Switch Stance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Switch Stance

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Authors

  Other books by Andrea Johnston

  Other Books by M.E. Carter

  By Andrea Johnston and M.E. Carter

  Copyright © 2018

  Cover Design and Formatting by Alyssa Garcia at Uplifting Designs

  Editing by: Karen L. of The Proof is in the Reading, LLC

  Cover Photo: Deposit Photos

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. No part of this publication may be stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, people – living or dead – is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, characters, businesses, artists, and the like which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  ISBN: 978-1-948852-11-1

  Switch Stance:

  Riding the opposite direction than usual,

  in the opposite stance, and making it look normal.

  Chapter One

  Aggi

  “I love you,” he whispers huskily into my ear. “You are the woman I’ve been dreaming of.”

  He takes me into his strong, muscular arms and holds me close, his hardening length pressed against my stomach. The feeling makes me gasp with anticipated pleasure.

  “I want to make love to you,” he breathes, grabbing my hair and pulling my head back so he has access to my neck where he peppers kisses all the way down to my shoulder. I shudder and feel goosebumps cover my exposed flesh.

  He’s husky and strong and . . . all man.

  “Please, please let me be inside you,” he pleads. “I want to take you. To make you mine. To mark you from the inside out.”

  “I want that too,” I practically shout, my dreams finally about to come true.

  His nostrils flare and he leans down, his arm wrapped under my knees as he pulls me to his chest and runs up the stairs to his giant master bedroom. I feel like Scarlett O’Hara.

  Throwing me onto the bed, I watch as he strips down to nothing, his nakedness on full display . . . strong, thick, hard, waiting for me.

  He stalks over to the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. My belly quivers as I wait for him to strip me of my clothes, waiting for him to love me.

  He makes quick work of my pants, then my panties, then he holds me open and leans in, a feral growl coming from deep within as his tongue begins to . . .

  A hard shove knocks my thoughts off track. A random stranger of the male variety doesn’t seem to notice he just barreled right into the back of my chair, practically knocking my computer bag onto the floor. He just keeps walking.

  I suppose it’s probably a good thing. My over the top, 80s romance fantasies are not what I’m supposed to be working on right now.

  No. I, Agnes Sylvester, known as Adeline Snow to the romance reading community, have work to do and daydreams are not it.

  As a New York Times best-selling author, my days are spent spilling my fantasies onto paper for the masses. Usually I do it well. You don’t become a best-selling author by writing crap.

  Well, most authors don’t. As in all industries, there are exceptions to the rule.

  I shake my head to rid myself of those thoughts. Rule number one of Author 101 states: “Don’t worry about what others are doing. Just write the best story you can.”

  I actually don’t know if there is an Author 101 class. But if there were, that would be rule number one. Because truly, you can’t control what others do, only what kind of effort you put in. At least, that’s the motto I try to live by. So far, it’s worked for me.

  Which is part of the reason I need to focus.

  I look back into the eyes of my muse, skateboarding god Spencer Garrison, and will a new fantasy to come to life. Usually, staring at a picture of him works. It’s why I have several screenshots of his Instagram pictures on my phone. It’s why I was able to write two and a half complete novels during the last X Games. It’s also why I’m sitting at the bookstore staring at a cardboard cutout of him. To everyone else, he’s advertising a new healthy lifestyle book he’s releasing soon. To me, he’s research.

  Unfortunately, it’s not working, and I feel myself getting more and more frustrated.

  My phone rings scaring the crap out of me. It’s my editor, Greer.

  Grabbing it, I answer with, “How did you know I was suffering from a horrific case of writer’s block? Do you have superpowers?”

  She chuckles under her breath. “Are you at the bookstore?”

  My eyes widen dramatically. If I do nothing else well in life, being dramatic is my strength. “How did you know that?”

  “Are you staring at a cardboard cutout of Spencer?”

  Now my jaw drops. “No, really, are you stalking me? Where are you? You’re hiding behind one of the bookshelves, aren’t you?” I ask as I bend this way and that, looking around the bookstore, aka my latest writing dive.

  This time she laughs out loud. I would never tell her, but I like hearing her laugh. She’s been my editor since my very first indie book, before I was picked up by my publisher, and she’s had a rough few years. She puts on a brave face, but Greer has an ex-husband in prison, a special needs teenager and a teenage daughter. Hearing her happy makes me relax.

  “What if I told you I was standing right behind Spencer’s cardboard body, staring at you thr.ough the holes in his eyes?”

  She’s joking. At least I hope she’s joking.

  “I’d tell you that was the creepiest thing you’ve ever said, and I may have to end this friendship.”

