Excerpt

Okay . . . .

Against my better judgement, here's a small sampling of what I've written so far. Keep in mind that NaNoWriMo is all about the word count not about the quality. So I avoided contractions. And for the most part allowed my fingers to type what they wanted:

          I casually glanced back toward the bar. The bartender was clearing empty glasses and such from the bar, but smiled when he caught me looking. I swallowed some water down the wrong part of my throat and started coughing, turning around quickly so as not to embarrass myself any further.
          “Go over and talk to him,” Mark insisted.
          “Mark, leave him alone,” Tony chided.
          “He is obviously interested.”
          “He is only doing what bartenders do,” I responded. “Flirt with the customers, make them feel special, and hope it brings in more tips or more drinks.”
          “You do not know that for sure,” added Chuck.
          “Remind me again who keeps telling me to never get involved with a bartender? And for those exact reasons?”
          “Since when do you ever listen to me?” Chuck said, and we all laughed. He quickly downed the rest of his vodka and cranberry juice, handing me the empty glass. “Besides, I need another one of these.” I grudgingly took the empty glass, and taking a deep breath, turned and walked toward the bar.
          A short balding man stood in front of me, flirting like crazy with the bartender who nodded and smiled politely. I was surprised when the short man reached over the bar and tried to grope the bartender, but he stepped back quickly and turned on his heels to fetch two bottles of Heineken from the refrigerator. A bottle opener hung from his belt on a retractable chain, and he used it to pop open both bottles. As he turned back to his customer, he shot me a quick wink then placed the bottles on the bar, standing back to keep away the unwanted hands.
          The balding man grabbed the beers and left in a huff.
          With it being my turn, I stepped up to the bar, placing Chuck’s empty glass on the bar. “Another vodka and cranberry, and another bottle of water, please.”
          “Sure thing.” He smiled again and reached beneath the bar for a glass. “By the way, my name is Ryan. I have not seen you around here,” he asked.
          “I do not get out too much,” I said through an embarrassed smile and blushed like a schoolgirl. “Kent. My name is Kent.” Dammit! “The last time I set foot in here,” – was with Eric just before he decided to leave – “was a few months ago. I do not remember seeing you behind the bar."
          “No, I started about a week ago.” He pointed a small nozzle at the glass of ice, streaming cranberry juice into the glass while pouring vodka from the bottle at the same time. “I guess the usual barkeep just up and left without any notice.”
          “Wow. I did not know him well, but I hope nothing happened.”
          He turned away to grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator. “I am sure he is fine.” He set the bottle in front of me.
          I placed a hand on the bottle and before I could pick it up, his left hand covered mine. I should have felt a tingling or -- something pleasant – running up and down my arm, but the sensation of pins and needles traveled up my arm instead. I looked up and saw the face from the restaurant.
          “Whoever he was, it does not matter anymore. You are something special, Kent.” I slowly moved my hand but his hand gripped mine. I tried to pull away.
          “Are you okay?” I looked back up and it was the bartender again.
          “Uh, yeah. Sorry, I guess I am a little jittery tonight. Someone broke into my apartment today . . . .” I hoped that would hide the unease I suddenly felt.
          He gently held my hand. “I am sorry to hear that. Are you okay? Is anything missing?”
          “No, I am fine.”
          “Well, I hope so. But if you need anyone to come around and check the place out.” I almost did a double take when he flexed for me. And the whistles and mumbled comments from not just the rest of the bar but from Chuck, Mark and Tony especially stuck in my ears.
          I grinned. I had to give him credit; he was certainly moving smoothly and much faster than I thought possible. And for a forty-year-old codger, it certainly made me feel better. I gently squeezed his hand and would have jumped at the thought of him in my apartment. It was too soon, though, and would be too unfair to him. But Ryan was young and if I did not do anything, I would not hear the last of it from the Gang of Three. So I forced my hesitation into a far corner. “Thank you for the offer, Ryan. I may have to take you up on that.” With that, I took both the drinks and slowly walked backwards a few steps, smiling right into his eyes, then slowly turned and carried the drinks to our table.

Ugh! That was awful! I know the idea is to get the words out, but still. . . . How did I ever get a story published?! I'm going to go hide in a corner somewhere.