tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19486441724259746242024-03-13T07:45:11.200-07:00Gem Frost RomanceUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger8125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948644172425974624.post-3230244088760779122019-06-15T12:19:00.000-07:002019-02-10T13:35:23.299-08:00Home<div style="text-align: center;">
Hi there! Looking for my main website? <a href="https://gemfrostromance.blog/">It's moved here.</a> I have lots of new books available, with many more coming soon, so please come by and visit!<br />
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This blog is going to be used for free fiction-- to post scenes or stories that don't make it into my published books, or excerpts from upcoming works.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://gemfrost.blogspot.com/2019/01/no-dogs-allowed.html">No Dogs Allowed</a>, a Dominance story (WIP)<br />
<br />
<a href="https://gemfrost.blogspot.com/2019/01/wolf-alone-prologue.html">Wolf Alone Prologue</a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://gemfrost.blogspot.com/2019/01/snow-day.html">Snow Day, a short Dominance scene</a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://gemfrost.blogspot.com/2019/01/21.html">21, a short Prodigal scene</a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://gemfrost.blogspot.com/2019/01/rough-every-week-he-comes-into-bar.html">Rough, a contemporary romance</a> (WIP)<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948644172425974624.post-49511710214802157402019-02-10T12:20:00.004-08:002019-02-10T15:49:33.176-08:00No Dogs Allowed, Chapter 2<b>Chapter Two</b><br />
<br />
<a href="https://gemfrost.blogspot.com/2019/01/no-dogs-allowed.html">You can read Chapter One here.</a><br />
<br />
"What the hell am I supposed to do with a dog?"<br />
<br />
An hour and a half later, the dog I'd inadvertently hit sat in the passenger seat of my Firebird, looking quite happy to be there. The veterinarian I'd taken him to had performed x-rays and determined that nothing was broken, much to my relief. She had also informed me the dog was a male (a fact that was not immediately obvious, due to the long fluffy coat). She'd offered to turn him into a shelter, but I couldn't allow that. I felt a responsibility for the beast. I decided to take him home and try to find his owner, and if that failed, I'd find someone to take care of him.<br />
<br />
The vet's assistants had cleaned him up and brushed out the worst of his tangles, and he no longer looked quite as scruffy, though the odor in the car was still overwhelmingly canine. He didn't stink, exactly, but he definitely did reek of dog.<br />
<br />
He was, the vet had guessed, half rough collie, half... well, something. He had a vaguely Lassie-like look to him, what with the long brown fur, the white ruff around his neck, and the stripe on his face, but (judging from the quick glance I'd taken at the collie breed standard on my phone) his ears didn't stand up quite like a collie's, and his body was thicker and chunkier than I seemed to remember Lassie's being. It didn't seem to matter all that much, though. He might not be a purebred, but he was nevertheless a very pretty dog.<br />
<br />
I mean, I thought Gabe would think so. To me, he just looked like a nuisance. A furry nuisance.<br />
<br />
The dog ignored my question, perhaps judging correctly that it had been rhetorical in nature. Or perhaps he just wasn't all that interested in me right now. He seemed enraptured by the car ride, staring at everything we passed, sniffing the air that flowed in through the window I'd cracked open. He looked like riding in my Firebird was the best thing that had ever happened to him.<br />
<br />
"If you like this," I told him, "wait till you get to ride in a Mustang."<br />
<br />
A slight wave of the tail was my only answer. Not that I had expected much of a reply, all things considered. I don't know much about dogs, but I do know they're not especially articulate.<br />
<br />
Anyway, this dog was never riding in my beloved Mustang Boss. Never. Ever. Ever.<br />
<br />
"You're a lucky animal," I said, turning onto the road that led toward home. "You got hit by a car, and all you got out of it was a sprain and some bruises. Not even cracked ribs. You should be grateful it wasn't worse."<br />
<br />
The tail waved, but the steady regard out the window never wavered.<br />
<br />
"You could also try being grateful that I paid for your treatment. You know, I didn't have to do that. Some people would've just left you there on the side of the road."<br />
<br />
The dog turned his head and gazed at me over his shoulder. There was a look of steady trust in the deep brown eyes, a look that said,<i> I know you wouldn't do that.</i><br />
<br />
"I could have, though. That's the point I'm trying to make here. I could have."<br />
<br />
<i>But you wouldn't have.</i><br />
<br />
"I don't think you appreciate the remarkably fortunate situation you've fallen into," I grumbled, unaccountably annoyed by the trusting look in the dark eyes. "I don't know much about dogs, but I do have the money to feed you gourmet dog food. You can wear a diamond-studded collar, if you happen to want one. And while I'm not a dog person myself, I have a fiancé who will spoil you absolutely rotten."<br />
<br />
The tail waved again.<i> Sounds good to me.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Glad you approve," I huffed, and turned into the gated driveway that led home.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
"Oh. My. God. You got a dog."<br />
<br />
Somewhat to my annoyance, the dog had followed me into the house. I had had intentions of perhaps having a kennel (heated and air conditioned, of course) constructed somewhere in the back yard, some distance from the house, tomorrow. Until then, I thought, the dog could reside in one of the many sheds on the property. But before I realized it, the dog had leapt from the car and followed me into the foyer, and once Gabe saw him--<br />
<br />
Well, it was all over. I knew it, and so did the dog. Until we located its owner, this animal was going to reside in the house, eat in the dining room, and very probably sleep in our bed. I decided not to argue about it. I suspected it was prudent to avoid any sort of debate on the topic, lest Gabe decide to make <i>me</i> sleep in a kennel.<br />
<br />
Gabe was down on his knees, cooing to the dog, rubbing his ears, and the beast immediately lost the cool and restrained dignity he had been demonstrating toward me. Scant seconds later, he was rolling around on the hardwood floor, waving his feet in the air, while Gabe rubbed the white fuzzy belly.<br />
<br />
"I did not <i>get </i>him," I answered at last, unaccountably miffed that the dog liked him better. Well, of course it did-- what did I know about dogs? I hadn't so much as petted the creature. Maybe I should have tried that. "If anything, he got me. He saw my car coming and decided to run right out in front of it. He's damn lucky to be alive."<br />
<br />
"Awwwwww, poor baby." Gabe cooed to the dog, who waved his feet in the air more enthusiastically than before. Really, he looked ridiculous, and so did Gabe. "Why were you running around loose, silly dog?"<br />
<br />
"He doesn't talk," I grumbled.<br />
<br />
"No kidding." Gabe looked up for a moment, flashing his brightest, happiest grin. "But I bet he listens."<br />
<br />
His words reminded me of how I'd been talking to the dog in the car, and I felt my face redden with embarrassment. Or maybe it was just a response to Gabe's obvious joy, a response that made something light up inside me and heated my cheeks.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Dogs are useless, dirty, destructive creatures,</i> I reminded myself, echoing my father's words deliberately. I hadn't always agreed with my father, but in this case, he'd been right. This dog smelled, and I could see dirt he'd tracked in already adorning the clean floor, along with long tufts of hair that had apparently just fallen off when Gabe rubbed its belly. My father had definitely been right. Dogs had no practical purpose whatsoever.<br />
<br />
And yet I couldn't help thinking that maybe, just maybe, it would be worth sharing the house with a odoriferous, rackety, furry canine, just to keep that smile on Gabe's face.
