Pieces of Whimsy

A Few fun blurbs I've written as the series has progressed

Me and Zafir

            “I’ve got a fucking bone to pick with you,” Zafir yells as he storms into my office. Agitated, he stomps about on his tree trunk legs, crushing the life out of my springy shag rug. Normally my characters don’t bother me before 9 a.m. They know my brain just can’t process anything before then and that likely whatever they do say will go in one ear and out the other. I decide to make an exception: I know that with Z in his current state of uproar he isn’t likely to remain quiet till then.

            “I’m listening,” I reply when all I really want to say is “can’t this wait?” I smile, proud of myself for suppressing the usual venom that flavors my early morning conversations. A snarky attitude is definitely not going to win me any points with the mountain of muscle standing before me. I mean, Z could literally steam roll me without even breaking a sweat.

            “I want a rewrite.”

            “Oh,” I say, perking up while my mind tries to flush out the mistake he’s obviously come across. “Well okay. We’ve got some time. A Step Away isn’t scheduled for publication until fall…” I pause, speechless, as he slowly shakes his head from side to side.

            “This shit I’m talking about goes all the way back to the beginning.”

            “Out of Reach?” I glare incredulously into his flashing grey eyes. “What’s wrong with it?”

            “I’m being misrepresented,” he answers smugly.

            “You most certainly are not!” I fight back, insulted by his proclamation.

            He scowls as he thinks for a second. “What’s the word that means the opposite of plagiarism?”

            “Huh?” The inelegant reply slips out as I sit there dumbfounded, unable to comprehend where he’s going with this.

            “Fine,” he moves on, seeing how I’m unable or unwilling to help him. “I’m being incorrectly plagiarized,” he explains. “People aren’t getting the real me.”

Not getting the real you? I almost laugh out loud. I think I’ve done a rather good job portraying the real Zafir, and believe me it wasn’t always easy. He snatches the first hardbound copy ever produced of Out of Reach off of my shelf then begins rifling through pages.

            “Hey, careful with that!” I yell.

            “See right here!” he announces triumphantly, turning the book around and sticking it under my nose.

            “See what?” I ask as I lean back so that the small print isn’t blurry. Rolling his eyes, he flips the book around and reads, “Just give me the short version.”

            “Yeah, you said that, so what?” I ask him while still struggling to see his point.

            “I did not fucking say that. Does that even sound like me?”

            “It’s basically what you said,” I answer, hoping to placate him.

            “You see, that is what I’m talking about. It’s misrepresentation. I remember very clearly that I told Kade to cut to the fucking chase.”

            “Really, you’re mad because I took out an F-bomb?”

            “It wasn’t just one,” he grumbles, folding his arms across his chest.

            “Flip the page,” I instruct. “As you’ll see, you use the F-word at least three times in the next passage.”

            “What?” he blurts out as he quickly scans through the next scene.

            “You’ve messed things up there as well. I won’t stand for this kind of censorship. It violates my freedom of speech.” Dropping my head on the desk I keep my groan of disbelief to myself: is this for real?

“Readers deserve the real me,” he rambles on.
            “Look,” I tell him, sitting up and taking charge of the conversation. “I’m sorry but you rely too heavily on the one word. It’s redundant and that kind of repetition wears on readers. Try throwing in a more descriptive adjective now and again.”

 “What? Clearly you don’t understand the power of a good fuck.”

“Clearly,” I repeat, rubbing my temples in exasperation. Burning grey eyes rimmed with electricity spark as he rests his hands on my desk and leans in close. Too close. Gulping, I press myself back as far as I can against my chair, nervous I’ve pushed him too far.

“F***, ****, ****, ****,****,” he chants, the inflection of his gravelly voice changing with each expletive.      

            “You’ve made your point,” I say and giggle, unable to keep a straight face. “You’ve clearly demonstrated the versatility of the word.” 

Leaning back smugly he crosses his arms over his chest. “And…,” he presses.

            “Fine, you can curse more in the next book,” I capitulate, tossing my arms in the air. Satisfied, he turns to go.

            “Oh, one more thing.”

            “Yes,” I grind out, more than ready to be left alone.

            “Kade and Ben get a lot of play so maybe you could get a little more of this in the next one,” he winks as he strikes the classic Adonis pose.

            “Get out of here and let me finish my morning Coke!” I yell then toss a pen at him.

            “Just a thought,” he teases, finally exiting my office with all the humility of a prowling lion.    

 

Interview with Ben

I roll my notebook between my hands as I sit uncomfortably in a folding chair awaiting my interview with Ben. Today we get to the bottom of what makes him so irresistible. Normally I like to wing these things but not today. I’ve written down all my questions in case I become distracted. Which let’s face it, it is a guarantee given my current surroundings. You see, silly me didn’t get around to scheduling this interview in a timely manor and now my back’s up against the wall trying to make my editor’s deadline. When I spoke with him last night Ben graciously agreed to give me a few minutes of his time this morning. The only problem is that this morning is also the shoot for the upcoming 2014 San Diego Fireman’s calendar. Fanning myself, I lean forward to steal a last glimpse of the stocky piece of brick wall with the shaved head leaving the set.

            “You going to be okay, Miss?” The photographer asks, smirking while he swaps the lens on his camera.

