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Mid Week Tease: The Art of Grant Management #MWTease #MidWeekTease
Happy Hump Day! Let’s celebrate it with another wonderful Mid Week Tease, courtesy of the lovely and talented Sandra Bunino. This week, I’ll be sharing a teaser from my current WIP, a M/M contemporary story set in a medical research center called “The Art of Grant Management.” I always knew that those years of managing research grants would finally come in handy!
Enjoy, and make sure to hit the list after the teaser to see other great Mid Week Teases!
###
“I know Dr. Cheung may give you an extraordinary amount of leeway, but I expect you to do your job,” Dr. Peter Loeffler said, glaring down his nose at the man sitting behind the desk. “I have extra funds remaining in my NHS grant, and I wish to use them to purchase additional tissue lines.”
The administrative assistant for the Robert Kenilworth Research Center smirked back up at him. “And I’ve told you at least three times that those funds are earmarked for personnel, not supplies,” John Quincy said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “Which apparently you can’t parse. If you tell me what language they speak on your planet, I’ll try to translate it into something you’ll understand.”
“Oh, ha, ha, very humorous.”
Quincy’s smirk quirked, one side rising. “Then let me repeat it — again — in English. I am legally unable to transfer funds from one grant area to another. So the answer to your question is no. While we’re on the subject, you’re going to lose that money from next year’s grant if you don’t hire a research student toot sweet.”
Peter clenched his jaw. “I don’t need another researcher. I need fresh tissue lines.”
“Not my problem,” Quincy said dismissively. “This is what happens when you don’t budget your grants correctly. Consider it an object lesson.”
Peter ground his teeth together. “I need those funds reallocated so that I can use them as I see best,” he grated. “And since it is my burden in life to have you as an administrative assistant, I insist you do your job and administrate this transfer.”
Quincy’s answering smile was feral. “You want me to administrate something? How about I administrate my foot up your–”
“Gentlemen.”
Dr. Mai Cheung’s voice sounded mild, but there was steel under the center director’s tone. “May I remind you that voices carry? Mr. Quincy, get back to work.” Peter felt a hand on his arm. “Could I see you in my office, Dr. Loeffler?”
Grimacing, Peter let her pull him away from Quincy’s desk. The man had already turned back to his computer, whistling insouciantly.
Insouciantly. Damn him.
#
“Is there a reason why I came back from lunch and found you yelling at my administrative assistant?” Mai said. “Again?”
“I wasn’t yelling,” Peter said with a sniff. “As for your administrative assistant, he’s a boorish, obnoxious little man who has no respect whatsoever for his superiors, and he takes a particularly childish delight in being obstructive. I simply do not understand why you insist on keeping him employed.”
“Because he’s a god of grant management,” Mai said. “Not only does he keep track of every research grant opportunity out there, he’s also a walking calculator who can balance multiple million-dollar budgets in his head.” She shrugged. “Plus he’s also the only person who’s been able to put up with all the personalities up here.”
He folded his arms across his chest and glared. “I assume you’re referring to me?”
“I’m referring to every researcher up here, including me,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Let’s be honest. We’re a bunch of prima donna scientists who are far too undersocialized for our own good, and we’ve scared the shit out of every admin who walked in here.”
She pointed at her office door and the room beyond. “Except Quincy. He dishes it out as well as he takes it, and he keeps us funded. So I would consider it a personal favor if you’d ease off on the insults and let the man do his job before he gets fed up and goes to work for Grant Management.”
“I was trying to get him to do his job!”
“No, you were trying to get him to bend the rules for you,” she fired back. “You know full well you can’t use personnel funds for supplies, so stop asking. If you need those cell lines so badly, you’ll have to find another way to pay for them.”
Peter felt his fury subside a bit. “I — damn it. There is no other way,” he admitted. “I’ve exhausted all of my resources. My new NHS grant won’t fund for two months, and I need those cell lines before we get our site visit from Clemmons.”
Mai frowned. The Clemmons Endowment Fund provided the huge program project grant that kept the Kenilworth Center itself up and running. “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier, Peter?”
He scuffed a toe along the carpet. “Well, it’s a bit embarrassing to admit that I, er, underbudgeted.” Quincy’s sneer loomed in his mind’s eye. “I don’t know what to do, Mai. I need those cell lines if I want to complete my current research project before the site visit.”
“Huh.” She frowned thoughtfully. “You know, if you talk to Quincy, I bet he can find a grant somewhere that will pay for your lines.”
Peter stiffened. “I would rather orally service Sarah Palin than ask John Quincy for a favor,” he snapped. “And you know both my political leanings and my sexual orientation, so that should fully indicate the depths of my repugnance.”
