Ready, set, go

I’m back at work on THE STALKER.

I started last night by reading over the few chapters and scenes I have already. I like what I have—it’s a first draft, of course, so it’s not perfect, but I’m just so very glad that this story is finally coming together for me. I’ve been working on it forever. I worked on it long before I started writing on it. And I gave up writing it twice. Some of you know, because you’ve read both those drafts … :-)

Good things come in threes, right?

Make sure to drop me an e-mail/comment if you’d like to be in my group of beta readers. I love beta readers. I like comments and feedback during that first round of writing. Sometimes I’m not sure of something and readers just love it and sometimes I’m pretty sure I did something well and readers hate it. I’d much rather rewrite and rethink in the beginning stages, trust me.

I’m not just back at work on THE STALKER, I’m also back at work in real life. I started working a regular, full-time job in education last month. This does two things to/for my writing: 1) severely limits my writing time and 2) focuses my efforts to get the most out of that limited time.

These are the same conditions I wrote THE PROTECTOR under, so I’m not worried. It seems I actually get more done having less time on my hands.

There’s plenty to do:

• Write at least one chapter of THE STALKER a week
• Overhaul my website or find someone to do it for me (I’m having issues with my site provider and the technical aspect of the website, ugh)
• Feed family, cats, fish, and lizard regularly
• Watch at least some of the new shows on TV
• Read each of the new Cindy Gerard books coming before Christmas
• Keep up with web groups and return e-mails in a timely fashion

Toto, we’re in Kansas

We’ve arrived. After weeks of living out of a suitcase and bedding down in five different places, we’re ready to move into our new home next week. I can’t wait. I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but I’m sick of eating out. I’m actually craving healthy food and that’s almost disturbing. Also, I gained five pounds (I had an official weigh-in of sorts this week), which really isn’t that bad considering my diet the last few weeks.

Thus far, I like Kansas. Yes, you’ve read that right, I like Kansas. It’s been a bit hot for my taste – in the 100s every day – and we’ve survived our first Tornado watch, but I can’t see much wrong with this place (yet). The gas is cheaper, the grass is greener, and they have three bookstores in town that I know of (boy, I’ve done a ton of reading since we left Hawaii). It’s really not all that flat around here either; we’re surrounded by the rolling Flint Hills and plenty of trees.

Once we move into our new house next week and a working Internet connection is established I’ll be back to a productive routine in no time. I promise I’ll answer e-mails and friend requests in a timely manner.

To those of you who’ve bought The Protector and wrote to tell me how much you’ve enjoyed reading the book, THANK YOU. I appreciate the chance you took on a debut author and I love that you found the time to drop me a line.

To those of you who asked about the next book (in the series), THANK YOU. As you may or may not know, I started working on the next book before my move, but my efforts stalled. Boy, I completely underestimated the complexity of this move. For some reason it was far more complicated to move back on the mainland than it was to move to Japan and Hawaii. I’ll be back to work on the next book once all the moving boxes are unpacked and the computer is hooked up (or at the end of next week).

I’m also in the process of finishing up my first ever Vampire-Shapeshifter short (remember Riley, the deaf weasel?).

Oh, I almost forgot, back in New York, I had lunch with Laura Baumbach. Thanks again, Laura. I had the greatest time, and hey, I hadn’t eaten at an Olive Garden in eight years. Laura is a great conversationalist, and I’m such a fan. Now I just have to wow her with my sexy vampire short.

Back to my just as sexy sophomore effort, THE STALKER. I received a few e-mails asking about The Dickens Challenge and where the chapters went that I had posted. If you’re interested in reading along as I write (at your own risk), please drop me a line with your e-mail address and I’ll make sure to included you in my list of beta readers. Keep in mind, though, that you’ll be reading a first draft, your favorite scene might not survive the final editing process and won’t see the inside of the finished book.

Ideally, I’d love to see THE STALKER in stores right after Christmas and the New Year, some time in January or February. Not for some nefarious reason, but just because Mason and Soren survive their first holidays together in this book.

Realistically, though, I’m a slow writer and there’s still plenty of work to be done once the book is written and Christmas is only 146 days away.

And there’s so much more reading to be done this year, too. I love reading. I’m a reader before I’m a writer. I can’t wait for BREAKING DAWN, the feverishly anticipated fourth installment in Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight Saga. And the movie in December!

And of course, I can’t wait to get my hands on ACHERON by Sherrilyn Kenyon. I love her Darkhunter universe. I’m especially partial to her Werehunters, and I’m wondering how long it will take her to incorporate a badass, leather-wearing were-weasel into one of her books.

I’m also highly anticipating the arrival of the men of Black’s Ops, Inc. Cindy Gerard’s new series will debut in October 08, November 08 and January 09.

And when does TRUEBLOOD start on HBO? We don’t have HBO that I know of, but I’d love to see the new series based on Charlaine Harris’s Sookie books.

Boy, I’ll be busy this year. Don’t forget to drop me a line with your e-mail address and I’ll keep you in the loop about upcoming chapters and the occasional personal appearance at the Coffeeshop Writers, a group of greatly talented ladies who’ve invited me to stop by and have a cup of coffee with them.

Out of touch

Dear readers, fans and friends. As you may or may not know I’m in the process of moving from lovely, sunny Hawaii to the American heartland, which is why I’ve been so slow in returning mails and posting news. Please bear with me. Come August we should be settled in and starting our new routines in Kansas. Until then …

Interviewed!

I’ve been interviewed. The always fun Neil Plakcy, author of Mahu, Mahu Surfer, and Mahu Fire, mystery novels set in Hawaii, has a roundtable interview on gaywired.com. Check it out here:

http://www.gaywired.com/Article.cfm?Section=67&ID=18819

It was very interesting to see what the other ladies had to say. I'm humbled to be in their company.

I’ve been tagged

Thanks, Debby (Type M For Murder, http://typem4murder.blogspot.com).

The idea is to reach for the nearest book, turn to page 123, find the 5th sentence, and then post the next 3 sentences on your blog or website or wherever. Sure thing. Only, I’m in the middle of organizing my “library” and I’m surrounded by all my books. The nearest pile is an eclectic mix of Tom Clancy, Nora Roberts, Dean James, and Anne Rice. The topmost book, though, is Lost & Found by Jayne Ann Krentz. I’m very sorry, Jayne, but I can’t remember the book at all. It must have been good, because it’s in my library.

Here page 123, 6th sentence and on:

“Another case displayed gleaming sixteenth-century boxes made of chiseled steel damascened with gold. They had been produced by the same master craftsmen who had forged swords and armor. Jewelry boxes etched and nielloed in impossibly convoluted motifs and studded with semiprecious stones were arranged on the shelves above the balcony level.”

Oi. I have no idea what damascened or nielloed are (well, I can figure it out from the context, but they’re certainly not words I’d ever use.)

That was fun. And I’m curious about the book now. I might have to reread it. Not that I have any time, because I’m in the middle of preparing our move.

We’ve finally received our orders. Yay. It took us several hours and a lot of hand-wringing, but we’ve received our flight arrangements as well. Flying with a pet is a complicated issue—especially in the summer. Luckily, we’re only flying at night, so heat won’t be an issue (I hope).

In case you’re curious how to get from Hawaii to Kansas: fly from Honolulu to Chicago, drive to upstate NY to rest with relatives for a little while, drive back to Chicago, then fly to KS. And if you’d like to have your own car back, travel to 670 miles east to St. Louis and pick it up there…

Oh, and I’m tagging the entire gang at GWR (gaywritersreader at yahoo groups) and everyone who reads this. I’m sure one or two of you have a book with a page 123 :-)

Are you kidding me?

I’m finally at peace with the whole no-orders-yet deal and then had to ruin it all by looking up the passport renewal information at the German Consulate’s website. Since March 2008, all passport applicants are required to show up in person. No exceptions. Great! Just great. The consulate I’d have to visit is located in San Francisco, CA.

I have to travel 2400 miles or 3900 km to get a passport!? That’s five hours in an airplane!

New York here I come

Life is good this week. I found out another 192 books were ordered, amazon.com still loves me, the good people of Boston enjoy reading, and I might have a book signing in New York City (how super cool is that?)

I immediately went out to get a haircut, which I didn’t like. Then straightened my hair, which I liked even less. Had my teeth professionally cleaned and checked (no cavities, yay!) and went back to get more hair chopped off. Incidentally, the kids had their teeth checked and their hair cut, too. (Of course all of those were appointments I booked some time ago, but it’s more fun to pretend they’re all connected to my good news.)

