#my girl rebecca just likes older men with aches and pains

[whats-her-quirk]

your tag actually killed me cuz my friend says she loves wolfwood for his scoliosis

that cross is HEAVY!!!! he needs a massage!!

[the-storyteller-and-her-soldiers]

What I Can Do For You...

Title: What I Can Do For You...

Word Count: 1,250

Warnings: This is a fluffy story but there are some VERY VAGUE mentions of a fight, injuries, and family shit. Also one or two curses.

Ship: The Tale of a Delinquent and the Top Student (Robby x Myself)

Summary: After getting jumped and into a fight with some 'old friends,' Robby comes by my place to clean up. But when he sees me worrying about what more I can do for him, he feels that he should be the one being there for me...

An aching kind of pound that was the only kind of sensation Robby could feel. It spread from the soles of his feet to his right temple, where that one asshole managed to land a good punch. The only thing he could feel as his slow and heavy steps trekked down the streets of Suburbia. It was the opposite direction of the crappy apartment he resided in, but it was towards a place that felt more like a home than his living space ever did.

It wasn't that much longer before his glaring gaze of green was met with a sight of a familiar eggshell-colored house along with the old pine tree that shielded it from the sun. His sneakered steps displaced the gravel in the driveway, sending it crunching this way and that. The sound which usually went unnoticed during his trips here was now deafening as the young blond trudged up the white-wood stairs.

His finger jammed itself against the button of the doorbell hastily after missing the first few times. An almost inaudible wince left his bleeding lips as was only met with silence. He leaned back against the fence of the small porch to keep himself standing as he went to dig his phone out of his pants pocket, silently praying to whatever was out there that it hadn't been smashed or lost during the fight. Burying his hand within the pocket of his ripped jeans, he let out a sigh of relief when the hard case was in his grasp. Before he could pull it out to check what damage was there, if there was any: he heard the patter of footsteps hurrying down the staircase.

The heavy door nearly hit Robby in the face as it swung open, although he managed to take a stumbled step to the side right before any contact had occurred.

"Hey, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I lost track of time. I promise I didn't mean to lock you out. Please, don't tell Mom..."

The girl, Rebecca, who had chocolate crystals for her eyes, quickly widened them as she processed the unexpected sight before her. She took a step back, nearly falling onto the stair behind her, as she raised her trembling hands to hide her gasp.

"Robby, are you okay?! What happened? Who did this to you, and what can I do to help??"

Although Robby still hadn't gotten a chance to explain himself before he was getting bombarded with more questions, he couldn't stop the warmth that began to flow through him when the girl showed concern for him above all else. Even though this girl was the one he came to expect that care from, he still wasn't used to it. Despite his currently pained state, a small smile cracked his lips when the girl turned and beckoned him to follow her. The scent of strawberries and bubblegum smacked his senses when he followed close behind. It was usually sickeningly sweet, but now Robby not only found comfort in it but the girl's matching pink locks as well. It wasn't until the pair finally stepped into Rebecca's home that the bloody and bruised boy finally spoke.

"Hey, there's no need to get all freaked out about this. I'm fine," Robby took a sharp hiss of a pause as his eyes squinted towards the ceiling light in Rebecca's kitchen. "Turns out that Dumb and Dumbass just got out of jail and were still pissed that I got them thrown in there in the first place. They tried to jump me, but you should see them now."

Even with the vague nicknames, Rebecca knew which pair of goons her boyfriend mentioned. It was a pair of older guys that Robby used to run with when they were all several years younger. Rebecca had met them a few times before when she'd stop by Robby's place with leftovers. Back then, Robby would invite her in to meet them. But the way the other men looked at her made Rebecca's stomach churn and made her instincts scream to get out of there. Now, after learning what they did in the present, Rebecca silently thanked the stars that she never got involved with them since the disdain she had for them only grew. She then turned to face Robby once more while she took his calloused hold in hers. She softly apologized even though she knew she had nothing to do with it before glaring at her creamy kitchen tiles and wishing that the two men went back to rotting.

Robby ran his thumb along the back of her hand and cast her a sincere smile when she finally met his bruising sight. "Hey, I'm just glad you were home and willing to deal with me. Even with my mom out of rehab and all that shit with my dad and everyone else. You're still the only one who shows the slightest concern about my well-being. So, thanks."

