Kristen Ashley's Blog
September 26, 2020
My Boys
SPOILERS…beware!
“And Murtagh is just a cat. God works in mysterious and sometimes hideous ways that are still wondrous. He took away Graham Black. But when He did, He left the world with two of him. Jagger and you.”
I knew.
In my book Wild Like the Wind, I knew precisely at that part, when Dutch goes to the mat for Hound and states, “This is about my father and my mother and my dad. And I am my father and my mother but most of all, I’m my dad.” that I had told myself Chaos was winding down. The war had to be over. These men had to ride into the sunset happy and settled.
Soon.
But when Dutch said that in Hound and Keely’s book, I knew I wasn’t done with Chaos.
In fact, I knew I’d probably never be done with Chaos.
And first, I had to go back to the Black Brothers.
See, from the minute Black is mentioned as the brother who was lost during their war, it was like being hit by lightning.
Not like…Whoa! Who is this guy?
But like…This guy is the most important brother in Chaos.
And…
He’s dead.
You might think Tack’s the most important, and maybe he is.
Tack had the vision. He built the strategy. He persevered and led and kept the brothers together, even when they were not all of like minds. He lost his wife to his mission (she wasn’t much of a loss, but straight up, he sacrificed his marriage for the Club). His children suffered because of it.
And they all lost Black.
You also might think Hound’s the most important brother. That quiet man that isn’t quite in the background. He’s always there and he’s the one the leader calls on to do the work no other brother is asked to do—and shoulder the terrible burdens that come with it.
Or for you too, it might be Black.
I don’t know how it is for a reader. If Black seemed nebulous or if you all felt the power of him like I did.
Felt that he was not the kind of man who, when he spoke, people shut up and listened to what he had to say. He was the kind of man who when you spoke, and he was listening, you knew you were heard. He was not the kind of man where he’d walk into a room and all eyes would go to him. He was the kind of the man who walked into the room, and all mouths would smile.
In Wild Like the Wind, when Keely is raging in her grief and sharing with the brothers what she lost in Black, my heart shredded.
How could this woman ever heal?
But for me, more importantly (considering I was writing the book on how she’d heal, or at least come to terms and move on), the question was, how would those boys ever know what a beautiful man their father was?
And that was it.
A loose end I couldn’t let dangle, my heart couldn’t hack it.
All my characters are mine, obviously, but in that moment, it was like Dutch and Jagger sprung from my loins, not my brain.
And later in that book, when they took Hound’s back, I knew they’d have to find their HEAs…
No.
I knew I had to give them their HEAs.
I honestly could not wait to dive into Dutch’s book. I felt his struggle and Georgie had come to me so strong, she was so perfect, I had to dive in. His story flew from my fingers as freely as the tears flowed from my eyes as I traveled with him through the murky bi ways as he searched for his path.
Then there was the moment in that book where Dutch allows the pain of loss to come to the surface, and among other things, he utters this line:
“I remember how long his legs seemed, like they went on for miles, when he lay in bed beside me, reading me a book before I went to sleep.”
And with that…
I.
Was.
Gone.
This one sentence said everything about what kind of father Dutch remembered Black being. How he looked up to him. How he knew he was loved. How he understood how much he was loved.
And the enormity of what, as a five-year-old boy, he lost.
I was so very lucky Georgie came to me as she did. That I had her hands and her heart to give to Dutch to hold him safe.
Of particular note with Georgie, I gotta mention it, when they’re having lunch with Eddie and Hank, and Dutch learns something terrible that shakes him, and everything fades for her. Everything. But Dutch.
In that moment, I was good to go with Georgie.
I could pass guardianship to her.
She had this.
She had him.
My boy.
But that emotional journey made me hesitant to dive into Jagger.
And when I did, he refused to come to me. So stubborn, that guy. Showing himself only in fits and starts, mostly he held himself distant and sent me around the bend.
I got his woman, Archie. I knew her through and through.
But Dutch, who remembers his father, so he knows what he lost was one thing.
Jagger, who never really had him?
Well, we’ll just say when Jag finally opened up to me, the results were not pretty (like, a scene I wrote, one scene, took six hours, and I cried that entire time, I…am not…lying).
And again, thank God for Archie.
But that’s for another blog.
Needless to say, I love these boys. I love them like they’re my own, really my own.
My boys.
Something else I love. They’ve offered me a gateway to more time with my biker brothers. You’ve met (or will meet) Hugger in Dutch’s book, more mentions are to come.
And more stories too, in the Wild West MC Series that’ll mash up three motorcycle clubs in two states.
Now that is for another time.
I’m just here to say that I hope you feel my boys as much as I do. I hope you feel they’re yours just as I feel they’re mine.
And I hope your heart settles as they find their HEAs.
Just as mine has done.
Rock On!
“And Murtagh is just a cat. God works in mysterious and sometimes hideous ways that are still wondrous. He took away Graham Black. But when He did, He left the world with two of him. Jagger and you.”
I knew.
In my book Wild Like the Wind, I knew precisely at that part, when Dutch goes to the mat for Hound and states, “This is about my father and my mother and my dad. And I am my father and my mother but most of all, I’m my dad.” that I had told myself Chaos was winding down. The war had to be over. These men had to ride into the sunset happy and settled.
Soon.
But when Dutch said that in Hound and Keely’s book, I knew I wasn’t done with Chaos.
In fact, I knew I’d probably never be done with Chaos.
And first, I had to go back to the Black Brothers.
See, from the minute Black is mentioned as the brother who was lost during their war, it was like being hit by lightning.
Not like…Whoa! Who is this guy?
But like…This guy is the most important brother in Chaos.
And…
He’s dead.
You might think Tack’s the most important, and maybe he is.
Tack had the vision. He built the strategy. He persevered and led and kept the brothers together, even when they were not all of like minds. He lost his wife to his mission (she wasn’t much of a loss, but straight up, he sacrificed his marriage for the Club). His children suffered because of it.
And they all lost Black.
You also might think Hound’s the most important brother. That quiet man that isn’t quite in the background. He’s always there and he’s the one the leader calls on to do the work no other brother is asked to do—and shoulder the terrible burdens that come with it.
Or for you too, it might be Black.
I don’t know how it is for a reader. If Black seemed nebulous or if you all felt the power of him like I did.
Felt that he was not the kind of man who, when he spoke, people shut up and listened to what he had to say. He was the kind of man who when you spoke, and he was listening, you knew you were heard. He was not the kind of man where he’d walk into a room and all eyes would go to him. He was the kind of the man who walked into the room, and all mouths would smile.
In Wild Like the Wind, when Keely is raging in her grief and sharing with the brothers what she lost in Black, my heart shredded.
How could this woman ever heal?
But for me, more importantly (considering I was writing the book on how she’d heal, or at least come to terms and move on), the question was, how would those boys ever know what a beautiful man their father was?
And that was it.
A loose end I couldn’t let dangle, my heart couldn’t hack it.
All my characters are mine, obviously, but in that moment, it was like Dutch and Jagger sprung from my loins, not my brain.
And later in that book, when they took Hound’s back, I knew they’d have to find their HEAs…
No.
I knew I had to give them their HEAs.
I honestly could not wait to dive into Dutch’s book. I felt his struggle and Georgie had come to me so strong, she was so perfect, I had to dive in. His story flew from my fingers as freely as the tears flowed from my eyes as I traveled with him through the murky bi ways as he searched for his path.
Then there was the moment in that book where Dutch allows the pain of loss to come to the surface, and among other things, he utters this line:
“I remember how long his legs seemed, like they went on for miles, when he lay in bed beside me, reading me a book before I went to sleep.”
And with that…
I.
Was.
Gone.
This one sentence said everything about what kind of father Dutch remembered Black being. How he looked up to him. How he knew he was loved. How he understood how much he was loved.
And the enormity of what, as a five-year-old boy, he lost.
I was so very lucky Georgie came to me as she did. That I had her hands and her heart to give to Dutch to hold him safe.
Of particular note with Georgie, I gotta mention it, when they’re having lunch with Eddie and Hank, and Dutch learns something terrible that shakes him, and everything fades for her. Everything. But Dutch.
In that moment, I was good to go with Georgie.
I could pass guardianship to her.
She had this.
She had him.
My boy.
But that emotional journey made me hesitant to dive into Jagger.
And when I did, he refused to come to me. So stubborn, that guy. Showing himself only in fits and starts, mostly he held himself distant and sent me around the bend.
I got his woman, Archie. I knew her through and through.
But Dutch, who remembers his father, so he knows what he lost was one thing.
Jagger, who never really had him?
Well, we’ll just say when Jag finally opened up to me, the results were not pretty (like, a scene I wrote, one scene, took six hours, and I cried that entire time, I…am not…lying).
And again, thank God for Archie.
But that’s for another blog.
Needless to say, I love these boys. I love them like they’re my own, really my own.
My boys.
Something else I love. They’ve offered me a gateway to more time with my biker brothers. You’ve met (or will meet) Hugger in Dutch’s book, more mentions are to come.
And more stories too, in the Wild West MC Series that’ll mash up three motorcycle clubs in two states.
Now that is for another time.
I’m just here to say that I hope you feel my boys as much as I do. I hope you feel they’re yours just as I feel they’re mine.
And I hope your heart settles as they find their HEAs.
Just as mine has done.
Rock On!
September 3, 2019
The Case for Beth Dutton
If you follow me on Facebook, you may have recently read me waxing poetic about the Kevin Costner television show that airs on the Paramount network: Yellowstone.
Now, a television show that reminds us that the first American outlaws were the cowboys, and we may have glorified them through history, but the premier American outlaws are still cowboys…I want me some of that.
See, apparently they just live in sparsely populated areas where us city folk and those who don’t live among magnificent vistas or spend much (any) time on a horse don’t hear much about their antics.
So, as I’m waxing poetic about this show (Rip Wheeler) and obsessing on this show (Rip Wheeler) something that has happened before, numerous times when reading how folks talk about how they feel about heroines, happened again.
Something distressing.
You see, trying not to spoil anything (though, if you’re a no-spoiler freak like me, there definitely are spoilers in this, so beware – this show is not for the faint-of-heart, and if you’re an animal lover, wary watching, my friends – that said, it…is…epic)…
The men in this show do some pretty brutal things. Like, felonious things. Like, you don’t want anyone to tell you they’re taking you to the “train station” because, well, you do not wanna board that train.
But in my comments on Facebook, along with a number of folks sharing how much they like, even love, even worship Beth Dutton, the princess of Yellowstone, there were also a number of folks sharing how much they hate her.
How she is selfish.
How she is foul-mouthed.
How, “even if she were a man,” she wouldn’t get away with some of the stuff she pulls (though, she’s never taken anyone to the train station, just sayin’).
And although Beth is a very complicated, tortured, broken-souled woman, she was trained to be that, rather viciously, by her very own mother. Because she lives among these men, and for her own sake, to be able to do that and not get beaten down, she has to be able to hold her own.
Beth’s wicked smart and she’s a good learner.
But if you watch closely, there is almost nothing Beth does for Beth.
Everything Beth does is for her father or her family.
Or for Rip.
I’m not sure how that translates to selfish.
What I am sure is that we (women) hold each other to a higher standard than we do men.
Or, perhaps, a different standard. The standard of what we personally feel a woman should be.
I only noted one gal share she was turned off from the show due to the violence displayed by the men.
Now, why is this attractive for men? Men who are doing these things for ranch and family, so we “get it.” That drive to protect. That drive to, at all costs, keep what they, or their forebears, earned. That drive to do anything to respect the ones that went before and hold safe what they can give to future generations.
We exalt it.
We celebrate and champion it.
But a woman making moves to protect her own, and she doesn’t do this by keeping men fed or smoothing their brow, but she’s down to play dirty, is frowned upon and garners name-calling, dislike or even hatred?
Do I agree with everything Beth does on this show?
Absolutely not.
If this stuff were real and not fiction, and Beth calculated then took forward the moves she made to protect her family, seek revenge or make an unmissable point about how she expects the ones she cares about to be treated (the store scene in Season 2, Episode 9: sheer brilliance) would I agree with them?
Abso-freaking-lutely.
There are a set of scenes, deep into the second season, where the beauty of Beth just as she is, is unrestrained (see episodes 7 and the aforementioned 9).
Her mother rammed an ironclad backbone straight down her spine and not a thing is gonna bend it.
And not a thing does.
And I could debate the need for that, for a mother doing that to her daughter, willfully, with intent, but I don’t live on a ranch in Montana (but Lord, I wish I did – just for the wardrobe, and of course, RIP WHEELER!).
What I will say is all the men before with their sons, they did the same…damned…thing.
And we admire it.
Making a man a man.
But who is to say what the making of a woman is?
Hell, who’s to say what makes a man?
What I also will say is, I’m not a fan of this judgement we have for our sisters.
What we’ll not only allow men to get away with, but we’ll laud it. It makes them attractive. It makes them “worthy.”
