The Red Lipstick

Author Sacha Black posted the writing prompt The Red Lipstick on her website a while ago. Just reading it set my girly brain whirling. It didn't take long before it settled on something completely different than Sacha's eerily brilliant short story. So, here's to laughter, drama, and a bold red lip!

* * *

The boots zipped over my skinny jeans with a zzzzt and a whiff of leather. The boots were only slightly unsuitable for winter weather. It was a small price to pay for great legs.

Once last look in the mirror. Eyeliner in place. Another fluff to my curls. One more spritz of hairspray. (Okay, five more.) My 'do hadn't reached auburn helmet proportions yet, though it would stand up to a stiff wind. Or the seizure-like moves that passed for dancing.

I drew the cap off the lipstick. My fashion guru friend had sported a red lip for over a year now. But this tube looked more brazenly scarlet than I remembered. Scarlet the Harlot, wriggled through my mind, a throwback to too many nights of Clue. I ignored the rhyme and daubed red onto my lips.

Coat on. Ridiculously expensive handbag at my side. Keys in hand. One more bracing breath. If I blew my friends off again, they'd never forgive me. And I'd be one step closer to a deep and lasting relationship with Netflix.

The white bag slouching against the wall stopped me in my tracks. Thirty seconds, I told myself, that's all it would take. Thirty seconds and I'd be in the car speeding toward a night of schmancy drinks, dancing, and, the girls had assured me, super cute boys. I looped a finger through the plastic handles, careful to touch as little of the bag as possible. Eau de garbage wasn't my preferred scent. 

Ten seconds. The efficient click-clack of my boots on the walk. Twenty seconds. I considered how to pop up the lid on the dumpster with the least amount of physical contact.

At twenty-five seconds, my boots skidded on a patch of ice. The flailing elbows and thrashing feet resembled nothing Kristy Yamaguchi had ever done. With a plop, my skinny-jeans encased bottom hit the ice and the garbage bag flew into the air. So much for sticking the landing.

The plump bag hovered in midair, then plunged toward the ground. I lunged for it, skittering across the ice. It landed in my lap and I hugged it to my chest. A newspaper crinkled and the aroma of rotten banana puffed into the air. 

I executed a butt scoot off the ice, still clutching the bag to my chest. Once I was upright, I hitched my handbag back up to my elbow, and slipped a palm into the red handles of the trash bag.

I made it exactly one step before riiiip. And crunch, sploosh, crackle, the bag disgorged its contents. With a sigh, I bent to clean up the mess. Then I heard it, a sound far worse than the telltale rip of a treacherous trashbag. A manly chuckle.

No, no, no. I squeezed my eyes shut, wasting all my wishes at once. Another chuckle. I forced my eyes open and peered at the source. The Attractive Male Neighbor.

“Sorry,” he muttered, seeing my face and trying to hide amusement on his own. It didn't work. Those stupid brown eyes actually twinkled. If only the ground would open up and swallow me and my trash heap whole.

“It's Becca, right?” I nodded. “Let me help you with that.”

“Oh no,” the words tumbled out of my mouth like refuse out of a torn garbage bag, “It's all my fault. I'm such a klutz, really. I couldn't allow you—”

“A gentlemen doesn't leave a lady in distress,” he insisted. “Especially in a pile of trash. What would my mother say?”

Man, he was cute. And I smelled like old cheese and dead bananas.

“By the way,” he said, as he helped me to clear up the mess, “amazing display back there. Do you skate professionally or are you keeping your amateur status so you can compete?”

I'd have punched him in the arm, but my fist was full of crumbled weekly fliers and something sticky. Instead, I gave my tongue free reign. “Actually, I'm going on tour with Disney on Ice. I'm Goofy.”

“Sweet,” he said with a grin. “I'm going to need front row seats for that. Hook me up?”

I rolled my eyes, pitching the last banana peel into the dumpster along with an empty pudding cup. “I'm pretty sure you just caught the dress rehearsal.”

He chuckled again, probably recalling my pinwheeling arms, my butt scoot, or the garbage exploding like confetti over me. I tried not to think about which part he found most amusing.

“Well, thank you,” I said, rubbing at a sticky smudge on my knee.

“It's the least I could do.” 

I turned away, fishing my phone out of my handbag and bracing myself for a barrage of tongue-lashing texts. Sorry, girls. Can't make it, I tapped out. Showering and getting dolled up again was too much of a hassle. Netflix, here I come.

“And hey, Becca?”

“Yeah?” I turned back.

A smirk spread over his stupidly handsome face. “Nice lipstick.”

* * *

What do you think? Leave me a comment below. And if you'd like to read more shorts, try: 

Creepy Old Ladies & Dolls 

The Christmas Miracle of Lydia Perkins 

The Twelve Dancing Princesses

Sylvi Lockhart 

Sam James

Enjoy! And thanks for dropping by! 

Dear Jonas

I was inspired when a fellow blogger posted a letter to her characters a short time ago. What a novel idea, I thought. Then it hit me. Bella, the heroine from Becoming Beauty, is closely acquainted with the hero of my second novel, Jonas Selkirk. All the snarky things Bella would say to her friend filled my mind and in no time a most Bella-like letter emerged. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed crafting it!

Artwork from Ruth Sanderson's Fairytale Collection

Dearest Jonas:

We enjoyed hearing of the coming and goings at Lord Bromhurt's in your last letter. After your life in Stone and your time with us, I've no doubt it does feel like a foreign land. I recall the shock of entering into service for the first time as a naive young woman. I had the added benefit of being tossed out of my home and sent to serve a Beast at the same time. However, in the end, I won a place of respect in the Beast's household. I am confident that you can do the same in Lord Bromhurt's household. (As long as Lord Bromhurst isn't more beastly than You Know Who.)

Now, onto the real purpose of this letter. From the beginning, your correspondence has hinted at an acquaintance with a certain young noblewoman. Philip would have me remind you to tread carefully when dealing with Lord Bromhurst. Since Lady Bromhurt's death, he has become fiercely jealous and protective of his daughters. Jack would urge you to act honorably but to follow the dictates of your heart. And both gentlemen have warned me against poking my nose in where it doesn't belong, but when have I ever heeded their counsel? 

