I don't know about the rest of you, but 2016 isn't even half over yet and I am DONE with all the loss and grief. All the death....
Seriously. I'm afraid to ask who's next. Go home '16: you're drunk.
Originally, I'd planned to blog about my experiences in Las Vegas last week at this year's RT Booklovers Convention. But what happened in Vegas is just going to have to stay in Vegas--or at least in my head--for a few more weeks. Thursday's news about Prince has left me too depressed to think about the future right now. So instead, I'm going to post a scene from the beginning of Ashes of the Day. It seems more fitting.
New
Year’s Eve
Damian leaned against the railing of the second-floor
balcony and cast a jaded eye over the crowded ballroom below. The decorations
were a tad overdone, in his opinion. Gaudy gold-and-silver Mylar festooned
every surface—the bar, the tables, even the walls. The glare all but blinded
him. Overhead, a billowing mass of champagne- and platinum-colored balloons
were tethered to the ceiling, awaiting the stroke of midnight, when they’d be
released. The last day of the year had dwindled down to the final hour. Y2K was
on the verge, that ticking time bomb that would shortly send the world hurtling
back toward the dark ages…or not.
Either way, Damian could not find it in himself to be
concerned, or even very interested, in the fate of the world. The new
millennium, as most people counted it, was about to begin. For the time being,
however, it was still 1999 and the throng of people gathered on the dance floor
was certainly partying like it.
Exhibiting far more enthusiasm than skill, the crowd sang
loudly along with Prince’s signature anthem as they bounced and gyrated to the
music. The once-familiar song struck a bittersweet chord in Damian’s heart and
he closed his eyes as nostalgia overwhelmed him. How many times had he danced
to this same record back when it was first popular? He didn’t feel even
remotely like dancing tonight. Hadn’t felt like dancing in years.
Memories rose in his mind of a supple young body pressed
tight against his own, warming his back, more often than not. He remembered
arms holding him possessively close, sweet lips dropping kisses all along his
cheek, his neck, his shoulder…
He remembered the feel of strong hands splayed on his hips,
guiding him as they moved together, thrusting, grinding, taunting each other with
graphic reminders of everything they’d be doing together later in bed.
Oh, how he longed to feel that way again, careless and
wanton, desired, loved. Oh, how he longed to hear that sexy voice whispering in
his ear. To feel those muscular arms encircling his waist or his neck, or
wrapped around his shoulders. To see that smile, hear that laugh, just one more
time.
Knowing those wishes would never come true, that those days
of joy and innocence were lost to him, gone for good, never to return, did
nothing to improve his mood.
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