Mayhem Like Me Quotes

Fear and shame are the backbone of my self-control. They are my source of inspiration, my insurance against becoming entirely unacceptable. They help me do the right thing. And I am terrified of what I would be without them. Because I suspect that, left to my own devices, I would completely lose control of my life. I'm still hoping that perhaps someday I'll learn how to use willpower like a real person, but until that very unlikely day, I will confidently battle toward adequacy, wielding my crude skill set of fear and shame.

You do not know me, but I am a juvenile delinquent. I do not trust authority figures, I probably will not graduate from high school, and statistics say my present rowdiness and vandalism will likely lead to more serious crimes. I am a dangerous fellow, and I am causing mayhem in this store. [...] There. I have now shamelessly destroyed the symmetry of this shelf, undoing hours of labor by underpaid store employees. If you could see me, you would be frightened.

I don't like when I can't control what reality is doing. Which is unfortunate because reality works independently of the things I want, and I have only a limited number of ways to influence it, none of which are guaranteed to work. I still want to keep tabs on reality, though. Just in case it tries to do anything sneaky. It makes me feel like I'm contributing. The illusion of control makes the helplessness seem more palatable. And when that illusion is taken away, I panic.

My body cheerfully informed me that he felt really good pressed against me like that, all hard muscles and smooth contours and ominous bulges. My body liked the air of barely leashed strength and caged mayhem he was giving off. My body thought he smelled really good, like heat and coffee and electricity. My body was going to get me killed.

Cover me!' Augustus said as he jumped out from behind the wall and raced toward the school. Isaac fumbled for his controller and then started firing while the bullets rained down on Augustus, who was shot once and then twice but still ran, Augustus shouting,'YOU CAN’T KILL MAX MAYHEM!' and with a final flurry of button combinations, he dove onto the grenade, which detonated beneath him. His dismembered body exploded like a geyser and the screen went red. A throaty voice said, 'MISSION FAILURE,' but Augustus seemed to think otherwise as he smiled at his remnants on the screen. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and shoved it between his teeth. 'Saved the kids' he said. 'Temporarily' I pointed out. 'All salvation is temporary' Augustus shot back. 'I bought them a minute. Maybe that’s the minute that buys them an hour, which is the hour that buys them a year. No one’s gonna buy them forever, Hazel Grace, but my life bought them a minute. And that’s not nothing.

You don't know what you're talking about. When you fall in love, even a kiss is mind-blowing. You don't fuck other people, because there's only one person you want to be close to. When he fucks me, it's like I give him a part of my soul," his words became quieter. "I'm not looking for other guys, and I don't wanna do it with anyone else.

To this day I never know which version of myself I’m going to wake up to. It can happen that the smallest chores or decisions—brushing my teeth, hanging up a towel, should I have tea or coffee—overwhelm me. Sometimes I find the best way to get through the day is by setting myself tiny, achievable goals that take me from one minute to the next. If you sometimes feel like that, you are not alone, and I urge you to talk about it to someone. It’s easy to bask in the sun, not so easy to enjoy the rain. But one can’t exist without the other. The weather always changes. Feelings of sadness and happiness deserve equal mental screen time.

Ah." Ax nodded. "She does not understand how menacing we are." He tapped her on the shoulder. "You do not know me," he said, "but I am a juvenile delinquent. I do not trust authority figures, I probably will not graduate from high school, and statistics say my present rowdiness and vandalism will likely lead to more serious crimes. I am a dangerous fellow and I am causing mayhem in this store." He reached behind her and pulled three jars of baby food from the top shelf. Shoved them behind a box of macaroni. Shuffled the Chess Whizzed in front of the Marshmallow Fluff. Tossed a bag of lady's shavers onto a bag of hamburger buns. "There. I have now shamelessly destroyed the symmetry of this shelf, undoing hours of labor by underpaid store employees. If you could see me, you would be frightened." "If she could see you, she'd have you committed," Marco muttered.

two decades ago, I lined up with a bunch of young hopefuls all wanting to be cast in the story of a boy who lived in a cupboard under the stairs. It didn’t seem like much of a story to me. Frankly, I thought it was a bit ridiculous-sounding.

There was never a day, however, that Alan Rickman wasn’t to be seen in full, flowing Snape robes, holding his tray and queuing up in the canteen for his lunch like everyone else. I was rather intimidated by Alan from day one. It took three or four years for me to manage more than a slightly terrified and squeaky “Hi Alan!” whenever I saw him. But seeing him wait patiently, in full Snape mode, for his sausage sandwich took the edge off just a little.

Pres, I know you’re going to say this is dumb, and I know you won’t understand. Which is why I asked Bee and Ryan for help. Don’t get me wrong, I like fighting with you, but there are some things you just can’t argue. This is one, and I hope you’ll come to accept that. I have to leave Pine Grove. I have to leave Alabama, and I have to leave you. After tonight, that’s all completely clear to me. This whole situation is effed up…and it’s clear to me now that the only way to un-eff it up…is to take myself out of the equation. Without me, you, Bee, and Ryan can just be you, Bee, and Ryan. Not Paladins or Mages. People. With your own lives. It’s like you said at that time at Cotillion practice, you want to be a good woman who chooses the right thing for everybody. Well, so do I. (Minus the woman part, obviously.) Have a good life, Pres. I love you. Always. D

I can’t stay away from you. I think about you constantly. I pull up memories of your smile. Your laugh. Your eyes…especially when they burn for me, like they’re doing now. And I’m not strong enough to ignore your pull. So any time you want, I urge you to push me out of your life and shut the door. To do what’s best for you. But until then, I’m at your mercy.

The slave’s grin was hard with malice. ‘Damn you, Fear Sengar.’ ‘How did that offend you?’ ‘You just stated the central argument – both for and against the institution of slavery. I was wasted, was I? Or of necessity kept under firm heel. Too many people like me on the loose and no ruler, tyrant or otherwise, could sit assured on a throne. We would stir things up, again and again. We would challenge, we would protest, we would defy. By being enlightened, we would cause utter mayhem. So, Fear, kick another basket of fish over here, it’s better for everyone.’ ‘Except you.’ ‘No, even me. This way, all my brilliance remains ineffectual, harmless to anyone and therefore especially to myself, lest my lofty ideas loose a torrent of blood.’ Seren Pedac grunted, ‘You are frightened by your own ideas, Udinaas?’ ‘All the time, Acquitor. Aren’t you?

[On Love After Love by Derek Walcott] I read this poem often, once a month at least. In the madness and mayhem of modern life, where every man seems committed to an endless search for the approval and esteem of his fellows and peers, no matter what the cost, this poem reminds me of a basic truth: that we are, as we are, "enough". Most of us are motivated deep down by a sense of insufficiency, a need to be better stronger, faster; to work harder; to be more committed, more kind, more self-sufficient, more successful. But this short poem by Derek Walcott is like a declaration of unconditional love. It's like the embrace of an old friend. He brings us to an awareness of the present moment, calm and peaceful, and to a feeling of gratitude for everything we have. I have read it to my dearest friends after dinner once, and to my family at Christmas, and they started crying, which always, unfailingly, makes me cry.

Ren took his time perusing the menu and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. I didn’t even pick my menu up. He shot me meaningful glances while I sat silently, trying to avoid making eye contact. When she came back, she spoke to him briefly and gestured to me. I smiled, and in a syrupy sweet voice, said, “I’ll have whatever will get me out of here the fastest. Like a salad, maybe.” Ren smiled benignly back at me and rattled off what sounded like a banquet of choices, which the waitress was more than happy to take her time writing down. She kept touching him and laughing with him too. Which I found very, very annoying. When she left, he leaned back in his chair and sipped his water. I broke the silence first and hissed at him quietly, “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you only have about two minutes left, so I hope you ordered the steak tartar, Tiger.” He grinned mischievously. “We’ll see, Kells. We’ll see.” “Fine. No skin off my nose. I can’t wait to see what happens when a white tiger runs through this nice establishment creating mayhem and havoc. Perhaps they will lose one of their stars because they put their patrons in danger. Maybe your new waitress girlfriend will run away screaming.” I smiled at the thought. Ren affected shock, “Why, Kelsey! Are you jealous?” I snorted in a very unladylike way. “No! Of course not.” He grinned. Nervously, I played with my cloth napkin. “I can’t believe you convinced Mr. Kadam to play along with you like this. It’s shocking, really.” He opened his napkin and winked at the waitress when she came to bring us a basket of rolls. When she left, I challenged, “Are you winking at her? Unbelievable!” He laughed quietly and pulled out a steaming roll, buttered it, and put it on my plate. “Eat, Kelsey,” he commanded. Then he sat forward. “Unless you are reconsidering seeing the view from my lap.” Angrily, I tore apart my roll and swallowed a few pieces before I even noticed how delicious they were-light and flaky with little flecks of orange rind mixed into the dough. I would have eaten another one, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

This room is like one of those crazy clown cars,” Zayn said. “I don’t know how we can still be pulling bins and bins of stuff out of it.” “It’s the inherent magic of a craft room, any craft room, whether it belongs to a witch or not,” I laughed, remembering how Sylvana had once explained it to me.