Take it from a woman who had to learn the hard way--love is a gift. It should neither be ignored nor neglected. If a woman like Lady Ariela has taken taken pains to befriend you, you would be a fool not to act. Trust me, Jonas, land and holdings, education, and social standing mean little beside true affection. If you let paltry matters of the world come between you and that young lady, you will regret it. (Also, I will personally travel to Lord Bromhurst's to talk sense into you and ensure that you do regret it.) 

I trust that we will hear of your declaration to Lady Ariela soon. As to news here at home, life runs on as usual, bumping along with only the occasional tantrum from His Royal Beastiness. (Since you're not here, the poor weeds take the brunt of it. Sometimes I almost feel sorry for them.) Overall, we are happy and busy. Jack, Philip, and the rest send their best regards. 

With affection, 

Bella

P.S. Other news of a more sensitive nature awaits your return to Stone. As you know, you are always welcome in our home. 

* * *

If you'd like to know more about the adventures of Bella in Becoming Beauty, it's available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iTunes, and Books & Things. For more about Jonas and Lady Ariela, read Interlude in the Rose Garden, Just a Taste, Embracing the Fangirl Within, Arguing With Myself, or Twelve for the Fourteenth. Hopefully, Twelve will make it to print soon!

COLD III

Happy Halloween my lovelies! This picture seriously creeps me out. But if dolly had one chunk of hair left tied with a dodgy little bow, she'd be exactly what I pictured for Nanny's companion. 

And on that delightful note, on to the finale!

Creepy Old Ladies & Dolls

Part Three

                A hand patted his cheek. “Ben!” The urgency in the voice pulled him from the darkness that held him captive. “Ben, please wake up!” 

                The scent of her, homey and honey sweet, wafted over him. But the comforting aroma was tinged with something else. Smoke?  But his mother didn’t…Then it came to him. The fire. His eyes popped open to see his mother bent over him, her face twisted with concern. Red and blue lights flashed behind her.
                “Oh thank heavens!” she said, throwing her arms around him. “What happened?”

                Ben tried to piece things back together again. The interchange with the old woman. The doll.  The fire.  He pushed the words out. "Did she get out all right?"    

            “Who?” his mother asked, the concern deepening the faint lines around her eyes.“Was there someone with you?”
                “The woman...” he faltered.  “The old woman upstairs.”

                Her frown grew more grim, the look in her eyes a mixture of pity and worry.  “There was no one upstairs.”

                Ben wanted to explain what he meant, but his head was pounding so hard he could barely think. Something niggled at the back of his mind. Had his parents ever really referred to the old woman? He remembered thinking of her often throughout the years and longing to ask questions.  But every time he had brought her up, his parents changed the subject, always with that same concerned expressions.

                “The doll,” he muttered dazedly, looking around for it.

                “Do you mean this old thing?” His mother brought forward the tattered doll, pinching its pigtail between two fingers.

                “She...” he hesitated, unsure how his mother might react. “She called herself a nanny. She threw the doll out the attic window before she broke the lamp and started the fire.” 

                His mother glanced up at the narrow attic windows, the color draining from her face. Ben propped himself up and followed her gaze. Obviously, the fire had been contained quickly, but the shattered, blackened window testified of what had transpired.

                The next words out of his mother's mouth were so faint he barely heard them. “Nanny West,” she said softly.

                “Nanny West?” he repeated.

                His mother's eyes—fear flickering behind them—fixed on him. “When you were born, I was too ill to care for you, so we found a nursemaid. Her name was Isabel West.” She looked down at the doll still pinched between her fingers and laid it gingerly in her lap. “She was quite elderly, but she was a wonder with children and seemed particularly taken with you. When I recovered enough to take care of you, she became resentful and jealous.” Ben's mother fidgeted for a moment, smoothing the doll's dress and straightening the hair bow. Finally she lifted her eyes to meet Ben's again. “Her emotions became so erratic we were afraid of what she might do...take you away or harm you in some way.”

                “So you sent her away?” His mother confirmed the guess with a grim nod.

                It fit perfectly with what the old woman had said. Except for one thing. “Then why has she been living in our attic for all this time?”

                “She hasn’t.” Her voice wavered, devoid of its usual strength. “Isabel West has been dead for fifteen years.” 

                Shock ran through him like lightening. Ben turned his gaze back to the attic window.

                His mother cupped his cheek to draw his attention and he refocused on her face. 

                “All those times you told us you heard something upstairs, we didn’t believe you. We thought it was nothing more than an overactive imagination,” she explained.  “I never believed in ghosts, but if there was ever a woman determined to protect a child, it was Nanny West.”

                The statement hung in the air, worming its way more into Ben’s mind with each passing second.

                “How did she die?” he asked.

                His mother took a deep breath and released it slowly. “After she left us, she refused to take another job.  She retired to a small cottage on the outskirts of town, barricaded herself inside, and refused to see anyone.  One day they found her, dead in her own bed. Apparently she’d overdosed on something and passed away in the night.”

                “What about that?”  Ben nodded toward the doll sprawled in his mother's lap.

                “It was with her when she died,” she said, pressing her lips together, as if it that was all she would say on the matter.

                Ben narrowed his eyes, willing her to put into words whatever she had held back.  

                She dropped his gaze, shame creasing across her brow.  In a voice so small Ben barely heard it, she said the one thing that would haunt him for the rest of his life. 

                “It was buried with her.”

               

* * *

             

Thanks for reading! I'll admit I hate horror but I love suspense and mystery. A special thanks goes out to my dad for introducing me to both Alfred Hitchock and The Three Investigators and for my five brothers who regularly scared the pants off of me. Sometimes literally.

Did you get scared? I'd love to hear what you think! Read Parts One and Two again!  

