HEY THERE FRIENDS! I AM A STOP ON THE BLOG TOUR OF FOURTH AND LONG BY MIKEY RAKES TODAY, AND I AM SUPER EXCITED (I KNOW YOU REMEMBER ME FREAKING OUT ABOUT THIS BOOK ON RELEASE DAY ;P) I HAVE FOR YOU A LINK TO MY RELEASE DAY REVIEW, BUY LINKS, EXCERPT, AUTHOR BIO AND PIC, AND MY CHARACTER INTERVIEW WITH JACKS (I JUST THREW THAT IN THE MIDDLE TO SEE IF YOU WERE PAYING ATTENTION, HUGE HUH?) AND A GIVEAWAY, SO LET'S GET STARTED:
Irus
Beaumont, cornerback for the Highlanders, has an issue with his
nemesis: wideout for the Pirates, Jackson McCoy. Partly jealous over
Jackson’s skill and ability to scrub coverage, Irus also struggles
against an unbearable attraction to the receiver. Firmly ensconced in
the closet, Irus also has a no football player rule, leaving his
desires for Jackson unfulfilled. Anti-gay sentiment in the league
keeps Irus closeted, even though he’d rather be out and
proud.
When Jackson McCoy suffers a gay bashing at the hands of his team mates after winning the national championship, he finds himself traded to the Highlanders. Spring training brings out Jackson’s competitive nature, eliciting the aggression of his new team’s cornerback, Irus Beaumont.
In practice, Irus hurts Jackson badly. The injury places Jackson on the reserve roster. Jacks has plenty of time to contemplate his life, career, and his attraction to the sexy cornerback. Off to Orlando for the best rehab where guilt inspires Irus to call him every evening, Jackson can’t stop thinking about Irus, or what the season holds for his team.
When Jackson McCoy suffers a gay bashing at the hands of his team mates after winning the national championship, he finds himself traded to the Highlanders. Spring training brings out Jackson’s competitive nature, eliciting the aggression of his new team’s cornerback, Irus Beaumont.
In practice, Irus hurts Jackson badly. The injury places Jackson on the reserve roster. Jacks has plenty of time to contemplate his life, career, and his attraction to the sexy cornerback. Off to Orlando for the best rehab where guilt inspires Irus to call him every evening, Jackson can’t stop thinking about Irus, or what the season holds for his team.
HERE ARE THE BUY LINKS FOR YA: YOU GOTTA GET THIS ONE FRIENDS! :)
NOW HERE IS THE LINK TO MY REVIEW OF THIS BEAUTY FOLLOWED BY AN EXCERPT:
NOW HERE IS THE EXCERPT FOR YA ;)
The
day warms up nicely. We have the kids gathered along the sidelines.
Some are sitting still, while others are like vibrating mechanical
monkeys unable to keep all their parts in one place for too long.
Jackson grins at me, clearly entertained by their shenanigans. “We need to get these guys on the field soon.”
“What’re they all ADD?”
Jackson chuckles. “No, they’re just excited. It’s hard to sit still and listen to me explain the game, but some of these little guys are new.”
The kids are jumping around, making tons of noise. Jackson settles them down as a tall figure strides across the field. It’s Big Terry Branson, McCoy’s quarterback.
“What’s he doing here?” I ask.
Jackson turns to look and shrugs. “Don’t know. Last time I talked to him, he wasn’t going to be able to make it.”
Jackson spins around to meet up with Branson about ten yards from where the kids are sitting. They talk for a minute or so. There’s something dark in McCoy’s expression, but when he looks at me, he smiles. The smile that gets under my skin. He and Terry Branson walk up to me. I shake hands with the big man.
“Nice to see you again, Branson.”
“Yeah, sure. Who are you?”
“Terry, don’t be a dick. You know Irus Beaumont.”
I’m surprised McCoy says my name right almost as much as I’m surprised he calls Branson on being a dick.
“Oh, okay. Yeah, nice to meet you, Beaumont. You play for the Highlanders, yeah?”
“That’s right.” I bite my tongue on what I want to say but only because the kids are in earshot.
