Hurt

Very, very hurt right now.  That's the best I can say.  I'm not a mechanic, so I don't like it when I'm thrown under the bus the way I've been thus far.  I'm upset, and it goes to show you have to be very careful about the people you trust.  I thought people knew me, knew that I had integrity and try to give my best whenever I do something, but apparently not.  It's hurtful, it really is.  I have to figure out a way to rise above all of this, but it seems all I'm good for is having my spirit broken.

Ugh.

Lesson learned.  I'll be more careful in the future.

I want a do-over.

Excuse my language, but this has been a very shitty week thus far and it's only Tuesday.

July=Dead Zone . . . Sort of

Which is why I'm only now posting about it in August! Ha! July is the dead zone month for me creatively, because my job . . . the one with benefits that allow me to go to the doctor and maybe survive once I retire (if that is still even an option by the time I reach that point) got insane. I worked a total of 207 hours in July (not counting the editing job I do for Red Rose and etc). Technically, I am only supposed to work 175 hours/month. I had no space in my head for anything creative. At all. I'd try to write and it just looked so foreign and AWFUL. It was not a good look. Even my bosses were like "get some rest."

But did I do that? No. Instead I call myself going out of town EVERY OTHER WEEKEND. What is this foolishness? Granted, the first weekend of July was the 4th, and I went home to South Jersey to the fam--Dad and Cousins I haven't seen in almost two years. I figured it was about time. I also had the opportunity to meet Eve Vaughn, erotica writer extraordinaire. Keep in mind, I've been fangirling her for several minutes, until another member of TST told me she loved my writing.

*gaping*

Right, so obviously, I was like, "we must meet" and we did. And we talked . . . actually not about writing! Which is fantastic, because when you don't talk about writing, you talk about things that make you a writer or give you inspiration/material for writing in far more organic and salient ways, to me, anyway. I learned so much about her, and she me, and we met for much longer than I thought. She's good people, Eve Vaughn, and all of you need to check out her books. And speaking of, we went to Borders, and her book was on the shelf! So of course, I bought it, even though I already had a book with me I wanted her to sign. I want that to be me one day, just browsing through the shelves and see a book with my name on it . . . yes. And then she had the nerve to say (as she signing her books for me, no less) she can't wait until I'm a bestselling author.

Um, whose book was just bought at a bookstore? Certainly not mine! lol

But the bigger thing is that even though she's definitely ahead in the game, she has nothing but well wishes for ME. I'm still learning how to get used to that, all of these established SUCCESSFUL authors who are expecting great things from me. I've not really ever had that in terms of something that's REALLY important to me. Academically, yes, that went without saying. But this writing thing, something that I haven't started sharing with the world with my name until about four years ago . . . I realize I am an infant in this business. I really am, but people are so excited for me.

It's humbling. Mentors rule.

So, two weeks later, the week that I worked 50 hours for my benefits job, I went directly from the work to NYC for the Harlem Book Fair. It was really a last-minute decision, because I was EXHAUSTED, but I need to network. That is something that needs definite improvement in my skillset, I feel, so I went.

Glad I did. I really only sat through two panels: the one on African-American Publishing and the one on Black Romance and Street Fiction. That last one was the main reason I went to NYC, and I wasn't disappointed. Although the Publishing panel was more geared to nonfiction/self-help publishing, it highlighted the importance of African-American booksellers, word-of-mouth, and creative ways to gain access to the resources the major mainstream/white publishers have in comparison. As an African-American author who writes primarily Interracial romances no less, that was a very worthwhile panel for me, because I know it's going to be harder for me to gain access to some of those resources than other types of romance writers. However, the Black Romance panel . . .

I rode on the elevator with Sandra Kitt and didn't figure it out until she sat on the panel.

*dies*

Clearly I was more exhausted than I thought, because Sandra Kitt . . . she was THE FIRST black romance novelist/interracial romance novelist that I EVER read. Ever. And my slow self didn't catch on it was her, which meant I missed a GREAT opportunity to talk to her. But, she was fantastic on the panel. She broke down the history of black romance, kind of shocked it's only a few years older than I am, and she talked about her way of writing her novels. She, like I, can't just have them falling into the bed after a sentence. She takes the slow-burn approach. And considering she was the first I read, maybe that's why I do, too. But it's hard for me to write sex/intimacy just for the sake of it. Like Ms. Kitt, it has to make sense for the characters and the story, or else why bother?

Also on the panel were Leslie Esdaile (LA Banks), Gwynne Forster, and Nathasha Brooks-Harris; and it was moderated by Donna Hill. Just listening to these ladies speak was so informative and wonderful. I learned so much--I think I was probably the only one there with a notepad and writing notes, like I was Black Romance 101 and I had a quiz in two days! After the panel, I found a huge pair of ovaries somehow and approached them all. Ms. Forster actually remembered me from Chicago, which is notable because the only interaction we had was me asking her to autograph my book of hers! Ms. Brooks-Harris, who sat on the panel with me and Ms. Jenkins, gave me a hug and her contact info! And THEN, in a move that surprised even me, I asked them to sign MY proof copies of The Beauty Within and Reconstructing Jada Channing because I didn't have a book of theirs to sign--to give me inspiration and encouragement when I start to lose focus and faith. They did so willingly, even Ms. Banks, who I'd never met until I asked her to sign my book. They were all so gracious and stayed and signed as many books after the panel as they could. The only reason Ms. Kitt couldn't was because she had a panel directly after the Black Romance and Street Fiction one ended, or else I would've asked her to sign too.