Mai grimaced. “Thanks for the mental image. Now I need brain bleach.” She rubbed the bracketed skin between her eyes. “I really wish you’d just ask him out already.”
“Ask who?”
“Quincy.”
Peter’s mouth dropped open. “I beg your pardon?
“Oh, please. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about,” she said. “I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think nobody’s watching. And he looks at you the same way. Your little mating dance has been amusing enough, but it’s time to step up your game and do something about it.”
He’d gotten his jaw under control. “Quincy and I are not doing a mating dance,” he said. “Despite what you most mistakenly believe, I think he’s an obnoxious little troglodyte, and he obviously has no fond feelings for me. We’re not compatible in any way, shape, or form.”
One sleek eyebrow arched at him. “How would you know, seeing as the only thing you ever do is bicker with him?”
“I do not bicker,” Peter said sharply, then paused. “All right, perhaps I do. A bit. But he starts it!”
“Mating dance.” Mai sighed. “Look, there’s no rule against you dating a staff member, so why don’t you try being the bigger man for once and just ask him out?”
“It would be difficult to be the littler man to that homunculus,” Peter muttered.
Her eyes narrowed. “Let me remind you that you’re speaking about the man who can pull your metaphorical fat out of the fire, doctor. If you won’t cowboy up and ask him out, that’s your decision, but I do expect you to go ask him for some grant help, especially if it has a bearing on the site visit.”
He resisted the image to squirm under her gaze. “I’ll think about it. May I go now?”
The director waved him off. With as much dignity as he could muster, Peter stalked out of the office, into the anteroom that doubled as Quincy’s domain.
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Mid Week Tease: Behind the Iron Cross #MidWeekTease #MWTease
Happy Hump Day! Let’s celebrate it with another wonderful Mid Week Tease, courtesy of the lovely and talented Sandra Bunino. This week, I’ll be sharing a teaser from Behind the Iron Cross, my historical MMF romance set in 1923 Berlin.
Enjoy, and make sure to hit the list after the teaser to see other great Mid Week Teases!
In the aftermath of World War I, Berlin has become a hotspot of decadent pleasures, and American millionairess Kat Tracy is determined to enjoy each and every one of them with Sam Hellman, her late brother’s lover and her convenient “fiancé.” But when the two of them meet Friedrich von Bader, a former German Army officer turned reluctant prostitute, their wicked games take on a new meaning.
Friedrich followed the Americans backstage, still boggled by the evening and the spectacle he’d just witnessed. Heaven and Hell was just as glamorous and expensive as he’d heard, and their notorious stage show was just as debauched. How those girls could keep their balance so perfectly and dance while trussed up like that was a mystery.
And of course the Fräulein loved the show; he noticed the high color in her cheeks, and the way she kept licking her lips as she stared at the dancers. He was sure it wasn’t the beautiful naked girls so much as how they were bound that captivated his employer’s attention.
Sam guided them to a narrow hallway, where he indicated that they should wait. He knocked on a door, then disappeared into the room for a minute. When he stuck his head back into the hallway, he was grinning. “He said yes, Kat.”
“Oh, wonderful,” she purred. “Come on, colonel. We have someone to meet.”
Wary, Friedrich followed her into what turned out to be a small, pin-neat dressing room. The Japanese man from the show stood in the middle of the room, arms at his sides. He gave them a short, precise bow. “Konnichiwa,” he said.
“Konnichiwa,” Sam echoed, also repeating the bow. “Kat, von Bader, allow me to present Hajime Ito. Hajime-san, this is my fiancée, Katherine Tracy, and our friend Friedrich von Bader.”
Friedrich found himself giving the man a military bow. The man grunted acknowledgment, then gave the Fräulein a slightly deeper bow, which she returned in kind.
“We’re honored that you would speak with us, Hajime-sama,” she said, surprising Friedrich with the respect in her tone. “My fiancé spoke of your work in the highest of terms. Your artistry with the rope is amazing — I’ve never seen such beautiful patterns.”
“Thank you,” Hajime said in accented but understandable German. “Most people look at the girls, not at my work.”
The Fräulein shook her head. “I respect your work, Hajime-sama. I wish I could become your student and learn from you.”
A small smile split his craggy features. “I have never taught a woman the art of kinbaku. I only use them as models. It would be interesting to teach a woman, I think.”
“I would hope so,” she said lightly. “Speaking of men and women, I was wondering — have you ever bound a man?”
Friedrich tensed at her words, as Hajime shrugged. “Of course. The art began as a way of controlling prisoners during wartime. There are different patterns you can use with a man, different suspensions.” He eyed the ceiling. “A pity we do not have rafters in here. I could show you, if I had a model.”