McCoy introduces Branson. Some of the kids are excited because they know Branson by reputation as the most legendary quarterback in the game. Jared’s less than thrilled. He remains unimpressed with everyone, except maybe McCoy. I get that he trusts McCoy. I just don’t get why.
“Thanks, Jackson. Hey, kids, it’s a beautiful day for football, yeah?” Branson asks.
“Yeah!” they holler as loud as they can. Some of them jump up in their excitement. Man, kids are funny. I can see why McCoy looks so happy when he’s interacting with them.
“Okay, well, why don’t you all sit down, and we’ll go over the fundamentals here,” Branson says. “Now—“
“Terry?” Jackson interrupts. I think he’s trying to stop Branson from going over all the material we just covered.
“Hold on.” Branson looks at him. “Just let me take control here for a moment. All right?”
McCoy shrugs. “Knock yourself out.”
“Okay, kids, let’s talk football.”
This is where he loses half the boys. These guys are savvy. They’re picking up on some sort of tension between Branson and McCoy. The way Branson uses his massive height to hover over McCoy. I’m betting the kids side with McCoy over Branson. Just a hunch. Maybe it’s Branson’s annoying drawl?
“The object of football is to get this ball”—Branson gets one of the kids to toss him the ball—“into your opponent’s end zone for a touchdown. Now, a touchdown’s worth six points. If you get a touchdown, you get a chance to score a PAT. Point after touchdown. It’s a point-after kick through the goalposts.”
Some of the kids look bored, while the younger ones are all ears, still absorbed in Big Terry’s aura, his hero status. I take the time to check out McCoy. His glasses hide much of his expression, but his lips are flat, held tight together. He catches me looking, and instant sunshine in the form of a smile bathes me. Goddamn it. I mean-mug him and turn back to the kids. I hear him laugh. Branson, too into himself, doesn’t even notice.
“Now, you get the ball downfield through a series of downs, the ten-yard increments from the line of scrimmage where the ball and offense lines up against the defense. The defense tries to stop you. If you’re an offensive player, you have to do everything in your power to keep a play alive and make it succeed.”
“How many downs do I get?” a boy in front asks Terry.
The man gives a slight twitch, like a gnat’s buzzing around his head, and continues. “You get four downs to move the ball ten yards. If you don’t by the third down, you punt the ball on the fourth, kicking it away so the other team has to come back deep out of their own end zone. If you succeed in moving the ball on third down or on any of the downs past the line to gain, you get a first down and another chance to move the ball.”
“Terry, they—”
Branson cuts McCoy off. “You’ll get your turn.”
Jackson steps up in Branson’s grill and whispers, “I thought you were too busy for these kids.”
“I had a change of heart. Now move out of the way.”
McCoy holds his ground.
“Jacks?” Jared stands up.
“Sit down. It’s all good. We’ll scrimmage soon, okay?”
Jared nods and sits down. McCoy’s face is flushed. He’s pissed. This ought to be interesting. I’ve never seen McCoy lose his temper. I know how I’d like to see him lose it. Writhing beneath me with my dick buried in his ass.
Man, I need to quit thinking about his ass.
Branson sweeps Jackson out of his way and continues yammering at the kids. “The football field is one hundred twenty total yards. Of that, the end zones are ten yards deep. It’s set up in a grid of five-yard increments. Six feet surrounds the field, and on either side is a series of benches for the players outside that six feet. Inside the six feet is only for situational substitution players and the coaching staff. Between them is the chain gang who keeps track of the ten yards with a length of chain, and the officials who make sure the game play is legal. Then there’s nothing but field with either natural grass or artificial turf. The artificial turf is more durable, but hurts like a son of a gun.”
“What if you can’t get a touchdown?” Jared asks. There’s a tinge of mockery in his voice. I think I like this kid. Branson seems oblivious to the ridicule. Doubtful this man is used to people, let alone children, questioning him.
“If you can get close enough for one, you can split the uprights for a field goal, which is worth three points. If not, you punt it away on fourth down so the other team has to start from deep in their own territory.”
“Split the uprights?” A tiny little blond kid shifts around as if his ADHD meds have worn off.
“The goalposts are in the slingshot design with a crossbar and two uprights. Goalposts are painted yellow.”
