So, I had the idea for this a couple of weeks ago and started working on it today.  It’s going to be a contemporary romance, which I do a lot, but I’m doing it first person, all male, POV…something I’ve never done.

I like doing new stuff and so far, this is fun.  Hopefully you’ll like it.  Dunno when I’ll be done with it, though.  Title, etc, will be posted if I finish it.

I ain’t no hero.

If you’re familiar with my story, either heard about me on the news or read about me in some gossip rag somewhere, then you maybe you think otherwise.  Or maybe you’re one of the smarter ones and you realize the truth of it—realize that under it all, I’m a bastard—and a lucky son-of-a-bitch, too.

But I ain’t no hero.

Some people, though, they insist on saying otherwise.

If you want, you can have a seat, order yourself up a drink and I’ll tell you the truth of it.  I’m in the talking mood.

The story ain’t always a pretty one, though.  It can be downright ugly.  Sometimes it’s funny and sometimes, it’s nothing but dirty.  If you’re looking for sunshine and roses, you might want to look on elsewhere.

Still here? Okay, then.

My name is Bobby.  Bobby Cantrell, and please, do not call me Robert, or even Bob.  Robert was my father’s name and that bastard, may he rot in hell, was one of the first people in life to make me understand was pure mean was.  It was a lesson that had to be learned, I guess, and he taught me well, but I want nothing to do with him, not even his name.  My mom called him Bob and by default, I became Bobby.

She’d called me that for as long as I can remember and the sound of my name in her sweet voice is one of the few happy memories of my childhood, so Bobby is who I am.

We grew up poor and broke in the eastern heart of Kentucky, right up until I turned thirteen.

We up and left, Mama and me, not long after my father departed this earth and we moved around. A lot.

Mama died when I was nineteen.  Cancer took from me and anger settled deep, deep inside me.  It took me a long, long time to realize just how angry I was, too.

That anger just about ruined my life.

It controlled me even up to the day my life finally changed.

And it changed just twenty minutes after I’d finished up a job interview—I didn’t get the job.

But then again, I hadn’t really expected to.

There were…elements, we’ll say, from my past that men like me undesirable to just about every single damn employer out there.

Oh, I’m smart enough.

Contrary to how it might sound.  I might sound like some slow, country bumpkin who just fell off the back of a turnip trunk, but my brain works just fine.  I even enjoyed school—hell, why wouldn’t I?  It was an escape from school and I even had a free, hot meal every day.  It took me a while to realize just why I had a free, hot meal—charity.  My mama hadn’t been too proud to ask for help for her boy.  When my father found out, he hurt her something awful, but she didn’t back down.

I never hated him more than I did…sorry, my thoughts are prone to wandering, but you’ll figure that out soon enough, if you haven’t already.

Anyway, I enjoyed school, or I did—up until I didn’t.  I may or may not explain that.  We’ll see how it goes.

But it wasn’t my brain that kept me from getting a job and it wasn’t that I wouldn’t hard.  Even my past employers would admit that I was one of the hardest workers they’d ever had.  I wasn’t a thief—I wouldn’t take a damn thing I hadn’t worked for and that was sometimes a problem.  More than once, it had me out sleeping in the cold, or burning in the blistering heat of the sun when I couldn’t afford to pay the rent.  Too many times I’d gone to bed hungry because I had no money to pay for food and I can’t tell you how many often I’d ended up cleaning up in some public restroom just because I had no place to take a shower.

It looked like I was about to be out on my ass again, too.  I was already a week behind on my rent and the cheap-ass apartment I was in wasn’t run by some guy with a heart of gold—a heart of flint would be more fitting.

There I was, striding down West Muhammed Ali, moving through the crush that was already forming around the so-called party venue that was Fourth Street Live.  It was Mardi Gras.  Louisville, Kentucky was not New Orleans, but that didn’t stop any party-lover from getting their drunk on.  Girls was out there in skirts barely larger than my palm and shirts—if you could call them that—that barely covered the legal bits.  I’m a healthy, warm-blooded male.  Yeah, I looked. And I wanted to grab them a damn coat.  It was freezing. I was shivering in the threadbare coat I’d found in a secondhand store a month ago. Under it, I had on a flannel and T-shirt and I was still freezing.  How could they stand to be out there in heels and mini-skirts and what was supposed to be a shirt?

I guess the alcohol helped.

One of the women looked up at that moment and caught my eye.

A slow smile curled her lips.

A hint of appreciation twisted through me, but I just kept on walking.

That place had a dress code and dollar limit that I couldn’t afford.

I couldn’t even buy myself a six-pack of the cheapest shit beer on the market.

Up ahead, a couple of cop cars sat, lights flashing.

It was instinct that had me turning left on Fifth.  There were more of them the next block up and swearing, I hooked another left, leading me back to Fourth.  I hooked a right, then, striding past the ritzy Seelback on my right. I didn’t bother to look at the hotel.  This was where the high-rollers stayed. Around Derby time, this place gets crazy.

Kind of that night, really.

I dodged a couple of reporters and ducked my head, scowling as I waded through the mass of people.

I’d gone that way to avoid everybody.

I was so busy trying to avoid people I missed seeing her right up until she crashed into me.

I caught her arms, trying to steady her.

She was a cute little mess of blonde curls and the kind of curves our society likes to mock…the kind of curves I love to mold.

She tore away so quickly, I was left standing there with my hands in mid-air.

Scowling, I lowered them, only to leap out and grab her when she tried to dart out in the road.

We ended up sprawled on the street, with me half on top of her.  “The fuck’s the matter with you?” I growled at her as the car laid on its horn, speeding by without even slowing down.  “You want to end up dead or what?”

She glared at me.  “Get off of me, you idiot.”