Book Excerpt: The Camp by Karice Bolton

Title: The Camp
Author: Karice Bolton
Genre: YA ( Suspense/Romance)

Synopsis. Emma has always strove for perfection in her almost eighteen years of existence, but it has never been good enough. As she finds herself counting the days until she’s officially free from her parents’ reins, her stepfather hands her a plane ticket explaining that she must attend the Re-Boot Camp in the wilds of Alaska.

Once she lands in the middle of nowhere, she realizes the camp is nothing like she imagined, and she wants out immediately. That is until she meets Liam.

The camp is full of teens with dark pasts, but she finds herself drawn to Liam’s ability to see who she really is and who she wants to become. While Emma and Liam begin adjusting to a place neither want to be, frightening events begin to unfold. When people begin disappearing, it becomes apparent they can only trust one another as they fight for survival.

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Chapter One

The Cessna 180 engine rumbled through the small six-seat aircraft cabin, but unfortunately it did little to block out the words of the other passengers. I glared at the back of the Captain who was lucky enough to be wearing a headset.

“I’d love to see what’s under her jacket.” I heard the guy behind me say to no one in particular.

“I’ll second that, and I bet we’ll get the chance,” another one said.

The gnawing in my stomach only grew with every passing minute, but there was nothing I could do. I was stuck in a plane where I could literally touch the pilot. I didn’t need to start something that I couldn’t finish and have the plane crash because I couldn’t handle a little heckling.

I looked out the small, oval window pressing my head against the cold glass covered in water droplets. I couldn’t really see anything out the window because the weather was so bad. It was like we were trapped in one continuous rain cloud that was sent from the Gods to mess with me.

Getting tired of seeing nothing but ominous grey, I looked down at the pamphlet hoping the description would magically change, but I wasn’t that lucky. My fingers trembled as I silently read the overview once more.

The ReBoot program is a juvenile camp for mid-range offenders who have yet to become established criminals. Youth in their mid to late teen years are often responsive to this type of program which includes occupational training and behavior rehabilitation. We’ve found that the potential criminals at our work camp for forestry and conservation in Southeast Alaska never become repeat offenders. We generally only accept less dangerous delinquents but all cases are subject for review.

I loved the ‘yet to become established criminals’ part as if the first time around didn’t really count for these misfits. I so didn’t belong here. It wasn’t like I needed to be reminded that my newfound campmates weren’t savory characters. All I had to do was turn around in my tiny airplane seat to see their predator eyes taking me in.

I couldn’t believe my mom let this happen to me! There’s no way she could have been fooled into thinking this was a conservation-slash-forestry camp… although I was fooled. I actually thought my stepfather was trying to do something nice for me, for once. God! I hated my stepfather, and he obviously hated me. This was his last sendoff before I went to college, and it was a doozey. As if living with him since my father’s death wasn’t horrible enough, he just wanted one more way to stick it to me.

The tin can I was riding in suddenly took a plunge, and all of the instruments went berserk. Gasps and whines filled the air as the high-pitched warning beeps sounded through our tiny capsule. My hands immediately became clammy as my heart raced. There was no calming down in a situation like this, especially when a person was born as jumpy as I was. My fingers gripped the armrest so hard that my nails hurt, and I took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly.

     About the Author     

Karice Bolton is a Young Adult/New Adult author living in the Pacific Northwest. Karice married the love of her life who she met in high school, and she still can't get over how cute and funny he is. They have two English Bulldogs that are the sweetest bullies in the world, and they use their cuteness to get what they want. Karice loves the snow and gravitates towards the stuff as often as possible! She enjoys skiing and tries really hard to snowboard, but often makes a nice little area to sit while everyone zips by on their board. She enjoys writing, and she also loves to read just about anything with print. Karice would love if you stopped by her blog or FB page to find out the latest news on giveaways and upcoming releases, or you can just send her an email. She loves hearing from her readers and responds as soon as she can.

Karice Around the Web:    Website  |  Goodreads  |  Facebook  |  Twitter


--
With love,
Margaret

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Book Excerpt: Precious Things by Stephanie Parent

Title: Precious Things
Author: Stephanie Parent
Genre: NA (Contemporary)

Synopsis. Isabelle Andrews isn’t supposed to be here. She isn’t supposed to be a freshman at Hartford Community College, she isn't supposed to be living at home and working at her dad’s failing bakery, and she definitely isn’t supposed to be taking Intro to Electronic Music Production, a class that will get her nowhere toward her goal of an English Ph.D. by age twenty-five. But when her dad’s latest business fiasco eats up her college fund, Hartford Community College is exactly where Isabelle finds herself—and thanks to her late enrollment, she doesn’t even get to choose her classes. Stuck with Electronic Music and way-too-easy English courses, Isabelle is determined to wallow in all the misery she feels entitled to.

But community college brings some unexpected benefits…like the fact that a certain overworked, over-scheduled Electronic Music professor hands over most of his duties to his teaching assistant. His tall, green-eyed, absolutely gorgeous teaching assistant. When TA Evan Strauss discovers Isabelle’s apathy toward electronic music—and, well, all music—he makes it his mission to convert her. The music Evan composes stirs something inside Isabelle, but she can’t get involved—after all, she’ll be transferring out as soon as possible.

Still, no matter how tightly Isabelle holds on to her misery, she finds it slipping away in the wake of all Hartford Community offers: new friendships, a surprisingly cool poetry professor, and most of all, Evan. But Evan’s dream of owning his own music studio is as impractical as Isabelle’s dad’s bakery, and when Evan makes a terrible decision, everything Isabelle has gained threatens to unravel. Soon Isabelle discovers that some of the most important lessons take place outside the classroom…and that in life, as in Evan’s favorite Depeche Mode song, the most precious things can be the hardest to hold on to.

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Chapter 1

I click “play” on the computer screen, and the song floods out of the headphones, into my ears and through my brain waves and down to my core, where I swear my heart syncs to the beat of the music. The melody pulses its way through me, into every hollow of every bone and every sinew of every muscle. I find it hard to believe the entire music lab, the entire building, isn’t filling with sound. People should be running into the room, lured by the song; but the truth is that outside my head, beyond the barrier of the headphones, there’s nothing but silence. Not that it matters. Because the one person I want—need—to share this song with, more than anything in the world?

He’s gone.


