Once a month, a bunch of authors get together and post excerpts from published books, contracted work or works in progress, and link to each other. You=2 0don’t have to be published to participate–just an writer with an excerpt you’d like to share. For more info on how to participate, head over to the Excerpt Monday site! or click on the banner above.

I’m going out on a limb here and posting part of the prologue for my current work-in-progress, The Cell. I haven’t shared this with many people yet, but I figured that maybe it was time…so here it is.

———————————————————————-

Prologue — somewhere in the jungles of Cambodia

I stopped caring 368 scratch marks ago, but something compels me to keep track of the days. The little hashes on the wall give me false purpose and I pursue the routine task with vigor. But it doesn’t stop my mind from wandering into forbidden territory. How many more scratches will these walls hold? And, worse, what if I run out of space before death frees me.
 - from the journal of Oliver Shaw

Oliver Shaw craved death.  

Cold concrete pressed against his cheek. Each second that trickled past magnified his awareness, until he could no longer deny the wretched truth. You’re still alive. The words whispered across his foggy brain, taunting him—mocking him. His heart kicked out a stuttered beat. A bead of moisture leaked out from under his eyelids, loosening the dried blood that had crusted there. Flashes exploded in his head, the voices and faces of those he’d failed to save.

His stomach heaved. He sucked in a breath and choked on the sudden bile that filled his throat. God, the familiar stench of excrement and putrid food.

Why did his gut choose to protest the smell now after more than a year of its constant companionship?

Open your eyes, you gutless coward.

He grit his teeth and dragged his eyelids open. A sliver of light speared into his retina, blinding him with a sharp ache to the back of his skull.

The light bulb.

That single fucking bulb. Always on. Always grounding him in its sick reality, never letting him forget his place, his sins. He bit down on his lip, letting the metallic taste of his blood fill his mouth. He couldn’t take another day in this hellhole—no, not even another hour.

He shifted. Cement scraped his bruised stomach. The movement set fire to the hundreds of cuts across his back. He stiffened and pulled a hiss through his teeth, concentrating on the tracks of dirt and dried blood covering his arms while he waited for the burning to dial down to an acute throb.

His kidneys ached from dehydration and repeated kicks to his lower back. A chunk of his long, matted black hair fell into his eyes. He tried to brush it aside, but his tingling hands refused to work properly. He flexed his fingers against the tattered fabric of his cast aside shirt until the digits cooperated in an awkward dance that pulled at his joints. Sliding his palms against the pitted concrete he combed the crevices hoping for a sharp piece of metal, a rusty nail, anything he could use to pierce the thick vein pulsing in his neck.

His fingers closed around a jagged rock. Relief spilled into his gut and diluted the gnawing hunger there. He inched over onto his back. Fresh blood oozed down his arm. He blinked the nasty laceration into focus, and a new clarity edged into his vision.

This wasn’t his cell.   

The wall was smooth where it should have been scarred, the floor more heavily pitted. Shadows clouded his brain, of his last caning, more brutal than the others, the ropes that had dug into his raw wrists and ankles, angry voices that jarred his skull—and then nothing. How long had he lain here, unconscious?

Irrational fear squeezed at his heart, making it race. He dug his knuckles into his coarse, tangled beard. How many days since his capture? They’d made him lose track. How could he—if he didn’t know—Oh, Jesus, he’d been holding onto his sanity by a thin thread and now those bastards had cut his only life line.

How many days? Five hundred? More? Less? God, he didn’t know. 

His breath choked past his lips, the garbled sound knocking some sense into him. Who cared? One day was the same as any other. His reasons for counting the days were long gone. He was a ghost and no one, not the United States Government which would deny his very existence, nor his family, of whom he had none, nor Catrina—

His throat tightened. He was the only one left. His captors delighted in reminding him of that fact, rubbing his nose in his own judgmental stupidity. He had nothing but his own self-righteous integrity to blame for his predicament. If he had only broken, like his teammates were willing to do, and let himself be used as propaganda against his own government, maybe they’d have allowed his friends a respectful death without suffering.

Their brutal butchering played through his mind twenty-four hours a day in a continuous reel until he was compelled to imagine a different outcome. One where he’d found a way to save them, rather than ending up chained to the wall and forced to watch.      

Now he glanced around the humid cell with its rusty tin walls, where the crumbling floor was saturated with large rotting leaves and God knew what other kinds of fetid waste. Everything in this place had been left to die, including him.

Too little. Too late.

He tightened his grip on the sharp stone and called upon every ounce of strength he still possessed to drag the sharpest point across his jugular. His breath huffed from his mouth. Warm, sticky moisture welled against his fingers in a trickle. He dug the rock deeper into his neck and waited for the rush of blood to wash over his hand.

Nothing.

“No.” The denial sprang past his lips in a rusty warble he no longer recognized as his own voice.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the salty sting of tears still managed to leak onto his cheeks. He chucked the rock across the cell and heard its soft ping against the wall before it kissed concrete. He needed something better. Sharper.

He collapsed back against the nearest wall. His left hand slipped along the groove where wall met floor and his fingers plowed into soft mush. He lifted them into his line of vision.

Red.  Staining their tips. He rolled his thumb across the substance, caught of whiff of the pungent smell.

Rotting fruit. A pomegranate. But the texture transported him. Took him back to another time when he’d swirled his fingers in brightly colored paints, his father silently working on a canvas at his elbow.

Paint the world not as it is, but as you want it to be.

 His illustrator father had been an expert in the art of escapism. And though Oliver had painted his little ten-year-old heart out to please his dad, he could never perfect that level of desperation.

He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled over to a pile of mottled fruit and vegetables near the door. The guards must’ve continued to throw his daily rations inside despite his condition. Flies swarmed around the fermenting pulp, but scattered when his toes plowed into a pile of mango. The juice stung the open gashes along his tender soles. He pushed the pain aside with a wince.