COLD II

Generally, dusty attics just make me sneeze and itch. However, dark attics featuring crazy old ladies your parents refuse to talk about are super duper creepy. We seem to have left our hero Ben in that very situation.  So without any further ado, I present:

Creepy Old Ladies & Dolls

Part Two

              “Excuse me,” Ben tried again, but the old woman either couldn’t hear him or wasn’t paying attention.  Taking a couple of steps closer, he spoke the words again, this time more loudly.

                With a flash of sparse teeth and black eyes, she turned on him.  “What is it you want, Benjamin?” 

                Startled, he took a step back.

                “Would you like to kiss the baby?” she asked, thrusting the bundle clutched in her claw-like fingers up at him.  The thing, which had at one point been a porcelain doll, goggled up at him with one unblinking eye, the other socket standing empty.  The grimy doll, dressed in a tattered gown, had lost all of its hair except for a patch on the right side, which was tied with a ragged bow.

                “Isn’t she beautiful?” the woman asked, her voice gruff, but with an edge of tenderness. Not waiting for him to agree, she pressed the doll back to her sunken bosom and recommenced rocking and cooing.

                Gathering his wits, Ben voiced the question that was bothering him most. “Who are you?”

                Keeping her gaze on the doll, the old woman’s wrinkled mouth cracked into a wry yellow-toothed grin. “Don’t you remember anything, Benjamin?”

​               He searched his memory for a hint of who she might be, some shred of lost memory, but nothing came to mind.

​               “I suppose you were too small,” her eyes narrowed, glinting like black glass in the light, before she returned her attention to the doll. “But one doesn’t forget a child she has held to her breast.”

                Ben was taken aback.  He was repulsed by the notion but at the same time he struggled to grasp her meaning. She left him little time to ponder.

               “No! No! No!” she punctuated each ‘No’ by banging the doll's head on the arm of the rocker. Then she shook a gnarled finger in the doll's mangled face. “No biting!” she finished, before pushing it back against her chest with more force than necessary.

                It was clear that she thought of the doll as real child, and if that was so, Ben didn't want to know if he had been acquainted with her in his childhood. He contemplated hurrying downstairs and blocking the attic access so she couldn't get out, but she had already turned her attention back to him, pinning him in place with her sharp eyes.
            “That's right, my boy, you too were comforted by these hands and cradled in these arms.” It was the same tender tone she'd used on the doll before she’d tried to bash its head in.

              Escape was sounding better and better. She could thump away to her heart's content, as long as he didn't have to spend another second in her presence.

            “You've forgotten your old nanny, haven't you?”  The softness drained from her tone.  “I'm nothing but a stranger to you, now.” The wrinkled mouth pulled into a cruel sneer before she continued. “After all I did for this family, all I sacrificed for you and your mother, they left me here to rot with only Dolly for company.”  She turned her cold gaze on the dilapidated toy in her arms. “It's not enough anymore!” She screamed, pitching the doll directly at Ben's head. He dodged just in time, the doll careening past him to crash head first through the nearest window. Glass tinkled to the floor while Dolly spun through the air to land in a twisted heap on the ground. Paralyzed, Ben could only stare down at the toy, stunned by the old woman's rage.

            Ragged nails digging into his arm brought him to his senses. Her surprisingly strong hand tightened around his bicep. "Now that my own child is returned to me, what need have I for a half-blind doll?" She yanked at him, trying to tow him back to the rocking chair. Ben didn't care if he was six foot two and almost out of his teens, he admitted that he was well and truly frightened of this woman.  With a panicked yank, he pulled his arm from her grasp, the nails raking his skin as the momentum flung her small form across the room as easily as a ragdoll. Ben watched in horror as her head struck a nearby upended trunk with a dull crack.
                “What have you done?” she screamed, lurching drunkenly to her feet, a trickle of blood starting at her temple. “Wicked, wicked boy!” 

                Ben didn't wait to see what damage had been done, but hurried to the stairs.

                “I knew you'd come to no good!” she shrieked, scooping up the lantern and holding it aloft.  The dim light flickered over her face, revealing the mad expression painted there.  With a roar, she threw it to the ground. The glass shattered, the oil puddling at her feet and bursting into flame. Horrified, Ben watched the fire lap eagerly at the ragged hem of the woman's dress. 

            Screaming in fury, she launched herself at Ben. He staggered backward, half tumbling down the stairs and landing on his backside at the bottom. His foot caught on the last step, and fighting to free it, he inadvertently kicked the stairs upward.  The door shutting between them, he caught his last glimpse of the old woman, her face twisted in rage and her mouth forming a bloodcurdling scream as the flames engulfed her.

                Fear propelled him out of the house. Reaching the front lawn, he turned to see flickering flames in the upstairs windows.  He tried to catch his breath and reclaim his common sense, and after a moment, his mind clicked into action.  No matter how mad the woman was, he couldn’t let her die.  Sprinting for the closest neighbor, his toe caught on something. Tripping, he sprawling onto the ground striking his head on the concrete walkway when he fell.  As his vision closed to black, the woman's screams ringing in his ears, he saw what had caused him to fall.  Dolly, something like a sneer spread across her cracked face, stared at him out of her one good eye.

* * *

I really hate dolls. Especially old dolls with that creepy old doll smell. Ick. But you might have guessed that already. Tune in next week for the thrilling conclusion! (I've always wanted to say that!) Here it is: Part Three of COLD. And feel free to revisit Part One of COLD. Thanks for stopping by!

COLD

In honor of scare-yourself-silly month, I present an excerpt from one of my Halloween shorts. I wove some of my primal fears into it, so hopefully it creeps you out. At least a little.

Creepy Old Ladies & Dolls

Part One

               Ben turned the TV volume up to the level his mother referred to as an “unholy racket.”  It made no difference.  Nothing could cover the sound. 

                 Thump. Thump. Thump.

               The movie on the screen, a healthy mix of murder and mayhem, was less disconcerting than that rhythm repeating over and over.  It burrowed into his brain until it felt as if his mind might crack.  Glancing up at the ceiling, he noted the gentle swaying of the light fixture in conjunction with the banging. 

                Why tonight of all nights?  For the first time in forever, he was on his own.  His parents, dressed as Sonny and Cher, had left over an hour ago. 

