Sunday Snippet: Raid at Midnight

Hello August! So many things going on this month. School starts for my one and only daughter and one and only student this year. She's involved in the music and athletic departments and the fall tends to be very busy. She's already started her golf season and band practice started also. She had a busy week with band camp from 8 to 3 and then golf qualifying from 4 to 6. She's got the number three spot right now and is happy being there. They have almost twice the amount of girls this year and everyone is excited about growing the sport.

Teen Wolf's premiere didn't disappoint. I'm excited to see how everything wraps up. I loved the surprises and can't wait for more. Keep them coming!

Got a few more episodes of Killjoys in and really like how the season is shaping up. Here's hoping there's a renewal in the future.

I'm also almost caught up on Dark Matter. I continue to enjoy the interactions and character arcs.

Need to catch the last two episodes of Wynonna Earp and I hope I can get that done this week.

Seeing more promo for The Last Ship… looking forward to the premiere in two weeks!!

That's it for television this week. Tonight's post is from Under the Blackhawk Banner, a novella based on a prompt to write an alternative timeline or universe for WWII.

Here's the mini-blurb:

In a battle-torn land, the saving grace is the Blackhawk Banner. Any who fly the flag are protected by the elite group of pilots and their crew who pull off amazing feats of victory. Verity Jones, the lone female in the group, is about to become one of their secret weapons, and Emory Cavendish will make it happen, over the protests of damned near everyone.

And a preview snippet…

Verity Jones strode through the line of men into the huge manor—a former castle—and followed the indicator signs to the company commander's office. She ignored the gaping mouths and widened eyes, very used to the stir she caused. The Blackhawk Banner flew proudly from the parapet, meaning she belonged as much as the next person.

Even if I am a female.

She stopped outside the closed door of Colonel Earl Whitcomb, the head of the civilian base, and rapped sharply on the jamb.

"Enter!"

She took a deep breath, twisted the knob, and walked into the office.

The colonel sat behind his desk and another man occupied the chair facing him. Dark hair, longer than standard military, brushed his shirt collar. He angled his head around and met Verity's gaze with his amber one. He rose slightly and nodded then settled back into the seat. She blinked once then shifted her focus to Whitcomb.

His brows knit and he rose from his seat. "Who the hell are you and how did you get access to my base?" He made a move to come around the desk.

Verity stared straight ahead, coming to attention. "VJ Jones, specialist, reporting for duty." The Blackhawks utilized a rank structure similar to the military even though they operated as a civilian outfit.

Whitcomb's eyes narrowed. "You're a woman." He held out a hand. "Orders. Let me have them."

Verity slid them from her pocket and slapped the papers into his palm. He shook the pages open and scanned the contents, grumbling under his breath. When he finished, he tossed the documents on his desk and folded his arms over his chest.

Verity remained silent, bracing for the usual response.

Whitcomb didn't disappoint. "Don't get too comfortable, Jones. You, no doubt, lied on your application to the Blackhawk program, or deliberately tried to mislead the home office by using your initials instead of your name. Women are not allowed to serve in our elite corps." He moved again, putting the wide expanse of oak between them. "I won't let you remain and become a distraction to the men." His face turned a mottled shade of crimson.

Verity itched to smack the man, but calmly met his gaze. "Sir, you might want to review the signatures on the orders and the addendum they included." She kept her tone even and devoid of the frustration coursing through her.

Whitcomb snatched the papers again and flipped to the final one. His lips thinned to a harsh line and his nostrils flared when he inhaled. Anger tinged with defeat entered his gaze.

He glanced at the man still seated across from him. "Cavendish, apparently the president and the prime minister are well aware they've sent a female to work with us. Find her a place to stay—well away from my men—and brief her on our upcoming missions." He pinned Verity with a nasty glare. "If you cause any trouble or start any fights between my pilots, I don't care whose signatures are present on your orders. I'll make sure you're transferred to a place better suited for your kind." He waved a hand toward her in disgust.

My kind? Meaning a woman with boobs and hips?

Verity bit back the terse response. "I look forward to keeping your planes in the air, Sir. I can start immediately."

Whitcomb shuddered. "That's not necessary. Cavendish will brief you, sort out quarters for you, then, if there's time, he can show you the hangar. But only if it doesn't keep him from his other duties. We're a very busy base, specialist." He nearly spat the title at her.

She shot a quick glance in Cavendish's direction. He'd risen and waited patiently for the colonel's dismissal. Whitcomb shook his head and motioned for them to leave.

