It’s Wednesday. It’s hot. I’m tired of editing but making myself do it anyway. On a happy note, I have NEW words to share! And yes, those words are about the Boston Wolves. Last week’s #ThursdayThreads* prompt is: **She had no choice.** I loved the original 250 words but knew they’d be spliced into an existing scene. What follows is a partial splice–the TT snippet in total with a partial of the original scene. The two compbined is almost 1000 words so I hit a good hook at about 700 and called it good. I hope you call it good, too. LOL The snippet should be pretty much self-explanatory.
****
Maggie wanted three things—a hot bath, a stiff drink, and a good night’s sleep. They were short-staffed at the ER and she’d pulled a double shift. She stood, undecided, in the front hall of her grandmother’s house. Booze or bath first?

Outside, braking tires screamed like a bansidhe. She heard a thud then a car door slamming and squealing tires once more. Instinctively, she rushed to the door but hesitated as her hand gripped the doorknob. Pressing her ear against the heavy wood, she listened. Nothing. Standing on tiptoes, she put her eye to the peephole. Like a blotch of shadow, something sprawled on her front steps.

She did not want to open the door and go out there. “ER nurse,” she muttered and knew. She had no choice. Gripping her phone tightly in one hand, she flipped the deadbolt and unlocked the door. Opening it a crack, she peered out. No cars moving on the street. No pedestrians either. There were few lights on in the houses around her. It was after midnight so no surprise.

Squaring her shoulders, Maggie opened the door and stuck her head out. She scouted the entire street. Nothing moved. She crept out and eased down the steps to the body collapsed there. She hunkered down. Male. Breathing. Bleeding. A lot. Her training kicked in. She recognized the man. Her very handsome and sexy next-door neighbor. His eyes opened.

Declan gazed around. This wasn’t his house. Where was he? The door behind him opened and light spilled out across him. A feminine gasp and a familiar scent washed over him. He had watched her for weeks—from the moment the cab dropped her and her suitcases off on the sidewalk. Her comings and goings. Visitors—of whom there were very few. Lying on her stoop bleedin’ like a stuck pig didn’t go far toward makin’ a good impression on his new neighbor.

“Have I died and gone t’heaven?” he slurred.

“Since I’m no angel, not hardly.”

Despite the pain in his eyes and the blood pumping from his chest, he flashed a cocky smile. “Most likely I’ll be goin’ to hell for certain but thank all the saints for givin’ me such a beautiful face to be m’last view.”

Ignoring his attempt at flirting, she pulled up his tailored shirt and wadded it against his wound then freed one hand to search for her phone.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Ya think?” He’d been shot at least twice, beat to shite, and stabbed once and this damn sure wasn’t the way he’d planned on introducing himself to his new neighbor. The old lady who owned the row house next to his died but before any of the lads could snap it up, she showed up, lock, stock, and suitcases and moved right in. Ronan lived down the street. His brother, Mick, lived across the street. The others in the inner circle had apartments nearby but Ronan had a plan. He wanted everyone in houses spread up and down the block for tactical reasons. Declan’d been trying to get to his own place but obviously miscounted and here the pretty, little interloper was, squatted beside him smellin’ of honey and sweet clover with concern in those big blue eyes of hers.

As she started to punch in numbers, strong fingers circled her wrist. “What’re ya doin’, cailín?”

“I’m calling nine-one-one.”

“The hell y’are.”

“Look you. I’m an ER nurse and I know gunshot wounds when I see—” He snatched the phone out of her hand and tucked it in the front pocket of his trousers.

“Don’t need the ER,” he insisted. Deck fished out his own phone because he wouldn’t stay conscious much longer. There was no way he’d end up in a human hospital. He stabbed out a number and heard a mumbled, “Fuck, Declan, you’d better be dyin’, boyo.”

Deck managed to grunt out, “I think I might be, Mick.”
****
There you have it. Maggie and Declan are going to be a lot of fun, as this is just the beginning of their story. I am making editing progress but I’m so ready to “ship up to Boston.” And yes, I had no choice but to make Dropkick Murphy’s “I’m Shipping Up to Boston” the theme song for this book. What have you had no choice about lately? And writers, feel free to riff on the prompt!

*Psst! I’ve won back-to-back #ThursdayThreads flash fiction challenges–with a week off in-between when there was no challenge. And even though this week’s prompt came from my previous win, I was good and did continue with that scene. I shifted characters, locales, and situation. But hey! I must be doing something right. 🍻