he looked at the gun, at her face, at the resolve he saw there, then turned away, as if that would remove her existence. i’m not sure that’s something i’m comfortable creating, he said, his voice breaking at the end, in a way that shamed him.
her eyes were the same steel blue as the gun's barrel, and from the shadows, there was a glint of light on the gun, a glint of hate in her eyes. do it, she repeated...write what i want you to write, something i can understand, something i can relate to--something i can work with; not that high brow schmaltz you insist on giving me.
he sighed, and turned to his typewriter, feeling the air around him shimmering with the unspoken threat to his person-- and typed what his editor wanted and needed and demanded.
“blake snuffed out his cigarette, then slugged back a shot of rye, wondering if taking this case would be the worst idea he ever had as a p.i.”