WARNING: Rated R for crudeness, language, violence, suggestive dialog, and death

*Note: this is a rough draft. Not a final copy. Please no hating or negative comments unless they are constructive to help me write, which are always welcome.

Okay, so a while ago I posted blog called, "My Muse." That belongs to a whole complete separate story that I'm not currently working on, so I dont have anything new to present to that, but my novel, King of Hearts, is coming along amazingly! It's really going very well.
Shannon Dern is a former Homicide cop turned PI who lives in DC and takes cases helping Metro Homicide, Metro Narcotics, Baltimore PD, and occasionally (if they ask for her help) the FBI. She's unmarried, a real suffer-in-silence type, beautiful, fit, and hates men who break her heart. In this break out novel, she was working on a missing persons case with Metro until the case ran cold. So when Metro handed it over to the FBI, she went with, being the only person briefed enough on the case to be able to help them...willingly. Throughout the novel, you see bits and pieces of flashbacks that made Shannon who she is.

These two pieces of literature are tied hand in hand. The first, Shannon is remembering the moment she really became a cop, deep in her heart. Unfortunately, it wasn't until a year before she quit.

Every cop has that moment when they really, really became a cop. It wasn’t they got their ID or their desk, or hell, even when they brought in the suspect from their first solo case. For me, it was near the end of my time with Metro—not very average for most great moments—approximately 7 years after my first year, when the whole department was fighting to find a missing little girl, only 5 years old. Why was Homicide looking for her? Because our suspect here was also a suspect in four other open murders of children less than ten years old.

For every night of those three weeks, I stayed up until all hours, working this from every possible angle, alongside every single cop there, meaning my partner, Jacob, and my boss, the Chief of Homicide, Hansen Kory, and more than four dozen others. Eventually, we found her raped, bruised, and beaten body in a ditch by the side of a suburban road.

The coroner did the autopsy rather soullessly, obviously needing detachment from this hell on Earth, but the real moment that made me feel this hell, was three days later.

I was pointing my gun at the father of the child, Phoenix Weber, because he was pointing his Glock at the suspect, Alan Mann. Mann’s fingerprints had been found on the barrettes in the girl’s hair, the skin of her lifeless body, and all over her clothes. DNA from his sperm was still inside her and his saliva was still on her neck when we processed the evidence. Our forensic technicians had worked day and night for this case just like everyone else.

Weber shook with rage. Metro had finally had enough evidence after all results had been accounted for to arrest Mann, but Weber beat us to the bastard’s house.

Alan Mann stared at the group of cops surrounding him—ultimately more than two dozen—and the victim’s now-childless father. But his eyes showed nothing that I could comprehend until later. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t relief. It was…pity and confusion. He hadn’t believed he had done anything wrong.

My partner calmly spoke to Weber, but it was like trying to talk a dying man in pain of a ledge. The man wasn’t thinking. The man was only feeling—feeling the pain of having his only daughter taken from him. I never forgot the moment when Mann stepped forward, confident he wasn’t going to die; and when the father did the same, bringing them hardly two feet apart, I felt the whole sea of cops tense.

Jacob whispered from his spot next to me, “Suicide by cop.” I swallowed hard. Could I pull the trigger? Could I kill a man for wanting revenge over the death of his daughter and save the murderer’s life? My gut told me no. My brain told me no. But before I fell asleep, every night since then, I still pictured me pulling the trigger as soon as the safety had been taken off with a click. My only solace: the other two dozen cops had done the same thing. And Weber was autopsied with about 20 bullet holes in his body.

Alan Mann stared at us, smiling. I threw up.

That was the first time I helped kill a man, but not the moment I became a cop. That time came years after, during my first year as Lieutenant, when Alan Mann crossed my path again, this time having killed a 15 year old after getting her pregnant. When I cornered him in that abandoned warehouse he kept them in, I shot him without a second thought, without hesitation, and my three taps in the chest brought him down with a thud.

Next, this is the serial killer's POV from King of Hearts. He's facing a young girl who he's had with him for three years, and who has stabbed him in the side while trying to get away. Unfortunately for her, he caught up and now has his weapon pointed at her, considering the best way to make her sorry for her hurting him. This is where we learn what this serial killer wants.

