Bronwyn Green

The Corner of Quirky & Kinky

 

Octavia turned up the flame in the gas lantern mounted on the wall of the subterranean workshop.  There was barely enough light to see, but she couldn’t risk bringing her work upstairs. If the guild realized what she was attempting to do, they’d stop her. And she couldn’t let that happen–not when she was so close.

Sliding her goggles over her eyes, she turned on her headlamp then wiped her greasy hands on her oilcloth apron. The last thing she needed to do was drop the soldering iron and bust it before she had a chance to use it. Activating the tiny hydraulic arm that swung the magnifying glass back and forth, she moved it out of her way so she could focus on securing it to the base, careful not to let the solder bead up and run onto his skin. Jules was already injured so badly, she didn’t want to make it worse by burning him with molten metal.

It was possible he wouldn’t feel anything no matter what she did. Sudden tears clogged her throat, but she swallowed hard, forcing them away and focused on her repairs.

Once his favorite accessory was secure–he’d be furious if he woke up and couldn’t use it–she gently pushed his hair from his face, exposing the tiny gears that now worked to open and close his left eye. Swapping out the soldering iron for a set of miniature screwdrivers, she made infinitesimal tension adjustments to the the roller chain around the helical cogwheels, until they spun without sticking.

The sound of metal hitting stone echoed above her, and she startled, dropping the screwdriver. It rolled under the workbench Jules sat motionless on.

“Octavia!” he father roared.

She glanced toward the tiny window set high in the heavy wood door. Lights bobbed as her father and several other guild members descended the steep stairwell. She was out of time. Dropping to her knees, she quickly turned the large clock key that protruded from Jules’ chest. It took both hands and all of her strength to fully wind it.

Fists pounded against the aged wood, almost drowning out the sound of the clockwork heart ticking to life. Jules slowly lifted his head, and her hands fell away from him as she sat back on her heels. Lifting his hand, he adjusted the magnifying glass and peered around the room, his left eye opening and closing perfectly.

“Jules?”

Tracking the sound of her voice, he turned toward her and stared, slowly blinking. There was no recognition. He saw her, but there was nothing there. Nothing left of her Jules.

That’s it for me today. Be sure to check out the other photo flash fic by clicking the names: Jess, Kris, Deelylah, and Kayleigh.

monthlycheck-in

Welp…apparently, I was a little over ambitious in terms of what I thought I could get done this month. Well…that’s not exactly true. I did get a lot done. It’s just that most of the finished items weren’t the things I mentioned in last month’s blog.

Let’s review, shall we?.

This was my list:

Finish revising and expanding Mist and Stone. (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. No.)

Progress on DN & EP  (No to DN. What the fuck is EP?!)

Continue with that damn yoga program and exercise program. (GIant NOPE.)

Update Writing Bujo (Yes! Finally. Sheesh.)

Put together Publishing and Promo Bujo (Oh good, another yes!)

Knit 4 more pussyhats. (I knitted 6.5!)

Continue with whatever’s next on the Organized Home Challenge. (Kiiiinnnda. A couple didn’t apply to this house and I’m finishing up the last one.)

Finish at least two of the three websites. (Still waiting on info from two of the three, but made progress on them.)

Complete all client edits. (I completed the ones I knew about when I made these goals. I did get some extras tacked on at the end of the month.)

Complete all March blog posts. (Yep.)

In total, I edited six novels and a short story, (I’ve got 2.5 to go), I started a new book I’m super excited about, I finished a short story for the newsletter and Jess and I got the newsletter out, I knitted 6.5 pussyhats and I have 3.5 to go, I helped gut the upstairs, and collected a bunch of stuff for donation, together with Jess, I wrote 20(!) taglines, I did some formatting work, some sewing, developed a promo plan with Jess, and helped my mom with a nightmarish cleaning project.

Okay, so…for the month of April, I want to:

Finish the client edits I have scheduled.

Complete all April blog posts.

Finish up work on 2 of the (now) 5 websites I’m working on.

Knit 3.5 pussyhats

Progress on new book and Mist & Stone.

