So, I was going to start off this post by saying I don’t know if I’ll “win” NaNo this year, but then my friend asked me for my current word count and I realized I’m actually a little ahead of schedule. Huh. Wonders never cease.
Anyway, as promised, here’s an excerpt from the first chapter of the book, tentatively titled Beauty in the Remnants.
Remember, this is a rough draft and may not represent the final product, but hopefully it’ll give you a good peek into what these two men are like.
I’m experimenting with dual first-person POVs, btw. We’ll see if it works out or not!
Enjoy, and feel free to comment!
Hot guy across the room smiles. Lifts his finger to beckon me. Then . . . wait for it . . . sees my crutch, hooked on the bar counter, and his smile falters. He deftly shifts the gesture to his head, combing through his hair. Smooth save. Now he looks apologetic. Mouths a “sorry” with . . . yep, there it is, the “can you blame me?” shrug, before turning back toward the dance floor.
I sigh reflexively, down half my drink, wishing it were vodka instead of Sprite. It’s late. Probably after midnight, though I resist the urge to check my watch. I need to be in the lab by seven AM, but before I can signal to the bartender to close out my tab I spot him. Across the bar. I can’t see his face; he’s standing at one of the chest-high tables, drinking with a petite thing the word “twink” doesn’t do justice to. A fairy in pink and glitter. The other man, though, from what I can see, is delicious. Tall, slim, but fills out those skinny jeans like they were made for him, his muscular thighs and ass tensing as he shifts his weight. And the black wife beater he’s wearing shows off tats on his shoulders and neck, inching toward mid-bicep, as if stretching inky tendrils across his skin. I’m not much for tattooed guys normally, but something about him makes me wish he were alone. Not that I’d probably have a chance with him.
Shocking, but if the crutch and the limp aren’t a big enough turn off, the braces are an instant mood killer nearly every time. Apparently, outside an S&M club, it turns out leather and metal? Not so hot after all.
Nine times out of ten, if I find a guy who’s willing to overlook the fact that I can’t dance (in the very literal sense), as soon as they get my pants partially off and see the full-leg braces I need to stay upright, looking to the untrained eye very much like something out of the 1940s Polio epidemics, they immediately back pedal. It’s frustrating as fuck, but it’s the story of my life.
So I look for that tenth guy.
Some nights I find him; some nights, like tonight, I go home with blue balls.
Once, just to see if it’d affect my luck, I left the braces and crutch at home and wheeled into the bar instead. It was one of the few times since college I bothered with the chair in public, and I’d forgotten how annoying being at crotch level can be, even if the view is nice.
I found a guy to take to the back room, and I’ll admit, making out with him in my lap was hot. But it was a little creepy how turned on he was by my wheelchair, seemingly more than my cock.
I thanked him for the sex, agreed to call him, and promptly “lost” his number.
So, yeah. I’ll hold out for number ten.
I’m shoving bills at the bartender when some twink catches my eye. He’s leaning suggestively on the bar, ass in the air. He turns and grins at me, pushing dyed blond curls out of his eyes. He’s honestly not my type, but I can’t really afford to be choosy. I raise a suggestive eyebrow, smiling as he ambles closer. But my hip’s starting to ache, and I’m really not in the mood for games.
I slide my crutch over, so it’s in plain sight, a challenge. Let’s cut to the chase.
The twink, who’s sporting a fake tan and clothes that look spray painted on his gym-membership body, frowns. A deeply etched expression that’s almost comical. I have to hold my breath to conceal a laugh.
I’m waiting for what usually follows. The sad eyes, the down-turned lips, the “your mother just died and I didn’t really know her, but I’m sorry for your loss” look. I fucking hate that look, but my balls hurt so bad right now I’ll settle for the one-time pity fuck if that’s all I’m going to get. It beats going home and, well, beating it. Alone. Again. This week, my luck hasn’t been so good.
“What happened?” he asks instead, his face genuinely concerned, his full lips pouting. Lips I’d like to see wrapped around my cock in under five minutes. Twink sits on the stool next to me just as the bartender sets a frilly, brightly colored drink in front of him. Figures.
“Car accident,” I say simply, debating ordering a bourbon, even though I know I shouldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” he says, laying a hand on mine. I’m shocked, when I meet his eyes, to see they’re soft, sincere. Not the society-dictated mask of faux sympathy.
I shrug. “It was a long time ago.” Seventeen years this week, I think.
He purses his lips, leaning in, sliding a palm on my right thigh. I can’t feel it, but I imagine he must sense the strap of my brace beneath my pants, and I–well–brace myself for the reflexive jerk away. Happens 70% of the time. Plus or minus a standard deviation.
His face registers surprise, but he doesn’t pull back, and though I still can’t feel his touch, blood rushes to my cock at the possibility that I may have found my number ten.
“So . . . does everything work . . . ?” he asks, easing his hand toward my crotch, making my breath catch. My cock answers for me as a grin spreads across his face. “Why do you need a crutch when you’ve got a third leg?” He teases, stroking me through my clothes. It’s corny as hell, but it’s still a compliment. I am longer and thicker than average, but few guys quite get this far. I’m suppressing a moan. He keeps this up and I’m so backed up, I’ll come in my pants like a fucking teenager.
“It tastes a hell of a lot better than my other legs,” I say, my voice lower than normal, keeping his corny line, stifling an eye roll. “Want to find out?”
His grin broadens, and he catches his bottom lip between his teeth. “Fuck yeah.”