            “Yes, I’m fine. What month was he?” I ask, sitting up straight in my seat and trying to regain my composure. I’m not going to lie: that guy left me clutching at the buttons on my blouse. The men with shaved heads and intense stares always do.  

            “I just take the pictures,” the photographer says and shrugs. I make a mental note to buy said calendar this winter and paw through its pages until I find out.

            “Let’s do this.” Ben’s familiar voice floats toward me from across the room. I turn and realize I’m not the one-size-fits-all girl I always thought I was. I practically drool over the lithe, shirtless frame being expertly positioned by the photographer’s assistant. Ben is perfectly proportioned: muscular without being bulky and it’s no wonder he’s a calendar favorite every year. Who wouldn’t want to stare at the come hither look in his brilliant blues for 30 days?     

            I toss my old recipe for what makes the perfect guy right out the window. Getting up, I edge closer and skirt around the outskirts of the bustling scene. Blondes don’t normally do it for me but right now I could care less what color his hair is.

 I know Ben’s seen me, our eyes met for the briefest heartbeat but with the camera man actively snapping away there’s been no time to engage him in conversation.

            “Put your hands in your front pockets,” the photographer instructs.

            “Like this?” Ben inquires thrusting his fingers deeply into the material, which has the added effect of pulling the waistband of his trousers down even farther. Speechlessly I gape at the pose, which perfectly showcases the definition of his lower obliques. Those tempting muscles you can’t help but gawk at, and that makes you pray to everything that’s holy that the guy’s pants decide to slide down just a tinsy bit farther.

            That must be the recipe, I decide! A breathtaking pair of eyes that make your heart skip a beat and those perfect abdominal muscles that make every girl want to do dirty bad things to the owner. Everything else is just delicious interchangeable frosting.

            “Next,” the photographer calls. I snap back to reality as Ben waltzes my direction with a school boy grin plastered to his pretty face. I try to look cool and collected despite the fact that I’m panting and it feels like it’s one hundred degrees in here.

            “Sorry about all this,” Ben says and motions to the muscular pageantry all around. “I know it’s not ideal for an interview.”

            “It’s all right,” I smile and try to inconspicuously scrape myself up off the floor. 

            “So you have some questions for me?” he prods.

“Yes,” I begin. “Readers want to know…” Looking past Ben I trail off as I catch a glimpse of the next model clad only in his boxer briefs and protective fireproof jacket. Flustered, I swiftly flip open my notebook, tear out my page of questions, and hand it to Ben. I cannot think in here.

“Just email me your answers when you finish,” I tell him, trotting off in my stilettos before I do something really embarrassing, like steal a kiss from the hometown hero that’s flaunting his assets center stage.

Brilliant, I chastise myself as I lean back against the stairwell and gulp down air, happy to have escaped the meat locker. Of all the things readers want to know, I’m sure the fact that I become dumber than a stump around hot guys isn’t one. But don’t worry, solving the mystery of irresistibility is still on the top of my to-do list and I’m sure I’ll know more as soon as Ben sends me his answers.

 

Me and Kade

I’m alone in my writing cave working on the rough draft for book three of The Wanderer Series when a stray thought distracts me. Unable to move on, I call Kade for help.

            “There’s something I have to know,” I tell him.

            “There usually is,” he says to poke fun at me, folding his arms across his chest and stretching out in the recliner by the bookshelf. It’s my reading chair and consequently the only one he likes. He’s right though, our meetings tend to be one-sided and all about me, and what I need to know.

            “Tell me about the day you first saw Gwen.”

            “You already know about that,” he declares, closing his eyes and making himself comfortable.

            “I know, I know. But why her? There must have been other redheads in that library, what set her apart?” Looking at his prone form I scoff, “this is not a therapy session! We’re working.”

            “What doesn’t set her apart?” he tosses back, peeking at me through a slit in one eyelid and ignoring my latter comment.

            “A little insight please, what did you see that day?” Sitting up, he leans on his elbows and contemplates my words.

            “A force of nature,” he whispers. I hold my breath , waiting, hoping to be pulled along into the memory with him. “Eternity is a long time to wander, to be alone.”

“So there’d been no other women for you?” I interrupt.

“I’m not a saint! Of course there were women… a few, a brief respite to dull the aching loneliness of time, but nothing more.” The hollowness of explanation tears at my heartstrings and even now I can’t imagine what it must have been like for him.

 “Seeing her was like watching the sunrise for the first time; just as divine, just as breathtaking. I couldn’t have walked away even if I had wanted to. She was there like a beacon on a hilltop, calling me home.” 

            “And you followed,” I add in an afterthought, caught up in his passionate retelling.

            “I’ve been following ever since.”

            “Can you see it when you look at her? Her power, I mean.” Glowing amber eyes flit to mine and I have a deep sense they are peering into my soul.

            “No, I don’t see anything,” he says and shakes his head.

            “Oh.” I slump back, deflated. I’d come to a particularly difficult passage in my writing and was hoping some deeper insight into the day they met might clear things up. I gathered from talking with him that Kade had always seemed to know that Gwen possessed the ancient abilities even before he witnessed her power.

            “I feel it in my bones.”

            Heavy, I think. I am ruminating on the implications of this new information when Kade slips from the room.

            “Wait!” I yell after him. “What does that mean?”

As always he answers one question but leaves me with a handful more.