Hey there! Late last week I did a poll to ask you what I should work on for NaNoWriMo.
To be honest, I had planned on starting the second book of a paranormal romance/urban fantasy trilogy, but I had begun to ask myself things like, “Would anyone but me get into this trilogy concept?” (Arguably a better question to ask before beginning book one… ) So I put it on the poll with other story ideas that I’ve played around with a little. I actually liked all the ideas, so I was up for whatever.
But hey, the trilogy idea won! (Just barely — the idea I wrote about 100 pages on last summer came in second, so I’ll probably finish that project at some point, too. 🙂 )
So I’ve just started writing book 2, and I’m going to share an excerpt. I hope you’ll share a paragraph to a page of whatever you’re writing lately in the comments!
A miracle. My heart battered like a bird in its cage of ribs. I ran to the bed, threw my arms around Cristofer, and held him close.
I usually maintained a little distance from Cris. As an adolescent, I had suffered a secret, agonizing crush on him, while he dated and bedded every girl besides me.
For most of this time, I was not yet seventeen, the age of consent in Manus Sancti. If he had been within a year of my age, it would have been legal, but he was four years older. Being with me would have been a capital crime, even if he had wanted to—which he hadn’t, ever. As an empath, I would have known.
My unrequited attraction had never completely burned out. Though I hugged Nic all the time, I rarely touched Cris.
But he was still my good friend, and when we thought he was lost to us, it had devastated me. I squeezed harder, willing him to remain solid and real, as tears stung my eyes. “Cris.”
He hesitated before hugging me back, his arms strong and wonderful around me. His bemusement only increased, along with a spike of—what?
Lust. He said in a warm, amused tone, “Hello.”
He used this tone with attractive strangers. We didn’t speak to each other this way.
I pulled back to look at his face. An arrogant half-smile played on his lips.
My robe had fallen open, revealing my skimpy nightgown and ample curves beneath. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t trouble me or anyone else in the room. Life at El Dédalo did not foster modesty. But Cris’s gaze traveled over my breasts, and my skin flushed hot in response.
I turned to Nic. “He doesn’t know me.” It came out like an accusation.
“Ah yeah, forgot to mention that. He doesn’t know anyone. Not even himself.”
As he spoke, Dr. Morales entered the room. “So far I have no idea why.”
Cris’s half-smirk and a shrug would have fooled anyone else. He concealed the unease of someone in a dream who stands onstage, but doesn’t know any of his lines, or even what part he is meant to play.
~
Okay, your turn! Remember, this is “WIP Wednesday,” not “Finished and Polished Excerpt Wednesday” (which doesn’t have nearly as good of a ring to it), so it’s okay if it’s rough!
Well how exciting, and Happy Writing. I have shared your little blog with my friends and will check back how you are progressing with NaNoWriMo. I had a terrible day yesterday, tired after work and only managed 500 words. Today is very different I am back with lots of ideas (except of course now I am playing on social media ARGH!). Must go write Happy Wednesday 🙂
Hey, thanks for reblogging! I am super behind, myself — but I figure I’ll have a big weekend to make up for it!
Reblogged this on Rose English UK and commented:
Day 4 NaNoWriMo WIP. Happy Writing to all taking the challenge 🙂
I’m digging your voice. It’s very compelling.
Aw thank you! Are you going to share any of yours? I’ve been curious ever since I saw the dream casting 🙂 (Of course, you might be working on more than one thing…)
I am not very confident about my current NaNoWriMo project but I do like my opening scene. Here are a couple paragraphs:
No one enters the old train depot any more. They arrive by ship, crossing the wide expanse of the Middling Sea/Mare Nostrum; they descend from the heavens by parachute or on gilded wings, they come by candlelight, if their feet be nimble and light. The station stands, more as as an homage to tradition than anything else. Of course the trains still run, crescendoing towards the station as they arrive from the Gardens or Ninus’s Tomb, and then fading away as they pass by, no one getting off. They will probably keep running forever, but train is no longer “the way to travel” anymore.
By now, the station has earned the decrepit appearance it has always possessed: dust grey walls, scattered food wrappers blowing across the floor when the breeze picks up, an isolated rat making his laps from one side of the depot to the other. No one knows whether the vending machines have ever given any product; its contents certainly aren’t safe to eat anymore, and a coin has been stuck inside there for years. The ticket machine is not covered in dust, but it’s clear that nobody has used it for years.
Heyy thanks for sharing Kimberly! It’s such a lyrical and evocative opening… a nice way to set a stage in another world without being pedantic about it. “No one knows whether the vending machines have ever given any product; its contents certainly aren’t safe to eat anymore, and a coin has been stuck inside there for years.” What a great detail.
I love your voice!
