Becky Melby
“Don’t come any closer,” she yelled. “I’ll shoot.”
The man laughed. Evil. Maniacal. And then…took a step.
She pressed the trigger. And…nothing. The gun was jammed.
“Now what?” Amanda James stared at the last three lines she’d written. She’d expected the man to run, but none of her characters were cooperating today. Her finger hovered over Delete. Start over? Or work with this uncooperative antagonist’s snafu? She couldn’t kill the stubborn intruder. Her publisher didn’t want murders on the page, so she couldn’t let the guy obliterate her heroine.
Would Penelope have time to unjam the Glock and fire a warning shot? Maybe just grazing his shoulder, stopping him before he reached her?
Amanda should have enrolled in that writers’ police academy course when she’d had the chance.
But she had a next best thing. A next-door best friend who just happened to be studying for his detective exam.
And did not want to be disturbed.
But this was urgent. This was life or death.
Barefoot, hair in a messy bun, and wearing an oversized hoodie over flannel pajama bottoms, Amanda padded into the hallway and knocked on apartment six.
No answer.
True, it was after eleven p.m., a legitimate time of night to ignore knocks, but the brownies-just-from-the-oven scent wafting under the door told her he was likely sitting at his cluttered counter surrounded by books and bingeing on his stay-awake go-to.
“Blake!” She pressed her mouth as close as she could to the edge of the door and muted her voice. “I need you. My Glock is jammed.”
Footsteps. The door flew open, and she stumbled in, face-planting on a Green Bay Packer logo. On a shirt. On a broad chest smelling like woodsy cologne. And chocolate. Blake steadied her, but even when her feet were planted firmly beneath her, she still had the sensation of falling.
“What happened?” His question was harsh, stopping the tilt of the room. “Are you all right?” He pulled her inside, tucked her behind him, and scanned the hall, then closed the door and locked it. Twice. “Who was it? What happened?”
Amanda squinted at him. “Nothing. No one. Penelope’s Glock jammed, and I need to know if she can—”
“Penelope?” A vein on his temple bulged, as did chocolate-brown eyes. “One of your book characters?” He practically hissed the last syllable.
“Of course. What did you think—oh. I see how that could have sounded.”
Blake threw his head back and sighed loud enough to wake Mrs. Everson sleeping across the hall without her hearing aids.
“I’m sorry.” She shrugged and tried the puppy dog eyes that had worked on him since they were in junior high. “I didn’t think.”
It took a beat longer than usual, but he finally smiled. At least half of his mouth smiled, forming a divot in his scruffy cheek. “So, Penelope’s gotten herself into a literal jam this time, huh?”
“Very punny. Yes. She tried to stop an intruder, but her Glock wouldn’t fire. He’s moving towards her. Can she fix it in time to save herself?”
“It depends on whether he’s armed, and with what, and how experienced she is, and whether it’s a failure to feed or a failure to eject or a double feed or…”
She stared at the parallel lines forming between his eyebrows that meant he’d shifted into problem-solving mode. She needed to remember those details. Needed to write them on Gabriel’s face the next time he—
“Gabriel!”
“Huh?”
“Gabriel. My hero. He needs to save her. The Glock jams, and it looks like all is lost. This is the black moment. Just when the intruder’s hands clasp her willowy white neck, there’s a zap and the man crumples to the floor.”
The dimple deepened. “A zap?”
“Taser. Gabriel has to use a taser.”
“No dead bodies on the page, right?”
“Right.”
“But he wouldn’t crumple. He’d writhe. Or convulse. And there wouldn’t be a single zap. It’s staccato. More like bzz-bzz-bzz-bzz-bzz. Like bacon grease exploding in a hot pan.”
She stared at the divot. “I should make you my co-author.”
He rubbed the stubble next to the dimple. “That could be fun.”
“I need help with the male point of view. Growing up with only sisters did not prepare me for this.”
“Fortunately for you, so did I.”
“Huh?”
“Growing up with only sisters prepared me well. I don’t like to brag, but I think I understand women more than most men.”
Hmm. Maybe that was why he was always the one she turned to first. Understanding. Empathy. Those eyes. That divot…
“Try me. Give me a Penelope line and I’ll give you a Gabriel response.”
“O-k-kay.” She took a deep breath. “From chapter twenty-one. ‘I had a life plan, and you weren’t in it. All I wanted was a friend. Someone to talk to and hang out with. I wasn’t looking for—’”
“Someone to save you when your Glock jammed?” Blake reached out, cupping her face in his hands. “Or do you mean you weren’t looking for more?”
Numb, Amanda nodded.
“Neither was I, but here we are. Acting out a trope that’s as old as romance itself. Friends turned more. And I just realized I don’t ever want to be anywhere but here, gazing into your deep blue pools and—”
“P-Penelope has green eyes,” she rasped.
His lips drew closer, and he whispered against hers. “I know.”
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