My firstborn, bless her heart, was absolutely, positively terrified of her dentist. She’ll have to go to a specialist who can sedate her. Poor baby. I’m not sure why she’s so afraid, she’s never had a bad experience that I know of, though, she complains of her dentist being sassy (i.e. the woman tells her what to do, which doesn’t go over so well).

I wrote some more angry vampire and watched that Marlee Matlin movie on TV Sunday night. Oh, the TV died on us last week, but we convinced it to hold on another fifty days or so. I’m anxious about our move, because we still have no official paperwork and there is a lot to be done, but I’m nearing the point where terror turns into numbness.

How awesome is that about a possible book signing in New York City? I need an outfit. My wardrobe consists of shorts and T-shirts and Birkenstock sandals. I’m all Hawaiian casual. What does one wear in New York City in the summer? Do I need shoes? Or a purse? Can I get an intervention from those two people on What Not To Wear?

In two weeks or so, the husband and I are going to a romantic luau. I told my good friend Andrea who immediately called one of those cosmetic stores that does make-up and set me up with an appointment. I haven’t worn make-up in two years. I wear make-up once a year: for the Army Christmas Ball. And last year we didn’t go to the ball. When I say I wear make-up, I mean I brush on some powder, swipe on mascara and dab on lipstick. Voila!

Stacy and Clinton, I need help, because I might have a book signing in New York City!

Good-bye

Feather

1993-2008

the therianthrope

Therianthropy = a general term for human-animal shifts, the most widely known of which is lycanthropy, the shapeshifting from human to wolf



Riley is his human form looks remarkably like Alex Lundqvist, the Swedish supermodel. In his animal form, Riley is a stoat (or short-tailed weasel) and in ermine (i.e. in the white winter fur).

My little guy (5) doing what guys do

The weasel familiar

Life works in mysterious ways. When Riley, the deaf weasel familiar, was “born,” I knew almost nothing about familiars. The vast majority of urban fantasies I’ve read dealt with large animals such as werewolves or werecats, which was partly why I decided on a much smaller animal (it’s my contrary nature).

I've since learned that the weasel has a bad reputation, but what surprised me the most was the basic notion of the weasel as the power animal of silent observation.

“Sly and stealthy, with keen observation skills.”

“Weasel medicine can teach you to find out secrets through the power of silent observation.”

“Most weasel people are loners, graceful, solitary, and silent.”

I was stunned when I came across these descriptions. Silent and quiet, that’s quintessential Riley. Now don’t get me wrong, Riley is perfectly capable of talking, but he’s not oral; he doesn’t use his voice, because he cannot hear himself (a personal choice; a lot of deaf people use their voices).

As a deaf person, Riley “listens” with his eyes. For one, sign language is a visual language: Riley would read meanings carried by the hands, the facial expression, and the body’s posture at the same moment. For another, Riley has to pick up on very subtle facial and body movements when dealing with non-signing people or when he’s speech reading. Out of necessity, he’s a keen observer.

Even the loner aspect matched what I had in mind for him. I’m trying very carefully not to generalize too much, but that’s difficult when talking about a large group of people with their own culture. Riley isn’t a loner by nature, but he spends most of his days with people who don’t know sign language. Within the hearing world he’s largely isolated (especially since he’s not oral).

Like many other deaf people, he’s very social with those who know sign language, when all communication barriers are removed (note: not all deaf people know sign language), but in-person get-togethers are sometimes hard to come by (it all depends on your community).

To combat loneliness and liven-up his solitary lifestyle, Riley uses electronic communication to stay in touch with and make friends. In other words, he does a lot of e-mailing and instant messaging and texting (note: English is his second language; American Sign Language is his native language).

I did not make Riley deaf after I chose the weasel form for him, nor did I pick the weasel because Riley was deaf. He was a deaf weasel familiar from the first moment he appeared to me (like many of my characters he showed up on my doorstep fully formed/mostly developed).

Life works in mysterious ways.

I will post a lot more about Riley as I'm getting to know him better. He's by far the most interesting and most challenging character I've ever worked with. Like many hearing people, I take my speech and the noises around me for granted. I have a few notions about life as a deaf person, but no real clue what it’s actually like. Riley is a wonderful ambassador, giving us a chance to discover life through his eyes and from his point of view.

Introducing: Riley

This little guy is Riley.

Riley is the protagonist in a short story I’m working on. It’s an urban romantic suspense short, complete with vampires and familiars and bad guys with big guns. Oh, and sub-zero temperatures in Siberia.

Riley is a stoat a.k.a. a short-tailed weasel. He’s a familiar (you know, like a witch’s black cat). He also has profound sensorineural deafness (he’s completely deaf), which makes him a challenge to write, because there is no dialogue in the traditional sense. Not that that bothers Riley in the least, he’s a very opinionated young man and has plenty to say.

Riley stole all my time the last two weeks. I learned about the differences between stoats and weasels and spent hours looking at sign language clips on youtube. Riley uses American Sign Language (ASL), but I found a British Sign Language (BSL) video I really love. Click here. Watch it at least once with the sound muted.

Also, when you're over there on youtube, check out Keith Wann; he's very funny.

Interview and Review

My very first interview and review. Check it out here.

THE STALKER 5 (Dickens Challenge)

My last public chapter:

5.

Halley didn’t understand why people would dream all their lives about living on a boat. The Pacific Sun was pretty enough from the outside, but hardly the size of a walk-in closet on the inside. Speaking of closets, there weren’t any. Since all she had was a suitcase full of clothes, she was okay with the drawer under the one narrow bunk, but it was a tight fit.

Halley pushed aside the tank tops she’d tossed on her bunk earlier and flopped down on the thin mattress. Despite the westerly tradewinds, it was hot and humid, so much so her hair was either a frizzy mop or a sorry, lank mess. Still, she preferred the privacy of her sweltering cabin to the sunbaked deck where anyone within earshot could overhear the conversation she was about to have.

She eyed the cell phone in her hand with reluctance. She really needed to call home and check in with her mother, but she didn’t look forward to their talk. There would be tears, and Halley hated it when her mother cried. She just hoped her sister wasn’t around to answer the phone.

“Hello. Hello?”

Halley suppressed a sigh. Of course, her sister would answer the phone. She’d probably been at their mother’s house since Halley’s somewhat clandestine departure (with her sister’s passport).

“Jess, it’s Halley.”

“Where are you? Mom has been crying all day. I can’t keep coming over here, you know.”

“I told you I was going on a trip over the holidays.”

“Right.”

“Can I talk to mom now?”

“Where are you?”

“Guam.”

“What in God’s name are you doing on Guam? You know how hard it is for mom this time of year. Does this have anything to do with that man?”

“Tell mom I called.” Halley disconnected before her sister had a chance to lecture her. They didn’t see eye to eye on this. Of course, Halley knew how her mother struggled, how she grieved for her husband. Halley had been there when her mother had found the lifeless body of her husband, his head an unrecognizable, bloody mess from the large caliber bullet he’d used to escape his shame. She could still hear her mother’s anguished wails.

And she’d been there every day since, watching her mother’s will to live slip away bit by bit, her pain and spirit dulled by medication, weeping for hours and days. In all fairness, Jessica who had her own family to take of had done her best in the beginning, but eventually her visits became less and less frequent, admitting to Halley that their mother’s depression was too difficult for her to witness.

Then the package had arrived. A small mailer from Guam, addressed to her father, souvenirs inside. The vacationing soldier must not have known that his former supervisor had taken his life the year before. Halley had locked herself away in her closet to open the small box. She’d never looked past the folded newspaper page on top. On it a name and picture. Mason Ward.

She’d shown Jess the article. The paper had glorified his heroism as if he could ever be more than a has-been who’d never washed out of the military for his cowardly lies. Jess hadn’t understood, but Halley knew that it couldn’t have been a coincidence that Mason Ward had taken a bullet on the first anniversary of her father’s death. She’d known right then and there what she needed to do. For her mother’s piece of mind and her father’s honor.

Jess didn’t understand, because she hadn’t seen the spark of life in their mother’s eyes when Halley had promised to bring the man who’d caused their father’s suicide to justice, to expose him once and for all for what he was.

Ugh ...

I’m struggling.

As you may or may not know, I’ve been struggling with fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue syndrome for well over a decade now. It comes and goes. It flares up. The most debilitating symptom for me as a writer is the brain fog that accompanies a flare-up.

