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Thursday, August 30, 2018

Busy Days Again

So, I've been to a few Back to School nights.

I've even been to a few at this particular junior high.

Let's just say, the thrill is gone.

It's not even that I don't want to be there--it's just that the back to school night, with the, "This is our routine, these are our standards, here's how you contact me," schtick is... well. I seriously want to talk to teachers and find out how awesome my kids are.

So when ZoomBoy texted to say he was done with play auditions and ready to picked up, well, I had no problem at all ditching math class and leaving early to avoid the traffic.

Anyway, there you go. That's as out of control as our family gets.


Me: So, you weren't waiting too long?

ZB: No. But I have a confession to make.

Me: Shoot.

ZB: Well, auditions didn't start until 4:30 and we got out at 2.

Me: What did you do with that time.

ZB: Mostly dick around and piss people off.

Me: Uh, well done?

ZB: It was. We REALLY pissed people off. We got the finger and everything.

Me: Next time tell me and I'll bring you lunch.

ZB: Okay! Lunch would have been great!

Me: *grumbles to self* Like you wouldn't be able to piss people off...

Also, and I don't know why I think this is hilarious except Squish was so sincere when she said it. She'd gotten up late so I didn't have time to braid her hair in the morning. She brushes it anyway, but can mostly manage a big fluffy ponytail.

And she got home and was sitting on the couch, brushing her hair, whining, "MOMMMMMMMY!!! I can't THINK with all this hair!"

And I'm thinking women all over the world would hear that and agree. I can't think with so much hair either.

Photo Op

Yes, I admit it.

I'm doing SuperBat again because I'm in more of a fiction mood than a non-fiction mood. I mean, I was going to blog anyway...

*  *  *

"Mr. Wayne?"  Clark fought the urge to adjust his tie and his glasses, and simply extended his hand in greeting. Bruce Wayne, billionaire, playboy, urban renewal champion, caught him in a crushing grip and smiled.

"Mr. Kent. I'm surprised they sent you out on this one. Don't you usually do crime beat?"

Clark fought the urge to roll his eyes. Bruce was there--impeccable in an earth-brown European cut suit, complete with--oh my God--the cravat that Clark had helped him tie that morning. Bruce knew goddamned good and well that Clark had been put on this story because Lois Lane had bribed Perry White with cookies to have Clark go because she was in Dubai following a lead on Lex Author, and she wanted him to dig up dirt on her favorite crush.

He liked Lois-- loved her like a sister, in fact--but he was tempted to lock her in a lead vault for all eternity because she mooned over Bruce Wayne like a love-struck teenager.

And dammit, Bruce was his. Which was--he could admit it--why he'd planted the lead that led Lois to Dubai.

Bruce had told him the interview was coming weeks ago. He was here as the Wayne Enterprises' front man, making himself at home in the penthouse of Metropolis's best hotel, surrounded by his entourage of PR personnel and engineers.

Tim Drake, who was working as his publicist for the moment, met Clark's gaze dryly.

Oh yeah--Tim knew. Bruce had mentored the boy, through his Red Robin days and into his service for Dick Grayson. He hadn't disclosed why Tim was back at Wayne Enterprises now, but Clark had a feeling it had something to do with the improvements Bruce was paying for in the Eye in the Sky. Bruce didn't admit he needed help often, but that project was a monster.

And his projects in Metropolis were the cover for that monster.

"I do, in fact," Clark said easily. "But it's not every day that an industrialist from Gotham beats out Lex Luthor's company for a contract in Metropolis. My editor thought this deserved a second look."

Clark was maybe the only one who knew what that tiny tick about Bruce Wayne's eyebrow meant.  Uh oh. Clark shifted in his seat, aware that tomorrow, he might not be able to so much as sit down.

"Well, there's not much to see here," Bruce said, smiling that disarming, playboy smile. "There was an opportunity to develop the margins between the thriving urban area and a rather depressed suburb, so I took it! Lots of money to be made in offering services, Mr. Kent--that's not really newsworthy."

Clark's eyes narrowed, and he was reminded again how much he hated Bruce's playboy persona.

"You're building a youth center and a daycare, Mr. Wayne. That's hardly a goldmine."

"But we're hiring the parents to work in the engineering firm nearby," Bruce told him, smiling disarmingly. "Really, I'm just getting a less distracted employee, that's all."

"You started the firm," Clark snapped. "It's renewable energy. From what I understand it'll cut the drain on Metropolis's power grid by ten percent."

Bruce waved at Lucius Fox airily. "Well, Lucius would know all about that. I just signed where he told me to, isn't that right, Lucius?"

"Sure," Lucius said, face impassive. "That paperwork doesn't do itself."

Bruce sent Lucius a killing look that the older man didn't bother to return.

Clark eyed Lucius with mild interest--and pretended he didn't see his wink.

"Did you have any other questions?" Bruce asked, leaning back in his seat. "We were going to have lunch brought up. You're welcome to join us."

Clark shrugged. "As long as it's all still on the record."

Oh, you bet it was on the record. It was on the record as he overheard Bruce's board talking about how much more money they could have made if they'd started a fracking plant instead but had refused. It was on the record when Bruce took a tearfully grateful call from the local WIC program, and another one from WEAVE, because the mothers were so relieved to have a job and childcare, and low income housing in a nice neighborhood. It was on the record as Bruce made arrangements with a local junior college for the workers at the plant to learn computer and management skills so they could more efficiently staff the engineering firm, as well as a mentor program that would funnel those truly gifted in math and spatial relationships into the sections that did actual engineering.

The only thing that was off the record was when the local mob boss called and told Bruce that he was so grateful for a chance to keep his little brother out of the family business, he and his boys would not only leave the area alone, they'd make sure any other "families" would lay off as well.

But Clark took note of it, and his eyes didn't leave Bruce Wayne once as he charmed and flattered and played the fool for his board members and staff and even the mobster, who all left that room convinced that the man was an idealistic ass who would find himself firmly taken advantage of in the end.

Clark was there in the morning as Bruce did his numbers.

He was highly aware that Bruce Wayne would make money off of this enterprise as he did off every other, and he would funnel the profits back into the community just as he did in Gotham.

Finally, the afternoon was over, and Bruce and his entourage were heading for the jet. Clark tilted his head, just a smidge, and Bruce smiled at them all as they got on the elevator.

"Lucius, please see everybody home. I'm going to spend one more night in Metropolis. Do you mind?"

Lucius gave a shrug. "Not at all. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." His eyes flickered to Clark. "Or would."

And then the elevator doors shut and Clark was on him and naked in the time it took to fly across the room.

"Are you crazy?" Bruce hissed, and Clark ignored him, ripping his three piece suit down the middle, like cracking an egg in half.

"Yes," Clark snapped, falling to his knees and burying his face in Bruce's taut, iron-ripped belly. "I am crazy, because I'm one of three people in this room who didn't think you were an arrogant idiot trying to impress the Metropolis social scene."

In one swift move, he engulfed Bruce's cock and sucked hard.

"Nungh!" Bruce tightened his fingers in Clark's hair and tugged hard, but Clark didn't yield. "I don't care what they think!" he hissed and Clark deep-throated him again, swallowing deliberately, knowing it would grip the head of the thing with powerful ripples.

Clark pulled back, gripping Bruce's prick with a solid stroke. "I care," he snapped. "Every time you joke about what an idiot you are, it's like you're disrespecting my property, and I hate it!"

"Well your property needs you to bend over," Bruce ordered. "Because otherwise I'm going to come on Superman's--"

Clark tugged on his balls, and he exploded.

Over Clark's closed eyes, his cheek, his open mouth.

Bruce's knees gave, and he sank slowly to the ground. Before Clark could wipe his face off, he felt Bruce's mouth moving over him, tongue extended.

He licked and suckled, and mouthed, eliminating his come from Clark's skin as he eliminated any trace of the man Clark knew him to be.

"Feel better?" he whispered.

Clark wrapped his arms around Bruce's waist and buried his sticky face against his neck. "No."

Bruce dropped a tender kiss in his hair. "Will you feel better after you write the article you're planning?"


And he had the nerve to chuckle.

"Will you feel better if we make it to the bed and I do that thing I was planning to do when I told youth bend over?"

"It's a possibility. You know what would make me really feel better?"

Bruce sighed. "Not yet."

