The Plot That Haunts

1. Raven

RAVEN

“What’s a taint?”

“What? Oh my God, you scared me! Don’t say that word. It’s nothing,” I lie, covering my screen with my hand. Fuck, how long was he standing behind me?

“If it’s nothing, why can’t I say it?” Jonah asks.

“It’s a body part grown-ups talk about.” Normally, I’d sit him down and have a conversation about this, but I’m on a deadline.

“Are you almost done working?”

I bite my lip, holding in the heavy sigh that wants to escape, thankful he’s changing the subject. “I need to finish this chapter.”

“How long will that take?”

“I don’t know. But I do know that the more you keep interrupting me, the longer it’ll take.”

He lets out a frustrated groan as he stomps toward the door, trailing his hand along my desk as he goes. I swipe the candle from his path before he can make contact with it. Jonah is autistic and needs routine. I’m the same, but right now I’m in a flow and on deadline.

Once the door shuts behind him, I stare at the blinking cursor on my computer screen. Is there a sexy way to describe a taint?

She took him to the back of her throat, nearly gagging on the size of him as she slipped a finger under his balls, grazing his taint… pushing against his perineum… Do guys have a perineum?

I think they do, but now I’m questioning myself. The internet will know. Huh. They do, and it’s also called a gooch. There’s no way I can call it a gooch. People will DNF my book.

Resting my fingers against my laptop keys, I let out a deep breath. I can do this. I’m Ayana Cox. International best-selling romance author.

Her finger traveled further back, tickling the skin between his balls and anus…no one uses anus in a spicy scene, Raven. Oh my God, why are you writing your thoughts into your manuscript? Just write the scene. You’ve written hundreds of these.

Ugh. This is terrible. It doesn’t matter how many romance novels I write, I still feel like a shitty writer every time.

And with all the different ways to say dick, you’d think there’d be more words for taint.

“Mom! Come quick.”

Sure, I’ll be right there. Once I think of a word for the skin behind a guy’s testicles that doesn’t give my readers the ick.

“MOM! There’s a fire!”

Yes, there is. In Wyatt’s loins, burning only for her. When does school start? It’s so hard to accomplish anything when the kids are home and constantly interrupting me.

“MOOOM!”

Wait, did he say fire? I jump out of my chair and race out of the room, practically knocking over my desk.

“Jonah, where are you?” I yell, running through the house.

“Out here!” he yells from the front porch. “Your swing is on fire!”

“What?” When I get to the porch, I stare in shock as my favorite writing spot goes up in flames. And then my adrenaline kicks in. “McKenna, grab the fire extinguisher. It’s under the kitchen sink,” I say to my daughter as I toss Jonah my phone. “Here, call 911.”

I take in the scene before me. The wooden swing is only partially engulfed.

The metal chains supporting it are fine, and so far, the flames haven’t reached the nearby posts.

I turn and grab my sneakers, slipping them on as I run over and karate-kick the swing in an attempt to get it off the porch.

The flames crackle, but it’s hard to tell if I’m making any progress.

We have no neighbors out here, no one who could come help. And normally, that’s how I like it. But I can’t catch a fucking break lately, and I could really use some rescuing right now.

What am I talking about? I’m Raven fucking Hawthorne. I don’t need a man or anyone else to rescue me.

I duck each time my kicks propel the swing back toward me in return. Jonah’s voice is distant in my ears; I barely hear him reciting our address to the 911 operator. Instead, all the blood in my body pounds in my ears.

Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.

The wood finally snaps and crashes onto the porch. I kick it into the yard like a superhero saving the day. In reality, I probably look like a drunk toddler kicking shit.

Bending over at the waist, I grip my knees, trying to regulate my breathing.

“Mom, your shoelaces!” McKenna blasts me with the extinguisher as I slump down against the house. Now she finds it.

This was Kristopher’s favorite spot to drink coffee in the mornings, and when he passed, I would sit out here to feel close to him. And when the words don’t come, this is where I go for inspiration.

Kris used to love helping me with my books. Anytime I’d get stuck, he’d look over what I wrote and give me suggestions.

“You should write a sexy cowboy. Those books are so hot right now. And you could make it a marriage of convenience, like he can’t inherit the ranch unless he gets married. Kind of like you helped me. I would let a cowboy lasso me and have his way with me any day.”

