Hi guys, we have K-Lee Klein popping in today with her upcoming re-release Unbreak My Heart, we have a fantastic guest post where K-Lee chats about writing and her muse, we have a great excerpt and K-Lee is having a comment giveaway! So guys, check out the post and leave a comment with an answer to K-Lee’s question to enter the giveaway! <3 ~Pixie~
Unbreak My Heart
Brett Taylor’s world collapsed three years ago when he lost the love of his life. Almost as bad as the grief is the advice he’s starting to get from everyone and their brother, telling him it’s time to move on. They’re flat-out wrong. He left his career as a musician and escaped to his ranch because he needs the peace and quiet, and he’s doing just fine. He doesn’t want anyone invading his memory-filled, booze-fueled solitude.
JT Campbell’s world has been defined by his parents’ money, status, and his own empty relationships, until he’s desperately sick of it. A quest to find something meaningful leads him to Brett’s failing ranch. It’s supposed to be a brief stay. JT never wanted to be anyone’s savior or compete with the ghosts of lovers past. Still, he can’t help wanting this gruff and grieving man.
JT’s mind knows it’s a bad idea, but his heart keeps pushing him to find out what lies beneath Brett’s rough and broken exterior. Brett’s not going to make it easy. JT can only be patient, keep his sense of humor, and hope for the day he may be allowed far enough into Brett’s world to unbreak his heart.
Hello, and welcome to the Unbreak My Heart blog tour. First of all I’d like to thank MM Good Book Reviews for taking part in the rerelease of my first title for Dreamspinner Press. I’m very excited for the opportunity to share the meticulously re-edited version of a book that is very special to me. I can’t wait for new readers to meet Brett & JT – hands-down two of my favorite characters.
Unbreak My Heart will be released on August 5, 2016, but is available for preorder right now.
I thought I’d talk a little about writing today. Writers are often asked if they have specific regimes or habits, either while writing or before they’ve begun a new story. I can honestly say I’m not someone I’d consider a role model in either of those particular categories.
I don’t have an office set up with desk and chair, or even a precise spot for my laptop. I don’t have a window that I glance out of for inspiration, at least not one specific one. I don’t even have a set time or schedule for when I’ll try to bang out a certain amount of words on the page. My office consists of anyplace I can sit with my laptop on my lap.
Honestly, I’d love to have the stability and regularity of those other things or maybe I’d just like to be more organized and more able to utilize such habits — or have any writing regime at all. But I don’t. Although it’s not because I haven’t tried. They’re just not for me.
When it comes to the type of writer I am, I fall mostly into the pantser category. I’m not good at outlines and completely let my muse, and by proxy, my characters run rampant. They tell me when I’m going to write, how long it’s going to last, and exactly how the story will progress, especially when it comes to their specific storylines. For example, when I started writing Unbreak My Heart, it became clear that despite how bossy Brett quickly became with regards to the whats and hows of the story, his mama was also a force to be reckoned with. She kept butting into the conversation Brett and I were having so I ended up having to give her her say, much to Brett’s sometimes annoyance. And JT…well, he told me in no uncertain terms that he was NOT making up with his parents so I didn’t have to bother writing them in very much at all.
My muse is a delicate creature and since he is responsible for the characters that run the show he is no doubt the big cheese. And he knows it. He doesn’t like to be told when, how, for how long we write, or to have any rigid format forced on him. He does like impromptu car writing, creative sessions after sleeping pills have been taken and are beginning to do their job, and strangely enough, bathtubs. He and I do some of our best work, or dare I say, most of our work, in the tub. I’ve become an expert iPad-writer while relaxing in hot water, sparkling bubbles, and a hot mug of Moroccan Mint green tea.
Despite not being much of a plotter beforehand, there are usually some specific things I know before I begin a new book. The initial scene is already set up and has been played out at least once in my head. I also know how the book will end. It’s all that stuff in the middle that remains a mystery until it actually happens. I know so many authors who have each chapter planned out, complete with outlines of scenes, before they even open a new document. But for me, discovering what happens in the middle is part of the fun.
There is one other vital thing I always know beforehand – my characters, who they are, how they look. Each new MC who pops into my head generally comes complete with a very distinct set of physical characteristics. I think this happens because I’m a very visual person. My characters speak to me from bodies that are quickly recognizable. I know the color of their hair and eyes, how tall they are, and their approximate weight and build. I know whether they have short, long, curly or straight hair, whether they have scars, tattoos, piercings, or any other things that make them who they are. My muse creates fully formed men (Brett with his long hair, JT with his smile) who take up wonderful, nagging residence in my brain.
