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Title of novel:I’m Yours Chapter number: 3 Author: Carol McKenzie Setting: I can imagine the disappointment that may have crossed her face. What did the bank or place look like? Was he in his own office space or cubicle setting? What time of day did she go into the office or bank where there were any distinctive smells Character Development: Janelle – has a shiner, is disappointed that she didn’t get to buy the place she wanted. Seems to her like her world is unraveling. Kyra – Trying to be supportive of Janelle’s substation and willing to call the police. Clint – He maybe a fine cowboy but he’s also a cop willing to protect Janelle at all costs. Plot: Why didn’t Janelle ask Clint what type of relationship he had with Gil in order for him to tell him that kind of information about her? Was Clint the one who bought Lonnie’s? What kind of friendship does Gil have with Clint? Why doesn’t Clint want to tell Janelle that he is a cop? Is Philip running some kind of dirty business and Clint is investigating him? Is Clint his real name or something undercover? Grammatical: minor things that need to be taken care of. Personal Opinion: This proved also to be a good chapter. Stringing the reader along. A very subtle but interiging end. Adding the hint that he is/was an officer is a great idea. Chapter Three Much to her disappointment, two days and one snow storm later, Gilbert Sitwell, a rotund, short man, the loan officer at the First National Bank of Riverton advised her that someone had beaten her to the draw. Lonnie's Bar and Grill She slumped, her body stiffened as she slumped in the padded, brown chair; the world tilted and whirled out of control as if Phillip had hit her again. Worse had happened to her, she thought pessimistically. It is a minor rough spot in my progress toward owing a restaurant. "Is everything okay, Jan?" asked Gil, who had known her and [Suggestion – delete the word ‘her and’] her family all her life. His shoulders slouched and his frown revealed his genuine concern. "Yeah," she glumly said, realizing she lied. Not only had Phillip's brutality devastated her, but the turndown on the loan shattered her dreams. "I'm fine." She had counted on buying the business using the secret water bottle jug money that she'd filled over the years with ones, fives, tens and twenties--change from the grocery store. During a short pause, her listless gaze scanned the small office with its off-white walls and brown upholstered furniture. She studied the gold, black-faced clock on the wall behind Gilbert's heavy oak desk. Pictures of his family faced him. Pens, paper clips and rubber bands sat in a neat pile in front of his pen holder that had inscribed on the base, Employee of the Year, 2005. He put down a paper and peered into her eyes, his chocolate colored forehead rumpling. Without hiding his apparent curiosity, he asked, "Who did that to your eye?" She brought her hands down and wriggled her fingers in her lap. "You...don't want to know." His hand raised to his mouth and he shook his head revealing anger, an emotion she'd not ever seen him display. "That son of a bitch." "I know. It's over." She sniffed, her gaze lowered. "I don't blame you for selling it to someone else. Oh well, don't worry about it." He nodded, his eyes revealing his profound sadness. Before she left, he said, "If something else comes up, I'll give you a call...another business." She straightened her shoulders and turned toward him. "But darn it, Mr. Sitwell, I had my heart set on Lonnie's." She sniffed and paused. "Oh well. I'm sorry. Never mind." "This other fellow just beat you to it, I'm afraid, Jan. We have to sell it to the first person who comes up with the money--first come, first serve." "No, no. It's quite all right. Thank you, anyway." With a sad sigh, she shook Gil's hand. Feeling downtrodden, she left the red, brick bank and dragged her feet toward home, making tracks in the pristine two inches of snow. A train screeched through town, blowing its whistle. A black cruiser crossed after the train passed. "Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered to herself tramping across the railroad tracks. It was too cold to cry; tears would freeze on her cheeks. Her dreams obliterated; she thought she was doomed to continue working at the frigging factory. I've got to keep my chin up and come up with another plan. Halfway home, she called Kyra on her cell phone thinking that one bright note existed--at least she filed for divorce. Her friend answered on the second ring. "What are you doing tonight?" asked Janelle unable to keep her disappointment out of her tone. She gazed at Lonnie's as she passed by the property. "Nothing." "Want to go to Lonnie's again?" There was nothing else to do in town. Besides, maybe she'd catch a glimpse of the cowboy. "Sure. Is it a celebration? Did you get the loan?" Janelle uttered a morose, "No." She gazed at the winter wonderland that surrounded her; usually the white scenery would have cheered her up. Not this day. "But I've filed for divorce." A long silence followed. "I'm glad that you filed, but regarding the other...that sucks." "Yeah, it does big time." Janelle turned down her street, nearing her beige, boring house she called home. Huge flakes fell out of the gray sky. Her gaze turned to a number of black birds lined