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A Hero In Hot Pink Boots

 

A Hero in Hot Pink Boots

 

Copyright 2016 j. leigh bailey

 

 

 

Shakespir Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Shakespir.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

 

 

A Hero in Hot Pink Boots

My brother always says my stubbornness will get me into trouble one day. Turns out today’s the day. Or night, rather.  

To be honest, though, stubbornness didn’t cause my current predicament. Nope. My first foray into the lives of the popular people isn’t turning out at all like I imagined it. The momentary pleasure of being invited and the knee-jerk acceptance of an invitation I had no business accepting might end up costing more than I can afford.  

Not that I can afford much of anything. I have a whopping fourteen dollars to my name, all singles, all folded up in the mostly-empty wallet in the pocket of my nicest jeans.  

I glare at Paul and when he smirks, I look at Todd. They both look fantastic, of course, the height of modern high school fashion, wearing the trendiest, fanciest clothes money can buy. 

My nicest jeans and coolest T-shirt don’t compare. Not by far.  

A warehouse looms behind them, heavy bass pounding and neon lights flashing. A muscled mass of human stood by the door, beefy arms crossed over a beefier chest.  

“Twenty bucks?” I cringed. “I didn’t know I’d need that much.” My shoulders droop. 

Paul looks at me like I said something particularly pathetic. “This is the party this weekend. It’s an underground rave, invite only.” 

“We thought you could use the experience,” Todd adds. “It’s like our good deed for the year. Broadening the horizons of the less fortunate.” 

My face burns. In shame. In humiliation. But mostly in anger. Less fortunate? “I don’t have twenty dollars.” I barely get the words out through my clenched teeth. I would give just about anything—including the fourteen singles in my wallet—to not have had to say that. Besides, didn’t raves go out of style with the Spice Girls?  

Paul and Todd share a look that squicks my stomach. A silent conversation passes between them and my blood chills by the second. This won’t be good. Todd licks his lips and nods. They turn back to me. “I can pay your way,” Paul says with a reptilian smile. “But you don’t get something for nothing these days, right?” 

“Right.” Todd nods. 

“I’ll pay for you, but you’ll have to do something for me.” His hand trails down his bony chest and I know exactly where it’s going to stop. I stare, really hoping I’m wrong. But I’m not. He cups his junk and tilts his pelvis suggestively.  

Oh. My. God. Gross. Bile creeps up my throat. I throw up a staying hand. “You know what? No. Just… no.” I back away and, after a dozen steps, I whirl around and keep walking. Todd’s and Paul’s cold laughter trails behind me.  

Ten minutes later and I’m completely lost. I squint at the nearest street sign. Somehow I’ve ended up in a mostly deserted part of Chicago. Alone. At night. Not the Magnificent Mile, either. Grit and grime edge the streets and I’m about as far from the Gold Coast as I can get without stumbling into the ghetto.  

I should have stayed. How bad could a party like that be? Sure, drugs and alcohol aren’t really my thing, but I could cope for one night, right? Better that than be accosted by some homicidal maniac while wandering the city in the middle of the night. I blame it on high school.  

High school is okay. Being poor at a high school in a wealthy suburb is less okay. Every day I’m surrounded by people who think nothing of shelling out hundreds of dollars for a pair of shoes and who drive BMWs or Mercedes. Then there’s me. Stuck with public transportation or the “generosity” of my big brother.  

No lights glow up ahead or to my left so I turn right. There are lights, but no other signs of life. To make matters worse—not that they need it—I don’t even have my phone to call my brother for the ride. Because, like an idiot, I’d been so jazzed about the invite I’d forgotten it on my dresser where I’d left it to charge. I need to find someone—preferably someone not homicidal—with a phone so I can make the call. So not looking forward to that. My brother will hold the favor and the inevitable I-told-you-so over my head for years to come.  

What had possessed me to agree to go to that party? It’s not like Todd and Paul are friends. We’re barely on a first-name basis.  