"Why not? You're nearing... an age. Why is it important everybody assumes you're an idiot and Lucius is the one behind the company even accidentally making money?"

"Because there's still a lot of good I can do by acting the fool," Bruce said patiently. "Why is it so important that anybody knows I'm not one?"

Clark groaned. "Because I love you, and you're brilliant, and you're kind, and you're brave. And nobody will know it and that kills me!"

"Nobody will know Clark Kent is Superman," Bruce said, standing up and offering Clark a hand up.

"But they'll know Clark Kent worked for a better world," Clark said, taking the hand and wrapping Bruce into the hardest, most all-concmpassing hug in his arsenal.

"And you'll know Bruce Wayne did." Bruce melted into his arms bonelessly, as though Clark was the only one on the planet who could take his weight.

Maybe because he was.

"You deserve more," Clark muttered, but they'd had this discussion before. There was no changing it.

Bruce laughed and pulled him toward the bed. "I don't even deserve you, but I'm taking you! Now bend over! I"ve got plans!"

Clark did, wrapping his wrists voluntarily in a towel, submitting his body to all the things Bruce craved.

Bruce craved Clark. Not money. Not accolades. He yearned to set the world right. He craved farm boy and  Boy Scout reporter, Clark Kent.

Clark would give him everything.

It's the only reward Bruce would ever take.

Monday, August 27, 2018

Release Day for A Few Good Fish-- LOVE ME SOME FISH!

So yes! Release day for A Few Good Fish.

Can I just say I love writing this series?

I love writing Jackson and Ellery throughout several books.

I love that I have many more adventures planned for them.

I love that even though my audience started out going, "Well... romantic suspense... I'm just not sure..." A lot of them seem to be firmly on board?

I loved bringing in Ace and Sonny, two of my favorite characters, into a new adventure.

I loved planning a romance for their friend Burton, which will be out in Hiding the Moon.

I loved how much people seemed to love Lucy Satan and Billy Bob.

I loved writing shit-go-boom-and-then-there's-sex.

I loved that Jackson was a broken boy at the beginning, and he's still a broken boy, and people are okay with it taking more than one book--more than three, actually-- to fix him.

And I love that I'm looking forward to writing another one, even before this one's out.

Welcome to the world of Jackson Rivers and Ellery Cramer, folks. If you haven't jumped in the fish pond yet, the first one's on sale for $.99-- enjoy!

A Few Good Fish

by Amy Lane

 Fish Out of Water: Book 3

A tomcat, a psychopath, and a psychic walk into the desert to rescue the men they love…. Can everybody make it out with their skin intact? 

PI Jackson Rivers and Defense Attorney Ellery Cramer have barely recovered from last November, when stopping a serial killer nearly destroyed Jackson in both body and spirit.

But their previous investigation poked a new danger with a stick, forcing Jackson and Ellery to leave town so they can meet the snake in its den.

Jackson Rivers grew up with the mean streets as a classroom and he learned a long time ago not to give a damn about his own life. But he gets a whole new education when the enemy takes Ellery. The man who pulled his shattered pieces from darkness and stitched them back together again is in trouble, and Jackson’s only chance to save him rests in the hands of fragile allies he barely knows.

It’s going to take a little bit of luck to get these Few Good Fish out alive!

Red Fish, Dead Fish

by Amy Lane
Fish Out of Water: Book Two
They must work together to stop a psychopath—and save each other.

Two months ago Jackson Rivers got shot while trying to save Ellery Cramer’s life. Not only is Jackson still suffering from his wounds, the triggerman remains at large—and the body count is mounting.

Jackson and Ellery have been trying to track down Tim Owens since Jackson got out of the hospital, but Owens’s time as a member of the department makes the DA reluctant to turn over any stones. When Owens starts going after people Jackson knows, Ellery’s instincts hit red alert. Hurt in a scuffle with drug-dealing squatters and trying damned hard not to grieve for a childhood spent in hell, Jackson is weak and vulnerable when Owens strikes.

Jackson gets away, but the fallout from the encounter might kill him. It’s not doing Ellery any favors either. When a police detective is abducted—and Jackson and Ellery hold the key to finding her—Ellery finds out exactly what he’s made of. He’s not the corporate shark who believes in winning at all costs; he’s the frightened lover trying to keep the man he cares for from self-destructing in his own valor.

Fish Out of Water

by Amy Lane

Fish Out of Water: Book One

PI Jackson Rivers grew up on the mean streets of Del Paso Heights—and he doesn’t trust cops, even though he was one. When the man he thinks of as his brother is accused of killing a police officer in an obviously doctored crime, Jackson will move heaven and earth to keep Kaden and his family safe.

Defense attorney Ellery Cramer grew up with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, but that hasn’t stopped him from crushing on street-smart, swaggering Jackson Rivers for the past six years. But when Jackson asks for his help defending Kaden Cameron, Ellery is out of his depth—and not just with guarded, prickly Jackson. Kaden wasn’t just framed, he was framed by crooked cops, and the conspiracy goes higher than Ellery dares reach—and deep into Jackson’s troubled past.

Both men are soon enmeshed in the mystery of who killed the cop in the minimart, and engaged in a race against time to clear Kaden’s name. But when the mystery is solved and the bullets stop flying, they’ll have to deal with their personal complications… and an attraction that’s spiraled out of control.

Buy Link--ON SALE FOR $.99!!!!!!

Sunday, August 26, 2018

Weekend Things

So, spent the weekend... well busy.

It's funny how my family--which should have been getting more and more self-sufficient and less mom dependent in the past few years, has, in fact, become the opposite.

They've become very "ishy" about me working over the weekends.

Friday I was getting all totally ready to nap before I picked up the kids so I could go to the reading at the Lavender Library Friday night, (which you can see if you follow the link)  when Mate texted and asked if I wanted to go out to lunch and keep him company while he did soccer errands.

Between that and the reading, no writing was done in this house.

Saturday was Squish's seeding tournament (four games in a day), and after we all got home and showered, Mate showed up and we went out to dinner and then went and caught Skyscraper at the cheap theaters, and then we all got home and passed out.

And no writing was done in this house.

This morning we took the dogs for a walk.  That was actually sort of adorable.

Mate would stop me every now and then with a warning. "Geoffie's behind you."

"I know."

"Well, be careful-- she's about to pull a full Empire Strikes Back ATAT maneuver on you, and you're gong down!"

It never happened, but the thought of me like the big transport carrier, legs tied together, toppling over on the pathway, did keep me very alert.

Also--and I posted this on Facebook, something cute happened.

A father was taking his kids for a ride--two of them on tiny bikes and one on a scooter like dad. The kid on the scooter was riding cleanup, trying to get his little sister on the princess bike with the booster seat for the doll in the back to get a move on.

"C'mon! Move! We're losing them!"

The little girl didn't say anything, even when her brother gave the bike a big heave from behind, she just let it coast to a stop--her eyes glued to the three dogs the whole time.

Finally I said, "Would you like to pet the dogs?"

She lit up and nodded and got off the bike and came over, hand cautiously extended. And then her brother did the same thing. I love it when kids know how to approach dogs. Some kids are all entitlement-- they run forward and EXPECT the dog to be okay with a stranger touching them. These kids knew dogs--they let the dogs sniff them and then gave gentle scratches to the tops of their heads between the ears.

And then, when the dogs had all been pet by both kids, they got on their little vehicles and went on their way.

Mate was chuckling the whole way back.

Decent kids, petting dogs. Sometimes the world really is that pure, right?

Anyway--we got home, and there was a long nap on my part, and then... finally...

After the kids went to bed...

Writing happened in this house.

Well, it had to get done eventually.

Thursday, August 23, 2018


First of all, Geoffie is doing okay. We'll see after her walk tomorrow if she needs to go back for more fluids, and mostly? I think we just wait to see if she starts throwing up like a hurricane or if she's going to pass the big chunk of rib bone in her stomach.

I have to say, this morning at the vets was really cute. She ran up to each of the nurses to personally greet them, her tail wagging, little barks coming, snuffling at their hands and all. They all knew her by name, and when I gave her to the one admitting her, she was happy to go.

I think they take good care of her there.

Because, you know, she's been there a lot.

Anyway-- tomorrow I'm joining my QSAF people at the Lavender Library in downtown to do a reading. It should be lots of fun--and hey! There's cookies!