This line is so much fun, “They arrive by ship, crossing the wide expanse of the Middling Sea/Mare Nostrum; they descend from the heavens by parachute or on gilded wings, they come by candlelight, if their feet be nimble and light.”
I’m super into your cadence!
Thanks everyone! I admit, my NaNo drafts are pretty rough, but sometimes I do find nuggets of writing I like amid all the dross.
Finished this earlier, not exactly happy with it since I’d accidentally deleted this scene and re-writes never work out like the original….
Danny walked to the windows and looked out over Burne, the darkness receding in the distance, but here, the lights hanging on and from the houses and buildings still lit the night, still gave no room for the moon or stars to shine their light. Even along the balcony on the other side of the windows there was a string of gorgeous, frost blue fairy lights lining the railing.
“What if you did find someone?”
“What?” Joss asked, apparently caught off guard if her expression reflected in the glass had something to say.
“What if you found someone that just…”
“Completed me?” she mocked, tutting when Danny nodded. “I suppose if it ever actually does happen then I’ll figure it out as it goes. It’s very doubtful that will ever happen, you understand.”
“So you’ve never found someone who, not completed you but…interested you? Confused you?”
“Of course I have,” Joss said, surprising her so much that Danny turned to look at her. “There was a man, he was very intelligent. He overdosed on drugs when I left.”
“Why did you leave?”
“What reason did I have to stay? He’d lost his appeal, they always do.” She finished her champagne and swapped the glasses out. “Every attraction has its time limit. Boredom sets in, they reveal themselves to be not as great as first portrayed.”
“Your narcissism gets in the way,” Danny finished for her with no small amount of sarcasm. “People can be infinitely interesting.”
Joss gave her a look of distaste. “No, people rarely are.”
“I’ll try not to be insulted,” she said wryly.
“Don’t be so sensitive,” Joss told her, sipping away almost absently at her drink.
Danny couldn’t help but to laugh which seemed to confuse Joss if her tilted head was anything to go by. It was just sort of absurd, the situation she had found herself in. “I’ll try not to be, but us lesser people are like that, you know, sensitive.”
Ivy! So glad you shared. Great conversation. I’m hoping something happens to break right through Joss’s cynicism 🙂 That sucks that you lost the first version — seems like you re-created it pretty well though!
Thanks! It didn’t have the exact same feel as the original, but I’m pleased with the end results.
I’ll share an excerpt from the last scene I wrote last night…
“I’ll call her in a few minutes,” he promised. “And Bree? Be careful yourself.”
“I will be, but it’s not my time any time soon.”
The men watched as the door closed behind her, Caleb shaking his head.
“She creeps me out,” Michael finally said as Caleb pulled his phone out, laughing at Michael’s words.
“She creeps a lot of people out,” Caleb answered, heading down the hall. “I’m going to call Steph from the loft.”
You can see first chapter from my WIP, The Wolf Siren, at http://www.gracesnoke.com
“it’s not my time any time soon” WHAAAT. Interesting!
She’s a shaman but she’s a wee bit cocky too. Sometimes she forgets she doesn’t “see” everything.
Gah! Great excerpt, Bryn! I’ll be waiting to snatch this one up when you’re finished. Empaths are very interesting to me and I want to know how Cris lost his memory.
Oh, that is very kind of you! It’s interesting writing from her POV — not exactly omniscient, but she has more information than most narrators. 🙂
Here’s the opening scene of my paranormal romance WIP. It’s pretty rough, yet. Trygg is the hero. My heroine’s name is Bryn–she’s the spicy apple. *wink* (I swear I named her before I found your blog, Bryn! LOL!)
The scent of apples slipped under the door and breezed across the gleaming black surface of the desk. Trygg MacKenzie closed his eyes and breathed the smell into his lungs. A bittersweet smile tugged at his lips as the vision of a little girl with the blackest hair and the bluest eyes stepped into the frame of his mind’s eye. It happened every time he smelled apples. Part of him wanted to ban them from his building, but how would he explain that some innocent fruit reminded him of the biggest failure of his life?
Besides, a part of him liked the pain her memory brought to him. It kept him focused. On task. Plodding forward because he could never go back.
Of all the enhanced senses being an immortal berserker could have given him, his just had to be smell. He breathed in deeper, letting the scent hit the back of his throat. There was a hint of spice to this apple, different from the pure, sweet fragrance of the girl in his memory. Trygg shook his head and opened his eyes. The dangers of having an enhanced olfactory system were legion, but his morose obsession with the smell of apples was the worst of them.
He really should ban the things. To hell with explanations. He was the boss. If he wanted to ban them from his building, he could damn well ban them.
I just bought apples at the market today. I’ll be thinking of your story when I thinly slice them and put them on a homemade pizza with goat cheese and caramelized onions. Maybe Trygg will stop by for lunch? 🙂 (Please don’t ban the apples, Trygg!)