<br />
<br />
<i>More to come...</i><br />
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07FL29GYD/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP3GWymfYFc3j-ueZddnBMEWZNO-xxsy5OwFEqS_VVWZiCn80PCK1woAG35rhEj3fQI_DwO7rvr5pY9yFh6ATb6F6U75eAtgAXuSazf9q5zKbVJlc5U-E72OozInjtDmo6f7aqRxmzQTg/s320/Dominance+novel+cover+2.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07FL29GYD/">You can find DOMINANCE on Amazon. </a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948644172425974624.post-35965330936946988372019-01-19T08:08:00.000-08:002019-02-10T13:52:55.809-08:00WOLF ALONE PROLOGUEPrologue from WOLF ALONE, coming in April<br />
Set in the PRODIGAL 'verse<br />
Copyright 2019 by Gem Frost<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“There’s a problem with
your pregnancy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Dr. Rich Bronson spoke
kindly but sorrowfully. His hand rested on Jon MacArthur’s shoulder, steadying
him, which was just as well, or Jon might have fallen over. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“A problem?” Caeden Wolf
stepped forward, putting a supportive arm around his omega mate. “Are you
saying there’s something wrong with our cub?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Not… exactly.” Dr. Rich
blew out a long breath. “The problem is that… there are two of them.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Jon’s amber eyes, which
had been filled with anxiety, lit up. “Two cubs? Are you saying we’re having <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">twins?</i>”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Twins,” Caeden echoed,
unable to prevent the smile that curved his mouth. He understood the light in
Jon’s eyes, because he felt it in his own chest. Having a single cub was amazing
enough, when Pack doctrine had long insisted two men couldn’t have a baby
together, but to know that there were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">two</i>
babies growing inside his mate’s body—well, it was nothing short of a miracle,
and he couldn’t understand why Dr. Rich had called it a problem. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twins?</i> Really?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Yes and no.” Dr. Rich
looked at them, his dark brown eyes serious. “As I said, there’s a problem.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Something’s wrong with
them,” Jon guessed, looking worried again. The light faded from his eyes. “Are
they sick? Are they—what do you call it, conjoined?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“No, no. Nothing like
that. They’re both thriving. The problem is… well, the problem is Pack law.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Caeden bristled, because in his experience, the problem was <i>always </i>Pack law. Since he’d
assumed the role of Pack leader, ruling side by side with his father, he’d been
working to codify Pack traditions into an actual written set of laws, and had set
every lawyer in the Pack into overhauling the town’s legal code. Many of the
traditions had been blatantly unfair, and discriminatory toward lower-ranked wolves,
which meant there was a lot of work to be done. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
But the biggest problem
was that many traditions (particularly regarding Alphas) were about things that couldn’t be spoken of, which
meant the law couldn’t be amended until an issue arose. Caeden was unfamiliar
with any specific laws regarding Alpha children, so this was probably one of
those unmentionable taboos.</div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“All right,” he said,
cautiously. “What is the problem, exactly?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Well…” Rich looked
uncomfortable. “It’s not unusual for Alphas to have litters. Alphas are supposed to have lots of cubs, after all, and a propensity toward having twins or triplets is part of that. But the issue is
that until recently, there could only be one Alpha.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Caeden nodded. He
understood that. Until he’d refused to overthrow his own father, and suggested
that they rule together, it had been understood that he would be the sole Alpha
when he was able to shift into wolf form. It had always been done that way, and
a lot of the townspeople were none too happy that he had decided to change
things. “So?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Don’t you get it, Cae?”
Jon’s voice was strangled. “The firstborn child of an Alpha is always an alpha.
Always.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Of course it is. But what
does that have to do with...<o:p></o:p>” His voice broke off, and
he stared at Rich in shock as he began to get it. “But—but no. Twins aren’t born at the same time—one would
be born first—<o:p></o:p>”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“But they would still
both be alphas,” Rich said. “It has to do with hormones produced during
pregnancy. The hormones act on both of the cubs, not just one. And when an Alpha
has twins as his firstborn children, it causes a problem. They would both gain
the ability to shift on the same day, and then they’d have to battle each other
for supremacy. The loser would be exiled, and that would mean a lone wolf
roaming around in the forest. And lone Alphas are dangerous. Sooner or later,
their instincts drive them to take over a Pack. If not this one, then another.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“So you’re saying…”
Caeden’s throat closed up. He couldn’t even bring himself to say it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“By Pack tradition, when
an Alpha has more than one cub, the younger one is…” Rich looked supremely
uncomfortable. “Left in the forest to die.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Infanticide?” Jon’s
voice rose shrilly, in a rare display of anger. Caeden could hardly blame him.