The man with the gun stared at it, his strong, tanned hands shaking, causing the weapon to become unsteadied as he aimed at his target: the 14 year old girl who had stuck that knife in his gut when all he was doing was making her feel good… Except she’d claimed many times to be feeling that opposite. But with his side bandaged and his pride on the floor, his hands steadied in anger and the need for revenge. A shot in the foot? The leg? It wouldn’t kill her. Just damage her a little bit so that he could get back to doing what he wanted—the same thing his parents, his sister, and his brother had done to him until he disappeared.

He wasn’t disgusting. His family was perfectly fine. They had created him, and everyone saw him as normal, so obviously there wasn’t a problem. But still his thoughts lingered on his little sister, the bitch who’d he’d loved but had almost broken his heart. So he almost broke her neck. Unfortunately, she didn’t die until years and years later, when she was still in the coma.

“Kill me, you bastard. I’d rather die than spend another moment with you.”

He shook, opening his eyes after suddenly realizing he’d closed them.

He took aim at her ankle and aimed. She flinched but the bullet ultimately missed its destination. Hope flickered slightly in her naïve eyes. Her captor wasn’t a very good shot considering that he was hardly two yards from her.

A snarl formed on his lips and he hissed in his obvious displeasure. “Dammit,” he whispered, looking down at his hands.

“Kill me.”

“Why?”

When he glanced up, her eyes were pleading with him, those pretty green eyes…

“Because there’s no way you’d release me now. And I can’t spend another minute living with you.”

Her pure hatred made him wince slightly. No one he’d ever known had ever showed that much passion in such a…negative form. Well, besides the other six men and women he’d taken. 3 women, 3 men, not including the stallion in front of him. The youngest of them all was her. The oldest, Esposito, was 34 years of age and he’d been very instrumental in his gathering of information about a certain Private Investigator that killed his father after he’d done nothing but take what was rightfully his: twelve young girls, the youngest 5, the oldest 15, the other 10 ranging in between. He was positive his father wouldn’t have done anything wrong and if he’d taken the girls, it was for a damn good reason. The PI couldn’t understand that, even if she had been a cop back then.

I’m just like my father… The thought came unexpectedly.

And the truth was, in some ways, he really was. He was the sick and twisted boogey man that came to take what was someone else’s for selfish reasons or none at all. But his father had been taking females for his sick game, while Andy Bishop, he just took people for exactly what he needed. A few times he miscalculated, took a girl while her friend was expecting her so then had to take the friend, too, but it wasn’t as easy as it seemed. The game was something he could derive from whenever he needed to. Give or take, make the victims—although he didn’t consider them victims—suffer or rejoice. Because, as he saw it, he was brilliant and he was the only one that knew what was good or bad and he was the only one capable of making things good or bad.

The real brilliance of his plan, leaving his calling card, had only come into play after he had taken his first two victims, the young girls. But after he’d felt like he was being too much like his father, a man he cared for a respected but did not want to be compared to, he switched it all around, knowing that with his expertise, nothing would go wrong. Whatever he wanted, Andy Bishop was going to get it.

Andy Bishop wanted this PI, her face, her name, her reputation, to be in his tiny wood cabin in the woods of Bethesda, Maryland, dead. Her PI license stretched half-way down the East coast, so getting into an area with her simple jurisdiction—like DC, perhaps—would not be a hard thing to accomplish.

Slowly, he shook himself into awareness. The girl was still there, staring at him.

“I can kill you, Alexa.”

“So do it already.”

He had to remove all former thoughts from his mind in order to continue with the current pressing matter at hand.

Shaking his head in disappointment, he lifted the gun from his current aim at her shin to aim at her heart. “I thought you were different. But, Alexa, I’m going to be kind. No torture. Just plain, simple death. And when nobody finds your body after two more weeks, nobody will care anymore, and you’ll be just another name in the papers, just another hiker that got lost.”

He could see her mind running, trying to think of a way out. But her muscles loosened, her gaze turned watery and sad, and she looked at the ground, a sob breaking out of her chest as she said, “You’ll never get away with this.”