Also-- don't forget, A Few Good Fish is out Tuesday, and I'm getting super excited about it! There will be a small blog tour, of course, and an excerpt posted on HEA Blog on USA Today, and generally good things!

Also, for those of you who didn't see it, Hiding the Moon is out in October. Now this book is sort of a sequel to Racing for the Sun, because Burton, the main character appears there as Ace and Sonny's friend.

Now, when I was writing A Few Good Fish, I needed someone on the inside to help Ellery and Jackson out. And the thing is, I'd already written a character who worked military black ops and would be happy to step up--Lee Burton. So, in order to have him and Ernie work well on the page, I wrote their story, starting on this blog, and then continued it and wrote the book in its entirety.

Which has this outrageously sexy cover, that looks SO GOOD next to Ace and Sonny's cover, and yet, so mysterious and awesome in its own right.

*happy sigh*

Ernie and Burton burn up the pages.

I love this sequence of books so much.

Anyway-- I know it's a wait for Hiding the Moon, but if you haven't read Racing for the Sun, now's your chance. And if you haven't read any of the Fish Out of Water books, you might want to start there.

*happy sigh*

Because these guys are seriously hot and shit does, indeed, go boom.

So everybody cross your fingers for Geoffie--I'm hoping she's seen the last of the vet for a while, but we'll have to see.

And yay!

I've got a new release out next week!

That's something to celebrate!

Wednesday, August 22, 2018

Geoffie, C'mon!

Okay-- so fingers crossed, everyone.

She's doing better.

Geoffie threw up last night--a lot.  (And there wasn't that much time to throw up, either. I went to bed at two a.m. and all the puke was found at seven.)

Anyway, took her to vets this morning, and she was cold and shaking and dehydrated, and a little part of me was mewling. Oh Goddess. Please. Not again. Not Geoffie. Dammit.

We had to shuffle financially, because, remember, last week we spent $500 on a dead cat. (I know that's horrible, but some part of me is still appalled at the injustice of that. I have to keep reminding myself that we made that poor creature more comfortable and that's important.)  Anyway, Mate and I quietly acknowledged that we were willing to spend much, much more money on a live Geoffie.

After a day in the vets office (and some unusually shitty communication-- they're usually much better than they were today) it was determined that she had a big chunk of rib bone in her stomach.They gave her lots of fluids and sent her home and the hope is either A. She'll metabolize the bone and it will break down or B. If it hits her lower intestine, we'll get her to emergency care in time to operate. The had her on fluids all day and put a big batch of subcutaneous fluids in her back before they sent her home--she looks like she's got a giant boil, right on her ass. It's sort of disgusting and hilarious, this is true.

We gave her an opioid so she could rest and deal with the thing in her stomach and I'm like, aghast.

"But... but... people give their dogs rib bones to chew all the time. I mean, we've cut down her human food by almost all of it--I thought big bones were safe and good for their teeth!"

"Well, rib bones are safe. Until they're not."

Me. *flails*

So, let's hope they're safe.

Let's hope her tummy is better when I take her back in the morning.

Let's hope all is well.

Right now, get some rest, sweetheart.

Mommy really wants a live puppy at the end of this.

And seriously, dog. Why is it always you???

Tuesday, August 21, 2018

Date Night for Titans

Okay-- so last night I started a SuperBat fic and sent it out and went, "Sorry, no sex!"

But I ended it RIGHT BEFORE they went on a date.

So their date has been playing out through my head all day.


You're welcome.

*  *  *

Superman kept him wrapped in his cape for the trip, torpedoing them through the stratosphere fast enough to freeze them both if he didn't.  Bruce didn't even ask where they were going--he assumed there was only one place they could go and be themselves that wasn't Gotham and wasn't the Eye in the Sky, and if Clark wanted to spend the odd night at his place that was fine.

As long as they were both spending the night at his place, because they spent enough nights out fighting crime and not by each other's side that Bruce got crabby about squandering any possible time together period.

Clark touched down lightly and Bruce tried to move from his chest.

"Stay," Clark whispered, and the embrace, which had been purely functional, so that Bruce Wayne might not fall through his lover's arms and freeze to death, became tender.

"Mm..." Bruce rested his head on Clark's shoulder again. Damned farm boy alien was really frickin' tall.

"You know I'm proud of you," Clark said softly. "For not just letting bad things happen to good people. It's a good part of you. I like it."

"You have the same part," Bruce objected--but he didn't move.

"Yes, but yours is more personal. I'm all about saving Metropolis. You're all about saving the kid living in the poor part of Gotham who got screwed over. Maybe together we can save the world."

Bruce smiled and raised his face to Clark's for a kiss. "Save the world later. Save me now."

Clark chuckled and gave him a quick, hard kiss on the mouth, and then stepped back.

"I'll save you later," he said, gesturing to the interior of the Fortress of Solitude. "Right now, we should eat."

Bruce took in the living area and gasped appreciatively.

Everything--furniture, bookshelves, video screen, technology-- was configured with a Kryptonian polymer. It's density could be controlled--so the couches were comfy and the table didn't sag in the middle--but it was all transparent, like perfectly frozen and sculpted ice. Fun to look at, but the effect was a little... cold.

It was modeled to look like an ice castle on the outside. Go figure.

Clark had decorated, just for this date.

The "table" --which was normally a big block of polymer--had been covered with a scarlet cloth, and white roses sat in the middle, in a perfect state of bloom.  It was set, a big tureen of soup in the middle and various covered dishes around that. Bruce assumed that the food in the platters was warmed and had been warming since right before Clark had come to get him.

Very clever. Bruce had no idea how long he'd been in the air but he was pretty sure he was going to sit down to a hot dinner.

"Who cooked?" he asked impishly, and Clark managed to look sheepish.

"Alfred," he sighed. "I told him we'd be gone all night if he could make something good for dinner here. I think you need to let him update the kitchen at your place. He almost cried when he saw mine."

Bruce grimaced. "Yeah... I don't think we can replace gas with Kryptonite powered flame, buddy. Some new pots and a rack I can get him. I think your power source would burn down my house."

Clark chuckled a little, and a crescent of pink appeared on his cheek. "You're right, of course. Here--you take off your coat and I'll go..."  He gestured to his uniform.

"Please tell me you're putting on the millionaire day-wear pajamas," Bruce said, knowing his eyes had gotten big and excited.

Clark rolled his eyes. "I'm putting on slacks," he said, that eternal prissiness that Bruce loved about him very much to the fore. "Because we're dressing for dinner, dammit. Now hang up your coat, wash your hands, and open the wine."

Bruce had to admit it. He got hard when Clark got bossy like this. "Of course," he said mildly. "White or red?"

"It's prime rib," Clark said, knowing Bruce sometimes did his own thing with wine.

"Red it is. Now go change. If we're going to dine, we're going to do it right."

Clark smiled warmly and float-glided through the dining room to the bedroom. You could actually see into the bedroom--there was a doorway but no door, and the walls were lightly frosted over. This was a fortress of solitude. If Clark invited someone over, they either didn't mind seeing him naked, or slept on the couch with no hard feelings.

Bruce business himself with the wine, and Clark came out in caramel colored slacks and a dark red dress shirt. No tie, and he was barefoot, but... but...


"What?" Clark adjusted his cuffs and tried not to blush.

"That's not your broke reporter outfit," Bruce said. A little bit hard had just changed to a lot hard, and he took a hasty sip of wine while handing Clark his glass.

"No. You keep putting money in my bank account. It's embarrassing. I finally spent some."

Bruce chuckled a little. "Careful, farm boy, people are going to think you're a kept man."

"Shut up and sit down," Clark muttered, but his cheeks were still pink so Bruce knew he was pleased.

They sat and ate--and the food was amazing, but of course it was. Alfred had done it--when was Alfred not amazing?

But what was better than the food was the... the effort. 

"What?" Clark asked during a lull in the conversation. They'd both finished their steak and crossed their utensils, and Bruce couldn't help it. He needed.

"I want you," he rasped. "So damned bad. Tell me no, right now. Tell me dessert won't keep. Tell me my dick'll fall off if I take you here. Give me a reason, or I will have you bent over the table so fast it will feel like I've got super speed."

Clark stared at him, eyes going big and round, cheeks flushing completely.

And then he licked his lips, sinking his teeth into the pillowy bottom one.

Bruce shoved the plates out of the way and pulled him up by the back of the pants, licking at his ear as he did so.

