Monday, November 14, 2016

NaNoWriMo 2016: Write What You Know, Part 7

This is my first draft for NaNoWriMo 2016 novel Write What You Know. It's only a rough draft with very minimal editing and will, more than likely, contain, typos, grammatical errors, plot holes, or conflicting descriptions. It also includes notes to myself and excerpts from the novel the MC is writing that I try to indicate through various formatting that doesn't always translate well with my limited html skills. Furthermore, this particular novel is... there's no delicate way to put this... this novel is fucked up. So, especially in this rough draft crazed sort of NaNoWriMo way of writing, it may be difficult to read or follow.  I'm still posting it here because I want to shed more light on the process of writing to encourage and inspire other writers or readers who are interested. To learn more about this project, or my daily NaNoWriMo postings, please read Day 1-7.

Write What You Know, Part 7
By Stephanie Thompson, 1,376 words

Read: Part 1Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

When Benny appeared with another drink like he dound the font of everlasting well bourbon. Jack made his move.

“And give me one of whatever the lady’s drinking.”

“Took you long enough,” he replied just loud enough to be heard.

Jack ignored him took his drinks a navigated his way to the intoxicating legs.

“I beleive this is your poison,” he said. “Mind if I have a seat?”

“It depends, detective. What’s your poison?”

“How’d you know I was a . . . “ He stopped short when she nodded at his shirt pocket. He didn’t remember leaving his badge on display but after catching sight of her he hadn’t thought of much at all.

“A smart and beautiful woman, the most dangerous poison I know,” he said sitting across from her.

Once he sat across from her a ball in the lower pit of his stomach tightened up. Either something bad or something really good was about to happen. He had the same feeling chasing a perp down a dark alley or sitting across from a beautiful women. Usually he could tell the difference but here across from this woman, he was uncertain. It was the way her amber eyes burned through him. It unsettled.

“I propose a toast, Detective,” she said raising her glass.

He was ready for another drink because he was tired of thinking. He was too dumb to be good at it anyway his dad always said or for at least as long as he was around to say anything.

“May the things we love kill us very, very slowly.”

They clinked glasses. She took a small sip of her martini, while he gulped a large portion of his. She flicked ash from her cigarette on to the floor. Jack was mesmerized by that ash, watching it float down, down, all the way to the floor. He couldn’t speak.

“Do you have a name? Or should I call you detective for the rest the night?”

Her question brought his attention back to her and for an instant he would’ve sworn her eyes flashed a purple light. It’s just a light from the bar, he thought. Some fancy flashing lights for the live music.

“Jack,” he said. “Jack Bronson. And what’s your name?”

“You can call me , Cassie, Detective Jack Bronson. Today, I’m Cassie.”

“Today? Who were you yesterday?”

“Everyday I wake up someone new and exciting. Don’t you wish you could be someone else? Just for today?”

“No m’am, I’m happy to be me with you, right now.”

She smiled and sipped her drink. “Then what brings you, Detective Jack Bronson, to a bar in the middle of the day on a workday?”


She had watched the detective since he first came in the door. Before he even noticed her. At first, she didn’t know why they’d ended up in this bar. They’d never been there before and this side of time was far from their usual haunts. But the detective, the detective made it all make sense. He had been at their crime scenes. She’d seen him grimacing, shaking his heard, even been close enough to hear him curse his luck.

So, she waited. Sat patiently in the corner, biding her time. Smoking cigarette after cigarette, nursing her martinis.

She listened to the detective for hours. Playing charming talk with him. Laughing at his slow, dumb jokes. Trying very hard not to  insult him. She made it a game. How much could she get away with saying? Without making suspicious or turn him off of course. It turned out to be quite a lot actually. The whiskey helped. She was pretty sure the length of her skirt helped too. He couldn’t keep his hand from running up and down from her knee to her thigh, even up under the hem of her skirt. He was dumb but bold and she was bored.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

“Sure, sweetie, where do you want to go?”

It was the fourth or fifth time he’d called her that. She wanted to rip his hand from her knee, BEND HIS FINGERS BACK UNTIL THE BONES CRACKED AND EMERGED FROM his SKIN. She wanted to see the shock in his face, taste the salty tears of his pain. But she needed patience.

She put her hand on his and pulled it further up her skirt than it had gone before, to the gentle heat of her inner thigh. She leaned close to his ear and whispered “Let’s go to my place.” Then she pushed him off her finished her drink and picked up her purse.

He quickly finished his whisky and put his arm around her hip, landing his palm directly on her ass. “Should we get a cab or . . . An uber?”

He said Uber like he wasn’t sure it was the right word.

“A cab will do it just fine.”

“HEY, BENNY, I’LL GET MY TAB next time.”

The bartender nodded at him, never skipping a beat with his drink mixing. But she knew He wouldn’t pay that tab, now or ever.

It was raining outside but they found a cab easily. The detective groped her greedily in the backseat of the cab while she looked bored out the rain streaked window. The red lights gave the appearance of blood dripping on the glass. She was greedy for the blood of the detective, in drops, in smears in great big spurts. She wanted his insides to be outsides. Her fingers were itchy. She Couldn’t wait much longer. The detective’s grabbing fingers and suckling mouth were testing the limits of her tolerance.

“That’s 24.50,” the cabbie said, indifferent to the one sided make out session happening in the back of his cab.

She paid as the detective was preoccupied. The only way he got out of the car was because he was practically attached to her.  Besides he might try to pay with a card, something to track the taxi or the taxi service. Cash was cleaner.
He didn’t seem to notice they were on the street until they were going up the stoop of the building when they stepped over the passed out wino (junkie, maybe?). Then it was like the veil lifted from his eyes. She could sense the shift from him. A slight tension in his face or a new tightness in his shoulders.

“This is where you live?” he said.

“This is where I play,” She answered. She pushed open the unlocked door and he still followed, slower now, holding her hand.

The smell flowed over her like a bath of wretchedness. She moved through it like a ship in water - cutting into it, letting it lift her up above it’s depths. It was like a cloak covering her, shielding her, warming her without becoming part of her. The detective was not so lucky.

“What . . .” He gagged. “What is that smell?”

“Human filth, human and blood spray, and cooking meth probably.”

“Where are we . . .”

He didn’t finish his sentence because he was throwing up on the landing. She waited until he was done because she didn’t want the mess he was making to get in the mess she was going to make.

“I think, I better . . .”

This time she cut his sentence off.

“No Detective Jack Bronson. You will not be leaving here.”

She dug her nails into the scruff of his neck. He groaned in pain but put up no other resistance. He was too drunk, too scared, too overwhelmed with vileness of the flop house. Or maybe he was biding his time. She’d never had a target quite like this one. A cop had attack training, negotiating skills, less fear. It was exciting for the unexpected change but she had her job, her mission all the same. This one would just be more fun that usual.

He half crawled on one knee and limped on the other as she dragged him up the next flight of stairs. She hadn’t injured him yet so she assumed it was some sort of resistance on his part, the Rope-a-Dope approach to preventing his own murder.

“Why are you doing this?”

She pushed him, shoved him, tossed him into a dark room.

“Because I can.”

She slammed the door shut behind her.

Thanks for Reading! And keep reading in Part 8 :D