After that, I met an online friend who, which shocked me, said I was the first romance novelist she'd ever read. Wha? MORE shocking was she was the SECOND person to tell me this in as many weeks (the first being my coworker who actually read the proof copy of The Beauty Within before I even did--said she loved it. yay!)! She was patient and let me meet some members from Beverly Jenkins's Yahoo Group and the authors to sign my books. Unfortunately, the long week had caught up to me during the panel because I had a headache the size of Jupiter, so she let me get some drugs from the corner market (the combination of the lack of sleep, eating little that morning, the heat (it was HOT), and meeting everyone . . . she was awesome with her understanding). Then I had to hurry to a manuscript pitch, and she had to go to the ATM because she was buying two copies of AJ's Serendipity for me. Yay!

Of course, I got sidetracked walking through the Fair and talked with an author, Lizette G. Carter, who was with a traditional publisher and self-published her second release and doesn't regret the move. This is further ironic because the manuscript pitch I gave was actually for HBF Publishers, a DIY publishing company established by the same person who started the Harlem Book Fair. I thought it was going to be an editor from a publishing house, but I'm glad because I now have yet another avenue to get my books out there, and it sounds like something that people should keep an eye on in the future. They liked my pitch, and apparently so much so because the reps mention me on their blog!

Too cool! Especially since I know I was among the last to have a pitch with them!

But, of course, to further complicate things, I spoke to Ms. Banks again to thank her for signing my book and briefly about my publishing experience thus far, and she encouraged me to talk to her editor at St. Martin's Press, because traditional publishing is the way to go, in her opinion.

So, two votes self-pub, and two votes traditional pub, because Ms. Banks is VERY successful and clearly it's worked for her fantastically.

I don't know what got to me, people, but I must've been either too tired to let my shyness hinder me or the pain medication I took to get rid of the headache gave me some extra courage. I talked to the editor and gave her my card, and she was lovely with giving me advice and quick To-Do and Not-to-Do pointers for when I submit to editors and agents. Considering the fair was winding down, I was very appreciative of her taking the time out to talk to me!

Finally, I leave and meet up with a friend I hadn't seen since I went natural with my hair (so, over five years ago). He gives me the name of his agent, who SELLS books, and we talk about ways in which to get our names out there (he writes, too, mainly commercial fiction/thrillers). I hope I helped him with my limited expertise, but his connections into the publishing industry are really out of control, so I don't see him having such an issue with getting his work into the right hands, and he has a style and a product that lends itself well to crossover/mainstream publication.

So I make it back from my weekend in NYC (complete with an, essentially, two-hour detour to Philly because I got on the wrong bus! yes . . . 50-hour weeks are clearly no good), and then from then until about last Friday not an original thought crossed my head because I had no space. Couldn't really even be excited that my first contracted story The Coach's Counselor was going to be released at the end of the month because I was THAT out of it. I even thought the stuff I'd already written was utter garbage, which made Aliyah want to reach through her monitor and slap me for speaking, in her opinion, utter nonsense.

Well, I'm better now! I'm writing again, on Trolling Nights especially, which those who have read drafts are loving, especially Tim . . . which I really can't blame them because he is a whole lot of hotness (Maybe I'll be nice and post up a few more chapters here, yeah?). The Beauty Within is formatted and ready to go barring me seeing just ridiculous errors in this (hopefully) final proof. Other authors are doing the dang thing and releasing books so I'm never bored when my own characters are trippin'. And I'm an Author Spotlight on Rae's blog! Check it out!

Newly Released: THE COACH'S COUNSELOR

THE COACH'S COUNSELOR
Azod & Blue Presents Labor of Love Anthology
Savannah J. Frierson

Mainstream Romance: Contemporary, MC/IR, Autumn Rose - 40+
ISBN: 978-1-60435-189-7
Cover Artist: Celia Kyle
Editor: Jennifer Puckett
Word Count: 15,040
Release Date: July 31, 2008


Can opposites in life find happiness, or will the dos and don'ts win out?

Forty-something divorcée Doctor Eunice Saunders has already done the "married-with-children" thing, and thirty-something Assistant Coach Bernard "Bernie" Jenkins doesn't do the "women-with-children" thing. But, a chance meeting in a University of Mississippi parking lot has them rethinking their individual "dos and don'ts."

