Hello! It`s time for Tuesday Tales again. This week I`ll be sharing an excerpt from my WIP (Work In Progress) Pink Pucks and Power Plays, an M/F sports romance, starring my sassy curvaceous society page reporter, Viviana Land, and defense-man for the Philadelphia Wildcats professional hockey team, Alain Lessard.
In today`s excerpt, Viviana confronts Bert having lunch with the owner of the country club. There is some adult language in this excerpt, so don`t be shocked. You`ve been warned.
This week our word prompt is ‘Hand’. Since this is a rough draft there may be some mistakes. I do apologize for any boo-boo you may find.
Please do check out the other wonderful writers after you`re done reading by clicking on the Tuesday Tales link at the bottom. Thanks for stopping in!
I can`t imagine what a sight the three of us must have been stalking through the country club with our sights locked and loaded on Bert. Hell, I hadn`t even put on makeup or did my hair. That`s how many fucks I did not give. Bobby, the owner of the country club, is a dashing man, in his late sixties with a wife of over forty-five years, three kids and more grandkids than he has fingers and toes. He also is a terrible ass-grabber and titty-pincher. Trust me, I`ve covered enough faux aristocratic shit happenings at this country club to know. Bobby`s eyes widened in appreciation. Bert turned in his captain`s chair and his face dropped like a lead dirigible. I shoved a waiter aside.
I was at the table before Bert could extricate himself from the tablecloth he had tucked into the waistband of his green polyester pants.
“Viviana, how delightful to see you!” Bobby exclaimed and shoved his seat back as he stood up, no doubt to try to paw my backside. I threw a glare at the lecherous swine that made his knees fold. His ass hit his seat soundly. I placed my hands to the table; fingers splayed over glittering silverware and precisely folded cloth napkins of royal blue to match the carpeting and drapes.
“You pathetic, insecure, little fucker,” I whispered. Bert opened his mouth then snapped it closed as he jerked the corner of the tablecloth free.
“You can`t talk to me like that.”
“You want to bet? I`ll say what I have to say and then Bobby can call security and throw me out.”
“Now Viviana, I wouldn`t throw out a woman who possesses such a great pair of . . .”
“I`d watch what I say, Bob, there are witnesses this time and they both work at the paper,” I sneered at the grinning jerk. Liz and Oscar stepped up to flank me. He stopped grinning instantly. Then I turned my attention back to Bert. Grabbing a butter knife from the table I waved it at him. His skin paled noticeably. “As for you, what you did with Alain was below contempt. It was unprofessional, disgusting, hurtful, and showed just what a tiny dick you really have!”
“Fuck you, Land!” he snapped and slapped the butter knife aside. “You`re just pissed off that someone with some moral fucking fiber put an end to that slap-and-screw assignment you were milking in more ways than one. You`re a fat, loud-mouthed whore who got caught with her slut panties down around her ankles. The next time you think to step out of the fucking society page you`ll remember just how it feels to get fucked by a real man and not some kid from Moose Balls, Saskatchewan!”
I slapped the smug look off his face so hard his comb-over flew back to its original side. Then I leaned in real close, so he could look into my eyes and I could smell the garlic in the ranch dressing he had ingested not five minutes ago.
“FYI, Bert, you pathetic jerk-off, I have been fucked by a real man and even at his tender age he is more man than you will ever be. You better enjoy this lunch,” I waved the silver butter knife at the table, Bobby, and the two waiters who were standing behind the owner of the golf course with their mouths open, “Because when the I get done with you and your microscopic prick, you`re going to be writing about the quilt guild in . . . where was it? Oh yes, Moose Balls, Saskatchewan.”
“Fuck off, Land, you got nothing on me,” Bert snickered as I flung the knife over my shoulder.
“Keep laughing asshat.” I grabbed the pitcher of martinis and dumped it over his head before making my exit. It must have been a grand exit despite my casual attire of jeans, white peasant top, and sneakers. Several members of the serving staff were waiting by the doors, clapping discreetly while Bert roared like a gin-soaked lion. I nodded regally as my entourage and I sailed out into the oppressive humidity that only August and rain can make.
Copyright 2013©by V.L. Locey
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