“Those ones are white,” Jared says.
Branson stares at him. “Sometimes they’re white.”
McCoy smirks a bit, and Jared grins. He looks like a rat baring his teeth, yellowed from smoking.
“Now, if you’re at first and goal, which means you’re in the red zone and could potentially score a touchdown, you have three chances to score. Second and goal means you’ve failed once but have another shot. After third and goal, the coach has a decision to make. Does anyone know what that is?”
I shoot my hand in the air, making the kids laugh. “I know. I know.”
“Pipe down, Beaumont.”
Jared stands up. “You either kick a field goal, go for it on fourth, or you punt. Look, Jacks already taught us all this shit. Are we gonna scrimmage or not?”
Branson ignores Jared again. This guy’s just making all kinds of friends. Jared looks at me and shakes his head.
“McCoy. Beaumont. Line up and show these kids a little bump and run.”
Well, all right. I can get behind this shit. I’d love to get my hands on McCoy. Branson tells McCoy the call and waits for us to line up opposite.
“Green eighty. Green eighty,” Branson hollers. “Hut. Hut.”
McCoy explodes off the line.
Nuh-uh. Not so fast, man. I get my hands all over him. I press him. Hit his chest, which is hard, and he swings his arm down over mine, sweeping away my hand. Then he’s off downfield, running straight ahead, and I’m with him every step, my arm around his waist as he turns to look for the ball. He jumps, and I go with him, trying to get my hand between him and the ball.
Somehow that sneaky bastard snatches the ball outta the air. I drag him to the ground, landing on top of him, our breaths temporarily knocked out. The feel of his body beneath me, no pads between us, just T-shirts, jeans, and, for me, thin-ass sweats, is exhilarating. Which means I’ve got this shit bad, and I need to step back a bit. Yet I’m looking forward to the next ball to be lobbed downfield. Fuck me. I could do this all day.
“You see how Beaumont had an arm around McCoy? That’s okay as long as he doesn’t turn him away from the ball.”
“He’s trying to disrupt the play,” Jared says, clearly annoyed.
“Right. That’s called defense. It’s pass interference if Beaumont turns him or holds him or, without looking for the ball himself, prevents McCoy from completing the catch. A defensive player must be looking for the ball too, if he’s going to intercept it.”
We run a few more plays, and the kids are amped up, but they’re like a pack of monkeys wanting to take over the field. Branson just won’t let them for some reason.
Once more, Branson sends us downfield. It’s a curl route, meaning McCoy turns around and comes back to Branson for the ball. It’s a short-yardage throw, maybe twelve yards, and I hit McCoy the minute his hands are on the ball, coming over the back of him, trying to punch it out. He holds on to it, sure-handed, and rolls me into a tumble with him. He gets up grinning like a kid.
“That was fun, but we gotta get these kids out here to play.”
“Whatcha gonna do? Tell Branson to take a hike?”
“If I’ve got to, Iris.”
“I-rus! Rus, boy. Rus!”
He grins and jogs upfield, the ball still in his hand.
Damn, if he just wasn’t so pretty.
We get back to Branson, and he’s already running off at the mouth. “We have passing routes, or patterns. Hook: A tight end releases downfield and makes a turn back upfield. Post: a long pass, maybe forty yards or so, where the receiver runs a vertical route and at the last minute cuts a forty-five-degree angle toward the post.”
“A what?” asks the kid scratching his nose with one eye closed, presumably blocking out the sun. His face is screwed up in a look of confusion. These kids are cute.
“Goal post, kid. Goal post.”
“Hey, Terry,” McCoy calls.
Branson jogs over to meet us. “What?”
“I think Walt wanted you to spend more time with the other groups too. You know, spread the wealth type thing, and give other kids the benefit of your expertise.”
“Are you sure?” Branson sort of leans in to him. “I kind of wanted to talk to you later.”
“Give me a call afterward, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
“Hey, kids. Tell Mr. Branson thanks for helping out!”
“Thanks, Mister Branson,” the younger ones chime in, but Jared and a few others simply glare as Branson gives a little wave, running off to ruin someone else’s day.
