Two Men

One Woman

Two Devastatingly Wrong Choices

All Cassandra Green has wanted since high school was to marry Christopher, the man of her dreams, have his babies and live happily ever after.

But after one terrible night showed Cass the depths of depravity that her new husband had sunk too, and the dark side he’d hidden from her, those dreams were obliterated in an explosion of cruel betrayal, tears and heartache.

For Jeremy, the man who has loved her all of his life and has been unable to get over her, a fateful incident gives him the second chance at happiness that he’s been craving.

But is he able to get out of a situation of his own making to claim his one shot at true happiness?

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*** For mature audiences only: 18+ Contains frequent strong profanity, violence, drug use and sex scenes.

Certain aspects of this story may be upsetting, or offensive to some readers.

Contains scenes of cheating, domestic/verbal abuse.

Story contains Aussie slang/idioms. ***

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Deleted scenes: WICKED GOOD.


Unforgiving bands of titanium, or fucking kryptonite, or some other unholy hard shit, crisscross my body, holding me cocooned and stuck on my back like a stranded turtle.

Not that I really want to move anyway.

Right at this moment in time, I’m feeling pretty fucking mellow. This frigging high I have going on, is un-fucking-real, and I easily ignore the warning bells going off somewhere in the back of my head.

Through the psychedelic haze of chemicals and alcohol fogging up my mind I do wonder for the merest second where I am, before I promptly shut that thought down as a wave of nausea rolls over me, turning my guts inside out and making my mouth water up.

Fuck me, am I gonna spew in public? That’s so not cool Liam. Jesus, I’ve been there and done that shit. Never gonna lose control of myself like that, ever-a-fucking-again.

The sick feeling eases up, and now that I’m not concerned about tossing up the half a pizza I scoffed down earlier, I become acutely aware of these bloody constraints as they grip my trembling body like a sex-crazed groupie groping the front of my jeans at a meet and greet; or as me and the band calls it, ‘the grab the meat.’

Why the hell am I trembling and shaking like a junkie in need of a fix?

Christ almighty, am I having a seizure or something?

A fucking bad trip?

Strategically and sneakily placed, the straps neatly lock me in place across my ankles, hips and chest, the latter also serving a dual purpose of expertly pinning my arms by my side; the whole shebang wrapping me up like Sunday’s fucking rolled-pork-fuckin’-roast. What do these jokers — whoever they are — think I’m gonna do? Go on a murdering rampage and rip wherever the hell I am to shreds?

Where the fuck am I anyway? This isn’t my joint.

And then I remember….

The after-party at my place.

The icy bottle of Grey Goose that I was putting away like it was lolly water.

And, the smack. Pure. Uncut. Pricy as all hell, and fucking top, A grade shit.

The finest H that money could buy.

Nothing but the best for this deadbeat addict.

Beneath my meant-to-look-casual, but totally pretentious and fucking over-priced designer jeans and tee, my muscles flex and jump involuntarily as my nerves kick up a notch, going totally haywire. What the fucking fuck?

Unfortunately, as I’m constrained like a wacked-out-psychotic-fruit-loop and not to mention, laced up like a fucking hiking boot, I kinda have no choice but to lay here as my body twitches like I’ve been tasered fifty times.

Am I dying? Already dead? Jesus. H. Christ, if this is Heaven, it fucking sucks sweaty balls.

On one level of consciousness I feel helpless, something I’m not used to feeling, but, strangely, at the same time, I also feel this wonderful Zen-like calm as I accept my fate.

Whatever the Hell it turns out to be.

Maybe it’s the drugs and booze talking, but deep in the part of my brain that’s still firing in the correct order, albeit a little slow on the uptake, I know that ultimately shit happens, and stressin’ out about it, sure aint gonna make the fucker go away.

After all, no one had made do anything I’d done tonight. No one had held a loaded gun to my head, or threatened me in any way, form or manner into making a chemical pig of myself. I totally and shamefully owned all of the stupid shit I’ve done to myself in my twenty seven years of kicking around. Okay, it’s actually a freshly-turned thirty, but in showbiz nothing’s as it seems; it’s all an illusion and no one really gives two fucks anyway about the truth.

