Tuesday Tales: From the Word SICK

Welcome to another Tuesday Tales, the weekly blog where a small group of authors share their works in progress with you. This week, we are writing to the word prompt SICK. That word is far too familiar these days as so many struggle with their physical or emotional health. Posts to word prompts are 400 words long.

I’m continuing with The White Dahlia, Book Four of The Harvester Files.

Exhausted, Beth ignored the crowd and crossed the street, eager to get away from the paparazzi. Somehow, they always seemed to be where no one wanted them. Glancing down at her watch, she saw that it was almost six. Her shift was over at eight, but she had at least an hour’s worth of reports to complete, and no doubt, if Lieutenant Harris got wind of this before she left, he would want to talk to her.

“Hey, Beth. Wait up.” Her sick stomach threatened to empty itself once more as she recognized the voice she’d hope never to hear again.

Calculating the odds as to whether or not she could get to her car and make a fast exit, she frowned. Not unless she wanted to run the bastard over—and as much as that was a pleasant thought, he wasn’t worth the extra paperwork.

“Jack Ogden,” she said, a saccharine smile on her face as she turned to face the freelance reporter who would do anything for a story. She had nothing against the press, at least not against reporters who actually reported the news instead of making it up. “What rock did you crawl out from under this time?”

“Ooh! Somebody’s cranky. Maybe you need to get laid.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “The lieutenant you were with not ringing your bells?”

“You’re disgusting,” she snapped, although the idea of her and Al burning up the sheets wasn’t without appeal.

“I would offer my services, but my tetanus shots aren’t up to date, and you did promise to eviscerate me with a rusty spoon the last time we were alone together.”

She paled at the reminder. “And I would enjoy every second of it,” she ground out, wishing she could kick him where it would hurt most, wondering how much he knew about tonight’s victim. A lucky choice of words? She doubted it. “If you were the last man on Earth, I would go to the grave celibate. What are you doing here anyway? Isn’t this a little out of your preferred stomping grounds?” “Don’t be catty. I go where the stories are, you know that. I heard the call come over the scanner. I was going to dismiss it until you called in the cavalry, so now I’m exercising my First Amendment rights. Something happened here, and the people have a right to know what it was.”

That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales.