I Interviewed Saxon Priest and Lincoln Asher
For fun times, I decided to interview Saxon Priest (Road To Fire, Broken Crown) and Lincoln Asher (Blood Duet). What follows is mildly inappropriate, completely ridiculous, and one laugh-out-loud interview brought to you by yours truly. I regret nothing, LOL.
Happy Reading!
There’s a good chance I should rethink the practicality of this interview.
Lincoln takes the couch cushion to my left, his legs sprawled out before him, his heavy black boots planted firmly on the carpet. I inch to the right, adding space between my elbow and his—but only because I’m all too aware of what might happen if Avery sees us canoodling on the couch.
Canoodling—such a good word.
“Where’s the other one?”
At the sound of Lincoln’s thick New Orleans drawl, I sit up a little taller. “The other one?”
“Yeah.” He drums his thumb on his hard-as-a-rock thigh. “The Brit.”
Oh, Saxon.
“He’ll be here,” I say, snagging my phone off the armrest. No new texts from the Brit in question. Dammit.
“He’s late.”
I cut Lincoln a sly look, only to find him already studying me. Fighting the urge to squirm under the steady watch of his vivid blue eyes, I give a loose-limbed shrug. “Not everyone is on time like you are.”
“It’s polite,” he mutters gruffly.
I raise a brow. “Since when are you the paradigm of politeness?”
“Since you birthed me on the page—”
The door cracking open has my head turning toward the sound, and there he is: Saxon Priest. Unlike Lincoln, who reclines heavily on the sofa with his long limbs taking up more space than seems physically possible, Saxon is a fresh breath of, well, icy air.
Dark jeans that cling to muscular thighs. A gray sweater that turns his unholy gaze that more potent—green with speckles of gold. Much like Lincoln, he’s also donned heavy boots that look like they’ve kicked down a door or two in the past. And, like the man already seated beside me, Saxon’s face is brutally handsome . . . and scarred.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” drawls the hot-as-sin sergeant beside me.
Saxon’s impassive green eyes land on me—and I swear there’s a twinkle of hello that beats only for me—before shifting to Lincoln. “Do you know how hard it is to leave a country on the brink of war?”
I cough into my fist. “Also, the flight!” When both men stare blankly at me, I swallow tightly. All that testosterone in one room. It’s overwhelming, really. I poke Lincoln in the leg. “You only live ten minutes from me. You won the commute lottery ticket.”
His dark brows draw together. “This is a fictional interview, Maria. There is no actual commuting.”
He does have a point there.
Unwilling to admit it out loud, though, I motion for Saxon to take a seat on the sofa opposite us. Once he’s comfortable—legs spread wide, big hands resting on his thighs—do I clap my hands together and try not to squeal my little heart out. “I am so excited for this! I mean, it’s not every day we have my two anti-heroes in the same room. Or, you know, on the same continent.”
Lincoln shifts beside me. Almost reluctantly, he mutters, “Supposedly you’ve become everyone’s favorite book boyfriend—over me.”
Saxon’s scarred mouth curves ever-so-slightly. “Is that what you’ve heard?”
“No . . .” Lincoln grimaces. “Maybe.”
“It’s probably just the accent,” I put in, raising my hands to ward off an impending brawl. Not that they would, of course. Not in my house. “And, really, no is comparing the two of you! You’re loved, the both of you.” When they exchange a look, I clear my throat. “Now, I have some questions I prepared—”
“I’ll do the asking.”
A squeak bursts from my lips. “What?”
“I know you have your questions on there.” Lincoln drops one elbow to his knee while he motions for my phone with the other. “Hand it over.”
I press my cell to my chest. “But I’m the host.”
Haint blue eyes meet mine. “What sort of anti-hero would I be if I didn’t put Saxon in the hot seat?”
“The sort of anti-hero who—”
“Now, Maria.”
Heaving a big sigh, I plop my cell phone into his waiting palm. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth as he types in my passcode—no surprise there that he already knows it—and turns to Saxon, who hasn’t moved from the sofa.