Read Excerpt
(opens in new window)

Purchase

~~~

This is my first contracted story to be released. This is also my first romance to feature two African-American leads. And finally, I really like this story. It's sweet and sensual and Bernie is very, very hot. I probably shouldn't admit I have a crush on a fictional character of my creation no less, but I REALLY like Bernie. And I want to be Eunice when I grow up. These two surprised me when I started writing Vietnam Story, but when I wrote their story here, I realize it made so much sense. They balance each other out very well, I think, and they're just good people. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Sav

The Second Half of 2008

The first half wasn't half bad. Heck, I'd go so far as to say it was fantastic. It started off with a partial request from a major publishing house and it flowed into finishing TWO manuscripts (now three with the completions of Vietnam Story; and yes, that is now down from the Google Group) and meeting a whole bunch of truly amazing people--both writers and readers and just . . . people. Yes, some personal things I had to deal with, but right now, this very second, I don't think I've ever been as content. And the good news isn't really directly related to me. Two of my good friends . . . friends who knew me before I was ever a writer, have amazing things going on in their lives, and that just makes me so happy for them.

Then, come to find out that I'm in the Harvard University Library System--once for my thesis, and once for Being Plumville. Um. Holla. I'm going to start calling Being Plumville "the little self-published book that could", because it's certainly gone above and beyond any expectation I could've possibly had for it Sales-wise, it's doing pretty much as expected--but the reception I've gotten for it . . . just wow, and just thank you. And now I get to go back to my high school to tell the chirens to start reading and keep reading; to start writing and keep writing. What? Lord, didn't I just LEAVE that place? The liaison at the school keeps telling me everyone speaks so highly of me there. Um, okay? Not that that's a bad thing, but many of the teachers I had when I was there don't work there anymore . . . but my friends have to remind me that as a young, black woman who went to Harvard and is now a published author . . . that's a big deal. Sometimes you need that outside perspective, because things that aren't humdrum can seem to be when it's happening to you; that just because things are expected doesn't mean they aren't exceptional. Nevertheless, I hope I can live up to the hype!

I should have the release of my short story The Coach's Counselor at some point probably during the summer, maybe around August.

I hope the second half of '08 is more glorious than the first for everyone!

Mentors/Reflection

It is important to have them whatever you do in life, and I've been blessed to almost stumble upon them. My first one in the writing biz was a fellow writer named Mirevas (it's her pen name). She's not published, but she should be. She's one of the people who helped me shape the first draft of Being Plumville. I had a different ending, and she flat-out asked me "this is not the ending you really want, is it?" The fact she knew that blew my mind, and it was because of her I got the courage to write the ending that was truly inside, and I think it does the novel much more justice than the first ending could've.

Then I joined various message boards to learn about the industry. I got to IMRR and RICH, and the ladies there have been exceedingly helpful and encouraging. I "met" Aliyah Burke there, and my fangirling self sent her an e-mail I never thought would be answered because she's this amazing published author and I'm still trying to get my life together. Turns out she's been one of my biggest rocks and actually the first person to buy Being Plumville (she got the e-book). She's been such an invaluable mentor and friend to me, and one day I hope we can meet face to face (sans paper bag :-P).

Then I joined Jayha Leigh's group. I'm not very active because I'm shy; don't really have much to contribute to many of the topics; and they are some of the most outrageous (in a good way) group of people I've ever seen! From there I got hooked up with Jayha (obvs), her daughter Jeannie, Rolonda, and Shara Azod (just to name a few). Apparently, some of my stories have been "claimed"; some heroes have been "bookmarked" lol; and now I'm doing some editing for them. I was surprised because they write Erotica (random: yeah . . . don't think I will. I know I made a blog post saying I would, but at the moment, nothing erotic in nature has floated through mah brainz yet). But, heck, if I don't write erotica and enjoy their work, I'm sure the vice-versa could happen too. And it did.

And then I finally got the courage to go to my local RWA chapter . . . and its conference. Just about everyone is published there at some of the biggest houses in the romance industry. I was concerned because I was the youngest and, based on my attendance so far, the only person of color and the only person writing IR/MC. I thought I wouldn't fit in. The ladies in my chapter have been nothing but helpful and supportive. The conference really sealed it, because they were so eager to help my lost, newbie self, and now I feel like part of the group. I sat and talked to Ashlyn Chase for over and hour and she gave me such great advice; and I actually drummed up the courage to talk to Suzanne Brockmann (and if you know how shy I am, you know how huge of a thing that was for me!). That's how comfortable and supported I felt, and that was so appreciated.

