I Flove You, Babe

Should I assume everyone knows what the word ‘flove’ means? It’s always been one of my favourite words—so full of pure, raw emotion. A word used when ‘love’ just isn’t enough.
So how do you know when the characters in a book flove each other? Well, it’s not when they’re sitting in a field of wildflowers, gazing tenderly into each other’s eyes. Those big long monologues consisting of 101-reasons-why-you’re-the-one-for-me don’t cut it either. What about when the man kneels and pulls out a ring?

Nope.

Flove, in my opinion, is that moment where you’re not sure whether you want to kiss someone or kill them. The moment when you realize you just might hate this person, but you’d be willing to sacrifice your heart and soul for them. It’s an extreme that’s almost more than you can bear. Flove leaves you feeling such violent emotions you feel like you’ve been beaten to a pulp on the inside.

True love is rare, but flove is almost nonexistent in real life. Which is a good thing, as far as I’m concerned. Letting anyone in that deep scares the hell out of me, but it’s fun to fantasize about. Kinda like being an assassin or having super powers. The repercussions in reality would make both much less appealing than they seem in fiction. Because while true love isn’t always rational, flove can be insane.

To name two movies where I would consider the romance flove, I would have to pick Pride and Prejudice (works for the book too ;-) ) and Ten Things I Hate About You. There’s nothing quite so thrilling to watch as two people falling in love and then telling each other to go to hell.

From my own books, I would have to say, while Rosemary loves all her men, what her and Kurt share is flove. Here’s a pretty good example that won’t spoil too much of the story:

“Unless someone dies,” Rosemary said, taking her hand from Alaire and ducking away from Shiloh. “I’ll be happier knowing your lives will go on after me, that you’ll have more than I can give you.”

“What if we don’t want more?” They all backed away from the door when Kurt stepped inside. His eyes flashed and he grabbed Shiloh by the collar, pulling him close. “You ever use magic against me again—”

“I told him to!” Rosemary pushed between them and faced Kurt. “If you want to blame anyone, blame me!”

“You need to understand something, Rosemary,” Kurt said, teeth gnashing together between each sharp word. “I can deal with you being scared. I can even deal with you trying to find a way to save us all from your oh so evil little self.” He took hold of her shoulders and bent low. “But you have no right to make decisions for us. I won’t be played like a goddamn puppet.”

“I’m sorry.” Rosemary stared at him, her mouth dry, the rage she saw making her afraid of him for the first time in her life. “That’s not what I was trying to do.”

Suddenly she was in Kurt’s arms, held tight, a sense of security seeping into her pores as though he’d willed it, which he probably had. “Me and Largo chose each and every one of your men with care. Each one is stronger than your brother was. You do not have to keep fighting to keep us safe.”

“Shiloh and Chetan…”

“Almost died because of me. Not you.” Kurt gestured at Shiloh. “Look at how much stronger he is now. We are a complete unit.”

“What if one of them wants a life? Wants children?” Rosemary wished she could do as he said, stop carrying the burden alone, stop letting guilt rule her life. But deep within was a warning that they were all overlooking an important fact.

“If that happens, we’ll deal with it. Together.” He pressed his lips to her forehead and led her out of the door. “You guys might want to clear out. Largo will shake the spell soon if he hasn’t already and he’ll be just as pissed as I am.”

They didn’t have to be told twice. Within seconds she was alone with Kurt, almost wishing she could have abandoned her pride and asked one of the boys to stay.

“Come on, I’ll drive you home.” Kurt led the way, walking more like an armed escort than a lover and a friend. Rosemary knew her plan had more than pissed him off. It had hurt him by undermining all he’d done for her.

She caught his wrist before he got in his car and waited for him to look at her. She had to settle on him glaring at the top of her head. “I really am sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The muscle along Kurt’s jaw went hard. “I didn’t realise your brother’s death would mess you up and I should have. I’m a little disappointed that we’re back at square one, but I’ll deal.”

Rosemary grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. “We’re not. Your plan worked perfectly. One date with each of the boys and we’re already closer. I can’t imagine letting go of a single one of them, but I know I’ll have to.”