To say I’m unhappy as I walk into my first Intro to Electronic Music Production class at Hartford Community College is the understatement of the year. Oh, I’m unhappy, don’t get me wrong—I’m unhappy that due to overcrowded classes and my late enrollment, I’ve ended up with an “elective” that might as well be ancient Greek for all I understand about it. The syllabus—e-mailed to us last night—is a jumble of Logic Pro and MIDI and Fruity Loops (Fruity Loops?) Music Maker and strange programming language that scares the heck out of me. I’m unhappy that I still smell like a cinnamon bun from this morning’s shift at Teatime, and if this overheated, overcrowded room and the sweat trickling down my back are any indication, I’ll soon smell like a broiled cinnamon bun. I’m unhappy that I’m stuck here till six because, for some unfathomable reason, Intro to Electronic Music Production requires five hours of class time twice a week.

But as I was saying—I’m not just unhappy. No, I’m miserable. Miserable that I’m here at Hartford Community College at all, when I should be at Johns Hopkins, or Georgetown—both of which accepted me—or even at University of Maryland with Jenny, where I would have been accepted if I hadn’t been too stubborn and stupid to apply to safety schools. Miserable that I spent the morning still working my high-school job at Teatime, the teashop that, just to rub the salt in the wound, is responsible for my community college fate. Miserable that after this five-hour class, I’ll be driving back down the highway to dinner at my childhood home, TV on my childhood couch, and sleep in my childhood bed.

Miserable. Yeah, that about covers it. I scan the quickly filling classroom for a seat. Clearly I can forget about finding a computer for myself: people are already doubling or tripling up before the not-too-ancient Macs. A tiny raven-haired girl with an empty chair beside her offers me a smile, and I try my best to smile back. Then she turns, seized with a sudden need to flip through her notebook, and I know my smile came out more like a grimace. I meet two more pairs of eyes, belonging to a woman who must be in her fifties and a young dreadlocked guy, and the same thing happens. Not that I blame them—I’ve got the enthusiasm of a cold fish, and I’m sure I’m about as appealing as one. Heck, I don’t even like myself right now; I can’t expect anyone else to.

I thread through rows of tables, computers and electronic piano keyboards—true to its name, the “music lab” is set up more like a laboratory than a traditional classroom—and avoid any further eye contact until I slip into the very last empty seat in the very last row. Just as my butt hits the chair, the harried-looking guy at the front of the room, whom I’m guessing is our professor, clears his throat and begins talking. His voice, as rumpled and droopy as his tweed jacket, is the kind that immediately invites minds to wander, and it doesn’t help that more students keep filing into the packed room. I’m trying to keep an open mind about this whole community college thing, but it’s not a good sign when I can’t focus even for the first three minutes of my first class.

Just how many people did they let into this class? It’s standing room only now, and shit, is that guy pushing a stroller with a toddler inside? At least the kid is cute. And asleep, it looks like. Open mind, open mind…

“Don’t worry,” a whisper from my right startles me. “Half these people will drop before the second week of classes. That’s why they let so many in.” I turn toward the voice and find a very normal, even sympathetic-looking girl with olive skin and those wispy bangs I can never pull off. “It’s your first day, isn’t it?”

“That obvious, huh?” I try the smile again, hoping I can keep the grimace from creeping in around the edges.

“It’s always crazy the first week of the semester. It will calm down. Baby Daddy will work out the schedule with his babysitter. Oh and by the way”—she leans closer—“that’s not normal, so don’t get too concerned.”

“Good. I…I didn’t think it was.”

She winks at me. “I’m Lucy, by the way.”

“Isabelle,” I answer quickly. I may be miserable, but I’m making friends, goddammit.

Lucy smiles and turns her attention back to the professor, and I know I should do the same…

But when I shift my gaze to the front of the room, I find myself staring not at Rumpled Tweed, but at what I swear must be the greenest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen. Really. They’re like two damn sparkly gemstones or something. And the owner of those eyes, who’s leaning against the wall, long arms and even longer legs crossed, the heel of one scuffed sneaker resting atop the toe of the other, is looking right at me.

He winks. And it’s nothing like Lucy’s wink.

By this point I’ve completely lost track of what Professor—I glance down at my syllabus—Barton is saying, so I’m thrown for a loop when he gestures for Green Eyes to step forward and stand beside him. I get a better look at Green Eyes as he comes closer: messy, longish dark brown hair, lean and chiseled and, okay, gorgeous face, and arms that appear to be packing some muscle beneath his hoodie. I tune back in just in time to hear Professor Barton introduce the class’s teaching assistant, Evan Strauss.

Oh. Great. I’ve only been in my first college class ten minutes, and the teaching assistant’s already caught me chatting through the professor’s lecture. The hot teaching assistant. I feel a sudden need to fix my scrappy ponytail. I refuse to be that cliché, though, so I force myself to resist it.

Professor Barton goes on to explain that he has a “prior commitment” at two p.m. Mondays and Wednesdays, so after he lectures us for the first hour of class, Evan will lead the music lab for the remaining four hours.

Wait. What? Our professor has a “prior commitment” that’s more important than teaching his own class? That pisses me off enough to knock Green Eyes right out of my head. I hear Lucy click her tongue beside me, too. “Again,” she whispers, “not normal.” Professor Barton calls roll without once looking up from his roster. Then he launches into the most rushed, unenthusiastic overview of a syllabus I’ve ever had the displeasure of hearing—and I had Dreary Daniels for history in both tenth and eleventh grade. Forty-five minutes later, I still don’t understand exactly what Electronic Music Production is, but apparently there’s a ridiculous amount of software involved. We’ll be using mostly Logic Pro, which only works on Apple computers—hence all the Macs—but the class will also introduce us to Cubase, Ableton, Cakewalk, and FL Studio, also known as FruityLoops. What’s with all the food names, especially the sugar? I get enough of that from Dad at Teatime, thank you very much.

I learn that we’ll spend most of the five-hour class time completing a series of assignments, but as to what the assignments are, I’m not so sure. I took the obligatory few years of piano as a kid, enough to learn I have no musical sensibility whatsoever, so I recognize some of the terms Professor Barton throws around: staff, bars, measures, meter, time signature. But others, like loops and MIDI and quantization and arrange pages and media pages, send me into a total panic. I may have no interest in this class, but I need good grades to get a scholarship out of here. Besides, anytime I’m confronted with a subject I can’t wrap my head around, I get this antsy, itchy feeling under my skin. Come to think of it, that’s why I quit piano in the first place. It never made sense to me the way math and reading do.

By the number of hands popping into the air, I can tell I’m not the only one who’s confused—but Professor Barton waves us all away with a distracted flip of his wrist. “Evan will answer your questions later,” he mumbles. “I have to get through this before I need to leave.” He starts passing out the assignment instructions as he talks, and a cursory glance at mine tells me it will only add to my mental chaos.

