You Don't Know

 

Shall we get ready to rumble?! While I get stuck into formatting this badboy of 102,000 odd words into shape, I can tell you a little bit more about it, because I can't keep this to myself. I mean, I made my editor cry, I made myself cry and I actually had a nightmare because of this too. Yikes! Not selling it am I? Imagine writing a book and then it keeping you up and night because you have literally scared yourself silly. I mean there isn't a demon or a ghost running around the pages of this story, but... some of this truly is messed up. I did it to get some things off my chest and while I feel like it was literary therapy for me, it's still very close on the surface of what I've actually processed and there's not enough emotional distance for me to box it up into the 'that happened and it's acceptable' rather than traumatising. Oh God, I'm going to traumatise you lot too, aren't I?

I've already warned that's it a different lane from the usual Billy London fare, in that it's not an out and out romance. It's undoubtedly a love story, but a love story between family - family that you choose and family that you don't. Oh, my characters are going to bang like bunnies, it wouldn't be a story by me if they didn't, but it's banging in keeping with the people that they are. And there are jokes. I can't help myself, like my main character, Issey, I tend to make light of terrible situations, so I can manage it in my brain. But as you'll see from just the trigger warning, you'll need to be in the right place to read this and even then some of it may still shock you. 

Let me explain: 

Blurb - 24 May 2021

T/W - discussions of suicide, sexual assault, stalking and suicide

“My name is Issey Deroche-Maurel. My mother was married to Derek Carpenter. He was my stepfather and twelve years ago, he was murdered on my wedding day.”

At the height of the macabre delectation of true crime podcasts and in the midst of a global pandemic, Issey Deroche-Maurel and her traumatic past have been discovered. Seizing upon the opportunity to tell her side of an impossible story, before it's told for her, Issey gives herself the voice to speak. For herself. For the people she loves. For the very last time. 

Now that I've set it up, read on here:

Excerpt - 19 August 2008 

Issey’s shoulders began to ache with the effort of keeping as much distance between herself and the officer as humanly possible. “I talked to over a hundred people. I can’t recall all of it.”

“Why don’t I believe you then?”

“Because I’m sure recalling a conversation is far easier with a recorder or a notebook to hand,” she snapped.

His eyebrows drew together slightly, a slight wrinkle forming there. “What are you trying to hide?”

“Absolutely nothing,” she lied sweetly.

Roylings softened his voice. “What you’re doing is obstructing justice. You’re legally required to help the police in our enquiries.” She blinked at him. “Do you know what happens to pretty little rich girls like you in prison?”

Oh, don’t you fucking dare, she thought, despite how her stomach dissolved in sudden fear. She shook her head.

“Things that make Harvey Nichols seem a long way away. Things that make period pains look like a walk in the park. Things that make women a lot stronger than you go mental. Things that make you wish for a weapon. Do you understand? You help me out, Mrs Buchanan, and you’ll never need to know.”

She scratched her neck. “I told you I can’t remember.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Batting those lashes at me to see if I give up. I’m sure every male you’ve come across has bent to your will. There’s always an exception to the rule.”

“Yes. I married him.”

She looked at Roylings, her eyes bright with laughter. “I’m sure the floor’s clean enough for you to roll over whenever you’re ready.”

Roylings leaned in a little closer, and she could see the dark blond stubble that coated his lower jaw, and that his eyes weren’t black or brown, but a deep, very dark blue. “You’re playing out of your depth.”

“Something to strive for while I’m not on honeymoon.”

“How about you strive for bail when I arrest you for obstruction to justice?”

Issey’s temper finally surfaced. She was not one given to making threats, but hey, when in Rome… “How about I do you for harassment, sexual and racial discrimination?”

He laughed in her face. “I would love to know how you’d even attempt the last one. Go on, Mrs Buchanan. Enlighten me.”

She cleared her throat and said in her most delicate lady-of-the-manor voice, “The moment you met me, you have made your dislike of me patently obvious. I would figure that to be some deep-seated dislike of women in general and right now you are using your height and weight as an advantage over me as a woman. Sexual discrimination. Your methods of interrogation are proving to be rather brutal, given you have offered no form of counsel and no tape recorder. I am assisting you with your enquiries, not being questioned. You made that distinction to me. With the recent family bereavement in mind, it is hardly admirable policing. Harassment. The fact that you’re an inch from my face, I’m immensely surprised that you cannot see that my father is Black.”

