I was trying to think
what inspired me to write Damaged Heart. I tend to like damaged characters, and
social misfits. I’m drawn to write and read about people who struggle to try
and be normal, and find love when they themselves are wounded by their upbringing.
I like to write these characters and then show them a way out.
My childhood and
adolescence had a lot of drama and angst. Not to the extreme degree that my
characters tend to grapple with, but most definitely it shaped my psyche in a
way that has never left me. It made me guarded and untrusting.
I went through plenty
of relationships where people hurt me or I hurt them. I played a lot of games
when I was younger, never really wanting to get too close to people. I still
find it hard to be really open with others until I feel I can a hundred percent
trust them.
Ultimately I found a
partner who accepts me as I am; someone who loves me unconditionally, quirks
and all. That’s something my characters will always find as well. I think happy
endings are essential for romance stories. At the very least HFN.
I’m so happy to be able
to create these characters and tell their stories to the readers out there.
Writing, and especially writing M/M, is one of the most enjoyable, satisfying
things I’ve ever done.
EXCERPT:
He picked up the boy and held him in a relaxed
manner. The miniature monster apparently didn’t freak him out in the least. “He
looks like Lydia’s kid.” The hunk looked around the restaurant and called out
to a waitress. “Is this Tyler?”
“What’s he doing out of his playpen? I’ll get
Lydia.” The waitress disappeared into the back area.
“You know, he doesn’t bite,” the stranger said,
studying me. The kid was trying to slap the man’s cheeks, and he avoided the
child’s hands deftly.
“I know for a fact he has teeth. I saw them both,” I
said, trying to regain some composure. It wasn’t easy with him standing so
close to me. His blue jeans hugged his strong legs, and he smelled like fresh
air and confidence. I wondered if his self-assurance would slip any if I flirted
with him.
“Names Rhys Tucker.” He held out his hand.
I hesitated briefly before taking it. His skin was
as warm and firm as I’d imagined, and my stomach had a little visit from some
butterflies. “Cory Johnson.”
There was obvious recognition in his gaze, but then
it was gone. “I knew that was you. We went to school together.”
“Did we?” I was certain I’d have remembered him.
Though my school days were a depressing blur, I should recall knowing someone
like Rhys.
“Briefly. You left a couple of months after I
arrived.” He swallowed, and for the first time he looked nervous. Well, not as
nervous as me, but I would take what I could get. “I was the new kid in town.
Some of the other students were assholes to me, but you were different. You
were kind.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Are you back for good?” He adjusted the cooing kid
in his arms.
I shook my head. “Oh, God no.”
He frowned. “Not a fan of Bayville?”
I shrugged. “I prefer LA.” Obviously he’d had a
different experience than I had growing up here.
A plump woman, who I assumed was Lydia, came
hurrying up to us, her worried gaze locked on the child. “Tyler, you’re driving
me nuts.” She took him from Rhys and laughed. “I’m sorry. I think he’s part
monkey.”
“No, it’s fine. He didn’t hurt anything,” Rhys
answered her. “He’s grown a bunch since I last saw him.”
Lydia hefted the kid on her hip and sighed. “He’s a
handful; that’s for sure.” She turned her apologetic gaze on me. “I’m sorry if
he interrupted your meal.”
What could I say, Thank you for that; he was pretty annoying? I decided to be polite
instead. “It’s fine. You might want to get him a piece of bread. He seemed
fixated on mine.”
“Yeah, he loves the carbs. That’s probably why he’s
so huge.” She grinned and wandered away.
I kept silent, and Rhys met my stare, continuing to
stand near me. Even with all the patrons in the bright little dining room, I
had an odd compulsion to run my hand up his firm, jean-clad thigh. I wasn’t the
kind of person who picked people up in restaurants, but I couldn’t help wishing
I was more assertive that way. It might have been nice to have someone like him
for a diversion while I was stuck here, but odds were he was straight.
“You must have kids. You seemed so relaxed with that
little…boy.” I’d almost said creature.
“I don’t have kids. But I would love to one day.” He
laughed, and the warmth of it washed over me. “I’m going to take a wild guess
you aren’t yearning for a child of your very own.”
I grimaced. “Not really.”
For some reason he wasn’t leaving. He just kept
hovering, and I was having the oddest reaction to his nearness. It almost felt
like hunger. I racked my brain; how would a normal person behave? Would it be
weird to ask him to join me? I enjoyed a flash fantasy of touching his hands,
so near to me, and stroking the fine, dark hairs on his wrist. Instead, I
sipped my soup self-consciously.
“So, you said you’re not staying permanently. But
how long are you going to be here?” he asked, apparently in no hurry to get
away.
“I’ll be here a couple of weeks for sure. Maybe
longer. My mother passed, and I’m seeing about selling the house and things
like that.”
“Yeah, I heard about your mom. My condolences.”
I didn’t say anything. I’m sure that wasn’t the
normal response, but I couldn’t seem to drum up feelings on the matter. Or
maybe I had too many feelings, and I
wasn’t capable of processing them on the spot. I only knew she’d made my life a
living hell. When I thought of her, it wasn’t grief that surged; it was anxiety
mixed with resentment. I was a grown man, but if I was honest with myself, her
death gave me a tiny bit of relief. She couldn’t hurt me anymore. I don’t know,
maybe that made me seem odd, or heartless, but the awful reality was we hadn’t
cared about each other when she was alive, so why start pretending now?
“Do you know when the funeral will be?” he asked.
I had a momentary thrill at the idea of running into
him again, but unless I was going to hold a fake burial, there would be no
opportunity for that. “She’s being cremated.”
He nodded. “Will you still have a memorial service of
some sort?”
I guess that was what the average son would do, hold
a poignant service and invite all our friends and family to wax poetic about
what a wonderful wife and mother she’d been. However, we didn’t have any
friends or family anywhere that I knew of. But most importantly Beatrice
Johnson had been a horrible, heartless bitch of a woman, and there was no
fucking way I would spend another dime or moment of my life on her memory. Not
exactly something I was going to share with Rhys.
“No.” It was, after all, the truth.
Fortunately his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he
pulled it out before sliding his thumb along its face. “Work, sorry.” He
smiled, looking back to me. “It was great seeing you again, Cory. Hopefully
I’ll see you around before you leave.” His voice was like velvet, and he
started to say something else but stopped. Then he smiled and walked away and
out of the restaurant.
~*~
BIO:
S.C. Wynne started writing m/m in 2013 and did look
back once. She wanted to say that because it seems everyone's bio says they
never looked back and, well S.C. Wynne is all about the joke. She loves writing
m/m and her characters are usually a little jaded, funny and ultimately
redeemed through love.
S.C loves red wine, margaritas and Seven and
Seven's. Yes, apparently S.C. Wynne is incredibly thirsty. S.C. Wynne loves the
rain and should really live in Seattle but instead has landed in sunny, sunny,
unbelievably sunny California. Writing is the best profession she could have
chosen because S.C. is a little bit of a control freak. To sit in her pajamas
all day and pound the keys of her laptop controlling the every thought and
emotion of the characters she invents is a dream come true.
If you'd like to contact S.C. Wynne she is amusing
herself on Facebook at all hours of the day or you can contact her at
scwynne@dslextreme.com
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