She clapped her hands at that. “But you do have a model,” she enthused. “The colonel here would be happy to volunteer.” She turned to Friedrich expectantly.
He was surprised to feel hot and cold at the same time. Cold at the thought of being forced into yet another humiliation, but oddly hot at the thought of obeying her politely worded command. “I — Fräulein, please,” he muttered.
That sable gaze caught him. “I believe I gave you an order, colonel.”
Stiffly, he nodded once and stepped forward, holding his arms up. The rope master’s dark brows beetled at him in puzzlement.
“He can’t bind you over your clothes, colonel,” the Fräulein said, amused. “Strip.”
Gritting his teeth, Friedrich obeyed. Anyone with military experience quickly got used to being naked in front of other men, so getting out of his uniform wasn’t bad. Even Sam’s appreciative leer was more flattering than annoying.
The ropes, however — as the rope master began looping the jute rope over and around him, forming diamond patterns along the front of his body, Friedrich couldn’t ignore the gentle but insistent compression as he was tied up like a Christmas present. The strangest thing, however, was how the bonds made him feel. He’d expected a growing sense of panic, as if he was trapped in a jute cage, and didn’t know how the Fraulein would react to his need to escape.
But to his surprise, the ropes made him feel…secure. Even safe, in a bizarre sort of way. He found himself relaxing as the rope master finished binding his torso, slipping ropes between his legs and pulling up the slack along the crease between thigh and hip. The tightening sensation was acutely sensual, and he wondered if the ropes would be used on his cock and balls as well. He felt a combined mixture of disappointment and relief when Hajime-san glanced up at him and nodded briefly in satisfaction, tying off the ropes at one hip.
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Mid Week Tease: The Art of Grant Management #MWTease #MidWeekTease
Happy Hump Day! Let’s celebrate it with another wonderful Mid Week Tease, courtesy of the lovely and talented Sandra Bunino. This week, I’ll be sharing a teaser from my current WIP, a M/M contemporary story set in a medical research center that I will hopefully be submitting to Evernight’s Executive Assistant antho call sometime this week. I always knew that those years of managing research grants would finally come in handy!
Enjoy, and make sure to hit the list after the teaser to see other great Mid Week Teases!
###
Peter pushed the Men’s Room door open, ready to argue. “I do not appreciate being ignored when you’re the one–” he started.
Then stopped. Quincy stood topless at one of the sinks, angrily scrubbing at a large red stain on his shirt. Half-naked, the short man was disconcertingly muscular, with broad shoulders and lean, well-defined arms.
But it was his torso that was truly a thing of beauty. Peter’s mouth abruptly went dry as he studied the delineation of muscle, ligament, and bone that made up John Quincy’s midsection. Oh, damn me. That’s just not fair.
The administrative assistant looked up and spotted him. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” he grumbled. “Ursula ran right into me and splashed this shit all over my shirt. And it reeks.”
“Oh.” Peter took a tentative sniff, and winced. “Fixative, I believe. You won’t be able to get it out of a white shirt.”
Quincy scowled, holding up the soaking shirt. A pale pink stain was still very obvious across the chest. “Goddamn it. I liked this shirt, too.”
He started wringing out the fabric, muttering under his breath. The motion did wonderful things to his obliques, and Peter had a sudden vision of stepping closer and pressing his lips to one pale shoulder, tasting smooth skin and salt. Trailing down across the firm curve of a pectoral muscle, listening to Quincy’s soft, questioning moan as he mouthed a nipple, then moving to the low valley between pectorals, a fine line of dark hair prickling against his lips as he kissed his way down–
He realized Quincy had stopped wringing and was staring at him. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
“Uh, no. But you’re, um … you’re looking at me.” Quincy glanced down at his chest, then at his reflection in the mirrors over the sinks. “Did I miss some of that crap?
“No. It’s just … I wasn’t expecting you to be so…”
The other man raised an eyebrow, obviously expecting one of Peter’s usual insults. “Pale?” he snarked. “Freckled? You already knew I was a runt, so that can’t come as a surprise.”
“Muscular. You’re muscular,” Peter managed. Christ, you’re gorgeous. Bernini would have been reaching for a hammer and chisel by this point.
“Oh.” Quincy’s brows lowered in surprise, and for a moment Peter panicked that he’d said it out loud. “Uh. Yeah, well, when you’re 5’6” and mouthy, you learn to hit the gym if you don’t want to get the shit kicked out of you.”
“I see.” Peter let his gaze trail down, to the lovely V-shaped crease of the inguinal ligaments. It was one of his favorite spots on the male body, and Quincy’s ligaments were beautifully defined. Unable to resist, he studied how they disappeared under the man’s waistband, a natural pathway to the groin and– Oh.