"No reason?" he demanded. "No reason you can think of?"

"You don't fuck me over the table at your house," Clark taunted, and Bruce nipped his earlobe hard.

"This material's impervious to anything but an alien invasion," Bruce muttered. "That monstrosity at my house is an antique. And if Alfred walked in on us fucking on an antique, he'd die."

And with that, Clark bent over the table, arms spread submissively, ass thrust out.

Bruce let out a happy little keen and tugged at those pretty, loose fitting slacks.  The puddled at Clark's feet and Bruce gave a chuckle.

"Why Clark Kent, you are naked under your pants."

"Nungs..." Clark wiggled his ass. Actually wiggled his ass. 

"Are you sure you don't want dessert first?" Bruce asked, stripping off his jacket and his shirt while toeing off his shoes. He had a few items in the pocket of his slacks, and he pulled them out and put them on the table in front of Clark's eyes before removing the slacks and socks completely, draping them all on the giant comfy piece of acrylic polymer that doubled as a chair.

"Eating dessert now could be grounds for divorce," Clark moaned as Bruce ran fingertips down his spine and along his flanks.

"Not if I tied you up like this and dripped ice cream on your cock," Bruce sang, parting Clark's cleft with his thumbs, and Clark bucked up against the table a few times.  "Now hold still. Nobody can hear you scream out here, and I want to know what's going to give first. Your pride or my tongue."

And with that he sank to a naked crouch and began to lick between Clark's asscheeks.

Clark didn't hold back.

He moaned, he begged, he whimpered--but he didn't scream.

Bruce reached around and teased his cock, pinching the head, flicking the frenulum gently, rubbing a careful thumbnail between his testicles.

Clark buried his face in his arm and moaned, his thighs shaking with the effort to hold him upright, to keep himself calm.

Bruce's own cock was leaking copiously, hard, so painfully hard, but Clark had gone to so much trouble.

Bruce needed to give him the best dessert possible.

He reached to the table for the objects there and picked up the silk scarf first.

"Tying around your eyes," he decided. "Because it's pretty, and I know you can use heat vision but you won't so you won't wreck it."

Clark grunted and allowed himself to be blindfolded, and Bruce grabbed his necktie from his clothes pile.

"Now I'm going to tie your wrists, and we both know you can make a hash out of this in a heartbeat, but you bought me this tie and I love it and I wish you wouldn't."

This time Clark whimpered. This was playing dirty.

"And now..." Bruce drizzled just a little bit of lubricant into the crack of Clark's ass and took the other item-- a four-inch, flared base vibrator--and teased him with it. "Now, I'm going to give you not enough."  He thrust the thing in, waiting for the sound Clark made.

A full on, groin rumbling groan that shook the floor.

But not a scream.

"Close," Bruce teased, grabbing the thing by the handle and tugging. "Now to the bedroom, my man. We've got some shit to sort."

Clark didn't float-glide this time. He walked. Painfully. Knees obviously having trouble working. Sweat breaking out over his naked lower half.

By the time they got to the bed, Bruce's hands were shaking. He was going to have to give in. He was good at self-denial. Great at it in fact. But this was supposed to be fun for both of them.

He turned Clark so he sat on the bed, sat on the soft rubber handle, pushed the plug as deep as it could go. Clark moaned again, and Bruce could swear he felt the floorboards rumble under his bare feet.

He got to his knees before Clark and took his thick, dripping cock into his mouth.

Clark started to beg.

"This is good, oh God, I love your mouth, but please, please Bruce, this thing in my ass, it's... it's not you. Please, I'll scream if you fuck me, I promise, I just need you inside me and I'll scream!"

Bruce paused, puffing gentle air on Clark's exposed flesh.

"So, I can fuck you," he said, the tremor in his voice betraying his arousal, "but I won't get to taste your come."

"Please!" Clark begged, and if they'd been home, he would have rattled a couple of windows with that word.

Bruce pulled him to his feet and turned him around, bending him over and yanking out the plug before the vibrations completely eased.

He surged inside Clark's body with enough force to shatter another man, but not Clark.

Clark screamed, raw and guttural, the air around them blurring with the volume of his need.

Bruce fucked him without mercy, throwing his body forward with everything, brutally ravaging him with all the desire in his heart.

Their climax--their climax--took him by surprise. Clark moaned, and then screamed again, and clenched so tightly around Bruce's invading flesh that Bruce was thrown over in a heartbeat.

They both screamed, waves of pleasure, waves of orgasm, crashing into their bodies and shattering their souls.

Bruce collapsed over Clark's back, fumbling with the tie around his wrist so he could move.

Clark shoved his rumpled dress shirt up over his head, taking the blindfold with it and Bruce fell out of him, come running generously down the back of his thigh.

With a groan, Bruce fell on top of him again, never wanting to leave.

"That was... amazing..." Clark breathed. "That was worth the trip."

"You went to all that trouble." Bruce was never sure if he could convey what this meant to him. "Just... just for us. All we do, try ing to make the world better for other people. That was just for me."

"It was my pleasure," Clark murmured, voice serious as Bruce kissed the back of his neck and burrowed under his hair for his ears again.

"Just felt like dessert was the least I could do," Bruce told him, loving when his chuckle rumbled through them both.

"Get into bed, Bruce," Clark ordered gently. "We've got the kind of dessert you can eat."

Clark Kent, guileless farm boy, Superman, planet saving alien superhero, walked naked from his bedroom to the kitchen, Bruce Wayne's come marking his skin.  When he came back he had a plate filled with a confection of delicate pastry and ice cream and chocolate layers that was meant to be cleaved in half and served on delicate plates.

They ate it in bed, side by side, sharing the same fork.

They made love slowly, face to face, when they were done.

They promised to do it at least once a month afterward. Have time for both of them, here where nobody could intrude.

They made it maybe every two, sometimes once a season, but that was okay.

"A visit to the Fortress of Solitude" became Justice League code for, "A trip to get laid."

They sort of treasured that.

Date night--even superheroes need one.

I'm Free!

So, in honor of no jury duty for me...

Let's have no jury duty for Batman.


Clark looked at the little envelope in surprise.

"You're not going to try to get out of it?"

Bruce grimaced. "Everybody has to," he said patiently. "It's part of our justice system. Aren't you supposed to believe in that by the way?"

Clark rolled his eyes and reached for the milk. They were in the breakfast room, preparing for their day, both dressed in day-drag and reading their phones like the rest of America. It's just that Clark didn't expect anything so... pedestrian in the pile of domestic mail Alfred had brought Bruce that morning.

"I believe in it fine. I just don't think you--you in particular--are capable of participating in a fair, unbiased way."

Bruce gave him the side-eye. "And you are?"

Clark snorted. "Of course not! That's why I've had Diana hack the database and pull my name! It's only fair."

Bruce tilted his head. "You're cheating."

"I am not." But Clark shifted uncomfortably. He was. A little, yes. He was cheating. "But it's a small cheat to avoid a bigger one. I know if they're lying--I can tell if they're sweating, I may have even seen them commit the crime." He tried to control his runaway gestures. "So have you!"

Bruce chuckled.

"You know, it'll be fine. Don't worry. Odds are good my group won't even get called."

"Sure."  If there was a bomb within a fifty mile radius, Bruce would be sitting on top of it when it blew up. If there was a call to jury duty, Bruce would DEFINITELY get called.

"I tell you what," Bruce said casually, taking a swallow of premium sustainable mountain blend. "I'll serve my civic duty, and I'll do it without intervening as Batman."

Clark's eyes narrowed. "What about as Bruce Wayne?"

"Bruce Wayne is a fair bet. Bruce Wayne has resources--"

"No giant mainframe computer with it's own server and secret encrypted routes to almost every public service," Clark said bluntly.

Bruce shrugged. "Sure."

"No going out and punishing criminals by night," Clark continued.

"You mean, other than normal."

Oh. Yeah. That would be hard to measure. But still... "If you run into someone you've been introduced to in the courtroom, that's fine. But no searching him out."


"And if you go in and get rejected for a jury and don't have to serve, you and I get a date."

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "In public?"

"I will take you someplace--anonymously--and we will have dinner and a view and sex."

"So my reward for not doing my civic duty is anonymous sex?"

Clark just stared at him. "As opposed to no sex of any flavor if you don't stop being an... uh... jerk."

