Here is the best stuff I wrote tonight, from Devil's Handiwork:
There is nothing but sagebrush, dirt, and rocks in Ione, Nevada. Well, there are a few people to cater to the tourists who come to see the fossils at the nearby state park or one of the numerous "ghost" towns from the mining booms. I had to smile at the thought as I parked the truck in front of the bar. No one knew ghosts the way I knew ghosts.
A trickle of sweat snaked its way down my spine as I exited the truck. The Nevada desert in July was not a pleasant place to be; I couldn’t fathom why Jess had decided to hide out here when there were plenty of other – more temperate – hidey-holes of desolation. I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulder and made my way into the bar. The air conditioning was on high, instantly freezing the sweat to my skin.
"Yellow."
I glanced up at the bartender, inwardly grinning at the accented way he’d greeted me. "Hey," I said. "Got a beer back there?"
"Yup," he said. He reached beneath the counter and placed a can on the counter.
The barstool's vinyl seat immediately adhered itself to my bare thighs.