Continue with the Organized Home Challenge

Finish sorting stuff for donation.

Sew more journal covers and open Etsy site.

Okay, that’s probably enough for one month. Now, let’s go see how Jess and Deelylah did.

Apparently, it’s time for another episode of Therapy with Bron.

It’s totally cool to back out of the room now. Honestly, I probably won’t even notice. I’ll just assume you were looking for the bathroom or something. Maybe you were trying to find the kitchen? I did just make cookies.

Oh? You’re still here?

*passes the cookies*

Okay, so…writing fears and anxieties. I have quite a few, but I’m willing to bet that they’re not all that different from other writers’ issues. We all seem to have a fuckton of them.

I feel like this is one of those topics I could go on and on about ad nauseum, so I’m just going to stick to the biggest, doomiest ones, otherwise we’ll all be here for ages.

So, in the fear and anxiety round-up, there’s the ever popular:

I’ll never have another good idea again.

This one usually hits as I’m about 3/4 of the way through a book. There a little voice that whispers, “This is it. The last book you’ll ever write. You sure you wanna finish it?”

I hate that voice. That voice is a total asshole. Also, that voice is dumb, because the voice and I both know that I have pages and pages of ideas. But somehow, that voice gets me to listen to it, and I suddenly think all the ideas I’d previously loved are shit. Stupid voice.

The people who buy and positively review or otherwise say nice things about my books are just doing it because they’re being kind.

This is a popular one in my head. Like I’m the author version of that kid with the lemonade stand on the corner. You know the one…he was always kinda grubby and sticky-looking and you hoped that he’d just spilled some of the lemonade on himself and got sticky that way. Because you really didn’t want to think about him actually making the lemonade. And the lemonade itself was always weak tasting and uncomfortably warm–but you bought it anyway, ’cause you felt bad for that grubby, sticky kid.

That’s a really long way of saying that sometimes, I’m afraid I’m that grubby, sticky kid on the corner who people feel sorry for, but instead of questionable lemonade, they’re buying books.

I’m a fraud, and someday, my secret will be out, and everyone will know.

This is the garden variety imposter syndrome that I think most authors probably face. It’s that clawing feeling that no matter how well I do, it’s not because I’ve worked hard to learn my craft or have dedicated tons of time and effort writing these books. Nope. It’s all because of some cosmic misalignment of the stars, and when everything goes back to how it’s supposed to be, I’ll be here like this:unnamedAnd everyone will know that I’ve just been faking this whole time.

Okay, so that’s probably more of my neuroses than anyone can comfortably handle in one day, so I say we should all go troop over to Jess and Kris‘ blogs and see what kind of cookies and anxieties they have going on.

triple banded

Please Note: If Kris Norris ever abandons me, this is how shitty my future book covers will look. *makes plans to bribe Norris with Tim Horton’s tea*

I feel like the “why” of this title can best be summed up by potential chapter headings comprised of things I’ve said in text messages.

1.) If I don’t answer for a bit, it’s because I’m driving home from the motherfucking store.

2.) I’d run away and join the circus, but I have no marketable circus skills. And also clowns.

3.) Yes…I ignored that little voice in the back of my head that said that person was batshit crazy. Again.

4.) Math is hard, yo.

5.) I cannot possibly people today.

6.) I’m sorry my cat hates you.

7.) Look, I just need some cheese.

8.) Is it wrong that I’m proud of my four-year-old niece for using “What the fuck” properly in a sentence?

9.) I don’t recall becoming a bigamist, but at the same, time, my brain has been nothing but cracks, lately. So…maybe?

10.) The hold music is static-y soft jazz. I am in hell.

11.) Excellent. I feel like the more people we have spreading the accelerant, the quicker it’ll be over.

12.) Filed under bad ideas: Don’t look at fabric you made your kids’ clothes out of. Especially not while you’re ovulating.

13.) I’m gonna need bail money. There’s a neighbor kid out there somewhere blowing a goddam gym whistle.

14.) But in Clue, aren’t you just supposed to murder people with the candlestick? Or are we lighting candles to celebrate afterward?