Okay, I know why I agreed, but it’s humiliating. I’d been so flattered to be asked that I’d said yes without thinking it through. That’ll teach me.  

So here I am, lost. In a sketchy part of Chicago at nearly midnight. I must have left it at home in anticipation of the party. Yep, worse and worse. 

My foot catches on an uneven break in the pavement and I sprawl forward. Concrete scrapes against my palms and I barely miss hitting my chin. “Damn it, Kevin.” Yes, indeed. Worse and worse. I push myself up, wincing at the sharp ache in my knee.  

“Look what the cat dragged in,” a melodic voice purrs.  

I turn to face the speaker, crouching defensively.  

One glance and alarm turns to awe.  

A guy—maybe a year or two older than me—stands on the top of the stairs to a brick townhouse. He is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen—tall with long arms and legs, and a loose-jointed stance that reminds me of a cat. His dark skin shimmers in the orange glow of the front light. His full lips are slicked up with some kind of lip gloss and his eyes are lined and dusted with gold eye shadow, making them look positively huge. A skin-tight black shirt that might be made of lycra or spandex clings to his narrow shoulders and chest. His pants—apparently made of the same stretchy material—sports gold and black tiger stripes on a white background. Somehow the stripes at his hips point straight to his crotch. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, but my gaze doesn’t linger there, though. No, I am completely caught up in the guy’s boots.  

Hot pink, patent leather, knee-high boots stacked on four-inch sparkling gold platforms.  

He really should look ridiculous, but I’m not amused. I’m awestruck. He is… magnificent.  

He poses at the top of the steps, one hand on his hip, body tilted to show it off to the best advantage in the dim light. 

“Uh, hi,” I croak out, my aching knee forgotten.  

As if that’s his cue, the other guy comes down the steps. No, he doesn’t come down the steps. He sashays down with all the swagger and swaying hips of a contestant on America’s Next Top Model. In those boots he towers over me by several inches.  

“Aren’t you adorable?” he drawls.  

I try to clear away the obstruction in my throat. It’s not as easy as it should be. “Uh, thanks?” 

“What’s your name, sweetheart? I’m Cedric.” He holds out a long, slim hand and I take it without thinking.  The skin is soft and the contact sends tingling sparks through my veins. I try not to react—really, I do—but when Cedric glides his thumb down the back of hand, my toes curl. Seriously, like some teeny-bopper-chick-flick heroine being swept up by local heart-throb. Ridiculous. 

“Kevin,” I say in a rush of breath, remembering his question at the last second. There is something very wrong with this picture. I look up and down the street. I don’t know if I’m searching for an escape route or a camera crew. Surely Cedric can’t be for real.  

“I hate it when the sidewalk jumps up to trip me like that.” After one last, lingering caress of thumb, Cedric releases my hand. I make a fist, trying to hold onto the sensation, and realize the scraped palms no longer burn. Lust as an anesthetic? 

Heart stuttering in my chest, I gaze into Cedric’s beautiful face. The cocoa-colored skin looks so soft… I bite my tongue, hoping the sharp pain will be enough to clear my head. It does, but not by much. I’ve lost my mind, that’s all there is to it. I shouldn’t stand here like an idiot, gawking at some exotic guy, a stranger in more ways than one, in the middle of a dark street in an unfamiliar part of the city.  

“I’ve got to go,” I manage to say around a tongue that doesn’t quite seem to work right. Not because of the bite, but because Cedric is just that awe-inspiring. “But it was nice meeting you.” I keep staring, willing my feet to move. One step is all it will take, I know it. Just one step.  

Cedric grins, but it’s not any mundane twist of lips. No, he has the mysterious smirk of Mona Lisa and the smug, all-encompassing smile of the Cheshire Cat, all wrapped together. “Excellent,” he says, linking his elbow with mine. “Tonight was turning out to be such a bore. I have to get out of here. Where are we going?” Wide, impossibly bright brown eyes meet mine.  

