I write romance: m/f, m/m, and v/h, where the h is for human and the v is for vampire … or sometimes demon … I lean more towards funny than angst. When I’m not writing I take care of tiny premature babies or teenagers, depending on whether I’m at home or at work. My husband is a soul of patience, my dog’s cuteness is legendary, and we share the homestead with three ferrets. Who steal things. Because they’re brats.
I can be found on-line at all hours of the day and night at my website & blog (www.liv-rancourt.blogspot.com), on Facebook (www.facebook.com/liv.rancourt), or on Twitter (www.twitter.com/LivRancourt). For sneak peeks and previews and other assorted freebies, go HERE to sign up for my mailing list.
Come find me. We’ll have fun!
available for preorder…
Available from Amazon.com
(Want to see all the latest Sophia news? click here)
Meet Sophia. She’s one of the most powerful little girls you’ll ever know. Her mother Stacey is a friend of mine and she can tell you better than anyone else how special Sophia is. When I told Stacey I wanted to add a feature to my blog that would allow people to donate to Team Sophia she said,
I love the idea. Mostly, I love the world knowing the miracle girl who teaches me daily to dig deeply, love unconditionally, and forgive before the sun sets. The world is better because of her.
Sophia does give us all the chance to be better people. She was born prematurely, with a number of challenges that might have thwarted a lesser kid. She’s on first-name basis with most of the staff in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit and the Giraffe acute-care floor at Seattle Children’s Hospital. She also has a committed group of nurses and physical therapists who work with her at home. Most recently, she was diagnosed with a Wilm’s tumor, so now she’s sharing her sunshine with the staff in the chemo clinic (no more long blond hair!) and on the heme-onc floor.
But you know what? Sophia really wants to share her sunshine with her grandmother in Hawaii. Her goal is to make a trip this June, but she needs help. It’s not just Mom and Soph and a carseat and some carry-ons. Stacey’s a single mom, and she will buy plane tickets for a couple nurses who will travel with her to help with Sophia’s specialized needs. And there’s equipment – portable suction and emergency oxygen and the like. It’s all got to go, too.
The biggest bonus to developing a blog is the feeling that it’s part of a larger community, that there are people who check in here to see what’s going on in the life and writing of Liv Rancourt. Well, now I want to take it another step. Become a part of this community by donating to Team Sophia.
100% of your contributions will go to Sophia and Stacey. There are no administrative costs – money goes through Paypal into a Bank of America account that has been set up for them. The money will make it possible for them to go see Grandma and to improve their home environment so it is better suited to Sophia’s needs. I’ll post periodic updates so you know how Sophia’s doing. And for sure I’ll post pictures of their Hawaiian vacation!
You can donate to Sophia’s cause by clicking the paypal button below, & you can read the latest about how Sophia is doing by clicking here.
The Secret of Obedience
coming soon from
Can an ex college football player find love with a sexy Vietnamese man?
It’s all in the teamwork, baby.
For a football player, James is a pretty decent guy. 6’5″, 250 pounds, skin the color of a bruised plum. He likes pussy and I like dick, and he says I’m the only gay guy he doesn’t want to slap. Mostly because senior year, I averaged 5.4 yards per carry behind his blocking. The team made it to State, and he got recruited.
One blown ACL and two years of community college later, I caught up to him at the University of Washington. He’s been working his way into a starting slot on the Husky offensive line. I’m the new guy, riding shotgun on his honey hunt.
“Hey, Homo.” James flicks his chin like he’s combining a neck stretch with a directional signal. “Same club as last night?”
He pops the lock on his Dodge Challenger, and we climb in. The interior might not be real leather, but it’s close, soft and firm at the same time. He has one of those green tree air fresheners, there’s a 12-pack of Heineken in the back seat, and I know without opening it the glove box is full of condoms.
My name is Ronnie, but I’ve let him get away with that nickname since he busted me watching gay porn on a school computer. Last night we were in South Seattle at some club where the bass was so heavy I can still feel it under my sternum, and I was one of the handful of Macklemores in a crowd of color. He hooked up with someone. I did not.
“We could.” I leave room for doubt, but he’s driving and I don’t know my way around town real well. In the coffee shop near my dorm, a flyer for a drag show at a club called Neighbors had piqued my interest. Where there’s drag, there’s dick. But I’m not sure my country-boy ass is ready for that kind of scene, so I don’t suggest it.
“Or maybe…” He backs the car out of the parking spot, the word getting caught up in his thoughts and the big engine rumbling like its horny. “Let’s go on up to Capitol Hill.”
Mecca. My mouth waters. My hometown of Ellensburg is just over an hour away from Seattle, and I’ve made the occasional trek over Snoqualmie Pass. If there’s a place in the city where a gay country boy can get busy, it’s Capitol Hill. “Let’s do that.”
“Right then, Homo.” He hits the clutch, and we tear out of the lot.
Half an hour later he’s parked by a soccer field, the banks of overhead lights streaking the Challenger’s glossy paint job. We sit in the car and share a couple beers, watching some homeless guys argue with a cop until the last of a bleeding red sunset fades. We don’t say much. James is a quiet guy, and I’m busy having a come-to-Jesus with my cock. It wants to stick itself into the first willing player. I figure I’m going to be in town for at least two years, so maybe I should use a little discretion.
