…we're keeping our name but expanding our offerings!
Hello, and welcome to the Billionaire with Benefits Blog Tour! *fanfare, etc*
You might have noticed this book took me a while to write . . . or maybe you didn’t notice, but take my word for it, it did. That might be why it ended up longer than it needed it to be. Ultimately we trimmed over 15,000 words from the original Billionaire manuscript, so posts from me (as opposed to spotlights and reviews) are all going to be cut scenes from the book. Sort of like the extras on a DVD, but, you know, not.
A list of stops on the tour can be found here. Why would you want to follow the tour? Well, because I’m giving away a fabulous, one-of-a-kind Voodoo Ken Kit, which the winner can use to seek revenge on any or all of their exes. How do you win? Check the bottom of each tour post for details.
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It’s just a friend thing
Before confessing his gayness to his best friend, Tierney Terrebonne’s sex life is strictly restroom. After confessing his gayness to his best friend . . . it doesn’t improve much. Why bother trying when the man he’s loved for fourteen years (see: “best friend”) is totally unattainable? Good thing Tierney is an old hand at accepting defeat; all it takes is a bottle of bourbon. Or fifty. Repeat as needed.
Dalton Lehnart has a history of dating wealthy, damaged, closeted, lying, cheating, no-good, cowardly men, so of course he’s immediately attracted to Tierney Terrebonne. Fortunately, Tierney is so dissolute that even Dalton’s feelings for the man would be better described as pity. Which becomes sympathy as they get to know each other. Followed by compassion, concern, caring, and hopefulness as Tierney struggles to change his life. When the man comes out very publicly and enters rehab, Dalton finds himself downright attached to Tierney. And as everyone knows, after attachment comes . . .
But post-rehab Tierney can’t handle more than friendship, so Dalton should be safe from repeating his own past mistakes, right? Right?
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If you’ve read Too Stupid to Live—Sam and Ian’s book—you’ll know Tierney’s a bit of a D-bag. I couldn’t let Dalton fall for a guy like that (not all the way), so I had to change Tierney at some point. One of the reasons this book took me so long is because I tried to write it all post-life-changing-event, but that didn’t work very well, so I ended up writing the first half of the book after writing about half of the second half (so that would be a quarter?), then I had to change stuff and blah-blah-blah. That’s the way I roll.
This next scene is from that secondary first half, just after Tierney makes a massive mistake (which I’m not going to reveal, in case you haven’t read the book), and just before he destroys his whole life, and then begins to rebuild. We’re in Tierney’s POV, of course, which is a little wonky, because the dude has been mostly drunk for many days straight at this point. In this scene, he’s suffering through a bout of “self-recrimination hour”—an early morning, semi-sober, self-flagellation ritual he’s been working into his routine. The “inmates” he refers to are all the emotions he keeps trapped inside, behind his façade.
Self-recrimination hour reached new heights—depths?—that night. Morning. That gray area between drunk and hungover. What day is it?
Tierney curled onto his side, protecting his vital organs from the attack. It was, as usual, all about how he lived his life. The drinking. The posturing. The cowardice. The lack of control. He jumped out of bed, tried to escape it, but regret and despair chased him all over the condo, well past the usual hour. Almost dawn. Breaking him down piece-by-piece until there wasn’t much left. Just the shell he’d created over the last twenty years, the inmates and the crushing weight of his inability to break free of this life.
He lived a big, fat lie. A lie he’d designed to show his virility and his normalcy. He was an actor on a stage—
Huh. What was that Shakespeare quote?
“I’m a coward,” Tierney said conversationally to his fish.
They pretty much didn’t react.
“No really,” he said, nodding hard enough to knock himself off-balance. “Dalton was right about that.”
The fish seemed unconcerned. He couldn’t really blame them, after all—he’d woken them up before the sun rose by turning on their tank light. It made self-recrimination hour go by faster if he didn’t feel so alone.
But still. Coward.
Now that he’d given up and accepted the truth of it, he found it easier to admit out loud. At least to fish.
Wait . . . something about the fish. He had a vague recollection of offering them “a little drinkie” last night as he stumbled past the tank. Or was that the night before? What’s today again? And had he really poured some bourbon in their water? Looking closer, he assured himself that even if he had, none of the fish were dead.
Well, there was that going right in his life, so . . . May as well see what day it was?
Friday, his phone informed him once he found it on the coffee table in front of the television. Jesus Christ, he’d been drunk since Tuesday. Hiding. Because I’m a pansy-ass. That’s what they did, after all—hide from danger. Avoid confronting reality. He aimed his butt towards the couch cushion and flopped down. Relaxing into his cowardice.
So. What now?
This is probably it. Just a cycle of drinking, hiding and meeting the very minimum expectations of the people around him.
So there’s nothing else to me? Is this all I am? Just a façade and a bunch of survivalist emotions holed up in his own private Idaho?
What am I living for? If this was all he had to look forward to—policing the inmates and constantly shoring up the exterior illusion while destroying his spirit—what. The. Fuck. Was the point? He was thirty-four. He had fifty more years of this?
Unless his liver went belly up before then, which looked likely at the rate he was drinking. I guess that’s the only light at the end of my tunnel, he joked to himself, but it wasn’t funny so he didn’t laugh.
Just then the sun broke over the city skyline, a ray shooting like an arrow straight through his window, illuminating him. Blinding him. Tierney threw up a palm, blinking from the shock and brightness.
If he were a more spiritual guy, he might think that was a sign, but he had no fucking clue what it might mean.
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Want a chance to win Voodoo Ken? Well, keep looking, because this isn’t the post with the magical question. FYI, I’ll ship worldwide, so anyone can enter.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Raised on a steady diet of Monty Python, classical music and the visual arts, Anne Tenino was—famously—the first patient diagnosed with Compulsive Romantic Disorder. Since that day, Anne has taken on conquering the M/M world through therapeutic writing. Finding out who those guys having sex in her head are and what to do with them has been extremely liberating.
Anne’s husband finds it liberating as well, although in a somewhat different way. Her two daughters are mildly confused by Anne’s need to twist Ken dolls into odd positions. However, other than occasionally stealing Ken1’s strap-on, they let Mom do her thing without interference.
Wondering what Anne does in her spare time? Mostly she lies on the couch, eats bonbons and shirks housework.
Check out what Anne’s up to now by visiting her site. http://annetenino.com