Under the best circumstances, I also begin writing these new characters’ tales with clear back-stories already entwined around them. This background information is what makes them who they are, explains their quirks, unusual habits or intense likes and dislikes, and supplies me with the way to manipulate their emotional well-being. And if you’ve read anything I’ve written before, you will know that’s getting inside my characters’ heads and maybe breaking them just a little bit is what I like to do best.
So I start with these men, gorgeous but with their own flaws, emotional but fixable, with intricate pasts and hopeful futures, and weave the story my muse gives for them. With Unbreak My Heart, it was a joy and plenty of sweet pain to find and tell the story of Brett and JT, as I discovered what actually came between the first scene of and their happy ending.
Before I go, I want to tell you about the giveaway for this post. I’m offering up one ebook copy of Unbreak My Heart or anything from my backlist for one lucky commenter. Just leave your name, email address, and answer to the following question, based on the fact both my muse and I like to write and read in the tub – where is your favorite spot to read? The contest will be open until August 5 when I’ll randomly pick a winner.
Thanks for supporting the tour and have a great rest of your summer.
“Brett! Where are you, son? You’ve got visitors. Don’t make me come lookin’ for you.”
Brett groaned, screwing his eyes shut while his fingers swept through his tangled hair. What in the hell was his mama doing here in the middle of the goddamn night? He contemplated keeping quiet in hopes she’d just assume he wasn’t home, but his mama hadn’t raised a stupid child, and he knew there’d be worse hell to pay if he tried to avoid her. Plus, in his heart of hearts, he knew he could never do that.
“God’s tarnation, woman. Keep your knickers on,” he muttered before carefully placing the pad of paper in the long drawer of the desk. He traced a finger over the image in the small picture frame just beyond the desk blotter, a sad grin curling one side of his mouth as he picked it up.
“Guess I’ll have to finish up after I’ve gotten rid of her. You know how she is. I’ll be back, Darlin’.”
In the beginning, he’d been embarrassed, or maybe thought he was slowly losing his mind by talking to the photo when he was alone in the office. But those times had passed, and it wasn’t anyone else’s damn business if he talked to a photograph or to himself for that matter. If that was what he needed at the end of the day to fill some kind of hole inside him, he’d do as he damned well pleased.
When he heard footsteps in the kitchen, his mind hesitantly circled back to the present. He placed the photo carefully on top of the yellow paper before he shut the drawer again. One more swipe at his face to clear the cobwebs and memories from his head, and he exited the office to meet whatever the hell was waiting for him.
“Brett.” Her voice warmed when Brett came into view. “You look a mess, son. Didn’t wake you up, did we?”
“Just a little doze, Mama.” The irritated-as-fuck thread running through him thinned when he took in her familiar sweet smile and loving blue eyes. “Kinda late for a visit, ain’t it?”
“It’s barely ten o’clock. I swear you’re turning into your daddy with all your darn grumpin’.” Goddamn, he loved his mama, but he was positive she’d be the death of him one day.
The tension in his head eased a little as he quirked his lips into a self-satisfied smile and crossed his arms over his chest. He planted his feet shoulder width apart for balance, then winked at his grinning mama. “And just which daddy would that be, ma’am?”
Millie Taylor-Montgomery-Allan jutted out her hip, laying a ring-abundant hand over it while she narrowed her eyes at him. “You watch your mouth, boy. You’re not too big or old for me to hang a beatin’ on. You best remember that.”
His smugness turned into a full-out crooked smirk. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Now where’re your manners? Give your mama a hug and politely greet your guest.”
Brett’s adrenaline rose, involuntarily sobering him in a way he didn’t appreciate. He scanned the kitchen while he frowned and stepped into his mama’s embrace. Guest? He caught a slight movement from the corner of his eye and peered into the shadow of the doorway.
Why the hell was there a man—a stranger—in his house, and with his mama yet? He wound an arm around her waist, squeezed gently, then kissed her cheek before stepping back. He kept watch on the figure standing behind her.
Millie motioned for the shadow to step forward, wrapped her fingers around his forearm and pulled him into the light. Brett did a quick assessment, his gaze traveling from head to toe as he contemplated whether the guy was a threat in any way possible. Fisting one hand in the hem of his T-shirt, he forced back a protective growl that tickled the back of his throat.
