Sometimes, writing a rom-com means channeling deep emotion, exploring vulnerability, and digging into the human heart. And sometimes… it means writing two unhinged divas beating the hell out of each other with a rhinestone-encrusted purse.
This scene is one of my absolute favorites from The Naughty Professor. It’s pure chaos — cold cream, sequins, feathers, and profanity flying through the air like confetti at a drag brunch. Lux (formerly Juniper) is reborn, Velvetina Jackson is not having it, and what unfolds backstage at Badlands is nothing short of a sparkly war crime.
Grab a drink, maybe a boa, and prepare yourself for glitter-fueled violence, campy dialogue, and one of the funniest transformations I’ve ever written.
I woke up in a panic.
Everything was spinning — the lights, the ceiling, maybe my soul. I fluttered my eyelids open, and for a brief moment I imagined I had died and become a disco ball.
Then my brain rebooted.
Wait. Who was I? Where was I? Why did the floor feel like it was covered in rhinestones?
I pushed myself upright, swaying. “Okay,” I croaked. “Check for pulse. Check for dignity.”
No pulse problems. Dignity… pending results.
I looked up — and froze.
The mirror across the room reflected something tragic: black lipstick smudged like I’d made out with a chimney, raccoon eyeliner, a tangle of black and blue hair that looked like it had lost a fight with a leaf blower.
“Oh hell no,” I rasped. My reflection blinked back, equally horrified. “I am not that bitch anymore.”
Something inside me snapped, fizzed, and rewired all at once — like someone had poured espresso into my DNA. I felt awake for the first time in my life.
A grin curled across my lips. “I’m Lux.”
It came out naturally, like the name had been hiding under my tongue waiting for the right dramatic entrance.
Music thumped beyond the dressing-room door — heavy bass, a crowd screaming, and a deep masculine voice roaring, “JAX!”
I staggered to the door, cracked it open, and peeked out. There he was — gold thong, glitter and glory — Jax himself.
My muse, and the vessel that contained my creator, Dr. Sterling.
He was performing like sin in motion. The crowd adored him. Phones were flashing, hands reaching for him. I felt an ache of envy — no, not envy. Hunger.
I wanted to be out there too. To be seen, worshiped, and adored. But not looking like Siouxsie Sioux and Robert Smith’s unwanted love child.
I slammed the door and looked around for salvation. That’s when I saw it: a jar of cold cream sitting beside the mirror like a beacon from the gods of reinvention.
“Well,” I said to myself, “every resurrection starts with a deep cleanse.”
I dipped my fingers in and smeared the cool cream across my face. Black streaks slid down my cheeks in oily rivers. My eyeliner surrendered first, then the lipstick, until all that remained was… me.
And holy hell.
I leaned in. For the first time in my life, I actually saw her — wide eyes, soft mouth, cheekbones that could start small wars. No armor. No sarcasm. Just skin and light.
“Oh damn,” I whispered. “I’m this fucking hot?”
The universe, clearly amused, offered no comment.
But something was missing. No makeup, no sparkle — I looked like a clean canvas, and that just wouldn’t do. A diva without glitter is just a civilian.
I scanned the counter. Empty. Just a few lonely bowls of body glitter sparkled under the vanity lights.
Then I noticed her — sprawled on the floor like a collapsed chandelier: Velvetina Jackson, still out cold, mouth open in a perfect “O,” with one leg bent in a way that defied basic geometry.
“Sorry, sis,” I said, crouching beside her. “But desperate times call for petty crimes.”
I tried to pry her rhinestone-encrusted purse from her manicured grip, but the purse gave a stubborn little tug back.
I froze.
A low groan rose from the heap of sequins on the floor. One glitter-caked eyelid fluttered open.
“Unhand my Chanel knock-off!” Velvetina croaked. Her wig was sideways, one lash dangling like a sad tarantula on her cheek, but the menace was real.
