As promised, this is a little bit (first three hundred words or so) of my new adult horror/suspense. At this point I’ve kind of stalled on it (finishing up the YA) but I hope to get back to it soon. Especially since I’ve just started on the romantic subplot.
My mother never came down the stairs in calm or civilized fashion. She bounced, she bounded, and she was usually shouting my name before she was halfway down. Considering that I spent most of my nights trolling the internet for the more interesting subspecies of porn when I wasn’t playing video games, her early-morning cheeriness was about twelve degrees below bearable. Especially when—as it had, lately—seemed forced.
She’d called me Gabie since I was three. I was twenty-two. I cranked open one eye (the other was securely mashed into the pillow, along with one nostril and most of my slack mouth) and saw the sun peering aggressively through the blinds. “Jesus, Mom. Can’t it wait?”
She cranked open the blind, and the sun hit me with full force. I groaned and rolled over. She sat on the edge of the bed so that I rolled right back.
“Look at this.”
I knew she wouldn’t leave until I did. I opened my other eye and saw that she was holding a sheet of paper torn from a newspaper. I took it and turned it over.
MILES FORTUNATO DOES IT AGAIN!
I didn’t know much about urban architecture, except for the little bits gleaned from the open house New York things my parents had dragged me to when I was younger and more willing to be dragged. But I knew the name. Miles Fortunato was one of those building-design hotshots whose name was usually quoted in the same sentence as Frank Gehry or Rem Koolhaas. He palled around with models, had just married some long-legged close-to-underage beauty from Bulgaria and was always screwing up the skyline in one way or another. The fact that I knew all this was partly due to my tenure in my parents’ basement, a tenure begun when I graduated college, couldn’t find a job, and had broken up with Amanda King, the love of my life. You had plenty of time to read shit like the Daily Mail and The Post when you had nothing to wake up to.