But a woman does that, oh no. She should be baking apple pies. She should keep the F-words out of it, not use (in some cases) her greatest tool (her sexuality), and play by a certain, undefinable, feminine set of rules.
No, no offense intended, but if baking pies is not her gig, she should do whatever she wants to do.
Beth Dutton is one of the strongest, most complicated, most fascinating women on television. She is extraordinary. She is everything a woman should be, if they want.
Not because she holds her own in a man’s world.
But because she kicks ass her way in a man’s world.
And that’s the case for Beth Dutton.
Long may she wreak havoc on anyone who threatens Yellowstone.
Now, a television show that reminds us that the first American outlaws were the cowboys, and we may have glorified them through history, but the premier American outlaws are still cowboys…I want me some of that.
See, apparently they just live in sparsely populated areas where us city folk and those who don’t live among magnificent vistas or spend much (any) time on a horse don’t hear much about their antics.
So, as I’m waxing poetic about this show (Rip Wheeler) and obsessing on this show (Rip Wheeler) something that has happened before, numerous times when reading how folks talk about how they feel about heroines, happened again.
Something distressing.
You see, trying not to spoil anything (though, if you’re a no-spoiler freak like me, there definitely are spoilers in this, so beware – this show is not for the faint-of-heart, and if you’re an animal lover, wary watching, my friends – that said, it…is…epic)…
The men in this show do some pretty brutal things. Like, felonious things. Like, you don’t want anyone to tell you they’re taking you to the “train station” because, well, you do not wanna board that train.
But in my comments on Facebook, along with a number of folks sharing how much they like, even love, even worship Beth Dutton, the princess of Yellowstone, there were also a number of folks sharing how much they hate her.
How she is selfish.
How she is foul-mouthed.
How, “even if she were a man,” she wouldn’t get away with some of the stuff she pulls (though, she’s never taken anyone to the train station, just sayin’).
And although Beth is a very complicated, tortured, broken-souled woman, she was trained to be that, rather viciously, by her very own mother. Because she lives among these men, and for her own sake, to be able to do that and not get beaten down, she has to be able to hold her own.
Beth’s wicked smart and she’s a good learner.
But if you watch closely, there is almost nothing Beth does for Beth.
Everything Beth does is for her father or her family.
Or for Rip.
I’m not sure how that translates to selfish.
What I am sure is that we (women) hold each other to a higher standard than we do men.
Or, perhaps, a different standard. The standard of what we personally feel a woman should be.
I only noted one gal share she was turned off from the show due to the violence displayed by the men.
Now, why is this attractive for men? Men who are doing these things for ranch and family, so we “get it.” That drive to protect. That drive to, at all costs, keep what they, or their forebears, earned. That drive to do anything to respect the ones that went before and hold safe what they can give to future generations.
We exalt it.
We celebrate and champion it.
But a woman making moves to protect her own, and she doesn’t do this by keeping men fed or smoothing their brow, but she’s down to play dirty, is frowned upon and garners name-calling, dislike or even hatred?
Do I agree with everything Beth does on this show?
Absolutely not.
If this stuff were real and not fiction, and Beth calculated then took forward the moves she made to protect her family, seek revenge or make an unmissable point about how she expects the ones she cares about to be treated (the store scene in Season 2, Episode 9: sheer brilliance) would I agree with them?
Abso-freaking-lutely.
There are a set of scenes, deep into the second season, where the beauty of Beth just as she is, is unrestrained (see episodes 7 and the aforementioned 9).
Her mother rammed an ironclad backbone straight down her spine and not a thing is gonna bend it.
And not a thing does.
And I could debate the need for that, for a mother doing that to her daughter, willfully, with intent, but I don’t live on a ranch in Montana (but Lord, I wish I did – just for the wardrobe, and of course, RIP WHEELER!).
What I will say is all the men before with their sons, they did the same…damned…thing.
And we admire it.
Making a man a man.
But who is to say what the making of a woman is?
Hell, who’s to say what makes a man?
What I also will say is, I’m not a fan of this judgement we have for our sisters.
What we’ll not only allow men to get away with, but we’ll laud it. It makes them attractive. It makes them “worthy.”
But a woman does that, oh no. She should be baking apple pies. She should keep the F-words out of it, not use (in some cases) her greatest tool (her sexuality), and play by a certain, undefinable, feminine set of rules.
No, no offense intended, but if baking pies is not her gig, she should do whatever she wants to do.
Beth Dutton is one of the strongest, most complicated, most fascinating women on television. She is extraordinary. She is everything a woman should be, if they want.
Not because she holds her own in a man’s world.
But because she kicks ass her way in a man’s world.
And that’s the case for Beth Dutton.
Long may she wreak havoc on anyone who threatens Yellowstone.
May 13, 2019
The Snag
If you follow me on social media, you know I just finished the new fantasy series I’ve written for an Audible exclusive. This was months of being in a deep dive of world building where pretty much anything can happen, I just had to keep track of every, single nuance of it.
And now it’s done. The last book in that four-part series.
Now beware.
I’m gonna make a grand statement here.
It wrecked me.
It wrecked me worse than any book I’ve written wrecked me and a fair few of my books put me through the wringer (read: pretty much all of them).
You see, I pour myself into my books. I giggle myself sick at my character’s antics. I cry my eyes out when life kicks them in the teeth. As I’m typing, I make the faces they make that I describe in my books. I exclaim the words that come out of their mouths when they get surprised.
But this one was responsible for the demise of two boxes of tissue.
TWO!
I’ll say here, it always…
Knock on wood, voodoo dance of good luck, salt over shoulder…
Always, it comes easy. The words flow out of me.
Until I hit “The Snag.”
Usually it happens about two-thirds or three-quarters of the way into writing a book. That two, three, four, five chapters where my fingers slow and my mind wanders, and I…just…can’t.
Every word I write is rubbish. The whole book is a disaster. What am I doing? What am I writing? Why am I writing? This has all been a fluke. It’s going to come crashing down with this one book and I’m going to have to get a job as a waitress in a Harley bar or I’m going to have to sell my house and Starla and me will live in the back of the bakery that I’ll have to open (I always fancy one of these two things will be what I’d do if I wasn’t writing, I’m sure this comes as no surprise).
The last entire book of The Rising series was one huge 140,000-word snag.
I know what The Snag is. I know what it means. I know why it happens.
The end is nigh for me. When I have to say goodbye. When I will never, ever be in that book with those characters in that way again.
I could write a short story. A novella. A spin-off.
But never again that immersion.
Oh, when they first meet.
Their first kiss.
And their first argument.
When he says words to hurt her.
When he does something melty to balm that pain.
When she pushes him away.
When he shows her why she should let him in.
The adventures and the closeness forming, and the days pass where the history they’re creating builds the foundation they’ll need for about eighteen thousand tomorrows…
I hit The Snag because I’ll never be in that. I know I’ll soon have to say goodbye to all of that.
And I don’t want to let go.
This last book in The Rising took a month to write and it was a month of that struggle.
I hate to let go.
I hate to say goodbye.
I detest The Snag which is indication that’s going to happen and there’s nothing I can do to stop it no matter how hard my brain works to do just that.
And then the final two, three, four chapters fly like lightning from my fingertips. It’s all about the HEA. My entire being becomes a drive to getting them safe. Secure. Settled.
Happy.
And then…getting them to you.
This is the agony and the ecstasy, all at the same time.
How lucky am I? I don’t leave my chair, and I go on mad, wild, phenomenal adventures. I live and breathe for it. It’s worth every tissue. Every frustration. Every doubt.
And I’m delighted, after living the drama of that series since I started it last November (the concept of which I’ve never tried before, but that particular set of books has been begging me to tell their tale for a good long time), that it’s done.
But, God…
I’m going to miss it. I’m gonna miss Mars and his Silence, Cassius and his Elena, Aramus and his Ha-Lah, True and his Farah – and all that came with them like I miss all my babies. Miss being in their lives. Immersed in their worlds.
Man, am I gonna miss it…
Like crazy.
And now it’s done. The last book in that four-part series.
Now beware.
I’m gonna make a grand statement here.
It wrecked me.
It wrecked me worse than any book I’ve written wrecked me and a fair few of my books put me through the wringer (read: pretty much all of them).
You see, I pour myself into my books. I giggle myself sick at my character’s antics. I cry my eyes out when life kicks them in the teeth. As I’m typing, I make the faces they make that I describe in my books. I exclaim the words that come out of their mouths when they get surprised.
But this one was responsible for the demise of two boxes of tissue.
TWO!
I’ll say here, it always…
Knock on wood, voodoo dance of good luck, salt over shoulder…
Always, it comes easy. The words flow out of me.
Until I hit “The Snag.”
Usually it happens about two-thirds or three-quarters of the way into writing a book. That two, three, four, five chapters where my fingers slow and my mind wanders, and I…just…can’t.
Every word I write is rubbish. The whole book is a disaster. What am I doing? What am I writing? Why am I writing? This has all been a fluke. It’s going to come crashing down with this one book and I’m going to have to get a job as a waitress in a Harley bar or I’m going to have to sell my house and Starla and me will live in the back of the bakery that I’ll have to open (I always fancy one of these two things will be what I’d do if I wasn’t writing, I’m sure this comes as no surprise).
The last entire book of The Rising series was one huge 140,000-word snag.
I know what The Snag is. I know what it means. I know why it happens.
The end is nigh for me. When I have to say goodbye. When I will never, ever be in that book with those characters in that way again.
I could write a short story. A novella. A spin-off.
But never again that immersion.
Oh, when they first meet.
Their first kiss.
And their first argument.
When he says words to hurt her.
When he does something melty to balm that pain.
When she pushes him away.
When he shows her why she should let him in.
The adventures and the closeness forming, and the days pass where the history they’re creating builds the foundation they’ll need for about eighteen thousand tomorrows…
I hit The Snag because I’ll never be in that. I know I’ll soon have to say goodbye to all of that.
And I don’t want to let go.
This last book in The Rising took a month to write and it was a month of that struggle.
I hate to let go.
I hate to say goodbye.
I detest The Snag which is indication that’s going to happen and there’s nothing I can do to stop it no matter how hard my brain works to do just that.
And then the final two, three, four chapters fly like lightning from my fingertips. It’s all about the HEA. My entire being becomes a drive to getting them safe. Secure. Settled.
Happy.
And then…getting them to you.
This is the agony and the ecstasy, all at the same time.
How lucky am I? I don’t leave my chair, and I go on mad, wild, phenomenal adventures. I live and breathe for it. It’s worth every tissue. Every frustration. Every doubt.
And I’m delighted, after living the drama of that series since I started it last November (the concept of which I’ve never tried before, but that particular set of books has been begging me to tell their tale for a good long time), that it’s done.
But, God…
I’m going to miss it. I’m gonna miss Mars and his Silence, Cassius and his Elena, Aramus and his Ha-Lah, True and his Farah – and all that came with them like I miss all my babies. Miss being in their lives. Immersed in their worlds.
Man, am I gonna miss it…
Like crazy.
April 2, 2019
What’s Your Superpower?
No really, what is it?
Not, I’d want to fly or be invisible or time travel so I could assassinate Hitler (though I’d want to be able to do all those things).
What is it now?
This is a concept I’ve been running into recently that I dig. This idea that we already have superpowers, we just don’t realize it.
Especially women.
Somewhere along the way, we’ve been made to think the things we can do are normal, trivial even.
Think about this.
Not everyone can bake. Forget about decorating a cake. That doesn’t just take skill, it takes vision. And have you heard anyone say, “Man, the world could do without pretty, delicious cakes”? Hell, no! A child’s eyes light up when she sees a pretty cake. My eyes light up when I see a pretty cake.
There’s also an art to wrapping a present. It’s true. And think of how a person feels when someone gives them a present that’s beautifully wrapped. The care and thoughtfulness and imagination and time it took to make something special even more special.
I have a friend who worked for a dry cleaner and she knows how to remove practically every stain known to (wo)mankind. Blood. Wine. Tomato sauce. Grease. Gone. You have clothes that are stained, you don’t wear them anymore, you turn them into rags, or you wear them when you’re weeding the garden. In the end, though, they’re essentially a loss. Unless you can lift that stain. Then you’ve actually saved that garment and saved money.
Think of that word “saved.”
Superheroes save a lot of stuff, don’t they?
Yes, I’m mentioning things that are considered “feminine” or in the “woman’s realm,” and why not? When did these things that women can do—that people can do but stereotypically women do—lose their magic?
Recently, my friend and fellow author, JB Salsbury put a hilarious post up on her Instagram about a grocery list a woman gave her husband that had such things on it as 3% milk, seedless strawberries and unsour cream. Seeing as her husband never went grocery shopping, he’d have no clue that these things did not exist. In other words, he has no clue his wife has a superpower. She puts food in the kitchen, food that nurtures her family. Keeps them whole and thriving day to day to day.
How is that not a superpower?
Yes, I’m suggesting when you go to the grocery store you should think of yourself as a superhero. You’re not only providing your family sustenance, you probably have coupons or price compare or buy 2 to get 1 free so you’re SAVING your family money. Hell, you’re AWESOME!
