#SnippetSunday – Hard-Boiled/Noir WIP – April 26, 2015
Snippet Sunday is a Facebook group for writers I’ve been privileged enough to have been accepted into.
From the group guidelines; “Welcome to Snippet Sunday, where writers come together to share a few sentences of their current project–whether it’s a recently released novel, a WIP (work in progress), or an older manuscript that’s being revived. Intended to hook readers, gather feedback and build an author’s fan base, Snippet Sunday is the FB group that does all three.”
This week’s snippet picks up where last week’s left off… Jake has just won his rematch with the big guy who knocked him out back at the hotel when Marisa leaves the scene of the fight in the big guy’s own truck…
“What the hell just happened?” I demanded.
The locals murmured as they reconvened around us.
The big guy heaved himself to his feet.
I dropped my shoulder, ready to resume hostilities, despite the nausea brought on by the adrenaline pooling in my gut.
He threw an open hand out in front of him as he willed his wobbly legs to hold him up.
“What the hell just happened?” I repeated.
“I was gonna ask you the same thing,” he answered, his voice made nasal and reedy by his damaged nose.
“I’m asking the questions,” I said. “You’re the one with blood on your face.”
The sound of a car rolling to a stop nearby registered, but didn’t take. Muted voices from the crowd of onlookers bounced off my back.
I took a step forward.
“Start talking or we’re going again,” I said. “Right here, right now.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”
The voice, a mellow baritone with a trace of southern drawl in it, was new to me. It also had the weight of authority in it– the kind of authority that suggested a badge.
I turned my head.
The cop was about my height, not counting the fine, brown, wide-brimmed hat he had on. He looked to be around thirty, with hard blue eyes and a pointed chin he kept shaved pool ball smooth.
“Are we done here, mister?” he asked, sizing me up from outside of my reach.
I turned back to the big man.
His gaze was trained down Main Street, in the direction Marisa had gone with his truck.
I felt kind of bad for the guy. He was a dying dog away from living a country song.
Thanks, as always, for stopping by, and thanks for any feedback you feel inclined to leave.