…if you don’t, well. Let’s just say he won’t be happy, and neither will you!
I’m a good bit of the way done with the next paranormal romance in my demon series – can you guess what color this demon will be? – but I slowed down a bit. At first, I wasn’t happy with what I’d written. It wasn’t exciting enough. I needed drama!
Once I figured that out, things started flowing. Anyway, I hope to have it done next month. Meantime, please enjoy this unedited snippet. Our hero Miles, an Australian actor/demon, is starting to act funny. His behavior’s getting dodgy, even mean. Could it be he’s ready for his heroine/mate to present herself?
At first he didn’t know what was going on. Normally the most even tempered of men, he was short with someone in a store. It was nothing terribly awful, but it was enough to make his assistant stare at him in surprise.
Then his agent, a pushy New York transplant known for wearing down his clients when they said no to jobs he felt they should do, felt the lash of his tongue as well.
“What’s got into you?”
Miles had the decency to look abashed. “I’m sorry, Rich. Tired I reckon.”
“It’s a good gig. Easy work, good money.”
“Posing in my drawers is never easy work.”
Rich snorted, busily scrolling through his phone for the next opportunity. “If I looked like you, there’d be nothing easier.”
“That baffles me. You used to be a model yourself.”
To this day when they walked down the street together, it was a tossup who got the most attention. Rich was only a half inch shorter than his 6’4. And he’d heard more than one female rhapsodize over his thick, coffee-colored hair and eyes with their long curling lashes – their words, not his.
Rich snorted again. “I’m better suited to making the cush deals for posh bastards like you to fulfill in front of the lens, than I am to do them myself. And this deal,” he said, returning to his favorite topic of the moment, “is not about posing in your drawers. It’s a global fucking campaign for one of the biggest lingerie brands in the world. You’ll be the face of their foray into men’s bits and pieces. You should fucking be proud.”
Now it was Miles turn to snort.
“But you didn’t answer my question.”
Miles sighed. Wear you fucking down. “What’s that?”
Rich shot him a look like nice try. “You’ve been huffing and puffing ‘round here like a bear with a sore paw for weeks. Snapping and snarling like somebody just stole the last honey pot. What’s up?”
Miles rolled his shoulders. They always seemed to be tense lately. It was like he was waiting for something, that or perennially braced to ward off a blow.
“I don’t know.” And it was driving him mad.
“There’s nothing on your mind?”
“Not a bloody thing.”
“Well, what do you think it is then?”
I think I’m waiting for someone. “Wish I knew, old boy,” he winked at his agent. Rich, who was quite intuitive beneath his brash, take no prisoners demeanor, knew enough to let things lie – about that. “So, this underwear deal involves a bit of travel.”
Miles just rolled his eyes.
But the episodes didn’t stop. He got more and more restless as time passed. His temper frayed alarmingly, and he got into several altercations with anti-fans. You know, the jealous men who like to pick on the big movie action star to prove he’s really just an overhyped pussy. Unfortunately for them, Miles was as tough off screen as he was on.
That’s where being a star came in handy. There were always a bevy of eager witnesses/bystanders willing to step forward and protest on his behalf.
“They weren’t lying,” he told Rich when that man came to retrieve him from the local bink. “I didn’t bloody start the fight.”
Rich snorted. “Well, you sure as hell finished it. What if they sue? Brady’s called me a dozen times already.”
Brady was his manager.
“Call him for fuck’s sake. He’s trying to minimize the damage. I told him there was video, and I thought he was gonna pop something.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Miles felt compelled to say.
“Said every schmuck behind bars in need of a lawyer.”
Miles just laughed.
But after some deliberation, it was decided – by everyone but him – that he would give good old Sydney a rest.
“Won’t hurt you to go walkabout for a bit,” said Brady. “My girl Tommy lives in Chicago, and I’ve asked her to get you sorted out. You can play tourist, run along the lake, eat some deep dish pizza and get your head on straight until you need to be in New York for the undies.”
“Stop fucking calling it the undies,” Miles begged, rolling his eyes.
“Whatever,” said Brady at his most pompous. “This is the second incident in as many weeks. Another one and we won’t be able to spin this shit. You’re brand’ll be in the toilet, and you know perfectly well you’re up for a franchise. No one in their right fuckin’ mind’ll –”
“Alright! Enough. I’ll go.”