                “Everything will be fine,” his mother assured him, planting a sloppy kiss on his forehead and smearing her lipstick.  “The candy’s by the door for the trick-or-treaters, ” she said, reaching the door.  “Call if you need anything, hon.”

             Before she was out the door, he’d formulated a plan: First, wipe off the greasy kiss. Second, switch off the porch light to dissuade trick-or-treaters. Third, pop in a horror flick. And fourth, consume all the goodies. 

                His mother was to blame. She knew Snickers was his favorite. 

                His plan had gone swimmingly. The movie had just reached the good bit—the chainsaw going at full-tilt and dismembered limbs flying every which way—when the noise began.  It had been low at first, perhaps nothing more than tree limbs rustling against the window, or a sprinkler hitting the side of the house before moving on.  But the night was still and windless and the sprinklers wouldn’t come on until early morning. 

                That only left one explanation.  It had to be her.

                Setting aside the half empty bowl of fun-size candy bars, Ben looked up at the ceiling.  They never talked about the old woman upstairs.  Maybe because his mother knew how uncomfortable the subject made him.  All the same, he wished he knew more about the person whose presence brooded over them like a black cloud. 

                Well, he thought, listening to the continuous thumping, I guess it’s time to meet the neighbors.

                Sternly reminding himself that he was six foot two and a buck ninety and had no reason to be frightened of little old ladies, he made his way to the hallway where the sound was louder.  Squaring his shoulders, he reached for the handle to lower the attic steps.  Cool, musty, air rushed over him as the steps unfolded.  With his nostrils full of a scent somewhere between moldy laundry and ancient dust, Ben placed one foot on the bottom stair and began to ascend the steps.  The thumping had abated at the creaking of the hinges, but now it resumed.  

                The room was long and narrow with a peaked ceiling lined with naked beams.   The only real light filtered through four narrow windows from the streetlamps outside.  Pausing at the top of the steps, Ben let his eyes adjust and glanced around at the lumpy piles of refuse scattered about.  Even taking shallow breaths, the scent was noticeably stronger here.  Almost overpowering.

                There in the far corner, bathed in the brightest band of light, stood his mother’s broken rocking chair.  Facing away from him, it moved, seemingly of its own accord, to the strange rhythm.  The bottom of one the front legs and the rocker attached to it had cracked off when he’d over exuberantly leaped into his mother’s lap as a stout ten-year-old.  The chair had been a family heirloom, and his mother had been so saddened by the loss that his father had promised to fix it.  When it proved unmendable, it had been relegated to the attic instead.  The sound, he now realized, was caused by the broken leg striking the floor every time the chair rocked forward. 

                Swallowing, he called out a nervous, “Hello?”  He grimaced when his voice cracked on the second syllable.  

                No reply—other than the continual thumping—returned his greeting.  Cautiously, he made his way around the chair to the nearest window, keeping a good five feet between himself and the rocker.  The light fell fully on the seat of the chair, revealing a small form perched there.  A guttering lantern—emitting much less light than the streetlamps—sat beside her on the floor.  Tangled white hair concealed her face.  Her bony frame was dressed in filthy rags.  She emitted an odd cooing, something between a grumble and a lullaby, aimed at whatever was cradled in her arms.

                “Excuse me,” Ben tried again, but the old woman either couldn’t hear him or wasn’t paying attention.  Taking a couple of steps closer, he spoke the words again, this time more loudly.

                With a flash of sparse teeth and wild black eyes, she turned on him.  “What is it you want, Benjamin?”

* * *

Thanks for visiting! Read Part Two and Part Three if you dare! 

Need something else to read? If you're interested in any more story excerpts, try Barbie's Dream Boat, Interlude in the Rose Garden, Just a Taste, or Woman: The Most Dangerous Plaything. Happy reading!

                

Barbie's Dream Boat

Fine. I'll admit it. I have some pretty strong perfectionist tendencies. Because of that, having a variety of projects going at the same time keeps me from fixating on any one, deciding it's complete rubbish, and bagging it. Sam James is one of several stories I wrote early on and decided to rework when my writing skills improved. As I fiddle with it in between my main projects, I'll continue to post chapter excerpts for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy!

Chapter Three:

Barbie's Dream Boat

Samantha emerged butterfly-like out of her cocoon of drab clothing and footwear and drew the attention of eligible bachelors like moths to a flame. Perhaps a wealthy oil tycoon searching for true love and adventure, or a sexy bad boy bent on ruining every woman in his path would succumb to her charms. After a mad, passionate rumble, the selected swain would abandon his wicked ways and beg her to be his.
At least, that was the plan. 

However, with all the changes she had undergone, one thing remained constant: next to Vanessa Sumers, Sam was invisible. Sam propped her cheek on her palm and sighed inwardly as the attractive-looking businessman seated beside her at the table leaned over her to vie for Vanessa’s attentions. The athletic-looking fellow seated beside Vanessa was fighting equally hard. 

Well, Sam thought, caught in a flirting maelstrom in which she played no part, this is what I get for letting myself daydream.

As always, Vanessa had secured one of the best tables in the ballroom for the evening’s entertainment, set alongside the stage itself.Tonight’s program boasted a ballroom dance review. Sam knew little about dancing, but she admired the skill and grace required and wished she had any type of coordination. As group after group took the stage, she continued to be impressed by the talent and poise of the on-ship entertainers. Finally, one duet remained. The Paso Doble.

The lights dimmed and the audience hushed as one dancer stepped onto the stage.  Illuminated by a spotlight, he stood tall, erect, motionless. As the music began, his feet tapped out a complicated rhythm so quickly Sam could hardly keep track of them. He sauntered, spun, and slid across the stage, performing the intricate movements that reminded Sam of a bull fight. Only when he paused, arm outstretched, waiting for his partner to join him did Sam realize she had been holding her breath. As soon as their hands met, they were off again, twirling across the stage until the music reached its finale. The room fell silent, the dancers frozen in a passionate embrace. Before she realized what she was doing, Sam was on her feet, clapping wildly, her eyes still riveted on the dancers.  A gentle touch on her arm pulled her from the magic of the moment.  She looked down to see an uncommonly soft smile lighting Vanessa’s face. With a wave of the hand, Vanessa reminded her to take her seat. 

