JANET BLAKE
“It’s such an honor to meet you, Janet Blake,” my interviewer says,
standing and shaking my hand. She sits back down, and I take a seat
in the empty chair across from her.
I believe everyone has at least one book in them. Still, I’m pleased to
join the realm of published authors. It all comes down to commitment,
devoting enough long hours to hammer it out in writing. Those with
a passion for it keep at it, producing book after book. Most let time
slip away until death devours untold tales.
I refocus my attention on the attractive young woman sitting across
from me, disillusioned over how interviews go from exciting to
tedious so fast, with interviewer after interviewer posing the same set
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The Texan, A Tale of Betrayal and Revenge
of questions. I force a smile on my face, looking her in the eye, “I’m
sorry, what was that?” I ask.
“How did you come up with the idea for your book? Did you draw
on personal experience?”
I fire off my pat reply, “As a writer, one combines personal
experiences with the experiences of those around her, and experiences
in the news and throughout history, weaving in enough imagination
to create a compelling and entertaining story. A bit of reality wrapped
up with a little magic. Even so, some people might say parts of my
novel ring true.”
“But you won’t name any names?” she asks. I shrug my shoulders,
and a look of disappointment clouds her face.
Let me stop right here. Either I confide in someone or implode from
the inside out. How about I tell you what I won’t tell her or any of the
others? If you promise to keep it to yourself, that is. Let me start from
the beginning. Once you learn how the whole sordid story unfolded,
then we’ll see whose side you’re on.
MARCH 1980
Eight cups of coffee a day plus a high-strung personality, not the best
combination, cut back on the caffeine, I lecture myself every morning.
The waitress pours my third refill, and the sun’s not even up yet. On
the plus side, all the caffeine kills my appetite, keeping me slim.
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The Texan, A Tale of Betrayal and Revenge
Nervous and thin beats mopey and fat any day, if you ask me.
After taking a red-eye from New York to San Antonio for my latest
assignment, I need the caffeine to stay vertical. I talked my way into a
job on the writing staff of Main Street and Ranch magazine straight out
of college. A tough sell and a Catch 22 because positions like mine call
for a portfolio of published articles, which requires a career in
publishing to acquire. Telling me, I should have gone into sales
instead. I’d have made a fortune by now.
You guessed it. Novice journalist for a magazine pays squat, but I love
what I do and enjoy traveling even more than writing, plus
assignments like this spell good fun. A semi-nude photo shoot and
article entitled, Where Have All the Cowboys Gone? Corny, right, I know
but do you expect me to complain about it to my editor? Our
subscriber base of middle-aged housewives’ love this stuff.
My first task, finding six sexy cowboys sporting six packs, before
Ronald, my favorite staff photographer and best friend, joins me for
the photo shoot. Ronald looks like a model, with smooth brown skin,
piercing black eyes, and strong features. I swear he’d earn more
money in front of the camera instead of behind it, but does he ever
listen to me?
When a guy looks like Ronald, being “just friends” sucks, but he
refuses to date women he works with. I give up after a hundred failed
attempts to seduce him. Ronald’s smart, he’s fought off every one of
my drunken advances. He likes to keep things simple.
Simplicity, the number-one reason his photography is so moving. Not
the professional photos he shoots for the magazine. They’re great,
don’t get me wrong. I mean the true photographic art Ronald sells in
a downtown gallery on commission.
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The Texan, A Tale of Betrayal and Revenge
My favorite, a close-up of a dew-kissed rose unfurling, covers one
wall of our loft. Did I mention Ronald and I are roommates? Another
reason he insists on keeping things platonic.
I jot down another angle for my new article when the bell on the door
of the old-fashioned diner jingles. A rowdy bunch of guys pour in,
filling up the small space. They look a little ragged like they partied
all night, and tomorrow’s taken them by surprise.
They flirt with the server in her super short, skin tight, pale pink
waitress uniform topped with a white ruffled apron. Only someone
this young and hot pulls off all those ruffles, what a girl won’t do for
better tips. And her hair, can she tease it any higher?
Did the best-looking one of the bunch just smack her on the butt, how
demeaning? Thank you, Grandma Shultz, for establishing my college
fund the day I was born. Guaranteeing I’ll never schlep meals for a
living.
The ass-smacking jerk stands up, letting one of the other guys out of
the booth. He looks lean and rock-hard. On second thought, six packs
might prove scarce in such a small town. I’d better make nice with
every potential candidate I run into, in light of my new assignment.
I go into unbiased reporter mode, studying the table full of guys with
fresh eyes. All of them look pretty cute. How many six packs lurk under
those Western shirts, I wonder? Putting my personal feelings aside, I
smile at them. Anything for a story, right? Well, either that or lose my
job.
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