I love Halloween. I love Pumpkins. I absolutely love pumpkins more than Halloween. Recently my boyfriend and I adopted a little girl husky. I say little, but she’s almost 50lbs, so she’s not that little (sorry for those who don’t use our weight system, but I’m way too lazy this morning to convert it for you). We named her Roslin after Laura Roslin in Battlestar Galactica! She’s a total sweetheart, calmest dog ever, so well trained, and just over a year old. She was found on the streets as a stray. Go figure.
So beyond that amazing sidenote. Still struggling. Will push through. Hating work right now. =P Awesome. Now, onto the WIPpet.
If you would like to join in! Please do! Write a post with your current WIP (Work In Progress) that somehow correlates with the date. Feel free to get really creative with the math. Since I’m in the process of not writing *cough* I chose to yet again write for ten minutes and post what I had. This is a direct continuation of last week and the week before. So if you want, go look those up! Once you write your post, then go link it up with the rest of them here. Make sure to read and comment on as many posts as you can. We’re all attention and “review” whores, so it makes us feel fantabulous when you do it.
Grace just got smashed into the car by the punk, remember? Well…here’s some more of Grace’s really horrible and not good day. (I title these chapters, so I really do need to come up with some good titles. Feel free to give suggestions!)
Grace popped four ibuprofen as soon as she sat back in her cruiser, glowering the entire time. If this was any indication about her day, then it was not going to be a good one. She rubbed her leg where the punk had kicked her and winced. Four months prior she’d broken her leg in an attempt on her life. A bad guy in a stolen cruiser had run her off the road, spinning her vehicle five times before she rolled to a stop.
Shaking her head, Grace stared at Toulouse’s car. The punk was nestled in the back seat and the punk’s mama was being arm wrestled down the road toward her. Apparently in her lapse of judgment, leaving the scene meant she would have to take the woman down to the jail. Growling low and in the back of her throat, Grace got out of her cruiser and unlocked the backseat.
“Any way I can get out of this?” she asked Toulouse.
Rolling her eyes, Grace helped shove the woman in the back seat. After a brief pause and Toulouse leaving, Grace leaned over the open door and spoke to the large whale-like woman.
“Ma’am. I want you to listen closely. I’m taking you down to the jail.”
“Oh no you ain’t.”
“I’m taking you down to the jail and arresting you for domestic assault. Any other questions and the corrections officers will answer them.”
Before the woman could speak again, Grace slammed the door shut and spun on her heel, ignoring the spark of pain in her leg. If she could give off the perception of being strong, then she was strong. She was just about to turn to Toulouse to ask him a question when a Ford F150 turned the corner and gunned its engine.
Stepping back, Grace glared as it started to come closer and passed their vehicles without even slowing down. She scoffed and turned to follow the trucks progress. It made it to the end of the block, not stopping at the stop sign and speeding away. The two other officers that had arrived jumped into their cruisers and missed it.
Grace’s eyes widened as she watched the six-year-old black boy dodge out into the street without looking. Her heart thudded hard in her chest and the back of her head, and she tripped over her boot as she took the first step forward. Grabbing for her radio against her shoulder, Grace depressed the button and called for paramedics.
The truck didn’t stop. Grace started forward, running as fast as she could down the street. The two cruisers took off after the suspect and were completely out of sight by the time Grace made it to the gasping boy. She pressed her hands against his cheeks and stared at him fully in the face.
“I got you, kid,” she whispered and started to analyze his injuries.
Broken leg for sure. His thigh was pressed at an awkward angle, jutting out from his body toward the sidewalk he had just run from. Blood leaked slowly from his nose and quickly from a cut on the side of his head. His arm was broken; Grace felt the break when she ran her fingers along his oily skin.
“You’re going to be okay,” she muttered.