Excerpt from YOU'RE A DESPERATE WOMAN, SHIBBY MAGEE:
...And now all Shibby wants to do is forget that and move on.
If only Rafferty would let her. But he has stalked, and circled, and pounced at every opportunity since. His method of pursuit coming across as planned and meticulously gauged—and oh, sweet Jesus, when Shibby opens her eyes, here he comes again.
Here he comes. Mephistopheles himself. Him with the flared nostrils and the arrogant stride. Him with the hair as black as an oil slick with a few silver strands in between.
Shibby reaches for her knife, snatches an onion, and bends over her workstation as he hovers.
“Hot!” he roars. “Hot behind!”
But when Shibby turns around, all she sees are naked capons in each of his hands. Held by their necks. Six of them, but no scalding pot, and no blazing pan.
Sconey, who’s on dish, at a standstill now. Flashing his gold teeth as he grins. Like he knows something’s going on. Dan Carrigy the sous-chef, and Thera Mundy the line cook, and Gazzer the busser-cum-host—keeping their eyes trained on Shibby while slowing down their pace.
And because the kitchen hubbub has dropped to a jingle of cutlery and a rattle of plates, it’s the jazz that takes precedence now. Belting out through the speakers from a vinyl 33. The sort of jazz that hiccups, and belches, and spontaneously shrieks...
