For the next couple of days I stewed. I had nightmares of Country Bob riding the chained-down dragons in endless circles around the oak tree, hurting them. I tried to write, but my fictional dragons hit the page with a scary, evil font.
“How is your writing going?” My husband asked about a week later.
“Lousy.” Emotion choked my voice. “I can’t write about dragons anymore.”
“But you still want the sculptures?”
I waited until a quiet moment and dialed Bob’s number. “Hello,” a woman, of all things answered. I thought about warning her about the six—er five, ex-wives—but good grief, she had to have seen the horrific yard sculptures.
“Hi,” I said. “We came over last week and saw Bob’s sculptures.”
“Oh yes,” she said, pleasure in her voice. “Bob checked up on you. He wanted me to let you know we would drop by your house—”
“No. No.” Anxiety twisted my stomach at the thought of him “dropping by” my safe place. (If you’ve followed from the beginning, you know how ironic this is.) “I’ve changed my mind about the dragons. I can’t have them. Please let Bob know that I can’t buy any of his art.”
“Oo-kay.” The woman’s voice soured, and she stretched the word into two surly syllables.
“Bye.” I disconnected. Loss and sadness engulfed me, but I knew it was the right decision. I was letting go of one thing to have another, more important thing.
The next morning when I sat down to write, and the words came easy.
The dragon pushed his wings through the air leaving turbulence behind. He surged above the clouds, then dove, tucking his wings and spinning, thrilling in his decent. At an open field, he slowed and scanned the ground for prey. Nothing, not even a bird to spook. He snorted and leapt back into flight.
The rushing cross currents sang in his ears: Freedom. Power.
Around him, the grey sky changed to seething clouds and lightening crackled, sending electricity through the air like a web. His scales stood on end, making him feel alive. Dangerous. Crashing thunder followed, vibrating his bones, shaking him like a fist.
Now when I think of the dragons, I only wish I had taken a picture. Even chained to the tree, they were so amazing, and powerful, and regal. I can’t have them. Not now, not ever. They will rust in the rain, hoarded by a man—whom I feel certain is not their true creator—but their captor.
All my best,
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SUSANNAH SCOTT lives in the Missouri Ozarks and is the lone female in a very loud household of males ranging in age from 4 to 40. While she jokes that the extreme levels of testosterone inspired her to write romance, it is really the love of creating an excellent story, and the occasional dreams of twenty-foot dragons, that wake her and send her to the laptop before the chaos of daily life ensues. Susannah loves to hear from her readers.
Luciana de Luca has a PhD in sass and gemology—and a problem. Her twin brother’s gambling debts have gotten out of hand, and a mob enforcer is blackmailing her to rob the latest, greatest mega-casino on the Strip. Although Lucy has worked her whole life to get away from her family’s grifter past, to save her brother, she dons three-inch heels and a sluts-r-us dress and struts into Alec’s Gerald’s casino, determined to put her long-forgotten thieving ways to the test again.
Alec Gerald, a shape-shifting dragon, has built the Crown Jewel casino to provide sanctuary for his people amongst the flash and awe of Las Vegas. Unfortunately, the sexy little thief trying to rob his gem exhibit turns out to be his mate, and he must woo her before he loses his dragon form forever. With enemies in every corner, and the all-important mating ceremony looming, Alec and Lucy must learn to trust each other, before time runs out for Alec and the rest of the dragons.