Brain fog is a mental fatigue that makes it difficult to process information. It impairs concentration, memory, and word retrieval. According to wikipedia, brain fog “is so named because the sufferer can feel like a cloud literally surrounds him or her that reduces the speed at which things can be recognized or clearly seen.”

Ayep.

Add physical lack of energy to this mental sluggishness and drowsiness and there’s very little wonder depression is one of the side effects people have to deal with.

So I’m in a funk, and I’m struggling with it. I know these flare-ups don’t last, but that doesn’t make them any easier to deal with. And honestly, after two weeks of moping around the house, I’m sick of it. I want my brain back.

Check out these links for more on fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue:

CFIDS Association of America
Fibromyalgia Network
National Fibromyalgia Association

THE STALKER update

I'll have one more chapter to post (later today), then I'm taking the first draft of this WIP private (it'll continue on the Dickens Forum, though). If you'd like to know how it continues, drop me a line and I'll keep you in the loop. Otherwise, look for the finished novel in paperback possibly some time in 2009 (or later).

Our days are numbered

The countdown is on: 135 days left on Hawaii. Thinking about our move to Kansas prompted me to come up with yet another list:

What I’ll miss:

1. rainbows and double rainbows
2. watching newly hatched geckos emerge from my closet for the first very time and knowing they’ll drive the cats nuts (until they grow big and fat and the cats can catch them)
3. my kids being in the racial minority on the playground and in school
4. swimming with green sea turtles and watching whales and dolphins from the beach
5. coming across a hula or Tahitian dance practice at the community park
6. the weather and lack of seasons

What I’m looking forward to:

1. twice as much square footage for half the rent
2. Dunkin Donuts (I haven’t had a good donut since we left for Japan seven years ago)
3. Target, Kohl’s and other retailers like that (anything other than Walmart)
4. chain restaurants like Fridays or Applebees or even Olive Garden
5. independent bookstores
6. not paying $7 for a jug of milk (don’t get me started on the price of gas)

What I’m not looking forward to:

1. the 15-month DEPLOYMENT
2. homogenized communities
3. four seasons + the flu season
4. tornados
5. religion (The Bible Belt)
6. trying to find a new babysitter

The Stalker 4 (Dickens Challenge)

a true first draft:

4.

“Son of a bitch.” Mason slammed the receiver of his phone down hard enough to make the plastic groan. He yanked a hand through his short hair—already tousled and spiked from the countless times he’d dragged his fingers through it—and looked up sharply at the chuckle intruding on his anger.

“Yo.” Stoney Ward slouched against the doorjamb, his thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans, grinning broadly.

Mason did a mental eye roll. His brother was the last person he wanted to talk to right now. Born minutes before Mason, Stoney had the natural arrogance of a firstborn son and the irritating assumption it was okay to nose into the lives of his younger siblings. An inch taller, a few pounds heavier and a whole lot straighter, he was a Guam PD plainclothes officer.

“I’m really not in the mood right now, Stoney.”

Oblivious to his brother’s glacial stare, Stoney pushed away from the door and crossed Mason’s office to drop into the chain in front of the desk. “I’ve heard.”

“I’ve just spent all morning talking to your brothers in blue. And all afternoon arguing with one very angry principal who thinks I should consider becoming a social recluse so as no to inflict my gayness on the community.”

“Ouch.”

“I’m fucking pissed.”

Stoney nodded at the Weekly on Mason’s desk. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the hot bartender you’re dating?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Stone.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Pissed off. I get it.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not Buchanan.” Mason took a deep breath, reached up to drag his hand through his hair, caught himself and rubbed his chin instead. “He hasn’t called me yet and I would have expected him to. He likes to make sure others know he’s the one yanking their chain. The man’s on a perpetual power trip. He cannot not take the credit. Besides—”Mason’s glance fell on the Weekly open to Soren’s picture and the blurb about Tradewinds“—that would just get him angry at Soren, not me.”

Stoney snorted. “That man has a hard-on for you, no matter what.” He waved away Mason’s comment about his choice of words and continued, “So what are we talking about then? Jealous ex-boyfriend? Some teenage delinquents you banished from the mall? I have to say, though, I would have expected a bunch of kids to just write fag. They’re not usually this creative. Or organized.”

“That’s because someone told them what to do.”

“Oh? A paid hit? Got someone in mind?”

“Tom Krukowski.”

“Rings a bell. Remind me.”

“The asshole who got me kicked out of the military.”

“Ah, yes. It’s coming back to me. You decked him in a gay bar and he didn’t take that so well. Bigoted jerk.”

“Right. Pickle kisser was his favorite slur.”

“That’s one hell of a signature.” Stoney leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “When’s the last time you heard from him?”

“The day I left Fort Benning.”

Stoney gave his twin a skeptical frown. “That’s been a while. You’re sure it’s not The Smile?”

Mason did another mental eye roll.

“Have you talked to Soren about this?”

“No.”

“How’s he been doing?”

“Working his ass off. Mom’s cabinet is done. I saw it on Saturday.”

“And?”

Mason smiled. He’d thought replacing his mother’s bullet-riddled curio cabinet had been a nice, guilt-driven offer; he’d had no idea Soren was going to build it from scratch, or how much work was involved. “He’s wasting his talents tending bar. He needs to make furniture for a living.”

“That good?”

Mason nodded.

“So what’s the plan?”

“The plan is to find Krukowski and beat the shit out of him. Oh, and to convince a certain principal that the gay president of this company can keep his school as safe as the straight security guy down the street. You have the give the man credit for coming right out with it. He wasn’t beating around the bush like some of our other clients.”

“You’re shitting me. They think this is your fault?”

Mason reached for the Weekly on his desk. Soren looked good in his picture. His red hair gleamed like polished copper and his wide smile added a boyish charm to his gorgeous face. There was no mention of Mason in the two sentences that recapped Soren’s spectacular coming out, but there were enough people on the island who remembered his name in connection with the shooting and the kidnapping. He’d hoped at the time that the typhoon pummeling the island would have taken the majority of the headlines, but James “The Smile” Buchanan’s son being kidnapped and involved in a deadly shootout had been of far more interest to the general public. Mason almost losing his life and Soren publicly announcing his homosexuality had only added to the people’s curiosity.

“I’ve been getting phone calls. Hang-ups mostly.”

“Shit.” Stoney stood. “How long has this been going on?”

“Two, three weeks.”

“And now the graffiti?”

“Yes.”

They both knew what that meant. If Krukowski was behind this, he was getting closer, becoming bolder, angrier, which considerably upped his unpredictability factor. And the threat he posed.

“Why is he stalking you after all these years? You don’t just remember that there was someone you forgot to get even with. Something set him off.” Stoney began pacing Mason’s office. “You don’t know where he is?”

“It’s freaking Sunday back on the mainland. It was hard enough getting the little information I got. I burned a lot of bridges when I left, Stoney, I don’t exactly have a good line back to the unit. The Sergeant I spoke to didn’t know Krukowski, so he must have been gone for some time. If he’s still in the service, I’ll find him. If he retired, I’ll find him, too.”

“God damn, Mace. The man could be on the island, just waiting to blow your head off.”

The thought had occurred to Mason, but he couldn’t dredge up the necessary worry. Krukowski might have been an asshole during their time in the Rangers, but he hadn’t shown any psychotic tendencies. No, it was far more likely he was about the same thing he’d been back then: destroying Mason’s reputation. And damn, according to most of Mason’s clients, the man was doing a good job of it.

THE STALKER 3 (Dickens Challenge)

3.

Soren Buchanan pulled his Jeep into the first available parking spot nearest the Agat Marina’s clubhouse and dragged a hand through his windblown hair. Saw dust rained down on his lap. He was liberally coated with the stubborn stuff, having spent all morning cutting plywood. His eyes were gritty with it and he needed a shower.

He shouldered the old Jeep’s creaking door open and contemplated not for the first time to just forgo the door altogether. Or weld it shut. He reached into the backseat to get his tool box and watched more saw dust join the sand already covering the Jeep’s floorboards. Christ, the car was a mess. He hesitated. The last time he’d gotten the glorious idea to deal with the trash he drove around he’d washed his seat covers. They’d promptly disintegrated in Mrs. George’s washing machine, making Mason’s mother wonder if they might have been covers the Jeep’s first owner had bought in 1956. Soren wouldn’t have doubted it.