Taking this further, there are probably people out there who dig grocery shopping. I am not one of them. I detest it. And I’d wager I’m in the majority. It takes time. Money. The store constantly is deleting items I use from their shelves or moving stuff around so I can’t find it. Grocery store day doesn’t come, and I think, “OMG! I could be going to the spa, but I GET TO GO GROCERY SHOPPING! YAY!”
I do not think that at all.
It’s a necessity. The time it takes is a sacrifice. Superheroes sacrifice their time constantly. From now on, I’m going to plop Princess Starla’s cat food down in front of her and announce, “LOOK AT ME! I’M SUPER CAT MOM!” because I made sure the being that depends on me has what she needs. I make it a priority. I mean, my baby gets her food before I get my coffee.
Do you see where I’m going with this? I’m almost a saint.
Now, with all that said, what’s your superpower? What magnificent things do you do every day to make this world a better place?
Do you have patience with impatient people? Do you keep your cool when drivers all around you are being annoying and aggressive? Do you strive to be a driver who is not annoying or aggressive (and uses your turn signal)? Do you do without so your children can have more? Do you stop what you’re doing when your husband, kid, friend has some need you might be able to fulfill and then endeavor to make that happen for them?
How many casseroles have you made for a loved one who’s lost someone they love?
How many bouquets of flowers have you sent to make someone’s birthday, graduation, promotion, whatever feel special?
How many little and big things have you done to let the people you love know you love them?
How does it feel when the people who love you make you feel loved?
Well, you do that too.
And that’s super-powerful.
No one is ever going to be able to fly. To become invisible. To travel through time.
Let’s rethink this idea of what a superpower is, because all of us have them, we use them all the time, or we can learn to use them…
And day to day we make this world a better place.
And that’s power where power should be.
Rock On!
Not, I’d want to fly or be invisible or time travel so I could assassinate Hitler (though I’d want to be able to do all those things).
What is it now?
This is a concept I’ve been running into recently that I dig. This idea that we already have superpowers, we just don’t realize it.
Especially women.
Somewhere along the way, we’ve been made to think the things we can do are normal, trivial even.
Think about this.
Not everyone can bake. Forget about decorating a cake. That doesn’t just take skill, it takes vision. And have you heard anyone say, “Man, the world could do without pretty, delicious cakes”? Hell, no! A child’s eyes light up when she sees a pretty cake. My eyes light up when I see a pretty cake.
There’s also an art to wrapping a present. It’s true. And think of how a person feels when someone gives them a present that’s beautifully wrapped. The care and thoughtfulness and imagination and time it took to make something special even more special.
I have a friend who worked for a dry cleaner and she knows how to remove practically every stain known to (wo)mankind. Blood. Wine. Tomato sauce. Grease. Gone. You have clothes that are stained, you don’t wear them anymore, you turn them into rags, or you wear them when you’re weeding the garden. In the end, though, they’re essentially a loss. Unless you can lift that stain. Then you’ve actually saved that garment and saved money.
Think of that word “saved.”
Superheroes save a lot of stuff, don’t they?
Yes, I’m mentioning things that are considered “feminine” or in the “woman’s realm,” and why not? When did these things that women can do—that people can do but stereotypically women do—lose their magic?
Recently, my friend and fellow author, JB Salsbury put a hilarious post up on her Instagram about a grocery list a woman gave her husband that had such things on it as 3% milk, seedless strawberries and unsour cream. Seeing as her husband never went grocery shopping, he’d have no clue that these things did not exist. In other words, he has no clue his wife has a superpower. She puts food in the kitchen, food that nurtures her family. Keeps them whole and thriving day to day to day.
How is that not a superpower?
Yes, I’m suggesting when you go to the grocery store you should think of yourself as a superhero. You’re not only providing your family sustenance, you probably have coupons or price compare or buy 2 to get 1 free so you’re SAVING your family money. Hell, you’re AWESOME!
Taking this further, there are probably people out there who dig grocery shopping. I am not one of them. I detest it. And I’d wager I’m in the majority. It takes time. Money. The store constantly is deleting items I use from their shelves or moving stuff around so I can’t find it. Grocery store day doesn’t come, and I think, “OMG! I could be going to the spa, but I GET TO GO GROCERY SHOPPING! YAY!”
I do not think that at all.
It’s a necessity. The time it takes is a sacrifice. Superheroes sacrifice their time constantly. From now on, I’m going to plop Princess Starla’s cat food down in front of her and announce, “LOOK AT ME! I’M SUPER CAT MOM!” because I made sure the being that depends on me has what she needs. I make it a priority. I mean, my baby gets her food before I get my coffee.
Do you see where I’m going with this? I’m almost a saint.
Now, with all that said, what’s your superpower? What magnificent things do you do every day to make this world a better place?
Do you have patience with impatient people? Do you keep your cool when drivers all around you are being annoying and aggressive? Do you strive to be a driver who is not annoying or aggressive (and uses your turn signal)? Do you do without so your children can have more? Do you stop what you’re doing when your husband, kid, friend has some need you might be able to fulfill and then endeavor to make that happen for them?
How many casseroles have you made for a loved one who’s lost someone they love?
How many bouquets of flowers have you sent to make someone’s birthday, graduation, promotion, whatever feel special?
How many little and big things have you done to let the people you love know you love them?
How does it feel when the people who love you make you feel loved?
Well, you do that too.
And that’s super-powerful.
No one is ever going to be able to fly. To become invisible. To travel through time.
Let’s rethink this idea of what a superpower is, because all of us have them, we use them all the time, or we can learn to use them…
And day to day we make this world a better place.
And that’s power where power should be.
Rock On!
February 23, 2019
Gratitude
Recently, I read an issue of Oprah Magazine, and after I beat back that little green monster of how jealous I am they keep coming up with such great ideas, I decided to steal one.
That being their series of essays in their Gratitude Issue. These short ditties packed a massive punch to the point I was sitting on a plane reading them and fighting the need to burst into sobs.
I’ll just say, specifically, the essay written by the woman who expressed her gratitude to her baby daughter’s hand. This was somewhat confusing until she explained, at birth, that baby daughter had the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck, with that little hand shoved between it and her windpipe, giving her room to breathe. And if that hand hadn’t been there, well…
Yeah, now you see why I was fighting the need to burst into sobs.
I thought about this and all the other essays in the magazine, some of which were about crappy things that led to good things. About how we should view gratitude in a variety of different ways. And how, in doing so, we can learn to appreciate the trials and tribulations of life because they lead us to, or prepare us for, the joys and celebrations.
So I decided to do this. To think of something that happened, and what happened because of it being something I will eternally be grateful for.
And now I share this with you.
Dear College Roommate…
I won’t share in detail how you were a thoughtless roommate. I won’t share the depths that sunk to and how they made me feel. Precisely how deeply it stung, your disregard for my feelings, my home away from home, my supposed safe place.
Because if you’d been cool, I might not have needed to spend every moment I could in Kelly’s room.
Kelly. The girl from a million miles away who lived down the hall. The girl I’d just met. The girl whose parents lived in another country, so she had no place to spend Thanksgiving, so she came to our house. The girl who adopted me as her sister. The girl who I adopted as mine. The girl my family adopted as one of our own. The girl whose family means so much to me, I wrote them as characters in one of my books.
The girl who traveled half the earth to come to my wedding.
The girl I traveled half the earth to go to hers.
The girl who named her daughter after me.
The girl who moved heaven and earth to be with us at our mother’s memorial service. The girl who cuddled in the big red chair at my sister’s house with my brother, who was lost and wounded after a lifetime of taking care of “his girls”—his mother and his sisters. But now that mother was gone, he had no control over that, and it was like he didn’t know how to move his limbs because one of them had been shorn off and the rest didn’t work right.
But he had one of his girls right there, cuddled next to him, and she gave him strength. She made him smile. She gave him peace.
The girl who I took many road trips with…and still do, even though she lives on another continent. The girl who understands why shouting, “MEDIC!” is one of the most hilarious things in the world. The girl who took me to a cave in the depths of the mountains of Venezuela, a cave filled with bats, and we somehow made that insanity a good time. The girl who had traveled the world, and by sharing her history and family with me, opened up mine exponentially.
The girl who I met who, if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be me.
So, thank you, college roommate.
You gave me Kelly.
And for that, I am eternally grateful.
That being their series of essays in their Gratitude Issue. These short ditties packed a massive punch to the point I was sitting on a plane reading them and fighting the need to burst into sobs.
I’ll just say, specifically, the essay written by the woman who expressed her gratitude to her baby daughter’s hand. This was somewhat confusing until she explained, at birth, that baby daughter had the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck, with that little hand shoved between it and her windpipe, giving her room to breathe. And if that hand hadn’t been there, well…
Yeah, now you see why I was fighting the need to burst into sobs.
I thought about this and all the other essays in the magazine, some of which were about crappy things that led to good things. About how we should view gratitude in a variety of different ways. And how, in doing so, we can learn to appreciate the trials and tribulations of life because they lead us to, or prepare us for, the joys and celebrations.
So I decided to do this. To think of something that happened, and what happened because of it being something I will eternally be grateful for.
And now I share this with you.
Dear College Roommate…
I won’t share in detail how you were a thoughtless roommate. I won’t share the depths that sunk to and how they made me feel. Precisely how deeply it stung, your disregard for my feelings, my home away from home, my supposed safe place.
Because if you’d been cool, I might not have needed to spend every moment I could in Kelly’s room.
Kelly. The girl from a million miles away who lived down the hall. The girl I’d just met. The girl whose parents lived in another country, so she had no place to spend Thanksgiving, so she came to our house. The girl who adopted me as her sister. The girl who I adopted as mine. The girl my family adopted as one of our own. The girl whose family means so much to me, I wrote them as characters in one of my books.
The girl who traveled half the earth to come to my wedding.
The girl I traveled half the earth to go to hers.
The girl who named her daughter after me.
The girl who moved heaven and earth to be with us at our mother’s memorial service. The girl who cuddled in the big red chair at my sister’s house with my brother, who was lost and wounded after a lifetime of taking care of “his girls”—his mother and his sisters. But now that mother was gone, he had no control over that, and it was like he didn’t know how to move his limbs because one of them had been shorn off and the rest didn’t work right.
But he had one of his girls right there, cuddled next to him, and she gave him strength. She made him smile. She gave him peace.
The girl who I took many road trips with…and still do, even though she lives on another continent. The girl who understands why shouting, “MEDIC!” is one of the most hilarious things in the world. The girl who took me to a cave in the depths of the mountains of Venezuela, a cave filled with bats, and we somehow made that insanity a good time. The girl who had traveled the world, and by sharing her history and family with me, opened up mine exponentially.
The girl who I met who, if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be me.
So, thank you, college roommate.
You gave me Kelly.
And for that, I am eternally grateful.
December 10, 2018
Kit’s Year in Review
Something I started last year makes me able to do something super cool this year…
Review my year and see how full it was of hard work, good play and maybe a wee bit too much shopping.
Yes, I’m a planner girl. Since going off the Franklin-Covey system in the 90’s, I got my first Erin Condren in November 2017. And since, I’ll admit it, I’ve gone sticker mad (and I do not care).
But mostly, I jot just about everything down, even if it’s just a note, and it was pretty danged awesome to flip back through my year and see the highs, and even remember some of the lows, if only to note they happened, and I’m still kickin’.
It also gives me the opportunity to remember, and share, what was Kit’s Best of 2018.
Which is what I’m gonna do right now.
Best Moment: Jumping out of the cake at my 50th Birthday Party. I wore what was described as “a Marilyn Monroe” sequined gown and I managed to climb out of it without falling on my face. But let me tell you, being surrounded by loved ones who were all laughing their butts off and cheering me on for being the huge dork I proudly am is the absolute BEST way to turn 50.
Best Book: (four-way tie) CONSUMED by JR Ward; THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO by Stieg Larsson; THE HATE U GIVE by Angie Thomas and SHARP OBJECTS by Gillian Flynn. Honorable mention: Flesh series, by Kylie Scott, which I devoured (pun intended).
Best New Food I Tried: Poke Bowls are LIFE! And Korean BBQ is AMAZING!
Best Movie:
Video: “Thor Ragnarok.” It isn’t just Chris Hemsworth. Okay, it’s mostly Chris Hemsworth but because he’s not only hot, he’s hilarious. Not to mention a very well placed Led Zepplin tune.
In Theaters (Tie): “Crazy Rich Asians.” Proof positive Hollywood needs to bring back the rom com. And “A Simple Favor.” Funny. Creepy. And Blake Lively’s wardrobe.
Best Instagram Account Followed: CatLoversClub. Follow this. You’ll laugh yourself sick and “aw” yourself silly. (By the by, my most heartfelt condolences to the kitty and girlie momma behind “bailey_no_ordinary_cat," I feel your pain, sister, boy do I feel your pain.)
