Okay, so they’re in the kitchen on opposite sides of the peninsula, and he’s got a good hold of her arm. She’s trying to keep him from pulling her over the top of the counter. No knives in range, and her free arm is in a cast and a sling.
Crap. What can I put in the drawers she can reach that will help her but not sound like I put it there on purpose? Food wrap, check. Those serrated metal edges can be used as weapons. What else? Maybe the junk drawer is here. Hmm. Screwdrivers, tack hammer, pliers, and what else? If her arm’s in a cast, it has to be something she can use without swinging her bad arm.
Really? *hits ‘Save’* “What?”
My Muse eases the door to my writing room open. “You okay in here?”
I lean back in my chair and sigh. “No. What can I put in a drawer that a person with an arm in a cast can use as a weapon?”
He leans a hip against my writing desk. Today he’s wearing a burgundy thermal Henley shirt that stretches across his defined chest, and jeans that look like he’s quite at home in them. “Food wrap boxes. They have a serrated metal strip.”
“No. She’d have to swing that. Something else.”
He sets an open bottle of craft beer next to me, and takes a swig from another. “WD-40.”
“Dude, it’s a junk drawer. There’s no room for a can of WD-40 in a junk drawer. Hell, half the junk drawers I ever owned could barely contain the junk much less tools.”
“No, love, I’m talking a pocket-sized can. They sell them at auto parts stores by the checkout, complete with their own little red straws.”
“You mean, those straws that promptly vanish the instant you put the can away? Without the straw, the WD-40 goes everywhere.” I taste my own bottle. It’s nice, with good body, not too hoppy. Reminds me of Schell’s Oktoberfest lager.
I look up at him. I have to grin at the sight of his crooked smile. “In a junk drawer? This is the home of a divorced cop with no kids. Why the hell would he have silly string in his junk drawer? A can of silly string wouldn’t even fit in a junk drawer. C’mon, you came in, and you’re the muse. Help me out, here. Once I figure this out, I can get her away from the bad guy.”
He takes another sip. “What would a cop keep in a junk,” he makes air quotes, “drawer? Anything different than anyone else?”
“You know, I hate it when you do that. Just give me a hint.”
“I did, love.” His crooked grin is joined by a mischievous glint in his baby blues.
I grumble. “Not pepper spray, because why would a cop need pepper spray in a junk drawer? Not tear gas, because you can’t just buy that. Not a Taser–again, he wouldn’t just have one in the junk drawer.”
“Why does it have to be a junk drawer?”
“What else would it be? The silverware drawer is in the corner of the peninsula, and the utensil drawer would be there, too.”
“Does he grill?”
“Sure. Doesn’t everyone?”
“Okay. Does he grill at night?”
Oh my gawd. Seriously? I open my mouth to retort, then stop as the creative wheels hit a sweet spot. I think I’ve found my answer. Maybe.
My Muse chuckles. “Got it, now?”
Arrgh. “You know, if you just listed suggestions it’d be easier for me to pick one instead of making me guess.”
“Yes, but it wouldn’t be nearly as fun.” He points the bottle at me. “Finish up. You busted your deadline by a week, and you still aren’t done. Get your ass in gear, love. We’ve got the other manuscript to tweak, and this one to polish. April will be here before you know it.”
“Don’t remind me.”
I’m trying to finish up my WIP draft, and I’m hitting some bumps. I’ve gone radio silent from some of my other groups for a bit, including my MeetYourMainCharacter.com group, for the past couple weeks so I can focus. Not that it’s helped. Still, I can see the finish tape.
Stay warm, everyone! Our temp today is all of one degree above zero, but hey, it’s sunny. Hel-looo, Winter! Don’t feel you have to stick around.