He shrugged and cocked his gun, finally realizing that the girl was right. It was her time to die. She’d spent three years with him up here—his very first victim—and all she’d produced was a child that he’d immediately killed and hidden, not needing anymore evidence stacked up against him that might possibly get him locked up with those freaks that everyone related him to: criminals. Andy Bishop was not a criminal. He was simply working against the law in pursuit of his own version of retribution. And this version started with tempting the fascination of Shannon Dern.

This time, the bullet didn’t miss its intended mark.

I enjoyed writing this last one because it's always been interesting to me how criminals don't often believe they've done anything wrong. My favorite line from this story appears at the end when Andy and Shannon finally go head and head. But you'll just have to wait for me to post it...

I hope you enjoyed it! Please tweet me or email me or something if the website wont let you comment!

So much love and thanks,
Alyssa

It's Just Paris--What Happened In Paris Option 2

This is a continuation of my last post. What if this happened instead? What if the insatiable lust they felt for each other was actually... Love? (just like i hope it is)

check it out and please comment or tweet me at @E_M_Zeray
This one is called: It's Just Paris

She entered the room, her fury about to tumble over onto her lips, and form into words…

Tony walked in behind her and she was hyper aware of him. Her anger was very obviously a displacement on passion or lust or incorrectly communicated—or hidden—emotions… Damn the time she’d spent with Ducky. That lovable man’s psycho babble was really starting to affect her…

Tony walked all the way into the room and, without a word, starting undressing. Swallowing past her misplaced anger, she cocked her head and said in her thick Israeli accent, (the one that appeared whenever she was either heavily intoxicated or extremely horny, and it was a little bit of both in this case thanks to the alcohol on the flight) “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting comfortable, Ziva. You might wanna do the same, seeing at how you’ll be sleeping on the couch.”

She scowled. “Why are you so…edible?”

He froze, looked up, caught in the middle of his stripping, down to his boxers, and said, “Well, I’ve always been this gorgeous, but I think you mean irritable. And I’m irritable because you bugged me the whole flight.”

But Ziva wasn’t listening. She was staring at his chest, his legs, his neck, his lips… Damn, how badly she wanted to kiss those lips. Yet, her being Ziva, she shook off the feeling and frowned. “I was mearly trying to understand those strange vampire novels you are reading. The boy loves the girl but the girl loves the hairy one?”

Tony smiled before he could help himself. Still, he ignored her, getting ready to climb into bed.

The tension in the room, with every word that Ziva wanted to say and every move Tony made that seemed to be lined with stress, could be cut with a knife. Shirtless, he closed his eyes and settled into the pillows. Paris was having an effect on him that he under no circumstances could even hope to understand.

He had spent hours on that flight with her and then another while trying to find the hotel room and get settled in. No reservations had been made so they were forced to share one room. Granted it was a spacious room, but Tony knew he had to fall asleep before her so that she would not bother him with her god-awful snoring.

Sleep drifted over him like a comforting blanket, but through the fog he heard, “Tony, we’re in Paris.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said sarcastically, keeping his heavy lids shut. “Now shut up and go to sleep.”

The silence had convinced him that she was moving around in her normal, or rather abnormal depending on how you looked at it, way—silent Mossad trained assassin way. But instead she was looking out the window, praying that maybe her silent hope wouldn’t become so silent anymore… But she couldn’t do it.

Tony opened his eyes slightly and noticed her staring problematically out the window. “What’s wrong?”

“Huh?” Her hair whirled around her neck as she looked back at the bed. “Oh. Nothing. Just thinking.”

“Zee-vah, you’re not a thinking kind of person.”

“I am a person, Tony. That is reason enough to think.”

He sat up, instantly knowing he would regret what he was about to say. But then his thought process changed. A single tear ran down from the fearless female agent’s eye and he realized… “You thought something was going to happened between us tonight.”

“That is the most stupid thing I have ever heard, Tony.”

“Not when it’s true.”

“I… I did not assume anything. I have nothing but platonic…” she hesitated, hoping that was the correct word.

“Nothing but platonic feelings for me?” Tony asked, trying to keep his Adam’s apple from bobbing.