The two men stare at each other in a modern-day showdown. Both are dark-haired, both are hard all over, and both are gorgeous. A hot cop. A sexy spy. This crossing of paths should not even be happening, which makes it all the more tantalizing when Saxon mutters, “Any time now.”
Lincoln flashes him the bird, then drops his gaze to the Notes application. When he reads the first question, he shoots me a startled glance. “Seriously?”
I fold my arms across my chest and sink back into the cushions. “You were adamant about wanting to do the questioning.” I smile—all teeth. “Please proceed, sergeant.”
A muscle flickers in his jaw.
Out of the corner of my mouth, I whisper. “Scared?”
Opposite us, Saxon raises a brow. “Why would he be scared?”
Lincoln shifts uncomfortably. “She—ugh—the first question is . . . Who has the bigger penis.”
Saxon’s brows shoot north. “She said that—penis?”
“Well,” I start, “I actually wrote cock, but—”
“Penis is more scientific,” Lincoln jumps in, lifting a hand to tug on the collar of his shirt. “What the hell kind of questionnaire is this?”
I snatch the phone out of his grasp. “The kind that gives my readers the information they’re looking for. Since I already know the answer to this one, I guess we can skip past it.”
Saxon’s tawny-green eyes swerve over Lincoln’s frame before drifting back to me again. “It’s me, isn’t it? I have the larger cock?”
“No chance,” Lincoln grunts, motioning to his jeans. “No one comes close—not even you, Priest.”
Delighted, I hum a little tune, ignoring them both, and scroll to the next question. “Favorite food?”
“Fish and chips,” Saxon answers.
“How very British of you,” Lincoln murmurs, then adds, “It’s jambalaya for me.”
“How very New Orleans of you.”
I point a finger at Saxon. “Touché.”
He gives me a soft grin, the sort I’ve only seen him offer Isla.
Scrolling through my list of questions, I throw out another: “Favorite place to kiss your girl—and I’m talking locations, y’all, not body parts.”
Saxon lifts a hand to the back of his head, then drags it down to rest it upon his nape. The aloof expression on his face turns almost gentle—the furrow between his brows easing, the hard lines of his mouth softening—and he offers me a slow, stunning smile. “Someplace quiet, where it’s just the two of us. No interruptions. No worries about what’s coming next. Just me, just her, for as long as she’ll have me.”
His words emerge as a husky rasp, and I’m struck, once again—as I always am with him—that for all the brutality that he wields, he’s a closet romantic. A man with a heart so golden, so pure, that it truly defies logic. Especially when you consider the life he leads.
Dragging in a deep breath, I turn to Lincoln. “What about you?”
The sergeant meets my gaze, then brushes his fingers over his stubbled jaw. “I’m the opposite.”
“No surprise there,” Saxon murmurs drolly, letting his hand drop to his lap. “Your very existence is contrary.”
Lincoln sends the spy a withering glance. “Like I was about to say, I’m the opposite. I want Avery alone, yeah, but there’s something about kissing her where everyone can see that really does it for me. I own her, but she—she owns me. My heart, my body, whatever she wants of me is hers. And when I have her like that, my mouth on hers when we’re surrounded people, it’s just . . . something else.”
He’s not so much an exhibitionist as he is a man who proudly declares his love for everyone to see. A no-drawn-curtains sort of affection that he doesn’t mind sharing with the world. To be adored with that sort of passion . . . my stomach tightens at the thought.
“Next question: who hogs the bed?”
“Avery,” Lincoln says at the same time Saxon answers, “Isla. Definitely Isla.”
I scroll down more. “Oooo, this is a good one. If you could be any superhero, who would you be?” When their mouths part, I throw up a finger to pause them. “A woman superhero. Anddd . . . go.”
“Black Widow,” Lincoln replies swiftly, throwing a faux punch. “She’s fantastic with a gun. You see those skills? They put mine to shame.” He serves Saxon with a hard onceover. “And don’t you fuckin’ say that I don’t have skills to start with.”