He bent and scooped a handful of red mush into his palm. Shuffling to the nearest wall, he dipped his fingers into the fruit then smeared them across the bumpy metal in a wide arc. He slashed at the wall again. And again.

When his palm was empty, he returned to the makeshift palette and scooped up more of the sticky goop. He squeezed guava between his fingers, scooped up eggplant, yams, okra and wet jungle leaves, his frantic movements creating a wash of color. Oranges, reds, browns, greens. Black. A landscape slowly took shape before his eyes.

He stepped back to observe what he had done. Sweat coated his face in a clammy film and several of the scabbed over wounds on his body had reopened allowing blood to trickle down his arms and legs. But he ignored the deep contusions and the shaking in every weak muscle, keeping his focus on the mural in front of him, desperate to remain rooted in an alternate reality.

Here, at last, was a place he could survive, a place where freedom didn’t scare him every bit as much as captivity.

His eyes fluttered closed and he collapsed to the ground.

——————————————————————————–

Links to other Excerpt Monday writers

Note: I have not personally screened these excerpts. Please heed the ratings and be aware that the links may contain material that is not typical of my site.

Once a month, a bunch of authors get together and post excerpts from published books, contracted work or works in progress, and link to each other. You=2 0don’t have to be published to participate–just an writer with an excerpt you’d like to share. For more info on how to participate, head over to the Excerpt Monday site! or click on the banner above.

_________________________________________

Once upon a time I dashed off a first chapter to enter into a contest from Harlequin American Romance. The characters popped into my head and took on a life of their own. But after I mailed off my entry, I immersed myself in writing suspense and never looked back. Nothing ever became of my contest entry, but I still love this story and hope to finish it one day.

Here’s the opening scene to The Reconstruction of Levi McKay:

Life in the fast lane had never moved so slow.

Levi McKay thunked his head against the leather seat of his Jaguar XJS and gunned the V-12 motor just to hear some noise. He’d made three wrong turns before stumbling upon the small rutted, sorry excuse for a driveway that led to an even sorrier excuse for a bridge strung across a deep ravine, before pulling up to the hulking Victorian house in front of him. Welcome to the Bates Motel.

He yanked the key out of the ignition, opened the door and unfolded himself from the low bucket seats with a groan. A sliver of sun sliced through the heavily wooded area that surrounded the house.

A mosquito buzzed around his head and he slapped at it.

He listened for some sign of life—other than the chirping of birds, rustling of leaves and the lone mosquito that was out for his blood. But there was nothing. No thunderous roar of engines. No squealing of brakes. No shouts and jeers.

He took a deep, shaky breath, inhaling the warm, late afternoon breeze ripe with tree sap and leaves. The absence of fuel, burning rubber, and engine grease almost made him want to drop to his knees and cry like a newborn babe.

Curse Beau Braddock, anyway.  He glared at the note taped to the brass key in his hand. “You’ll love the house,” it said. “Three bedrooms, two baths, a huge kitchen, a fireplace to warm your butt, and five acres of nothing but nature. Get your head on straight. There’s always next season.”

Levi crumpled the note and shoved it in his pocket. This was supposed to be his season. His year to have NASCAR eating out of his hand and come away with the Cup. Instead, Beau had cut him from the team. Losing his ride was the equivalent of hacking off an arm. Only it hurt worse.

His hands shook as he reached for his cell phone. Why couldn’t he find his edge? Racing was his life. He was nothing without it. Nothing without the adrenaline rush and the frantic fast pace of the racing world. He flipped open his phone and pressed the one, speed-dialing Beau.

“Hey, Vi! You make it to Woodruff yet?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

Beau’s cigar induced throaty voice cackled. “Isn’t she a beaut?”

Levi fixed his gaze on the sagging porch. “She’s a train wreck. Where the heck did you dig this place up?”

Beau laughed again. “I’m addicted to Ebay. It was too sweet a deal to pass up.”

Levi eyed the house critically. “Have you seen this place?”

“When’s the last time you swung a hammer, Vi? College? Fixing that place up will help you get your head on straight. I’ll tell you what, if you patch that house up…if you prove that you’re done with your reckless ways, I’ll reconsider.”

Fix-? Did Beau honestly expect him to sit here for the next three and a half months, repairing floorboards and stripping the ugly, faded yellow paint, and the devil knew what else?

“Come on, Beau. You made your point. I know I’ve done poorly the last couple of races, but I’m at the top of my game. Don’t cut me out of the action now.”

Beau sighed. “Kid, I’m doing you a favor.”

Levi winced at Beau’s use of kid. Would he never rate above the scraggly twelve-year-old who’d come sniffing at Braddock Motorsports back door hungry for an escape?

“The driving I saw out there last week could’ve gotten you killed,” Beau continued. “It was reckless and immature. And you know it. Keep on that path and I’ll be burying you next to my son.”

“This isn’t about Bobby!” The words exploded from his lips in a heated rush. Levi clenched his shaking hand into a fist, but it didn’t help calm the tremors. “Geez, Beau…I…I don’t…How do you get over losing your best friend?” He swallowed back the lump in his throat. Bobby’s death on the track nearly two months ago still had the power to make Levi break into the shakes. Telling Beau otherwise was like trying to sell him a seven-cylinder engine. “I’ll never get over it, Beau. But don’t make me sit out because of it. This sport is everything to me. You know that.”

Static crackled the line for a moment, then Beau’s voice returned, gruffer and thicker than before. “My son never did understand the difference between glory and the love of the sport. There’s more to life than a one-and-a-half-mile track and a checkered flag. He never had the chance to learn that lesson.”

“I get it, Beau. I do. But, this is my year.”

Levi hated the pleading in his voice. He wasn’t some pansy that had to beg for a spot. He’d earned it with sweat and grease.

He grit his teeth. “Come on, Beau.”

“I’m sorry, Kid, you’re out for the rest of the season.” Silence opened wide on the line. “I couldn’t bear to lose another son.”

