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disclaimer: this is an unedited work in progress. It is shared here in a spirit of fun. It may change or even be deleted from the final draft. 

“Why’d you say that about Cal?” Ruy asked. “About him not wanting to sleep with Paloma?”

“He’s in love with me. He has been since we were kids.” Eve looked down at the beer in her hands.

“And you? Do you love him too?” Ruy found himself curious.

“I love him very much. But I’ve spent a lot of years proving that I don’t need him.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know. If you figure it out, will you tell me?” The smile on her face was wistful.

“Sure, Prima.” He smiled. “But don’t get any ideas about playing matchmaker. Torres and I are oil and water.” His eyes followed hers back to where Torres was dancing with the scientist. She had her back to his front now and her eyes were closed. Her hand was cupping the back of Cal’s head; her lip was caught between her teeth. The music had changed to something slow with a throbbing, sensual beat, and Paloma rocked and swayed with it as if she were born to dance, her work-strong body undulating against Cal. Ruy felt his cheeks heating with annoyance as he watched the scientist draw his beer bottle down between Paloma’s breasts, making her nipples harden against the boyish undershirt she wore. For a guy who wasn’t interested, Cal had certainly turned up the heat on the dance floor.

Ruy went looking for the blonde.

#

He woke to a dry mouth and a pounding head. After carefully removing the woman’s arm from around his waist, he stumbled up to go find the head. Maria. That was her name. Maria with the blonde hair and pouty lips. Ruy felt a smile drag his lips up. She’d been a fun diversion, sweet and uncomplicated. When he came back into the room she was sitting up in bed, blinking at him.

“Buenos dias, Ruy.” She purred, stretching.

“Hey. That was fun last night.” He smiled, sitting next to her on the bed. There was a time in his life when this sort of thing had never been awkward, a kiss, a wave goodbye, and he’d be on his way. But these planets where the rebels settled, everything was a little more complex than that: sleeping with a woman could be seen as promise.

“Yeah, maybe we should do it again?” She moved to straddle his legs and sit on his lap, confident in her sensuality. He laughed and kissed her cheek.

“I need to get back to my ship. Some other time, maybe.” He smiled as he reached for his pants.

She threw her head back and laughed.

“Oh, sure. Good luck though, since your boat, she’s not here.”

Really. April. 

Huh.

Already a quarter of the year is gone (inching closer to a third) and here I sit, taking stock of how I’m doing on that New Years Resolution I made, and I come across a quote on pinterest that reads “Dream as if you will live forever. Live as if you will die tomorrow.”

How freakin’ fitting. 

I didn’t resolve to lose weight or to run more or to drop the f-bomb less or to cook healthier or to cut back on the amount of wine I drink or anything like that. 

No, I had to go and name this “the year of taking chances,” a big bold gesture probably fueled by too much champagne. 

And, four months in, I am still writing a lot, still cussing and drinking and not running as much as I should, cooking with butter and salt and all the bad stuff, and in general living almost exactly the same life I was back in December… except that I’m on submission, seemingly constantly (and that’s a good thing). Better than that, I’m stacking up a growing number of rejection letters in my inbox, which means that I didn’t stop sending those subs out, even after the rejections started coming in (something I feared might happen).

You see, I’m shy, and full of self-doubt. Hard to believe, once you get to know me, that the shyness was ever there, but it is and it was and it hangs around a lot when I’m thinking about my work. 

So, on the first friday in April, I am taking stock of my life and I can say, in full honesty, that I’m satisfied with how that whole New Years Resolution thing is coming along. I’m still writing, still subbing. Cracked is almost complete and ready for some revision and I can look around and say “life is good” and I mean it.

Enjoy your weekend, friends. Keep living like there’s no tomorrow, and I promise, I’ll do the same.

xoxo,

V

Just for fun, today’s blog post about feminism takes the form of an interview. I’m being interviewed by my own fictional feminist, Monica, the Alpha of Amazon Pack. Monica plays a supporting role in Amazon before taking center stage for her own chance at happy ever after in United.

