#ignoring something by not consuming it and by not giving it press damage their wallet more

[chickensarentcheap]

Sanctuary - Chapter 15

Warnings: smut (just a tad), bit of angst

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @valkyrie-of-the-light

Her sleep had been restless. A couple of hours of broken, disjointed dreams that have left her both confused and anxious. Vivid memories of people and events of the past; incidences while overseas in Kuwait and Kabul, troubles in New York City and Boston, the flight for both safety and survival on the Sultan Kamal Bridge. All joining together in chaotic, mind numbing fashion. Causing her heart to pound furiously in her chest and her lungs to painful contract, struggling to catch a breath as her eyes snaps open. And it takes several minutes for her to both orientate herself with her surroundings and manage to calm herself down. Her stomach clenching, head pounding, sweat beading across her brow and gathering at her temples. A mixture of the dreams themselves and the shedding of alcohol from her system.

She’s suddenly aware of a tiny foot pressed into the small of her back and a warm, furry body next to her head on the pillow. And when she opens her eyes, she finds Mac intently watching her, both his ears up and alert, and his head cocked to the side. Normally he sleeps at her or Tyler’s feet, but had more than likely been disturbed by her kicking and thrashing during her sleep -or maybe even concerned- and had moved up to lie where he could keep a better eye on her.

“It’s okay baby boy,” she whispers, and strokes those impossibly large ears and runs the tips of two fingers down his snout. Then scratches him under the chin and presses kisses into that soft fur. “Mommy’s fine. She just had a bad dream. You go back to sleep now.”

 He stretches, yawns noisily and then retreats to Tyler’s side of the bed, where the sheets are cool to the touch and undisturbed. Frowning, she reaches across a snoring Millie to snag her husband’s charging cell phone from nightstand, turning on the screen to check the time.

 1:35.

 Groaning, she sets the cell phone down and then sits up in bed, yawning loudly and pushing her hair away from her face. The rest of the house is in cozy slumber; the baby down the hall in his crib, the twins downstairs in their pillow and blanket fort, Ovi and Chloe on separate ends of the couch. All signs point to Tyler still being home. Somewhere. Wallet and cell phone always where he leaves them before going to bed every night, a half empty bottle of various and various prescription med bottles next to them. The latter is evidence that he’s had a rough night. The majority of his nights are fairly good; the pain allowing him to rest at least somewhat comfortably without the need to turn to drugs to fight both the agony and the insomnia. But the other nights are horrible. Constant tossing and turning, nausea and headaches a side effect from the different meds, pain that will just not subside or even turn down a notch.

  A couple of days leading up to a mission, things got especially difficult. The insomnia became relentless. He was anxious, on edge, ready and willing to bite anyone’s head off that he thought even looked at him the wrong way. His mind consumed with all the variables; the mountains of information he’d been given, the things that could possibly go wrong and the percentage that they will, worry about how she and the kids will handle him being gone and if it will be the one time that someone hell bent on revenge will use his absence to their advantage.  There were so many things went through his mind that she’d never even considered until last night; when he’d tearfully confessed about being scared that he wouldn’t make it back.  That is only comfort was the fact that he knew how strong she was; she was fierce and tenacious, and she’d be able to go on without him and raise their kids on her own. In five years, he’d never once mentioned those fears. He’d always been the strong one; the rock. The one who kept shit together when it seemed as if everything was falling apart. The one who made sure everyone else’s fears and anxieties were taken care of, yet completely ignoring his own.

  She knew he saw it a sign of weakness. That he struggled with such things. All his life he’d been taught to bottle things up; his father instilling him in that it wasn’t many to show emotion, then the army with the same line of thinking, followed by his own perceived failings as a husband and father the first time around. He’d spent many years building up the walls that surrounded his heart, and they’d been damn near impenetrable by the time she’d come around. But solely by surely, he’d let her in, starting with the physical. And she’d patiently and methodically chipped away at those walls with little to no resistance on his part. Perhaps he’d been ready to let someone in. Relieved to have met someone that was willing to give him a chance. Someone that wasn’t afraid to show him just how much they wanted him. And maybe it was because she’d been just as damaged as he was, and helping heal her would in turn grant him the absolution he’d been searching for since the death of his son.

  Carefully slipping out of bed, she pads over to the window that overlooks the driveway and peels back the curtain, peering out into the night.  It was something she repeated several times a night when he was away; all three of the older kids tucked into bed with her, paranoia revolving around revenge seeking villains running on high. She would be on constant vigil, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. Pacing the bedroom and constantly peeking out from behind the curtains to see if anything or anyone lingered in the shadows. Tonight, it is still, not even the slightest of breeze in the tree tops or the rustling of wild animals through the tall grass and shrubs. All of the vehicles are in the driveway, but the light to the garage is on; bright rays just managing to squeeze through the bottoms of the doors.

  “Stay here,” she whispers to Mac, running a hand over his soft fur. “You stay here and keep an eye on Millie, okay?”

  Yawning, he moves up the bed, curling into a tight ball and pressing himself against the little girl’s back and resting his chin on her hip.

  “Oh Mille…honey child…” she sighs as she leans over the bed, gently plucking the thumb out of her daughter’s mouth, then smoothing her hair away from her forehead and pressing a kiss to her brow. Her daughter stirs: only long enough to mumble something in her sleep and nestle her cheek further into her father’s pillow.

  Grabbing one of her husband’s hoodies from the back of the bedroom door, she slips it on and zips it half way as she steps out into the darkened hallway, pausing at the nursey door to see if she hears any noise coming from inside before heading down the stairs, floor boards creaking under her bare feet. And she stops in the living room just long enough to check on everyone; covering the twins with the unzipped sleeping back they share, tucking an old comforter around Chloe’s sleeping form and laying the throw from the back of the couch over Ovi.

  He’s awake immediately.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she assures him, and pulls the throw up to his chin. “It gets cold in here at night and you didn’t have a blanket on. You’re going to catch a chill. Go back to sleep.”

  “Is everything okay? Is Tyler…?”

  “He’s still here. He can’t sleep. He’s out in the garage doing God knows what. He doesn’t leave until tomorrow night. Well, tonight now. Quarter to ten. Did he talk to you?”

  “A little. He seemed in a bad mood. I didn’t want to ask too many questions. He wants me stay right in the house. Not in the basement. To keep an eye on everyone.”

  “You don’t have to. We’ll be fine. It’s not like the basement is miles away.”

  “I’d rather be close by though. I’d feel better if I was closer. It makes me feel better. Just in case. If that’s okay with you.”

  “It’s perfectly okay,” she says, and takes his face in her hands and presses a kiss to his forehead.  “Now go back to sleep. He’ll be in a better mood in the morning and you can talk to him then. Okay?”

