Excerpt #2 – That Pearly Drop:

Murphy’s Time-Travel Law: It doesn’t matter if it’s in the past, present, or future—the first person to fall into a pond is always the one who can’t swim.

I have no clue how I made it back to my room. All I know is that I wedged both the trunk and the stool against the door and then collapsed on the bed. I lie there staring at the rough ceiling and reciting the Lord’s prayer over and over.

My brain is defective, and my body is out of whack. How else to explain my reaction to seeing my new boss about to screw a woman? The image of him palming his cock and spreading that pearly drop fills my head. I cover my face with my hands.

Stop, stop.

I cannot be turned on. I cannot. Yet my vajayjay’s quivering and I’m wet. Shame, self-loathing, and an explosive rage trigger a temper tantrum. I pound my fists on the wall and tears pour down my cheeks. All I want is to do is go home.

My fury vaporizes, I flop onto my stomach, and then curl into a fetal position. I am emotionally bankrupt and energy depleted. I stare unseeing at the rough mortar and bargain with God. Make it all a daylight nightmare, let me wake up in my own bed in Boca, and I’ll never miss Sunday mass again. I’ll volunteer for all the soup kitchens in South Florida and do penance for the rest of my life.

The rattle of wheels rolling over cobblestones jerks me back to reality, to the macabre version of reality I now occupy.

My mind jump starts and my heart stops threatening to fly out of my mouth. It won’t be long before someone realizes I never met with the earl. I have to snap out of this stupid terror-trance.

I sit up, the room spins, and my stomach twists into a series of painful knots. How much time has elapsed?

I stand, slog over to the window and squint, trying to see through the dust-crusted glass. The sun’s still shining, and in the distance, I spy two little girls chasing each other and a puppy in a terraced garden. They look so carefree and innocent.

A wave of dizziness has me swaying, and I grab the window frame. Sustenance. How long has it been since I’d even had a sip of water? Exhaustion and shock make my memories fuzzy, and thinking chronologically is beyond me at the moment. I have a desperate need to hear the sound of my own voice. “You need food, a good night’s sleep, and a shot of tequila. Maybe not in that order.”

Hope you enjoyed!

I don’t know about you, but a tequila shot somehow seems to bring everything into perspective-it’s the lime and the salt, I swear.

Cheers,

Jianne

 

Murphy’s Time-Travel Law: It doesn’t matter if it’s in the past, present, or future—the first person to fall into a pond is always the one who can’t swim.

I have no clue how I made it back to my room. All I know is that I wedged both the trunk and the stool against the door and then collapsed on the bed. I lie there staring at the rough ceiling and reciting the Lord’s prayer over and over.

My brain is defective, and my body is out of whack. How else to explain my reaction to seeing my new boss about to screw a woman? The image of him palming his cock and spreading that pearly drop fills my head. I cover my face with my hands.

Stop, stop.

I cannot be turned on. I cannot. Yet my vajayjay’s quivering and I’m wet. Shame, self-loathing, and an explosive rage trigger a temper tantrum. I pound my fists on the wall and tears pour down my cheeks. All I want is to do is go home.

My fury vaporizes, I flop onto my stomach, and then curl into a fetal position. I am emotionally bankrupt and energy depleted. I stare unseeing at the rough mortar and bargain with God. Make it all a daylight nightmare, let me wake up in my own bed in Boca, and I’ll never miss Sunday mass again. I’ll volunteer for all the soup kitchens in South Florida and do penance for the rest of my life.

The rattle of wheels rolling over cobblestones jerks me back to reality, to the macabre version of reality I now occupy.

My mind jump starts and my heart stops threatening to fly out of my mouth. It won’t be long before someone realizes I never met with the earl. I have to snap out of this stupid terror-trance.

I sit up, the room spins, and my stomach twists into a series of painful knots. How much time has elapsed?

I stand, slog over to the window and squint, trying to see through the dust-crusted glass. The sun’s still shining, and in the distance, I spy two little girls chasing each other and a puppy in a terraced garden. They look so carefree and innocent.

A wave of dizziness has me swaying, and I grab the window frame. Sustenance. How long has it been since I’d even had a sip of water? Exhaustion and shock make my memories fuzzy, and thinking chronologically is beyond me at the moment. I have a desperate need to hear the sound of my own voice. “You need food, a good night’s sleep, and a shot of tequila. Maybe not in that order.”

Cheers,