Every June, we celebrate Pride—not just love, but resistance, survival, and the ongoing fight to be seen. For many of us, Pride is glitter and parades. But for others—especially in history—it was silence, code words, and stolen moments in the dark.
In writing The Fire Beneath the Frost, I kept thinking about how many love stories never got told. Queer people in the Soviet Union were criminalized, brutalized, erased. And yet—they loved. They found ways.
The USSR and LGBTQ Identity: Erasure as Policy
In 1934, Stalin criminalized male homosexuality under Article 121 of the criminal code. It stayed on the books until 1993—two years after the Soviet Union collapsed. Men convicted under this law were imprisoned, often subjected to forced labor, “corrective” rape, and blackmail. It wasn’t just the law—it was the culture. LGBTQ identity was painted as bourgeois deviance or Western corruption. It was considered anti-Soviet to live as your full self.
Women weren’t criminalized in the same way, but not because the USSR was enlightened. Lesbians simply didn’t exist in the official record. The state erased them by pretending they weren’t real—denying visibility, dignity, and identity.
To survive, queer people went underground. Literally, sometimes. Secret clubs. Nicknames. One glance across a room that could change your life—or end it.
Love, Hidden and Burning
In The Fire Beneath the Frost, Dimitri and Petyr live through the final gasps of the USSR. One is a soldier returned from Afghanistan, broken and trying to find himself. The other is a married man working in a government-run factory, holding secrets behind a smile. They fall in love not in spite of the world they live in—but because of it. They are each other’s breath of freedom.
Their love is tender, messy, forbidden—and absolutely real. Just like the love stories that were never recorded, never spoken of, never celebrated during Soviet times. TFBTF is fiction, but it’s rooted in truth. In the hidden history of our queer elders. In the resilience of love when it has to bloom in the cracks.
Pride as Protest—and as Memory
Pride Month is about more than visibility. It’s about honoring those who couldn’t be visible. Those who had to code their feelings in poetry and posture. Who were arrested, or exiled, or forced into marriages they didn’t want. Who died before they ever got to say, “I love him,” out loud.
And it’s about reclaiming that space. Saying the quiet things boldly. Writing books like The Fire Beneath the Frost, where two Soviet men fall in love, lose each other, and—decades later—find their way back.
Because sometimes Pride means remembering what it took to get here. And who never got to come along.
If You’ve Ever Loved in Silence
This one’s for you.
For the boy who wore his sister’s scarf in the mirror and got slapped. For the girl who married a man because she didn’t see any other way. For the soldier who kissed his lover once, in a snowy alley, and never again. For the artist whose paintings were burned. For the factory worker who felt everything and said nothing.
For all the hidden stories—The Fire Beneath the Frost is a love letter to you.
Preorder your copy of The Fire Beneath The Frost today from your favorite online retailer. It releases on 12 June, 2025.
I held out my hand in the dark. The flickering credits lit Dimitri’s face in pulses—white, then shadow, then white again. He stared at my open palm like it might bite him.
I said nothing. I didn’t need to. He understood what I was offering. Not just help from the creaky velvet seat, but something else. A question I couldn’t speak aloud.
After a long second—two, maybe three—Dimitri slid his hand into mine. His skin was warm. Warmer than I expected, and dry like paper in winter. I tightened my grip and lifted him to his feet.
And then I let go.
We shuffled down the narrow aisle with the other filmgoers, coats rustling like dry leaves, boots scraping the cracked tile floor. I kept my hands jammed in my coat pockets, fingers still tingling from that brief, stupid, beautiful contact.
Outside, the cold wrapped around us like a punishment. The night air smelled like burnt coal and wet stone. My breath came out in ghosts. I couldn’t look at Dimitri. Not directly. Not yet.
The streets were mostly empty—too late for commuters, too early for the drunks. A trolley clattered past on the far side of the square, its windows steamed up, casting yellow light like a terrible memory.
I should’ve left it there. Should’ve said goodnight, gone home to a mug of watery tea, and tried to pretend that a man like Dimitri never would have taken my hand in the dark. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what I saw in the restroom earlier.
He was leaning against the cracked porcelain sink, with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Sergei. One of the old guard from Sanctuary. He nodded when he saw me and said nothing—but I knew what that meant.
“Is it still there?” I asked him casually, like I was asking about the price of eggs.
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me, eyes sharp. Then: “No. Moved last week. Same password. Bathhouse on Kirochnaya, three blocks from here.”
I barely had time to thank him before he stubbed out the cigarette on the sink and vanished like smoke.
And now here I was, walking with Dimitri, who might ruin everything.
If I was wrong—if I’d imagined the way he looked at me, the way he sat just a little too close in the cinema—then this was suicide.
If I was wrong, he could report me. One anonymous phone call to the wrong party official and I’d disappear like that cigarette smoke. Not just me, either. Every man at Sanctuary, every man who ever trusted me.
I had Vera, thank God. She could say all the right things. She could cry on cue. Our neighbors loved her. She’d never crack.
But if Dimitri ever found out that she and I were fake—just a pair of ghosts in a frame—then I’d be out of alibis. And Vera… she didn’t deserve to go down with me.
I couldn’t tell him. I wouldn’t tell him. If this night led to anything—if it became a story instead of a mistake—I’d tell him Vera didn’t know a thing. I’d lie through my teeth to keep her safe.
We walked in silence. Our boots crunched on the old frost. The bathhouse loomed just a couple of blocks ahead, abandoned by the city but reborn by us. Its windows were dark. Always dark.
Halfway there, Dimitri stopped walking.
“What is Sanctuary?” he asked.
My heart made a noise I didn’t care for. Not a beat, no, something worse. Like a hinge breaking.
I turned toward him. Dimitri looked serious. Not angry. Not frightened. Just… wary. Like someone listening to a song he didn’t know the words to.
And that was the moment. The moment to turn around, to say “Forget it, let’s get a drink,” to laugh it off like it was a joke.
But I looked at him, like I really looked at him. And something in his face, his eyes, maybe, or the way he tilted his chin like he expected pain, made me want to put my hands on his shoulders and promise him everything would be okay. Even if it wouldn’t.
“It’s a club,” I breathed. “A secret one. Very exclusive.”
He frowned. “For what?”
I exhaled, fog billowing between us.
“For men,” I said. “Like ourselves.”
He blinked. “Like—what do you mean?”
I didn’t answer. Just started walking again, slowly. He followed.
I didn’t know if that meant Dimitri understood, or if he just didn’t want to be left alone on the street. Maybe both.
Each step closer to the bathhouse felt like a countdown. To what, I wasn’t sure. Salvation, or exposure. Either way, I’d know by the end of the night.
