A lot has been on my plate this month. I decided to start my own business, my art illustrations and my jewelry the focus. It’s entailed time away from fiction writing but directed me towards writing copy for the marketing end of my business, where I got my ideas for my jewelry and art. It brought me back to around the time I began attending the Deadwood Writer’s Group. I was writing a children’s picture book. I’d developed illustrations which now I am selling as prints on my Etsy page, www.wjkartisandesigns.com. It’s an exciting time in my life and I’m glad and grateful that I get to share these artworks in my own way now.
Another aspect that’s filled my attention is all that goes into starting a business. Finance, marketing, social media, product development – more jewelry and illustration development. It’s a bit nerve-racking to fit everything in, meaning my artistic nature and my need to write juicy and intriguing romances. But a smart woman, when I thought doing both was crazy, told me, “Why can’t you do both?” Her encouragement toward my success and happiness has always been given right when I needed it. So, thanks Mom. Love you!
On other exciting news, I’m going to Ireland soon. I’m not even there yet and I’m already inspired. What kind of stories will sprout from my visit, the brogue, the people, the colors, the constant green that everyone talks about? My heart gallops to fiery beat of a stampede when I think of all the opportunities that have become evident these past few months, words that have been spoken by friends and family. I’ve heard encouragement before, but this time, as my friend and sister of the heart, Jo Self- who is also a branding/strengths consultant for business and the individual, would say, I listened to what the universe was trying to tell me and am using the strengths I’ve been given to make positive things happen.
My fingertips touch the grande cup of coffee when I think to ask, “This isn’t yours, is it?”
“Oh no,” the guy next to me says. “I watched her make mine because I got hazelnut in it. I’m trying something new.”
I didn’t really think it was mine; I was being polite. I always order a tall coffee in a grande cup so I have room to add milk. The barista set my side of steamed 2% milk on the counter at the same time she put his tall coffee down. That’s why I asked. Just in case.
It’s an embarrassing thing to touch someone else’s coffee cup. What’s the etiquette? I’ve seen people ask for a new cup of coffee, perhaps thinking of all the germy diseases that transferred from that two-second touch. I’ve seen people walk away without a second thought. Do you, the toucher, ask the touched if they want you to buy them a new cup of coffee? Touching a for-here mug, however, is that whole salad bar sneeze guard thing, except that there’s no sneeze guard at a coffee shop. Fortunately, I don’t need to worry about etiquette. Not today.
“I’m not a hazelnut person,” I say, stirring a Splenda packet in my mug. “What kind of coffee did you get?”
“Just the regular, the Pike,” he says. “I’m just a coffee guy. What about you?”
“I got a Veranda.” He stares at me. This conversation has just turned awkward.
“It’s the blonde roast,” I explain. That’s how the Starbucks baristas refer to it. There’s dark, medium and light roast. Blonde is the lightest; Pike Place is the standard medium roast; and there’s a rotating variety of dark roast. Knowing to say “blonde roast” means you’re hip with the proper terms and slang to fit in. You know how to order a drink. You’re a regular. I’m a regular, but I still refer to the coffee by the BEAN/BLEND itself, mostly because the dark roast rotates. The average blue collar drinker uses the roast terms. Will this guy understand me?
“I’ve never had that,” he says as he pours excess, filled-to-the brim coffee into the trash bag.
Ew. This is why, I get a grande cup. Would you pour hot liquid into your trash bag at home?
“It’s the light roast,” I say, reaching for another Splenda. “It’s smooth…”
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” he interrupts me.
I’m a bit put out. He wanted to experience something new with his hazelnut. I want to share with him something I like that could turn into a new experience for him.
“They used to offer a vanilla blonde,” I continue, thinking of our shared reference of flavored syrup. I pause, he’s staring at me. I can’t tell if its stop or go, so I continue, “But the vanilla took away from the taste.”
He looks down at his coffee, stirring. I look over his shoulders at the signage board. It’s a place for my eyes to rest on before stirring more milk into my coffee.
“I got a friend who’s a coffee specialty guy. He comes for the special coffee,” the guy says.