To his shock, he saw Quincy was slightly tumescent, the outline of what looked like a very respectable cock just pressing against the twill fabric. With an effort, he dragged his attention away from the mouthwatering bulge, back to Quincy’s face. It was flushed, and the man’s dark green irises had shrunk to a thin line, almost disappearing next to the wide-open pupil. A faint blue line in his throat pulsed to an accelerated beat, and his chest rose and fell more rapidly now, pale nipples tightening and turning into tiny rivets.
Pupillary dilation. Flushed skin, increased respiration and heartbeat. Erectile response. The unconscious reflexes of physical attraction. Peter felt a rush of elation sizzle through him. He wants me. Oh, God. He actually wants me.
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Happy April 1st!
Well, it took me a week but by gum I did it — I got the taxes done and off to the accountant (yes, we use an accountant — between my multiple income streams and Ramón’s job, it makes much more sense for us to let a professional crunch the numbers for us), finished four covers and sent them off to their respective publishers, helped a former web design client move all his stuff to a new system, got the latest podcast episode up and out, and even upgraded my laptop to Mavericks. All of this by today as planned. I rule.
Now, all I have left to do today is add 3K to Breaker Zone, add some more wordage to the short story I’m submitting to Evernight’s Executive Asssistant anthology, do my hour in the gym, and wash clothes so that I’ll have something clean to wear tomorrow, and then I can … um, pretty much go to sleep, I guess. Never mind — I’ll have some free time tomorrow.
Oh, and I need to eat. I keep forgetting to eat. I’m not tooting my own horn here — I’m an idiot about it who gets wrapped up in a project, and doesn’t realize until 12 hours later that I’m practically crippled and my stomach is screaming at me.
On a closing note for all you poets out there who enjoy the bawdier side of the art form, the inimitable Colby Keller and his peripatetic partner Karl Marxxx are hosting a Big Shoe Diaries Poetry Contest (NSFW) to honor April as National Poetry Month. Head on over there to find out all the details and see Colby read Robert Burns’s poem “Nine Inch Will Please a Lady” in an amazingly good (and astoundingly sexy) Scottish accent.
So I’m sitting here crying
I’m of an age where seeing my work in print is still very important to me. I love and am very grateful for e-publishing, don’t get me wrong — it’s a totally awesome publication avenue, and I take advantage of it all the time. That being said, as a writer born in the 1960s there’s still a part of me that wants to see a book in my hot little hands with my name on it in order to feel fully validated. When my first shared novel came out, I wanted to dance around Dallas in utter glee, waving it over my head like a flag, and immediately added it to my book shelf that held various anthologies with my short stories.
So when I published my first standalone novel Storm Season with Evernight last year, I was immensely proud. But there was also a tiny twinge that it would never be tangible, printed words on a page with my writing name on the cover that I could put on my bookshelf. Oh, I knew there was a chance that Evernight might add it to their print collection if it sold well enough, but it was my freshman novel, no one really knew me, and so I put it out of my mind and just concentrated on writing more stories and becoming the best damn writer I could be.
And then, this morning, I opened my email and saw something from Evernight with PRINT in the Subject line. I tell you, I felt like my heart stopped for a moment. Part of me was scared to open it, thinking that it couldn’t be what I thought it was. I was scared to hope, silly as that sounds.
But I opened it. And started crying when I read, “Your book Storm Season is now available in our print store…”
So, yeah, Storm Season is now a print book. It’s currently available directly from Evernight via CreateSpace, but will be available at Amazon in a week and other online booksellers in 6-8 weeks. I’m not saying this so that anyone feels like they have to buy it — I figure anyone who enjoys this particular genre already bought it as an ebook.
But damn. My first novel is now in print. And so, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go flail like a Muppet around the house for the next hour or so.
Cut-ting and pa-sting, cut-ting and pa-sting…
Want to know the easiest way to drive a creative person crazy? Make them do a dull, repetitive activity for hours. They’ll be gibbering in no time. I remember how my ex-boss at the major telecommunications company talked me into coming back for a short-term contract back in 2012 — I got to the office, and was handed PowerPoint docs to fill with cutting and pasting from other docs, the exact same thing that drove me utterly crazy about the job in the first place. Came home, burst into tears, called him that night and told him I couldn’t come back. Luckily he understood.