The old bathhouse loomed like a relic of some forgotten empire, all crumbling stone and ironwork detail blackened by years of soot and cold. The windows had been boarded up long ago, and the glass that remained was warped and yellowed like old teeth.
As we approached, I spotted a man lingering just to the side of the main entrance. Heavy coat, fur hat pulled low, cigarette glowing between his fingers. I knew his face. Mikhail, or maybe it was Milosz—names were slippery here, rarely used.
I nodded once. “Where’s the entrance tonight?”
He didn’t speak, just jutted his chin toward the alley that snaked down the left side of the building.
“Thanks,” I muttered, and led Dimitri down the narrow passageway.
The alley was quiet, shielded from the wind, but no warmer for it. A rusted drainpipe dripped somewhere behind us. Halfway down, we found the door—plain wood, painted gray, with a handle that looked like it had been yanked off an industrial freezer.
I knocked. Once, then twice, then once again. The rhythm, like always.
It opened a crack. A man with sharp cheekbones and a shaven head peered out, face cast in shadow.
“Who sent the invitation?” he asked.
I didn’t hesitate. “The conductor’s baton,” I said.
He nodded, unimpressed. “Two rubles each.”
Of course. I pulled my hand from my pocket and handed him a folded bill. He took it, inspected it like it might be counterfeit, then swung the door open wider and stepped aside.
“Welcome to Sanctuary,” he muttered.
We stepped inside.
The first thing that hit me was the heat. Not just warmth—heat. The kind that made you want to rip off your coat and shirt and skin. It smelled like old steam, sweat, cigarettes, and the ghost of something floral—someone had brought cologne, bless them.
The lights were dim, with low-watt amber bulbs that made everyone look better than they were. The ceilings were high, still arched, like in the days when men came here to sweat out their sins. Cracked tiles lined the floor, and the walls were flaking paint in pastel shades of green and blue.
There were maybe twenty, thirty men. Some milling about in twos and threes, talking in low voices. Others leaned against the walls like they were part of the furniture. At the far end of the room was a bar—more of a table with bottles on it, but it did the job. A mirror hung crookedly behind it, and a fan turned lazily above, doing absolutely nothing.
“I’ll get the first round,” Dimitri said suddenly.
I blinked at him. “What?”
“You paid to get us in.” His jaw was set like he was volunteering for the front line. “Let me get the drinks.”
I didn’t argue.
We approached the bar, and the bartender, a man who looked like he’d lived through several regimes and hated all of them, eyed us with suspicion before grunting. Dimitri ordered vodka. Two shots. The genuine kind, not the potato-flavored turpentine they served in worker bars.
The bartender slammed the glasses down and swept the money away before we could blink.
We took our drinks and started walking. I didn’t lead. I let Dimitri take it in, his eyes darting to the shadows, the alcoves, the archways that once led to changing rooms and now led to secrets.
That was when he stopped.
He froze mid-step. Glass still in hand.
I turned to follow his gaze.
In the far corner, half-hidden behind a concrete column and a threadbare curtain, two men stood very close. One pressed the other against the wall, his hand buried in the other’s hair. Their mouths moved together, slow and hungry, like they had all the time in the world.
Dimitri stared. He didn’t blink. His jaw slackened just slightly.
I said nothing.
The noise of the room fell away. It always did in moments like this, when the rest of the world didn’t matter. Only the breath between us. The beat of a heart. The truth rising up from somewhere too deep to deny.
I took a breath. Held it.
Then, with all the calm I didn’t feel, I reached for his hand.
He didn’t look at me. Not yet. He stared at my hand like it was something that might explode.
Then Dimitri looked up.
His eyes—God, those eyes—widened, not in fear, but in recognition. Something clicked. Some ancient lock deep in his chest finally gave way.
And then, slowly, he slid his hand into mine.
It was warm. Steady.
I wanted to shout out loud and drag him out onto the cracked tile floor and dance until our boots fell apart. I wanted to kiss him right there, just to prove I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. But I didn’t do any of those things.
Instead, I just squeezed his hand.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I hadn’t been wrong.
I didn’t say a word as I led him away from the soft murmur of voices and the flickering amber bulbs. Just tightened my grip on his hand and walked, careful not to rush, careful not to let go.
There was a quiet alcove off to the side, half-shielded by an old shower curtain still hanging from a bent rod. The tiles back here were chipped worse than the rest, the air damp with ghostly memories of water and steam. It was far enough from the others to feel hidden, but not so far as to feel dangerous.
We stopped.
I turned to face him, and he looked at me like I had just pulled him underwater. His eyes searched mine, restless, unsure whether to fight or surrender.
We still held our drinks.
“To surviving another week of blankets,” I said, trying for humor, but my voice cracked halfway through.
He blinked. Then nodded, and we both tipped back our vodka. It hit like fire and smoke.
Dimitri lowered his glass and stared at it for a long moment.
Then, in the quietest voice I’d ever heard from him, he asked, “Why did you bring me here?”
His voice trembled. Not with fear, at least not only that, but with something heavier. Hope, maybe. Or a longing that hadn’t yet found a place to land.
I took the glass from Dimitri’s hand and set it down beside mine on the low ledge. Then I stepped forward, into the small pocket of space between us.
He didn’t move.
I reached up, rested my fingers on his jaw, and saw his throat jump as he swallowed.
“Because I couldn’t keep pretending,” I said, my voice low. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you might taste like.”
And then I kissed him.
There was no music. No crescendo of violins or clamor of trumpets—just the wet click of our lips and the pounding of my heart, too loud in my own ears.
He gasped into my mouth, like he’d forgotten how to breathe until now.
It wasn’t a perfect kiss. Our noses bumped, and my hand shook a little, and I felt him trembling beneath his coat like a storm just starting. But when he kissed me back, God, when he kissed me back, it was like the world cracked open.
I broke away first, only because I had to. Because if I didn’t, I was going to fall apart right there.
We were both breathing hard. Not like men who had climbed stairs, but like men who’d been holding their breath their whole lives and had finally exhaled.
“This,” I said softly, brushing my thumb against his cheek. “This is why I brought you here.”
Dimitri blinked, dazed. “Because of the kiss?”
I nodded. “Because of everything leading up to it.”
And Dimitri kissed me again.
This time, there was nothing gentle about it. It was hunger and terror, and his hands clutched at my coat like he was afraid I might disappear. I pressed him back against the cold tile wall and gave him everything I had.
We broke apart, panting, eyes locked. Every part of me felt like it was sparking.
There was a pause. Long. Heavy. Beautiful.
Then Dimitri whispered, “What happens next?”