The alarm went off at the unholy hour of five-fifteen. I got up off the couch, staggered around for a moment wondering what planet I was currently residing on, then used Roger's shower. The soap didn't jolt me into a state of euphoric alertness like the commercials said it would, but I felt a bit more human.

Do you know where my G-spot is at?” Her eyes open as she gives me a pointed look. I nod, keeping my tongue moving. “Then find it.” Mayhem synonyms: chaos, havoc, madness, trouble, disorder, pandemonium. Yep. All of those fit Dorothy. I slide two fingers inside her—nothing like being put on the spot, or having to find it. A real-life oral pop quiz.

Boston. Fucking horrible. I remember, when 9/11 went down, my reaction was, "Well, I've had it with humanity." But I was wrong. I don't know what's going to be revealed to be behind all of this mayhem. One human insect or a poisonous mass of broken sociopaths. But here's what I DO know. If it's one person or a HUNDRED people, that number is not even a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the population on this planet. You watch the videos of the carnage and there are people running TOWARDS the destruction to help out. (Thanks FAKE Gallery founder and owner Paul Kozlowski for pointing this out to me). This is a giant planet and we're lucky to live on it but there are prices and penalties incurred for the daily miracle of existence. One of them is, every once in awhile, the wiring of a tiny sliver of the species gets snarled and they're pointed towards darkness. But the vast majority stands against that darkness and, like white blood cells attacking a virus, they dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evil doers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak. This is beyond religion or creed or nation. We would not be here if humanity were inherently evil. We'd have eaten ourselves alive long ago. So when you spot violence, or bigotry, or intolerance or fear or just garden-variety misogyny, hatred or ignorance, just look it in the eye and think, "The good outnumber you, and we always will.

Hero Intercedes”: His hands flickered upward, and before I knew it, they were cupping my face. So, damnably fast now. Demonic-like fast. Trent reeled me closer. Our foreheads joined. He held me, while I trembled in his arms. I was vaguely aware of Evans and Maxwell watching, although it didn’t seem important. Nothing seemed important whenever he did this. It felt like we were enclosed in our own personal bubble made only for the two of us. Trent murmured something in my ear. We stood like that until my shaky legs gradually regained strength. I shut my eyes and pretended my body wasn’t sizzling with heat-lightning because Trent stood so close. My hormones always decided to rebel whenever he put his arms around me. And it wasn’t totally awkward and uncomfortable. No, it felt like the best thing I’d experienced since before Dad’s death. And that’s saying a lot.

I hadn't told him the news yet, but in that same preternatural way he was always aware of what I was feeling or thinking, he could smell my lies a mile away. He was just giving me time to come to him. To tell him I'd be baking his bun for the next seven and a half months. ''I'm okay." Dex's chuckle filled my ears as he wrapped his arms around my chest from behind, his chin resting on the top of my head. "Just okay?" He was taunting me, I knew it. This man never did anything without a reason. And this reason had him resembling a mama bear. A really aggressive, possessive mama bear. Which said something because Dex was normally that way. I couldn't even sit around Mayhem without him or Sonny within ten feet. I leaned my head back against his chest and laughed. "Yeah, just okay." He made a humming noise deep in his throat. "Ritz," he drawled in that low voice that reached the darkest parts of my organs. "You're killin' me, honey." Oh boy. Did I want to officially break the news on the side of the road with chunks of puke possibly still on my face? Nah. So I went with the truth. "I have it all planned out in my head. I already ordered the cutest little toy motorcycle to tell you, so don't ruin it." A loud laugh burst out of his chest, so strong it rocked my body alongside his. I friggin' loved this guy. Every single time he laughed, I swear it multiplied. At this rate, I loved him more than my own life cubed, and then cubed again. "All right," he murmured between these low chuckles once he'd calmed down a bit. His fingers trailed over the skin of the back of my hand until he stopped at my ring finger and squeezed the slender bone. "I can be patient." That earned him a laugh from me. Patience? Dex? Even after more than three years, that would still never be a term I'd use to describe him. And it probably never would. He'd started to lose his shit during our layover when Trip had called for instructions on how to set the alarm at the new bar. "Dex, Ris, and Baby Locke, you done?" Sonny yelled, peeping out from over the top of the car door. "Are you friggin' kidding me?" I yelled back. Did everyone know? That slow, seductive smile crawled over his features. Brilliant and more affectionate than it was possible for me to handle, it sucked the breath out of me. When he palmed my cheeks and kissed each of my cheeks and nose and forehead, slowly like he was savoring the pecks and the contact, I ate it all up. Like always, and just like I always would. And he answered the way I knew he would every single time I asked him from them on, the way that told me he would never let me down. That he was an immovable object. That he'd always be there for me to battle the demons we could see and the invisible ones we couldn't. "Fuckin' love you, Iris," he breathed against my ear, an arm slinking around my lower back to press us together. "More than anything.

There were lots of ways to lose your farm. In the beginning it was mostly violent. Now, though, the process had become highly formal, and in many ways more chilling. Ordinary citizens who supported the ruling party and claimed they wanted to farm simply applied to the Registrar of Deeds for a farm and, if approved, got what was called an offer letter. This applicant, known as an A2 farmer, simply drove onto the farm he had been allocated, handed his letter to the farmer if he was still on the land, and told him he was the new owner. “It’s like winning the lottery, except you don’t even have to buy a ticket,” Dad told me.

Before running into the ocean, we’d put our hands to the sky, say a short prayer and take three very deep breaths, before proceeding to run in, whooping like the children we are at heart. Greg also taught me that when you’re coming out of the water you should raise your hands to the sky and say thank you, to show gratitude for everything you have in your life. Greg told me that Einstein had appeared to him in a dream, saying that walking backwards off the beach would create new neural pathways. So we always walked backwards off the beach, keeping our eyes on the ocean, picking up pieces of littered plastic along the way. “Try to leave every environment better than when you found it,” he told me.

Hold on,” I said. “Frank, name three things you like. And no, Darling doesn’t count.” “Easy,” Frank said. “Murder—” “Too dark. It’s abundantly clear that you like inflicting suffering on things, but we’re going for lighthearted interests at the moment, so try again.” “Uh, mayhem.” “Still too dark.” He paused for a very, very long moment. “Mmm… macarons.” “Are you just naming things that start with m?” “No.” “I think you are.” “Am not.” “Are too.” “Is this really the time for this argument?” Lars said. “I mean, macarons?” I said. “Seriously? That’s a weird flex.” “What is a flex?” Lars said. “How is that weird?” Frank said. “That’s a bougie cookie, man. I’m rich as hell and I still feel guilty buying macarons. Those things are expensive.” “I don’t think it’s about the money. I think deep down in your heart of hearts, you know that you don’t deserve macarons.” “Wow,” I said. “They’re not even that good.” “Macarons are the Cadillac of cookies and if you ever imply otherwise again I will cut that uncultured palate right out of your mouth and force you to eat it.” “Wow,” Lars said. “That’s a really strong opinion.” “Those are the only opinions I have,” Frank said. “Yeah, apparently the guy who’s all about mystery meat also likes macarons,” I said. “Go figure.” “Oh yeah,” Frank said. “I do love me some mysterious meats. I just really like the suspense of wondering what dead animal I’m about to bite into, you know?” “I really think we should go,” Lars said. “Yeah, you’re right. Frank, lemme know when you come up with a third thing.

It's not really negativity or sadness anymore, it’s more just this detached, meaningless fog where you can’t feel anything about anythingeven the things you love, even fun things—and you’re horribly bored and lonely, but since you’ve lost your ability to connect with any of the things that would normally make you feel less bored and lonely, you’re stuck in the boring, lonely, meaningless void with-out anything to distract you from how boring, lonely, and meaningless it is. ...I noticed myself wishing that nothing loved me so I wouldn’t feel obligated to keep existing. The absurdity of working so hard to continue doing something you don’t like can be overwhelming. And the longer it takes to feel different, the more it starts to seem like everything might actually be hopeless bullshit. I don’t like when I can’t control what reality is doing. Which is unfortunate because reality works independently of the things I want, and I have only a limited number of ways to influence it, none of which are guaranteed to work. I still want to keep tabs on reality, though. Just in case it tries to do anything sneaky. It makes me feel like I’m contributing. The illusion of control makes the helplessness seem more palatable. And when that illusion is taken away, I panic. Because, deep down, I know how pointless and helpless I am, and it scares me. I am an animal trapped in a horrifying, lawless environment, and I have no idea what it’s going to do to me. It just DOES it to me. I cope with that the best way I know—by being completely unreasonable and trying to force everything else in the world to obey me and do all the nonsensical things I want.