He sat his toolbox down, stripped his dusty T-shirt over his head, and went to get one of the parking lot’s garbage cans. He dragged it to the passenger side of his CJ-6, wrenched the door open and started pulling junk from the interior. Crumpled ATM print-outs and drive-through receipts, two or three empty water bottles, newspaper carcasses, Starbucks cups, a bag of pretzels he’d forgotten about, his work schedule from three weeks ago, and an assortment of junk mail. He rummaged under the passenger seat for his tennis shoes when his phone clattered onto the sandy floorboard.

He muttered a curse under his breath and retrieved the phone along with his shoes. The laces of the right shoe looked suspiciously like they’d been chewed on by the stray cat that had taken a liking to his Jeep, but Soren’s attention had already been caught by the small plastic baggie tucked into the shoe. He immediately recognized what looked like colorless ice shavings.

“Fuck.”

“Hello to you, too.”

His heart hammering against his ribs, Soren whirled. He shoved the crystal methamphetamine in the front pocket of his cargo shorts and managed a smile. “Hey.”

Since the marina’s liveaboard population was made up mostly of retirees, Soren basically lived in a floating retirement village. But the girl standing on the sidewalk wouldn’t have to worry about Social Security for at least another forty years, if she lived that long—she looked in dire need of a sandwich.

“I was on my way out”—she jiggled the car keys in her hand—“and thought I’d say Hello.” She pulled her wheat-colored ponytail over her shoulder. “I’m Halley. Like the comet.”

Soren recognized the predatory gleam in her blue eyes. Still, he did what she so obviously expected him to do and let his gaze follow the line of her hair to where it rested between her breasts. Nice boobs, too, but his recent brush with death at the hands of a female predator had him turned off women for a while. “Soren. Don’t let me keep you.”

“Oh, I’m in no hurry.” She twirled the ends of her ponytail around her finger and cocked her head to the side, unabashedly raking her gaze down his bare torso. “I’m on the The Pacific Sun. You live here, too?”

“The Sea Sprite.”

“Sweet.” She lowered her voice. “I was worried only old people lived here.”

Soren couldn’t help but grin. He understood completely. “Watch out for Salvatore, the old guy on the pink sailboat. He’s a bit of a pervert.” He was also paranoid and quite possibly off his meds, but she’d figure that out for herself. “Well, I need to get going. Nice meeting you.”

Soren tossed his tennis shoes back into the Jeep, slammed the door shut and pushed the garbage can on the sidewalk. He gave Halley one last smile and turned to get his T-shirt and toolbox.

She pouted, clearly in the mood to talk some more.

“Adios.” He fled in the direction of the clubhouse. A few months ago he wouldn’t have minded being dragged into a conversation and a flirt. He probably wouldn’t have had too many scruples about taking advantage of the found stash of meth, though pills were more his thing. But his instincts, set off by the look in her eyes, had his scalp prickling. He knew from experience that trouble could come in petite packages, and he really, really didn’t need any trouble right now. Besides, he was going to be late for work.

He showered, didn’t bother to scrape two days worth of stubbles off his cheeks, and stuffed his dusty clothes into the locker he shared with Mason. He pulled on his work clothes, the green polo with the Tradewinds logo emblazoned on the chest pocket and a baggy pair of Jeans that would soon have holes across both knees if he kept washing them, then rushed out to the Sprite to drop off the toolbox.

He didn’t notice the brown paperbag on the bench that hugged the aft sundeck until he rushed back out on the deck. Someone had taken a black marker and written “Mason” on the bag, but that didn’t keep Soren from taking a peek inside. A well-used paperback in decent condition. He frowned at the book and pulled it out. Black Hawk Down by Mark Bowden. Out of curiosity Soren thumbed through the pages. The dedication scrawled across the title page was barely legible. Something like “Rangers, lead the way.”

“Cool.”

Soren took the book with him, thinking he’d return it to Mason over dinner. The man was an avid reader. Still in need of a Christmas present or his lover, Soren thought about buying a book, but dismissed the idea for the nth time. A book was okay for a friend, it wasn’t good enough for the guy you lived with. Unless it was a priced and signed first-edition.

Soren managed to avoid any head-on collisions with Japanese tourists driving on the wrong side of the road and find a parking spot in the alley behind Tradewinds in record time, which meant he was only fifteen minutes late by the time he swept through the back entrance of his place of employment.

Tradewinds was a fun hang-out, serving up alcohol, live music and the occasional embarrassment during karaoke night. On a quiet side street that had never existed on any map, the bar was within walking distance of the Chamorro Village public market, a popular spot for the lunch crowd, that twice a week, on Wednesdays and Fridays, transformed into a lively night market.

“Oi, over here.” Eddie Aguon, Tradewinds’ owner, stood in the door to his office, waving his newest bartender inside.

Soren cringed. He liked his job. He wanted to keep his job. He could and would kiss ass to keep his job.

“Man, Eddie, I’m—“

Eddie held up his hand to forestall any explanations. “Don’t want to hear it. Not interested. Sit. Sit. We need to talk.”

Soren’s ass wasn’t quite in the chair yet, when Eddie went on. “I know you’re no the punctual type. I’ll deal with it. I’m still happy that I found someone who closes up every night, so you’re cool. Once my happiness wears off, you’re in trouble.”

“Got it.”

Eddie nodded. “Remind me again how we’re related.”

Of all the things he’d expected to hear … Soren took a minute to visualize his complicated family tree. His father’s four marriages had produced six-half siblings and enough cousins to lose track. “Cooper’s cousin Rosalie is your sister-in-law.”

Eddie scratched his chin and puzzled over the names and connections. “My brother’s mother-in-law is your father’s sister-in-law?”

It took Soren another minute to follow the link backwards. “Right. First marriage.” He relaxed back into his chair. If he was being fired, he didn’t see it coming. “What brought that up?”

“Your father, James called. The man obviously doesn’t know the first thing about this business or he wouldn’t have called me at 8 o’clock in the freaking morning.”

Soren’s stomach clenched. The hope he’d built on the foundation of his father’s indifference toppled like a house of cards. Four months. He’d been allowed a four-month reprieve. He should have known that his father’s disinterest in his new life would only last so long. The man wasn’t known to forgive and forget.

Eddie held out a glossy magazine. “He must have seen this.”

Soren knew he wouldn’t like whatever this was. He took the offered weekly. It had been folded open to an article titled “Guam’s hottest bartenders.”

“Shit, I forgot about that.” Soren’s eyes flew over the listing of bars, nightclubs and lounges to settle on his photo and its caption: “Forget all the nicknames you’ve ever heard. We call this redhead ‘intoxicating.’”

Eddie’s grin widened as Soren read on. “Gorgeous guys mixing your cocktails. Tempting waitresses on endless legs serving them. Local talents live five nights a week. What more could you want? This neighborhood bar is popular with locals and visitors alike. There’s something special offered practically every night of the week, and two words you’ll never hear here are ‘last call.’”

“We’re only sixth,” Soren mumbled. His eyes homed in on another mention of his name. “He may flirt, but he won’t date. Sorry, ladies. Soren Buchanan, 23, is tall, feverishly cute and gay. James Buchanan’s youngest son came out rather spectacularly last September.”

“Shit.” Soren winced and dropped the magazine back on the table. If anything could motivate James “The Smile” Buchanan to check up on the son he’d disowned, this would be it. “So what did he want?”

“He told me to fire you.”

“What?”

“Suggested that you working here wasn’t such a good idea. Mentioned that he was real friendly with the ABC board admin guy.”

“He’s going to have your liquor license yanked?”

“And yours.”

“Shit.”

Eddie shrugged.

Soren pushed a hand through his tousled hair. “So, uh, I’m fired?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Eddie shook his head. He pulled the magazine closer and tapped Soren’s picture. His wide grin threatened to unhinge his jaw. “This is great advertisement. You’re an asset now. Matter of fact, James wasn’t the only one who called. The Rainbow Coalition expressed an interest in coming by and doing a similar article,” he rushed on. “I did some research. The gay population is woefully underserved. There is a market to tap into.”

Soren wasn’t sure he liked the glint in Eddie’s eyes and the enthusiasm in his voice. In his experience, only fools disregarded his father’s threats so completely.

“I ordered one of them rainbow decals. Starting today we’re a gay friendly bar. I’m thinking about doing a gay night. You know, drag and stuff. Bring your boyfriend, get a second drink for half off. No way am I letting you go.”

Soren stared. A minute ago he’d feared losing his job. Suddenly, he was Tradewinds’ gay posterboy. “What about lesbians?”