Best Activity: Organizing my house. Highlight: My door-hanging gift wrap organizer. I show it to guests, it’s that awesome.
Best Trip: (tie) Sonoma in September with D, M and E (the male one), and NYC in December with L, MJ and J. I’d live in Sonoma, no joke, and not just because of the wine. And Christmas in New York is utterly magical.
Best New Restaurant I Tried: Taco Chello in downtown Phoenix. Two words: fresh tortillas. Two more words: fresh chicharrones. Last words: I usually go here with one or both of my nieces (which is probably why I love it most of all).
Best Netflix Show (tie): “To All the Boys I Loved Before.” Again, the world needs more rom coms. Including (and maybe especially) teen ones. And “Dumplin’,” because it’s funny, it’s sweet, it’s sad, I love Dolly, my heart belongs to drag queens and any story that leads you to accepting you is a story I adore.
Best TV Moment: Opening Ceremonies at the Winter Olympics. DRONES!
Firsts: Outside of going to Sonoma, Burbank, Cleveland (and The Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame!!!!), Melbourne, Australia, and Hawaii (and a luau)—and I’ve never been to any of these places (Cleveland, get a grilled cheese, Burbank has the best pizza I’ve ever tasted)—I also took my first cruise. I found I’m not a cruise person, but that’s okay, I did it. And anyway, I saw the hottest real-life guy of the year on that cruise so just that made it worth it. And fortunately, I had a lot of good company too, so even if I’m not a cruise person, it was still awesome.
I also had my first three photo shoots, one for a catalogue and two for magazines. One was even in a loft in New York City. I never thought I’d do that, be a model for a day, changing clothes and being styled. It is oddly hard work, and I loved every minute of it.
Which brings me to another awesome part of a year in review. After you look back and take stock, you can see what you need more of.
I need more firsts.
So while many pick a word for their year to aspire to, I’ve got three for 2019. I’m extending this year’s “YOLO” and just accepting that YOLO is the way I want to live my life. I’m adding “balance.” And last and maybe most importantly there’s…
DARE!
In 2019 I’m going to dare. Dare to do new things. Dare to say yes as often as I can. Dare to fill my life fuller and make it even richer. Dare to learn more about myself. Just dare to go where Kit has not gone before.
Hope you had a full 2018…
And more, I hope you’re aspiring to make an amazing 2019!
Review my year and see how full it was of hard work, good play and maybe a wee bit too much shopping.
Yes, I’m a planner girl. Since going off the Franklin-Covey system in the 90’s, I got my first Erin Condren in November 2017. And since, I’ll admit it, I’ve gone sticker mad (and I do not care).
But mostly, I jot just about everything down, even if it’s just a note, and it was pretty danged awesome to flip back through my year and see the highs, and even remember some of the lows, if only to note they happened, and I’m still kickin’.
It also gives me the opportunity to remember, and share, what was Kit’s Best of 2018.
Which is what I’m gonna do right now.
Best Moment: Jumping out of the cake at my 50th Birthday Party. I wore what was described as “a Marilyn Monroe” sequined gown and I managed to climb out of it without falling on my face. But let me tell you, being surrounded by loved ones who were all laughing their butts off and cheering me on for being the huge dork I proudly am is the absolute BEST way to turn 50.
Best Book: (four-way tie) CONSUMED by JR Ward; THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO by Stieg Larsson; THE HATE U GIVE by Angie Thomas and SHARP OBJECTS by Gillian Flynn. Honorable mention: Flesh series, by Kylie Scott, which I devoured (pun intended).
Best New Food I Tried: Poke Bowls are LIFE! And Korean BBQ is AMAZING!
Best Movie:
Video: “Thor Ragnarok.” It isn’t just Chris Hemsworth. Okay, it’s mostly Chris Hemsworth but because he’s not only hot, he’s hilarious. Not to mention a very well placed Led Zepplin tune.
In Theaters (Tie): “Crazy Rich Asians.” Proof positive Hollywood needs to bring back the rom com. And “A Simple Favor.” Funny. Creepy. And Blake Lively’s wardrobe.
Best Instagram Account Followed: CatLoversClub. Follow this. You’ll laugh yourself sick and “aw” yourself silly. (By the by, my most heartfelt condolences to the kitty and girlie momma behind “bailey_no_ordinary_cat," I feel your pain, sister, boy do I feel your pain.)
Best Activity: Organizing my house. Highlight: My door-hanging gift wrap organizer. I show it to guests, it’s that awesome.
Best Trip: (tie) Sonoma in September with D, M and E (the male one), and NYC in December with L, MJ and J. I’d live in Sonoma, no joke, and not just because of the wine. And Christmas in New York is utterly magical.
Best New Restaurant I Tried: Taco Chello in downtown Phoenix. Two words: fresh tortillas. Two more words: fresh chicharrones. Last words: I usually go here with one or both of my nieces (which is probably why I love it most of all).
Best Netflix Show (tie): “To All the Boys I Loved Before.” Again, the world needs more rom coms. Including (and maybe especially) teen ones. And “Dumplin’,” because it’s funny, it’s sweet, it’s sad, I love Dolly, my heart belongs to drag queens and any story that leads you to accepting you is a story I adore.
Best TV Moment: Opening Ceremonies at the Winter Olympics. DRONES!
Firsts: Outside of going to Sonoma, Burbank, Cleveland (and The Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame!!!!), Melbourne, Australia, and Hawaii (and a luau)—and I’ve never been to any of these places (Cleveland, get a grilled cheese, Burbank has the best pizza I’ve ever tasted)—I also took my first cruise. I found I’m not a cruise person, but that’s okay, I did it. And anyway, I saw the hottest real-life guy of the year on that cruise so just that made it worth it. And fortunately, I had a lot of good company too, so even if I’m not a cruise person, it was still awesome.
I also had my first three photo shoots, one for a catalogue and two for magazines. One was even in a loft in New York City. I never thought I’d do that, be a model for a day, changing clothes and being styled. It is oddly hard work, and I loved every minute of it.
Which brings me to another awesome part of a year in review. After you look back and take stock, you can see what you need more of.
I need more firsts.
So while many pick a word for their year to aspire to, I’ve got three for 2019. I’m extending this year’s “YOLO” and just accepting that YOLO is the way I want to live my life. I’m adding “balance.” And last and maybe most importantly there’s…
DARE!
In 2019 I’m going to dare. Dare to do new things. Dare to say yes as often as I can. Dare to fill my life fuller and make it even richer. Dare to learn more about myself. Just dare to go where Kit has not gone before.
Hope you had a full 2018…
And more, I hope you’re aspiring to make an amazing 2019!
August 22, 2018
The End
I have a friend. A friend I met online. A friend who wrote to me way back in the day when I first started publishing and we exchanged emails that were at first, pithy, and then, as shared experiences, thoughtful responses, and the mutual love of makeup was identified, the connection became deeper. And then deeper.
And deeper.
Now, we call each other “sisters from another sister.” She is in my heart. We’ve shared our histories. We prop each other up when one is falling down. We offer support and guidance through life’s troubled times. We crack each other up.
And when I learned she lost her ladle, I bought her one, as you do if you’re a friend.
I’ve met her once in person.
I wish I lived next door to her.
A few years ago, she had something happen that was ultimately joyous, but the news at the time was life derailing. We spoke of this situation at length.
I start this blog with her.
But this is about her husband.
Readers often say to me, “How do you make up these guys? [my heroes] There are not men like this in real life.”
I knew they were wrong even before I knew of or met (also only once) Jason.
I swear, the man is like God saying, “Okay, you’ve got this right. This works. This strong woman/strong man thing. See? I give you her. And I give you him.”
That him being the “him” who was, we’ll say in macho-alpha speak, significantly annoyed when my office reno went entirely off track, and as he’s in the construction biz, he would know. And I am not in the construction biz, thus have no clue. So he relayed precisely what I should do about it in a flurry of texts sent through his wife. (By the way, what he advised was what I did, and the situation was handled.)
He also appreciated the delivery of the ladle.
And when I bought their entire brood (of all boys, mind) Nerf guns for Christmas, he got in on the act with his boys (one of whom fell asleep with his toy firmly clenched in his hand, I saw photo proof of this and it is one of the most hilarious and precious pictures I’ve ever seen).
Lastly, he’s the inspiration for Black. Graham Black, the ghost of the Chaos Motorcycle Club.
Since I wrote MOTORCYCLE MAN, the specter of Black, even for me, was elusive. I knew he was a good man. I knew his brothers loved him. I did not know him.
Until Jason.
And here it is. Simple. And yet not.
He’s a good man. He loves his wife. And he loves his boys.
The end.
Thirteen words to describe colossal things.
Make no mistake, there is much more to him, much more that makes him, and much more that makes him a remarkable human being, and I know all of that mostly from knowing the stories of Jason through my friend, his wife. But that is not for me to share, it was just for me to know, to respect, and to lean on when I created Black.
So, as Jason was the inspiration behind Black, I sent my book, WILD LIKE THE WIND, to my friend to read before it was released so she could see what I did with that inspiration.
While she was reading, Jason asked what his character was like.
The answer, “Kristen slit your throat.”
Needless to say, this was not the response he expected to get.
But it’s all there. The loyalty and love, honor and respect, and for Black, enduring grief of the loss of a good man. A man who loved his wife. A man who loved his boys. A man who became defined as those things just as it should be.
As it should be.
But through that book, and dedicating it to Jason, I was able to express my deep admiration for a man who embodies the colossal goodness of humanity.
It really boils down to this.
In the end, were you a good person?
In the end, did you live your love and show it to those you hold in your heart?
He does.
That’s it.
The end.
And deeper.
Now, we call each other “sisters from another sister.” She is in my heart. We’ve shared our histories. We prop each other up when one is falling down. We offer support and guidance through life’s troubled times. We crack each other up.
And when I learned she lost her ladle, I bought her one, as you do if you’re a friend.
I’ve met her once in person.
I wish I lived next door to her.
A few years ago, she had something happen that was ultimately joyous, but the news at the time was life derailing. We spoke of this situation at length.
I start this blog with her.
But this is about her husband.
Readers often say to me, “How do you make up these guys? [my heroes] There are not men like this in real life.”
I knew they were wrong even before I knew of or met (also only once) Jason.
I swear, the man is like God saying, “Okay, you’ve got this right. This works. This strong woman/strong man thing. See? I give you her. And I give you him.”
That him being the “him” who was, we’ll say in macho-alpha speak, significantly annoyed when my office reno went entirely off track, and as he’s in the construction biz, he would know. And I am not in the construction biz, thus have no clue. So he relayed precisely what I should do about it in a flurry of texts sent through his wife. (By the way, what he advised was what I did, and the situation was handled.)
He also appreciated the delivery of the ladle.
And when I bought their entire brood (of all boys, mind) Nerf guns for Christmas, he got in on the act with his boys (one of whom fell asleep with his toy firmly clenched in his hand, I saw photo proof of this and it is one of the most hilarious and precious pictures I’ve ever seen).
Lastly, he’s the inspiration for Black. Graham Black, the ghost of the Chaos Motorcycle Club.
Since I wrote MOTORCYCLE MAN, the specter of Black, even for me, was elusive. I knew he was a good man. I knew his brothers loved him. I did not know him.
Until Jason.
And here it is. Simple. And yet not.
He’s a good man. He loves his wife. And he loves his boys.
The end.
Thirteen words to describe colossal things.
Make no mistake, there is much more to him, much more that makes him, and much more that makes him a remarkable human being, and I know all of that mostly from knowing the stories of Jason through my friend, his wife. But that is not for me to share, it was just for me to know, to respect, and to lean on when I created Black.
So, as Jason was the inspiration behind Black, I sent my book, WILD LIKE THE WIND, to my friend to read before it was released so she could see what I did with that inspiration.
While she was reading, Jason asked what his character was like.
The answer, “Kristen slit your throat.”
Needless to say, this was not the response he expected to get.
But it’s all there. The loyalty and love, honor and respect, and for Black, enduring grief of the loss of a good man. A man who loved his wife. A man who loved his boys. A man who became defined as those things just as it should be.
As it should be.
But through that book, and dedicating it to Jason, I was able to express my deep admiration for a man who embodies the colossal goodness of humanity.
It really boils down to this.
In the end, were you a good person?
In the end, did you live your love and show it to those you hold in your heart?
He does.
That’s it.
The end.
July 3, 2018
Exploring Happiness…
As many of you know, the end of last year was pretty dark for me. My beloved cat was diagnosed with an untreatable heart condition and every day became a vigil, waiting for him to die.
This included waking up every morning and being in a suspended state (unless he was there with me) to wait for him to jump up on the bed, terrified the entire time between waking and him arriving that I’d have to force myself out of bed and look for his body.
Ditto any time I went out. If he didn’t greet me at the door when I arrived home, something he and his sister normally did, I didn’t even drop my purse before I went in search of him to make sure he was still alive.
Not surprisingly, this took its toll. And even after he passed, I was mired not only in the grief, but the strain of waiting for months for the reason for that grief to happen.
