Woman Reading

Oh Atticus, My Atticus, how I love thee... It was slow growing, but man, what is it about those Celtic Redheaded men?!

I mean, this had all the greats for the Iron Druid series. Humor, good plot, fun characters. But this time I really focused on Atticus. He's officially become one of my fictional lovers. There's something so damn sexy about him. I mentioned it before with the Shakespeare lingo and how smart he is. But he's also a physically sexy beast! Check this out!

I gladly shucked off my wet, muddy jeans and put on the new pair. I noticed she hadn't bought me any underwear; Granuaile either didn't think of it or she did think of it and decided that I should go commando.

I tore open the package of undershirts and gingerly pulled a black one over my head before tucking it into my jeans. Though I was now dressed in similar fashion to Coyote, I figured he could keep the cowboy hat and I'd rock the tattoos.

Granuaile gave me a good once-over and her gaze felt less than innocent, but all she said was, "Much better."

Um, okay are you picturing what I'm picturing? Atticus with his wild red hair, arms all tatted up, black tshirt and jeans, going commando... is it hot in here or is it just me? How about this one...

I pushed myself forward and rose cautiously to my feet. A draft from the aft signaled that my dressing gown was open, but I didn't care. The nurses could take shots with their camera phones and upload them to their Flickr stream for all I cared, just so long as my face wasn't in it.

A wave of dizziness rolled over me when I took a step, but it was one of those gentle rocking swells and not a thirty-foot-tall fist of Poseidon. I could do this. I shuffled over carefully and leaned against the nightstand for support as I opened the drawer. Then I nearly fell over when Granuaile spoke from behind me."Nom nom nom!" she said.

I looked around for the cookies she must be referring to and then realized, belatedly, that the room was bereft of delicious baked goods. The only thing on display was my backside, and apparently she thought it looked tasty.

Um, can you blame a girl?!

Okay, I think I made my point. I'll leave you with two of my favorite quotes:

The key to faking deaths is a fine appreciation of arterial spray patterns. I have found that blood bags work very well at simulating spray with a strategically poked hole; apply pressure to the bottom of the bag, practice a bit, and before long you will be able to write stories of carnage and odes to gore.

A small fan brush-the sort that one dude used to paint happy little trees-can paint a picture of blunt force spatters if you flick the surface properly. You could even talk to yourself, as that painter did, while you flick blood around: "And maybe over here we have a nice stab wound. And, I don't know, maybe there's a few more back over here. Multiple stab wounds. It doesn't matter, whatever you feel like."

***

Granuaile looked terminally depressed when she emerged from the bathroom with raven hair and, as a result rather Goth by accident. She didn't want to get her picture taken.

"Aughh!" she said miserably, looking in the vanity mirror in the truck of the cab and fingering a wavy curl near her temple. "This sucks more than anything has ever sucked before. You know what we look like? A couple of emo douche bags."

"Well, look at the bright side, Granuaile. Emo Douche Bags would be a great band name."

[That's brilliant! It's already the unofficial name of more bands than I can count.]

Fun all around!!!