A small smile spread across Rebecca's rosy lips, although it didn't reach her eyes. She loved this sweet side of Robby. It was something only she ever had the luck of seeing. But it broke her heart to know that even now: after all her boyfriend had been through, he still didn't have others he could trust without being used in some way. She stepped closer to him once more and wrapped her arms around his torso as tight as she could manage, burying her face in his chest.

Robby grunted, not from pain but surprise. His arms, although sore, snaked around his partner's small frame. He rested his chin on top of her darkened roots, allowing the sugary scent of her to overwhelm him again.

Although her voice became muffled by the cotton of his now blood-splattered shirt, Robby still heard her words. "I'm not dealing with you. I love you! I always have. You deserve this love and support, and you always did. I wish I could do more."

Robby's chapped lips brushed against her silken strands. Their softness tickled his skin, just like the realization of their contrast as people tickled his core. It may have been a placebo, but Robby could feel the pain dull slightly. His rough touch glided over the skin of Rebecca's cheek, and when she glanced up at him, he took that opportunity to let their lips meet. The two stayed like this for what felt like an eternity, just trying to remember every single detail about the other and every single feeling this moment brought. When they finally pulled away for a breath, blond and brunette strands tangled in each other when Robby rested his forehead against his girlfriend's.

All these years, she had stayed by him. Even when everyone else had abandoned him, Rebecca stayed in his life and showed him care. When, honestly, she had more right than anyone to turn her back on him. Yet here Rebecca was, thinking that all of it still wasn't enough? This thought confused and frustrated Robby all at once since he knew that she deserved better. The only problem now is that he couldn't bear to let anyone else have her as long as he had her love.

"I love you too, princess, so much more than I'll ever be able to show you. But that doesn't mean I won't ever stop trying to show you. Even if it takes the rest of my life, I want you to see what I can do for you..."

[rfergusondaily]

British Vogue, November 2017

Running the Show ACTRESS REBECCA FERGUSON DIDN’T WANT TO DO A MUSICAL – SO HOW DID SHE END UP IN THE LATEST ALL-STAR PRODUCTION, ASKS VIOLET HENDERSON

When newly minted film director Michael Gracey met actress Rebecca Ferguson to pitch her his film (still then only an idea, albeit one to which Hugh Jackman had committed), he knocked on her front door wearing a beanie and clutching a television set. “Can you show me to your living room?” he asked. Ferguson raised an eyebrow. “Did I want, then, to do a musical? Hell, no,” she recalls.

Unlike the chart-topping former X Factor contestant with whom she shares her name, she makes no claims to be a singer. Gracey introduced his montage of video clips with razzmatazz. “The year is 1880,” he began, with a clap of his hands. By the time he was done, Ferguson felt “electrified”, certain she wanted to be a part of this all-singing, all-dancing vision. That part turned out to be the one of Jenny Lind, the world-famous Swedish soprano, so good at her trade that Queen Victoria befriended her and PT Barnum (played by Jackman) recruited her to his travelling circus (which also includes a dancing Zac Efron). The Greatest Showman features music by Benj Pasek and Justin Paul, the duo who worked on La La Land.

It was canny of Gracey to cast Ferguson as Lind. Even if the actress’s own singing is not used in the final film (that’s a decision still to be made in the editing room), her speaking voice is pure opera with its deep timbre and clipped clarity, heightened by the sort of meticulous enunciation that comes with not being an English native; like Lind, Ferguson grew up in Sweden. Starlets and ingénues don’t speak like Ferguson, who in person is neither girlish nor a slip of a thing but in secure command of her significant charisma. “In my life I never sat on my arse waiting for this or that,” says the 33-year-old, her pale blue eyes bright. “I actually make things happen.”

And happen they have. Before The Great Showman hits the big screen, Ferguson stars with Michael Fassbender in The Snowman, in cinemas this month. “My publicist keeps calling to say, can we talk about The Show... No, The Snow... Oh, Jesus, one of the men!” says the actress, laughing. They are, however, very different films. The Snowman, based on a novel by Norwegian crime writer Jo Nesbø, is a spartan spine-chiller, directed by Tomas Alfredson, another Swede, whose previous work includes Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. The shoot for the film began in Norway the day after The Girl on the Train wrapped in America (Ferguson played Anna). “I wouldn’t worry too much about my workload. After all, I had four months with Michael,” says Ferguson, who is in turn knowing, funny, conspiratorial; in sum, an excellent raconteur.