As she did so, Vanessa leaned forward to speak furtively in her ear, “You know, I used to be a dancer.” Sam lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “I was quite good too, but as usual a man got in the way.” Vanessa sighed half-regretfully. Sam imagined her buxom boss as a dancer, but found it impossible to visualize anything that didn’t include a pole. 

Vanessa continued, oblivious of Sam’s train of thought. “That doesn’t mean you can’t live your dream,” she said. Before Sam could reply, Vanessa raised a hand and motioned to the nearest waiter. He scuttled to her side, an inquisitive look on his brow. “My friend,” she said, gesturing toward Samantha, “would like to learn to dance like that,” she gestured toward the now empty stage. 

Sam envisioned herself as a young and awkward Frances (A.K.A Baby from Dirty Dancing) paired with the male from the last number as the hunky bad boy Johnny.  Coincidentally, his partner would be incapacitated for the rest of the cruise and he’d be forced to train her instead.  (What was unclear was why he wouldn’t select a partner from the 50-some-odd other well-trained dancers on hand, but why mess with a tried and true plotline?)  Through many clandestine training sessions he would transform her ungainly movements, and finally during the formal ball on the last evening of the cruise they would flout convention and display her new found dancing prowess and their undying devotion for one another.  She could hear the words, spoken in a husky tone, “Nobody puts Sam in the corner.”  

“I’m sorry ma’am,” the waiter replied politely, interrupting Sam’s reverie, “those services aren’t offered on this cruise.  But I’d be pleased to give your compliments to the dancers.”

* * *

Thanks for dropping by!  For more on the adventures of Samantha and Vanessa, Finding Myself in Literature, Hostile Makeover, Dealing With Divas, and Diva Depressed. And the one where Samantha comes face to face with her dreamboat: The Meet-Cute.

Interlude in the Rose Garden

Because who wouldn't want to be dragged behind the nearest rosebush by a handsome gardener?

Twelve's Jonas and Ari

In the Rose Garden

The meeting had broken up.  Once again in pairs and trios, the ladies made their way out of the garden.  Most of the girls were already gone when Brisella passed my hiding place, her arms linked with Daniela and Janela.  Ariela was the last to leave, her downcast eyes and the furrow in her brow evidence of her concern. 

I needed to speak with her. 

As she passed, I reached out a hand, grasped hers, and pulled her behind the rose hedge.  Taken off-guard, her customary grace was lost and she bumped into my chest with a gasp.  The nearness of her overwhelmed my senses for a moment.  My eyes were drawn to her lips, parted in surprise, and the scent of her filled my nostrils, her warm breath mingling with mine. 

When I tore my eyes from her lips, I noted the caramel gaze fixed on me, the tiny furrow between her eyebrows deeper than before.  Blinking, I took a step back, and dropped her hand.  As if an enchantment had been broken by the movement, her mouth closed with a snap and her arms folded over her chest.

“How much did you hear?” she demanded. 

I stared at my feet.  “Everything.”

“Then there’s nothing left for me to say.”  She turned away, leaving me with no more than the view of her profile.

“Ari, please,” I begged. 

She released a sigh, weariness lining the shadows of her face.  “It’s no use, Jonas. There’s nothing you can do.”

“You said it yourself, this ruse can’t go on forever.”

She folded her arms more tightly as if trying to hold herself together, but made no reply.

My earnestness pushed me forward.  I took a step toward her.  “I need you to know that when this ends, I will do all I can to protect you.”

Turning back, she met my gaze fully.  The gravity in her eyes eased and one corner of her mouth curved up before the other joined it.  One of her hands moved to cup my cheek.  “Jonas, what would I do without you?”  Standing on tiptoe, she leaned up to brush a kiss across the other cheek and whisper, “Thank you.”

* * *

Sorry! Not much snogging in the underbrush today!  But to learn more about Ari, Jonas, and the rest of the colorful cast of Twelve, please read Just a Taste, Embracing the Fangirl Within, Arguing With Myself, or Twelve for the Fourteenth. Thank you for stopping in and happy romancing!

Hostile Makeover

Searching the nether reaches of my hard drive for story snippets, I had a pretty good laugh over some truly horrible writing. And with the finish line in sight (i.e. the close of the school year), I needed a good laugh. And all that bad writing got me to thinking. Everyone's got to start somewhere, right? It's all just a gateway to something better, at least, that's the hope of every writer.

Sam James, my first attempt at humorous writing, marks the moment I first felt like a writer. The title of this post, as well as the following excerpt, is borrowed from chapter two.  Secretary Samantha, who is less than posh and poised, has her first spa day with her boss, Vanessa Sumers, who is the epitome of posh and poise.

Excerpt from Sam James

Stepping into the office, Sam’s determination dissolved. The soft cream walls, the gleaming bank of windows separating the main office from Vanessa's inner sanctum, and Sam's large, inviting desk with the comfy swivel chair, should have put her at ease.  But smack in the middle of it, like a queen bee with her drones, Ms. Sumers, in full monarch-mode, bustled about, bossing everyone to within an inch of their lives.

“You’re…early,” Sam observed.

Vanessa waved a hand dismissively. "How can we leave the company prepared for our absence if we don’t put in extra time?"

Sam cleared her throat. “About that, Vanessa—“

But naturally Vanessa wasn't listening, at least not to anything beyond the sound of her own voice.  “Our first priority is tying up the loose ends here.  It will be quite a push to be ready by next Friday, but I’m sure we can do it.”

“Friday?” Surprise and shock vied for first place in Sam's mind.  “But…but…weren’t the tickets for next month?”

“Yes,” Vanessa replied, “But I can’t give anyone the satisfaction of lording it over me when word gets out that Derick and I are through.  So, I exchanged them for an earlier date.” The forced cheeriness in her tone snagged at Sam.  Could sadness be hidden behind the cool, efficient exterior?
No way.