“Yes, yes, I thought about that. We’ll have a girl-on-girl night. You can bet we’ll have flyboys and sailors kicking down our doors.”

“You’re not worried about James?”

“No. Are you?”

“Yes,” Soren insisted. A man who had no qualms about delivering his son into the hands of disgruntled terrorists wouldn’t lose sleep over talking the alcohol control board into revoking a liquor license. James was as ruthless as he was well-connected.

Eddie pursed his lips and frowned. “Well, I guess I could fire you and find me another gay bartender. It’s not pc to ask for sexual orientation, but, you know, maybe they’re more obvious than you.” He scratched his chin again. “I’d rather keep you. In fact”—he bent to retrieve a large book the size of a New York City phonebook from the floor—“I want you to study this. There’s a bartender competition in April. I think it’s time Tradewinds was represented.”

His disbelief must have finally been visible on Soren’s face, because Eddie reined in his enthusiasm and sobered. “He’s a bully. And like all bullies, he’s a coward. Am I afraid of him? No. Can he stir up trouble for us? Sure. Will I have this joint be the newest, hippest gay hang-out before James can take the ABC board admin guy out for a round of golf? You betcha.”

Soren felt his crushed hope stir. Eddie’s confidence and enthusiasm were contagious, but Soren had been inoculated by James himself. Still, his anti-authoritarian streak Mason swore was as deep as the Mariana Trench shoved past his reluctance and instincts. “April, huh?”

Eddie’s face-splitting grin returned. He pushed the tome of cocktails in Soren’s direction and waved his bartender to work. He waited till Soren was at the door. “Oh. One more thing.”

Soren grimaced.

“Get a tighter shirt.”

THE STALKER update

Hang in there, dear reader. THE STALKER chapter 3 is almost ready to post. I got horribly stuck and avoided the whole thing for too many days. But I’m working on it again, no worries. Some chapters come together nicely, others are like pulling teeth with salad tongs. I was cramming entirely too much into chapter 3 and had to restructure (i.e. cut most of it for later use).

I'm #1

How awesome is this?

Amazon.com’s newest numbers. THE PROTECTOR, popularity in these categories:

#1 in Books > Gay & Lesbian > Mystery & Thrillers
#7 in Books > Gay & Lesbian > Fiction > Romance

And the book isn’t even out yet. It should ship this week, though. Yay. I am so excited. This is so cool.

I did what?!

I might have agreed to jump out of an airplane. Uh oh.

My husband’s friend (“Hello, Mike.”) has this idea to go parachuting. He wants my husband to go. My husband isn’t sure he really wants to go. He’d much rather snorkel with sharks again.

So I might have agreed to go snorkeling with the husband AND jump out of the airplane with Mike.

Honest, I was sober last night …

THE STALKER 2B (Dickens Challenge)

2B.

Lourdes frowned. “Is that good or bad? I can’t tell.”

“Bad. At least we know where Buchanan is and what he’s capable of, but I have no idea what ever happened to this guy.” Mason jerked his chin at the mall entrance. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “He ruined my career once. He’s not going to do it twice.”

“Well, then.” Lourdes sighed wearily. “Let’s go back to the office so I can clock out, thank you very much, while you boys figure out a game plan.”

They turned back towards their vehicles, each black, each marked with the Security Solutions logo and reflective striping. The golf cart Mason and Ben had driven from their office suite across the street looked every bit as sporty and sleek as the four-wheel drive SUV Lourdes had to patrol their commercials sites during the night.

Lourdes waved as she drove off, leaving Mason and Ben to take one last look at the graffiti spray painted across mall’s entrance. Already the parking lot was filling with shoppers and their curious glances.

“So, we’re talking Gryzbowski? Krusinski? Whatever his name was?”

“Krukowski. Yes.” Captain Thomas Krukowski, last assigned to 3rd Battalion of the Army’s 75th Infantry, the Ranger Regiment out of Fort Benning, Georgia. Mason hadn’t seen or heard of the man in five years. He was surprised Ben remembered. They hadn’t exactly discussed the end of Mason’s military career in great detail. Slugging an officer, even in self-defense, wasn’t something Mason was proud of. And although his command had offered him an honorable discharge, in the end he’d only accepted to save his friends from the witch hunt that followed his altercation with Krukowski.

“You think he could be here?”

“Not with the Rangers, no.” The vast majority of the many active-duty military personnel stationed on Guam belonged to the Navy, the Air Force and the Coast Guard, but that didn’t mean Krukowski wasn’t visiting—in personal or professional capacity—or hadn’t retired here.

“But you’re thinking it’s him, not The Smile.”

Mason nodded. Paying a couple of kids to spray paint slurs on buildings was just the underhanded kind of thing Krukowski would do. James “The Smile” Buchanan acted on a larger scale entirely, which didn’t mean he wouldn’t take advantage of the fallout that was sure to rain down on Security Solutions after eight cases of criminal property damage in one morning.

Mason steered their golf cart into the parking lot in the front of the office building that housed their office suite and groaned when he saw the KUAM-TV news van next to the black-and-white police cruiser that was still there from earlier. He looked over at his partner. Just forty, Ben’s dark hair and goatee were already shot through with silver. Glasses perched on his nose. He wore the pinched expression of someone suffering from acute acid reflux.

“It could be worse.”

“How so?”

“They could be looking for skeletons in your closet.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Fat chance.” A grin tugged on the corners of his mouth. “Unlike you, I have an excellent housekeeper, and according to her nothing in mine, hers or our closet.”

Ben stepped out of the cart. “So, let’s go in and do what that bossy woman of yours suggested, find this Krusinski character and kick his ass.”

“Krukowski. What’s the time difference to Georgia?”

“Fourteen hours. Fifteen hours.” Ben shrugged. “They’re still yesterday, that I’m sure of.” He yanked the office building’s front door open and pointed. “Lead the way.”


***


I wanted to have 2b and 3 ready for today, but time got away from me. Darn holidays :-) Chapter 3 almost made it. I’m not sure yet if I’ll save it for next Monday and post it first thing in the new year.

May 2008 be the most amazing year yet!

THE STALKER 2 (Dickens Challenge)

2.

“My father would turn in his grave.” Benicio Marques, Security Solutions’ general manager, stood under a cluster of palm trees strung with Christmas lights and frowned up at the space above the Tumon Bay Mall’s main entrance. There, wedged between Welcome to Micronesia’s Largest Mall and a row of illuminated wreaths, the red-and-green Pickle Kisser almost managed to blend into the festive color scheme.

“Your father turned in his grave a long time ago.” Mason stared at the red penis towering over the glass doors. He was pretty sure Ben’s father would have reconsidered leaving his security company to his oldest son if he’d known Ben would ask Mason to join him as a business partner.

After his separation from the Army, Mason had taken his specialized skills to Malaysia, becoming a casino and hotel security manager. When Ben, his boyhood friend, had gotten in touch with him he’d been ready to return home to Guam. It hadn’t taken much effort on Ben’s part to convince Mason to help him with his father’s small security company, a business on the verge of bankruptcy.

Months later, they’d founded Security Solutions. Whereas Ben’s father had provided monitoring systems, Mason and Ben offered uniformed guard services. Today, their employees protected small businesses, industrial buildings, and a few of the many hotels. They patrolled the grounds of the University, kept library visitors quiet, and roamed the mall during business hours. Occasionally they dealt with graffiti.

“If you squint just right, it almost looks like a candy cane.” Lourdes, dressed like Mason in black cargo pants and a black Security Solutions polo, narrowed her eyes at the defaced façade and snorted. “Pickle kisser, can’t say I’ve heard that before.”

“I have.”

“Well, that’s good then.”

Mason hiked a brow at his nightshift supervisor. Ben gaped at the woman.

Lourdes shrugged. “I’m assuming you have the number of the asshole who called you that. So let’s give him a call and see what he did at 5 o’clock this morning.”

“Please tell me it wasn’t The Smile who called you that,” Ben said before his friend had a chance to answer. “I’ve just started going to bed without thoughts of that man ruining us.”

Lourdes’s dark head swiveled in Mason’s direction. “The evil father-in-law? It’s that time of year, you know. In-laws and holidays are never a good combination.”

“He’s bad news any day of the year,” Ben grumbled.

“It wasn’t Buchanan.” Like Ben, Mason still expected reprisal where James “The Smile” Buchanan was concerned. The four months since the events that had made them public enemies had done nothing to assuage Mason’s dislike of the man.

Lourdes frowned. “Is that good or bad? I can’t tell.”