Hmm. Maybe Professor Barton is purposefully encouraging half the class to drop so the rest of us will actually have a place to sit. I glance surreptitiously (I hope) at Evan, wondering how he’s taking all this. He’s back to leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a few wayward strands of hair threatening to obscure those too-green eyes. His lips—his not-too-full, not-too-thin, dear-lord-I’d-better-not-be-staring lips—are set together in a neutral line. He’s a closed book. A slammed-shut door. A beautifully sculpted, well-polished door…

No. Not going there.

Eventually Professor Barton concludes his mumble-lecture, packs up his briefcase, and runs out of the classroom like there’s a pack of wolves at his heels. Evan blinks as if he’s just waking up and pushes himself languidly away from the wall, finally dropping those crossed arms. I can sense a change in the atmosphere, a tightening, tautening—girls sitting up straighter, smoothing a stray hair or straightening a shirt hem—and I know I’m not the only one who’s noticed the TA’s, um, physical attributes. “So,” Evan says, and his voice is just right, smooth and deep with the perfect hint of boyishness to lighten it up, “who’s confused as all hell right now?”

Evan ends up sending half the class out on an hour-long “break” so there’ll only be two to a computer, not four, and then those of us who’ve stayed will get to leave early. He also says something about the inevitable mass exodus after the first week of class, which will guarantee seats for those who remain. Then, after a flood of questions about staffs and beats and meter, he divides the class into those who’ve had some musical instruction and those who haven’t; those of us who know that a staff is the thing musical notes are written on and meter is the number of beats per measure are left to fend for ourselves. I’m actually kind of disappointed to be in the latter category.

I am glad Lucy has some musical experience too—violin, she tells me—so we can struggle through the first assignment together. She seems better with the computer than I am, too, so I let her open the Logic Pro music-making program and then select an “Empty Project.” The “Arrange” page we’ve just heard so much about opens up, with a white pop-up window prompting us to set up our first “track.” Lucy clicks the “Create” button as our assignment sheet instructs, and the pop-up disappears, which I guess means we’ve created a track, though I sure don’t see it.

Well, this page doesn’t look too intimidating when it’s empty…just a bunch of vertical lines on a dark gray background. Kind of looks like a prison cell, actually. Plus a bunch of menus and icons on the sides that I’m going to pretend aren’t there for now. “Okay…” Lucy squints down at the assignment sheet, lips pursed, letting out a puff of air that ruffles those perfect bangs. “So I guess first we have to choose our ‘sound,’ and then use the keyboard to record a melody. Or, wait, do we start with the beat? Or the bass?”

Thirty minutes later, our prison-cell vertical lines have multiplied into skinny mesh-window-screen lines, there’s this weird green bar that keeps moving across the top of the screen, this sideways piano keyboard thing has usurped the bottom half of the page and I’m pretty sure it isn’t supposed to be there, and our cursor keeps morphing into a tiny pair of scissors or an eraser. “I hate computers,” I’m grumbling for the umpteenth time…

…when I hear a throat clearing behind me. “You ladies need some help?”

Oh, do we ever.

Before I can blink Evan is wedged between my chair and Lucy’s, kneeling down so his head is level with ours, close enough that I can see the hint of stubble lining his jaw. He even smells good—like laundry fresh out of the dryer, a hint of lemon, and something underneath that’s just guy.

“It looks like you’re in four-four time here, which is good…”

We are?

“…and since you’ve already got the piano roll open, I’ll just put in a basic bass line…is G and C okay?”

It’s all-righty with me. Evan grabs the mouse and clicks a few times on the sideways piano keyboard thing at the bottom of the screen (the “piano roll,” I guess), and more of those green bars pop

up on top. Then he starts moving things around the screen and clicking and the piano roll disappears, the green bars get longer and wider, he brings up some dropdown menus and clicks and frowns and clicks and nods and narrows those gorgeous green eyes at the screen…

“…so now you know how to set up a basic bass line.” I do? Oh shit, was he talking and was I totally not listening?

“Hey”—he looks right at me this time—“no need to panic. This week’s assignment is just to create a piece of music. It doesn’t have to be a good piece of music, and we’ll go over this so many times you’ll be able to teach me by the end of the class.”

“I’m not panicking,” I blurt out without thinking, “why would you think I’m—”

He looks pointedly down at my hands, and I follow his gaze to find my fingers ticking and stuttering like a collection of broken watch hands. Oh. I clamp my hands between my knees. “I’m fine, really.”

He shrugs. “So now you just need a simple melody above those Cs and Gs, so we’ll open another track and…”

Evan goes on talking and demonstrating and I can tell he’s a good teacher, he really is, but the confusion-clouds in my brain keep growing and since there are so many things I don’t understand, my mind eventually stops trying to understand any of them at all. Plus he just smells so damn good. Pretty soon he has to leave to help some of the twenty-five other bewildered students. I hope he’s getting paid well. Or at all.

Lucy and I fiddle around with the piano keyboard—not the one on the computer screen, but the plastic one below the computer—and do our best to record a “melody” (read: random collection of notes) for the next fifteen minutes. According to the assignment sheet, this would be a much more complicated process if all the computers in this room weren’t set up to communicate directly with, and only with, their own piano keyboards. But we’re in the beginners’ class, so they are. Then the missing half of the class comes back, and we’re done for the day, thank God. I have to slip right by Evan on the way out, and that fresh-dried-laundry-and-lemon scent sends a little shiver down my spine. I try to shake it off, but I can’t help looking back as I step into the hall—and he winks at me. Again.

Damn.

“He’s cute, huh?”

I nearly jump out of my flip-flops as I turn to see Lucy by my side. “Uh…yeah, I guess.” Cute enough to keep my adrenaline spiking the last hour, and now that the class is over, I’m suddenly exhausted.

“So,” Lucy goes on as we head down the music department hallway, “you want to grab a coffee, since we got out early? We can celebrate you surviving your first ever class at HCC.”

I smile, but my grip on my messenger bag tightens. Say yes make friends say yes make friends…

“Thanks, but I’m kinda tired. And I’ve got a long drive home, so…” Shit. I’m truly way more than kinda tired, especially since I started work at the crack of dawn, but I should have accepted her offer. I guess I really am determined to sabotage myself. Make the worst of things, as Dad would say.

“Okay, but you’re missing out.” Lucy’s shrug doesn’t look too affronted, and her voice stays light. Maybe I didn’t screw this up completely, at least not yet. “My boyfriend’s working today, and he makes a mean caramel mocha.”

Huh? I was picturing one of those gross coffee vending machines that spits out suspicious brown sludge. My forehead wrinkles in confusion, and Lucy laughs. “You really haven’t walked around campus at all, have you?”

“Uh…”

“HCC isn’t Harvard, but we’re still a college. We have a coffee shop. And it’s every bit as overpriced as Starbucks. Doug lets me use his employee discount, though.”

“Good to know.” We’ve reached the top of the cement stairwell, and I hesitate before asking, “Will your boyfriend be working after Wednesday’s class too?”

“Luckily for you, yes.” Lucy trails a hand along the staircase railing as we descend, and I admire her nail polish: baby blue on all except her fourth finger, which is buttercup yellow. I haven’t painted my own nails since July, and I catch myself curling my hands into fists. Dumb, since she’s been staring at the chipped remains of my graduation-gown blue polish for the past hour.

I know I could—should—still change my mind and just go with her today, but instead I say, “Maybe Wednesday, then?”

This time, Lucy’s voice isn’t quite as enthusiastic as she answers, “Yeah, okay.” It’s a good thing no one signed me up for How to Make Friends and Be Likable 101, because I’d fail that class for sure. We reach the first floor and I spot the triangle-skirted stick-figure girl on a nearby door, so I decide to make my escape.

“I’ve got to, um—” I point and mumble, “See you later,” then push through the bathroom door before I can make things any worse.

When I step out of the bathroom stall a minute later, I’m relieved to find the room empty and, judging by the lack of noise from the halls, likely to stay that way for a few minutes. I turn the faucet to ice cold, full force, and let my hands linger under the water till my body begins to cool. I’m all hot and bothered, that’s for sure…and it’s not because I might have flubbed a potential friendship with Lucy. No, it’s one hundred percent due to Evan Strauss. I just didn’t expect to encounter such a cute—okay, hot—guy on my first day at community college. And I especially didn’t think said guy would be my teaching assistant in a class that’s bound to make me look like a moron.

As I shut off the water and shake off my hands, I risk a quick glance at the mirror—mistake. I didn’t bother to change or fix my makeup after my shift at Teatime, and it shows. Just the barest traces of my eyeliner and shadow have stuck around, so my brown eyes look even more blah and tired than usual. Only my blush has decided to stay put, and considering how red my face is, that’s not a good thing. My T-shirt is accented with a flour streak on the left side, and my ponytail (blah brown, to match my eyes) must have passed the fashionably messy point a few hours ago. And of course the huge scowl on my face doesn’t help matters.

I stick my tongue out at the face in the mirror and, for good measure, flick some water at it. Then I walk out without bothering to dry my hands.

Outside, I force myself to look around on my way back to the parking lot—maybe I’ll spot that coffee shop. Lucy wasn’t far off, actually, when she said this was my first time on campus: I’ve only been here once before, two weeks ago, when I tried to beg my way into already over-full classes. Actual registration was in July, right around the time I found out we didn’t have the money for Georgetown, and I should have come down here immediately to sign up for the fall semester. But I kept thinking something was bound to happen—Dad would come up with the money somehow, or Georgetown would offer me a last-minute scholarship. God, I even hoped my mother would turn up after twelve years, and that she would have miraculously transformed from responsibility-fleeing wanderer to successful CEO, back just in time to deliver her daughter’s missing college fund.

Sometimes I’m just as delusional as the rest of my family.

Back in August, the HCC campus was dead, and I walked to and from the registration building with blinders on, my gaze firmly stuck to the map I’d printed from the school website. Now, though, I have to admit it’s not completely prison-like: wrought-iron benches beneath broad-branched trees invite reading, relaxing, and conversation; clumps of students actually seem to be taking advantage of the shade to chat and catch up. I even spot a miniature bridge over what looks to be a manmade stream, which I may have to investigate at some point. The wide walkways remind me of the Yellow Brick Road, except that these bricks aren’t quite yellow, more the shade Crayola calls “burnt sienna.” But these little touches can’t disguise the fact that HCC is no Oz, no Cornell or Georgetown, not even a University of Maryland. The buildings scream institution, squatting low and long and featuring a lot of cement. No ancient ivy-covered stone here. In fact, the view at HCC is depressingly similar to the scenery that accompanies my drive home along the highway: strip mall, strip mall, strip mall, hulking buildings that all look the same and sell pretty much the same stuff inside. I might have exaggerated a bit when I told Lucy I had a long drive home—it’s only twenty minutes—but it’s certainly a dull one. Hartford Community College is smack in the middle of, shockingly enough, Hartford County, Maryland, where it’s reasonably accessible to students in the surrounding suburbs and small towns, but pretty far from anything remotely interesting. It’s all Target, Wal-Mart, Applebee’s, Outback Steakhouse, the occasional cookie-cutter housing development, until I’m back in Colbin. Home sweet home. I have to drive right by Teatime, and I see Dad has turned on all the strands of white fairy lights bordering the windows, even though the sun is still blazing overhead. I grit my teeth. Yeah, an extra ten bucks on the electric bill probably isn’t that big a deal, but when you’re as broke as we are, every little bit helps. At least he’s not home, waiting for me—I don’t think I could handle the how-was-your-first-day spiel right now.

Nope, when I park in front of the two-story, eggshell-blue house with brown shutters where I’ve lived my entire life, head inside, and collapse on the ratty couch, only Corey is there to greet me. And my fifteen-year-old brother knows better than to say anything besides, “You wanna make dinner?”

Corey and I eat Kraft Macaroni and Cheese on the couch while the TV plays an old episode of Friends, and then I watch Corey battle cyborgs or zombies or something for a half hour before I finally find the energy to get up. Five AM alarms are so not conducive to the college lifestyle.

I lug myself to my bedroom and check my e-mail. There’s one from Jenny: she’s stuck in a two-person dorm room with two roommates because stupid U of M accepted too many students. They didn’t think so many would actually enroll, but when private college tuition is more than the price of a house, state schools quickly go from fallback option to only option. Jenny’s actual classes don’t start until next week, so she has an entire week of orientation activities—trust exercises where you have to fall backwards into another person and hope they catch you, and other crap like that. I feel bad for her, I really do. Apparently the dorm room is so cramped you have to climb the furniture to navigate it, and college freshman boys are just as immature as high-school boys, only now you have to spend twenty-four hours a day with them instead of eight.

So I feel for her, a little…but to tell the truth, most of my energy is taken up with feeling sorry for myself. No, I don’t have to deal with roommates, but I’m still stuck here with the same home and family and job and if I don’t get out, how am I going to become something more? Something better?

