Facing the Blank Page
First off, thanks to Mel for letting me take over
her blog for the day!
It’s ironic that in order to write this blog, I had
to face the topic I chose…a blank page.
I’ve been a writer for over a decade, and back in the day, the words
flowed effortlessly (or at least that’s what I tell myself now). Like with anything we do repetitiously,
I developed a habit, and once that habit was removed from the equation, the
words stopped coming.
For me it was smoking… The day I let my last cigar go
dark, after twenty-plus years of smoking, the words became almost painful to
get out. And when they’d come so
easily before, it was like losing a part of myself. Because you see, even though I’ve been published for over a
decade, I’ve been writing since I was a child. Finished my first book (horrible though it was) when I was
sixteen. So losing the words was heartbreaking for me, something I didn’t know
how to deal with, except to try and try again, no matter how painful it was
when the words stopped coming--again.
For almost three years I started and stopped
stories, thinking that this one would be it,
that I’d get through my block with this
story. And finally, finally I
think I’m there… I should be finished with the sequel to Behind Blue Eyes within
the next two weeks, and as I re-read what I’d written so far, I was jazzed by
the fact I loved it. Loved the
characters, loved the plot, even though I found ways to tweak it for the
better. And now the end is in
sight, for the first time in a long time.
So that’s my story about writing, but doesn’t it
equate to what many of us go through when we lose anything we love, even if
only for a short time? If there’s
a moral to this story, it’s to never stop trying if you love what you’ve lost!!
With that in mind, here’s an unedited bit of Shoot
to Thrill…hope you like it!
Shoot to Thrill
Copyright TL Schaefer (2012)
I stepped out of my SUV and straightened the pencil
skirt and trim jacket I’d donned in deference to my cover. In nine years with
the Bureau, I’d never worn such a ridiculous get-up. My duties as an agent
tended more toward slacks and flats or Rockports, not the pastel pink nightmare
I sported nor the ridiculous stilts I teetered on. I looked like a freakin’
brunette Barbie Doll. I’d even straightened my hair.
It was humiliating. Then again, this wasn’t an
assignment. It was personal.
Special Agent Arin Thomas was now, for all intents
and purposes, Arin Thomas, Investigative Reporter. My skin crawled at the
thought.
I took a moment for a quick recon of my
surroundings. I’d driven through
one hell of a set of gates to get here—reminded me of a prison, almost. And now I stood on a high hill, the
June sun warming my head, looking down over a beautiful landscape of trees,
meadows and valleys. It was
gorgeous. God’s country. It was like coming home.
Except for the beast at my back.
I spun on one mile-high spike and looked up at the
massive building looming over me and barely shook off a case of the heebie
jeebies.
Coming home indeed. Now it felt as if spiders were crawling across my neck. I resisted the urge to swipe the
phantoms away and concentrated on surveillance.
The Colorado Academy for Superior Intellect looked
as imposing as its name suggested. Hell, more so. What the hell did Wes Burke tangle himself up in before he took his
swan dive?
I tried and failed to pawn off the feeling I was
still in someone’s crosshairs as nerves. Even as secretive as this school was,
I couldn’t imagine they were protected by long guns. No, it was just twitchiness,
brought on by the fact I wasn’t totally comfortable with what I was doing. Wes
had been an acquaintance, but one I’d come to like, even respect. Truth be
told, in the few times we’d worked together, he’d felt like family. I owed him
a bit of my time, if nothing else. Or so I kept telling myself. It had a hollow ring, because would I
really have been this invested if I hadn’t received an anonymous call? Probably not. And didn’t that speak
wonders for my character?
I had to wonder, as a trickle of sweat crept down
my spine, if I wasn’t on a fool’s errand—or worse. I just hoped my habit of
trying to run everything and everyone’s lives around me—even the dead
ones—wasn’t going to bite me in the butt. It wouldn’t be the first time it had,
but an agent was dead, and I really wasn’t in the mood to fuck around with
niceties, or the people yanking my chain.
So here I was.
I took a long, steadying breath and began to climb
the stairs. No matter how much I might want to flash my shield and demand
answers, Wes’ death had been ruled a suicide, and if I wanted anything more
detailed than that, I was going to have to employ some finesse. Or just
outright lie. Both chafed at me, but were necessary.
At the top of the stairs, heavy double doors opened
slowly, as if the sunny summer day was too much to take all at once.
The man who stepped out made the breath clog in my
lungs even as he raised my shields.
Tall, with a runner’s build, he wore his blond hair
too long for conventional business purposes, the slightly curling ends brushing
the collar of a pristine white polo shirt. Tailored dun-colored slacks
completed the academic ensemble, framing the rest of him perfectly. His face
was classically handsome, marred only by a scar that slashed beneath his left
eye, arcing into his hairline. He was still too far away for me to see the
color of his eyes, but I’d bet my next paycheck they were as striking as the
rest of him.
I shook off a quick shot of pure lust. I wasn’t
here to ogle the handsome professor. I was here for information, closure. And
when I got it, I might just consider taking a longer look at the man standing
in front of me. Maybe. Probably not.
I hitched the stupid girly purse barely big enough
to hold my Glock up on one shoulder and climbed the marble steps, holding out
my hand when I reached the top. In my heels I was an inch taller than him. So
much for appearing harmless.
“Arin Thomas, News Today,” I pasted a too-bright,
toothpaste-ad smile on my face. “I’d like to speak to the honcho in charge.”
He regarded my outstretched hand like it was a
poisonous snake, then lifted his gaze. “Miz Thomas,” he said, and it was easy
to hear the curl of distaste in his words, even through the slight down-home
drawl. “I have nothing to say to the media.”
His eyes were a deep, rich chocolate brown. The
contrast between his fair complexion and those eyes was arresting. But not
enough to make me forget why I was here.
I assumed the persona of every newsperson I’d ever
met and rolled right over his objection. “So you’re Jonah Summers. Outstanding.
I have a few questions for you.”
He looked past me, as if expecting to see a newsvan
complete with cameraman lurking behind my SUV. His gaze was hard, calculating
and a lot more tactical than I would have expected, given his profession. A
trace of surprise ghosted across his face, before quickly changing to pure
disdain. The change from academic to predator back to banal was flicker quick
and downright disconcerting. His strategic assessment of his surroundings
shouldn’t have been something that put me on alert myself, but it did.
Who the hell is this guy?
He stepped back into the cool darkness of what
looked like a foyer, pulling the door shut behind him as he spoke. “I have a
standard answer. No comment. This is private property, and you’re trespassing.
I suggest you leave before the police arrive.”
I did what any self-respecting reporter would do
and jammed the pointed toe of my stiletto into the rapidly diminishing crack.
“Just a few questions, really,” I wheedled in my
best little-girl voice, hating myself even as I did it. Flashing my shield and
getting in their face had worked damned well for me in the past and was
definitely more in line with my MO.
The heavy door closed on my scantily-protected
foot, making me yelp and jerk back less than gracefully. And from behind the
door I heard a distinctly amused, distinctly male chuckle. Bastard.
Fine, he wanted to play that way? Let the games
begin.
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