“Bad. At least we know where Buchanan is and what he’s capable of, but I have no idea what ever happened to this guy.” Mason jerked his chin at the mall entrance. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “He ruined my career once. He’s not going to do it twice.”


[I am so very, very glad that I know this is only a first draft and word count will exponentially increase with each subsequent draft.]

Guam in the palm of my hand

So I went to the post office yesterday. My dear husband had not mailed his Christmas packages yet and it fell on me to see them off. I don’t consider standing in line at the post office my wifely duty, so there was some mild begging involved. (I will add the time spent there to the time spent in line waiting for his Pro Bowl tickets and then hope that my Christmas and/or birthday present shows his appreciation.)

I had to get stamps to mail Christmas cards overseas and what did I get? These pretty little stamps with palm trees, a sunset and a sliver of beach and the tiniest words on the bottom, “Hagatna Bay, Guam.” How cool is that?!

It’s not like I come across references to Guam on a daily basis, so whenever I do see something I take it as a sign of my impending success. (Which is also why I was excited about Survivor visiting Micronesia again.)

Life is so exciting right now … I love it.

THE STALKER 1 (Dickens Challenge)

1.

Mason Ward’s cell phone buzzed to life on the built-in shelf next to his bed. Instantly awake, Mason grabbed it before it could wake the young man sleeping next to him. “Ward,” he grumbled. He didn’t have to be polite; according to his phone’s display it was 4:30 in the morning.

Silence greeted him.

Mason disconnected and dropped back onto his pillow. The air drifting in through the open ports over the bed was thick with the scent of Pacific and the relative chill of December. He inhaled deeply, resigned to the fact that he was now awake. Damn crank calls. He knew if he scrolled through his incoming calls, he’d find a local number that would eventually turn out to be a payphone. He hadn’t kept track of the first few calls, had barely even registered the hang-ups, but the last half dozen had come from different locations. Someone sure went to a lot of trouble to annoy him.

He eased out from under the sheet and swung his long legs over the edge of the bed. His lover didn’t stir; the redhead had only just joined Mason in bed an hour ago.

In the near dark of pre-dawn—the sun wouldn’t rise for another two hours—Mason pulled on his workout shorts and left the stateroom. He headed to the galley, dropped his cursed cell phone on the counter, got himself some a glass of milk, and went about his usual morning routine.

He hadn’t been an Army Ranger in five years, but he still exercised like one. Pushups. Situps. Chinups. Then the run. He walked down the long pier that separated his 58-foot Alaskan-style trawler from dry land, hung a right out of the marina’s gate and headed south on Route 2, past Nimitz Beach Park. It was too early and too dark still for anyone else to be on the road, even the roving bands of wild pig that usually foraged in the underbrush to either side of the road were still sleeping.

But the exercise didn’t have its usual calming effect on Mason. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to these crank calls than the wish to annoy him. Since he was on call 24/7, he didn’t even have the luxury to ignore his phone. He returned to the marina no closer to figuring out his problem and drenched in sweat.

His trawler had a bathroom, of course, but Mason preferred to shower in the marina’s men’s locker room. It had taken him, his friend Ben and the cabinetmaker two years to gut, restore and reconfigure The Sea Sprite to Mason’s needs, but there was only so much room on a boat and he hadn’t allocated much to his bathroom. As much as he loved living on his boat—a lifestyle he’d chosen with some purpose—it was far more practical for him to use the facilities the marina offered. And so he kept toiletries and a set of work clothes in his assigned locker.

By the time he stepped out of the shower, he had a short mental list of people who hated his guts enough to get up at 4:30 in the morning and call him. He slung a towel around his hips and dragged another through his hair. He pulled on a black pair of briefs and dragged black cargo pants up over his hips, then opened the locker room door to let the steam and hot air escape into the early morning. He turned back and went to grab his black polo shirt from his locker, when a feminine voice intruded on his privacy.

“I bet even your sheets are black.”

Mason turned to find a young woman standing in the door. She was a foot shorter than his six-four, with square, bony shoulders and sharp-edged clavicles that were in stark contrast to the full roundness of her ample breasts. Her sun-bleached hair hung in a loose ponytail down her back. Her yellow tank top and jean shorts left more exposed than they covered. She leaned back against the open door that clearly said Men’s on it and smiled.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

Mason’s brusque manner didn’t faze her, if anything her smile widened. She pulled her ponytail over her shoulder. “Hi. I’m kinda new here and I have no idea where anything is. Where do I go for a good cup of coffee around here?”

Mason thought of the man sleeping in his bed. Soren would know down to the yard where the nearest coffee shop was. Soren would also get a kick out of this girl coming on to Mason.

“There’s a gas station with a convenience store up the road.”

“Not what I had in mind, but it’ll do.” She gave him a pretty pout. “I’m Halley. Like the comet. I’m on The Pacific Sun.” She jerked her chin in the directions of the piers.

Mason knew the boat. The 32-foot Pearson Vanguard was a classic little sailboat, but sadly unused these days. He wasn’t sure but he thought he’d heard that she was for sale.

“Mrs. Maria said I could stay on it, her, for a few days. You know, until after the holidays, and I can get into the dorms.”

Mason arched his dark brows. He didn’t think the barely-dressed Halley and the retired Catholic School teacher Maria San Nicholas moved in the same circles. This girl wouldn’t be the first squatter the marina had seen.

His skepticism must have been apparent, because Halley quickly added, “Mrs. Maria is sponsoring me, you could say. We met through the National Student Exchange. I’m studying to become a Spanish teacher. Did you know she taught High School Spanish for twenty-five years?”

He’d had an idea. “You’re at the U of G?”

“Sophomore.” Halley beamed and reached for her ponytail again. “I guess I better get going. I really need that coffee. Nice meeting you, Mason.” She gave him a little wave and trotted off.

Mason caught her use of his first name and shook his head. He’d give her a couple of days or so to figure out he wasn’t in the market for a girlfriend. In the meantime, he’d give Mrs. San Nicholas a call to check out Halley’s story.

He returned to The Sea Sprite to find a cup of steaming brown rice tea and a note scrawled on the back of an envelope on the galley counter next to his phone. Call work ASAP. The tea made him smile. The note made him cringe.

He snatched up his phone and hit speed dial. He took the steps that led down from the galley to the narrow companionway that he followed to the bow of the Sprite. He gently pushed the door to the master stateroom open to see if his lover was still awake, but Soren was sleeping again, sprawled across green, pinstriped sheets.

When Lourdes Nakamura, Mason’s nightshift supervisor, answered her phone, Mason stepped back into the dark companionway. “You called?”

“Boss. We’ve got trouble.”

Mason groaned and dragged a hand through his short hair. It was barely even Monday and already his day didn’t look so good “What’s up?”

“Graffiti. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Graffiti didn’t sound like something Lourdes couldn’t handle. The ex-Marine had been a bouncer in some of Guam’s rowdiest nightclubs before Mason had offered her a job on his staff. She was as capable as they came. Mason frowned.

“It’s all over the mall. And when I say all over, I mean all over. Check your phone, I’ve sent pictures.”

Mason thumbed through his phone’s menu and called up incoming files. “Christ.”

“So not the first word that came to my mind,” Lourdes admitted, a wry tone to her voice.

Mason felt like the Sea Sprite was suddenly pitching and rolling under his feet. He reached out a hand to steady himself as he scrolled through the files in his phone with the other. His stomach sank with each consecutive picture. Lourdes hadn’t exaggerated when she’d said “all over.” What little undecorated surface of the Tumon Bay Mall there had been was now covered with the rainbow-colored words “Pickle Kisser” next to the very grotesque rendering of a penis.

“I got the call around 4:30. I sent the mobile guys to check it out. It’s not just the mall. It’s all over the library on O’Brian Drive, the Tamuning post office, John F. Kennedy High School, and up and down Skinner Plaza. It’s not a random prank, is it?”

“No.” Mason wished it was, but he didn’t believe in coincidences of that magnitude. He stared at his phone, absently noting that each act of vandalism must have been committed by a different person. The slur was the same in every picture, but the handwriting was different, some words printed, some cursive, letters slanted left or right, some capitalized, some not. The penis spray-painted next to the words looked similar in each picture, though, as if the artists had worked from a template.

Mason went over the last few weeks of his life, trying to remember anything he might have done to provoke the wrath/contempt of a man he hadn’t seen in five years. He’d heard his fair share of whispered “fag” or “faggot,” but he’d never heard anyone else call him “pickle kisser” before or after Captain Tom Krukowski, the man who’d ended his military career.