The idea infuriated him too. “Are you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">serious</i>,
Rich?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“It’s tradition,” Rich
said dully. “Pack law.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“It’s wrong,” Caeden
snapped. “It’s horrific. I’m the Alpha now, and I won’t allow any such barbaric law
to be enforced. Even if it weren’t my child, I would never, ever allow it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“You may find it
difficult to change this one,” Rich said, gently. “You’ve ruffled a lot of fur
already, Cae. And this particular tradition is considered sacred by a lot of
older wolves. The idea that you and your father are both Alpha is shocking
enough, but to raise a pair of alpha cubs would be—<o:p></o:p>”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“I don’t care what the
old wolves think,” Caeden said between his teeth. His arm tightened around Jon,
protecting his omega as well as their two unborn cubs. “I don’t care what kind
of upheaval it causes amongst the Pack. I am not abandoning a helpless baby in
the woods to die. Who the hell would even consider such a thing?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Rich hesitated, and
Caeden’s eyes narrowed. Shock hit him hard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Are you telling me that—<o:p></o:p>”</div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“I’m not telling you
anything,” Rich said hastily. He shifted to formal language, the speech of a
lower wolf cautiously addressing an infuriated Alpha. “But I would like to respectfully suggest that
you might wish to speak to your father on this subject.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Caeden’s teeth bared in a
snarl.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“I’ll do that," he growled. "Right now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“We need to talk.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Five minutes later, Caeden
strode alone into his father’s office, having left Jon with Dr. Rich. His parents still resided in the magnificent
old Victorian dwelling at the center of town, the mansion that had been the
Wolf home for generations, whereas he and Jon lived in the modest little
bungalow-style house that Jon had grown up in. He was, of course, supposed to have
defeated his own father in ritual combat and taken over the big house for himself, his mate, and their children, while
his father and mother lived in the modest guest house on the premises. But somewhere
along the line, he’d lost interest in doing things the traditional way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Which was a good thing,
since Pack traditions so often seemed to be massively fucked up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
His father had been studying
a sheaf of papers (he refused to learn to use computers, claiming that the Pack
had gotten along just fine without them for centuries), and at the sound of
Caeden’s voice, he lifted his head, placing the papers down on his cluttered desk.
He was growing a trifle deaf, or he would have heard Caeden’s footsteps approaching
long before the younger man ever entered the house. But he stubbornly refused
to admit to it, or any frailty, for that matter. An Alpha never showed weakness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The welcoming (if faint)
smile on his face died as he got a good look at Caeden’s face. He rose to his
feet—still an impressive old man, several inches over six feet and powerfully
muscled for his age—and faced his son.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“What is it, Caeden?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Caeden walked into the
office and stopped on the far side of the desk, meeting his gaze. The old man’s
eyes were golden, just as his own were, and it was like looking into a funhouse
mirror—his own reflection, but distorted. The thought sent a chill through him,
but he reminded himself that he was not his father, despite the resemblance. He
didn’t have to make the same mistakes the old man had.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Jon is carrying twins,”
he said shortly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
His father turned white,
and staggered. Startled by the old man’s reaction, Caeden dashed around the
desk, intending to catch him before he fell, but his father simply collapsed back
into his leather chair, so hard that it creaked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Dad! Are you okay?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
His father’s mouth moved
for a long moment, but no words came out. At last he managed to say in a
whisper, “Don’t tell—you can’t tell anyone—not even Jon—<o:p></o:p>”</div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Jon knows already. Dr.
Rich told him. And I’d never keep anything from him anyway.”<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Rich—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">told</i> him?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“He told us both.” Caeden
kept a steadying hand on his father’s shoulder, and consciously modulated his tone,
trying to keep the fury out of it. He didn’t want to give his father a heart attack.
He simply wanted answers. “He also told us that Pack law requires that one of
the babies be abandoned in the woods. Is that true, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Father</i>?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
He never called the older
man Father unless he was supremely pissed, and from the tension of the muscles
beneath his hand, he knew that the old man had noticed it. “Yes. It’s true.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“He also suggested I
speak to you, and gave me the distinct impression that this—this <i>atrocity </i>had occurred previously in Pack history. <i>Recent </i>history.”
He drew in a long breath, then spat out the words in a rush. “So tell me,
Father. Did I have a twin brother?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
His father nodded. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Yes,” he answered
softly. “You did.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
"And you abandoned him in the forest? Left him to <i>die</i>?"<br />
<br />
The Alpha made a valiant effort to straighten his shoulders. He looked up at his son, a hint of anger in the golden depths of his eyes. Whether the anger was sparked by his own long-ago actions or by the younger man's tone of voice, Caeden couldn't tell.<br />
<br />
"No," the Alpha responded. "He's still alive."</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
WOLF ALONE is coming in April 2019</div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Prodigal-Gem-Frost-ebook/dp/B07GL4M7Y3/">Read PRODIGAL now on Amazon</a></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948644172425974624.post-77059574548774134082019-01-12T13:16:00.000-08:002019-02-10T13:32:25.058-08:00No Dogs Allowed<i>A short story set in the Dominance universe</i><br />
<br />
<b>Chapter One</b><br />
<br />
<br />
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No dogs allowed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
That had always been my
father’s rule, back when this was his house. When I inherited the old brick house on the Lynnhaven River and transformed it into a mansion worthy of a billionaire, I stuck with the
rule. Dogs, after all, were dirty creatures, and good for very little except
barking, tracking mud over the floor, and piddling on everything in sight. At
least that was what my father had always said, and I saw no reason to think
he’d been wrong.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Even when my fiancé
Gabriel Mason moved in, and started asking (one might say pestering) about us
getting a dog, I refused. Yes, the mansion was enormous, and a little lonely
sometimes, when either of us happened to be home by ourselves. And of course I
could afford the most expensive dog in the world, if I happened to want one. I
failed to understand Gabe’s desire to “rescue” a random mutt—if one could
afford a purebred, as I obviously could, then surely one would wish to obtain
the best possible example of its breed. At least then it would be decorative.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But the way I saw it,
dogs didn’t really provide much in the way of companionship. After all, they
didn’t talk. All they were really good for was protection—hardly necessary when
one had security guards patrolling the grounds 24/7. I didn’t need a dog around
the house, chewing up thousand-dollar shoes and pissing on irreplaceable Persian
carpets.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“I didn’t have a dog
growing up,” I said during one of our innumerable discussions (one could say
arguments) on the topic, “and I turned out perfectly all right.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Gabe made a rude noise.
“You had a fucked-up childhood, Stephen, and you know it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Maybe so. But it wasn’t
fucked up because of the absence of a dog. After all, you didn’t have a dog
either. Did you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“No.” Gabe sighed,
settling down on the sofa beside me. “We didn’t have the money for it. I always
wanted a dog, but even if we could have afforded it, my dad…” His father was a
sore subject, one he rarely wished to discuss, and he shrugged a big shoulder
and changed tack. “Anyway, a couple of my friends had them. And they were a whole lot of fun.
You can teach them not to tear stuff up, you know.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I doubted that. After all,
dogs were predators, essentially wolves, designed by nature to tear and rend
and destroy. Which was yet another good reason for not keeping them around. Why
would anyone want a small wolf rampaging around their house, wreaking havoc?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I liked order. I liked
calm. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">didn’t</i> like havoc.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Gabe continued his
optimistic efforts to get me to reconsider for several weeks, but I steadfastly
refused to have a dog. I just didn't see the need.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Late one summer afternoon,
as the shadows were growing long, I was headed home in an old black Firebird
(one of my large collection of American sportscars—far from the most valuable,
but I admit to being fond of the big, flashy gold Phoenix decal on the hood,
which collectors lovingly refer to as the Screaming Chicken). All at once,
something zipped across the road in front of me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I instantly slammed on
the brakes, but I felt the car strike something a glancing blow anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I skidded to a halt.