“Thank God you finally ditched him,” Jared says.
I’m right there with the kid, but Jackson shuts him down. “Show him some respect. He’s a great quarterback.”
“Was a great quarterback. Because of you,” Jared says with a fair bit of disrespect toward Big Terry Branson.
Jackson grins at me, clearly entertained by their shenanigans. “We need to get these guys on the field soon.”
“What’re they all ADD?”
Jackson chuckles. “No, they’re just excited. It’s hard to sit still and listen to me explain the game, but some of these little guys are new.”
The kids are jumping around, making tons of noise. Jackson settles them down as a tall figure strides across the field. It’s Big Terry Branson, McCoy’s quarterback.
“What’s he doing here?” I ask.
Jackson turns to look and shrugs. “Don’t know. Last time I talked to him, he wasn’t going to be able to make it.”
Jackson spins around to meet up with Branson about ten yards from where the kids are sitting. They talk for a minute or so. There’s something dark in McCoy’s expression, but when he looks at me, he smiles. The smile that gets under my skin. He and Terry Branson walk up to me. I shake hands with the big man.
“Nice to see you again, Branson.”
“Yeah, sure. Who are you?”
“Terry, don’t be a dick. You know Irus Beaumont.”
I’m surprised McCoy says my name right almost as much as I’m surprised he calls Branson on being a dick.
“Oh, okay. Yeah, nice to meet you, Beaumont. You play for the Highlanders, yeah?”
“That’s right.” I bite my tongue on what I want to say but only because the kids are in earshot.
McCoy introduces Branson. Some of the kids are excited because they know Branson by reputation as the most legendary quarterback in the game. Jared’s less than thrilled. He remains unimpressed with everyone, except maybe McCoy. I get that he trusts McCoy. I just don’t get why.
“Thanks, Jackson. Hey, kids, it’s a beautiful day for football, yeah?” Branson asks.
“Yeah!” they holler as loud as they can. Some of them jump up in their excitement. Man, kids are funny. I can see why McCoy looks so happy when he’s interacting with them.
“Okay, well, why don’t you all sit down, and we’ll go over the fundamentals here,” Branson says. “Now—“
“Terry?” Jackson interrupts. I think he’s trying to stop Branson from going over all the material we just covered.
“Hold on.” Branson looks at him. “Just let me take control here for a moment. All right?”
McCoy shrugs. “Knock yourself out.”
“Okay, kids, let’s talk football.”
This is where he loses half the boys. These guys are savvy. They’re picking up on some sort of tension between Branson and McCoy. The way Branson uses his massive height to hover over McCoy. I’m betting the kids side with McCoy over Branson. Just a hunch. Maybe it’s Branson’s annoying drawl?
“The object of football is to get this ball”—Branson gets one of the kids to toss him the ball—“into your opponent’s end zone for a touchdown. Now, a touchdown’s worth six points. If you get a touchdown, you get a chance to score a PAT. Point after touchdown. It’s a point-after kick through the goalposts.”
Some of the kids look bored, while the younger ones are all ears, still absorbed in Big Terry’s aura, his hero status. I take the time to check out McCoy. His glasses hide much of his expression, but his lips are flat, held tight together. He catches me looking, and instant sunshine in the form of a smile bathes me. Goddamn it. I mean-mug him and turn back to the kids. I hear him laugh. Branson, too into himself, doesn’t even notice.
“Now, you get the ball downfield through a series of downs, the ten-yard increments from the line of scrimmage where the ball and offense lines up against the defense. The defense tries to stop you. If you’re an offensive player, you have to do everything in your power to keep a play alive and make it succeed.”
“How many downs do I get?” a boy in front asks Terry.
The man gives a slight twitch, like a gnat’s buzzing around his head, and continues. “You get four downs to move the ball ten yards. If you don’t by the third down, you punt the ball on the fourth, kicking it away so the other team has to come back deep out of their own end zone. If you succeed in moving the ball on third down or on any of the downs past the line to gain, you get a first down and another chance to move the ball.”
“Terry, they—”
Branson cuts McCoy off. “You’ll get your turn.”
Jackson steps up in Branson’s grill and whispers, “I thought you were too busy for these kids.”
