02. How does your hair look currently?
Wet. But these days it’s shoulder-ish length and auburn-ish.

03. What’s new in your life right now?

G and I are taking the kids on an eco-adventure for our twentieth anniversary. Yes I was a child bride!

I’m concerned about snakes and malaria, but otherwise I’m bouncing in my chair, ready to go.
04. How many colours are you wearing now?
Blue jeans, white t-shirt.

05. Are you an introvert or extrovert?
I can be either.
06. What was the last book you read?
Yikes.

08. Who is your favorite super hero?
Robin. With Batman on top.

09. Is there anything that has made you happy these days?
Playing softball with my daughter. The wine of the month club. G. The weather.
10. What’s your current obsession?
Writing.

11. How long does it take you to get ready in the morning?
I pumped gas while wearing my daughter’s slippers this morning, so maybe I should take more time.

Usually, if I’m going out in public, thirty minutes. Is that a lot?

12. What websites do you visit daily?
Google reader!

13. What was the last story you wrote?
Men of Smithfield III–well it’s mostly revised.

14. What’s the last thing you laughed about?
Uh. A swine flu joke.

15. What’s the last song that got stuck in your head?
Miley Cyrus The Climb. (Which I thought was called Decline).

16. What’s the last movie you saw?
State of Play with the master and commander himself– Russell Crowe. Next weekend, I’m going to see Star Trek.

17. Do you buy or download the movies you watch?
Rent.

Turner and Turner: One Good Turn

When his parents get a gander at the sex tape sent by a blackmailer, they offer Kendall Turner a few weeks of “rest” in a cushy clinic. No, he says, and hotfoots it across the lawns of the family estate. KT isn’t his own worst enemy anymore; there’s a new candidate for the title. Suddenly, Kendall’s on the lam, trying to outrun a murder rap. Helping – by locking KT naked in their motel room – is his cousin Turn. KT has some issues: he manages to censor himself only when he lies, he’s been in love with cousin Turn since forever, and he really would rather kill himself than get more rest at another clinic.
The Men of Smithfield: Gobsmacked

Physician’s assistant Mark Meehan’s impulse control takes leave when Mark finds his bank manager, who’s also his boyfriend, in bed with another man. Volatile Mark sets out to chase down his money and patch up his pride with the help of local law enforcement in the person of rock-steady state trooper Tony Gervase. But, Mark’s impulsive scheme for revenge infuriates Jamie and jeopardizes Mark’s budding romance with straight arrow Tony.

**********************************

Gobsmacked

by L.B. Gregg

February 11

I stormed into St. Joe’s at the height of the Ash Wednesday noon mass, still dressed in my scrubs. I pushed through the massive arched chapel doors, bringing with me a gust of cold February wind. Seeing Jamie’s pretentious car parked in front of the church, I lost my shit and had to take action. I figured Jamie was expecting some kind of absolution by appearing at this penitential mass. I could see him seated in the third row, his head bowed. That gloriously tousled mass of golden hair gleamed like a beacon of innocence next to the shining, helmeted up-do of his repressed, miraculously blonde mother.

I bypassed the ushers, ignoring the hello of welcome from Mrs. Banks, my seventh-grade math teacher, and the folded program she tried to place in my hand. Failing to genuflect or splash myself with holy water, which would have sizzled on contact, I marched straight down the center aisle. My red rubber Crocs squeaked my progress in the hushed, echoing chamber of the sanctuary. Heads turned as I passed, no doubt wondering why I stormed the tasteful Moravian tile in the midst of this somber service. This was the kickoff to Lent, and the house was packed with the well-dressed, good citizens of Smithfield. Around me was a crowd of faces I’d known my entire life, but I blocked them out. I’m sure that even Christ’s eye was on me, and our priest, Father David, droning out the glum litany, looked up for half a second before dismissing me. As if he were the voice of reason and I, little Markie Meehan, needed to sit down and get with the program. I couldn’t see that happening.

I slid into the pew behind Jamie, glaring at the back of his head, and struggled with an overwhelming rage. I wanted to hurt him, not engage in some hissed conversation or exchange of keys. Fuck that. I was beyond civility. He wasn’t stepping a toe into my apartment. Ever again. The prick. I could barely look at him.

My hands clenched the book rack, and my fingers brushed against the Bible proudly displayed there. Staring at those once-sweet curls hugging his rough jaw, I slid the good book out of its safe haven. The cracked leather was worn, but its bulk reassuring. Encouraging, even. So I hauled back, fueled by boiling rage, and gobsmacked that bastard as hard as I could — in front of God and everyone — with a resounding thwack!

Jamie pitched forward, his beautiful face colliding with the pew in front of him. He hit it hard, the sound like a puck being whaled on by that high-priced stick he valued far too much. Then he melted onto the tile floor.