15.) I feel like we won’t be able to have our podcast if I’m in jail, though.

16.) I have zero of popsicles. And also zero of patience.

17.) Never look a gift moodswing in the mouth.

18.) I am a font of random information.

19.) Fuck that. I’m putting on my ruffle-butt undies and my ruffled bonnet. And we’re gonna go Pollyanna the fuck out of everything.

20.) ADD Powers ACTIVATE! Form of Squirrel!

That’s it for me this week, be sure to check out the other bloggers’ memoir titles. Jess, Jessica, Deelylah, Gwen, and Kellie.

 

flashficsong

Okay, so this month’s song fic was chosen by our resident Canadian and number one Nickelback fan. The song is What are You Waiting For? Here are the lyrics and the video.

Through the open door, Molly stared at what she’d been convinced was the answer to her prayers. It was all there in front of her. Their first apartment together–the one-bedroom loft above the town’s only bar. She glanced at the woman who’d brought her here–to her past, and she smiled benevolently.

Molly had thought the woman was full of shit when she’d told her that it was possible to go back to a time when she as Christopher had been happy. That she could have a do-over and go back to prevent things from ever going wrong in the first place.

As she drew closer to the doorway, she recognized her old leather coat hanging over the back of the chair shoved under the cheap formica-topped kitchen table. He’d always hated that jacket. She frowned. Was that why she’d decided to get rid of it?

She glanced around the rest of the room, smiling at the hideous cow-shaped salt and pepper shakers sitting on the counter next to the hand-me-down coffee pot from her sister. There was the spider plant rooting in a jar in the kitchen window along with a collection of cobalt blue glass bottles. Those had survived a bit longer than the jacket, but all but one had been smashed to pieces in a long ago arguement.

The calendar on the wall next to the microwave read March 1999. If she remembered correctly, they’d only been in that apartment for six months, at that point. There were so many memories here. And most of them had been good. Like Halloween parties they’d thrown or the Christmas feasts they’d invited both their families to. The book club she and her sister had started and the nights they’d spent gaming with their friends.

Molly crept closer to the doorway–a niggling sense that something was wrong. Almost as if something was out of place. But she couldn’t put her finger on it. From her changed vantage point, she could see past the kitchen doorway, through the dining room and into the living room. Christopher was sitting on the couch playing some Xbox game, and a younger version of herself, looking ridiculously dressed up for an evening at home, sat curled up in a chair reading.

Only she wasn’t really reading. She was sighing and staring at Christopher who didn’t seem to have any clue that she was even in the room with him. Nope…he knew. He’d just asked her to get him a beer. Another beer from the looks of it as she noticed the the three empty bottles by his feet.

Past Molly got up and grabbed him a beer from the fridge looking just as dejected and defeated as she currently felt. He barely acknowledged her when she handed him the bottle and returned to her chair.

“What are you waiting for?” The woman at Molly’s side gestured to the open door.

Molly had forgotten she wasn’t alone. “What?”

“I said, what are you waiting for? This is when you wanted to return to, right? The time when things were still good between you.?”

Molly’s gaze landed on the calendar again. On the day that had a big heart drawn in the center of the square–March 20th–their one year anniversary. The day that he’d decided he’d been too stressed with school and work to acknowledge their anniversary. Sure, he’d attempted to make up for it later, but she realized now, he’d never really been sorry. Like the majority of his attempts at amends hadn’t really been about her or their relationship. He’d just been looking for a way to make his current situation more comfortable, and often that meant appeasing her.

How had she been so stupid not to grasp that it had been this way since the beginning? She glanced around the apartment and was again struck by the onslaught of memories. And she realized that almost all of the positive ones were ones that included other people.

Molly looked at the woman. “I just realized that I’m in the wrong time. This isn’t the right door. I need to go to January, 1998–the seventh, I think.”

In a blink, Molly stood outside O’Toole’s Pub, the biting wind blowing in off the river and the snow swirling in eddies around her feet.

“Is this where you wanted to go?”