I’d been the dumb, pissed arsehole who’d wrapped the thin leather belt tightly around my bicep, impatiently clenching and unclenching my fist as I primed my greedy vein ready to accept the coming gift.

Just like I’d been doing now for close on a decade.

My racing heart pumps a slushy kapoosh-kapoosh beat in my chest as I remember shaking with a wild, desperate need to get that needle into me as fast as possible; almost like my life depended on it.

And hell yeah, at the time, I really did believe that it did. I would’ve ripped the jaw clean off any crazy motherfucker who’d tried to take my goddess away from me. She and I had been companions for so long now, I couldn’t contemplate living life without her bitter-sweet kiss. I was well aware that it was my calloused thumb which had depressed the small plastic plunger, my cock hard and throbbing in my jeans as I’d eyeballed my Nirvana slowly emptying from the syringe’s skinny plastic cylinder and into my bloodstream.

After tossing the used needle on top of my rubbish-strewn, two grand’s worth of Huon Pine coffee table, I’d flopped backwards, my body boneless as I’d sunk deep into the butter-soft leather of my expensive-as-all-shit-lounge. My eyelids, already heavy from the Vodka, now weighed a fucking tonne. Impossible to keep open, they’d drifted shut as every cell in my body sighed with relief.

And, in hindsight, a misguided love for the magic that my chemical goddess wrought.

WICKED GOOD (c) Jennifer Crowfoot. 2015.

Extract from WICKED GOOD

Wearing a black as sin — what appears to be a Gucci — button down shirt, with the top three buttons undone, shows me a hint of a pale, muscular chest beneath. Even seated and partially hidden behind the body of the guitar, I can tell that his physique is more developed and solider than that of the average man. With his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, I note his arms — as they casually cradle the body of the guitar — ripple with well-developed muscle tone as he idly strums out random selections of chords over and over.

Chunky silver rings adorn each of his fingers and thumbs, and beneath the harsh lights of the Emergency Room, they twinkle like Aladdin’s Cave, catching my eye momentarily. I frown and an icy frisson nips up and down my spine as I catch a glimpse of unnaturally long and sharp nails.

I shrug and my lips roll up as I puff out a soundless pfffft. Who the fuck am I to throw stones? If the dude wants to have nails like Freddie Kruger, that’s his cross to bear. Personally, I think it’s a dodgy look, but then again not everyone likes tattoos, long hair, or piercings…and I’ve got a shitload of them, and I’ve never given a rat’s arse what others think.

My eyes dart up and away from his hands, and I bob my head — impressed as all fuck — as I cop a squiz at the epic tattoo trailing around his neck. Inked in rich, vibrant hues of deep blues, reds and black, it’s an exquisitely rendered and highly detailed snake. I can see every scale along its thick sinewy body, and strangely its black eye appears to glitter as if it’s alive. Undulating around his throat like a choker, it ends in the hollow of his throat, where it has its tail tightly clasped between closed jaws.


As my eyes flicker over him, studying him, his head tips to the side and full, plump lips part in a secret smile as those glittering blue eyes fix on me. Spearing me to the spot. My eyes widen and I blink as scarlet flames leap deep in their obviously ancient, rich blue irises. I shiver, my balls contracting and hugging my groin, apparently seeking the security of my gut. I can’t say I blame them wanting to hide, ‘cause I sure as fuck wanna hide from the searing intensity of those eyes.

My legs weaken and I swear on Holly’s life that he’s looking right into my soul as he says in a voice dripping with god-like power, strength and an ultimate authority, “Wanna make a sweet deal mate?”

What? Who the hell is this joker? My forehead creases as my brows meet low over my eyes and then rise.

He chuckles and the sound rumbles out from his chest like distant thunder.

Low. Deep. Menacing.