We meet in the garden of a London square. The actress has rented an apartment near the Thames while she is shooting Mission: Impossible 6. She entered the high-grossing franchise in the fifth Mission: Impossible as Ilsa Faust, a sassy, gun-wielding assassin who may come to Tom Cruise’s rescue. She remembers the experience the first time round as “like going through labour: it was exciting, it was new, it was so goddam painful.” But then Ferguson went from smoking cigarillos (sometimes a cigar) and eating like a normal person, to training for six hours a day on a heavily restricted diet. “This time I’ve kept up my fitness so it’s not so hard. I could now practically sleep on the Pilates reformer, I love it so much,” and she inhales on a vaporiser that looks like a bullet.

Until recently, when Ferguson was not on location, she based herself in Simrishamn in Sweden, a small fishing village where her 10-year-old son, Isaac, lives during school term time with his father, from whom Ferguson split a couple of years ago. Now she’s renovating a house in London and her plan is to divide her time between the two countries. She has a new partner, who is English and “doesn’t work in the business”, she adds protectively, and although the travelling her job requires makes motherhood a challenge, “we make it work,” she says with a shrug. “It could be so hard, but it’s not because everyone gets on and supports each other.”

She pulls the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her wrists. “I feel British,” she says. “Mum brought us up that way.” In the family home in Stockholm, she and her elder sister kept rats, mice and budgerigars, watched Cracker and Inspector Morse, and learnt English manners. “Never answer a question with yes or no, always with a sentence,” she tells me diligently. Their summers were spent scaling Helvellyn in the Lake District, “until I discovered French boys, and then we went to stay with my aunt in France”. Her parents divorced when she was three and she lived between their houses. “We didn’t have a lot,” she recalls, “but because of Mum we never felt poor.”

Ferguson paints her mother, who originally hails from East Anglia, as a big character who has cast a colourful influence over her life, in many shades of Edina Monsoon. For a while she translated songs for Abba and lent them her wardrobe. “I think my mother finds my androgynous style very mundane,” says Ferguson, gesturing to her Acne black tailored trousers. She laughs – it’s a very big laugh. It was Ferguson’s mother who enrolled her in Adolf Fredrik’s Music School, a primary education with a musical and performing focus. “I think she wanted a lot for me,” she says.

At 15 she won the lead role in a national soap opera. So she switched school for a TV studio to shoot two and a half episodes every day each week. Her mother told her, “You’re going to pay rent now because you’re a working woman who is earning more than me, so you give back to the family.” Ferguson still respects her for it: “I learnt then the value of making money and taking responsibility for myself.” And she liked it. A year later, when the show had ended, she felt the ache of being separated from her peers. “I remember thinking, I’m just not a part of that world any more. I wasn’t going to university, I couldn’t, I’d left school early. By 16, I’d left home, too. My friends were older and I’d begun to drift from one friendship to the next.” With no roles coming in, she worked in “day care, restaurants, shoe shops, anything just to support myself ”, until a television series took her to Miami Beach, and although that went “tits up”, she says, “it didn’t really matter because I was 17 and I got to live in another country for a year”. 

Unusually in the world of entertainment – where women’s careers are so often made or abandoned by the time they’re 27, the industry’s unofficial line in the sand – Ferguson’s international break came at the age of 30 when she was cast as Elizabeth Woodville opposite Max Irons in The White Queen for the BBC. “I got the part and three days later we were shooting,” she says. “I never really asked, what is happening here? Where am I going? Do I want this trip? I just decided to go with it. I thought, why not?’’

[mysteryshelf]

BLOG TOUR - Dark Harvest

  Welcome to

THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF!

DISCLAIMER: This content has been provided to THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF by Partners in Crime Book Tours. No compensation was received. This information required by the Federal Trade Commission.

