Despite all of the controversy of this book, I read it as a work of fiction, which is the way it should be read. It’s a controversial book…I completely get that, but looking past that idea, the book is a sexy, snarky, alpha male filled read that I really enjoyed. The cockiness of both the main heroes got to me a bit but their personalities also never changed from how they were established at the beginning of the text, so you either accept who they are or they rub you the wrong way and you don’t.
This book is about so much more than the indie writer and blogging community; it’s about accepting who you are and what you need…it’s about dealing with past issues and realizing there’s a way to get through them and begin again. The way Larson and Troy went from teaching each other a lesson by underhanded methods, goading one another for explosive reactions, to a relationship that provides both relief and liberation meticulously plays out in Black Balled and takes readers on a journey of self-discovery for both of these dominant males.
Larson and Troy are definitely cocky, self-righteous SOBs, but they are who they are, and they don’t try to be something else just because that’s what’s expected of them. What makes the text both interesting and entertaining is watching these two egocentric men try to top one another in every way possible, which given both of their stubborn and controlling ways, is an impossibility but it’s definitely a fun ride.
A complimentary copy was provided in exchange for an honest review.
4.5 Poison Apples
Larson’s POV
After that, I decide I’ve had enough of this crap and slam the lid down, effectively cutting off the world and relishing the feeling of my much-needed solitude.
Believe it or not, I’m the victim here. I have done absolutely nothing wrong.
I’m tired.
I’m also horny.
As if my life isn’t already a bad sitcom, I hear the very distinct sound of my mother’s ringtone. She insisted I use Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” song specifically for her, saying that any artist who openly sang about the Lord’s mother should be respected.
“Hey Ma, how are you?” One of two things could happen here. Either she is bored and wants to tell me about her nurse, Rose, and all the trouble her children cause around the neighborhood or…
“Larson Maverick Blackburn, what the heck did you do?”
Or…she is keeping up with my shitty life.
“I miss you too, Ma. How’s Rose doing?” Yes, I’m trying to distract her. No, it’s not working.
“Don’t you try and change the subject, young man. Tell me, did your father and I teach you how to steal?”
Oh sweet Jesus.
“Ma, seriously…”
“Answer the question, Larson. Did we?”
“No, Ma. You most certainly did not.” I feel like I’m ten and just got caught stealing warm cookies from the cooling rack before Kennedy got a chance to do it.
“That’s right, son. If your father were here—God rest his soul—he would kick your behind so raw it would look like one of those monkeys. I don’t know what they’re called…something about…”
See? I get that whole digression thing from her.
“A baboon, Ma.”
“That’s it. A baboon. If I could, Larson, I would do it for him. Did you go to confession?”
“Ma, we’re not Catholic.”
“Nonsense. Your father was half Irish so you can still go to church and get your conscience all cleared up.”
Oh yeah. I’m sure that would go over well. A bisexual atheist seeking forgiveness for a crime he did not commit. See?
Bad. Sitcom.
“Mother, I swear to you, I did not plagiarize. Come on, you know me better than that, right?” I mean, she did give birth to me after all. Shit, if my own mother doesn’t believe me, I’m fucked.
“Well, I don’t know…I never thought you’d be capable of cutting off the hair from your sister’s Barbie and yet…you did.”
Holy shit! I was like eight years old.
“Uhm…Ma? I have to go…the uhm…buzzer from the…uhm…thing is…Oh, a tunnel…can’t hear you…bzzzzzz…sshhhh…love you…”
And like the coward I am, I hang up on my own mother.
New time low? Check.
Troy’s POV
Behind me I hear Larson, “Troy…hey, it’s…”
“Don’t!” I yell, my eyes narrowing as I stalk my prey, my eyes flickering over Floyd’s hot pink shirt. I feel insulted and, for a moment, I debate whether it’s the dandy that should be on the receiving end of my fist or Larson. I quickly decide to strike the nearest prey first. My fist shoots out and cuffs him good with an uppercut to the chin, sending him sprawling backwards, where he unceremoniously lands on one of Larson’s black glass end tables, knocking the lamp to the floor. The sound of glass shattering echoes throughout the room, and I’m not done yet. I move towards him and, realizing he’s still in a daze, I take the opportunity to snatch him up with both hands fisting the collar of his shirt, and shove him against Larson.
“Is he what you want, Larson, huh? You want to fuck the flamer here? Because I can clear out right now so that you and Pink Floyd can take up where you left off before I so rudely interrupted your cozy soiree.”
Larson chuckles and I’m not fucking amused.
At all.
As I focus my gaze on Larson, I don’t catch the quick movement of Floyd as he lunges at me with a growl. “My name is Lloyd,” he hisses, “And I believe I made my position quite clear the last time we spoke. You’re not good enough for my Larson.”
And that’s when I deck him again. Hard. My fist meets his perfectly straight nose, and the sound of crunching cartilage resounds just before his shriek of pain.
“Sir!” he calls out, stumbling backwards, immediately tilting his head upward and placing a palm over his bloodied nose so as not to allow anything to stain his expensive pink shirt. “Sir,” he repeats, “Are you going to permit this?”
Oh. Sir it is, huh? What kind of fucking weirdness was Blackburn into with this dudette? I turn to acknowledge Larson, who is standing there, muscular arms crossed and his sexy drawstring pajama bottoms hanging low on his narrow hips. He’s shaking his head, and I don’t miss the sexy grin.
My. Dick. Is. Hard.
His package is evident and his cock has made a bit of a tent beneath those sweats. Not sure if that’s for me or if the sight of Pink Floyd’s blood is getting him hard.
“Well, sir,” I say, trying to mimic Lloyd’s voice and dripping sarcasm along the way. “Speak up. Who’s it gonna be, huh? Me or your Fifty Shades of Whack over there?”
I watch, a bit confused, as Larson casually strolls over to the kitchen counter and takes hold of his beer before making himself comfortable on the bar stool. The room is silent but for the wheezing coming from the damsel in distress over there. I’m guessing he’s uncomfortably numb in the entire nose region.
“Let’s see,” my soon-to-be-ex-lover begins as he adjusts the rapidly growing erection he is sporting, “Could you start over because the view is much better from here?” Then he takes a sip of his beer and waves his hand as though giving us permission to continue.
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