Though it’s still early, I turn off the computer without replying to Jenny and curl up in a tight little ball under my old quilt. I’m not a crier, but right now, I wish I were, because there’s nothing I want to do more than cry myself to dreamless sleep.

     About the Author     

Stephanie Parent is a graduate of the Master of Professional Writing program at USC and attended the Baltimore School for the Arts as a piano major. She moved to Los Angeles because of Francesca Lia Block's WEETZIE BAT books, which might give you some idea of how much books mean to her. She also loves dogs, books about dogs, and sugary coffee drinks both hot and cold.

  Stephanie Around the Web:   Blog  |  Goodreads  |  Twitter  


--
With love,
Margaret

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Excerpt: Betwixt by Melissa Pearl

Title: Betwixt
Author: Melissa Pearl
Genre: YA (Ghosts, Paranormal Romance)

Synopsis. Beautiful, wild-child Nicole Tepper is hit by a car and left for dead. But when she wakes the next morning, Nicole finds herself in bed without a scratch. Perhaps she was more intoxicated than usual, as her mother is giving her the silent treatment and her friends are ignoring her as well.

Things take a turn for the weird when Nicole soon discovers she is actually hovering between life and death. Her body is lying in the forest while her spirit is searching for anyone who can hear her. Unfortunately the only person who can is Dale Finnigan, the guy she publicly humiliated with a sharp-tongued insult that has left him branded.

Desperate, Nicole has no choice but to haunt Dale and convince the freaked-out senior to help her. Will he find her body before it's too late? Or will the guy who tried to kill her with his car, beat him there and finish her off before anyone finds out?

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Excerpt: Chapter 1

My boots make a sharp tapping sound as I clomp my way home. The loose gravel at the edge of the road jumps away from my anger, skirting ahead of me then tumbling down the steep embankment.

I can't believe I'm in this situation. How could my boyfriend be such a jerk? I cross my arms and shiver, trying to block the last thirty minutes from my mind. What will people think? I blink away tears as I imagine the gossip tree shaking with mirth. How am I going to face everyone tomorrow?

I should have just given in and done what he wanted me to. I have before.

I look up at the night sky. It is clear and cold, the stars are brilliant with no streetlights to hinder their glow. I'm guessing it's around midnight. I can't see my watch face in this dim light. I can barely see two steps in front of me.

A cool wind whistles through my clothing and I wish, yet again, that I hadn't chosen to wear a sleeveless shirt with a plunging V-neck that left nothing to the imagination. Maybe Trent was right. I had dressed for it.

I look down at my knee-high boots and skinny jeans so tight they'd have to be peeled off. I suddenly feel like a hooker. My lower lip wobbles. I can feel the melt down setting in. I struggle to hold it together.

I'm stuck in the middle of who knows where. I have no idea how long it's going to take me to walk home... I don't even know which direction home is.

Trent said it would be romantic, the best vista point he'd ever found, but it wasn't a scenic overlook. It was just a clearing of darkness where mischief could never be discovered.

Bile swirls in my stomach.

The metal dog tags clink against my sternum. I can feel them swinging back and forth in time with my march. I grab them through my clothing and squeeze. I'm tempted to take them off and hurl them into the trees beside me, but I can't. I blame them though... well not them exactly, but the person who gave them to me.

Why had I put them on? They had been hidden in my jewelry box for months. My fingers had brushed over them as I was searching for my hoop earrings and I'd been compelled to slip them over my head and stuff them beneath my shirt. If I hadn't put them on, I wouldn't have thought of him and if he hadn’t been swimming around in the back of my brain, I wouldn't be in this situation.

Dale Finnigan.

Dale Finnigan and his "you should know better look" had a lot to answer for tonight. I hitch my bag higher onto my shoulder. My march is getting faster and the need to be out of here burns. I start the long descent down the winding road, my mind playing tricks with me.

Maybe you should call, Dale.

I grimace.

You know he'd come and collect you.

"No he wouldn't," I say to the air. "He hates me."

I frown.

Scarface.

The word sends a shudder through my system and I slam the door on my brain. It can just shut up right now.

I won't be calling Dale.

I reach into my bag and fish around for my phone. I stop in my tracks to have a better look, but with no light, the endeavor is hopeless. It looks like I won't be calling anyone. I grit my teeth and keep walking, picking up my pace as I round the corner. The wind whistles through my clothing again and I shiver. I should stop and put my jacket on, but I don't want to. If I just keep walking I won't have to stop and really analyze the crap I'm in.

My brain doesn't play fair and I analyze it anyway.

It's Tuesday night. Most normal sixteen year olds would be home in their beds having done their homework, watched a little TV, and said goodnight to their parents, but not me, right? I always have to do things differently.

I can feel my mouth pinching into a tight line as the simplicity and bliss of that kind of life feels a million miles away.

I shake my head.

"What am I talking about? My life rocks." I say the last word way too loud as I continue to convince myself. "I have just been at study group."

I laugh. Why did we even call it that? We never studied. It was basically Tuesday night party time. Matt's parents were out of town, so we had blasted the music and stood down by the lake goofing around and laughing until our bellies ached.

I grin as I picture the scene in my head - friends surrounding me, Trent's arm around my shoulders making me feel safe.

I wish his arms were around me now.

I cringe.

The second part of the night had not been so great.

I wrap my arms around myself and squeeze, trying to eradicate the memories, the look of annoyance scouring his perfect features, the harsh words of disgust and the sound of gravel spray as he drove away from me.

Stupid jerk!

Who needs him?

I ignore the "you do" in the back of my mind and sniff. Lifting my head, I pick up my pace again as I enter a dark patch of road. The trees loom overhead and I try really hard not to think of ghosts and demons as my breath quickens.

The distant sound of an engine distracts me. The faint glow of headlights appear behind me and I smile. Trent feels guilty. Yes! Man, was I going to give him hell for this.

I glance behind me and disappointment sears my insides. The headlights are sitting way too low on the car to be Trent's. He drives a Jeep Cherokee, this car looks more like a sedan? Or maybe a sports car?

I toy with the idea of sticking out my thumb as it draws near. I'm sure it would be safe enough. I'd just ask for a lift to Big Bear Village then walk from there. No big deal. Maybe I could even ask for a ride to L.A.. The idea of running away skirts through my brain as I squeeze my thumb inside my fist.

It fights to break free, but I won't let it. I even start filling my mind with every hitch hiking horror story I can think of. That works like a charm and my thumb relaxes into submission.