Levi’s throat closed. Beau thought of him as a son? He’d never…but then again, he’d been too angry over Beau’s constant butt kicking to realize Beau did it, not out of anger, but out of affection. He had to make Beau understand. Racing was all there was for him. It made him somebody, made his life full and gave him a place to belong, a family of sorts. Without it…who would he be? Who the hell could he really be?

“Beau…I’m lost without my ride.” His voice croaked, but he didn’t care. He had to lay himself out there, open. Surely Beau would realize…

“You’re more than your ride, Vi. Take the house. Fix it up and figure yourself out. I’m doing it for your own good.”

The phone clicked loudly in Levi’s ear. He fixed his glare on the weathered round turret protruding from the left side of the monstrosity. “The house is a piece of crap.” He chucked the phone across the front lawn.

He’d given Beau ten good years of racing–longer if he counted the years he worked for Braddock Motorsports, fixing cars and soaking up all the racing knowledge he could. His career couldn’t be over at age thirty-five.

No way was he going to spend upwards of three months in Woodruff, Illinois, home of snail pace and solitude. If Beau thought Levi’d lost his edge now, just wait until he congealed from the lack of excitement in this town.    

He strode across the lawn, scooped his cell phone from the grass and then stomped onto the flimsy porch. The key stuck in the rusty lock and refused to budge. He gripped the doorknob and applied more pressure to the key. It snapped in half. 

He cursed a blue streak and yanked on the doorknob. The brass knob came off in his hand. He wasn’t prepared for it and stumbled, his foot crashing through the weak board on the porch. He yanked his foot from the splintered wood, but momentum kept him from regaining his balance. His tailbone struck the top step and his back slid down the stairs like a washboard, his head landing in the grass.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. A single drop of cold rain struck his forehead.

He raised a fist to the sky. “Beau! You’re gonna pay for this!” 

______________________________________________________

Links to other Excerpt Monday writers

Note: I have not personally screened these excerpts. Please heed the ratings and be aware that the links may contain material that is not typical of my site.

Once a month, a bunch of authors get together and post excerpts from published books, contracted work or works in progress, and link to each other. You=2 0don’t have to be published to participate–just an writer with an excerpt you’d like to share. For more info on how to participate, head over to the Excerpt Monday site! or click on the banner above.

__________________________________

I feel in the mood to showcase a little action and danger (and cuss words! Oops!) this month. This excerpt is one of the new scenes I wrote when I completely revised, INTRUSION, my Golden Heart finaling manuscript.

Audra’s scream carried through the open window. The chilling sound vibrated down Cam’s spine, setting him off balance. His shoulder catapulted into the window with enough force to cr ack

the pane. He tucked his head and struck the glass again, and again. Each one of Audra’s shrieks, each bump and crash went straight to his heart, fueling the blood pumping through his veins.

The fissures in the glass pricked through his t-shirt to scrape his skin, but adrenaline saturated his body and he kept ramming the window until it finally gave way. Shattered glass rained down on his head as he fell through the opening.

Sharp edges scraped across his face and neck. His chin hit the wood floor and jarred his teeth against his tongue. The tang of iron filled his mouth. He shook off the pain and rolled to his feet, but he’d forgotten to compensate for his left knee and it gave out on him, sending him sprawling back to the floor.

He popped back up, this time remembering to burden his right leg with most of his weight. His gaze found Audra, frozen, in the corner of the room between the bed and the wall with Walker, Nanodyne’s security guard, behind her, holding a knife at her throat.

“Make a move and I’ll slit her throat.”

Cam lifted his hands. Slowly. “Wasn’t that already the plan? Why else would you be here?”

Audra sucked in a breath. Her wide amber eyes glistened with unshed tears, and all the color had leached out of her pale cheeks making the strand of auburn hair against her cheek look almost blood-red in comparison. The scar beneath her right eye was stark white.

His chest tightened. He waited until she focused her gaze squarely on him. I will not let this bastard hurt you. A shudder rippled through her, and though he knew it wasn’t the right time or place to notice her curves beneath her gray tank top and those skimpy matching boxers edged in lace, he couldn’t help it. He was definitely going to hell. But not before he sent Frankenpitt there first.

He needed a distraction. Something that would get Audra out of harm’s way. He scanned the room, taking in the splintered door, the mattress hanging half off its frame, and the overturned nightstand near the bathroom door.

All of it was useless to him.

“Look, why don’t we settle this man to man?” He slid a step in Walker’s direction. “You don’t really want to kill a defenseless woman, do you?”

Walker’s eyes darted to Cam and he tightened his grip around the handle of the knife. “I have to kill her.”

“By whose order?” Cam kept his hands out in front of his body and took another step closer to Audra. “C’mon, Franken—err—Walker. We both know you’re a few beers shy of a six-pack. Who are you working for?”

Walker shook his head. “Back off or I slit her throat.”

Cam curled his lip. “You got me. Even if I lunge forward, your knife will end her life before I reach her.” He stopped, dropped his hands to his sides. “But, see, here’s where your logic fails. Because you kill her and she’s no longer a distraction to me. I can put one hundred percent of my attention into killing you.” He smiled and lunged. “Hell, I may even enjoy it.”

Walker reared backward and the knife jerked away from Audra’s throat. Cam folded his fingers into a fist and knocked Walker’s arm aside. He pushed Audra to the floor with his other arm, wincing when she cried out in pain.

“Go!” He shouted the command, but Walker grabbed him around the throat, strangling the word.

He heard Audra scramble to her feet and once he knew she was out of range, he dug his fingers into the security guard’s arm, twisting his body out of the way. His knee locked up in the tight space and he fell backward onto the mattress, taking Joe with him. The knife plunged into the pad beside him, narrowly missing his ear.

Joe grunted and yanked the blade out of the bed. He plunged it downward in a second attempt to skewer Cam’s heart. He rolled to the side, the mattress teetered, dumping him off. The back of his head slammed into the metal frame.

“Cam!” Audra screamed his name, but he didn’t have a chance to look at her before Walker fell on him again.

