Welcome to Tuesday Tales, powered by a small group of authors, where word prompts inspire passages in the books we’re writing. The word of the day is dry. We continue with Silver’s Angel. When you finish, make sure to visit all the talented authors of Tuesday Tales.
Ignoring Hugo’s inquiry about the club, Lucien hurried out the door and past the crowd. His eyes sought Angel in the distance, but there was no sign of her. What had made her fly off the handle and run out like that? And how had she disappeared so fast? He took a halting step.
Hugo had come up beside him. He flicked a particle of lint from his three-thousand-dollar Brunello suit. “Don’t sweat it. I have a notion she’ll circle back or at least won’t go far.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I have something she needs.”
“What?”
Hugo sucked something, probably a remnant of the peanuts he’d been scarfing down, from between his teeth before answering. “Family business, more or less. Now where’s that club?”
“Six or seven blocks over.” Lucien’s mind wasn’t on that. “She comes back here, she won’t know where we are.”
“She know where the club is?”
“Of course.”
“Then that’s where she’ll be. Bert is around the corner. Let’s roll.” He put fingers to his lips and let out an ear piercing whistle.
Bert turned out to be the chauffeur. The car was a dream and as out of place in this neighborhood as a Fender Deluxe at a front porch singalong. It had an aura of its own. “You drive a Bugatti Chiron?”
“Tonight I do. Never saw one before, eh?”
Lucien wanted to punch that stuck up, stuck out jaw. For Angel’s sake he reigned in the impulse. The ride was over fast. In the drop-off lane, he pushed his way into the din of the nightclub, not letting Hugo barrel ahead of him. Music blasted, reverberating from wall to ceiling. He found her at once, seated temptingly on a barstool, her legs crossed, a martini glass in one delicate hand. Somehow, she had found time to change into a cocktail dress and arrange her hair into a golden tumble. How had she done that? At the bar he stood beside her and quietly spoke her name.
Her head moved ever so slightly, and her periwinkle eyes slid to his. Her face softened. Her tone was velvet. “Lucien.”
Hugo noisily bruised his way to her other side and raised a finger to summon the bartender. He growled at Angel, “Don’t run off like that again. I don’t like chasing.”
“Then don’t,” she replied. “In fact, dry up, Hugo.”
Thanks for stopping by. I hope you enjoyed the selection inspired by the word dry. If you haven’t done so already, check out the other excerpts at Tuesday Tales.
Cheers & Happy Reading!
Flossie Benton Rogers, Conjuring the Magic with Spirited Stories
All rights reserved, copyright @ 2026 Flossie Benton Rogers