“Oh, you’re awake,” I said brightly. “Great! Now go back to sleep.”
“Over my dead, perfectly contoured body!” She sat up with the grace of a resurrected diva, clutching the purse to her chest. “That’s Velvetina Jackson’s emergency glam kit, and I don’t share foundation shades or life advice with anybody!”
We locked eyes—predator versus glitter-addict.
I grabbed the purse and yanked. She yanked back. The purse made a noise like a dying accordion.
“Let go!” I hissed.
“Never!” she shrieked, wobbling to her feet in stilettos that could double as murder weapons.
She swung the purse like a mace. Lipsticks and false lashes went flying, a high-speed cloud of cosmetics. A compact whizzed past my ear, exploding against the mirror like a grenade of pressed powder.
“Girl!” I shouted. “Do you mind? I NEED THAT MAKEUP!”
Velvetina bared her teeth. “Nobody steals my look, baby—especially not a Hot Topic wannabe!”
“You fucking bitch!”
I lunged. She counter-lunged. We collided in a shower of sequins. For thirty glorious seconds, it was less catfight and more interpretive dance of rage—two sparkly demons tangled in a whirl of wigs, powders, and profanity.
“You fucking drama queen!” Velvetina growled. “Let go of my shit!”
She tried to choke me with her feather boa. I grabbed it mid-swing and yanked, spinning her like a glittery tornado. “You asked for drama!” I cried.
“I am drama!” she screamed back—right before tripping over her own stiletto heels.
Velvetina pinwheeled, arms flailing, and I swear time slowed down.
“Ya-a-a-as!” echoed through the room before she toppled backward into the vanity. A rain of rhinestones followed, and Velvetina Jackson went down.
Silence.
I stood there, panting, boa in one hand, purse in the other. Glitter drifted through the air like angel dust.
“Sweet dreams, queen.”
💋 The Naughty Professor officially hits all major retailers on October 16, but guess what? You don’t have to wait! It’s already live in my Cruz Publishing bookstore, where you can grab it early for just $3.99. Preorder now from the other retailers like Amazon and Kobo and lock in that price before it jumps to $4.99 on release day. This book is pure romantic-comedy chaos — glitter, lab coats, and love potions gone wrong. If you like your rom-coms sexy, smart, and a little bit unhinged (in the best way), The Naughty Professor is waiting for you right now at Cruz Publishing. 💫
I knew the moment I walked into Dr. Felix Sterling’s office that I’d found my next leading man—or at least, the messiest genius in a three-mile radius. His office was part library, part explosion, and part cry for help. Books everywhere. Three open laptops. A whiteboard covered in formulas that may or may not have been about lube viscosity.
Dr. Sterling himself was hunched behind a desk, chewing the end of a pen and looking like a gay Doogie Howser who’d aged into anxiety and never stopped pulling all-nighters.
Me: Dr. Sterling. Thanks for letting me barge into your natural habitat.
Felix: Oh! Yes! Thank you for coming. I—wait, not like that—I mean, thank you for visiting. [He shoves a pile of papers off a chair with a panicked gesture.] Please, sit down! I printed out a journal article for you but then spilled coffee on it. And ink. And possibly a chemical that makes mice fall in love.
Me: Happens to the best of us. So, you’re a tenured professor, a published researcher, and you’ve got a… very interesting extracurricular situation.
Felix:[blushes hard] If you’re referring to the, um, transformation serum, that was honestly never supposed to be public. I synthesized it during a particularly lonely Valentine’s Day. [beat] They say necessity is the mother of invention, but loneliness? She’s a wicked stepmother with a strap-on.
Me: Wow. Okay, let’s unpack that. Are you lonely?
Felix:[laughs nervously, then stops] Yes. Profoundly. I haven’t had a boyfriend. Ever. Not a real one. I mean, there was that guy from Reddit who mailed me a lock of his hair, but that doesn’t count, does it?
Me: …No. That counts in court records, not dating history.