Verity kept her anger in check and preceded Cavendish out of the office. When he pulled the door closed, she turned and sized him up. He didn't wear the mantle of rage like Whitcomb. In fact, he appeared relaxed and at ease. Might she have a potential ally?

She thrust her hand forward. "We haven't been properly introduced. VJ Jones."

He grasped her palm. "The colonel is short on pleasantries, especially when his world tilts on its axis. Emory Cavendish, captain of the air guard." His firm shake didn't linger, which she appreciated.

But his words caught her off guard. "Captain of the air guard? Why on earth are you acting as my tour guide then?" Whitcomb couldn't be more of an ass.

Emory gave her a half-smile. "Being a civilian operation, we wear a lot of hats around here." He started forward, toward the main hall of the estate.

Verity followed then fell into step beside him. "Meaning you're the colonel's go-to guy when he doesn't want to deal with something distasteful?" Namely her.

Emory huffed out a laugh. "You catch on very quickly, Specialist Jones." He paused a moment. "It won't be easy, but you'll fit in just fine around here." He took a set of keys from his pocket and slid one into a locked door. "Let's get started with some quarters. How about I brief you on the way?"

Verity gave a nod. "Sounds efficient. Please, lead on." Stepping into a darkened wing, she squared her shoulders and took the first steps toward her new place in life.

I'm having a terrific time writing this one. The sages are already feeding me ideas for more books so hopefully Emory and Verity's story will continue.

That's it for this week.

Cheers!

Skye

Sunday Snippet: Shine One On

Well, the beginning of April is here and I've been bitten by the spring cleaning bug. This is not a bad thing. House, garage, and computer files are getting spiffed up and decluttered.

The Walking Dead finale is tonight and I'll be there. Not sure I'll pay a lot of attention, but I can't not watch.

The Flash introduced an irritating villain. Can't say I'm sad to see him go. Also really frustrated with the whole Savitar storyline at this point. I'm ready for the final end game and season finale.

Legends of Tomorrow rewrote reality and kept me entertained. Looking forward to the season finale to see how they resolve everything. Mick remains one of my favorite characters and it better stay that way.

Arrow's deft mastery of weaving Oliver's past into his present life will be missed. This isn't to say the writers won't continue churning out excellent fare. In fact, I'm looking forward to seeing how the story continues. Something tells me Oliver's past will still come back to haunt him in many other ways.

Riverdale had a new episode and, wow, I wanted to get a better read on Alice Cooper… I got it. A little sad it's at the expense of Hal, but the interesting wrinkle might be worth it. FP's playing a sly game. He doesn't get near enough credit for being a true mastermind. Come on, people. He's Jughead's dad. The kid had to get his smarts from someone. Just saying.

I'm still binge-watching City Homicide, working my way through season three. The first season is probably my absolute favorite but I do enjoy the later seasons also.

That's it for television this week. Tonight's post is from Shine One On, a novella that got a writing community prompt start; prohibition, one character owns a speakeasy, one is the moonshine supplier. I decided to go urban noir with this and make it an alternative universe. I'm hoping for a twenties / thirties / forties feel with some nice twists.

Here's the mini-blurb:

Against state regulations, Maxine Wynne braves the revenuer to provide speakeasy owner, Drake Kestleman, enough moonshine to keep his customers happy. When Maxine is caught, Drake launches Operation Shine One On to get her out of danger and back in business.

And a preview snippet…

Maxine Wynne wiped down the kitchen counter and kept an eye on the oven. Dinner time would see seven hungry men climbing the stairs from her basement, ready to fill their bellies full of home-cooking. Not that Maxine cooked. She had a woman who prepped everything and left Maxine with the minimal responsibility of taking it out at a specified time.

Thank the world for small favors.

The phone rang right when Maxine put the last pan on the table, the clump of boots on the stairs right on cue.

She answered the line. "Wynne's Rooming House. You've got Maxine on the line." Waving for the guys to help themselves, she took the call into the front parlor for some quiet.

"Hey, Maxine." The whiskey smooth voice caressed her eardrums. "Let's shine one on, honey, say sometime on Wednesday, the twenty-seventh?" Drake Kestleman, her best and favorite customer, never failed to adhere to her carefully constructed code for placing an order.

Drake also never failed to make her pulse thrum, set her imagination on fire, and yearn for something she could never have.

A man in her life.

Never again.