Preorder your copy of The Fire Beneath The Frost from your favorite online bookstore now.
There’s something radical about writing queer romance in a world that doesn’t want it to exist. That’s especially true when the world in question is the crumbling Soviet Union, and the lovers are two men who can barely speak the truth out loud, much less live it.
In The Fire Beneath the Frost, I tell the story of Dimitri and Petyr, two factory workers in late-Soviet Leningrad who fall in love under the grinding weight of silence, shame, and survival. They work side by side producing endless rows of scratchy green wool blankets—function over comfort, just like everything else in their lives. And yet, amid the roar of the looms and the stink of machine oil, something tender takes root. Something dangerous. Something warm.
And then they touch.
Writing high-heat romance in this kind of setting isn’t just a challenge—it’s a statement. These aren’t just sex scenes. They’re acts of defiance. They’re love letters in code. They’re the only time Dimitri and Petyr can fully be themselves in a world that insists they don’t exist.
Queer sex in fiction—especially historical fiction—is often a risky proposition. Too many stories fall into tragedy, where sex becomes a symbol of downfall or shame. But I wanted to do something different in TFBTF. I wanted their intimacy to be a lifeline. A place where they could fall apart and be whole at the same time. Yes, it’s erotic. Yes, it’s explicit. But above all, it’s about survival. Emotional survival. Identity survival. Love, scraped raw and held close like contraband.
There’s one scene I keep coming back to as I write. Something terrible has happened—something Dimitri couldn’t control. And Petyr, understanding exactly what kind of pain Dimitri is carrying, offers himself up. “Take it out on me.” It’s not a simple line. It’s a confession, a dare, and a door flung wide. What follows is sex that teeters on the edge of violence and collapses into safety. It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. It’s not what they’re supposed to have, but it’s what they do have—and it’s theirs.
Writing these moments isn’t just about heat for heat’s sake. It’s about showing that queer people have always found ways to express love and desire, even when the world is cold, repressive, and watching. It’s about saying that we’ve always been here, burning quietly, even when history tried to bury us under wool and silence.
If that kind of love story speaks to you—if you’ve ever longed for queer romance that aches, that fights, that burns hot against the cold—then I invite you to meet Dimitri and Petyr.
You can preorder your copy of The Fire Beneath the Frost now from your favorite online bookstore. Trust me: their love might be forbidden, but once you feel the heat, you won’t forget it.
If you’ve read any of my books, you know I love a good slow burn. I’ll keep you simmering in longing for 200 pages and then toss in one soul-shattering kiss that knocks your emotional teeth out. But with The Fire Beneath the Frost, I took a different approach.
This one’s hot. Like secret-touching-in-a-factory-bathroom-while-the-USSR-collapses hot.
Yeah. That kind of heat.
Why turn up the temperature?
Because repression demands release. The Fire Beneath the Frost is about two men—Dimitri and Petyr—living under one of the most brutally anti-queer governments in modern history. Every glance is risky. Every touch is treason. So when they do give in to their desire, it’s not just sex—it’s defiance. It’s freedom. It’s the only language they have left to say, “I see you. I want you. I won’t let this world erase you.”
There’s a pivotal moment halfway through the book (you’ll know it when you read it) where the sex is rough, desperate, and almost violent—not because they want to hurt each other, but because they’re both hurting so much. Writing that scene tore me open. But I needed to show that intimacy can be messy, painful, and still sacred.
Is this romance… or erotica?
Honestly? It’s both. There are multiple sex scenes in this book—more than I usually write—and every single one is emotionally significant. They move the story forward. They reveal something new about the characters. They aren’t just for spice (though let’s be real, the spice is chef’s kiss).
If you’re here for high-heat with heart, this book is for you. If you’ve ever felt like queer desire is something to be hidden, shamed, or swallowed, this book might make you cry a little. (It made me cry a lot while writing it.)
TL;DR:
The Fire Beneath the Frost isn’t just a love story. It’s about survival. It’s about the kind of love that burns bright, even when everything around it is frozen. And yes, it’s sexy as hell.
Preorder is live now. Come meet Dimitri and Petyr. Bring tissues. And maybe a fan and a pair of oven mitts to hold your kindle. 😘
Preorder your copy of The Fire Beneath The Frost today from your favorite online bookstore!
Interviewer: Austin, thank you for taking the time to talk to me today. Not everyone gets the chance to hear directly from an inmate at Blackwood Prison—especially one with your background.
Austin Page: (chuckles) My pleasure. Not much else to do in here besides read, write, and, well… think. A lot of thinking.
Interviewer: Let’s start with the obvious. You were a professor before you ended up here. That’s quite a leap. Can you tell us how you landed in prison?
Austin Page: (smiling) Now, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Let’s just say… love makes you do things you never thought you would.
Interviewer: That’s a bit vague.
Austin Page: (shrugs) Some things are better left unsaid. But I will say this—when you love someone the way I do, the rest of the world fades away. Consequences, reason, even fear. None of it matters.
Interviewer: You’re talking about Mario Cruz.
Austin Page: Of course I am. (soft laugh) Who else? Mario is—he’s the kind of man who shouldn’t need saving, but if he ever did, I’d throw myself into the fire without a second thought. He’s hard, rough around the edges, but there’s something in him… something raw and real. He doesn’t lie. He doesn’t pretend. He’s the first person I’ve ever met who sees me—not just as some soft-spoken professor, but as a man willing to fight for what I love. And I do. Every day.
Interviewer: What was it about Mario that drew you to him?
Austin Page: (smirks) Is ‘everything’ an acceptable answer? Look, I know what people think. That I’m some naive fool with a penchant for bad boys, that I threw my life away for someone who wouldn’t do the same for me. But they don’t know him. Not like I do. Mario doesn’t say much, but when he looks at me—really looks at me—I know I belong to him. And he belongs to me.
Interviewer: That sounds… intense.
Austin Page: Love is intense. If it isn’t, what’s the point?
Interviewer: So, to clarify—you didn’t end up in prison because of Mario?
Austin Page: (pauses) I ended up here because of my choices. And I’d make them again. No regrets.
Interviewer: But what were those choices, exactly?
Austin Page: (grins) You ask a lot of questions, you know that?
Interviewer: It’s kind of my job.
Austin Page: (leans forward) And mine is to keep a few secrets.
Interviewer: Fair enough. Final question—if you could go back, would you change anything?
Austin Page: (softly) No. Because in the end, every road, every decision, every damn mistake led me to him. And that? That’s worth everything.
Interviewer: Thank you, Austin.
Austin Page: Anytime. Just don’t expect all the answers.