Oh my. That sounds delicious!
Really really? You have a story about a Bryn? 😀
I love this because it’s so real… how the sense of smell can immediately call up a person or transport you into another time. I don’t think anyone uses olfactory details in their stories enough, including me. They are so powerful.
Yep! I really do. hehe! Her full name is Brynja Aren Ullman.
And thank you! 🙂 There’s a lot of smelling and sniffing going on in this book because of Trygg’s enhanced abilities. Keeping that at the forefront of my mind as I write him has been difficult. I didn’t realize how little I wrote about smells until Trygg came along.
Unedited first draft…mine are always so spare, almost like moving into a house without any furniture. The movers arrive in the revision. 🙂 Thanks for letting me share!
“I need to know if I’m sharing pizza with an asshole or a sociopath.” Lily leaned back in the banquette, the slit in her jumpsuit gaping enough to see the curve of her small, firm breast. Kan followed that curve to her flat stomach, the hardness that comes from a serious workout. He wondered what she did to stay in shape and if he’d ever get to watch her sweat.
“I have been called both, but I don’t think it’s true.”
“No one thinks they are an asshole or a sociopath. You can’t judge yourself fairly.”
“Okay, then. You get to judge me, Lily. By the end of the evening, you tell me what I am.”
“Fine, then. We’ll focus on the present, not the past. First question: Best road trip song. And if you say you don’t like road trips, then I think we’re done here.”
“Road to Nowhere by The Talking Heads.” Kan didn’t even have to think about that one.
“You like a trip with no destination?”
“A destination is the end. I hope the journey never ends.”
She placed her index finger over her lips and cocked her head. “I’m trying to picture you singing this song in a convertible with the top down as you speed down the highway.”
“Are you in the passenger seat singing along with me?”
“Oh, no. My song would be totally different. If you’re gonna road trip in a convertible with the top down you need an anthem. I’d switch our station to all Journey, all the time. Don’t Stop Believing. We’d sing until our throats were hoarse. Probably swallow a couple of bugs along the way.” Her laugh was loud, almost too big for her body.
“My turn. Favorite place to travel.”
“Trick question. Favorite place is always the next place. Every wanderer knows that.” Kan felt himself growing hard. This woman was his twin, a slender, almond-eyed, more playful version of him.
“Third question: Favorite movie. And not your snobby answer, either. The thing you watch when you’re sick or sad.”
“I paint when I’m sad.” Kan hoped she’d move on, because his guilty pleasure was something truly embarrassing, and he didn’t have enough time to think of something better. His hopes were dashed when she pushed.
“Okay, fine. You paint when sad. But you don’t paint when you’re sick. So what do you watch when you’re on the couch with a blanket and box of tissues on the floor next to you? Conan? Sound of Music? What?” Lily put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “I’m waiting.”
“Showgirls.” Kan said it as quietly as possible and then took a big swig of beer.
“I didn’t see that one coming.” Lily winked and said, “I like a man who can surprise me.”
“Your turn. What’s your guilty viewing pleasure?”
“I’m just a simple doctor and don’t have the artistic appreciation for film that you creative types do,” she began, a sparkle in her eye, “but my favorite guilty pleasure is The Matrix.”
“Keanu Reeves? You can’t be serious.”
“Kan, there are few things that will make me want to kick your ass, and talking smack about Neo is one of them.”
LOL! I LOVE this girl! Smack talk about Keanu? No. Not allowed. 🙂
“He wondered what she did to stay in shape and if he’d ever get to watch her sweat.” 😀
This is great repartee. Hahahaha Showgirls! And dude, once you’ve thrown that out there, you do not get to judge The Matrix!
We are not doing NaNo, but finishing up some edits before sending our contemporary royal romance to our first readers. We’ve basically rewritten several hundred years of royal history to make it work (although I think no one will care about that but us, but here the youngest daughter of a northern earl goes home to York for the first time as the Prince of Wales’s fiance. Essentally, there hasn’t been a Yorkish king since Richard III. There hasn’t been a Yorkish queen since Christ walked the earth. And our heroine’s people are a little excited:
The Lord Mayor of York and her consort were there, as well as the head of the York Archaeological Trust. Bizarrely for Amelia’s brain if not the circumstances, Amelia’s parents were in attendance as well. She had spent so much of the last month studying up on protocol that she had no problem speaking with the Lord Mayor. But formally greeting her father and mother, who outranked her except for that little matter of her being engaged to the Prince of Wales, was a different matter entirely. And incredibly awkward. Her life was so strange now, and she just wanted to hug them.
Amelia carried the small white bouquet with her as she was was shepherded out of the station and into a car with Arthur, the Lord Mayor, and the head of the Trust. The station master surely wanted to reopen to regular traffic as soon as possible, and she could hardly blame him.
