Mia Kerick’s Love Spell
I’m so excited to have Mia Kerick join me again today. Her latest book Love Spell sounds so adorable and I cannot wait to read it. She joins me today to share a completely epic book crossover that you can only find here. In the scene, Chance César meets Nate DeMarco. After you read that super epic scene, read all about the book and an excerpt you won’t want to miss. At the very bottom enter for a chance to win an Amazon giftcard.
Hi everybody at Amanda C. Stone Blog—I am so excited to be here today promoting my June 1st release, Love Spell.
Amanda asked me to create a scene where one of my main characters from Love Spell meets one from Us Three. So I came up with this scene in which Chance César meet Nate DeMarco.
Bus stations suck donkey balls. They’re dirty, creepy, and smell like pee.
“Come on Chance, tell us how you really feel.” LOL
But parking in downtown Boston is très cher, and right now, as two broke students, Jazz and I don’t have the cash to spare.
The bright side… the bright side. I must insist you look at the bright side, Chance.
As frequently as possible, I focus on the sunny side of life.
Northeastern University—the College of Arts, Media, and Design—is everything and more than I’d hoped for. In fact, it’s been a totes dooza-palooza to choose between Architecture and Studio Art for my major. Pretty dang sure I’m gonna go with Architecture with a minor in some type of design. The world needs more flamboyant, pastel plaid buildings, IMHO.
Who am I trying to kid? My opinion isn’t even slightly humble. And confidence ain’t a crime, doll.
So here I am, my fine ass planted on a germy metal bench in the South Station bus terminal’s lofty foyer, studying the wide variety of people who walk past me dragging these totes dullsville black and navy rolling suitcases. Most of the suitcases I see are quite consistent in size and shape, but human beings proudly come in all shapes and sizes. And here’s the big news: I’m not wishing I’m living in another person’s shape or size or, in other words, a different gender. I guess I’m getting more comfortable with my gender fluidity.
So maybe I’m a work in progress. And maybe I’m always gonna be. Get over it, kkkk?
“Ya look nice today.” A deep male voice, kind of shy but still very manly, enters my ears from off to the left. And no I don’t turn to look at him. Strategic reaction is what I call it when I stare straight ahead and size up a situation before responding. “And ya smell good too.”
I look nice? I sigh and shake my head. “I look fantabulous.” And I really do. Of course I’m rockin’ a Northeastern University sweatshirt, but I’ve dolled up my outfit with a rainbow-ducklings scarf and purple skinny jeans. Not to mention that I found Chuck Taylors in a shade of grape that is to die for. I’m not ashamed to say that I put a great deal of thought into today’s outfit. Not only am I gonna set my eyes on my main (only) squeeze, Jazz, after a full month of separation, but the lucky boy is gonna feast his ravenous eyes on moi. And I consider it my duty to throw a starving man more than a mere bone. Thus, I look good enough to eat.
“Okay. I ain’t gonna argue with you.”
I finally turn to look at this man of clearly superior tastes who so quickly recognizes my fabulousness, and I see a strapping, dark, and (messily) handsome stranger decorated in a loose flannel shirt, loose worn out jeans, and loosely hanging hair, which is in serious need of a brush. And I can’t miss this little rainbow-colored pin attached to the collar of his shirt that says One Voice.
Mr. Messy-manly-man is gay?
I’m pretty sure One Voice is the name of the gay-straight alliance at Boston City College. It’s rather famous.
“I’m here to meet my boyfriend, Jazz.” I can’t help myself—I snort. “Long distance relationships bite the big one.”
“Guess they can suck. But me and my guys made it work.”
“Yup.” He lifts his chin as if he’s proud. “I’m part of a throuple… least that’s what Casey calls it.”
The brazen B in me takes over. “So which one of your guys are you meeting up with here?”
The oversized fellow takes a hesitant step over to the bench and sits down. “Not meeting neither of ‘em. I’m here to pick up my sister. She’s gonna visit me and Casey and Zane for the weekend.” The guy is sporting a shit-eating grin at this point.
Not only is he handsome, gay, and open-minded enough to be part of a throuple, he’s also a sweetheart of a big bro. “Stop it, big guy, you’re making me melt.”
Chance, I forbid you to cry—your mascara will run, which will spoil the visual effect!
“Anyhow, how you dealin’ with the whole long distance thing?” he asks.
This time when I look at him, I search his face for sincerity. Like, it’s always lingering in the back of my mind that any stranger could be a gay-basher. I decide to be honest. “Some days are tougher than others. We Skype a lot and write letters. I’m talking about snail mail letters that I write in people pen and spray liberally with my signature scent.”
“Good thinkin’, dude.” He sighs and then makes a kind of humming sound like he’s thinking deeply. “I remember them long distance days with my guys real good. It’s hard to be apart, but when ya finally get together, it’s like… like.…”
I decide to finish the sentence he is having trouble with. “Um, can you say rainbow fireworks?”
He laughs and the sound is honest and sincere, just like Jazz’s laughter. I instinctively know he is a one of the good guys.
“OMG—here’s the bus from Concord!” I dig in my back pocket for my Cherry Chapstick. Jazz deserves to be greeted by the sweetest, reddest lips in the city of Boston.
