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Showing posts with label AW. Show all posts
Showing posts with label AW. Show all posts

Monday, February 4, 2013

Q&A WITH THE ONE, THE ONLY: CLAIRE GILLIAN AND LILA SHAW



I met Claire Gillian through AbsoluteWrite, a resource site for writers and, shortly thereafter, discovered that she wrote under not one, but three pen names (Claire Gillian – mainstream fiction and non-fiction essays, Lila Shaw – erotica and erotic romance, and a YA pen name). The mind, it boggled! We grabbed drinks at RWA last year, and I will admit to being a little relieved that she displayed only a single – very charming – personality. Though she did refer to herself in the third person the entire time…is that weird? J

You have the unique ability to combine strong sexuality with humor and suspense. Is that something that you intentionally work to balance, or does it develop organically during the writing process?

I don’t give it much conscious thought, to be honest. I write what I enjoy reading—romance, sex, mystery/suspense (sometimes), but nearly always humor. I look for humor in most situations and I especially love the ridiculous. Humor is subjective though, so I’m always taking a chance I’ll fall flat on my face with some readers. Sometimes I’ve consciously removed it when it felt inappropriate or too campy. Other times, I’ve had readers characterize a work or scene as funny when I hadn’t intended such. J Happy accidents are always fine with me. I never cease praying for luck to fill in the cracks and gaps in my skills.

However, I’m quite the cynic, though I don’t necessarily want to read or write about human misery. I wish I could write a starry-eyed / tearjerker to make people cry and sigh and tell all their friends to read it, but I prefer my fiction to make me cry with laughter. The other kind gives me a stuffy red nose that’s not at all attractive.

You’re writing prolifically, interacting under multiple pen names across the gamut of social media, inventing glorious blog features (Regrettable Book of the Week, anyone?), while maintaining a day job and a life. One question: Oh Dear God, How Are You Doing It???

Badly, I’m afraid. Actually, I have a really nice day job that pays enough to allow me to hire an occasional maid service to at least keep the CDC away. My kids and husband learned basic survival cooking and grocery shopping. I stopped watching almost all television. I cut way back on my exercise because I noticed that being buff had no bearing whatsoever on the quality of my work products whereas a fat butt in the chair did. Now, if I could train my pets to walk themselves responsibly and to use barf bags for hairballs I’d almost be set.

Beyond the time mismanagement, I’ve always been this eclectic type person. I was the one who floated between the various cliques in high school--never put down roots or committed to any one group. (Typical military brat.) I enjoy the challenge of writing in different styles and for different age groups. Diversity keeps writing fresh and fun.

To some extent I do regret having three pen names because it is more work and can be a pain in the tookus, especially when my YA pen name accidentally tweets something racy (damn that rascal Tweetdeck).

I consider Tweetdeck the great betrayer of social media. The things it’s done with my (not so) innocent tweets. *shakes head*

Monday, October 15, 2012

AW BLOG CHAIN: GET THEE BEHIND ME

This month's AbsoluteWrite blog chain prompt was simply irresistible: Otherworldly. Usually I write urban fantasy, but I wanted something a little stranger than the usual. So, of course, I wrote a Western. The story is less than a thousand words, and the other blog participants are listed at the end - I encourage you to check them out. There are some wonderful words being presented this month!


Get Thee Behind Me, Get Thee Beside Me


            “Come on, Ponce,” Mira said, tugging again on the coarse lead. The mule dug all four hooves into the sand and laid his white-tipped ears back. He was done, and Mira could hardly blame him. The crumbling trail stretched on and on until it arrived in the town of Dalton, a startling patch of green on the red dust plain. Right now, if she were to hold up her hand, it would disappear under her thumb.
            “We’re not going all the way tonight, bonehead.” Behind them the sun hung low, dripping fire onto the horizon. “But we’re also not sleeping this close to the mountains.”
            After a spell, the mule acquiesced. The small wagon creaked along, and Mirasol’s bones ached in sympathy. A day spent digging clay out of the not-quite-dry lakebed had been harder than she’d anticipated.
            She guided Ponce into a depression beneath a dune and unhooked him from the wagon. Red clay cracked and fell from the hem of Mira’s dress as she set to making a fire. It was no wonder Honaw had sent her instead of coming himself. The apothecary’s mind was twisted by his craft, but he must have known he was too old for this task. And why should he be bothered with physical labors when he had an able and willing apprentice?
            Mira settled onto a blanket, idly rubbing at patches of dried clay on her legs and arms. Normally, this time of night, Honaw – if he was in the mood – would tell her stories. Tales of brave warriors, pining spirits and bloodthirsty skinwalkers.
            She pretended she wasn’t scared, so far from town. She pretended she wasn’t lonely.

