This is an excerpt of a story that a friend of mine and I are working on. Honestly, it's pretty stupid, but I would love a critique! Thanks!
It was a sticky, steamy night in New Orleans. Katrina was sitting on her front porch swing, her legs crossed Indian style, plunking away on her brand new guitar. It was beautiful; so beautiful. And so much more expensive then anything I could afford. Her voice rang out into the street, rushing down alleyways, spilling into the gutters of the French Quarter. I didn't belong there, but I would go to any length to see her, to touch her, to breathe in her sweet scent.
"...This is the first day of my life, I swear I was born right in the doorway..."
Katrina crooned, her sweet voice nearly drowned out by the shrieks and yelps echoing from Bourbon Street, the clomp of horses hooves from the waterfront, the chatter of tourists, the sultry, lonely sound of a single saxophone; the sound of New Orleans, the sound of my childhood. Except I got to hear the side of the city that Katrina Capulet, apple of her father's eye, never would: The gunshots, the domestic disputes, the drunken rages. I was from the proverbial 'wrong side of the tracks'. Son of a bartender, my mother left when I was young. Kat's father owned a restaurant, and her mother taught second grade at the local elementary school. She got to see the beautiful side of things. And I didn't. Truthfully, I was slightly jealous of her, but I loved her too much to care about our differences. To notice them, even. I had always loved her.. even when she didn't love me. Even when I was just her mother's pupil, her father's employee. When I watched her playing with her friends as I cleaned their yard, having tea parties with expensive dollies and real china, listening to Cd's on state of the art systems instead of just the radio; even when I watched her fawn over pictures of boys on her social level, I loved her.
I clunked up the steps of her porch, startling her out of the calm reverie that occurred whenever she played. Her white house dress billowed softly around her, and one bare foot still twitched rhythmically as she smiled up at me.
"Hey, Jack. How'd you get off work so fast?" she greeted me, tucking a long brown curl behind her ear and wiping a stray bead of sweat off her temple. I sat down beside her and breathed in the rose and sandalwood scented aura that followed her everywhere.
"I didn't go to work tonight," I smiled, rubbing a piece of her linen skirt in between my fingers.
"Jack! Did you get fired again?" she questioned sternly. Katrina's maternal instincts were always a force to be reckoned with, and I could feel a storm brewing.
"No. I didn't. Billy gave me the night off, and I wanted to come see the prettiest girl in Louisiana. Something wrong with that?" I grinned, elbowing her gently. She turned her signature shade of bright pink and looked down at her guitar, adjusting the already perfectly tuned instrument.
"You know that's not true, Jack Manson," she whispered. You never could say much for her self-esteem. I put my hand under her chin and tilted her face up 'til her gaze met mine.
"How many times will it take, baby doll? How many times will I have to tell you you're beautiful before you believe it?"
She went to answer my question, but before the words could slip from her lips, I covered them with mine. Katrina gasped, threw her arms around my waist, and parted her lips slightly. The scent of roses and baby powder and musk enveloped me, pulling me into a Kat induced state of ecstasy. I had wanted her, waited for her for so long, and I finally had her.
"I love you, Jack," she sighed as she nuzzled my shoulder tenderly.
"I love you too, Katrina."
Yeah, mushy-gushy, I know. XD
Jack sounds like a girl to me or a painfully refined sissy. If he grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, his thoughts and words need much more coarseness. Maybe bone up on how guys like that think and talk, no pun intended. Also, the girl won't say “Jack” every time she speaks to him. Use simple past tense and better verbs.
Read your first paragraph, then compare it to something like this:
It was like a damn sauna in New Orleans that night. Katrina sat cross-legged on her front porch swing plunking away on her brand new guitar that probably cost more than I make in a month. Her voice cut through the mugginess of the French Quarter, clear and crisp. Hell, no way I belonged here, but that little girl owned me body and soul. Ain't nothing I wouldn't do to get my hands on that hot little body of hers.