But what reason would Krukowski have to come after him all these years later? The way he saw it, Mason had all the right in the world to carry a grudge. Krukowski’s witch hunt had almost cost him an honorable discharge from the military. Only timing had saved what very little had remained of his good name.

“Boss? You’re awfully quiet over there.”

“Just thinking.” Mason’s short list of enemies hadn’t even included Krukowski. Thirty minutes ago the man hadn’t been more than a distant, bad memory. Now he was what he had never wanted to be: the focus of Mason’s attention.

“Can you think while you drive?”

“I’m on my way.”

“Bring air freshener. Your life just got flushed down the toilet. The cops are here.”

The Dickens Challenge Begins

I'm "stealing" this post from Tim Hallinan's blog The Blog Cabin:

The Dickens Challenge has officially begun. For those of you who haven’t been following this thread, several brave writers (including me) have committed to emulate Charles Dickens, publishing a chapter at a time when they haven’t the faintest idea where they’re going next. (Well, they probably have an idea, but they/we all wish it were a more specific idea.)

Here are the writers, with links to their stories. I hope you’ll read them and drop a line in appreciation of their bravery and talent, if not their judgment.

John Dishon, newly married and newly out of college, is a beginning novelist with special interests in Asian culture and literature, who sees the Challenge as a way of getting one of his ideas for a novel out of his head and into written form. His book will begin Monday, December 17. It’s called Country Snow and it can be found at www.johndishon.com

Nadja (NL Gassert) is working on the second book in her gay romantic suspense series set on lush, tropical Guam: When a vengeful STALKER seeks to punish Mason Ward for the sins of his past—and present—the security specialist needs to fight to save himself and those closest to him. Nadja will begin to post on Monday, December 17 and you can read her at http://write-experience.blogspot.com/

Timothy Hallinan is a novelist who lives in Los Angeles and Bangkok, Thailand. The Fourth Watcher, which is the next novel in his Bangkok series, will be published in June 2008 by William Morrow. (The first, A Nail Through the Heart, is out now.) His Challenge book, Counterclockwise, will start Monday, December 17 at http://www.timothyhallinan.com/blog/

Steve Wylder is an Amtrak ticket agent and freelance writer living in Elkhart, Indiana and Bloomington, Illinois. His most recent published work is “Time Passages: Reflections on the Last Train Home,” in Remember the Rock Magazine. His contribution to the Dickens Challenge is tentatively titled “Things Done and Left Undone” and will begin Monday, December 17 at : http://ontheslowtrain.blogspot.com/

Lisa Kenney is a telecommunications industry account executive and beginning novelist who lives in Denver. She’s tackling the Challenge with a Dickensian themed story with the working title Foundling Wheel and will begin posting excerpts Monday at Eudaemonia. Lisa, bless her brave soul, will begin to post on Monday, December 17.

Wendy Ledger has an M.A. in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University, and has taught there as a lecturer of introductory writing. Her work has been published in the San Francisco Chronicle, The East Bay Express, and Music for the Love of It. She has two blogs, http://crookedtune.blogspot.com and http://weledger.typepad.com/pomegranate. Her contribution to the Dickens Challenge, “The Untitled Leap,” will be posted at http://weledger.typepad.com/pomegranate, starting Monday, December 17th.

Usman is a businessman and writer who lives in Pakistan and has recently completed a book, which is now in revision. His work for the Challenge will be a mystery/thriller for which he’s still gathering ideas. (Welcome to the club.) It’s not titled yet but when he publishes, beginning around January 1, 2008, it’ll be at http://reality967.livejournal.com

And John Dishon has created a site that brings all of the stories together, to make it easier for you (although I’m sure most of the writers hope you’ll also drop by their own sites.) The URL is www.johndishon.com/test

THE PROTECTOR rankings

I love amazon.com and all the good people who are interested in THE PROTECTOR. Thank you so much for making this an extra special holiday season for me. You guys rock!

No. 2 in Books > Gay Mystery & Thrillers
No. 9 in Books > Gay Romance
No. 39 in Books > Gay Fiction

Oh, just so you know, you don't have to buy the book on amazon for me to love you. If there is an independent bookstore in your area, support it by ordering THE PROTECTOR through them. I will autograph it no matter where you bought it. Just drop me a line and we'll figure that out.

Mahalo.

Pisces 2008

Too funny. I just saw this prediction for 2008:

Travel:
The position of Rahu planet may result in your undergoing a long and distant journey this year.

Rahu must know that I am moving. Or wait, maybe I'm just going on a vacation? Seeing how I live on an island, any vacation away from here involves a long and distant journey. Ideally, I'd love to go back home to Germany to attend my brother's wedding. Oh, and my 20th High School reunion.

This also works for me:

Wealth, Career and Business:
As far as the matters of wealth, career and business are concerned, 2008 will be very lucky for Pisces. This time will be just perfect for happiness, success and prosperity. The favorable position of Rahu planet will result in an increase in your social standing and respect in the society. In case of businessmen, there are chances of receiving sudden gains. Your enemies will be scared of you and your sources of income will increase.

Sweet. I’m looking forward to 2008 already.

The Dickens Challenge

Timothy Hallinan had a great idea: write a novel by the seat of your pants and post chapters weekly. The Dickens Challenge is just what I needed. Sign me up.

Look for the first chapter of THE STALKER right here on this blog next week. Since I scrapped almost the entire stuff I'd done before, I'm basically starting from scratch. So, no, I'm not cheating.

THE PROTECTOR on amazon

How super exciting is this: on amazon.com, THE PROTECTOR was #13 on the gay mysteries & thrillers list and #51 in the gay romance category. People are buying my book.

I probably shouldn’t sound so surprised :-)

I know that a number of you have asked for an autographed copy. Let me just throw this out there: if you’ve preorder a book (and waited and waited and waited), I’ll be glad to sign it for you. In fact, I’d be honored to sign it for you.

If you’re interested, leave me a comment or send me an e-mail.

About leaving and getting there …

I understand there are people who’ve never had to organize a move across state lines :-) Sweet. This is my second Pacific crossing. I’ve also moved across the Atlantic once and from the Northeast to the South once.

If you think that moving with the military is easy, because they organize everything for you, you are mistaken. Yes, they will come and pack up our stuff. And yes, they will unpack at the destination. Sure, they will book tickets, but it’s never in your best interest to just let them do that (they have fundamental issues with the whole “straight line is the shortest route” phenomenon).

It looks like we’ll be leaving Hawaii in June, immediately after the kids are done with school. We’ll visit the in-laws on the East Coast for a short time and get to Kansas in time for school to start in August.

[This is a total bummer. My brother’s wedding and my 20th High School reunion are in the same week we need to be in Kansas.]

We’ll have to do all this flying and moving with two cats who need shots and health certificates and the right kind of weather to be permitted to take-off and land. I haven’t checked yet, but I’m sure the major airlines still have those stupid heat restrictions, which are a major pain in the butt if you have to move in the summer. We’ll also have to find lodging in Kansas that allows us to bring our animals (fat chance). Then we’ll be living in a hotel until we can find a house to rent AND until our household goods arrive from Hawaii.

[Before we leave Hawaii, we’ll have to set up meetings with Kansas realtors and landlords to start house hunting as soon as we get there. This is always a challenge: “can you not come into the office to sign this paperwork?”]

We’ll have to time the first shipment of household goods so that it arrives when we do. Mostly those are things we need immediately (which makes it difficult to live without them when you send them ahead eight to ten weeks in advance). The second shipment won’t leave Hawaii before we do, which means it will arrive in Kansas way, way after we do (mostly that’s all the furniture and the rest of the junk we own).

We’ll have to send the car ahead to make sure it will be there when we get there. As of right now I have no idea if the car is shipped all the way to Kansas or if the military will only ship it to the nearest port (LA or San Diego). While the car is en route, we’re either going to have to live with one car (the husband’s) or rent one. I hate to spend money on a rental car, but it will be difficult to do all the last minute stuff with just one car.

We’ll have to register the kids in school (hoping to get them in the right school district near our future residence). Of all the things that need to be done, this is the least complicated. I can have the Kansas Department of Education send me all the necessary forms, have everything filled out and done here and send it back to Kansas in time for official registration. This way I don’t have to worry about it when we first get there. Piece of cake.

We’ll have to reserve all lodging and air travel right after Christmas, because pet space is very limited and everyone’s moving in the summer. This can get surprisingly complicated. Why do they care how much my cat weighs?