What you might not know is that even if this was the darkest part of that time of my life, I will admit to you now that the “est” of that is important. My life was already dark.
How can that be? I had everything! I was living my dream. The dream I started dreaming when I was thirteen years old. A dream that meant everything to me. Writing romance for a living.
The answer to that is I had made my life about my work.
That’s it.
Outside an occasional pool party with the fams, or a rare lunch with a girlfriend, my life was my books…and not just writing them.
At first, this was okay, considering I love my work, and prior to publishing, and my books beginning to sell, I guarded every second (and that isn’t an exaggeration) of writing time. Looking back, I had two full-time jobs. One as a charity executive, which was rewarding but stressful. One was a romance writer. It was less a “hobby,” as I liked to think of it back in the day, and more a mission.
I wrote when I got home from work and I wrote from morning until night on the weekends.
And I loved it.
But when “work” became writing, continuing in that bent, twelve- to sixteen-hour days, seven days a week, narrowed my world to a pinpoint. There was writing. And there was the work around writing.
As it happens, the joy of finally being able to devote myself to my passion faded and it did this without me noticing it.
I didn’t lose the passion.
But you cannot create without filling the well. My books are as they are because I inject much of me, the ones I know, and my experiences into them. I can’t continue to do that if my whole world becomes my office.
Less, my desk.
Even smaller, my computer and keyboard.
When it occurred to me that this was a problem (and this was about six months into my making the conscious, and depressing, decision no longer to keep in any modicum of a healthy physical state, including getting exercise and eating food that’s good for me, something that not only made me feel rundown but also severely affected my sleep and mood…both in the negative), I decided to do something about it.
I started a journey that began with journaling…and blossomed and grew.
I could write a book about all that I’ve done over the last year, how I’ve shaped it to fit my world, life and way of doing things, the work it took to do it, and the results that are ongoing (energy! good sleep for the first time in my life! planning vacations after not having a real one in eleven years! HUZZAH!)
The above paragraph has the word “ongoing” and that, for me, is one of the many keys.
I’m not on a diet to lose weight. I’m not on a meditation plan to find better sleep. I’m not on an exercise regimen to tone my muscles. I have not found the answer to the meaning of life. In fact, I don’t have the all the answers, even for my own story.
I’m on an ongoing journey that is day-to-day-to-day-to-DAY and will be for the rest of my life.
I’ve likened it to unraveling the life I was living and doing the painstaking work to reweave it into the life I want to live.
No…the state of mind I want to have.
It involves seeing more movies (which I love and got out of the habit of doing). Reading more books (which used to be an obsession, but I MIGHT read a handful of books a year, and that in itself is depressing, and even criminal considering my profession). Trying something new at least once a week. And stopping, and seriously considering, when I say no to an invitation, reminding myself my first thought for an answer should be yes…then taking time to really decide if I can or cannot fit it into my schedule (so I’m socializing, getting out of my office, and expanding my world).
I’ve also organized my house (my pantry could be an ad for the Container Store) and cleared out my closets of all the debris and detritus of past lives so just perusing my wardrobe reflects where I need to remember to be at all times…my NOW.
And my NOW, with a lot of hard work which is what hard work always is—insanely rewarding—is pretty danged great.
I would not have said that a year ago, even while I was living my dream (wrap your head around the guilt of that…having everything you wanted and feeling the shame of being ungrateful because you aren’t skipping-through-the-tulips happy).
But now, I’ll repeat, life is pretty danged GREAT.
I’m actually typing that. Defiantly. And happily.
(Mind you, I’m about to go to Australia and Hawaii for two weeks, one for work, one for fun, they’re both going to be fun, so I’m in the pre-holiday glow and LOVING IT!)
I’ll share here that I am not complaining about this dark time in my life. I’m not angry at myself that I fell into it without realizing what was happening…and why. It is what nearly everything is in life…essential to the experience. It’s irrational to think my whole world is always going to be rosy. There will be dark times. And you learn from those dark times and become a better person for yourself—and for those you love—when you fight your way out of them.
This means I’m actually GRATEFUL for that time. I wouldn’t be where I am now without it.
It also means this is a never-ending journey, and I’m excited about that. I’m excited about getting into gardening (my next challenge, I may fail in this Arizona heat with my travel schedule, but I don’t care). I’m excited about finding a Pilates or yoga class I can do that isn’t in my workout room at home in front of a video on TV. I’m excited about exploring my “natural” talent for swinging a golf club (my brother-in-law said that, not me, and he’s golfed in every state of the Union!) when the weather breaks.
So when I happened onto the latest edition of O, The Oprah Magazine, and it was about understanding and doing the work to find your happy, I read it cover to cover.
And I’m lifting something from it to share as I continue the work to build my happy. Shift my focus to what makes me feel that. Share it to help others find ways to focus on theirs. And keep up the righteous work to be all I’m damned well going to be.
The magazine asked the contributors to answer some questions. I’m going to answer these here.
“What is one way to maximize happiness…” As mentioned above, try something new and do it regularly. Order something you wouldn’t normally order from a menu. Stop in a boutique you frequently pass that you’ve always wanted to check out. Read a book in a genre you wouldn’t normally read. Attempt a new recipe. Go out for a coffee instead of making one at home. Sit in that park you never visit that’s close by and read there.
Just shake it up.
Whatever it is, do it. And do it as often as you can.
“These days I’m grateful for…” My health and learning to cut myself some slack.
Working out and eating right is a challenge for me because I don’t like to do either!
But due to my obsession with writing, when I’m in the middle of a book, since I’m all about the book, it’s nearly impossible to tear myself away even to eat, much less do it healthily. Forget about popping on the treadmill or going out for a walk.
Add onto that travel, where, if I’m in Washington DC, I’m damn well going to eat crabcakes. And if I’m in Cleveland and I get invited to a place that sells amazing grilled cheese sandwiches (thank you, Brijin!), I’m IN! I cannot, on the whole, live a life without pizza (or ice cream). So I don’t intend to do it. Ever.
I’ve tried to plan ahead and make goals to be as healthy as possible when those times in my life make it a bigger challenge. But it just happens that things get away from me.
So my mission is to get back to it as soon as I can after I’m home or the book is finished. I’ve found being gentle with myself, saying, “Okay, I’m off the path, I have to be on THIS path now. I’ll veer back when I’m ready and not stress myself right the ef out by beating myself up about where I am now.” Then, when I hop on the treadmill, I find I’m not starting from the “beginning” but pumping out my walks with sweat and attitude and killing it like I didn’t take four days or two weeks off (because I only took four days or two weeks off, I didn’t give up for six months just because I took four days or two weeks off, so “what’s the point?”).
Giving myself permission to give myself a break rocks my world.
And I’m the fittest I’ve been in years.
“A song that will instantly turn my day around…” “This Is Me” from The Greatest Showman soundtrack. I don’t know if I’ve ever only listened to it once. And it usually has me singing at the top of my lungs and stomping with glee.
“Who are the people who always put a smile on my face…” The Cantu sisters. Amanda and Crystal became friends by being readers of mine, in fact, they are two of the first readers I ever met at my first-ever book signing in Orlando. And they drag their sister Bonnie into the mix, so I’ve adopted her too.
They love romance and I see them at a ton of events, and since have invited them into my life, and they’ve done the same (I still regret I didn’t go to Crystal’s wedding when invited, I should have been there with bells on!).
The thing is, there’s just a stillness of peace and goodness whenever my eyes roam a room and I see Amanda, Crystal or Bonnie. It’s more than the love of romance. It’s the fact that what I do opened my world in a way that I would never have met these beautiful women if it hadn’t been for my books.
They’re also a reminder of the many beautiful women who have become an integral part of my life because of my books. And that is a colossal blessing. Grounding myself in the unexpected bounty of this writing gig is marvelous.
And their personalities and kindness and quiet love and saucy sassiness would have been lost forever for me due to the fact I wouldn’t have even known it was there to be had…but now it’s mine.
Last, Crystal sent my cats bottles of kitty wine when my baby got diagnosed. I missed her wedding. She did not miss sharing she was there for me in a time of need.
Okay.
Now, I urge YOU to think about these questions and answer them for yourself. You can share them in the comments section if you like. Or just do it as a personal exercise in exploring your happy.
I’m grateful for mine.
Immeasurably.
No matter how much hard work it is.
Or maybe because of that.
And I hope if you answer these questions, you find gratitude for the happy in your life too.
This included waking up every morning and being in a suspended state (unless he was there with me) to wait for him to jump up on the bed, terrified the entire time between waking and him arriving that I’d have to force myself out of bed and look for his body.
Ditto any time I went out. If he didn’t greet me at the door when I arrived home, something he and his sister normally did, I didn’t even drop my purse before I went in search of him to make sure he was still alive.
Not surprisingly, this took its toll. And even after he passed, I was mired not only in the grief, but the strain of waiting for months for the reason for that grief to happen.
What you might not know is that even if this was the darkest part of that time of my life, I will admit to you now that the “est” of that is important. My life was already dark.
How can that be? I had everything! I was living my dream. The dream I started dreaming when I was thirteen years old. A dream that meant everything to me. Writing romance for a living.
The answer to that is I had made my life about my work.
That’s it.
Outside an occasional pool party with the fams, or a rare lunch with a girlfriend, my life was my books…and not just writing them.
At first, this was okay, considering I love my work, and prior to publishing, and my books beginning to sell, I guarded every second (and that isn’t an exaggeration) of writing time. Looking back, I had two full-time jobs. One as a charity executive, which was rewarding but stressful. One was a romance writer. It was less a “hobby,” as I liked to think of it back in the day, and more a mission.
I wrote when I got home from work and I wrote from morning until night on the weekends.
And I loved it.
But when “work” became writing, continuing in that bent, twelve- to sixteen-hour days, seven days a week, narrowed my world to a pinpoint. There was writing. And there was the work around writing.
As it happens, the joy of finally being able to devote myself to my passion faded and it did this without me noticing it.
I didn’t lose the passion.
But you cannot create without filling the well. My books are as they are because I inject much of me, the ones I know, and my experiences into them. I can’t continue to do that if my whole world becomes my office.
Less, my desk.
Even smaller, my computer and keyboard.
When it occurred to me that this was a problem (and this was about six months into my making the conscious, and depressing, decision no longer to keep in any modicum of a healthy physical state, including getting exercise and eating food that’s good for me, something that not only made me feel rundown but also severely affected my sleep and mood…both in the negative), I decided to do something about it.
I started a journey that began with journaling…and blossomed and grew.
I could write a book about all that I’ve done over the last year, how I’ve shaped it to fit my world, life and way of doing things, the work it took to do it, and the results that are ongoing (energy! good sleep for the first time in my life! planning vacations after not having a real one in eleven years! HUZZAH!)
The above paragraph has the word “ongoing” and that, for me, is one of the many keys.
I’m not on a diet to lose weight. I’m not on a meditation plan to find better sleep. I’m not on an exercise regimen to tone my muscles. I have not found the answer to the meaning of life. In fact, I don’t have the all the answers, even for my own story.
I’m on an ongoing journey that is day-to-day-to-day-to-DAY and will be for the rest of my life.
I’ve likened it to unraveling the life I was living and doing the painstaking work to reweave it into the life I want to live.
No…the state of mind I want to have.
It involves seeing more movies (which I love and got out of the habit of doing). Reading more books (which used to be an obsession, but I MIGHT read a handful of books a year, and that in itself is depressing, and even criminal considering my profession). Trying something new at least once a week. And stopping, and seriously considering, when I say no to an invitation, reminding myself my first thought for an answer should be yes…then taking time to really decide if I can or cannot fit it into my schedule (so I’m socializing, getting out of my office, and expanding my world).
I’ve also organized my house (my pantry could be an ad for the Container Store) and cleared out my closets of all the debris and detritus of past lives so just perusing my wardrobe reflects where I need to remember to be at all times…my NOW.
And my NOW, with a lot of hard work which is what hard work always is—insanely rewarding—is pretty danged great.
I would not have said that a year ago, even while I was living my dream (wrap your head around the guilt of that…having everything you wanted and feeling the shame of being ungrateful because you aren’t skipping-through-the-tulips happy).
But now, I’ll repeat, life is pretty danged GREAT.
I’m actually typing that. Defiantly. And happily.
(Mind you, I’m about to go to Australia and Hawaii for two weeks, one for work, one for fun, they’re both going to be fun, so I’m in the pre-holiday glow and LOVING IT!)
I’ll share here that I am not complaining about this dark time in my life. I’m not angry at myself that I fell into it without realizing what was happening…and why. It is what nearly everything is in life…essential to the experience. It’s irrational to think my whole world is always going to be rosy. There will be dark times. And you learn from those dark times and become a better person for yourself—and for those you love—when you fight your way out of them.
This means I’m actually GRATEFUL for that time. I wouldn’t be where I am now without it.