Monica: Let’s cut right to the chase.

V: of course, open book here.

Monica: What does being a feminist mean to you?

V: On the most basic level, it means that I believe men and women are born equals, and that our laws and social conditioning are what change that. I believe it’s my responsibility to work for and advocate the need to change those laws to recognize women and men as equal. I see the flaws and the poisonous shit in our social conditioning and I want to make them better, not necessarily for my own gain, because I lead a fairly privileged life, but because every woman should be able to look at her life and know it’s hers by right, not because someone deemed it okay to let her have it.

Monica: What does that mean to you as a writer?

V: I talk about feminism, call it by name in my work. It’s part of the social fabric of my stories and it is definitely part of the conflict. It means sometimes my female characters are more Alpha than the males. It means my heroines are self-rescuing–they fight their own battles. It means a woman can command a space ship or be the Alpha of a very powerful pack.

Monica: Not because you gave it to me…

V: But because you earned it.

Monica: You’re a stay-at-home mom…do you feel that diminishes your voice as a feminist?

V: Not at all. Yes, I stay home with my children, and I have the freedom to do so thanks to being able to work from home. It’s a choice I made, and one that not every woman has the luxury of being able to make, economically speaking. If anything, being home with my children has given me the opportunity to raise feminist sons.

Monica: Feminist sons? How does one accomplish such a thing?

V: Well, their budding feminism is a work in progress. Right now, they’re four years old, we’re just working on saying please and thank you and addressing each other and the people they encounter with respect. They don’t know what privilege means, but as they grow up, they will, and they’ll be aware that they have it. I don’t ever want to make them feel bad for being white men in America. I do want them to understand that it gives them an advantage, and that the price for that advantage is a social conscience and the responsibility to help others who weren’t given that advantage.

Monica: That goes pretty far beyond feminism.

V: You got me.

Monica: Does the idea of social conscience and responsibility play into your current works in progress?

V: Of course, it’s always there, it’s always part of the dynamic. It’s perhaps the driving theme in Little Wing, the space opera I’m writing right now.

Monica: Forget Little Wing for a second… Let’s talk about my wolves. Where does social conscience and responsibility play into our story?

V: The Ushers are instruments of social change. You yourself were a ghost–a woman who was diminished in the eyes of society due to the loss of her man. It sort of borrows from the idea of the practice of Sati in ancient Indian culture, but more of a metaphysical Sati than a physical one. It’s the responsibility of the first Usher to end the practice so that the women and men of Amazon can re-join wolf society at large.

Monica: but, it’s a love story, right? Isn’t it just a buncha nookie and some happy ever after?

V: Technically speaking, it’s three love stories!

Monica: no spoilers here… 

V: nope, no spoilers. Each of the Ushers gains spiritual strength from the love of a mate. As much as the story is about social change on a macro scale, it’s about love and personal change on a micro scale.

Monica: And, what part do I play in all this?

V: uh-unh. No spoilers.

Monica: Does feminism have anything to do with your choice to make the creator deity in your work female?

V: Nah.

Monica: Really?

V:  Really. The creator deity could have been male and the social issues in the story would be the same. I chose to make the deity a female because I liked giving the creator a maternal sensibility.

Monica: well, thanks for talking about feminism with me today. Go write my happy ever after, will ya?

V: I’m on it.

Okay, here comes the disclaimer: This excerpt is from an unedited work in progress. It might change (and probably will) before the final draft! It might even disappear from the final work altogether. I’m sharing it here in a spirit of fun, to give a glimpse into the world I’m writing. Enjoy!

As they made their way back to their shuttle, Paloma heard shouts, the sound of people running toward them. She spun, dropping to a crouch, both guns out and ready. Every hair on her neck prickled as she watched a child running as hard as he could in their direction. Seeing the thugs running behind him, it wasn’t hard to imagine what had inspired that look of terror on the kid’s face. So many little ones were left to fend for themselves while their parents worked, the temptation to take—food, money, clothing—was always there and no one to teach them it was wrong but the people they dared take it from.