He grit his teeth and held the guard at bay, his hands wrapped around Walker’s shoulders. “Get out of here!”

Damn it, he hoped Audra was listening.

His sweaty palms slipped off Walker’s shoulders, an error that cost him the upper hand. Walker’s thick hand wrapped around Cam’s throat and squeezed. He gagged from the pressure, blinking away the dark, fuzzy spots that crowded his vision.

His hand crept up to claw at Joe’s grasp, but he couldn’t gain enough traction to pull it away from his windpipe. He reached up and flailed for the knife. The tip nicked his palm, letting him know he’d found his target. He grabbed the hilt, covering Joe’s hand with his own, and wrestled the knife to the side.

Bright light suddenly blinded him. He heard the whoosh of something cut through the air, then a loud crash. Joe’s weight fell to the side. Cam went with him, reversing their positions, and in one fluid arc he plunged the knife downward. The resistance of muscle and bone gave way and the blade sunk into the guard’s heart.

Walker’s hand slid away from the hilt and Cam got his first good look at the intricate handle. It was made from cherry blossom jasper, with veins of black and white threading through the stone. Cam knew without a doubt the design was one of a kind.

Because it was his.

He’d had it commissioned just before he’d left the Special Forces. SCOTT was engraved on the stainless steel bolster at the end of the handle. If he pulled the knife out of Walker’s chest, he knew what he’d find: the last names of his A-team etched into the blade.

“Oh, shit.” His hands started to shake and he squeezed his eyes shut to calm the tremors.

What had he done?  

 Audra gasped and Cam jerked his gaze to her. She hadn’t left. Why hadn’t she taken off? Her choppy breath matched his own. She dropped the remnants of the lamp she’d used to attack Walker’s skull, and it hit the floor with a clatter.

“I told you to leave.” The words came out in a harsh croak.

“I couldn’t.” Her fierce w hisper was like a cool drink to

his raw throat.

He struggled to stand, but his shaky legs wouldn’t support him. Not yet. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” She sunk to her knees beside him and reached out to stroke his face. “You…saved my life.”

#  #  #

Audra lightly pressed her fingertip to one of the cuts on Cam’s cheek. It wasn’t deep—little more than a scratch—but droplets of blood welled to the surface, and all she could think about was how he’d paid so little regard to his own safety in order to ensure hers.

His skin was hot to the touch, his breath ragged. She looked into his eyes, so dark without their usual spark of teasing that they appeared raw, even a bit vulnerable. He stared back at her without uttering a word, and although she barely knew him, somehow she knew it was rare for him to remain silent.

She shifted closer, laying her other hand on his opposite cheek, and still, he didn’t respond. Oh, his eyes darkened and roved over her face, and he swallowed hard, but the glib retort she’d expected never came.

“Cam?”

His eyes suddenly blazed. “That bastard was going to kill you with my own fucking knife.”

She flinched at the edge in his voice and her gaze flicked to Joe Walker’s body. She’d been trying hard to avoid glancing at him, but now she couldn’t look away. Her stomach balked and the blood drained from her head. Cam’s knife protruded from the guard’s chest, a wash of crimson staining his clothes.

They’d taken a man’s life. It was Cam that had wielded the blade, but he’d done it to protect her. Didn’t that make her every bit as responsible? She tried to blink back a wave of dizziness, but was unsuccessful until Cam took her hands in his, grounding her.

His thumb ran over her knuckles in a gentle caress. “Hey,” he tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him, “I killed him. Not you.” He brushed a strand of hair off her cheek, his warm fingers lingering there. “And I’d do it again, in a heartbeat, if it meant saving your life.”

The quiet sincerity of his words—his touch—wormed their way into her starved heart. Gone was the smooth-talking veneer that Cam wore on the surface, the cockiness that made him risky. In its place was a man with his own emotional bumps and bruises. Someone she could relate to—even trust.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “What are we going to do?”

“We?” His brash confidence flooded back into his face with nothing more than an arched brow, but this time it didn’t send a flutter of panic into her heart. “We are going to get the hell out of here.” 

_________________________________________

Links to other Excerpt Monday writers

Note: I have not personally screened these excerpts. Please heed the ratings and be aware that the links may contain material that is not typical of my site.

Once a month, a bunch of authors get together and post excerpts from published books, contracted work or works in progress, and link to each other. You don’t have to be published to participate–just an writer with an excerpt you’d like to share. For more info on how to participate, head over to the Excerpt Monday site! or click on the banner above.
________________________________

I’ve had this contemporary YA idea in my head for a long time, but I’ve always pushed it aside. I thought it would be fun to write the first few pages to use as my excerpt this month, just to see how my voice sounded in YA-speak. It’s still very rough, but here it is:

Most of the seniors at Ravenswood Academy of Fine Arts only knew one word of sign language: Beethoven. It’s what they called me. And it wasn’t meant as a compliment. 

I was the mad cellist, and whispers abounded about how I must have sold my soul to be able to play cello like that when I couldn’t even hear the music. No, I’d just sold my childhood.

While other girls played with Barbie Dream Houses and Easy Bake Ovens, I studied the cello. My day revolved around music therapy classes, private lessons, and timed practices—all run with army precision by my mother. I guess if she had to be saddled with an imperfect daughter, the least she could do was make sure I was perfect at something.

I dug my fingertips into the C string and drew my bow across it, stirring up the clearest vibration of an F-note in my head. F-note. As in F-her. And the rest of Ravenswood Academy for treating me like a leper.

I wanted far away from this place. Far away from my mother, and the entire senior body who shunned me at every available opportunity. I wanted…Silverton School of Music, the most prestigious music college on the east coast. But Silverton was exclusive and the only way in for someone like me was through a scholarship—a scholarship that only admitted the top ten cellists to their program every year through a grueling two-day musical competition.

I was determined to be that cellist so I could tell the town of Ravenswood to kiss my ass.

