Exit Signs
by Patrice Locke
GENRE: Romantic Comedy
Tracy Price has a documentary-style life until rockstar Jesse Elliot rewrites her script and takes the wheel to drive her crazy.
In her quest to find a writer missing since the 1930's, Tracy thinks she has discovered exactly how to handle her new relationship. But she may be listening to the wrong voice.
Then Tracy and Jesse find out they've both been keeping some big secrets, and the truth may ruin everything.
Will sharing the missing writer's story open both their hearts?
In her quest to find a writer missing since the 1930's, Tracy thinks she has discovered exactly how to handle her new relationship. But she may be listening to the wrong voice.
Then Tracy and Jesse find out they've both been keeping some big secrets, and the truth may ruin everything.
Will sharing the missing writer's story open both their hearts?
Jesse lunged toward me. It was too late. I had already launched. He reached out but didn’t connect. Instead, I broke the trajectory of my upper body by grabbing him at chest level and sliding down. He was pushed backward into the table, which stabilized our ungainly host-parasite tableau. He softened my landing so that physically I was fine, but my pride was ready for intensive care.
Heaped at his feet, like a demented penitent, I hugged his knees, my face pressed flat into his thighs. I might as well stay down. What’s worse? To stand up and face you, or remain here, nestled between your legs? What do you think? Then, the finishing touch: I erupted into nervous, snorting laughter. He guessed there was no serious injury.
“It’s nice to see you, too. You are okay, aren’t you? Can you stand?” He reached for my arms to unwrap them from his legs and help me up. I jammed my eyelids together to conjure up a do-over, but no such luck.
I would have to deal with it.
He held my elbows in his hands. “I guess we were both in a hurry to see each other.”
I do appreciate your attempt to lighten the mood, but you are standing SO close. I can feel your body heat. Or is that mine? By the way, you smell tart and fresh, like a lime.
I stared at his shoulder. My dignity meter was stuck on empty.
“Enthusiastic greeting. Thanks for that.” He was blatantly amused.
“It was nothing.” I stepped backward to regain a semblance of independence. Don’t mock me. But, you did go to all the trouble to bring your hair. And your eyes. I might forgive you for witnessing my disgrace. That hair.
Heaped at his feet, like a demented penitent, I hugged his knees, my face pressed flat into his thighs. I might as well stay down. What’s worse? To stand up and face you, or remain here, nestled between your legs? What do you think? Then, the finishing touch: I erupted into nervous, snorting laughter. He guessed there was no serious injury.
“It’s nice to see you, too. You are okay, aren’t you? Can you stand?” He reached for my arms to unwrap them from his legs and help me up. I jammed my eyelids together to conjure up a do-over, but no such luck.
I would have to deal with it.
He held my elbows in his hands. “I guess we were both in a hurry to see each other.”
I do appreciate your attempt to lighten the mood, but you are standing SO close. I can feel your body heat. Or is that mine? By the way, you smell tart and fresh, like a lime.
I stared at his shoulder. My dignity meter was stuck on empty.
“Enthusiastic greeting. Thanks for that.” He was blatantly amused.
“It was nothing.” I stepped backward to regain a semblance of independence. Don’t mock me. But, you did go to all the trouble to bring your hair. And your eyes. I might forgive you for witnessing my disgrace. That hair.
As a journalist, Patrice Locke wrote a lot of stories with unhappy and even tragic endings.
Facts are facts, and a writer doesn't mess with facts.
But fiction is another world. Patrice began writing novels, where she could control the endings and make them as happy as she wants. The best thing about fiction, she says, is having time to think before her characters speak, so they can say the things most of us only come up with after the perfect moment has passed.
She loves to write, read, and watch romantic comedies where life always turns out the way it should. Her only obsessive relationships are with semicolons and Oxford commas.
Though she doesn't like to brag, Patrice is an award-winning artist. She won a gold and diamond watch when she was 13 for decorating a turkey drumstick bone to look like Batman. Alas, that was her last recognition in the fine arts.
Patrice lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where the blue sky is brilliant, the air is thin, and the vistas are breathtaking. She is none of those things, which is one reason she enjoys living among them.
Webpage:
http://www.patricelocke.com/index.html
Author Facebook Page:
https://www.facebook.com/bypatricelocke/?ref=aymt_homepage_panel
Twitter:
@patricelocke
Email:
bypatricelocke@gmail.com
But fiction is another world. Patrice began writing novels, where she could control the endings and make them as happy as she wants. The best thing about fiction, she says, is having time to think before her characters speak, so they can say the things most of us only come up with after the perfect moment has passed.
She loves to write, read, and watch romantic comedies where life always turns out the way it should. Her only obsessive relationships are with semicolons and Oxford commas.
Though she doesn't like to brag, Patrice is an award-winning artist. She won a gold and diamond watch when she was 13 for decorating a turkey drumstick bone to look like Batman. Alas, that was her last recognition in the fine arts.
Patrice lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where the blue sky is brilliant, the air is thin, and the vistas are breathtaking. She is none of those things, which is one reason she enjoys living among them.
Webpage:
http://www.patricelocke.com/index.html
Author Facebook Page:
https://www.facebook.com/bypatricelocke/?ref=aymt_homepage_panel
Twitter:
@patricelocke
Email:
bypatricelocke@gmail.com
Ten Favorite Books in No Particular Order
- Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen. It may be cliché to start a list with this, but to me it’s the perfect novel and I can re-read indefinitely.
- A London Family 1870 to 1900, a trilogy, M.V. Hughes. A big fan of ‘you are there’ histories, I received this set from my mom for Christmas ages ago. It was love at first sight. From her Victorian Childhood to her 10-year-wait to get married, Molly Hughes tells her own story as if it were a novel. Can’t get enough of this outspoken, good-natured trailblazing woman.
- Time and Again, Jack Finney. I almost feel as though I can claim to have visited New York in the 1880s. The writing is that vivid, and the story is intriguing. Came upon this in the library new releases years ago and took the ride of my life with the author and his characters.
- OverTime, the series, Yvonne Jocks. This is kind of like Pride and Prejudice meets Lonesome Dove meets H.G. Wells. Modern woman thrust back in time finds the man of her dreams, well, actually the man of my dreams as well. Just mesmerizing.
- Anne of Green Gables, LM Montgomery. The writing might be sentimental and the story overly sweet, but I still like to visit Prince Edwards Island and stay at Green Gables now and again.
- Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte. Came home from school sick when I was 13. Started reading this book and forgot all about my ills. Couldn’t do anything else until I finished it.
- The Doomsday Book, Connie Willis. Scientist mistakenly dumped in medieval England has to fight the plague and evildoers. Riveting.
- This Heart of Mine, Susan Elizabeth Phillips. Nobody writes romantic comedy like Susan Elizabeth Phillips and I think this is one of her best. The characters are all likeable and just ornery enough to engage in clever banter that makes me laugh.
- The Ghost Stories of Edith Wharton, Edith Wharton. The first story in the book starts with the warning that there is a ghost in the manor house, but you won’t know you’ve seen it until a long time afterward. Still gives me chills.
- Exit Signs, Patrice Locke (Sorry, but I do love it). Serious researcher searching for writer in 75-year-old cold case meets reluctant rock star. Hilarity ensues. I wished it would never end. Seriously, I loved writing this.
