Welcome to #MadeItMonday, where I post something I’ve made in the previous week, and where you can join in and post something you made too! The rules are easy: post a pic somewhere of something you’ve made in the last week (ish; let’s say in the last month as the hard-and-fast) and tag it. Sit back and enjoy scrolling through all the beautiful things we’ve collectively created, and celebrate the fact that humans can be awesome!
It’s been a long time since I made words creatively, so to celebrate the fact that last weekend I added a few hundred words to a short story I’ve been picking away at for years, I thought I’d share the first half of that story here 🙂 Hope you enjoy it!
Warm steam filled the air around Becca, faintly scented with fake apples from her shampoo. The hot water pattered down on her back, turn her skin red and, in theory, soothing away her tension. Of course, that would have been more easily facilitated had she not been in the midst of performing the contortions necessary to get her legs shaved, but probably she’d feel better once she was done.
Up, rinse, up, rinse; she scraped the blossom-pink razor over her pale legs, shaking it out in the main stream of the shower water at the top of each stroke. Steam billowed up in her face as she curled over her leg, warm against her cheeks and the inside of her nose.
There. Nearly done.
Honestly, the whole thing was an exercise in pointless futility. It wasn’t like the wolf was going to be staring at her legs. And if he did, so what? Why did she care what he thought?
She didn’t, that’s what. Jaw clenching, Becca pressed shower water from her eye with the tips of her fingers.
One last stroke.
Becca inhaled sharply as the razor sliced the sensitive skin over her Achilles heel, removing a good slice of flesh and making the water run momentarily red. She grabbed at her ankle with her free hand, trying to stem the bleeding with her thumb, and nearly slipped on the wet tiles. Her elbow smacked the bottles of hair products that lined the shower’s shelf—and the shelf itself—and she hopped madly, trying to regain her balance. Her weight fell against the cold glass of the shower screen—and the door screaked open, dumping her unceremoniously on the mat.
“Ow.” That was going to bruise her butt.
Disgusted, Becca threw the razor back into the shower and scrambled to her feet. She reached in and turned the water off, realising as she did that her right elbow was about as tender as her butt would be in the morning. She flung her dark, wet hair out of her eyes. So much for getting pretty.
Stupid date. Stupid wolf.
Red streaks on the mat caught her eye as she snagged her towel off the rail: her heel, still dripping blood with all the enthusiasm of a fifty-year-old leaky tap.
Bloody hell. Literally.
She gathered her wet hair to one side, unsticking it from her shoulders and neck, wrapped the towel around herself, and hobbled to the vanity. Somewhere in there, lost amid cobwebbed piles of lotions, powders and unused potions, was a packet of bandaids.
Becca crouched awkwardly, stretching into the back of the cupboard that stank of bleach and toothpaste—and jumped as her sore elbow connected with something cold: a festering bottle of nail polish that was only too happy to jump off the shelf and smash on the floor, bleeding its awful browny-coral innards all over the second bath mat.
The chemical scent of the polish hit her nostrils. Urgh. Someone remind me why I am doing this?
Perching on the edge of the bath, Becca applied the bandaid, a giant strip wider than two of her fingers, its ‘flesh’ tones doing nothing to blend in with the complexion her grandmother had liked to call porcelain. “Bloody Irish,” she muttered. She smoothed the plaster down, snatched up the bloodied bathmat and took it to the laundry, then stalked back to her room to dress.
Underwear, now that was a question. Not that there was any question of him seeing her underwear. She was widowed, not desperate. Even if, just occasionally, when he turned his big stupid wolf eyes on her she lost her mind just a little bit remembering what sex had been like.
But back to the underwear, she reminded herself as she finished towelling off and used the damp, white towel to twist up her hair. Could she really bring herself to go plain black cotton on a date?
Ah, screw it. It wasn’t like the dress was that fitted or anything. Comfy it was. Becca fished her favourite pair of black undies out from the crumpled mess in her top drawer, donned a sensible—if slightly uplifting—bra, and snatched out an old, dusty satin pencil case from the very back of her other top drawer, the magenta one with the Chinese-style floral embroidery.