  He nods and stretches out once again, drawing the throw tighter around his body and nuzzling his face into the cushion. “Esme?” he calls to her, just as she reaches the front door, and she pops her head back round the corner.

  “Thank you,” he says. “For doing mom things for me. Like you just did. I really like it.”

  She smiles. “Good night, Ovi. Get some sleep.”

  “I love you,” he says, and tears immediately well in her eyes as her smile broadens.

  “I love you too.”

  ******

 He sees her out of the corner of his eyes; lingering in the doorway in one of his hoodies and who knows what else underneath. If anything. The sweater is absurdly large on her; extremely baggy, falling well below her knees, the sleeves rolled up several times. Her hair messy, eyes tired and no make up gracing her youthful features.

 Yet he’s never seen anything…or anyone…more beautiful in his entire life.

  “You should be asleep,” he says, and continues with the task at end; two large wooden tables end to end, one dedicated to dismantling and cleaning weapons, the other for not only keeping the parts separate and organized, but for the rebuilding as well. Two large and heavy gun and ammo crates sit close by; open and waiting. One Nik and Yaz had brought with one, the other was his own personal stockpile that was kept in the garage under lock and key and hiding away from curious eyes and hands.

  “I was going to say the same thing to you. It’s one thirty. What are you doing?”

  ‘Things that need to get done before tonight. There’s lots to do.”

  “There always is,” she says, as she journeys towards him, eyeing the collection of various weapons on the table and those still in the crates. “These aren’t all going with you, obviously.”

  “Have to figure out which ones will be the best to bring along. IRA is some heavy-duty shit.  They’re heavily armed. I don’t want to underestimate them.”

  She nods, then picks up the tactical vest that sits in the crate belonging to him. Holding it in one hand as her fingertips explore the heavy and coarse olive green fabric; travelling over loose threads, slices made from blades, dents, holes and pulls made from bullet fragments, shrapnel from explosives, various sharp and possibly deadly debris. Blood staining the cloth in several different places. Not nearly as bad as the mess the one he’d worn in Dhaka had been; the blood so heavy it had soaked right through and could be wrung out like a sopping wet washcloth. With its seemingly endless bullet holes and pieces of glass and other debris lodged into it. She can remember when the surgeon had brought it out to her in the hospital in Mumbai, a sheepish expression on her face when he asked her if she wanted to keep it.

  Logic had said no. To just burn the goddamn thing. But she’d numbly taken it from him and sat there in the waiting room with in on her lap, Tyler’s blood soaking through her clothes, the smell pungent and nauseating. And she remembers how she’d taken it into the bathroom and sobbed as she attempted to clean it in one of the sinks. Scrubbing until she was exhausted, and her hands were raw and bleeding and she’d cried herself dry.

  She hasn’t thought about it in almost six years. Those horrible moments afterwards. In a hospital where English was the second language and she felt lost and alone. Her shocked and traumatized brain shutting down and her body moving on auto pilot. Not fully comprehending what any of the surgeons or specialists were saying to her. Percentages on coding on the table, percentages on making it through the night, percentages on making it a week. Numbers and more numbers. Chances of brain damage because of such profound blood loss. Every scenario more dire than the next. Words that she wouldn’t even recall until days later and the fog finally lifted.

  “What do you know about them?” he asks. “You always know about these kinds of things.” There’s pride in his voice as he says it, and his smile is soft and reassuring despite the storm that’s brewing in his eyes.

  “You’ll want flash bangs, concussion grenades and the standard one for sure. Several of each. I’d lean towards taking more of the concussion ones than flash bangs. They get the job done and cause a bit more damage,” she moves towards the table. “Three rifles. One with night vision. All fully automatic. Bump stocks. Heavy duty scopes for night and day. At least several magazines for each. You’ll be able to get more there. They’re easily available on the black market. Especially in Belfast. You don’t even have to be quiet about wanting these things there. Someone is more than willing to cough them up at a good price. And you’ll want the standard shit like two handguns, a couple of knives.”

  She picks up one of the rifles, a fully automatic with laser sensory and high definition scope. The exact same make and model that he’d carried and used when taking Ovi to the extraction point. She hasn’t held a gun of any type in years, but her knowledge is still there; checking to make sure the magazine is empty and there’s no ammo in the chamber before lifting it to her shoulder, peering through the scope and pulling the trigger.

  She doesn’t like what she hears. To the untrained ear, the ‘click’ would seem to just right. But she moves to the second table and begins dismantling it; all the memories and the hands-on experience instantly coming back to her. And he watches her; a smile on his lips; pride, awe, utmost respect. The way those hands move so quickly, completely stripping down the rifle and expecting each piece and cleaning each one before just as quickly snapping everything back into place.

  She tries again. This time nodding.

  “Let me guess,” she says. “It’s been lagging and pulling to the left.”

  “How’d you…”

  “There was debris lodged next to the firing pin. Eventually it would have just seized right up and you would have been well and truly fucked.”

   Tyler smirks. “Is it wrong I am totally turned on right now?”

  “Some men like their women in lingerie and heels. You like when I read Guns and Ammo and talk fully automatics and bump stocks. It is what it is.”

  She steps beside him now and they work silently and diligently side by side. Neither of them speaking despite the flurry of emotions both are feeling and the words that they both know should be brought out into the open. They haven’t done something like this in years, since the early morning hours before he drove her to the extraction point so she could meet up with G and the others and he could hook up with Ovi’s captors.

  The same silence had overcome them even then, but for entirely different reasons. Back then they’d been coming off one hell of a wild five-day ride; spending what time they didn’t devote to the job having sex. Nothing else. Just two people giving in to lust and need and carnal want. Both had been feeling other things yet neither of them had the courage to admit it. So they’d made plans instead; he’d meet her in Colorado three days after the extraction and they’d spend a week there before travelling. Getting to know each other outside of sex.

  That had been the goal. Until everything just went to shit.

  “I’m going to take the kid to the range in the afternoon,” Tyler says. “Just for a couple of hours.”

  “Why?” she asks, as she adds parts of a Glock nine-millimeter to the second table.

  “He hasn’t held a gun since he killed Gaspar.”

  “He probably hasn’t wanted to. I’m sure that traumatized the shit out of him. I mean, he was only fourteen and killed someone. That would screw anyone up.”

  “I figured now is a good as time as any for him to learn. Just in case.”

  “Well in case you haven’t noticed, I’m perfectly capable of using a gun.”

  “You’ll the kids to worry about. I’d rather you think about them than worry about having to use a gun. Ovi’s 19. He’s a man, just like you said. He can handle it. And I trust him.”

  Tyler doesn’t trust many people.  It takes a long time for him to form that kind of bond with someone. If he ever does.