Suddenly seething, she tossed one of her guns to the side, and shouted “Oy, ‘Queño!”

The kid heard her shout, saw her gesture, and his little legs started pumping harder. He launched himself into her open arms, legs wrapping around her as she leveled her gun at his pursuers. She felt Ruy at her back, his guns also drawn.

“He’s coming with me.” She warned the thugs.

They backed down, but one whined. “He took my lunch.”

“And I’ll take your dinner and every fucking dinner after if you don’t get the fuck back.” She hissed, pushing her gun hand forward while the stinking, shaking child pissed down the front of her clothes.

The thugs weren’t going to take that chance over one skipped meal. They disappeared back into the maze of tents.

Fucking damn it. Now what? There was a fucking kid and piss all over her and she’d just said he was coming with her. She turned to face Ruy and the doctor, who was holding out her other gun. Grunting, she holstered the one she still held and took it from him.

“I’m sorry doctor.”

“Never apologize for compassion.” The little man smiled sadly at her. “I think the Captain will understand why we’ll have a passenger, at least until we get back to Sagan.”

The kid was still shaking in her arms. Paloma tilted his little face up. Couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old, and he was nothing but bones. Wide blue eyes met hers, trembling. She shushed into his filthy hair.

“Do you want to ride in a boat?” She whispered. The little shit rewarded her with a solemn nod that made her heart ache. “What about your mama?”

“Ain’t got her no more.”

And so it looked like Paloma would have a crash course in parenthood.

Disclaimer: This excerpt is shared in a spirit of fun. It is an unedited work in progress. It may change or even be removed by the final draft. Here, Sarita meets the Ahne, the leader of First Blood.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” The other woman’s face showed an open concern.

Sarita clenched and unclenched her fist. Blood drinker. The wound on her finger had already healed, but there was dry blood on it. Surely this thing could smell it.

“Tsk.” Let me see. The Ahne picked up her hand, stroking it in something like a caress, causing Sarita’s fingers to spasm suddenly. “You heal quickly.” She observed, sniffing, but not breaking her gaze. She brought Sarita’s hand to her lips and a cold tongue flickered across the healed pin prick. Sarita was overwhelmed, unable to move as those green eyes held her spellbound. There was power in this woman, like nothing she’d ever felt, not even from her uncle. “I won’t hurt you, little wolf.” A feral smile crossed the Ahne’s face just a second before her eyes rolled and closed in pleasure. “You are a sweet little thing. We could be friends, yes?” 

Sarita’s heart stuttered it’s yearning as she felt her lips tilting up in a smile. Friends. Yes, she wanted that. This cold, beautiful woman made her crave a closeness, made her want to touch that icy skin, have those glittering teeth graze her neck. Unconsciously, she moved closer, reaching. 

“Get the hell away from her!” Mac’s voice shattered the moment. Sarita gasped, pulling away from the smiling Ahne. She immediately looked away as she scrambled back, not wanting to meet this creature’s eyes again. Instead, she looked up at Mac, her terror easing as she saw his teeth and claws out to defend her.

“I don’t know how you got in here, but you aren’t welcome. You have no `friends’ here.” Mac spat the word with derision. “Get the hell out of here. If I see you near her again, I’ll…”

“You’ll what, pup?” The Ahne moved toward him, trying to capture his eyes with her own. Refusing to meet her gaze, he bared his teeth, the threat clear. The Ahne’s laugh grated against Sarita’s senses.

“Oh yes, you are an alpha wolf, sure. But I am Krönen. I am Ahne. You cannot fight me.” So quickly, even their wolf senses couldn’t follow, her hand reached out and slashed across Mac’s face. Before he could react, her finger was in her mouth, his blood on her tongue. 

She spat, a look of derision crossing her features.

“No. You cannot fight me.” 

And then she was walking out the door, into the afternoon sunshine, her icy scent, a trail of blood on Mac’s cheek, and the chill in their bones the only reminder she had been there at all.