            She woke to the feel of a weight climbing her leg and just stopped herself from reaching for it. No telling what was slithering about the desert at night. A small red blob slid over the top of her knee. She blinked. Another followed the first. A round thing appeared between the blobs. A face, more or less. A ridge protruded over glass-shard eyes. It had no mouth.
            “Hello,” Mira said.
            It hefted itself up until half a pound of red clay creature stood on her leg. Its head rested on a plump middle section. Beneath that, its four legs were made of twigs. She sat up slowly. Where it had been caked with clay, her dress was now clean. On the other side of the fire, Ponce stomped and whinnied. The clay creature swiveled its head to face the mule, then swiveled it back.
            “Don’t worry about him,” Mira said, to the creature, and the mule, and herself.
            It turned, revealing a scorpion tail drooping from its backside.
            “Isn’t that lovely.”
            It seemed to inflate at the compliment. Mira swallowed. Honaw had said the clay was special. She hadn’t thought to ask how. The creature walked to her hand, resting on her thigh. One leg stretched out and scratched at the padded flesh beneath her thumb.
            “What are you-” She inhaled sharply when it scratched again. A line of blood rose to the surface of her skin. The clay body spread so it could lower, spider-like, over the scratch. It bent its head and began to suckle. Its entire body rippled with each pull.
            Ponce stomped again, and this time his whinny was quiet. Mira couldn’t take her eyes from the creature even as the sound of hoof beats neared. “Little creature, you must hide.” Its body contracted as her fingers closed around it. Its eyes shone brighter and its flesh flushed darker as she slipped it into a pocket above her waist.
            She stood as the horses appeared atop the dune, two roans and a bay. The rider of the bay wore a black coat and hat, and silver flashed from his seams and brim.
            “Miss Mirasol Sombra.” His voice rumbled with good humor.
            “Marshal Paulie.” The creature squirmed, its legs – or maybe tail – scratching at the fabric between her body and its.
            “Whatever are you doing out here, alone, at night?”
            She didn’t answer as he rode around the berm and dismounted, his deputies following suit quietly. They didn’t look at her, instead surveying the wagon, then cautiously plucking apart the drawstrings of the sacks. Ponce jogged in place, tossing his head.
            “Thought he could get away with it, did he?” The marshal laughed. He was jovial for a man of the Order, guarding the line between humans and spirits. He pointed at the wagon. “You know what this is?”
            “It’s clay, sir.” The creature scratched at her, in that soft area between ribs and pelvis, and she struggled not to squirm. She had an idea, not a complete idea but the beginnings of one, of what Honaw might have wanted the clay for.
            “He thought nobody would notice you off scavenging. Clever bugger.” He approached her, a wide man with the arrogant strut of badged authority. “You know what a golem is, Miss Sombra?”
            “No.”
            “It’s a monster. Not like the dark spirits that haunt these hills. It’s worse, fashioned by a man’s own greed. It’s got no soul so it can’t be exorcised. It’s got no heart so it can’t be killed by regular means.”
            The deputies tossed the sacks onto the ground and pulled machetes from their saddlebags. They stoked the fire, breaking wood from the wagon and tossing it on top until the flames climbed high.
            “What’re you doing?”
            “You didn’t hear what I said? This clay is already transforming. We’re here to restore the natural order.”
            Behind the Rule Man, the deputies chopped off bits of clay and tossed them into the fire where they hissed and shrieked.
            “Your master give you any other chores, Miss Sombra?” Paulie asked, all humor gone. “Anything else I ought to know about?”
            The creature pressed its little hands against her skin, and shivered.
            “No, sir.”
            “Well, get on your way back to Dalton then, girl. Get thee to safety.”