Ziva closed her eyes and resisted the urge to say what she wanted to…

Without acknowledging the fact that Tony had spoken, she sat on the couch and stared at the black television screen. Her tears fell silently and a sound was made that made it appear as if Tony had relaxed back against the pillows once more, but in truth, both of them were wide awake now—caught in the fear of maybe almost admitting feelings for each other that were much, much more than friendly.

“It’s just Paris,” Tony whispered to himself. There’s a reason I want to kiss her right now. It’s just Paris: The City of Love. I’m not in love. Not at all.

But it wasn’t. And he was. And so was she. For better or for worse. Mostly worse.

Btw, the little vampire piece in there is because Tony talked on the episode this fic is based on about how he's Team Edward for Twilight. Not my idea.

Comment or tweet me! Enjoy! Thanks.

Love, Alyssa

NCIS Fan Fiction: What Happened In Paris

I do not own any characters or anything else from NCIS. This is all my own fiction.

Last week on TV's #1 Show, NCIS, Tony and Ziva let a little bit of a implication out that MAYBE something happened in Paris while they were forced to share a hotel room while picking up a witness they needed to protect and take back to DC. After several smoking glances and a few hints as to who really took the couch--they both said it was them and at the end they asked each other why they lied...--many obsessed fans decided to write their version of what they would've wanted to happen. Here is mine.

Warning, this is rated T for suggestive lanuage.

What Happened In Paris: An NCIS FanFic

He stared at the back of her neck as she opened the hotel room door—the only room available since they’d neglected to make reservations—and what he saw was beautiful. Everything about her was beautiful. Enticing. Sexy. He let his thoughts wander as he walked into the hotel room.

The romantic city view, the wine by the bed…

He thought back to the night four years ago when they shared another hotel room. Granted it was under cover… But she’d been the most exciting woman he’d seen in nothing but a smile—and she was definitely smiling. Just the thought made a sly smirk break out on his lips and he had to readjust his pants as he watched her drop her suitcase on the floor by the bed and remove her jacket.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Tony said, back to his normal self. “Who says you get the bed?” He gestured to the leather couch. “I’m the one with the bad back!”

She shrugged, a very, very small smile on her lips. “Well, you are the oldest,” she muttered.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Hey, that’s not fair. You’re young and fresh and pretty. You don’t need beauty sleep!”

“However pretty I am,” she said, stretching out the word and turning to him, “I have had a very frustrating flight and I need my sleep.” She punctuated her words by opening her suitcase and removing a pair of cobalt blue pair of silk shorts and matching cami, with little decorations of lace on both. Neither piece of clothing would conceal very much when it was on…

He stepped all the way into the room, the door closing behind him. She was taunting him.

“Those are your pjs?”

She shrugged.

Fine, his dick said, Seduction is a one person game. Let’s see how well she plays it.

But nothing of the sort happened. She went to the bathroom, showered, changed, and returned to the room. Tony was lying in the big, comfy bed, clad in a gray t-shirt and boxer shorts.

“My bed, Tony.”

“Not gonna happen, Zee-vah.”

She smirked and walked over to the bed, scooting under the covers and curling up to Tony, her leg thrown over his, her chin on his chest. “Fine. Then we will be forced to sleep like this, yes?”

Tony faltered momentarily. No stripping? No, “I’ve been watching you from afar,”?

He closed his eyes to recalculate and realized that he liked the feel of her next to him. So much in fact, that he needed more almost immediately. His recalculation was finished. He opened his eyes and…

She looked up and her chocolate eyes bore into his. With a piercing groan and a feminine sigh, their lips met and both of them saw fireworks. There was no neat, orderly discarding of clothing as they raced for the finish line. Somewhere during the wrestling match of passion involving annoying clothing, Tony faced the one-handed bra removal as his other was captured in hers and he felt no desire to remove it. But his efforts were wasted as she said the four words a man like Tony loves to hear and a woman like Ziva rarely gets to say: “It opens in front.”

Rule 12 burned in the back of her mind—the far back. Way back behind lust, passion, so much waiting… And maybe even a tiny bit of…caring? Like? …love?