  “Did you come to bed at all?” she inquires, as she takes in his tank top and athletic shorts, the thin sheen of sweat that covers his body.

  “Slept for maybe half an hour, forty-five minutes tops.  Millie woke me up kneeing me in the balls when she was climbing into our bed. So hopefully…” he grins and playfully nudges her with his elbow. “… there’s a baby in there already because I don’t know how good things are going to work now.”

  “If there’s one thing I don’t want happening, it’s finding out I’m pregnant and you’re not even around,” she says. “That’s not something I want to have to tell you over the phone or Skype or whatever. So just hurry up and get home and then we can properly concentrate on things. Deal?”

  “Deal,” he agrees, and leans in to press a kiss to her temple.  

  “Did you work out? Because you’ve got that oh so lovely gym smell going on. It’s sort of nasty yet totally sexy all at the same time.”

  “For about an hour.  Needed to sweat the booze out.”

  “I could have thought of other ways to help you do that.”

  He grins. “Not with our daughter hogging every inch of the bed and all the covers. I don’t know how she manages to do that. She’s five. How does she manage to take up that much room?”

  “Because she’s tall as all hell. All legs and torso like someone else I know.  Do you know how many times I’ve gotten up to go the bathroom and I come back and you’ve stretched out and taken up the entire bed? You leave me like this much…” she holds her hands a foot apart.

  “Just lie on top of me.”

  “Oh, you’d like that. That’s just an open invitation. We both know that if I did that, no sleeping would ever occur.”

  “But it would be no sleep for a good reason,” he points out, then loops a piece of hair behind her ear and once more pressing a kiss to her temple. “A very good reason. A very fun reason.”

  “There won’t any fun happening if your daughter doesn’t go back to sleeping in her own bed,” Esme points out, and then side steps to the second table and begins the process of putting cleaned weapons back together.  “And this sucking her

thumb business. She does this every time you’ve gone away for a while. She just reverts right back to these things.”

  “She’ll be fine. She always is. She’s tough. Like her mom.”

  “It’s getting harder on her, Tyler. She’s getting older and she’s starting to notice things and ask a lot of questions.  She’s not a baby anymore.”

  “She’ll always be my baby. Always.”  

  There are no if’s, end’s, or but’s about it. This is his first child after Austin. A rainbow baby, or so he’d been told. Before Esme, he’d never even considered the possibility of having another kid. That meant having to settle down, or at the very least find someone he could tolerate well enough to co-parent. And he’d been such a mess that adding another human being to the world would have been the worst mistake he’d ever made. Who needed a father that was THAT fucked up?

  Millie was the start of a new life. A second chance. A perfect, beautiful little being that had been conceived during the craziest and most unsettling of times.

  “She’s curious and she’s crazy smart and knows when things aren’t right,” Esme continues. “She has your instincts. She just knows when there’s something wrong. You can’t keep hiding it from her forever. The whole truth.”

  “She’s only five,” he reminds her.

  “Five going on fifteen some days. I’m serious, Tyler. You need to tell her.  I don’t know how you’re going to do it or when, but the truth…the whole truth…needs to come from you. Don’t you think it would be better that way? To hear it right from you? She idolizes you. She takes everything you say as gospel.”

  “I’ll tell her. When she’s older.”

  “So on her wedding day when you’re getting ready to walk down the aisle?”

  He frowns. “Don’t be a smart ass.”

  “And this time you’re telling the kids that you’re leaving. I’m not doing your dirty work. You always take off in the middle of the night and then I’m the one that has to explain things when they wake up and you’re gone. So you figure out a way to tell them. I’m tired of being the bad person.”

  “It’s just easier if we do it that way. If I leave you to explain it.”

  “Easier for who? You? Because it tears my heart out of my goddamn chest. Because I’m the one that has to put up with their meltdowns and listen to them cry for hours. So I’m not doing it. Not this time, Tyler.  You made the decision to go and now you can be the one that breaks the bad news. Pull up your big boy pants and get it done.”

  “Will you pull down my big boy pants before or after that?” he teases, grabbing a hold of her wrist when she attempts to punch him in the gut ad pulling her into him. An arm wrapped tightly around her waist, a hand on the back of her head as he holds her to him.

  “Sometimes you really test my patience,” she mumbles into his chest, her arms wrapping around his torso. “But I’d still miss you if you weren’t here anymore. Promise me you’re coming back. Promise me that you’ll be walking back through the front door. Because if you...”

  “I promise you. Nothing…no one…is going to stop me from coming home. Everything’s going to be okay. In and out. A week tops.”

  It’s wishful thinking. He knows it. But he has to hold onto some kind hope that things aren’t going to go nearly as bad as he’s anticipating.

  “And I’m fine with it, you know,” her hands up and down his back. “If you really want to take this job that Nik is offering you. To run things. If she’s telling the truth that you’ll be home more, it would be stupid not to take it.”

  “The money is good. Damn good. More money in a week than I’d see in two months doing anything else.”

  “Nik’s right, you know. You are the perfect person to pull this off. You’ve been doing the job for years. You have the experience. And the reputation.”

  “That’s not always a good thing.”

  “People respect you. And they fear you. You’re the best person for this, Tyler. And you know it. So if you want to do it...”

  “Let’s give it until I get back,” he suggests. “In case things really go to shit and I just want out once and for all.”

  “But right now, you want to do it.”

  “Yeah…” he runs a hand over her hair and down her back. “…I do. I think it’s best for us. For our family. It’ll be more stable. Less surprises. Less being on the move. Although maybe you really like when I’m gone so much because I’m not here trying your patience or driving you insane.”

  “I’ll take you driving me insane and testing my patience over the alternative any day,” she says, and tilts her head back to look at him. She hates this; those hours before he leaves when her emotions are already so raw and fragile. Where the ache of loneliness and worry has already started to settle in and the tears come effortlessly and easily.

  There is just not enough time. There never is.

  “Don’t…” he pleads, pushing his fingers through her hair, hands settling on her shoulders, thumbs run along her chin. “…this is hard enough…don’t do this…”

     Leaving is always hard, despite the strong and stoic front that he always presents in the hours and the minutes leading up to his departure.  Knowing how badly they’ll miss him and how much they actually do need him there. And he’s torn every time; between just saying ‘fuck it’ and walking away from the job for good, and knowing just how much the money would mean to all of them. But he is never okay with leaving. It tears him apart inside in ways that she could possibly never begin to understand.

  “I’d never leave you unless I had to,” he says. The same words he’d used years in Dhaka, when he’d had to force her to leave with Ovi and Saju.  “You know that.”

  “Do you ever just wished you’d walked away?” she asks, lower lip quivering, tears brimming. “That you’d just said no and pushed me away that day in the motel?”