She saw his eyes widen in astonishment, as she concluded, “Racial discrimination. I am a fantastic journalist, and I can spin this in such a way that you’ll be collecting your pension this time next fortnight. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for the Met being under scrutiny for the way they treat ethnic suspects, yet again, would you?” Her eyes gleamed as a rather malicious smile tilted the corners of her mouth. “I like a good fight.”

He looked at her as if he had discovered a new species. “What box do you tick when you have to fill in those equal opportunities forms?”

“Mixed, obviously,” she said, trying not to show how irritated she was in making the clarification.

“Those laws are there to protect the vulnerable in society,” he reminded her, as if they were having a congenial conversation. “Those who are truly abused by the system.”

“And I am taking advantage of that law.” She lifted her brows. “Why, do you think that racial discrimination is reserved for those who are all black or all Asian or all white? I deserve to be protected from unwarranted slurs against my character. You clearly have issue with me. And my proximity to Blackness may be one of many.”

“You are unbelievable,” he told her in part admiration. “You know that it would be laughed out of any court.”

“The very fact that you suggested that it would be constitutes an abuse of my right to be protected by that law.”

“I doubt it.”

“You would,” she derided, “you’re the one I’m pointing the finger at.”

“You are very defensive.”

“I always am when men try to bully me.”

“Help me out,” he encouraged. Good Lord. Any guilty person would have told him what he wanted to know to stop the range of moods he went through.

“Why don’t you ask Clare Windsor?” Issey said eventually. “She was right next to Derek when we had our instantly forgettable conversation.”

“Who’s Clare Windsor?”

“If you stop hovering over me, I’ll show you.” He stretched up and watched her flick through the pictures. “Here. If that’s all, I’d really like to go home now.”

Roylings inclined his head in the affirmative. “You can tell your mother that she’s no longer needed either. Whatever you’re trying to hide, Mrs Buchanan, it’ll be better for you if you own up to it now.”

“It’s Ms Deroche-Maurel,” she corrected, only to be promptly ignored.

“Take a note,” he said with a taut edge to his voice. “This is the part where you’ve walked freely into the lion’s den. Don’t scream if you get eaten.”

Issey picked up her purse. “No one can eat a whole me. There’s far too much to go around.”

He laughed suddenly. “You always have to have the last word, don’t you? Does your husband have any idea what he’s got himself into?”

Eyes wide open. She lifted a shoulder. “I doubt it.”

He opened the door for her and walked her towards the reception. “Anything else that comes to mind—a conversation, perhaps—please, let me know.” He stared at her, as if he had recognised his sparring partner, and was looking forward to beating her stupid.

Over Derek’s dead body? No, thanks, I’ve got better use for my time. “Of course.”

He held the door open for her and she slipped her sunglasses back onto her nose. Vanessa was still on the phone, standing by her new Audi.

“Of course, of course, yes, darling, very soon. Bye-bye.” She turned to her daughter. “All done, darling?”

“You’re my witness,” Issey ground out.

“To what?”

“That…that poor excuse for a police officer is trying to stitch me up.”

Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. He likes you, that’s all.”

Issey sucked in a calming breath. As she had a feeling that Roylings could be watching her from the station, she stopped herself from shaking her mother to sanity. “Mother, your husband was murdered. The faster they sort this out, the better they look.”

Vanessa waved her hand through the air. “I think they’ve made a terrible mistake. No one would go out of their way to murder Derek, and not at your wedding.”

You and I came pretty close, she was so close to retorting, but she held it back. Her mother continued, “Honestly, it’s the most upsetting thing I’ve heard, next to George Best being an alcoholic. Broke my heart.”

“Really, Mother? Unless you want to add daughter convicted of murder to that, then watch out for me.”

Vanessa gurgled with delighted laughter. “He seems so intent on you because he finds you attractive. You shouldn’t be surprised, not at this age. Just because you’re married doesn’t mean it won’t happen.” She tweaked at her hat smugly. “Well, you are my child.”

“He’s just…”

Vanessa pressed the alarm release to her car. “You ought to go out. It’ll be good for you. Here…” She handed over a gold-embossed invitation. “Derek and I were supposed to attend Zack’s charity dinner for that heart foundation. I suppose Lorccán will still be at work.”

Issey twisted her keys about her fingers. “I suppose so.” Best place for him, really. Out of each other’s way.

