Allyson Bowen has a secret. Well, she has several, such as her brother was murdered in an explosion at the lab, she let the bad guys into the lab the night that it exploded, and she’s hiding a wanted soldier in the spare bedroom of her condo, but her biggest secret is hidden in her closet. While going to college for advanced degrees in biochemistry and genetics, Allyson picked up a sinful habit. Shoes. Lots and lots of shoes.
In the heart of her condo, hidden in the walk-in closet, is a shoe closet that would make Carrie Bradshaw green with envy (Sex in the City). Allyson has shoes in every color, every heel type, for every occasion, but she has one pair of shoes that she’s never worn as she’s waiting for the right time, the right event, the right man to wear these shoes for. The black slipper portion is classic but understated, but it’s what she’s walking on that makes all the difference. Not the stiletto heel, but the red soles at the bottom of the Christian Louboutin heels that she’s saving for a special day. When Craft enters the closet toward the end of the book, he’s in for a wicked surprise.
Now it’s your turn. What’s your hidden obsession? Shoes, leather jackets, gummy bears?
Craft skimmed those long fingers along her throat, trailing flames down her neck, exploding like the snap and pop of a log in the fire.
“Touch me, Caleb.” Gripping his waist, she pulled so she stood cocooned between his body and the wall. Allyson lifted on her toes. “Taste—”
His mouth swallowed her words, her thoughts, until she no choice but grab hold or fall. Then he wrapped her in an embrace that pulled them together like magnets. Close to him now, caught in his gravity, she opened to the sensations. Firm lips. Demand. The brush of his hand at the small of her back. Under her shirt. Skin-to-skin and those flames burned brighter. The touch traced a line up her spine, engulfing her in sensation. Sparks in her veins as his hands stirred and churned. Then he gripped the back of her neck, tilted, and took the kiss deeper.
She was lost. Free floating, experiencing, memorizing every touch. Lost in the kiss, in the strength of the arm around her, in the heat of his body. Something smooth and enticing took her. Not to weakness, but strength, as he simply melted her bones so that the only thing holding her up was his hand, his strength.
Leaning back, he watched her with dark, mysterious eyes. The green almost fully black. His chest heaved. “I thought to take it slow.”
“If that was slow, I don’t think I can handle fast.”
Behind the Book: Knife Play
Knife play isn’t as dirty as it sounds, but there are a few scenes in DIE BY THE TEAM that incorporate knives. Writing about military guys means learning a lot of interesting stuff about weaponry, so today we’re going to look at what I learned about one of Craft’s trickiest blades (trickiest, not deadliest). My resident knife guy tells me that the butterfly blade isn’t what you want in the middle of a battle, but learning to do tricks does help with dexterity, muscle memory, and gives the user a healthy respect for knives. I consider it the fidget spinner of the typical knife guy, and they have the scars to prove it.
Throughout the books in the series, Craft always has something in his hands. He’s either fiddling with computer part, electronic gadgets, or some other grown-up version of the fidget spinner. He’s full of energy but spends most of his time in front of the computer breaking into classified files. To get rid of the energy, he started playing with knives. Literally. In middle school, Craft started by learning how to use a butterfly blade.
Also known as a balisong, this blade originated in the Philippines. This blade is expensive and dangerous, which may be the draw. It’s considered a pocketknife, but because of the concealed element it is illegal in many places across the globe. The style is what makes it a butterfly or fan blade as two handles rotate in such a way that the blade can be concealed inside the two handles. The fun really is in using it like a baton. I’ve tried the practice blades (no sharp edges) and while I’m not a complete spaz, it takes some dexterity and practice. I think I failed on the hours of practice needed to be an expert like this guy who is using a fully functioning blade (ouch!).
Read DIE BY THE TEAM to see why Craft started learning about knives. It’s really not what you think.
Vole est mortuus
This is a vole.
They look like the little field mice in Bill Murray's Scrooged. Cute little ears, small and almost delicate looking, with soft fur (or so it seems...I'd do just about anything for the research cause, but touching--dare I say petting--a little field vole is a bridge too far).
There are 8 species of voles in Colorado, and according to the Colorado extension service, their little burrows--they call them runways--look like the picture below:
I'm telling you about voles because I recently moved to the mountains. Cute little place with lots of trees and wildlife, and a lot less crowded and closer to the hiking I love. Did I mention the wildlife? We have two mama deer and their babies that traipse through our yard. Sometimes the babies are on their own, and well, that's quite disconcerting to hear these fawns bawling for mama, but so far, it's only happened once during a thunderstorm, and what baby hasn't cried for its mama in a storm?
Nala, the neurotic little digger-dog, sits at the window, watching for the deer who commute through our yard every evening like clockwork. She thinks she's died and gone to heaven. Or maybe hell, because she's banned from running the property while the fawns are still about, so she's confined to the dog run.