Pres, I know you’re going to say this is dumb, and I know you won’t understand. Which is why I asked Bee and Ryan for help. Don’t get me wrong, I like fighting with you, but there are some things you just can’t argue. This is one, and I hope you’ll come to accept that. I have to leave Pine Grove. I have to leave Alabama, and I have to leave you. After tonight, that’s all completely clear to me. This whole situation is effed up (hope you appreciate my discretion there), and it’s clear to me now that the only way to un-eff it up *do i get bonus points for that one?) is to take myself out of the equation. Without me, you, Bee, and Ryan can just be you, Bee, and Ryan. Not Paladins or Mages. People. With your own lives. It’s like you said at that time at Cotillion practice, you want to be a good woman who chooses the right thing for everybody. Well, so do I. (Minus the woman part, obviously.) Have a good life, Pres. I love you. Always. D

The day wore on.While yet Rycca slept, Dragon did all the things she had said he would do-paced back and forth, contemplated mayhem,and even honed his blade on the whetstone from the stable.All except being oblivious to her,for that he could never manage. But when she awoke,sitting up heavy-lidded, her mouth so full and soft it was all he could do not to crawl back into bed with her,he put aside such pursuits and controlled himself admirably well,so he thought. Yet in the midst of preparing a meal for them from the provisions in the pantry of the lodge,he was stopped by Rycca's hand settling upon his. "Dragon," she said softly, "if you add any more salt to that stew, we will need a barrel of water and more to drink with it." He looked down, saw that she was right, and cursed under his breath. Dumping out the spoiled stew, he started over. They ate late but they did eat.He was quite determined she would do so,and for once she seemed to have a decent appetite. "I'm glad to see your stomach is better," he said as she was finishing. She looked up,startled. "What makes you say that?" "You haven't seemed able to eat regularly of late." "Oh,well,you know...so many changes...travel...all that." He nodded,reached for his goblet, and damn near knocked it over as a sudden thought roared through him. "Rycca?" She rose quickly,gathering up the dishes. His hand lashed out, closing on her wrist. Gently but inexorably, he returned her to her seat. Without taking his eyes from her,he asked, "Is there something you should tell me?" "Something...?" "I ask myself what sort of changes may cause a woman to be afflicted with an uneasy stomach and it occurs to me I've been a damned idiot." "Not so! You could never be that." "Oh,really? How otherwise would I fail to notice that your courses have not come of late? Or is that also due to travel,wife?" "Some women are not all that regular." "Some women do not concern me.You do,Rycca. I swear,if you are with child and have not told me, I will-" She squared her shoulders,lifted her head,and met his eyes hard on. "Will what?" "What? Will what? Does that mean-" "I'm sorry,Dragon." Truly repentant, Rycca sighed deeply. "I was going to tell you.I was just waiting for a calmer time.I didn't want you to worry more." Still grappling with what she had just revealed,he stared at her in astonishment. "You mean worry that my wife and our child are bait for a murderous traitor?" "I know you're angry and you have a right to be.But if I had told you, we wouldn't be here now." "Damn right we wouldn't be!" He got up from the table so abruptly that his chair toppled over and crashed to the floor.Ignoring it,Dragon paced back and forth,glaring at her. Rycca waited,trusting the storm to pass. As she did,she counted silently, curious to see just how long it would take her husband to grasp fully what he had discovered. Nine...ten... "We're going to have a baby." Not long at all. She nodded happily. "Yes,we are, and you're going to be a wonderful father." He walked back to the table,picked her up out of her chair,held her high against his chest,and stared at her. "My God-" Rycca laughed. "You can't possibly be surprised.It's not as though we haven't been doing our best to make this happen." "True,but still it's absolutely incredible." Very gently,she touched his face. "Perhaps we think of miracles wrongly. They're supposed to be extraordinarily rare but in fact they're as commonplace as a bouquet of wildflowers plucked by a warrior...or a woman having a baby." Dragon sat down with her still in his arms and held her very close.He swallowed several times and said nothing. Both could have remained contentedly like that for a long while, but only a few minutes passed before they were interrupted. The raven lit on the sill of the open window just long enough to catch their attention,then she was gone into the bloodred glare of the dying day.

Well, Mimi Mackson, tell me what you like to bake." "Lots of things- brownies, cookies, pies, tarts, scones. But cupcakes are my favorite. I like to flavor them with unusual spices and herbs." "I see. And what's the last thing that you made?" "Double-chocolate brownies with cinnamon and cayenne, to welcome someone home." "And prior to that?" "Cheddar-chive biscuits." She waved her hand in front of her face like she smelled something bad. "No, no, my word, that will not do at all. Just sweet things, please." She stood and paced behind the desk. "Ha! Cheese and chives! I wouldn't dream of baking, eating, or even serving those, not to win the world." Well, that was strange. Sweet isn't sweet without savory. One isn't good without the other- I thought everyone knew that. Even the most sugary dessert needs a dash of salt. Mrs. T sat again. "So tell me then, young Mimi. The best sweet thing you've ever, ever made?" "Hmm... lemon-lavender cupcakes, I guess. To celebrate friendship.

The rock came loose, but Jake’s satisfied grunt turned into a howl of outraged pain as a set of huge teeth in the next stall clamped into Jake’s ample rear end. “You vicious bag of bones,” he shouted, jumping to his feet and throwing himself half over the rail in an attempt to land a punch on Attila’s body. As if the horse anticipated retribution, he sidled to the edge of his stall and regarded Jake from the corner of his eye with an expression that looked to Jake like complacent satisfaction. “I’ll get you for that,” Jake promised, and he started to shake his fist when he realized how absurd it was to threaten a dumb beast. Rubbing his offended backside, he turned to Mayhem and carefully put his own rump against the outside wall of the barn. He checked the hoof to make certain it was clean, but the moment his fingers touched the place where the rock had been lodged the chestnut jerked in pain. “Bruised you, did it?” Jake said sympathetically. “It’s not surprisin’, considering the size and shape of the rock. But you never gave a sign yesterday that you were hurtin’,” he continued. Raising his voice and infusing it with a wealth of exaggerated admiration, the patted the chestnut’s flank and glanced disdainfully at Attila while he spoke to Mayhem. “That’s because you’re a true aristocrat and a fine, brave animal-not a miserable, sneaky mule who’s not fit to be your stallmate!” If Attila cared one way or another for Jake’s opinion, he was disappointingly careful not to show it, which only made Jake’s mood more stormy when he stomped into the cottage. Ian was sitting at the table, a cup of steaming coffee cradled between his palms. “Good morning,” he said to Jake, studying the older man’s thunderous frown. “Mebbe you think so, but I can’t see it. Course, I’ve spent the night freezin’ out there, bedded down next to a horse that wants to make a meal of me, and who broke his fast with a bit of my arse already this mornin’. And,” he finished irately as he poured coffee from the tin pot into an earthenware mug and cast a quelling look at his amused friend, “your horse is lame!” Flinging himself into the chair beside Ian, he gulped down the scalding coffee without thinking what he was doing; his eyes bulged, and sweat popped out on his forehead. Ian’s grin faded. “He’s what?” “Picked up a rock, and he’s favoring his left foreleg.” Ian’s chair legs scraped against the wooden floor as he shoved his chair back and started to go to the barn. “There’s no need. It’s just a bruise.

Rider cursed, ducked another blow, threw one of his own, and then bent down, hoisting the scrappy little female, none too gently, over his shoulder. "This is no place for you, girl, even if this whole mess is your fault." "My fault!" screamed Willie, dangling upside down. "You're the one who had to go and open his big mouth!" She beat on his back as he dodged brawlers, and headed for safe ground. "Dammit, put me down, you overgrown ox. You're gonna make me miss the fight!" As she screeched and kicked in a most unladylike manner,her small feet barely missed his vunerable groin. Raising his hand to smack her bottom, Rider found it suddenly immobilized by a fierce grip. "Take your hands off my sister!" The lieutenant's head swiveled toward the owner of the surly voice, and met with a hard fist. He stumbled and bumped into another brawling twosome, slacking his grip on Willie's legs. Seizing the advantage,she aimed a well-placed kick,and this time connected with her intended target. Rider grabbed his crotch and lurched forward in pain, dropping the little hellion on top of her brother. Like cats, the girl and her sibling were on their feet,weaving a zigzag escape through the mayhem. Rider quickly regained his balance and swore, "Damn,I should have known the little rebel had a brother." Still cupping his privates and cursing the air blue, he watched brother and sister disappear. "Someday, freckle face, someday.