Fortunately it was a quiet back road, and there was nothing behind me. I got
out of the car and looked around, and there, on the side of the road, stood a
dog. Its long coat was brown and white, and if it had been properly brushed and
groomed, I thought it might look a bit like Lassie. Right now it looked more
like an unkempt mop, its fur tangled and grimy. One of its forelegs was lifted
off the ground, and it was staring steadily at me, with what I couldn’t help
imagining as an accusing glare.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“It’s not my fault,” I
informed it. “You ran out in front of me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The dog’s ears twitched
at the sound of my voice, but it didn’t respond otherwise. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Despite my words, I
couldn’t help feeling guilty. I might not see the point in owning dogs, but I’d been
the one to hit it, and I needed to help the poor creature if I could. I took a
cautious step forward, then another, and another. The dog stood still, watching
me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I looked at the leg. It
didn’t seem to be bleeding, and there wasn’t any sign of crookedness that would
suggest a broken leg. But the dog’s careful three-legged posture indicated that
some damage had definitely been done. I edged closer, my heart pounding. I
didn’t know much about dogs, but I suspected any injured animal might lash out
in fear when approached by a stranger.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
This one didn’t. I cautiously
stretched out my hand, and the dog sniffed it, quite thoroughly, then licked
it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Ugh</i>. Its tongue was wet,
and being licked by it was a disgusting feeling. I rubbed my hand on my slacks,
and frowned down at it. It wasn’t wearing a collar, so there was no way of
knowing who it belonged to. Its bedraggled coat looked as if it hadn’t been
brushed in quite some time, if ever, so in all likelihood it was a stray. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“I suppose I need to get
you to a dog hospital. Do they have ambulances for dogs?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The dog’s tail waved,
tentatively.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“You’re not a lot of help,”
I grumbled. “But I’ve never heard of a canine ambulance, so I suppose I’ll have
to give you a ride. Come on, come with me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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In the vague hope that
someone had trained the poor beast, I made a finger-wiggling gesture at it. And
sure enough, it hobbled toward me, in its awkward, three-legged gait. I opened
the passenger side door of the Firebird, and beckoned again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Come on, dog. Get in the
car.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The ratty plume of a tail
wagged again, as if it recognized a word or two. It made a tentative movement
toward the car, but then it whimpered, as if it knew that trying to jump would
hurt too much.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“You can’t possibly
expect me to pick you up. You must weigh fifty or sixty pounds.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The big brown eyes looked
up at me. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I do expect you to pick me up,</i>
they said clearly. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And get a move on. I’m
in pain here.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I hesitated for a moment. If
I lifted it into the car, I was almost sure to cause it more pain. I didn’t
know much about dogs, but I did know it couldn’t be expected to understand that
I was trying to help. And if I did hurt it, it was likely to snap at me. After
all, even humans lashed out when they were hurting.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Except humans didn’t
possess giant fangs, the way this animal did.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I was a businessman and a CEO, and I didn't know the first thing about handling injured animals. I wasn't far from the mansion here, I reasoned. I could call my security people, and they could be here within ten minutes. Very likely some of them owned animals, and could handle the dog more safely than I could. I pulled out my phone, but the big brown eyes looked
at me steadily.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I sighed, shoved my phone back into my pocket, and did the only thing I could do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I bent to pick the dog up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i><a href="https://gemfrost.blogspot.com/2019/02/no-dogs-allowed-chapter-2.html">Read Chapter 2 here.</a></i></div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07FL29GYD/">You can find DOMINANCE on Amazon. </a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948644172425974624.post-13384207808528580612019-01-12T10:51:00.000-08:002019-01-12T20:22:05.361-08:0021<i>A short scene set in the Prodigal universe.</i><br />
<br />
The full moon was mocking him.<br />
<br />
Caeden Wolf glared up at the sky, growling beneath his breath, as if the moon were his mortal enemy. As if his low growl might frighten it into cooperation. His best friend, Jonathan MacArthur, patted him sympathetically on the shoulder.<br />
<br />
"Don't worry, Cae," he said, in his gentle voice. Jon was always gentle. Gentleness was part and parcel of being an omega, of course, but there was more to it than that. Jon was kind and considerate and supportive, more so than anyone else in the Pack, which was why Caeden loved being around him. "The change is going to happen. It always does."<br />
<br />
"Most people change the dawn of the day they turn twenty-one," Caeden answered glumly. "I've never heard of anyone having to wait for it."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, but still, it's only eleven-thirty. Your twenty-first birthday isn't over yet."<br />
<br />
<i>It's damn close to being over,</i> Caeden almost retorted, but he decided not to articulate the thought. Jon was right. There was no point in being negative. Everyone turned on their twenty-first birthday. That was just a simple fact of life, and there was no reason to imagine he would be any different.<br />
<br />
Except... well, everyone else didn't have this heavy weight of expectations riding on their shoulders, did they? He wasn't just any wolf. He was the Wolf, heir to the Alpha, and by now he should have shifted into his wolf form for the first time, challenged his own father in ritual combat, and become the Alpha, leader of the Wolf Green Pack.<br />
<br />
And instead he was hanging out here in the village green at the center of town, sitting on the grass and glaring up at the moon like it might somehow be the problem.<br />
<br />
But no. The only problem here was him. There must be something wrong with him, something inadequate. Maybe he'd never really been meant to lead. Maybe he wasn't strong enough, powerful enough, <i>decent </i>enough. Maybe even if he changed, and challenged his father to the ritual fight, he'd lose, and everyone would laugh at him. And then he'd slink out of town with his tail between his legs, literally as well as figuratively, and Wolf Green would be lost to him forever...<br />
<br />
"Stop worrying." Jon had correctly interpreted his facial expressions, just as he always did. He patted Caeden again, and moved a little closer to him. The village green was wet with dew, and it glimmered silver in the moonlight. The scent of blooming flowers hung heavy on the warm summer breeze, but the floral fragrance was as nothing next to the even sweeter scent of an omega. "You worry too much, Caeden. I know alphas are supposed to worry, but there's nothing to stress over, okay? You're going to change any minute now. I know it."<br />
<br />
Caeden was silent for a long moment. At last he said, "What does it feel like? The change, I mean?"<br />
<br />
Jon had passed his twenty-first birthday a few months earlier. His wolf form was unimpressive, small and brown and a bit scruffy, but he seemed to enjoy changing and engaging in typical canine pursuits--snuffling around the grass and trailing scents, scratching holes in the dirt with his front paws, or chasing squirrels in the forest. Caeden had been waiting for today eagerly, so that he could take the lead in hunting in the thick woods around the town. So that the two of them could hunt in their wolf forms, side by side. He'd been looking forward to it.<br />
