Still Got Nothin'

Sorry, FFFans. Wherever my head is these days, it's not thinking up blog topics. The dogs' adorability and/or naughtiness has been of the customary variety, not blog-worthy. Things that are happening are either too annoying or too dull, so I haven't had anything fascinating to say.

When I do have enough sanity (or insanity?) to write, I'm working on the book. I'm in chapter 10 at the moment.

Just for fun, or to give you a reason to at least continue to check the blog, I thought I'd post an excerpt from the first chapter. This is the part where Abby and Seth meet, under less than ideal circumstances. She is actually on her way into town to give her tickets for his concert that night to a friend, as the other friend who was supposed to go with her had unexpectedly canceled. Their second encounter isn't much less hostile, but it improves rapidly from there!

And now, for your reading pleasure, here is an excerpt from Make or Break, by... ME!

(Note: Underlines indicate italics in a manuscript.)

On Buchanan Street, she spotted the tour bus parked on the left side, in front of the club. She thought she could see figures moving around through the windshield, and squinted, trying to determine who they might be.

Her attention focused on the bus, she suddenly caught something entering her frame of vision on the right, and only had an instant to register alarmingly familiar long, golden-brown hair and vivid blue eyes before slamming on her brakes. The person, who had apparently stepped from in front of the equipment trailer she had failed to notice, leaped backwards and narrowly escaped impact with her Jeep.

The guitar case he was carrying, however, was not so fortunate. Abby’s fender caught it and ripped it from its owner’s hand, and it disappeared under her right front wheel with a nauseating crunch. Stunned, Abby tried to pull to the curb behind the trailer, but after throwing the Jeep into reverse she realized the flaw in her logic. The guitar case, once again victim to her right front tire, reappeared after another small bump and oddly lyrical grinding sound.

Oh, holy shit. I just ran over Seth Caldwell’s guitar. Twice.

Abby maneuvered the Jeep into the general vicinity of the curb and got out, too shocked to know whether to throw herself to the pavement in remorse or run for her life. Seth crouched at the edge of the street, picking through the shattered remains of what had recently been an acoustic guitar.

She dropped to her knees beside him. His hair had fallen forward, blocking her view of his face, but he pushed it back and turned to look at her. The intensity of his blue eyes might as well have been laser beams, the way they bored into her. Was it possible to be thrilled and terrified at the same time? Apparently so.

“You killed it,” Seth rasped. “You fucking killed my guitar.”

There was no way she could argue with that. She’d never seen a deader guitar. “I’m so sorry! I was looking at the bus and didn’t see you. I can’t believe I almost ran over you, and pulverized your guitar. It’s just that I’m having a really lousy day, and I was irritated, so I was kind of distracted…”

“Irritated? You were irritated? So you flew down the closest thing to a main street that this town has, and ran over my 1997 Taylor Cujo, which I’ve had for not even three weeks?” Seth began scooping the remains of the instrument back into the badly mangled case, his gray t-shirt stretched across his shoulders. He somehow managed to maintain the full force of his glare the entire time.

Abby stretched out a hand to help pick up the mangled bits of guitar, but Seth shifted his body to block her. “Don’t. You’ve done enough,” he snapped.

This did not strike Abby as a gracious acceptance of her apology. In fact, he was being kind of an ass. She felt her Irish temper begin to kick in, which was something like the Hulk’s, but without the green skin and purple pants. “Look, it was an accident, okay? I was not out to damage you or your guitar. And what the hell are you doing just stepping out into traffic anyway?” She stood up and scowled back at the angry musician.

“Traffic? What traffic? About three cars drove by in the last twenty minutes.” Seth tried to close the lid on the case, failed, and shoved the whole thing toward the curb.

“Stop yelling at me!”

“I’m not yelling.”

“You are definitely yelling.” She caught a glimpse of something at his neck and did a double take. “Are those ear buds? You were listening to music? That’s why you didn’t hear me!” Her voice rose about three octaves.

“I could hear fine. And that doesn’t have anything to do with your shitty, reckless driving.” He ripped off the buds and shoved them in his pocket.

Abby shook her head, then walked to the open door of her Jeep and grabbed a business card from her purse. “Here. Get your guitar fixed…”

“Fixed? It’s fucking mulch!”

“… or replaced, and send me the bill. And for the last time, stop yelling!”

“There are only 124 more of these guitars on the planet, and it took me six months to find this one. You think I can just ‘replace’ it?” His voice, she noted, had a certain amount of anguish somewhere beneath the fury. Seth stood, and Abby tried not to flinch as he snatched the card from her hand.

“I’ve said I was sorry. It was an accident. I’ll pay for it, or not. It’s up to you. And now, I have to go.”

“Well, that’s the first thing you’ve said so far that wasn’t completely stupid. Out of my sight would be a real good place to be right now.”

Suppressing a shriek of frustration, Abby turned toward her Jeep and tossed back over her shoulder, “I can’t believe I finally meet you, and we end up squatting in a ditch yelling at each other.” She slammed the door and pulled away from the curb. Her last glimpse of Seth as she headed down the block to Monique’s vintage clothing store, was of him standing by the equipment trailer, eyes wide, and a puzzled expression on his face.