Together. God help the innocent bystanders. "Yeah, some guy met me in the bar and told me they were going to get you home later."

"Yeah. That was one of those times. And..."

So it was possible for one breath to last a lifetime.

Peter couldn't even look at him. "She's pregnant," he finished.

Quinn knew there weren't too many different ways to interpret that, but he heard himself stupidly ask, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I had sex with a woman eight weeks ago and she's pregnant. And before you ask, yes it's mine and no I wasn't too drunk to know what I was doing. She's going to keep it and—that's what I want. We're going to get married."

Married. Quinn heard himself repeat the word but it sounded far away.

"This—" Peter made a vague gesture that was supposed to cover ten years of sharing an apartment, a home, a dog, a life together. "It's never been all I wanted."

"We could—" But Quinn stopped himself before he finished it. We could do it together? The three of them? Did he even want to suggest it?

Peter shook his head. "I'm going to marry her. She's—it wasn't something she was expecting either, but I need to do this."

"And the fact that you also need a dick up your ass or down your throat when you want to really get off? Is that something she can expect?"

"I don't—I'm not gay, Quinn."

"You've been faking it pretty good for ten years. And it's not like I made a pass at you at your brother's birthday party all those years ago."

"You're the only guy I've ever fucked. And I was married before."
"Yeah, to Stacy, I remember. All two months of your marriage. After you jerked me off at your brother's party."

"You knew what you were getting into."

"And I'm to blame for not saying to hell with your closeted ass?"

"No one's to blame." Peter looked down.

"Yes, someone is: you."

Peter pushed away from the table. "I never made you any promises."

"Living together for ten years is a fucking promise, Peter."

"You were still on active duty for four of it." Face implacable, Peter leaned back against the counter with his arms across his chest.

Quinn itched to get that look off his lover's face. "I'm confused. That wasn't you begging me to come in your ass last night?"

Peter's gaze was steady, like Quinn was the irrational one in this conversation. Not irrational, just clueless. Months of Peter pushing him away, spending all his time at work, coming home last night acting like he'd finally figured something out. Leave out the sex and it almost made sense.

When Quinn didn't get an answer, he said, "Then what was last night about?"

"I wanted to give you a nice good-bye." Peter turned away and opened a cabinet. "I'm just going to take the stuff my mom gave me."

Gave us, Quinn wanted to point out, but he stared at the box on the counter as another horrible realization pierced his brain. "So when I came home from work, you were going to be packed and gone?" Did his voice break? Did he care?

"Yeah, but I was going to talk to you."

"Why bother? I'm sure a note would have covered it."

"Don't get—"

Quinn shoved the table away and stalked over to box Peter against the counter. "Dear Quinn, The last ten years were a mistake. I'm straight. Except when we fuck. Later, Peter."

Peter shoved Quinn away.

"You don't have to marry her to be the kid's dad." Quinn wanted to pin the son of a bitch against the counter again, but he was afraid that would lead to one of them taking a swing.

"Yes, I do. He deserves better than that."

"Than what? A father who's so ashamed of himself he wraps himself in a lie?"

"It's not a lie." Peter's face flushed. "My dick got hard. I came. You're the one who's having trouble with the facts."

"And what facts are you going to share with her? Are you going to tell her who's been getting your dick hard for the past ten years?"

"No. She doesn't have anything to do with that. I'm not asking her what she's been doing either."

"Maybe I owe her a warning. I hate to think of her waking up to this same shit ten years from now—with a kid to think about too. Don't worry. I'll be sure to explain how not gay our relationship was."

There it was. An honest emotion on Peter's face. But it wasn't love or sorrow. It was fear. "Don't. Please, Quinn, don't. I know—I know I'm hurting you but don't do that to me. You can't tell anyone."

"You know how I love it when you beg." The words felt like he was swallowing dirt, clumps falling cold and dry into his stomach.

"Quinn."

"I'm not going to say anything. Ten years is a hard habit to break."

"Thank you." Peter went back to taking dishes out of the cabinet.

"But I gotta say, if you're trying to pass, you might want to try harder. I don't think many straight guys pack their stoneware before they walk out."

"I moved some clothes last week."

Last week."Where?"

"I know we've got another month on the lease, but I found a place that will take dogs."

Quinn couldn't even make his mouth form a word. His body snapped at attention, braced for whatever abuse was coming his way as the commandant looked for some kind of weakness in his eyes. He must have made some kind of sound, because Peter turned around.

"He's my dog."

Quinn knew that. And he could remember dress whites covered in dog hair, chewed shoes and endless drool. But he was the one who fed him and took him to the vet when Peter was working.

Quinn started for Peter. Maybe to punch him, maybe to kiss him, one argument no better than the other, but after the first step the floor turned to quicksand. What had ever happened in his life to make Quinn think that this was safe, that this would last? He fucking knew better than that.

His hands closed on the box instead of Peter. The box made a satisfying crunch as it hit the wall, and Quinn stepped over the pieces as he left.


(And that may be the least of Peter's sins so far.)