Participants and posts:
Ralph Pines: http://ralfast.wordpress.com/
randi.lee: http://emotionalnovel.blogspot.com
Aranenvo: http://www.simonpclark.com
pyrosama: http://matrix-hole.blogspot.com
hilaryjacques: YOU ARE HERE
meowzbark: http://erlessard.wordpress.com

slcboston: http://fleasof1000camels.blogspot.com 
areteus: http://lurkingmusings.wordpress.com 
bearilou: http://theglassopossum.wordpress.com 
dolores haze: http://dianedooley.wordpress.com 
SuzanneSeese: http://viewofsue.blogspot.com 
bmadsen: http://hospitaloflife.wordpress.com 
Linda Adams: http://garridon.wordpress.com 
Alynza: http://www.alynzasmith.blogspot.com 
Orion mk3: http://nonexistentbooks.wordpress.com 
BBBurke: http://awritersprogression.blogspot.com 
SRHowen: http://srhowen1.blogspot.com 
Damina Rucci: http://thegraypen.wordpress.com 
CJMichaels: http://christinajmichaels.blogspot.com 
wonderactivist: http://luciesmoker.wordpress.com 
Lady Cat: http://carolsrandomness.blogspot.ca 
xcomplex: http://arielemerald.blogspot.com 
debranneelliot: http://www.debragrayelliott.blogspot.com


Monday, March 26, 2012

INTERVIEW WITH DIANE DOOLEY, AUTHOR OF MAKO'S BOUNTY

Diane Dooley is an author of horror shorts (short stories, not horrifyingly short pants) and science fiction romance. I met Diane through AbsoluteWrite, share a publisher with her, and am delighted to have her on my blog today.


Why, thanks for having me, Regan. I also write contemporary romance, science fiction and dark humor, as well as some stuff that is completely uncategorizable. I am my own worst nightmare, as I try to identify my “brand.”  Usually I just write stuff then try to figure out what the hell it is. Information about and links to my other published stuff can be found on my blog.

Mako’s Bounty was released on March 13th as part of Decadent Press’s 1-Night Stand series.

For nine long months, at the behest of the evil Ravenscorp, Mako Dolan has been hunting the space pirate they call The Saint. Now she’s finally lured her prey to a one night stand with a mysterious woman—herself. But Vin Sainte is not at all what she expected. Far from being a ruthless space pirate, his main occupation seems to be rescuing nuns, adopting orphans and praying like a champ.

For nine long months Vin Sainte has been fleeing the bounty hunter from one temporary refuge to the next. Now he’s got Mako exactly where he wants her: weak from gravity sickness and ripe for conversion. Problem is he didn’t expect a foul-mouthed, hard-as-nails bounty hunter to be such a devoted daughter. His head on a platter is Ravenscorp’s price for her mother’s freedom.

They have less than twenty four hours. One will win; one will lose. Mako might be a fearsome predator, but Vin has the Lord on his side. Who will win the bounty?


Diane, you seem to have a thing for space pirates (see Blue Galaxy).  What is it about these futuristic opportunists, as opposed to space cowboys or gangsters of love, that you find fascinating?

What can I say? I do enjoy writing scoundrels of various sorts. Captain Javan Rhodes of Blue Galaxy is a semi-alcoholic has-been; Vin Sainte of Mako’s Bounty is a commie pinko rabble-rouser on the run from the authorities. Other characters I’ve written include a pregnant cannibal, a vengeful waitress and an alluring psychopath.  You know what? I think it’s best that I not try to analyze myself. The results could be very disturbing.  Um, yeah. Let’s move on *grin*

Let’s talk characters. What would a girl’s night out with Mako – planet of her choice – entail?

Mako’s a bit of a lightweight. If we let her at the booze we might have to  carry her home. She’s a spacer, you see, born on a mining colony in the asteroid belt. In the low-grav environment they tend to grow long and thin, with lower bone density and less water fluid than planet-born humans. Alcohol hits spacers much harder than us Earthers. Plus, Mako is rambunctious enough without adding a pitcher of gargleblasters into the mix. We’ll just sit the beauteous bounty hunter in between us and see who comes to check out our milkshakes.  If anyone gets on our nerves we’ll just set Mako the Shark on them.