The spy only lifts his hands, palms facing forward. His expression is bland but his eyes glitter with a challenge. “You said it, sergeant, not me.”
Lincoln narrows his eyes. “You were thinkin’ it.”
“Are you a mind reader now?”
“Guys,” I mutter, throwing up the universal sign for time-out. “Let’s stay on track now, shall we?” I motion to Saxon. “Which superhero would you be?”
“Wonder Woman.”
I wait for him to continue. When he doesn’t, I ask, “Why?”
He holds my gaze. “Because she reminds me of Isla. Powerful. Resourceful. There is not an enemy Isla couldn’t defeat if she put her mind to it—she’s a warrior down to her very essence. Utterly unstoppable, even when she’s squaring off against me.” A small pause. “Especially when she’s squaring off against me.”
Oh.
My heart thuds in my chest, and I blink back tears as I stare down at the cell phone. The typed words waver as my vision blurs. Dammit, dammit, dammit.
“Are you cryin’?” Lincoln asks, his tone gentling.
“No!” I hold back a sniffle. “No, of course I’m not.”
The springs of the sofa squeak as Saxon pushes to his feet and saunters toward me. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he waits for me to move over, leaving him just enough space to drop his brawny figure onto the vacated cushion.
And then . . . and then he wraps an arm around my shoulder.
“Don’t hide your happiness,” he husks in my ear, the weight of his arm soothing and gravity-centering. “Not when you’ve given us everything we could ever want.”
I risk a small peek at his rugged face, at the scar that bisects his upper lip. “I gave you hell—I singlehandedly dropped you into the center of chaos and turned giddy at the prospect.”
That scarred mouth of his curls with a half-smile. “You gave me Isla, which means I’ll face down any amount of chaos to keep her with me.”
“And your brothers?” I ask, drawing a circle on the carpet with my bare toe. “I’m about to turn their lives upside down. They’re going to hate me.”
“Eh,” Saxon says, squeezing my shoulder, “maybe for a little while. But they’ll come around. Right, sergeant?”
Lincoln nudges my arm with his. “I came around, didn’t I? And I put up one hell of a fight.”
“But—”
“Nuh-uh.” Lincoln taps my foot with his booted one. “I have a question.”
Balling my hand into a fist, I swipe away the tears from my eyes. “Shoot.”
Silence enters the room, as he draws out the suspense, and then, “Which one of us is your favorite?”
My mouth drops open. “I am not answering that question!”
“Well,” he counters, “you gave one of us the bigger cock and won’t admit who—so the least you can do is say which one of us you like more.”
“I won’t answer that.”
“Oh, you will.”
I shake my head. “I absolutely, seriously won’t.”
Saxon leans back. “Clearly, it’s me.”
“Clearly it’s not,” Lincoln argues.
“Clearly,” I mutter, diving back into the proverbial fray, “it’s neither of you.”
Their mouths fall open, and identical “What’s?” echo in my ears.
“What the hell do you mean it’s neither of us?” Lincoln.
“Don’t be frightened to tell the good sergeant that he hasn’t come up to scratch.” Saxon.
Launching up from the sofa, I back away slowly, stealthily.
Both men are staring at me like I’ve ripped their respective hearts out, and boy, there is no way I can choose between them. One man is brimstone and fire, the other ice and detachment—and yeahhh, it’s time to make a quick getaway.
They jump to their feet at the same time.
I skedaddle toward the door, reaching for the handle.
“Maria,” Lincoln says, “are you really not going to answer—”
“Jackson Carter!”
They stop dead in the tracks, then glance at each other.
“The . . . hockey captain?” Saxon whispers, as if he can’t even believe it. “You’re choosing the captain of the Boston Blades over us?”
Only, this time I don’t answer.
I slip out from the room, close the door behind me, and keep my secret with me for another day.
I could never choose between them—and it’s a good thing I’ll never have to.