I never thought I’d end up married to a gay man, but I wouldn’t have changed any of it.

The minute we met, I knew Kris was my people.

He wasn’t put off by my surly demeanor, sharp wit, and penetrating stare that scared most people.

He was old enough to be jaded but not completely hardened by life.

And when he told me that his grandmother refused to give him his inheritance unless he married a woman and had kids, I knew I was going to help him.

It was my idea. He swore he couldn’t do that to me.

Worried it would rob me of the opportunity to fall in love, get married, and have kids of my own.

I told him I didn’t believe in love and had no plans to settle down.

My happily ever after was me, my books, maybe some animals, and the freedom to travel wherever I chose.

The plan was to get married and have kids, and then once the paperwork was signed, we would divorce, and he would take custody of the kids since he’d always dreamed of being a dad.

It’s not that I didn’t want to be a mom.

Okay, it was. That was the plan. That’s how I had plotted my life.

But as soon as I gave birth to McKenna, everything changed.

I felt a kind of love I’d never experienced before—it wasn’t romantic, but the rush of emotions was similar.

Your chest tightens, and you can feel your blood pumping through your body.

Nothing else mattered except this tiny human.

It was a consuming type of love I’d only written about in books.

The type I’ve never experienced with a man.

We made a new plan. One that involved us staying married, unless the other fell in love and wanted out.

He took care of the kids, and I took care of everything else—the house, the bills, my writing.

We had a system, and it worked for us. And somewhere along the way, we became best friends.

I never felt like I was missing out on anything.

My life was fulfilling in so many ways that I had no desire to look for romantic love somewhere else.

Besides, I had my writing. In my stories, I could create any fantasy I wanted and live vicariously through my characters. And my imagination got me hornier than any man I’ve ever been with.

While I love my kids, I never expected to be raising them on my own. Kris was supposed to be here. He was the best dad, so loving and caring. I feel woefully inept for the job.

If it weren’t for my friends Bella, Summer, and Lucy, I don’t know what I would’ve done.

They brought me out of my funk, offered me support, and helped me find myself again.

I should tell them the truth about Kris.

Only Summer knows, and I only told her recently, but I don’t like people fawning all over me, or pity, or sympathy.

And I certainly don’t want to have to justify my decisions or answer all the questions that would inevitably come.

People don’t have to understand my choices, and while I know my friends would support them, I don’t enjoy talking about myself.

The blare of the approaching firetruck snaps me out of my haze. Three firefighters hop out of the truck, casually strolling over to assess the situation.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Put it out,” barks a beast of a man descending the truck steps. The three other men scramble around as he approaches.

“Yes, Chief Sawyer,” one of the guys shouts as he runs over and douses the remaining embers with an extinguisher.

I’ve heard my brother RJ talk about his boss, but I’ve never met him before.

His thick, muscular arms flex and pop with every movement he makes.

There’s a light dusting of salt sprinkled in his pepper strands.

Even the growth on his upper lip matches his dark hair.

There’s something innately sensual about the way he stands, watching over his men.

And then he opens his mouth.

“Hope you weren’t planning to sit in that later.” He points to my charred swing and chuckles, like he thinks he’s God’s gift to comedy.

I don’t know whether to burst into tears or punch him in the face. Too many emotions are coursing through me at once, and I’m having trouble focusing on which one is the biggest.

He must sense my inner turmoil as he lifts his hands in a placating manner. “Sorry. Bad joke.”

Jonah runs up with McKenna right behind him.

He takes in the fire in front of him, and I prepare for the meltdown.

But it never comes. This is my kid who freaks out when the hibachi chef makes a fire volcano.

Why isn’t he freaking out? I want to be excited that he may have outgrown his fear, that there may be one less stimulus to activate his sensory issues, but the look on his face gives me pause.

“How did it start?” the fire chief asks.

“I don’t know. I was working in my office—”

“She’s always working in her office,” Jonah complains.

“Jonah shouted that there was a fire.” My eyes narrow on him. Did he do this to get my attention? I know I’ve been working a lot lately, but I thought I’d been doing a better job of keeping up with everything. I cross my arms, giving him the mom stare.