That being said, two more hours and I have my hotel for my upcoming Baltimore trip all paid for, so I suppose I’ll just shut up, cut and paste. Crap. I still have to do the taxes tonight, too. Hello, darkness, my old friend…
That being said, there is good news on the way. Once I have confirmation, I’ll post it here, promise. And I started work on Breaker Zone again, and frankly I’m glad I took the break I did because hoo boy, I’d say a good 50% of the 27K I already have written has got to go. I’ve completely redone Nick’s and Aidan’s characterization in my head and that’s going to require a different (and better, hopefully) approach to the story. Which is fine, live and learn, yadda yadda, but it always kind hurts to cut wordage. Needs must, however, and while my goal is to have it finished by the end of April, I also know what happens when I announce goals, so — sometime this spring? I’ll get started immediately on Book Three in the series after that.
And yes, I’m working concurrently on Behind the Iron Cross, because I’m insane that way. This is the one I’m sending off to an agent (it seems like all my friends are getting one, so I figure why not), so it’s got to be polished until it shines like the top of the Chrysler Building. And I just outed my age with that comment, didn’t I? Oh, well. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Gramma has to take her Geritol and get back to work.
(On a completely separate tangent, apropos of nothing, I wonder if Charlie Day knows how much slash is being written about Newton and Hermann from Pacific Rim? Burn Gorman is probably used to it by now from Torchwood, but I think this may be a new thing for Mr. Day.)
Mid Week Tease: Breaker Zone #MWTease #MidWeekTease
Happy Hump Day! Now that Two to Tango has finally been submitted, I’ve gone back to work on Book Two in the Olympic Cove series, Breaker Zone. Here’s the opening scene of the book.
Enjoy, and make sure to hit the list after the teaser to see other great Mid Week Teases!
When Dr. Nick Gardiner goes on the run from a psychotic ex and ends up at Olympic Cove, the last thing he expects to find is his friend Ian living with two redheaded demigods and learning how to be a storm god. Adding to the confusion is a wounded merman named Aidan who washes up in the cove, requiring Nick’s professional help. As it turns out, the handsome mer and his partner Liam have other plans for the ER doctor — to claim him as their agapetos, their destined mate, and fulfill his need to submit.
A chance encounter at a local junk shop reveals that Nick has his own role to play in the battle against the insane Nereid Thetis. Under the reluctant mentorship of Chiron, Nick must master the use of the Rod of Asclepius if he wants to rescue his mates from a ghastly fate and help Ian save the planet.
###
Ian West, God of Storms, stared at the cloudless blue sky over the cove. He hefted his trident, sighting up the shaft as he aimed the dark grey tines upwards, and concentrated.
Nothing happened. He concentrated some more.
Still nothing.
There was a small sigh behind him. “I believe the human phrase is, put your back into it.”
Ian gritted his teeth. “I’m trying,” he said. “It’s not working.”
Another sigh. “Three days ago you were able to defuse a hurricane with no focusing agent or any sort of training. And now you expect me to believe you can’t condense a single small cloud on a bright day?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I expect you to believe.” He jammed the butt of the trident into the sand, turning to glare at Poseidon, God of the Seas. “I don’t know how I defused the hurricane, all right? You want to know how I did it, go ask Gaia.”
“I don’t have to,” Poseidon said calmly. “She already told me. She may have helped you with defeating Thetis, but she said you dismantled the hurricane all by yourself.”
“Then it was instinctive.”
One auburn eyebrow raised at that. “Instinctive? For a former human to control the weather? Another human phrase just came to mind — ‘Pull the other one, it has got bells on.’”
Ian swallowed a few choice curse words. Telling his new father-in-law to go fuck himself wasn’t the most intelligent move in the world, no matter how satisfying it would be. “I know you don’t believe me, but it was instinct,” he said. “I knew how hurricanes worked, knew I had to shut it down, and just did what felt right. I don’t know how else to describe it.” He pointed his free hand at the turquoise cove. “This is something completely different.”
The other god studied him, then finally shrugged. “Perhaps we’re approaching this from the wrong angle. Whereas it would simply be an effort of will for me, it seems to be more of an intellectual process for you, most likely due to your common origins.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“It’s the truth,” Poseidon said, unperturbed. “So. How would a cloud naturally form over water?”
Still annoyed, Ian thought about the meteorological processes he’d researched for his eco-thriller Greenstrike. “Sunlight warms the water and causes it to evaporate, and that creates a layer of warm, moist air,” he said. “Since heat rises, this gets boosted up into the atmosphere. When the layer reaches a certain point, it starts to cool, and some of the water vapor molecules starts clumping together. Get enough of them condensing, and you get a cloud.”
“Simplistic but accurate enough for our purposes,” Poseidon said. “And of course when large amounts of water vapor condenses, you get rain or snow. And if that warm air mass meets a cooler, drier mass, it can precipitate water vapor condensation over a large area, causing widespread cloud formation that, under the right circumstances, can become a storm.”
“Thank you, Bill Nye.”
Poseidon frowned. “Who?”
