This week I’ve chosen something from the anthology Matrimonial Mayhem, a charity release to help support Alabama disaster relief. I can’t do a p. 99 test because it’s a short, but I can show you a one-third test – a page from roughly a third into the story. Let me know what you think. And remember, all proceeds from MATRIMONIAL MAYHEM will benefit the Governor of Alabama’s Office of Faith-Based and Community Initiatives for the hardest hit areas of the state. So even if you already have your copy, please tell others about it. (More info can be found on the blog of Sarah Ballance.)
Dan’s hands found their way into her hair when he moved the assault back to her mouth, and Trish’s arms stole around his waist. Had there been any wind, none would have made its way between them.
“Excuse me, Sir . . . Ma’am.” The young-sounding male voice came from somewhere on the other side of Dan.
Trish tried to retreat from the kiss but with the van at her back, she had nowhere to go.
The voice grew more authoritative. “Sir, you need to step away from the lady!”
Finally, the urgent voice seemed to break through the haze of Dan’s intense concentration. He pulled back, his mouth quirked into a half-smile, and he turned with a slow, lazy movement. Stepping away from Trish, he slid a hand down her arm and captured her hand.
“Sir, I have to remind you that you may not engage in PDA while here on base.”
PDA? Oh, good grief! Heat began at her neck and flooded her face.
The speaker was a young man of about Trish’s age, with very short dark hair and black-rimmed eyeglasses. Wearing traditional desert cammies, an arm band designated him as MP or military police. Trish’s eyes widened, drawn downward to notice a holstered pistol at the young MP’s side.
She buried her face in her free hand and groaned.
“Thank you for the reminder. We were just leaving,” Dan murmured in a subdued tone. Trish yanked on her hand but he held on tight.
“Sir, I need you to step away from the lady and show me some military ID.” The young man’s stoic attitude and flat countenance reminded Trish of a bulldog with a bone. He was pure, single-minded determination. His companion—a kid who might have been his clone except for the blond hair—stared at her with steely blue eyes.
With no other choice, Dan turned loose of Trish’s hand and she edged along her van. “Um, I need to get in to see to our little girl.” Her voice came out sounding like a croaking frog.
The silent MP followed her around to the van and held the door for her. Was it chivalry or was he hoping she had contraband he could secure? Her lips twitched and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep the laughter from bubbling up.
“Who are those men, Mama?”
“They’re kind of the police officers on the base,” Trish explained.
“What do they want?” Of course, now Bella would persist like one of the bulldogs outside the van.
“They just wanted to tell Daddy something important.” Such as he wasn’t allowed to engage in a public display of affection! More heat rose from her chest to envelop her face. She tried to recall where Dan’s hands had been. Where were my hands?
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