SERIES: Kinky Connect Chronicles
AUTHOR: Harper Miller
COVER ARTIST: Taria Reed Digital Artist
LENGTH: 140 Pages
RELEASE DATE: July 8, 2016
BLURB: Fairy tale endings weren’t made for people like me. Happy for now usually ain’t in the cards, either.
The dents on my wall from where my headboard kept knockin’ against the same spot was the first clue that I needed to calm my ass down. At the rate I was racking up notches and plowing through hookups, I wasn’t ever gonna find nothing real. Guess I kinda jinxed myself. I created my circumstances. You can’t get what you want if you keep falling back into the same pattern of bad habits. But then things changed. I stumbled onto somethin’ I never in a million years expected to happen. You gotta understand, I’m never the guy who wins. It was supposed to be just sex, but that shifty, rhyming and scheming bastard, Cupid, pulled a fast one.
I may have changed some stuff to protect a couple of people. But before you go believing the tabloids, make sure you understand that you’re gettin’ the lowdown straight from the source.
I needed to get this off my chest and it’s only fair that you at least get my side of it all. At some point, I might regret telling you any of this, but for now, you need to know.
*Disclaimer* This is a novella. Not a short story, novelette, or novel. This tale features an M/M pairing. If gay erotica/erotic romance is not your cup of tea and you are offended by same-sex relationships or crass language, you should bypass this story. Content is intended for a mature audience, 18+.
The liquor smolders as I hold it in my mouth and sink onto the couch. My head falls back and I swallow, letting the melancholy lyrics and angry electric guitar riffs amplify my foul mindset. This song is taking me somewhere I didn’t want to go. Now I’m stuck and in a funky-ass mood. The kind of mood where I don’t give a damn about anything or anyone. The kind of mood where the only thing I wanna do is drown my sorrows in a shit-ton of alcohol until I’m so sloppy I forget my own name. Oblivion is exactly where I wanna be.
At least I admit I drink too much. Over these last few nights me and this bottle have become besties. Ain’t that some shit?
Might as well get smashed, then maybe I’ll be able to get a decent night’s sleep. I haven’t slept right in about a week. That’s a lie. I haven’t slept well for about six months. Six months of tossing and turning. Six months of being one moody motherfucker. Six months of being chill one minute, then pissed off the next.
My friends think I’m fuckin’ nuts. My own brother won’t come anywhere near me. I can tell he wants to have a heart-to-heart, but I don’t have it in me to tell him why I’m a basket case. To me, he’s still a kid, even though he’s grown, has a good job, and a girlfriend he’s been shackin’ up with—but I don’t want him to look at me differently. It’s stupid, and I’m probably overreacting, but Juan and I have a good relationship. I can’t jinx it. We’re all we’ve got: me, Moms, and the kid. We’re one tight-knit family, and I wanna keep it that way.
I’ve got emotional ADD, and the shit’s so bad my stomach’s twisted. But I don’t feel anything ’cept empty.
After toeing off my kicks, I try to find a comfortable position. This right here is good: Me with a death grip on a bottle of booze, ass planted on the couch, and feet propped up on the coffee table. When I finally settle, taking a couple of deep breaths to ease the tension in my body, my phone vibrates.
I sit up and place the bottle on the table before digging the phone outta my pocket. I glance down at the screen and frown the moment I recognize the name.
Of course it’s him. Fuck him.
I ignore the call and turn on the ringer—forgot to do that after my last client. Can’t afford to miss any calls when you’re self-employed, but you sure as shit can screen ’em. The couch cushions are tryna swallow me whole, and I’m not putting up much of a fight. I’m beat. My body is worn down, and I know I look like shit because I feel like shit. I wanna muster up enough energy to shower and sleep, but I know sleep won’t come.
Look at me, winning all over the fuckin’ place.
Why does everything have to be so complicated?
My voicemail alert chimes, but I delete the message without so much as a listen, and then toss the phone across the couch. Just leave me alone. I haven’t seen him in a week and haven’t answered any of his calls, either. Was that a punk move? Yeah, but it’s what needed to happen. I ghosted because I thought we needed some space. For once I was being smart. Giving us both time, ya know, to figure out what the fuck we’re doing. I have no clue where this thing is going. Even worse, I don’t know what the hell this thing is. And I doubt he has any idea how I feel about him . . . or maybe he does.
Never in my life have I been so confused. Am I still bi if I only wanna be with a dude? Well, one dude, specifically? My sexuality has never been an issue, but now I got questions and feelings and fuckin’ feelings about feelings, man.
Harper Miller is a thirty-something native New Yorker. She's traveled the world and lived in a variety of places but always finds her way back to the Big Apple. A lackluster love life leaves time to explore new interests, for Harper it is writing. The Sweetest Taboo: An Unconventional Romance is her debut novel. In her mind, the perfect Alpha male possesses intellect, humor, and a kinky streak that rivals the size of California.
When she isn't writing, Harper utilizes her graduate degree in the field of medical research. She enjoys fitness-related activities, drinking copious amounts of wine and going on bad dates.
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