Special coffee? What’s that? I’d like to try it if there’s something unique. “Does he come here to this store?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, he must get the Reserve coffee,” I say, pointing to the signage board I was just staring at. Good move there. This store is a Clover location, which is one that has a special coffee machine. A Clover coffee was the first cup of coffee I had today, but you can only get a free refill with one of the regular coffees.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he says, his voice energetic, finally. He had sounded impatient, like I was keeping him from leaving or something, but now, he continues the conversation. “I call him a coffee connoisseur.”
If your speech could roll its eyes, this would be it. He wipes up his trash–poured coffee–he spilled. “Me, I’m a coffee guy.”
It’s that act of wiping the coffee that catches my eye and stops me. He’s cleaning up his mess, like he would do at home. And he’s really cleaning it up, wiping hard with the napkin and scrubbing the counter space.
‘Just coffee guys’ don’t do that. Heck, coffee connoisseurs don’t do that. I do it when I can because there’s nothing more icky than setting your cup down on a sticky counter. Even when I put a napkin down first, I hope that sticky drop under my napkin is honey.
He says something else, but it’s that friendly garble-rush of someone finishing a conversation with no room to continue. I don’t hear what it is because I stare at his clean counter area. I was wrong about him? He takes a seat at the window seat behind me. So, he wasn’t rushing to get out to his car after all. For some reason, him sitting there surprises me. Regardless, our moment is over.
I’ve spilled some Splenda on the counter. I’d wipe it and brush it into the trash bag, but there’s a rim around the trash bag that I can’t get over. I brush the white powder on the floor instead. It’s something.
I don’t see any damage, but I’m uncontrollably jittery. It’s a good thing I brought my journal tonight. My mocha Frappuccino will just add caffeine to my jitters, but the journal, well, that’s relaxing. I hope.
It’s an older journal, and I’m looking for something writing related. A passage caught my eye this morning, notes from my belly dancing article for U. S. 1. It draws my mind back to the interview.
Kim, my instructor, says, “I learned that I want to stay there.”
She’s talking about her time in Turkey. “It was more of a style and a feel that I learned,” she continued, discussing her dancing techniques. “Turkish feels very funky, earthy, aggressive.”
Movement draws my attention. The two chess guys have left my table, so I pop over, freeing myself from Mr. Wobbles here. I’m closer to the windows now. It’s suddenly dark outside, the dark of a storm approaching. Trees are stretching their branches in that helpless way, reaching to stop the storm, knowing they can’t. They’re victim to the tosses of storm winds.
I continue reading my notes and transcription. I might as well because I can’t find what I’m looking for.
“It confirmed a lot of things I’ve learned over the years,” Kim says.
“You learn things and you’re not really sure what their roots are.”
I spread out with room to spare and reread the U. S. 1 Philly nightlife article. I still adore the twists and turns of the language. I don’t like the attitude of the writer–she comes across as too know-it-all in-your-face–but the language is alive. “Rolling sushi with ‘frightening perfection'” is still my favorite.
Her vibrant language makes you want to keep reading to discover what she’ll describe next, and how. This is how you write Show Don’t Tell: “J. Crew crowd and martini meat market.” Her typing tongue makes some of my Singles articles pale in language comparison. But it also inspires me to write outside the box, to stretch, to compare and to create.
Back to my journal. What did Kim say next? How good was my article with the material I collected?
“I learned and loved it and wondered later, ‘where does it come from, why does it feel like this, what does it mean?’”she says, “so it brought these things home and I got my answers.”
My fiancé–oh, I just love the sound of that– just called to share warm fuzziness. He’s on his way up for the weekend, and he was thinking how he’ll only be doing this drive for a few more months–155 days, to be exact. Then I’ll be in Delaware. That made him think of the box and shopping bag of my stuff upstairs. I take a symbolic “something” every time I drive down to spend the weekend. He said he realized soon all my stuff will be in his house. Our house. We did a simultaneous awwwwww. Together.
He’s an adorable man. We are going to have a great life together.
10:15pm. I’ll be kicked out soon. That’s okay—I’m done for the night.
Hot Blacktop started as an experiment. I wanted to find out if I could produce a well-devised chapter each month. On July 10th, 2015 I did just that. The journey has been fulfilling. I’ve written, with the help of my editor, Phil, a work that I’m proud of to call a success.