And Vin Sainte, what would he have been doing for the last nine months if Mako wasn’t nipping at his heels, or is “bounty” the status quo for The Saint?

Oh, he would have been out there cruising the galaxy, causing trouble for Ravenscorp, looking for heroic deeds to do and pretty ladies to impress. Even if Mako claims Vin as her personal bounty, there will still be plenty of bad ‘uns out there hoping to collect the price on his head. So, yeah -  Ole Vin is permanently on the run. He insists that he is not a pirate, but a freedom fighter.

You’ve got some wonderful banter, and moments where characters are thrown out of their comfort zones. Which scenes are the most fun for you to write, and which the most agonizing?

I love writing dialogue. That part comes easy, so I especially like writing scenes with interaction, particularly repartee or intense confrontations. In my horror stuff I enjoy jabbing at soft underbellies. I don’t think my horror stuff is as scary as much as it is discomforting and unsettling. In science fiction I love the freedom of building a world and populating it with lots of imaginary people.  Close to agonizing is writing the openings and endings of my stories. I’m never happy with them and will fiddle with them endlessly unless someone stops me. Actual agony is reading something of mine that has been published and noticing all the ways in which it could be better, but by then it’s too damn late to do anything about it.    

What do you like to read? Is there anything that might surprise us on your bookshelves?

I read very broadly: genre, literary, non-fiction (history, biography, art), poetry, children’s, cereal boxes - you name it. This writing business does severely get in the way of my reading, unfortunately. The most recent book I finished was Stacia Kane’s ‘Unholy Ghosts.’ I read it particularly to see what she got away with with her bad girl heroine, Chess. I really enjoyed it and think I’m going to delve further into the urban fantasy genre.  Next up on the old to-read pile is the entire set of the ‘Diary of a Wimpy Kid’ books. Both my sons insist I read them so I can “get” all their jokes and references. Little geeks, those boys of mine! Probably the most surprising thing about my bookshelves is the sheer amount of space I need for my personal library. My husband recently built me wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves -- and there still wasn’t enough room for all my books.

What’s next for Diane Dooley? Any upcoming projects you can share?

‘Blue Nebula,’ the follow-up to ‘Blue Galaxy,’ will be released by Carina Press in September of this year. ‘That Night,’ a romantic comedy, will be released by Wild Rose Press in December. I have a short story, ‘The Staycation,’ being published by Underground Voices in May. I was delighted to get an acceptance on this story. It started out as a challenge to myself to write a story entirely without dialogue. I lean so heavily on dialogue that I wanted to see if I was capable of writing a story without it. I guess I succeeded!  

Works in progress? I’m close to finishing ‘Blue Planet,’ the third and final in the Blue trilogy, and am making progress on two contemporary romance novels. I have a gothic horror novella started, a post-apocalyptic novel started and I’d like to take a stab at urban fantasy at some point this year. In between longer works I’ll be tackling some more horror shorts.

I’d like to give away a copy of Mako’s Bounty to one of the readers of this blog. You can read the opening here to decide if it’s your cup of tea. To enter the giveaway please mention an urban fantasy story you think rocks. I like ‘em dark, funny or, preferably, dark *and* funny. (And, yes, I already have ‘Don’t Bite The Messenger’ on my Kindle *grin*)  

Thanks so much for stopping by, Diane! Mako’s Bounty is fun, sharp, with wonderful worldbuilding and a steamy center. The giveaway will be open to entries through April 2, 2012. I will draw a winner via random dot org on or around that day. Please include your email address in your entry!


THIS GIVEAWAY IS NOW CLOSED.
And zee weener is: CobraMisfit. Congratulations!

Mako's Bounty is available from Decadent Publishing, Amazon, and all the usual online retailers.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

DROWNING OF HER - AW BLOG CHAIN

I'm back on the chain gang! It's been awhile since I've participated in AbsoluteWrite's monthly blog chain. If you haven't dabbled in such a thing, I highly recommend it. Writing to a prompt is a good exercise (this month it's Rainy Days), writing with brevity (less than 1,000 words) even more challenging. Plus, you get to meet and read all sorts of other writers (participant list at the end).