The first episode of the Prisoners Of Sodom serial is now available for purchase exclusively at the Cruz Publishing bookstore. It will soon be available on other online bookstores.
I stared at Hugh for a long moment, the weight of his question settling between us like an anchor. Then, with a clipped tone, I answered, “No.”
“Then why is he still your agent?” Hugh narrowed his eyes. His voice was calm but pointed, his eyes sharp with curiosity. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you can’t stand the man.”
I exhaled heavily, pressing my fingers against my temple before shutting my eyes briefly. The past felt like a tangled thread in my mind, one I had no desire to unravel, but since we were stuck in this motel room, I felt like I didn’t have a choice but to answer. When I opened my eyes again, I let out a resigned sigh and began.
“When I sold my first book, Marcus was the obvious choice to be my agent. Or at least, that’s what everyone told me. He was already wildly successful—representing some of the biggest names in literary fiction. I was no one. Just a kid who had poured his cynicism and heartbreak into a novel, hoping someone might take notice. And somehow, he did. It shocked me. I couldn’t understand why someone at his level would even bother with me.”
I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the familiar prickle of old shame crawling up my spine. “A few weeks after he signed me, he hit on me. I, well, didn’t say no.”
Hugh’s expression didn’t change, but I could tell he was listening carefully. I forced myself to keep going. “Marcus was attractive enough, I guess, but that wasn’t really the point. He was powerful. He could take my career and catapult it to heights I never imagined. So I went along with it. We started dating, and then—” I swallowed hard. “Then it became something more.”
Hugh shifted slightly, the movement small but perceptible. His voice was quieter when he asked, “Were you ever in love with him?”
I grimaced, the question landing like a blow to the ribs. My jaw tightened, and I looked away. A muscle in my cheek twitched as I forced out the words, low and unconvincing. “Yes, I think?”
I let out a harsh laugh, the sound grating against my own ears. “I don’t know. Maybe I convinced myself I was, because it made the whole thing easier to swallow. The truth is, I was using him. And he was using me right back.”
Hugh’s gaze remained steady, his expression unreadable. “So what changed?”
I felt my shoulders sag, the weight of the past bearing down on me. “I did. Or at least, I tried to. After my fifth book hit the bestseller list, I felt like I had some leverage. Like maybe I didn’t need Marcus as much as I thought I did. So I ended things.”
“And he didn’t take it well.” It wasn’t a question.
I shook my head, a bitter smile twisting my lips. “No, he didn’t. He made it clear he could destroy my career just as easily as he’d built it up. Said he’d blacklist me with every publisher in the industry if I didn’t toe the line.”
Hugh’s brow furrowed, a flicker of anger passing over his features. “So you stayed with him.”
“Not like that,” I clarified quickly. “But I kept him on as my agent, yeah. I didn’t have a choice. He had all the power, and he knew it.”
I suddenly felt exhausted. “And now, here I am. Still tied to him, even after everything. It’s pathetic.”
Hugh was silent for a long moment, his eyes searching my face. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but firm. “It’s not pathetic. It’s survival. You did what you had to do.”
I met his gaze, something in my chest loosening at the understanding I saw there. “Maybe. But it doesn’t feel like living.”
Hugh leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “So change it. You’re not that struggling writer anymore, and you’re not alone. You have options.”
I huffed out a breath, shaking my head. “It’s not that simple.”
“No,” Hugh agreed, “but it’s not impossible either. You just have to decide what you want, and then fight like hell for it.”
I stared at him, my mind spinning with the possibilities. Could I really do it? Could I break free from Marcus, once and for all? The thought was terrifying, but also strangely exhilarating.
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
Hugh’s hand reached out, his fingers brushing against mine. “You are. And if you ever doubt it, just remember – you’ve got me in your corner.”
I looked down at our hands, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. For the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe Hugh was right. Maybe I could change my story, after all.
Hugh’s hand slid fully into mine, our fingers intertwining. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down my spine, and I found myself unable to look away from the sight of our joined hands. My pulse quickened, a fluttering sensation taking root in my stomach.
Hugh leaned in closer, his breath warm against my cheek as he whispered, “Donovan, there’s something I need to tell you.”
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. The air between us felt charged, electric with a tension that had been building since the moment we’d met. I forced myself to meet his gaze, my voice barely audible as I asked, “What is it?”
Hugh’s eyes searched mine, a mix of vulnerability and determination swirling in their depths. “I… I have feelings for you, Donovan. Genuine feelings. The kind that keep me up at night, wondering what it would be like to hold you, to kiss you, to be with you in every way possible.”
My breath caught in my throat, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it. I’d suspected, hoped even, that there was something more between us than just our working together. But to hear him say it out loud, to have him confirm what I had been too afraid to acknowledge… it was overwhelming.
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, I squeezed his hand tighter, hoping the gesture would convey everything I couldn’t say.
Hugh’s lips curved into a small smile, his thumb brushing gently across my knuckles. “I know this is complicated. I know you’re still dealing with the fallout from Marcus, and the last thing I want to do is pressure you or make things harder for you. But I couldn’t keep pretending that what I feel for you isn’t real.”
I nodded slowly, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts and emotions. Part of me wanted to pull away, to run from the intensity of what was happening between us. But a bigger part of me, the part that had been drawn to Hugh from the very beginning, wanted to lean in, to close the distance between us and see where this could go.
“Hugh, I…” I started, my voice trembling slightly. “Don’t think for one second I don’t have feelings for you too. But I wonder if it’s right to pursue anything with you.”
Hugh’s eyebrows drew together. “Why?”
I took a deep breath, trying to steady the pounding of my heart. “Because, Hugh… I’m your boss. And after everything that happened with Marcus, the last thing I want is to repeat the same mistakes. To let a power imbalance cloud my judgment, or worse, to make you feel you don’t have a choice.”
Hugh’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. But then his expression softened, and he reached up to cup my cheek with his free hand. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, and I found myself leaning into it despite my reservations.
“Donovan,” he murmured, “You’re nothing like Marcus. You would never abuse your position or take advantage of me. I know that with every fiber of my being.”
I wanted to believe him. God, how I wanted to believe him. But the scars from my past ran deep, and I couldn’t shake the fear that history might repeat itself.
“How can you be so sure?” I whispered, my voice cracking slightly. “How do you know I won’t hurt you, even if I don’t mean to?”
Hugh’s thumb brushed lightly across my cheekbone, tracing the line of my jaw. “Because I know you, Donovan. And you’d never hurt me on purpose.”
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. “I’m scared, Hugh,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “Scared of messing this up, of losing you, of getting hurt again. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to take that risk.”