“Excuse me?” 

“Where are we going?” Cedric repeats, as if that’s what I mean. 

“No, I mean, I’m going to find a phone and call for a ride.” A thought occurs to me. “I don’t suppose you have a phone I can use?” 

Cedric steps far enough away to spread his arms and juts his hip. “Honey, does it look like I have a phone hidden somewhere?” 

No. The answer is definitely no. The skin-tight clothes and the form-fitting boots leave little—nothing—to the imagination. The only way he can be carrying a phone is if there is a secret compartment in the platforms of his boots. I sigh. “Of course not. Well, if you point me to the nearest 24-hour pharmacy or a grocery store or someplace that has a phone, I’d appreciate it.”  

“I’ll do you one better,” Cedric says. “There’s a place a few blocks over that should still be open. I’ll take you.”  

“Oh, but I’m sure you have something better to do.” He must be dressed up to go out, right? No one dresses that way all the time. “You can just tell me which way to go.”  

“Are you trying to get rid of me? Why would you want to hurt my feelings like that?”  

I start to apologize, to reassure him that I want him with me. Except the guy freaks me out, and not in an altogether bad way. I’ve never been attracted to feminine or androgynous guys before; usually I crush on the jocks with their powerful muscles and loads of self-confidence. Cedric is confident enough for twenty jocks, but instead of bulging muscles, he’s sleek and sinuous, like an exotic cat. A leopard maybe, or a jaguar. A jaguar in hot pink boots. 

I concede. “If you’ve got nothing better to do, I suppose you can show me the way.” 

“Yay!” With a hop that shouldn’t be possible in those boots, Cedric bounds forward and links elbows with me again. 

A block and a half or so later, I catch sight another person for the first time. A slouching hulk of a guy leans against a wall on the other side of the street, smoking a cigarette and watching the block. When his eyes land on Cedric, the guy spits out the cigarette and crushes it under the heel of his boot. “Hey, boy,” he calls out. “You need to decide whether you’re a man or a girl. ‘Cause that pretty little princess thing you’ve got going on, it’s whacked.”  

I stiffen as unfamiliar protectiveness surges through me. No one should talk to, or about, Cedric that way. And why did I care? I barely met the guy five minutes ago. 

Cedric isn’t disturbed, though. “Shut your trap, Jamal. You need to watch who you’re talking to.”  

“And who’s that?” Jamal asks, taking a step into the street. “Some pussy-boy wearing Barbie doll clothes?” 

Cedric waves that aside. “Oh, you don’t need to worry about me. My friend here”—he runs a hand along my arm suggestively and I have to grind my teeth together to keep from shivering—“knows how to take care of business.”  

I blink. What the hell is Cedric talking about?  

“Oh yeah? And who’s your friend?” Jamal folds arms that are about the same size as my legs across his bull-like chest.  

Cedric seems genuinely surprised—and worried—that Jamal doesn’t recognize me. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Marcus Carabas? Massacre Marc? The Master?” 

I look over my shoulder, but no one else is around. Who is Cedric talking about? Jamal eyes me warily.  

“Isn’t he the one—” Jamal begins. 

“Exactly. Now scurry along.” Cedric wiggles his fingers in dismissal. “If you’re lucky, Marcus won’t be offended by your disrespect.”  

“Hey, dude, no disrespect meant. We’re cool, right?” Jamal takes a few steps away from the street, leaning towards the shadows at the base of the building. He stares six inches over my head, fear emitting from his wide eyes and slack jaw.  

Cedric pinches my ass and I jump. What the hell? He glares meaningfully at me and then at Jamal. “Oh! I mean, yeah, we’re cool.” I try to infuse my words with some of the swagger that Jamal had at the beginning of the conversation.  

Jamal backs up until he can duck into the building, slamming the door behind him.  

“What was that all about?” Now that Jamal is gone, I rub at my bruised butt, massaging away the sting.  

“It’s nothing.” Cedric waves his fingers again. 