Felix: Exactly. I’m just not… I don’t know. People don’t see me that way. I talk too fast. I care too much about obscure 18th-century aphrodisiacs. I own a custom lab coat with my D&D character embroidered on it.
Me: Sounds like husband material to me. But you did create a serum that changes your entire personality?
Felix: It’s more than that. The compound rewires neural inhibition, boosts testosterone, and hijacks frontal-lobe regulation. It unleashes the part of me that isn’t scared all the time. The part that doesn’t double-check his outgoing emails for tone. [quietly] The part people actually want.
Me: Felix. C’mon. You are the whole package. You just don’t see it.
Felix: That’s sweet of you to say, but I assure you, the only people who’ve called me “hot” were under the influence of my own synthetic aphrodisiac. And it was a peer-reviewed double-blind trial, so they didn’t technically know it was me.
Me: Felix. Babe. What if you drank the serum right now?
Felix: Oh no no no no—absolutely not. The last time I did that, I woke up with glitter in places I don’t talk about, a tattoo of a dolphin with abs, and a police citation for “inappropriate hot tub evangelism.”
Me: Exactly. That’s the kind of energy this blog needs. For the readers.
Felix: But—I—this is supposed to be a serious academic interview!
Me: This is serious. I’m seriously begging you. C’mon, just one sip. For science. For love. For the readers who like a good “nerd to thirst trap” transformation.
Felix: sighs Fine. But if I start stripping, you have to turn the recorder off. Unless it’s for Patreon content.
Me: Deal.
Felix opens a drawer and retrieves a small, glowing vial. He eyes it like it’s his worst idea and his best chance. With one last glance at me — equal parts dread and curiosity — he knocks it back like a man surrendering to fate.
He shudders. A low sound escapes him. And then… he changes.
The curve of his spine straightens. The nervous fidgeting stills. His eyes sharpen with intent. One eyebrow arches in slow, sexy defiance. The glasses come off and so does the act.
Jax: Ahhh. That’s better. [Cracks his neck, flashes a grin so smug it should be illegal.] You must be Ian. You’ve got the kind of vibe that makes a man wanna misbehave in a hotel elevator.
Me: I—okay. Hi, Jax. Welcome to the interview.
Jax: Thanks, darlin’. Felix gets all shy about this part, but I’ve got no such hang-ups. What do you wanna know? I’m an open book. A very naughty, slightly bent book.
Me: Well, people are curious. Who are you, exactly?
Jax: I’m what happens when Felix stops worrying about tenure and starts worrying about pleasure. I’m the part of him that says, “Screw the rules,” and then actually does. I like good wine, bad decisions, and kissing boys who use big words. [leans forward] Especially if they wear glasses and pretend they’re not kinky.
Me: You seem… confident.
Jax: Oh, I am. Confidence is just chemistry with better posture. I don’t waste time overthinking. I want something, I say it. I feel something, I do something. And if someone wants me? Baby, I notice.
Me: So you’re basically Felix, minus the insecurity.
Jax: Exactly. Felix is all heart and no hustle. I am the hustle. And sometimes, people need both. [pauses, then softens — just a little] He wants to be loved, you know. Not just admired for his brain. He wants someone to look at him and see him — the stammering, brilliant, lonely man who’s never quite believed he was enough. He doesn’t think he deserves to be wanted.
Me: But you do?
Jax: Oh, sweetheart. I know he does. That’s why I exist. [grins again, full heat this time] And if anyone needs convincing? I’ve got a few ideas that don’t require words. Just consent… and maybe a sturdy table.
The Naughty Professor is available to preorder now. Come fall for Felix. Try to survive Jax. And maybe discover that sometimes, the messiest love stories are the ones that actually stick. The preorder price is 3.99, and goes up to 4.99 on release day!
I wasn’t scheduled for anything else today, which meant one thing: freedom. Sweet, beautiful, no-lube-needed freedom. No studio lights, no body oil, no terrible dialogue I had to deliver while holding a plank position.