Poking her head into the kitchen, she motioned for Beau Lamont, her right hand man, to join her. "Drake, love, you know I'll do anything to see to your needs. Let me check my calendar." Translation. She had to find if she could fill his order for premium alcohol. She quickly did a few calculations on the notepad on her side table then turned the page for Beau to read. He shook his head and held up two fingers. He'd need at least a couple of days to make a batch of premium moonshine, the only kind Drake bought.

Maxine purred into the phone. "But I'm sorry, hot stuff, I won't be free until Friday. Can you hold out that long, handsome?" She could barely keep up with orders, but Drake would definitely get his.

Drake sighed. "It'll be a rough wait, Maxine." He paused. "But only because you're my best girl."

Translation. He'd hold out for the good stuff. No one made better 'shine than Maxine.

She purred. "I'll make it worth your while, Drake." Meaning she'd provide a few extra cases of hooch, free of charge.

Drake played along and added a sexy hum of approval. "You never disappoint, Maxine. Until Friday." He cut his end of the call.

Maxine shook her head and handed the phone to Beau who returned the handset to the receiver.

Flirty banter with Drake always got her revved up. But the need for encoded conversations and constant vigilance required the subterfuge. They never knew when a revenuer agent might be listening in on the line. The revenue office liked to get their pound of flesh and didn't always use legal means to get their due. The nationwide ban on alcohol consumption and manufacture meant anyone caught paid hefty fines, legal fees, and usually bribes to stay out of jail.

Didn't help the hot and steamy images from filling Maxine's head though. Beau came back into the parlor and picked up a fan, waving it in front of her face.

He let out a low whistle. "Easy there, Maxie, or the booze will combust if you get too close."

Considering her production took place in the basement two buildings over, she didn't find his observation amusing.

But she ignored his teasing. Beau got away with things no one else did, like calling her Maxie. He came up with the idea of using her grandmother's recipe to supply the lower half of the state with moonshine.

She fronted the real moneymaker by turning the house, left by her not-so-dearly-departed husband, Ashford Wynne, into a room and board business. She didn't grieve the loss and she definitely never asked Beau if he'd forgotten to fix Ashford's car or if he purposefully left the brakes in terrible condition so Wynne could take his place in hell sooner rather than later.

She didn't care. Beau had her back. He always did, from the moment they'd landed in the same group home at age six. Raised like siblings, they left at sixteen and moved into a low-rent flophouse, making ends meet by running numbers. She dressed as a boy and together they set Beau's reputation on fire by claiming the most bets.

They had a great thing going until Ashford discovered her true identity. He put her to work as a hostess in his nightclub and tried to keep other men away from her.

At twenty, Beau had left for a stint upstate to handle a book maker's numbers. She'd married Ashford, even after Beau warned the smooth-talking racketeer reeked of ill intentions.

Beau snapped his fingers. "Maxie? Geez. Why don't relieve some of that tension with Kestleman?" His tone dropped, keeping the conversation between them.

Maxine quirked an eyebrow. "You know why. Drake is very easy on the eyes, but he's also a strong personality." She squared her shoulders. "I won't be under any man's thumb again." Or behind his fists or trampled by his wingtip shoes.

She's worked too hard to make her way on her terms to let her life and her money fall out of her grasp.

She didn't have to explain. Beau had nailed Ashford's character on the head. When Lamont returned from his sojourn he took one look at her bruises and set Ashford straight. If Wynne physically harmed Maxine again, Beau would make sure Ashford regretted the action. Within a month, her husband tested the boundaries and two weeks later he crashed going around Wylie's Run.

Beau shook his head. "I'm not saying you have to marry the guy. After your ass of a husband, no one would blame you from steering clear of matrimony." He lifted shoulder. "But Kestleman's a different breed, Maxie. He's straight and solid."

She'd love to go with Beau's instincts, but refused to take a chance. "You don't know that for a fact. You don't live with him." A lesson she learned the hard way with Ashford.

One she wouldn't forget.

Beau held up his hands. "Okay. Backing off and shutting up now." He waggled his eyebrows. "But you still need to get laid."

Maxine slugged his shoulder. "I thought you were shutting up now." She pushed him into the kitchen, waving off any more commentary.

She settled down onto the small wingback chair. Beau nailed her dilemma. She needed to blow off steam and wanted to get down and dirty to do it. Drake tempted her, seriously tugging at the demons she'd long thought buried. After her marriage, she withdrew from the seedy underworld of backroom trysts with nameless men.

She missed the powerful high of sexual release, never achieved anything close with Ashford. Every cell in her body screamed Drake Kestleman would be her undoing.

So… she'd stay firmly in supplier mode, thank-you-very-much-Beau.