“Seriously.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Who is Marcus Carabas and why would you want that Jamal guy to think I’m him?” 

You are Marcus Carabas.”  

Not for the first time during our brief acquaintance, I wonder if Cedric isn’t a little bit out of his mind.  

“Or, at least he thinks you are, and that’s what’s important.” 

“Yeah, but what about me?” I point to my chest. “Are you trying to get my ass kicked?” 

“I have better things to do with your body, I’m not about to let anything happen to it, or you.” Cedric smirks. When Todd smirks, it creeps me out. When Cedric smirks, my blood boils.  

I try to swallow my tongue. At least that’s what it feels like. My whole body flushes with embarrassment and eagerness. As soon as I’m sure my tongue is not, in fact, stuck in my esophagus, I say in a humiliatingly weak voice, “That’s reassuring.” 

“Now tell me,” Cedric says, strolling down the now-empty street, pulling me along while I struggle to keep up without stumbling. “What has you wandering through the streets alone on a Friday night?” 

I don’t know why or even how, but the next thing I know, the whole story comes pouring out. About the rave. About Paul’s offer. About my limited cash. The whole time Cedric watches me with luminous eyes, nodding occasionally.  

As we walk, the dark city changes. The shadows slinking along the sidewalk and around building no longer look eerie and threatening. Instead, they look mysterious, almost magical. The occasional streetlight we pass spotlights Cedric in all of his flamboyant, tiger-striped, pink-booted glory. It’s like I am trapped in a fairy tale, one where boring teenagers become infamous bad-asses and magical, colorful creatures walk the streets.  

My stomach sinks a bit when we turn a corner and I see the glowing sign for the 24-hour pharmacy. I cringe at the yellow light from the front window that heralds the harsh return to reality.  

“I guess we’re here.” I rock on the balls of my feet, tucking my thumbs into the waistband of my jeans. I glance at Cedric from the corner of my eyes.  

“Who are you going to call?” 

“My brother, I guess.” Once again, my legs don’t want to move. Maybe I don’t need to worry about Cedric’s sanity. My own mental stability is obviously in question. I finally manage to take a step and immediately jump back when a panicked face appears in the store’s doorway.  

“I don’t want any trouble!” the clerk, a skinny middle-aged man in a blue vest shouts even as he twists the deadbolt, locking us out.  

What? I just need to use your phone.” I push at the door which doesn’t budge.  

“Leave now!” The clerk back-pedals, holding out a warning hand. “I’ll call the cops!” 

Cedric steps up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “He must have heard about Marcus.” 

I try to ignore the shivers his breath in my ear causes. “Marcus? But Marcus doesn’t even exist!” 

I catch a whiff of something sweet, like vanilla or sugar cookies, and inhale deeply, relaxing against Cedric’s lithe body. Without conscious thought, I turn in Cedric’s arms to try and get a better sample of the scent.  

“Marcus is whoever you want to be.” 

I close my eyes, basking in the moment. It doesn’t feel awkward at all to be standing in front of a store while Cedric’s arms hold me. “You’re not altogether sane, are you?” 

“Honey, I’m as sane as you are.” 

Somehow that’s not very reassuring. Right at this moment, I don’t care, though.  

I order my arms to release Cedric and, as much as I don’t want to, I move out of his embrace. “I still need to find a phone.” 

“There’s an all-night restaurant a couple of blocks up, one of those pancake places. They should have a phone you can use.”  

I keep my pace slow as we walk away from the pharmacy. I reach over and take Cedric’s hand in mine before I even know I intend to. I’ve never done anything that ballsy in my life. Always I wait for someone else to make the first move. Not sexually or romantically—I’m a complete novice in all things romance—but in anything. I’d been so psyched[_ _]when Todd invited me along. It hadn’t mattered that Todd and Paul weren’t friends of mine, or even friendly, or that parties in the city aren’t my style. The fact that someone—anyone—had actually approached me, had made me giddy as hell. Maybe it’s some kind of self-esteem thing. It’s a risk, isn’t it, taking the first step. It doesn’t matter if it’s an offer to be lab partners in Chemistry or a date, rejection sucks. But here, with Cedric, the cautioning voice that keeps me from initiating any kind of interaction with others is staying silent. No, not silent. Gone.  