up on telephone wires, that huddled it seemed to keep warm. From the corner of her eye she spied a bright red Vette--one that looked just like Phillip's car. It pulled forward two hundred or so feet up the road. Would it stop in front of her house? Holy friggin' shit! Her eart [Suggestion – I think that you meant to say ‘heart’] beating a hundred miles an hour, Janelle spun in place, putting her back to the now parked Corvette, hoping he didn't see her, if the driver was Phillip. Please don't let it be him. "What's going on?" asked Kyra’s inquisitive voice broke through her angst. "It's Phillip," she whispered through clenched teeth. She took a deep breath, thinking about what she should do next. "At least, I think it is. Wait..." Janelle sneaked a peek over her shoulder down the house and tree lined street, toward the back end of the car. "Oh no. Where? You don't need that bastard comin' around." "[Suggestion – delete one of the open quotes] "I'm leaving here. I don't know where I'm headed, but I'm leaving." White ballooning puffs rose from her lips. "Hopefully, he didn't see me." "Where is his car now?" Her fingers ached with numbness, from clenching the phone tight in her hand and the cold, so she switched hands and stuck the other hand in her coat pocket to warm it. "I'm not even sure if it is him. It's a red Corvette, all right." "He could get his ass arrested, if it's him. Tell me. I'll call the cops. He's not supposed to be within five hundred feet of you or the house, right?" "That's right." Janelle turned back. The little red sports car disappeared, or at least out of sight. "Thank God." "What?" "The car's gone. What a relief." "Call the police," Kyra insisted. "Do it now! Or I will. What's the number?" "I'm not sure it was him. I'll hold off. If I cry wolf too many times, the cops won't believe me." "Come and stay here. You can wear something of mine when we go out. Hell, stay all night if you want. Just don't go to your house." "Nah. I'll go on home. The car's gone. I don't even know if it was him anyway." "How many little red sports cars are there around town?" "Two or three that I know of. I'm fine. I'll talk to you later." She slipped the cell phone down in the pocket of her navy blue waist jacket and pulled her hands down over her ears. Heavy snowflakes floated down, contrasting against the black truck that stopped six feet away from where she stood. The window whirred down and she glimpsed the familiar cowboy's chiseled face. Feeling thunderstruck, she froze for a second then made a nervous gesture with her hand. Turning in place, she felt that Clint Sutherland was the last man on earth she expected or wanted to see. She was in a rotten mood. She'd just lost her dreams and couldn't hide her depression. He grasped the steering wheel appearing relaxed and sexy. "I'd like to talk some business over with you." A smile lazed over his lips. "...if you're not expecting anyone at your house, that is." * * * A couple of seconds passed and she hadn't climbed into his truck. Thinking he'd have to do a little more coaxing he said, "Come on." He paused thoughtfully noticing that she didn't make a move. "Please...I'm serious. And I don't bite...much." He grinned over at her. How can I resist? After she climbed in and he drove on down the street, she glimpsed Phillip out the corner of her eye and stiffened. When Clint passed his car, she slid down in the seat. "You don't have to hide when you're with me. Not from anyone." "You don't understand..." "Want to try me?" he asked, tipping his head back, looking down at her as she slumped in the seat. In my lifetime I've seen and heard about everything. "The windows are tinted anyway. He couldn't see you if he wanted to." She sat up straight in the seat. "It's well, I don't-can't talk about it." I can almost guess what is going on. "Do you have an Order of Protection against him?" Nodding, she muttered, "Yeah, I do." "Good." "How'd you know?" "Actually Gil told me some of it." He braked at a stop sign. Her mouth dropped open in obvious shock. "He did?" He knows Gilbert? Caught between a moment of tenderness, sorrow and amazement, he murmured. "Mm hm." Enjoying her light fragrance, Clint tore his gaze from hers, remembering that they sat at an intersection. The light changed seconds ago. A horn behind him sounded and he drove forward. Forgetting to look at the traffic light was not a good thing for a cop to be doing, he thought. More careful at the next intersection, he looked both ways before crossing. "Want me to report the bastard?" "Not yet." Her shoulders rose into a shrug. "Maybe he'll leave shortly." In disbelief, he looked over her for a second or two and frowned. "I heard he's crazy as hell. Is that true?" "Yeah." Did she just give him and uneasy glance from the corner of his eye? [Suggestion – you may want to re-word this question/thought – I’m not sure how to say it – it just reads weird] Evidently she didn't want to discuss her problem just yet. Maybe a nice, hot drink would relax her. "Let's get some coffee, Want to?" he said, feeling this need to protect her. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Writing is like making love. Don't worry about the orgasm, just concentrate on the process. —Isabel Allende ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** T.S. Presley |
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