[To make things easier on the kids we usually mail their favorite toys and things (whatever doesn’t fit in the suitcase they’re going to live out of) to the hotel. I think we mailed every single Barbie we owned the last time. This time we’re probably mailing fifty My Little Petshop pets and every single firetruck we own.]

Moving with the military is a challenging undertaking. It’s very frustrating, because the military hasn’t figured out yet that *I* am the one who makes all the phone calls and arrangements—they insists on talking to my husband, thinking he’s in charge! I have to be officially sanctioned to do stuff or in other words, we’re going to have to make sure I have half a dozen powers of attorney.

Boy, but I do love to move …

Orders!

We seem to have come down on orders. This time next year we could be in Fort Riley, Kansas. I say “seem to have come down,” because it’s very early still for orders, and in my experience that means they can and will change.

We’re trading dolphins, whales and lizards for bald eagles, wolves and elk.

I love my book cover

I admit it: I was worried. What if I didn’t like my book cover? I was afraid of oversized nipples on pecs the size of watermelons and bulging prison-gym muscles. So when the cover came in, I was nervous. To appreciate my nervousness you need to know that authors don’t have a lot of say where their covers are concerned; that’s not in our realm of responsibility and thus we’re at the mercy of our publishers and cover artists.

I am happy to report I love my cover, and I totally didn’t notice the nipple :-)

I love the minimalism. Two men and a gun. Bam. I’d like to think that’s a visual expression of my writing style, but that’s reading too much into it. The blurred background is awesome, and I’m almost certain that’s a fan palm in the mid-to-upper left corner. You need to squint or look at a high res image to see it.

I love the guys. Are they fit, or what? I like how the eye just zeroes in on them (great use of highlights). I saw the cover before there was hair on the arms and chest; I like it so much better with this finishing touch (genius). I love the gun. And the bracelet and wristband (so much so I might add the accessory to the next novel). There’s no knife in the story, but I really like it strapped to Mason’s waist.

I think the touch of red in the windblown hair is great. I really only had one (unofficial) stipulation when it came to the cover: I wanted red hair. On the perfect cover, the hair would have been longer, but I’m certainly not losing any sleep over that; I’m too happy with the rest of it.

I wasn’t a fan of the yellow at first, but I think it does make the title and name pop right off the cover and after a week of staring at it (wearing a very goofy grin, I might add), I really like it. It works very well with the blue-green tint, and I think it will work well on a bookstore shelf.

I know I’m beginning to repeat myself, but I really, really like my cover. Publisher Ken Harrison and cover artist Aman Chaudhary did a great job.

What do you think?

What I am thankful for

Family. I love my family, but there is a reason we live on different continents. If you did not know, I am an Adult Child of an Alcoholic or ACOA, which means I grew up in a dysfunctional home and I have a sometimes dysfunctional world view. By the way, if you research this, you will also come across clues as to why I am so much more interested in the male psyche (and thus, why I became a writer of gay fiction).

This year, my parents came to stay with us on Hawaii for a few weeks. We had a good time. We spoke about my book, of course. My parents never encouraged or supported my writing, but they are immensely proud of what I have accomplished. The fact that I wrote a gay book added a certain oddity factor, but it was generally a non-issue. When my brother and his fiancée came to visit, it was the same story. My brother wasn't nearly as impressed by my literary accomplishments as I thought he should have been, but again the gay nature of the book was a non-issue.

I am most thankful for my husband, though. He works for a very homophobic outfit (the Army, anyone?), but he has no problem telling his friends and whoever else wants to know that his wife writes gay fiction. Like most heterosexual men without gay influences in their life, he's not entirely comfortable with all the gayness in my life, but he is very proud of me nonetheless. And that makes his support and love even sweeter.

My kids. They are great. They think I'm a bit confused about the gay issue ("boys don't kiss boys"), but I'm wearing them down.

My family-in-law. They knew I was a bit odd from the beginning, but they still welcomed me in their family. And today, I count them among my supporters.

Friends. I have great friends. I'm an easy friend to make, but not an easy friend to keep. My nomadic lifestyle means I don't have a lot of face-to-face time with my friends, but most of them stick around anyway.

I am most thankful for my friend Sheri. We met in 1986. I was looking for an American pen pal and Sheri replied to my request. Boy, we were still in High School back then. Our lives mirrored each other for a while. We went to college, got married, had kids—today Sheri is a homeschooling mom to five wonderful kids. She's also a very strict Catholic and no fan of all the gayness in my life. Yet she remains a loyal friend and I love her for it.

Health. This last year was tough. I battled depression, dealt with an increase in fibromyalgia flare-ups and noticed a worsening of my insomnia. None of those issues did anything to alleviate my chronic fatigue and on some days just getting out of bed was an issue.

Fibromyalgia is a condition of chronic pain in the muscles, joints and bones. It is also the source of my insomnia or what experts call alpha-delta sleep (in which "deep sleep is frequently interrupted by burst of brain activity similar to wakefulness" and "deeper stages of sleep are often dramatically reduced"). To make matters worse, fibromyalgia is also associated with fibrofog or brain fog, a cognitive dysfunction, "characterized by impaired concentration and short-term memory consolidation, impaired speed of performance, inability to multi-task, and cognitive overload."

So my health isn't great, and I don't feel great. I struggle, because what I most love to do in life—write—has been made difficult by all this. Still, I am thankful, because, boy, it could be so much worse (and I'm not dying from it).

To sum this up, I am very thankful for all the people in my life who love and support me. The majority of the people in my life are tolerant and supportive of the GLBT community, but I am also very aware of the friends and acquaintances I have without any connection to or knowledge of the GLBT community. I am thankful for those, because even though they might be uncomfortable with my choices, they stick around. And in the end, I will wear them all down …

NaNoWriMo

It's that time of year: NaNoWriMo. November is National Novel Writing Month. The idea is to produce 50,000 words in 30 days. If you write 1,667 words a day, every day, you'll reach the goal. If you take weekends off, you'll have to write 2273 words on every remaining day.

Let's put that into context: I would have to write a chapter a day to reach the finish line. When I worked on THE PROTECTOR, I wrote a chapter a week. Ouch.

I'm not a fast writer. I'm not a "write now, revise later" writer. I'm a "agonize over the right words in one sentence until it's perfect and I can move on to the next sentence" writer. I draft and revise paragraph by paragraph. That takes its time.

BUT I expected to have a finished novel by the end of the year, and the end of the year is only 61 days away. Crap! If I produce just around 1000 words a day—no taking weekends or holidays off—I can still make my deadline, with plenty of stuff to edit and revise (i.e. delete). Hmm …

I won't sign up for NaNoWriMo officially, I think, but I'll do my darndest to work toward those 50,000 words in November.

Names

I’ve finally baptized my villain. Her name is Halley. Like the comet. Her official classification is vengeful stalker. She’s off her rocker.

I went through a number of names, but didn’t find one I really liked. I perused the Social Security’s Most Popular lists (for the 1980s) and consulted my Baby Names For The New Millenium book, but nothing I picked had that special feel to it. Names starting with S were out of the question (too many of those already) and nothing Spanish would work (too common on Guam). Eventually, out of desperation, and because I felt the strong urge to procrastinate, I browsed those It Happened The Year You Were Born sites. And voila, Halley, the comet (early 1986).

Halley is perfect. It’s not run of the mill (I think) and somewhat memorable, especially when paired with “you know, like the comet.” It fits the person I see in my mind.

I like naming characters. And of course, I completely over-research. Some characters are “born” with their names, some go through a few of them before I find the right one. In most cases, I have a name before I have a character. On one occasion I named a character after a person I actually know (Stoney), once I went with the suggestion of a friend (Ben, which is short for Benicio) and Halley’s last name came from a street sign (Krukowski).

I’ve had a number of discussions and e-mail exchanges about the correct spelling of Soren’s name. He has an umlaut in his name (you know, the pair of dots above a vowel). I compromised; his American passport has the Americanized spelling, while his Swedish passport shows the umlaut (not entirely realistic, but, hey, it’s fiction).

In other words: names are fun. And Halley is going to be a great villain.

more advance praise for THE PROTECTOR

The Protector delivers engaging characters, a fast-moving plot, and some very steamy love scenes. NL Gassert has crafted an exciting and entertaining romance that builds suspense and erotic tension with every turn of the page. Take it to bed … and plan on staying up. –Charles Casillo, author of The Fame Game