After a moment, Vanessa plowed on briskly. “Now, let’s see.  Schedule a spa day, if you please.  And we'll both need hair appointments."  She cast a disapproving glance at Sam's mousy brown bun.  "Contact François so he can fit us in. Oh, and email Rebecca at Dolce.  We'll need something extra special for the cruise.”  Pausing momentarily, she noticed Sam’s unresponsiveness.  “Hello," Vanessa said, snapping her fingers in Sam's face. “Are you planning on writing this down?”

Something in her tone prompted the automatically reply, “Oh, um, of course Miss Sumers. I’ll take care of it right away.”

Vanessa, brushed off her hands, and with an expression of satisfaction, sailed off to torture some other underling.  Sam sighed as she looked down at the list: spa, hair, Dolce & Gabbana.  It sounded wonderful, but knowing Vanessa, Sam was certain she would suck all the fun out of it.

Two days later, Sam found herself rushing through downtown traffic, wedging her gray Corolla between old lady drivers in town cars and hormonal teenagers in sports cars to make her spa appointment on time.  Narrowly missing a collision with one of said teenagers, she blew out a breath of relief and reviewed the last few days.  Filled with last minute tasks and long days sequestered behind the main desk, they had dragged on and on. Vanessa had been too occupied with planning their escape to be much of an annoyance, but everyone else was so irked at being left with extra responsibilities that they were making up for it with interest.  The last 48 hours had given new meaning to the term “hostile work environment.”

With feelings of misgiving, Sam pulled into the parking lot and switched off the ignition.  The building, a brick structure featuring wide picture windows with large photos of women and men in the middle of various spa treatments, seemed harmless enough.  Sam would have given anything for a glimmer of the calm happiness splashed across the faces of those depicted on the windows.  With all she'd passed through, Sam merited a genuine spa day, but she had a feeling this one would be more taxing than relaxing.  Taking a deep breath, she stepped out of the car and pocketed her keys. A few steps and her hand was on the metal handle, steeling herself for the worst, she pushed open the glass doors, entered the uber-posh, extra white, waiting room, and was greeted the beaming face of her boss, she knew she was in it. 

Later on, still smarting from her first spa experience, she would write:

Visiting a spa should be unspeakably relaxing, an experience almost spiritual in nature.  It should never include the following:

a) Whacking the bare back and hindquarters with tree limbs (a sensation comparable to receiving “stripes” with a cat o’ nine tails)

b) Peeling skin from the skull, a.k.a.“exfoliation” completed by a sadomasochist named Bindy

c) Scouring and hacking fingernails/toenails with well-sharpened dental equipment and something akin to a belt sander

d) The application of an unholy amount of hot wax to unmentionable areas and the forcible removal of said wax along with a healthy amount of flesh,  

e) So-called “gentle” massage that requires enough oil to grease up several beach-front body builders and the brute force of a man called Brutus

Needless to say, the bulk of the weekend was required to recuperate from the deluxe treatments received on Sam’s first spa day.

* * * * *

Thanks for reading!  If you'd like to read more about sassy Samantha James or Vanessa Sumers, take a look at Dealing with Divas and Finding Myself in Literature.

S'more Smoochin'

As if I wasn't weird enough already...

I have an odd aversion to my own kissing scenes.  Just the thought of reading them aloud makes me want to vomit.  Or at least wince.

That said, I can't not write them.  My life is romance-free enough without allowing celibacy to enter into my fictional love life as well. So, they do indeed make it onto the page.  

Let's all be grateful I'm not doing a live reading of this section or there would be an awkward pause, a healthy amount of blushing, and possibly girlie giggling on my part. Since we're online, enjoy the smoochin'!

Excerpt from Sylvi Lockhart 

“I can’t believe we lost her,” I said, as we walked past various shops and corner cafes.  After seeing Jesse navigate city traffic in a rickety truck without losing track of his prey, I never would have imagined we’d lose a little old lady on foot.  But Old Dolly seemed to have vanished into thin air just the same.
“Maybe she jumped into a car,” I mused. Then, another thought occurred to me. “You don’t think she knew we were following her, do you?”

“No, she glanced at us once or twice, but didn’t seem alarmed.”  Jesse seemed a little disappointed, but in his usual upbeat fashion he was making the best of it.  “At least we have a lead.”

“Yeah?” I challenged, the fact that I was footsore and irritated rang in my tone.  We had followed the woman all over the neighborhood, marking her progress through shops and buildings for more than an hour, and nothing she had done seemed the slightest bit suspicious.  “Like what?”

“Aw, young padawan,” he replied pressing his palms together and bowing, “you have much to learn.”

Stopping beside a dilapidated building with a FOR SALE sign posted in a dusty window, I put my hands on my hips and gave him my best squinty-eyed glare.  I didn’t appreciate being treated like a know-nothing, especially by someone who reminded me more of Peter Pan by the minute.

“All right,” he conceded. “It was the guy she spoke to at the butcher shop, the one selling fish.”

“What is it with you and fish?” I muttered, recalling the pungent fish fillets still stowed in his truck.

“Hm?” he asked, clearly confused.

I rolled my eyes and relaxed my irritated pose.  “Go on,” I said, waving one hand.

“Stanley Banks the butcher is Stan the bookie.”

“Oh.” Light dawned.  Even I had heard of Stan.  My grandfather had mentioned him a few times.

“But it’s not enough,” he shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets and turning back the way we’d come.  “If we’d caught her placing a bet it would be one thing, but anyone can have a friendly conversation with a bookie.  It doesn’t make you a felon.”

Falling into step beside him, I said, “There’s always tomorrow.” It was getting dark anyway, the street lit by streetlamps and the glow from store windows.  And due to my fish aversion, I was starving.

The tip-tap of heels coming down the sidewalk didn’t even register until Jesse, well-versed in covert operations, muttered, “Crap,” and backed me up against the brick building. 

“What the—” I got out before he pinned me to the wall, pressed his chest against mine, and covered my lips with his.  I was on the verge of shoving him away when I caught sight of a familiar blonde head over his shoulder.  So I closed my eyes, wrapped my arms around his torso and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss and the ruse at the same time. 

