So for this week and until April 5, I'm offering it for only 99cents! You guys have been soooooooo unbelievably patient with me on this (for some reason you must like me or something) - it's the least I can do. But, on the 5th, it turns into a pumpkin...a $3.99 pumpkin, that is...if pumpkins are $3.99, have pink covers and lots of love scenes inside them.
I'm also working with a designer who is, as we speak, formatting the book and cover to be sold at Amazon as a trade paperback - for those of you who like actual books. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
It's been a looooooong journey and I've learned more than I ever wanted to about this process. But I am working on the next, great thing and I've decided to share a snippet with y'all, because I'm so damned happy I got this book up!
So here it is, an untitled work (because my title muse is a bitch AND on vacation):
The first thing that told me something was wrong was the slight difference in inflection when Carlos said my name.
“Myron.” His voice, which had been light, in accordance with our contract, was different. It was the way he bruised the vowels…although I don’t suppose “y” is a vowel, but it does sound like one. His throat was thick on the “M” and his tongue wrestled with “yron,” using a tone you’d reserve for a Republican politician found with a dead prostitute or Russian figure skater.
My blood chilled to gelatin and just sat there, sluggish in my veins – refusing to move any further.
“Myron,” He said again with a finality that sucked all breath from my lungs. “The plan has changed.”
A few days ago, I was simply Myron Smith. A non-descript but wealthy, middle-aged man with a loathsome profession and a self-esteem vacancy that made the Grand Canyon look like a plastic, Kmart kiddie pool. I was bored to death.
Myron. How I suddenly wished my name had been something tough that tangled my assailant’s tongue, making it hard to sound menacing. Why couldn’t I have been Duke or Jack? Hell, at this point Virgil or Herman sounded better. I wanted to be anywhere but here – which is ironic because I’d been looking forward to this for months.
Four hours was the original arrangement. Less than that and I’d feel as important as an assistant PTA vice-treasurer at a suburban preschool. More than that and they assured me this would get old. Four hours was the agreement. And I would’ve mentioned this, were it not for an unfortunately placed strip of duct tape covering my lips. I now realized that particular extra had been fifty dollars badly spent.
Carlos must have seen something cowering in my eyes. He grinned and stepped forward, smashing his fist into the side of my head. My vision swam with my brain as it sloshed around in my skull. Well, that couldn’t be good.
I groaned, as much as anyone could through duct tape. I had specifically crossed “physical abuse” out of the contract. I’d initialed it and everything. I know, I’m a pussy. But I had a meeting with my board of directors in two days and didn’t want them to know what I’d been up to.
My vision zigzagged before me as I watched Carlos flip open a cell phone and move to the other side of the room. He kept his back toward me so that all I could hear was murmuring. I wondered who he was talking to. Was this part of the plan? And I really, really needed to talk to him about hitting me…at least, before he did it again.
Black Bag, LLC had been very professional when I met with them. They had promised there was no room for error. I’d even taken Dan, my attorney, with me to make sure. To his credit, Dan thought this was a stupid idea. I was now beginning to agree with him.
What do you think?