The car is cruising down the hill towards me when a sudden fear rips up my spine. I can see it swerving out of the corner of my eye and turn to watch its erratic movements. I move to the very edge of the road, my boots pushing piles of dirt and stone off the edge of the embankment. My legs hit the guardrail. With eyes the size of dinner plates I watch the car swerve. Hasn't it seen me? Doesn't it know I'm vulnerable on the side of the road here?

I turn to make an escape, but it's too late.

The headlights illuminate my body for a second, before the car violently swerves away, but not before clipping me. Pain sears through my body and I scream as I'm thrown over the guardrail.

It's like being in a tumble drier as I roll down the hill, scratching myself on pinecones and nature's debris. My descent comes to an abrupt end as I crash into a tree trunk. A loud crack rings like a gun shot inside my head, rattling my brain. I roll away from the tree with a groan and reach for my temple then scream as pain radiates up my arm. My stomach jerks and I feel its contents shifting north. I cover my mouth, but it's pointless.

Out of breath, I try to shift away from my puke, but moving hurts too much. I lay back on the bumpy earth and look up at the sky. The stars are fuzzy and shifting wildly. I blink to bring them into focus, but that just makes it worse. I feel as though the world is falling on top of me. As the stars and treetops come crashing down I hear a young girl scream my name.

"NICKY!"

     About the Author     

Melissa Pearl was born in Auckland, New Zealand, but has spent much of her life abroad, living in countries such as Jordan, Cyprus and Pakistan... not to mention a nine month road trip around North America with her husband. "Best. Year. Ever!!" She now lives in China with her husband and two sons. She is a trained elementary teacher, but writing is her passion. Since becoming a full time mother she has had the opportunity to pursue this dream and her debut novel hit the internet in November, 2011. Since then she has produced three more books with her fifth novel, Betwixt, due out in November 2012. "I am passionate about writing. It stirs a fire in my soul that I never knew I had. I want to be the best writer I can possibly be and transport my readers into another world where they can laugh, cry and fall in love."

Melissa Around the Web:   Website | Goodreads  |  Facebook  | Twitter


--
With love,
Margaret

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Book Excerpt and Cover Reveal: Astarte's Wrath by Trisha Wolfe

Title: Astarte's Wrath
Series: Book #0.5 of Kythan Guardians
Author: Trisha Wolfe
Genre: YA (Steampunk, Paranormal & Romance)

Synopsis. A tragic love story.

Two thousand years before Dez Harkly developed her secret powers, Guardian Astarte was vowed to protect by the binds enslaving her to the Egyptian pharaohs. Discover the prophecy that originated from a very different time, and spans generations to link two very different girls.

This is the beginning.

Set against the backdrop of the Battle of Actium, in the city of Alexandria, Star struggles with her guardian duties as her feelings for the newly named pharaoh of Egypt grow deeper. Not only is Caesarian her duty, he’s the son of Cleopatra, and he’s human. All of which makes their love forbidden.

But when a conspiracy linked to Caesar creeps its way into Alexandria, Star must choose between helping her fellow Kythan free themselves of their servitude, and protecting her charge—the last pharaoh—while Egypt burns around her.

 View on  Goodreads

Excerpt

Habi raises his curved blade catching the firelight. “Defend Egypt!” he roars.

The Shythe break formation and run full force up the dune.

Once I reach the top, my feet stop. I’m planted in place like a wilting lotus as my eyes take in the battle below. Brown-plumed helmets merge together in a sea of amber sand. The armor of the Roman soldiers flash gold and red, the Narcos’ Flame glinting off it like violent sun flares. Spears ignite mid-throw. Smoke billows up from scorched bodies strewn across the desert.

“Move!”Habi yells near my ear.

He slaps my shoulder, his hand already ablaze with radiant blue. Charge zaps my skin, and I’m spurred into motion by the shock. My knees unlock their hold. I follow Habi down the dune, the balls of my feet digging into the loose sand.

The clash of armor hitting armor rings out.

Before I reach for my weapon, I call forth my Charge, shifting into Kythan form. My arms illume blue spreading from the tips of my fingers to my elbows. I feel my ears point, sliding through the loose wisps of my hair. My skin tingles with the shift.

A cry rips from my mouth as I lock gazes with a Roman. I bare my teeth at him, my lips curled back around my sharp canines. He’s on the cusp of the battle, and wavers hesitantly before raising his sword to meet mine. A sneer mars his olive-toned face. I raise my shield and plow into him. He’s knocked off balance, but rights himself quickly. He drives the point of his blade into my shield, and I’m thrust backward. “Just wait, slave”, he bites out, swiping his sword toward my face.

A low, shrill whistle as it cleaves the air. I know some Latin, but he says this to me in Greek as it’s the common language in Alexandria. He grunts and lunges. “Jove’s reckoning is coming.”

I block his attack with my shield, then send a bolt of Charge into his weapon. It careens with his mid-flight, a flash of white-blue crackling energy. He trembles, shocked into silence. I swipe his leg. He falls back, my sword already coming down on his head, but a blast of sand stings my eyes. I stumble and my sword stabs the ground instead. He rolls and comes up with his hands blocking the rising winds.

“Fall back!” another Roman orders.

My foe picks up his sword and follows the retreating Romans. Before I can question whether it was our forces that intimidated them, the swell coming off the red land intensifies, lifting strands of my hair. The sand attacks my skin, biting.

Hunkering low, I bring up my shield to guard against the whirlwind of sand. It pelts the metal like hail. I peek above the scooped top and see the other Kythan doing the same. Where in the heavens did a sandstorm come from this time of year?

A crack of thunder splinters the air in answer.

Beyond the haze of swirling sand, shadowed figures emerge.

Their eyes and arms are lit up blinding white. Draped in black flowing linen, their pale skin stands out, striking, like pearls rising out of the Nile.

     About the Author     

I’m the author of the YA Steampunk/Paranormal DESTINY'S FIRE (Omnific Publishing) and the upcoming YA Sci-Fi / Utopian FIREBLOOD from Spencer Hill Press, October 2013. My published short stories have appeared in YA literary journals, Fantasy magazines, and anthologies. I’ve written five books in the past three years, and I’m currently working on a new YA Sci-Fi / Dark Fantasy project. I’m the creator of YA Bound, a promotional blog for the Young Adult genre. Also a proud member of YALITCHAT.ORG, SCWW, and The Apocalypsies. And I’m also a business owner, partnered with my partner, my husband. When I’m not busy doing all of the above, I’m a wife and the mother of a gorgeous teen boy who's the sounding board for my male characters.