Molly nodded as she watched her past self push her chair away from a table full of her friends. Grabbing the cold metal handle, she pulled open the door and entered the bar, the woman following silently behind. Molly rapidly crossed the floor, cutting off her past self as she headed up to the bar, and the two collided.

Molly stopped stopped in the middle of the floor, a sudden chill skating up her spine. She glanced around noticing a vaguely familiar woman by the door. Molly shook off the chill–must have been a blast of cold air from when the woman came in from outside–and walked up to the bar. It was her turn to buy the post finals rounds.

As she waited, trying to catch the bartender’s, a cute guy to her right said, “Let me guess—you just finished your last exam?”

She smiled. “That obvious?”

“Me, too. My name’s Christopher. Can I buy you a drink?”

She stared into the prettiest blue eyes she’d ever seen and shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m here with friends.”

He nodded. “No worries.”

As the bartender took her order, she couldn’t help but feel that she’d dodged a bullet.

Okay, so that’s it for me today. Be sure to check out the other bloggers’ stories by clicking on their names. Jess, Kris, and Deelylah.

Conversation overheard thanks to the wonders of Skype and broken headphones/mic rig.

Corwin: (also known as my son)  *playing some kind of elaborate Minecraft mod that allows players to be werewolves and vampires, and have spouses and children*

Corwin’s Friend: You procreated. What’s your kid’s name?

Corwin: Phillip. *pauses a beat* My son! Look at my son!

Corwin’s Friend: Is pride the word you’re looking for?

Corwin: No. There is so much more inside me now.

Corwin’s Friend: Careful, Phillip’s gonna be lunch for that vamp.

Corwin: As long as he doesn’t die in a senseless duel defending my nonexistent honor.

 

Today, I’ve got the fantabulous Janine Ashbless on the blog, and I’m questioning her mercilessly interviewing her about her life in general, and her brand new release.

IBotE cover (1)

 

Broad at the shoulders and lean at the hips, six foot-and-then-something of ropey muscle, he looks like a Spartan god who got lost in a thrift store. He moves like ink through water. And his eyes, when you get a good look at them, are silver. Not gray. Silver. You might take their inhuman shine for fancy contact lenses. You’d be wrong.

Before we get to more of this amazing-sounding book, we’re going to find out a little more about Janine Ashbless – thanks to my nosy intrepid questions. But first off, Janine–in her own words.

 

Bio:

Janine Ashbless is a writer of fantasy erotica and steamy romantic adventure. She likes to write about magic and myth and mystery, dangerous power dynamics, borderline terror, and the not-quite-human.

Janine has been seeing her books in print ever since 2000. She’s also had numerous short stories published by Black Lace, Nexus, Cleis Press, Ravenous Romance, Harlequin Spice, Storm Moon, Xcite, Mischief Books, and Ellora’s Cave among others. She is co-editor of the nerd erotica anthology ‘Geek Love’.

Born in Wales, Janine now lives in the North of England with her husband and two rescued greyhounds. She has worked as a cleaner, library assistant, computer programmer, local government tree officer, and – for five years of muddy feet and shouting – as a full-time costumed Viking. Janine loves goatee beards, ancient ruins, minotaurs, trees, mummies, having her cake and eating it, and holidaying in countries with really bad public sewerage.

Her work has been described as:

“Hardcore and literate” (Madeline Moore) and “Vivid and tempestuous and dangerous, and bursting with sacrifice, death and love.” (Portia Da Costa

Janine-Ashbless-profile2

Janine Ashbless website * Janine Ashbless blog * Janine Ashbless on Facebook

Sinful Press website

What’s a typical day like for you?

A losing battle with my laziness.

Do you have any collections?

Cthulhu Mythos books. Ghost story books. Children’s books. Just books, tbh!

Do you have any hobbies?

I own a small wood, so I like to work in that with my chainsaw. I play Dungeons and Dragons. I LARP – dress up like a fantasy warrior and run around hitting orcs with rubber swords.

Do you have any bad habits?

See LARPing above. My parents are still waiting for me to grow out of it!

Are there any skills you’d like to learn?