“I had a change of heart. Now move out of the way.”
McCoy holds his ground.
“Jacks?” Jared stands up.
“Sit down. It’s all good. We’ll scrimmage soon, okay?”
Jared nods and sits down. McCoy’s face is flushed. He’s pissed. This ought to be interesting. I’ve never seen McCoy lose his temper. I know how I’d like to see him lose it. Writhing beneath me with my dick buried in his ass.
Man, I need to quit thinking about his ass.
Branson sweeps Jackson out of his way and continues yammering at the kids. “The football field is one hundred twenty total yards. Of that, the end zones are ten yards deep. It’s set up in a grid of five-yard increments. Six feet surrounds the field, and on either side is a series of benches for the players outside that six feet. Inside the six feet is only for situational substitution players and the coaching staff. Between them is the chain gang who keeps track of the ten yards with a length of chain, and the officials who make sure the game play is legal. Then there’s nothing but field with either natural grass or artificial turf. The artificial turf is more durable, but hurts like a son of a gun.”
“What if you can’t get a touchdown?” Jared asks. There’s a tinge of mockery in his voice. I think I like this kid. Branson seems oblivious to the ridicule. Doubtful this man is used to people, let alone children, questioning him.
“If you can get close enough for one, you can split the uprights for a field goal, which is worth three points. If not, you punt it away on fourth down so the other team has to start from deep in their own territory.”
“Split the uprights?” A tiny little blond kid shifts around as if his ADHD meds have worn off.
“The goalposts are in the slingshot design with a crossbar and two uprights. Goalposts are painted yellow.”
“Those ones are white,” Jared says.
Branson stares at him. “Sometimes they’re white.”
McCoy smirks a bit, and Jared grins. He looks like a rat baring his teeth, yellowed from smoking.
“Now, if you’re at first and goal, which means you’re in the red zone and could potentially score a touchdown, you have three chances to score. Second and goal means you’ve failed once but have another shot. After third and goal, the coach has a decision to make. Does anyone know what that is?”
I shoot my hand in the air, making the kids laugh. “I know. I know.”
“Pipe down, Beaumont.”
Jared stands up. “You either kick a field goal, go for it on fourth, or you punt. Look, Jacks already taught us all this shit. Are we gonna scrimmage or not?”
Branson ignores Jared again. This guy’s just making all kinds of friends. Jared looks at me and shakes his head.
“McCoy. Beaumont. Line up and show these kids a little bump and run.”
Well, all right. I can get behind this shit. I’d love to get my hands on McCoy. Branson tells McCoy the call and waits for us to line up opposite.
“Green eighty. Green eighty,” Branson hollers. “Hut. Hut.”
McCoy explodes off the line.
Nuh-uh. Not so fast, man. I get my hands all over him. I press him. Hit his chest, which is hard, and he swings his arm down over mine, sweeping away my hand. Then he’s off downfield, running straight ahead, and I’m with him every step, my arm around his waist as he turns to look for the ball. He jumps, and I go with him, trying to get my hand between him and the ball.
Somehow that sneaky bastard snatches the ball outta the air. I drag him to the ground, landing on top of him, our breaths temporarily knocked out. The feel of his body beneath me, no pads between us, just T-shirts, jeans, and, for me, thin-ass sweats, is exhilarating. Which means I’ve got this shit bad, and I need to step back a bit. Yet I’m looking forward to the next ball to be lobbed downfield. Fuck me. I could do this all day.
“You see how Beaumont had an arm around McCoy? That’s okay as long as he doesn’t turn him away from the ball.”
“He’s trying to disrupt the play,” Jared says, clearly annoyed.
“Right. That’s called defense. It’s pass interference if Beaumont turns him or holds him or, without looking for the ball himself, prevents McCoy from completing the catch. A defensive player must be looking for the ball too, if he’s going to intercept it.”
We run a few more plays, and the kids are amped up, but they’re like a pack of monkeys wanting to take over the field. Branson just won’t let them for some reason.