Elizabeth’s breakfast had cured Ian’s hunger, in fact, the idea of ever eating again made his stomach churn as he started for the barn to check on Mayhem’s injury. He was partway there when he saw her off to the left, sitting on the hillside amid the bluebells, her arms wrapped around her knees, her forehead resting atop them. Even with her hair shining like newly minted gold in the sun, she looked like a picture of heartbreaking dejection. He started to turn away and leave her to moody privacy; then, with a sigh of irritation, he changed his mind and started down the hill toward her. A few yards away he realized her shoulders were shaking with sobs, and he frowned in surprise. Obviously there was no point in pretending the meal had been good, so he injected a note of amusement into his voice and said, “I applaud your ingenuity-shooting me yesterday would have been too quick.” Elizabeth started violently at the sound of his voice. Snapping her head up, she stared off to the left, keeping her tear-streaked face averted from him. “Did you want something?” “Dessert?” Ian suggested wryly, leaning slightly forward, trying to see her face. He thought he saw a morose smile touch her lips, and he added, “I thought we could whip up a batch of cream and put it on the biscuit. Afterward we can take whatever is left, mix it with the leftover eggs, and use it to patch the roof.” A teary chuckle escaped her, and she drew a shaky breath but still refused to look at him as she said, “I’m surprised you’re being so pleasant about it.” “There’s no sense crying over burnt bacon.” “I wasn’t crying over that,” she said, feeling sheepish and bewildered. A snowy handkerchief appeared before her face, and Elizabeth accepted it, dabbing at her wet cheeks. “Then why were you crying?” She gazed straight ahead, her eyes focused on the surrounding hills splashed with bluebells and hawthorn, the handkerchief clenched in her hand. “I was crying for my own ineptitude, and for my inability to control my life,” she admitted. The word “ineptitude” startled Ian, and it occurred to him that for the shallow little flirt he supposed her to be she had an exceptionally fine vocabulary. She glanced up at him then, and Ian found himself gazing into a pair of green eyes the amazing color of wet leaves. With tears still sparkling on her long russet lashes, her long hair tied back in a girlish bow, her full breasts thrusting against the bodice of her gown, she was a picture of alluring innocence and intoxicating sensuality. Ian jerked his gaze from her breasts and said abruptly, “I’m going to cut some wood so we’ll have it for a fire tonight. Afterward I’m going to do some fishing for our supper. I trust you’ll find a way to amuse yourself in the meantime.” Startled by his sudden brusqueness, Elizabeth nodded and stood up, dimly aware that he did not offer his hand to assist her.

You still want me?” she murmured, a seductive husk to her voice. Gods, this woman could do me in with a single question. My gaze drifted down to my very proud, very erect cock and back to her face. “I think you know I’ll always want you. But right now? I want you more than I want air.” Lust bloomed through our connection, nearly knocking me for a loop. “That’s good. You know, I almost touched myself in the shower without you,” she admitted, opening her towel and showing me her perfect skin. “Almost made myself come all over my fingers just thinking about you tied up out here.” She threw a leg over mine, straddling me, my cock mere inches from Heaven. But did Wren even graze my aching, leaking head? No. No, she did not. Instead, she held herself from me as she grazed her own skin, palming her breasts, plucking her already-tight nipples.    “Fuuuuccccckkkkk,” I groaned, shifting restlessly on the sheets, trying for just a brush of her sex against mine. The pleasure she was giving herself threaded through me—enough that I was ready to rip out of these cuffs and take her over my knee. Her hands traveled down her stomach, her fingers threading through her auburn curls. “Just like this,” she said. “But I thought you’d want to see me. And you want to, don’t you? Watch me fuck myself?” My mouth was as dry as the Sahara. “Yes,” I croaked. “I want to see everything.” She whimpered as she grazed her clit with her thumb, fucking that sweet pussy with her fingers, her delicious heat so far out of reach. “Let me taste you,” I ordered, the thread of command thick in my voice. Wren raised an eyebrow, not giving an inch. “Good boys say please, Nico. Everyone knows that.” “Please,” I whispered, needing her taste on my tongue. Needing it, craving it. If she was going to torture me this way, I wanted something, anything of hers. Wren’s smile widened as she crawled up my body, grazing her luscious tits up my belly and chest. I tried capturing a nipple in my mouth, but she kept it just out of reach. She straddled my chest, her wet, slick heat so close and so far—all at the same time. I wanted her to sit on my face, wanted to lap her up, and drink her down. Wanted her pleasure for my own. But instead of letting me taste her, she went back to work, milking herself of pleasure just out of reach. Her scent filled my nose so much I could almost savor her sweetness, and as her pleasure ramped up, it got thicker in the air. She let her hair down, the wet strands curling over her gorgeous tits as she writhed. She plucked at her nipples, making herself hiss in desire. “That’s it, beautiful,” I growled. “Make yourself come all over my chest. Fuck that gorgeous pussy.” My words must have done the trick because Wren went off like a bomb, her orgasm slamming into both of us, nearly taking me over with it. But she didn’t come to me, didn’t press her body against mine, and that’s when I decided I’d had about enough of this shit. A flick of my wrists later, and Wren was on her back in my bed, her eyes wide. I nearly hissed at her warm skin against mine, but I was too preoccupied with her surprise. It was fucking adorable. “Yo-you just broke out of… How did you… How strong are you?” Like a pair of steel cuffs were a match for any shifter, let alone an Alpha. “Sweetheart, I’m an Acosta Alpha, next in line to take my father’s place if he ever decides to step down. A shifter is strong. I am stronger. Now, you’ve had your fun. It’s my turn.” Her wide green-gold eyes flared as her mouth parted, and even though she’d just had an orgasm, Wren’s desire blazed through us. As reluctant as I was to move,

The funny thing is that we know well that we learn through repetition. We need to practice songs before we can sing them. We need to try something over and over before we have mastered it. We have accepted that part of being human. What we appear not to have accepted is the subject matter. I don’t want to cook for the family again. I don’t want to do the laundry again. I don’t want to vacuum, to make a birthday cake, to blow a nose, to change a diaper, to pick up toys. I don’t want to practice this work that God gave me because, frankly, I’d rather not be good at it. Because, somewhere in there, we don’t like what God has called us to do.

Lee, apparently protected by an invisible Badass Shield, was simply standing in the middle of the mayhem, staring at the burning remains of the car. Luke, much like Lee, was standing smack in the chaos, pieces of car on fire all around him, and his eyes were on me.

I understand you, Marco Antonio Guerra said to him. I mean, if I’m right, I think I understand you. You’re like me and I’m like you. We aren’t happy. The atmosphere around us is stifling. We pretend there’s nothing wrong, but there is. What’s wrong? We’re being fucking stifled. You let off steam your own way. I beat the shit out of people or let them beat the shit out of me. But the fights I get into aren’t just any fights, they’re fucking apocalyptic mayhem. I’m going to tell you a secret. Sometimes I go out at night, to bars you can’t even imagine. And I pretend to be a faggot. But not just any kind of faggot: smooth, stuck-up, sarcastic, a daisy in the filthiest pigsty in Sonora. Of course, I don’t have a gay bone in me, I can swear that on the grave of my dead mother. But I pretend that’s what I am. An arrogant little faggot with money who looks down on everyone. And then the inevitable happens. Two or three vultures ask me to step outside. And then the shit kicking begins. I know it and I don’t care. Sometimes they’re the ones who get the worst of it, especially when I have my gun. Other times it’s me. I don’t give a fuck. I need the fucking release. Sometimes my friends, the few friends I have, guys my age who are lawyers now, tell me I should be careful, I’m a time bomb, I’m a masochist. One of them, someone I was really close to, told me that only somebody like me could get away with what I did because I had my father to bail me out. Pure coincidence, that’s all. I’ve never asked my father for a thing. The truth is, I don’t have friends. I don’t want any. At least, I’d rather not have friends who’re Mexicans. Mexicans are rotten inside, did you know? Every last one of them. No one escapes. From the president of the republic to that clown Subcomandante Marcos. If I were Subcomandante Marcos, you know what I’d do? I’d launch an attack with my whole army on any city in Chiapas, so long as it had a strong military garrison. And there I’d sacrifice my poor Indians. And then I’d probably go live in Miami. What kind of music do you like? asked Amalfitano. Classical music, Professor, Vivaldi, Cimarosa, Bach. And what books do you read? I used to read everything, Professor, I read all the time. Now all I read is poetry. Poetry is the one thing that isn’t contaminated, the one thing that isn’t part of the game. I don’t know if you follow me, Professor. Only poetry—and let me be clear, only some of it—is good for you, only poetry isn’t shit.