And then RSJ. Man, what a conference. All these people whose books I bought now have a face to a name. People I thought had never heard of me came up to me and said I was a great writer. People gave me contact info, check in on me . . . are there when I have questions/concerns/fears/good news. I need that. I don't really have that. A lot of times I think I'm talking to the ethers, that no one is really reading this blog or reading what's on my group, and then I get an e-mail from someone encouraging me. I think for so long I've been used to me, myself, and I, that I'm still shocked and amazed that there are others, others who just solely based on what I've written, are behind me and rooting for me. It's overwhelming and humbling and I'm so grateful. Beverly Jenkins, Lisa G. Riley, Marcia Colette, Monique Lamont, Kimberly Kaye Terry, Celeste O. Norfleet, Alice Wootson, Kayla Perrin, Leslie Thompson, Sean Young, Simone Harlow, Farrah Rochon . . . just yo, man. I was in the presence of greatness for real. And then people would sit and talk to me for lengths of time because they were interested in what I had to say? Blew me away. Isis, a member of IMRR/RICH who was in our groups said "people just need to ask you the right questions, and you open up." I guess she was right, because I talked more about my writing then than I ever had. I didn't feel . . . ashamed about it, that I'd care much more than the listener would. I didn't have to be uncomfortable about my love for my craft, and it felt good. There was one moment I found myself as the mentor to someone else . . . a little Twilight Zone moment for me, but I also felt extremely honored she wanted my advice and was taking it to heart.

And speaking of IMRR, Crystal Hubbard wrote me one of the most jaw-droppingly fantastic e-mails ever. She is published many times over, and when I first saw her on the board, I was intimidated by her (but I'm intimidated by published authors in general . . . I'm working on getting over that; RSJ definitely helped me on that front!). I had no idea she'd read my book, but she wrote me back about it. Yeah. Yeah. I tell you when I first started writing that book, I had no idea about the reception I would get--let alone it would be this positive. But for this published author, an author very beloved given her reception on the IMRR board, to take time out to write me back about it . . . just wow.

She wrote me a birthday ode too!

And then other mentors are not even writers at all, nor are they older. They are the people who have the faith and confidence in me . . . sometimes FOR me . . . and I'm glad they're there. Too many to name, but they know who they are.

I'm home for Memorial Day weekend. Last year this time I had my very first book signing. A lot of wonderful things have happened over the course of the year. I'm very grateful.

ETA: I keep adding onto this post! I also want to shout out Karyn Langhorne and Wendy Coakley-Thompson, too, and their on-hiatus show The Book Squad. It was a fantastic show and an honor to be on there! They've also been very encouraging and I appreciate it.

A Quarter-Century Later . . .

Today is my birthday. I can rent a car without the extra underage fees. Yes, that is the highlight of my birthday, the thing I've been most looking forward to in the past year (other than, you know, possible agent/book contracts . . . baby steps . . .). Also, Red Rose Publishing has released Designing Berlin by Shara Azod, which is also the second edited book I've done for them. Go out and buy it! It's a great story by a very talented author about meeting your love/destiny and whether or not you have the courage to accept it or not. So, in order to celebrate these auspicious occasions, I will be posting the unedited first chapter of an WiP called Trolling Nights. Just to show you fine people I am working on some things. Hopefully, you will enjoy!

Savannah

One

© 2008 by Savannah J. Frierson

Bevin Moore hated Trolling Nights. It was the night the group of them from the coffeehouse went out to the bars near base so they could find men who would provide a good time. There was a ritual and everything—the trip to the pharmacy to buy condoms; the alcoholic pregaming at her apartment; the check to make sure everyone had charged cell phones and valid IDs; the dropping of a set of keys into her palm because she was always, always, the designated driver. They would only hit three stops on any given Trolling Night, because the one and only time they’d decided to make a night of it, Bevin had ended up sleeping on some guy’s random futon. He’d driven her and one member of the crew to his apartment so they could have a little fun, and Bevin had been too exhausted to fight—but she was damned if she weren’t going to stay with her car. That meant the ladies had three chances to find prospects. If not, they all went home in her car, because, damnit, Bevin wasn’t ever sleeping on a stranger’s futon again.

“Designated driver, I designate the rules,” Bevin had decreed when the others had tried to fight her on it. “Otherwise, y’all better bring extra money for a taxi, because I’ll be gotdamned if any of you heffas drive drunk or go home with men who y’all ain’t no gotdamn business being with—I don’t wanna see y’all on the morning or evening news the next day!”

She was also the unofficial official gatekeeper of the Femme Crew, as dubbed by the owner of The Barrel, the bar where they always make their first stop.

Every man knew this too. In fact, most men went directly to her before they even approached their chosen girl for the night. If a man were new in town, he’d be schooled quickly so he could avoid being “read his rights” in a most public manner. Some men tried to be rude with Bevin, but she would smile and tell them she’d heard better insults from a mute dog, then watch their intended lambaste them for daring to speak ill about “her Bevin.”