I glanced up to see Cassie, my one and only ally in Ravenswood hell, making faces at me on the other side of the practice room glass. I motioned her inside with a wave of my bow, and she bounced in, tossing her black curly hair out of her eyes.

“Party at Melanie’s house tonight. You coming?”

Absolutely not.

Melanie was second chair to my first. She hated my guts. She was also competing against me for the Silverton scholarship. And the last thing I wanted was to be anywhere near the girl who’d told the entire orchestra that I’d been making out with Bobby Lundgren in the boys bathroom.

First off, the boys bathroom smelled like rancid peanut butter and flamin’ hot cheetos—I’d die of asphyxiation if I even tried to set foot in there. Second, if you’d ever seen Bobby Lundgren you’d know that I valued my mouth too much to ever touch it to his. He may have been the school’s best percussionist, but his cold sore infested lips and greasy shoulder-length hair was a huge turn off. As was the fact that he’d had to leave his old school because of some sort of restraining order against the star violinist.

It was all very hush-hush, but the one advantage of being deaf was that people often forgot you could read lips. Not Cassie, though. She never forgot who I was or what I could do. And she was still waiting for an answer about Melanie’s party.

“Not on your life.” I flicked my bow in a staccato rhythm to punctuate my words. I hardly ever spoke instead of signed, but I’d let my guard down around Cassie years ago and she refused to let me put it back up.

“C’mon, Tate. Don’t be such a stick in the mud. Her parents are away for the weekend.” She rocked on her tiptoes in graceful ballet form. “It’s going to be a blast.”

I shook my head and drew my brows into a deep, knotted frown, letting her know that Ravenswood would have to be taken over by human-eating-fairies before I’d even consider being in the same house as Melanie.

“Please.” Cassie both signed and spoke the word, an indication that she was not above begging and pleading. “I don’t want to go alone.”

“Then don’t go,” I signed back.

“You’re not being fair.”

No, I wasn’t, but this was one area where I just couldn’t bring myself to be fair. Cassie turned her back on me. I hated when she did that and I doubt she even realized how inferior it made me feel.

I pressed my lips together and carefully set my cello on the floor, resting the bow on its side. Then I shuffled over to Cassie and spun her around.

“I can’t do it,” I said. “If it was anywhere else, maybe. But not Melanie’s.”

She shrugged my hand off her shoulder and yanked open the door. “Fine. I’ll just go by myself then.”

“Cassie, wait—”

She stormed down the hallway and I watched her go, knowing that I was stupid to alienate the one person who truly ‘got me’. I sank to my knees and wrapped my arms around me. Why couldn’t I have just told her yes? Why couldn’t I have just gone to the dumb party and made sure I stayed out of Melanie’s way?

I squeezed my eyes shut. Don’t be a crybaby, Tate. After several minutes, I got an uncomfortable tingling up my spine, as if someone was watching me. I shot to my feet and spun on my heel.

Jared Meadows was leaning against the wall, staring at me with eyes as blue as a gas flame. Jared, the drool worthy pianist.

Whenever he came in to play with the orchestra I became mesmerized with the way his fingers danced across the keys. Yesterday, I had missed my cue entirely, caught up in his passion, his emotion.

Where did it come from? I’d been playing since I was old enough to hold a bow, but although I could play any piece with technical perfection, the music always left my heart feeling hollow.

 My heart certainly didn’t feel hollow now. It pounded against my ribs and raced like an arpeggio. How long had he been standing there? I tugged at my ratty t-shirt, curled my toes inside my pink Dr.

Martens, and blinked up at him like an idiot.

 ”You’re not going to Melanie’s party?” he asked slowly, making no secret about the fact that one, he had been eavesdropping, and two, that he hadn’t forgotten how well I could read lips.

I bit the inside of my cheek. If I spoke to him, he’d hear my clumsy speech impediment loud and clear; if I answered him in sign, he probably wouldn’t get it. And why was Jared Meadows speaking to me in the first place? It’s not like he’d ever said so much as a word to me before.

After another moment’s hesitation, I opted to sign at him. It would help me save some of my dignity, and if he couldn’t read what I said, well, that was his problem.

“I can’t make it. My mom needs me at home.” Not a total lie. She always needed me at home for some reason or another.

He pushed away from the wall. “That’s a shame,” he said. “I’m going to be there.”

I swallowed hard and watched him walk down the hall. Jared Meadows knew sign language? No. He couldn’t. Not someone like him. He’s not an idiot, Tate.  He knew someone like you would never go to the party.

But he was going to be there. Of course he was going to be there! He was Melanie’s boyfriend. And that was just one more reason to make sure I stayed far far away from her house tonight.

_________________________________________

Links to other Excerpt Monday writers: 

Note: I have not personally screened these excerpts. Please heed the ratings and be aware that the links may contain material that is not typical of my site.

Time for Excerpt Monday again! My favorite Monday of the month. *g*

This month’s excerpt is from my Golden Heart finaling manuscript, Intrusion. I love strong willed characters, and Cam and Audra are probably two of my most stubborn. This is their first meet.

___________________________________________________________

Audra slammed the vault shut, spun—and nearly collided with a solid wall of male chest.  She pulled up short.  Her eyes jerked to the man’s obstinate gray ones.  A lock of thick brown hair edged across his furrowed brow, his sharp jaw pulled taut.

Unease snaked through her stomach and wound its way up her throat until she had to breathe in short, choppy bursts.

“Why didn’t he grab the armor?” Though his question was muttered between tense lips, she caught the perplexity in his words and hesitated.

Who was he? The man’s accomplice?

His gaze narrowed and he reached for her.  Her eyes widened as his rough hand drew closer and her heart leapt into her seized esophagus, jarring a high-pitched scream from her voice box.

“Be quiet, damn it!” he hissed.

But she was through listening to anything he had to say.  Her adrenaline spiked, she shoved his hand aside and twisted her body to duck past him.  All she had to do was make it to her desk and call security.  Her shoes squeaked against the tile with every footfall, closing the distance between her and the phone.