  “Once or twice. When I think I’m an epic fuck up as a husband and a father. When I think about all the bullshit I’ve put you through. Why? Do you?”

  “Sometimes. When the pain and the worry is just too much to bear and it feels like I can’t breathe. And it’s not because I don’t love you. Because I do. I love you so much that it physically hurts sometimes. But then I think maybe it’s because I love you too much. Do you think that’s possible? To love someone too much?”

  “Maybe,” he admits.  He’s often thought about it himself; at one point is the agony just too much to bear? When you can’t stand the thought of being away from them. When all of your thoughts are consumed with worry and fear and you can barely concentrate on anything else.  “But I’m glad it happened. Dhaka. Maybe not the ending. I could have done without the ending. It would have been a lot better to just come here to Colorado and take things from there.”

  “Definitely a lot better,” she agrees, fingertips trailing along the neckline of his tank top.  “I could have done without you nearly dying in my arms, that’s for sure. And it would have been really nice to end up in Turks and Caicos or the Dominican Republic or a place like that. Instead of spending all that time watching over you in a hospital.”

  “Hey, you think you had it bad. I was the one stuck in the hospital bed pissing into a tube. But think of it this way…” he hooks a finger under her chin and tilts her face up towards him. “…if none of that happened, if the things in Dhaka never happened, then none of this would have either. We wouldn’t have Millie. Or the boys. We might not even have each other. So I think in a way it was all worth it. All the pain and all the time in the hospital and all the rehab and all that other bullshit. It was all worth it to get where we are now.”

  She sniffles, tears threatening. “When did you become the thoughtful and introspective one? Aren’t you supposed to be the quiet and brooding one that just kicks and takes names?”

  “Like you said…” he grins and pecks her lips. “…I’m a lover and a fighter.”

  “Well in that case…” her hands slide down her chest, fingers fidgeting with the bottom of his tank before slipping underneath. “…can you guess which one of those I’d really like to come out and play right now?”

  “Please tell me it’s not fighter because I don’t think I have that much energy left in me.”

  “The other takes just as much energy. If not more.”

  “Yeah, but it’s fun. Fighting, not much.”

  “Not even the making up?”

  “Maybe at the time. But afterwards? Afterwards I feel like complete and utter shit. Because this…” he runs a finger over the bruises that mar her throat. “…and those…” he nods down at her forearm. “…that shit should never…ever…happen.”

  “It’s not like it wasn’t consensual,” she points out. “We were both into it. And you would have stopped if I told you to.”

  “Still makes me feel like an asshole. An abusive asshole at that. So please, don’t ever get me that riled up again. Because that’s twice now and I fucking hate myself for both of them. Can we agree on that? That we don’t let things get that out of control again? Because that was fucked.”

  Rough sex is one thing. He’s all for that. But that kind of rough sex?  He’s more than capable of flipping that switch and giving her exactly what she wants and needs. But what had led up to it? The shit that had been said and the accusations that had been tossed out and the fact he been thisclose to actually inflicting serious physical injuries on her? Well that’s a side of himself he never wants to visit again.

  “It was a little...intense…” she admits. “I didn’t mean the things I said. Especially about the kids. When I said you were using them as a replacement for Austin. I didn’t mean that. Because I know you’re not. That you’d never do something like that. It was a shitty, horrible thing for me to say and I’m sorry. I won’t even use being drunk as an excuse. I was just being a huge bitch.”

  “Isn’t that like your second name?” he teases, his hands sliding across her shoulders and down her arms before settling on her hips. “I’m pretty sure I saw that as your middle name our marriage licence.”

  “And this…” she smirks. “…this is a prime example of when you test my patience. I’m trying to be serious here and you…”

  He silences her with a kiss, then slides his hands around to the small of her back, resting just above her ass. “I’m sorry too. For the things I said. I was drunk and being a total dick. I shouldn’t have brought your ex up like that. And I shouldn’t have gotten so pissed off when you said what you did about Nik. But that’s a fucking sore spot and you know it. That’s the first thing you bring up and excuse me of every time we fight. You honestly don’t think I’d do something like that do you? Cheat on you?”

  “I want to believe you wouldn’t. But I see the way she looks at you. She doesn’t exactly hide it.”

  “What does it matter? I love you. I’m married to you. And I’ve never do that do you. Not with Nik. Not with anyone. And besides,” his palms slide down to her ass. “Where the hell would I find the time and the energy to have an affair? I’ve got four kids at home. And a wife that won’t keep her hands off of me.”

  “Excuse you, but I’m not the ones with my hands on your ass right now. So I think it’s the other way around.”

  “Can you blame me? It’s an amazing ass.”

  “I think you might be a bit biased,” she teases, and applies just a tad of pressure as she scrapes her fingernails down his chest and onto his abs, then sliding lower to toy with the drawstring on his shorts. Twirling them around one of her fingers before scraping her nail through the wiry patch of hair on his lower stomach before following its path.

  “Maybe just a bit,” he admits, and digs his fingers into the soft flesh of her ass. “Doesn’t make it any less true though. It’s all mine though. No one else’s.”

  “Does that mean this…” she gropes his growing erection through his shorts. “…is all mine?”

  “It has been for almost six years.”

  She grins. “Very good answer, Tyler.”

  “In that case,” one of his hands passes over her hip and slips under the hoodie and in between her thighs. “This is mine, then?”

  There is a mischievous glitter to her eyes. “Have you ever…for one second…doubted that?”

  Not once in nearly six years. Since they’d given in to the desperation and the need and the lust in that Dhaka hotel room. And he slides his hand through the hole in one of the legs of her shorts, fingertips brushing against her mound, finding those lips already moist and hot.

   It’s always been so easy to illicit that kind of reaction from her. He’d learned that right off the hop when they’d first started hooking up. All he had to do was look at her a certain way, or find those little sensitive spots that drove her wild when kissed or licked or nibbled, or even indulge in a little dirty talk in his deep, accented voice. And when all three were put together, she was more than ready and willing to go. Even then it had been his secret weapon. Always knowing what he had to resort to get exactly what he wanted out of her.  Always having the upper hand.

  Always.

  He presses two fingers inside of her, and she issues a long, content sigh and drops her head onto his chest.  Her own hard working him as he fingers her at slow, steady pace. Her breathing growing rapid and ragged, breath warm against his chest. And he shudders when he feels her thumb pass over the head of the cock, spreading precum in its wake. “Tell me…” his voice rumbles in his chest, as he presses his palm flat against her pussy, forcing his fingers are far as they can go. “…tell me who this belongs to.”

  “You,” her voice is muffled against his chest.

  “I can’t hear you. Tell me. I want to hear you say it. Tell me who this belongs to. Who you belong to,” with his free hand, he grabs a hold of her hair and pulls her head up and back. “Tell me.”

