Thursday Throw Out

So evidently the whole write edit repeat process takes like five years in the world of a dyslexic. I am about 20 pages from changing the tense of my entire first novel AGAIN because evidently it didn't take last time. *heavy sigh* Now I have to basically re-write it. because I read it and can tell it is not good enough. Such is the life of a writer. Self confidence has never been my thing.


This week is a little more of the project that my little bitch of a muse wont let me walk away from. I keep waking up with plot bunnies hopping all over my bed, and the bastards are multiplying faster than said furry mammals. So here you go.


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I sleepily drag my luggage onto the elevator at the Rio, barely aware of the two bodies that follow me on to the lift. It is two in the morning and the rest of Las Vegas is bustling. However, I just flew from the Eastern Time zone so my body feels like it is five a.m., which happens to be the time I woke up yesterday morning.

I lean sleepily against the mirrored wall, pressing my face against the cool glass. My eyes are closed as my body fights sleep, but I force them open, realizing I need to hit the button for my floor. Turning my body so that I am facing forward I am met with a wall of man. Well, two men actually, who shoulder to shoulder, take up almost the entire width of the elevator car. Feeling meek and frumpy in my skirt suit, I try to figure a way to hit my button without bringing any attention  to myself.  Unfortunately, without crawling through one of their legs, it seems impossible.

On second thought…No, that would be rude.

One of the muscly giants turns and notices my existence. I make fleeting eye contact as my knees try to give out under his gaze. He shoots me a cocky smile, knowing that he is affecting me. I squash the giggle rising and clear my throat. Am I really turning into a blushing schoolgirl over these guys. Pathetic.

“Can you hit floor twenty two for me?” I croak out. Fuck now I am turning into a teenage boy. Smooth Storm, fucking smooth.

“Already pushed.” The man who hasn’t turned toward me says in a low, yet sexy rumble. My knees wobble again, my betraying libido doing strange things to my body.  The smirker covers his smile but has a hard time disguising his body jerking with laughter.

Why did Jennifer have to put me up in the same hotel as the convention? These dudes are going to be crawling all over this place. I didn’t bring BOB with me on this trip. I am going to have the forearms of Popeye by the time I leave Vegas.

The elevator stops at my floor and dude number one walks out. He pauses glancing expectantly at his counterpart. I look the low voice and notice he has moved aside, waiting for me to exit first. When my eyes meet his I freeze, almost dropping my luggage. Jax Michel Jewlson in his tattooed and faux hawked glory Is waiting on me to depart the lift before him.

I. Just. Died.