Most romance writers find pictures of their hero and heroine that closely resemble how they mentally see them. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don't. You get this picture in your head while you write the book of how your hero will look.
In HERS TO HEAL, book two of my "Black Eagle Ops" series, my hero wore a prosthesis to replace his arm blown off below his bicep. He was six foot three, ripped, hazel eyes and a light brown mane of hair like a lion that he sometimes wore in a man bun. He had facial hair. And a tattoo which had a dual meaning--one Greek and one more personal. Internally, he was a complex man of many layers.
That's what I fantasized, anyhow. Here's what my publisher gave me...
My publisher hasn't written a blurb yet. The book doesn't release until November 21st. But I will share the opening scene of the book...Chapter One....
Reece Browning
hated everything.
He hated that he
was no longer a SEAL in Team 5, that he only had one arm, and that he’d mentally
changed into a person he barely recognized.
He hated wearing a prosthetic arm, which was why he kept throwing it
away. And he positively hated how his physical therapist kept carrying the
damned arm back in, cleaning it up, and standing over him like a mouthy Marine drill
sergeant until Reece reattached it.
What he really detested
was that she was a former Marine—a willowy,
blonde, brown-eyed, opinionated, ballsy ex-Marine by the name of Gina Wilson.
Who, right at this moment, had her powerful hands on his bare ass, giving his
wounded muscles and resulting scars one hellacious massage.
Okay, so maybe
he didn’t hate this part so much.
“This should
take care of some of the pain in your sciatic nerve. Once I’m through, I’ll put
an ice pack on it. Keep it there for twenty minutes.”
He grunted in
response.
“A word of
warning: If I come here tomorrow and you’re not wearing that arm, I’m going to
shove it up your ass, Reece. Our goal is to make you as functional as you were before you lost your real arm. Yes, it'll take some time and hard work, but the benefits will far outweigh the efforts. You're not afraid of pushing yourself, are you?”
"Hell no!" Hadn't he pushed himself through every hellish day of BUD/S, placing twenty-sixth in a group of two-hundred and nine who'd earned their Tridents? Initially, there had been a thousand hopeful sailors who'd embarked on the intense six-month training program to become SEALs. He knew more about pushing himself than this physical therapist ever would.
Refusing to give
her anything more to harp about, he mentally turned her off and stared at the green
wall of his room. His mind drifted. Early in the mornings, in the soft sunlight,
the green reminded him of a stalk of celery in a strong, spicy Bloody Mary—his late
mother’s favorite drink. Wasn’t it strange as hell how his mind now worked? His
mom’s dying words as pancreatic cancer consumed her were, “God, I could use a
Bloody Mary.” He hoped they had an open bar in heaven. She’d be drunk as hell
if she could see him now.
“Either that or
I’m going to program your arm so the fingers clamp onto your penis if you try
to remove the prosthesis before nine at night.”
Gina’s
persistent yapping invaded his earlier thoughts of losing his mother. Tomorrow would be two
years since she’d gotten her angel wings.
“It’s been you
and me every day for three weeks, and I’ve had to do all the talking. Three
weeks of listening to myself breaking the silence. I gotta tell ya, you have a
very limited vocabulary…a male grunt, ‘no,’ and ‘hell no.’ Oh, and let’s not forget
your favorite, ‘fuck you.’ You know, just to see if you’d verbally react, I’d say
you have a nice ass,” her fingertips lightly caressed his flesh, instantly
making him harder than the barrel of an M-4 Carbine, “but then you’re all ass.”
She was goading
him.
And, hell, he hated being goaded.
“Now I know why
your SEAL brothers nicknamed you Steelhead. Damned if you aren’t the most
stubborn man I’ve ever met.”
He smiled into
the white sheet on the king-sized bed.
“Guess what my
nickname was in the Corps?” She slapped his ass and his eyes popped open. “Just
guess!”
Motor Mouth? Lip smacker? Talk-n-Plenty?
She began making
small circles on his butt cheeks with her thumbs for a deep tissue massage.
God, he did not like this part at all. Her first few rotations forced him to suck
air and tense his legs.
“Can’t think of
an answer?” She leaned over so her breasts pressed against his t-shirt. “Thumbs
of Bitchin’ Steel. Tobs, for short,” she whispered in his ear and then
straightened to press harder with her steely
thumbs.