I stopped by the kitchen on my way out, only to find that the cats had eaten all my food before they’d ordered the pizza. And this was after Muffin had presumably had some ham with Mayhem. Even a bottle of cheap champagne was open and empty. I glared at Muffin. He glared back. Is this how you treat your guests? I sighed. “Just try to clean up after yourself, okay?” There was no point in sticking around to hear his response. He was a cat. He was going to do whatever the heck he wanted. Lachlan was waiting for me down in the main entry hall, but my stomach was still grumbling. “You hungry?” “I could eat.” “Good. Let’s grab something from the kitchen real quick.” I led him down the stairs into the kitchen, the domain of Hans, the chef. Hans’s mustache quivered with delight when he saw us. He loved guests. “Food!” he cried. “You must eat!” “Could we have something quick to go, please? Something that won’t put you out.” “But it never puts me out, ma cherie!” He darted about the kitchen like a ballet dancer, quick and determined. A little brown rat sat on the counter, a platter of cheese in front of him. “How are you doing, Boris?” I asked. The rat nodded, looking happy. Bree had rescued him from a crazy healer about a month ago, and now he spent his days either in the kitchen, mooching off of Hans, who was only too happy to oblige, or hanging out with Hedy while she created the spells and potions that we used so often. Hans piled us high with sandwiches wrapped in paper, then he shoved a six-pack of juice boxes at Lachlan. “You must drink your juice!” For whatever reason, Hans was utterly obsessed with giving people juice. It was the strangest thing, but he clearly felt strongly about it. Since my sisters and I hadn’t had anyone caring for us since our mother’s death when we were thirteen, I really didn’t mind. “We’ll drink it. Thank you, Hans.

I don’t know how this sh** happened. If Sara found me or I saw her, or some crazy cosmic alignment occurred that sent us careening towards each other. I don’t believe in that astrology bullsh**, zodiacs. I do believe in karma, though. It must be broken, because I don’t deserve a woman like Sara Jane, but I’m damned well keeping her.

Part of being a man is taking responsibility for your mistakes, no matter how much it hurts or kills you. I left because I needed to learn how to be a man, not like I could have learned by staying here. I needed to be the kind of man you deserved. Because whether you blame me or not for what happened that night, you deserved better than the idiot boy I was back then. Babe, you deserve better than the man I am right now.

Now isn’t the time,” Val suggested. “You don’t feel ready, you’re having second thoughts, or you don’t particularly relish getting involved with a man who’s the target of impending mayhem.” Much less, he thought, one who had only one reliably functional hand, even after more than a month of abstaining from his music. He was pushing her, but he wanted out from under the uncertainty of his reception in her arms. It had been almost a week since they’d been what he could call intimate, and in the intervening days his desire for her had only grown. “Now is the time,” Ellen said softly. “But if you let me think about it, I’ll lose my nerve and make excuses, and I don’t want…” He pulled back to survey her velvety brown eyes, finding them so somber as to unnerve him. He wanted this joining to be pleasurable for her, joyous even. “You don’t want?” “To never have known what it’s like,” she finished the thought, “to be with you like that. To be your lover.” Warnings went off in Val’s head, as her words could mean she wanted only a single experience of him, wanted a taste, a sample, nothing more. He wanted more, he wanted more than he deserved of her; he wanted to devour her, to make a feast of her, and to offer himself for her delectation too. Ah, well. A man worked with what life gave him, and life was giving him this opportunity with Ellen. He folded himself back down against her lap in gratitude and felt her hand stroking the back of his head. The moment was made complete and more memorable by the sudden gentle tattoo of rain on her roof, a showery patter that presaged a good, soaking rain, not merely a passing cloudburst. “Valentine?

She woke me up in the middle of the night and told me that at church you told them that you are gay, and then had a menacing Arab man pick you up and beat up the priest. She thought you’d come to your senses and come back in the evening, but when that didn’t happen, she decided her best bet was to wake me up and tell me that I made you like this... somehow. I don’t even want to know what she thinks our home life looks like if that’s her idea.

After making my way through a bowl full of lawn (Sure, Dana had said it was exotic sautéed greens, but it smelled like the grass in Griffith Park to me.), a cold purée of squash soup (Cold. Squash. Two words that should never be thrown together in the same recipe.), and a platter of seared kelp (I'm sorry, anything that washes up onto the beach is not considered food in my world.), I

The theme of music making the dancer dance turns up everywhere in Astaire’s work. It is his most fundamental creative impulse. Following this theme also helps connect Astaire to trends in popular music and jazz, highlighting his desire to meet the changing tastes of his audience. His comic partner dance with Marjorie Reynolds to the Irving Berlin song “I Can’t Tell a Lie” in Holiday Inn (1942) provides a revealing example. Performed in eighteenth-century costumes and wigs for a Washington’s birthday–themed floor show, the dance is built around abrupt musical shifts between the light classical sound of flute, strings, and harpsichord and four contrasting popular music styles played on the soundtrack by Bob Crosby and His Orchestra, a popular dance band. Moderate swing, a bluesy trumpet shuffle, hot flag-waving swing, and the Conga take turns interrupting what would have been a graceful, if effete, gavotte. The script supervisor heard these contrasts on the set during filming to playback. In her notes, she used commonplace musical terms to describe the action: “going through routine to La Conga music, then music changing back and forth from minuet to jazz—cutting as he holds her hand and she whirls doing minuet.”13 Astaire and Reynolds play professional dancers who are expected to respond correctly and instantaneously to the musical cues being given by the band. In an era when variety was a hallmark of popular music, different dance rhythms and tempos cued different dances. Competency on the dance floor meant a working knowledge of different dance styles and the ability to match these moves to the shifting musical program of the bands that played in ballrooms large and small. The constant stylistic shifts in “I Can’t Tell a Lie” are all to the popular music point. The joke isn’t only that the classical-sounding music that matches the couple’s costumes keeps being interrupted by pop sounds; it’s that the interruptions reference real varieties of popular music heard everywhere outside the movie theaters where Holiday Inn first played to capacity audiences. The routine runs through a veritable catalog of popular dance music circa 1942. The brief bit of Conga was a particularly poignant joke at the time. A huge hit in the late 1930s, the Conga during the war became an invitation to controlled mayhem, a crazy release of energy in a time of crisis when the dance floor was an important place of escape. A regular feature at servicemen’s canteens, the Conga was an old novelty dance everybody knew, so its intrusion into “I Can’t Tell a Lie” can perhaps be imagined as something like hearing the mid-1990s hit “Macarena” after the 2001 terrorist attacks—old party music echoing from a less complicated time.14 If today we miss these finer points, in 1942 audiences—who flocked to this movie—certainly got them all. “I Can’t Tell a Lie” was funnier then, and for specifically musical reasons that had everything to do with the larger world of popular music and dance. As subsequent chapters will demonstrate, many such musical jokes or references can be recovered by listening to Astaire’s films in the context of the popular music marketplace.

I have to play, because I am me after all. “And I want you naked,” I yell only once she’s halfway across the courtyard. Faith freezes misstep. Her spine stiffens, and her shoulders bunch. I expect her to keep on walking. Pretend I didn’t shout it loud enough for Crow, Rotten, and about a dozen other people to hear— and laugh at—my demand. Not my girl. She gives as good as she gets. Faith turns on her heel, a beautiful smirk playing on her lips. “Not a problem, Jester,” she yells back. “But if I’m stripping down to the raw, you better bring your A-game.” Her exit from the courtyard is epic. She strolls into Sanctum like a queen, with a chorus of cheers and applause echoing after her.

Mayhem, like the Unholy, is uncompromising and authentic. Rough around the edges. And like me, if you love it – and love it unconditionally – it will love you back with its whole self. But we share another trait as well. A darker side to our psyche. If you fuck with this town, it will fuck you right back.

The Kids in the Hall were doing everything pretty much right in my book. Their show hung together, was distinctive, really likable, and you got to know them even while they were playing stridently strange characters. Plus they had a number of homes for the show, all in off-brand time slots and locales—right where it belonged. This made me envious and mad. Not at the guys—I liked them all—but at Canada in general. Somehow they were able to bring Canadian niceness to the brain-warping comic mayhem. How much maple syrup do I have to drink to become that nonthreatening? There isn’t enough in the world.

Someone once said, very wisely, that we need to imitate the psalmist: We need to spend less time listening to ourselves, and more time talking to ourselves. Like the psalmist saying, “Oh my soul why are you grieving? Why disquieted in me? Hope in God, your faith retrieving, He will still your refuge be” (Ps. 42). He is giving himself a pep talk. He is counseling himself with what he knows to be true in a time that doesn’t feel smooth.

