Meeting Engagement
I like the way Pulp Fiction, 11:14, and Lost wove/weave their stories. Back and forth, up and down, like a roller coaster (with deference to Ms Clarkson) without regard for the linear progression of time. That style influenced the writing in The Rising. The story doesn't start at point A and move directly to point Z. It's more like beginning at point C, flipping back to A, ahead to E, then back to D. It's not as confusing as it sounds and it allows characters to be better developed while keeping the story short. In this excerpt, our good buddy Mike Hudson makes the acquaintance of a character we have already met. This encounter occurs well into the book, but describes a scene that happened before the war.
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She looked like Madonna. Well, Mike Hudson had to admit, not exactly like Madonna, but close enough for tonight. There were a few more pounds on her frame, but Hudson didn’t care about that. As he often said (to anyone who would listen), “Show me a skinny girl, and I’ll show you a worrier.” Everyone knew worriers didn’t have fun, and this girl liked to have fun. Not afraid to down a couple of brews, get a little crazy on the dance floor, or laugh at his stupid jokes. Laugh like she really thought they were funny, which he knew they weren’t.
Like a Virgin thumped from speakers over the dance floor, and the girl was dancing, pretty darn well, Hudson thought. Looking good in the T-shirt cut slightly above her belly button, a bustier cover, and tight, slightly high-rise jeans. Her hair was blonde, probably colored, but all the girls color their hair, and she had sea-green eyes. She was a real, by-God, genuine, grade-A, hot chick.
Hudson couldn’t have cared less.
He wanted to like her, wanted to be interested, but he couldn’t. It was the story of his life; had something good, but wanted something better. That something better was alone at a table, in the darkest corner of what was already a dark bar. A dark bar in what Hudson knew was one of the skankier streets in Birghoff. He looked toward the corner now, pivoting Madonna so that he appeared to be looking over her shoulder. Hoping that the something better was still there.
She was there, all right, as she had been all night. Smoke swirling from dark-red lips, cigarette held gracefully between the fingers of her cupped hand. She caught his gaze, and held it with one of her own, taking a long sensual pull from her cigarette, her blue-black hair in slight, gut-wrenching disarray.
“Hey you with me?” The music had stopped and Madonna’s hand rested on his arm, her soft green eyes on his face. He gave her a quick, heartless smile. God, he couldn’t even remember her name.
“Yeah everything’s fine,” he lied. “Just daydreaming.”
“You mean night dreaming,” she laughed and winked at him.
The music returned. Almost Paradise by Ann Wilson and some obscure guy he couldn’t remember. Madonna’s hand slipped to his. ”Dance?” she questioned, her eyes hopeful. He glanced over her shoulder at the table, but it was empty. Damn. He sighed, but caught it quickly, hoping she hadn’t noticed.
He slid his arm around Madonna’s waist, enjoying the feel of the strip of warm flesh beneath her Tee. A hand appeared on her shoulder. Slim, the nails tipped with red polish. “Mind if I cut in?”
He knew her voice would sound like that… throaty, deep, self-assured. She was standing behind Madonna, her dark eyes fixed on his face, cigarette dangling from full lips.
“Well, I…” Madonna hesitated, her eyes darted from Hudson to the dark-haired wonder.
“It’s okay, Honey. It’s just a dance.” The woman spoke the thought that had surfaced in Hudson’s mind as the music crescendoed into the first chorus. “I’ll give him right back,” she added with a wink. But Todd knew she wouldn’t, and the thought sent a strange thrill, half anticipation, half fear, through his body.
Dark hair stepped forward, between Madonna and Hudson, and for a moment he thought the smaller, blond girl would cause a scene, and he couldn’t really blame her for that, but she turned and threaded her way off the small dance floor. Leaving him staring at his new partner. She was tall, only a couple of inches shorter than Hudson’s six feet, her black hair shimmered in the dance floor lights, and the dark eyes, an indefinable dark, glittered. She pulled the cigarette from her with her free hand, the other held a glass of amber liquid, and stepped close, seemingly inviting his embrace. Hudson gladly obliged, pulling her close. They swayed to the music for a moment and then he asked.
“What’s your name?”
She smiled, cocking her head to keep the cigarette smoke out of her eyes. “Does it matter?”
“No, no I guess it doesn’t" he replied, noticing at the thin scar that ran the length of her jaw.
Like a Virgin thumped from speakers over the dance floor, and the girl was dancing, pretty darn well, Hudson thought. Looking good in the T-shirt cut slightly above her belly button, a bustier cover, and tight, slightly high-rise jeans. Her hair was blonde, probably colored, but all the girls color their hair, and she had sea-green eyes. She was a real, by-God, genuine, grade-A, hot chick.
Hudson couldn’t have cared less.
He wanted to like her, wanted to be interested, but he couldn’t. It was the story of his life; had something good, but wanted something better. That something better was alone at a table, in the darkest corner of what was already a dark bar. A dark bar in what Hudson knew was one of the skankier streets in Birghoff. He looked toward the corner now, pivoting Madonna so that he appeared to be looking over her shoulder. Hoping that the something better was still there.
She was there, all right, as she had been all night. Smoke swirling from dark-red lips, cigarette held gracefully between the fingers of her cupped hand. She caught his gaze, and held it with one of her own, taking a long sensual pull from her cigarette, her blue-black hair in slight, gut-wrenching disarray.
“Hey you with me?” The music had stopped and Madonna’s hand rested on his arm, her soft green eyes on his face. He gave her a quick, heartless smile. God, he couldn’t even remember her name.
“Yeah everything’s fine,” he lied. “Just daydreaming.”
“You mean night dreaming,” she laughed and winked at him.
The music returned. Almost Paradise by Ann Wilson and some obscure guy he couldn’t remember. Madonna’s hand slipped to his. ”Dance?” she questioned, her eyes hopeful. He glanced over her shoulder at the table, but it was empty. Damn. He sighed, but caught it quickly, hoping she hadn’t noticed.
He slid his arm around Madonna’s waist, enjoying the feel of the strip of warm flesh beneath her Tee. A hand appeared on her shoulder. Slim, the nails tipped with red polish. “Mind if I cut in?”
He knew her voice would sound like that… throaty, deep, self-assured. She was standing behind Madonna, her dark eyes fixed on his face, cigarette dangling from full lips.
“Well, I…” Madonna hesitated, her eyes darted from Hudson to the dark-haired wonder.
“It’s okay, Honey. It’s just a dance.” The woman spoke the thought that had surfaced in Hudson’s mind as the music crescendoed into the first chorus. “I’ll give him right back,” she added with a wink. But Todd knew she wouldn’t, and the thought sent a strange thrill, half anticipation, half fear, through his body.
Dark hair stepped forward, between Madonna and Hudson, and for a moment he thought the smaller, blond girl would cause a scene, and he couldn’t really blame her for that, but she turned and threaded her way off the small dance floor. Leaving him staring at his new partner. She was tall, only a couple of inches shorter than Hudson’s six feet, her black hair shimmered in the dance floor lights, and the dark eyes, an indefinable dark, glittered. She pulled the cigarette from her with her free hand, the other held a glass of amber liquid, and stepped close, seemingly inviting his embrace. Hudson gladly obliged, pulling her close. They swayed to the music for a moment and then he asked.
“What’s your name?”
She smiled, cocking her head to keep the cigarette smoke out of her eyes. “Does it matter?”
“No, no I guess it doesn’t" he replied, noticing at the thin scar that ran the length of her jaw.
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