As I say in here somewhere, I often think in terms I don't actually write down. How odd is that?

-When I went looking for my use of the idioms that I mentioned, I was not a bit surprised to find that I used basket case wrong. When I looked it up, I was floored by the original meaning compared to the way its use has evolved…unless you consider things like post traumatic stress disorder and being out of your mind with pain. Well, before I become to grim, here's another excerpt from Metamorphose, which is where I used that phrase.

The International World's Museum Collection:

Book One: Metamorphose

Rand Cooper had no idea how his life had become so complicated. Suddenly, Elwynn Ravensdale, who had been the consummate pain in Rand's arse, was extremely attractive–especially his arse. If that wasn't enough, his teenaged charges were acting cagey and secretive. Worse than all of that, Wynn had an attachment to some woman, a very pretty woman, but a woman nonetheless. And there was a baby involved.

Where were the days when hostile otherworldly visitors were all that he had to worry about?

Coming soon to New Concepts Publishing:

Excerpt:

She was treated to another deep chuckle and a knowing smirk. “The magic that I’ll be using to help Wynn has rather intense side effects.” He locked eyes with her. “Somewhat sexual side effects, especially if either party feels strongly about the other.” He paused, apparently considering his words carefully. “In fact, using sex as part of the healing will ensure its success. I suspect that Wynn is as attracted to me as I am to him which will help. If that bothers you…I don’t know what to say beyond assuring you that he cares for you." He seemed to be ignoring what she'd said and his next words didn't cool her growing temper in the least. "I should caution you to wait out here until I’m finished.”

Oh no, I don’t think so!

Livia turned his words over and over in her mind. How did she really feel? And why did it feel like her answer was a whole-life commitment?  But that wasn't important right this minute.

“Wait out here, with you doing something sexual to my guy in there? Not going to happen." When Rand's eyes turned hard, Livia added quickly, "Ellen told me that everyone has a well of energy in them and that I can share mine under the right set of circumstances. I don’t know if I’m magic, but wouldn’t it be better to have more energy than you need?” She didn't feel particularly comfortable about the idea of being a part of a threesome, hot or not. Still, if it was going to happen, she was going to be part of it.

“Livia,” Rand sighed. “Lest we devolve into an 'I saw him first!' tug of war, let me assure you: I’m going to go in there and yes, heal him a bit using sex magic. Not too much—just enough to get him out of here. We’ll finish it at home…” He hesitated a moment and then gave her a hard look. “While I’m at it, the pheromones will be flying. We will both become unbelievably randy. Horny," he qualified impatiently. "He’s already hurt and in pain. I will not leave him excruciatingly aroused when I can do something about that." He looked away, but Livia could see the ruddy tint coloring his cheekbones. Turning back to her, he went on. "We’ve become close friends and are already somewhat connected. I have no doubt we could get past this if we choose to make nothing more of it after he’s well." He fixed a hard gaze on her, before saying, "We also have magic in common.  I won’t deny that the triad is a powerful number when dealing with magic and spells. The fact i– yes, your energy would help. But, dragging you into this will make it a more…personal, undeniable…permanent thing. Under these circumstances, if you do this, three makes a big difference. Three, or a triad, as I said, is powerfully significant in magic. Because of all that, you might not…we likely will not  be able to avoid sexual intimacy with him and with each other. After the first time…by doing this we’re initiating a bond–a link to one another. So, the bottom line is this: there is no kind of magic more powerful that sex magic, especially when those participating care about each other. Add the number three—or three people—it’s very powerful and very binding.”

Oh, that’s why it feels like a commitment. Am I in or out? Let’s see. One hot guy I’m already pretty much in love with and another hot guy he’s pretty much in love with…two guys, me spoiled and catered to…I think I’m in.