  She gasps. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “No, I wouldn’t dare. But I really hope you’re not here because that would be weird, and I refuse to be involved if you get arrested for loitering.”

  “Well, you can relax, my friend. I am not stalking you. I’m sitting in my new office chair in my new office in my new house.”

  Now my ears perk up. Greer moved to Texas a few weeks ago, and I’ve been hounding her for pictures of her new place ever since. There’s nothing I love more than floor plans and decorating and DIY. “Oooh! That sounds amazing! Did you get all your books unpacked?” Because of course that is the most important part of any move.

  “Sadly, I may not have enough shelving. I may need to get another custom-made on
e.”

  I sigh dreamily and close my eyes, resting my head on my fist. “Those are the single greatest words you have ever said to me.”

  “I knew you’d appreciate it.”

  “Seriously. I may have just had a Big O right in this bookstore.” I grimace when I open my eyes only to see a woman glaring at me, a look of shock on her face as she covers her tween’s ears. The kid is grinning like the pervy little twelve-year-old he probably is. “Sorry,” I mouth as she walks away, dragging the kid behind her.

  “You are making inappropriate comments in public. Exactly how bad is this block? If you drop the F-bomb, I’m flying out there to put you on a fifty-one-fifty-hold at the local psych ward.”

  I groan, dreams of custom bookshelves put on the back burner as Greer brings me back to reality. “Please don’t. I hear Courtney Love might be back in there, and she frightens me. I don’t want to be her bitch.”

  “Oh my. This is bad.”

  Shifting in the chair, I get down to business. As much as I’d like to avoid it, I still have a job to do. “I don’t know what to do, Greer. I’m really stuck this time.”

  She immediately moves out of friend mode and into work mode, putting on her encourager cap. “First of all, it’s a psych ward, not a prison. No one will make you their bitch.”

  “You’ve never been there. You don’t know that for sure.”

  “Second,” she interrupts, ignoring my theatrics, “you say that every time, Adeline, and you’re never actually stuck. You only need a little motivation.”

  “Which is why I’m here. I’m getting my motivation.”

  “Why don’t you buy your own cardboard cut-out of Spencer for your house?”

  “Because that would be creepy.” I bite my lip before admitting to the coffee table book I have opened to his page at home. Some things a girl needs to keep to herself.

  “No creepier than sitting in a public store staring at it from across the room.”

  I drop my head on the table in front of me in defeat and whine, “I don’t know what to do, Greer.”

  “Well, let’s sort this out. What do you have so far?”

  This right here is why I keep Greer around. I took a chance on her when I wrote my first indie book and trusted her to edit it. Granted, she took a chance on my writing too. When that book randomly became a best seller, I was picked up by a publisher who provided a new editor. It’s a nice perk and all, but it’s not the same. The editor from my publishing house doesn’t help me work through my blocks. She merely approves my drafts or makes me do them again. I never know which one it will be and is likely based on the latest reader poll about what they want. Greer, on the other hand, actually helps me push through my storylines. She brainstorms with me. She helps me figure out my character motivation. And then she goes through it all with a fine-toothed comb, so I know it’s the best it can possibly be before it goes to my “real” editor.

  Lifting my head up and pushing my dark, unruly hair out of my face, I give her all the details. “He’s a surfer.”

  “Ooooh, surfing this time,” she coos. “I like it. You haven’t done that one yet. What else?”

  “That’s it. It’s all I have. He’s a surfer.”

  With the way her tone changes, I swear there is a screech of tires somewhere. “Adeline.”

  “Yes,” I say sheepishly.

  “Honey, you do know you’re supposed to have thirty thousand words to me in the next month.”

  “I know.” I drop my head on the table again. I’m going to have a bruise on my forehead if I keep doing this. “I’ve never been blocked this badly before. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m looking at my muse—right at him.” The same guy that ran into me before takes this exact moment to look at me, then the cutout, then at me again. I feel my face flame. “Oh crap. I just got caught looking at my muse.”

  Damn that Greer and her sudden burst of laughter.

  “This isn’t funny,” I whisper harshly. “I can’t seem to get any inspiration, and I certainly can’t do it when I keep getting caught trying to find it.”

  “Maybe you need to find a new muse.”

  A shrill gasp comes from somewhere deep within my soul and makes its way through the phone line. “You take that back,” I whisper harshly. She thinks it’s funny when I get all theatrical, the jerk.

  I love her.

  “Okay, okay, fine,” she responds, still chuckling. “Spencer is your muse. He will always be your muse. Why not take it a step further?”

  I know what she’s implying and is she insane?!

  “I can’t write about what he actually does!”

