“Mosh It Up” is available at Amazon.com or directly from the publisher.

Mosh It Up

Here’s an excerpt!

New Guy blows into my neighborhood drink-tank, his sights set on the beer taps. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor of the bar, solo like him. He’s clad in a high-gloss iridescent leather jacket. A big, dark bubble.

He’s ready to freddy—I can tell by how he teases at the groin of his jeans and vets the chicks in the joint as he orders up. A couple of barely-drinking-age buffys exit the Ladies’ and breeze to the bar. New Guy multitasks, mentally undressing the cuter buff while guzzling his just-served brew.

Not that his cad antics get me hot. Waiting to chat up my friend that works here is all I’m up to. Laying low, biding my time. The giggly career gals on the stools don’t notice New Guy leering as they toast whatever the occasion is with mixed drinks. Near the front of the bar, a floozy with mud-color legs pouring out of her tight purple whoredrobe coolly dances her shoulders, which catches New Guy’s attention.

All I catch is bartender Tiny’s glower. More than once, he’s tongue-lashed me for making myself a tripping hazard. Breathing room, I keep telling him—that’s the reason the floor is my favorite seat.

Gita, my friend, the waitress, crouches to visit on-the-fly. “Tell me, oh wise one,” she says. “Where can people get abortions?”

“You’re preggers?”

She nods and pulls a stagy frown.

If I was in Gita’s shoes, I could be all over raising my own little baby, though not the wrong way I got mothered. “Near the university on Durant? There’s a clinic where I get free AIDS tests. Technically, since it’s run by a church, it’s anti-choice. What I hear, though, is some clients get referred for D&Cs. You positive that’s how you wanna solve this?”

“Thanks, Poop,” Gita jokes.

A female rock climber swaggers into the bar and says, “What’s up?” to me in a husky voice. If I was licky-sticky lusty, the grail I’d crusade for, the person making me gotta, would be New Guy, not this butch girl in shorts. Her gal pal shows up a minute later to join her at a table. Gita hustles to take their order.

Jimmy the Gardener, the other regular in here, keeps his own tabs on the crowd. The working girl with Brandy Alexander foam clinging above her lip treats New Guy to a drunken smile. Jimmy sneers, resenting the male competition. New Guy slides his swill toward the Mai Tai of the buffy with the looks-like-natural-sun-streaked hair. Their cup lips nearly touching, his spit cooties could be transferring to her drink. She shoves her glass away and squinches her sorority buns to the far edge of her stool, next to her friend. New Guy leans toward the girls and runs his mouth about “custom sport truck . . . amateur boxer . . . live nearby?” Before he runs out of pick-up line buzz-kill, the co-eds zip their peach and sea-green hoodies and quit the premises in a pastel minute.

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