"You can't even say asshole when you're not just boiling mad at me, can you." Clark gloated, secure as a cat by the hearth. "Deal. Trust me. You're going to have to spring for the big meal in the private chateau. It'll be great." He smiled the super disturbing Batman smile with extra teeth. "I'll see if I can get you to say asshole then."

Clark's flush actually heated the air around them both, and Bruce threw back his head and laughed.

Well, with any luck, he wouldn't even get called in.


Bruce looked at the jury website and sighed. Yes, he had to go in. He grabbed his briefcase and called a car to the courthouse, making sure to give his assistant all of the salient instructions for the rest of the day.

"What if you don't get called?" poor Stella asked, legitimately confused. It wasn't like Bruce to not milk all of the daylight out of a work day.

"If I don't get called in, I'll have plans," Bruce said smoothly. "But do be active on the com. I may have to... issue instructions, as it were."

Stella stared at him, appalled. "But... but... you can't tamper with the system!"

"I don't plan to tamper with the system," he said, patting her cheek. "I just plan to use my resources to make sure justice gets done."

An hour later, he was sitting in a room with a dozen other jurors getting quizzed to see if they thought the 20 year old who'd gotten popped for a pocketful of party drugs should go to prison for life.

"Do you think the defendant's youth will influence your decision?" asked the prosecuting attorney.

"It should," Bruce responded. "As should the severity of the crime. If we're about to ruin somebody's life for what won't even be illegal next month I think it's important that we take into consideration the entirety of what was committed."

"Juror number twelve, you're excused. Report back to the jury pool for another selection."

Bruce scowled at the prosecutor--and at the judge-- and stood up, walking briskly through the courtroom to the hall beyond, buttoning his jacket as he went.

And hitting the com in his ear.

"Stell, I need you to find an outstanding defense attorney and send him to room 1202, to minister to docket XJ289."


"Did you get all that?"

"Yes sir. What are my instructions for him?"

"The kid doesn't deserve to go to prison and to get him to do community service or something. He's being railroaded because prosecutor doesn't like party kids. It's gross. And since I'm not serving on the jury..."

"You can interfere. I understand sir."

"Be on standby for the next one."

"Yes sir."

The next one was a horror show.

"Wait," Bruce said as they were being seated. "That can't be the defendant in this case."

He recognized the young college student looking scared and vulnerable at the table.

"Looks like it," the juror next to him whispered. "Why?"

Bruce shook his head. He couldn't very well say Batman had actually caught the murderer and hung him from a streetlamp for all to see.

"Stella," he whispered into his com.


"Need another defense attorney--make it the best--my location stat."

But even stat, it wasn't soon enough to avoid answering questions.

"Sir, have you met anybody in this courtroom before?"

"Yes," Bruce answered. "I've seen the defendant on his way too and from his junior college classes."  Usually late at night, as Batman watched his neighborhood. It sat on the border of a true den of drug addicts and criminals, separating them from the older, safer neighborhood on the other side. "He's kind to his neighbors, helps little old ladies across the street, and once found a kitten for a little girl in his building."

"You're ex--"

"And since I'm excused, why is he being charged with this crime? It's my understanding another person--somebody with deep ties to a local gang--had been found tied up with a bow and hanging from a streetlamp nearby!"  It had been in the papers, dammit. Bruce had looked!

"Well, the district attorney made the consideration--"

Bruce scowled. Dammit, the one thing Two-Face had been was not a schmuck on the little guy.

"That since the guy hanging from the lamp sounded batshit crazy you could pin it on this guy who saw the whole thing? That's fair."

Bruce was aware that the kid was staring at him like he was a god.

"This is not your concern, Juror 14--"

"But it is! This kid doesn't belong here! He doesn't belong in jail! He doesn't belong in debt! All he did was make sure nobody in his neighborhood got hurt!"

"Juror 14, you can be charged with contempt of court if you continue to--"

"But he's innocent!" Bruce bit out, and he heard it.

There was Batman in his voice.

An hour later, his own attorney was bailing him out of jail.

"Contempt of court," William said dryly.

"They were assholes."

"And that's contemptuous."

"Look, did we get actual attorneys to the other two people?" he asked, irritable.

"Yes, yes we did. And you know what else we got?"


"A moratorium of Bruce Wayne serving jury duty any more. I swear, both judged and prosecutors almost shit their pants. It was lovely."

Bruce grimaced. "Where's the roof?"

"Why do you need the--"

"I've got an appointment. I don't want to be late."

Clark was doing that thing where he pointed one toe down and hovered a good six-inches off the surface of the ground.

"You interfered," he said severely.

"Not as Batman," Bruce answered.

"That's not true! You know the one defendant was innocent--"

"I k new he was innocent because I'm Batman. I intervened because I'm Bruce Wayne."  Bruce smiled playfully. "Do I still get my date?"

Clark sighed and opened his arms. Bruce stepped into them and allowed himself to be enveloped in the red cloak.

"You going to teach me where my asshole is?" Clark whispered into his ear, and Bruce shuddered.

"Since you came to get me and let me win, sure," Bruce replied, leaning his head against Clark's shoulder. Then he smiled. "Besides. You know where your asshole is. He's right there, interfering in all the things he can."

Monday, August 20, 2018

Jury Duty

*  First of all-- thank you all so much for the kind words about Gordie. The weekend was pretty sad without him.

*  Next of all, I may or may not have jury duty tomorrow. I find out at 11:15 and I'm in a quandary. On the one hand, ugh. It's half an hour away, traffic always sucks, and parking is weird. Also, I've got a blog tour that I've procrastinated about until this week, and, as always, a deadline. Also, I only made it to one aqua class last week and I am feeling very... un aquatic.

On the other, I'm pretty sure it was two goes at jury duty that convinced me that Fish Out of Water would be a good idea, and since I'm on my third and fourth books and planning a fifth and sixth,

Also, I get to dress in my nice clothes and talk to grownups. I'm already full of self-importance in the way of having a "real job" can give you, and planning my weekend wardrobe.

Uh, never underestimate the importance of grownup clothes and outside stimuli.

But on the other hand, the kids just got back to school, I have a thing in four weeks that involves Florida and an airplane, and I PROMISED I'd have this damned book in on September 15th and it's only 12 K in.

Maybe it's a good thing that this particular decision is up to other people.

Also, if I DO get called in, chances are, I'm really way way too me to actually get sat.

Examples? The time the defendant was a 19 yo club kid about to go to jail for life for a pocket full of E. I OOZED so much mommy all over the juror's box, they just took one look at me and said, "Oh no. No conviction here."

Also, the time the trial came down to the word of a policeman vs. the defendant. The judge looked at my jacket and said, "So, you're a romance writer. I suppose you tend to write a lot of policemen and romanticize them."

"No sir. I'm sorry. In my world policemen are the enemy."  (People who have been reading my books for a while are like, "Really, Amy? I never would have guessed!" And they'd be dripping with sarcasm, too.)

Anyway, the prosecuting attorney stood up and asked for a bunch of people to be dismissed, and I looked at her like, "REALLY?" when my name wasn't called. She nodded and held up her hand in a little, "Wait for it..." and then called out my number.

And that was it.

And I got to go home! *skips away singing*


We'll see tomorrow, right?

Thursday, August 16, 2018

Goddammit Gordie.

 So, the kids went back to school today, and I was super excited.

I was going to meet my friend, Karen, today because she was dropping her husband off at the airport, and Mate was going to pick the kids up.

It was like a special day, just for me. I was going to talk to a grownup and we would knit together and lunch.

But first I had to walk the dogs. I left the back door open because it was a cool morning and I like the house cool, and also because we hadn't seen Gordie for a couple of days and he was due to return at any moment, looking a little scrawny but smug, as usual.

I did not expect him to be dying on the bathroom floor when I got home.

Dehydrated, emaciated (he hadn't been gone that long!), and irritated, he was counting his breaths and trying to crawl behind the cat box, as a last fuck you.

I need to clarify here.

This cat hated me.

He REALLY hated me.

I was responsible for the two worst things in his life.

Sin 1-- I took Chicken to school. He was her cat. She'd kept him in her room for his first two months. She was his only love, and I took her away, and he never forgot that and never forgave me.

Sin 2--I brought the hated dogs to this household, and he LOATHED the hated dogs and threatened them with death. Hourly.

So he hated me.

I thought.

Until he tried to die on my bathroom floor.