“Never mind. So what am I trying to do?”
The sea god gave him a long-suffering look. “Focus on the surface of the water. Gather the vapor, forcing it to coalesce as it rises into the air.”
Grimly, Ian turned back to the water. He pointed the titanium trident at the space directly over the waves and narrowed his concentration. One of the more useful things about his new godsight was the ability to zoom in and out on objects. Within moments, he found himself watching shimmering spheres of water vapor separating from the tops of the waves, dancing up into the sky.
Reaching out with the new powers granted to him by the earth goddess Gaia, he tried to gather the vapor droplets together as they drifted upwards. It was somewhat like herding fireflies, but after awhile he managed to shove enough of them together to form a wisp of cloud over the cove. Pulling back his concentration, he discovered he was breathless and dripping with sweat. “Shit. Is it always going to be that hard?”
“No. You’ll get better with practice.” Poseidon’s eyes narrowed as he studied the small drift of water vapor. “Not bad, not bad at all. Now dissolve it.”
“What? Why?”
“You can’t randomly create weather and then just leave it to its own devices. That’s how natural disasters get started.”
Ian wanted to throw the damn trident into the ocean and head back to the cottage for shower. “I’ve made bigger steam clouds than that cooking spaghetti,” he said, waving at the wisp. “What the hell is that going to do?”
“At the moment, nothing,” Poseidon said. “But it could drift further inland, gathering water vapor and increasing in size as it goes. It’s a warm, sunny day — plenty of moisture in the air for it to feed on. Next thing you know, it’s grown into a cloud bank, sucking in more water and expanding even more as it drifts over the land.”
He cupped a hand, bringing it to the one holding his golden trident. “And then it meets a cooler, drier mass of air, and tries to rise to get over it. But when it reaches its expansion point it starts to cool and its load of water vapor condenses, turning into rain. The masses of air also create charged ions, so now you have a thunderstorm. The storm moves even further inland, meeting yet another mass of cooler air.
Both hands now drew parallel circles in the air. “The masses churn, violently shearing over each other. A rotating vortex of air is created this way, and one end slowly falls to earth. When it reaches the ground, it begins to suck up dirt and debris, turning the vortex dark and visible. The new tornado proceeds to rip apart trees, throwing cars around like toys, erasing homes from their foundations. It kills people and animals, demolishes property, and leaves a raw scar of destruction in its wake. All because you couldn’t be bothered to stop it when it was just a small cloud.”
Ian flinched in horror. “Jesus. Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.” Poseidon leaned on his trident, giving him a grave look. “I’m not teaching you how to control the weather for the fun of it. I’m here because the weather is one of the most important planetary control systems Gaia has, and since you now have control over it you must be taught what you can and cannot do. For all their size, weather patterns are actually quite fragile, and can be changed in monumental ways by relatively small things. I suspect you’ve heard the phrase ‘the butterfly effect?’”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s quite apt. A small waft of vapor here can spawn into a killer tornado a hundred miles away. Which is why I’m now asking you to dissolve that cloud. Please.”
Dry-mouthed, Ian nodded and lifted his trident again, concentrating on driving the vapor particles apart. Slowly, the cloud melted away, leaving nothing but clear air. “Okay?”
“Perfect.” Poseidon eyed him. “Well, I think that’s enough for today. You need a shower, and I’m in the mood for lunch.”
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Reviews are coming in for Trickster
It seems to be scoring mainly 4 stars from the big review sites, which is heartening. The general upshot seems to be, “We like it, the whole ‘fated mates’ thing is getting a little thin but it works here, Delaney and Mark are fun, why the hell is it so short?”
Yeah, upon reflection I probably could have extended it by at least another 10K (I do gloss over two weeks’ worth of character development and possible humpa humpa, bad writer, no new laptop). The problem was, it started life as a short story, and when I couldn’t finish it in time for Evernight’s alpha shifter antho call I tried to turn it into a Romance on the Go™ story. Then it got too big for that, and I knew it was going to be a standalone.
While I was working on it, however, I had put Two to Tango on the back burner, and I knew I had Breaker Zone and Behind the Iron Cross backed up even further, so yeah, I may have given Trickster a bit more short shrift than I should have, and I apologize for that. If it’s of any consolation, I want to do two more stories in that universe, and those will be much longer. Of course, the stories I want to do center around the CEO Scott and his mate Carmen, and Aimee the receptionist, and I don’t have the best track record with M/F stories.