Hugh’s hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, his fingers threading gently through my hair. “You don’t have to be strong enough on your own, Donovan. We can be strong together. We can take this one day at a time, figure it out as we go. All I know is that I want to be with you in whatever way you’ll have me.”
I stared at him, my heart swelling with fear and longing. Every instinct I had was telling me to pull away, to protect myself from the potential heartbreak that loomed on the horizon. But as I looked into Hugh’s eyes, I saw a future there that I couldn’t ignore.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, my decision crystallized in my mind. Slowly, I leaned forward, closing the remaining distance between us until our foreheads were touching, our noses brushing lightly against each other.
“I want this, Hugh,” I breathed, my voice trembling but certain. “I want you. I’m terrified, but I’m also tired of letting my fear control me. I’m tired of living half a life, always holding back, always wondering what could have been.”
Hugh’s eyes shimmered with emotion. “Then let’s be brave together,” he murmured, his lips hovering just a hairsbreadth from mine. “Let’s take the leap and see where we land.”
And with that, he closed the gap between us, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that was both gentle and searing. I melted into him, my hands coming up to tangle in his hair as his arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.
In that moment, everything else fell away – the doubts, the fears, the ghosts of my past that had haunted me for so long. All that mattered was Hugh, and the way he made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t been in years.
As we broke apart, breathless and flushed, I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. Hugh mirrored my expression, his eyes sparkling with a mix of joy and wonder.
“That was…” he started, his voice low and slightly hoarse.
“Amazing,” I finished for him, my heart still racing in my chest. “Absolutely amazing.”
Hugh grinned, his hand sliding up to cup my cheek again. “I was going to say life-changing, but amazing works, too.” He leaned in, capturing my lips once more in a kiss that quickly turned heated. I parted my lips, inviting his tongue deeper inside me as my hands roamed over his back and shoulders, feeling the lean muscles beneath his shirt.
Without breaking the kiss, Hugh gently pushed me back onto the bed, his body covering mine as his weight settled between my thighs. I gasped at the contact, my hips arching up instinctively to meet his. Hugh groaned softly into my mouth, one hand sliding down my side to grip my hip.
“Donovan,” he breathed against my lips, his voice rough with desire. “Tell me you want this. Tell me it’s okay.”
Making It Real is the first full-length novel in the Making It Series. It’s available exclusively at my personal bookstore Cruz Publishing for the next week. To read it now, check out my bookstore!
After more than a decade apart, Benjamin Kensington returns to his family estate—only to come face-to-face with the one man he never truly let go of. In this long-overdue reunion, old tensions and undeniable chemistry simmer beneath the surface as Benjamin and Deacon Langford meet again in the dusty confines of the Kensington barn. But with history between them as weathered as the estate itself, will they find common ground… or just reopen old wounds?
Read on for Chapter 3 of Making It Real, where the past and present collide in the most unexpected way.
The late afternoon sun stretched long golden fingers across the fields, the tall grass swaying like waves on a restless sea. The scent of honeysuckle and warm earth filled the air, wrapping around me in a way that felt almost too familiar. Too intimate.
I walked beside my mother, our steps crunching softly over the dirt path that led toward the barn. She talked a mile a minute, her voice light and lilting, as if I’d only been gone a few months instead of more than a decade.
“I just can’t tell you how pleased I am to have you back, Benji,” she said, looping her arm through mine. “Even if it’s just for a little while.”
I gave her a sideways glance. “You make it sound like I was lost at sea.”
“Well, weren’t you? New York, all that hustle and bustle—Lord knows I don’t understand how anyone could live in a city like that.” She patted my arm. “I always knew you’d come home, though. Kensington men always do.”
I swallowed. She hadn’t asked me about my being fired, and I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Not yet.
Instead, I let her chatter on about the latest local news—the Hansons’ dog finally had her puppies, some new bakery had opened up on Route 33, and Lord help us all, Lucille Montgomery had been in three car accidents over the past year. Mom wondered when they’d take her license away.
I nodded along, but my attention was elsewhere.
For the first time, I really looked at my mother.
She was still the formidable Maggie Kensington, with her perfectly styled hair and that air of effortless Southern charm, but there were new lines around her eyes, a certain tiredness in the way she moved. When had she started looking… older?
Something uneasy settled in my chest. Maybe it really was time to come home.
Not permanently, of course. Just long enough to make sure she was okay.
We rounded the bend, and the barn came into view.
I nearly stopped in my tracks.
The old place looked like hell.
The once-bright red paint had long since faded to a tired, splintered gray. The roof sagged in places, and I didn’t even want to think about the condition of the inside.
Mom let out a sigh, shaking her head. “Lord, it needs work.”
That was putting it mildly.
She gave me a sideways glance. “You remember how beautiful it used to be?”
I did. I remembered everything.
Sneaking in here as kids, building forts in the loft, whispering secrets in the dark. And later—much later—stealing away to this very barn in the heat of summer, pressing Deacon against the rough wooden beams, feeling the solid strength of him beneath my hands, tasting sweat and salt and something sweeter than anything New York had ever offered me.
I swallowed hard.
Deacon.
Jesus. What if I saw him while I was here?
Would he still hate me? Probably.
I deserved it.
I’d spent years trying not to think about how I’d treated him. The cruel words I’d said. About the way I’d tried to shape him into someone he wasn’t, someone who would fit neatly into the polished future I’d imagined for myself.
But he’d been right.
He wasn’t meant for skyscrapers and boardrooms. His destiny was this land, the fields, and the sun on his skin.
And God help me, I’d never felt as safe, as seen, as whole as I had when I was with him.
Mom gave my arm a little squeeze. “Come on, let’s look inside.”
I took a breath and followed her into the dim interior, expecting dust and disrepair.
What I wasn’t expecting was him.
Deacon stood in the middle of the barn, shirt in hand, his tanned skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat. He looked like something out of a damned painting, the afternoon sun cutting through the slats in golden beams, lighting him up like a statue of a god—earthy and strong, carved from muscle and memory.
My breath caught in my throat.
Deacon’s eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, time folded in on itself.
I wasn’t Benjamin Kensington, the man who’d clawed his way up the corporate ladder. I wasn’t the guy who had just lost everything.
I was eighteen again.
I was standing in this barn, my hands buried in Deacon’s hair, my lips pressed to his, the world outside falling away.
Heat crawled up my neck, and I realized, with no small amount of horror, that I was blushing.
Mom clapped her hands together, oblivious to the tension that had sucked all the air out of the barn.
“Well, now! Isn’t this just perfect?” she said, beaming between us. “The two of you, back together, just like old times.”
Not exactly, Mother.