I threw him in the car carrier and hauled him to the vets (and told Karen I'd be late!) The vets took one look at him and said, "We can give him fluids and maybe do some bloodwork... and maybe take a temperature... and probably put him down."

I told them I'd wait to see what the bloodwork revealed. Maybe he got locked in someone's basement and just needed fluids, right?

So they called me about six-thirty--after I warned the kids and told Chicken and everybody was all prepared. They'd been going to let him come home with us and see about fluids in the morning, but he'd started seizing as soon as they took him off life support.

It was time to say goodbye.

Fucking cat.

He was Chicken's buddy through junior high. He was her best friend and her sanity and the one thing that kept her from just losing it when she was bullied. He was king of the dogs and they knew it. He stole lunch meat from the kids' sandwiches as I was making them and more than once I got a mouthful of paw because he tried a stealth ninja steal  the pasta ON MY FORK.

He was a total slut for hair dye and my husband's sweat after a soccer game and he never saw blocking knitwear on the couch that he didn't want to make sweet lurve to.

Every now and then when I was sure he was Satan's own turd coming to stink up our shit, he did something really super sweet or adorable--like go ballistic on blocking knitwear or licking my hand--and I'd remember that he was Chicken's cat and he loved her and I loved him for it.

He wasn't attractive. He wasn't sweet. He was, in fact, sort of a dick cat, and trying to die on MY floor--behind the litter box which is damned inaccessible-- is par for the course.

He'd go out in the most dick way possible.

Goddammit Gordie.

I was really fucking rooting for you to be a giant pain in our ass for a couple more years. You will be missed. The other cats are already calling your name. The kids are devastated. Chicken is destroyed.

We tried to give you a good life.

We were pretty sure being an indoor cat would destroy a little bit of your soul every day. You weren't meant for that.

But you seemed to like most of the family besides me, and you know, you're good to them and I can forgive you pretty much anything.

And we're gonna fucking miss you.

And I'm trying to be really mad at you for dying and I'm almost ready to give it up.

You were a funny quirky asshole cat and you were part of our family for eleven years and no amount of reminding myself of all the times you crapped under the kitchen table because you gave zero fucks and wanted us to know it is going to make the next few weeks any fucking better.

Fucking asshole.

Rest in peace.

Wednesday, August 15, 2018

RIP Cheap T-Shirt

Okay, so most of you have figured I'm a T-shirt whore.

I will buy almost any T-shirt, especially if it supports a cause, and double especially if they have one in one larger than my size, which is a B for Behemoth.

Anyway, this shirt SEEMED perfect.

Gray, cotton/poly, lightweight, it said, "Families Belong Together" on the front and most of the proceeds went to a legal group trying to keep the CHILDREN OUT OF CAGES, because that's where the draconian petty bloated Russian traitor tyrant-in-chief thinks they belong. (I want to see him in a cage. I want to see him in the Hague. I want to poke him with a stick. I want to mock his tiny ... you get the picture.)

Anyway, this looked like a good buy, so I tried it on, then threw it in my gym bag for after aqua class. (Yay! We have oxygen in the air again-- we can BREATHE so aqua is a go!)

After aqua I was going to meet Chicken, Squish, and ZoomBoy for lunch since she took them to the book store like the amazing big sister she is, and as I got into the car, my new T-shirt was binding my armpit a little so I tugged on it.

RRRIP... the sleeve ripped all the way to the armpit--and I was probably already late. I got into the car and started it (air conditioning!) and tugged on the other sleeve, and RRRRIP! Also to the armpit, and I thought, "Uh oh..."

And then pulled into traffic.

At the next stoplight I tried to rip the entire sleeve off. I've got a couple of shirts like this. I ripped the sleeves off and ripped the neck off and they're some of my favorite summer knocking around shirts. Well, the sleeve ripped, but not along the seam, and as I was driving to the next stoplight, I came to a part where it was really crooked.

So I got out my yarn scissors (handily in my purse along with my emergency sock bag for traffic jams) and hacked through the two inches of fabric that were in the way, and voila! No sleeve.

And then I realized, "FUCK! I have to do that to the OTHER side at the NEXT stoplight."

This side needed yarn scissors too, and yes, it looked like ass.

So I get to the next light--a really long one--and I'm like " FUCK IT ALL!!!!!" and I cut the neck of the shirt down past the ribbing and proceed to rip/cut the thing off in such a way to make it look like the last person who wore it got head AND part of the torso bitten off by a huge dinosaur, and then got the shirt treated with super bleach because who WOULDN'T want to wear that T-shirt again, right?

So THAT'S what I was wearing when I got out of the car to go to Panda Express.

The kids looked at me in surprise. I usually do "dead mommy chic" but I rarely do just plain ol' "dead mommy."

"The sleeves ripped," I said weakly. "It became a thing."

Chicken's eyes took in the neckline. "An only you thing, right?"

"Well," I told her with dignity, "Families may be meant to stay together, but this shirt was designed to be ripped apart."

"Sure, Mom. Sure."

Well I thought it was asking for it.

Tuesday, August 14, 2018

When they were young...

So I blog four nights a week, most weeks.

I think of it as a professional thing, and I like sharing, and I love telling stories, so it's not really a hardship.

Tonight, as I was sitting down to blog (which is usually the start to the bulk of my work day and the time the kids go to bed) the kids started asking me, "What did I do when I was young?"

And honestly?

I don't remember.

That was twelve or so years ago.

I pull out a few of the time-honored family stories:

Zoomboy didn't talk until he was 2 1/2, and I was getting set to call the school system to see if he had the same problems as Big T. The DAY I was going to sit down and make all those calls (painfully looked up in the yellow pages) I said, "Would you like some chocolate milk, ZoomBoy?"

And he said, "I love chocolate milk, Mama. Chocolate milk is nummy."

And I thought, "You saved that up you little shit, didn't you!"

And then there's the conversation we had with Squish about Sawmees and Goats, for a good ten minutes, while Mate and I were looking at each other thinking, "Holy WTF is a Sawmee or a Goat?"

The Squish said, "The Goats were chasing me making Goat sounds!"

And I said, "Like baaaaaah?"

And she said, "No! Like woooooooooooooo..."

And Mate and I went LIGHTBULB! "Ghosts?" we asked, and she nodded.


"Uh-huh mama! Sawmees and Goats!"

And so on. Most people reading this blog have probably heard these stories too.

So, the kids were a little disappointed and I was like, "I don't know what to say, guys-- you only grew up once!"

And then I turned to my blog and had a lightbulb moment.

I've been keeping this blog for twelve years.

Since Squish was 3 months old.

Yes, I restarted it in January of 2007, but that's a lot of kid stories packed into one place.

So I went to the beginning and spent ten to twenty minutes reading the blogs about the kids and showing them the pictures.

And feeling very proud of myself.

All the time I've spent working on my computer, pouring my heart into the internet. And it felt like "Hey. Here's where it pays off. Because this is, at its heart, a blog about your family."

And for once, my family got something out of it.

So, yeah. When my kids were young, they were a laugh riot.

Today, we took Geoffie to the vet's to get another shot. "C'mere, Geoffe," I crooned as she hung out on the floor. "I know you think you're big, but you have to get up on the table like a little dog!"

And she darted under the bench where Squish was sitting.

Squish said, "Yeah, you know you're little NOW, doncha!"

And looking back 11 years, you know something?

Same Squish. She's bigger, prettier, and more of a smartass, but she's the same kid she's always been.

ZoomBoy set my phone to Rick-Roll me as soon as Spotify hooked up to my car speaker this morning.

My Goddess, I love them so.

Monday, August 13, 2018

Shopping Lessons

So, I'm not a great bargain hunter. My idea of looking for a deal consists of, "Can this experience be over before I hate the store, my kids, and myself? Yes? Good deal!"

But today I looked at the Old Navy bill with some dismay.

Oh my God. 

We're broke!

"So, if you fill out a thing for your Old Navy Card, you can save some money!" chirped the salesgirl, and Goddess save me, I did it.

It was excruciating.

The girl was great, worked very quickly, but apparently while we were getting our entire debt history vetted via tiny machine, everybody who had been in the store when we got there needed to be checked out.

I haven't felt so backed up since I forgot veggies and coffee for three days straight.

But then (whew!) the machine beeped, and we saved almost $100. Go me! I was almost frugal! (FTR, I was buying clothes for Squish, ZoomBoy, and Chicken, as well as an outfit for Mate.)