Standing, he unfolds to his full height, of at least six foot, which bests me by at least two or three inches. Bending to the side, he gently places the guitar against the wall, before straightening and calmly walking towards me. He wears a brilliant smile on his full lips, but I notice that it doesn’t reach his eyes, they glitter coldly. Like shards of ice. Or crystal daggers.

His expression is one of insatiable hunger.

I have a fleeting vision of a ravenous homeless cat stalking an unaware mouse and another chill flirts with my spine. My eyes drop to the floor. I study my bare feet, the swirling marble pattern of the lino… the toes of his boots as they stride across its shiny surface towards me.

Anything to keep myself from being sucked in and consumed by the fiery danger I see blazing in those ancient orbs.

His shiny black boots are soundless as he gracefully crosses the floor. The quiet allows me to hear the low sibilant hisses emanating from his direction. Raking my gaze upwards, I blink stupidly, as I watch the impossible; the snake is writhing about his throat like a worm on hot cement.

He reminds me of a MMA fighter strutting into the arena, heading towards the cage….Brimming with barely reined-in power and bristling with self-assuredness and no lack of confidence. He is the picture of wicked elegance and is undeniably and unashamedly impressive in the knowledge of his complete and utter invincibility.

He struts across that few feet of floor as if he’s the King of the World and my nape prickles as the air becomes thick, sizzling with static electricity. Sniffing, I swear I smell a sharp scent of ozone, reminiscent of lightning, and in that exact moment I can almost believe that he is something other than a man.

Something not human and not incredibly fussed on hiding that fact from me either.

 Extract of WICKED GOOD (c) Jennifer Crowfoot 2015.



What would YOU do if you were offered the sun, stars and moon on a silver platter?

What would you relinquish in exchange for your next breath and the promise of immeasurable fame, wealth and the cushy, spoiled life of a mega-rockstar?

What would you concede for that one in a million opportunity….That dizzying opportunity to be elevated up so high into the stratosphere, you could strut your asskicker Docs across the moon?

Would you be willing to dance with the Devil? Shake his hand and say, “Done deal mate!!”

Would you bargain away your most precious possessions?

Your eternal salvation…your soul…your wife’s?

Your child’s?

Would the result be WICKED GOOD?

Or, your most idiotic decision yet?

Author. Jennifer Crowfoot.'s photo.

Teaser of new work-in-progress: WICKED GOOD

One brow rises and he throws his head back, howling with amused laughter. “Oh Liam, Liam, Liam.” He shakes his head and tsks, and I actually see his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth before his face smooths out, becoming stern and a confusing vision of terrifying beauty. “You’re such a curious and amusing little soul. Now, what was it that some wise arsehole once said about curiosity and the cat, huh?” The corner of his lips curl up in an angelic, but deadly smile, and I shudder as if a giant ice cube has been shoved up my arse. “That’s right, the furry little dumb cunt got itself killed.”

My eyes widen.

He smirks, his heavenly blue eyes darkening and sparkling with cruel humour. “But seeing as I like you, Liam, and I’m feeling rather magnanimous at the moment, I’ll answer just one of your questions. You can call me….” Without missing a beat, a blistering and complex rock riff blasts out from beneath his skilled fingers as he considers his next words. “Lou. Fuck yeah, I like that,” he finally rasps, his voice sounding like he smokes a pack a day and then gargles with moonshine.

He closes his beautiful, but oh so terrifying eyes again, and I feel a sense of relief as his attention is drawn away from me and back to his guitar, his fingers flying lightening quick across the strings, making them weep and wail in an almost erotic way. I’ve never been into cocks, but right at this moment mine twitches and hardens in my jeans as I watch the performance in front of me, and the almost divine beauty of the man-beast performing for my pleasure.

Fascinated and insanely drawn to him, I take a step forward. His fingers still on the strings and the chair squeals out in complaint as he places both feet on the floor and spins around to face me. I pause, allowing my eyes to graze over him, measuring him up. I push my lips out and bob my head as I check him out, he’s one scary motherfucker, and I’ve met quite a few in my time, but I gotta admit the dude has good taste in threads.