She turned to me with a wide smile. “You know, Deacon’s been helping me out around here for years. I was just saying how much this place needs work—wouldn’t it be wonderful if you two worked on it together? Just imagine it, Benji! The two of you, bringing the estate back to its former glory.”
Her voice was light, hopeful.
Deacon’s face was unreadable.
And me?
I was wondering how the hell I was supposed to survive this.
Mom kept talking, her voice bright with excitement, but I wasn’t listening.
I couldn’t.
Deacon’s gaze locked onto mine, and for the life of me, I couldn’t look away.
Those eyes—icy blue, sharp as ever, even in the hazy light filtering through the barn. When we were younger, I used to swear they could see right through me, past all the charm and bravado, straight to the things I didn’t dare admit.
Now?
Now they held me in place like a snare.
The golden shafts of afternoon light caught the flush creeping up his chest, dusting across his neck before settling high on his cheeks. He turned away first, and I exhaled, realizing I’d been holding my breath.
Was that embarrassment? Or something else?
Did he still hate me?
Or had seeing me again hit him just as hard as it had hit me?
“Benji, did you hear me?” Mom’s voice pulled me back, her perfectly manicured hands gesturing around the barn. “I said we need to find a way to make this place profitable again.”
“Hmm?” I asked, still too caught up in Deacon’s presence to register the question.
Deacon shifted, rolling his shoulders, then cleared his throat.
“It’s good to see you, Benjamin.” His voice was low, rough around the edges, like he hadn’t spoken much today. Maybe he hadn’t.
That flush from before deepened across his throat, and something tightened low in my stomach.
I opened my mouth, but before I could respond, Mom jumped in again.
“Benji, I asked how we can make Kensington House profitable. Property taxes are going up, but there’s next to no revenue coming in.”
I blinked at her, barely processing the question. My mind was still stuck on Deacon, on the way his voice had brushed against my skin like a whisper of a touch.
Mom huffed, impatience creeping into her tone.
“Well?”
I rubbed my temples, sighing. “Maybe we’d be better off selling it to someone who actually cares about it.”
The words had barely left my mouth before I realized my mistake.
Mom’s eyebrows shot skyward. Deacon frowned, jaw tightening as his eyes darkened.
The air in the barn shifted.
Mom placed a hand on her hip. “Benjamin Kensington, I cannot believe you just said that.”
“Mom—”
“This land has been in our family for generations.” She waved an arm toward the open barn doors. “Do you have any idea how much history is here? Your grandfather, your great-grandfather, every ancestor before them—they worked this land, they built this home, and you think selling it is the answer?”
I sighed again, this time heavier. “I’m just saying—”
“No.”
The word came from Deacon.
I turned toward him, surprised by the sharp edge in his tone.
“You never change,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You never gave a damn about this place. Benjamin, you’re lucky to have it, and you can’t even see that.”
A prickle of irritation worked its way up my spine.
“That’s not fair,” I said, leveling him with a look. “It’s easy for you to say that. You stayed.”
“Yeah,” Deacon said, eyes flashing. “I did.”
The weight of what he wasn’t saying settled between us.
I left home and never looked back.
Until now.
I sighed, trying to smooth things over. “Look, I didn’t mean—”
“Enough of that,” Mom interrupted, waving a hand as if physically dismissing the tension. “I asked you here to talk about solutions, not start up old arguments.”
Deacon exhaled through his nose, but kept quiet.
Mom turned to him, a hopeful smile on her face. “Deacon, I’d like to hire you to work on the estate. We can start with the barn—it needs more work than anything.”
Deacon’s posture relaxed slightly, his gaze shifting toward the exposed beams above us.
She continued, “And another thing—what about all that old farm equipment we don’t use? I was thinking we could sell some of it.”
Deacon finally turned, his eyes scanning the far corner of the barn. My gaze followed his, landing on a hulking piece of rust-covered machinery. I didn’t know what it was, but I could tell by the look on his face that he did.
Slowly, he faced Mom again, and for the first time since we’d walked in, he smiled.
A genuine smile.
Soft. Familiar. The kind that made my stomach tighten for reasons I didn’t want to think about.
Instead of answering immediately, he walked over to the piece of equipment, running a hand along the corroded metal. Then he turned back to Mom.
“How about this?” he said. “Instead of paying me money, I’ll work in exchange for some of this old equipment.”
Mom’s face lit up. “That’s a fine idea! Lord knows we don’t need half the things stored in this barn.”
“Deal,” Deacon said, giving her a small nod.
Mother clasped her hands together, positively beaming. “Oh, Deacon, this is just wonderful! With your help, we’ll have this place looking like it should again.”
Deacon gave her a small nod, but his expression was careful, guarded. His fingers trailed along the rusted edge of the old farm equipment, his focus seemingly on anything but me.
Then Mother turned in my direction, her keen eyes narrowing.
“And you,” she said, pointing a manicured finger in my direction. “You’re going to help.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You heard me, Benji. Deacon can’t do all this by himself.”
Deacon shifted beside me. I caught the way his throat worked as he swallowed, a fresh blush creeping up his neck. He hesitated before muttering, “Let Benjamin handle the business side of things. I can take care of—”
“Oh, nonsense,” Mother interrupted, waving off his protest. “Benji needs to get his hands dirty again. He needs to understand how lucky he is to have this place.”
I exhaled through my nose, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “Mom—”
She wasn’t finished. “And besides, I remember how happy you boys used to be, working out here together.”
My stomach twisted at that.
She stepped away from us, walking toward the hulking old tractor in the corner. It was ancient, covered in dust and rust, but I could still picture it as it once was—faded red, chugging along the fields under the hot Virginia sun.
Mother ran her fingers over the worn metal, then turned back with a smile. “I’ll never forget the sight of you two on this thing. Deacon, bush hogging the pastures, Benji perched behind you, hanging on for dear life.” She laughed, a soft, nostalgic sound. “You two had the best time, always laughing.”
Deacon’s shoulders tensed, and for the briefest moment, something flickered in his expression—something tight and unreadable.
I swallowed, suddenly too aware of how still the barn had become. The only sounds were the faint creak of the rafters and the distant chirping of cicadas.
Then, just as quickly as it came, whatever crossed Deacon’s mind disappeared behind a careful mask. His lips twitched into a small, tight smile.
“I’ll do whatever you want, Miss Maggie.”
A strange feeling settled in my chest—something close to relief.
Deacon grabbed his shirt from where it had been hanging, shaking out the fabric before pulling it over his head. The sweat on his skin made it cling to his torso for a moment, outlining the shape of him before he tugged it into place.
I should’ve looked away.
But I didn’t.