Vanessa opened the door and gracefully stepped into the car. “Don’t brood too much, will you, darling? It rather undermines my widowhood.”

Change the Game

POST NUMBER 250!!! How exciting that it ends up on this news?!

The joy of finishing a story can never be understated! The relief can be cut into eight and shared among family. No lie. I started and finished 85% of it in November last year, and couldn't figure out how it would end. On, actually that's a lie. I knew, I just couldn't write it. The story was like "and what?" to me, mocking me each time I opened it on Google Docs. And work imploded, so I was doing eleven hour days (I know some people do a lot more, but for me - this was looooooooooong) and I had no energy to be sucked into the emotional vacuum of this tale. I'm sure I've posted this excerpt before, but it seems to have vanished. (I'm watching you Facebook...)

It hasn't got a final title yet, I've been calling it by the initials of the main characters JMAZ.
Jamie or by his Spanish name Jaime
Mical bitch who's a witch
Aaron Jamie's best friend who happens to be a werewolf (hence the name puppy)
And Zlatan who is possibly my most favourite secondary character ever. I love him like I love Hernando from Sense8.

My iPhone repeatedly changed JMAZ to Hamaz, frightening me deeply. Just so you know what has given me so much joy to shove to the side to write anything else, here's a snippet of the hero's best friend getting in the heroine's face. Trying anyway...

Aaron marched up to Mical and said, “What the fuck are you doing?”

She tilted her head to the side. “Aaron! Looking as beastly as ever.” Her midnight eyes ran over him critically. “Didn’t fancy shaving?”

His face flushed with embarrassment. “Why would you…” He leaned across the bar and hissed, “You coming back here… What the fuck? This wasn’t the plan!”

Mical shrugged. “Change of plan.”

“Says who?”

“Says me, little puppy. I asked for your help, because you care about Jamie.” She wrinkled her nose, looking him up and down. “A little more than is healthy for one of your description. So, do me a favour. Shut up, back off, go away. And if you’re a good boy, I’ll leave you a bowl of Pedigree Chum for you.”

Aaron backed off, too aware of what she knew and what she could do to him. What she’d done to him before. His own anger pushed him forward once more. “You don’t get to come here and fuck everything up. Not without an explanation. And not if you love Jamie the way you swear you do.”

Her eyes flashed and at last, the true person behind the shiny, glossy model-like beauty began to emerge, in the lengthening of her chin, the engorgement of her eyes and the tightness in her lips. “Never question my feelings again. I’ve warned you before. Or do you fancy walking on all fours tonight?”

Aaron shrank from her. She wouldn’t dare! “It’s not… It’s not that time.”

“Only because I haven’t made it that time.” She leaned back and her face returned to normal. “Now, you can have a pint, but you need to behave yourself.”

“I’ll be over there. Waiting. Whatever you say, you owe me.” He stared at her until she lowered her gaze, his heart beating frantically in fear. Of course she knew he was right. Why would she deny that, when she knew she’d done a complete U-turn on what they’d agreed?

Mical handed over a pint of bitter. “I suppose I do.”

Live To Tell

Just following on from the Billy's got a lot to catch up with, I thought I'd give a little teaser of Addicted to Witch. The excerpt sort of speaks for itself...


Excerpt Magic Excerpt

He lifted the jumper from her torso and gave pause to admire her, briefly wishing he lived in a time of the Renaissance artists who would have fallen to their knees in gratitude for a muse such as her. They would have been allowed to look, feast their eyes, but never, ever allowed to touch. Only him. His hand slid inside her jeans and he hardened instantly at his discovery. Scalp tingling at the tug she gave on his hair when his fingers slid inside her, he curved them with insistence. His mouth touched her neck, the swell of her breasts and back to her lips. She tasted like ecstasy, he thought, his mouth trailing to her earlobe, biting down as she began to tighten around his soaked fingers.

“Auden,” she gave a gasping cry.

Satisfaction pulsed through his sex at the need in her voice. He wanted her to give herself completely to him, like she had only a few hours ago.

“Auden, stop.” She pushed at his shoulders, her eyes round with surprise, looking just beyond his shoulder as her orgasm took her. With Helena still shaking beneath him, his fingers caught in the grip of her body, he turned his head. His heart froze. Romely stood there, her mouth parted in horror.

“What are you doing?” Romely whispered.

