source
Thank you for inspiring me to do this today, 
NOTE: Mills & Boon is a romance imprint of British publisher Harlequin UK Ltd. Founded in 1908 by Gerald Rusgrove Mills and Charles Boon as a general publisher, the company moved towards escapist fiction for women in the 1930s.
Never underestimate the power of "corny" and "escapist" fiction for the empaths of the world who need an occasional reprieve from reality. Then again...judging a book by its title, I might visit Jane Austen instead:
THE PROMPT
At the Club
by
The club lights flashed and waved to the beating music. They washed the dance floor in neon colors, in time to the heavy vibrations of the giant speakers. Surprisingly, Toby admired the bright lights, how they illuminated the huge space and modern architecture. Though he found himself nursing a headache at the bar.
Jan from accounting had organized the “bonding time” for the office, saying how it’d bring everyone closer together. Toby had been devoid of any good excuse, so now he was stuck between a beer, clubbers, and Jan, with her volume louder than the pounding speakers.
“And so that’s when I said, ‘Kevin, that’s the wrong variable!’” She snorted in laughter at her own joke. Toby managed a smile. “You see, he made a simple mistake!”
“No, I get it. I think Susan’s around here somewhere, she’d appreciate hearing it too.”
“That’s a good idea, but I can tell her on Monday!”
Toby took another drink. He liked Jan well-enough at work, but tonight was proving a little more difficult.
“That does bring up a good point, though. I haven’t seen many people from the office here." Scanning the room, she asked, "Do you think they're stuck in traffic?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Toby answered, knowing full well it was more a case of empty promises. Still, there was something about the disappointment in her eyes that struck him. “But hey, you got some of us here.”
She gave a small smile and looked around again, this time lingering towards the lights.
“Hey, let’s go dance!”
Before Toby could gently protest, she’d swept him onto the floor, beer and all.
"My beer!" Toby cried.
Bottle, not tap, but a precious spray of gold arced through the air and landed on the already sticky dance floor. Jan wiggled and wouldn't let go of Toby’s arm, so he transferred his beer to his left hand and chugged it down while Jan yanked him into some contortion known as dancing. Accountants were supposed to be boring, but Jan had blue hair, tattoos, and a stud in her nose. She flung out her arms and gyrated. Toby attempted a dance move, arm out, and sent beer drops all over...Susan.
Susan McClain --"Plain Jane McClain" Jan called her--but some women looked fine without a spot of makeup. Very, very fine.
"Susie” Jan shouted. “Where you been hiding? You and--"
Pop. Pop.
A man staggered to the floor, then another. More beer splattered on them only it wasn't beer. It was red, and warm. Jan's head was exploding.
"Shooter!"
His heart was pounding harder than his headache had been as Susan tackled him and pulled him under a table with her. She reached back and pulled a pistol from her waistband. Bang, bang. A man in a trench coat went down.
"You didn't see that," she said.
The employees who were held up in traffic rejoiced
at the press conference. God must have something really important in mind for them, that they should be spared this terrible fate, they said.
"Bullshit," Susan muttered. "If an angel could cause a traffic jam, then angels could have jammed that asshole's gun, or had him skid off the road into a tree before he got to the club."
Jan was one of seven shot dead that day. Loud, flamboyant, brutally honest, but fun-loving blue-haired Jan had as much reason to live as those bozos.
"Angels must exist," Toby said, fixing his gaze on her, hoping he didn’t look like a sap. He couldn’t say it: You are my angel. He was the dimwit with the migraine who didn't save anyone's life.
A conceal and carry. Toby never wanted to need one of those, never dreamed he would. He also never dreamed "Plain Jane McClain" would be so cool in a crisis, but there was a lot he didn't know about her yet. Yet. He had a hunch she would tell him more if and when she was ready.
"No wonder you're plagued with headaches," Susan said, "with these dorks surrounding us eight hours a day."
She didn't include him among the dorks.
"Jan had another story for you," Toby said. "About Kevin and his equations. Now he's standing there counting his blessings, and Jan will never again get to tell everyone he got his variables wrong."
Susan squeezed his hand. "I'm looking at jobs down in Colorado Springs. I hear they're hiring electrical engineers too."
"I could use a change of scenery," he said.
"And I could use a beer."
He floated out the door with her, wondering how he ever got so lucky.
That is my revised down to 500 words (thanks
In case anyone is curious, here is the original with TWICE as many words. Shame on me.
"My beer!" Toby cried.
Bottle, not tap, but a precious spray of gold arced through the air and added to the sticky feel of the dance floor. The company was subsidizing this event, thanks to Jan the accountant and her surprising social skills, so he'd indulged in a Belgian import. Jan wiggled and wouldn't let go of his arm, so he transferred his beer to his left hand and chugged it down while Jan yanked him into some contortion known as dancing. He started choking, but she was in her bliss. Oblivious.
Accountants were supposed to be conservative and boring, but Jan had blue hair, tattoos, and a sparkly stud in her left nostril. She flung out her arms and gyrated loudly--so to speak. Her body language was as loud as her voice. Toby finally stopped coughing and attempted a dance move, arm out, a few stray drops of golden ale leaping out and landing on Susan.