“You think he loves me and maybe you, too?” she tried tentatively. “I just want to be clear here. God this is surreal…” She took a deep breath. “And here I am cuddling up to you in the hallway of a hospital while this guy I’m crazy about is…and I feel like I know you because he’s told me so much and…I’ll do anything to help him get better, to fix this,” she sniffed, fighting tears. “I’m a basket case. Is there any way you can make any of this all right?”

~~~

I thought of several stories I've written where the phrase Peeping Tom would qualify, but none more so than my latest release, Family Matters.

Montgomery Family Chronicles, Book Four: Family Matters

How many Were’s could manage to find their mate and lose her all at the same time? Yancey Montgomery’s mate has been right under his nose for at least a decade. When he makes her his, he also chases her off. What will it take to convince the delicate little werewolf that he is a worthy mate?

Never had Sue been so glad to be back in America, and now she was moving into Old Moon, the town where her best friend lived. What could be better than that–there was no drama at Tracey's place…or so she thought.

Excerpt:

Martino couldn’t help but smile to himself. His perch on the hip roof decorating the lovely Queen Anne style Victorian directly across the street from Susanna’s current residence allowed him the perfect angle from which to observe the happenings inside. From time to time, he felt a little like an inseguitore–a peeping-tom, checking in on Susanna like this. Truly though, she was a hazard to herself on occasion, whether she believed it or not.

From the look of things, it appeared she had someone who could keep up with her; someone who, conveniently, shared her address. For a moment, he’d been afraid that he would be witness to much more than he had a right to—not that he had a right to see what he had.

Uncomfortably aware of the building passion between the couple, Martino had diligently surveyed the neighborhood, taking care to study the shadowed corners and recesses bordering her home. Before long, his gaze was inexorably drawn back to couple he’d been watching. Thankfully, their passion had cooled.

First, the man rose from the couch, turning to help Susanna rise—as he should. Their elaborate, stick-style home featured generous double-hung windows throughout the house, making it a simple matter to track the couple from the front sitting room to the upstairs hall. Satisfaction lifted the corners of Martino’s mouth when the two parted with a relatively short-lived embrace followed by a fleeting graze of lips.

A love affair was blooming between Susanna and Peyton Livingston. There was mutual respect, care, concern, and fire, so much fire between them. Susanna had found romance and passion here in small-town Georgia, and Martino was happy for her.

Except…how was he going to tell this to Cesare?

~~~

I couldn't help but laugh as I reread this little excerpt, though. I couldn't think of anyone more in need of facing the music than Ashlynn Doucette…except, possibly her father.

The Weather Series: Ashes in the Wind

Like a fiery wind, Ashlynn Doucette made Gabe burn. It was only fair that she smolder with him.

Excerpt:

 

Ashlynn mainly slept through the next day and woke the day after that to a dull throbbing pain in her chest She had only vague memories of going to the bathroom and taking pills with cold water.

Taking stock of her situation, she also noticed that she was especially warm, although her pillow was unusually firm. Still trying to orient herself to her surroundings, she realized that her pillow was moving up and down and that it smelled incredible. In addition to that, she realized that it was a full body pillow since her leg was thrown over it. On the heels of that knowledge came the fact that her knee had found a rigid lump in the warm, breathing pillow.

Carefully, she tilted her head back and found herself gazing into the sexy chocolate eyes of one Sheriff Gabriel Theroit. Make that sexy, amused chocolate eyes, she thought to herself.

“Bon jour, petit,” her pillow rumbled.

Ashlynn jerked in surprise and then moaned in pain. Gabe eased himself out from under her and smoothly disentangled her from the twisted covers, helping her to sit up.

“Um, I just need to – you know,” she inclined her head toward the bathroom. When he moved to help her up she blushed. “I think I can manage,” she croaked becoming conscious of her less than dressed state.

“Mais oui, Sugar, just don’t get any idea about going anywhere, hmm?” he leaned down and tilted her chin with one long finger. “It’s time for you and me to have a sit down, yeah?”

She opened her mouth to speak and then closed it when he shook his head from side to side. She shot a resentful glare at him over her shoulder and did her best to stomp off to the bathroom without jarring her shoulder too painfully.

