Hi, I’m Kris and welcome to the blog tour for As La Vista Turns, book five in my awesome queer soap opera! Enjoy the blog tour!
About As La Vista Turns
Zane Jaffe has almost lost track of what conception cycle she’s in. (That’s a lie: this is cycle thirteen.) She’s fake-dating her pal Mildred to get her best friend off her back, but judging by how hot it was when they accidentally kissed, her feelings might be somewhat less platonic than she’d thought.
And she’s decided that healing the fractured local queer community can only be accomplished through a party. Or maybe it’s actually a wake. Whatever it is, it’ll take place at Club Fred’s, and there will be alcohol.
Trying to conceive is an unholy rollercoaster of emotions, and Mildred won’t let them kiss again until Zane figures out how she feels. Between the wake (exhausting as hell, and that’s just the fun stuff), the constant up-down cycle of trying to get pregnant, and saving the world in the meantime, Zane has no idea. Fall in love with Mildred isn’t on her list, but maybe it’s time to let go of that rigid future she’s been working toward, and instead embrace the accidents that can lead to something better.
As La Vista Turns is available from Riptide Publishing. http://riptidepublishing.com/titles/as-la-vista-turns
About Kris Ripper
Kris Ripper lives in the great state of California and hails from the San Francisco Bay Area. Kris shares a converted garage with a toddler, can do two pull-ups in a row, and can write backwards. (No, really.) Kris is genderqueer and prefers the z-based pronouns because they’re freaking sweet. Ze has been writing fiction since ze learned how to write, and boring zir stuffed animals with stories long before that.
Connect with Kris:
To celebrate the release of As La Vista Turns, one lucky winner will receive an ebook of their choice from Kris’s backlist! Leave a comment with your contact info to enter the contest. Entries close at midnight, Eastern time, on March 4, 2017. Contest is NOT restricted to U.S. entries. Thanks for following the tour, and don’t forget to leave your contact info!
I didn’t mean to kiss Dred. It was an accident.
I was a little hungover after the wedding, and the sunlight was, like, glaring through my windshield, and when she got in the car I was happy to see her, so I kissed her. Okay, so “kiss Dred” wasn’t on my list of things to do, but it was an accident. And we were grown-ups. It was no big deal.
Except for the way neither of us pulled back.
Except for the way I really wanted to kiss her more.
Except for the look in her eyes—all open and warm and eager—when she started to say, “Whoa, Z, that was—”
Then: “Fuck!” She glared over my shoulder. “Damn it, Emerson. Z, will you roll down your window for a minute?”
“Okay . . .”
I hadn’t noticed Emerson calling her, but she’d heard him, so he must have been. I was in “accidentally kissing Dred” land. No external forces need apply.
Also, what had she been about to say? Whoa, Z, that was—what?
Emerson was wheezing and leaning on his cane when he got to the car. “Swatches. Jesus, that’s a long haul when my leg’s being a bitch. Obie wants to know which one of these they want to buy.” A manila envelope landed on Dred’s lap.
“Do I look like his errand boy to you?”
Emerson offered one of his crooked smiles. “Pretty much, yeah. You girls have fun now.”
“Don’t think I won’t beat you with that cane.”
“I’m pretty sure you won’t. Bye, Zane.”
“See ya, Emerson.” I pulled away from the curb, trying to decide if the silence in the car was awkward, or I was imagining things. Not that it mattered. “So I’m not pregnant.”
“Big fuckin’ negative, yep. Yesterday, before the wedding.”
“Wow, and then you spent all day smiling and making nice with people. It’s like God really hates you or something.”
“Shut up. I actually enjoy smiling and making nice with people. Plus, it’s better than sitting in my condo staring at the walls wondering why I’m such a failure.” I couldn’t talk this way to everyone. But I could to Dred, even after accidentally kissing her and crossing all the made-up lines we’d drawn around fake-dating.
Fake-dating had seemed like a good idea to get my best friend off my back about “getting out there” and “staying open to relationships.” And it had done its job. Dred and I had fun, no one got hurt, and for six months I’d been free of friendly nudges toward any lady with a pulse.
Damn it. I shouldn’t have kissed her. No. I should kiss her again. All the time. Or never. Hell. I blushed even thinking about kissing her again. If she saw the blush, she’d probably kill me; I made sure I kept my face pointed away, and turned up the radio. “I haven’t heard this song in months! Clean Bandit and Jess Glynne. Listen to her voice, it’s amazing.”
Jesus. Way to compound the awkward, Zane. I’d just drawn our attention to a song all about how there was no place the singer would rather be than with whoever she was singing to.
I turned it down again and tried to come up with a distraction. “You want to hear the other thing that happened at the wedding? Or no, after it. I may have cried all over the grooms.”
“Poor you.” Her voice wasn’t exactly sympathetic.
“They, uh, offered me sperm.” I repeated it in my head, but no, that was the correct sentence. “Tom’s sperm.”
“No fucking way.” She shifted, and even though I didn’t look over, I could tell she was facing me now. “No way.”
“Shit, Zane. You gonna take them up on that? I mean, it’d be cheaper, but then you’re stuck with . . . men.”
She knew from being stuck with men. Her ex had every other weekend with Baby James, after skipping out on the first five months of his life. Shit was complicated.
“They know I’m not looking for co-parents. But I don’t know. There’s a lot to think about.”
“Genetics-wise, it’d be a solid match. Tom’s all kinds of perfect specimen of blond, blue-eyed Aryan man.”
“Okay, thanks, now I’m totally creeped out. I’m not trying to have baby Hitler!”
She laughed. Dred’s laugh was low and sharp, like if you got too close it’d make you bleed.
“You’re so mean.” I may have huffed.
“You’re the one who wants to have baby Hitler with Tom of Finland.”
“Oh my god, stop it, Mildred!”
Her hand ghosted over my knee and withdrew. Would she have done that pre-accidental-kiss? I didn’t think so. Did that mean the kiss had been good for her, too? How could I tell? A sentence that starts with Whoa, Z could be going anywhere.
“Well?” This time she poked me. That was definitely the usual way of things. “Are you going to think about it?”
“Of course I’m going to think about it. It’s been twelve cycles. Twelve BFNs. And I’m supposedly healthy. And all of those donors I tried had other positives, so it’s not them.” I blinked a few times to keep my emotions from taking over. The thing about trying to get pregnant is that it’s a constant pressure, a weight on your skin, and even if your awareness of it drops for a few minutes, the smallest thing can remind you that you’re compressed on all sides by an inability to do this very basic thing.