Rarely did she or any in the Femme Crew pay for their drinks, either. Bevin would try to leave a nice overall tip before they left any establishment because she would usually get a water or a sweet tea or a lemonade. Since the other women made it a mission to get plastered and laid, Bevin had to be in full control of her faculties to make sure the others remained as safe as possible—

Or at least prevent them from having a case of regrets almost as large and painful as their headaches would be the next morning.

Nevertheless, it was a successful night if she drove home alone. Everyone found someone with whom she’d have a good time, and Bevin felt reasonable safe she hadn’t allowed a lunatic to take a member of the Femme Crew home.

And if she did, at least she had a working cell phone of theirs. No one was to leave without her getting the man’s cell phone number, and she always called it back with the man present. If a phone didn’t ring or vibrate, the girl wasn’t going home with him.

Ever.

Bevin wished Trolling Nights would end soon, though. They were getting too old, and the pickings weren’t getting any better. Right now, they were at The Barrel, a roadhouse-type bar with peanut shells and other things she couldn’t recognize decorating the faux-wooden floor. She was sitting in their designated booth watching the some of the others in the Femme Crew dance. Any moment, Bevin thought, they’ll be doing it in the middle of the dance floor—or at least trying to! She didn’t particularly relish having to get up to tell them to take it to the bathrooms should it reach that point.

“Won’t be the first time,” Bevin snickered to herself. It was a wonder how she even got on with these women. They were hedonistic creatures who worked at the coffeehouse near the NEX with her. During those hours, they rarely had nothing to talk about, and they got along just fine. But at night, they turned into people Bevin didn’t recognize, and probably wouldn’t associate with if she hadn’t known about their daytime personalities. In fact, she hadn’t even known about Trolling Night until they’d invited her to come along, saying she needed to “get out more.”

Bevin should’ve realized that was actually code for “keep us out of trouble.”

She was damn good at her job, though, if Bevin said so herself, and she wore her badge of “Cock Blocker” proudly. Besides, it was only the unworthy who were denied, and Bevin would never apologize for that.

Tim Capshaw dangled the bottleneck between the index and middle fingers of his right hand, staring intently at the booth where the singular young woman with a curly bob stared sentry-like onto the dance floor. Tim wasn’t exactly sure why his eyes had stopped on her during his slow casing of the joint, but they had. Maybe it was because she looked so out of place—and it wasn’t because she was one of the few black bodies in the building. It was her rigid posture; the fact she wore a black top that covered more than exposed; and the fact there was a three-foot empty radius around her that was rarely broken by anything other that women or servers who would chat her up for a few seconds then leave her alone again. She didn’t seem sad or depressed, either, which further intrigued him. She looked comfortable in her skin, and to Tim, that was sexy as hell.

There was a continuous hum of sound in his left ear, and Tim realized it was of a slim brunette who had one of the most stunning pairs of blue eyes he’d ever seen, but a body with more angles than a stop sign. Tim gritted his teeth and took another swig of his beer. Her interest wasn’t reciprocated, unfortunately, but he would give her a B+ for effort.

“Ah, you found her,” the brunette said, pointing toward the black woman he’d been watching earlier. “If you go over there with a drink or something, chat her up, then I’m sure she’ll give you permission to take me home tonight.” The brunette ran her tongue over her bottom lip in what he assumed was supposed to be a provocative gesture. Tim took another sip from his beer so he wouldn’t laugh in her face.

“Is she your mother or something?” he asked dryly, his Alabama drawl almost sprawling as the alcohol started taking effect. He looked at the brunette with a raised eyebrow. “Your sponsor?”

Her eyes fluttered and her cheeks turned red. He grinned. The woman was much cuter when she blushed.

“Nothing like that,” she assured him, resting her fingers on his muscular forearm. He watched her painted-red nails catch some of the dim amber light in the bar as she flexed her fingers. He switched his bottle from his right to left hand, the muscles underneath her fingers cording when he gripped the bottle. This time he didn’t hide his smile when she unsuccessfully stifled her whimper.

“Who is she, then?” Tim asked, staring at the brunette when he really wanted to look back at the booth.

“Our gatekeeper.”

“Gatekeeper?”

“She keeps the losers away from us.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And what makes you think I’m not a loser?”

“Other than the fact I know you wear a trident?” she asked, her blue-eyed gaze roving slowly over his form while her fingers caressed his forearm. “You don’t have the look of a loser.”

A corner of Tim’s full-lipped mouth curved. “Looks can deceive.”

“I’m nothing if not adventurous.”

The brunette smirked and leaned against the bar. Tim drank the final few drops in his bottle and set it on the bar in front of him. “What’s her poison?”

“Who, Bevin?”

“Is that her name?” Tim asked, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Yeah, and um, nonalcoholic, I know—she’s our DD.”

He nodded and tapped on the bar. When the bartender approached, Tim ordered. “Can I get a Diet Coke and another one of these?” he asked, pointing to the empty beer bottle. A few moments later, both orders appeared before him, and Tim slapped down a ten. “Keep the change,” he drawled, and the bartender nodded thanks.

“Come back and let me know what she says, yeah?” the brunette commanded when Tim slid off the barstool.

Tim didn’t answer her, already stalking toward his quarry.

