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Monday, January 5, 2015


Welcome! We have more of Buddy's story this week. I'm posting it here as I'm writing it in my new book. Well, not all of it. But some. Here we go. Thanks for coming. Head back to some awesome authors with the link at the bottom. 

 When he entered the woods and a comfortable lope, Buddy let out a breath. Escaping the news media camped on his doorstep, ready to pounce with personal questions about his relationship with Emerald was like escaping a cobra ready to strike. He shook his head. He’d be happy to oblige them if he had any answers. He didn’t know any more than they did where he and Emerald were going.
The wide receiver cut his loop short and headed back home. The sky was turning gray, the sun blocked by clouds. He smelled rain in the air. Too dangerous to run in the rain. Buddy protected his career by being careful in his daily life. One broken ankle could sideline him for months and maybe wreck his career.
As he rounded the last neck of woods, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He stopped to catch his breath, leaning his hands on his knees, perusing the street. All the news trucks and reporters were gone. It was quiet. Too quiet. With one deep inhale, he straightened up and headed for home, glancing from side to side to quell the unease inside.
   He closed and locked the door. Once he was in the house, Buddy blew out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He popped open a bottle of water and wandered over to the picture window in the living room. It looked out on the street. Then he heard them. Pop, pop, pop, gunshots and the shrieking of glass shattering.

Buddy hit the floor. A few shards rocketed toward him leaving small cuts on his arm. Blood trickled down in a thin stream.
“I know she’s in there. Send her out. I don’t want to hurt anybody. I just want Emerald. I promise not to hurt her. But she’s mine.”

Buddy picked his head up slowly until only his eyes were above the sill.
“She’s not here!” He shouted, then ducked.
“Liar! I saw the news trucks. I know she’s there. Send her out.”

Again, Buddy called out.
“She left. She’s not here.”
A spray of bullets flew into the room, over his head. Buddy flattened himself on the floor. He fished his cell out of his pocket and dialed 911. They’d better get here before he comes through the window.
“Emerald! I’m here. Come on out, baby!”
Anger seized the footballer. One foot into my house and I’ll kill him with my bare hands. In the distance a siren wailed. Inching to the side of the window, Buddy took a chance and looked out. The lunatic on his front lawn put his rifle on his shoulder and sprinted for his car. 
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