“Benji?” Mother’s voice jolted me from my thoughts. “Are you going to pitch in too?”
Making It Real publishes on February 26, 2025. It is available for a discounted preorder price of 2.99 for the ebook, and on release day the price goes up to 3.99, so lock in the lower price now by preordering the book from your favorite online retailer. It’s available on Amazon, Apple Books, Google Play, Kobo, Nook, and Smashwords.
Today, we’re sitting down with Benjamin Kensington, a man whose life has been a whirlwind of ambition, love, and self-discovery. From the bustling financial world of New York City to the crumbling halls of his family estate in Montpelier, Virginia, Benjamin’s story is one of transformation, redemption, and wrestling with his own identity.
Interviewer: Benjamin, thank you for joining us today. Let’s start with your return to Montpelier. What’s it like being back at Kensington House after all these years?
Benjamin: It’s… complicated, to say the least. Kensington House is home, but it’s also a reminder of everything I wanted to escape. Coming back has stirred up emotions I thought I’d buried—nostalgia, guilt, pride… and a lot of regret. The house is in shambles, which, in some ways, feels like a metaphor for my life right now.
Interviewer: That’s an interesting comparison. The estate represents your family’s legacy, but it sounds like it also weighs heavily on you. What does Kensington House mean to you?
Benjamin: Growing up, it was a symbol of privilege, but also of obligation. My mother always emphasized the importance of preserving the estate and our family’s name. But I was young, restless, and ambitious. I didn’t want to spend my life fixing old staircases and hosting charity tours. Now, I see the house differently. It’s more than bricks and mortar—it’s history, memories, and potential. Saving it feels less like a burden and more like an opportunity to redeem myself.
Interviewer: Speaking of redemption, your return has also brought you face-to-face with Deacon. How has it been seeing him again after all this time?
Benjamin: (Pauses) Seeing Deacon has been… difficult and wonderful all at once. He’s everything I remember—steadfast, kind, and frustratingly grounded. I know I hurt him when I left, and I regret it every day. He represents a life I could’ve had if I’d made different choices. Being around him again reminds me of what I’ve lost, but also what I might still have, if I’m lucky.
Interviewer: It sounds like Deacon has had a profound impact on you. What do you think is the biggest obstacle between the two of you now?
Benjamin: Trust. I broke it when I chose my career over him, and I can’t blame him for being wary now. I’ve spent so much of my life chasing status and wealth, and I think Deacon sees me as someone who only cares about the surface of things. Proving to him—and to myself—that I’m capable of more is the hardest challenge I’ve ever faced.
Interviewer: Shifting gears a bit, let’s talk about your career. You’ve mentioned how important ambition was to you in the past. Do you still see yourself returning to the world of finance?
Benjamin: Ambition has always been a driving force for me, but I’ve started questioning what that word really means. Does it mean climbing the corporate ladder, or does it mean building something meaningful that lasts? For now, I’m focused on restoring Kensington House. Whether that means turning it into a wedding venue, a museum, or something else entirely, I’m determined to make it a success.
Interviewer: That’s a big shift from the fast-paced world of New York City. How has your time back in Montpelier changed your perspective?
Benjamin: It’s been humbling, honestly. In New York, everything was about appearances—how much you made, what you wore, who you knew. Here, none of that matters. What matters is community, relationships, and legacy. I’ve had to confront parts of myself I didn’t like very much. It’s been uncomfortable, but also necessary.
Interviewer: You’ve mentioned legacy a few times now. What does it mean to you, and how does it play into your current journey?
Benjamin: Legacy used to mean power and prestige—carrying on the Kensington name in a way that turned heads. Now, it’s more about connection. It’s about honoring the people who came before me, like my mother, and creating something worthwhile for the future. Restoring Kensington House isn’t just about the building; it’s about proving to myself and others that I can leave something good behind.
Interviewer: It sounds like you’re on a path of transformation. If you could go back in time and tell your younger self one thing, what would it be?
Benjamin: I’d tell him to slow down. To stop chasing things that only look good on paper and pay more attention to the people who truly matter. Ambition isn’t inherently bad, but when it blinds you to love and authenticity, it can destroy you.
Interviewer: That’s beautifully said. Last question—what do you hope for your future?
Benjamin: I hope to find balance. I want to build a life that honors both my ambition and my heart. Whether that means rebuilding Kensington House, rekindling my relationship with Deacon, or simply finding peace with myself, I just want to be proud of the man I’ve become.
Interviewer: Thank you, Benjamin. Your honesty and vulnerability are inspiring. We wish you the best as you navigate this new chapter of your life.
Benjamin: Thank you. It’s not easy, but I’m learning that the hardest paths are often the most rewarding.
Making It Real publishes on February 26, 2025. It’s available on Amazon, Apple Books, Google Play, Kobo, Nook, and Smashwords. Preorder your copy today for the low price of 2.99. On the day it publishes the price goes up to 3.99, so reserve your copy today and save!
Bradley Mitchell, better known by his self-created persona, Bradley Wellington III, isn’t someone you forget. Charismatic, self-assured, and sharp-witted, he had a knack for spinning tales and charming anyone who crossed his path. But in this exclusive interview, Bradley reveals the truth behind the lies, the heartbreak, and the shame that shaped his life—and ultimately led to his downfall.
Q: Bradley, let’s start at the beginning. The first day of college, you meet Liam Murphy and Jack Barrett. What was your first impression of them?
Bradley leans back, a wistful smile crossing his face.
“Liam. He’s the kind of guy you notice right away. Sweet, genuine—too good for the world, honestly. I was smitten the moment he opened his mouth. That awkward laugh of his? Yeah, it got me. But then there was Jack. Jack was… well, Jack was the kind of guy you don’t want someone you’re falling for to meet. Confident but not cocky, ridiculously good-looking, and, worst of all, kind. I saw the way Liam looked at him. And I saw the way Jack’s guard dropped when he looked at Liam. It was this unspoken connection, this thing between them that scared the hell out of me. I knew I didn’t stand a chance, so I did the only thing I could do. I sabotaged it.”
Q: Sabotaged it? How so?
Bradley’s expression darkens, guilt clouding his features.
“I planted doubts. Little comments here and there, things to make them second-guess each other. Jack was easier to rattle—he’d been burned before, so all I had to do was nudge him toward believing Liam wasn’t interested. But Liam… Liam was tougher. He’s so open, so… trusting. I hated myself for it, but I wanted him to look at me the way he looked at Jack. So, one night, I got him drunk. I thought maybe, just maybe, if I could get him to see me in a different light, it would change everything. And for a moment, I thought it did. We kissed. But then…”
He hesitates, his voice breaking.