Don’t fuck with an old lady, you shitty kid,” I yelled. “I have a lifetime of asshole tricks up my sleeve. They’re all right behind my Kleenex and my emergency Advil.” Mind you, I was doing all this in no bra, sweatpants, and leather slippers with shearling lining. “Sara,” I asked, “when we all get together for dinner in a restaurant, do you think other people see a group of old people having dinner instead of—us?” “Yeah,” she said after she thought for a moment. “Yeah, I think they see old people.” And that’s a trip, because when I look at Sara, I still see Sara. I see Sara as she was at twenty-seven. She hasn’t changed to me. Most of my friends haven’t changed, in my opinion. Jim lost his hair, but so what? Lots of guys shave their heads. Sandra has a couple of gray hairs in her long, jet-black hair. And yet, some of our friend group has died. From heart attacks. Pancreatitis. Liver failure. Drug overdoses. Suicides. Cancer. Aneurysms. We were stunned by each of those deaths. Honestly, drug overdoses and suicides are almost easier to take than pancreatitis and heart attacks, because those diseases rarely happen to kids our age. And then one day, your body stops working. It can be sudden, like throwing out your back while shaving your legs, and it just never goes back to normal. You live the rest of your days with a “bad back.” Then there’s the opposite; there’s the creep. In your thirties, a nerve pings in your hand, like someone has plucked a rubber band inside it. It’s startling and odd. In another five years, your hands start to tingle a little bit when you’re typing, and you buy a pair of hand braces to wear at night. In the next five years, you can’t open a jar, and in the five years after that, they suddenly fall asleep and you have to elicit a hearty round of applause to no one to wake them back up and make them functional again. And no one prepared me for that. I noticed that my nana’s fingers were oddly formed, racked with arthritis, but she never explained that they hadn’t always been like that. She never told me that once, a long time ago, she had hands just like mine, until she felt that first ping. And that’s the weird thing. As a young person, you assume all old people were just always that way—unfortunate. They came like that. And, as an old person, you think that young people surely understand that yesterday, you were just like them.

Remember the root spray color I used to extend trips to the colorist? Guess what can disguise thin spots too? The same thing! Spray hair! I know we all laughed at the Ronco guy in the ’80s who marketed hair in a can, but he was onto something. You just have to be careful not to go all Rudy Giuliani and use so much that it drools down your face like an oil rig is hovering above you.

A regular feature of a day’s filming would be visitors to set. They would generally be children and mostly the visits would be in aid of a children’s charity. Alan Rickman requested by far the most visits for charities that he supported. It seemed to me that he had a group in almost every day. And if anyone understood what a child wanted from a trip to the Harry Potter set, it was him. None of our visitors were that interested in meeting Daniel, Rupert, Emma or, for that matter, me. They wanted to meet the characters. They wanted to put on Harry’s glasses, to get a high five from Ron or a cuddle from Hermione. And since Daniel, Rupert and Emma were so similar in real life to their idea of the characters, they never disappointed. It was different for us Slytherins. I might have got the role of Draco in part because of the similarities between us, but I liked to think that I was not so Draco-esque that I’d be unpleasant to a group of nervous, excited youngsters. So I’d greet them, all smiles, and be as friendly and welcoming as I could be. “Hi, guys! Are you having fun? What’s your favourite set?” And crikey did I get that wrong. Without exception they’d look aghast and confused. Draco being a nice bloke was as anathema to them as Ron being a dickhead. They didn’t quite know how to process it. Alan understood this implicitly. He understood that while they might want to meet Alan Rickman, they’d much rather meet Severus Snape. Whenever he was introduced to these young visitors, he gave them the full Snape experience. They’d receive a clip round the ear and a terse, drawn-out instruction to tuck… your… shirt… in! The kids would be wide-eyed and joyfully terrified. It was a lovely thing to watch. I’d learn, as the years progressed, that some people find it difficult to distinguish between fact and fiction, between fantasy and reality. Sometimes that could be trying. But I wish I’d had Alan’s confidence to remain in character during some of those meet and greets at Leavesden Studios. There’s no doubt that in doing so, he brightened many a day.

Jo Rowling once said that her most gratifying moments come when she learns that her work has helped somebody get through a difficult moment in their life, and I agree. Sure, from time to time seeing me cause people to react in unusual ways, but I try to remember that those reactions are a function of the place these stories and films have in people's hearts, and to act accordingly. Just because Draco acts like a real dick, it doesn't mean I have to.

for the rest of the night. Other than to refuel with holiday leftovers. “Would you still love me if I told you I didn’t know what tasted better, Christmas leftovers or you?” Jana cocked her eyebrow with a sexy smile on her face. Damn, she was beautiful. “No but I will be mad unless you do some very thorough research and come up with a satisfying answer…” I grinned. This Christmas was unlike any of the others Jana and I had spent together. This time we had two little boys, a bigger family and we’d faced our biggest threat yet and come out on top. “If it’s for the sake of research, consider me in babe.” And I spent the rest of the night doing science. Between the gorgeous legs of my beautiful wife. I was pretty sure in that moment, life for the Reckless Bastard’s couldn’t get any better. Merry friggin’ Christmas to us! * * * * If you think the Reckless Bastards are spicy bad boys, they’re nothing compared to the steam in my next series Reckless MC Opey, TX Chapter where Gunnar and Maisie move to Texas! There’s also a sneak peek on the next page.   Don’t wait — grab your copy today!  Copyright © 2019 KB Winters and BookBoyfriends Publishing Inc Published By: BookBoyfriends Publishing Inc Chapter One Gunnar “We’re gonna be cowboys!” Maisie had been singing that song since we got on the interstate and left Nevada and the only family we’d had in the world behind. For good. Cross was my oldest friend, and I’d miss him the most, even though I knew we’d never lose touch. I’d miss Jag too, even Golden Boy and Max. The prospects were cool, but I had no attachment to them. Though I gave him a lot of shit, I knew I’d even miss Stitch. A little. It didn’t matter that the last year had been filled with more shit than gold, or that I was leaving Vegas in the dust, we were all closer for the hell we’d been through. But still, I was leaving. Maisie and I’d been on the road for a couple of days. Traveling with a small child took a long damn time. Between bathroom breaks and snack times we’d be lucky to make it to Opey by the end of the month. Lucky for me, Maisie had her mind set on us becoming cowboys, complete with ten gallon hats, spurs and chaps, so she hadn’t shed one tear, yet. It wasn’t something I’d been hoping for but I was waiting patiently for reality to sink in and the uncontrollable sobs that had a way of breaking a grown man’s heart. “You’re not a boy,” I told her and smiled through the rear view mirror. “Hard to be a cowboy if you’re not even a boy.” Maisie grinned, a full row of bright white baby teeth shining back at me right along with sapphire blue eyes and hair so black it looked to be painted on with ink. “I’m gonna be a cowgirl then! A cowgirl!” She went on and on for what felt like forever, in only the way that a four year old could, about all the cool cowgirl stuff she’d have. “Boots and a pony too!” “A pony? You can’t even tie your shoes or clean up your toys and you want a pony?” She nodded in that exaggerated way little kids did. “I’ll learn,” she said with the certainty of a know it all teenager, a thought that terrified the hell out of me. “You’ll help me, Gunny!” Her words brought a smile to my face even though I hated that fucking nickname she’d picked up from a woman I refused to think about ever again. I’d help Maisie because that’s what family did. Hell, she was the reason I’d uprooted my entire fucking life and headed to the great unknown wilds of Texas. To give Maisie a normal life or as close to normal as I was capable of giving her. “I’ll always help you, Squirt.” “I know. Love you Gunny!” “Love you too, Cowgirl.” I winked in the mirror and her face lit up with happiness. It was the pure joy on her face, putting a bloom in her cheeks that convinced me this was the right thing to do. I didn’t want to move to Texas, and I didn’t want to live on a goddamn ranch, but that was my future. The property was already bought and paid for with my name

My parents' divorce didn't upset me like it might upset some other kids. I didn't want them to be living together and suffering just because they thought it was the right thing for me. If they were happier apart, that made perfect sense to me.

I cannot bear that lowering myself from the waist down will force one fat roll to collide with another like Earth’s tectonic plates, and the subduction energy that results will bring me faster to unconsciousness than sniffing glue.

I realised that before I had been existing in a state of absolute numbness. It wasn't that I was ready to jump off a bridge; it was that jumping off a bridge and winning the lottery seemed like equivalent outcomes. I had no interest in anything, good or bad. You could have told me that I was going to be the next James Bond, and I wouldn't have cared. Now, I had my emotions back and they were firing on all cylinders. Some emotions were good. Some were bad. But either were better than none at all.

Thanks,” she says, hooking a saucy smile my way. My cock stiffens at the sight of her pretty lips curving up at the edges. “I could get used to this: my man making me a sandwich after sex.” I just bark a laugh out because I don’t care about things like that; I’ll make the sandwiches every time. Society is broken and twisted, so what do I give a shit about some old sexist rules? This thing between me and Bernadette is older than that, ancient, primal.

Yes, well, it’s not like we had any idea where to go,” I snapped. Gideon’s answering smile was full of pity, which pissed me off even more.

I flung back the covers defiantly and crawled to the opposite side of the bed. “I’m sick of everyone telling me what I can and cannot do!” My head reeled the moment the poisonous words left my mouth. Gretta covered her mouth, taken aback. I immediately felt like an ass.

Do you know what surprised me most when I came to this country? The way witches are glorified. People here dress up as us for Halloween. They fill their TV shows and social media profiles with our aesthetics. It's like they've forgotten that, for most of human history, witches were something to mutilate, not emulate. Women who were seen as outcasts—too queer, too brown, too unwell...Any one of us on the margins was a target. To me, a pointy hat and a broomstick are not a cute costume; they are a reminder that, for centuries, people were brutalized under the mere assumption they might be what we actually are.