<br />
But so far, his birthday had been a complete and total disappointment.<br />
<br />
"It's hard to describe," Jon answered. "Kind of weird, really. You can feel your bones rearranging, but it doesn't hurt. It just feels like everything inside you changes. And when you're in your wolf form, everything is just so... vivid. The smells, the sounds, the instincts..."<br />
<br />
"I want to feel that." Caeden spoke quietly. "I was born to be a wolf. To be <i>the </i>Wolf. I want to know what it's like to embrace the animal inside."<br />
<br />
"You will." Jon reached down and squeezed his hand. It was a private gesture of affection, one he never engaged in around other people. He was only a low-ranked omega, after all, and more than a few of the townspeople frowned upon the close friendship that had somehow developed between such an inferior wolf and the son of the Alpha. But Caeden had never cared about Jon's rank. Jon was his best friend, and that was all that mattered to him.<br />
<br />
<i>I hope you're right,</i> Caeden thought, but he refrained from voicing the words. He glanced at Jon, seeing the faith and respect his friend had for him reflected clearly in the amber eyes. Jon believed in him. Jon believed unequivocally that he'd change, defeat the Alpha, and become the leader of the Pack.<br />
<br />
And of course Jon was right. He'd been born to lead. He could do this. He had to do this.<br />
<br />
He rose to his feet and looked up at the sky. The idea that a full moon was necessary to change was a myth, but it was generally acknowledged that a full moon made the first change a little easier.<br />
<br />
<i>This will be easy, </i>he thought, staring at the bright silver moon. <i>I'll change, and then I'll become the Alpha...</i><br />
<br />
And then everything would change. His father would no longer be leader, and all the responsibilities and worries of running the Pack would become his. Jon would doubtless remain his friend, but the two of them would no longer have much free time to spend together. Even his dream of the two of them running in the woods together, side by side as wolves, wouldn't happen more than once or twice. He'd be expected to find a mate right away, to ensure the continuation of the Wolf line, and once he found her, he'd run by her side instead of Jon's.<br />
<br />
The thought of running through the woods with some nameless beta female, rather than with Jon, caught at his chest. He didn't want that.<br />
<br />
And yet he had no choice. His throat tightened and his muscles tensed. The change was coming. He could feel it.<br />
<br />
Jon rose to his own feet, and stood by his side. <i>Where he belongs,</i> Caeden thought, but he knew it was ridiculous. Everyone knew an omega couldn't really stand next to an alpha. The Pack already frowned upon their friendship, and they'd never accept Jon as one of his deputies, let alone his--<br />
<br />
Well, of course there was no question of Jon being his <i>mate</i>, he reflected, shoving the wayward thought away. Wolves tended toward bisexuality, more often than not, but alphas were always aggressively heterosexual, ensuring they carried on the alpha line. So of course he must be too. The fact that he relied on Jon for everything, that the two of them had been closer than brothers for years, only reflected the simple fact that they were friends. Best friends.<br />
<br />
And their friendship would continue, even when he became the Alpha. He'd make sure of it. No matter what the Pack thought. No matter what Pack tradition demanded.<br />
<br />
When he changed, he'd run in the woods with Jon by his side, damn it.<br />
<br />
Always and forever.<br />
<br />
He felt a strange sensation sweeping through him, a feeling of power and strength, like electricity pulsing through his veins. He threw back his head, letting the animal power surge through him, but as his head fell back he saw Jon out of the corner of his eye, saw the smaller man watching him expectantly.<br />
<br />
All at once he knew he was deluding himself. His friendship with Jon had barely been tolerated, so long as they were only children. But when he changed, he wouldn't be a cub any longer, and a close friendship between a low-ranked omega and the Alpha couldn't be accepted by the Pack. If he insisted on keeping Jon as a friend, he wouldn't be able to win the respect and admiration an Alpha needed. Even defeating the current Alpha, his father, wouldn't be enough to secure their loyalty.<br />
<br />
If he kept Jon by his side, he'd face challenge after challenge to his leadership, and the Pack would slowly be torn apart by strife.<br />
<br />
He could see it as clearly as if it had already happened. It was inevitable.<br />
<br />
The power that had surged through his veings seemed to trickle out of him, fading to nothingness, and he let it go. He turned to Jon, and shrugged.<br />
<br />
"Nothing."<br />
<br />
Jon looked at him, his forehead wrinkling in puzzlement. "For a minute I thought..."<br />
<br />
"Me too. But it didn't happen."<br />
<br />
"Okay." Jon gazed at him with affection clear in the amber eyes. "Then we'll wait. Together."<br />
<br />
They settled back down on the grass, shoulder to shoulder, and waited. But midnight came and went, and Caeden didn't change.<br />
<br />
And a part of him-- a large part-- was glad.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Prodigal-Gem-Frost-ebook/dp/B07GL4M7Y3/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoPVaIiSev7WJx9nsJ2THpe6MGfLZwjg2T-kvxvg9fJUF0F_vtNTmIL-DTsirlXAkbeEyJmuoRUVX8Z0PqhD6XEap7jnlEo9ogZun7LqK-W_uvapfaXhseA3InXMnAFizz6DL428aS-7E/s320/Prodigal-f+%25281%2529.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Prodigal-Gem-Frost-ebook/dp/B07GL4M7Y3/">You can find PRODIGAL on Amazon.</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And look for the sequel, WOLF ALONE, coming soon.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH1gBCYOMI1ihI1f_PRtgz-tXTQAL-7tbmGXNfoQ7MsengBXfmzj078pKMYLdPKlnoUF7C8s6ypJChmB8P_ynXufZV4cjfz_B1W8QbnDnxsMBVzsyntrzVTQZbjTuwGfS_5Nm9LMh-rfY/s1600/WolfAlone-FullSize.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1003" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH1gBCYOMI1ihI1f_PRtgz-tXTQAL-7tbmGXNfoQ7MsengBXfmzj078pKMYLdPKlnoUF7C8s6ypJChmB8P_ynXufZV4cjfz_B1W8QbnDnxsMBVzsyntrzVTQZbjTuwGfS_5Nm9LMh-rfY/s320/WolfAlone-FullSize.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948644172425974624.post-78813121547348917992019-01-08T06:01:00.001-08:002019-01-08T07:13:55.416-08:00Snow Day<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i>A short scene set in the Dominance universe.</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Wake up. Come on, Stephen,
wake up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The voice was annoyingly
persistent, irritatingly loud, and gratingly cheerful. And even worse, it kept chirping
right in Stephen Dominick’s ear. He groaned, and swatted at whatever was
pestering him so rudely.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Go ‘way.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Wake <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">up</i>. It’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">snowing</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“If you’ll go away and
leave me alone,” Stephen mumbled into his pillow, “I’ll give you a million
dollars.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“I don’t want a million
dollars. I want to play in the snow.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Two million dollars.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Snooooooowwwww. Get up,
I said.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Annoyed into movement, Stephen rolled over, flopping onto his back and cracking open an eye with great
reluctance. It was, he noted, morning. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Early</i>
morning, judging from the dark-gold light that streamed through
the windows. Far too early for any sane person to be awake, on a day he didn’t
have to go to work, anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
As the CEO of a
multinational corporation, Stephen didn’t get days off very often, not even on weekends, and
when he did, he liked to sleep in as late as possible. But his fiancé apparently had other plans.</div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
His soon-to-be-murdered fiancé,
if Gabriel didn’t stop pestering him.</div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“How remarkable,” he
grumbled. “It’s snowing. What an absolutely amazing meteorological occurrence.
