Hee! Will do - the lady's name is Domitra Calley, she's officially the lead singer's bodyguard, but she actually looks after the band generally. She's appeared visually in the first chapter, and has been spoken of and wishfully longed for (edit: in the context of "wouldn't it be brill if she fucking snapped his neck like twig?" longed-for: professionally.).

She won't appear in full glory - her nickname is Dom, BTW, unless you object - for about another chapter, which begins with the opening night of the American leg of the tour, backstage at Madison Square Garden, when they find a body in the dressing room.

So, you want it tonight? Be warned, I began this Thursday and took Saturday off to entertain and I'm up over 10,000 words. You say when, I'll sling it over.

I won't be able to read until later this week, so why don't you send it to me on Wednesday or Thursday?

Heh. By that time, we're probably talking the first fifth of the book.

Will do. Do you want me to add you to the reader list on this one, so that you get the updates automatically when I send the list? This one's under lockdown, obviously.

That'd be cool.

Hissy Fit

I come into the condo and he’s lying on the rug by the TV. Instead of his usual boneless sprawl along the top of the ottoman waiting for my feet to line themselves up with his back and his tummy to give them a good rub, he’s got his legs tucked under him--square and compact. He won’t look at me and his ears are flattened, pointing away from each other. There’s nothing I can say that he wants to hear, right now. Angry at Tanner, Tucker mopes passive-aggressively in the corner, unwilling to be comforted by a sympathetic hand.

Done.

I'll turf it over around mid-week. Also, may ask for a couple of pointers on how you'd personally deal with, say, the pissy and threatening boyfriend of a girl who'd just filed a paternity suit against, oh, say, a superstar frontman.

But I'm not at that point in the book yet.

I will ponder on the matter, Deb.

In the meanwhile more words on no words:

They say that two samurai can duel without drawing either blood or swords. Their battle-seasoned minds can read the scene, process all its potential, and honour forces the loser to admit defeat without engagement.

The curl of grass underneath a foot, the swirl of dust settling around his opponent, the rhythm of breaths, sweat glistening in the sun - all these things indicate the outcome.

It ends, one victorious, never touching.

Is this what happens when our eyes meet? Do you even know I challenge, or do you just wait until I cloak myself in shame and weakness and step aside?

Damn. Nice, ita.

ita, that's one beautiful silent language, there.

I have about twelve of these, but right now, everything's going into R&RNF. Everything.

As noted elsewhere in my universe, this is creative priapism.

OH! And almost forgot. Remember the 44 Clowns of the Apocalypse?

From Jay Lake today, official confirmation. I'm in. So is Laura Anne Gilman. No word on whether edits are wanted.