Dark Harvest

by Chris Patchell

on Tour August 1-31, 2017

Synopsis:

Becky Kincaid ventures out in the middle of a snowstorm to buy a car seat for her unborn baby and never makes it home. When a second pregnant woman disappears, Marissa Rooney and the team at the Holt Foundation fear a sinister motive lurks behind the crimes.

Lead investigator, Seth Crawford, desperately searches for the thread that binds the two cases together, knowing that if he fails, another woman will soon be gone. While Seth hunts for clues, a madman has Marissa in his sights and she carries a secret that could tear her whole world apart.

Can Seth stop the killer before he reaps his dark harvest.

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense Published by: Kindle Press Publication Date: May 30th 2017 Number of Pages: 336 ISBN: 1546428445 Series: A Holt Foundation Story, Book 2 Purchase Links: Amazon 🔗 | Kindle Unlimited 🔗 | Goodreads 🔗

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

A sharp pain jabbed Rebecca Kincaid’s side, and she sucked in a breath. Her hand fell to the hard swell of her belly, rubbing gently. Round ligament pain, she figured, just one of the many joys of being pregnant.

“Chillax, kiddo,” she said to the baby dancing inside her as the pain subsided.

Smiling to herself, she glanced around to see if anyone else was close enough to hear. Some people called you crazy for talking to yourself in public. She caught the eye of a redhead standing beside a stack of Diaper Genies. Dressed in blue jeans and a red flannel coat, the woman smiled. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, older than Becky, but not as old as some of the women in her prenatal classes. The woman’s gaze strayed to the strained buttons around Becky’s baby bump.

“When are you due?”

“Two more weeks and counting.” She grimaced. Being this big, nothing was comfortable. Her back ached, her hips hurt, and even sleeping was hard.

The woman smiled sympathetically. “I know, right? I felt the same way when I was pregnant, like I was Sigourney Weaver in that Alien movie with a little monster just dying to get out.”

“I know what you mean,” Becky said, breaking eye contact.

Truthfully, she hated that movie. Violent and gory. Comparing a baby to a bloodthirsty alien tearing its way out of its mother’s womb, well, that was kind of sick. She was much more of a romantic-comedy kind of girl.

“I have a toddler at home,” the woman said. “Seems like just yesterday I was in maternity clothes, though.”

Becky faked a laugh and turned down an aisle, away from the stranger.

She parked the cart and ran her hand over the Chicco car seat sitting center shelf. She didn’t need her mother to tell her it cost too much. Most of her baby stuff she’d picked up at the Salvation Army store or had gotten handed down from the women at work, but Becky knew that car seats were one of those things you had to buy new. On her waitressing salary, the best she could afford was the cheapest one on the rack. And even that was pricey.

The doctor said that most first babies came late, but in the last day or two, she’d had a few contractions. Fake contractions, the nurse said. Whatever they were, they freaked her out. She knew she wouldn’t be able to bring the baby home from the hospital without a car seat, so here she was, shopping in the middle of a freak snowstorm. If her mother knew that she was out on a night like tonight, she’d have a fit.

Becky fingered her necklace, grabbed the white-gold heart, and ran it along the chain as she searched the shelves for something more affordable. Of course, the one she wanted was up on the top shelf, well out of reach. She scanned the area looking for a box stowed a bit lower. There were none.

Becky sighed and glanced down the aisle. Didn’t anyone work in this store?

Where was Nathan when she needed him? All six foot three of him could have reached up and grabbed the box off the shelf with no problem at all, but at five foot two, almost as wide as she was tall these days, it was hopeless. Frowning, she stepped on the bottom shelf and stretched high, wiggling her fingertips in a desperate bid to tip the box toward her. The metal shelf groaned under her weight. It shifted suddenly, and Becky’s stomach lurched. Thrown off balance, she careened backward, hands flailing wildly as she grasped for something—anything to stop her fall. Nothing but air.

Oh God. The baby.

Strong hands gripped her coat, catching her inches from the floor. Heart racing, Becky closed her eyes and regained her footing. Her hands flew to her belly. The baby kicked her hard, as if chastising her for being so careless.

“Careful, honey. You don’t want to fall in your condition,” a woman said. It was the redhead again. “Let me get that.”