A truly once-in-a-lifetime event. Can I go back to sleep now?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Nope.” Gabe bounced, actually
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bounced</i>, on the mattress beside him,
like an overgrown Labrador retriever. His face glowed with childish joy, belying
his six-foot-plus height and his heavily muscled body. He was a glorious sight, his ebony hair rumpled, his face angelic in its perfectly-hewn beauty, and Stephen could ordinarily stare at him for hours, transfixed by his unearthly good looks. But right now he wanted nothing more than to shove the other man off the bed. “I told you already. I
want to go play in the snow.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Go ahead. I’m not
stopping you.” Stephen's eyelids began to drift shut, but Gabe poked him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“No. I want to play in
the snow with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Stephen heaved a long,
resigned sigh. “Why do you hate me so much?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“I don’t hate you. In
fact, I harass you unmercifully because I love you. I wouldn’t want you to miss
the joy of creating snowmen, or of making snow angels, or getting your ass
kicked in a snowball fight.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Or freezing my fingers
and toes off. Gabe, surely you realize by now I am not the adventurous sort. Venturing
out into adverse weather conditions, when one can remain comfortable and warm,
strikes me as foolish. On a day such as this, I prefer to sit next to the fire
and admire the snowfall from inside a nice toasty house.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Booorrrring,” Gabe pronounced. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“I’m not boring. I’m
practical. And sleepy. Very sleepy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“The cold will wake you
right up. Come <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">on</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Stephen knew when he was
beaten. He sighed and stretched, then shoved the quilt off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Fine,” he said sulkily.
“Let’s go outside.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
*****<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
It <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> fun. Stephen had to admit that, even if he didn’t want to. Yeah,
maybe he’d rather be in his big bed, nestled snugly between Egyptian cotton
sheets and a pile of warm and cozy comforters, with Gabe's even warmer body curled around him, but this, he acknowledged to himself, was nice. More than nice, in fact.<br />
<br />
It didn't snow all that often in Virginia Beach, which meant every snowfall was an important event, an experience to be enjoyed and cherished. They'd gotten almost a foot overnight, and the snow lay like a fluffy white blanket over the grounds of his home,
making the familiar gardens and trees, now bare for the winter, look fresh and
new again. The storm had passed, and the sky above was a vivid blue, the exact shade of Gabe's brilliant eyes. He turned in a slow circle, admiring the picturesque scene.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
And something hit him
smack-dab in the middle of his chest.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Blinking, he looked down
at his parka, and saw that a snowball had exploded there. He lifted his head,
and stared at Gabe, a steady, measured gaze that would have anyone else shaking
in their snow boots. Gabe just laughed at him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Every year it’s the
same,” he said, chuckling. “You act like you’ve never even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">heard</i> of a snowball fight before.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Stephen didn’t bother to
explain that as a child, he’d never been allowed to engage in anything as
frivolous as snowball fights. He didn’t have to. Gabe knew it all already. Gabe was aware he’d been brought up by a serious father who’d been intent on “developing
his genius,” as Dad had always put it. That meant when other kids were playing
games and watching TV and running around, Stephen was studying violin and art, getting tutored in
math far beyond his grade level, and reading things like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">War and Peace</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Tale of
Two Cities</i>. No kids’ stories for him, only Serious Works. His dad had been
a big believer in Serious Works.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
It had all made him into
the man he was today.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
He still wasn’t sure if
that was a good thing or a bad thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
A second snowball hit him
in the exact same spot. Gabe had played Little League for a while as a kid, and
he had a good arm. Stephen hadn’t had those particular childhood advantages (his
father having been firmly convinced that art and literature and mathematics
were more important by far than sports), but after five years of battling Gabe every time it snowed, he’d become passably good at throwing a snowball.