Despite nearly stabbing herself in the eye with mascara she hadn’t applied in years, and overdoing it with the big round hairbrush and the hairdryer so it looked like she was wearing a 1960s wig for a few minutes until she managed to de-volumise things a bit, Becca managed to finish getting ready with a relative minimum of fuss. She slipped into her little black dress—always go with a classic on the first date, she’d decided; she still wasn’t actually sure whether she wanted to impress the wolf or scare him away—and squished into a pair of heels that were dangerously tall and stunningly gorgeous: black satin with red and gold oriental designs brocaded into the fabric, nearly six inches high.
She wobbled for the first few steps before remembering how to balance right in them: Weight on the toes, pretend the shoes aren’t really there, just tip-top along with your calves tight and your core strong. You got this.
She caught sight of her reflection in her dresser mirror and sighed, confidence deflating. It had been so long since she’d done this. She’d been married to that two-faced jerk Nick for nearly three years, but they’d dated for another four or five before that. She hadn’t first-dated since she was what, eighteen? Nineteen?
Becca ran a hand over her forehead and exhaled. Nick was gone now. He might have stolen eight years of her life and literally any chance she ever had at having children of her own—the familiar flutter of regret and longing trembled through her stomach—but he was gone.
And the wolf was safe, at least inasmuch as he wouldn’t lie to her upfront like Nick had. Probably. Maybe. She hoped.
Urgh. Why, why am I doing this? This is such a bad idea.
As if on cue, her phone buzzed. A message from her sister Clare: I know he’s picking you up in fifteen minutes, which means you’re moping around wondering why you let me bully you into this, so I’m reminding you of our little bargain. Besides. He’s gorgeous. It’ll be good for you.
Becca’s lips quirked into a half smile. Her sister knew her all too well—hence the bargain, whereby Becca would be subjected to an endless stream of potential suitors every time she visited Clare if she didn’t agree to a date with the wolf. And simply avoiding Clare’s house wouldn’t have worked; Clare would have just hauled the suitors to her.
A knock sounded at the door. Adrenalin leapt through Becca’s stomach and she bolted upright, casting around for her metallic gold clutch and stuffing her phone in as she headed to the door.
“I’m sorry,” wolf-boy said as she opened the door. “I know it’s not fashionable to be early, but the traffic was better than I’d planned.”
He’d left his longish hair down, a perfectly-styled tangle of nearly-black waves that screamed to be touched, and although he was wearing a dark suit, he’d left his baby-blue shirt open at the neck, and the combination did little to hide the sheer breadth and power of his shoulders. His golden eyes drilled through her, soft and amused and completed, utterly focused on her.
Becca realised she was staring and closed her mouth, working the inside of her lower lip between her teeth.
So the wolf scrubbed up well. That changed nothing. She’d known since she’d met him that he was sex-on-legs. That, she’d learned the hard way, was not even close to the top ten most important things in a relationship. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”
She stepped out the door, forcing him to step aside for her, and locked up the house. “Ready?” The smile she gave him was too bright, brittle like it might crack any moment, and she tried to relax.
He studied her carefully for just an instant too long, but nodded. “Sure, let’s go.”
The drive to the restaurant was more silent than a morgue. And I should know, Becca added to herself, recalling the day she’d met the wolf-boy, when she’d been working a case as a consultant for her police buddy Karlie. The silence didn’t seem to bother him—nothing seemed to bother him—but by the time they pulled into the restaurant’s carpark, Becca felt like electricity might start sparking from her fingers at any second.
With a sudden jolt of panic she glanced down at her own chest, relieved to see nothing but her normal pale skin. Phew. Wouldn’t do to have those come out tonight. The blood tattoos had been pretty dormant since they’d, uh—since Nick had died, but knowing him they’d be keyed to activate at the worst possible time. She shuddered and pressed a hand to her belly, swallowing down the nausea that the memories still dredged up.
“You okay?” His voice was quiet and matter-of-fact, like he knew exactly what she’d been thinking about.
