I said I wasn’t going to do it…
Earlier this week I decided to go ahead and sign up for NaNo again. It worked so well last year for Researched to Death (which I hope to have out by the end of the year), and I want to get ahead again in the writing. I have the plot for the sixth book pretty much laid out in my head, so I thought I’d go ahead and get it down on “paper.”
The sixth book will be called Psyched to Death, and it’ll be a doozy. I already have the introduction scene written. Here it is:
Psyched to Death
“What the hell are you doing here?” My ex, Scott Deering, was standing in front of me, brandishing the bow of his cello like a sword. “And what the hell are you wearing?”
I looked down. I was seated on a folding chair, and I was wearing pajama pants and a UCLA t-shirt. I looked around me. I was on the Santa Monica Pier. It was a beautiful, warm evening. There were a couple dozen other people around me, all sitting in folding chairs, all clad in evening wear. In front of me, the entire Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra was tuning up.
I looked back at Scott. “We came to hear the concert.” I glanced to my right, where my current boyfriend, Pete Ferguson, was perusing the concert program. He was wearing pajamas too. “No one told us it was dressy.”
Scott rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He strode back to his seat in the second row of the cello section. The concertmaster walked out to applause, the orchestra finished tuning, and the conductor appeared. He bowed to the audience, stepped onto the podium, and picked up his baton. The first notes of Ravel’s “Bolero” wafted into the night.
I closed my eyes and smiled. This was why we were here. Ever since I’d first heard Bolero as a teenager on a school field trip, performed by the San Diego Symphony, I’d thought it was the sexiest piece of music ever. Being here was definitely worth the price of running into Scott.
About halfway through, Pete leaned over and put his hand on my leg. “This is making me so hot.”
I whispered back. “Me, too.” And it was. The building intensity of the music was having a definite effect on my anatomy. Pete’s hand, sliding gradually higher on my thigh, was creating havoc as well. At this rate, I’d be lucky to make it to the end of the piece.
I barely did. Pete and I jumped to our feet to join in the standing ovation at the end then he grabbed my hand. “Let’s go.” We ran for the public restrooms, plunged in, and slammed into the last stall. Pete shoved the bolt closed on the door and turned to me. I grabbed him and we dove in, literally. Kissing, hands roaming, we were well on our way to overload when someone started pounding on the door.
Pete groaned and pulled away from me. I grabbed at him. “No! They can wait!”
Pete muttered, “Shit,” and turned on the light.
I opened my eyes. I was at home, in bed, not wearing pajamas, but definitely sporting a raging erection. And someone was definitely pounding on our front door.
Pete rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and grabbed a bathrobe. I croaked, “What time is it?”
“Quarter of six.” Pete opened the door of the bedroom and went downstairs. I tried to remember what day it was. Oh yeah – Saturday. That’s why we’d been sleeping in.
I figured I’d better go see what was up. I put on a pair of jeans – a better disguise than sweatpants for my flagging but still obvious erection. I couldn’t find one of my own t-shirts, so I grabbed one of Pete’s and followed him downstairs, tugging the shirt over my head as I went.
Pete was standing in the living room, talking to a cop. He was a plainclothes guy, but I knew cops. Pete was an ex-cop. My brother Kevin was a cop. This guy was a cop.
The cop turned to me as I reached the bottom of the stairs, and held out his hand. “Detective Dennis Herold, Santa Monica PD.”
I shook his hand. “Jamie Brodie. What’s going on?”
Pete answered. “They found one of our students dead in the office of the psychology department.”