Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 61332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
“I always find actual treasure, bitch face,” I tell her, and she laughs, since we call each other these things as endearments that most people would call someone they really don’t like. “I didn’t hear you complaining when Corbin was able to build you a whole-ass floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall bookcase out of the perfectly usable lumber I pulled out of there.”
She sighs dreamily. “With a rolling ladder so I could glide like Belle.”
I shake my head and roll my eyes as I hang the hand towel on the rack and open my walk-in closet door next to the shower. “Exactly. Sounds like actual treasure to me,” I poke, and she laughs.
“All right, all right. You’ve made your point. So are you going to tell me what happened, or what? The suspense is killing me!”
I snort. “Well, at least I still have that going for me. I think I’ll drag it out a little longer, make it a slow-burn, just so when I actually do tell you, the relief from finally knowing will overshadow if the plot is really any good or not.”
She scoffs. “Woman, you do not write slow-burns. They are so not in your wheelhouse. Instalove or die, baby.”
I grin and nod once toward the Echo Dot. “Instalove or die,” I repeat our writing mantra.
“But!” she continues. “You also don’t have to trick your readers into thinking the plot is good, because yours always are. Your twists and turns tie into a perfect little bow at the end of each book. You don’t just fill chapters with a bunch of nonsense to throw people off, then slap on a crazy sex scene here and there as duct tape to hold it all together and hope for the best.”
My eyes widen at the undertone of hostility in my friend’s voice. “Are you speaking of a specific book-slash-author, or are you talking about the romantic suspense genre as a whole, dear BDSM erotica author bestie?” I tease, since her stories are heavy on the sex and very, very light on the plot. Her books center around shedding a better, more accurate light on the BDSM lifestyle and how loving and romantic it can be in a D/s relationship, as opposed to how mine are equal parts suspenseful thriller and super-kinky sexy times.
“I guess we both have something to hold over each other’s head until one of us finally breaks then,” she says, and I can hear the wicked smile she most certainly has on her pretty face.
“You’re a dirty ho. See you in twenty,” I tell her, and she laughs.
“I’m already out the door, ya whore.” I shake my head as Vi snorts. “I’m a poet and didn’t know it,” she singsongs. “What you wanna drink? I’ll go ahead and order it so it’ll be ready when you get there.”
“My usual,” I reply, deciding on a pair of seersucker overalls and a navy cropped tee so I can get to work on my garden as soon as I get back home. I won’t even have to come inside to change.
“Is your usual still your usual? It’s been… a long time, babe. Seasons have changed and all.”
I’m sure she adds the last bit to soften the blow of just how long it’s been since we had one of our writing dates, and I tell her to grab my usual for cooler weather—which she knows is a pumpkin spice latte, because I’m 100 percent a basic bitch—before we hang up.
Hell, now that I think about it, it’s nearly been as long since we had girl time just the two of us as it’s been since we used to write the day away. There have been plenty of dinners and parties and running into each other with other people around—all hers, of course… kids, husband, extended family since she grew up here, and all sorts of close friends and their families she met through Corbin’s work.
Which might be surprising to anyone who doesn’t live an alternate lifestyle to learn people in the BDSM community can become like family. Corbin is one of the co-owners of our coveted local BDSM club. And while “local” gives it an air of amateurishness, a small-town vibe, Club Alias is anything but.
People from all over the globe vie for a membership at Club Alias, the elite lifestyle club just outside the city limits of Ft. Vanter, North Carolina. But even the richest of the rich have to go through the same vetting process as those who have to save for years upon years to pay the five-figure membership fee. No one gets past that unmarked entrance next door to the security business in one of the oldest buildings in town unless Doc—our Lord and savior, I always tease him—the renowned psychologist who specializes in sexual assault survivors and uses an alternate lifestyle as a form of therapy, deems them worthy.