  “You,” she says, as her hand continues to jerk him off. Those slender fingers so nimble and so fucking perfect. “It belongs to you, Tyler. I belong to you.”

  “Good girl,” he praises, his hand tightening in her hair, yanking her head back further, mouth zeroing in on the tender, pale flesh. Licking, nibbling, suckling, his beard scratching and burning the tender skin. Marking her more than once as his fingers continue to work her into a frenzy and her hand never once stutters or halters.  

  The hair on his face is rough and coarse as his lips move along her jaw to her mouth; lips and tongue demanding and hungry against her own. The kiss is savage and relentless, robbing both of them of breath yet neither of them willing to break away.

He brings his free hand to rest over top of her own, halting its movement. “Stop,” he orders. “You’ll make me cum.”

  “That’s the whole point.”

  “Not like that. I don’t want to cum in your mouth. I want to cum inside of you. We’re trying to make a baby here, remember?”

  He kisses her once again; both of her hands now working together to yank and pull at his tank top. His heavier and stronger body pushing her across the garage, mouths only breaking contact when he removes his pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it to the side. Eyes momentarily closing and a moan escaping his lips when she drags her teeth along his chest and bathes his nipples with her tongue.

  She falls backwards as the back of her legs hit the edge of the old couch in the corner, her fingers working on the drawstring of his shorts as his hands quickly remove all of her clothes, allowing them to drop into a pile on the floor. Placing a hand on the side on the side of her face, he kisses her again as her hands push his shorts over his hips and ass. Anxious to feel that hard, strong body against hers.

  “Get on top,” he instructs, hands on her hips to guide her as he sits down. “I want to watch you. I want to watch you as you ride me.”

A gasp leaves her mouth as she slides down onto his, hands on his shoulders for stability, loving the feeling as he stretches and fills her in a way no other man has ever done before. His head falling forward to lick and suckle at her breasts as she begins to move; slow at first, repeatedly pulling herself up and off, and then taking him all the way to the hilt. One of her hands on his shoulder, the other in his hair, fingers tightly gripping the longer locks. Giving a pout and a mewl of disappoint as he abandons the delicious, agonizing torture of her breasts.

  “Open your eyes,” he says. “Open your eyes and look at me.”

  She finds it almost impossible to do. Even after five year she finds this example of intimacy too much to bear; raw and unapologetically vulnerable. When he’s buried deep inside of her and his eyes are dark and intense and never waver from her face.

  “Feel good?” his voice is low, a deep rumble within his chest, and his fingers bite into her hips as he encourages her to move faster. Harder.

  She nods, then issues a small cry when he presses his thumb against her clit. Eyes closing, head falling forward.

  “I said look at me,” he pulls her head back by the hair once again. “Keep looking at me.”

  She does as she’s told, mesmerized by how beautiful and vulnerable he looks in this moment. As he temporarily hands her some of the control. His throat tightening; vein bulging and pulsating on the left-hand side. Breath coming out in ragged gasps. Eyes dark and intense.

  “I want you to look at me when you come,” he says, and adds another finger to the mix. Stroking, plucking, and pinching at the sensitive, hard nub. Until he feels the beginning of her orgasm take hold. The muscles in her calves and thighs tightening, her fingernails digging into his shoulder and scalp. The initial fluttering of those internal muscles. His finger and thumb continuing their ministrations as his hand encourages her to continue riding him.

  “You are so beautiful,” he praises. “You are so beautiful, and you feel so good and I love you so much.”  And he grunts as she begins to move even faster, desperate to find her release. Increasing the pressure of his thumb and finger, rubbing at her clit until she’s crying out his name. Her eyes never once closing or leaving his own.

  “Good girl,” he breathes, as he grasps both hips now, continuing to thrust through those impossibly tight -almost painful- contractions. Until he’s coming as well, her name tumbling from his lips, eyes closing and his head falling back against the couch cushion. Filling her with hot, thick semen. Cock sputtering, balls contracting, until his legs begin to cramp, and he feels light-headed.

  She collapses against him. Both arms circling his neck, head on his shoulder.

  “I love you,” he says yet again, and tightly wraps both arms around her.

  Never wanting to let her go.

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fic #tyler rake fan fiction #chris hemsworth character #sanctuary #extraction

[fundeadasylum]

By Any Other Name

More Jake-centric Micoverse fic.

Um. I really don’t have anything else to say about this one.

--------

Jake runs away from home at sixteen.

He doesn’t say anything to anyone. He doesn’t leave a note. He doesn’t even say anything to Dan.

One night, Jake shoves some things in a backpack, takes the money he’s been hiding for months, and vanishes into the night. No one notices he’s gone until his mothers realizes she’s missing some pieces from her jewelry box and his brother’s missing all the bills from his wallet.

But when they go to confront Jake, his room is empty, the window is open, and the bed is cold.

Jacob Pierly is gone and he clearly has no intention of coming back.

———

He huddles in a seat alone in the middle of the bus, leaning against the window, headphones on and ignoring the other passengers as much as they ignore him. He wants to go sit in the back, press his spine into a corner and watch everyone get on and off. But sitting in the back is suspicious and Jake doesn’t want to draw attention to himself.

But he probably already has.

It doesn’t take an idiot to figure out why a teenager with bruises on his neck, a lumpy backpack, and a faded guitar case are alone on an out of city bus in the middle of the night.

———

Jake briefly wonders if anyone’s reported him missing, if anyone’s even noticed at all. Would anyone look for him? Would anyone care?

Dan probably would.

An ache in his chest makes him feel bad about leaving without saying anything to his (only?) friend.

But it’s better this way. Jake knows it is. Jake knows he’s poison and that Dan will be happier without him. Without Jake around, Dan can have normal friends who don’t show up to school with bruises and cuts and anger burning in their veins. Without Jake around, Dan won’t have a broken little basket case to weigh him down and he’ll be able to focus on his own life. Without Jake around, Dan will actually be able to live his life the way he wants to.

It’s better this way, Jake tells himself. He stubbornly wipes his burning eyes with the back of his hand and ignores the tight feeling in his throat and the way his heart hurts.

———

The money goes away fast.

For a while, he gets a job scrubbing floors at a hotel and the manager lets him sleep on a spare mattress in a side closet as part of his pay. When she asks him with a forced nonchalance if he’s heard about the missing boy from his hometown, Jake quits and takes the next bus to the adjacent county.

———

A busboy at a bar he’s washing dishes at offers him a cigarette one night.

Jake doesn’t know why he takes it but he does, takes a drag on it and coughs out a cloud of acid air that makes his eyes water. The older man laughs and claps him in on the back, calls him a child, takes the cigarette back and walks back inside still chuckling.  