She was almost there.  Almost—

The man’s muscled arm wrapped around her shoulders, his hard chest pressed against her back.  “Damn it. Would you wait a minute?” His warm breath grazed her ear and sent a shiver down her spine. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Wasn’t that what all the bad guys said moments before they strangled the life out of you?

She wasn’t going to fall for it.  She pitched forward in an effort to break the man’s hold, but his muscles barely tightened against her frantic movements.  Struggling wasn’t going to get her anywhere. She needed a weapon—the sharper the better.

She shot out her hand over her immaculate desk.  No stapler or letter opener in sight.  Damn it, why did she have to be so organized? Her fingers wiggled, reaching, reaching for anything—

“Take it easy—”

—and connected with the handle of her ceramic mug.  She closed it in her grasp, swung the cup off her desk in the direction of what she hoped was the man’s head.

His arm fell away from her shoulders and darted upward to block the quasi-weapon from connecting with his skull.  He closed his hand around the mug and wrenched it from her grip.

“What’s with all the aggressive shit?” His eyes slid over her like molten steel. “I said I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Like I’m supposed to believe that.” Her chest heaved and she stiffened against the desk.

“I’m a man of my word.” From the way his gaze bored into hers and his jaw pulled tight into a serious kink, she could see he was telling the truth.  But he ruined the effect with a scowl. “No need to go all PMS ninja on me.”

“You were attacking me—”

“I wasn’t attacking you.  I was trying to keep you from doing something stupid.” He glanced at her mug and a short chuckle burst past his lips as he read the caption.

“Nice.”

Heat crawled up her cheeks.  She held out her hand.  “Give that to me.”

“Scientists,” he read out loud in a voice dripping with laughter, “just regular people…who are way smarter than you.”

She notched her chin in the air.  And because she was smarter than him, she refused to let herself get sucked in by the intriguing twinkle in those smiling eyes.  “I’m calling security.”

The cocky bastard had the gall to grin at her pronouncement.

________________________________________________________

Want more? Visit these other Excerpt Monday Participants:

AJ O’Donovan, Poetry (PG13)
Stephanie Draven, Paranormal Romance (PG 13)
Heather S.Ingemar, Dark Fantasy/Poetry (PG13)
Babette James, Fantasy Romance (PG 13)
Kaige , Historical Romance (PG 13)
Julia Knight, Fantasy Romance (PG13)
Ansha Kotyk, Middle Grade Adventure (PG13)
Adelle Laudan, Contemporary Romance (PG 13)
Jeannie Lin, Historical Romance (PG 13)
RF Long, YA Paranormal (PG13)
Caitlynn Lowe, Epic Fantasy (PG13)
Shawntelle Madison, Paranormal Romance (PG 13)
Crista McHugh, Contemporary Erotic Romance (PG 13)
Bria Quinlan, Rom Com (PG)
Leigh Royals, Historical Romance (PG 13)
Megan S., Paranormal (PG13)
Dara Sorensen, Historical Paranormal (PG 13)
Bethanne Strasser, Historical Romance (PG13)

Congrats! The stick turned blue, or whatever is appropriate for your time period. Have your heroine tell the Hero she is expecting his baby and give us his reaction(good or bad). Oh, and don’t forget, this was NOT planned. You must include a camel, a teardrop and four flavors in some way. Throw in an onion for good measure.

And I knew I had the perfect hero and heroine to meet the challenge: Tucker and Libby from This Dark Place. It is a story dear to my heart, and one I’m hoping to rewrite someday. Enjoy the scene!

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A one-night stand was supposed to be just that—one night. It should have been the culmination of a first-love that went sour years ago; the chance for Liberty to find out if she and Tucker would’ve been as good together as she’d always suspected.

Yeah, it had been good all right.

Embryo-fertilizing, cell-splitting, good.

She sucked in a breath as she stepped into the deserted lounge. A soft melody immediately grabbed her heart—one of Tucker’s compositions. His head rested on his left arm atop the sleek piano situated in the middle of the room, the fingers of his right hand dancing slowly across the keyboard. The posture of defeat almost sent her sprinting back to her car, but before she could flee, his head lifted and his fingers froze on the keys.

He knew she was there. Somehow, he always knew.

“Libby?”

She wanted to blurt it out right then—I’m pregnant—but she pressed her lips together to stop the premature blunder.

The remains of the night’s buffet were decked out on a long table against the wall and she wandered over and picked up a bright red strawberry. She swirled it into the chocolate fondue pot then bit into it, letting the flavors melt in her mouth for a long moment.

How was she going to drop this bomb on him? Maybe if she said it just right, reminded him of all those dreams they’d spun during that summer on the beach…

She spun back around to find he’d left his piano and sidled up behind her. “Tucker, I—”

His hand came up to explore her face, fingers running down her forehead to play over her cheekbones and finally coming to rest on her lips. And then, he leaned forward and replaced his touch with his mouth. He tasted of peppermint and goodbyes—the kind of kiss that said this was the end, not the beginning.

She broke away. She had to tell him before she lost her nerve. “I need—oh, God—I don’t know how to say it so I’m just going to—Tucker, I’m pregnant.”

She desperately wished that just this one time she could read those sightless gray eyes of his, but the way his face twisted, muscle ticking in his jaw, she had a pretty good idea of his reaction nonetheless.

“That’s not even funny,” he said.

No, it wasn’t. She turned back to the buffet, unable to bear the horror on his face. At any other time the garishly huge purple camel centerpiece would have given her the giggles. But today it just reminded her of the vast desert that separated their hearts.

Her fingers picked at the huge blooming onion in the middle of the veggie tray—it was the cause of the sting of moisture in her eyes, really it was. “I wouldn’t joke about something like this. I thought, maybe, you’d be happy.”

“Happy? Why would I be happy?”

