Bad Girl Blogfest

Once again, I've agonized about turning another piece of my baby loose for public inspection. This time, the venue is the Bad Girl Blogfest hosted by Andrew Rosenberg over at The WriteRunner. I have decided what the hay. This excerpt is taken from a women's fiction novel I'm currently working on. Mine seems tame after reading some of the other submissions, but, good, bad or indifferent, here she is.

It was dark when she reached Manuel’s, a juke joint blues club in Santa Monica. There were other places J.C. might go, but Manuel’s was a pretty safe bet. J.C. was a regular on stage and he liked the adulation the crowd there showered on him. Especially the skanks. He never could get over his liking for strange.

It was her misfortune that Sammy couldn’t get over her liking for J.C. Maybe this time would be the charm.

The studly valet opened her door and almost dripped drool before wrenching his eyes from her decollete.

“Evening, Ms. Starr. I’ll take care of her for you.”

“Thanks, Beau, is J.C. inside?”

“Umm, not sure,” the valet lied.

Squaring her shoulders, ready for a fight, Sammy flounced in to the bar, high-beams flashing. He was there, at a table, drinking with his musician buddies.

Ignoring him, she detoured to the bar and ordered her usual, a Budweiser.

“Cuervo shooter?” Brandy, the bartender, asked, raising her eyebrows toward the table of men in the corner. Sammy hesitated for a fraction of a second. She didn’t want to get snockered tonight, and tequila tended to do that to her.

“Ohh. Why not.” She needed liquid courage. After all, she wasn’t exactly Laura Croft. Though, she did have her moments. She hoped tonight would be one of them.

Downing the shot and sucking on the sliver of lime, Sammy shuddered. Then she turned the frosted mug up and gulped half of its contents. And belched.

“So ladylike,” Brandy giggled.

At that, Sammy wrinkled her nose and chugged the rest. Slamming the mug on the bar beside her purse, she winked at Brandy and stalked over to J.C.’s table.

“Hello, boys, J.C.” Fists planted on come-hither hips, Sammy pinned J.C. with her eyes. “Got a minute? We have some unfinished business.”

Not intimidated, J.C. shrugged.

“No, I think we pretty much finished. Me and you? We are through.”

“We’re not through till I say so,” Sammy hissed. “Get up asshole and fight.”

J.C. chuckled. The rest of the table was silent. They’d all seen Sammy in action and weren’t about to get in the middle. One had even been the recipient of a well-placed jab in the not too far distant past. They were all staying out of it.

“Get up from this table, now!”

“Or what, princess?” J.C. scowled. Looking at the other guys, he snickered. “Did you know that Sammy was once Chicken Queen of the South?”

“That does it!” Quick as lightning, Sammy reached under the table and flipped it. Drinks flew and the musicians scattered. All but J.C., who was drenched and mad as a banty rooster.

“You cunt!” he growled, wiping the front of his shirt, murder in his eyes.

“That’s more like it, punk,” Sammy purred. Taking advantage of his rage, Sammy struck, stamping a stilettoed heel in to his sneakered instep.

J.C. roared. Grabbing her by the pony tail, he yanked her around so they were nose-to-nose. He wanted to deck her, but he couldn’t. He knew he'd had it coming.

“It’s over bitch,” he ground out through clinched teeth. “Over. Done. Fini. No more. Why can't you get that through your head?” Shoving her away to keep from hurting her, he turned to right the table and gain his composure.

Sammy was on him like a banshee on crack. She locked her legs around his, toppling them over on the sticky, liquor-drenched floor. A glass exploded as they landed, with Sammy on top, peppering J.C. with her deadly jabs.

“Stop it, Sammy. Stop!” He commanded. “Stop. It. Now.” Wrapping his arms around her, J.C. pinned her flailing arms to her side. She was still on top of him, her body molded to his, that clingy top molded to hers. God, she was sexy and she still turned him on, even when she was hopped up crazy.

“Why, why, why?” Sammy wailed against his chest, the anger oozing out of her as she sobbed.

J.C. wanted to stay mad at her. It would make everything so much easier. But he couldn’t. His guilt and her tears undid him. And he knew the make-up sex would be worth it.

“Come on princess, let’s go home. We’ve given these boys enough of a show for one night.”

Ashamed, and somewhat mollified, Sammy complied. After all, her intent was to get him home again. And on that, she had won.

Yeehaaa! Olivia Herrell