James drains his beer. “You want another one?”
“Nah.” Time to get out and get busy.
He grins, a flash of lightning teeth. He’s let his hair grow out into little baby dreads. I want to play with them but keep my hands to myself. He’s not my type—I like little and pretty in just about any color—and I don’t want him to think anything has changed between us. Right now he’s my only friend in town, and I don’t want to blow it.
We stride along Broadway, heading for Pine Street. James leads, his shoulders clearing a path through the queers and club kids clotting the sidewalk. Just like in high school, I’m off to his right, gaining yards. He’d always been taller, but we used to be built about the same. Since coming to UW, he’d put on at least 40 pounds of muscle. I haven’t. Makes me feel downright skinny.
We pass a lesbian bar where some of the womyn look tougher than James. Next to the dykes is a restaurant lit mostly by candles. Half the tables are taken by soft young men and their Daddies. I’m enough of a voyeur to want to grab a seat in the corner, to wallow in the reflected flirting and petting and heat, but James doesn’t stop so I don’t.
In another half a block we pass the definitive dive bar, a place so scummy even Ellensburg would have been ashamed. James leans over to say something when this kid bursts out of nowhere and runs right into him.
“What the fuck?” James grabs the guy’s arm.
The kid—wait, no, older than a kid. Asian, so impossible to guess his age. So delicate it’s just as hard to identify gender. Long black hair done up in an intricate braided topknot and shaved up the sides. Black eyeliner. Peach lips flecked with gold.
If there’s a cock under those skinny, skinny jeans, I want it.
“Look at you.” The kid runs his? her? their? hands up and down James’s arms. “You are one fine looking man, and I am so sorry I bumped into you.” He stops touching, shifts back a step, traps his bottom lip with bright white teeth. “Except I’m not.”
James crosses his arms. His glare could rip the roof off a thunderbolt. The kid takes another step back. “I said I was sorry.”
Not a girl’s voice. Lower. Rougher. Clipped speech that’s almost an accent. Maybe I want it to be true, so my brain classifies the kid as a “he”. I belt James in the shoulder, shove him aside, step up like a conquering hero.
“You’re sweet, too,” the kid says. “Like a big ol’ sugar cookie.”
James laughs. “That’s right, Sugar Cookie.”
It’s a step up from Homo, so I let it slide. “What’s your name?”
The kid looks me up and down like I’m on the block for auction. “Sang.”
“Sang!” Voices shriek from across the street. People run in our direction. One angry driver lays on their horn. “Sang!”
He’s surrounded by a crowd, a swarm, at least three club kids, all more-or-less male, all colored ribbons and tight, ripped t-shirts. One has skin the color of a latte and long braids pouring out of a velvet scarf. One is so white he makes me look bronzed. The third is tall as I am and slender as a heron, his eyes almost obliterated by thick black liner. Their voices carry laughter undercut with real concern. Sang brushes them off. “Shut up. Sugar Cookie and I are just here talking.”
I want to eat the sound of his voice, and my grin is all bumpkin. “I’m protecting you from the badass black man.”
Sang slides over, little bells in his braided knot tinkling, and wraps his hand around my upper arm. “That’s right. Sugar Cookie and I have stuff to do.” The others twitter and giggle and egg him on.
James catches my eye, and I give him a nod that’s more of a thought than an actual gesture. He shakes his head, smiling at the night sky, and moves off.
“Later,” I say.
“I’m heading up to Dicks.”
Dicks Drive-In on Broadway. The brothers hang out there. James will find friends. He’ll text me before he leaves, or I’ll text him. For now, I’m intrigued by this beautiful person gripping me with fingers too small to reach all the way around my bicep. Sang laughs, and it’s like water splashing through rocks when the snow melts. His friends crowd us, and I feel like a sugar cookie, or like a loaf of white bread surrounded by artfully decorated cupcakes.
“Where are you going tonight?” I speak only to Sang.
“Wherever you want.” His tongue peeks out and catches a bit of glitter from the corner of his mouth, his heavy-lidded eyes so hot they could bake me.
The intensity of their focus mutes the crowded street sounds. “You tell me. I’m new in town. I’ll go anywhere you want as long as—” I pinch the sweet curve of his chin, lifting gently. “I end up with your mouth on me.”
His smile goes sassy, and he steps away. “What if I take you someplace dangerous?”
“What?” I hold my arms wide. “You going to slip me a roofie and rob me blind? Maybe leave me naked in an alley somewhere?”
He tenses, hardens, most of the laughter fading. “I could.”
My heart hammers like it’s going to lock away my breath. I might have a size advantage, but these kids are home. I’m not. Right about the time I figure he’s going to whip out a gun, the laughter’s back.
“The only thing I want to do to you, Cookie, is find you something decent to wear.” He grabs my hand, tugs me up the street.
I stumble, follow, breathe.
Ellensburg isn’t Kansas, but I know how Dorothy feels.
Liv RancourtSite Design by Memphis McKay
Sending your message. Please wait...
Thanks for sending your message! I'll be in touch soon.
Whoops! There was a problem sending your message. Mind giving that another try?
Please complete all the fields in the form before sending.