Now that THE HITWOMAN AND THE NEUROTIC WITNESS is out, I thought it would be fun to share the opening of the next book in the series THE HITWOMAN HUNTS A GHOST. I'm still writing this one (and this is unedited) but it'll probably look something like this:
You know it’s going to be a bad day when God tells you to call in sick.
Not that I was getting messages from an all-knowing deity or anything. No, I was being told to call in sick by a smug, entitled brown anole lizard who sounds an awful lot like Alan Rickman. His name is Godzilla…but he prefers God for short.
“Call in sick and get me a new place to sleep,” the demanding reptile boomed as I sleepily turned off my alarm. “I’m tired of slumming it and living like a hobo.”
Rolling over, I glared at him with my best who-dares-speak-to-me-before-I’ve-had-my-coffee look.
He wasn’t impressed. Jutting out his chin, he puffed out his dewlap, the orange flap of skin beneath his jaw. In the animal world that might seem intimidating, to me it was just amusing.
“Are you going to huff and puff and blow my house down?” I asked with more than a hint of sarcasm.
“Fight no,” my grammatically-challenged Doberman Pinscher interrupted. “Gotta. Gotta.”
While the lizard’s demands hadn’t been enough to stir me to action, the threat of the dog emptying her bladder indoors was enough to have me jumping up.
“Sure,” God drawled from his perch atop the television. “Do what she wants. Take care of her needs while you ignore mine.”
Ignoring him, I pulled a blanket around my shoulders and snapped the mutt’s leash on.
“Gotta. Gotta. Gotta,” she panted as she pulled me up the flight of stairs and out of the basement.
I’m living in the basement of my aunts’ Bed & Breakfast because my apartment was blown up (not to mention my Lady of the Night sister Marlene has returned to the family fold and commandeered my old room) but that’s another story.
Thankfully there was no one in the kitchen and we were able to get outside without interruption. Then of course, the dog, who’d carried on like she was going to die if she didn’t pee immediately, took her sweet time finding a place to do her business.
Finally she found her magical spot. While she did her thing, I shivered and watched my aunt Leslie, in the far corner of the back yard, move through a series of yoga poses.
I don’t know anything about yoga, except that I have no interest in contorting myself into unnatural positions, but Patrick, my murder mentor and almost lover, had told me that Aunt Leslie did something called sun salutations.
I’m not a morning person, so I have no desire to greet the sun.
Tell me Killer Friends: Are YOU a morning person? Do you do yoga? Do you have a dog like DeeDee?