OF course yours are different. Better. More interesting and intriguing. Their story better told. Their dialogue snappier. Their sex hotter. At least to you.
Which is why we write, no? To ease the creative ache that exists (in my opinion) somewhere between the heart and lungs. We don't write to impress, or to prove anything to anyone but ourselves and our muses should such creatures exist. (Back Away Hans, I'm blogging). I tell myself that a lot anyways. I have a fair few books out now since getting that first elusive "We would like to offer you a contract" emails in 2010. But always there was one set of characters, one book or set of books, that started it. That jumps in your head and won't leave even after the show is over and it's time to move on to the next one.
For me, that is The Realtors series. It is literally the first "novel" (length) story I wrote. I won't bore you with the tales of revision and those really tough first Cps sessions where you are told, essentially "yes. the story might work, if you could actually write--go back and try again." It's good though. Because I did. And now this series is getting raves, winning "hot reads of the month" awards and stuff.
But I miss these people. I'm past editing and onto rampant promotion (me? rampant?). So as part of the Gigantic Blog Tour from Hell that I am currently on (2 of them actually so bear with me) I decided to crawl back into the lives of my main characters. I have gone the character interview one up and (although I have done that too) created a series of "Behind the Scenes with The Realtors" scenarios, most 600-1200 words that have allowed me to experience the joy of being in their skin once more. It has re-inspired me in a big way. And it's fun.
As part of that I bring you The Garbage Disposal. A quick peek into Jack and Sara's house, during their early Engaged/Living Together time between Floor Time and Sweat Equity.
Behind the Scenes with The Realtors
Playing House Is Sexy?
Jack threw the closet door open, jaw clenched and head pounding from the mind bendingly stressful day. The day that apparently would end with him in a fucking tuxedo, standing around talking with all the rich assholes who were making his life a living hell by pulling a “not in our backyard” on his new development concept. He tugged out a shirt, tossed it on the bed and kept looking for the one he wanted. Dear God he’d just as soon walk over hot coals with his dick at this point than face the crowd at the huge fund raising event for a local arts center.
“Sara!” he barked, still shuffling through the shirts, getting angrier by the second. Where the fuck was it? “Sara!” He stood at the door, clad in tux trousers and nothing else. “God dammit,” he muttered and turned back to the bedroom, frowning at the messy unmade bed, the stack of books and water bottles by her side of it. His ears starting buzzing so he took a deep breath before heading back to the shirt hunt.
He heard the door slam and his fiancé drop her stuff by the door, humming likely to the headphones plugged into her ears. He ground his teeth and tried to keep the edge out of his voice. “Sara. Where is my good tux shirt?” He glanced around then spotted it, crumpled in a heap on top of the neat rows of shoes. “Never mind. I see it didn’t make it to the cleaners.” Running a hand down his face he tried to talk some sense to himself. They weren’t married, yet. They’d only been playing at “house” for a few weeks, at his insistence. He couldn’t expect her to just launch into “wife mode” when he was perfectly capable of…”Fuck!” He spotted it then. The expensive, tailor-made tux jacket, shoved half under the large leather chair in front of the window.
Shoving aside the scene he remembered now, the last time he wore the monkey suit. She had yanked it off in her haste to get at him, about a month ago, and they’d fucked in that chair, her bent over it, luscious ass in the air. He groaned and sat, willing his cock soft, the process of which did its own little song and dance on his anger riddled nerve endings. Sara wandered in, kicked off her shoes and flopped into the facing chair. He kept the wrinkled, dusty jacket clutched in one hand.
“What’s up lover? We going to this thing tonight or what?”
He rose. “Well, I would, except that somehow my tux jacket and shirt never made it to the cleaners.” He stuck his arms into a different white shirt. Not the one he wanted. “Would you mind terribly next time getting the damn things up off the floor at least?” She shrugged and stood, shedding clothes and dropping them wherever she stood. Jack tried very hard not to throw one of her infernal water bottles at her. She pulled on sweat pants and a tee shirt. “I thought we had a fund raiser to attend.” He buttoned the shirt up, pulled a black tie from the rack and wound it around his neck.
“I thought since the shirt and jacket aren’t perfect we’d skip it.” She tossed over her shoulder and headed downstairs.
Jack took a breath, waited fifteen seconds then went to the door. “No. We have to go. So get changed.”
He heard her rustling around in the kitchen, could picture her carefully ignoring him and his little shit fit over the dirty clothes. He let her stew a few more minutes, brushed his teeth and tried to repair some of the damage to the filthy jacket. He gave up, draped it over his arm and marched downstairs. Halfway down, already formulating the argument in his head, he heard her shout his name, a tinge of frustration in her voice. He slowed, then stopped.
“Jack!” She muttered a few curse words. “Jack this fucking thing is still broken!” He grinned and went into the large, custom-made kitchen. Her lovely ass was in the air again, as she drug all the crap out from under the sink. She stood, brushing her hair back and tried to work the garbage disposal once more. Dead silence. He leaned on the door jamb, appreciating her rear view and growing frustration a few more minutes.
“Jack!” She shouted, standing up straight and nearly plowing into his face as he looked over the sink. “Fucking hell. I thought you fixed this thing. Now I can’t run the…” she glared at his smiling face. He couldn’t help it. “Okay so I get a mulligan for the stupid shirt and coat. Can you fix it?” She sat on the floor, her eyes filling with years. “I had a shit day. Sorry. I want to stay home tonight so bad I can taste it.”
“You know I can fix it babe. I forgot about it though. It’s not like we use this room for much once coffee hour is over every morning.” He leaned back, watching her. “Watch, I’ll even teach you how.” She scoffed and stood, wiping her eyes.
“You know honey, I’ll pass. I don’t want a lesson. I just want the fucker to grind up the food, okay?” Jack rolled up a sleeve and stuck his hand down the maw of the food grinder, grimacing at the gooey nastiness at his fingertips.
“It’s a deal. But only if you stop doing this!” He tossed two brownish slices of old lime onto the counter. “Or tell your mother to, whatever.” He rinsed off his arm, adjusted the bottom of the disposal once, then again, ran some water down it and smiled as it whirred to life. Sighing, he rolled his sleeve back down and turned.
Sara stood, two glasses of deep red wine in hand. Dressed in his old Michigan State sweats, a ratty tee shirt, her hair scraped back in to a messy pony tail, she was as hot as any woman in his universe. He took the wine and clinked glasses with her. “Can I escort you to date night in front of the tv tonight, almost-wife?”
She grinned and sipped, stepping into space, immediately calming his still clanging nerves. Putting her arm around his waist she looked up at him, bringing a chill to his spine. Dear God, please don’t let me ever screw this up. He lowered his lips to hers, gripped her ass and set the wine glass down, keeping his mouth on hers, tasting her, reveling in the marvel that was this woman he loved.
She sighed and kissed him back. “It’s a date almost-husband. Last one to the couch is a rotten lime rind.” She flounced away and Jack relaxed, finally, as he tugged off the tie and texted an excuse to the friends they were supposed to sit with at the event.
“Something came up. We won’t make it. Have a good night.” He knew his friend Evan would understand. “Something came up” was like a code between them, had been for years. He slipped off the wool trousers and grabbed a pair of jeans he’d apparently left in the tv room, shaking his head at himself. Sara welcomed him on the couch, shutting out anything and everything but the joy he found in her arms.“But so help me if you don’t start getting to the shirt laundry…” he whispered in her ear. Then ducked to avoid getting brained by the remote control.
Like it? I do....here is a MUCH HOTTER ONE...if you are so inclined.