Damn him, he probably did. She hated this whole inability-to-read-his-secrets thing. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Secret breaking was supposed to make people more trustworthy for her, not less.
And yet Nick, the little voice in the back of her head told her.
Shut up, she told it fiercely. So one person had figured out a way around her magical ability to read other people’s secrets. Didn’t mean anyone else knew that. Aloud, she added, “I’m fine.”
The wolfiness in his expression increased a little.
“Stop it,” Becca snapped. “I told you: I’m fine.”
His lips twitched. “I can see that.”
Lacking a sufficiently cutting reply, Becca flung the passenger door open, clambered out with only the smallest of inelegant wobbles, and slammed the door.
Wolf-boy rounded the car to meet her and offered her his arm.
Becca pointedly ignored it and stared up at the restaurant. “What even is this place?” Gaudy yellow and red signs declared it to be the [name], cobwebs and cracked finishings declared it to be somewhat past its use-by date, and the noise and music streaming out of it declared it to be probably cheesy but definitely busy.
Becca sighed. Busy was a good sign, at least.
He shrugged placidly. “I like it.”
Becca rolled her eyes. “Obviously, genius.” She headed for the door, aiming for a stride but in reality ending up closer to a totter. Damn the six-inch heels. She should have known she was too out of practice.
“Hey.” Wolf-boy caught up with her easily. “I know this wasn’t exactly your first choice of Saturday night entertainment, but how about we at least try to keep this civil, no?”
She shot him a corner-of-the-eye look, and softened. After all, it wasn’t his fault this was difficult. He’d been there to watch her back when no one else had; that didn’t make it his fault that no one else had been there. “You’re right.” She gave a smile that wasn’t all-the-way charming, but at least avoided brittle-and-false. “I’m sorry.”
He bumped shoulders with her as they walked, an affectionate gesture between two equals. Sparks flittered down Becca’s spine, and she couldn’t tell if they were good or bad.
Really, it didn’t matter, she thought as she clamped her teeth down on the inside of her lip to stop her eyes from filling up with tears. Stupid thing to get shaken up over. But it was the simplicity of the gesture that had disarmed her: no one had touched her in such a casual, intimate way for months, and she hadn’t realised how much she’d missed it.
Deep breaths, she told herself as they climbed the steps. You’ll be fine.
The scent of melting cheese and spicy chilis and flame-grilled beef threaded around them as they entered. Wolf-boy—Becca sighed, and mentally corrected herself. Fine. Dane. See? She could use his name without a problem—Dane conferred with the front of house waiter for a moment, then ushered her over to a table with a silvered ‘Reserved’ sign on it. The table sat nicely in the corner between the far wall and the windows: perfect view over the parking lot, good coverage of the room, close to the emergency exits and the bathrooms.
Impressed despite herself, Becca raised an eyebrow at him. “Did you pick the table, or did they?”
He took her one eyebrow and raised it to two. “What do you think?”
“Mm.” Becca pursed her lips noncommittally and slid into the booth that backed the wall. It probably would have made more sense to let Wolf-boy—Dane—have that seat, because she could sense trouble without needing line of sight, and although his powers were certainly interesting and incredibly useful, she was still pretty sure he couldn’t spot trouble behind his back, but whatever. Tonight she needed all the security she could get.
A waiter appeared and flourished a red-and-yellow menu card that had seen better—cleaner—days at her, produced a bottle of tap water for the table, and disappeared.
“You think they get trained how to do that in waiter school?” Becca said idly, staring at the menu without reading it.
“What’s that?”
“The whole appearing-disappearing genie thing they have going on.”
“They only do that at good restaurants.”
Becca’s gaze flicked up to meet his, and she searched his face for any sign of the smugness she was sure ought to be there. Nothing. Instinctively she pressed with her secret breaking powers, but as ever she might as well have been trying to read a brick wall. And she still couldn’t figure out why—why his shapeshifting abilities, and those of his friends, seemed to utterly block her ability to hear what was going on in the deep, secret places of their minds.
“You really can’t read me, can you,” he said, bemused.