Trisha Around the Web:    Website  |  Goodreads  |  Facebook  |  Twitter


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With love,
Margaret

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Book Excerpt: Project ELE by Rebecca Gober and Courtney Nuckels

Title: Project ELE
Series: Book #1 of Project ELE
Author: Rebecca Gober & Courtney Nuckels
Genre: YA (Science Fiction, Dystopian, Romance)

Synopsis. Millions have already died, and thousands more are perishing daily. As a last ditch effort to preserve the human race, the government implements Project ELE. With the earth heating at rapid speeds, all remaining survivors are forced to turn to F.E.M.A. shelters to wait out ELE's wrath.

Fifteen-year-old Willow Mosby's life, as she knows it, ends the moment she walks through the shelter's door. Willow has to quickly adapt to the new challenges that shelter life demands, the least of which includes making new friends and working a full time job.

Soon after making an interesting discovery, Willow and her friends start exhibiting strange abilities. Seeking answers, they embark on a mission to find out what these new abilities mean and whether they are a gift or a curse.

This new adventure can send her world crashing down around her. The question is: Can Willow survive the fall?

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Excerpt from First Chapter

Waiting in line totally bites! What's worse than waiting in line? Waiting in line, outside in the stifling heat with escalating temperatures. The only relief being a hand held battery operated fan and a portable misting machine that ran through our daily ration of water in less than two hours.

Beads of sweat drip down my face, causing my eyes to sting. My dad faces his fan so it hits the back of my neck. He always looks composed and collected, but even he isn't immune to this sweltering weather. His salt and pepper hair is plastered to his head with sweat and his usually vibrant green eyes show telltale signs of heat exhaustion.

"They could have at least left the patches up until we had a chance to apply for entry. Maybe then the heat wouldn't be this stifling." Our neighbor in line, Mr. Leroy mumbles. The patches that cover the holes in the ozone layer is all everyone talks about lately. They are the only thing that keeps us all from burning to a crisp. Mr. Leroy is an elderly man with leathery skin, shiny grey hair and beady brown eyes. He walks around all day in only a pair of plaid boxers and a ‘wife beater’ undershirt. Some of the older women scoff at his choice of attire. It doesn’t faze him though; he says that dying of heat stroke while waiting in line to see if you pass inspection would defeat the purpose entirely. While I may agree with Mr. Leroy on that part, I have to say that honestly, he gives me the heebie-jeebies. He wears a nasty frown twenty-four seven and always reeks of stinky old man sweat. My mom assures us that he's just a cranky old geezer with a thousand conspiracy theories and that he has nothing better to do other than share them with us.

"You know Lee, they are doing the best they can. The virus is spreading at rapid speeds and they have no choice but to begin the heating process to stop it." My dad says this, not bothering to remove the annoyance from his voice.

"Is that why they let all of the rich ones in first?" Mr. Leroy asks with a cynical expression. "They've been in there for two weeks already and the rest of us 'lower class' just now got invited to the party."

I catch my dad rolling his eyes behind Mr. Leroy's back. It makes me grin, especially since he always gets onto me when I do it. My parents are none to happy to have Mr. Leroy behind us in line. Up until Mr. Leroy opened his mouth, my parents had done their best to shelter us from the impending doom that we were all facing. Mr. Leroy on the other hand, couldn't care less that we are 'merely' children as my mom would put it. He voices his distaste for this whole situation, which he deems completely the government’s fault, whenever he so feels like it. With him running his mouth non-stop, my parents had no choice but to tell me most everything. My four year old little brother, Sebastian, is too young to understand. At fifteen, I truly feel I can handle the truth. Well, at least I think I can. To be totally upfront, I'm scared to death, but I'm dealing with it the only way I know how: Pretend, I could care less. It's a hard facade to pull off though.

We've had a rather closed off life for the past few years, as have many children. With the fear of the virus looming over everyone's heads our parents had kept us inside our home for the most part. We had stopped going to a formal school by the time I was ten. Now we are home schooled online. Of course I never truly understood why we were forced to stay inside our small home all of the time.

Millions have already died, with thousands more dying daily. The government was forced to implement Project ELE. Don't ask me who ELE is because I have no idea. I asked my dad once who she was, his expression went dark as he replied, "All you need to know is that you don't want to meet her." I didn't ask him again after that. After all, if ELE scares my dad, I'm sure she would terrify me.

     About the Authors     

Rebecca Gober and Courtney Nuckels are down home country girls powered by chocolate and other random late night cravings. Coined in southern twang, they bring new meaning to the word y'all. BFI's since the 6th grade, with a knack for getting into sticky situations, has resulted in countless ideas to write about for years to come. Rebecca and Courtney co-authored their first book, a young adult paranormal romance: Night Marchers in October 2011. They released their second book in The Night Marchers Series: Redemption, in February 2012. Since then they have gone on to write a new young adult apocalyptic series called The ELE Series. Currently there are three books published in The ELE Series: Project ELE, Finding ELE and Exposing ELE. They will be releasing the fourth book in the series, Surviving ELE, in February 2013. When not writing, Rebecca and Courtney spend time in their Texas homes with their families and their oversized dogs who still think they are puppies.

Around the Web: Blog | Night Marchers Facebook fan page | ELE Series Facebook fan page | Rebecca's Goodreads | Courtney's Goodreads | Rebecca's Twitter | Courtney's Twitter | ELE Series Website | Night Marcher's Website | Book Trailer | Amazon | Nook


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With love,
Margaret

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Book Excerpt: Bait by K.C. Blake

Title: Bait
Series: Order of the Spirit Realm
Author: K.C. Blake
Genre: YA (Paranormal Romance)

Synopsis. There are monsters in the closet.

Children everywhere refuse to go to sleep until their rooms are checked. Parents roll their eyes. Most closets are empty. At sixteen, Bay-Lee is in for a surprise. She has a late night visitor. A reaper gives her a grim warning. It kills you on your birthday.

Now, with a mystery to solve and a mentor who hates the sight of her, she is invited into Van Helsing’s school for hunters. Her plan for vengeance is set into motion. Step one: train hard to become a great hunter. Step two: kill the werewolf pack that murdered her mom. Step three: buy a boat and sail around the world for the rest of her life because there are no monsters at sea.

The only thing that can destroy her plan at this point is falling in love. No problem. Bay-Lee has her mind firmly focused on revenge. Then she meets unbelievably hot Nick Gallos, a tormented hunter with a dark past and a bleak future. She’ll have to make a choice. She can either have love or revenge. Will she make the right choice?