Bevin immediately went on alert when she spotted the jolly white giant of a man, except his expression was anything but jolly. Though his stonewashed jeans were loose, they didn’t hide the muscles in his legs and thighs, and his white Polo shirt strained against his broad chest. His hair, the color of sun-burnished wheat, was wavy and cut economically yet stylishly about his head. He was clean-shaven, highlighting his chiseled cheeks and jaw, and a mouth that had Bevin licking her lips wanting to sample a taste. Whichever one in the group who had managed to reel him in was a lucky bitch indeed. She just hoped he weren’t an asshole.

“Bevin?”

She almost creamed her pants. His voice was smooth, deep, and decadent; and his Southern drawl made her bite her lip so she wouldn’t ask him to say her name again, which was notable since Charleston was full of men with Southern dialects. She nodded instead.

“I’m Tim Capshaw. Your friend said you didn’t drink alcohol, so I got you a Diet Coke. That all right?”

Bevin looked over at the bar where she saw Courtney with her hands underneath her chin as if in prayer. Bevin nodded again and got her equilibrium back.

“Coke’s fine, thanks,” Bevin said, and pointed to the bench across from her. “Have a seat.”

Tim raised his eyebrows, yet did as told, his mouth widening slightly. She tried not to stare.

“You make this seem like a job interview.”

Bevin shrugged. “If that’s the way you feel, I won’t stop you.”

Tim cradled his beer bottle between his hands and stared at it. “I’m not sure how to proceed here.”

“What would you like to know?” Bevin asked, endeared by the fact he didn’t immediately start spouting lines or empty promises.

Tim licked his lips and looked at her. His sea-green eyes seemed to sear into her soul, and Bevin dropped her eyes immediately. She took a sip of her Coke and winced as the bubbles burned her nostrils.

“All right? Flat?” Tim asked, frowning at her.

“Fine, sorry,” she said with a small cough, scrunching up her nose. “It’s been a while since I had a soda.”

His frown deepened. “Shit, well, I’m sorry—what do you really want? Let me get you something you’d like.”

Bevin couldn’t stop her shiver and she cleared her throat, licking her lips. “Uh, a sweet tea or a lemonade—but you don’t have to.”

He grinned at her, and the fact his upper two front teeth were crooked did little to make her breathless from his smile. “I don’t mind. I aim to please.”

With a parting wink, he left the booth to slink back to the bar. Her eyes followed his progress, her body still quivering from his voice, her skin still burning from the heat of his gaze. This was the first time she’d ever wished she could be as free as the others in the Femme Crew, for she wouldn’t mind taking home that corn-fed redneck boy home for a night at all.

“What did she say?”

Tim blinked at the brunette from earlier, then ignored her question. “May I have a lemonade? No alcohol.”

“Is that for Bevin?” the brunette asked, confusion and impatience in her voice.

“She doesn’t drink sodas,” Tim said, barely sparing her a glance.

“Oh, sorry,” the brunette said with a shrug. “Did she hand down a verdict yet?”

“All we’ve done is exchange names,” Tim replied, staring at the bottles and glasses behind the bar instead of the woman beside him. Even if Bevin deemed him fit for this woman, this woman wasn’t fit for him. The fact she didn’t know her “friend” didn’t drink sodas said a lot about their relationship.

“Here you are,” the bartender said, setting the lemonade in front of Tim.

“Thanks a lot.” Tim put a five on the bar and waved away the change the bartender tried to return.

“Aren’t you a generous soul?” the brunette commented.

“I try to be,” Tim said. “I believe in karma.”

The brunette gave him a sultry smile that he returned, and she twiddled her fingers in goodbye. As soon as he looked away from her, Tim rolled his eyes and sighed. It didn’t matter this was his first night out in months; he wasn’t that hard up for a screw that he’d bed the first willing woman he met.

No, he thought, smiling when Bevin’s eyes brightened at the sight of her lemonade. I do have standards.

“How is it?” he asked, watching her take a long drink. She closed her eyes and licked her lips. His cock hardened in his jeans.

“Glorious, thank you,” she murmured and took another sip.

“You’re very welcome.” He saw her glance toward the bar and she snorted. The sound made him smile. “What?”

“I’ve never seen Courtney so anxious for my opinion in my life!”

Tim didn’t bother turning his gaze. “That’s her name?”

Bevin didn’t seem surprised or offended that he’d been ignorant of that particular information. “Yes. She’s a barista at the coffeehouse near base along with the rest of us.”

“I’ll bet you’re the manager.”

Bevin ducked her head, and if there’d been better lighting, he would’ve seen her blush. “How could you tell?”

“They listen to you. Defer to you. I doubt they’d do that so willingly off-hours if they didn’t have to do it on hours.”

“Courtney’s the assistant manager. Very helpful. She likes to have a good time.”

“And what about you, Bevin?” he asked, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table. “What do you like to do for fun?

She blinked at him, confusion clear on her face. “Me?”

“Yeah, you,” he said with a nod. “When does Courtney become the designated driver?”

Bevin frowned and shook her head. “I’m always the designated driver. The Gatekeeper.”

“I got that spiel earlier,” Tim said and jerked his head toward the bar. “Courtney let me in on that detail.”

Bevin’s shoulders sagged with obvious relief. “Well, you don’t have to worry. I think you’re a cool guy. You can let Courtney know I approve—but you have to give me your cell number.”

A corner of Tim’s mouth lifted. “Why?”