Helena struggled from underneath him and righted her clothing. “What’s going on?”

Auden opened his mouth to speak, and found his throat closed up. Goddamn you, Romely! 

She turned to Helena. “Do you know he’s in a relationship? With me? We have been for years.”

Helena looked at Auden, her eyes narrowed. “Is that true?”

No! He wanted to scream. Not a sound emerged from him.

Romely spoke again. “We’re trying to work things out. At least I thought we were. Do you like stealing other women’s men?”

“Wait a minute.” Helena got to her feet. “I didn’t know. I’m not psychic. I didn’t see or hear anything from Auden that you even exist.”

“But I do,” Romely said. “He can’t get away from that simple fact. I do exist. He and I are meant to be together.”

“I’d dump him if I were you,” Helena said harshly. “He obviously didn’t think about you once.” She turned back to Auden, her palm connecting painfully with his cheek, the sound echoing in the hallway. “You don’t seem like a coward. But I know better than anyone how appearances can be deceptive.” She started up the stairs. “I’ll just get my things and leave.”

Romely inclined her head. “I think that’s best. I can give you a lift to the station, if you like.”

Helena’s mouth parted in surprise before she said, “I’ll be all right. Thanks.”

As Helena hit the top step, Romely spoke. “Well, that was really inconsiderate of you.”

“Fuck you, Romely.” Auden blinked the water from his eyes, caused by Helena’s slap. She had a right to be angry; he wished he could correct her. He wanted to change her mind so badly. This was such bullshit.

Romely snorted. “If you had, it’d be a different story now, wouldn’t it?”

Furiously, he got to his feet, fully intending to strangle the life from her.

“Ah ah!” she held up a hand—preventing Auden from moving any closer. “You still don’t understand, do you? Even after all this time. You are mine. Just as I’m yours.”

“I don’t want you!” he shouted.

“I don’t believe you. We can do this dance for eternity, or you can start thinking smart. No more girls like that.” Romely gave a sneer. “She seems scared of her own shadow. Why would you waste your time?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” He sat back down on the step in defeat. “You’re a sith.” Her mouth tightened in disapproval. “We can carry this on as much as you like. I’ll still hate you.”

Her eyes danced with joy. “You know where that comes from, don’t you? It’s only the other side of love.”

He sent her a look he prayed conveyed how fucking stupid he found her. “It comes from the fact you have stolen everything good in my life because I don’t see you as anything more than a spot I could bleach out. You’re strong, but you can’t change our rules. You can’t make me love you.”

“I’m leaving you alone to get there by yourself,” she sighed. “You will. Just, focus.”

“Lift the curse.”

“No, Auden. It’s for your own good.”

“What do you know about what’s good for me?” he asked, perplexed. “That’s the problem, Romely, you don’t know me. You just have this fanciful idea about me that isn’t true.”

“It is! You just won’t admit what you are. I know you deep down. I saw it all those years ago. I saved you from a life of waste.”

“And keeping me a prisoner in my own home isn’t waste of life?”

Romely’s temper flared. “If you weren’t fucking strange women, you’d be meditating on how to make yourself a better man, the man that deserves me!”

“Oh Jesus Christ, no!” he bellowed.

Romely watched him, wide-eyed. He hadn’t displayed that much emotion to her in years. She gave a small shrug. “Then we’re back to the beginning.”

Helena hurtled down the stairs. “I’ll post the clothes back to you,” she said, barely looking at him.

No, don’t leave, please!

“Helena,” he started, before Romely locked his jaw with a single look. Helena murmured an apology to Romely.

“How will you get back to the house?” he ventured.

Still not looking at him, she indicated the door. “I’ve called a cab. It’s waiting outside.” Her gaze lifted, connecting with his own. “Oh… Go to hell.”

There was his salvation, walking away from him. Romely closed the door behind her and turned back to him. “How shall we work through this?” she asked with an expectant smile. “I mean I’m upset, but I forgive you.”

The lights inside the house dimmed, the clouds darkened the sky. Every single piece of furniture in the vicinity rose from the ground and launched toward Romely. With a scream, she held up her hands as the furniture exploded into dust. Covered in powdered wood and grit, she heaved at him, “You did this to yourself!”

“Get out.” Not waiting for further argument, he trudged upstairs to his bedroom and closed the door. His hand tightened on the handle and he slammed the door into the frame again and again and again until the wood splintered and the handle came away from the door altogether. He threw the handle to the carpet and lay down.