The voice is gone.  

And Cedric isn’t rejecting me.  

The thought makes me a little dizzy. Sure, Cedric is a little odd, but he’s gorgeous and confident and doesn’t look at me as though wondering who I am or why I’m here. Heck, I’d bet there are people I’ve gone to school with for years who probably have no idea what my name is. I’m that easily overlooked.  

Maybe that’s my fault. Maybe if I take more chances, initiate more contact, that can change. How far am I willing to go to test this newfound understanding and confidence?  

“Cedric?” 

He squeezes my hand. “Hmm?” 

Screwing up my courage, I blurt out, “Willyoukissmeplease?” I bite back the groan at my own idiocy at the last second. I want to dissolve into a puddle and sink into the cracks of the sidewalk. Let people walk all over me. It’s exactly what I deserve after that flop of a request. 

When Cedric stops, I let myself be pulled to a halt, too. I fix my gaze on the tips of his boots, focusing on the glint of moonlight on the golden sparkles of the platforms. The heat from Cedric’s hands on my face burns away the blush I know is staining my cheeks. “Say it again.” The soft/rough texture of Cedric’s voice washes down my spine, scrubbing away embarrassment.  

I lick my lips and try again. “Will you kiss me? Please?” 

The smile that blooms across Cedric’s face shines brighter and broader than the moon above. “Yes,” he says simply.  

It’s a soft kiss, a sweet kiss, everything a first kiss should be. And, good God, it rocks my universe. Tingles, starting from where our mouths touch, spread down my back and explode in my brain. Fourth of July sparklers dance under my skin, making me stand straighter, taller, prouder. Maybe it’s because of the way Cedric purrs as he changes the angle of the kiss, deepening it. Yeah, that’s probably it.  

Cedric breaks away, leaving behind the lingering flavor of vanilla-scented lip gloss. There’s an old saying about cats in the cream and another about cats who eat the canary. So much satisfaction pours off of Cedric he resembles the cat who double-dipped the canary into the cream before eating it at snack time.  

“Give me a fricking break.” 

A bucketful of muddy water in the face wouldn’t have knocked me out of the moment as fast as those harsh, disgusted words.  

That’s Carabas? Is this some kind of joke?”  

Like an amateur presentation of West Side Story, a small group of thugs—complete with leather jackets and motorcycle boots—pose under a streetlight in perfect V-formation. The guy speaking stands at the apex, of course. 

I count seven of them, and they all stalk forward, menace in every step.  

“You know these guys?” 

Cedric nods. “Unfortunately. Trouble-makers. Not real dangerous, but [_very _]irritating.” 

I’m not sure I can trust Cedric’s assessment. After all, if I am the threatening, mean-as-a-snake Marcus Carabas, then these guys he calls merely irritating are either as dangerous as kittens or as deadly as a South American drug cartel. Whichever end of the spectrum they fall on, irritating probably doesn’t cover it.  

The leader of the irritating gang stops in front of me, bringing with him the scent of leather and tobacco. 

“Smoking’s bad for you, you know.” It takes me a second to realize what I said. What am I thinking? Nothing. Clearly I’m not thinking at all, to spout out that kind of idiocy.  

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The leader of the pack looms closer, glaring down a long nose that gives him a ferret-like look. “Is that some kind of threat?” 

“Carabas doesn’t make threats,” Cedric says before I can get my brain to fully engage. “He makes promises.” 

“Um… Cedric?” I take a small step back as the thug presses even closer. “Try not to aggravate the wildlife, please,” I mutter under my breath.   

“Who are you calling wildlife?” The thug lunges forward, beefy hands reaching for me.  