Now that I’ve finished the novella, what comes next? Dipping my toes into an ocean caught in an ever-expanding maelstrom of indie authors that have decided not to go the traditional route is a scary endeavor in my designs for success. Is it better to query several agents knowing the outcome could be a quick toss from the slush pile to the trash after reading the first sentence of the novella or listening to voice from a surprise phone call hearing someone tell me they’re interested in my work?
The first is common. The second is rare but more satisfying. Is it a safer to get my work up in e-book format and see what happens, knowing that it’s finally out there in the world of e-commerce so people can read it right away, no chance that it will be rejected and not seen at all? In the back of my mind, these questions have had me waffling all year. My brain feels like I’ve been balancing one foot on a thin board while my arms get heavier and heavier with the weight of each decision as I rebalance myself. It was a difficult decision.
Finally, I decided to take the leap. I’ve started the process to e-publish. A few of my writer friends have already jumped in, and it seemed painless if not time-consuming, and they appear to be happy with the outcome. So I’m going to reach forward with long strokes and swim in the sea of indie romance writers, and hope that I gain a following, hope that readers like what I have to offer, and hope that Hot Blacktop becomes a success.
Coming in January 2017 the full novella, Hot Blacktop by Wendi Knape
Also coming in January, The Hot Blacktop series continues with Christof and Megan in: Hot Turns
A whirlwind of motion flooded the hospital emergency room when the four of them entered. The staff tried to take Danny from Gunner, and he growled like some wild beast. They backed away. Saint said something quietly to him. Gunner’s shoulders sagged, and he nodded as Saint backed up and the attending moved in with a gurney.
“Sir, please. You’ve got to let him go. He’s in good hands.” A male nurse said, approaching inch by inch. Gunner’s gaze lasered in on the nurse. The guy didn’t back down. Danny didn’t make a sound when Gunner set him down gently. The staff moved at warp speed after that.
“Sir you can’t come in here. It’s better you stay in the waiting room.”
“Try and fucking stop me. Where the boy goes, I go.”
Sienna’s focus sharpened on the big man holding Danny until she realized the tears streaming down her face. She blinked.
“Sienna, honey let’s get you into emergency too.”
“What?” She looked up, Saint’s fingers wiped her streaked cheeks. He guided her into a wheelchair a nurse parked in front of her. “Oh.” She still clutched his hand when they started to roll her away. Sienna struggled to keep hold of him, not wanting him out of her sight after what she’d let happen. She tried to turn in the chair. A hiss of pain made Saint’s eyes narrow. She gripped him harder, but he slowly slipped away, the release causing a chill to mark her skin. She’d told him she loved him but would he still want her after all she’d heaped on Saint?
“I’ll be here. I’ll come back to you as soon as the doctors let me,” Saint said.
The nurse nodded at him. “As soon as the doctor says it’s okay,” the nurse told her. “Not a second before,” the older woman scolded.
Sienna reached out to him again and moaned from the pain.
The nurse patted her shoulder to still her. “You’ll be done in no time.” Sienna glared at the nurse and winced. She wanted to hate the older woman pushing her, but she seemed nice if she looked beyond her bossiness.
“Mmm, mmm, that man is hot. You’re one lucky lady. If my Reggie had a face and body like that, I might have overlooked his wandering eyes. And hands. If you know what I mean. With a man like that, it would have been worth it.” The nurse kept chattering on and on, and Sienna toned her out thinking about what she could say to Saint to make up for pushing and yelling at him. What if the result of his fall was a cracked skull? She was lucky that all he had was a sore head and some stitches.
Going through the stark double doors further away from Saint felt like a chasm had opened up, like he would forget about her, disappearing like every other good thing she’d tried to hold onto in her life. The last glimpse was of Saint staring at the floor. What did that mean? Was he rethinking being with her? Had she ruined everything?
After being poked and prodded, a few hours passed. Sienna finally drifted off to sleep, her injuries not as severe as she’d thought. X-rays revealed her ribs were bruised but fine. She was battered badly and would heal in time. Sienna knew she’d be fine, at least she thought she would. But more so, she was worried about what Saint was thinking. Even before they’d reached the hospital, he’d been terribly quiet in Gunner’s SUV.