“Have a rockin’ weekend, man.”
I nod at the big guy and hurry over to the bus platform. The second I see Jazz, I’m in his arms. When I glance over at my new sort-of friend, he’s watching us and smiling. I can tell he’s remembering days gone by with his long distance boyfriends.
And they made it work… just like we will.
Strutting his stuff on the catwalk in black patent leather pumps and a snug orange tuxedo as this year’s Miss (ter) Harvest Moon feels so very right to Chance César, and yet he knows it should feel so very wrong.
As far back as he can remember, Chance has been “caught between genders.” (It’s quite a touchy subject; so don’t ask him about it.) However, he does not question his sexual orientation. Chance has no doubt about his gayness—he is very much out of the closet at his rural New Hampshire high school, where the other students avoid the kid they refer to as “girl-boy.”
But at the local Harvest Moon Festival, when Chance, the Pumpkin Pageant Queen, meets Jasper Donahue, the Pumpkin Carving King, sparks fly. So Chance sets out, with the help of his BFF, Emily, to make “Jazz” Donahue his man.
An article in an online women’s magazine, Ten Scientifically Proven Ways to Make a Man Fall in Love with You (with a bonus love spell thrown in for good measure), becomes the basis of their strategy to capture Jazz’s heart.
Quirky, comical, definitely flamboyant, and with an inner core of poignancy, Love Spell celebrates the diversity of a gender-fluid teen.
Not to say that I kept my phone basically right beneath my chin for the next four days, but I kept my phone basically right beneath my chin for the next four days. Yes, I was oh-so-pathetically waiting for his call, which I am aware fully explains the need for the phrase “get a life.” But Jazz hadn’t been at school on the Thursday or Friday after he had called and cancelled our playdate, and now it’s Sunday night, and I still haven’t heard from him. And although I’m frustrated that all of my elaborate plans to make him fall head over heels in love with moi have apparently tanked, I’m also growing genuinely concerned.
That’s when my cell phone, which I placed on my chest before I lay down on my now “love-spell-pink” wrapped mattress, starts singing Express Yourself.
“Yo.” I don’t check the number. It’s Emmy—who else would it be?
“Hi, Chance.” The deep voice is so not Emmy’s.
Yaaassss!!! This is what ninety-nine percent of my insides shout. One percent says quietly, “It’s about frigging time you called, asshole.”
But my voice is calm. “Jasper,” I say blandly. In my opinion, he hasn’t earned the right to be called Jazz any longer.
“Um, sorry, no. It’s Jazz.”
I try not to roll my eyes even though I know he won’t see, but it’s an epic fail. “Whatever.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch for a couple days. My mom’s been real sick. I was lookin’ after her, gettin’ her to the doctor, goin’ to the pharmacy, bringing JoJo back and forth to school, and stuff.”
“Mom caught JoJo’s strep throat and had to go to the ER because she couldn’t even swallow.” He stops talking for a second and then clears his voice. “Alls she could do was spit into a rag whenever she needed to swallow.”
Well, that’s definitely TMI, but I get the fucker-nelly revolting picture. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault, dude.”
And then there’s silence.
“Gonna take JoJo to the library after school tomorrow. But first I gotta stop by the cable company and pay up or we’re gonna lose our TV and internet at home. They already warned us like twice.”
“Want me to pick up Yolo at school and take her to the library?” I’m so freaking pissed off at him. Why am I offering to save his ass again?
“That’s cool of you to offer, but there’s a bus she can take to the library from her school. Could ya be waiting for her at the library, in case I get held up?”
“Of course.” I’m a Class A sucker.
“You’re such a cool pal.” Ugh—so not what I’m going for.
“I’m not gonna be at lunch tomorrow seein’ as I’ll probably be collecting my makeup work. So, I’ll see ya at the library. ‘Kay?”
I don’t say kkkk cuz it’s not even slightly cool. “Sure. The libes after school, it is.”
“Thank you, bro,” Jazz offers.
One more silence, and then I say, “Later.”
I have research to do.
Mia Kerick is the mother of four exceptional children—all named after saints—and five nonpedigreed cats—all named after the next best thing to saints, Boston Red Sox players. Her husband of twenty-two years has been told by many that he has the patience of Job, but don’t ask Mia about that, as it is a sensitive subject.
Mia focuses her stories on the emotional growth of troubled young people and their relationships, and she believes that physical intimacy has a place in a love story, but not until it is firmly established as a love story. As a teen, Mia filled spiral-bound notebooks with romantic tales of tortured heroes (most of whom happened to strongly resemble lead vocalists of 1980s big-hair bands) and stuffed them under her mattress for safekeeping. She is thankful to Dreamspinner Press, Harmony Ink Press, CoolDudes Publishing, and CreateSpace for providing her with alternate places to stash her stories.
Mia is a social liberal and cheers for each and every victory made in the name of human rights, especially marital equality. Her only major regret: never having taken typing or computer class in school, destining her to a life consumed with two-fingered pecking and constant prayer to the Gods of Technology.
Stop by Mia’s Blog with questions or comments, or simply share what’s on your mind. Find Mia on Facebook, Goodreads, and Amazon.
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