Longer than usual preview. I'm hoping the scene flows as well for readers as it does in my head.

That's it for this week.

Cheers!

Skye

Sunday Snippet: Raid at Midnight

I love it when characters creep me out on television shows. The marine colonel on Banshee is a total madman and takes the mantle of crazypants from the Red Bone leader Chayton Littlestone. Gotta say, he lost points this past week, but I won't get into why in this venue. I may have to dust off my Universes Altered blog and go to town on this season. LOL

Other television news… eh, not much until this upcoming week. Looking forward to new episodes of Arrow and The Flash. Hoping for some great stuff from Gotham and Sleepy Hollow, too.

Lastly, come on February. I need Bitten and The Walking Dead back on my screen. :D

Tonight's post is from Under the Blackhawk Banner, a novella with something of an alternative universe.

Here's the tagline:

In a battle torn land, the saving grace is the Blackhawk Banner. Any who fly the flag are protected by the elite group of pilots and their crew who pull off amazing feats of victory. Verity Jones, the lone female in the group, is about to become one of their secret weapons, and Emory Cavendish will make it happen, over the protests of damned near everyone.

And a preview snippet…

"Cavendish!" The company commander bellowed from his office.

Emory sighed and placed his pencil in the holder and gathered up the report, stuffing the pages in the folder on his desk. He rose, squared his shoulders, and started for the CO's office. No doubt, the man discovered who'd flown the last mission.

"Cavendi—" Earl Whitcomb paused mid-shout. "'Bout damned time you got your ass in here." He pointed to the seat opposite his desk. "Take a seat, Captain. And you'd better be ready to explain yourself." Whitcomb dropped down, his heavy girth rattling the chair on its hinges.

Emory crossed his legs at the ankles and settled back. He didn't expect the meeting with his CO to last long, but he made it a point to remain calm and collected. Whitcomb raised a brow, indicating Emory should get talking.

Emory cleared his throat. "Verity Jones flew the mission last night and you're not happy about it?" He wanted everything nice and clear when he filled out his report.

Whitcomb exploded. "You're goddamned right I'm not happy, Cavendish. What the hell are you thinking?" He waved a hand. "Never mind. You're not thinking with your brain." The man leaned forward and lowered his voice. "You're thinking with your cock. And I won't have it." He hissed the last few words.

Okay, not what Emory expected. The blistering tirade, yes. The red-faced anger, absolutely. But an accusation of being led around by his shaft? Not bloody likely.

Emory straightened. "With all due respect, Sir. You couldn't be more wrong." He got up and paced, back and forth, seeking a cool head before speaking again. "Do you have any idea who her father is?" Victor 'Aces' Jones, the best damned Blackhawk pilot out of WWI.

Whitcomb snorted. "Of course I know who he is. Why the hell do you think I even let the woman near my planes?" He leaned back, folding his hands over his hefty belly.

Emory paused. "Your planes, Sir? All aircraft belong to the Blackhawk cause. And who do you think keeps them flying?" He started his trek back and forth again. "Verity Jones. She knows every inch of those machines, can coax miracles from them, and you know what else?" Emory stopped directly in front of the desk. "She can fly like no one else I've ever seen."

Whitcomb opened his mouth, but Emory held up a hand. The old man narrowed his eyes, but remained silent.

Emory dragged in a deep breath. "I won't deny I find Specialist Jones fascinating, but she's bloody damned good at what she does…" He pinned Whitcomb with his gaze. "And that includes running missions. She got in and out of enemy territory right under their noses. Who else could have pulled that off?"

Whitcomb lifted a brow. "Aside from you?" He shrugged. "No one. But I don't want a woman flying under the Blackhawk banner. What's next? Combat patrols?" He shook his head. "No. I won't have a member of the fairer sex showing up all the men who've put their lives on the line." He shoved the chair back and rose from the seat. "It's bad enough she's roaming around the stronghold wearing pants and overalls. Keep a tight leash on her, Cavendish, or you'll be held responsible when everything goes sideways because she's here."

Emory blew out a frustrated breath. "Yes, Sir. I'll make sure she keeps a low profile."

Whitcomb came around the desk and clapped him on the shoulder. "Glad we understand each other, Captain. You're dismissed."

Emory bolted from the office before he said something truly stupid. Like how he planned to have Verity take off after the clock struck midnight to try out the new equipment he had her install on the Bertha Jay.

I have so much love for this story. Emory and Verity are kind of like superheroes, bucking the status quo. Fun!!

That's it for this week.

Cheers!

Skye