I lean away too quickly, my back arching Matrix-style to avoid the thug’s grab. Unlike Keanu, my body isn’t used to such contortions. My left leg kicks out in an effort to counter-balance my upper body weight and lands with significant force between the thug’s legs. He bellows, hunching forward and cupping his balls. Cedric slips an arm behind my shoulders to keep me from falling backwards.  

“Ouch.” Cedric’s voice lacks all sympathy. He sneers at the thug as he helps settle me on my feet.  

Thug #2 objects to Cedric’s obvious amusement. He charges forward in nearly an exact replica of the first guy. He swings his fist at my head and Cedric nudges the back of my knees. I collapse into a squat even as Thug #2’s punch flies over my head. The force of his swing pulls him around into an awkward pirouette and he spins into the first thug. Both of them fall to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.  

Cedric reaches down and pulls me up by the collar of coolest T-shirt. I’m beginning to feel like Cedric’s Kevin-shaped puppet. Of course, if his manhandling keeps me from getting my ass kicked, you can call me Pinocchio.  

Thug #3 and Thug #4 dart forward and try to help the first two up. Somehow, all four end up on the ground, a writhing mass of denim and leather. I can’t stop the bubbling laughter that creeps up my chest and through my throat. It’s a slap-stick comedy of errors. Whenever one tries to gain any kind of traction on the asphalt, their boots or hands or whatever, slip and the whole lot of them fall back into place. Moonlight glints off of some kind of shiny substance. Iridescent swirls of color show at certain angles. They landed in some kind of oil. What are the odds? 

I don’t even try to stifle my guffaws. Not only do they look ridiculous, they are unable to do anything more than glare at me. The other three thugs, the ones still standing, look on helplessly. They exchange glances. Questions are clear in their expressions. What should they do? Help their buddies? Attack? Retreat? Clearly, they don’t want to come near me. The same fear I’d seen in Jamal’s and the clerk’s eyes shine in theirs.  

I shake my head and link elbows with Cedric. “Let’s get out of here.” 

“The restaurant?” Cedric asks. 

I think about it for a second, about the call I’ll have to make to my brother. And about the surprising things I’ve learned about myself tonight. “You know what? No. I’ll just go back to the rave and haul Paul and Todd out of the building. I don’t need to put up with their crap.” 

Cedric purrs. Lord, I love that sound. “Confident men are so sexy.” He leans in close, wrapping both hands around my arm and resting his head on my shoulder. He has to stoop to do it, what with the difference in our heights and the added inches from his boots. It feels natural, though. Right.  

We take our time. Now that I’m not in a hurry to get home, we can afford to dawdle. I want to extend my time with Cedric. I suspect I won’t get to see him again. After all, he is clearly a creature of the urban jungle and me, I’m banished to suburbia.  

But if I’ve learned nothing else over the course of the last two hours, I did discover my backbone. 

 “Cedric?” 

“Hmm?” It’s a sigh of contentment more than a question. He rubs his head against my shoulder, like a cat scent-marking his favorite human.  

“Will I see you again? I mean, after I go home?” 

Cedric lifts his head and plants his pink and gold-covered feet. He turns to face me, flashing that Mona Lisa/Cheshire Cat smile. “Do you want to?” 

“Well… yeah.” 

“Then you will.”  

“I wish we had a piece of paper or something. That way we could exchange phone numbers at least.” I pull out my wallet and peer at the meager offerings. My ID and fourteen ones. Not even a receipt. I consider sacrificing one of the dollar bills—what’s a buck in exchange for future interactions with Cedric?—but I don’t even have a pen.  

“Oh, well, here.” Cedric reaches down to unzip the pink patent leather of one boot shaft and pulls out a slim phone. “Just put your info in my phone.” 

He has a phone? How did he—“Wait a minute! You told me you didn’t’ have a phone!” 

Cedric taps a finger to my nose and grins. “Oh, contraire. I asked if it looked like I had a phone on me.”  

