Sample Hook?

At our January SinC, NY/TriState meeting's open mic session, Laura read her phenomenal hook for her work in progress. That night she posted it on our blog. It was a slam-dunk success. In our flurry of comments, Clare2e said she'd post hers if I posted mine.

Game on!

Only this comes with the news that my moment at the mic was not a slam dunk. More like the first two kicks by Lawrence Tynes at last night's football game - you might know the ones I'm talking about... Giants vs Packers, and all that.

Clare noted that it's easier to read with your eyes than with your ears. That says a lot about what can happen at a book signing when the opening gambit hasn't been pre-read by the attendees. Hmmm.

So, I'm offering up the beginning of my work-in-rewrite. Sure would like to hear comments on whether the writing's clear. It might not be your cuppa tea, but does it set a clear image? One that MIGHT eventually fall into the right agent's lap?

The working title: BUSTY BIGGS AND THE RUNAWAY DEATH (Apologies for the length. Stop reading whenever you feel like it.)

CHAPTER ONE: UNEXPECTED PACKAGE

Titillation is a good thing. Busty was certain of that. Living proof of that. All she needed was an innocent whiff of testosterone, a chance to flirt and she’d be good to go. All God’s children need a taste of the apple now and then. That pheromone boost sharpens wits and makes everything seem possible. So where was Charlie when she needed him?

The next best thing was a chocolate pill. Melt in your mouth, not in your hand. Busty fished one out of her dancer’s satchel. Her stash of M&M’s was running low. Not a good sign. She tried to ignore the problem at hand: the snarky kid sitting at the empty Ale House bar, chomping a mega-burger, avoiding all eye contact. Busty checked her watch again. The damn silent treatment wasn’t working on the kid. Miss Dixie should have used the burger as bait. Held the food until the kid opened up. Thirty minutes and counting before the locals arrived, looking for their after-work beer. And, dammit, the chocolate pill wasn’t working.

The kid looked to be maybe nineteen, a worn out nineteen. No visible sign of drugs or withdrawal, at least not at the moment. The stud in her tongue showed when she opened wide for another bite, but Busty saw no other piercings. No visible tattoos. The kid’s hooded sweatshirt and jeans hung limp on her bony frame. Her half-empty backpack was jammed between her worn-out sneakers and the brass foot rail. She was a tightly kept secret. How many secrets was she carrying?

The kid was on the run. No doubt. Needed help. Obvious. But how much protection did she need? Was she running solo, or was she part of the Native underground, escaping from an abuser who had insider connections – running from someone with power and money and an appetite for violence?

Did this kid need to be tucked deep in the secret chamber?

Busty drummed her red nails on the worn bar. Silent treatment. Crap.

The soulful voice of Mahalia Jackson drowned out conversation that didn’t exist. With blinds down and work lights on, the bar was beginning to show its age. Like Busty. It needed a face lift, but the local crowd loved it. Loved it like their lumpy old recliner. Maybe they’d feel that way about Busty when she got old and lumpy. If she lived that long. If this snarky kid didn’t cause a ruptured aneurism before then. Busty tried for calming thoughts. She looked to Miss Dixie for silent support.

Usually Miss Dixie sang along with Mahalia while prepping the bar, red wig bobbing with the gospel music. But not today. Today the old dancer stood silent behind the counter, her wig askew, studying the kid.

The waif shifted on her stool. She stared at Busty from behind her screen of splotchy bleached bangs. “You really named Busty? Busty Biggs? You ain’t all that big.” She twitched her thumb toward Busty’s chest. “I’ve seen bigger. That’s for sure.”

Busty was so startled that she laughed out loud. The girl had a set of balls after all. Biting the hand that fed her! The last thing Busty expected. Friggin’ amazing. “What’s it to you?”

Miss Dixie leaned across the bar as if sharing a secret with the kid. “That’s the trouble with nicknames like Busty’s. They’re as hard to shake as a stalker.” Her southern drawl pushed the word “stalker.”

The girl stopped chewing for a nanosecond. Busty noticed. Miss Dixie pressed on. “I bet you know something about stalkers.”

The waif stuffed more burger into her tight mouth. Dixie’s special sauce dribbled down her chin. She swiped at it with her napkin and kept chewing.