Because it takes a lot of work to make Mondays fun, we at Inkspell decided to start a new blog feature we like to call Eyecandy Monday. Each Monday we will feature the characters from one Inkspell novel and share with you an excerpt to show you a tease of the character. We hope you enjoy taking a second look at these hotties!
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| DAVE GASTON Dave loves to think he's every woman's dream. He likes nighttime walks on the beach (no, really), making people laugh, and is fiercely loyal to those he loves. He knows his way around a kitchen, gives great foot massages and has a never-ending repertoire of dirty jokes. He has a weak spot for beer and redheads. |
Excerpt:
“Sorry. Should take this.” He turns to go outside, but it looks like monsoon season. “Yeah, man?”
I can’t play, so I begin marking up the sheet music. Whoever put in the recommended fingerings is an idiot.
“Wow. Okay. No, that’d be great. Any time, you know that. Uh, yeah, she’s right here.”
At that, my ears perk up. I glance at Isaac, who’s looking at me through narrowed eyes.
“Don’t think that’s a good idea.”
A man’s voice booms from Isaac’s phone so loud I can hear it across the room. “Hah! You are so full of shit! She doesn’t exist!” Isaac rolls his eyes and holds out the phone.
“I’m so sorry. My friend needs to talk to you. I’m not responsible for anything he says.”
“Uh, okay.” His phone smells like aftershave. “Hello?”
“Who are you?”
“Um, who are you?”
“I am every woman’s dream and what I want to know is: who are you; how old are you; and why Ike had the balls to tell me some little girl in Alabama plays Rachmaninoff better than me? And…go.”
“I’m seventeen. It’s not like I’m twelve.”
“Well then, that makes it much better. Totally trumps my Conservatory degrees. Please excuse me while I scrape my ego off the floor. I’m Dave, by the way. And you have a very sexy voice, anyone ever tell you that? Must be the accent.”
“Uh…”
“It’s okay. I often render women speechless. So, Sexy-and-Seventeen, what’s your actual name?”
“Julianne. Or Juli. Whatever.”
“Uh-huh. And now for the real question: Can you really play Rachmaninoff as well as Ike says?”
“I don’t—I don’t know. He said that?”
Isaac rubs his temples.
“He did. And I challenge you to a duel. Hear that sound? That’s me throwing my glove on the floor. I bite my thumb at you. It’s on, Julianne-or-Juli-whatever. Next time I’m in Mobile, it’s you and me in a classical music death match.”
I giggle.
“Too much?”
“A little.”
“Sorry. Nice talking to you, Juli. Can you put Ike back on?”
“Sure. Here.”
Isaac mouths sorry. “Are you done? We’re trying to rehearse here. Some of us take our music seriously. No. I’m hanging up. Later.”
“Sorry. Should take this.” He turns to go outside, but it looks like monsoon season. “Yeah, man?”
I can’t play, so I begin marking up the sheet music. Whoever put in the recommended fingerings is an idiot.
“Wow. Okay. No, that’d be great. Any time, you know that. Uh, yeah, she’s right here.”
At that, my ears perk up. I glance at Isaac, who’s looking at me through narrowed eyes.
“Don’t think that’s a good idea.”
A man’s voice booms from Isaac’s phone so loud I can hear it across the room. “Hah! You are so full of shit! She doesn’t exist!” Isaac rolls his eyes and holds out the phone.
“I’m so sorry. My friend needs to talk to you. I’m not responsible for anything he says.”
“Uh, okay.” His phone smells like aftershave. “Hello?”
“Who are you?”
“Um, who are you?”
“I am every woman’s dream and what I want to know is: who are you; how old are you; and why Ike had the balls to tell me some little girl in Alabama plays Rachmaninoff better than me? And…go.”
“I’m seventeen. It’s not like I’m twelve.”
“Well then, that makes it much better. Totally trumps my Conservatory degrees. Please excuse me while I scrape my ego off the floor. I’m Dave, by the way. And you have a very sexy voice, anyone ever tell you that? Must be the accent.”
“Uh…”
“It’s okay. I often render women speechless. So, Sexy-and-Seventeen, what’s your actual name?”
“Julianne. Or Juli. Whatever.”
“Uh-huh. And now for the real question: Can you really play Rachmaninoff as well as Ike says?”
“I don’t—I don’t know. He said that?”
Isaac rubs his temples.
“He did. And I challenge you to a duel. Hear that sound? That’s me throwing my glove on the floor. I bite my thumb at you. It’s on, Julianne-or-Juli-whatever. Next time I’m in Mobile, it’s you and me in a classical music death match.”
I giggle.
“Too much?”
“A little.”
“Sorry. Nice talking to you, Juli. Can you put Ike back on?”
“Sure. Here.”
Isaac mouths sorry. “Are you done? We’re trying to rehearse here. Some of us take our music seriously. No. I’m hanging up. Later.”