Amelia breathed a little sigh of relief as the car passed under the bar at Monkgate and then turned into one of the little side streets that were so familiar. Amelia loved London, she truly did, but York would always be home. She listened eagerly to [the head of the Trust] as he talked about the dig and how Amelia’s presence would bring much-needed attention to the discoveries and the work going on. Amelia couldn’t help but notice that he barely acknowledged Arthur’s presence.
They parked on the side of the road near the dig, and she and Arthur were led round the corner of a building toward what had formerly been a carpark and was now an excavation site. When they came in view of the wall, Amelia heard a great roar.
For a moment she wondered if something had exploded, but the sound went on and on. Eventually Amelia realized it was joyful cheering, not angry shouting. People — thousands of people — lined the walls above the dig; they crowded the balconies and windows of the surrounding buildings and, Amelia was almost certain, some were even perched in the trees.
Amelia turned her face up to look at the crowd. When she raised her hand to wave, the crowd roared again. These were the the people she had grown up with from the great distances of [the family seat] and now cheering her for return as something quite different than what she was when she left.
Amelia lowered her hand again and slipped it through Arthur’s arm, certain and proud, the white roses from the little girl still clutched in her other hand.
“What have you done?” Arthur breathed beside her, full of wonder and maybe full of love.
She looked up at the walls again. “I don’t know.”
Oh, this sounds great. I want to read more!
I just loved this: For a moment she wondered if something had exploded, but the sound went on and on. Eventually Amelia realized it was joyful cheering, not angry shouting.
Here’s mine! It’s from “But I’m Not Depressed”, the memoir I’m writing about my health struggles. This bit is from the time when I was healthy.
They knew I was clever from a very young age, and they taught me to read. I’m sure you couldn’t pick out cause and effect from those statements. Reading made me smarter; being smart made them want to teach me more. I loved maths. When I was about three I went through a counting phase and would simply count out loud for the pleasure of it. Up to the thousands. Usually in my mother’s bed when she was trying to get some sleep.
Despite my being a pain at times, she wrote the first book I ever read. My dad, whose hobby is photography, took about twenty pictures of my beloved soft toys in various poses. My mother handwrote the story on scraps of paper, and put the pictures and captions in a small black photo album. Pig is in bed. Pig wants dinner. Pig meets Teddy… And after going on the train and meeting Yellow Dog, they finally get dinner in the doll’s house. I’m sure reading about my own world helped me realise why reading was useful. You could see from the pictures that Pig was in bed, but what mood he was in and what he wanted – you needed words for that.
As a teenager I thought I hated people. My mistake, as it was school I hated, an endless screaming mass of undifferentiated banshee humanity. Separate a unit from the hivemind – but why bother? You’d only have to explain, and keep explaining, the most basic principles before any hope of real connection could emerge. Reading books got me out of it. My world back then was literary. Nothing could absorb me as much as a book. I soaked up a range of genres. Science fiction blew me away with its experimentation with culture and psychology; Robert Silverberg and Ray Bradbury left a mark on me with their style, as did Theodore Sturgeon’s masterful More Than Human which I found in the school library. Literally every breaktime and lunchtime was spent in the library. People were just obstacles to get around, awkward situations to grit my teeth through until I could get back to the reality of books.
Literature taught me new horizons but it also taught me words and ideas. I never had to consciously work at a thing. A simple act of pleasure – reading – was doing its work behind the scenes of my brain. My world became wider, brighter, deeper, more lucid and more connected. Language created new meanings, meaning created language, like the branches of a luxuriant tree spreading majestically into the unknown.
I dreamed in colour. Bright and vivid. I free-associated with glorious, wild abandon, exploring loops and subloops and diversions of thought. I embroidered on my own ideas with footnotes and comments and affectionate mockery. It was sheer joy to carve out the path of what I could do and say and be.
And then in 2006, the whole process was abruptly switched off and I was accused of doing it on purpose.
Lia, thank you so much for sharing! I think memoirs must be particularly tricky to put out there. I love your title. And where you ended this excerpt — I really wanted to know more.
Love reading these! I’m mostly just gearing up for my latest book release in *less than two weeks eeeeeep!* but here’s Austin, former Olympic skier and Hottie McHero of my current WIP, Make Me Stay, the first in the Gold Mountain Series set in the Cascades Mountains in Washington state!
Austin always laid first tracks in the morning. He got up with the dawn, fed Chloe, and took her for a run. When they came back from the trails in the woods behind his house, both of them panting as they chased each other through the snow, he threw on his gear. It didn’t matter the weather, or how busy the day, or whether or not his knee ached. He didn’t let anything stop him.
Especially not his memories. They came in flashes, worst in the floating hours as he drifted out of sleep. His father, red-faced, screaming not to leave. How his mother’s suitcase dropped with a thud. He saw, always, in the back of his mind, the glint of metal under the wan yellow of the garage light. A hammer coming down. And then a cry—his own? His mother’s?—and nothing but pain.