Starting early last week, Nala, in retaliation, began to dig in the dog run. She hasn't done any mad digging in years. Was she trying to get out? Pretty impressive little hole that I sent my son to go fill while I hauled her upstairs to give her a shower. Mud dripped from her snout and covered her ears, but she wouldn't go willingly, so I donned my swimsuit and climbed into the shower with her. Took awhile for the water to run clear, and she nearly made a mad-wet dash through the house, but while she's faster, I have opposable thumbs. Closed the door to the shower and made her suffer through the indignity of a wash-and-rinse with baby shampoo.
I've been watching her like a new puppy every time she goes out to the dog run, because I can't have her digging up the yard, and I figure at some point, she'll get the hint and quit digging like she's in Alcatraz. By this point I've identified more runways leading away from our dog run and have visited the online extension service website, and I kinda-sorta have a plan to eradicate the things, because that's a little too close to the house for my liking.
As an aside, when we first moved in, we thought we had a mouse. I do a lot of things as a single mom that I'd rather not do, but mouse patrol is pushing my boundaries. First, we tried "safe" non-poisonous baits, which if you focus on the word non-poisonous sounds like a kindler, gentler method, but everyone else realizes that this means that stuff works as well as a human placebo. Made me feel better but didn't do a damn thing to the mouse. But I don't want any of our pets to eat poison--or to take a bite out of a mouse that's eaten poison--still toxic--so I use the pet safe stuff. And it works about as well as shredded money.
I finally set up a good old-fashioned mousetrap and we catch our first offender. I opened the kitchen drawer about three inches to peek inside, and all I saw were tiny feet facing straight up at the ceiling [yes, I have since cleaned, sanitized, and bleached every counter, cupboard, drawer, and utensil]. I closed the drawer and practically begged my son to do it. I know it's not fair. I'm a strong and independent woman, so damnit I should be able to handle a mouse trap, but I just couldn't do it. So my boy--a high school graduate this year, so not so young--does the deed. All he said was "I've done grosser things at work [fast food]."
Oh, thank God, because I wasn't really sure who I would call next to take care of a damn mouse, because I simply could not do it.
So as I looked at that sweet picture of the vole, I realize that the mouse I thought we trapped may well have been a vole. I didn't get a close look, because I was too freaked out, but... that's starting to sound right. Added to that, my son has a room in the basement--real nice setup for a teen with lots of space and privacy--and he's been hearing something scratching from inside the wall at night. First of all, if that had happened in my room, we would have moved out, immediately, but thankfully he's more pragmatic and said, "well, I figure it will die soon."
Apparently our mouse problem is really a vole problem, and if I can't handle a mouse, what the hell am I going to do about a vole?
While I cogitate on this particular problem, my daughter and I watched our evening dose of Gilmore Girls. It was the one where there's a play of Romeo & Juliet at the school, and Dean almost finds out that Rory kissed Tristan. Yes, Dean and Rory were broken up, but still, the tension was high when Nala started talking to me. She's part Lab and part Husky and she likes to talk--she's impressively vocal--and to shut her up, I let her outside, sans chaperone.
Meanwhile, in the show, Rory almost gets busted a couple times, and I'm doing my stress walk away from the TV when I realize that Nala never barked to come back in.
"How long?" my daughter asked.
"I don't know. 35-40 minutes."
Nala comes in without me having to call her. She's panting and wagging her tail like she did the first day we let her run free on the property. She's covered in dirt, her normally yellow snout is the color of a dung beetle, and she has mud and gunk all over her face. It's eleven o'clock at night. My son is at his dad's house, and while I'm still that strong independent woman, I'm not headed out into the dog run in the dark with God-knows-what other critters out there. I'm also not crawling into a swimsuit this time of night to take the reluctant dog to the shower.
I grab a towel, rub her down, wet wash her face--and wasn't that fun--all the while the neurotic dog is nudging me because he doesn't think it's fair that Nala gets all the attention. I finally get her clean enough for the night and head upstairs to check Twitter before bed. I'm scrolling away when I feel a pinch on my inner arm. I brush it away even as I realize that it wasn't an itch but a sting. I check my arm--red and sore--and then turn on my phone flashlight to get a better look around my seat. Where I find a nasty little creepy crawly with more legs than I want to count. I crush him with the flip flop I keep handy for this kind of thing. The move was instant and instinctive, and then my arm really starts to sting. The burn moving along the nerves down toward my elbow.
Fan-freaking-tastic. I go, knock on my daughter's door. We examine the offending bite in the light and see two very defined puncture marks.
If you've never searched spider bites after midnight and looked at the images, you're really missing out, but we figure out our little bugger wasn't a poisonous variety (still stings like the devil), so I'm willing to call it a night, but I've got that feeling, you know the one, that creepy-crawly-I-feel-bugs-crawling-on-me buzz that runs through your body faster than spider bite? Yeah, I had to shower all those heebie-jeebie's down the drain, put on clean and recently shaken and examined PJs out of the drawer, and realize that in the morning, I've got to go out to the dog run and see what kind of damage a happy little digging dog could do in 30 minutes.
Did I mention the wildlife?
God as my witness...
Twas the week after Christmas
Funny story. During the Mercury Retrograde Incident in September 2016, Cindy's original blog disappeared. Five years, gone in a random act of chaos. Now she gets to repopulate her blog world one post at a time. Join her if you dare. :)