I dunno, maybe I’ll do another Delaney and Mark story first to establish the universe a bit more. I have to admit, I really, REALLY want to do a straight up bantering romcom with those two, maybe send them off to an IT convention in Vegas where an old shifter fling of Delaney’s tries to muscle in him and Mark. As for Mark, I’m thinking something appropriately fan-oriented. Maybe there’s a Creation Con going on in the same hotel and his geek heart is torn between snarling at Delaney’s ex-girlfriend and finally, FINALLY getting an autograph from his all time favorite actor. Must muse on this a bit.
Mid Week Tease: Two to Tango #MWTease
Happy Hump Day! Let’s celebrate it with another wonderful Mid Week Tease, courtesy of the lovely and talented Sandra Bunino. This week, I’ll be sharing a turning point from my current WIP, a M/M SF erotic caper story titled Two to Tango.
Enjoy, and make sure to hit the list after the teaser to see other great Mid Week Teases!
Rory Maclellan, aka the Highlander, is one of the most successful interstellar art thieves out there. He’s careful, professional, and plans his heists down to the microsecond. Surprisingly, he also has a conscience. So when he runs into a suicidal museum worker during his latest job, he has no choice but to stun the man and rescue him from certain death.
Dmitri Grigoryev was an up-and-coming exoarchaeologist until a disastrous dig left his career in tatters. Hungry, broke, and about to be laid off from the only job he’s been able to find in the last three years, he never expected a dashing thief to come along and ruin his suicide by saving his life.
With interstellar police on their tail, Rory and Dmitri reluctantly join forces for a major heist. But will their simmering attraction get in the way, or pull them even closer?
###
“You didn’t ruin my life, Mr. MacLellan,” Dmitri said quietly. “It was ruined well before I ever saw you. Would you like to know the real reason why I was trying to kill myself in the museum that night?”
The thief looked startled, then solemn. “If you’re okay with telling me that,” he said. “Then yes, I would.”
Dmitri nodded. “For the last three years, I’ve been scrimping and saving every credit I could get my hands on to get the P. Centauri III case reopened. It was the only way I could clear my name and get my career and life back. Three years of living in a rundown boarding house, wearing second-hand clothing and living on freeze-dried noodles and vat protein just past its sell-by date.” His mouth pursed. “And sometimes well past its sell-by date. All so that I could pay an investigator to find evidence that the van der Waals set me up, and a lawyer to bring my case in front of a civil judiciary panel.
“That finally happened about a week ago. I took two days off that I really couldn’t afford and went down to the Justice Center to testify against the van der Waals’ lawyer.” He smiled humorlessly. “They couldn’t even be bothered to show up themselves. Somehow, my investigator was able to get ahold of a partial audio recording from the site that was made just before the geyser blew. Everyone in the room heard my voice begging Helene to stop and get everyone out of the cavern. Both my lawyer and I thought it was open and shut case. We were wrong.”
Bitterness crept into his voice. “The day before the sterilization, they handed down the verdict. The original ruling of negligence was upheld. To add insult to injury, I was ordered to pay the van der Waals’ court costs. And then pissing on both insult and injury, I got to the museum and found out that I was fired. They claimed there was no record of my request for time off, and canned me for unapproved absences. I suspect that Helene spoke to someone on the board, who spoke to the director, et voila. And since I was fired, I wasn’t even eligible for unemployment chits.”
He turned one hand up, not so much a questioning gesture as one of resignation. “So there I was — unemployed, broke, with a huge legal bill hanging over my head, and no chance of ever going back to my old life. There was nothing else to do. Even if I went to work in a pleasure palace, I wouldn’t make enough to pay off the van der Waals’ bill for years. If I died in the museum, it would cause a scandal at the very least and embarrass that chickenshit bastard of a director.”
MacLellan had crossed his arms, face growing darker with each detail. “Those sons of bitches. Doc—”
“Dmitri.”
“Dmitri.” He took a deep breath. “I can get you the best legal eagle in the Known Worlds. I’ll make sure that warrant gets dropped, one way or another. You want your life back, I swear to God I’ll do my damnedest to make that happen.”
The anger and determination in the other man’s voice shocked him. “But — why?”
MacLellan bared a rictus grin. “Let’s just say I have very personal reasons to dislike people who abuse their wealth and power. Trust me, nailing that pair to the wall for you would be a pleasure.”
Dmitri stared at the man opposite him. What he proposed would not only be hideously expensive, but personally dangerous. “Those are the kindest words I’ve heard in three years,” he said slowly. “But no. I don’t want you to run that kind of risk. They’re not worth it.”
“Not — they ruined your life, man!”
“True. And then you saved it. Not only that, you gave me something I desperately needed.”
MacLellan frowned. “Which was?”
“The knowledge that things can change, even when you least expect it. You gave me a sense of hope.”