She plucked a hunk of cheese from the deli tray and shoved it into a crystal dish of vanilla yogurt. “I thought…I mean, we’d talked about having children…you always said—”

“We were kids, for God’s sake.” He strode back to the piano, as if he couldn’t separate himself fast enough. “I wasn’t some damn cripple.”

“Stop using your blindness as a crutch! What does it have to do with any of this?”

“Everything!” Desperation took up residence in his features. “How can I take care of a kid? What kind of father could I possibly be?”

“A great one.”

“Right. Wouldn’t you be afraid to leave our baby with me? What if it needs a diaper change or needs to be fed? What if there’s an emergency? If it’s sick or choking or if the damn house catches on fire?”

“Do you realize how ridiculous you sound?” Panic fluttered in her breast. He’d already made up his mind.

“And when he or she gets older and needs help with homework or wants daddy to go to a soccer game. What then? How could I bear to disappoint them when I have to tell them ‘No, sorry, I didn’t see your winning goal, I can’t see a frigging thing’!”

A single teardrop rolled down his cheek and struck the piano keys.

“Tucker—”

“It would never work.”

No, not as long as he kept thinking of himself as less than.

“You have so much to give a child and you don’t even see it.” At his grimace, her anger kicked up a notch. “Yes. I do mean see it. Seeing is far more than looking with your eyes. You could teach your children how to look with their hearts. You could give them a love for music, an appreciation that goes far beyond reading notes on a page.”

He was silent for a long moment, as if searching his heart for courage–or an answer–something he couldn’t find. “What would I,” he waved his hand in a circular motion in front of his eyes, “do with a child?”

“Love them. That’s all you have to do.” Her throat constricted, but she forced one last plea from her lips. “ Just show them love.”

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Don’t forget to pop over to Excerpt Monday and check out the rest of the great excerpts, including:

Bryn Donovan, Paranormal (PG)

MG Braden, Contemporary Romance (PG 13)

Adelle Laundan, Contemporary Romance (PG 13)

Crista McHugh, Paranormal (PG 13)

Dara Sorensen, Paranormal (PG)

RF Long, Paranormal (PG 13)

Setup: In order to find her son, Grace has to team up with Keith, the man she credits with wrecking her life many years ago. They thought they had a lead on where her son was being held, but when they get there, they discover that he’s already been moved.

Excerpt:

It was empty. Keith clenched his jaw and surveyed the barren cabin with growing irritation. They’d hiked away most of the day.  And the damn room was empty.

Grace turned circles in the middle of the room, pressing a fist to her mouth. “We must have the wrong room.”  Desperation clogged her voice.  Her eyes widened, fear and hope mingling in their cloudy green depths.  “The owner said cabin three, right?” she asked, referring to the man they’d spoken with at the office before heading down to the primitive housing.  “This-this must not be the right cabin.”

She rushed past him.

“No, Grace.”  He turned to grab her arm but she shook him off and ran onto the tiny porch.

She traced the number beside the door.

“Room three.”  She blinked.  “Room three.”  Her face crumbled, tears spiking her bottom lashes.  “But the owner said…”

He fisted his hands at his side, itching to…do something.  Smash the flimsy knotty pine wall.  Shout in frustration.  Comfort her.No, way, not comfort her.  What did he know about comfort?

He took a quick inventory of the room’s offerings.  A pair of bunk beds along one wall with a small dresser and what looked like a closet on opposite ends, a miniature kitchenette behind him, and a door off to his far right that had to lead to a bathroom.

“She said Mark had paid for the week.  Not that they were still here.”

“No.”  She straightened, her eyes lit with desperate fire.  “He has to be here.”

She dashed to the bathroom where she flung open the flimsy door.  Her jaw worked and she shook her head until her eyes homed in on the bunk.  She ran to it and tore off the ugly mustard blanket covering the bottom bed.  Next, the crisp white sheets hit the floor.  She gripped the mattress and flipped it, revealing the springs underneath.

She cried out and raced to the dresser where she yanked on the doors and sent them crashing to the scarred wooden floor, one by one.

His heart twisted.  What was she doing to herself? She knew Ryker couldn’t be in the there.  Damn it, the woman was going to have a breakdown if she didn’t-

“Stop.”

Her head jerked toward him at the sound of his rough command.  She swiped at the tears on her cheeks.  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Grace…”  He held out his hands in a foolish, woefully inept attempt to console her.  How could he do so effectively when he’d never been the recipient of such an act?

She spun away from him and stumbled to the closet.  Her fingers curled around the handle, she froze and drew a shuddering breath.

Oh, hell, she wasn’t just looking for her son.  She was looking for his body.

“Grace, let me-”

She shook her head and before he could reach her, yanked the door open.  A cry strangled past her lips.

He leapt the remaining distance and pushed her aside.  Not the kid.  God, not the kid.

He dragged his gaze to the bottom of the closet.

On the floor sat Ryker’s bright red backpack, a whale key fob threaded through the zipper.  Grace reached for it, her movements mechanical and stiff.  She crushed the pack to her chest, her fingers digging into the coarse canvas.

He looked away, unable to bear the sheer heartbreak on her face.  He’d told her not to get her hopes up.  Told her despite the odds, they may not find Ryker today.

But she’d been so certain, so damned determined.  They’d wasted the day, coming up tired and empty-handed.  Back at square one.And Grace…

His eyes drifted to her, his stomach clenched, unwanted protectiveness welling inside him.  He tried to force the tightness aside, but it grew and grew, forming a lump in his throat.

She buried her face in the front of the backpack, sobs wracking her body.

He touched her arm, running his thumb along it in an effort to soothe her shaking.  “I’m sorry, Grace.”

“I was so sure…”  She lifted her head, green eyes drenched with bewilderment locking on him.  “Where could he be?”

Her knees buckled.  He caught her around the shoulders and cushioned her drop to the floor.

His chin brushed the top of her head.  “We’ll find him.”

The fervency in his voice surprised him.  Even more so, the conviction that sprung in his heart.