“Don’t you worry about that. Just give me your number,” Bevin said, already whipping out her cell and preparing to dial. Tim was impressed her cell phone was an actual phone, and not one of those mini computers with a keyboard, camera, camcorder, and remote to access control of orbiting satellites that seem to be all the rage nowadays. He recited his number to her, and she punched in the digits accordingly.

“Thank you very much,” Bevin said and put her phone back in her purse.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Bevin asked, sipping more of her lemonade.

“Don’t I need your number?”

The confusion was back. “For what?”

“If I need to get in touch with you.”

“Courtney has it.”

“But I want it for myself.”

Bevin narrowed her eyes at him. “This is new.”

“What?”

“A man wanting my number. Are you new around here?”

“I’ve been away for a few months,” Tim admitted. “Why?”

“Men rarely ask for my number,” Bevin said. “I mean, I’m actually still surprised you’re here. After I give ‘my blessing’, men usually high-tail it away from me just in case they say something stupid and I revoke my permission.”

Tim laughed and Bevin’s eyes narrowed even more. “I can’t believe you’re serious!”

“As a heart attack—there’s a reason they call me the Cock Blocker.”

Well, his certainly pulsed at that. “Because you keep the losers away.”

“Damn straight I do,” Bevin said with a nod.

“And who cock-blocks for you?” Tim asked softly.

Bevin’s laugh was too loud to be genuine. “Boy, please! Ain’t no cocks interested in me!”

Tim let his eyes roam over Bevin. Her black top had an enticing V collar that exposed her cleavage. Her skin was the color of nutrient-bearing topsoil, and the gardener in him approved very much. She was a thick woman, a woman with an abundance of curves in all the right places; a woman he didn’t think he’d ever break during a night of passionate loving.

“You’ll forgive me if I find that hard to believe,” Tim said.

Bevin shrugged. “That’s just because you haven’t seen the rest of the Femme Crew yet.”

“I really don’t think my opinion will change,” Tim said seriously.

Bevin squirmed in her seat and took another drink of lemonade. “Well, ah,” she began and pointed to a pretty petite Asian woman who was dancing with a very happy black man. “That’s Patrice. She works in the coffeehouse—all of us do, actually—and she’s usually the first one to get a suitor. She’s a really sweet girl, too, so I’m extra careful about who I allow to be with her.” Bevin scanned the dance floor and then pointed again. “See the blonde? Tall as hell with a sick body? That’s Tamara, and she leaves a trail of broken hearts and blueballs wherever she goes.”

Tim crossed his legs at that even as he stared at the blonde woman who was dancing with three men at once.

“You’ve met Courtney. She’s my roommate, so I’m also extra careful with whom she chooses.”

“And I passed,” Tim reminded Bevin.

She rolled her eyes but grinned. “Yeah, you don’t suck.”

“And finally . . . there she is! Rosita,” she said and pointed to a cinnamon-skinned woman with thick curly black hair. “She’s Cuban, and when she gets really mad she speaks in rapid Spanish.”

“Do you speak Spanish?” Tim asked.

Bevin shook her head and laughed. “Not enough for me to figure out what the hell she’s saying!”

He would’ve laughed, too, had he enough breath for it. The way her eyes sparkled with her mirth sucked all the air from his lungs. The contrast of her golden eyes to her dark skin was astoundingly beautiful, especially when she had a smile that matched.

“Anyway,” Bevin said sheepishly and coughed. “That’s the Crew.”

“So I see,” Tim replied. “And I’ll ask again—who cock-blocks for you?”

Bevin sat back and looked at him weirdly. “I show you everyone and you still—?”

“Hey, Bevin! Thought I’d come over and see how things are going!”

Bevin snapped her attention to Courtney who was busy staring at Tim. The red tube top pressed tight against her chest, and Bevin wondered how it felt not having to worry about bras like she did.

“Everything’s fine,” Bevin promised, giving her friend and roommate a small smile.

Courtney slid into the booth next to Tim, who seemed surprised and a little annoyed that he had to scoot over to accommodate her.

“The girls are having fun,” Courtney commented, looking on the dance floor. Patrice waved at them as she ground against her dance partner. Tamara was twirling two men underneath her arms and Rosita was in a heavy lip lock.

“There she goes!” Courtney laughed and Bevin smiled. “No one is going to catch up to her tally.”

“Tally?” Tim asked.

Bevin blushed and Courtney grinned. “You know, the notches on her bedpost? She’s definitely in the lead!”

“But I thought Patrice got the most men,” Tim said.

“She gets the most suitors, but many of them think she’s easy. You know, the whole Asian women stereotype. I nip that with a quickness,” Bevin said.

“Rosita gets the most leeway because Rosita and Bevin have known each other the longest and Rosita knows capoeira. She can kick some ass,” Courtney said. “She’s started teaching us a few moves just in case . . . you know.”

“Are you any good?” Tim asked, looking at Courtney with interest for the first time since she’d sat down.

“I’m not bad at it,” Courtney said. “But surprisingly, Bevin’s the best at it so far.”

“Why is that a surprise?” Tim asked, looking at Bevin with a look Bevin thought was more appropriate for Courtney. “She looks more than capable to me.”

Bevin and Courtney gaped at him, but Courtney recovered first and slid her hand to Tim’s. “Dance with me.”

Tim still looked at her and Bevin shrugged. “I already told you, you passed my test.”

“Only if I get to dance with you later,” Tim said, ignoring the way Courtney was tugging on his hand.

“I don’t generally dance—”

“Just tell him yes, Bev,” Courtney pleaded.

Those sea-green eyes stared intently at her and Bevin found herself nodding. “Okay.”

He smiled, and both Bevin and Courtney sighed at the sight. “Thank you, Bev, you’re the best!” Courtney cheered, and she pulled the tall man onto the dance floor.

