Jillian Chantal

This week, the authors of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt hazy.  I’ve gone back to an old story as I have like 3 partial manuscripts and am fiddling around with them before National Novel Writing month starts November 1 as I’ll start a new story then.

This is the story with the human trafficking – I’ve shared part of it before. The heroine is shaving the hero’s beard and coloring his hair grey so he can go undercover on a raid.

I watched her continue to remove the overgrown part of my beard. Man, I did let it get out of control.

Finally, she stepped back and studied me. “You already look more respectable.” She slathered some shaving cream on my face.

Turning away, she made her way to the bar area. “Now comes the fun part.”

With a wicked gleam in her eye, she ran a straight edge razor over the strip to sharpen it. “Better hold real still.”

I trusted her not to kill me, but not necessarily not to maim me. After all, how much did I really know about this woman I was trusting to get near me with a deadly weapon?

“Scared?”

I shook my head.

“Let’s see about that, shall we?”

Deciding it was better not to look, I closed my eyes at her approach.

I sensed the heat of her body when she neared me, but kept my eyes shut as a hazy memory of a dream came to me. It was from when my sister was missing. I’d never been able to make sense of it but now, something niggled at the back of my brain. I frowned in concentration, reaching for the thread.

“I promise I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve done this before. No need to act like Marie Antoinette on the way to the guillotine.”

Dawn’s words startled me out of zone I was in. “Sorry. I’m sure you’re good with blades and won’t nick me unless you intend to. I was thinking about something that happened a long time ago and couldn’t quite remember it all.”

“Need some help?”

“No. It’s nothing.”

“I’ve been known to be a great listener.” She made the first cut into the shaving cream. The sound of the hair being scraped away was oddly soothing. It was past time to get back to normal.

As she worked, I focused on emptying my mind. If I didn’t try to force the dream memory to come, maybe it would.

“Now that you’ve settled in and seem to be trusting me, want to tell me the secret you don’t want Ben to know?” Another scrape of the razor across my face accompanied her question.

Nope. No way was I telling her. Not until Shannon was safe.

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are using the word green in our stories.  I am still working on the story with the realtor and the doctor looking for a house. This week’s entry isn’t scary like I’ve been posting. LOL

Be sure to check out the other tales here. 

“No one has lived here for two years. I’d suggest a cleaning company come in before closing for a deep cleanse.”

“Since the first thing I’d do is tear down that atrocious wallpaper, there’d be no need for that until all the renovations were done.”

“So none of this has made you change your mind?”

“Not at all. I haven’t seen anything yet that’s an insurmountable problem.” Max pointed at the closest bookcase. “Those are all full of old volumes even though I see a few newer authors’ works here. Do the books and furnishings come with the house?” His gaze took in the room. “This would be a lot to haul away.”

“As far as I know, the grandson is making no claim on anything here. Let’s look around some more and if you want to put something in any offer you choose to make—like the contents to be removed at the seller’s expense—we can address that then.”

“Good idea.”

On their way out of the room, Max stopped beside a haphazard stack of books on the floor. He bent down and peered at the spines. “That’s a lot of books there by Ian Fleming. Wonder how long it took him to write them.”

“Here’s another stack by Barbara Cartland. She wrote a ton of paperbacks over the years.”

“And here’s some by Agatha Christie. Looks like Mrs. Rigby just piled them everywhere.”

“At least she was organized.” Stella laughed.

“Yeah, let’s give her credit for that.” He chuckled and picked up a random book on a dusty table. “Here’s one about that guy from the English House of Lords. You know, the one who killed himself in his car?”

“Sorry. Not up on things that happened in England.”

“No worries. I like biographies and read about lots of different people.”

“Let’s see what the main living area looks like.” Stella walked out of the room.

“I’m hoping there’s no more shades of brown, but I’m not optimistic.” Max ran his hand over the hideous wallpaper as they passed through the foyer.

“Perhaps there’s some puce green shag carpeting in the next room.”

They turned the corner and Max let out a gasp. “Good Lord. What happened here? It looks like someone threw up the 1970s all over this room. I thought you were kidding about the green.”

“Realtors never kid.” She winked.

This week’s word for Tuesday Tales is mad. I am still working on my tale from last week. Our heroine is still driving to help the hero.

Be sure to check out the other tales here. 

She drove on, now with someone tailgating her, but she didn’t care. Not being alone on this desolate highway was much better than being in the company of lightning, thunder and crows.

Stella inched on down the road, wishing the rain would abate a little. The lights of the car behind her shone in her back window too brightly.

Paranoia set in and she wondered what the person behind her had planned. Who followed that closely on such a rain-slicked road? They sure didn’t have much room to stop safely if something happened and she had to slam on her brakes.

The longer the guy behind her stayed as close as he was, the angrier Stella got. “Get off my tail.”

She sped up even though she knew it wasn’t safe. It was equally unsafe to have someone blinding her from behind.

The crazy driver sped up as well. It was as if his front bumper was tied to her back one. What was wrong with him? Was he mad man escaped from an asylum? Or a crazy woman intent on harming another driver for the sport if it?

Praying the turnoff to the house was close, Stella kept moving.

It was hard to see through the pelting rain. Thinking she might have actually missed the turn due to lack of visibility, she made a decision.  “I’ll pull over, put the address in my GPS and hope this nut job drives on.”

Her wish didn’t come true. As soon as she pulled onto the shoulder of the road, the other vehicle came to a stop behind her.

Glancing in the rear view mirror, Stella let out a squeal. An impossibly tall person in a long, black trench coat wearing a dark fedora over its brow strode purposely toward her car.

Not wasting a second, she hit the gas and tried to get away.

Her right back tire spun uselessly for a few seconds.

Panicked, she glanced in the mirror again. The person was so close, he or she could touch the trunk.

“Oh, Lord. Help me.”

Just as Stella thought she’d die from heart failure, her tire found purchase and she peeled out onto the tarmac.

And almost died again as an eighteen wheeler coming from the other direction almost jack knifed in front of her to avoid a collision. The screech of the rubber on the wet road was like a thousand chimpanzees on the warpath.