I wish I’d been taught Latin. It would be so cool, in old churches and museums, to be able to read the stones.

What’s your favorite curse word?

“Fucktard.”

What sound do you love?

Evening birdsong.

What sound do you hate?

Sniffing.

Dog or cat person?

Dog – I always have at least two.

City or country?

Country

Get things done early or procrastinate?

Pro …. crastinate

Introvert or extravert?

Introvert

What do you like best about writing?

Falling in love/lust with my heroes and having wild fictional affairs!

What do you like least?

Promo, lol!

What was your favorite childhood book?

The Dark is Rising by Susan Cooper. I wanted to be an Old One.

(*Bron wiggles and interrupts* Yes! I loved this series!)

Questions about the book.

In Bonds of the Earth is the second story in the Book of the Watchers series and sequel to Cover Him with Darkness. In Bonds of the Earth continues Milja and Azazel’s story. Were there any significant differences in your approach to the two books and your experience writing them?

They were both lovely, exciting books to write, but there were slight differences in my approach. I wrote the first book with an emphasis on a logical (if twisty-turny) plot that would be (if necessary) fairly self-contained. Milja triggers the action with her decision and then is mostly swept along in it.

The second book was about digging down into the motivations, conscious and unconscious, of the various individual protagonists and antagonists who are trying to do each other over. Milja gets a lot more agency; people are listening to her now. And it finishes on a cliff-hanger because by this point I’ve committed to the full trilogy.

What do you like best about Milja?

She evolves from a simple rather geeky girl with all the right intentions into someone who recognizes her own darkness and strength and is much less afraid to harness it. And she turns out to be really kinky…

What do you like best about Azazel?

He’s so confused and confounded by human emotion – he really doesn’t get people. He has the dangerous innocence of a bull in a china shop.

Is there anything you hope readers take away from In the Bonds of the Earth?

Don’t put your faith in any dogma or any set of rules, or any one person no matter how wonderful they may seem. Think for yourselves!

If you were to cast your book as a movie, who would you choose to play your characters? (feel free to include pictures)

Azazel would be played by Aidan Turner:

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Milja would be played by model Emina Cunmulaj:

img-thing

Egan would be played by Tom Wlaschiha:

Tom Wlaschiha

What’s up next for you—care to share a bit?

I’m finishing off the third in the trilogy – The Prison of the Angels – right now! I have an Apocalypse to stop!

Thanks for having me over, Bronwyn!

Thank you for being here! 

And now, let’s have some more about the book!

Blurb:

“I will free them all.”

When Milja Petak released the fallen angel Azazel from five thousand years of imprisonment, she did it out of love and pity. She found herself in a passionate sexual relationship beyond her imagining and control – the beloved plaything of a dark and furious demon who takes what he wants, when he wants, and submits to no restraint. But what she hasn’t bargained on is being drawn into his plan to free all his incarcerated brothers and wage a war against the Powers of Heaven.

As Azazel drags Milja across the globe in search of his fellow rebel angels, Milja fights to hold her own in a situation where every decision has dire consequences. Pursued by the loyal Archangels, she is forced to make alliances with those she cannot trust: the mysterious Roshana Veisi, who has designs of her own upon Azazel; and Egan Kansky, special forces agent of the Vatican – the man who once saved then betrayed her, who loves her, and who will do anything he can to imprison Azazel for all eternity.

Torn every way by love, by conflicting loyalties and by her own passions, Milja finds that she too is changing – and that she must do things she could not previously have dreamt of in order to save those who matter to her.

In Bonds of the Earth is the second in the Book of the Watchers trilogy and the sequel to Cover Him With Darkness.

Excerpt:

I was giving my long-dreaded presentation on the anniversary footbridge to Misters Ellis, Singh, Constanzo and Mackenzie…when Azazel walked in.

Oh hell.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said loudly, lurching around from behind my desk, grabbing Azazel’s arm and spinning him back to face the door. “Not here, come on, please,” I implored through clenched teeth.

