Sisters by DeJay

Author:DeJay
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Gay & Lesbian, Contemporary, Fiction, romance, Genre Fiction, lesbian, Lesbian Romance, Literature & Fiction
Publisher: Lesbian Fiction Press
Published: 2014-03-22T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty

November 5, 2008

TWO DAYS LATER I walked through the front door with an armload of wood just as Fiona threw a book across the room.

“God . . .dam . . . ng it.”

I searched for Anya. She was at the table doing her letters.

“Problem?” I asked.

Fiona shook her head. “I started another book.” She blew a breath out her mouth that scattered her ebony locks.

After dumping the wood by the fireplace, I hung my coat on the rack by the door. “And?”

“The author is a misogynist pig.” She clomped over and picked up the offending book.

“Who is it?”

“L. M. Addison. It’s his latest mystery. And can I just say, I’m shocked you read this crap.” She sat with a thud. “He’s a”—she took a deep breath—“butt hole if there ever was one.”

“I’m out of singles . . . be careful.” I studied her closely, searching her eyes; she apparently had no clue. She’s thinks I’m a guy? “And why exactly is Addison so bad?”

“There isn’t enough time in the world to explain it to you how despicable I think he is.”

“Okay, then.” I turned to check on Anya’s progress. “How you doing baby?” I was looking down at her numbers when Fiona chose to answer me.

“His men are wholly developed characters, with brains, depth, quirks and varying degrees of good looks. Maybe the occasional scar. A tick. A limp once. But they’re real and you relate in them, maybe care about them. His PI is a zany buffoon, and still, he’s beloved by the public.”

“And that’s bad?.” I sat across from her a little unnerved to be discussing my own works. I hadn’t had the opportunity since Kari became too sick to help me.

“He’s turned into a pig.” She slammed the book down on the end table. “His first books were good, the people ordinary. This last one, his women are caricatures and totally unbelievable.”

I took a moment before responding. “Why do you say that?”

“The women in this book . . . well they’re superficial.” She gazed at Anya, then lowered her voice. “They’re just fuck-bunnies. Not one of them has any brains. Or if they do, you won’t read about it. The female suspects are all described as having big tits, or bazzooms, or mammories. Well, you get the idea. Oh, and they have a shapely rounded ass. The women are only there to feed his macho detective’s sexual appetite. None of them appear capable of thinking for themselves. If they get into trouble, they’re saved by the big bad-ass hero and they scream like ninnies, or faint.”

“Isn’t that a little harsh?”

“You think so?” She picked up the book. “Listen to this crap. ‘Carey motioned for the woman to go first, then waited to see the direction she would take. The statuesque woman turned toward the stairs. After just a few steps, the facts of the case as Carey knew them were obscured by the sensuous energy of Ms. Jones’ shapely hips and ass. The silk of her nightgown clung to her with each progressive footstep.

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