 “Then I could have called my brother at any point?” 

 “Yeah, but wasn’t this more fun?” He tilts his head and looks at me through heavy lidded, golden eyes. “I know I enjoyed getting to know you.” 

I don’t know whether to be upset or flattered. Who am I kidding? I’m totally flattered, and unlike the shallow flattery I felt at Paul and Todd’s invitation, this time I know Cedric did this to spend time with me, not out of some kind of bet or humiliating prank. The whole Marcus Carabas thing is a little weird, but maybe it’s for the best. Cedric might be a little crazy, but maybe I need a little crazy in my life. Especially when crazy makes me feel confident and worthy.  

“You are,” I say, standing on my tip-toes and kissing Cedric’s cheek, “the most fascinating creature.” I grab his phone and quickly enter my contact information.  “Let’s walk around some more. I think I want to spend more time getting to know my own, personal hero.” 

It’s nearly dawn by the time I return home. I have learned three things over the last several hours, though. First, I can spend weeks in Cedric’s company and will never fully understand him. Second, Paul and Todd are the worst, weakest kind of bullies. I channeled a bit of Carrabas and they practically fell over themselves to drive me home, all the while promising to leave me, and anyone else they might have wanted to mess with, alone. And third: I have standards. I have self-respect. And now I can add self-confidence to the mix.  

It may have taken a cat-like hottie in tiger-striped spandex and pink and gold platform boots to bring him out, but I really do have a little bit of Marcus Carrabas in me. I’m not going to hide him behind baseless insecurities anymore. And, if I tried—I stroke a hickey on my collarbone and grin—Cedric will just haul him out again. Which is exactly how it’s supposed to be.

About the Author

j. leigh bailey is an office drone by day and the author of Young Adult and New Adult LGBT Romance by night. She can usually be found with her nose in a book or pressed up against her computer monitor. A book-a-day reading habit sometimes gets in the way of… well, everything…but some habits aren’t worth breaking. She’s been reading romance novels since she was ten years old. The last twenty years or so have not changed her voracious appetite for stories of romance, relationships and achieving that vitally important Happy Ever After. She’s a firm believer that everyone, no matter their gender, age, sexual orientation or paranormal affiliation deserves a happy ending.

 

She wrote her first story at seven, which was, unbeknownst to her at the time, a charming piece of fan-fiction in which Superman battled (and defeated, of course) the nefarious X Luther. She was quite put out to be told, years later, that the character’s name was actually Lex. Her second masterpiece should have been a best-seller, but the action-packed tale of rescuing her little brother from an alligator attack in the marshes of Florida collected dust for years under the bed instead of gaining critical acclaim.

 

Now she writes Young Adult LGBT Romance novels about boys traversing the crazy world of love, relationships and acceptance. 

Other books by this author

Please visit your favorite ebook retailer to discover other books by j. leigh bailey:

 

The Letting Go Series (New Adult, Carina Press)

Nobody’s Hero

Reckless Hope

The Secrets to Ebook Publishing Success

 

Young Adult Titles

Do-Gooder

Guyliner

 

Male/Male Short Stories

Midnight in the Maze

Nachos on Saturday

 

Horror/Paranormal Short Stories

Wendigo Dreams

The Twelfth Monster of Chaos

Under the Hunter’s Moon

Runaway

 

 

 

Connect with j. leigh bailey

 

I really appreciate you reading my book! Here are my social media coordinates:

 

Friend me on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/JLeighBailey

Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/JenniWrites

Follow me on Instagram: http://instagram.com/j.leigh.bailey_author

Subscribe to my newsletter: https://t.co/FfL9gFVJLQ

Visit my website: http://www.jleigh.bailey.net

 


A Hero In Hot Pink Boots

  • Author: J. Leigh Bailey
  • Published: 2016-11-10 18:35:09
  • Words: 5074
A Hero In Hot Pink Boots A Hero In Hot Pink Boots