Time in Vancouver:
​Jarrod fell hard for Bub. He crumbled like a pastry held in Bub’s delicate hands. Bub’s large dark soulful eyes sent Jarrod into a state of helpless bliss. Bub’s voice melted him. He longed to press his lips against Bub’s supple lips; Bub’s lips often tasted minty. Bub’s beauty and tranquillity confounded Jarrod’s balance. A gentle touch and Jarrod would feel the ground beneath his feet open wide, swallowing him, capturing him in the here and now. They came from lightyears away—nevertheless, Bub’s warm breath on the nape of his neck immobilized him. They’d been together for more than nine years and still, every time the sun peaked through their bedroom’s window casting a beautiful silhouette over the curvature of Bub’s shapely figure—Jarrod fell deeper, risking never being able to return to where he once escaped. 
“I know. A gaggle of passengers approached and shouted at her, SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU SELF-CENTERED ATTENTION WHORE. And then softened their words with: Sweetie, you can’t be a whore just for your thoughts. But please stop your ceaseless babbling. You need to get out of this story. Off this page. You have already occupied too many lines when you do nothing to move the story along. Honey, you’re pointless. If you had a fucking editor, they would have told you that. You’re just confusing readers with your fucking presence. GET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT. I must admit ‘make sweet love to me’ is rich. GET OUT. And with the fourth GET OUT spit out of the mobs’ mouths, fifth now; her window opened, she flew out of the plane into (nowhere) no-whore. Where she ultimately belongs.”

The loudspeaker began to crackle. “This is Captain Rob speaking. Fasten your seatbelts. We are starting our descent into Broughton. The current temperature in Broughton is a steamy 104 degrees. 40 degrees if you are reading this outside of the USA.”
​The bassline shook the Underbelly. Ransom War’s thumping cover of the Eagles – The Last Resort blared over the speakers as the lead singer Dax in throaty honesty screamed out the lyrics.
Some rich men came and raped the land, nobody caught em,’
Put up a bunch of ugly boxes and Jesus, white people, bought em.’
And they called it paradise, the place to be.
They watched the hazy sun, sinking in the sea.
You can leave it all behind, and sail to Lahaina.
Just like the missionaries did, so many years before.
They even brought a neon sign: ‘Jesus is coming.’
Brought the white man’s burden down, brought the white man’s reign.
Who will provide the grand design, what is yours and what is mine?
‘Cause there is no more new frontier, we have got to make it here.
We satisfy our endless needs and justify our bloody deeds.
In the name of destiny and in the name of God.
And you can see them there, on Sunday morning.
Stand up and sing about what it’s like up there.
They called it paradise.
I don’t know why?
            You call someplace paradise, kiss it goodbye. ​
And, with the last beat dropped, Travis knew he likely had no choice but to hop in bed with the devil and rewrite history. No choice. His family is coloured. What he didn’t know, if he accepted Simon’s demand, he was about to be commissioned to play God and his words were about to become his sword.

EXCERPTS: CHAPTER A: OFFER