His pride is stung and his eyes are watering and his throat hurts but at least he knows now that cigarettes really aren’t worth the hype. He swears off them and, two weeks later, he quits the job and leaves town.

The busboy gives him a hundred dollars and a smile that says he gets it.

———

He plays guitar on street corners sometimes.

Occasionally, he’s invited into a cafe or bar where the tips are better and sometimes they give him a free meal.

The owner of a bar puts his hand on Jake’s thigh once, too warm and too close and too much. Jake stops playing his guitar for a while after that.

———

There’s a pay phone outside the bus station.

Jake stares at it from a bench inside the building for a long time, turning thoughts over in his mind, and some spare change over in his hand. He hardly realizes he’s made his choice until his shaking fingers are pressing the metal buttons and there’s a buzzing ring in his ears.

“Hello, Fuller residence?”

His mouth dries up and his voice is caught under the boulder of emotions lodged in his stomach. He tries to say something but his mind is blank and his palms are sweating. It’s just Mrs. Fuller but her voice is so familiar that it strikes him to the core and he can’t, he just can’t.

“Hello? Hello, is anyone there?”

“U-um—“ His words are far away, spoken by someone else in another building, in another time, in another place, “H-hi. Is…is Dan…is Dan…” The words won’t come out.

There’s a small breath on the other end of the phone line, a crackle of sound like fingers over clingfilm,

“Jake? Oh my god, Jake, hun, is that you!? Where are you!? We’ve been looking everywhere! Dan’s been—wait, let me—“ Her voice pulls away but Jake can still hear her, calling in the distance as his heart begins to race, thudding fists on the prison walls of his ribcage until the ache in his chest makes him feel sick.

“JAKE!”

Something cracks and Jake makes the noise of a beaten dog. Dan’s voice is shaking and hoarse and even through the hum of telephone static it is a warmth and a comfort,

“Jake, are you still there!? Please still be there! Jake, buddy, please, say something!”

“Dan—“ A croak of sound, desperate and hurt and so broken and lost that Jake’s not even sure he’s the one who said it.

There’s a sound on the other end of the line, a shuddering gasp and a whine of relief and hurt. Dan’s crying. Dan’s crying and it’s Jake’s fault and he shouldn’t have done this.

“Jake, it is you! Where are you? Why did you leave?”

Dan knows why. Jake doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything. He just presses the plastic phone harder to his ear and sniffles, his body shaking, the buttons on the pay phone swimming in front of his burning eyes.

“Come back. Jake, please. Please. Come home.”

He hangs up the phone and runs away with his head ducked low and tears on his face.

He never calls again.

———

Jake is twenty-one and sipping at a rather sour tasting beer when he falls in with a questionable crowd.

———

They don’t ask him anything and he likes that best about them.

He’s sure they know who he is, sure they’ve picked up every trace of him they could, but they don’t ask and they don’t pry and they don’t care. So he likes them. Like him, they’re outcast and hurt, the discarded and forgotten, the freaks and punks and dreamers who get kicked under the bus to be forgotten and run over.

Jake plays them an angry song and they all sway to the beat. It’s something they feel in their souls.

———

“Oi, musiker, want to learn how to do some real damage? Skada de människor som skadar dig?

Jake doesn’t understand most of what is said but he knows the feel of the words, the way they burn against the lips of the speaker and ignite fire in her eyes. He sets his guitar down and nods.

She grins, shows her teeth, and turns her laptop towards him.

———

It takes while to master the skill but Jake becomes shockingly good at it, something that surprises him and no doubt most of the group.

Hacking is by no means as easy as the television makes it look.

But he has good teachers and a lot of spite inside him, a lot of passion and anger and frustration and hurt. Not all of it can come out in the songs he sings and the strings he plucks. And he’s never been good at fist fights.

There’s something cathartic about typing away at a keyboard for hours on end, losing yourself in the strings of numbers and lines of code, the endless staircase of information that spreads open like a butterfly’s wings once you find the right key. And Jake so very much likes finding the keys. It’s not even that he wants to do anything once he’s unlocked the paths, he just likes getting there. He has no purpose yet and that’s a dangerous thing when he has such a powerful tool at his disposal.

He doesn’t want money or riches or an island. He doesn’t want blackmail or secrets or cons.

One of them asks him what he wants and Jake isn’t sure. He thinks about it for a long moment, staring at his bruised hands and dirty fingernails and thinking about all the scars under his sleeves and how many times his wrists have been purple and black from a grip that was too tight.

Then he says, very quietly but with a heavy heart,

“I want it to stop hurting so much.”

Someone hugs him.

———

She calls him Musiker.

He learns it’s simply Swedish for “musician”.

He starts calling her Lisbeth.

She laughs the first time he says it to her face.

Then she shows him how to get what he wants.

———

He’s twenty-seven and he still plays on street corners and bars. He makes music in his spare time and sells it on the internet.

No one’s called him Jacob Pierly for years.

———

His favorite targets are the people who slip too easily under the radar.

Pedophiles are easy. They’re not as clever about hiding their sick obsessions as they think they are. Some of them are a bit sneakier than others but none of them so far have managed to evade him for long.

It’s the abusers he really likes taking down. The ones who hit their partners or their children. The ones who lock their pets outside on chains in the cold and the dark. The ones who get away with it because they have friends on the police force or because their victims are too afraid to saying anything.

it’s hard to find a way to prove anything on them, hard to catch them in the act, hard to get them to serve justice for what they’ve done. But the anger they kindle in his stomach drives him to it and he spends hours sprawled on his bed with his laptop and a plate full of apple slices and peanut butter spread and graham crackers. Lisbeth teases him for snacking healthy and he casually reminds her that his heart condition would explode if he were to so much as even think about consuming the same energy drinks she and the others tend to.

She laughs and sits down to help him bring down some white collar asshole who beats his kids with a power chord and calls it educational.

———

He’s thirty and playing something solemn on a curb under a flowering tree sometime in the spring.

One foot is planted on the lid of his guitar case, propped open for tips from the passersby, his guitar nestled lovingly in his lap as his hands glide gently across the strings. It’s not a sad song, just something nostalgic, something lost and then found again in the long expanse of years that pass them by.

“Jake?”

The notes snag on his stumbling fingers, his body going numb with shock and cold and maybe not a little bit of fear. His heart thuds painfully against the neck of his guitar where it’s pressed tightly into his chest, his breath shaky as he slowly raises his head.

There’s a man standing on the sidewalk a few feet away.

The man is very tall, his skin dark, his hair darker, his arms burly and his eyes kind. There’s an expression of hopeful shock on his face, a tinge of worry, the briefest hint of a plea.

“…Dan?” His voice croaks out and it’s like the rest of the world has dropped away, like the only people who exist are the two of them, standing in the shade of a blooming tree in some no name city.