Once inside the small room, she did her best to meet her morning needs with the use of only one hand. The doctor had been right in that she couldn’t have managed alone with her injury.

Why had her friend Angel chosen this time to finish her specialty studies in New Orleans? Well, that’s hardly fair, is it? She started guiltily at the smell of melting plastic. She’d been glaring at a toothbrush hanging from a ceramic holder and noticed large purple drops of clear plastic cooling on the vanity counter.

It wasn’t Angel’s fault that Ashlynn’s job had brought her to Napoleon Parish in pursuit of a suspect. While, theoretically, Ashlynn Doucette trailed white collar and therefore the “less hostile” criminals, in reality, anyone who broke the law was, by definition, automatically dangerous.

The purple plastic drips on Gabe’s vanity began to smoke as she considered that he was likely to tell her in no uncertain terms that she should have contacted him the moment she’d crossed the county lines. She wouldn’t be surprised if he was on the phone to her father or her uncle right that minute.

Ashlynn took a deep breath. She’s just destroyed the man’s toothbrush with her “little gift” and now she was already arguing both sides of the conversation she hadn’t yet had with him.

She really needed to get a grip. She should have called him immediately upon realizing that one of her suspects was living in his Parish. Before that, though, she should have called her friend Angel to keep up with her life. That way she wouldn’t be stuck in Sheriff Gabe Theroit’s bathroom wearing nothing but a very large flannel shirt and a thong with no place to go but into his kitchen to face the music.             

~~~

This excerpt-example comes from a new series–a story in a new series–that you'll be seeing soon. I hope it clearly exemplifies the phrase for you ; -)

I couldn't decide, upon rereading this, if the man speaking might not be the one who jumped the gun.

Signs of the Zodiac:

The Year of the Archer

For years, Major Archer Thomas consoled himself that he was doing just as he should be. He sent a generous stipend to support his unwanted wife and un-asked-for son. In the mean time, he did everything he could to keep the planet safe for good people everywhere.

Why did it feel like he was missing something?

Excerpt:

Walking up to him, he murmured, “They’re assholes. You can’t make ‘em shut up.”

                “Watch me,” Arch growled low in his throat.

                “Hunter Thomas!” The dark-haired man called out. “Where’s that sweet mama of yours?”

                As the boy approached, two other men asked the same thing. Hunter grinned, pointing. All the men turned and looked at Vivian settling into a chair on the edge of the crowd. Razor sat next to her, leaning close.

                The man standing next to Arch looked at him and then looked back at Hunter. He began to smile. His smile bloomed to a grin.

                “Now, Hunter,” the larger nearly fit man began. “She’s gotta compete or you can’t, you know that.”

                “I’ve got someone else to do it with me this year.”

Hunter’s mouth quirked in the same predatory half smile Arch felt on his own face. The man next to him rocked back on his heels, sinking his hands into his pockets. Glancing at him, Arch saw a grin of satisfaction on the man’s face.

“Now, son,” oozed the ruddy-faced man placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “You shouldn't have jumped the gun like that. You know we’ve bent the rules as much as we could letting your mama compete since your daddy’s not around. But it’s gotta be your mother or your father, that’s it.”

Arch stepped forward and plucked the man’s hand from Hunter’s shoulder. “I’ll thank you to keep your hands off of my boy and refrain from calling him “son”,” he growled.

“My dad is around, Mr. Stuart,” Hunter looked at the ruddy-faced man through narrowed eyes. “Dad, did you meet Mr. Stuart, Mr. Haley, Mr. Johnson, and Mr. Phelps?” Hunter asked, glaring at them.

They all stuck out their hands to shake Archer's. He looked at the men until each one dropped his hand back to his side.

                “Um,” Mr. Johnson, the almost fit man, spoke up. “I guess you heard…”

                “I heard enough to want to kick your ass, Johnson,” Arch growled. “Only reason I don’t is because my wife might feel duty bound to tape you back together again. I don’t want her that close to filth like you. Stay the hell away from me and even further from my family.”

                Arch put his arm over Hunter’s shoulders. “Dad, this is Mr. Sullivan, my best friend Jamie’s father.”

                “Mr. Will Sullivan who thinks your mother is hot?” growled Arch.

                “Get over it, Major Thomas, every man with a pulse thinks Vivian Thomas is hot. Most of us have better sense then to run off at the mouth about it, though.”

