Sunday, February 24, 2008

Brown Bagging It Again

Here’s another BBS writing drill from retreat last October. Items to use: Q-tip, bottle cap, condom, cigarette lighter, hot male in a tux

This isn’t the same pic from the retreat, but he’ll do just fine. Mmm…will he ever.

A tray of longnecks balanced high in the air, Molly Kincaid swerved through the crowded bar toward the rowdy table in the back. Just from Jesse Monroe’s wedding, the five men in tuxedoes drew the eye of every female present. Tall, buff from years of working their family ranches, and sexy as hell, they could have posed for the latest Chippendale calendar.

Molly’s only interest in the bunch was the wad of greenbacks in her pocket and what they would generously add to it with the next round. It was her last night at the Painted Wagon, and she’d need every penny to get as far away from Bridgerton Falls as she could.

She should have left yesterday. No, she should have left months ago. One thing was certain, she wouldn’t be here tomorrow.

Sidling to a stop at their table, she plunked five bottles on the table and eyed the rainbow of condom packages piled high in the middle. “Somebody sure has a big ego.”

Across the table, Rhys Tanner puffed out his chest and winked from under a mop of blond curls. “That’d be me, babe.”

“In your wet dreams.” Lucas McBride chucked a bottle cap at Rhys and rocked back on the chair he straddled, a cocky grin on his bronzed face. “Don’t believe him, angel. They’re mine. A night’s supply.”

With a roll of her eyes, she gathered the empty bottles and a stack of cash onto her tray, willing to put up with their harmless teasing if it meant bigger tips. “More like a year if Brooke Phillips’ word can be trusted.”

Jordan Matthews looped his arm around her waist and tried to draw her onto his lap. “Then come home with me tonight, Mol? I’ll prove the rumors about me true.”

Keeping her tray balanced, she smoothly twisted out of his grasp and flicked a battered Bic lighter to Calvin Tisdale.

Cal straightened from his slumped position to scoop it up. “You dickheads. Don’tcha know when Molly finally chooses between us, it’ll be me.” He lit a cigarette, blowing a puff smoke behind him, and handed the Bic back.

Pocketing the lighter, she wedged the tray on her hip and she shook her head. “You dipshits wouldn’t know what to do with me if I ever took you up on your offer. And besides, why would I wanna hook up with the likes of you when I hear tell I’ve got Q-Tips bigger than your wonder sticks.”

The quieter of the bunch, Jake Reynolds lowered his bottle, choking on his laughter. “Jesus, Mol, you sure know how to hurt a guy.”

“Seriously, Mol,” Cal blew another stream of smoke above his head, “when are you gonna put us out of our misery and choose?”

Molly heaved a mock sigh and shook her head. What would it hurt to admit the truth now? She was leaving tonight. And they’d only think she was taking the easy way out. “I’m sorry fellas, but the only one I’d consider sleeping with is the one who walked down the aisle today.”

Five pair of eyes in assorted hues blinked at her for a long embarrassing moment and Molly began to worry they’d seen through her attempt to fool them. Then Jordan cleared his throat. “Guess you didn’t hear the news.”

“What news?”

As if in answer, those very same eyes shifted in unison, up and over her left shoulder. A familiar woodsy scent registered a fraction of a second before Molly felt the searing warmth at her back. Slowly, she pivoted in the sawdust.

Jesse Monroe—the reason she couldn’t stay in Bridgerton Falls—stood three short feet away, hip cocked, tux jacket slung over one shoulder, bow tie hanging loose around his collar. His jet black hair looked like he’d run his fingers through it at least a hundred times, and his dark eyes scanned from the roots of her dirty blonde hair to the tip of her worn out boots. “Best offer I’ve had all day, darlin’.”

Might have to develop this one someday. Have a great week!

Monday, February 11, 2008

Brown Bag Special

This past Saturday I attended my local chapter meeting. For a speed writing exercise, we were asked to bring a brown paper bag (sorry, mine was a Wal Mart bag—who uses paper sacks anymore?) containing six random items, one being a picture of a hot hero. We passed them around and ended up with someone else’s bag. Inside the one I received was a match, a battery, an earring, a navel lent brush, a floss pick and a picture of John Slattery from Desperate Housewives and Mad Men. For those of you who don’t watch those, here he is. Sorry, I don't have the pic of John from the bag, the one with no shirt.
So, we had a fifteen minute time limit to write something that included all the objects in our bag. It takes me longer to decide which pen to use much less write more than the words um…um….um. But this was a drill and the pressure was on.

Of course, John, being a sexy older hero, sent me in the direction of a “second chance romance,” and some of the contents put me in a humorous mood. Here’s the result of our first round…

“Oh, my God. I’m too old for this.”

Delia Sedgewick faced her reflection in the bathroom mirror and tried to remember what she’d looked like the first time she’d had sex. It was too long ago—thirty years—and miles of wrinkles she now sported testified to that. Oh, she could still pass for pretty, but the bloom was definitely wilting. And much too fast.

Not that she’d want to return to the frightened virgin she’d been. Or the loser she’d married. And this time would be different. Tom was a good man. And he wasn’t her husband.

Backing away from the mirror, she tossed the floss-pick in the trash and removed her earrings. Her blouse and bra came next. The waist of her jeans rode just below her navel.
Hmm. Maybe I should have brought my navel lint brush. What if his tongue comes out with more lint than my dryer filter?

A light knock sounded at the door. “You comin’ out any time tonight?”

“Almost ready.” Delia quickly shed the rest of her clothing and exited the comforting security of the hotel bathroom wearing nothing but the skin God gave her.

Tom looked up from lighting the candle on the dresser and smiled his approval. She laughed when he forgot the match until it burned too close to his fingers.

Her confidence rising, she stepped closer, eager to slide her hands over those bronzed pecs. Not many men his age could boast such a sculpted chest. “Did you bring everything?

Jerking his chin toward the table by the bed, he reached for her. “Yep. Even extra batteries for the vibrator.”

Ding, my fifteen minutes were up. Yeah, it might be cliché and lame, but it was fun and with a bit of thought might turn into something worth continuing. And best of all, it stirred some long-dormant creativity.

If you like this one, visit again soon. I’ll post the second round, which was my favorite of three and one I will probably pursue.

Have a great week!