I can’t help it. My head falls back and laughter bubbles out. I’m both relieved and entertained. Maybe Charlie is right that I should switch genres from police procedural to romantic comedy.
The roof of my car turns into a movie screen as my brain projects onto it the scenes I imagine. I hear the great line Karson spoke earlier.Do you always carry chalk? Or is it just to get alone time with me?
The reel continues to play my ideas, and I slide my hand down the strap of my purse to unzip the jagged teeth that hold it closed. I dig past my leftovers in aluminum foil and smooth lip gloss tube to retrieve a long, smooth pen. The plastic cap is between my teeth before I even realized I needed to chew this idea over. Who wants a steak when I have a story this juicy?
The world around me disappears as I dive into the deep end of plot development. The scenes start to line up, and I’m digging into my purse again. I hit pause on a really exciting car chase scene to focus on what I’m looking for in real life.
Paper. I need paper to write down these thoughts before they disappear.
I grab my pink leather journal and flip open to where I’d been praying for God to grant me success so that I can become known as more than just “the pretty twin.” With a huff, I turn the page. Every moment I spend praying over my relationship with Jewel is a moment I could be working on my own achievements.
I rough out thirty or so scenes, but it’s hard to see in the dimming light. When did it get so dark?
Jabbing the button overhead, I’m rewarded with a yellow spotlight on my words. Let the show begin! I scribble wildly, making myself alternately crack up and swoon with my creative genius. I just hope I can read my own handwriting later.
The plot isn’t complete, but it’s beautiful. In the same way the marble statue of Aphrodite is admired even without her arms. All I need is my heroine’s career to fill in the blanks.
“Write what you know,” they say, but if I did that, all my characters would be teachers, which according to Jewel is basically the same thing as being a failure. So I like to think of an alternative to that phrase. For me it’s, “Know what you write.” This is why I take classes to research. I just need to research a career that would play off my hero’s career of detective. But what?
I picture Karson in my head, and it’s almost as though he’s standing next to my car.
“You’re breaking the law again, Gemma.”
I jump at the sound of his stern voice. My pen bounces off the dashboard and falls to the floor, freeing my hand to press against my heart.
Karson really is standing next to my car. In a dark and deserted parking lot.
Talk about alone time.
My clenched muscles tingle in relief that it’s only him and not a local drug lord who heard about the supposed drug stash in my purse and suspects I’m a threat to his turf. “Oh, you scared me.”
He crosses his arms, looking down from his position above. “Youshouldbe scared. You’re loitering.”
He sounds so serious. Batman serious. I picture him as a vigilante against loitering, rescuing our city from random people who hang out in parking lots.
I grin. “Should I call Murphey’s Law to defend me?”
He snorts and looks away as if trying to hide his half smile. He should have looked the other way, because I can still see this side curve up. The left side. Unfortunately, he’s wrangled his mirth back into place before lassoing my gaze again. “Loitering is the act of remaining in a public location for a prolonged amount of time without any apparent purpose. Tell me your purpose, and I’ll let you go.”
I have the feeling that wanting to see his half grin is not an acceptable purpose, though it’s definitely what my heroine would say in such a situation. I hold up my journal. “I’m plotting a new screenplay.”
He blinks slowly, as though he’s hoping I’ll be gone when he opens his eyes.
I’m still here though. And I’m going to win this staring contest.
He finally gives me the win by looking to the stars starting to peek out overhead. “Is there a reason you’re plotting a screenplay in the parking lot of my police station after hours?”
I give a small shrug, wondering how honest to be. Since I want him to know I have nothing to hide, I guess I should tell the complete truth. “You inspired a new idea, and I had to jot it down.”
No reaction.
Huh. Most people would be flattered, though I expected him to err on the side of anger, since that’s where he seems to be most comfortable. Anger is his default. I’m not sure whether his silence should encourage or discourage me.
I take a chance and continue. “I’m writing about the dangers of dating a detective.” I pause at the sound of alliteration. As if I’ve been momentarily blinded by a light bulb popping on over my head. “That sounds like a cute title, doesn’t it?”
“No.” Saying no is another of his defaults.
“It’s got intrigue, romance, and humor—all rolled into one.” I lift my hand to write it down, then remember I dropped my pen. I lean forward and pad my fingers along the fuzzy carpet by my feet.