The thought intruded her feel-good space and she had to concentrate hard on Tony’s mouth—which was now moving professionally and very wonderfully—against hers in order to distract herself from the impossible thought.

-------------

Tony soon discovered that Ziva was not gentle in her conquests, and that he didn’t mind one bit. He settled her body against his and tugged on her earlobe with his teeth.

“Now that was exactly what I needed,” he admitted in a whisper to her neck. “What’d you think?”

“Why? Feeling insecure, hairy butt?” Her delighted laugh made the tease fall off his shoulders.

“Not at all. I have ears. You weren’t kidding when you said you were a screamer.”

The casual teasing continued until she rolled over and fell asleep in his arms. He followed, but only after he’d contently relived the past hour in his head while staring at her beautiful sleeping face.

Harsh sunlight broke over her face as a soft snoring roused her from her sleep. A strong, tanned arm was around her waist and soft lips were on the back of her neck. Her eyes fluttered open slowly as her other senses awoke. Needs presented themselves and she gently removed herself from her lover’s grasp so she could use the restroom.

After dressing and flipping through the channels on the television—none of which she had any interesting in—she heard Tony sit up in bed. “Good morning, Zee-vah,” he said, a clear happiness in his smug voice. “You order breakfast yet?”

“I believe I’m going to try to find a café—get some reading done.”

“Oh, come on, Ziva! It’s Paris! There are sights to see!”

She shrugged off the invitation. “I’ve seen them all already. Multiple times.”

The insecure thought rolled through Tony’s head that she’s probably been with many men in Paris, as well. Just the first part alone made him angry. He shook off the ridiculous feeling and said, “Fine. I’ll go alone.”

When he stood, Ziva glanced at his body. She wanted to moan in delight. A bright red bite mark was still on his chest. But when he exited the room, he left a sour disposition of disappointment there. And sighing to herself, Ziva left the hotel room—and it’s memories and the wonderful, wonderful feelings she’d had there—behind. She feared for good.

Please comment! I hope you like it!
Love, Alyssa

My Muse

So two nights ago my muse was majorly picking at my brain and this was created:
NOTE: this is just a rough draft, and im not even sure this is gonna be used, but i really like it...
and i've been thinking that i need to change it around to something else, but idk. tell me what you think.

It was the picture perfect setting--they sat on the bridge, holding hands, starring at the snow falling down into the deep gulf below. The bridge was popular for first kisses, which is exactly what Madison was thinking about while she and Brian sat there, eyes lazily drifting with the white flakes and fingers whispering against each other.
"So are we gonna do this or what?" she asked, suddenly sounding much braver than she felt.
Brian smirked and turned to her, running his free hand over her stomach, down her thigh. She shuddered. "Alright. Your harness is secure. Let's jump."
She opened her eyes--hardly realizing she's closed them--and said, "I hate heights."
"Come on, Mad. It's bungee jumping. Totally safe."
Madison stood up, squeezing his hand for support. "But... Brian, it's snowing."
"Hardly."
She looked up at him, his green-blue eyes boring into hers and suddenly he was snaking his arms around her waist, pulling her against him, and they were kissing. Madison held on for dear life, her heart in her throat. The sensation was she was falling head first into something that took her breath away, the air pounding onto her cold cheeks... When she opened her eyes, she found she actually had fallen. He'd jumped with her in his arms.
He laughed joyously as they bounced and her tinkling voice echoed the noise. His lips went down on her neck, whispering words of encouragement, and suddenly, before Madison knew it, they were on the ground, sitting in the fresh snow, harnesses tossed away, her seated in his lap. Brian returned to kissing her neck and she closed her eyes and grasped at his jacket so she could ride out the feeling.
She shivered and he pulled back.
"Was that fun?"
"Which part? The jumping or the kissing?"
A smile spread on his lips and he said, "Jumping."
"Terrifying. But you distracted me perfectly."
And then he distracted her again, so she screamed into his mouth as the bullet hit her in the back, and he yelled, for about two seconds before the other bullet him in the forehead.
Madison held onto consciousness long enough to watch Brian's mouth foam with blood, and then she died.


This is just the first draft. Please comment!
Love, Alyssa