“We’ll make this work. I need you to trust me.” He reached out and took a firm hold of her hair, using it to hold her still while he bent down to give her a kiss so gentle it didn’t seem to fit his fierce demeanour. “Let me take some of the burden.”

“Why?” Rosemary clenched her fingers in his shirt, beating down a rash urge to strike out at him.

As flove does, things get more intense. But Rosemary and Kurt are sweet, star-crossed lovers compared to Lydia and Joe from Deadly Captive:

"Do you know I've drained this bottle three times?" I lifted the bottle of tequila, the liquor that hit me the hardest and thus the one I was most determined to master. "Every time I put it away and go to sleep—"

Joe sighed, looking over from where he'd been sitting in the corner in a lotus position, trying to drop into a soothing trance. "You mean pass out."

I frowned at him and took a nice deep gulp of tequila. "Sleep," I said stubbornly. "I get up, and it's full again. Like magic."

Giving up on his meditation, Joe stood and walked over. He snatched the bottle and helped himself to a mouthful before he spoke. "It's not magic. They come in and replace it. There's no great mystery involved."

I giggled and slapped my hand over my mouth. Fighting back more giggles, I tried to look serious as I met his so-not-amused gaze. "So, they come in here and don't try to eat us?" I blushed, the words making me think of what Joe had done to me just the other night. "Not that I don't like it. I do . . . well, when you . . . ."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Were you getting to a point?"

With another attempt at seriousness, I nodded. "Yes. I was just wondering. Why
don't they bite us?" I grinned and stood, wobbling as I grabbed the bottle from him and toasted my sheer brilliance. "It's all the alcohol! They must not like it."

Letting out an irritated groan, Joe took the bottle and slammed it down on the table. He swooped me up into his arms, carried me over to the bed, and dropped me on it. "They like it just fine. If they didn't like it, the alcohol wouldn't be here. They probably approve of your attempts at mastering drunkenness."

I looked at the bottle morosely, decided it was too far away, and lay back. "Them happy. We live. Works for me."

Joe grabbed my shoulders and shook me. "Well, it doesn't work for me. What if we have an opportunity to escape? You understand the need to stay in good shape, at least when you get past your hangovers. What do you not understand about the fact that dragging you along with me, piss-drunk, when the chance comes, will get us both killed?"

I wrenched out of his grasp, suddenly stone sober. Damn him for killing my buzz. "It's not going to happen, Joe. They're gonna use us up until they get bored. And then they'll kill us."

Bracing his fist against the bed, Joe dropped his head. "Are you giving up?"

I shrugged. Abruptly depressed, I began to push off the bed. "Why not? Feeling sorry for myself will be fun. Maybe if I give up, they'll get it over with."

Joe latched onto my wrist, swung me around, and jerked me back against his chest. Placing one hand on my chin and the other on my forehead, he tensed his muscles. "Tell me now, Lydia."

I tried to struggle, tried to use my usually infallible technique. Joe's solid grip held me still, and, though my head had cleared, my body was suffering from the effects of the alcohol. "Let me go."

Pressing his face against my hair, I could feel Joe shake his head. "No. I'm not going to watch them tear you apart. If you don't want to live, then at least give me the mercy of seeing it done quickly. Please don't make me watch that, Lydia. I can't—" His voice broke off in what sounded like a sob. But it couldn't be. Not from Joe. Joe was strong; he was emotional steel. He was what I wanted to be when I was lying in bed, weeping over the past I didn't have. He always held me, told me it was okay, that I had every right to cry. I thought I was pathetic. I didn't want to be a weak, broken thing soaked in tears. But Joe was my rock. I was sure he'd never break.

I'd just found a crack.

"Joe, let me go." I made the words as soft and gentle as I could.

Joe eased his grip, but didn't release me. "Not unless you promise. Promise me you'll hold on. Just a little longer, Lydia. I swore I'd find a way."

Relaxing back against him, I nodded. "I promise."

Joe dropped his hands. I examined his face, shocked. There were no tears, but his eyes were wet. I collapsed against his chest, relieved when he enfolded me in his arms.

He whispered into my hair. "Don't ever do that again."

Now that’s real flove. ;)

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