“Jake.” The man says his name again, takes a step closer, hesitates.

He unslings the guitar from his shoulder, eases it back into the case, never taking his eyes off the man. He’s stunned and something else he can’t put his finger on, something like melancholy, something like relief, and something a little bit like hope.

His eyes are burning.

“Dan,” He says, rising from the bench he’d been sitting on, “Oh my god, Dan. Dan! DAN!”

He doesn’t remember running, doesn’t remember even thinking of doing so, but the next thing he knows he’s thrown himself into Dan’s arms with tears in his eyes, clutching at his old friend’s shirt and choking on words that tumble in unintelligible gasps out of his mouth. Dan is holding him tightly, might be crying too given how shaky his words are, might be just as happy and just as hurt, just as relieved and just as bitter.

It seems like hours before Dan sets him down on the sidewalk again and smudges the tears from his face with a smile,

“Hi Jake,” He says and his voice only shakes a little bit, “Long time, no see. I missed you, buddy. Where did you go? What happened to you?”

“Hi Dan,” Says Jake, who is not Jacob Pierly anymore, he is simply Jake and his own watery smile crinkles his face as he grins up at his old friend,

“It’s a long story. Wanna get some lunch?”

#is this a vent fic????? what is this???? i have no idea #micoverse

[tometender]

JACKSON  by Emily March

From New York Times bestselling author Emily March comes Jackson, the newest novel in the critically acclaimed Eternity Springs series. Sometimes it takes a new beginning Caroline Carruthers thinks she buried her dreams along with the love of her life…until a stranger named Celeste dares her to chase a dream all on her own. Moving to Redemption, Texas, is chapter one in Caroline’s new life story. Opening a bookstore is the next. Finding love is the last thing on her mind as she settles into this new place called home. But when she meets a handsome, soulful man who’s also starting over, all bets are off. to reach a happily-ever-after Jackson McBride came to Redemption looking only to find himself, not someone to love. Ever since his marriage ended, he’s been bitter. Sure, he used to believe in love—he even has the old song lyrics to prove it—but the Jackson of today is all business. That is, until a beautiful young widow who’s moved to town inspires a change of heart. Could it be that the myth of Redemption’s healing magic is true…and Jackson and Caroline can find a second chance at a happy ending after all? Author Bio: Emily March is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the heartwarming Eternity Springs series. A graduate of Texas A&M University, Emily is an avid fan of Aggie sports and her recipe for jalapeño relish has made her a tailgating legend.

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250314918 

Jackson is a book of second chances and starting over. Caroline moves to Redemption to make a new start on life. Her husband had serious mental issues and had to be put in full time care where he completely forgets who Caroline is and falls in love with another woman in the facility. Her dream is to open a book store and she thinks Redemption is the place to do it. Jackson is one of three cousins who inherit a beautiful canyon. He’s starting over and isn’t interested in finding love but is attracted to Caroline. A friendship blooms between Jackson and Caroline as well as equally devastating heartbreaking moments. Emily March masterfully blends heartache and healing while bringing two wounded souls together in love. I received this ARC copy of Jackson from St. Martin's Press. This is my honest and voluntary review. Jackson is set for publication June 25, 2019.

Chapter One

Nashville, Tennessee Bang. The judge’s gavel fell and officially crushed Jackson McBride’s heart. He closed his eyes. Bleak despair washed over him. Up until this very moment, he hadn’t believed she’d take it this far. He’d thought she’d come to her senses. He’d thought she would recognize that this proposal was not only nonsense, but truly insane. He’d believed that somewhere deep inside of her, she still had a spark of humanity. That she wouldn’t do this to him. To them. He’d been wrong.  Damn her. Damn her and the yes-men she surrounded herself with. Damn them all to hell and back. The enormity of what had just happened washed over him. Oh, God, how will I survive this? On the heels of his anguish came the rage. It erupted hot as lava, and it fired his blood and blurred his vision with a red haze of fury. He’d never hit a woman in his life. Never come close, despite plenty of provocation from her direction. In that moment had she been within reach, he might have lived up her accusations. It scared the crap out of him. That’s what she’s brought me to. Abruptly, he shoved back his chair so hard that it teetered, almost falling over. He strode toward the courtroom exit. “Jackson? Jackson, wait!” his attorney called, hurrying after him. Jackson waved her off and didn’t stop. There was nothing left to be said. Nothing left to be done. No place left to go. No little girl waiting at home to hug and cuddle and kiss good night. The tap on the toes of Jackson’s boots clacked against the tile floor of the courthouse as his long-legged strides ate up the hallway. He shunned the elevator for the stairs and descended three flights at a rapid pace, then headed for the building’s exit. In a foolish bit of positive thinking, he’d driven his SUV to the courthouse this morning. Now the sight of the safety booster seat in the back seat made him want to kick a rock into next week. He didn’t want to go home to a quiet, empty house. He shouldn’t go to a bar. Alcohol on top of his current mood could be a dangerous combination. Somebody probably would get hurt. He got into the car and started the engine. For a long moment he sat unmoving, staring blindly through the windshield, his hands squeezing the steering wheel so hard that it should have cracked. When his phone rang, he ignored it. A couple of minutes later, it rang a second time. Again, he ignored it. When it happened a third time, he finally glanced at the display to see who was calling. His cousin. Okay, maybe he would answer it. “Hello, Boone.” “How did the hearing go?” Jackson couldn’t speak past the lump in his throat, so he said nothing. Following a moment’s silence, Boone got the message. He muttered a curse, and then said, “I’m sorry, man. So damn sorry.” “Well, it is what it is.” “You can take another run at it.” “Yeah.” In three years. Three years. Might as well be three decades. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “So, how are things in Eternity Springs?” “Good. They’re good. My friend Celeste Blessing visited my office a few minutes ago and spoke of her granite-headed cousin. Naturally, I thought of you.” “Naturally,” Jackson dryly replied. But he felt a little less alone. “Do you have plans this weekend? I could use your help with something.” Pretty convenient timing. Knowing Boone, he had a spy in the courtroom. But Jackson wasn’t in the position to ignore the bone he’d been thrown. “I’m free. Whatcha got?” “I’d like you to meet me at home.” Jackson straightened in surprise. “You’re going back to the ranch?” “No. Not there. I’m never going back there. However, I am talking about Texas. The Hill Country in particular. A little town west of Austin called Redemption.” “Redemption, Texas?” Jackson repeated. For some weird reason, his heart gave a little skip. “Why there?” “It’s a long story. Too long for a phone call. I’ll give you the entire skinny when I see you. When can you get there?” After today’s debacle, Jackson had absolutely no reason to remain in Nashville. “When do you want me there?” “I’ll be in later today. I’m in Austin now. I’ve been helping a friend with a project. I have a flight back to Colorado Sunday evening. The earlier you can get here the better, but I’ll make anything work.” Jackson figured the distance and the drive time. “I’ll meet you tomorrow afternoon. Where?” “Great. I’ll text you the info when we hang up. Bring camping gear.” When a sound behind him had Jackson glancing up into the rearview mirror and the booster seat caught his notice, he made an instant decision. “Can’t. I’ll be on my bike.” “You’re gonna ride your motorcycle all the way from Nashville?” “Yes, I think I am.” “Okay. I’ll bring stuff for both of us.” Boone hesitated a moment and added, “Hang in there, Jackson. It’ll get better.” No, I don’t think it will. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Jackson ended the call and finally put his SUV in gear and backed out of the parking place. With the distraction of the call behind him, fury returned, and by the time he reached home, he felt like a volcano about to explode. He threw a handful of things into his tail bag, filled his wallet with cash from his stash, and ten minutes after his arrival, he fired up his bike and took his broken heart and headed out of Nashville. He left behind his home, his work, and his one reason for living, his six-year-old daughter, Haley. From Jackson. Copyright © 2019 by Emily March and reprinted with permission from St. Martin’s Paperbacks.