  “Adeline Snow” has spent several years writing about sexy, extreme sport athletes. Some would say I have cornered the market on sports romance, although I would say there’s room for all authors in that genre.

  I have written about snowboarders and cave diving and white-water rafting. I have written about BMX racing and motocrossers and free climbing. I even wrote one book about a roller derby which was awesome to research by the way. I still meet with the captain of our local team for drinks sometimes. She looks like that lady from American Pickers who sends the guys places to pick. I love her.

  But I have never and will never write about skateboarding. It’s easy to create fantasies based on Spencer Garrison excelling at anything and everything extreme. Because he totally could. I just know it. But to actually write about his sport would be too close to real life for me, and I would be mortified if anyone figured out who my muse is. It’s bad enough Greer knows.

  If our paths were to ever cross, I. Would. Die.

  “Well, what about making the heroine a single mom?” Greer tosses out.

  I grimace. “Ugh. It’s been done.”

  “What if she’s older?”

  I crinkle my nose. “Like a cougar story?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  “I’m just not feeling it,” I say with a shrug.

  “How about a secret baby?”

  The gears start turning in my brain and I sit up straight. “Wait. Like he left town to pursue his dream of being a pro surfer, and on his way across the country, he has a one-night stand and doesn’t know he has a child until she finally tracks him down?”

  “Oh, Adeline that sounds great.”

  “Eh. Too cliché.” I slump down in my chair. I don’t want to write what everyone else writes. There are thousands of romance books about football, and soccer, and even bull riding. It’s why I focus on Extreme Sports. I’ve been a fan of the less-than-mainstream sports and have watched the X Games religiously since I was a kid. My best friend, Todd, and I used to dream of one day winning a medal and would grab our skateboards as soon as the games were over to practice on a makeshift ramp we’d made out of an old piece of plywood and some wooden pallets.

  We still take Mrs. Chilson Christmas cookies as thanks for the many times she was Todd’s ER nurse when he broke his arm.

  “You really are blocked.” It’s like she thinks my theatrics are all for naught. I may be over the top, but I’m always honest when I do it.

  “I am, Greer. I so am.” I breathe a heavy sigh. “Maybe I need to go on this promotional tour and meet some people to inspire me. You know how much wandering around new cities and taking pictures helps open up my brain to creativity.”

  “That’ll probably help.”

  I make a mental note to pack the new camera I splurged on when I received my last signing bonus. I love playing tourist. But not just any tourist. I want to sightsee the places most people never know are there. You’d never find me darkening the door of Carlos & Charlie’s in Cancun. But you would see me spending hours walking through the ruins of Tulum.

  We chat for a few more minutes about my work-not-actually-in-progress as well as a few more administrative things before her workday ends and her mom-day begins.

  “Hey, Adi, I need to let you go. Kids are getting out of school, and I need to get into mom mode. They’ve only been in school for a we
ek so we’re trying to get this new routine down.”

  Poor Greer. I admire her strength. She has so much on her plate, and she pretends to balance it so well. I don’t tell her I know she struggles with her own motivation. She would hate that. Instead, I try to be her friend and adjust to her schedule any way I can.

  “All right,” I respond, glancing back up to my muse, wishing he would magically give me a story. “Well, wish me luck.”

  “Good luck. But, Adi, you’ve got this. I know you do.”

  I smile because it’s nice to know she accommodates me as much as I do her. “Thanks. And hey, Greer?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You got this too. This move is the best thing for you.”

  I can practically hear the tears in her eyes. Sometimes she just needs to know I recognize her too.

  “Thanks, Adeline. I think we’re finally where we’re supposed to be.”

  We hang up and I spend the next few minutes saying a silent prayer for my good friend to meet someone amazing, who loves her for everything she is and loves her children too.

  Maybe someday I’ll write a book about her. Her story could be very interesting. I jot it down in my plotting notebook. It has several story ideas I’ve come up with over the years. Sadly, none of them are calling to me right now.

  I sigh heavily and look into the vacant eyes of Spencer Garrison. “Come on, Spence. You gotta give me something.”

  “What?”

  I turn to see that same guy sitting next to me now, wondering who I’m talking to. Seriously, where does he keep coming from?

  “Uh, nothing.” I know my face is flaming red. It’s one of the joys of having lily white skin. “Just talking to myself.”

  He cocks an eyebrow like I’m a weirdo, which admittedly I probably am, and turns away.

  That was a close call. I need to keep my talks to Photograph Spencer limited to times when I’m in the safety of my own apartment. Not that it’s doing any good these days. I have got to snap out of this writer’s block. I just wish I could figure out how.

  Chapter 2

  Spencer