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Mid Week Tease: Two to Tango #MWTease
Happy Hump Day! Let’s celebrate it with another wonderful Mid Week Tease, courtesy of the lovely and talented Sandra Bunino. I’m still doing teasers for Two to Tango, but this week we’re going to feature a not-so-hot scene after Rory makes two very big mistakes, only one of which is breaking into a sociopathic Russian mafia member’s home.
Enjoy, and make sure to hit the list after the teaser to see other great Mid Week Teases!
Rory MacLellan, aka the Highlander, is one of the most successful interstellar art thieves out there. He’s careful, professional, and plans his heists down to the microsecond. Surprisingly, he also has a conscience. So when he runs into a suicidal museum worker during his latest job, he has no choice but to stun the man and rescue him from certain death.
Dmitri Grigoryev was an up-and-coming exoarchaeologist until a disastrous dig left his career in tatters. Hungry, broke, and about to be laid off from the only job he’s been able to find in the last three years, he never expected a dashing thief to come along and ruin his suicide by saving his life.
With interstellar police on their tail, Rory and Dmitri reluctantly join forces for a major heist. But will their simmering attraction get in the way, or pull them even closer?
###
The world slowly reformed around Rory, brightening from black to a murky grey. He blinked, trying to lick his lips, and winced from the sudden pain that blazed in his jaw. “Ow.”
“Welcome back, Mr. MacLellan.”
Neck creaking, he looked up. A statuesque woman with silver hair swept up in an elegant coif stood in front of him, her dark blue evening gown quite out of place against the plain cinderblock walls. “I’d expected you to be awake by now. I was starting to wonder if Drou has lost his touch.”
She glanced at a huge mountain of a man who stood to her left. He glared at Rory, one hand dropping to the shockrod attached to his belt. “But now that you’re awake, we can get started,” she added.
Rory forced his brain into gear. He was strapped to a chair in a smallish rectangular room that looked like it was somewhere in the mansion’s basement, judging from the damp chill in the air and the block wall construction. More concerning were the tools, both surgical and construction, that hung neatly on wall racks, and the metal rolling tray loaded with unpleasantly sharp shapes. A series of surgical lamps were suspended overhead, and the floor was plain concrete with, yes, a drain in it.
The downward glance confirmed he was naked. Oh, fuck me with a mass driver. This is gonna get ugly.
He cleared his throat, forcing a smile despite the shards of agony it caused. “Madame Grishov, I presume?”
Her head tilted. “Indeed. You can imagine my surprise, Mr. MacLellan, when I was informed by my house AI that someone had penetrated the defenses. Most thieves are smart enough to avoid my home, unless they’re suicidal or truly stupid. And from what I understand of your reputation, you are neither.”
Rory tried to dredge up some charm. “You flatter me, madame. It’s a shame you had to leave the ballet early — I wasn’t counting on that.”
“Yes, neither was I. Especially as it’s been a rather busy week and I was very much looking forward to the performance.” Madame Grishov removed her black satin gloves, revealing hands peppered by age spots but with obvious strength in them. She handed the gloves to Drou, who handed back a pair in black leather. “So I’m afraid you’re going to have to entertain me tonight, Mr. MacLellan.”
As she pulled on the new gloves, Rory could see the flat lead pads sewn into the palms, and the blunted chrome studs mounted over each knuckle. He fought to hold onto his smile. “You know, this really isn’t necessary,” he said quickly. “I’m fully aware I invaded your privacy, and I need to pay for that — let’s say, 100,000 credits? I’m sure we could reach a satisfactory amount if we put our minds to it.”
That earned him a faint, wintry smile. “I’m sure we could,” she said calmly. “But where’s the fun in that?”
Her arm went up and back. He had just enough time to brace himself before she backhanded him. Pain exploded through his face, and he swallowed a shout.
An openhanded slap on the other cheek violently rocked his head to the other side, the small lead plates in the glove lending agonizing power to the blow. Blood filled his mouth from where his teeth had gashed into tender flesh. Grimacing, he swallowed what he could, and let the rest of it drool onto his chin. Maybe if she sees blood, she’ll be happy.
Her eyes lit up at the sight. Oh, shit. Wrong kind of happy.
“Would it help if I said I was sorry?” he managed.
“Not really. I already know you’re sorry.” She gripped his chin hard, forcing his face up. “But I do admit to some curiosity. Obviously you were here to steal the Lady of Kazan, since we found the duplicate in your carryall.” Her grip tightened, and for a moment he wondered if she was going to break his jaw. “But it isn’t nearly as valuable as other items in my collection, items that would be much easier for a thief to carry. So I have to wonder why you went to all the trouble of breaking into my home and risking an extremely prolonged and creative death in order to steal that particular ikon.”
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Nicola Cameron Writes 