Closing his eyes he envisioned Helena, looking like a fairy princess, hunting for rosemary. No. He wouldn’t allow this. There was no way he’d give her up. He’d had the briefest taste of freedom on Helena’s lips, and he wanted it all.

Now was not the right time to defy Romely’s curfew and get up to London. But he absolutely would. Find Helena and try to get around the impossibility of his situation. He had to.

Treat Me Like Fire

I'll admit, I'm finding it hard to concentrate. I'm cold, I'm eating far too much and you know, unapologetic racist behaviours interfering with my flow. In any case, I'm off to Morocco for a little sojourn and you know travel is good for my soul and Hank's blood pressure.

It's not Italian and it's not even Season of Love, but this is what I've been writing about and I'm more likely to finish this than anything else in the meantime.

Like Fire  © Billy London 

Blue and white lights blinkered from behind her lids. She wondered for a moment if she’d fallen asleep at a rave. The noises filtered into focus slowly. It hurt to open her eyes. It really hurt. Everywhere. Everything. As if each nerve ending, bruised, bled into one another until she existed only as a single cell of agony. Who is talking so much? Why are they shouting at me?

“Don’t worry lovey. Fire brigade is on the way.”

“But I didn’t cook anything,” she murmured. Ooh. It hurt to take a breath. She closed her eyes again and drifted off somewhere much more inviting than the pain festival going on in her body. Darkness. Bliss. Oh no. Noise again.

“Miss?” Someone touched a soft, padded finger to her face. “Miss?” No, because if she woke up, the pain would start again. “Hello, that’s good. Stay awake.” She blinked several times. The yellow of the speaker’s helmet stung her vision. “What’s your name?” He asked.

“Taemar.”

“I know a Taemar.”

“Hmm,” she muttered, clearing her throat and trying to focus her sight. “Biblical. My dad… He... Only ever picked up a bible… At his wedding. Added a letter when he found out what happened to Bible Tamar. Not good...”

The effort was too great. She made to close her eyes again but the soft material returned to her face. “Hey, hey, Taemar. Stay awake. Keep your eyes on me.”

And her energy drink substitute had very pretty eyes. Lashes like a girl with falsies on. “What?”

“You’ve had an accident. We can’t get you out right now. The doors are crushed in on both sides.”

“Does that mean I can sleep?”

“No, we’ve got to get you out and get you to hospital. We’re going to cut through them in a minute. My friends are doing the other side so they can get you out. This side is too close to your body and we’re worried we’ll cut you. Can you get your seatbelt?”

She frowned, lifting an arm that seemed boneless to jab weakly at the release. “Did I put a belt on?”

“You did, you clever girl. Can you undo it for me?”

Taemar had the most unfortunate flashback to an ex and his struggle with some bondage ropes. The release refused to spring the belt free. Obviously it was man made and as stubborn as buggery. A metal cutter roared into life and the man shouted above the noise, repeating his question. Sparks flew over the passenger seat of her car and she turned away from it. He lifted his helmet back a bit to edge his head inside the car. She could hear him better. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Superman. Marauding as your local friendly fireman. Jack. I’m Jack.” Oh god, she was going to die in her stupid car. Tears prickled at her eyes. “Look at me,” Jack’s voice demanded nothing less than total obedience. His eyes, a strange mix of amber and olive green, blazed confidence. “Do I look worried?” His face set, serious, but completely assured. Not a single doubt evidenced from the arch of his brows, or the turn of his lips. She shook her head slowly and carefully. “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about, all right?”

“Okay. Oh my god, I’m naked.”

Jack didn’t say anything and she looked to his face. His lips were tucked in and his eyes were wide with guile. “Hadn’t noticed.”

“There’s a green nipple tassel on my wheel. The other one is hanging off my tit. They looked nice.”

His eyes darted around the car. “Erm… Yes?”

“You asking or agreeing?”

“Stop that.” He blushed. Amongst the shadow on his angular face, a sunset rose blush bloomed on his hard looking cheeks. 

“You told me to stay awake. And talking is keeping me… up.”

“Not about breasts!”

“Why? I can’t look. Are they scarred?” She felt panic rising in her. “Am I breast-disfigured? Please don’t say I am. I love my boobs. They’re the best thing about me.”

Jack gave a heavy sigh. “They’re a little scratched from the glass but that’s all.”