“We’ll get him back.”  He gathered her in his arms.  “Safe and sound.”

She clutched the front of his shirt, burying her face at his shoulder.  Hot tears leaked through the fabric.  He stroked her back, feeling the bulk of the backpack crushed between them shift with his movements.

He rocked her side to side, remembering as a kid the way he’d once seen his neighbors locked in such an embrace after a devastating loss.  Soothing.  Consoling. And yet, foreign.

Awkward.

She looked up into his face, her eyes a mask of confusion and need.  He needed too.  Needed to touch her.His fingers skimmed her jaw, brushing away the wetness he found there.  He traced her cheekbones, her smooth skin gliding beneath the roughness of his own.

“Keith…”

She’d never once complained.  Not about the heat.  Not about the steep trail.  She’d even put up with his deliberate silent treatment.  Never giving up, never losing faith, she was infuriating and tough.  He respected that.  Admired her determination and desired…

What?

Her.

His head snapped back.  Damn.

The thought dislodged from his brain and he couldn’t get rid of it.  Blood roared through his veins.  He wanted to taste her.

Her lips parted, her cheeks flushed.  “I don’t think…”  Her voice wavered to a stop.

He couldn’t kiss her.  It was wrong.  Inappropriate. But he needed to do it. He cupped her chin, tilting her face.  “Don’t you dare wimp out on me now.”

___________________________________

Want more?

Ansha Kotyk, Middle Grade Adventure (PG)

Alina Morgan, Urban Fantasy (PG13)

Adelle Laudan, Romantic Suspense (PG13)

Lynne Chandler, Romantic Suspense (PG13)

Babette James, Fantasy Romance (PG13)

Here’s a small teaser from my romantic suspense INTRUSION:

What was wrong with her? Cam had stood there—open, vulnerable—hers for the taking and she’d turned him down. Audra leaned over the dining room table, the morning sun streaming across a copy of Coburn Industries’ blueprints.

She’d gone to bed last night, her heart pounding in her chest, and tried to forget about the solemn look on his face that had almost torn her in two.  But in the harsh light of day, his expression still wouldn’t fade from her mind.

Didn’t he realize that the last thing she needed was someone who tried to get into her head?  Into her heart. If she let him make himself at home there he’d only redecorate the place before he left.  The price for emotional intimacy was far too high.

Better to make that clear now.  Before irreparable damage was done.

She bowed her head and tried to focus on the straight lines and symbols stamped into the print, but they blurred in her brain.

Why had she volunteered for this crazy scheme?

Cam would have forged on without her and no doubt succeeded. Had she refused, she’d have found herself locked away in another safe house for the duration.  Far away from Cam.  Far away from his disarming stares and captivating touches.

Yeah, okay.  So that’s why she’d volunteered.

She gripped the edge of the blueprint and tugged it towards her.  Warm breath caressed her neck and Cam’s arms came around her to point at a two-inch square in the left-hand corner of the paper.  She hadn’t even heard his approach.

“As far as I can tell, Coburn’s lab is probably right about here.  But we’re going to need a much closer look.”

She nodded, holding herself rigid in his arms to avoid contact with his body.  Fat chance.  He leaned in further and her eyes slid closed, his distinct sandalwood scent wrapping around her like a cloak.  The air died in her lungs.

God, she had a definite love-hate war spinning a hurricane inside her.  She loved being with Cam, simply enjoying his company and his sharp wit. She loved the feel of his strong body, the way he touched her and caressed her with his eyes.  But she hated how he pushed her; never content to let her draw the boundaries between them.

She opened her eyes and shoved back, drawing a figurative line in the sand.  Her fingers tapped the edge of the blueprints.  “How did you get these so quickly?”

He shrugged.  “The Goddesses of Information always smile down on me.”

“Goddesses, huh?”  She shook her head, unable to hide her smile at the Cam-ism.  “Of course they’d have to be Goddesses.”

“Information is sexy.  Sensual.  Don’t tell me you’ve never felt it.”  His voice washed over her like warm rain.  “Come on, you’re one of the smartest women I’ve ever met.  You must understand the orgasmic power of knowledge.”

His lips brushed at the sensitive spot behind her left ear and sent a shudder through her.  “Ah, is that line supposed to reduce me to a writhing puddle at your feet?”

“You mean it’s not working?”

Yes, damn him, it was.  But she’d douse herself in sulfuric acid before she admitted it.

His hands cupped her waist and turned her in his embrace.  “Then I guess I’ll have to try the truth.”  He dipped his head to meet her eyes.  “I have a lot of friends in low places who don’t mind doing favors for someone whose done them a good turn in the past.”

She loved the way he studied her.  It unsettled her, and yet she understood that at his core he was every bit as analytical as she was.  When he looked at her, it wasn’t to explore her features but her heart.

And right now, her heart leapt at the sight of his casual grin.

“So there you go.  The truth.”  He caught a strand of her hair and tucked it behind her ear.  “Was it good for you?  Because I’ll tell you, it didn’t do a hell of a lot for me.  I like a little bit of fantasy in my life to keep from stagnating.”

“I could never imagine you stagnating.”

“No?  Then maybe I’ll try another truth.  Just to keep you on your toes.”  He rubbed at one of her curls.  “I like your hair much better down around shoulders.  You don’t look quite so…repressed.”

“Repressed, huh?”

She had to put some distance between them before she crumbled in his arms.  Why did she have to like everything about him?  The men she usually dated had at least one trait she disliked enough to justify holding a part of herself back.  With Cam…every single one of his quirks somehow endeared her to him even further.

Not good when she was trying to keep her distance.

She walked out of his embrace and slid her fingers across the top of the table until they connected with the band that had secured the rolled up blueprints.  Then she plucked it between her thumb and forefinger and wound it around her hair, securing it in a tight twist.

“So, what’s the plan here?”

Behind her, Cam chuckled.  “I don’t know yet.  I’m too busy contemplating how I’m going to get that damn tie out of your hair.”