Once more, Branson sends us downfield. It’s a curl route, meaning McCoy turns around and comes back to Branson for the ball. It’s a short-yardage throw, maybe twelve yards, and I hit McCoy the minute his hands are on the ball, coming over the back of him, trying to punch it out. He holds on to it, sure-handed, and rolls me into a tumble with him. He gets up grinning like a kid.
“That was fun, but we gotta get these kids out here to play.”
“Whatcha gonna do? Tell Branson to take a hike?”
“If I’ve got to, Iris.”
“I-rus! Rus, boy. Rus!”
He grins and jogs upfield, the ball still in his hand.
Damn, if he just wasn’t so pretty.
We get back to Branson, and he’s already running off at the mouth. “We have passing routes, or patterns. Hook: A tight end releases downfield and makes a turn back upfield. Post: a long pass, maybe forty yards or so, where the receiver runs a vertical route and at the last minute cuts a forty-five-degree angle toward the post.”
“A what?” asks the kid scratching his nose with one eye closed, presumably blocking out the sun. His face is screwed up in a look of confusion. These kids are cute.
“Goal post, kid. Goal post.”
“Hey, Terry,” McCoy calls.
Branson jogs over to meet us. “What?”
“I think Walt wanted you to spend more time with the other groups too. You know, spread the wealth type thing, and give other kids the benefit of your expertise.”
“Are you sure?” Branson sort of leans in to him. “I kind of wanted to talk to you later.”
“Give me a call afterward, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
“Hey, kids. Tell Mr. Branson thanks for helping out!”
“Thanks, Mister Branson,” the younger ones chime in, but Jared and a few others simply glare as Branson gives a little wave, running off to ruin someone else’s day.
“Thank God you finally ditched him,” Jared says.
I’m right there with the kid, but Jackson shuts him down. “Show him some respect. He’s a great quarterback.”
“Was a great quarterback. Because of you,” Jared says with a fair bit of disrespect toward Big Terry Branson.
JARED: MAN I LOVE THAT KID! THIS BOOK WILL HAVE YOU HOOKED FROM PAGE ONE TRUST ME!
Michele
Micheal Rakes lives in a small town in the shadow of a big mountain.
She works as a surgical technologist assisting in the removal of
tonsils and testicles. She has three grown children, two psychotic
Egyptian Mau’s, a husband with hair down to his ass, two Harley’s,
and a ferret named Teeny Tiny Ferret Feet (husband insists her name
Little Feet, we all know he’s wrong).
Links
to reach Michele Rakes:
YOU GOTTA PUT THESE LINKS TO GOOD USE FRIENDS, YOU WILL LOVE MIKEY AS MUCH AS I DO! NOW HERE IS MY INTERVIEW WITH JACKS! TRUST ME, YOU DON'T WANT TO MISS THIS:
1. The most pressing question on my
mind Jackson, is "What did you see in Irus that made you realize
that this was more than you have ever felt before?"
His loyalty struck me hard when I came
home. Hell, even before when he called me every night while I was in
Orlando. Never had anyone pay that kind of attention to me, ya know?
We talked football. Had some great conversations that didn’t end in
me masturbating… Well, maybe a few times. It’s like once Irus
lets you in, it’s real with him, nothing fake about that man. He
loves who he loves and to hell with anyone who tries to stand in his
way. I learned that… My first lesson was hitting the ground in
practice and then seeing the look in his eyes at the hospital. The
remorse was achingly apparent.
Bec- I can totally see that about him, once you have him, you seem to have him for good :)
2. "What was the moment that you
were certain Irus wouldn't leave you because of your past?"
When I told him what happened in
Orlando, I was convinced he’d be gone, but he stayed. After
everything that happened… He stayed. I’m still not sure he won’t
leave because it’s still gonna be rough. Things aren’t over yet.
I can tell you that I’ve never met anyone with a bigger heart and
as much love as Irus Beaumont. Except maybe his auntie.
Bec- I could tell that was very hard for you to do, telling him what happened in Orlando, but I know it feels better without that dark cloud hanging overhead! Oh yes gotta love 'Auntie' :)
3." How did you feel about Kane
after you got to know him a little?"