I leaned against the front desk like I had nowhere better to be, which was a lie, but a cute one. Petyr was scrolling on his phone, probably looking at tweets about union strikes or articles on OSHA violations. Dimitri had a sudoku book open, pencil tapping against the counter like it was a metronome set to “mildly annoyed Russian.”
“Another thrilling day in adult entertainment customer service,” I said, grinning. “Tell me, gentlemen… when you dreamed of escaping Soviet oppression, is this what you pictured? Lube shipments and call sheet drama?”
Petyr snorted. “Back then, I dreamed of eating a sandwich without standing in a line for three hours.”
“Dream big,” I said.
Dimitri didn’t look up from his puzzle. “At least this job comes with free coffee. Even if it tastes like sadness and broken promises.”
I laughed. They were both like that—sharp, dry, impossible to rattle. They were also disgustingly in love. It had been what, decades now? Since before I was born, probably. Every time I caught them sneaking little glances at each other or making dirty old man jokes, part of me wanted to roll my eyes… but a bigger part of me just… wanted.
I wasn’t used to that feeling. Most of the time, I was perfectly fine just floating. Hookups, jokes, nights on stage with a mic in my hand, making people laugh so they didn’t notice I was deflecting my loneliness like a human pinball machine. Love was for other people. People with stable home lives and functional trust issues.
But watching Dimitri scribble in his sudoku while Petyr tilted his phone toward him to share some meme, and seeing the way they smiled at each other like it was all still new? Damn. I wanted that. Someday. Maybe.
If I didn’t die of sarcasm poisoning first.
I was about to say goodbye and head out when the phone on the desk rang. Dimitri picked up, still holding his pencil like he was ready to stab something if this was another spam caller. “Boys On Film, how can I direct your… oh. It’s you.” His whole tone shifted. “Yes, sir. He’s standing right here.” Then he held the receiver toward me like it was radioactive.
“It’s the boss.”
I blinked. “Jack?”
Dimitri nodded. “Da.”
I grabbed the phone, a little confused. Jack never called me directly unless it was about a scene. “Nico Steele, local legend, speaking.”
Jack’s voice crackled on the line. “Cute. Listen, I need you to come to the production meeting. Conference room. Ten minutes.”
I frowned. “Production meeting? Why? I’m not a producer. Or a director. Or even emotionally stable enough to be in that room.”
“You’ll understand when you get there,” Jack said. Then he hung up.
I lowered the phone slowly. “Well. That’s not ominous at all.”
“Good luck,” Petyr said, already back to doom scrolling.
Dimitri winked. “If there are bagels, bring me one.”
I headed toward the conference room, curiosity buzzing in my chest like a bad caffeine hit. This was weird. What did Jack want me there for? Was I in trouble? Was I getting fired? Promoted? Canceled?
Right as I turned the corner near the makeup suite, I almost collided with… oh no.
Bradley.
He was limping like a war survivor. Moving like every joint hurt. And his face… Jesus. The area around his eyebrows was an angry, blistering red. Like he’d lost a fight with a glue gun.
I winced in sympathy. “Dude… you okay?”
Bradley just shook his head, slow and defeated. His eyes were wide and glassy, like he’d just seen the face of God, and it was wearing a waxing apron.
“Eyebrows?” I guessed, nodding at his scorched forehead zone.
He gave me a barely there nod. His mouth opened like he wanted to speak, but no words came out. Just air and trauma.
I wanted to hug him. Which was new. Physical affection wasn’t usually my default setting. But there was something about the way he looked right then. Like a kicked puppy who’d been dumped in a rainstorm, that tugged at something soft in my chest.
Before I could act on the impulse, he mumbled, “I’m supposed to meet Jack and Liam for… something. A meeting.”
My ears perked up. “Wait. No way. Me too. Come on, just follow me.”
