It’s not unusual for me to cry over things that happen to my characters – in stories I haven’t even written yet. Which is both weird and tragic. Weird for obvious reasons, tragic because that much emotion not being read by someone is just stupid. So why can’t I get consistently motivated? I just don’t understand my self sometimes.
They need to invent a machine that kicks you in your ass every hour you don’t produce at least 100 words. I would say I should invent it but that would mean even more time that I spend NOT writing. Sigh. Anyway, here’s another snippet from my upcoming “How to Love a Pink Demon.” It leaves off where the last blog ended. Lemme know what you think! And thanks for your patience while I sort out my shit. Believe me, I know I’m pushing it.
Her girls thought she was some tragic figure, tortured by the lives she’d taken while in the military. Steele didn’t tell them any different. It was far from the truth, but they’d really bug out if they knew she rarely thought of those days. That she did not care a jot for her many, many kills in grimy, hidden places around the world. They were assignments or casualties of war, nothing more, nothing less.
The Army was clever enough to make sure she’d think that way before they honed her skills as a sniper and recruited her for special missions. And if she occasionally found her way into a gig like Patty’s now that she was a civilian, why not? It would be a shame to let her skills atrophy when there was money to be made using them.
Shit. Her childhood memories were more traumatic than her days in uniform, and that shit ended so damn bad she was lucky she still had a pension. But she let her loved ones think that she was inherently kind, wounded and quiet. In return, they gave her the space she needed, and demanded no explanations for why she kept so much of her life private.
It was for their own good. They didn’t need to know every ugly little thing, legal or otherwise. Those things would stain them. Whereas she could wash them off at the end of the night, lay her head down and sleep like a baby. If, of course, a baby kept a loaded gun beneath its pillow.
She’d just come in when her cousin dropped by later that day.
“I may have found you a hustle.”
Steele looked up from the eggs she was scrambling for lunch. “Yeah?” She lifted bacon from the pan and put it on a paper towel to drain.
“Remember Miles from the party?”
“Okay, remember me mentioning that one of Rich’s friends is in town?”
“Rich from the old neighborhood?”
“You said it was some actor from Australia,” Steele recalled now.
“That’s Miles. He wants to learn more about street culture for a project he’s working on, and I recommended you.”
Steele snorted. “Street culture, huh? Sounds right up my alley.”
“Exactly. As is the $5,000 consulting fee I negotiated.”
Steele whistled. “For how long?”
“A month. You have to let him tag along with you while you go about your business, and then wa la, you get paid.”
“No.” She set their plates down and sat at the table.
“No? Whatchu mean, no? It’s easy money!”
“Fool. Have you forgot what I do all day?”
“No, dummy. He knows what you do all day; that’s why he wants you for this job. And I didn’t tell him either. I think he must have been listening at the party and put two and two together.
“Urban culture, his manager said, is a euphemism for drug sales,” Tommy mock whispered. “Like I didn’t fuckin’ know. And he’s about to sign so many damn papers, if he wanted to say your name other than to get you to respond to a verbal question, I’ll bury his fine ass under a jail here and one in Australia.”
She could believe that. Tommy kept at least two mean ass lawyers on speed dial at all times. “What’s the project?”
“He’s writing a screenplay.”
Steele rolled her eyes. She could just imagine what that motherfucker would be like, on his phone every other minute, flirting – badly – and expecting her to get him bottled water, chilled. “No.”