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Friday, April 4, 2014

Cracked 20k on the Anita Blake inspired novel

This is a very rough draft:

“Come on, Saffie. Why do you make me come to this place?”

I had to admit it, Wicked Grounds always made me uncomfortable. Sure, you could get all the usual things, like rich mochas with pillowy snowdrifts of homemade whip cream on top. Or maybe a slice of blueberry lemon loaf and a double shot of espresso, a muddy cup of French press coffee, whatever your poison was. The room was comfortable enough, and rejuvenating light rolled in like a pale wave thanks to the big picture window up front. The black and white floor tiles glimmered, so clean you could eat off of them.

Hell, some people did.

It wasn’t uncommon to see customers come in with their slaves on leashes, barely clothed men and women crawling on hands and feet behind their owners, heavy collars clasped around their necks. If those slaves had been particularly good that day, Wicked Grounds might treat them to an espresso milkshake, served up a dog bowl. The smell of lovingly cared for leather competed with the aroma of roasted coffee beans and the bakery-sweet cloud that hung over the front counter.

Serafina knew how I felt about it, too. She liked making me uncomfortable, but not in any way that was too serious. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to tease me a little. I could wind myself too tight if I wasn’t careful, and Saffie had a way of keeping me honest.

"I like watching you squirm.” She informed me, an impish smile on her expressive mouth.

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