Besides, he had a killer instinct Gabe lacked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
He was wearing warm gloves, beneath which hid the engagement ring Gabe had given him for Christmas, with its small but precious diamond. Knowing there was no danger of losing his treasured ring in the snow, he bent and hastily
packed together a snowball, and then two, and before long he had Gabe on the
run. The younger man disappeared behind a corner of the huge brick mansion,
laughing like a hyena, and Stephen gave chase, his snow boots thudding through the
heavy snow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
As he came around the
corner, a barrage of snowballs hit him. He dove out of the way and stumbled, winding up
half-buried in a snowbank. He rolled over onto his back and squinted up at the
bright blue sky. Gabe appeared above him, looming over him with the air of a
conqueror.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Do you surrender, Stephen Dominick?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Stephen stared steadily up at him for a long moment,
then grabbed suddenly for his leg. Gabe gave a yelp of surprise, and toppled
over into the snowbank. Stephen climbed on top of him, pinning him, and grinned
down at him in triumph.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“That’s something you
really ought to know about me by now, Gabe. I never surrender.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
He bent, and pressed his
lips to Gabe's. As always, the younger man's arms wrapped around his neck, and his lips
parted, soft and sweet and acquiescent. The snow rose around them in surprisingly deep drifts, and the icy dampness began soaking into Stephen's jeans, but he didn't feel the cold. All he was aware of was the heat and strength of Gabe's big body beneath his.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Sooner or later, he reflected, Gabe always surrendered to him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
But despite his proud words, Stephen thought as he melted against his fiance's body, when it came to Gabe, he always found himself surrendering too. And that was okay, because Gabe made his life better in myriad ways.</div>
<br />
Even on a cold and snowy day, Gabe kept him warm.<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07FL29GYD/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilhyAIZnj-7VO2N3O8Bnxuv14Bs0IlngR7TrqOxExRKh8nG283T7FoLYFQmxWt7MOrfozW73k_qX0b9tJJdV7IibEbjeNwXYhQCj6aCLZi1rdTf0476MRrHuK8e76VUMLdP1n1mQ98ttw/s320/Dominance+novel+cover+2.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07FL29GYD/">You can find DOMINANCE on Amazon. </a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948644172425974624.post-8676248188014780342019-01-05T13:40:00.002-08:002019-01-12T16:32:19.301-08:00Rough, Chapter Two<a href="https://gemfrost.blogspot.com/2019/01/rough-every-week-he-comes-into-bar.html">Read Chapter One here.</a>
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<br />
<i>Jax</i>
<br />
I like to be alone, most of the time. Which is why it was weird that I'd started spending so much time in this bar. <i>O'Reilly's,</i> read the gold letters on the glass door, and beneath that: <i>The Friendliest Place in Town!</i><br />
I hated friendly places. Hated friendly <i>people.</i><br />
So I should really hate the gorgeous bartender. I'd scared off all the women in the place a while ago, but the bartender kept trying. Very definitely a friendly person. Also, almost unbearably beautiful, with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a jawline that could have been hewn out of marble with a chisel... but only by a really, really talented sculptor. Also he had long hair, the color of mid-July. He had it gathered up into a ponytail for work, but it looked like if he put it down it would fall in a golden, shimmering cloud down to his shoulders, like thunderheads touched by early morning sunlight<br />
I wanted to see it that way.<br />
I wanted to see him, <i>any</i> way.<br />
Stupid. There was no reason for me to hyperfocus on the guy. Sure, he was good-looking, and sure, I liked guys just as well as I liked girls. But there were plenty of people in this bar who'd probably go home with me, if I made the slightest effort to be civil. (Not something I'm good at, but I can do it if I try really hard.) Every Friday the place was filled with women in tight jeans and men in leather jackets, all flirting with anything that moved.<br />
And yet every Friday I came in... and watched Blondie like he was the only other person in the room.<br />
I knew what it was, of course. I wanted to sketch him. Had sketched him, at home, any number of times. But even with my memory, damn close to photographic, I couldn't get the aristocratic shape of his nose and the regal lift of his head quite right. Annoying. <br />
What I needed was for him to come home with me.<br />
Not like that. I mean, yes, like that. But also, I needed him to pose for me, so I could draw the exact picture I wanted. My inability to get it exactly right had been gnawing at me, a rodent nibbling hungrily at my insides, since the first night I'd seen him, then gone home and sketched till two in the morning.<br />
I needed to look at him all over. To run my hands over him so I knew every detail by heart.<br />
I needed him. <br />
Need was bugging the crap out of me. Since Jenna, I wasn't used to needing, or wanting. I was usually okay on my own, by myself. I had an apartment and paint and sketchbooks. Didn't need anything else, not really. Not saying I never had anyone over to sketch over bare skin with fingers, but they usually didn't stay long. Which was okay. I didn't need anyone. Didn't want to need him.<br />
So I glared at him when he came by my table again, and gave him my best <i>fuck off</i> look.<br />
Because wanting him so much was really, really irritating.<br />
***<br />
The night was black, touched with purple shadows, as I went out the door of O'Reilly's and into the warm, thick blanket of dark. I didn't drive; didn't need it in a small town and I didn't like going fast anyway. When you went fast, you missed too much. Even in darkness there's so much to see.<br />
I headed down the sidewalk, a concrete river that led toward home, and pulled my leather jacket around me tighter. Chilly for May, and the cold touched my neck and crept downward like the slow slide of a melting ice cube. Around me the streetlamps washed away the purple, casting sickly puke-colored pools of light. Noise flowed around me, the flock of people that hung out around the bars on Friday like geese around a pond, gabbling. The sound of crowds talking always bothered me, static in my ears, or too many radios playing at once. Hard to pick out any one voice.<br />
Which was why his voice, ringing clear like a knife against crystal, startled me.<br />
"Need a ride?"<br />
I turned and saw the bartender, grinning at me from a car colored like my tenth birthday, happy and bright. Car caught my eye, along with that grin-- I'd been very rude to him earlier, and I'd meant to be, so why would he smile at me like that?-- but what I noticed right afterward was his hair. No more ponytail. Flowing around his face and onto his shoulders, sunlight let loose with a vengeance.<br />
I tried for my <i>fuck off</i> look, but for some reason it just didn't work. Opened my mouth to say something sharp, to keep him at a safe distance with stabbing knife-words, but what came out was something else entirely.<br />
"Sure," I said.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948644172425974624.post-3827368369139844552019-01-05T13:33:00.001-08:002019-01-05T21:25:26.984-08:00Rough, Chapter One<i>Every week he comes into the bar where I work, and every week he just sits there morosely sipping his Guinness, and rebuffing all my friendly overtures. He's the most gorgeous guy I've ever seen, and I'd like to spend some time with him, and maybe even take him home. But it's as if he has invisible stone walls around him. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>What is this guy's problem, anyway? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> And how can I break down those walls... and get to know him better? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> A contemporary m/m romance.