Austin got up every day to ski because that was how he got up at all. It was the only way to push back against the attack that had effectively ended his family, his career, and almost ended him.
But it hadn’t. And so in the mornings he shot down the steep face of Diamond Bowl, or turned in the deep powder in the trees if they’d been blasted with snow the night before. His lift ticket was a perk of his job as a ski coach at the Gold Mountain Academy and it let him on the mountain before anyone else lined up for the day. Some days he took the lift as high as it would go and climbed the rest of the way to the peak, until the only sound was his panting and the brush of his poles in new snow. He’d pause at the top, listening to the wind sweeping clear above the tree line. Then he’d tip over the edge and shoot down.
He skied in the snow, in the rain, in clouds so thick it was only because he knew the mountain like he knew his own skin that he had any idea where to turn. But he lived for mornings like this, when the sky was so clear and the sun so bright he knew why they called it Gold Mountain, because from up top the whole thing shone. It was worth a fortune, this land. Undeveloped and untouched but for the ski runs and the small towns peeking out from the hemlock and fir.
But every inch of it meant far more than money to him. It was where he’d found himself, where he’d come back from the edge of injury and despair, where he’d been reminded of his body and what it could do. Some days he bombed down just to feel the wind piercing through him, the thrill and confidence sliced by a sharp edge of fear at how fast he could go.
Then there were days like today, when he took his time carving his turns, making clear, fluid lines in the snow. When he looked back he could see the uniform S-shape of his tracks. They’d called him the cleanest skier the Olympic team had ever seen, so precise he could repeat the exact same line down a course over and over again. Looking up at his tracks, he wondered, not for the first time, what he was going to do when all this was taken away.
Rebecca, I love this. I’m totally hooked. Congrats on the new release!
I know nothing about skiing, and I loved this. But I love your setting right off the bat.
What’s the title of your new release? Are there pre-orders? 🙂
“Paige, why are you shaking?”
“Do you really have to ask Seth. I mean look around you, this is your life not mine. I don’t even know why I’m here.”
“You’re here because I want you here. If I didn’t want you here I wouldn’t have went through all I did to find you.”
“Why me?”
“Don’t ask me to explain it, because I don’t understand myself. All I know is that one night with you made me feel things I hadn’t felt since Kate. Things I never thought I would feel again, or want to feel again. You made me feel Paige.”
“It’s all just so overwhelming. It’s not just your home Seth it’s the restaurant, all the gifts. It’s a fairytale.” He pulled her into his arms, and she welcomed his embrace. His arms were strong and comforting as he held her tight. His mouth moved to her ear, his breath hot on her skin, and his words sent a mixture of panic and excitement through her.
“Then let me be the happily ever after that you deserve Paige.” She didn’t have a chance to speak before he scooped her up and carried her up the winding staircase.
This is so romantic! I really wanted to know what came before. Loved his words sent a mixture of panic and excitement through her.
Thank you so much for sharing!
It’s called Lustful Desire Rekindled. In the first one they met in a club. A night of wild sex, and he wanted more. She walked out on him because she had been hurt.
At present, I am overseeing final edits for Fire Island, book 4 of the Chatterre Trilogy and finishing the rough draft for The Vi-Purrs, which will be out next spring. For now, this is the first page of Fire Island:
Tem-aki slid over the slippery rock floor, which might have been easy to skate on, but was nearly impossible to navigate wearing a clumsy space suit. Moving deeper into the treacherous tunnel, her attention was torn between staying upright and peering through the helmet visor trying to figure out her tricorder’s strange readings.
Until they had reached this narrow area, with its slick surface, the readings had been typical of a salt mine. Now, they went from strange silica measurements to even stranger oxide readings. Frowning, she pressed the tricorder against the side of the passage, but the odd analysis did not change.
Tem-aki closed her eyes and tried to focus on what she knew about silica. When molten silicon dioxide was rapidly cooled, it solidified as a glass, which could explain the slippery surface, but it didn’t explain how or why this area of the mine had been altered from that of a normal, abandoned salt mine.
Opening her eyes, she looked around. Noticing an offshoot passageway, she moved into it, and almost immediately tripped over debris littering the rough potholed floor.
After she regained her balance, she realized that the readings in this area were consistent with an airless salt mine.
What in the world had caused such drastic changes in the chemistry of the main corridor, yet had left this area untouched?
Salt was a staple of life and if the deposit wasn’t mined out, this discovery would be valuable to her superiors. Perhaps valuable enough to merit advancement. That plus finding her brother, who everyone else had given up as dead, made this a very good day, because either one had the potential for a promotion and increased pay-grade, but if she could achieve both, her success was assured.
