When I was a kid I assumed my favorite authors just sat down in front of a typewriter (yes, I said typewriter--heavens to Betsy, I'm old, as evidenced by the fact I just said "heavens to Betsy")--anyway, I assumed they sat down in front of a typewriter and typed out the story and voila, they were finished. (Yeah, right--in fantasy-land perhaps. Cut me a break. I was only ten years old.)
Truth is, your favorite novel was probably written and rewritten dozens of times and then edited, and edited, and edited, and edited some more before it ever made it to that beautiful book or awesome kindle copy you now enjoy. And my friends, I am now climbing out of editing purgatory with my new novel, The Heat. It isn't the most fun part of the process, but it is necessary. So, if you are still out there, cheer me on and wish me well. This is one of the final hurdles before getting the novel to you, the reader. In the mean time, enjoy a sample of my new novel, The Heat, which should be available in paperback and on kindle soon.
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SAMPLE: CHAPTER 1
MACLANEY BLUE, THE HEAT
1 MAX AND THE HEAT
Wonder how many chickens I’d violated in my lifetime?
The knife sliced into a pile of cooked chicken breasts. My free hand tucked a loose tendril of hair behind my ear. Hm…a ponytail usually sufficed. I guess I should have worn a hairnet, but the high school lunch lady look didn’t do much for me. I snorted. Magnolia Sheldon, glorified lunch lady. Damn. Some days I it seemed I had the greatest job in the world, but today wasn’t one of those days. I felt overwhelmed, exhausted, and pretty much stuck--a nobody in a job headed nowhere.
Neighbors in Addie’s Ridge thought of me as a somebody though, ever since Gran died and passed on her hometown restaurant to me. On the outside, I looked capable and confident but as perspiration crept down my cleavage and the back of my arm swiped my damp brow, I knew the truth. Lunch lady. Yep. Freakin’ lunch lady.
I dropped the knife onto the cutting board, washed my hands, and pulled the front hem of my white tee shirt through the neckline and back down creating a makeshift halter top. My lips curled into a smirk. Sexy lunch lady. Yeah, now that was more like it.
The swinging door opened and Tara peeked inside. “Oh, look at you rockin’ that plain white tee. Uh huh, I think Maggie Sheldon’s got her sexy on.”
I piled chicken onto a toasted bun and ladled barbeque sauce over the top before handing her the plate. “Shut up you goofball or I’ll think you’re hitting on me. Don’t want me to cry sexual harassment, do you?”
She winked at me. “Sexual harassment? Ewww, gross. What are you, like a hundred years old or somethin’?”
I swatted her perky nineteen-year-old ass with a dishtowel.
“Oh yeah, everybody knows who does the harassing around here,” Tara said.
Tara was a hoot. She sported blonde hair, blue eyes, and a body like a brick house. Since I hired her last summer, seventeen to twenty-five year old guys now hung around the café and ordered the blue plate special in surprising numbers. Yeah. They weren’t after the country-fried steak.
With the mouth she had on her, it was no surprise some people pegged Tara a wild child. Truth of the matter, she was as straight-laced as they came. Volunteered at the nursing home. Sang in the church choir. Had a reputation for being the good girl every momma wanted her little boy to date. Good employee too—hard worker. Her only shortcoming? Sometimes she lacked in the public relations department. Yeah, that mouth got her into trouble.
I plated two orders of chicken dumplings and one order of beans n’ greens. “Tara, order’s up.” I lifted fried chicken from the hot oil and then turned toward the swinging doors when I heard the commotion outside the kitchen.
“Mister, you can’t go in there. Hey!”
The kitchen door pushed open and a tall man strode inside, hands on hips and stern expression. I bit the fleshy inside of my jaw. “Can I help you?”
“Are you the cook?”
“I’m the owner. What seems to be the problem?”
Tara burst in. “Maggie, I told him he couldn’t come in here.”
I held up a hand. “I’ve got this, Tara. Why don’t you grab those orders and take them out front.” I turned to the gentleman. “Now, I’m sorry. What can I do for you?”
“For starters, you can tell me what the hold up is on my order. I’ve been waiting so long my ass has atrophied to the chair.”
“Your ass, huh? Well, you must have gotten it unstuck because it looks like you’re doing a pretty good job of showing it right now.”
His mouth dropped open. “Okay, seriously. Is this how you treat all your customers?”
“No, just the really annoying ones.”
He cocked his head to the side. “I see where your waitress gets her mouth.”
