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Lyrics, dude. Recite 'em some lyrics
By Kimber Vale
When I was a kid, rocking out
to Tiffany and George Michael via copied tapes on my cheapo Walkman, I
occasionally enjoyed penning my own songs. They were cheesy, sappy, rhyming
things that I sometimes even wrote music to using my little Casio keyboard.
A few years later, I’d
graduated from writing (and listening) to pop. The grunge scene had swept the
country and I embraced my alterna-chick status. I wrote angsty poetry, blasting
the boys who broke my heart, or simply didn’t know I existed.
From the sticky sweet to the
gritty hell-fire, I’ve always loved writing lyrics. In my next life, I’m
definitely joining a band. And I’ll be a bisexual man. And I’ll own a
pot-bellied pig.
Needless to say, one of my
favorite parts of writing my Shooting Stars series has been coming up with
lyrics and song titles. Chance, of “Forever is Now,” is a metal head, and I
wrote more song titles than lyrics for that book. Now, Gio, my rocker in
“Double Takes,” is actively recording a new album, and his sound is a slightly
mellower funk-rock blend. I included a couple of songs in “Double Takes.” Even
though Gio’s band, Three Deaf Mice, isn’t as head-splitting heavy metal as
Chance’s band Armageddon Showdown, I still wasn’t writing about two hearts
beating as one like I did back in seventh grade.
Nope. Gio is knee-deep in an
ugly divorce and custody battle. He’s a recovered junky and alcoholic. He’s
trapped in a reality TV show he hates. Gio’s a forty-one-year old dude who has
seen all life has to offer and is pretty freakin’ jaded by it. His lyrics
definitely reflect that.
Here’s the end of TDM’s song Quit You:
Tell me a story
And make it sound real
I’m holding my breath
And watching you steal
Miles below you
But lifetimes above
Bite, chew, and spit
Is your kind of love
Of course, by the end of Double
Takes, Gio realizes he hasn’t seen and done it all. He figures out that even a
has-been rocker can sometimes get a second lease on life and love.
I wonder if his lyrics are
going to change as a result.
Blurb:
Ah, the life of a rock star.
Everyone thinks it’s nothing but sex, drugs, and rock and roll.
Not for Giovanni Savale.
For the lead singer of Three
Deaf Mice, a band that reached its pinnacle in the late nineties, it’s nothing
but an ugly divorce with a custody battle, money trouble, and now the nightmare
exposure of starring in a reality television show. When his producer decides to
cash in on an infamous interview Gio did years ago, and give the self-confessed
bisexual rocker an onscreen boyfriend, things really hit the fan. Gio is
certain his sexual experimentation back in his drug-abusing days meant nothing
— after all he’s been married for nine years, clean and sober for nearly as
long, and he has a son. And Gio is not remotely attracted to Kyrie, the funny,
flamboyant actor they choose for his love interest. Of course, Lance Garrett,
the mysterious and sexy owner of the local antique shop, Double Takes, is a
whole different story. The guy has Gio planning out a future he never imagined.
With the threat of losing all custody of his ten-year-old son, ghosts from the
past returning for revenge, and the cameras rolling, can Gio keep his head
above water and his heart from getting broken?
Excerpt:
Lance’s hand on top of his
stopped Gio from silencing the irritating voice.
Gio sat down heavily next to
Lance, one hand still burdened by his dinner plate and the other sandwiched
between Lance’s palm and the remote. He didn’t dare pull it away, and Lance
apparently wanted to see the entire commercial because he kept Gio trapped
there until it finished.
“What was that all about?”
Lance’s warm fingers slid from Gio’s, leaving his hand cold.
“Ah, it’s dumb. The world’s
most degrading way to make a paycheck.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Lance
stared at something past Gio’s shoulder.
“The producers took some stupid
poll and found out the viewers want to see me…” Gio paused in search of the
right word. What the hell did people want to see?
“They wanna see me squirm. They want to see a supposedly bisexual man drowning
in the same-sex dating pool. It’s all bullshit—just for ratings.”
“So, you’re not really dating
that guy?”
“No! Well, yeah, I have to for
the show. But not really. It’s just a publicity stunt, you know?”
“So, you aren’t bi, then?”
Lance cocked his head and skewered Gio with those intense hazel eyes.
“Yeah! No! I mean … it’s not
like I…” What the fuck was he even trying to say? You’ve
screwed around with guys before, ass munch.