Of course, there was the problem of how to contact her superiors. She frowned, as she wished she had thought of this before leaving Nambaba and its antiquated communications. If Larwin was here, as Thunder claimed, why hadn’t he notified anyone of his location?
Had she gotten herself into the same trap he was in?
I read “Fire Island” and thought it was going to be about hanging out at the beach, so I was really surprised 🙂 What a fun project! I admire science fiction so much… I don’t know if I could ever write it, because you have to think through all the science, but I enjoy reading it!
Marcha Fox writes great science fiction – she has a degree in Physics and she worked at NASA for decades…. she is one of the people I have check space science used in my books, but my books are more sci-fantasy 😉
Nice, Bryn! This is from my WIP, which I’m NaNoWriMo-ing (I know it’s not a word, but I like it). It’s a romance:
Juliet Winslow’s eyes darted around the dark and unfamiliar room. She did her best to ignore the rhythmic pulsing in her head and the queasiness. The intrusive red digits of the clock told her it was just after five in the morning. A dim light shining from what she assumed was the bathroom illuminated the items in her line of vision from where she lay on the bed: a chair, a desk, a t.v., and a lamp. All were strewn with clothes. Her clothes. Juliet squinted. Were those her panties on the lampshade?
Yep. Her carry-on bag sat atop her suitcase, packed and ready to go for her flight home later this morning. Her purse lay on the desk. She was still in L.A. and this was her hotel room. The realization helped sort the confusion. She had no recollection of how she’d gotten here, but at least she wasn’t chained to a radiator in some maniac’s lair, thank God. Everything was as it should be.
Except for the strange arm draped across her waist.
Juliet stiffened, then turned slowly, her eyes following a path from the mysterious arm to its owner. Her eyes widened as she absorbed the sight of a living, breathing Adonis lying on his side next to her. His eyes were closed in peaceful slumber, golden lashes skimming full cheeks that would have given him a boyish appearance if not for the reddish stubble on his square jaw and a chin cleft that called out to be explored by her tongue.
She shuddered at a flash of recognition, of doing exactly that. Dark, wavy, auburn hair fell across his forehead and Juliet resisted the urge to reach out and touch it, confirming how silky soft she knew it would be. She didn’t want to wake the handsome stranger and have to admit to the humiliation that, other than a vague sense of familiarity with his body, she couldn’t remember a thing about him. Not even his name. But if the soft snores coming from him were any indication, the hunk was still fast asleep. Maybe, just maybe, she could escape without notice.
Carefully, Juliet skirted out from under his arm and off the bed, then tiptoed into the bathroom, collecting her various articles of abandoned clothing along the way. As quietly as she could, she dragged her bags in with her and shut the door.
Oh God, she groaned. She was a sight. Her new chin-length bob stuck up from her head at all angles and the smears of black mascara made her look like a deranged raccoon. She glanced longingly at the shower, but she had to work quickly. She extracted her toiletry kit from the carry-on and cleaned herself up best she could. Her flight wasn’t for several more hours, but it would be much better to wait at LAX than endure the awkward “morning-after” small talk. Not that she had much experience with that, none at all, really. Taking a strange man to bed, indulging in a one-night stand…those were out of character for safe, predictable, chef Juliet Winslow.
She pulled on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt before attempting to brush her hair into submission. Why did she cut it all off? It would be so much easier pulling it into a ponytail than trying to tame this mess. You know why you did it. For the same reason there’s a strange–albeit attractive–man in that bed out there.
Damn Nick and his new wife.
No, she wasn’t going to think about her ex-husband or her ex-friend. Instead, she focused on recalling the details from last night. Yesterday was the last day of the Los Angeles Culinary Expo her friend, celebrity chef Del Gutierrez, had invited her to. They met for lunch at Cafe Pinot, and after, she’d gone to Rodeo Drive to do the touristy thing. She was truly enjoying herself for the first time in weeks.
Then she received that damn email from her mother.
Juliet’s first instinct was to run back to her hotel room with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, but self-pity gave way to a determination not to let her mother bring her down. Instead, Juliet went to the club attached to the hotel wearing the sexy outfit she’d bought on a whim. The tight black mini-skirt and satiny red halter top attracted enough attention to give her confidence a much-needed boost after that email from her mother. But the red leather pumps she’d maxed-out her credit card buying were a bad investment, and after tottering around for ten minutes, she parked her keister on a stool at the bar. That was when things got fuzzy.
She’d nursed a appletini until someone–the stranger?–enticed her into a shot of tequila, and then another. And another. The free-flowing drink was like a golden truth serum. She remembered a lot of talking and a lot of laughing, and at some point switching to margaritas. Oh God, what did she say? The last thing she remembered was heading to the dance floor on the arm of the cowboy.
Wait–cowboy. The Adonis. But why did she call him cowboy?