It was a habit he’d never been able to completely rid himself of—protecting the woman who’d raised him and taken care of him his whole life. He guessed if there was one inbred instinct he’d never been able to shake, that was the best one possible to hang on to. Plus, he wasn’t accustomed to having strangers—or anyone—in his house.
The guy was young and around six feet tall, though his build was far slighter than Brett’s. He was wiry, but toned, if the ropey biceps and cut of his jeans were any indication. His dark blond hair was curly, falling just past his ears, messy and giving him a scruffy look that matched the stubble on his jaw and cheeks. His eyes were the color of brown velvet— almost black in the shadow of the overhead light—wide, deep, frayed around the edges with uncertainty. And, if Brett wasn’t mistaken, the kid seemed to be a little worse for wear if the bruising around his right eye and the redness beneath the stubble of the left side of his jaw were any indication.
People told Brett all the time that he looked younger than his forty-one years, but if this kid was any older than twenty-three, then Brett was surely ready for the old folks’ home in town. The purple shirt he wore had seen much better days, stained or maybe spattered with something dark—possibly blood from his cut lip—with a rip at the collar. It was snug across his noticeably toned chest and hung loose over the waistband of a very tight pair of black jeans. The black-and-purple-striped kicks completed the trying-too-hard city-boy category Brett automatically put him in. He hoped the kid hadn’t been doing any drinking in the local bars because, damn, he stuck out like a pinto in a herd of quarter horses.
“Brett, this is Johan Terrance.”
Brett’s suspicious nature eased up a bit while he hid his smirk behind his hand, and heard Johan groan low in his throat. “That his first name or last?”
“I think it’s his first—”
The kid—Johan, for Christ’s sake—finally spoke up, shifting from foot to foot as he cut Millie off. His cheeks were flushed and his tongue slid nervously over his lips. “JT Campbell. JT is fine.”
He held out his hand, and Brett had to give him points for having the balls to interrupt Millie. Of course, he didn’t know her all that well yet either, at least not that Brett knew of.
Millie slapped Brett’s shoulder lightly. “JT, this is my mannerless son, Brett Taylor.”
Brett let his mama’s comment slide off him. He wrinkled his forehead and gave her his best all-lips fake grin—practiced, perfected, and used often when it came to her. A fact of which she was highly aware. He shook JT’s hand, immediately noticing the softness of his fingers and palm—definitely city.
“Hey,” he said, his voice curt but firm. He glared at the kid, sending his own brand of “don’t you be moving too quickly or I’ll lasso your ass faster than you can say hogtied.” He eased off a little, quirking an eyebrow before moving to look at his mama and back again. “Now if it’s not too much trouble, could y’all tell me why you’ve come calling in the middle of the night?”
JT’s lips parted, but Millie was faster. “It’s ten. I swear you’re older than I am these days.”
Brett rolled his eyes, the action making the dizziness in his head slip back in for a stay. He leaned against the marble countertop, flicked his hair from his face, then crossed his arms over his chest again. The kid unsuccessfully stifled a half grin—bad move, since Brett didn’t think anything was particularly funny about the situation.
He shot fire at the kid, then turned to his mama. “Well, just maybe I am. And since you never answered my first question, how about telling me why the fu—” He paused at his mama’s stern look. “Why the goddamn hell… just tell me why you’re out driving on the highway in the dark with a stranger in the car. I’m assuming his politeness isn’t covering up some nasty business he’s trying to pull on y’all, ’cause I’ll nip that sucker in the bud before he knows what hit him—”
“Brett Samuel Weston Taylor!”
He winced, his whole body tightening up. Letting his lids slide closed, he squeezed the bridge of his nose so hard he felt the pressure all the way down to his toes. She hadn’t even said it loudly, but goddamn it, he hated when she pulled out all his damn names. “Mama—”
“Please excuse Brett’s rudeness, Jo… JT. He’s always a little cranky when he’s been spending time with the bott—in his office.” Her voice smacked of sugar and vinegar at the same time, but Brett saw the disappointment in her face.
“Mama,” Brett hissed through clenched teeth. He couldn’t believe he’d lifted himself from a puddle of his own drool to put up with, well… this. He sought out the bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the bar in the attached family room, his mouth watering for another shot. Hell, if she was gonna advertise his drinking habits, he might as well not disappoint her. Of course she interrupted his yearning intention before he could make it a reality.