Becky bit her lip and stared at the damned box. Why didn’t they put the boxes lower where pregnant moms could reach? It was probably some stupid marketing trick to get you to buy the most expensive ones. They were at eye level.

“Maybe we should find a clerk,” Becky said. “I’m not sure you should be climbing up there either.”

“If we wait for someone else to come along, we’ll both die of old age. Besides, we gals have got to help each other out.”

The redhead winked. Stepping onto the warped bottom shelf, she reached high overhead and slid the baby seat from its perch. Climbing back down, she turned and dropped the box safely into Becky’s cart.

“There,” she said, clapping the dust from her hands with a satisfied smile.

“Thanks,” Becky said. “If my boyfriend were here . . .” She trailed off, irritation rippling through her. Why was it that she was the only one responsible for all of this baby stuff? She hadn’t gotten pregnant by herself.

The redhead’s eyes narrowed.

“Where is the baby daddy? Shouldn’t he be helping you with this?”

“He’s out with his friends. He’ll be home soon, though.”

Becky blushed and turned away. Why was she lying to a perfect stranger? Nathan wouldn’t be home soon. In fact, she didn’t know when she would see him again. For her, home was a dreary little basement apartment that she could barely afford, while he lived in a sprawling frat house minutes away from the University of Washington campus. She had only been there once. The night she had gotten pregnant.

The last three dozen texts she sent him went unanswered. He ignored her baby updates. She’d even sent him images from the ultrasound.

But he’d never responded. He didn’t answer her calls. She might as well not exist. Pregnant and alone, she was an eighteen-year-old walking cliché. And what was worse, her mother had been totally right about Nathan, not that Becky had any intention of admitting it.

Becky’s shoulders slumped. A painful lump formed in her throat, and she rubbed her belly.

“Men are pigs, honey,” the redhead said, patting Becky’s shoulder. “The sooner you learn that lesson, the easier your life is going to be.”

Even though Nathan was ignoring her, Becky still held a sliver of hope deep in her heart that once the baby was born, he’d come around. Once he held his son, looked down into his beautiful face, everything would change.

Becky sniffed and dabbed her nose on her sleeve. She could hope.

“Do you have someone who can help you carry the baby seat to your car? It’s slippery out there. You almost fell once today; you don’t want to risk that baby again.”

The woman reached out and patted her baby bump. Becky recoiled, startled by the presumption of the stranger’s touch.

“Sorry,” the woman said, curling her fingers into a fist. “Force of habit.”

Becky grasped the handle of the shopping cart and steered it down the narrow aisle.

“Thanks for your help but I can manage,” she called over her shoulder. In her haste to escape the awkward situation, the front wheels slammed into a shelf. The cart shuddered, and Becky’s belly ran up against the handle. She gasped, pain shooting through her.

“You okay?”

The bright flash of pain subsided. Cheeks burning, Becky waved her hand and kept going, wanting to distance herself from the woman. She’d already embarrassed herself enough for one night. Besides, it was late, and her back was killing her. All she wanted to do was go home and stretch out on the couch, maybe catch an episode of The New Girl before she fell asleep.

Waiting at the register, she looked at all the baby things crammed on the shelves. They were so sweet. Stuffed bunnies with long, floppy ears; burp cloths; and pacifiers.

Her belly tensed. The baby kicked like he knew he was going to be born into a life of hand-me-downs. A fake contraction rippled through her, and she released a short breath. At least she thought it was fake. She wasn’t ready for the real kind yet.

Unable to stop herself, Becky picked a stuffed bunny off the shelf. Raising it to her face, she ran its baby-soft fur across the bridge of her nose. It smelled powdery fresh and reminded her of her favorite stuffed animal from when she was a kid. A potbellied bear with a matted brown coat and a large blue nose. She’d loved that bear. Took it with her on every trip. Slept with it every night for far longer than she cared to admit. Her mom had restuffed that bear at least three times that she could recall.

She felt a pang thinking about her mom. They hadn’t spoken for five months now, ever since that terrible fight they’d had about Nathan. And the abortion her mother thought Becky should have.

She couldn’t kill her baby.

“Ma’am?” the clerk called to her. She looked up. The couple in front of her was gone, and the line had cleared. She was next.