My follow-through pulled me over the back of the pew in an awkward nosedive onto the maroon cushions, my head flopping perilously close to Mrs. Dupree’s lap. I pushed away and clambered up, spewing my outrage and fury and maybe a little filth. I had no volume control as the words, In our bed, you bastard! rang through the church. I might have shouted, “You dickhead!”

It grew quiet in the congregation as an entire community sat frozen. I think. I wasn’t really paying attention to anyone but Jamie. And his mother. I had nearly landed on top of her when that thick cushion shifted under her skinny ass. She stood up clutching her pearls; her sour-lemon lips pursed, furiously staring me down with — and perhaps I imagine this — the glowing eyes of demonic satisfaction. Scrambling to pull myself back to my feet, I ignored her.

Any conversation with Jamie was not going to happen here. Filled with uncontrolled fury, and liberated of my usual calm, I felt oddly free. Or just out of my fucking mind.

So I cuffed him again with the Bible.

And then the folks around me came to their senses and latched their rough hands onto my arms in some mockery of Christian brotherhood, saying, “Mark. Calm down.”

“You need to leave.”

“That’s enough.”

No, it wasn’t, but they pulled me from the pew, ripping the Bible from my grip, and drove me back up the center aisle like a heretic. I looked into all those faces I knew, and I should have been shamed. But no, I had nothing to be ashamed of. Not yet, anyway.

Panting and blowing and disheveled, I glanced back over my shoulder as Jamie, limp in his rumpled suit and tie, was helped back into his seat with caring hands. He looked stunned, confused, and gray. Well, except for the blood, of course, which by this point was streaming down that proud nose.

And then I found myself excommunicated. They tossed me out those carved arched doors right into the gasping chill of the February midday. My sweat froze to my skin. Alone, exposed, shunned on the front lawn, I was still righteously pissed off. I clenched my fists and began walking back to the car, the bitter cold and wind whipping my field coat open as grit from the sand and road salt blasted my face. My eyes watered, and my nose began to run. I hit the door lock on the Jeep and climbed in. Time to go home and pick up the pieces.

Wednesday, Feb 11

12:30 p.m.

I made it as far as the stoplight at 202 and Milton before my rage subsided and I realized that I wasn’t seeing red from anger. Flashing lights followed me from the Resident Trooper’s Ford Expedition. I slapped my hand on the steering wheel and shook the fog out of my head.

“Crap!”

I had no idea if I’d been speeding, and that was a clear indication that I shouldn’t be driving. I pulled over at the entrance to the Westleigh Condos and dug my paperwork out of the glove box. I watched in the rearview mirror as my longtime friend and teenage heartbreak, Tony Gervase, climbed out of the truck, a look of resignation on that handsome, stern face. His uniform hugged his muscular form. He had that trooper hat perched on his head.

“Oh, crap!”

I must have run the red light. I swear it was pink when I was under it. That was my story, and I was sticking to it. Tony lumbered up, trinkets swinging off his utility belt, those butch boots making my thighs tense. He was an attractive man, and it was hard not to stare. He had that authoritative air some men are into: tall and dark, with thick thighs and arms and a tight ass. A big Italian cop. I’d carried a torch for him in high school, a million years ago, and while he’d been kind, he’d never encouraged my interest. Then he left for college, and I grew up. Mostly. I still thought he was probably the best guy I knew, and maybe more than occasionally admired him from afar. And thought about him at inappropriate times. I used to wonder if there was something inherently wrong with me because he never once took what I had eagerly offered. So I stopped offering. And then last summer, after Tony’s father got sick, Tony disappeared and I walked into the open arms of Jamie Dupree. That bastard.

I waited until Tony tapped on the glass with his knuckle before sliding the window down.

“What seems to be the problem, Offi—”

“Knock it off. What the hell are you doing driving fifteen in a forty down two-oh-two? I’ve been behind you since the green, and you didn’t once look in your mirror.”

Fifteen? Jesus, I had taken lame to an all-time low.

“Sorry. Just spacing out.” And praying that he hadn’t heard a thing yet. It’d only been eight minutes. Not even. Well, maybe more considering how slowly I’d been driving. “I’m on my way home.”

Tony leaned into my window, his strong body filling the narrow space, his hands resting on the car, thick fingers gripping the edge. He was checking to see if I was impaired. “Everything all right, Mark?”

I tried to grin, boyish — winsome, even. I flipped my hair a little. “Yeah, sure Tony. Hey, how’s your mom?” Anything to shift the law enforcement scrutiny I was under.

“My mother’s fine. She seems to like Florida.” Tony seemed immune to my attempt to distract him. Joe-on-the-Job. Was he sniffing my breath? I exhaled sharply at him. He backed away, and I pressed my lips tightly together. Perhaps I’d had too much caffeine with my betrayal this morning? His eyes swept the interior of the car. “How’s Sarah? She have that baby yet?”