Author Bio: Emily March is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the heartwarming Eternity Springs series. A graduate of Texas A&M University, Emily is an avid fan of Aggie sports and her recipe for jalapeño relish has made her a tailgating legend.

Emily March Blogger Q&A JACKSON 1. You wrote a book! That’s pretty awesome. Why don’t you tell us a bit about what inspired Jackson and the rest of the books in the Eternity Springs world? The saying “Write what you know” says it all in my case. I’m a small-town girl and my family and friendships are center to my world. I write about love and family and friendships. I have roots in both the Colorado Rockies and the Texas Hill Country, so it was natural for me to set Eternity Springs and Redemption there. The idea for JACKSON grew out of my interest in the music currently being written and performed in Texas. I’ve always thought singer/songwriters are romantic figures so I was excited to create a hero with this background. Unfortunately, I’m not a musician and I’m definitely not a singer, but I am creative so it was fun for me to explore that aspect of a character. 2. Introduce us to your main character! Okay. Well, Americana singer/songwriter Jackson McBride is a bit damaged when the book begins. His famous, talented and wealthy ex has won a custody battle that severely limits his access to his six-year-old daughter, so Jackson goes home to the Texas Hill Country to nurse his broken heart. He finds solace in Enchanted Canyon hiking the trails with the dog he rescues and working to bring a historic dance hall back to life. The last thing he expects is to find love again with a woman whose heart is as battered as his own. 3. Walk us through a day in the life of Emily March. Ready to be bored? Now that my daughter’s and niece’s weddings are behind me—they consumed me for months—I’m boring and happy about it. I split my time between Fort Worth where we have a condo downtown in a 1930’s passenger train station and our lake house in the Texas Hill Country. I recently gave up my office in town because I’m spending more and more time at the lake. My husband also offices out of our condo, so on days when we are both working in town, I’ve started riding the new TexRail train that runs from our building to DFW airport. It’s quiet and comfortable and I don’t have Internet to distract me. And at $5 a day, it’s much cheaper than office rent. :) When I’m at the lake I’m either working or doing yard work. My new favorite toy is my power washer. 4. Lots of aspiring authors out there. Any advice for them? I’ve always thought that one of the most important things you can do for your writing is to read. And read. And read some more. Read across genres. You absorb so much about pacing and plotting and character development when you read. Plus, you get to READ! :) 5. How is the Jackson trilogy different than your other series? I don’t think it’s necessarily different from the rest of the Eternity Springs series. I write about love and family and friendship—that doesn’t change. Readers will still see old friends from Eternity Springs and a few scenes in JACKSON are set in Colorado. What’s new is we get to spend some time in the Texas Hill Country and meet a few new characters—Celeste’s cousin, Angelica, for example. 6. I know asking someone’s all-time favorite book is a loaded question so what’s your current favorite read? I’m a big fan of Patricia Brigg’s Mercy Thompson series and I’m reading her latest right now, STORM CURSED. 7. Alright, the ultimate question: why should we read your book? My goals as a writer are to touch a reader’s heart, to entertain her and make her laugh, to maybe cry a little and sigh with satisfaction upon reaching the end. With JACKSON, I believe I’ve achieved those goals. 8. Describe yourself in 3 words. Family. Family. Family. :) 9. What is your most embarrassing memory? Walking out of the junior high school cafeteria in seventh grade, not realizing that my very short dress—it was the 70’s—had gotten hung up in my underwear and I inadvertently flashed my rear end to the entire cafeteria—including the tables where the football players sat. Thinking about it even today gives me the hives. 10. Favorite quote or scene you wrote in JACKSON? I love the ending. Jackson is a songwriter who has lost his music and when he finds it again…the song he sings to Caroline…just makes me melt. 11. What is one piece of advice you would tell everyone? Call your mother. 12. What inspired you to become a writer? I’ve always loved to read, so that is part of it, but my father was my primary inspiration. He was a fabulous storyteller. I grew up sitting at his feet and listening to him tell stories about his youth and his experiences in Europe during World War II. Listening to him tell his stories was my favorite thing to do. I didn’t inherit his talent for verbal storytelling, but I think I learned from him how to tell a good story on the page. 13. Do you have any interesting writing quirks or habits? Like I mentioned before, I’m pretty boring. My perks and habits are always evolving. The train writing thing is new for me. I usually write on a laptop and edit on a desktop. I listen to movie soundtracks when I write and always finish a book with The Last of the Mohicans. 14. What has been one of the most surprising things you’ve learned as a published author I’m always a little surprised and honored that readers are excited to meet me. Like I said…I’m a boring person. 15. What is your favorite state to visit? Colorado, of course, because I must keep returning to Eternity Springs. :) 16. What are hobbies or interests do you have? We are lake people, so I love waterskiing and boating and fishing. As I write this we’ve just finished Memorial Day weekend at the lake, so I sort of feel like chief cook and sheet-and-towel washer, too. I love, love, love hosting big holiday gatherings of family and friends at the lake house, but I will admit I do tire of the mountain of laundry in the aftermath. 17. Can you tell us about what’s coming up next after this for you writing wise? I’m writing Tucker’s story. Fun fact for this—as part of my research I attended a survivalist training school for a weekend. I searched long and hard to find one where I could return to town to spend the night in a comfy hotel rather than sleep on the ground—I’m only willing to go so far for my art. I did learn to start a friction fire, though, something I’me VERY proud of. :) 18. How can readers connect with you online? My website is www.emilymarch.com. I’m active on Facebook. My Facebook page is www.facebook.com/emilymarchbooks. You can also reach me by email at [email protected].