I've always been in a world of my own. Dancing to the tune of a flute while others march to the beat of a drum. Seeing pictures in the clouds while others are watching for steps. Reaching out to touch beautiful flowers or unique leaves while others look for bees and spiders first.
I'm often bored by normal adult conversation when I'd rather listen to my grandkids talk about what they've learned in school. No doubt many of you are, too. It's called Grandma's World.
Recently, I've been asked to join a new world: Kindle Worlds. I'll be writing a novella as part of the world Carly Phillips created in her best selling NY Dares series.
Believe me, when the email came through, I thought it was a joke. Why was Amazon contacting me? I didn't even know what Kindle Worlds were and had to google the term. I'd heard it mentioned, but never paid much attention. I certainly needed more information.
All of Carly's books in the series begin with "Dare to....." While my title could not use those two words, it did have to include the word "dare." My novella will be A STRANGER'S DARE. Release will be in July.
What I didn't know until I began reading the first two books of the series to get a feel for what was happening was the books are practically erotic. I read erotic and can write it, but will do so with dashes of humor. There's no restrictions on the plot I devise or the tropes I use. The story is completely my creation.
In book one of her series, Carly wrote the heroine's pov in first person and the hero's in third. Yet, it worked. Books two and three of her series were in third person. I found that interesting. Wish me luck as I attempt to measure up and fit in.
Here's part of my first chapter. Webb, a pro running back, has been on a downward spiral and the team's ownership--the Dares--has ordered him to NYC to lay down the law. Either he cleans up his act or he's off the team. They've even assigned him a driver. This scene happens after the meeting when Webb and Cooper, his driver, aka babysitter check into a ritzy hotel owned by one of the Dares. Be gentle with me; this hasn't been edited yet.
“In the name of all that’s holy, Cooper, what the hell is RWA?” His gaze swept the lobby. There were signs welcoming RWA everywhere. A colorful banner hung from one marble pillar to another.
“Don’t know, Webb. Your boss’s team mentioned a large woman’s convention. Hell, there must be hundreds of ‘em. Thousands.” Cooper's head was on a swivel as he took them all in.
Webb leaned his back against the long marble-topped registration desk of the swanky hotel. His gaze swept over the hordes of females, all sizes, ages, and in various styles of clothing, lugging huge suitcases.
The lobby was crowded shoulder to toned shoulder and hip to delectable hip with women talking non-stop like hives of bees on steroids. Some squealed and charged, arms open wide, to hug another female she evidently hadn’t seen in ages. They all had briefcases slung over their shoulders, probably holding laptops.
Ah, understanding registered and he nodded. RWA must stand for Registered Women Accountants. Now it made sense. He scanned the jewelry and high-end clothes some wore. Maybe it was Rich Women Accountants. Who knew? He shrugged, turned, and signed the electronic pad the receptionist presented.
“Here’re the keys for your two rooms, Mr. Mohanty.” The harried hotel employee smiled weakly. “I apologize that you and Mr. Samuels will be on different floors. But with a large convention here at the same time as a high society wedding, we’re squeezing everyone in as best we can.”
“I’m sure you are, ma’am. This is fine.” He passed Cooper his keycard.
As Cooper and Webb walked toward the bank of elevators, some of the women…accountants…whatever parted a path and gaped. Some moaned. A good half-dozen or more females crowded in the large car behind them, their assortment of perfumes following.
One middle-aged lady wearing a pale green pantsuit eyed Webb up and down. “Your tailor did a good job on your suit. It hugs every firm muscle. What do you do for a living, if you don't mind me asking?”
“I’m a pro-football player, ma’am. The name’s Webb Mohanty. I’m pleased to meet you and your name would be—?” Be nice. Clean up my image.
She batted her eyes. “Maeve Greyson. Would you mind terribly if I took a picture.” She waved her cellphone side to side. “Imagine, my first day at the convention and I’ve already met a professional football player.” Her bejeweled hand patted her chest. “Be still my heart. God, how tall are you, anyway?”
Webb laughed and slid his arm over her shoulders. “I’m six-foot-five. Hand your phone to my driver. Cooper, snap a picture or two of this fine looking lady and me, would you?” Where have I heard of Maeve Greyson before?
“You wouldn’t have Scottish blood flowing through those handsome veins, would you?” She glanced at his legs. “I bet you’d look mighty fine in a kilt.”
He snapped his fingers. “Maeve Greyson, author of Scottish time travel romances?” She favored him with a broad smile. “My mother loves your books. Turn about’s fair play. Can my chauffer take a couple pictures of you and me for her?”
“Of course.” Webb handed Coop his phone while Maeve tapped the elevator stop button and leaned her head on his chest. The rest of the women in the elevator car had gone silent. She glanced up at him. “You wouldn’t be single, would you? I have a special niece—”
“That I am. My time’s devoted to the game right now.” No booze, no fighting, no racing, and no women. I might die from an overdose of clean living.
Two more women crowded into the shot his driver was about to take with Maeve’s camera, purring about his marital status, and he curled his other arm around their waists on instinct.
Cooper sniggered and raised the camera. “Gee, Webb, if they’re this excited about meeting one of the best running backs in the country, good thing they don’t know you’re a former SEAL.”
Squeals bounced off the elevator walls and every woman on the damned lift was all over Webb. “Oh my God, a SEAL!”… “Feel his muscles.”… “He’s like a brick wall.” … “I wish he’d slam me up against a brick wall.”
He was cornered. “You got that damn picture taken yet, Coop?” A cold bead of sweat trickled down his back. I need to get off of here.
“Oh, my God, he smells like dark sin.” A nose pressed against his neck.
“Cooper!” he barked.
Buttons on Webb’s shirt came undone. His necktie was ripped off. A hand cupped his ass. “Feel his tight buns, girls.”
“Alright! Enough!” He punched the elevator button to get the frigging thing in motion again. “Cooper, give the camera back and let’s get the hell out of this car. What have you women been drinking? Sex on the beach?”
“Blow jobs!” A trio giggled and slid closer. The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and he tried to bust through the perfumed line to make his escape. But hell they’d all gone apeshit!
He barged through the crowd of estrogen fueled females. Didn’t they have sex where they came from? He had no clue who these women were and, frankly, didn’t give a rat’s ass. He couldn’t. Not being on sexual probation.
Hell, he had lipstick prints on his white shirt, on his chest and, by the way Coop laughed like a hyena, there must be lipstick on his face, too.
Webb pivoted and glared at the closed elevator doors. “What. The. Hell. Was. That? I’ve been in hand-to-hand combat that wasn’t that scary. I swear one of those harmless looking ladies grabbed my junk.” And it didn’t feel too bad either.