If there was one thing I’d learned by then, it was to not ignore warning dreams. If I’d paid them more attention from the start, things between me and Egan might have gone very differently back in Montenegro…

No, better not to think of Egan, not when Azazel was around. One guy at a time was quite enough to wrap my head around. Especially this guy.

He humored me though, this time, letting me pull him out of the meeting room and through the open plan office without resistance. We attracted a lot of stares, but there was nothing I could do about that except hold my head high.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Out. Anywhere.”

“You’re so impetuous.”

I didn’t need to glance up at his wicked smirk. I could feel it burning its way into my breast.

Bryce, the beardy guy in my new team who’d shown me the ropes of the job and seemed just a tiny bit too eager to talk every morning, stood up from his cubicle to intercept us. “Milja, is everything okay?”

“It’s just fine,” I rasped, towing Azazel faster.

“She’s insatiable,” my demon lover confided with a helpless shrug to my colleague as we swept past.

Bryce stared, mouth open.

“Goddamnit,” I muttered, and Azazel chuckled.

Sometimes it was hard to remember that he’d risked everything to save me.

We reached the doors at the end of the room and I pushed through, past the lobby with the elevators and into the concrete stairwell of the emergency stairs beyond. The only people who came here were smokers on their way to the roof, and it looked empty for now. My panicky momentum fizzled away and I swung to face him.

“What are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” he countered, taking my face in his hands.

“Azazel—” But he cut off my protests with his hungry kiss; a kiss that lanced through me all the way to my core. I gave up resisting, and speaking, and almost breathing, as his lust rolled over me in a hot wet wave. I slid my hands around his neck and tangled my fingers in his messy hair, pulling myself into his embrace. His body was hard as rock, his hands heavy on my waist and hips. The yearning for his touch that smoldered in my flesh day and night woke to a roaring heat.

I’d missed him. His skin, his smile, the peppery scent and salt taste of him. The sweetness of his lips and the harsh rasp of his stubbled chin. I’d missed him so much—like an addict missing her hit.


Ebook Buy Links:

Amazon UK * Amazon US * Apple * Barnes and NobleGoogle Play * Kobo

Paperback Buy Links:

Buy direct from Sinful Press * Barnes and Noble * Waterstones * Amazon UK * Amazon US

musicalmusings

Continuing our new feature, Musical Musings, we’re sharing songs that make us feel hopeful, feel happy or make us cry.

Okay, so starting with a song that make me feel hopeful. Unless this is your first time on the blog, I feel like you’ll pretty much be expecting this first one. My Shot is from the Hamilton soundtrack and it’s sort of my go to song when I need motivation to keep going. Whether it’s to keep fighting the uphill battle of a career in publishing or continuing to have enough energy to continue to protest, and not become complacent in terms of anything that’s currently happening in our country.

And in terms of hope, I’d be remiss, for obvious reasons, if I didn’t share this live version of MILCK’s Quiet that was recorded at the Women’s March in January. It gives me hope shaped goosebumps every time I hear it.

There are actually a bunch of songs that make me happy just to hear them (and of course, sing along), but these are the two that jumped into my head at the same time, so you get them both.

Gang of Rhythm by Walk Off the Earth always makes me smile. My sister, Cait, insisted that I listen to them. She was hoping they’d cure me of my love for Mumford and Sons. It didn’t work, but it did give me a new band to love.

Ani Difranco’s Little Plastic Castle is another one that just makes me smile to hear it. It also makes me want to take a roadtrip.

As much as I adore sad songs, there aren’t a lot that consistently make me cry. However, these two kill me pretty much every time I hear them. The first is, It’s Quiet Uptown from (you are unsurprised) the Hamilton soundtrack. The first time I heard it, I had to stop what I was doing and just weep.

Because my husband is awesome (he could only get three tickets, so he stayed home), the kids and I were able to go see Hamilton in Chicago on the 5th of this month. I figured I’d cry during It’s Quiet Uptown, and boy howdy, did I. But what I didn’t expect was that my son would also cry, and of course, that made me cry harder. So we ugly cried together.