“Mmmmm…” he murmured against my mouth, his hands tangling in my hair.  Suddenly—instead of kissing so we wouldn’t be recognized by the woman we’d been following for an hour—the rest of reality faded away until nothing beyond the two of us remained, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms and fully making-out for all the world to see.  If I’d had my wits about me, I might have wondered why he didn’t taste like the fish sandwiches he’d inhaled.  As it was, I just enjoyed the feel of a man fully and truly smooching me. 

It felt unbelievable for a moment, until the thought flashed through my mind, Kevin would not approve.  As if sensing my thoughts, Jesse pulled away, blinking like someone had just turned on the lights. I let my arms fall from around him, trying not to notice that underneath that silly tee-shirt he was as nicely chiseled as Kevin had ever been.  My face grew hot. 

Obviously not feeling in the least embarassed, a slow smirk spread over Jesse’s face.  “I should have gotten a partner a long time ago,” he said.

* * * * * 

Thanks for visiting!  For more Jesse and Sylvi, check out Sarcasm & A Gun or Woman: The Most Dangerous Plaything.  Meme courtesy of Pinterest.

Sarcasm & A Gun

The flamboyant Victor Melling sums up Sandra Bullocks' character beautifully. When the only tools in your arsenal are sarcasm and a gun, you'd better be good with both, but if so, the combination can be pretty effective.  Unless you have half a masticated cow stuck in your teeth.

Though I've never created a character as ugly-duckling-meets-Miss-America as Grace Hart, something about Sylvi Lockhart reminds me of her.  Though Sylvi's weapon of choice would neither be sarcasm nor a gun, a healthy dose of Grace's self-defense would certainly be in her arsenal, as well as the stand-for-what-you-believe-at-all-costs philosophy Hart espouses.  Sylvi's easily one of my favorite heroines, and her co-star Jesse, who wields both sarcasm and a gun with a master hand, isn't half bad either. 

And because I'm a giver, I'm sharing s'more of author Sylvi and P.I. Jesse:

Excerpt from Sylvi Lockhart

Wallowing in my bed until the stench urged neighbors to alert the authorities sounded like a good plan.  No one would be the wiser until it was too late.  And I didn’t have any cats to feed on my decomposing corpse, so at least there was that.

Now that everything had fallen apart and there was no one left to care, what was the point of carrying on?  
Bring on the cats, I thought dolefully.

Brrring!  The doorbell sounded, rousing me from my morbid fantasies.  It was probably Kevin, returning for my last shred of dignity.  Shambling down the long hallway to the door with a tattered comforter around me, I braced myself to face the man who had broken my heart.  With a lump in my throat, I eased the door open.  

“You look like crap.”  Leaning nonchalantly in the doorway, Jesse James looked me over.  

I glanced into the mirror perched on the side-table to my right.  My lusterless blonde hair, sticking up on one side, gave me a cockeyed appearance, and the make-up I’d forgotten to remove the night before ran in twin rivulets down my cheeks.  

I shrugged.  “Bad day.”

“We can turn that around,” he said, pushing his way past me into the apartment.  “S’only 11 a.m.”  He made his way to the kitchen, nosing around until he located pots and pans.  I followed in his wake, bemused.  “Do you like French toast?  Everybody likes French toast,” he asked

A feeling of irritation grew within me.  First Kevin waltzed in to ruin my life, and now Jesse, whom I barely knew, was messing with my resolve to quietly waste away.  

He met my eyes, pity curving a corner of his mouth down.  “Look, I can see you’ve had a rough night. And I feel bad for dragging you into that situation the other day.  Let me make it up to you?”

“With French toast?”  He probably just wanted to cheat me out of a free breakfast, but the look of genuine sympathy on his face made me rethink the decision to toss him out and resume wallowing.  I sighed.  

“Fine.”

“Great!” He waved a plastic spatula in my direction, “Why don’t you clean yourself up a bit? I’ve got this.”

The aroma of bacon hit me as I stepped out of the bathroom in a clean tee-shirt and pajama pants.  I finished toweling my hair dry as I entered the kitchen.  My stomach rumbled.

“Hungry?” Jesse grinned up at me as he placed utensils on the small dining table.  Motioning me to a chair, he proceeded to pile French toast, hash browns, and crispy bacon on the plate before me.

“Whoa, cowboy,” I said, as the deluge of maple syrup he’d poured on top threatened to run onto the tabletop.

“Just tuck in there, little lady,” he said, adopting a Texas accent, and winking hugely.

Normally I would have scowled and snapped that I was nobody’s little lady, but my stomach had begun growling again, so I did as he directed.

“That’s more like it,” he said approvingly, starting in on his own plate.

A few minutes of silence followed as we enjoyed the meal.  I looked him over as I dredged my last bit of French toast through the syrup puddle.  Much like the day before, he flaunted a five-o’clock shadow, mussed-up hair, and a tee-shirt and jeans.  The only real change was today’s tee-shirt, which had a depiction of a steaming baked potato and the words drop it like it’s hot. 

“Feeling better?” he asked, licking syrup off his fork. It was sort of cute, in the way of messy little boys. 

I smiled across at him, admitting to myself that I did feel better.  “Thanks for breakfast.  I wouldn’t have pegged you as a guy who cooks.”

He shrugged.  “Hidden talents.” To prove the point, he piled up the dishes and stood to take them to the sink.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said, reaching to take them from him.

“I insist,” he said, sliding the plates out of reach. Before I could stop him, he rinsed them in the sink and popped them into the dishwasher.

A man who cooks and does the dishes.  Hmmm...

Jesse returned to the table, flipping his chair backwards and sitting on it with his arms propped on the back.  “Now for the real reason I came—“

“About that, how did you know where to find me in the first place?”  Now that my stomach was full and my suicidal tendencies squelched, I wondered how he came to be standing on my doorstep.  He was the type that would make a particularly determined stalker.

“P.I.” he said, spreading his arms wide.  “Mad investigative skills.”
I blinked back at him for a second.
“Though usually Google does the trick.”

