Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Writer's Wednesday--Cynthia Sax

Cynthia Sax is back again today with an excerpt from her new Avon Red erotic novella Flashes Of Me. Thank you, Cynthia!




Excerpt From Flashes Of Me
by Cynthia Sax

“I think we’re on the quiet floor,” I observe. No one else is talking.

Camille’s walk is defiant. “We’ll change that.” She pauses in front of the stairwell. “Stairs?”

“Ummm . . .” I thought the human resources lady said something about the stairwells being for emergency use only, but I hadn’t been paying close attention to her monotonous spiel. I was too worried about not being chosen. “Sure.”

We clomp down the stairs, our heels ringing against the concrete. The supremely clean and brightly lit stairwell smells of stinky socks, the stale air making me dizzy. Camille appears unaffected by the stench. As we descend, she sings happily, her song choices being a collection of increasingly vulgar hip-hop songs.

We reach the second floor and Camille tugs on the door. It doesn’t open. She scans her passcard over a small black security box. The light remains red. “Shit on a stick.” She scans it again. Nothing happens. “Unbelievable,” she fumes.

“Let me try.” I wave my passcard over the sensor. The light remains red and Camille curses. Her vocabulary makes me blush and, as I’m a native New Yorker, that’s an impressive feat for her to accomplish. “We’ll try the ground floor,” I suggest.

We trudge down to the ground floor. This door is locked also. Camille tries her passcard. It doesn’t work, prompting another stream of colorful language from my new friend. I try my passcard. It’s as useless as Camille’s.

“We’re stuck.” I state the obvious, slapping the metal door, ignoring Camille’s ranting. “Do you have a phone?”

“Do I look like I have a phone?” Camille pivots in a circle, her arms outstretched. “Besides we’re in freakin’ Fort Knox.” She pats one of the walls. “These babies must be shielded to hell and back.”

“The doors are thick also.” I slap the metal door again, my palm stinging with the impact. “Hey.” I gaze upward. “They have cameras.” I point at the black lens positioned above us. “Security must be monitoring the stairwells.” I wave my arms at the camera. “They’ll send help.”

“If they’re real cameras, they’ll send help,” Camille scoffs. “Didn’t you hear about that girl in Westwood? She was trapped in a stairwell for four whole days. That stairwell had cameras too: fake cameras, installed to discourage thieves. She ate her fingernails down to bloody nubs.”

“Four days,” I repeat, staring up at the camera. It looks real, but I guess that’s the point. Fake-looking cameras wouldn’t fool thieves. “We could pull the fire alarm.”

“If we do that, we’ll get ourselves fired.” Camille shakes her head. “They’ll evacuate the building and we’ll look like dumb asses. Oh.” Her face becomes animated. “I could pick the lock.”

I stare at her. “Can you do that?”

“I’ve picked locks before.” She beams, acting as though this is a skill to be admired. “Let me have a look.” Camille shoves me out of the way. She examines the door, rattling the handle and poking her fingernail into the lock. “Do you have a piece of wire?”

The only piece of wire I have is attached to my bra. “Wait a second.” I unbutton my blazer for the second time today, unhook my bra, and pull it through the armholes. Jiggling the underwire, I try to poke it through the fabric. “I need scissors.”

“If we had scissors, I could jimmy the door open.” Camille eyes the lock. “And our problems would be solved.”

“You scare me.” I bite my bra, tearing the lace, and slide the wire out of the cup. “Here’s your pick, as I believe you criminals call it.”

“A few minor misdemeanors does not make one a criminal,” Camille mutters, taking the wire from me.

“Actually, I believe it does.” I sit down on the steps, the concrete cool under my ass.

“I freed information.” Camille straightens the wire and inserts the end into the lock. “This is America. Freeing information shouldn’t be a misdemeanor.”

“Sure, sure, tell it to the judge.” I watch her work, hoping to learn something.

Minutes pass. I don’t know anything about picking locks, but I do know how to read people and Camille is struggling with her assigned task, her curses growing louder and more colorful.

“Are you sure you’ve done this before?” I lean back on the stairs, spinning my bra around the tip of my right index finger. This is much more interesting than shredding paper.

“I’m not deliberately screwing the pooch,” Camille snaps. “This is a high-end lock.”

“Thank you,” a deep voice drawls, the low tones originating from behind me. “We try our best.” 


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