Kane is no bullshit, right? He’s this
gentle guy who’ll smack you between the eyes if you’re not
catching on quick enough… Hehehe. I know he loves Irus, but it’s
different than how I feel about the man. I can’t breathe without
Irus, whereas Kane is much stronger than me, and does just fine with
Irus all the way across the country. In fact, I suspect he likes it
that way! Really, though, he’s been a rock for me, more so than I
ever expected him to be.
Yes, I can see Kane being a rock, he is so strong, and all he has been through has made him that much stronger, as has Garrett, I love those two together! Like you and Irus, made for each other!
4." If I had only one word I could
use to describe you it would be resilient, what would be your word to
describe yourself and why?"
Lucky. Lucky because I have talent in
football. Because I found Irus. Lucky I dug in my heels and got
traded for fighting in the Pirates’ locker room. So damn lucky to
be on a team that cares about each other. Outstanding new friends who
don’t give a shit if I love a man. All they care about is whether
or not I can catch a goddamn football.
Bec- Yes I agree, lucky is the perfect word, but you have heard the saying, we make our own luck, you certainly did! You are a great person that needed a break, and you got it!
5. "After everyone had used you
before and didn't care about your feelings, how hard was it for you
to believe Irus really felt strongly for you?"
Irus never does anything nice and easy.
His passion is palpable. He wouldn't allow me to doubt him once he
knew everything and wouldn't go away. Even when I tried to send him
home. Even when I refused to say I love you to the man, he just
wouldn’t disappear on me. He’s either incredibly loyal, or
stupid. As he keeps telling me, he uses small words so I don’t feel
inferior. Gotta love him, I guess, because he won’t go away. When a
man won’t go away, even when he sees you at your worst, bloody and
broken, then you know your dumbass better keep him. Hehehe, puking on
the field and all down the front of his jersey wasn’t enough to
scare him away. Lord knows, I tried. That boy be thick headed, as his
auntie would say!
Bec- I know you are so glad he didn't go away, it was almost a test of sorts to see how strong his feelings really were I bet, well we know now that are pre-ty strong!
6." Last one Jacks, everyone has a
release of sorts, something that releases stress and clears your
head, besides football, what would you say is yours"
Running. Taking off through the woods.
Nature. Being home, close to my mother and grandfather. And believe
it or not, sex. Even after everything I’ve been through, a rough
tussle with Irus completely relaxes me. But what’s the most fun is
dragging Irus out into the woods and watching him twitch at every
little sound. Great fun. Irus likes listening to me sing. Dougie and
the guys have been hanging around in the off season and we’ve been
jamming. The most peaceful I feel is in the mornings at the cabin.
The smell of the fire. The sound of Irus snoring. Jared barreling
through the house making a ton of noise. Mornings are the best for my
soul. Wet, sunny, or snowy. I can’t feel complete unless I’m home
with Irus and Jared.
Bec- I know I speak for everyone when I say, "It is so damn good to see you happy and at home Jacks! At peace looks real good on you!" Thanks so much for taking the time to answer my questions, it has been a blast!
I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOYED THAT INTERVIEW, I SURE ENJOYED ASKING THOSE QUESTIONS! HERE IS THE REST OF THE TOUR SCHEDULE SO YOU DON'T MISS A POST!
4/29/2015
Bike Book Reviews
4/29/2015
Drops of Ink
4/30/2015
Jill Prand
4/30/2015
MM
Good Book Reviews
5/1/2015
Bayou
Book Junkie
5/1/2015
BFD
Book Blog
5/1/2015 Sid Love
NOW FOR THE GIVEAWAY: THIS IS A GREAT ONE, CLICK THE RAFFLECOPTER PIC BELOW FOR A CHANCE TO WIN ONE OF TWO SETS OF MIKEY'S BOOKS, (SAVING KANE & FOURTH AND LONG), THERE IS ALSO A CHANCE TO WIN A $15.00 GIFT CARD, SO ENTER BELOW AND GOOD LUCK!
THANKS SO MUCH FOR JOINING ME GUYS, AND GRAB THIS BOOK IF YOU DON'T ALREADY HAVE IT, IT'S A KEEPER, AND I CAN'T WAIT FOR BOOK 3 (MY GUY MADDOX :p)! HAVE A GREAT ONE :)
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