It also means this is a never-ending journey, and I’m excited about that. I’m excited about getting into gardening (my next challenge, I may fail in this Arizona heat with my travel schedule, but I don’t care). I’m excited about finding a Pilates or yoga class I can do that isn’t in my workout room at home in front of a video on TV. I’m excited about exploring my “natural” talent for swinging a golf club (my brother-in-law said that, not me, and he’s golfed in every state of the Union!) when the weather breaks.
So when I happened onto the latest edition of O, The Oprah Magazine, and it was about understanding and doing the work to find your happy, I read it cover to cover.
And I’m lifting something from it to share as I continue the work to build my happy. Shift my focus to what makes me feel that. Share it to help others find ways to focus on theirs. And keep up the righteous work to be all I’m damned well going to be.
The magazine asked the contributors to answer some questions. I’m going to answer these here.
“What is one way to maximize happiness…” As mentioned above, try something new and do it regularly. Order something you wouldn’t normally order from a menu. Stop in a boutique you frequently pass that you’ve always wanted to check out. Read a book in a genre you wouldn’t normally read. Attempt a new recipe. Go out for a coffee instead of making one at home. Sit in that park you never visit that’s close by and read there.
Just shake it up.
Whatever it is, do it. And do it as often as you can.
“These days I’m grateful for…” My health and learning to cut myself some slack.
Working out and eating right is a challenge for me because I don’t like to do either!
But due to my obsession with writing, when I’m in the middle of a book, since I’m all about the book, it’s nearly impossible to tear myself away even to eat, much less do it healthily. Forget about popping on the treadmill or going out for a walk.
Add onto that travel, where, if I’m in Washington DC, I’m damn well going to eat crabcakes. And if I’m in Cleveland and I get invited to a place that sells amazing grilled cheese sandwiches (thank you, Brijin!), I’m IN! I cannot, on the whole, live a life without pizza (or ice cream). So I don’t intend to do it. Ever.
I’ve tried to plan ahead and make goals to be as healthy as possible when those times in my life make it a bigger challenge. But it just happens that things get away from me.
So my mission is to get back to it as soon as I can after I’m home or the book is finished. I’ve found being gentle with myself, saying, “Okay, I’m off the path, I have to be on THIS path now. I’ll veer back when I’m ready and not stress myself right the ef out by beating myself up about where I am now.” Then, when I hop on the treadmill, I find I’m not starting from the “beginning” but pumping out my walks with sweat and attitude and killing it like I didn’t take four days or two weeks off (because I only took four days or two weeks off, I didn’t give up for six months just because I took four days or two weeks off, so “what’s the point?”).
Giving myself permission to give myself a break rocks my world.
And I’m the fittest I’ve been in years.
“A song that will instantly turn my day around…” “This Is Me” from The Greatest Showman soundtrack. I don’t know if I’ve ever only listened to it once. And it usually has me singing at the top of my lungs and stomping with glee.
“Who are the people who always put a smile on my face…” The Cantu sisters. Amanda and Crystal became friends by being readers of mine, in fact, they are two of the first readers I ever met at my first-ever book signing in Orlando. And they drag their sister Bonnie into the mix, so I’ve adopted her too.
They love romance and I see them at a ton of events, and since have invited them into my life, and they’ve done the same (I still regret I didn’t go to Crystal’s wedding when invited, I should have been there with bells on!).
The thing is, there’s just a stillness of peace and goodness whenever my eyes roam a room and I see Amanda, Crystal or Bonnie. It’s more than the love of romance. It’s the fact that what I do opened my world in a way that I would never have met these beautiful women if it hadn’t been for my books.
They’re also a reminder of the many beautiful women who have become an integral part of my life because of my books. And that is a colossal blessing. Grounding myself in the unexpected bounty of this writing gig is marvelous.
And their personalities and kindness and quiet love and saucy sassiness would have been lost forever for me due to the fact I wouldn’t have even known it was there to be had…but now it’s mine.
Last, Crystal sent my cats bottles of kitty wine when my baby got diagnosed. I missed her wedding. She did not miss sharing she was there for me in a time of need.
Okay.
Now, I urge YOU to think about these questions and answer them for yourself. You can share them in the comments section if you like. Or just do it as a personal exercise in exploring your happy.
I’m grateful for mine.
Immeasurably.
No matter how much hard work it is.
Or maybe because of that.
And I hope if you answer these questions, you find gratitude for the happy in your life too.
March 8, 2018
Fire Engine Red
There’s this picture, you see. It’s a fantastic picture. And the picture depicts my mom sitting out on the front patio of our house in Indiana. It’s from the back. She’s looking over her shoulder and smiling at the camera. She’d come home from work for lunch. So it was lunchtime and summer. She was wearing a smart, dark brown pencil skirt. A blue blouse with cap sleeves.
And a pair of fire engine red pumps.
In the late 70s, my mom found herself with three kids, divorced, having to move in with her parents. She had a college degree, in English, and worked as a bank teller.
We were poor. We had government cheese. We got undies and Fannie May meltaways for Valentine’s Day. Easter baskets filled with cheap chocolates and socks. Birthdays were big. But in the time of Gloria Vanderbilt and Jordache, Mom bought me Cheryl Tiegs jeans from Sears.
I was embarrassed to wear them.
It was all she could afford.
And the bleak truth was, she couldn’t even afford those.
She did without so she could give her children chocolates, undies and Cheryl Tiegs jeans.
Yes, those fire engine red pumps were cheap and scuffed.
But they were magnificent.
She rose through the ranks of the bank and eventually became the bank’s first female officer. As her reward, when the men had spacious, glass paneled offices on the first floor, they stuck her in a windowless room in the basement. She never said, but it’s doubtful her salary was commensurate.
She didn’t complain. She had mouths to feed, basketball shoes to buy, dreams to nourish. Hers were gone. All her days, she spent kicking at a glass ceiling to give more to her children.
But she did it in fire engine red pumps.
In later years, fed up with having to deal with garbage collectors collecting garbage during rush hour when people were trying to deliver their kids to school or get to work, she complained once, that I heard.
Then she decided to do something about it.
Thus began her campaign to become the first female elected to the Town Board. She did not put signs in people’s yards because, “They’re ugly and they spoil the view.” On her campaign, she spent only the amount of money it took to place one ad in the local paper.
It read:
Patty Lovell
Wife of Reg Lovell
Mother of Erika, Kristen and Gib Moutaw
For Town Board
She won by a landslide.
The garbage collection schedule changed.
She became President of the Town Board, and after her successful tenure, retired and did not seek re-election, “Because incumbents are killing this country, and I refuse to be part of the problem.”
She was a devout Christian with a puritan’s work ethic. She had been a majorette. She was valedictorian. She listened to the Everly Brothers, and not Elvis, “because he was too loose.”
Though the song that reminds me most of her is one she listened to often.
“I Am Woman,” by Helen Reddy.
And when she moved us into my grandparents’ house, there was not room for her to have her own bed, so she slept on the couch for years.
Her children had beds.
Our mother slept on the couch.
She had infinite patience with her children. She knew her second daughter was born to run. And when that time came, she hugged me, “Oh, Kiki,” and then she let me go.
Except for visits, I never went home again.
On my first real job that I got for myself in Denver after graduating from college, filling my car with clothes and my cassette tapes, and taking off for the great unknown, a woman who worked there walked into my office.
She was wearing thigh high, suede, fire engine red boots.
I looked at those boots and knew she’d be my friend for life.
She is.
Dixie is opinionated, elegantly outspoken, insanely cosmopolitan, frighteningly intelligent, ridiculously well-read, witty, stylish, and determined. She reminded me of a cool, droll, sophisticated heroine in a movie from the 40s. When I met her, she was getting her Masters in Library Science and had a goal to retire from a position held at the extraordinary architectural and informational achievement, the Denver Public Library located downtown.
Last year, she did just that.
My mother with her red pumps taught me to work hard, be responsible, be respectful and to stand up for what I believed in.
My friend Dixie with her red boots taught me to play hard, be myself, not take any shit…
And to stand up for what I believed in.
Today is International Women’s Day and today of all days we must not forget the women who came before us who helped shape us into the women we are. Be they blood ties, as thick as blood, or someone we never met.
And we must not forget the women who today stand strong to make a better tomorrow for our daughters.
We also must strive to be one of those women.
The voice of the sisterhood is being heard clearer now than it has in my living memory.
But for me, I will not ever forget those fire engine red pumps, that glimpse of screaming, feminine, stark, brazen, strong, beautiful personality that shone through even though in many other ways she was being held down…because she made it so that glimpse could not be missed.
In so many ways.
So many ways.
And when I saw them nearly twenty years later, I knew I’d never forget those fire engine red suede boots that were a dare, a challenge, the flying of a standard in shoe form that said, “I am here. I am me. And you take me as I come. There is no other option.”
I owe a lot to my mother and my friend Dixie. They guided the way to the woman I have become.
And today, as they deserve, I honor them.
Rock On.
PS: If you would like, in the comments below, I invite you to share the names of the women who have guided your way, and who still guide your way, so that you can honor them, and we can see them.
I’ll start and this list is not exhaustive:
Patricia Ann Mahan Lovell
Dixie Malone
Sarah Ellene Mahan
Rebecca Ann Mahan
Barbara Hunter Mahan
Erika Ann Moutaw Wynne
Jill Caroline Wynne
Karen Christine Wynne
Pamela Brown
Kelly Brown
Jessica Lynne Moutaw
Jean Hoverman
Laura Foster Giannini
Doris Glossop
Vera Glossop Ferdinand
Beth Ruble
Patricia Stiles
Barbara Howie
Gwyneth Ashley
Vivian Schad
Kathleen “Danae” Den-Bachlet
Beth Burleigh Bullard
Dale Den
Alla Raykin-Logan
Jody Briles
Jena Kelly
Bev Long
Charlotte Larue
Jeri Pushkin
Karla Shircliff
Kellie Shircliff
Stephanie Redman Smith
Becky Atkins
Nicci Manning
Felicity Harper
Kasia Poplowska
Elizabeth Berry
Jill Shalvis
Carly Phillips
Emily Sylvan-Kim
Natasha Tomic
Vilma Gonzalez
Donna Soluri
Jillian Stein
Kylie Scott
Jennifer Armentrout
Joanna Wylde
Rebecca Zanetti
MJ Rose
And a pair of fire engine red pumps.
In the late 70s, my mom found herself with three kids, divorced, having to move in with her parents. She had a college degree, in English, and worked as a bank teller.
We were poor. We had government cheese. We got undies and Fannie May meltaways for Valentine’s Day. Easter baskets filled with cheap chocolates and socks. Birthdays were big. But in the time of Gloria Vanderbilt and Jordache, Mom bought me Cheryl Tiegs jeans from Sears.
I was embarrassed to wear them.
It was all she could afford.
And the bleak truth was, she couldn’t even afford those.
She did without so she could give her children chocolates, undies and Cheryl Tiegs jeans.
Yes, those fire engine red pumps were cheap and scuffed.
But they were magnificent.
She rose through the ranks of the bank and eventually became the bank’s first female officer. As her reward, when the men had spacious, glass paneled offices on the first floor, they stuck her in a windowless room in the basement. She never said, but it’s doubtful her salary was commensurate.
She didn’t complain. She had mouths to feed, basketball shoes to buy, dreams to nourish. Hers were gone. All her days, she spent kicking at a glass ceiling to give more to her children.
But she did it in fire engine red pumps.
In later years, fed up with having to deal with garbage collectors collecting garbage during rush hour when people were trying to deliver their kids to school or get to work, she complained once, that I heard.
Then she decided to do something about it.
Thus began her campaign to become the first female elected to the Town Board. She did not put signs in people’s yards because, “They’re ugly and they spoil the view.” On her campaign, she spent only the amount of money it took to place one ad in the local paper.
It read:
Patty Lovell
Wife of Reg Lovell
Mother of Erika, Kristen and Gib Moutaw
For Town Board
She won by a landslide.
The garbage collection schedule changed.
She became President of the Town Board, and after her successful tenure, retired and did not seek re-election, “Because incumbents are killing this country, and I refuse to be part of the problem.”
She was a devout Christian with a puritan’s work ethic. She had been a majorette. She was valedictorian. She listened to the Everly Brothers, and not Elvis, “because he was too loose.”
Though the song that reminds me most of her is one she listened to often.
“I Am Woman,” by Helen Reddy.
And when she moved us into my grandparents’ house, there was not room for her to have her own bed, so she slept on the couch for years.
Her children had beds.
Our mother slept on the couch.
She had infinite patience with her children. She knew her second daughter was born to run. And when that time came, she hugged me, “Oh, Kiki,” and then she let me go.
Except for visits, I never went home again.
On my first real job that I got for myself in Denver after graduating from college, filling my car with clothes and my cassette tapes, and taking off for the great unknown, a woman who worked there walked into my office.
She was wearing thigh high, suede, fire engine red boots.
I looked at those boots and knew she’d be my friend for life.
She is.