Bradley hesitated, like he didn’t trust the universe anymore. Which was fair, but he limped after me, anyway.
And as we headed toward the conference room, side by side, something in my stomach did a weird little somersault. Like… anticipation. Or dread. Or… something else I couldn’t name yet.
Bradley shuffled next to me like a condemned man heading toward the firing squad. Every step looked like it hurt. Hell, even watching him walk hurt.
I kept glancing sideways at him, debating whether to put an arm around his shoulders. Would that be weird? Too much? Too soon? Probably. But… damn. The poor guy looked like he’d been through a full season of America’s Next Top Traumatized Porn Star.
We hit the hallway leading toward the conference room. Carpeted, quiet, the kind of corporate ambiance that screamed “free coffee and passive aggression.”
Bradley cleared his throat. “Do you… uh… do you know what this meeting’s about?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Jack was super evasive. Real ‘I’ll tell you when you get there’ energy. Like a horror movie, but with worse lighting.”
Bradley sighed. “Awesome.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, just loud enough for me to hear, he muttered, “Can’t even sit down…”
I glanced over. “Wait. Why?”
He stopped walking. Turned toward me. His eyes were shiny, like actual tears pooled up along the lower lids.
And in the most broken, betrayed voice imaginable, he said, “That crazy old lady… bleached my asshole.”
I froze. My brain short-circuited. Like, full system reboot.
My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
And then, before I could talk myself out of it, I opened my arms wide. “Oh, buddy… come here.”
Bradley didn’t even hesitate. He stepped right into my chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I wrapped him up in both arms, pulled him tight… and immediately regretted how hard I squeezed when he made a tiny, wounded noise and whispered, “Ow… my back…”
“Shit, sorry.” I loosened my grip fast, hands going soft on his shoulders. “Forgot about the… uh… full body trauma.”
We laughed, both of us quick and awkward, and then kept walking.
When we pushed open the conference room door, the full cast of characters were already mid-salad. Laura, Liam, Jack, Nessa, and Moira were all sitting around like the judges’ panel on some adult industry version of Shark Tank. Coffee cups were everywhere. Half-eaten chopped salads. Nessa had her phone out like she was live-tweeting Bradley’s suffering.
Jack looked up first. “Grab some food and have a seat.”
There was a buffet spread along the back wall. Sandwiches. Fruit. A giant bowl of mixed greens that looked like sadness coated with dressing.
Bradley made a beeline for the farthest end of the table, keeping his distance from anything leafy.
I drifted behind him, watching the way Nessa’s eyes lit up when she spotted him. Like a cat that discovered a bird with a broken wing.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I muttered under my breath. I parked myself next to him at the buffet line, close enough to block her line of attack.
Bradley hovered awkwardly over the food, looking like none of it made sense to him. Like he wasn’t sure if eating would make the pain better or worse.
Trying to cheer him up, I nudged his shoulder. “You know what helps after a traumatic cosmetic experience?”
He glanced at me, wary. “What?”
“Carbs. Lots and lots of carbs. Bagels are nature’s apology letter.”
That got him. A tiny, reluctant laugh broke out of him. Soft but real. His first actual smile since I’d seen him.
And wow.
Hearing that sound, God. It hit me right in the chest. Made me want to hear it again. Immediately.
So I kept going.
I grabbed a sandwich and held it up like I was a game show model showing off a prize. “This one’s got turkey and provolone. Full of healing properties. Also, I’m pretty sure eating it will reverse the psychological damage caused by Lola’s… services.”
Bradley’s laugh got a little louder. “Not sure that’s medically accurate.”
“Oh, I don’t do medical accuracy,” I said, grinning. “I do emotional support and poor decisions.”
He smiled down at the sandwich tongs like they were suddenly the funniest thing he’d ever seen.
We were still standing there, giggling over deli meats, when Jack cleared his throat.
Both of us turned toward the table.
Everyone—and I mean everyone—was staring at us.
