| My First Blog |
[Jun. 29th, 2006|01:00 pm] |
WOWEE, this is awesome. And thanks to my author friend N.D. Hansen-Hill for showing me what to do. Considering I’m techno-inadequate, it’s quite an achievement.
So what do I hope to tell you all. Firstly about my books. I’ve been writing for 8 years and have three great books – romances of course – published with Treble Heart Books.
The weekend is nearly here – thank goodness – it’s been a busy week, balancing writing, family stuff and housework – actually forget the last – housework can wait.
Anyway, better scoot and get back to writing.
Catch you all later.
Just before I go, here’s a small excerpt from my first book – Be My Valentine – hope you like it.
Happy reading and writing
Jane Beckenham
Chapter One
Dave Barnett didn’t know what to do. He’d never been sacked before. He’d never been unemployed once during the last fifteen years. Now, within five minutes, he was going to be both. Sacked, out of work, call it what you will. But by whatever name, it was still unemployed and at thirty-four years of age and with a hefty mortgage because of …
Anger fused through him and downcast, he shook his head. He didn’t want to start going down that track. Not now. He thought he’d got over it, but just the mere thought of … Stop it he cursed. Forget it. Forget her. She isn’t worth it and is long gone.
"Hell," he cursed under his breath. The whole thing was ridiculous. A concoction of anger and frustration warred in his gut. Distracted, he dragged a hand through his thick dark hair and caught a glimpse of his sharp angled features, the dark brows and thick wavy hair, tinged with a smattering of gray at the temples. Although not vain, Dave knew it wasn’t a bad face. He never had trouble finding female companions.
He glanced down at his watch, time seemed to be ticking faster and faster, and it worried him. In four minutes forty-five seconds, he was going to be the same age, still single, but with no income. The words screamed in his brain. Slumped in his beloved well-scuffed brown leather swivel chair, he sat behind his mahogany desk. Dave twirled the chair and looked out at the view. Million-dollar views of the city were visible from his thirtieth-floor office. It was a sunny February day, and not a cloud could be seen. The world below buzzed. Tiny antlike specks of people and cars carried on with their lives, not knowing that thirty floors up, Dave Barnett had just been told he was superfluous. He let out a wry chuckle, but couldn’t figure out what he had to laugh about. The joke was on him and he wasn’t in a joking mood. He’d seen the furtive glances, hands hiding snickering tongues, and heard the murmured voices. Dave Barnett had become the joke of the week, and it riled him. He didn’t deserve it.
"Hell," Dave swore again. His fist punched down on the desk, the penholder rattled its contents. He knew it wasn’t his fault, but he was the fall guy.
"Too many staff, Dave," his boss Guy Parks had said this morning after ten years service.
Dave shook his head. No use remembering now. He hadn’t believed Parks, but it had been no use arguing with the man. He was as impenetrable and as inscrutable as Fort Knox.
A polite, tentative knock at his door broke Dave’s reverie. He turned to the door and called, "Come in."
His secretary, Marie, peeked around the door, her nervousness and concern visible on her soft motherly face, her red-rimmed eyes a telltale sign of how upset she was. She was the only one who hadn’t said anything malicious. She looked as if she’d break any moment.
Marie held out a cardboard box. "Here’s the box you wanted. To put your stuff in." She wiped an arm across her eyes, trying to erase the evidence of her tears.
Dave sighed with exhaustion. What had gone wrong? Why him? He glanced up at Marie. Ever efficient until the end, she stood in front of him, unsure what to do next.
"Thanks for your help, Marie. Sit down, please." Dave didn’t quite know where to begin. It wasn’t something that happened everyday. It had never ever happened to him before. Standing up, he began to pace the room; a quick glance at his secretary, however, told him that his animal-like pacing was making her more nervous. He came to a halt, and leaned against the edge of the desk, his dark trousers pulling tightly across the thick-corded muscle of his legs.
"You know your job is safe, Marie. I’m not sure who you’ll be working for, but personnel assures me that it’s just me going." A small smile creased the corners of his mouth as he tried to make her feel better. It didn’t work. Tears welled behind the dam of her eyes and overflowed, trickling a silent path down her cheeks. Dave Barnett wasn’t good with weeping women. Disconcerted and uncomfortable with what the day had brought, he fidgeted, unsure how to handle the situation. Did he put his arm around her? Pat her on the shoulder, murmuring, "There, there."
Marie kept sniffing and Dave felt out of his depth. He shoved his hand deep into his trouser pocket and pulled out a rumpled, once white handkerchief. He hoped it was clean as he handed it to Marie.
She took it without hesitation, murmuring a quiet "thank you." Both were silent as she blew loud and long into the chalky white cotton material.
Dave stared blankly at the woman.
Marie coughed, drawing Dave’s attention once more. "Dave... Mr. Barnett."
"Dave is fine, Marie. Especially today." He tried to give the woman a small, reassuring smile. It was all he could think of to do.
"Well, ah...Dave. If it’s any consolation I don’t think it’s fair at all. You’ve been here a long time. Given good loyal service. You’re a good, honest, and truthful man."
Her words stunned him and his heart swelled with pride. At least someone thought well of him. A dry smile curved at the corners of his mouth as he looked down at the weeping woman.
Cheeks flushed red, an embarrassed Marie stumbled from her chair to leave his office. Dave stepped behind her, and reached to open the door. He raised his hand to her shoulder and stopped her as she was about to leave.
"Thanks. You don’t know how much that means to me. Today of all days." Dave bent down, gave her a small peck on the cheek, and the red-faced woman turned and opened the door to the outer offices. He stared at her retreating form. He didn’t even know if she was married. All this time and he didn’t know anything about her. Now he’d never know.
Silence overtook the open office. All twenty staff, plus hangers on who were walking by, stopped what they were doing and stared at Dave and the retreating Marie. No one said a word.
"Be glad it’s not you," Dave snarled at them and slammed the door in their faces with a loud and resounding thud. Shutting out the enemy, he admonished himself, although he knew at the same time that it wasn’t their fault. Every single one of them was more than likely glad it wasn’t them. With his back against the solid door, his shoulders slumped and he felt his body give way. Dave slid down the length of the door and landed in a heap at the bottom.
* * *
Twenty minutes later the electronic doors at the ground floor foyer swished closed behind him with a gentle hiss. That was it; his career was closed, gone. Dave stood, cardboard box cradled in one arm, his jacket shoved on top. Reaching up, he yanked the top two buttons of his shirt. One snapped off and flew across the asphalt before rolling into the gutter and slipping between the rungs of the grate. Dave stared at it. Gone. Like his job. He pulled at his tie and loosened it before it choked him. He turned and stared up at the glass tower behind him. Parks, Stone and Smyth, Barristers and Solicitors, thirty floors above, had no more use for him. No one had said good-bye, except Marie. Cradling his box and with his head held high, Dave walked away from years of loyal, trustful, and devoted service to Parks, Stone and Smyth.
"Damn the lot of them," he exploded out loud. Passersby turned to stare at his disheveled appearance. He didn’t care. Instead, he walked aimlessly towards the car park.
Fort Street was an anomaly. Part legitimate business, part sleaze. A variety of nightclubs, sauna parlors, go-go rooms and bars, all presided side by side each other. All offered ... well, it mostly likely wasn’t legal, but it wasn’t up to him to monitor it either.
Dave flexed his shoulders up and down. His arm ached. The muscles on his forearm bunched with effort as he carried the cardboard box and his briefcase in his other hand. Beads of perspiration dripped in rivulets down his brow, dampening his eyebrows as the drops crept to the edges of his eyes stinging them with their saltiness. Dropping the box to the ground, he pulled at his collar, easing it away from his drenched skin before pausing to brush away the sweat. He squeezed his eyes shut tight; the long, thick dark lashes fanned his face. The heat of the day was getting to him.
The clip clop sound of sharp stilettos reached his ears. Dave’s eyes snapped open, his attention caught in an instant by the rear view of a woman a few feet in front. Her blonde wavy head lurched back as she let out a throaty laugh at her companion’s conversation. Dave’s senses pulsed of their own accord as her tinkling laughter trilled through the air; she was unaware she oozed sex appeal. Dave felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck, and he squinted his eyes against the glaring sun and watched the young woman.
She was so petite, he thought she might only be in her teens, but one quick glance at her body indicated otherwise. Long arms hugged several large leather-bound books, but it was her slender legs, the tops barely covered by cerise lurex hot pants, that caught his attention.
"Wow." Dave let out his breath. He’d always been a sucker for legs. High-heeled lace-up boots and a midriff wrap around top completed the ensemble. It wasn’t high street fashion, but it sure did something to him and his nerves tingled; the pulse in his neck thumped out a rapid rhythm.
"Had a good look?" Her sharp words struck out at Dave before he realized he’d been staring. He sucked in his breath and his gaze traveled up the legs from heaven, and over the glittering clothes to drown in eyes the color of lilacs.
"I’m ..." he stuttered. The other women standing with this golden-haired pixie giggled, and their eyes raked over him, their expressions showing unadulterated interest. Dave gulped.
"Save it," the young woman scolded.
Dave saw color flame her cheeks as she stared back at him with disgust. "Why don’t you get back to your office? Your secretary may think you’ve gone AWOL," she snapped.
As she turned away from him, she entered the club they were standing outside, humiliation written on her face. It embarrassed him that his ogling had caused it. He didn’t know what had got into him, his rude stare nigh on publicly undressing her.
Dave paused to look up at the sign she had stood beneath. A picture of near-naked women seemed to promise the world, along with cool drinks and entertainment. Dave knew he could do with a cool drink.
Yeah, right. Some excuse. She’s got to you, admit it.
Dave refused to listen to his conscience. He deserved a drink. Today had been a nightmare. He knew that neither the day nor the nightmare was over. It had just begun.
Not giving himself time to think, Dave picked up his box, its contents sloshing over the edge, slung it under his right arm and walked into the club of promises.
Cool draughts of air from the conditioning unit rushed to meet him. It was an elixir to his heated skin and his once white cotton shirt sucked even closer still to his dampened skin.
With the dim lighting scattered around the room, it took several seconds before Dave’s eyes adjusted to his surroundings. A large room, it had a bar positioned to one side. Tables, each surrounded by four chairs, dotted the center of the room. Arid smoke fumes hung in a pall across the empty room while neon lights above the stage flashed on and off in a rhythm to match the music. Despite the lack of patrons, chords of Latino heartthrob music blared from the antiquated sound system propped in one corner. Dave’s eyes bulged as he spied two life-sized cages; their gilded bars imitated a birdcage. Housed inside each were scantily clad go-go dancers who gyrated with flailing arms to the beat of the music. Ignoring the lot, he headed for a table at the far end of the room, away from the stage and the pulsating human flesh.
Tyler Spencer’s feet ached. Wriggling her toes inside the imitation black leather boots, she arched her feet, wondering if her circulation was cut off.
"Ah ..." Tyler let out a sigh of overdue relief. She bent over, unaware the brief hot pants lifted even farther up her derriere, giving the man at the back of the room a pervert’s eye view. Long tapered fingers, daubed with scarlet nail polish, flicked the laces open as she eased her feet out of their prison. She wriggled her toes once more and enjoyed the brief moment of freedom.
"Better not let Dick see you," Roy, the barman, warned.
The barman’s words reminded Tyler of her large overbearing, overstuffed, and often disgruntled boss, Dick Harper. A stickler for the girls to always wear their high heels, his motto was "the higher the better." The same was said about the clothes he ordered them to wear. The shinier, skimpier, and tighter the better. Tyler had work clothes and normal clothes. She knew which she preferred, and it wasn’t the gaudy stuff she now had on.
"I know, I know. Just a few more minutes. It’s not my fault that the silly blonde didn’t turn up for her shift. Hence I have to do another shift." Tyler appealed to the barman, a light shining in her smiling lilac eyes "Just don’t tell him, that’s all. My feet are killing me. Remind me to say no next time." But she needed the money and Tyler Spencer prided herself on her independence. Studying archaeology and history full time with a full-time job to boot wasn’t an easy balance. Many a night she fell asleep in the small hours still sitting at her desk as she struggled with a paper due the next day. Still, she believed a girl needed to have ambitions.
"Poor baby." Roy winked down at her, his craggy features unable to hide his concern. Widowed early in life and with no family, he’d never remarried. He was like a father figure to Tyler, always worried about her getting home safely. Roy nodded towards the man at the back of the bar. "Another customer for you. Remember to smile, darling, you might just make a big tip."
"Smile," Tyler mimicked Roy as she turned a cheesy grin to the bartender. "Good enough?" She winked at Roy, laughing as she picked up her tray. Balancing it on one flattened palm and carrying her pad and pen in the other, she hoped her smile was bright enough. She needed the money. Her landlord had sold the house she’d rented and she’d had to move. Today. Tonight’s wages and tips were going to be a down payment for her new flat. Tyler braced herself, shoulders back, unaware it thrust out her breasts provocatively; she walked toward the customer waiting at the back. She pasted a smile on her face.
Sinking into the seat that was more comfortable than he expected in such a place, Dave stretched out and slung his jacket over the back of the chair beside him. He squinted, looking at the waitress coming towards him. It was the same scantily clad woman he’d seen outside. In this tacky bar, she looked even younger, not more than eighteen, he thought. An uneasy stirring in his loins surprised him. Her breasts, the nipples taut, strained against the tight lurex mid-drift top she wore. She may have been smiling, but even in the muted lighting, Dave could see a sadness reflected in her eyes. What a life.
"I feel a premonition, that girl’s going to make me fall," he hummed along, the Latin beat heating his senses.
"What would you like, sir?" She looked down at him.
"Beer," he answered, not in the mood for small talk. As she sashayed away, he watched her hips swaying from side to side. Tight, small buttocks oozed sex appeal from the skimpiest pair of hip-hugging shorts he had ever seen. It was arousing and appealing. "Good God, what’s the world coming to? She’s far too young," he snarled to himself. "Talk about jail bait. Get a grip on yourself, Barnett."
When she returned and delivered his beer, placing the ice-cold glass on the coaster, its frothy bubbles dribbled down the side onto the paper coaster. Dave saw her hesitate as she stood balancing from one foot to the other. He flicked a note onto the table.
As she picked up the money, their fingers touched. Dave felt as if he’d been struck by lightning and snatched his hand away. He noticed scarlet whirls stain her cheeks, and her hands clenched into fists at her side, the nails digging into her palms. She looked shaken, yet still managed a fleeting smile.
What the hell had he done? Dave frowned, his brows raised inquiringly at the retreating woman. She probably smiled at all her customers he thought, hoping to get a large tip. Nevertheless, he was aware of the stirings he’d felt when they’d touched. He felt old. Old and exhausted. Dejected. Lifting his glass to his lips, he sipped. Seconds, minutes and hours ticked by and he was unaware of any of it as he tipped his head back and guzzled down the beer. A second, a third. More. He was trying to drown his sorrows, to drown out all thoughts of the day’s disaster. It wasn’t working.
Tyler had been called to the back table again and went to pick up the order from Roy. The bar was nigh on empty, customers had come and gone with the passing hours. Closing time wasn’t far away.
"Doesn’t the jerk know he’s had enough?" Tyler snuck a quick glance through lush lashes in the man’s direction. "The guy is still putting it away. I’ve lost count."
"It’s not our place to count, honey." Roy chastised her with fatherly affection. "We’re here to sell. The more we sell, the happier the boss is."
Tyler knew it was true. "I know that, but the guy seems to have a problem and drink isn’t going to solve it." Tyler’s clipped speech couldn’t hide the frustration she felt. She looked in the man’s direction again. He was staring straight at her, not smiling, just staring.
Goosebumps prickled her skin, making it crawl. She admitted he wasn’t bad looking. He was tall, if the length of those long legs sticking out from beneath the table was any indication, and his dark good looks were what she would go for. But no man in his state was of any interest to her. Besides, she had her own rules to obey. "It just bugs me, Roy, this bloke is spending up large, drowning his sorrows in beer after beer, while I’m slaving away trying to save so I can afford to live."
Roy made a clucking sound of agreement, but as usual, kept his own counsel.
Tyler picked up the umpteenth beer for the man in the back of the room and headed to his table. She couldn’t douse the rising antagonism she felt, and it welled up the closer she got to him. She slapped the glass on the now soggy beer mat, its froth spilling over the rim of the icy tankard making a puddle on the table.
"Don’t you think you’ve had enough?"
She should have bitten her tongue, but it was too late. It was out. Her fury at his blatant waste of money was just too much for her to handle.
He stared up at her through red-glazed bleary eyes, squinting.
"Enough. I’ve only just got here. Never enough." His words were slurred, and a bubble of spittle trickled from the corner of his mouth. His tongue licked at his lips and his eyes centered on the rise and fall of her breasts.
Disgusting, thought Tyler as she looked at the man. "Mister." She hovered closer, leaning closer to his line of vision. "You’ve been here most of the afternoon, and all evening. We’re closing soon. You should go home. Save your money for your family and make sure you go in a taxi if you know what’s good for you."
The closer she edged toward him, the more nervous he seemed to become. He kept looking at her outfit and she felt herself stiffen with embarrassment. He tried to wave her away with an unsteady lurch as he held onto the table for balance. Brows drawn together, he looked angry as he hauled his huge frame to a half-tilted, half-standing position.
"Hey, look, the world is standing sideway," he chuckled. "Are you saying what I think you are? That I’m drunk. I’ll let you know I haven’t been drunk since I was a teen." He let out a deep hiccup and wobbled precariously. Tyler thought he was about to topple over.
"What’s the expression?" he asked. "In his cups. You’re saying I’m drunk."
"Sir, it’s time to leave, don’t you think."
"What’s going on here, Tyler?"
Tyler swallowed hard as she heard the voice behind her. Oh, oh, now it’s all on.
Both she and the man turned in the direction of the voice. Her boss approached. Tyler struggled to stifle a giggle as she saw Dick’s latest outfit; a tight yellow polyester suit that looked like it was cutting his large girth in two and his ever-present cigar butt, hanging from between flabby-jawed lips. The sight made her cringe. He was disgusting, and now he was heading in her direction. The music in the room stopped, and a hush spread around the bar. Even the go-go dancers stilled their waving limbs.
The man beside her let out a deep guttural chuckle as he saw the vision in yellow move towards them. "Damn, a walking, talking pineapple," he slurred.
Tyler glanced at the drunken man and shot a hand across her mouth to stifle a giggle that threatened to erupt. She agreed with the customer. Dick Harper was a sight to behold, but to laugh at him right now wouldn’t help her one iota.
"Nothing. It’s all okay, boss." Tyler looked down at her feet, knowing she daren’t look him straight in the eye. The fact that she hadn’t been able to feel her toes for the last half hour was hopefully not going to be a problem. She just hoped they hadn’t lost all circulation and were still attached to her feet.
"This here waitress says I’m drunk. That I’ve had enough." Tyler heard the anger and frustration in the man’s voice, and it annoyed her that he was putting all his woes onto her, making it her fault.
"Is this true?" Dick puffed oh his cigar, exhaling a cloud of rancid smoke in her direction.
Tyler blinked several times, and her eyes began to water. The two hulks towered over her, Dick and his mammoth obese self and the drunken hulk, scowling. "No, of course not." She looked up at the customer, hoping he’d back her up.
Instead, he let out a loud belch and plopped down in his seat, sending the remains of his tankard of beer sprawling across the table and onto the floor where it oozed into the purple plush pile carpet.
Dick grabbed Tyler by the wrist, mumbled a brief apology in Dave’s direction, and pulled her towards the bar. She had no choice, as Dick’s cigar smoke wrapped itself around her in a cloud, and she followed in his wake. "That’s it, little lady. I’ve had it with you. You’re out of here. Now. This instant. And don’t think you need ask for anything either. You’ve been more trouble than it’s worth."
Tyler’s jaw dropped as she stared, wide-eyed, at Dick Harper. Sacked. He had the nerve to sack her. "You can’t. You owe me one week’s wages, plus tips. Dick, I need that money." Tyler tried pleading.
It was no use, Dick ignored her pleas. She would have got down on her hands and knees to the creep if it had helped. But she had some pride.
Grabbing her worldly goods, which she had packed earlier in the day into the canvas carryall, she tried to fight back the tears and leave with some dignity. That money had been her lifeline. Now it was gone. She gave Roy a quick hug and went to head out the front entrance, but she couldn’t resist a parting shot. "You’ll hear from my lawyer, you jerk," she shouted, her voice crackling with anger. Or was it fear? Fear because she had no money and nowhere to go. She was alone, all because of that creep.
Tyler turned to look at the cause of her disaster. The man was bending over the table. She heard him curse as he bumped his head, and a smile curved her lips. "Good job," she muttered as she exited the bar. It was surprising he was still standing. She watched as he wobbled his way out the front entrance, the bouncer slamming the door shut behind him.
"And goodnight to you, too," he yelled to the closing door. She heard his mutterings even through the door. "Huh... thinks I’m pissed. Drunk as a skunk."
The night was over for Tyler. She collected her belongings and left, surprised at the relief she felt. At least she wouldn’t have to demean herself any longer.
Outside, she spied the man heading toward the taxi stand a few feet away.
"It’s all your fault," she called out.
She turned and gave him the most terrifying glare she could, tilting her chin upward in defiance.
His nostrils flared. "Opium."
It surprised her that he could smell it above the heady mixture of stale smoke and beer that tinged her clothing from hours in working at the bar.
He lurched suddenly, his dark eyes closing. He gasped for gulps of fresh air. "Fault. What on earth did I do? You’re the one that said I was drunk."
"You are!" Tyler shouted back.
"May be. But your boss said it’s your job to sell me what I want. I wanted a lot of beer."
"Such a waste. There you are, Mr. Fancy Suit and fancy job, spending however much you like, while people like me scrimp and save. Now I’ve lost the lot, the job, the wages, and my week’s tips. All because of you."
"Do you have to harp on like a shrew?" He leaned back on the side of a parked car. "Hell, I feel sick, and my head hurts." He looked up her, his bleary eyes unreadable. "What the hell are you going on about anyway?"
"I have nowhere to stay because of you. You owe me, mister, and I’m going to stick to you like glue. Do you hear me? Like glue. Until I’ve got what you owe me."
From my book - Be My Valentine - http://www.trebleheartbooks.com/BeckenhamSynops.html |
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