The Crapometer Celebrates her Quinceanera
The first time I saved his life, I was fourteen, Hugh was nineteen and the drunken lout was choking on a tortilla chip. He'd inhaled the thing laughing at a stupid comment my stepbrother had made about my figure -- that I lacked one -- so I smacked him hard between the shoulder blades -- Hugh, not Kyle -- and the chip came flying out. Kyle shoved into the pool and Hugh with a lapful of salsa and a garden hose rinse -- full blast, concentrated stream -- and I walked away satisfied. Retaliation is deep in my DNA.
The second time was five months ago when he'd come casually knocking on my door after taking off for a two-week lovefest with some French diplomat's daughter and murdering him myself seemed like a grand idea. I could have done it, too. I'm a cop. I have weapons. I know places to ditch a body, how an investigation is run and ways to finesse the system. I could have done it for two things -- all right, three.
First, his daddy's a big whig. I mean really big. As in leader of the Free World big. Yup, Hugh Thomas James Rothman, VIII, is the son of the President of the United States. Not that either of them claim the connection that fervently. Still, the feds would look hard for him just on principle.
Second, there were witnesses in the form of my guests. One of whom came up, snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me snug back against him. When Mike began nibbling up my neck, I tilted my head to give him better access and told Hugh, if he had an itch to scratch, his best bet was a strong course of antibiotics. Not that funny but the look on his face as I shut the door was, as they say, priceless
yawn yawn yawn. This is ALL tell, no show. I'd stop reading after one page, sorry to say.
You might have some elements of a good story but the way you are telling it keeps us at arms length. A good story draws you right in.
Think: Hugh choked on his tortilla chip laughing at Kyle's stupid comment about my lack of a figure. I pounded him on the back, saving his life. My mistake. Fourteen years later, I regretted saving his life again.
see the difference?
Even if you're going to tell backstory, if you place it in the present tense, and then move us ahead with you, it's better.
also, it's big wig, not whig. Whigs were a political party. Bigwig is an important person.