The arms of the clock slowed as if sculpted with concrete, and Saint still hadn’t made an appearance. Even the nurse came by more than a few times to check on her. The shift even changed. When the nurse stepped up to her IV bag and switched it out with another, things started to blur. She didn’t want to fall asleep without seeing Saint.
“Where’s Saint,” she thought she’d asked. The nurse’s lips moved, but all she could hear was a jumble of noise. Her eyelids kept slipping closed. “Saint?” She struggled to stay awake. Everything had to be alright between them, she was frantic to see him. But her limbs fought against her and became heavier. She eventually succumbed to the drugs dripping into her system and sleep washed over her.
Voices woke her with a jolt, unexpected words entering her mind. Her eyelids hung heavy, and she struggled to open them.
“Three of Danny’s ribs… I thought…lung…punctured but he got lucky.”
Sienna opened her eyes, things still a little fuzzy. Two figures stood by the window in her room. She blinked.
The forms finally cleared and one started to speak again, Gunner, she thought, emotion ripping through his voice. “He…when I found him…God dammit!”
Was he crying?
“When I found him, his pants were around his ankles.”
She gasped.
“Sienna, you’re awake.” It was Saint’s words that drew her attention.
She tried not to read into what Gunner had just revealed. Did Marco rape him? She whimpered. “Where’s Danny? What did that fucking bastard, Marco, do to Danny?” Her words were small, the pain for what Danny endured too large to make it past her aching throat. And then she remembered the blank stare of her mother when Marco had carted her into that small shack. Sienna didn’t know how long her mother had been dead before she had arrived. “Ohh,” she groaned.
Saint came to her side and took her hand. The relief she felt from the contact making her sharp breaths ease only a little. Sienna had to focus on something else. She couldn’t think about her mother yet. She’d known it was going to be bad. She pinched her eyes closed and tried to shift her thoughts to something else.
Her eyes flicked back up to Gunner’s his arm bandaged where he’d gotten shot. He continued speaking. “The doctors said there was no evidence of sexual violation. Thank God. But until I talk to Danny…” His words trailed off, and he took a deep breath. “He was so dirty by the time I got to him,” he took another harsh breath, “that I didn’t notice the cuts in his abdomen. Christ!” Gunner rubbed his face with rough, jerky movements. “The doctor said he cleaned and stitched the wounds. There were no serious internal injuries. He’s bruised more than anything.”
“He’ll be okay right,” Sienna asked.
“Physically? Yeah, mentally, I won’t know until he wakes up.”
“You haven’t talked to him yet?” She said. “What time is it? How long have I been asleep?” Her words tripped over one another, pain sliced through her lungs with each breath, her ribs taking that moment to reintroduce themselves as the medication disappeared.
“Calm down, baby,” Saint said. “Danny’s asleep. He’s going to be fine.”
Sienna watched Gunner’s eyes move to the floor, and his body shake, with what? Anger? Fear? Guilt? She couldn’t know.
Gunner interrupted her thoughts. “I’m going to head out.”
“But, what about…”
The man steamrolled over her. “Don’t worry about Danny. I’m taking care of him when he gets out of the hospital.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. Why would Gunner do that? He didn’t seem very child-friendly.
Saint asked what had stuck in her throat. “You are?”
“I know a few people,” he grimaced.
“But the woman I spoke to with social services said she’d try to have Danny placed with me,” Saint said. Gunner shook his head.
“It’s nothing against you, man, but I think I’m better equipped to deal with the boy than you are.”
“How so?” Saint asked as he stood up and crossed his arms facing Gunner.
Gunner just smiled, it not reaching his eyes. “Just know that I have his best interests at heart.”
“Yeah, now you do,” Saint whispered just loud enough, and Gunner grimaced.
Silence trickled on for long seconds, and Gunner finally said, “I’ll let you know when Danny’s released and where we’ll be.” And then he turned around and exited the room, his stride sure and quick.
Sienna was so focused on the doorway that she jumped when Saint sat on the edge of the bed.