I’m not a huge country music fan. I mean, sure, I like some old Johnny Cash and Emmylou Harris, but the newer country really isn’t my thing, but there’s a Garth Fucking Brooks song that makes me cry so hard any time I hear it that I have to turn it off or leave whatever place it’s playing, because I just can’t.

It’s The Dance. At my nephew’s funeral, one of my brother’s friends played and sang this song. It gutted me then, and it still guts me now. Just hearing the chords is enough to throw me back to the funeral, so if you want to hear it, you’re going to have to youtube that one yourself.

That’s it for me and this edition of Musical Musings. Be sure to check out the other bloggers’ posts. Deelylah, Jess, Gwen, Torrance, and Kellie.

flashficphoto

19861754_s

It’s time for another photo flash fiction, and I have a feeling this one is going to be pretty short–partially because of the idea I have, and partially because of the million and twelve things I need to accomplish today because I’ll be out of town all day on Sunday when I usually start writing these. I should also mention that this story was inspired by this picture in conjunction with another photo a friend texted me yesterday morning. So, Amanda…this one’s for you.

***

Amanda sighed as she headed toward the last cottage on the lane. There had been rumors that someone was living there after hours, and based on what some eagle-eyed teenagers from one of the local school tours had pointed out earlier that afternoon, she had a good idea of the squatter’s identity.

She stretched her neck from side to side as she walked, trying to loosen the perpetually tight muscles. Why had she thought managing a historical reenactment village was a viable career change? More importantly, why had she thought hiring David Mulder was was a good idea?

She supposed she’d fallen prey, much like the majority of actresses in the village, to the effects of the last residual bits of stardom that clung to him no matter how much shit he rolled in. She’d been stunned when the washed up television actor had shown up for the open casting call, and of course he’d nailed everything he’d read for–Washington, Jefferson, Madison. But he’d insisted on taking the smaller part of Paine. Said he didn’t want to be a distraction. And he’d smiled that crooked grin–the one that always seemed to reach his heavy-lidded eyes, and she’d hired him on the spot. She was a moron.

Pausing outside the cottage door, she lifted her hand to knock, but thought better of it. It wasn’t like this was someone’s private residence. Shaking her head at herself, she opened the door and immediately regretted it.

David lifted a teacup in her general direction. “Hey, bosslady.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. David Mulder, former star of various sci-fi shows and crime procedurals, was sitting, bare-ass naked, on the kitchen counter, holding a historical reproduction teapot and matching cup. The coordinating creamer was sitting in his lap. A half-eaten pizza was to his right, and an empty sandwich bag was next to his hip.

“I made tea,” he added unnecessarily.

“I see that.”

He blinked at her, a slow, lopsided smile lifting his lips. “Want some?”

Whatever the hell was in there would likely get rid of the tension she’d been carrying for months, but she said, “I’m thinking probably not.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Tossing back the contents of the cup, he poured himself another.

“We need to talk.”

He frowned. “Is this about Abigail Adams’ boyfriend? I didn’t even know she–”

“No,” she snapped, interrupting him. “And her name’s Brittany.”

“Right. Right. Brittany.”

She knew he wasn’t going to remember the name. “This is about the rumors that someone is living here after hours. And,” she added, her voice growing louder, “the weed growing in Benjamin Franklin’s garden.”

He frowned. “I was just going for historical accuracy.”

“Look. I gave you a chance. You’re gonna get me fired.”

“Pffft. Nobody’s gonna care about this.” He slouched against the wall and took another drink.

She sighed. “As soon as one of the parents from today’s tour group gets wind of your horticulture project, I’m jobless. And so are you.”

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t look at her, either.

“You can’t stay here after hours,” she continued. “You can’t grow weed here. And just to remind you, this is an education center, so this entire property is smoke free.”

“I’m all over that last one. I gave up smoking.”  He lifted his cup and grinned. “Makes a damn fine tea, though.”

She stalked over to him, grabbed his cup and gulped down the cooling liquid. “Put your fucking clothes on, David.”

That’s it for me today, be sure to check out the other bloggers’ stories. Jess, Deelylah, and Kris.