Which may explain my dealings with the nice people who wanted to know if we wanted our driveway resurfaced. Not that it doesn't need it, but, uhm, BATHROOM KITCHEN HOLY GOD BOTH!

Anyway, I said, "Uhm, no driveway, we have other projects."

"Oh," they said. "Well, when will your husband be home so we can talk to you at the same time?"

I looked at the guy impassively. "It's soccer season. So, uh, January."

I left the guy gaping like a fish and shut the door.

Now, now I learn how not to spend money.

Sunday, August 12, 2018

There goes the weekend...

BTW This is an even better blog title when you have Pink's "Here Comes the Weekend" going thumpa-thumpa in your brain, right?


It was a weekend. What can I say? Do laundry, do dishes, walk the dogs, take a nap (notice the picture of Mate in front of the TV!), see a movie...

I mean, all told, I've had over 2600 weekends in my life--not all of them can be cracking, right?

Still... this one had moments.

*  The air quality dipped below 100 on the index, which meant that we could breathe and my joints didn't hurt. It took me a while to put the joint pain together with the shitty air, and then I remembered that I spent time both in Reno and in Denver this year, and both times the altitude fucked up my joints like nothing I can remember. Oxygen deprivation--I would imagine there's a correlation in there about oxygen and the cartilage in your joints, and how when you're not getting as much oxygen with every breath EVERYTHING HURTS. I'm hoping the worst of the air quality is over, now that California is running out of beautiful wilderness--and residential areas!!!-- to burn.

For the record? Our traitor-in-chief and usurper of the presidency, pustulating shit-bag etc. can eat a bag of dick-shaped turds the next time he wants to open his mouth about the environment and the way water works. Jesus fucking Christ--may Goddess fry that fucker like an ant with her anger. I have no mercy left in me for that fuckery.

And on a lighter note...

* We saw the Meg at the movie theater today. It was pure popcorn, omg lookit-Jason-Statham's-abs.

*happy sigh* Shark-go-boom-then-there's-pecs. I can't recommend it as therapy often enough.


* Was doing some housecleaning this weekend (don't faint--it happens) and I found this picture of the lot of us in Chicago.  That's a background, of course, but you may remember we were actually there. (The cape, btw, saved my life.)  Anyway, those of you who have been following the blog may note that five years ago, ZoomBoy and Squish were... well, babies. Nine and seven. Just looking at them makes me all verklempt.

*  Also-- I put two shirts on the couch for Chicken to use now that she's been promoted to manager and doesn't want to buy new shirts to wear in the kitchen.

You may notice an irregular guest-dog-shaped lump in the shirts.

That's Gibby's trademark burrow. Just now, we caught the little shit tugging at my knitting--I have a half-finished sweater on my yarn pile--and she wanted it over her. She's got half a dozen dog-sized blankets, btw, but before she leaves this house, I may have to make her one just for her.

I mean look at her. She's not Geoffie caliber cute, but I give her style points for trying.

Mate folded clothes. He's always so good. His clothes end up in nice neat piles, all delineated and shit, and mine end up in semi-coherent towering mountains. Anyway, notice Steve. Notice that he left a Steve-sized spot on the bed, for Steve to Steve.

And Steve she has, as all Steves should.

Thursday, August 9, 2018


Someday the end of August won't mean schedules
Someday, it won't mean trips to the store for new shoes.

Someday, I won't have to worry about the right classes,

 Or the friends that didn't call through summer blues.

Someday, they'll buy all their own underwear.

Someday, they'll buy all their own clothes.

Someday, I won't have to remind them

To brush their teeth, scrub their faces, blow their nose.

Someday, they'll be over their acne.

(That's what I tell them--I'm fifty. It's a lie.)

Someday their friends won't be quite so frightening.

(Sometimes my friendships still make me cry.)

Someday they'll know how to cook,

And for dinner, I'll be on my own.

Someday they'll set off to live elsewhere

Than this crappy house, the only one that they've known.


Not today.

Today they're still under my roof.

They're still giggling when they should be asleep.

We're still broke from buying new backpacks

And notebooks and jumpdrives and markers and glue sticks

(My God when did supplies get so steep!)

Someday, it's me and my Mate and my dogs.

Someday, we'll text when we can.

But today they're still mine, they're still young,

They're still here.

And I know--in my heart, with all my soul, in my joy,

Just exactly how lucky I am.

Wednesday, August 8, 2018

*wipes brow*


So, yesterday I finished Familiar Demon, which is the next book in the Familiar series. This is Edward and Mullins's book, and they're on a scavenger hunt that takes them into very... uh... familiar territory. I'll post an excerpt later ;-)

And pretty much the minute Kermit Flail published, ALL SORTS OF THINGS went down that should have gone on it!


Starting at the top...

Racing for the Sun has a new cover. It's currently available on Dreamspinner Press, but it will be on the link soon for

Now this happened for a couple of reasons.  The first was that Sonny and Ace appear in the third Fish Out of Water book, A Few Good Fish, which will be out on August 28th.  We wanted to remind people about that book, because a lot of people haven't had a chance to read it, and we needed a dramatic way to say, "Uh, hey... gritty racing action here!"

ALSO,  A Few Good Fish has a sequel that crosses over into Racing for the Sun.  Lee Burton-- a character who appears in Racing for the Sun, shows up in A Few Good Fish, and so does his love interest, Ernie. Now as I was writing A Few Good Fish, I started Burton and Ernie's romance on the blog, mostly so I could really have a feel for who they were before they just showed up in Jackson and Ellery's story.

And people really loved it, and it was something I'd planned to write--LITERALLY--six years ago when Ace and Sonny's story had just come out. After more than one pointed reminder on FaceBook (i.e.,"Amy, you are a CONTENT CREATOR for a living, stop giving us free content and write the fucking book so we can give you our money!" was said. Not subtly. Pretty much verbatim.)  I wrote the fucking book, and that's Hiding the Moon, and it's available for presale and out in October.

The cover reveal is coming soon by the way-- it's SO GORGEOUS. and it looks SO GOOD with the new Racing for the Sun cover. I'm sort of... uh.. over the moon?


Good shit!

And I thought you should know about it!

So I'm going to give you some buy links, and then I'm going to leave you with an excerpt from Familiar Demon, which is the sequel to Familiar Angel. 

As always, I can't wait for you to read it.

Buy Fish Out of Water and Red Fish Dead Fish Here on Amazon.

Buy A Few Good Fish Here on Dreamspinner Press

Buy A Few Good Fish Here on Amazon

Buy Racing for the Sun HERE on Dreamspinner Press

Buy Hiding the Moon HERE on Amazon

Buy Hiding the Moon HERE on Dreamspinner Press

Buy Familiar Angel HERE on Amazon 


A little excerpt from Familiar Demon...

