Slash & Burn

Sunday, Sunday.... I'm just killing time until I get to stuff my face at Mother's Day brunch. I am not a mother, but I'll take any excuse to eat.

My writing partner (the fabulous Kiernan Kelly) and I are about 10k into our novel. Thought I'd leave you guys with a little snippet while I go clean up after my run and prepare to shower my mom with all the love she deserves. Enjoy!

***

Rory chewed and swallowed the last few pieces of popcorn. Happy World did seem to have the best amusement park popcorn there was.

No, wait. The handbook had said theme park. Theme park, not amusement park. Even though Rory found himself pretty damn amused every time he looked at the handbook. There sure were a lot of freaking rules about the place.

Rules and Rory had never really gotten along. Parents, teachers, the two managers of the restaurants where he’d waited tables during college, all of them had tried imposing different rules on Rory. All of them had learned quickly enough that whatever Rory didn’t want to do, he didn’t do. Of course, this also meant that he got grounded, poor grades, and fired, but at least he took comfort in the fact that he was true to himself.

Being true to yourself only worked, however, if you were self-sufficient. And since Rory was still living on his father’s dime, he’d had to make the choice to follow Roarke Stafford, Sr.’s rules for now. One of which included getting a job.

It wasn’t Rory’s fault that his liberal studies degree wasn’t yielding him any employment in his field of choice. He’d done all the right things after graduating from college, but the economy was just so shitty that no one was hiring PR positions. Or human resource positions, or marketing positions, or any of the other things his degree qualified him for. Rory had been content to send out one or two resumes a week and spend the rest of his time on the beach with friends, but Roarke Sr. was having none of that.

“A job,” his father had said firmly. “A job, or I’m changing your trust to become available at age thirty-seven, not twenty-seven.”

“What!” Rory paused, half-in, half-out of his truck. “I’ve been trying, Dad! You can’t do that!” It sounded ridiculous even to Rory, because of course his father could do that. And was clearly going to.

“I said a job, Rory. By the end of next week. I don’t care if you’re digging ditches or picking up trash. Just get a job.” His father turned and went back to his newest, youngest wife who was lounging by the pool in the back yard.

Rory had sworn under his breath and went out to meet his friends, promising himself that he’d never, ever be picking up trash for money.

Which, of course, made the claw thing in his hand right now that much more ironic.