This is a snippet of character work from RD, my work in progress. Fair warning: it's not one of my lighter pieces.

~~ Drowning of Her ~~

      
            It was the sound of rain that roused him. Not the darkness that had fallen, nor the cold that crept into the room in defiance of the fire. Water overcame the gutters all at once, round funnels dropping like the rails of a gate to obscure the view of fir trees and low skies.

            Victor closed the book that lay open on the desk, not bothering to mark the page. He hadn’t had much hope when he opened it. Another dead end in a lifetime of dead ends. He rose, abruptly restless. What he sought wouldn’t be found in a book, or any written record. It was the sort of thing – a legend cobbled together from half-truths and wishful thinking – that gushed up from deathbeds or was torn from men desperate to believe that these slivered rumors would buy them more time.

            The fire spit sparks onto the hearth as he passed. He would not know comfort again, not until he had the answer – not until he had her back.

            He clasped his hands and gazed into the stone yard behind the house. Elizabeth hated it. She’d been raised in wild gardens. The trellis was bare, stripped of the climbing, flowering vines she’d carefully cultivated.

            Victor turned at the sharp rap on the door. “Come.”

            “Sir.” Davis filled the doorway. “They've given up nothing.”

            She’d been delighted with her first sprouted seedlings, vibrant green leaves and weak wobbling stems overflowing her collection of mismatched jars.

            “Hang them up.” Victor jerked his chin toward the trellis. “Together if it can stand the weight.”

            Davis retreated and, as he descended the stairs, other heavy footsteps joined his. The old house muffled the inevitable shouting, absorbed the impact of disagreement. The back door opened and Victor’s people dragged two men out, one kicking against his bonds, the other quiet.

            The captives and the captors both bowed their heads to the icy rain. Blood diluted and dissipated in the water running rivers through the stone. One less thing to clean up. Davis raised his head, shielding his face with one hand. In the other, he held a length of chain.

            Victor nodded. He would have his answer, if he had to tear through every last man to get it. He would have his Elizabeth back.

~~

PARTICIPANTS AND POSTS




Bogna -  (link to this month's post)

Ralph Pines -  (link to this month's post)


pyrosama -  (link to this month's post)


Nissie - (link to this month's post)


Lyra Jean -  (link to this month's post)


Domoviye -  (link to this month's post)


magicmint -  (link to this month's post)


areteus -  (link to this month's post)


julzperri -  (link to this month's post)


AFord -  (link to this month's post)


randi.lee -  (link to this month's post)


J. W. Alden -  (link to this month's post)


SuzanneSeese -  (link to this month's post)


Tomspy77 - http://thomas-willam-spychalski.webs.com (link to this month's post)


ronbwriting - http://ronbwriting.blogspot.com (link to this month's post)

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

AUGUST 2011 AW BLOG CHAIN

This month's prompt is The Continuing Story of a Song. It's a two-pronged doozy.

Step 1: Choose a song. 

Step 2: Continue the story. Read the post before yours and continue the story in any direction you see fit. Your continuation must be based on, inspired by, or in some other way influenced by your song choice.



My lovely fellow participants are:
Story beginning
orion_mk3 - http://nonexistentbooks.wordpress.com (link to this month's post)
BigWords - http://bigwords88.wordpress.com/ (link to this month's post)
AbielleRose - http://stainedglassinthenight.wordpress.com/ (link to this month's post)
Ralph Pines - http://ralfast.wordpress.com/ (link to this month's post)
hillaryjacques - http://hillaryjacques.blogspot.com/
 YOU ARE HERE
Darkshore - http://dustinbishop.wordpress.com/ (link to this month's post)
pyrosama - http://matrix-hole.blogspot.com/ (link to this month's post)
Diana_Rajchel - http://blog.dianarajchel.com/ (link to this month's post)
Inkstrokes - http://drlong67.wordpress.com/ (link to this month's post)
soullesshuman - http://eventideenvisions.blogspot.com/ (link to this month's post)
Alyzna - http://alynzasmith.blogspot.com/ (link to this month's post)
Cath - http://www.cathsmith.com/wprs/ (link to this month's post)
dolores haze - http://dianedooley.wordpress.com/ (link to this month's post)
Alpha Echo - http://writersramblings81.blogspot.com/ (link to this month's post)
pezie - http://www.erinbrambilla.wordpress.com/ (link to this month's post)
jkellerford - http://jennykellerford.wordpress.com/ 



