by Song, Myra
It’s the memory of your father speaking. You can do this better than anyone, and Locke deserves to be caught.
This was true, I knew, but it didn’t change my need to be alone for a moment. To regroup, and change, and head home. Besides-- what was Locke doing to deserve being caught, besides being arrogant and domineering?
I turn a corner and am surprised at how quickly it became quiet. For fun, I scuff my sneaker on the marble. The tiny squeak is quickly muffled. Well, it shouldn’t surprise me that a guy this wealthy has ensured proper acoustics in each room. The bustle of the auction is only just audible.
It’s good to be quiet. I stop and look at a painting on the wall. It’s a copy, but signed by the copier-- no forgery. My arms cross in front of my chest, protecting me. It’s a copy of a Monet, La Promenade. I love the way the girl is standing with her back to the wind, her eyes just peeking over her shoulder at you. The colors, the little boy in the background, all seem to be telling you this is a good day. A happy walk. But to me her expression is troubled, like you caught her doubting herself, doubting the moment.
Something I’m uncomfortably familiar with.
Shoes click near me and I turn to see one of the patrols. “Hey Martin,” one of them, Forrest, I think, says. “Looking good.”
It was these kinds of comments that rankled me so much when I was a Detective, but I manage a smile and nod.
Their footsteps disappear and I’m alone again, alone with this girl and her thoughts. In my mind, all the different scenarios are playing out. If I stay and nothing happens with Locke, I’m not sure my ego can handle the rejection. I was the one who stepped away, and I knew if we ever touched again--
No. That couldn’t even be a possibility.
I hated that I was even thinking about him this much! I’m logical. Find the facts. Search for the clues. Evidence.
Nothing I’d done or said since meeting him met with any kind of logic, aside from seeing a check. And here I was again, considering walking away from it!
As these thoughts mull and war, a shiver runs up my spine. It isn’t the kind sparked from desire, like the ones I get around Locke. It’s a tremor of fear.
I have a theory that our instincts are a lot sharper than we give them credit for. We’d never have survived as a species, though, if it weren’t for gut hunches. They were what told us that we might need shelter, or that food might be near.
Or if we’re in danger.
My stomach clenches, because that’s what’s happening now. The hairs are raising on my neck and everything feels cold. My breath is thundering in my ears.
You’re trained in defense and some martial arts, Martin. Locke has every inch of this house on video. There are patrols if you scream.
Knowing all this didn’t help all that much, but taking a deep breath, I force myself to look away from the painting.
A figure in head-to-toe black is standing and staring at me.
About the Author
So, I probably won’t make a webpage, but if I do, it won’t have a blog. It isn’t that I don’t like blogging, I just never think of it. So, if it is okay with you, I’ll be using these sections for that. If you’ve ever read J.A. Huss, and I suggest you do, then you know she calls this “End of Book Shit.”
Recently I watched “The Thomas Crown Affair.” You know, with Pierce Brosnan. It is such a delightful movie, and the original is just as good. I’m an amateur art historian and I’m in love with capers, so this movie had me hooked! It obviously inspired a bit of this story. Or a lot of it.
What did I change? A hell of a lot. Jameson isn’t going to be the congenial playboy that Thomas Crown was. He’s got a past, and that past has teeth and claws. If he seems cheerful, it’s a mask that he’s adapted to (and may not even realize he’s wearing).
Elise is no Rene Russo, either. She’s got the smarts and the sass and a hell of a lot more curves. But she is way more insecure and has her own secrets. For her, it isn’t about the chase. It’s about fighting her own demons.
“Why,” you’re asking me, “are you writing more fucking serials!? Just write books!” There’s a lot of controversy over serialized romance. I’m a junky for it, myself. Look, I get it. I promise not to drag this story out for three hundred short releases. This release right here? Over twenty thousand words. That’s considered a novella, not just a short story.
Do you remember Sunday comics? Or do you have a favorite weekly TV show? Maybe on Showtime, or HBO-- something you pay extra for? That’s serials for me. I love the anticipation of a new release. I love and HATE cliffhanger endings, because it leaves me jonesing for more. I’m sorry if serials aren’t your favorite, but maybe now you know where I’m coming from. It’s the rush of seeing the new release and knowing, finally, you’ll have some questions answered (only, of course, to have new ones pop up).
If you want me to tell you when the next release is out so you don’t have to check, sign up for my newsletter here:
http://eepurl.com/bNATMj
I promise not to spam, just to let you know when the next installment is out.
I’m also on facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authormyrasong
and on twitter: @authormyrasong