“What? No lift, size, shape comment? Are you a eunuch?”

“For all that is sacred, I wish I was right now.”

She chuckled. Huge mistake. Laughter was not her friend or healer right now.

“Did that hurt?” Jack asked. Instead of the pressure on her ribs and back, she stared at Jack’s jaw line. It was edible. Something nice and firm to nibble on in the throes of passion. Good distraction, but not much she could do about it. Actually, sex got her into this mess. Or rather, the potential for it. De-tassled in a crushed car, all because she wanted to surprise Peter. How sad.

“Talk to me,” she begged. “Tell me something funny.”

“I have a terrible sense of humour.”

She sent him a look. “Everyone has a sense of humour. Everyone. Now, tell me something amusing. Chop chop.”

“When I went out on my first call, I… I knocked myself - in a faint.”

Taemar frowned. “That’s… that’s just sad.”

“Er… This neighbourhood cat…”

“Nope. Next.”

“Okay when I was younger, I had too much of a sweet tooth. My mum told me if I didn’t stop, my penis wouldn’t work properly. Haven’t touched sweets since.”

The laughter that burst from her lips swiftly followed such intense pain, bile rose in her throat. “Taemar, I’m so sorry, but we’re almost done. We’ll have you out in a jiffy.”

“Jiffy?” she repeated. “You’re an old soul, aren’t you?” She couldn’t stop herself. Tears ran unhindered down her face, dripping onto her skin.

“Don’t cry. Please don’t cry, you’re almost out.”

“I’m not crying. My eyes just leak a bit. With pity. For your sweet-affected peepee.”

The passenger seat door, the remains of her passenger seat door was lifted away. Jack disappeared from her side, but instantaneously loomed in on her left, snipping huge pliers through her seatbelt. Huge arms slid behind her back and underneath her thighs before he lifted her from the wreckage with ease. “There we are. You’re all right, Taemar.”

“Thank you.” She whimpered. “Best entertainment I’ve had all week.”

Coming Around Again

I'm back from my little jaunt to Italy! If you hadn't seen on my Facebook page, I left a little excerpt of the book that has seen me through a box of Kleenex, weeping and wailing and wailing and weeping. I'm over it though. Not selling it am I... Maybe this bit will though!

Niels takes over my blog.. 

Stella felt an elbow digging into her ribs. And something else hard between her buttocks and there was definitely a hand, a large male hand, cupping her breast. Underneath the material of Niels’ T-shirt, on the bare skin of breast that remained untouched since the last time she’d had sex with her husband, cupped.
“Are you awake?” Niels grumbled from behind her. “Do you need to be sick again?”
“The hell are you doing?” she demanded, wrestling out of his grip and slapping his hand from her tit.
“I was sleeping,” he said on an enormous yawn. “Until you started moving about.”
“You were feeling me up. Rubbing your chub into my bum,” she accused.
Niels lifted the duvet and started laughing. “Oh, come on, Stella. You know how much I love your pumpkin.”
“Don’t call it that.”
“This is all automatic. I don’t think it’ll ever change. There’ll be a day when I’m old and couldn’t encourage an erection. But while you still have that delectable ass, I will forever feel my manhood.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she threw at him, turning onto her side and tucking the duvet more tightly around herself.
Niels caught the T-shirt in a bunched fist and dragged her against his bare chest. “You didn’t have any complaints when you were sleeping earlier. Actually, you told me to move my hand lower.”
“I’m clearly delirious. And you’re taking advantage of a sick woman.”
“My wife.”
“Ex-wife.” She shivered as his palm slipped warmly underneath the T-shirt again, his thumb skimming over her navel.
“There’s still a possessive pronoun. Mine…” he added on a whisper.
“Look, I’m ill. I don’t need you molesting me with our children in the next room.”
“Why do you pretend I don’t know you? Post-orgasmic Stella always sleeps better than irritable Stella.”
So very true, but she couldn’t let her barely ex-husband touch her anywhere outside of the sanctity of marriage. God, the things she’d let that man do to her sexually…
“You shouldn’t,” she muttered while his index finger traced the line of her lace Brazilian-cut knickers.
“Nothing I haven’t done before,” he assured her, parting her thighs with his hand and slipping his fingers beneath the edge of her panties.
“Sleep, my sweet,” he whispered. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

Still The One

Now that Tony is back out causing mayhem, I've put Windows on a bit of a flash sale which ends in two days time! The book is over three years old and to celebrate, it's available for $2.99 of your hard earned money. If you haven't taken the plunge yet, get on it!