“Then he called me Jack. That was the end of it. I realized I’d never be more than a placeholder for him. I’d never be what he wanted.”
Q: That’s heartbreaking. Do you think your insecurities played a role in how things unfolded?
“Absolutely. I wasn’t Bradley Wellington III; I was just Bradley Mitchell, the kid who wore hand-me-downs and prayed nobody noticed. The first time I lied about coming from money, I was thirteen. People treated me differently when they thought I was rich. They respected me, wanted to be my friend. By the time I got to college, the lie had grown legs. Bradley Wellington III had a yacht, a summer home in the Hamptons, and a trust fund. I was nobody, but he was somebody. And for a while, I got to be somebody, too.”
Q: Is that why you started dealing drugs? To keep up the façade?
Bradley nods, shame flickering in his eyes.
“Yeah. I’d already taken out every loan I could, maxed out credit cards in Bradley Wellington’s name, and it still wasn’t enough. But I realized rich kids don’t just party—they’ll pay a fortune to make sure the party doesn’t stop. It started small: a little weed here, some pills there. Then it got bigger. Harder stuff. I told myself it was temporary, just until I graduated, but the money… God, the money was addictive. And the power. These kids with their real trust funds and their real yachts were suddenly looking to me. I mattered. For the first time in my life, I mattered.”
Q: But then it all fell apart. Can you talk about your arrest?
Bradley exhales deeply, rubbing his hands together as if trying to shake off the memory.
“It was humiliating. One minute, I’m on top of the world; the next, I’m in handcuffs, and everyone’s watching. The worst part wasn’t losing the money or the status. It was losing Liam and Jack. Jack looked at me like he didn’t even know me anymore. Liam… he looked like I’d broken something in him. And maybe I did. They were my friends, and I… I betrayed them. For what? A persona that wasn’t even real?”
Q: What’s next for you? Do you have a plan for when you get out?
Bradley’s voice drops, his bravado finally stripped away.
“I don’t know. I’ve spent so long pretending to be someone else that I’m not sure who I really am anymore. I’ll have a record now, so the chances of me finishing school or getting a decent job are slim to none. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s time I stop trying to be Bradley Wellington III and figure out who Bradley Mitchell actually is. It’s terrifying, but it’s also… freeing. For the first time in my life, I don’t have to keep up the lie. I just hope it’s not too late to make things right.”
Q: If you could say one thing to Liam and Jack now, what would it be?
Bradley’s eyes glisten, and he takes a moment before answering.
“I’d say I’m sorry. For everything. For the lies, the manipulation, the hurt. You both deserved better from me. I don’t expect forgiveness, but if there’s any way I can make amends, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to do it. You were the closest thing I ever had to a real family, and I… I threw it all away. I’m sorry.”
As the interview ends, Bradley’s vulnerability lingers in the air. It’s clear that beneath the lies and the bravado is a man desperate to rebuild what he’s lost. Whether he can succeed remains to be seen, but for the first time, he’s ready to try.
One of the questions I’m asked most often as a writer is: Where do you come up with your ideas? The truth is, inspiration strikes me on a daily basis. Sometimes, it’s in the middle of my morning walk when I’m surrounded by the rhythm of everyday life. People going about their day, snippets of conversation, the way someone carries themselves—all of it sparks my imagination. For instance, there’s a handsome guy with a cute dog who owns a bicycle shop that I pass every morning. Naturally, he’s going to find his way into a book someday. Plot bunnies, as I like to call them, are everywhere.
But it’s not just strangers or random moments that inspire me. Many of my ideas come from my own life experiences. It’s these stories, memories, and even challenges that help me create characters and plots that feel authentic. For all of you who want to be writers, I recommend keeping a journal so you can refer to your prior experiences. Let me take you on a journey through some of those experiences and how they’ve shaped my writing.
Writing What I Know: The Arts, Makeup, and Latinx Culture
When I was younger, I had my heart set on becoming a concert pianist. I was steeped in classical music, not just as a pianist but also playing brass instruments and guitar. If you wanted the perfect example of a geeky kid who loved going to the symphony, I’d be the zitty teen face on a poster. While life took me in a different direction, that passion for music never left me. It’s no surprise that I’ve written several novels about musicians. In Mr. Mouthful, a symphony conductor falls in love with a cellist who owns a coffee shop. The Boundary tells the story of an opera singer falling in love with his makeup artist, and The Big Time explores the journey of an up-and-coming pop star. Music has always been a deep well of inspiration for me.
Later, my artistic path led me to the world of beauty. I became a professional makeup artist and had the honor of working for Bobbi Brown Cosmetics, opening the very first Bobbi Brown studio and retail store in the United States. Working with Bobbi was totally amazing! My experiences there helped me shape the love interest in The Boundary, adding layers of authenticity to a story about ambition and artistry.
And then, there’s my personal life. I’ve spent many years living in Mexico and was in a 23-year relationship with my former partner Ricardo, who was Mexican-American. This immersion in Latinx culture has naturally found its way into my writing. For instance, The Big One, and Electric feature characters with rich, Latinx backstories. Writers often hear the advice to “write what you know,” and for me, that’s proven to be invaluable.
The Birth of The Money Shot
The novel I’m currently polishing up, The Money Shot, came from a very different kind of inspiration. I’m not going to lie: I was casually perusing porn on Reddit (research, obviously!), and I noticed a growing trend. Many of the guys posting nudes and videos were linking to their OnlyFans pages. That sparked an idea. What if I wrote a story about someone turning to OnlyFans out of financial desperation? Enter Liam and Jack, two roommates navigating this uncharted territory, all while falling in love.
While developing the plot, I found myself binge-watching The Nanny on YouTube. Fran Fine’s larger-than-life personality inspired Vanessa Martinez, a Latina version of Fran with her own unique flair—and let’s just say, Vanessa is a lot naughtier. She brings comic relief and a dash of chaos to The Money Shot, and she’s quickly become one of my favorite characters to write.
Open Minds, Endless Ideas
One thing I’ve learned as a writer is the importance of keeping your mind open. Inspiration can come from anywhere: a conversation, a memory, a random observation, or even something as mundane as scrolling through social media. The key is to notice the sparks and fan them into flames.
That said, I doubt I’ll ever write about something I don’t at least have a working knowledge of. For instance, I’ve never written about ice hockey or deep-sea exploration because those worlds feel too far removed from my own. But who knows? If I ever take up scuba diving or start caring about sports, maybe that’ll change.
For now, I’m content letting my past experiences and everyday observations guide me. Life is full of stories waiting to be told, and I can’t wait to see what sparks my imagination next.
Ian O. Lewis and Luke Jameson 