The confused squint of the eyes
staring back at him—moss-green with spikes of brown radiating from his
pupils—told Gio his answer didn’t exactly make sense to Lance, either.
“I always wondered if those
rumors were true before you got married.” Lance made it sound like a question.
“Well, you know how it is …
when you’re young, and you party too much. Sometimes you do shit you wouldn’t
normally do if you weren’t fucked up, right?” Gio gave a weak laugh.
Lance’s face was introspective
and finally he shook his head. “When I was young and I partied too much, I
never ended up in bed with a woman, so no … I don’t know.”
Hold the fucking phone. Something skipped inside Gio’s chest. It was nauseating
and exhilarating all at once. Like a rollercoaster when it crests the top of a
hill. He knew he was about to drop, he craved the intoxicating free fall, but
was scared shitless at the same time.
Lance placed his dinner on the
coffee table and turned to Gio.
What is going on? How do I even
respond to that?
“So…?” Gio began, but then
Lance’s right hand wrapped around his neck and pulled him closer to those
amazing eyes, his mouth closer to Lance’s flawless one.
Lips, soft yet firm and
unbelievably full, pressed to Gio’s and his eyelids dropped like they were
weighted. Fingers carded the hair at the back of his head and lured him to kiss
back. Or maybe it was the faint spicy smell Gio now associated with Lance that
made his lips pucker and nibble against the other guy’s delicious mouth. Gio
detected a hint of lemon poppy seed dressing as he sucked a voluptuous bottom lip
between his own.
Lance’s tongue darted out to
lick Gio’s closed mouth, and Gio opened to suck in a surprised breath. Gio’s
tongue had a will of its own. It touched Lance’s wet tip and they swirled
together, exploring each other’s taste, marking new territory in the other’s
domain.
A low rumble came from
somewhere; Gio wasn’t sure if it was he or Lance who groaned. He wanted to grab
the man sitting next to him, wanted to slide his hand up the inseam of his
jeans and stroke his dick into dripping hardness. Gio’s own cock was filling,
twitching against the constraints of his pants with each meeting of their
tongues.
Oh my God, what the hell am I
doing? Nothing about this kiss—hot
slippery tongues meshing and soft bristles tickling his cheeks—nothing about it
was like his memories of other men. Those were hazy and unreal and this was
vibrant—electric. His conscience had long ago associated those fleeting,
drugged sexual acts with perversion. He had swept them under the carpets of
history along with his ancient addictions. But this kiss didn’t make him think
of sinfulness and mistakes. It felt right, like nothing before ever had. It
flooded his senses and his prick and had him aching for more, everything Lance
had.
Gio pulled away from his
thoughts and from Lance’s lips. His breath came in shallow gasps that exposed
him as much as the bulge in his pants did. Lance slid his warm hand off Gio’s
neck and took a shaky inhalation. Gio swallowed hard as he swiped his hair back
with trembling fingers. His plate was still in the other hand, tilting
precariously but fortunately not dumped all over the floor. He set it down on
the table just as a cheer went up on the television.
The Red Sox had scored a home
run. I only got to first base, but man I was close to
dropping to my knees and knocking this one out of the park. What the fuck?
Lance took a long pull off his
water. Gio watched him out of the corner of his eye while he pretended to be
enraptured by Big Papi jogging the bases. He had no clue what he should do or
say. I’m not really into guys didn’t seem at
all right anymore. Lance made it easy for him.
“Hey, sorry about that. I
didn’t mean to freak you out. Just wanted to give you something to think about
and you can get back to me on it.” He gave a half smile that was sexy as hell.
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Greg heaved two
bags of potting soil—one over each shoulder—up four flights of stairs. This was
his second load, but after hauling the three enormous glazed pots upstairs,
this wasn’t so bad. Good mini-workout, anyway. And he desperately needed to
sweat out some stress—the silence from Kyrie seemed to echo until Greg
convinced himself he heard his phone ring multiple times a day. It was all in
his head.
K. Vale writes erotic
romance of all stripes, from hot hetero to mouthwatering manlove. Find her MF
work published under Kimber Vale. Come for the sex. Stay for the story. Stalk
Kimber on Facebook and Twitter @KimberVale, and check her site for updates, new
releases, and freebies at http://www.authorkimbervale.com. 