She must have spotted his not-so-stealthy look because she nearly shot him straight to the fiery gates of hell with one of her own. “Quit fussing and fidgeting, Brett. I had that cancer fundraiser tonight and didn’t feel like listening to Dorothy yap about her arthritis and gout for the ride there and back.” She brushed her fingers over JT’s arm. “JT is looking for work, and I told him that was just the sweetest coincidence, since you were looking for help around here.”
Brett scowled as he shoved his reading glasses farther down so he could get a better grip on the bridge of his nose. He fought against the booze in his system to control the What the fuck! that really wanted to make its way past his lips. Why in God’s name had she taken some young buck to a goddamn fundraiser? And offering a job Brett didn’t have… what the goddamn fuck was going on?
“I’m not looking for—”
“You know that old barn is going to just fall over if you don’t give it that overhaul you keep talking about. It’s a darn health hazard and eyesore. And since JT has some experience in construction, I thought he’d be perfect to help you get it fixed up.”
Brett’s heart dropped into his stomach, his jaw twitching as he prepared his answer. Leave it to his mama to sober him up real damn quick. “I don’t think we ever talked about any such—”
“Three years is a long time to keep everything the same, Brett.”
With an irritated vibration to his voice, much the same as the one currently squeezing his guts, Brett growled, “Can I have a word with you, Mama, in private?” He was halfway across the kitchen, his arm looped gently, but firmly, around Millie before he remembered the kid standing still and silent behind him. “Um… JT, right? Go ahead and help yourself to something to drink or… yeah, whatever….”
He shut the door to the office behind him with a shaky hand as he released Millie so she could perch against the desk, arms folded across her body in a very familiar pose. Her brows knitted together, and despite her stance, worry clouded her features. “I didn’t mean to upset you, son.”
Brett opened his mouth but paused, sweeping a hand through his long hair, then taking off his reading glasses. He strode toward her, set the glasses on the desk, then tilted back against the wall, mirroring her position. Dipping his head, he looked his mama straight in the eye.
“I know you mean well, but I never said I was ready to do… that… yet.”
Millie returned the look, determination mixed with love and a little pain joining the concern that shadowed her normally bright eyes. “’Bout time someone said it for you, then. You need a little extra help around here anyhow. Ray isn’t getting any younger, you know?” Her voice softened when he didn’t answer. “It’s time, son. Would you push aside your stubbornness for a minute… unwind yourself a little and do this for me… and yourself?”
Blinking back the buzzing emotion behind his eyes—that surely had to be caused by the alcohol—Brett drew his mama into his arms before attempting to hug the stuffing out of her. “This isn’t about Walt’s foreman… my foreman, and you know it. Dammit, why can’t you just let this go? I’m a grownass man, Mama. I don’t need you always trying to fix things.”
She petted the back of Brett’s head in that soothing way she’d done since he was a child. Brett felt the tension melt away, the knot in his belly easing a little. “Don’t matter how old you are. You’ll always be my boy. Now stop being a jackass and give the kid a chance. Won’t hurt you to take him in for a bit.”
Brett pulled away, his heart lightening as he kissed Millie on the forehead before releasing her. “You’re a pain in the ass, do you know that?” She nodded with a knowing, but unapologetic, smile. “So just where did this miracle worker come from?”
She looked away for less than three heartbeats before peering at Brett again. But just as he couldn’t hide a damn thing from her, the familiarity went both ways.
He smirked at her hesitation, his pulse quickening despite his forced politeness. “Whatcha do, Mama? Pick him up from the pound or something?” He tried for light, but his heart twisted with instant worry at her hesitation.
Millie’s expression didn’t falter this time as she pursed her lips then spoke clearly, precisely. “I picked him up because he looked like he needed a mama’s love, and it was too late for anyone to be walking alone on the road, especially a nice boy like that.”
Brett’s mouth dropped open, his wisdom battling with the mountain of sudden explosive rage inside him. “You… you picked up a hitchhiker… on the highway… in the dark?” He forced himself to pause, struggling to lower his voice and contain his angry what-the-fuck tone. “Please tell me that is exactly what you did not do.”
“He wasn’t hitchhiking, just walking.”
For the love of fucking…. “He’s a stranger you let get into your car with you. How in God’s green earth—” Brett’s jaw ached from grinding his teeth so hard.
“I’d seen him in town a few times, so he wasn’t entirely a stranger. He’s perfectly harmless.”
“That’s what everyone says about crazy, serial-killer types too, Mama.”
Millie clucked her tongue. “He’s a nice boy down on his luck, Brett. Where’s your compassion?”
