Ok, guys. I'm back again. I got the warning down this time; I do NOT own CSI: New York and I do NOT make any money from the stories. They're written for my own benefit. RnR
Prologue- Knight In Shining Armor
Being the only girl among five boys should have made me brave. Under normal circumstances, I was brave; I was bold too, and I threw caution to the wind. Inheritance allowed me to do that some days. But I didn't throw all caution to the wind; just some of it.
Sitting in that coffee shop, staring at that door, waiting for him to come through, I couldn't make myself be brave enough to talk to him. I couldn't make myself walk over to that door and lean against it. The only thing I could do was do a psychological work up and think of what a great character he would make in my novel. He could be the hero; the knight to the heroine's princess. Hey, that was good! The first good line you've come up with in a week! I ducked my head down and grabbed a pen out of my oversized laptop bag. I clicked it and wrote the line down on my hand before I pulled the computer out of the bag. Silently, I waited for the machine to start, and occupied myself with looking at the door. I had completely zoned out when the laptop made its general ding and let me know it was ready. Quietly, I punched in my password. When the opening screen unfolded, the document containing the latest Midnight Rhymer thriller was up already. And it was right where I needed it.
She looked up into his piercing blue eyes with what she hoped was compassion. For a moment, she pushed her fury aside and tried to be compassionate. He was tall, almost as tall as she was. His hair was short, closely cropped and black. He had rescued her; he and he alone had stopped to save her. He had become the knight to her princess.
The door dinged softly, and I looked up. He just walked in.
No, not once had I stopped to ask his name; he who I had just thrust into the high life of Angel Brine, ace detective and the eldest of the Brine daughters. Of course, we all need a man in a mask to hold.
That one was good too! I grabbed my pen and wrote it down on my hand as well before I shut the laptop and thrust it back into the bag. Silently, I slung the splatter painted black bag over my shoulder and stood. I kept my head down and prayed that I hadn't just seen last fall's epic thriller under his arm. And, dear Goddess, if I had, I prayed that he wasn't the book jacket reading type. I was wrong on both counts.
I could hear him grabbing his coffee and thanking the clerk. He was turning just as I was passing, and I thought I was going to make it. Instead, my shoes inhibited me from moving as fast as I wanted to; the inch high platforms, while insanely comfortable, were also very annoying to try and escape possible fans in. He turned just as the door opened again, and a blast of cold air shot through the café, instantly throwing my hair back and revealing the face that I tried so hard to hide in public. I heard the recognition in his near silent intake of breath, and I tried to escape through the doors. But, before I could get there, he had passed me, holding it open.
"Allow me, Ms. Rhymer."
Alright, alright, stop throwing tomatoes at me; there is an explination. It's a cheesy one but it's the best I've got; I suck at making up pen names for other writers. So, abracadabra, Amy Blaire is now Midnight Rhymer, renowned author extraordinaire. God I wish I were a novelist.