Laura had one eyebrow raised, like she was mentally taking notes. Liam was biting back a smirk. Moira had gone into full gossip-mode, sipping her coffee slowly like she was watching a soap opera. And Nessa… Nessa looked like Christmas had come early.
Jack gave us a look that said “Anytime, gentlemen.”
Sheepishly, Bradley and I grabbed our food and hustled to two empty chairs side by side.
As we sat down—Bradley gingerly, like every surface was made of hot coals—I stole one last glance at him.
He was still red around the eyebrows. Still moving like he needed medical leave. Still adorable in that whole wounded-animal sort of way.
I didn’t know what this meeting was about.
But I suddenly didn’t mind being here at all.
Jack cleared his throat again. “Alright. Let’s call this meeting to order…”
And with that, we were off.
Jack cleared his throat again, tapping a pen against the table like he was warming up for a TED Talk. “First off… Nico.”
I blinked. “Me?”
Jack nodded, giving me a rare, genuine smile, the kind he usually reserved for Liam or big subscriber milestones. “We want to thank you for trusting us with your comedy career. It means a lot. We’re gonna work our asses off to make sure you’re a success.”
My stomach did this weird, flippy thing. “Wow. Thanks, boss.” I gave him a little salute. “I like the sound of ‘success.’ Sounds expensive.”
The table chuckled.
Nessa leaned forward, her huge acrylic nails tapping against her iced coffee like castanets. “And speaking of expensive… your management contract’s ready.” She pointed at me, all sly grin and Bronx attitude. “After this meeting, I’ll give it to you to look over.”
Liam immediately jumped in, waving a forkful of salad for emphasis. “And get an entertainment lawyer to review it. Seriously.”
I gave him a thumbs-up. “Obviously. I like to know exactly how I’m selling my soul.”
“Good man,” Liam said.
Jack set his pen down with a little clap against the table. “Okay. Now, for the real reason, we’re all here.”
Everyone shifted in their chairs. Moira put down her phone. Even Laura sat up straighter.
Jack gestured toward Nessa like he was passing a live grenade. “Ness, you wanna explain?”
Nessa beamed like it was Christmas morning and she’d just unwrapped a pair of Louboutins. “Absolutely.” She flipped open her notebook and pushed her sunglasses up onto her head like a Wall Street executive, if Wall Street executives wore hoop earrings and hot pink lipstick.
“So. Earlier today, I had a visit from a group of Japanese businessmen.” She gave a dramatic pause, letting that sink in. “They’re here in the States for some kind of… tech conference? Anyway, they found our site, watched a few of our videos, and they want to hire us, Boys On Film, to produce a custom scene for them.”
Laura blinked. “Wait… an outside contract? Like… an actual commission job?”
Nessa nodded. “Yep. Fully funded. Their production company wired over the deposit already.”
There was a collective buzz of excitement around the table. This was big. Like… real-world, industry-recognized big.
“They’ve offered…” Nessa flipped a page for dramatic effect. “…almost two hundred thousand dollars for the project.”
The entire room went silent.
Even Jack looked like he might faint.
For about three full seconds, the only sound was Moira’s straw sucking the last inch of coffee from her cup.
Then, all at once…
“Two hundred K?!”
“Holy shit.”
“Are you serious?”
I just sat there blinking. Even Bradley—poor traumatized, still-pink Bradley—looked like he was having a mild out-of-body experience.
Liam held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Okay, hold on. This all sounds amazing, but… what exactly are we making for them?”
Jack smirked. “Glad you asked.”
All eyes swung back to Nessa. She bit her lower lip, clearly savoring the buildup like it was dessert.
“When I heard what they wanted,” she said, voice syrupy with fake innocence, “the first person I thought of… was Bradley.”
Everyone turned.
Bradley froze like a deer caught in very judgmental headlights.
“Wait, what? Why me?” His voice cracked halfway through.
“Yeah… why Bradley?” Liam asked, glancing between them.