~~~

Once in a blue moon is a phrase I thought I'd used a million times. As it turns out, no–I haven't. I've only used it this once, but I expect I'll use it again, now that I've discovered my oversight.

Rainy Day Lover (coming soon to Torquere)

Excerpt:

Ximun settled himself onto the rickety couch with a slight wince. This would be a very uncomfortable night, in more than one way.

His body was sore from the beating he'd taken just a day ago. As a police detective in New Orleans, the youngest and most physically fit on the force, he got the tap for the more combustible disagreements. That he spoke Cajun French, Yat, and Cajun Creole fluently , along with a smattering of Quebecois French, was even more justification–at least, in the eyes of his brother and commanding officers.

His parents had died when he was small, so he grew up all over the state under the care of grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins from one end of the bayous to the other, from New Orleans to Baton Rouge and on to Pointe Coupe. Because of this, he was better with a gun and quick in a fight, than many of his brother officers. It didn't hurt that he had recently gained a doctorate in one branch of forensic science and would soon have another. He was exhausted.

That was exactly why he was sitting on the rickety sofa in his grandfather's and now his, old house. This was his getaway from the world of law enforcement and academia. Still, he'd told his maw-maw that she could rent it out once in a blue moon, if she had the opportunity.  Apparently, she'd had the opportunity.

" Mi-o, my-o," he yawned, stealing another look at his companion for the evening as he stretch carefully. He was certainly a treat to look at, no doubt about it.

The man sitting across from him was more heavily muscled than he was, but it was obvious that his muscles were not just for show. He had blond hair, stormy blue eyes and a strong, boyish face.

Everything about this one tugged at him, pulled at him. It had been so long since he'd shared his bed with anyone. Now this pretty stranger sat in his salon telling him he would be allowed to sleep out here–so close, and yet so far.

~~

 

Loose cannon was another phrase that I was sure I'd used. I mean, how many cop and lawyer books do I have? I don't know why, but those professions seem to appeal to my muse. Regardless, I don't have all sorts of loose cannons rolling around. Just this one–

Signs of the Zodiac:

The Year of the Maiden

She must've been born under a bad sign. That's all Maddy could figure. She had an amazing gift, but it scared people to death. Ten years ago, just a teenager, and she'd found the love of her life, only to lose him at the same time. Now, she was back in Maine to help a wonderful little girl who, surprise, surprise, just happens to be his niece. A bad sign. Definitely.

Excerpt:

The idea that Maddy Bradley would be laying that beautiful head just a few feet from his own every night was sure to make him crazy. He placed one of her bags on a luggage rack and the other on the small table.

                Madison Bradley, what a nut case. He had thought, even though she was so young, that he was falling in love with her. Now, here she was influencing his innocent niece. He wasn’t going to have it, not at all. That poor child had been through enough.

                “Mother, how could you rent a room here to Maddy Bradley after everything that’s happened?” he demanded, finding his mother in the kitchen.

                “Caleb, Maddy has helped Marley so much in the last six months.” Cora told him, carrying a coffee service into the parlor.

                “If that nut job has Marley buying into that freaky psychic crap, I don’t think that’s helping her at all!” Cora turned and took the tray of snacks from him just as Marley, Carin and Maddy entered the room.

                Maddy stopped, frozen, staring at Caleb. Marley choked out a strangled sob and ran up the stairs.

                “Way to go, Cale!” growled Carin. She turned ran up the stairs after her daughter.

                Maddy passed a shaking hand over her face and through her hair. Her looks hadn’t changed much at all, as far as Caleb could tell, except that she was somehow more beautiful than she had been ten years before.