We are Stars - The Pierces


The branches, bowed by heavy leaves, parted, revealing a sloping band of white sand. Chris paused, his eyes adjusting to the diminishing light. The sun exhaled a final pastel sigh and disappeared. Before it went, he saw her, motionless at the water’s edge. Sand ground through his sandals as he walked to her.

He stopped an arm’s length away, admiring the way the thin sheath she wore draped the curves of her body. She turned, and sweat bloomed cold across his back.

“I saw you,” she said, casually, like they were in the middle of a conversation. Like she was alive.

“A-Allison?”

“You aren’t like those people. You want more. Like me. This is the place where you can find what you’re looking for.” Her hair drifted around her head, though there was no breeze. She raised a pale hand, and her smile reached her milky blue eyes. “Let me show you.”

He recoiled from her, slogging backwards through the cloying sand. She tilted her head to the side. The smile fled her face.

“Chris?”

“This isn’t…this isn’t happening.”

“Please don’t be like this.”  She followed him, her movements eerily stilted. “We know what you want, what you came here for. We can give it to you. Just let us in.”

Christ, he’d had too much to drink, or too much sun. That was it. “High UV index,” he stammered, turning when his heel landed on hard ground. Leaves slapped against his face. He ran.

The lights of the resort bobbed in the distance. He’d go back, ask for the doctor. They had a doctor; he’d seen her tending to a man who’d sliced his finger on coral while snorkeling. Chris looked over his shoulder; darkness stared back. He slowed, pressed the back of his hand against his forehead. He was burning up.

He’d take a cold bath, sleep with the AC on. Tomorrow he’d stay in the shade beside the pool. Talk to the people there, maybe find someone to have dinner with. A breath fluttered across his left ear. He spun, hands raised, but saw nothing. He ran again, barely able to make out the path, his feet sliding in his sandals.

The lights got closer. He heard laughter. He wouldn’t leave again. He’d stay there, stay amongst the living. He laughed, a high-pitched cackle. God, he was delirious. He burst onto the manicured lawn, slowed to a hasty walk as a foursome in the hot tub fell silent, watching him. He pulled open the first door he found.

Music assailed him, and his shoulders dropped in relief. A woman slid out of the crowd, arms flailing, and collided with him. He grabbed her to steady her, to steady himself. She was warm, smelling of floral perfume and perspiration. She was alive, and he never wanted to let her go.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

AW Musical Chairs Blogfest

Welcome to the AbsoluteWrite musical chairs blogfest, in which participants will be writing in genres outside their norm. The listing of participants is below. Posting will take place on or around the date indicated. Let the games begin.
~~
I normally write Urban Fantasy. My choices were Childrens or Contemporary Literature. Since I'm not in the business of disturbing children, I chose contemporary.
~~
WINTER WOOL
Dexter Michaels peered out the drafty window at the figures assembled on the platform, wearing winter wool like death shrouds. He… He…