The DJ was on point tonight. The bass thumped and shook the furniture, and even Bevin couldn’t stop from bouncing in her seat to the beat. A few of the others from the Crew and their partners came up and spoke to her. The man with Patrice seemed completely enamored, which had Bevin thinking they would make an adorable couple.

“Ulrich said he’d drop me home,” Patrice told her.

“Ulrich?” Bevin asked, and the black man grinned at her. He really was handsome—well built with closely shorn hair and a mustache, his skin the color of a Werther’s Original.

“My old man was in the Army; named me after one of the men in his squad,” Ulrich explained.

“And you’re Navy?” Bevin asked.

“Part of the Teams,” Ulrich said.

I love him! Patrice mouthed dreamily, and Bevin bit her lip to keep from laughing.

“Congratulations,” Bevin said instead.

“Thank you,” Ulrich said. “Want to dance?”

This time Bevin did let out a chuckle. “Trying to butter me up?”

“Naw, girl, nothin’ like that,” Ulrich said, but he winked. “I see you jammin’ over here and my girl wants to take a break.” He rubbed Patrice’s shoulders. “So how ’bout it?”

“You okay with this?” Bevin asked Patrice.

“It was my idea!” she said, grabbing Bevin’s hand and tugging. “Have some fun. I think it’s ridiculous you always make sure we have fun but don’t have any yourself!”

Bevin scowled at that, but couldn’t respond because Ulrich was leading her to the dance floor and twirling her around in time with the music. He spun her so her back was to his front and he settled his hands on her hips. He certainly shook what his mama gave him, and it made it easy for Bevin to do the same. She heard Patrice whistle and catcall, and Bevin shook her head at her friend’s antics.

“Go ’head, girl, dancin’ like this Soul Train!” Ulrich encouraged.

“Boy, please!” Bevin scoffed.

“I’m serious,” Ulrich said, and Bevin sensed his sincerity. “Best dancer here!”

Bevin snorted. “We’re also two of the four black people in here!”

Ulrich laughed loudly at that and popped her hip. “You said it, not I! Wrong for that!”

“You were thinking it,” Bevin challenged.

Ulrich laughed again. “Not gonna lie; not gonna lie . . .”

It was the most fun she’d had in a long while thanks to Ulrich, and when the song ended and a slower one began, Bevin gave Ulrich a hug and started off the dance floor. She didn’t get very far, however, for a warm, damp hand curled around hers, and a shiver better served for a wintry evening than a hot, sweaty bar overcame her.

“You owe me a dance,” came the drawl in her ear.

“I’m kind of tired,” Bevin mumbled and started forward, but the hand around hers tightened.

“It’s a slow one, little energy required.” The hand pulled her gently until she faced Tim Capshaw. He was smiling at her, and Bevin squelched down the urge to hide her face in that broad, muscular, sexy chest of his.

“Where’s Courtney?” Bevin asked, looking everywhere but at him.

“Back at the booth,” he replied. One hand settled on her hip, and she noted his touch felt very different from Ulrich’s. More potent. His other hand grasped hers and he rested both against his chest. He was so tall. She had to crane her neck to look into his eyes, which she did fleetingly.

“Something wrong?” he asked after the third time they locked eyes before she darted hers away.

“No.”

He brought her closer, and she trembled.

“I’m making you nervous?” Bevin didn’t answer him. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” she asked.

“You’re so stiff and you won’t look at me.”

“Isn’t this just a pity dance?” Bevin asked before she could tell herself to shut up.

His brows furrowed. “Why would you assume this is a pity dance? Did you think Ulrich’s dance was a pity dance too?”

This time she had no problem pulling back and meeting Tim’s eyes. “Y’all know each other?”

“We’re on the same Team.”

“You’re Navy?” Bevin asked, then she gave him a quick once over and sucked her teeth. “’Course you are, with a body like that!”

She did not just say that aloud! Bevin stole a peek at him, and he was blushing and grinning down at her. Her embarrassment overrode her wariness over being so close to him and she hid her face in his chest.

“Such an idiot,” she muttered.

“You are not,” he disagreed and patted her back. “You’re really sweet. Thank you.”

Bevin just moaned.

“And for the record, this is not a pity dance. This is just a man wanting to dance with a nice, sweet woman, okay?” She nodded and started to pull back, but his hand pressed against her. “Where are you going?”

“I’m all up on you,” Bevin explained, then blushed at how it sounded.

She felt his chest rumble with his chuckle. “I happen to like just where you are, Miss Bevin.”

She shivered again, but decided to relax. The song would be over soon, anyway.

And it was, but Tim wouldn’t let go of her. Bevin laughed cautiously and tapped his hard bicep.

“You can let go of me now,” she said.

“And what if I don’t want to?”

This man was throwing too many curves at her this evening. “Courtney will get upset.”

Tim clenched his jaw, then he slowly dropped his arms from her form. Bevin immediately felt bereft, but she’d rather deal with that than with Courtney mad at her.

“Thank you for the dance,” Bevin said quietly, and she left Tim standing on the dance floor. She felt numerous sets of eyes on her, but it was the set behind her that affected her the most.

1st Red Rose Publishing Release

Bound by Magic is the first manuscript I edited for Red Rose Publishing. The story is an erotic paranormal/fantasy romance about Amber and Travis who are from two different worlds, yet they are, as the title says, bound by magic. I don't really read paranormal, but I did enjoy reading this story. I'm glad Amanda Cummings gave me the opportunity to work with her, my guinea pig, and she was very patient understanding. Check it out!