I huffed out half a laugh.  “Fair enough.  You were saying?”

He didn't miss a beat. “I’m here to offer you a once in a lifetime chance, Sylvi.”

“Which is…?”  I imagined some of the things he might suggest, all of which made me rather nervous.

“I’m here to offer you a job.”  He leaning forward slightly, his eyes glinting with excitement.  “You seem to be a natural at the investigative business, and I could use someone to back me up.  Bring a bit of organization to the job.”

The numerous Happy Meal toys littering his cab and the way he’d taken after Eugene without thinking of his own safety added credence to the assertion.

“How much would it pay?” I asked hesitatingly.

His gaze shifted away.  “That’s the tricky bit, I can’t actually afford to pay you.” An apologetic expression showed on his face.  “But you’ll get plenty of field experience.”

I felt bad, but my meager savings would only cover the rent for so long.  “I’m sorry Jesse, but I’ve just lost everything. I can’t afford to work for nothing.”

“You lost everything?” He perked up.  “What happened, your ex-boyfriend steal your credit card and go on a bender?”  

“No, nothing like that.  It’s my grandfather’s estate.  I’ve been living off it since I started writing full-time, and apparently he was involved in some iffy business deals before his death.  They’ve seized everything,” I explained.

“Interesting,” he replied, rubbing his stubbled chin thoughtfully.  After a moment his eyes refocused on me, a half-grin tilting his lips.  “I’ve got a deal for you, Sylvi.  You help me out with a few cases and I’ll help you uncover the truth about your grandfather.”  He stuck out a hand.  “Deal?”

I considered for a moment.  I was jobless, working on a novel no one wanted, and painfully single.  What did I have to lose?

* * * * *

For more of Jesse and Sylvi, revisit Woman: The Most Dangerous Plaything.

Finding Myself in Literature

I don't just lose myself in the writing process, but I also find myself. Sometimes, this is a surprise. Once while completing Becoming Beauty, I cried all the way home from work because I had unintentionally written one of my biggest life challenges into Bella's storyline.  However, in Sam James, the similarities between me and Sam are more than a coincidence. Prim secretary Samantha James, who is a writer and closet shoe/handbag aficionado, is forced to step out of the shadows and embrace life. With her wry sense of humor and need to document life through writing, stepping into Sam's super sexy Manolos and Louboutins and wondering, What if...? was a pleasure.

Without any further ado, I present:

In a nondescript suit, sensible shoes, dark-rimmed glasses, and her mousy hair in a bun, Samantha James’ was nothing but reserved and unremarkable.  Few noticed her long enough to catch the intelligence lurking behind the heavy frames, or the look of amusement as she tapped away at her keyboard day after day.  Today, tucked behind her desk supposedly completing requisition forms, she composed the following:

Today, as my computer was misbehaving atrociously, I was forced to call on the IT Department. In no time at all, a “techie” dressed in a plaid button-up shirt and flamboyantly bright tie depicting the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (clearly meant to demonstrate his high level of professionalism) was dispatched.  While resolving my computer issues—albeit adeptly—he regaled me with facts about flamenco dancing, a topic on which he seemed frighteningly knowledgeable.  As he prattled on, my mind filled with images of him in a festively ruffled costume and fantastically large sombrero, a’ la Jim Carrey in The Mask, shaking his can-can for the lady folk.

                Sam, poised to spice up her commentary on flamenco-dancing tech support, was distracted as the door flung open, banging loudly as it collided with the wall.  In strode an impossibly tall blonde with a harried look on her brow.  Accustomed to this type of dramatic entrance, Sam did no more than glanced up.  However, in that split second, she sensed something out of the ordinary.  Hazarding a longer look, Sam noted her boss’s over-teased blonde hair (big enough to put Miss Alabama to shame) standing in frizzled disarray about her head, and the make-up Sam was certain required a trowel for application noticeably absent from the splotchy face.  Somewhat worried by this, but making a mental note to jot it down later, Sam inquired, “Miss Sumers, are you alright?”

Gigantic tears welled up in the woman’s eyes, and without any further ado, she began to sob loudly.  Sam, well-versed in office dramatics, calmly grabbed a box a tissues and stood to one side while Vanessa Sumers pulled one after another from the box.  Sam allowed her five minutes of unchecked blubbering before asking, “Mr. Compton?”

The blonde head bobbed up and down in confirmation, the wailing growing louder at mention of the name.   Sam, sighing inwardly, waited until the weeping subsided before asking, “What happened this time, Vanessa?”

Vanessa sucked in a shaky breath, released it, and blew her nose loudly.  “There was… (sniffle) …another woman.  He promised he’d stopped… (loud nose blowing) …seeing her when he proposed to me.  (Wiping of tears. Snuffle, snuffle) But he hadn’t!  That coward… (more sniffling and mopping at streaming eyes) …never ended the relationship! He’s been stringing both of us along the whole time…”  Her voice broke on the last word.  Burying her face in her hands, the howling beginning anew.

Sam considered the situation while the woman before her continued wallowing noisily in her own grief.  Where was the carefully coifed and emotionally cool business woman Vanessa Sumers had been before she’d met Derick Compton?  Sam remembered what she had once written about her boss:

I have the distinct privilege of working for Malibu Barbie.  The woman—incredibly tall to begin with—perches the weight of a healthy bust, an enormous blonde head, and an equally large ego on two of the skinniest legs known to man.  Furthermore, she toddles about in miniscule skirts (perhaps they are actually belts?) and the highest stilettos possible.  Her character, equal parts Marilyn Monroe and Adolf Hitler lends its own charms to the mix as she rules the office like a 6 foot tall peroxide-tinted dictator.

 “And we were so happy!”  Vanessa sobbed out.  “We had such beautiful plans!  A simple wedding on the beach in Southern California, and honeymooning on a Caribbean cruise. Now it’s all over!”  She attempted to say more, but the words were drowned in a fresh downpour of tears and vociferous nose blowing.

(Excerpt from Sam James, all rights reserved by the author)