Darren shoved his tattered notebook across the flimsy table. The train lurched to a stop and the notebook slipped a crucial centimeter and fell to the floor. Eleven-thirty on a Friday night and he was riding Amtrak, trying to find inspiration. He pulled a crumpled pack of Camels from his pocket and lit up, tossing the pack and lighter onto the table before rising from his seat, walking to the end of the car and out into the stale cold of the gangway.
His new book needed more drama. Murder was out, had been a cliché since the Oriental Express. Sex, maybe, with some mysterious woman. Darren ran his finger along a jagged metal seam. She’d be wearing a backless dress. Her skin would flush and chafe against the cold metal as Dexter held her up and...
Darren flicked the butt of his cigarette to the floor and ground it out. A goddamn figment of his imagination had gotten more tail than Darren in the last four months.
He staggered back toward his seat as the train pulled away from the Haverhill platform, and then froze. Someone had taken his seat, was, in fact, smoking one of his cigarettes.
Darren waited. The train picked up speed, snaking along the line. The conductor didn’t show. Fine. He pushed his shoulders back and set his narrow jaw.
“Hey man…”
She jerked, glancing at him and then quickly away, a curtain of layered blond hair covering her face.
Darren’s chest constricted. “Lily?’
She raised the lipstick-stained cigarette to her mouth. The first time he’d seen her, she’d worn a short cocktail dress. He’d been amazed at how soft her skin was. Now she was bundled in a calf-length trench, her ankles crossed and tucked beneath the seat.
“Darren,” she murmured. “Of course.”
His lips drew back from his teeth in an eager smile. He dropped into the seat beside her. She winced, one hand pulling the collar of her black coat closed around her throat as she turned toward the window. Darren exhaled, a gusty sigh.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here, since you got the Downeaster in the divorce.”
She flicked ash onto the wood-paneled table. Not in the mood, then.
“How did you know I’d be here, Lil?” He leaned toward her, inhaled the perfume of her shampoo and the sharp, clear remnants of winter night, and then drew back when the scents coated his tongue with the taste of copper.
“I didn’t.”
The train squealed as they rounded a corner. Darren slumped.
“Shouldn’t you be at a fundraiser or some charity event, out with him?”
She laughed softly. “There’s nothing more I’m going to do with him.”
“What, you finally saw around all that green? Finally saw the animal on the inside? You know, the papers don’t call him ‘the Shark from Southie’ for nothing.”
The cigarette slid from her fingers to the floor. It rolled back and forth, rocking to a silent lullaby until Darren stepped on it. She could be so stubborn. He’d liked that about her, her refusal to give up their affair after Darren had seen her husband’s driver following them.
Her strength had lent him the balls to stand up to Mr. Circling Shark himself when he came knocking one night, a thousand dollar suit and mirrored shoes in a stinking walk-up. Yeah, Darren had said, thunder in his chest, maybe I know her. Maybe I know her real well. The Shark hadn’t touched him, had just stood there, all that money and coiled violence looking like he was going to puke. Darren smiled at the memory.
“I’ve missed you,” he said. He looked down at his hands, absently noting the train slowing again. Goddamn milk run. “I started reading the society pages, hoping to find an event you were scheduled to attend. Not that I felt like going out much. I guess you didn’t either.” She slid another cigarette out of the pack, fumbled with the lighter until Darren took it from her and lit her cigarette. Her hands were shaking, and unadorned.
“Did you leave him?” Darren asked, grabbing her wrist. Her hand went limp. “Did you finally leave that bastard?”
“What if I did?” She turned toward him, one green eye visible, black mascara a stuttered smudge beneath it. “Would that matter to you?”
Darren stifled a smile. Jesus, he couldn’t have imagined better drama.
“I love you, Lily.” He lowered his voice. “You know all I ever wanted was to be with you. Even after you changed your number, I still called. Hoping – I don’t know – hoping you’d somehow be there. You could have called me.”
“And you could have not told him,” she said, her head swinging back to the window as they pulled into Exeter. A drop of red dotted the table in front of her. Darren frowned at it, then looked up at the musical glare of police lights.
“What the hell’s going…”
She turned toward him. Her lips were busted up, dribbling blood down her chin. One eye was swollen almost shut. “Tell them I was with you tonight. Please.”
*
“Who’s he?” Detective Lynch asked, peering through the window into Interview Two.
“Old flame,” Officer Trask said, pouring cold coffee into a Styrofoam cup. “He’s a writer, was out looking for inspiration.” They laughed.
“He wants inspiration, he should try one of them stripper joints in Providence, not the goddamn Downeaster. He try to give Mrs. Byrne an alibi?”
“Naw. Second I told him Shark Byrne got himself dead, the kid went white as an old dog turd. Offered up a cigarette butt in case we needed DNA evidence, when we got the wife in custody.”
Lynch snorted. “This is the first time I’ve seen her, and I’m tempted to alibi her. Cut his romantic, inspired ass loose.”