So, it's the 27th July, 2016, or (2707/2016)=691, but that's too many words, so I halved it, thusly 346 (rounded up, plus the last little bit so it wasn't entirely left dangling in anticip-) words of my work in progress, The WAG and The Scoundrel, which is a white-collar crime mystery (ish) / romance (ish) (LGBTQ). It's the first book in the Gray Fisher Series, which is a spinoff of Hiding Behind The Couch. It's scheduled for an October release. :o
In the scene below, Gray's at home alone, and he's trying to figure out his feelings about...everything!
Here's the WIPpet:
It was as well Gray had steered clear of the spirits. The time was fast approaching two a.m., and the ten bottles of Belgian wheat beer - which he'd bought on the premise they'd last out the week and then finished them in one sitting - had made him morose. But for once, his misery hadn't dumped him in the deep dark hole of Life After Jean.
He pondered on that awhile, trying to decide if he felt guilty - which he didn't - and then whether he should feel guilty about not feeling guilty.
Guilt-free, ethereal, divine.
Two a.m. in the reality of a drunken Gray Fisher was a twilight zone in which he could communicate with the dead. Not all of them, thank goodness. There were quite a few he was glad were on the other side of the curtain, including his philandering father - a phrase he'd tried out in the full array of Scottish accents for it sounded much better than in English - but when a light dose of alcohol had softened the edges of the world, blurring the boundaries, Gray felt Jean's presence, he was sure of it, or as sure as he was of anything.
He'd talked himself hoarse, telling Jean all about Will and his dogs. Five days had passed with no contact. No phone calls, no text messages, and he wasn't online. Gray didn't know if that was atypical or not. What was atypical was that he was paying attention, hence his lack of frame of reference.
He was worried about Will, which was...promising, and his pleasure at being worried appalled him. But then, how could he not be pleased, when his concern indicated that, in spite of his doubts on other matters, Gray believed Will had been truthful about his mum.
"I disgust me," Gray admitted to Jean, or to his semi-comatose common sense. He was still a long way from sober but not quite as far into drunk as he had been an hour ago, when he began his one-person séance. "It's so petty. Why do I care if he's bluffing about..." He didn’t know what, or why. He had no logical explanation for the feeling.
Thanks for reading!