My latest one is now live on Amazon and Ellora’s Cave website. I’ll leave links below if you are interested in purchasing this one.
It’s a little different for me because the two MC’s are both in their fifties. I really enjoyed writing this short story even though the tale begins with a man who is broken, and struggling to heal after the death of his lover. But digging deep to figure out what healing from a loss that great would feel like was actually very beneficial as an author. I got to explore emotions I probably had never allowed myself to feel.
Hopefully the readers will respond in a good way to Andrew’s journey. Here is a blurb to let you know a little more about the story:
Andrew James is fifty-three and struggling with the death of his longtime love Rory. Andrew is finding it difficult to find a reason to go on, and his employer and friend Fredrick knows it’s a matter of time before Andrew just gives up even trying. But Fredrick is not a man without a plan.
Fredrick arranges a meeting between Andrew and a gorgeous psychologist friend, Michael Lawrence. There is no denying the intense physical attraction between the pair, but will it be enough to help Andrew overcome his grief at this age in his life? Is he too old to try and love again?
EXCERPT:
I jerked awake, smearing the hot tears off my face. My heart was about to explode from my chest, and I was nauseous, drenched in perspiration. Just the sound of my labored breathing and a clock ticking somewhere in the room. So quiet. So fucking silent. That was the worst part of waking up like this. No one to hold me and tell me it was just a dream. But that someone would be Rory. And it wasn’t a dream.
I stumbled into the kitchen, stretching my stiff muscles. Making coffee always calmed me. The heady smell of the beans grinding, pouring the water, flipping the switch. Rory had hated how strong I’d always made it. “Is this sludge or coffee?” he’d have said grinning as he leaned against the counter. I’d have ignored him and poured myself a generous cup. I should have listened to him about the coffee. I should have paid attention to a lot of things better. I wished to God he’d listened to me about my gut feeling that morning.
I washed while the java brewed and got dressed in the little bedroom we’d shared Everything looked the same as before he died. I couldn’t bring myself to change anything. On the dresser was the picture of us in Santa Barbara last summer. We looked so happy, sun kissed and relaxed. I talked to that picture sometimes. But then the sound of my hollow, bitter voice would make the house seem even more empty and cold. Maybe I should get a cat or a dog. If only so there would be some noise in the house other than that damn ticking clock. I filled my travel mug and let myself out of the house.
The sun warmed my shoulders through my thin shirt and a blue jay screeched somewhere unseen above my head in the purple Jacarandas. It would be a beautiful day in Los Angeles, too bad I would be sitting in a court room all afternoon. I got in the car and sat for a moment. More silence. Rory would have had a story to tell, or maybe one of his dirty jokes he loved so much. “Did you hear the one about the three legged prostitute?” I flipped on the radio and winced at the perky chatterbox giving the traffic report. How did she do it? How did she muster such enthusiasm for the traffic? I shut it off, disgusted. I don’t know, maybe just people in general irritated me.
I drove the short distance to Fredrick’s office, surprised to see he was already waiting on the patio out front. He threw down his cigarette and crushed it under his designer leather shoe. He strode gracefully to the car and I climbed out to open the back door for him.
“Jesus Christ, Andrew. You’re late.” He lowered his head and slid into the car. “You’re never late, I was worried.”
“You’re never on time. I didn’t think it would matter.”
As I returned to my spot behind the wheel I observed his scowl in the rear-view mirror. He was watching the back of my head intently. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing, I didn’t sleep well, that’s all.”
“Did you have that damned dream again?” he asked, running a slender hand over his sleek graying hair.
I ignored him and pulled out into traffic. The roads were unusually quiet as we made our way toward the Los Angeles Superior Court. Maybe the other drivers knew something we didn’t. Maybe the world had ended. Was it a bad sign that I didn’t care either way?
“You need to talk to someone, Andrew.”
“Is talking going to bring him back?” I asked gruffly.
Fredrick’s face looked drawn. “It might be helpful to have professional insight.”
“Professional insight,” I snorted. “Here’s some insight, mind your own business.”
If you enjoy the story drop me a line. I love hearing from readers! scwynne@dslextreme.com