I doled out mashed potatoes with gravy and fried chicken on a couple of plates. My teeth grit together and I forced a happy-face suck-up smile. “Look, I’m sorry about the wait, but it’s the lunch rush and sometimes things get a little crazy. What was your order?”
“It isn’t like I ordered Beef Wellington or something. I just asked for a BLT. How hard could that be?”
“Like I said, I’m sorry. It has been busy today and I’m the only cook.”
“Like I said, I’m sorry. It has been busy today and I’m the only cook.”
“No excuse.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Okay, I’m trying to be nice, but truth is you haven’t waited long. Perhaps the problem isn’t the service. It might be your lack of patience.”
“It’s a wonder you have any business considering the way you…”
“Hey, look. If you think you can do better, there’s the stove. Have at it.” I spun around and plopped green beans onto each fried chicken dinner platter. “Tara, order’s up.”
I turned around in time to see him finish rolling up his sleeves. “What are you doing? You know, technically you aren’t supposed to be in my kitchen.”
“You told me if I thought I could do any better to have at it. Well, I can and I am. Now where’s the bacon?”
My mouth fell open. “What? I’m not kidding. You can’t be back here.”
My mouth fell open. “What? I’m not kidding. You can’t be back here.”
He washed his hands and rummaged through the industrial fridge. “Ah ha!” He held up a pre-cut slab of bacon. “Nice. Not the cheap stuff, either.”
I raised my voice. “Hey, stop that. You’re a walking health code violation.”
“You’re the one who started all this. If you could do your job in a timely manner, I wouldn’t be back here.”
Hell. Was he kidding me?
Hell. Was he kidding me?
“I’m not joking. I can’t have customers in my kitchen. What happens if you get burned or cut yourself or something? My insurance company would kill me. You need to get out of here.”
He laughed and kept gathering ingredients.
I grabbed his hand. “Look, I’m serious.”
He dropped the bacon, mayonnaise, and lettuce onto my worktable and spun around, taking both of my wrists into his large hands. When I tried to pull free, he pressed my arms to the door of the big silver refrigerator. My center of gravity shifted and I fell against the refrigerator door. It knocked the breath out of me. His grip held steady, the warmth from his hands scorching my wrists. He leaned in.
“And you think I’m not serious? You told me to cook my own lunch if I thought I could do better, and that’s what I’m gonna do.” His face pressed so close I could feel his breath on my cheek. “Don’t make an offer little girl if you’re not prepared to accept the consequences.”
He held my wrists tight and stared down at my mouth.
I exhaled in a loud huff and my tongue flicked across my lower lip. Damn but he was pretty. Tousled dark hair with tiny flecks of silver at the temples. Chocolate brown eyes and a chiseled jaw. Broad shoulders filled out his blue long-sleeved shirt. And his lips--Umm. His lips made you wanna say things that’d make your momma blush.
What was wrong with me? I should be afraid of him, not checking him out.
Tara stuck her head through the doorway. “Hey, Maggie. I need two more blue plates and a cheeseburger combo.” She glanced in our direction. “What the?”
He dropped my wrists and stepped away, running his fingers through his thick hair.
I shook my head and stared at Tara. “It’s okay. You need two blues and a CBC. Got it.” I turned my attention back to Mr. Iron Chef Wannabe. “Let’s get something straight. You keep your damned hands to yourself. No one puts their paws on me unless I say I want to be touched.”
His lips lifted a bit at the corners and his eyebrows raised a notch. “I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.” He leaned toward me. “Unless you want to be touched, that is.”
I rolled my eyes. “Smart ass.”
He chuckled.
“Look, we need to back up and start over. I was just joking earlier, um, Mr. uh…”
“Max. Max Walker.” He tore into the bacon and strode to the stove. As the griddle heated, he spread several slices of bacon onto it, and started slicing tomatoes. Every few slices he tapped the cutting board with the base of the knife. I stared at him.
“Right. Okay, Mr. Walker. Really. If you will wait outside, I’ll fix your BLT and get anything else you’d like. On the house.”
“Maggie, is it?”
I nodded.
“Well, Maggie, unless you want three more customers crowding around your stove, I suggest you let me take care of the BLT and you get back to the other orders.” He flipped the bacon and popped two slices of bread into the toaster.
I shook my head and started preparing the other plates. “I don’t need some K.V. trying to play chef in my kitchen.”
“K.V. as in Kitchen Virgin. Hmph,” he said. His gaze started at my ankles and traced a slow path up my body, resting at the knotted tee shirt between my breasts. “I can assure you, Maggie, I’m no virgin. Your equipment is in capable hands.”
Well, hell. I just spontaneously combusted.