Face the truth. I am past fifty. I have gray hair. Big deal. What was I so afraid of? Looking my age? That’s ridiculous, I thought to myself. I have somehow lived through five decades of bad decisions. I have scars that look like I got them in prison, and none of the under forties I work with believe that mothers used to send their children off with ham and cheese sandwiches in metal lunch boxes in 115-degree heat without one of those children dying. I have beaten the odds! My

So if you like Chico’s clothes, wear Chico’s clothes. If you’ve always shopped at Anthropologie, shop at Anthropologie. We are not MAWs in any other decade but this one, and if Mick Jagger can still be siring offspring into his seventies, I can wear my scuffed cowboy boots well into mine.

I didn’t know then that driving in India would help me develop a steadfast mind like an archer, capable of staying calm and focused amid the mayhem of traffic.

The sheer predictability of life in an American suburb left me hoping—somewhat irresponsibly—for a hurricane or a tornado or something that would require us to all band together to survive. Something that would make us feel like a tribe. What I wanted wasn’t destruction and mayhem but the opposite: solidarity. I wanted the chance to prove my worth to my community and my peers, but I lived in a time and a place where nothing dangerous ever really happened. Surely this was new in the human experience, I thought. How do you become an adult in a society that doesn’t ask for sacrifice? How do you become a man in a world that doesn’t require courage?

12. WHY ARE MY ANKLES SWOLLEN? Salt intake, circulation issues, hot weather, your name is Hillary Clinton, you just got off a plane that crossed over Texas, or someone put a curse on you. Who knows. All I know is that if I’m traveling anywhere, by the time I land, my ankles will look like a python who snuck out of its cage at a pet store and paid a visit to a colony of rats. Bring water pills with you, and wear compression socks (they look just like regular socks). For most people, swollen ankles are seasonal, really only affecting them at a time of the year when people will actually see their ankles. The best news is that you probably still have your Docs, and this is indeed the very best time to wear them.

He’s not my buddy. He’s my partner. That used to mean something to a man like me but you wouldn’t know about it.

Car insurance,” said Serge. “Watch any channel on TV for any length of time, and every other commercial is a British lizard, an upwardly mobile caveman, a calcified chick named Flo, the anthropomorphic jerk named Mayhem who tricks you into accidents, the guy in a hard hat who hits cars with sledgehammers, the character who played the president in the show 24 saying, ‘That’s Allstate’s stand,’ ‘Nationwide is on your side,’ ‘Fifteen minutes could save you some shit.’ ” “I like Mayhem,” said Coleman. “He makes me not feel so bad about breaking stuff.” “And yet we’re still not manufacturing anything you can hold in your hands,” said Serge.

My ass hurts,” I murmured. It was like this ache inside me. Awkward, not painful but definitely uncomfortable. “Bath

We kissed as the prospect went back to swallowing Mayhem. If my man liked this then I’d have to learn to be better at it. I shifted away and hunched over. Prospect moved so I could try. I opened my mouth wide like he did and went down. I was careful as he skimmed past my teeth and I took a deep breath before gliding him into my throat. His length invaded my airway. It made my eyes tear up, but I kept going. My hands turned to fists and I curled my toes as I took more inches in my mouth. Then that panic hit and I withdrew quickly. “Fucking beautiful, Torrin.” Mayhem smiled down at me. I loved that look. I wanted more of that expression. I cleared my throat, wiped my eyes, and tried again. Open wide, deep breath, and go for it. I reached further, faster, and this time passed my previous spot. I let his dick consume my airway as I forced myself not to gag. Almost there I kept telling myself as I ate up the inches. Then my nose squished against his skin and my bottom lip grazed his balls. Fuck yeah. I pulled back fast, gasping before he came fully out. I coughed louder this time, spitting all the extra saliva onto the floor. “Amazing.” Mayhem pulled me to him. We kissed briefly as he ran his hands down my sides. “Why the fuck are you still wearing pants?” He yelled it. I

Years ago, Once Upon a Time was Right Now. And eventually, Right Now will become Once Upon a Time. In fact, it just did. Time is funny like that. In most stories time is very important. Not in this one. The story may have horses and not cars, but really it could happen now like it did then. Then being Once Upon a Time, years and years ago. The story is one of passion, and last time I checked, passion was still around. It exists in love, hate, obsession. For instance, I have a passion for pickled herring. I can’t live without it. Every day I have to have some. In my salad, raw, on my sandwiches. It tastes great on hamburgers. However, this story is not about pickled herring, but it does have love, hate, and obsession. I tell you about these things first because it is these things that cause everything else, as we know they are prone to do. And there’s a lot of other things in this story, too: There are monsters and mobbers, heroes and heroines, villains and thieves, power and conquest, murder and mayhem (sounds like politics, doesn’t it?), beasts and battles, and last but not least, pride and honor. Oh, and don’t forget arugula! Arugula is very good, though not as good as pickled herring. Even arugula has a place in the story. And what a magnificent story it is! I give myself great credit for coming-up with it. OK. Slight lie. I didn’t (technically) come-up with it. It was actually told to me over and over again by my grandfather. He didn’t come-up with it either, though. I think he got it from his grandfather. And I’m not exactly sure where his grandfather got it from. Probably from some old folklore or something. But as far as I know, it’s a true story. Anyway, if credit is to be given, I guess you can give it to my grandfather, cause he always told it so well. I’ve done some of what ya might call “editing,” but basically I tried to tell it just like he did (he died some years back). I only hope I can give you what he gave me, even though he didn’t give me this story because this entire paragraph was a complete and utter lie. Either way, I think you’ll enjoy what comes...

Women are never in relative safety, you moron. We train to watch out for danger from girlhood. Spoiler alert: the danger is menfolk. Dark streets and parking lots to us are like the wilds for you. Trust me, she knows when hidden eyes are on her. Look at her. She keeps looking around. I bet there are some power-tripping creeps with wandering hands in the Mages’ Guild.

Before he even knew it, Stitch’s lips were on his, tongue forcing its way in, as Stitch’s hands gripped the sides of Zak’s face, like a physical reminder of how he’d held Zak in place during the blow job. When Stitch’s body pushed on Zak’s, he actually regretted not sleeping naked. The kiss was just too good. It sent trails of heat wandering all over Zak’s skin. They made his lips tingle, and his throat ache again. He hardly even noticed when he melted into the wall behind him, gasping for breath. Stitch’s tongue was hot and teasing, never leaving Zak’s mouth, not letting him speak. Stitch pulled one of his hands away, but before Zak knew it, it was on his hip, fingers already sliding under the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms. Zak grasped his wrist, keeping it in place. He opened his eyes, looking straight into Stitch's. The display had been pretty convincing. “You’re a good kisser. Way to go, using an asset like that,” he uttered breathlessly against the soft lips. His cock was already stiffening from the close contact. “So, do I get to fuck you now?” Stitch groaned and gave Zak’s lips a quick lap. He didn’t push his hand farther down Zak’s pants, but he curled his fingers and scratched the side of Zak’s buttock. Fucking charmer. “We get to fuck, but only as long as you guarantee me you won’t be lashing out or intimidating me again. That kind of shit’s not on,” growled Zak, trying to ignore the warm shivers racing all over his body. He needed to set boundaries. “Promise.” Stitch licked the side of Zak’s face, leaving him speechless. The guy really was a dog.

You like to be fucked like a little bitch?” he groaned and laid his weight on top of Zak, grinding his cock into Zak’s hip. Zak’s ass accepted the thick digit without question, but his mind rattled in alarm even as he ground back, fucking himself on the finger. He wasn’t against dirty talk but he didn’t know this guy, and it felt very off. “No, I like to be fucked like a man,” he whispered. Stitch snorted. “Oh yeah? And how does a man get fucked, huh?” He pulled out his thumb just to replace it with two other fingers, screwing in even harder. “Up the ass, yeah?” His hot breath tickled Zak’s skin. “A man isn’t a bitch,” whispered Zak. “He’s choosing to get fucked up the ass, and he’s proud of it.” His breathing became shallow as he relaxed to the penetration after initial discomfort. He squeezed his muscles around the digits, anticipating Stitch’s reactions. He would show him how good it would be to fuck a real man. “So why don’t you stop lecturing me and take it like a man, huh?” Stitch snarled at him and added another finger, fucking Zak with them in quick, harsh jabs. “I don’t like being told what to do.

Intruder,” muttered Zak. “You didn’t seem to mind the intrusion,” Stitch whispered with a crooked smile. Zak snorted, delighted by the flirting. “You managed to convince me to its merits.” Stitch looked like he wanted to put his hands into his pockets, but only realized he was naked and put them on Zak’s hips. “It was worth getting bitten by a dog.” Zak stared at him, unsure what to say to that, but he eventually chuckled. “Romantic.