Flattening his palms over his thighs, Brett clutched at the material of his sweatpants, balling up the fabric between his fingers—it was the only thing keeping him from pounding the wall behind him. “My compassion is all caught up with the fact you picked up a goddamn hitchhiker in the middle of the night.”
She barely let him finish his rant. “Oh, get over yourself. I’m fine, and it’s not like I took him home with me. I brought him here.”
Brett’s eyes slid closed. He was fighting a losing battle, one he knew he’d never win, had never won when it came to his mama. He rubbed his hands over his face, pausing to massage his throbbing temples and loosen the cramps all the clenching and clutching had caused in his fingers. “You’re going to be the death of me, woman.”
Millie stroked her fingers across his bristly cheek, her hand lingering as she peered deeply at him. “That wouldn’t be natural, now, would it?” Brett managed a half smile. “Give the boy a chance, son. Give yourself a chance to heal, even just a first step? I love you, baby, but I still worry so much.”
Brett covered her hand and leaned into her touch. A quiet moment passed, his mama’s so-familiar eyes pleading with him as he struggled to hold her attention without letting his own emotion break free.
His brain said No… fuck it… the kid wasn’t his goddamn problem, and the barn was his business, not anyone else’s… just no. But his heart saw the love pouring off Millie, saw the sadness and worry creasing her face, saw through the haze of the alcohol and ridiculousness of the situation and recognized the truth in her words… the mournful, goddamn heartbreaking truth.
He pulled her into his arms, wrapping her tight to his chest while he silently thanked and cursed God for her persistence, meddling, stubbornness, and love. “It’s been a tough day.”
“I know. I saw Walt’s daylilies on the table, but sweetheart, you have to know that damn bottle ain’t helping you any. You know it’s not gonna take away the truth.” They stood awhile, letting the comfortable silence wash over them both after the rush of emotions cleared. Finally, Millie pulled back. She stroked a hand through his hair, a sad smile teasing her lips. “At least you having all this wild hair makes it easier for me to pretend I got the daughter I always wanted.”
Brett snorted and squeezed her again, thankful for the way she’d always had of trying to make things right between them. “That’s why I keep my shaving to a minimum, so you don’t start buying me frilly pink dresses or try to braid my hair with ribbon and bows.”
“You braid your own damn hair, Brett Samuel, so don’t bother denying it. I know everything there is to know about my baby boy.”
“I think most times that’s my biggest problem.”
Millie chuckled into Brett’s shoulder. “So JT can stay? You’ll give him a chance?”
He kissed the side of her head before releasing her and palming the air in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. There’s stuff around here long overdue for attention, and I guess he can stay in the bunkhouse. I think everything’s still in working order.” It wouldn’t really hurt any to have some extra hands around the ranch for a short while.
“Want me to go make the bed?”
Brett held back a chuckle. “Nope, I think between the two of us we can figure it out. All I want you to do is get home safely. Why don’t I drive and you can get your car tomorrow?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Millie flicked her hand at him. She turned toward the door, but Brett’s fingers curled lightly on her shoulder.
“I’m not making any promises, Mama. There are plenty of jobs to do around here for sure, but the barn… just not gonna promise it’s in the cards, you know?”
“I know, baby, one step at a time. That’s what they say, right? Your steps are just smaller in some directions than others.”
K-lee Klein loves guys with long hair and tattoos, and you’ll often find her front and center at her favorite rock concerts. She has bounced around Western Canada all her life, but will always consider the solitude and beauty of the British Columbian mountains home. Her life is blessed as the proud mother of three now-grown but still spoiled kids, the servant of two bossy felines, and the wife of a truly patient husband.
Her writing muse is terribly temperamental, so to keep him close by and in check, she had him inked on her left calf. The gorgeous, long-haired, mostly naked, kneeling angel that resulted is truly a work of art, although he’s still a handful and hopelessly uncontrollable. She writes on his schedule and inspiration.
K-lee tends to fall easily into obsessions. When something grabs her attention, she jumps into it headfirst with complete abandon. Actors, musicians, superheroes, fictional characters, and brainwashed assassins all hold spots on her cannot-get-enough list. She once followed Thirty Seconds to Mars around the United States and Canada and saw them perform fourteen times that year. Obsession sometimes leads to ideas for her kneeling angel to turn into stories.
Although an introvert in person, she’s extroverted online and has met many wonderful friends there, sometimes with the added fun of meeting them in person at gay romance conferences. She’s grateful for all the people in her life who accept her as she is and support her through her ups and downs as mom, wife, and joyfully obsessed writer.
Places to find K-lee.