Nessa clapped her hands once. “Because the project is… drumroll please…”
Moira tapped on the table obligingly.
“…a gay bukkake video.”
The room went dead silent again.
I felt my pulse kick up, suddenly wide awake. “Okay wait… I’ve heard that word before… but I don’t actually know what it is.” I looked around the room like I was expecting someone to say it meant “group hug” or “team-building exercise.”
Laura gasped like I’d just admitted to not knowing how to use Google. “Oh, my God. No. Are you sure we wanna go there? Boys On Film’s never done something that hardcore before!”
Nessa waved her off like she was swatting at a fly. “Laura, sweetie, did you not hear me? Two. Hundred. Grand.”
That shut everyone up again.
I mean… we were all whores in different ways. But two hundred thousand dollars? That was… retirement money. Health insurance money. Rent-for-a-few years money.
Liam gave Jack a look. “We’ve… never done anything like this before.”
Jack’s expression stayed cool and calculating. “We’ll figure it out.”
I raised my hand like I was back in high school. “Okay, but like… what is it, though? Someone explain for the people in the room who don’t have a porn PhD.”
Moira snorted into her coffee.
Nessa smiled at me sweetly. “It’s simple, baby. One guy kneels on the floor… and a bunch of other guys… finish on him.”
My brain took about five full seconds to process that.
I turned to Bradley just in time to see all the color drain from his face like a cartoon character fainting.
He pushed back from the table like he was about to make a run for it. “Hell no,” he said. Loud and immediate. “Absolutely not. There’s no way I’m letting a bunch of guys jizz all over me. No. Nope. Not happening.”
I kind of wanted to applaud. The man had conviction.
Jack leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, that signature wicked grin spreading across his face. “Would you do it… for twenty thousand bucks?”
Bradley froze mid-freakout.
I could practically see the math happening behind his eyes. Rent. Debt. Food. Survival.
He swallowed hard.
And then, after the most painful, reluctant pause in history, he said, voice both soft and doomed:
“Yes. Yes, I’ll do it.”
Heads up, babes! The Casting Couch is officially up for preorder at your favorite online bookstore—and trust me, you’ll want to lock it in early. The preorder price is just $4.99, but it jumps to $5.99 on release day, July 17. That’s one hot dollar saved—use it to tip your favorite fantasy or buy a pack of gum for the awkward scenes. Either way, grab your copy now and get ready for a hilarious, steamy ride full of ex-cons, adult film chaos, and one seriously complicated crush. 💋
When I start a new story, side characters come to life almost as naturally as the main ones do. They add color, balance, and a deeper sense of reality to the world my protagonists inhabit. In Money Shot, my upcoming novel in the Boys On Film series, one character has really captured my imagination (and, I hope, will capture yours too): Vanessa “Nessa” Martinez.
Why Side Characters Matter
Side characters aren’t just there to fill space; they’re essential to making a story feel whole. They provide the friction, humor, and contrast that allow main characters to reveal hidden parts of themselves. Think of them as the characters who will say or do the things that the main characters wouldn’t—or couldn’t. They’re bold, unpredictable, and real. They also play another crucial role by grounding the story. In Money Shot, for instance, Liam and Jack’s emotional journey is intense and deeply personal, but it’s through Nessa’s eyes that the larger themes of friendship, loyalty, and love are often brought into focus.
Meet Nessa Martinez: The Heart of Money Shot
Nessa isn’t just any side character; she’s one of those people who steals the scene every time she appears. She’s the building manager for the upscale (yet slightly chaotic) New York apartment building where Liam and Jack live. Nessa has seen it all in her years on the job, and she isn’t shy about sharing her wisdom, whether it’s solicited or not. With a signature cherry-red bob, killer heels, and an unapologetically New York attitude, Nessa brings warmth, humor, and a touch of motherly interference to her relationships with Liam and Jack.