Anniversary Convincing....

Never having felt more frustrated, he put the key back in the ignition, ready to go home. He was fooling himself. There was no chance of him cutting Gina out completely. He was a mug, entirely hooked on the way that silly girl smiled at him and called him “dude.” He hadn’t been able to stop being in love with her for years. In fact, the realization he was in love with Gina had made him physically sick a single month after they’d met.

Nick had been raw from a row with his father, involving phrases such as “Why aren’t you more like your brother?” and “wasting your life.” The only way to drown them had been with beer, then tequila following the huge DJ event on the beach in Brighton.

Annabelle had left in disgust, taking the last train back into London. He would need to apologize to her in the morning. Gina had gone from mildly amused at his inebriation to concerned in an hour. She had forced a coffee down his throat and bought him a litre bottle of water to drink through steadily. And their designated driver, Karl, had to stop every ten minutes for Nick to void his bladder, bouncing off the walls of whatever alleyway was nearest. In the car, he had flopped onto Gina’s mini-skirted lap and gazed goofily up at her. She had trailed her fingers along his scalp, his hair on her bare thighs.

“Dude,” she murmured.

“Wasted,” Karl snorted.

“Can you just concentrate on the road?” Gina flashed. “He’s had a hard day—leave him alone.”

Nick started to laugh uncontrollably. Gina held up a few fingers. “How many?”

“Five,” he guessed. Only to realize what he’d said and laugh harder.

“Jesus,” Karl swore.

“Road, fool!”

“There’s only one of you, G, that’s a shame,” Nick murmured.

“Silly boy,” she admonished, continuing to filter his hair through her fingers.

He turned his face into her soft belly and thought he could stay there forever if need be. What would he do without her? Annabelle had fucked off; his father didn’t think much of him at the moment because he was questioning everything his father did. And Gina, sweet, beautiful, fantastically curved Gina, just accepted him as he was. She didn’t want him to be anyone else, not like that insane Candace or credit-card obsessed Kelly or what was that junkie called, the one who loved prescription drugs? Sam! He loved Gina instead.

He sat up.

“What’s up?”

Bile rushed up his throat. “Karl, stop the car!” 

She pushed him out just before the car fully stopped, and Nick heaved out everything in his stomach, and maybe his feet; he’d never thrown up so much. When he was finished, Gina gave him a bottle of water to rinse out his mouth. He sat down on the floor of the car; a small bottle of fizzy water and a packet of ready-salted crisps were placed in his lap. Eyes red from the force of vomiting, he looked up at Gina. She touched the tips of her fingers to her lips and drew them over his cheek. “I know you.”

“You’re my best friend,” he stated, upset by this fact and the indisputable realization that he would never be able to change it.

“And aren’t you lucky!” she laughed.

He’d waited for his feelings to change, for them to go away, or die down, to disappear altogether. He ended things with Annabelle, but tried to have meaningful relationships and concentrated on making his father happy by doing something useful. So he completed his studies in accountancy, assisting with the family business in a committed manner. Every effort he made was so much more worth it after a simple text message from Gina. He treasured a hug from her more than three or four months of incarceration with the girls he chose to replace her. He was the satellite to her world.

A few years ago, he’d finally resolved to make her see what they could be together. He’d gone to Tiffany & Co. and bought her an engagement ring. She had thrown him a congratulations party at the restaurant/bar she had been working at and introduced him to her new boyfriend, who had shaken his hand warily, having heard a lot about Nick. Gina, with a glowing face, had silently asked for his approval, and he had given it. Devastated, he’d kept the ring. He still had it. If Gina had opened the drawer in his bedside table, she’d have seen it. It sat gathering dust while he waited for the right time. There would never be a right time.

He drove back to her house and forced himself out of the car. Brave it. He would tell her tonight, and end his daily torture with her. He knew how amazing they would be together, if she gave them the chance. As he approached the house, he nearly came to a grinding halt. A man peering through a crack in the front door. Instinct kicked in, and the heel of Nick’s hand connected with the man’s chin, then a sharp chop to his neck left him in a heap on the floor. Nick stepped over him, and for the rest of his days, he would marvel at how he didn’t kill anyone. 

Windows on Sale