Think, Juliet, think! Did you tell him your name? Juliet shook her head trying to clear her thoughts, but it only made the throbbing worse. It didn’t matter, anyway, if he was a cowboy or a movie star or a bus driver. She was never going to see him again. She shoved the offending outfit from the previous night into her suitcase, switched off the light, and slowly opened the door, wincing as the hinges creaked.
Rustling from the bedsheets drew her attention and she froze in place. The cowboy was still asleep, but he’d shifted so the covers had fallen away revealing him in all his naked glory.
And oh! How Glorious!
Juliet gulped and tried unsuccessfully to force her stare away from his hardening member. Well, that explains the soreness between her legs. Her hand flitted to her stomach as a sickening thought took hold. Did they use protection? How stupid can you be, Juliet. She let out a small sigh of relief when she spied the condom wrappers littering the nightstand next to the cowboy. That’s right. Calista had jokingly thrown a box in her carry-on when she was over while Juliet was packing for the trip. Still, better safe than sorry. She’d get tested as soon as she got back. The presence of all those wrappers didn’t mean there hadn’t been a latex malfunction. Wrappers–plural. Hmm. Nick had never taken her more than once in one night. Then again, Nick never looked like this.
Her eyes moved from the wrappers to the man’s broad shoulders, then to the rose and horse tattoo inked above his heart. Her gaze traipsed down the rest of his tanned and sinewy body, drinking in the defined pecs, the six-pack abs leading to the “V”-muscles that pointed her to his impressive length. Her cheeks flushed as she glanced away, her eyes landing on the alarm clock once again. Crud, she’d better leave now. The wake-up call she’d scheduled would be coming through in less than fifteen minutes. She gave one last longing stare at the sleeping man and felt something flutter in her chest.
Rafferty. That was his name. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, the scent of sage and spice triggering memories hidden beneath all that tequila. The way his lips burned a path along her neck and shoulder, the sweet and salty taste of his skin as she explored him with her tongue, her legs wrapped around his waist and his fingers clutching her hips with a delicious pain as he rocked inside of her. The longer she stood there enveloped in his scent, the more memories came flooding back.
She opened her eyes, half-expecting to see him staring back at her with eyes the color of dark maple syrup. Those eyes. If no other details come back to her about last night, the memory of those eyes would stay with her. Or rather what she convinced herself she saw in those eyes. Desire, longing, surprise, affection. She wanted to believe those things were there last night, even if it was only an alcohol-induced fantasy. It assuaged some of the shame she felt for acting so…so…wanton.
Five minutes until the phone rang. She turned on her heel, scooping her phone and purse off the desk as she yanked her bags with her to the door. The room was growing lighter with the rising sun, making it easier to find her shoes. She slipped her feet into the black moccasins she liked to travel in, kicking aside the red heels from last night. She’d be paying them off for a few months, but she wouldn’t be wearing them again and not wanting to delay her departure any further, decided to leave them where they were–right next to a pair of black cowboy boots. That explains that. The hotel bill had been tucked under the door and she bent down to retrieve it. In case she hadn’t told him her name–and she prayed that was the case–Juliet wasn’t going to leave him any clues.
The door clicked shut behind her and she scurried down the hall to the elevators. “C’mon, c’mon,” she muttered, furiously punching the down button. She looked over her shoulder, but by the time the doors slid open and she rushed into the car, the cowboy still hadn’t emerged from her room in pursuit. Juliet let out a breath in time with the closing of the elevator doors. She’d made it. She could return home to Mystic Point, Connecticut with at least a sliver of her dignity intact and no one–no one–would ever know about her one reckless night.
I am pretty sure NaNoWriMo-ing is a word now 🙂 Yay, we’re both doing romance! And you are off to such a great start!
I loved this:
Everything was as it should be.
Except for the strange arm draped across her waist.
I’m NaNoWriMo-ing this one. It’s sci-fi romance, tentative title “Fundamental Forces” and is the follow up to my book that was released last week. 🙂
“Anda, I need you to come with me.”
It wasn’t entirely unusual for Anda to hear that on any given day, but there was an edge in Effone’s voice that made the hair on her neck stand up.
“Uh, okay. Dom, you have the bridge,” Anda said as she placed the tablet she’d been reviewing on a nearby desk and then jumped out of the command chair to follow Effone. She tugged at a strap that dangled off the pack Effone had slung over her shoulder. “I’m finally being fired for putting that banana in the Tempus’ tailpipe, eh?”
Effone smirked but didn’t slow her pace. “The Tempus doesn’t have a tailpipe.”
“Which ship has the tailpipe?”
“No ASPECT ships have tailpipes. Per se.” Effone showed her company ID to the security officer at the end of the ramp the two women had just descended.
“I know.” Anda watched the deck crew flow around them as if they weren’t even there. “What’s going on?”