“How are you feeling, baby?” She couldn’t speak. “Sienna? Are you hurting? Do you need me to go get the nurse?” He stood up. She grabbed onto his shirt not caring about the pain, and her forehead fell against his chest, and she let loose her tears. Saint enveloped her with his arms forming a cocoon of warmth, holding her close.
“I’m fine.” She breathed him in. The memory of hearing him yell out for her, storming into the small shack, him taking the too tight blindfold off her face. “God, I’m fine. I love you! I love you so much. I’m sorry I said all those nasty things. I didn’t mean them. I didn’t mean to push you. When Danny told me, you’d fallen…” Her words rolled right over each other and Saint seemed to hold her tighter.
“I know, Sienna. I know you didn’t mean what you said or did,” he replied. “I love you too.” He kissed her temple and then her lips, barely a touch. She wanted more, and she needed more. Her fingers curled in his shirt, pulled him closer and took his lips. He moaned in surprise and gently pulled her back and looked down at her.
“Saint, please kiss me. I need it. I need you.” Lifting her head and leaning in again she tried to reach him, but he held her off.
“Sienna, you’re hurt. You need to rest.” He smiled down at her.
She pouted, trying not to wince when she figured out her lip still really hurt where Marco had hit her. Saint chuckled and gave her a quick peck on the lips. Sienna exhaled and linked her fingers tightly in her lap and tried to lean back on her own but Saint was there to help relax back onto the bed.
“See. You need to heal.”
Silence lingered. “What now?” Sienna asked.
“Now, we wait until you’re released and make sure Danny’s okay with Gunner. I’m still not positive he should go with Gunner.” He looked toward the window.
“What’s wrong with Gunner? He saved us both by killing Marco.”
“I don’t know. Gunner’s got secrets. I don’t like it.”
“Well, I think it will be okay,” she said and closed her eyes. “If Social Services believes he’s the upstanding guy they think he is then we should let them be.”
“How can we do that when I know for a fact, he didn’t help Danny in that damn house. He let Danny’s mother beat the shit out of him. It’s not right. I want him with us.”
Sienna’s eyes snapped open, but she couldn’t look at him. Not yet. She focused on her fingers the red skin mottling to a white as she gripped harder and harder. Hope bloomed in her chest making her heart ache. Was what he felt worth more time than just a few weeks they’d spent together? He told her he loved her but did he mean more than the passion they’d shared so far? She wanted to grab on tight to the word ‘us’ and never let it go. But she was scared to ask him what he meant directly, so she focused on Danny instead. “Danny and I don’t get along. How well do you think he would handle me helping take care of him? Especially when you’re living above your garage, and I live at my house?”
Saint gently lifted her chin with his fingers and caressed her jaw back and forth, back and forth. When Sienna’s eyes met his, she fell into the depths of love there wanting to stay forever.
He shook his head and smiled one side lifting up knowingly. He kissed her and held his lips over hers for too long. When he didn’t move away, his next words tickled her when he spoke. “You’re worried I don’t love you enough.” His lips lingered on hers, and his tongue slipped out softly to slide across hers. She moaned, and his smile felt good against her. “Don’t. ‘Us’ means you and me forever, Sienna.” Saint’s kisses brushed across her jaw as he leaned in closer. She lifted her chin, and then his lips met the soft spot below her ear, and he nipped her there leaving his mark. Then he slowly came back to her lips for another drawn out soft kiss. “Even though our time together has been short, I know you’re it for me. I knew it when I carried you to your bed with that migraine. I surely knew it when I didn’t know if I’d reach you in time when Marco had taken you. I love you, Sienna.”
He wiped her cheeks again and she laughed. “I’m a mess.”
“You’re a beautiful mess. My beautiful mess.” He took her hands. “I don’t care how we do it. The ‘Us.’ Just as long as we’re together. You can move into the apartment above the shop.” He laughed when she wrinkled her nose. “Or I can move in with you. It doesn’t matter as long as I’m with you.”
He gave her some much-needed tissues.
“What do you say?”
“I say, yes.”
Saint smiled, and she started to giggle as he crawled onto the small bed with her and he replied, “I can’t wait.
The End
Coming in January Hot Turns in the Hot Blacktop Series
