I’m currently on page 153 of 341 for my final edit. As always, I’m open to any comments, suggestions and encouragements. Enjoy!
Page 151-152 of Lives of Ghosts:
Robert broke through Scott’s mental scheming, and spoke to Patrick who was now statue-still, looking out the Sheraton’s lounge windows. “It’ll blow over, Patrick. We just have to sit tight.” Patrick’s untouched bottle of beer sat on the table, the moisture beading down the sides and pooling on the wood.
The storm which had stopped them from flying north yesterday reached Anchorage earlier that morning.
Patrick didn’t turn or acknowledge Robert.
Scott watched Patrick closely, putting Delta Junction to the back of his mind. Although Scott was pleased Patrick was no longer the sullen mess he found upon arrival, he wasn’t sure the sporadic anger bursts were any better. During the days they could not search for Rose, Patrick and Scott would spend three to four hours in the hotel gym. It was good to work off their anxiety with physical exertion.
Patrick was fit before, but the intense training Scott was giving him on the free weights, were showing. Patrick was beginning to resemble Paul Bunyan with his dark three-day growth of beard, biceps straining against his red flannel shirt, jeans and hiking boots. The only things missing were an axe and a big blue bull.
The mental image made Scott chuckle quietly.
“Do you think this is funny?” Patrick snarled between clenched teeth.
Scott recoiled against the seething expression on Patrick’s face. He opened his mouth to explain but Patrick spun around, arms thrown wide open, and loudly addressed the two men. “While we’re sitting around in the lap of luxury, Rose is huddled somewhere fighting off starvation, wild animals and freezing temperatures! I should have been on that plane with her. She’s out there alone because of me.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t you understand how much this is killing me?” His voice became low but it reverberated around the room. Scott noticed the scattering of patrons nearby watching them.
A skinny waiter scurried over, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “Is everything all right, gentlemen?”
“We’re fine, sorry about that,” Scott replied with a tight smile, hoping Patrick’s outburst was over. “Can you please bring us a bottle of Hennessy V.S. and charge it to room 1103?” Scott slipped the waiter a fifty dollar bill. “We’ll need three glasses.” The waiter peered up at Patrick, nodded and hurried off.
Patrick collapsed in to the chair next to Scott, leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and curled his fingers in to his disheveled hair. Robert fell in to the third chair and Scott caught his eye over their comrade’s bowed head. Sharing a silent agreement, they allowed Patrick to have his moment of pain.
Copyright, Shannon O’Brien 2012