Kee-ryst! No fake.
When his former Commander
Zane Quinlan known simply as ZQ, started talking to Reece about coming to Eagle
Ridge Ranch to heal in peace and quiet, away from the noise and nonsense of the
world’s fast pace, he’d eventually acquiesced. He hadn’t counted on Gina…Motor
Mouth…Bitchin’ whatever. He sneered
into the bed. He loved this ranch. Her, not so much. No matter how physically attracted
he was to her. And wasn’t that a bitch?
Part of his
decision to come to the Hill Country of Texas rested on former team members
staying on or near ZQ’s twenty-two-thousand acre ranch and the camaraderie they
still shared. That, and his love of horses.
Dust, their team’s
sniper, was living in Warrior Falls, a small town nearby, with his new wife
Kelcee. Dustin Franks had lost part of his leg in Raqqa, Syria.
JJ had been the
team’s demolition’s expert, assistant corpsman, and dog handler. Now that Jerryl
Jacoby was a civilian, he’d been able to adopt the team’s German shepherd,
Ordnance—or Nance, for short. JJ and Nance were both living and working on the
ranch.
The team’s
beloved service dog had her ear shot off as they’d fought their way through Al Hasakah in Eastern Syria. That’s where
Reece had lost his arm above the elbow in one hellacious explosion that pushed
the ground away from his boots before it snapped back and bit him in the ass. As
he crumpled to the ground, dazed and disoriented by the bomb, radical forces
had dashed out of the buildings like armed roaches and taken him prisoner.
For three days, he’d been damn near beaten and tortured to death for
information. He’d kept quiet. A SEAL lived to protect his team, his mission, and
his country. Every scream, every shudder of pain he’d internalized into a shatterproof
reinforcement of the oath he’d taken after BUD/S.
No matter how many times he’d been slashed with knives, whipped with
chains, or electrocuted, he hadn’t talked. He’d survived waterboarding in
gasping, panicked silence, convinced death was only a waterlogged heartbeat
away. His sheer willpower had won against those bastards.
For Nance’s ear, for Dust’s leg, for his arm and the fine line he now walked
between sanity and insanity, and for all the women and children Reece had seen
beheaded, he hated ISIS with a passion.
His mother had raised him not to hate, to forgive with understanding.
Now, hate seemed to plague his soul.
Where there was once light, darkness reigned.
“You’re extra tense today, Reece. Want to talk about it? I’m a good
listener.”
He grunted, Gina’s words pulled him back from the edge.
She snapped a chemical ice pack, taped it to his ass, and covered him
with a sheet. The bed dipped as she lay beside him. He tensed from his hair
tips to his toenails. What the hell is
she doing?
“Reece, look at me” Her hand sifted through his hair, an intimate stroke
he craved like he craved the rest of his arm, which scared the bejesus out of
him. He didn’t want to be attracted, but her silky voice was like a sensual magnet.
She exhaled a long sigh. “Be honest. Is it me you dislike? I want to help
you get better and I can’t if you begrudge every word of instruction I give. Do
you want me to get you another physical therapist? Because I will. Just say the
word.”
He stared at the wall, watched an imaginary crack form and black snakes,
with blood red eyes, slither from the crack in vile orange goo. It had taken
him months to realize this repetitive horrific sight was all a deranged specter,
a part of his PTSD. Now, it barely increased his pulse. While having Gina lying
next to him had his heart hammering like machine gun rounds.
What the hell was she thinking getting in bed with him? He was strong
enough to overpower her, to assault her. Hell, he was still a man, even with
most of an arm gone.
He’d never hurt her on purpose. How could he when her treatments were the
high point of his days? His mania fueled by his PTSD was another
factor—unpredictable and uncontrollable. Because he could never ignore that unsolicited
part of his psyche, he struggled to keep his fascination for her under
emotional lock and key.
“Reece.” She tugged on his hair. “Do you want me to quit working with
you?”
He inhaled a deep breath and allowed the truth to quietly exhale. “No.”
The woman would never know how much that one whispered word of honesty had cost
him.
~~ You can pre-order at https://amzn.com/B01CBM44Q0