                He didn’t speak to Maddy; he just stared at her. It just made him angrier that he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She looked back at him, hurt shining out of those beautiful eyes.

                “Maddy, I can’t get her.” Carin came walking up and placed a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder.

                “I’ll go,” Caleb began to move toward the stairs.

                “NO!” both women stopped him.

                “Caleb” Maddy addressed him for the first time. “You just go sit down. I’m going to let her know that you aren’t talking about her or thinking about her when you say those things. You just be prepared to make it clear that you aren’t.”

                “What the hell are you talking about, Maddy?” he barked.

                She moved forward and took one of his hands in hers. Her brow furrowed and she placed her other palm against his cheek. Shaking her head negatively, she moved her fingertips around to touch the skin behind his ear.

                Dropping the hand near his face, she whirled on Carin. She still held his other hand but seemed not to realize it.

                “He doesn’t even know, does he?” She asked Carin, incredulously. “You said that the most important people in her life knew. She talks about him incessantly. How is it that you didn’t tell him?” Caleb was shocked at how angry Maddy seemed to be. The hand still holding his was shaking with anger.

                “I’m sorry, Maddy, it’s just that he…” Carin shook her head and looked away.

                Maddy rounded on Cora. “Mrs. Lawlor, why didn’t you tell me that he,” she tugged at Caleb’s hand, “was Uncle Sheriff? You knew I didn’t have any idea. I could have done something before now.” She glared at the two women. “Now, I have to do parlor tricks when I need to be teaching her and helping her to stay safe.” She flung Caleb’s hand away from her. "We don't need a loose cannon on our own deck. We're in enough danger as it is. I’m going out to the porch. Don’t come out there. Marley will be in soon.” Maddy turned to Caleb. “You be nice!”

~~

There are so many times I think of something as the rule of thumb.  I'm not even sure I use all the words anymore. I say, "as a rule," or something like that. But in my mind, I'm thinking, "as a rule of thumb …"               

Art & Soul

By J.J. Massa

Oliver Crane was a success. He enjoyed making movies– losing himself in a new role every few months. Acting allowed him to express so many facets of his nature. Dark and intense, he lived his work as the screen's ideal leading man. What woman wouldn't want to spend the night in his bed? For that matter, how many men could say they didn't want him?

Not Thorbjörn  Frisk. Or he wouldn’t deny it, if anyone bothered to ask him. A Swedish artist who emigrated to America in his late teens, Tor often lost himself in his work, avoiding the harsh realities of impatient and intolerant people who had no use for a stuttering sculptor who barely spoke English.

 Both men invested his very soul into his art. What would it cost them in the end?

 

Excerpt:

Tor was up to his elbows in plaster, clay and muck when he heard the disturbance outside. Forcibly ignoring it, he immersed himself in finding the rhythm of the piece he was working on. It was a multi-media piece of art that had been commissioned by the wife of a prominent businessman.

As a rule of thumb, his trade was competitive, if you were into that sort of thing, but Tor wasn’t. Born Thorbjörn Matthias Frisk in something Switzerland, his family had moved to New York when he was seven.

Tor had struggled to fit in with his American peers for many years. This had proved to be impossible in the long run, of course. He was just too different. Though his accent had faded, Swedish would always be his first language and the language he thought in. Where he was from, creativity was highly prized, and nobody cared a whit about sexual orientation.

Things were different here.  With a shake of his head, Tor stepped back to view his project. It was only then that he heard the pounding on his studio door.

“Komma in!” he called absently, circling the huge sculpture, assessing what it was and what it might become. As he reached the point where he’d been working, Tor began to back up for a broader view.

“What the hell?” a strange voice shouted. “What’re doing? You got…sludge all over me!”

The new voice and unexpected impact caught Tor by surprise, causing him to stumble, grabbing onto the now gaping stranger.  Only, this wasn’t a stranger—not really. While he’d never met the actor, everyone knew Oliver Crane.