Dixie is opinionated, elegantly outspoken, insanely cosmopolitan, frighteningly intelligent, ridiculously well-read, witty, stylish, and determined. She reminded me of a cool, droll, sophisticated heroine in a movie from the 40s. When I met her, she was getting her Masters in Library Science and had a goal to retire from a position held at the extraordinary architectural and informational achievement, the Denver Public Library located downtown.
Last year, she did just that.
My mother with her red pumps taught me to work hard, be responsible, be respectful and to stand up for what I believed in.
My friend Dixie with her red boots taught me to play hard, be myself, not take any shit…
And to stand up for what I believed in.
Today is International Women’s Day and today of all days we must not forget the women who came before us who helped shape us into the women we are. Be they blood ties, as thick as blood, or someone we never met.
And we must not forget the women who today stand strong to make a better tomorrow for our daughters.
We also must strive to be one of those women.
The voice of the sisterhood is being heard clearer now than it has in my living memory.
But for me, I will not ever forget those fire engine red pumps, that glimpse of screaming, feminine, stark, brazen, strong, beautiful personality that shone through even though in many other ways she was being held down…because she made it so that glimpse could not be missed.
In so many ways.
So many ways.
And when I saw them nearly twenty years later, I knew I’d never forget those fire engine red suede boots that were a dare, a challenge, the flying of a standard in shoe form that said, “I am here. I am me. And you take me as I come. There is no other option.”
I owe a lot to my mother and my friend Dixie. They guided the way to the woman I have become.
And today, as they deserve, I honor them.
Rock On.
PS: If you would like, in the comments below, I invite you to share the names of the women who have guided your way, and who still guide your way, so that you can honor them, and we can see them.
I’ll start and this list is not exhaustive:
Patricia Ann Mahan Lovell
Dixie Malone
Sarah Ellene Mahan
Rebecca Ann Mahan
Barbara Hunter Mahan
Erika Ann Moutaw Wynne
Jill Caroline Wynne
Karen Christine Wynne
Pamela Brown
Kelly Brown
Jessica Lynne Moutaw
Jean Hoverman
Laura Foster Giannini
Doris Glossop
Vera Glossop Ferdinand
Beth Ruble
Patricia Stiles
Barbara Howie
Gwyneth Ashley
Vivian Schad
Kathleen “Danae” Den-Bachlet
Beth Burleigh Bullard
Dale Den
Alla Raykin-Logan
Jody Briles
Jena Kelly
Bev Long
Charlotte Larue
Jeri Pushkin
Karla Shircliff
Kellie Shircliff
Stephanie Redman Smith
Becky Atkins
Nicci Manning
Felicity Harper
Kasia Poplowska
Elizabeth Berry
Jill Shalvis
Carly Phillips
Emily Sylvan-Kim
Natasha Tomic
Vilma Gonzalez
Donna Soluri
Jillian Stein
Kylie Scott
Jennifer Armentrout
Joanna Wylde
Rebecca Zanetti
MJ Rose
February 12, 2018
KA Goes to The Compound
This is a short story I wrote and posted in my newsletter last week. But I love it so much, gotta share the goodness. And Goodreads Romance Week is the perfect time to do it!
“He’s Safe in My Hands”
AUTHOR’S NOTE: There are major spoilers of Motorcycle Man and some of the Chaos series books in this short. If you have not read them all, please read on at your own peril!
IMPORTANT! If you’re not 18 years of age, you should NOT be reading this.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You lost?”
Shit.
I didn’t know what to do.
Here I was. In the Chaos Compound.
How did I get here?
I mean, even if, in a way, I was always there, I wasn’t supposed to actually be there.
But I’d just walked through the double doors, rounded the bar and there I was.
Smack in the common room of the Compound of the Chaos Motorcycle Club.
And there were the boys.
My boys.
Yowza.
I took them in.
And yep…
I did some serious good with this group.
Serious.
Tack was behind the bar, staring at me and not looking welcoming.
“This is members only, babe. You lost?” Tack semi-repeated, looking less welcoming now that he was also looking impatient.
God, he was hot. Hotter than I could have imagined and he came from my imagination.
“Uh, hey,” I greeted.
Tack sent an irritated look across the bar to the men standing there and so did I (though mine wasn’t irritated seeing as Hop, Shy, Joker, High, Snapper and Hound were standing there—jeez, serious as shit, I was good at making up hot guys).
“You know her?” Tack asked the boys at large.
“Nope,” Hop answered, turning to give me his own irritable look and I gave myself another pat on the back for that mustache. He rocked it.
And the flame tats on his forearms.
Fabulous.
“No,” Joke said.
Holy crap, he had a great beard.
“Negative,” Shy stated.
Okay, those green eyes. Inspired.
“No,” High growled.
Mm. A Chaos boy growling.
Niiiiiice.
Hound just glared at me (also hot) and Snap tipped his head to the side, his brows drawing together like he knew me, he just couldn’t place me (and again, hot).
Those last two probably hadn’t quite forgotten me. We’d spent a lot of time together just recently.
Tack looked back at me. “No offense, it’s important to be politically correct and shit, but are you deaf? Like I said, it’s members only in here.”
“I’m Kristen. Or, uh…Kit,” I introduced myself.
“She’s got a great ass and good hair but I’m not feelin’ some bitch wandering in just ’cause,” Hound grunted toward me but not to me.
“You got no problem with biker groupies wandering in here just because,” High pointed out.
Hound jerked a thumb my way. “She ain’t no biker groupie.”
Now hang on a second.
“I’m totally a biker groupie,” I retorted tartly. “I just rock a different style wardrobe seeing as my skin might catch fire if I wore stone wash.”
Hound narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re not my kind of biker groupie.”
“Of course not,” I snapped. “You’re taken.”
His brows came up, then shot down then he scowled at me before turning his scowl toward Tack.
Okay, yeah, uuummmm, if I did say so myself…
I did good with these boys.
“He is?” Joker asked.
“By who?” Hop put in.
I took a step closer to them and when I got all their attention again, I stopped.
Best not to be in close proximity to all that hotness seeing as they were all taken (even though two of them didn’t know it…yet).
“That story’s not been told,” I shared. “Widely,” I added.
“Say what?” Shy demanded.
“I’m Kristen. Kit. Kristen. As in Kristen Ashley. You’re mine.” I did a whirl to indicate them all with my hand. “All mine. I made you.”
They all looked at me before they looked among each other.
I was not surprised when Tack’s back straightened first, his sapphire gaze honed in on me laser sharp then his goatee-surrounded lips murmured, “Well, fuck me.”
I wish.
But first, he was taken. I gave him Tyra.
And second, he was fictional.
Ish.
I mean, he was very, very alive in my mind.
“I thought that Jane chick from Fortnum’s told our stories,” Joker muttered to Hop.
“She’s real, as in worked-in-that-bookstore-down-the-road-but-now-writes-books-full-time real,” Hop muttered back to Joker then tipped his head my way. “This bitch is real.”
Joker looked like he understood.
I’d made the whole thing up and I was kind of confused.
Tack interrupted my confusion.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I just, well…” I took another step forward, stopped, noticed it was coming to them all and being the acute focus of seven members of the Chaos Motorcycle Club was quite an experience, both in good ways and in scary ways. I took another step forward and lifted my arms out to the sides. “I just want to say, you know, sorry. For, uh…all the stuff that’s going to go down soon.”
“Oh shit,” Hop muttered.
“Fuck,” Shy bit out.
Joker looked to the ceiling, High glowered at me but it was Snap who spoke.
“I’m next, yeah?”
I bit my lip.
“Great,” Snapper mumbled, staring at my lip.
“No, no…it’s good,” I assured quickly. “I mean, well, you know…after you get through the bad.”
Snapper started glowering at me.
“You know,” Tack ground out and I turned my attention to him, “Since I got you, just to say, I could have done without you letting Tyra get stabbed a million fucking times. And she really could have done without it.”
“It wasn’t a million times,” I pointed out.
“You ever been stabbed?” he asked.
“Does a slipup with cuticle clippers count?” I asked back, then, at his expression, I admitted, “No. I’ve never been stabbed.”
“One time feels like a million times,” he educated me.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “It just…happened. If it makes you feel any better, you were really awesome in those scenes. Sweet and badass. It was cool.”
He didn’t take compliments well and proved that by his stormy expression and his gravely query of, “Are you shitting me?”
“No,” I answered. “A lot of women fell in love with you.”
“Well, my woman nearly bled out all over the floor,” he returned.
“You had your happily ever after,” I reminded him. “And you’re still having it. Two beautiful boys and you continue to go at each other like teenagers. I mean, right now, I’m imagining the blowjob she gave you last night and…” I lifted both hands, wiggled my fingers at him like I had magic and shouted, “BAM!”
I grinned.
His eyes darkened.
Sweet.
I just gave Tack the memory of a blowjob.
A really good one.
Seems I did have a sort of magic.
Sadly, the memory of the blowjob wore off swiftly, such was the memory of what happened to his woman, which I knew would never wear off.
“She died while I was holding her hand,” Tack reminded me.
“Fortunately, there are really good doctors at Swedish Medical Center and I’m a benevolent creator so she came back to life,” I retorted, not about to correct him that she didn’t actually die. She more like passed out from loss of blood, shock and serious bodily trauma. Tack was already having issues. I didn’t need to remind him of the fullness of those issues.
He didn’t need to be reminded of the fullness.
He appeared to be debating the merits of strangling his creator.
“Yo.”
At the call, I looked to High and when I did, I braced.
His handsome face was soft, his eyes searching.
Oh shit.
“Sorry to hear about Axl,” he said quietly.
My throat closed up.
“Millie was really torn up about it,” he kept at me quietly. “She still is.”
“Me too,” I forced out.
“It was tough, feelin’ you go through that, knowin’ he was sick all those months, you havin’ to wait it out, never knowing when it’d finally be done,” High carried on.
I looked to my feet.
“You took real good care of him, Kit,” he said gently and my gaze lifted again to him. “He knew you loved him. You proved it every minute you had him, babe.”
“Yeah,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” he said low, eyes trained on me.
I pulled it together, but it still came out husky when I asked, “Is Chief good?”
“He’ll be good forever, baby,” High answered. “Forever. Happy and lovin’ on Millie and my girls, bossin’ us all around, rulin’ that roost forever and ever, honey. He’s the baddest ass cat in history and always will be. You know it, yeah?”
Oh, I knew it.
Crap. No way I could talk without losing it.
Time didn’t heal all wounds. There were some losses that, for whatever reason, just persisted in hurting.
And I was finding that losing my baby boy was one of them.
So I just nodded.
“Thanks for givin’ him to us,” he said softly.
“Thank you for taking such good care of him,” I pushed out.
“Forever, Kit,” he whispered. “He’ll be happy and healthy and loved forever, babe.”
My chin was quivering but I managed another nod.
“You give Starla some scratches for us all, yeah?” High ordered.
“Yes, definitely,” I promised, and unh-hunh…more husk in my voice. “And you give Poem and Chief cuddles from me.”
He jerked up his chin. “Definitely.”
“No offense to Poem but,” I swallowed hard, “give some especially to Chief. Will you do that, Logan?” I requested.
“Of course, babe,” he replied with his lips but I only felt better when I saw the promise come from his eyes.
I drew in a ragged breath.
“Jesus, fuck. There’s no crying in the Compound,” Hound announced irritably.
I lifted my own chin and shot him a glare. “I’m not crying.”
He pointed at my face. “Your chin is all wobbly.”
“Jesus, Hound. Her cat died,” Hop clipped. “You’ve met Chief. Chief’s based on her boy. And that cat is the shit.”
“He is the shit,” Hound shot back. “There’s still no crying in the Compound.”
“I’m not crying!” I cried.
Though I was being loud.
And suddenly in need of tequila.
Hound focused again on me. “What’d you put me through?”
“I’m not saying,” I retorted.
“Do I get laid?” he asked.
Does he get laid?
What kind of question was that?
“Yes,” I answered.
“A lot?” he pushed.
“Yes,” I snapped.
“How much is a lot?” He didn’t let up.
“A lot is a lot.”
“A lot may be a lot for you but a lot is a lot for me.”
“Christ, Hound,” High murmured.
“Brother, you got angry sex,” Hound returned to High. “A lot of angry sex. Angry sex fuckin’ rocks.” His gaze swung to me. “Do I get angry sex?”
“Umm…” I mumbled.
“Fuck,” he bit out. “I don’t get angry sex. What kind of sex do I get?”
“Trust me, you’ll like it,” I promised.
“I’ll like a lot of it?”
“God, Hound!” I exclaimed. “I’m me. You’re you. You’re Chaos. So of course you’ll like it and of course you’ll get a lot of it. Yeesh.”
“Is it hot?” he kept at me.
“No, it’s mediocre,” I returned sarcastically.
That got some grins and a Tack chuckle.
Nice all around.
Hound was not amused.
“I’m not sure she can do mediocre,” Joker mumbled to Shy.
“Thank fuck,” Shy mumbled back.
“They better be right,” Hound warned me.
“I’m feeling some rewrites coming on,” I warned back.