“No.” Becca snapped the menu up in front of her face. “Stop gloating.” She glanced at him over the list of mains.
His light eyes laughed, but his voice remained solemn. “Nothing funny about it at all.”
“Hmm.” She pursed her lips and settled down to actually read about her dinner options. Which, she realised as she made it partway down, actually sounded really good. Damn him. Was perfect taste in food yet another star she’d have to add to his blindingly shiny and arrogantly polished crown?
“Look,” he said, laying his own menu back on the table. “About what happened—”
Becca’s stomach knotted as adrenalin flooded her system. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Becca,” he said gently. “It’s been nearly a year, and you’ve answered my calls what, twice? Maybe three times? Who else do you have to talk to about this? I know you’re close to your family and all, but they weren’t there, they don’t understand what it was like…”
She opened her mouth for a cutting response, but something about him looked… haunted.
Maybe she wasn’t the only one who’d suffered through months of bad dreams. She exhaled slowly. “Fine.”
“Fine?” His whole body language changed, perking up like a… Dammit. She groaned. Like a bloody wolf scenting a bloody rabbit.
I am not a fecking rabbit! She realised he was staring at her, and that her expression was not exactly friendly, and made a deliberate effort to soften it. I’m still not a rabbit, though. “Fine. You want to talk about it, get it off your chest, shoot. I’m listening.”
That confused him. “I thought you might want to talk.”
“All evidence indicates to the contrary, Wolf-boy.” Oh, charming. Had she really just called him Wolf-boy to his face? Why yes, yes she had. So much for diplomacy.
The strangled expression on his face could have been smothered laughter, or choking rage. Either way, the chances of anything going right tonight were rapidly diminishing.
But luck, it seemed, was in her favour. Before he could draw himself together enough to reply, the waiter reappeared. Becca turned, the ‘we’re not quite ready could we have another few minutes’ speech all prepared, and was caught with her mouth open as the waiter flourished a dome-covered silver tray at her.
“For the lady,” the waiter pronounced, accent suspiciously thick. “A pre-dinner gift.”
Heart pounding, Becca instinctively cleared space for the dinner-plate sized tray on the table. The waiter disappeared again, and Becca stole a glance at her dinner partner’s face. His expression made her stomach churn: eyes narrowed distrustfully, lips puckered.
Mouth dry, palms sweaty, Becca plucked off the white card that had been affixed to the silver dome.
For you. D.
Puzzled, she searched his face again. “Did you arrange this?”
His expression deepened to a frown, tension written in the lines of his shoulders. “No.”
Becca sniffed—but on the other hand, at least he was being honest with her.
Maybe. Probably. Who the bloody hell knew? Not her, because he was a stupid werewolf, and her powers didn’t work on him.
“Should I open it?” She let her fingertips run over the smooth curve of the dome’s handle. Warm. An entree, maybe?
Dane shrugged, a tiny, tight gesture. “Let me,” he said, and reached.
Becca’s fingers tightened reflexively around the handle. “I’ve got it,” she said. She whipped the dome away—and froze, silver dome still in the air in her right hand, mouth open in a soft ‘O’.
The creatures on the platter likewise froze momentarily: a knot of perhaps ten or fifteen short, sleek fish, about as long as her hand from fingertip to wrist, grey—and floating. In the air. In a tight, three-dimensional cylinder.
In an instant, chaos reigned. Dane grabbed her hand and tried to slam the dome back down over the fish, but they were too quick, streaking away from the platter—straight up into the air above the table, a smear of grey as they schooled upward.
The sharp ‘ding’ of the dome slamming down on the platter rang out—and the fish rearranged themselves into a line, facing down at Becca and Dane, teeth bared.
Ah, Becca realised as her pulse leapt at her throat. Not fish. Sharks.
Edited To Add: This story is now available as Trust Issues and you can get it both in print and in ebook, woohoo!
And now, what have you made this week? Don’t forget to tag your contribution, or even better, leave a link in the comments!! I love seeing what inspiring things other people have made 🙂 🙂 🙂