But Nessa’s importance goes beyond her quirky personality. She becomes a maternal figure to these young men, two friends grappling with financial strains, career setbacks, and complicated feelings for each other. Nessa is often the first to see what they’re blind to in themselves. She has a natural gift for reading people, and her intuition is spot-on when it comes to recognizing the spark between Liam and Jack—even before they’re ready to acknowledge it.
Comic Relief with a Purpose
One of my favorite things about writing Nessa was the freedom to let her be herself—funny, nosy, a little loud, and always with a clever comeback. Side characters like her provide an essential release valve in stories that tackle heavier themes. As Money Shot delves into Liam and Jack’s complicated relationship, Nessa’s moments of comic relief keep the tone balanced. And her insights, often wrapped in humor, help them see the humor in their own situations and not take themselves too seriously.
The Side Characters Who Stay with Us
Ultimately, side characters like Nessa are about connection. We may not always remember every detail about a story’s plot, but the side characters who make us laugh, cringe, or feel seen often stay with us the longest. In Money Shot, Nessa’s larger-than-life personality and unfiltered love for her “boys” add layers to the story, turning moments of vulnerability into ones of strength and making the romance richer and more real.
So when you dive into Money Shot, I hope you’ll fall for Liam and Jack’s love story—and that you’ll find a little piece of yourself in Nessa’s fierce loyalty, humor, and unbreakable spirit. Side characters may not be in the spotlight, but for me, they’re as essential to the story as the main characters are. I can’t wait for you to meet Nessa and experience all the ways she keeps Liam and Jack on their toes! Money Shot is a gay romantic comedy and is releasing this December.
If you’re a fan of classic romantic comedies, you might remember the delightful 1941 film “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” directed by Alfred Hitchcock. Yes, you read that right—Hitchcock, the master of suspense, took a surprising detour into the world of screwball comedy with this gem starring Carole Lombard and Robert Montgomery. The story of a couple who discover their marriage isn’t legally valid struck a chord with me and inspired my novel, “Suddenly Single.”
In “Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” the comedic chaos that ensues after the couple learns their marriage certificate is a dud provides the perfect blend of humor and heart. The movie’s playful take on love, commitment, and the trials of marital life got me thinking about the concept of sudden singleness and its impact on relationships.
That’s where the idea for “Suddenly Single” came from. I wanted to explore what happens when life throws an unexpected curveball at a seemingly stable couple. The novel delves into the lives of Asher Bartholomew Yates and Carter Camden Yates, who must navigate the emotional rollercoaster of discovering they aren’t legally married and the personal growth that comes from such a revelation.
Asher comes from one of the first families of Virginia and has just made partner in the family law firm. He went to the right schools, belongs to the right clubs, and like his peers, is happily married—most of the time. The love of his life, Carter, is a handful on the best of days, but Carter’s unwavering devotion and unpredictable antics ensure he will always have Asher’s heart.
Carter is the most successful interior designer in Richmond and is married to an up-and-coming lawyer who looks perfect on his arm. His talents are as colorful as his personality, and he’s the star of any room he enters. He loves Asher more than life itself and hasn’t once regretted getting married.
Out of the blue, a legal mixup jeopardizes everything. After three years of ups and downs, the couple discovers they’re not legally wed. Will this bombshell tear them apart, or will true love win once and for all?
Adding to the chaos is their crazy family: an alcoholic mother, a deranged maid, and a stoner old lady, who all bring their own flavor of drama and humor to the mix. Carter’s theatrical reactions and Asher’s attempts to maintain sanity create a whirlwind of laughs and touching moments.
“Suddenly Single” is the third book in the Southern Discomfort series. It is a gay romantic comedy filled with sweet tea and sour words, served alongside men discovering their deepest desires. This novel has it all: a couple on the rocks, a second chance at happiness, and a love that refuses to die. So relax on your porch swing with a mint julep and a slice of pecan pie, and enjoy the journey to true love.
Ian O. Lewis and Luke Jameson 