I shook my head, forcing myself to appear normal. Evidently news was traveling at a crawl today. Maybe it was the upcoming snowstorm occupying the minds and mouths of the locals as they rushed off to Stop & Shop to purchase batteries and bottled water.

“Not yet. She’s fat and cranky, but don’t tell her I said that.” My sister Sarah had been friends with Tony since the ninth grade. Back when I was still a pesky sixth-grader always underfoot and demanding their attention.

Tony was quiet. He watched me. Was he assessing my mental state? “How are you, Tony? I’ve been meaning to give you a call.” It was weak, but my heart was pounding, and I was trying for a nonchalance I couldn’t possibly maintain for more than a few minutes.

“Sure, Meehan.” He failed to soften the skepticism in his tone with a smile. I tried not to feel guilty, but he was right. I had been either with Jamie or at the hospital for months. As a surgical PA — a physician assistant — my shifts, while often mind-numbing in their regularity, occasionally went out of whack. Today I’d covered a partial shift and was still dressed in my blue scrubs. I’d been driving aimlessly for hours trying to deal with my heartache before I’d entered St. Joe’s.

Tony’s brown eyes, normally crinkled at the edges in laughter, were guarded. “Haven’t seen you around much lately.”

“I’m such an ass. We should hook up for a drink.” Jesus, I had to get out of there. Was that my knee jiggling? “So, look, what’s the deal here? You writing me a ticket or what?”

Tony’s mouth flattened, and he straightened away from the car, offended. I’d been too abrupt, but I had things to do, and I was preoccupied. Remorse hit me just as his two-way radio blasted, and he nodded curtly. “I’ll catch up with you later. Try to drive like a normal person. Say hello to your sister.” He turned his collar up and hiked back to his SUV.

“Tony. Wait. I’m sorr—” Too late. I watched him for a second, feeling like a heel. I’d fucked that up, again. I needed to mend our relationship. But first, I needed to deal with Jamie. I put the car in gear and eased back out onto Milton, Tony’s gaze on me from the truck. I carefully drove the speed limit the quarter mile back to the house.

Hello, my name is Lisabea, and I am a blogger.

For those of you who don’t know this already, LB Gregg is a pen name for another pen name, (Lisabea or LBea), blogging gal from over at Nose In A Book. Yes, that means some of y’all would like to strangle me, or throw tomatoes at me, but, I am who I am.

I started writing through blogging. At first I was a lurker, too intimidated to type “hello” (it’s true!!), then as I grew more bold, I became a commenter, and finally, with so very much to say all the friggin time, I started my own digs. Things got a bit out of hand ::cough:: and not only did the blog gain some reasonable success, I made a heaping load of friends who were gobs of fun, smart, and supportive.

Blogging. It’s hobby. It’s a passion. It’s an addiction. It’s an em-effing compulsion.

And it’s totally fun.

About 8 months ago, my friend Sarah (Rain on the Roof) sent me this link.

LOOK! For those of you who are tentative about posting, or are intimidated by the process, it’s a very easy, liberating, creative way to express yourself. Here’s a great list to follow for success.

What I love about these ridiculous instructions is that it takes what we do intuitively and it simplifies the process. For a while, I had this taped to my computer. No Kidding.

For those of you who know my blog, “try not to be a dick” is pretty high on my list of what people should to strive to do. I can be an ass (often, and loudly) but I’m not a dick and neither are my friends. We’re obsessive readers, we enjoy talking to each other, we hope for clarity, and everyday, we get better.

S’all good. Easy peasy, this blogging thing.

Last spring, my pals encouraged me to start writing romances.

I’m sure that there are plenty of folks who would state I should have kept to blogging, but it seemed to me that writing m/m romance was a natural progression–instead of talking about books and blabbing with my pals (still fun!), I thought I’d write books for my pals to blab about. It worked out, sorta.

Writing. Let me assure you all that there is NOTHING I find easy about this process. Good God. No.

Any way, one morning a few weeks back, I checked my email (as I do every morning, multiple times, per hour) and a pal had sent me this link. OK maybe you’re not a link clicker (I’m not, either), so I’ll just post the content here:

HOW TO REALLY WRITE! (LBea: At last! All shall be revealed!)

So simple a monkey could do it.

Not so fast, fellow readers, because the indefinable things missing from this in depth How To are many. Talent, perseverance, a grasp of the literary process, determination, blood, sweat, and tears. Heart. Chutzpah. Fear. Fearlessness. Patience. Obsession. Discipline. Fortitude. A willingness to eat ramen noodles. And a thick, thick skin.

There’s a huge difference to me in putting oneself ‘out there’ as a blogger (yes there’s ridicule and idiocy) and putting oneself out there as an author. Holy Macaroni, it’s a huge leap into the abys of trust and faith and hope and shame. It’s just…invigorating. An adreline rush for the couch potato.

And while it ain’t easy (even though it looks it) it’s a hell of a ride, and I’d do it all over again. Oh. Wait. I am!