Hello, Wednesday, my old friend. I can’t believe it’s been another week already. I’ve mostly spent my time combing through my selection of short story competitions/open calls, deciding what to submit and where. I sent a couple off, and the one that really made me nervous involves an author friend of mine. There’s an extra layer when you know the person but they’ve never read your work because you usually write in different genres. This also marks the third time I’ve stepped out of my usual world of literary m/m to try my hand at something new.
Other than that, life goes on. We have three weeks until recital/concert season ends and just over four until school lets out. There’s so much to do between now and then, it’s not even funny. When it’s all over, I’ll be the one shriveled in a corner somewhere (because it’s too dang hot for a blanket fort anymore).
On to WIPpet. I’m sticking with this scene because this whole novel is one long spoiler. This all happens in the first few chapters, so I can share. The following is immediately after last week’s excerpt. You may recall that Julian pushed Andre in Trevor’s direction; this is the result. For anyone not from New England: Moxie is like root beer only yucky.
WIPmath: 5 + 26 + 2 + 0 + 1 + 5 = 39 sentences.
He sidled up to the other guy, whose eyes widened comically when he saw Andre. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something, thought better of it, and clamped his lips shut. Andre shook his head. They were both out of their element, and knowing that put him at ease.
“Hey,” he said. He nodded at the guy’s glass. “What are you drinking?”
“Moxie,” the man said then snorted. “Boring. Sorry.”
“You in the mood for something stronger? How about just a beer?”
“Uh…sure.” The man blushed again.
Andre ordered a couple of Sam Adams. When they showed up, he held his out to the blond man. “Cheers.” They clinked. “What’s your name?”
“Tr—Trey,” he stammered.
So, they were playing that game. Andre could spot a fake a mile away. “Fine, then, Trey. I’m…Antoine.”
Trey—or whoever he really was—ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I suck at this. I was just going to stay home and mope tonight, but my friend dragged me here.” He waved at the band. “We know those guys.”
Andre didn’t ask how they were associated. Instead, he nodded. “We seem to be in the same boat.” He took a swig of his beer and leaned closer. “Would you be offended if I said your friends aren’t that good?”
Trey jerked, and his eyebrows shot up. His lips curled upward on one side, and his eyes glinted with mischief. “Not at all. I thought it was just me.”
Well, I mean, with a name like Creepy Crullers, did you expect them to be good?
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