Dark hair, square jaw, piercing blue eyes, muscles in all the right places, the man was a god. Currently, however, he was a god covered in what amounted to mud. Sure, it was expensive mud, but mud just the same. Tor, on the other hand, was covered in…Well, by Oliver crane. He definitely had the better part of the deal—or so he thought until he looked into those raging blue eyes.

~~~

 

You can't get a better example of dead as a doornail than this…well, a better example of the definition. Hmm, maybe you can, but I had fun.

Figuratively Speaking (releasing this weekend)

For many years, Alyssa managed to live under the radar. She scraped by, hiding who she was and what she could do the best she could, even though she didn't exactly know why anymore.

One thing she does know–happily-ever-afters don't just happen. Sometimes you have to give them a hand.

Excerpt:

"You've got to let me go, mister," Alyssa hissed. "These guys mean business."

"I'm aware of that, young lady," the old guy said, rolling his chair out onto the sidewalk. They could've hidden out if he'd stayed put, but now…well, she couldn’t just leave him, could she?

"Look, they kill people," she growled, tugging at the handles of his chair. "Dead. Doornail dead. You know, like, dead as a doornail?"

"I know the phrase," he snapped. "I’m old. Not senile. I can handle these thugs. If you owe them money, we'll pay."

"Pay? You can't just pay!" Alyssa rolled her eyes. Realizing the old codger had locked the brake to his chair, she leaned forward to release it. "You don't know…"

"Miss Lange." Another person had entered her nightmare. This one, unfortunately, she recognized.

"Mr. Ticone," she greeted weekly. "Uh, hi." She stepped in front of the old man, shielding him from the newcomer.

While she didn't know him well, she had known Johnny Ticone for a very long time. Her mother had made a life's habit out of borrowing and repaying the man, over the years.

"I don't think I know your friend," Ticone oozed.

~~~

Knock on wood is used…well, I can't say it's incorrectly, but I've used it in Extended Family, coming soon from Melange Books:

Excerpt:

 

"Oh, Attilio! These men saved us! Beulah! Come on, Beulah!" Marge looked right and left until a young man, another half-Were, Attilio realized, stepped forward. He had his man around a woman very reminiscent of Marge, though her hair was darker.  "This is Beulah," Marge introduced needlessly.

"That man!" Beulah pointed to a man standing nearest the door. "He…oh, and him!" She pointed at Attilio's relative. "Th-they turned into wolves–human-like man-wolves. Right there! Right in the street! Just like on TV!" The woman seemed to calm before saying in a quieter voice, "Those others turned all the way into wolves. It was scary."

"Don't worry, Beulah, it's okay. Just a dream. We-we'll…" Marge's bout of pithy there-there's died away as she turned pleading eyes to Attilio. "What's going on, Attilio. Where is Mr. Vitale? A-and Martino…Mr. Amoscato?" she corrected. Attilio knew she had a mild crush on Martino, and that it was reciprocal. Not that any of that mattered right now.

"He, Mr. Vitale, is in Italy. I stayed behind at his orders," he responded, his tone turning resentful as he eyed the only other Italian in the room.

"Mr. Vitale knew our father would kill you, Attilio," the Were said quietly. "Instead of challenging him for the pack, I have chosen to come to you, my brother. I am Mattia."

That was a great deal more information than Attilio could process, so he turned to the other two men in the room, the half-were and the full lupine who'd stood unmoving near the door. "And you?" he asked finally.

The half-Were stepped forward, hand extended for a handshake. "Howdy. I'm Woodrow  Livingston.  Well, Woodrow Warner-Livingston, but I go by Livingston nowadays. Anyway, if you ever need to knock on wood to get lucky, here I am!" He winced mildly in pain when the man next to him tapped him on the crown of his head. "That there is Bentley Adams, and Oz, short for Oscar–he's outside, securing the perimeter. We come from Peyton Livingston. They found out there's more going on than someone just trying to kill his mate, Mr. Vitale's cousin…"

"Mate?" Beulah looked around wildly before seizing her sister. "I need the ladies' room, Marge. Right now!"

~~