</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl3i02p8C1c-wzyZXCvFFUOgEO7QEh0rBtBDCbFELY6J7zl2NlJS_eOUuOhSFW43BNkeS01oqFjgfHbQR5KF9r55l3MRNqKa51dieuRB1wZ2GDIBWnqk69hkth-Gy30bqSDuD4k0BukhA/s1600/rough_gem_frost.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl3i02p8C1c-wzyZXCvFFUOgEO7QEh0rBtBDCbFELY6J7zl2NlJS_eOUuOhSFW43BNkeS01oqFjgfHbQR5KF9r55l3MRNqKa51dieuRB1wZ2GDIBWnqk69hkth-Gy30bqSDuD4k0BukhA/s320/rough_gem_frost.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
Copyright 2018 by Gem Frost.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Chapter One</h3>
<em>Sawyer</em>
<br />
<em><br /></em>
“He’s a little rough around the edges.”<br />
<br />
I snorted as I cleared an empty beer mug off the bar’s shining mahogany surface. “That’s a hell of an understatement, Jenny. He’s an asshole.”<br />
<br />
“I’ll admit he’s kind of, well, <em>rude.</em>” Jennifer Stanton, owner of O’Reilly’s, poured a Guinness stout and slid it over to me. “But at least he tips well.”<br />
<br />
“The last time he was in here, he reduced Tiffani to tears. Twice. Just because a guy’s a generous tipper doesn’t give him the right to pick on the staff, or put his hands all over them.”<br />
<br />
“Hands? Ha.” Jennifer deftly put together a classic martini—Beefeater gin and dry vermouth, with an olive—and handed it to a guy at the bar, flashing her warmest smile. She was an older woman, her once-dark hair streaked with silver, and her smile made people feel at home. “That, at least, is not one of his issues. Haven’t you heard? The man’s a monk.”<br />
<br />
I stole a surreptitious glance at the guy. He was alone—he was always alone—and I’d never seen him hit on anyone, so maybe Jenny was right. Maybe he was celibate. But if so, that seemed like a terrible waste, because he was really something to look at. He wore a black Led Zeppelin t-shirt and tattered jeans that clung to his muscled frame tightly, leaving nothing to the imagination—and when it comes to hot guys, I have a <em>hell</em> of a good imagination. He was broad-shouldered, slim-waisted, and long-legged, a combination that would ordinarily have made me very eager indeed to take that Guinness over to him.<br />
<br />
But he’d been coming into O’Reilly’s pretty regularly for about a month, and I’d already had enough encounters with him to know that I didn’t want anything to do with him. He was entirely too much like his favored drink… dark and bitter.<br />
<br />
“What’s his name? Does he even have a name?”<br />
<br />
“Not sure of his first name,” she answered, “but his last name’s Riddick. The girls call him Big Dick.”<br />
<br />
I choked on air. “Because…”<br />
<br />
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Sawyer. I told you, he’s a monk. If he’s packing a big one, none of us have seen it. Big Dick’s a reference to his personality, not his equipment.”<br />
<br />
A chuckle escaped me. “It suits him.”<br />
<br />
“Look,” she said, giving me her patented stern-yet-fond Mom look, “someone’s got to take that Guinness to him. None of the girls want anything to do with him, so it needs to be you.”<br />
<br />
My own mother died fifteen years ago, when I was only sixteen, and you’d think I’d be immune to the Mom look. But apparently I wasn’t, because I sighed, and put the mug onto a tray, along with a few other drinks. “Fine,” I grumbled.<br />
<br />
<em>What the hell. At least he tips well.</em>
<br />
<em><br /></em>
I made my way slowly around the room, dropping off some girly drinks (a strawberry daiquiri, a sangria, and a Blue Hawaiian) and flirting with the ladies who’d ordered them along the way. Women aren’t my thing, but flirting helps increase the tips, so I’ve learned to fake it pretty well. At last I paused by Big Dick’s table.<br />
<br />
He looked up at me, silent and unfriendly as always. Up close he was so stunning he almost took my breath away. His eyes were the dark, fathomless blue of the Atlantic, his overgrown hair Kahlua-brown. His chiseled jawline was covered with dark stubble, so thick it could almost be called a beard, as if he’d forgotten to shave for the past week or so. It suited him.<br />
<br />
He looked like the baddest of bad boys, as hot as a July day in hell, and despite myself I could feel my heart pounding, could feel the beginnings of lust swirling down my spine and gathering deep in my balls.<br />
<br />
<i>Down, boy,</i> I told myself firmly. After all, he might look like a male model, but he was the devil incarnate. Besides, if Jenny was right, he was celibate, which meant he wasn’t my kind of guy at all.<br />
<em>Maybe he’s married,</em> I thought, and snuck a look at his left hand. But it was free of a wedding ring, or even the telltale dent of one that had been removed. My heart pounded a little faster.<br />
<br />
“Your Guinness, sir,” I said, and placed it in front of him.<br />
<br />
He didn’t bother with thanking me, just lifted it to his lips and took a long sip. I should’ve been relieved—because with this guy, a stony silence was preferable to speech—but I don’t appreciate being treated like part of the furniture by my customers. And I especially resented being ignored by this gorgeous man, for reasons I didn’t care to examine too closely. I couldn’t resist tweaking him, just a bit.<br />
<br />
“Having a nice evening, sir?”<br />
<br />
He lifted his eyes to mine. They seemed a deeper blue than ever, like storm-tossed ocean waves. Dark… and dangerous.<br />
<br />
“It was okay,” he rumbled, in his low baritone, “until you started talking.”<br />
<br />
<em>Jesus Christ. This guy is definitely well-named. What a big dick.</em>
<br />
<em><br /></em>
“Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to disturb you.” I plastered on my Customer Service Smile. In my line of work you learn to smile even while the bar patrons are kicking you in the teeth. It sucks, but it’s part of the job. “How is the Guinness?”<br />
<br />
“Not interested,” he said, and looked down, staring into the dark depths of his drink.<br />
<br />
I frowned, confused. “Sorry?”<br />
<br />
“I’ve seen how you work. Flirting. Like with those women over there. But with men, too. Not interested.”<br />
<br />
The way he talked was odd, like he spat out barely enough words to get his meaning across. As if he couldn’t be troubled to bother creating coherent sentences. But peculiar though his syntax was, the sparse words were enough to annoy me. I could feel the Customer Service Smile slipping and my hackles rising.<br />
<br />
“Asking how your drink is,” I said through my teeth, “is not flirting. It’s basic courtesy.”<br />
<br />
He didn’t bother to look up and meet my eyes again, just stared morosely into his drink.<br />
<br />
“I don’t like <em>basic courtesy,</em>” he said. “Leave me the fuck alone.”<br />
<br />
The Customer Service Smile had completely faded by this point, and so had the heat in my balls. I’d been right, I thought. This guy was a world-class asshole. No wonder he was always alone. Who’d want to hang out with this jerkwad?<br />
<br />
I pressed my lips together, turned my back on him, and stalked back to the bar.<br />
<br />
“The next Guinness he orders,” I informed Jenny, “is going straight into his hair.”<br />
<br />
<a href="https://gemfrost.blogspot.com/2019/01/rough-chapter-two.html">Read Chapter Two here.</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com