“The bunny?” The clerk held out her hand for the stuffed animal. Becky shook her head and forced a smile. The bunny was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Squeezing the downy soft tummy one last time, she set the stuffed animal back on the shelf.

“Just the car seat,” she said, digging for her wallet. Paying cash for her purchase, she left the store.

Thick flakes of snow shone under the streetlights and swirled around her in the frigid wind. A blanket of white covered the icy parking lot.

Becky pressed the trunk button on the remote. Some asshole had parked his black van right next to her. With the whole empty parking lot to choose from, why would he park so close?

Shit luck, she supposed, the only kind she seemed to have these days.

The wheels on Becky’s cart rattled on the chunky snow and ice. She slipped. Catching herself, she kept going. On a grim night like this, most smart people stayed home.

Snowflakes caught in her eyelashes, and others brushed her cheeks like icy angel kisses. Becky stowed the car seat in the trunk. The nearest cart caddy was a football field away. Okay. She probably shouldn’t abandon the cart, but screw it. She was tired, pregnant, and it was damned cold out here. No one would blame her. She launched her cart through the empty parking lot. It ground to a halt the next row over.

Shivering as the damp night air wrapped around her and the snowflakes melted in her hair, Becky rounded the side of the car and glared at the van. He’d left her eighteen inches of space. How the hell was she supposed to open her door wide enough to crawl into the driver’s seat? It would have been difficult even if she had been her normal size, but in her current condition, it was impossible.

But what choice did she have? Wait out here until the asshole showed up and moved his ratty van? With the way her luck was going, it probably belonged to some kid who worked in the store and wouldn’t be off for hours yet. She could try the passenger’s side, but crawling over the gearshift and the console between the seats in her condition . . .

Becky sighed. Feeling dumb and desperate, she dialed Nathan’s number. His picture flashed on her phone. He had a handsome face with blue eyes and a smattering of light-brown freckles. She waited. One ring. Two. Five. The call went through to voicemail the way it always did. Becky’s stomach heaved, and she pocketed the phone.

Glancing up, she eyed the van and set her jaw.

She could do this.

Easing her way between the two vehicles, her swollen belly smearing the dirty side of the van, she waddled toward the driver’s door. The side mirrors of the vehicles almost touched.

Behind her, she heard the crunch of shoes on snow. Becky’s breath caught.

She spun, her belly scraping the passenger’s door as she looked behind her.

The redhead from the store smiled.

“God, you scared me.” Becky slapped a hand over her racing heart as adrenaline shot through her system at warp speed. The baby must have felt it too. He twisted and squirmed inside her.

“Sorry. I would have called out, but I didn’t know your name.”

“Becky,” she said, still gripping the keys tight in her hand. She drew in a couple of cleansing breaths.

“I think you dropped this.”

The woman held something out in front of her. It was the stuffed animal from the store—the snow-white bunny with floppy ears. Becky frowned and shook her head.

“It’s not mine. I . . .”

She was so focused on the rabbit that she didn’t hear the grinding sound of the van’s door open until it was too late. Large gloved hands clamped onto her shoulders and heaved her inside. She landed on her belly. A bright bolt of pain ripped through her. The air rushed from her lungs.

The front door slammed closed. The engine roared to life. Becky screamed. A stabbing pain, like the sharp pinch of broken glass, burned at the base of her neck. She tried to push the man away, but he pinned her hands.

“Let’s go,” he said.

The van rumbled out of the parking lot. A right turn, then a left.

Becky screamed again. Her vision narrowed, a black tunnel growing wide around the edges. Her eyelids drooped, heavy as lead, until they fluttered closed.

***

Excerpt from Dark Harvest by Chris Patchell. Copyright © 2017 by Chris Patchell. Reproduced with permission from Chris Patchell. All rights reserved.

  Author Bio:

Chris Patchell is the bestselling author of In the Dark and the Indie Reader Discovery Award winning novel Deadly Lies. Having recently left her long-time career in tech to pursue her passion for writing full-time, Chris pens gritty suspense novels set in the Pacific Northwest, where she lives with her family and two neurotic dogs.

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BLOG TOUR – Dark Harvest was originally published on the Wordpress version of The Pulp and Mystery Shelf with Shannon Muir