From my older novel Sweet Release:
CHAPTER ONE
Claudia Madelyn Rutheford hated her name. Not even as a child did she once remember liking her name—especially when the other kids teased her by calling her a “clod” which she never thought was even remotely clever or funny in spite of their hysterics. By the time she was old enough to imagine such things, she wished her mother had been more adventurous and named her “Madison” or “Collette” or “Jenna”—anything but the names of her great grandmother and grandmother respectively. Nothing against them—she just happened to hate being named after them. So, by the time she was in high school, she went by C.M., and no one (other than her mother) had better call her anything else because she would respectfully but commandingly correct them. And by the time she was in college, she dropped the periods and went only by CM.
Matthew Preston, his 6 ft. frame slumped over his laptop set up on the glass coffee table in the living room of his expensive two bedroom apartment, inquired as he typed furiously, “So, did you like it or not, CM?”
“Geez, Matt, I don’t know. What’s that about anyway? Normally I would’ve really liked it,” she answered with irritation in her voice at her own indecisiveness. She stood, squeezing the aromatic spicy flavored tea from the bag into her mug. “Did you get any honey?” she asked, looking in the cupboard.
“Forgot,” he answered as he continued to work. “Sugar’s there, though.”
“Matt—you know I’d rather have honey, darn it,” she said with muted ire as she grabbed the box of sugar and inadvertently slammed the cupboard shut. “I didn’t mean to,” she offered looking back at him before he could react further than the uplifted eyebrows she received.
“What’s buggin’ you anyway? It’s just another movie, right?” he asked, closing his laptop and stretching his muscular arms over his head while pulling his long legs out from under the coffee table so he could climb up onto the couch.
“You know it’s my job,” she said with a hint of disgust at his apparent lack of understanding. She sat down at the dining table and stared into her mug, stirring abstractedly.
Matt stood and walked over to the table. “Hey, I know you take your work very seriously—and rightfully so—but c’mon—you can’t possibly expect to give your positive approval or your succinct rejection to every movie you see, can you?”
She noted his sincere logic as well as his genuine concern, and she wondered why in the world she didn’t love him madly and passionately—like in the movies, she thought in the brief span of a moment. He was gorgeous. And built. His above the collar length bleached blonde hair with its medium brown roots only accentuated his deep blue eyes and the natural color of his skin that always looked tan. He was a bona fide head turner.
“Well, can you?” He sat after his quiet question, reaching over to place his hand over her free hand resting on the table.
“No. No, I suppose not.” She resigned herself to the fact and mustered a smile.
He stood again and walked to the refrigerator, bending down to examine its contents. He pulled out a carton of pulpy Minute Maid orange juice and drained it, tossing it in the garbage under the sink.
“Let me take you out to dinner. We’ll go to Lupe’s.”
“You just want to get me drunk on Margaritas and take advantage of me,” she said, turning in her chair to face him.
“Yeah,” he said, grinning broadly, his charming smile lighting up his face. “I do.”
“I do appreciate your honesty, believe it or not.” She laughed at his easy admission.
“That’s one thing I’ve always liked about you, CM. You want it straight.”
“And don’t forget that either.”
“I don’t plan on it.”
Father, thank you for all of it. Please give me more words and stories. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Into the Fire 