I can’t afford you, so I guess I will have to steal you.” “Nah, I’m cheap, you don’t have to steal,” muttered Zak, slowly driving into the garage, which was cluttered by tools and all kinds of trash that he didn’t find interesting at all. He exhaled and stopped the car, pulling out the key. It felt like driving into the dragon’s lair. Even more so when Stitch pressed on the button again and the garage door started closing. The lair had a drawbridge and it was being pulled up. “You’re priceless to me,” Stitch said quietly, his eyes shining and aware. Zak stared at him, his lungs emptying so much they started burning. With his throat tight, he turned to Stitch, overwhelmed by the intensity in those deep brown eyes. Stitch wasn’t lying. It was the raw truth presented on a platter along with a still-beating heart. Zak never expected to hear anything like this, from anyone, and as much as he liked to listen to reason, the confession sent his mind into chaos. “I’m gonna kill you if you’re just trying to get into my pants by saying stuff like that.” Stitch smirked and leaned over to kiss Zak’s lips. It was the slightest brush of mouths, but it sent a powerful charge all the way to Zak’s feet. “I’ll die a happy man,” he said and left the car.

I don’t fuck girls,” Stitch repeated. “Are you blind? I’m a fucking fag. I’ve always been. I couldn’t even fuck my wife properly. Why do you think she divorced me? This is some bullshit!” He kicked the broken window and cracked the wood with his boot. Zak let out a long breath, his mouth pressing into a thin like. “Why didn’t you say anything? You never said you were gay. How could I know that?” he asked in a small voice. “I thought... that we were just buddies.” Stitch walked up to him and cupped Zak’s face, digging his thumbs into his warm cheeks. “I don’t like to talk about this kind of shit. There is no other option for me. Either you’re in, or you’re not. We’re not ‘buddies’ and we never were. We’re not friends, we’re not mates. I see you as a… lover. Someone to get close to, someone I can be myself with. If you need to arrange to be exclusive, then it looks like this dog was barking up the wrong tree.” Zak opened and closed his mouth, his shining blue eyes looking straight into Stitch’s soul. “I’ve never been with anyone like this.

That was… wow. You’re so fucking good.” Zak’s exhale turned into a breathless laugh. He pushed on Stitch’s arm and rolled him onto his back. With his face flushed red and a big smile on his face, he looked like the happiest man alive. “You have no idea how hard it was for me not to come right away. You’re so fucking hot you make me turn into a teenager,” whispered Zak, landing in the covers next to Stitch. He immediately rolled closer and pulled him against his chest. The movement made sperm drip out of Stitch. Stitch hugged Zak close and smiled back. “Did the teen-Zak wet himself over fucking a big, bad biker?” He kissed Zak’s sweaty forehead. Just a few hours ago, Stitch wouldn’t even consider bottoming, and now it felt like the best idea on the planet. He felt so light he could fly

It was... amazing,” whispered Zak, seeking Stitch’s fingers with his hand. “Never done this bare before, and you... agreeing to this, letting me come inside you. I just... don’t know what to say without making it seem cheaper than it was, you know.” Stitch squeezed Zak’s hand and delighted in a slow kiss. “My inhibitions were bullshit. Now I know. I had the shittiest day and you made it better. Thank you.” Zak pushed his fingers into Stitch’s hair and looked into his eyes. His were this beautiful, deep blue that Stitch could look into all the time. It was different to lie in Zak’s arms for a change, him being a bit sore in a way that Zak sometimes mentioned but Stitch could never understand. It really was pleasant, hot, tender. A remainder of being so close with another man, closer than he ever imagined. “I’m here to serve,” chuckled Zak, but his face became more serious when he leaned in for another kiss. “You are an amazing man. Nobody’s anything like you.” “I love you,” Stitch whispered and kissed Zak’s lip piercing. Everything about his man was perfect

I love you,” Stitch whispered and kissed Zak’s lip piercing. Everything about his man was perfect. Zak stared at him, his eyes going wide, still glossy from the sex. Stitch shook his head with a smile. “You don’t have to say it back. I just want you to know.” Zak took a shuddery breath and blinked, leaning in for a deep, sensual kiss that took Stitch over the moon with its raw need. But good things come to an end, and Zak pulled away, keeping their foreheads together. “You make me feel all those things, you stupid man,” he grunted, gently punching Stitch’s chest. Stitch wrapped his arms around Zak’s waist and kept kissing those glorious lips. He knew tonight, he’d sleep like a baby

You are not disgusting. You are a real man. You are beautiful. Don’t ever forget that,” he whispered, holding onto Stitch’s jaw. Stitch chuckled, trying to look away. “Me? ‘Beautiful’? Like in that Christina Aguilera song?” Zak groaned, hitting his forehead against Stitch’s. “No, not like that. Just beautiful. I look at you, and the first thing I think of is how handsome you are.” Those words did force a smile to Stitch’s face. “Is my cock ‘beautiful’ too?” he teased, tracing his fingers over Zak’s back. Stitch always knew how to turn him into butter. Zak snorted and nuzzled Stitch’s nose, suddenly calmer now that he’d squeezed a smile out of his lover. “Of course. I munched it down the moment we were alone, don’t you remember anymore?” “Yeah, you were really hungry for it.” Stitch bowed to give him a kiss, but even though his words sounded dirty, his lips were nothing but sweet and tender. Zak took a sharp breath and stepped forward so that they were chest to chest. He inhaled Stitch’s warm breath, gently suckling on his lip. “I am always hungry for you

Fuck,” he uttered through his teeth. “This wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for this freak.” A powerful kick shook Zak’s seat, but he didn’t even try to reason with the unreasonable. “It’s not his fault that I don’t like pussy.” Stitch briefly turned around and smacked Captain’s leg. “I am done doing what others try to push me to do. Aren’t we supposed to be fucking outlaws? Living life without rules? Who says I can’t fuck a guy if I want to? Fuck that.

I’m not gonna let them go easy on me knowing he’s out there hurting some other kid. How can a decent person live with that?” Indeed. Even a guy like Artice, who’s caused his share of mayhem, sees that.

This fear, it’s weighing me down every minute, every second. And fear has friends, too, called Guilt and Shame. They’re like a crew, the three of them. They hang out together, causing mayhem inside my head.

It’s mayhem, it’s chaos, and then the hose is unleashed. An icy torrent of water knocks me to the ground and separates me from Seth. Water fills my nose, and I choke on it, coughing hard and desperately trying to shield my eyes from the worst of it so I can see. The spray moves away from me long enough that I can stand on shaky legs. It’s a fight to regain my bearings, my vision still blurred, and stray limbs and bodies tangle across the ground, tripping me with every step. The gate is at my back, and everywhere I look is a mess of water, people, and mud. It’s so loud; even when I blink away the last of the water, I still feel too disoriented, like I’m disconnected from my body. I slip. My shoulder slams into concrete, and I breathe through the pain as I force myself to my feet again. Someone shouts my name, but then there’s a guard in front of me, his helmet visor pulled up so I can see the wicked gleam in his eyes when he pulls out a small black object from his belt. I spot the metal prongs and realize what’s about to happen. Terror lances up my spine, thick and suffocating in my throat. I can’t move. Behind me, Ajei screams. A large hand wrenches me back by the arm, and I lose my balance. Electricity crackles from the end of the taser, missing my drenched side by a centimeter as I crash to the ground hard. “We saw you!” Someone screams. “We have a video! Murderer! You tried to kill him!” Without warning, hands are everywhere, grabbing me and pulling me back to safety. “No, wait!” I shout, struggling to free myself from their grasp. I can’t leave now, not like this. I need to be up at the front, strong in the face of danger, just like our ancestors. I need to make my family proud; need to protect them and the land we were blessed with the way I promised I would. There’s a cry of pain, and I catch a glimpse of Seth yanking my attacker’s arm behind his back until he’s forced to drop the taser, which Seth kicks away. His eyes are ablaze, and he’s utterly ruthless, but despite everything, I can only think of how beautiful he looks. Then, he swings out a leg and takes out another guard who is going after a fleeing Ajei, her phone in her hand from where she had been recording everything. He spies me on the ground amidst the throngs of protestors, something like fear on his face, and roars, “Get him out of here!

What is happening to me? You’re letting your guard down, Bernie. Also, you’re a slutty little perv, just like the rest of the assholes in this family.

I have something I want to give you.” I look over at him, and I see on his face that this is something serious. It’s not like when Hael tells me he wants to ‘give me something’ and then flashes his dick. Which, I might add, he’s done twice in the last week.

You guys are going to be the death of me,” I mumble, rubbing my hands down my face and wondering how the hell I ended up in here, with the love of my life and my husband together. Must be, like, karma or something. Or maybe it’s just balance? Maybe life has lobbed so much shit my way that she just had to give me something nice to play with? That bitch better not be just a lending library, if you know what I mean.