It’s summer, and my brain feels like hot mush, but I’ve been hammering away at the next book anyway.
No title yet. No cover either. But here’s a mini-snippet anyway.
“Hi, I’m Detective Rivers with the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s office,” I say, the words on autopilot, walking forward to the desk he’s standing behind.
I hold out my hand. He looks at me for just a moment too long, and I feel like his green eyes are going right through me. Like he can see the future, and in it, we’re naked together.
“Stone Williams,” he finally says, and takes my hand. He’s got a firm, almost hard handshake, and his hands are rough, the nails embedded with grease.
The hands of someone who works with them for a living.
The hands of someone who knows how to use them, and oh fuck now I’m blushing at work. Thank god Batali isn’t here to watch me turn into a fourteen-year-old in front of a cute boy.
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” I say. I let his hand go and pull out my pen and notepad.
“Ask away, Detective,” he says, and smiles.
His smile is just a tiny bit crooked, and he has one dimple, on the left side of his face. Between that, the dark hair, the sideburns, and the coveralls, he’s got a 1950s, Rebel Without A Cause, devil-may-care, rockabilly vibe.
I’d let him take me to a soda fountain and a sock hop, I think.
Not that I own a poodle skirt. I’m not sure I own any skirts.
“Just start from the beginning and tell me what happened this morning,” I say.
There isn’t much for him to tell: he got to work and it was vandalized. It’s hard as hell for me to concentrate on the details, and on asking the right follow-up questions, like were the cans of spray paint still there? Did the paint look wet? Was the door open or shut?
I just concentrate on writing it down, because he’s still got this funny little half-smile on his face, his one dimple showing.
Even in his coveralls he’s built, easily over six feet, and wide-shouldered. I try not to look at him too much, because I’m starting to feel very unprofessional.
Stay tuned 😉