Suddenly, his lips split in a shit-eating grin. “You wouldn’t do that to me. You love me.”
“You’re the best of them all, Hound,” I said in all seriousness, and the room got serious with me. “And everyone here knows it.”
And I could tell by the feel…
They did.
“You gonna pull us through whatever you got in store for us?” Tack’s gravel came at me.
“No,” I told him. “You’re gonna pull me through it.” I lifted my hand and poked a finger toward Snapper. “And just sayin’, may your soul be unconquerable.”
Snap’s head twitched, his lips thinned and his gaze grew acute on me.
“They’re gonna need you,” I whispered.
“Damn,” Joker said low, and did it shifting closer to Snapper.
I dropped my hand and turned my attention to Shy. “Take care of Tabby. She’ll recover, she’s got you,” I threw out my arm, “and her family. But it’s gonna be a blow.”
After giving me a close look, Shy bit out, “Goddammit.”
I finally turned to Tack.
“He’s just like his father.”
Tack held my eyes.
“He is selfless,” I declared.
Tack’s gaze bore into mine but I saw his throat move with his swallow.
“And unrelenting,” I went on.
He got me.
He always did.
“You hurt my son—” he started.
“He’s safe in my hands.”
Tack shut his mouth.
I shot him a grin.
“And you’re gonna love his girl.”
Rough Ride, the next Chaos telling the story of Snapper and Rosalie is out as a 1,001 Dark Nights Novella on February 13, 2018. Happy Valentine’s Day from me!
You can find easy buy links right here: I want Chaos!
“He’s Safe in My Hands”
AUTHOR’S NOTE: There are major spoilers of Motorcycle Man and some of the Chaos series books in this short. If you have not read them all, please read on at your own peril!
IMPORTANT! If you’re not 18 years of age, you should NOT be reading this.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You lost?”
Shit.
I didn’t know what to do.
Here I was. In the Chaos Compound.
How did I get here?
I mean, even if, in a way, I was always there, I wasn’t supposed to actually be there.
But I’d just walked through the double doors, rounded the bar and there I was.
Smack in the common room of the Compound of the Chaos Motorcycle Club.
And there were the boys.
My boys.
Yowza.
I took them in.
And yep…
I did some serious good with this group.
Serious.
Tack was behind the bar, staring at me and not looking welcoming.
“This is members only, babe. You lost?” Tack semi-repeated, looking less welcoming now that he was also looking impatient.
God, he was hot. Hotter than I could have imagined and he came from my imagination.
“Uh, hey,” I greeted.
Tack sent an irritated look across the bar to the men standing there and so did I (though mine wasn’t irritated seeing as Hop, Shy, Joker, High, Snapper and Hound were standing there—jeez, serious as shit, I was good at making up hot guys).
“You know her?” Tack asked the boys at large.
“Nope,” Hop answered, turning to give me his own irritable look and I gave myself another pat on the back for that mustache. He rocked it.
And the flame tats on his forearms.
Fabulous.
“No,” Joke said.
Holy crap, he had a great beard.
“Negative,” Shy stated.
Okay, those green eyes. Inspired.
“No,” High growled.
Mm. A Chaos boy growling.
Niiiiiice.
Hound just glared at me (also hot) and Snap tipped his head to the side, his brows drawing together like he knew me, he just couldn’t place me (and again, hot).
Those last two probably hadn’t quite forgotten me. We’d spent a lot of time together just recently.
Tack looked back at me. “No offense, it’s important to be politically correct and shit, but are you deaf? Like I said, it’s members only in here.”
“I’m Kristen. Or, uh…Kit,” I introduced myself.
“She’s got a great ass and good hair but I’m not feelin’ some bitch wandering in just ’cause,” Hound grunted toward me but not to me.
“You got no problem with biker groupies wandering in here just because,” High pointed out.
Hound jerked a thumb my way. “She ain’t no biker groupie.”
Now hang on a second.
“I’m totally a biker groupie,” I retorted tartly. “I just rock a different style wardrobe seeing as my skin might catch fire if I wore stone wash.”
Hound narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re not my kind of biker groupie.”
“Of course not,” I snapped. “You’re taken.”
His brows came up, then shot down then he scowled at me before turning his scowl toward Tack.
Okay, yeah, uuummmm, if I did say so myself…
I did good with these boys.
“He is?” Joker asked.
“By who?” Hop put in.
I took a step closer to them and when I got all their attention again, I stopped.
Best not to be in close proximity to all that hotness seeing as they were all taken (even though two of them didn’t know it…yet).
“That story’s not been told,” I shared. “Widely,” I added.
“Say what?” Shy demanded.
“I’m Kristen. Kit. Kristen. As in Kristen Ashley. You’re mine.” I did a whirl to indicate them all with my hand. “All mine. I made you.”
They all looked at me before they looked among each other.
I was not surprised when Tack’s back straightened first, his sapphire gaze honed in on me laser sharp then his goatee-surrounded lips murmured, “Well, fuck me.”
I wish.
But first, he was taken. I gave him Tyra.
And second, he was fictional.
Ish.
I mean, he was very, very alive in my mind.
“I thought that Jane chick from Fortnum’s told our stories,” Joker muttered to Hop.
“She’s real, as in worked-in-that-bookstore-down-the-road-but-now-writes-books-full-time real,” Hop muttered back to Joker then tipped his head my way. “This bitch is real.”
Joker looked like he understood.
I’d made the whole thing up and I was kind of confused.
Tack interrupted my confusion.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I just, well…” I took another step forward, stopped, noticed it was coming to them all and being the acute focus of seven members of the Chaos Motorcycle Club was quite an experience, both in good ways and in scary ways. I took another step forward and lifted my arms out to the sides. “I just want to say, you know, sorry. For, uh…all the stuff that’s going to go down soon.”
“Oh shit,” Hop muttered.
“Fuck,” Shy bit out.
Joker looked to the ceiling, High glowered at me but it was Snap who spoke.
“I’m next, yeah?”
I bit my lip.
“Great,” Snapper mumbled, staring at my lip.
“No, no…it’s good,” I assured quickly. “I mean, well, you know…after you get through the bad.”
Snapper started glowering at me.
“You know,” Tack ground out and I turned my attention to him, “Since I got you, just to say, I could have done without you letting Tyra get stabbed a million fucking times. And she really could have done without it.”
“It wasn’t a million times,” I pointed out.
“You ever been stabbed?” he asked.
“Does a slipup with cuticle clippers count?” I asked back, then, at his expression, I admitted, “No. I’ve never been stabbed.”
“One time feels like a million times,” he educated me.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “It just…happened. If it makes you feel any better, you were really awesome in those scenes. Sweet and badass. It was cool.”
He didn’t take compliments well and proved that by his stormy expression and his gravely query of, “Are you shitting me?”
“No,” I answered. “A lot of women fell in love with you.”
“Well, my woman nearly bled out all over the floor,” he returned.
“You had your happily ever after,” I reminded him. “And you’re still having it. Two beautiful boys and you continue to go at each other like teenagers. I mean, right now, I’m imagining the blowjob she gave you last night and…” I lifted both hands, wiggled my fingers at him like I had magic and shouted, “BAM!”
I grinned.
His eyes darkened.
Sweet.
I just gave Tack the memory of a blowjob.
A really good one.
Seems I did have a sort of magic.
Sadly, the memory of the blowjob wore off swiftly, such was the memory of what happened to his woman, which I knew would never wear off.
“She died while I was holding her hand,” Tack reminded me.
“Fortunately, there are really good doctors at Swedish Medical Center and I’m a benevolent creator so she came back to life,” I retorted, not about to correct him that she didn’t actually die. She more like passed out from loss of blood, shock and serious bodily trauma. Tack was already having issues. I didn’t need to remind him of the fullness of those issues.
He didn’t need to be reminded of the fullness.
He appeared to be debating the merits of strangling his creator.
“Yo.”
At the call, I looked to High and when I did, I braced.
His handsome face was soft, his eyes searching.
Oh shit.
“Sorry to hear about Axl,” he said quietly.
My throat closed up.
“Millie was really torn up about it,” he kept at me quietly. “She still is.”
“Me too,” I forced out.
“It was tough, feelin’ you go through that, knowin’ he was sick all those months, you havin’ to wait it out, never knowing when it’d finally be done,” High carried on.
I looked to my feet.
“You took real good care of him, Kit,” he said gently and my gaze lifted again to him. “He knew you loved him. You proved it every minute you had him, babe.”
“Yeah,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” he said low, eyes trained on me.
I pulled it together, but it still came out husky when I asked, “Is Chief good?”
“He’ll be good forever, baby,” High answered. “Forever. Happy and lovin’ on Millie and my girls, bossin’ us all around, rulin’ that roost forever and ever, honey. He’s the baddest ass cat in history and always will be. You know it, yeah?”
Oh, I knew it.
Crap. No way I could talk without losing it.
Time didn’t heal all wounds. There were some losses that, for whatever reason, just persisted in hurting.
And I was finding that losing my baby boy was one of them.
So I just nodded.
“Thanks for givin’ him to us,” he said softly.
“Thank you for taking such good care of him,” I pushed out.
“Forever, Kit,” he whispered. “He’ll be happy and healthy and loved forever, babe.”
My chin was quivering but I managed another nod.
“You give Starla some scratches for us all, yeah?” High ordered.
“Yes, definitely,” I promised, and unh-hunh…more husk in my voice. “And you give Poem and Chief cuddles from me.”
He jerked up his chin. “Definitely.”
“No offense to Poem but,” I swallowed hard, “give some especially to Chief. Will you do that, Logan?” I requested.
“Of course, babe,” he replied with his lips but I only felt better when I saw the promise come from his eyes.
I drew in a ragged breath.
“Jesus, fuck. There’s no crying in the Compound,” Hound announced irritably.
I lifted my own chin and shot him a glare. “I’m not crying.”
He pointed at my face. “Your chin is all wobbly.”
“Jesus, Hound. Her cat died,” Hop clipped. “You’ve met Chief. Chief’s based on her boy. And that cat is the shit.”
“He is the shit,” Hound shot back. “There’s still no crying in the Compound.”
“I’m not crying!” I cried.
Though I was being loud.
And suddenly in need of tequila.
Hound focused again on me. “What’d you put me through?”
“I’m not saying,” I retorted.
“Do I get laid?” he asked.
Does he get laid?
What kind of question was that?
“Yes,” I answered.
“A lot?” he pushed.
“Yes,” I snapped.
“How much is a lot?” He didn’t let up.
“A lot is a lot.”
“A lot may be a lot for you but a lot is a lot for me.”
“Christ, Hound,” High murmured.
“Brother, you got angry sex,” Hound returned to High. “A lot of angry sex. Angry sex fuckin’ rocks.” His gaze swung to me. “Do I get angry sex?”
“Umm…” I mumbled.
“Fuck,” he bit out. “I don’t get angry sex. What kind of sex do I get?”
“Trust me, you’ll like it,” I promised.
“I’ll like a lot of it?”
“God, Hound!” I exclaimed. “I’m me. You’re you. You’re Chaos. So of course you’ll like it and of course you’ll get a lot of it. Yeesh.”
“Is it hot?” he kept at me.
“No, it’s mediocre,” I returned sarcastically.
That got some grins and a Tack chuckle.
Nice all around.
Hound was not amused.
“I’m not sure she can do mediocre,” Joker mumbled to Shy.
“Thank fuck,” Shy mumbled back.
“They better be right,” Hound warned me.
“I’m feeling some rewrites coming on,” I warned back.
Suddenly, his lips split in a shit-eating grin. “You wouldn’t do that to me. You love me.”
“You’re the best of them all, Hound,” I said in all seriousness, and the room got serious with me. “And everyone here knows it.”
And I could tell by the feel…
They did.
“You gonna pull us through whatever you got in store for us?” Tack’s gravel came at me.
“No,” I told him. “You’re gonna pull me through it.” I lifted my hand and poked a finger toward Snapper. “And just sayin’, may your soul be unconquerable.”
Snap’s head twitched, his lips thinned and his gaze grew acute on me.
“They’re gonna need you,” I whispered.
“Damn,” Joker said low, and did it shifting closer to Snapper.
I dropped my hand and turned my attention to Shy. “Take care of Tabby. She’ll recover, she’s got you,” I threw out my arm, “and her family. But it’s gonna be a blow.”
After giving me a close look, Shy bit out, “Goddammit.”
I finally turned to Tack.
“He’s just like his father.”
Tack held my eyes.
“He is selfless,” I declared.
Tack’s gaze bore into mine but I saw his throat move with his swallow.
“And unrelenting,” I went on.
He got me.
He always did.
“You hurt my son—” he started.
“He’s safe in my hands.”
Tack shut his mouth.
I shot him a grin.
“And you’re gonna love his girl.”
Rough Ride, the next Chaos telling the story of Snapper and Rosalie is out as a 1,001 Dark Nights Novella on February 13, 2018. Happy Valentine’s Day from me!
You can find easy buy links right here: I want Chaos!