Susan McClain the new-hire, mechanical engineer, "Plain Jane McClain" Jan called her, but some women looked fine without a spot of makeup. Very, very fine. Susan with the clear, gray-green eyes, fresh skin, straight blonde hair and rosy cheeks, Susan with the soft voice and easy smile, didn't need any jewelry or fashion flourishes. Plain was just fine with Toby, and here he'd spilled the last drops of his Belgian ale onto her T-shirt, which read "No Working During Drinking Hours." He started apologizing, not that he could hear himself over the pounding beat of the music, but Jan was audible: "Susie McClain! Where have you been hiding? Where is everyone else?"
Pop. Pop. the speakers drowned out whatever Susan said. Toby's head pounded.
All the clubbers must have been drinking too much. A man staggered to the floor, then another. More beer splattered on them only it wasn't beer. It was red, and warm, and there was lots of it.
Jan's head was exploding.
God what was in that Belgian ale. This was not happening.
"Shooter!" Susan mouthed at him. She tackled him.
The beer bottle bounced away. His heart was pounding harder than his headache had been and his stomach clenched as he glimpsed Jan's headless body on the dance floor. Not happening. Not happening.
Curled beneath the table, he grabbed Susan by the belt loop of her jeans as she peered out at the stampeding, bleeding, screaming Happy Hour clubbers. Toby felt a lump under her shirt at the same time she reached back and pulled a little pistol from her waistband. He tried to see over her shoulder but couldn't. Bang, bang, she fired, and a man in a trench coat went down.
Warm and sticky, Jan's blood had spread out and was reaching for his knees. Oh God. Oh God. Not happening. The headache had caused him to hallucinate.
Sirens. Fractured lights. The pounding music finally stopped.
There was more than his beer on Susan's shirt. Blood and gunpowder and sweat, he could smell her sweat, he could see the wetness spreading under her sleeves as she crawled out and pulled him up after her.
"You didn't see that," she said. "Swear on your life, Toby, you didn't see." She was wrapping the gun in napkins, and he just nodded at her.
The employees who were held up in traffic rejoiced
at the Visitation, where just about everyone from Chambers Manufacturing paid their respects to the club victims. The shooter was the usual kind of lunatic, complaining that Chambers had hired too many Muslims, Asians, and India natives, and that he was denied a job because he wasn't "diverse" enough, never mind that he had a mental history, and kept going off his meds.
Rejoiced. That was the word for it, all right. When the reporters came around, the employees held up in traffic said God must have something really important in mind for them, that they should be spared this terrible fate.
"Bullshit," Susan muttered at Toby's side. She cast her glance around their co-workers and their family members and the unbelievably invasive news crews. Susan never identified herself as the shooter who took down the shooter, and Toby didn't give her away. Journalists were vultures. "How did you feel when you learned your co-workers had been shot." He had refused to answer.
"If an angel could cause a traffic jam to keep them from a fatal Happy Hour," Susan said, "then angels could have jammed that asshole's gun, or had him skid off the road into a tree before he got to the bar."
Toby agreed. Almost. "Angels must exist," he said, "or I might not be here now."
He fixed his gaze on her, hoping his eyes somehow conveyed what words could not. Susan was sublime, her hair up in a French twist, her plain black dress accentuating her slim, trim figure. If he could just say it: You are my angel. But she was so sensible and pragmatic, and he was the dimwit with the migraine who didn't save anyone's life.
A conceal and carry. Toby never wanted to need one of those, never dreamed he would.
He also never dreamed "Plain Jane McClain" would be so cool in a crisis, but there was a lot he didn't know about her yet. Yet. He wasn't a big talker and didn't presume to ask her life story, but he had a hunch it would come out if he let her tell it in her own time. When she was ready. If ever she would be ready.
"No wonder you're plagued with headaches," Susan said, "with these dorks surrounding us eight hours a day."
She didn't include him among the dorks. Why couldn't he think of a clever response to her comments? His window of opportunity had passed: calling her an angel now would make him look as lame as the other engineers and accountants who imagined their luck was a sign that God sure was looking out for them, by golly Miss Molly.
Jan was one of seven people shot dead that day. Loud, flamboyant, brutally honest, but fun-loving blue-haired Jan had as much reason to live as those bozos who had been blessed with a traffic jam.
"Jan had another story for you," Toby said. "About Kevin and his equations. Now he's standing there counting his blessings, and Jan will never again get to tell everyone he got his variables wrong."
Susan squeezed his hand, and if those clear, gray-green eyes weren't telling him things without words, Toby was as deaf and dumb as he was useless under fire.
"I'm looking at jobs down in Colorado Springs," Susan said. "I hear they're hiring electrical engineers too."
Wherever you go, I shall go, he almost said.
"Chambers won't be the same without Jan," he said instead. "I could use a change of scenery."
"And I could use a beer." She motioned with her head toward the Exit sign.
He floated out the door with her, wondering how he ever got so lucky.
@mariannewest