“You and I are meeting Captain Fortis off ship.”
Anda raised an eyebrow at her friend. There were moments… many, many moments, when Effone could be maddeningly cagey. This was one of those. “I thought you two were happily… uh… getting along.”
“We are.”
“Then why are you bringing me in for a threesome? I’m honored, but I didn’t think you’d want to share…”
“Anda.”
There it was. The note in Effone’s voice that indicated danger ahead.
“What?” You’re dragging me out to a remote location to meet your…” Anda groped for the words. Those two still hadn’t labeled their relationship. Considering that a year had passed, she was going to have to give up and get used to it. “Your snookums.”
Effone snorted, the only indication that Anda had amused her that she allowed. “He’ll be glad to hear you’re finally calling him something other than ‘Captain Fortis’.”
“You didn’t tell him about the ‘Captain Hotness’ moniker I was using?”
“Oh, he’s heard it.” Effone stopped to face Anda, her smirk barely visible. “I adopted it.”
The funny thing about Effone’s delivery was that it was always deadpan. She could’ve just told Anda the Chronocon was being decommissioned and it would’ve been delivered with the same even tone and cadence.
Effone sucked in a breath and then moved forward. “It’s a great way to clue him in as to what I want to do any particular evening.”
“I’m glad you’re expanding your communication skills, Effie.” Anda reached out and wrapped her hand around Effone’s upper arm, pulling her to a stop. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Effone turned to face Anda again, looking her straight in the eye. “Not yet.”
Anda paused a moment, narrowing her eyes in question. Effone was always like this. She never gave anything away. But she was even more closed off and uptight than usual and that made all the alarm bells start going off in Anda’s head all at once.
LOL, “Your snookums.” It’s particularly effective because Anda had to pause and grope for the words.
Great characters… and I want to know what’s up!
For NaNoWriMo, I’m working on the first draft of a contemporary fantasy novel I started two years ago and set aside for a while. Here’s an excerpt from what I wrote November 1. Dee (her honorary title is “The Dragon at the Gate,” though all characters are completely human) guards the Gate between life and death. Dienna is her apprentice:
When she reached Dienna, her apprentice turned to face her. There might have been a flicker of something new in the younger woman’s eyes, but it was gone, replaced with her usual professional expression before Dee could figure it out.
“Hey,” Dee gave her usual smile.
“Hey.”
[number] years and Dee still wasn’t used to Dienna’s lack of loquaciousness.
It’s just who she is. Deal with it. She buried her irritation and latched on to the happy mood from the night out with Brand and the others.
“We had a good time.” Dee set her gloves, model assault rifle, and pistol on the bench and slid off her armguards. She pulled at the shoulder straps holding on her breastplate, grunting when she got her thumb stuck in the buckle.
“Here,” Dienna stepped up behind her to help.
“Thanks. Anyway, [name] and Daniel got the blue ribbon, we got second. And Donny monopolized the karaoke machine for most of the evening.”
Dienna handed her the armor backpiece and Dee sat on the bench to start on her shin guards. “Man, am I glad we only do this twice a year. I don’t know how people at conventions can wear this all day long for a week.”
Dienna’s lips twitched a bit at that.
“So, what did you and Bakara do tonight?”
“Watched the water.”
Dee looked up. “And?”
“Watched the water.”
Dee puffed a short laugh out her nose. “Well, you certainly have focus.”
“I do.”
Finally relieved of all her costume, down to just her jeans and long-sleeve tee, Dee joined Dienna at the rail. “So, watching the water. In the dark.”
“Yup.”
“Actually, this is kind of peaceful.”
As they stood in silence, Dee gradually became aware of a tension in the air. She glanced left to see Dienna’s shoulders tense; no stranger would be able to see the change, but she was sure Dienna’s brothers would.
“What’s—”
Something hit Dee in the head and she toppled sideways over the bench, her vision going as dark as the nighttime waters. Her hands twitched and she dimly heard voices as though they were down a deep tunnel.
“Fuck, too soon.” That was Dienna.
Unfamiliar arms wrapped around Dee from behind, lifting her up while someone else grabbed her feet. She couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t move. Sounds were fading fast, her mind filling with a sea of black.
“Don’t move!” A man she’d never heard before.
“I’m unarmed.” Dienna again, as calm as if she’d just asked for a drink of water.
Dee thought she heard feet running belowdecks, Donny and Daniel yelling. Then a dark wave crashed over her and she fell unconscious.
Ohh, I really enjoyed this! Is Dragon at the Gate the title, or do you have a title yet?
And I love it that it’s so clearly a WIP — I do that exact same thing with time periods and names in a draft.:)
“The Dragon at the Gate” has been the title from the very beginning. I’ve brainstormed others, sometimes trying not to be so “fantasy-esque,” but it’s really the only one that fits.