* * *
Two hours later, Edward was hoping he didn’t fall to his death. 
“What are we getting here again?” Harry called up to him, one hand clasped firmly around Edward's wrist while the other scrabbled for purchase on a cliff face over the Oregon coast. 
Edward was hanging upside down from his knees so he had a better grip on Harry’s arm, and he had to concentrate over the blood rushing in his head. 
“An eggshell from a black oystercatcher’s nest on a cliff,” he yelled. 
“Why a cliff?” Bel called from his place securing Edward’s legs so he didn’t fall. 
“Because…” Edward clapped both hands around Harry’s wrist as Harry tried to find his footing. “The spell called for a thing of seabird in the air, an old thing from the young, one who watches over instead of dwells in the crowd.” Edward practically had the poetry memorized by now. “These birds make their nests down among the rocks!”
“Not this one,” Harry muttered with grim satisfaction. “Let go, Edward, I’m going to need both my hands.”
“Secure your piton,” Edward gritted.
“Do you really think—”
“Secure yourself, idiot! My head’s gonna explode!”
“Fine.” Harry took his hand back and pulled his piton and his hammer out, then slung the rope at his waist through the carabiner on the piton, and then wrapped the end around his arm. Thus secured, he grunted at Edward, who allowed Beltane to hoist him, feet first, up over the cliff.
Of course Bel let him dangle for a minute once he had Edward to a safe patch of grass. 
“Nice, dumbass,” Edward grumbled, arms extended so he could catch his fall. “You’re a foot taller than all of us. Must be nice to be born in the 20thcentury.”
“Twenty-first,” Bel said happily, setting Edward down. “I mean it’s close enough. In a couple thousand years, who’s going to care about such a pittance?”
“Is Harry back?” Suriel asked, turning from a cat as he walked with Francis at his heels. They’d been on watch for any other visitors to the overlook—or at least that’s where Harry had asked him to serve. Edward was pretty sure it had been a ruse to keep the two of them from seeing the dumbshit thing the three of them had just done.
Francis, at least, was not fooled. He hissed, pulled himself upright and spat. 
“Did you think we wouldn’t see that? Not one of you thought to learn how to fly?”
Bel and Edward exchanged looks. “We can’t fly,” Bel said logically. “There’s whole texts about how wizards and witches don’t have the power to fly. Sorceresses, yes. Wizards, no. I’m not sure why.”
Suriel looked carefully, neutrally, over Edward’s shoulder, and Edward narrowed his eyes.
“This is one of those God/Goddess things, isn’t it?” he asked. “And the other. There’s a rule here we don’t know about. Like, God’s children can’t fly but Goddess’s can?”
“Hm, I’m going to go check on Harry,” Suriel said, as though he hadn’t heard.
“I can fly,” Francis said, because couldn’t everybody?
“Really?” Bel didn’t sound jealous even a little. “Show us! Then you can go help Harry.”
Francis took a deep breath and held his arms out as though to balance, and then ascended slowly into the air. “It doesn’t feel like other magic,” he hollered, his white-blond hair a furious tornado around his head.
Edward stared, both impressed and appalled, and Bel whooped. “That’s amazing! I’m so jealous! Now go somewhere!”
They were so entranced that nobody heard Harry behind them, struggling to hoist his body up the cliff—but they all heard his reaction. 
“Fucking Jesus, Francis—why didn’t you just say you could fucking fly!”
Francis set himself down and smiled smugly. “Now you know,” he said, and turned cat again to trot away.
“Where’s he going?” Edward asked, and Bel shrugged. 
“It’s gorgeous up here. Let’s go kill seagulls!” And then Beltane turned into a big blond dog, woofing ecstatically and chasing the wind.
Harry and Edward watched them go, shaking their heads. “I’m…” Edward made helpless gestures with his hands.
“Yeah. Me too.” Finally Harry shrugged and held out a small ziplock bag. “Here—put that in your scary freaky little drawer organizer with the number system, and we can eat the lunch Suriel’s going to make and I’ll tell you about the next run.”
Edward took it on the bag on automatic, and was heading for the specialized piece of luggage in the minivan before the rest of what Harry said caught up with him.
“Okay—so first off, how did you know I even had that case back there—”
“Oh my God!” Harry threw up his hands. “Could you not even? What? Have I been stupid for the last hundred and fifty years?”
Edward felt a little shame. “No, brother. You’re just not great at planning.”
Harry stared at him impassively, and Edward’s remorse increased.
“Okay, okay, fine. You’re good at planning, just not great at… I don’t know. Schematicking.”
Suriel, who had been looking from one of them to the other, tilted his head. “That’s not a word,” he said, and given Suriel spoke every language known to man and beast, he would know. 
“It’s an Edward word, beloved,” Harry said, his grim mouth twisted a little at the ends. “And go schematic or whatever. But what was the other thing?”
Edward shifted uncomfortably. “You, uh, have plans for the next thing on the list?” Because he had a few for a few items, but he had no idea Harry had already prepared. 
Harry smiled, the picture of feline smugness. “Go schematic, Edward. I’ll show you my list after lunch. I’m going to go keep those two from chasing the oystercatchers. They’re a protected species, you know.” And then Harry turned cat and scampered off into the rest of the overlook park, leaving Edward to stomp to the minivan, Suriel at his heels.
“You’re not going to go with them?” Edward asked, trying to keep the surliness from his voice.
“Why are you angry?” Suriel asked, his voice kind.
Edward paused in the act of unlatching the back of the minivan and sighed. “Not angry,” he said truthfully, remembering that Suriel had been their wise and compassionate counselor for many many years before he’d been Harry’s lover. “Just… he makes me feel inadequate,” he confessed with a sigh. 
“How?” To his credit, Suriel sounded genuinely puzzled, and Edward looked at him with fondness. 
“He’s very good at everything,” Edward said with a little laugh. 
“So are you.”
“But… but he’s the leader. I thought, you know. I’d be leading this one, because… because—”
“Because Mullins is yours?” Suriel asked perceptively.
Edward sighed and started working the case with the little number compartments out of the back.
“Yes,” he admitted after a moment. It sounded even weaker as he said it.
“Well, I was Harry’s, but that didn’t stop you all from summoning me when he was…” Suriel’s voice dropped. “Bleeding,” he finished with a swallow. Harry had been dying—but had been too stubborn to summon Suriel because of the personal cost to Suriel every time he left heaven. “Everybody needs help sometimes.” Suriel’s voice strengthened. “Even Emma and Leonard needed Mullins and I, remember?”
Edward smiled and put the ziplock bag from Harry into the numbered slot in the case. “I was there,” he said mildly. 
“I know you were. It’s my understanding you followed Harry’s plan in that instance too.”
And nothing had gone as planned—but everything had turned out better than their wildest dreams.
“We did,” Edward acknowledged. But then, the painful truth. “But Francis and I got… we got left behind, you know. That’s why Francis was so out of it. Because Cass caught up with us while we were trying to find Harry.”
“Ah.” Suriel stood there, back straight, head tilted. Edward missed the wings that used to hover over his shoulders—but he could, in fact, almost see them even though they’d been stripped away when Suriel had chosen to return to earth and Harry’s arms.
“What?” Edward could almost hear the words. But not quite.
“It’s why you fuss so much,” Suriel said. “About having three backup plans to Harry’s one. It’s a good system.” His full mouth flashed a quiet smile. “Just remember—Harry learned from that too. And he doesn’t ever want to let you down again.”
Edward swallowed and zipped up the case, replacing it in the back of the car and pulling out the ice chest. 
“Here,” Suriel offered. “Let me get that. You close the hatch.”
Which probably meant Suriel had prepped the ice chest. Cooking seemed to be one of his passions, and as often as he cooked for Emma and Leonard for their family dinners, Edward couldn’t object.
“He’s never let me down,” Edward said after a moment as they headed for the picnic table. 
“He’ll be glad to hear it.” 
Edward smiled a little. Suriel’s implicit, eternal faith in Harry was a little nauseating—but it was not, in fact, misplaced. Edward needed to remember that.
Suriel opened the ice chest and proceeded to make five outstanding sandwiches with the grace of a dancer. Edward dressed them on paper plates and added chips and sodas around the table, and they finished up just as their rogue familiars trotted toward them.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Edward called, “Suriel’s outdone hims—goddammit Francis!”
Francis hissed and spat out bird feathers, then had the gall to look surprised as they floated around his head. He turned human just so he could appear innocent and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. There’s feathers everywhere. They stuck to my fur is all.”
Harry spat and changed form. “Of course they stuck to your fur—you ripped them off some poor bird. Oh my God, Francis—not even an oystercatcher—a seagull. Ew!”
Francis spat another feather and grimaced. “He did taste sort of like a garbage bird. Huh.”
Beltane wagged his tale once and then stood, engulfing Francis in a protective, over the shoulder hug. “And what does a garbage bird taste like?” he asked, his human ears practically perking up.
“Like chicken nuggets,” Francis said decisively. “I’ve seen birds eat those, you know, which just prove that they’re not real food.”
Edward and Harry stared at each other, mouths opening and closing helplessly. 
“Wash up,” Edward said finally. “All of you. Spigot’s behind the van. Suriel made damned good sandwiches and we can fit in another stop today.” 
Harry got back first of course, and stood on tiptoes to kiss Suriel’s cheek. “They look wonderful,” he said. “Thank you for making lunch belo—”
“Beloved my ass,” Suriel snapped. “Now that we know Francis can fly, can you maybe not dangle from a cliff next time? Good grief, Harry.” 
Harry twisted his mouth. “Still, uh, upset—”
Suriel stared at him, earth brown eyes alight with irritation, until Harry bent his head. “Of course, Suriel. I shall be ever careful of my own mortal frame. I completely apologize.”
“Thank you, Harry. Sit down—yours is the one with hummus instead of mayonnaise.”