It is day 17 of the 30 day NaNoWriMo challenge. My word count sits at a paltry 12K and some change. If I were doing the recommended daily word dump, I’d be at 28,339 words. Um, yeah. I’ll let you do the math to see how far behind I am. I’ve got just a shade over 13 days to pull a whopping 38K words from my…um, mind and commit them to paper if I am to earn my badge this year. As crazy as this may sound, I honestly think I’m going to do just that. It’s weird. Normally, this far back, I’d throw in the towel, accept my lack of drive, and go on about my business. But I’m kind of tired of accepting my mediocrity; being okay with giving way less than my full 100% to something. I also look at it this way, I haven’t let work (the J.O.B. that makes it so I can live indoors, and eat on a relatively regular basis) get in the way of building my website, writing to my blog, surfing FB every hour on the hour, sometimes for hours on end. So why let anything get in the way of me and my NaNo badge? I mean, seriously, I spend a LOT of time sitting around. With the exception of the time I spend driving (which is a great deal more than I’d like to think about), there is nothing preventing me from having the lap top open and banging out a few words.
Speaking of which, would you like to read a snippet of the work in progress? Now keep in mind, this is an extremely rough draft. I haven’t paragraphed much of it, nor do I have it in proper sequence yet. At least I’ve tried to maintain some semblance of grammatical correctness ;-). Either way, enjoy. I’ve got to get back to work.
Working Title: Control
He drove as fast as he could, pushing the Porsche 911 to only eighty-five percent of its max. He was just out having fun for a change. It had been just a couple of weeks since he’d made first contact. It had taken all the control he had not to tell her the whole story right then and there. He could see how badly she needed some release from the small world she was living in. It was in the way she walked into the bar. The third time that week, meaning that sorry excuse for a husband she had must really be diggin’ his latest chick. The door to Riley’s opened letting out some of the smoke-filled stuffy air. She walked in, head held stiffly, defiantly straight. Her shoulders bore the tension of the days spent being Mike’s door mat. He watched her scan the crowd, marking off the regulars with a slight raise of the chin. They acknowledged her back with either a quick wave, a half-smile, or a chin raise of their own. She waved and smiled warmly at Pat behind the bar. He reached in the cooler and brought out a Corona for her. A splash of lime juice and grenadine, he met her at the end of the bar with the beer and her pool cue. On a couple of occasions, he’d sat at that end of the bar on purpose, but she’d never seemed to see him. He was too good at blending in maybe. He would have startled her badly had he reached out the way he wanted to, taking her in his arms, mimicking a lover’s embrace only to lean in and whisper in her ear that a better life was waiting for her. He had wanted to put that killer’s smile on her lips so often before. Instead, he’d waited. Torturing himself in the process. Tonight, he’d finally stepped from the shadows, hitting her with a line that under other circumstances, if uttered to any other woman, would have probably gotten him the coldest of shoulders. Instead, telling her she played pool badly earned him an inquisitive look, and calm agreement. She didn’t question how long he’d watched her, she didn’t turn instantly defensive, and above all else, she graced him with the hazel brown of her eyes. He saw the murderous machine just hovering underneath and he’d had to immediately go to the killer in himself to squelch the lust that threatened to reveal itself. What was it about the death dealer in her that spoke so strongly erotically to the man in him?
As he took the curves on the dark winding stretches of the Autobahn, he thought about this strange attraction. He did not fall in love. Or at least not since Monica; a remembrance best forgotten. But what he felt for Alexis was close enough to have him taking the turns at dangerous speeds as if he could outrun the emotion. But not even at 140 miles per hour could get past this growing affection for her. Ugh. Even the word disgusted him. He’d done so well all these years. But maybe it was the fact that he recognized himself in Alexis. That wasn’t narcissistic at all, falling in love with the female version of himself. He laughed out loud at the thought. The sound startled him into silence. He flipped the button on the steering wheel which turned on the custom Mark Levinson stereo system. The 100 gig drive began playing one of the millions of MP3s he had downloaded. He cranked up the sound, the twelve speakers surrounding him in a high quality cocoon of techno-funk. He was hoping to drown out any further thoughts of her. Didn’t work. Just gave him a sound track to his thoughts.
He pictured how she’d look during training, her body covered in a film of sweat, the muscles just beginning to grow leaner as the fat was burned away. Her gaze would be intense he knew. He’d watched her as she played pool. Despite how bad she was, she clearly saw every inch of the table as she studied where the balls had rolled to a stop. She could measure her shots, it was the lack of strength and surety when she moved the cue that caused the angles to betray her. It wouldn’t be that way when she learned where to take a life. Be it with gun, arrow, knife, or whatever he was sure she’d be a marksman. His jeans began to grow uncomfortably tight as the hard-on he hadn’t paid any attention to, grew painful. He could ignore it for a few miles longer. He was only an hour away from his safe house. As soon as he got there, he’d go a few rounds in the gym, pushing his body to exhaustion. He had no time for jacking off. Even if it was to the idea of taking her on the rubber-covered mats in the training room. Not caring who might see him, he’d ride her until she screamed her release. The idea stiffened his lust even further. Not jacking off may not be an option for too much longer.
He had to get her out of his head. He pushed the Porsche to 160 miles per hour, a hair beyond his usual comfort level. The turns now took on a dream like quality as the Porsche proved its worth. He’d had the car custom-built to specific engineering standards. He knew she could handle anything he dished out, but he hadn’t taken her through all of his usual paces yet. He’d been too busy with researching Alexis to have spent much time in the driver’s cockpit of his dream car. But after finally talking with her, he’d fled to his safe house to get his feelings (another word he detested) under control. He’d get them both killed if he didn’t soon get past his emotions. He’d also had to report to his contact at the Agency. He preferred to use the high security devices at the safe house than trust such delicate communication to the field equipment in his stateside apartment.