Chapter 1: Monster in the Closet

At some point during the night a stranger crawled into Bay-Lee’s bed while she snored softly, unaware. The mattress springs squeaked. He reclined on his side and stared down at her face in the moonlight. It bothered him that she continued to sleep. After all the stories he’d heard about this girl, he expected more from her. Shouldn’t she be able to sense danger?

This was Van Helsing’s daughter? She looked insignificant, vulnerable beneath the green sheet. He could snap her neck so easily—and maybe he should. The world would continue on, undisturbed, but the dark cloud hanging over his head would finally dissipate.

A fraction of moonlight filtered through partially open curtains. The lack of light didn’t matter. Although he couldn’t see her clearly now, he’d seen pictures of the girl in Van’s office. Her features were burned into his retinas. Every time he went into the office he tried not to look at the photographs, but his gaze inadvertently drifted to them. He tried to tell himself it was done out of curiosity, that it was because she was Van Helsing’s daughter, but there was more to it.

There was something about her, something unsettling which inevitably pulled him back to stare at her reproduced image. She looked like an average girl. A pretty face framed by dark hair that nearly reached her waist, parted in the middle and layered. Of Brazilian descent, her eyes were the darkest of browns, nearly black. They hid a mountain of secrets. The girl had attitude to spare and the camera caught it, recording it for future historians. (If the prophecies were correct, they would want to study her.) She had a ‘bite me’ expression that must drive vampires crazy.

Fortunately, he was not a vampire.

Her mouth bothered him the most. Full lips haunted his dreams with a secretive smile curving the ends. Her bottom lip begged to be nibbled on. Sometimes, when he wasn’t carefully controlling his thoughts, he wondered what she would taste like. In his dreams he kissed her without ceasing. He wondered what would happen if he kissed her in real life.

Would it stir something deep in his soul? Would the prophecy come true? Would the world end?

Something hard lodged in his throat. He tried to swallow. It was a near miss, so he swallowed again. Kissing her shouldn’t even be a blip on the radar. This girl was the reason he didn’t have a home or a family. It was her fault he’d grown up on the outside looking in, her fault people whispered behind his back, and her fault he was destined to die young. Bay-Lee stirred in her sleep. Mumbling, she pushed against his chest with one hand. “Go ‘way.”

Cute, like a box of kittens. For a second he forgot to hate her. His heart momentarily softened—not for long. The new sensation was enough to wipe the smile from his face. Delivering a mental kick to his brain, he reminded himself this girl was the last person in the world he could let his guard down around. She was worse than trouble. If he wasn’t careful, this seemingly harmless meeting would lead to his total destruction.

Ready to wake her, he leaned in close to her face and whispered her (fake) name. Like him, she was forced to live under an alias. Michelle. ***** The knowledge she was no longer alone in bed should have scared the crap out of Bay-Lee and normally it would have, but she was still floating on the fragments of a blissful dream. The soft caress of a lover’s hands surfaced with her consciousness. She’d been dreaming about being in love, the kind of love that inspired people to die for each other, the Romeo and Juliet sort of love. Nothing else seemed real to her.

An odd smell pierced the veil of sleep. She wrinkled her nose. Jack Daniels?

The next thing to grab her attention was the feel of a hard body crowding her on the narrow mattress.

Warm breath lightly blew a trail down her face from forehead to mouth like the soft wings of a butterfly brushing against her skin. Fingers slid up one arm to curve around her shoulder. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she smiled. Fantasy wove a complicated tapestry with reality.

The dark-haired boy’s gaze settled on her lips. She could practically read his mind. He wanted to kiss her until neither of them could breathe. Still living on the leftover residue of an imagined love, she was going to allow it. A tingling sense of anticipation had her nearly breathless already.

She closed her eyes again, ready for it.

She waited.

The bed creaked as he leaned in to give her what she desired most. His hot breath teased her lips. The smell of whiskey intoxicated her. She clenched her hands into tight fists, grabbing and holding bunched up bedding, and silently willed him to hurry before she came to her senses. Outside of this moment nothing existed, not school, not her boyfriend, not the troubling circumstances that forced her to constantly move from state to state, nothing.

When her lips remained cool and untouched, she opened her eyes to find the boy staring down at her with pure contempt. A menacing light emanated from his eyes. A soft growl parted his lips, reminding her of a werewolf. Her blood ran cold and she froze. Her mind raced, desperately searching for truth. Could he be a werewolf?

“You ruined my life,” he whispered in a semi-harsh tone, accusing.

Wide awake now, facts hit her like an avalanche. A stranger was in her bed, her gun was in the dresser, and he was big enough to overpower her. Feeling vulnerable made her sick to her stomach. It also filled her with unquenchable anger. How dare this stupid boy invade her bedroom, her bed, and threaten her.

Speaking in a firm tone without the slightest quiver, she asked, “How did you get in here?” He rolled off the bed, no hurry, while she pulled the sheet higher to hide the bunny pajamas. They were ridiculous, sky blue with fluffy scampering white rabbits. Knowing her hair was a mess, she automatically reached up to fix it. At the last second she stayed her hand. Why should she care if he thought she was pretty? She frowned. “Did Connor let you in?”

Her uncle wasn’t known for having the greatest judgment in the world.

The intruder grinned and took a few steps back until beams of moonlight exposed his left half. Tall and muscular, the guy was built better than any of the boys she went to school with. If she had to guess, she would say he was between eighteen and twenty-two. Utterly masculine, he also had a lot of features girls would be envious of like long lashes, thick hair, and beautiful eyes. They were the most amazing shade of green, like a place deep in the forest after a violent thunderstorm.

He grinned. “I thought it was every teen girl’s secret fantasy to have me in her bedroom. Was I wrong?”

It was then she recognized him: Tyler Beck, lead singer for the notorious band Bad-Rock. There was a rock star in her bedroom. Gulp! For a moment she forgot to breathe. How was it even possible? Why would a rock star come to her bedroom in the middle of the night? Was she on a reality prank show?

He picked up her CD collection from the edge of the white wicker dresser and carelessly flicked through them, lips twisted in disgust. A few of the CDs wound up on the floor.

She blinked. “I must still be asleep. Am I... dreaming?”

“No.” The grin changed to a smirk. “I break into the homes of random girls all the time... just to talk. Being a rock star doesn’t keep me busy enough.” He raised an eyebrow and held up a CD. “Seriously? I wouldn’t listen to this if someone had a gun to my head. Your taste in music sucks.”

Although the CDs in his hands were a mixture of Country and Jazz, she loved Classic Rock like her dad. The CDs didn’t belong to her. Nothing in the room did with the exception of a few sentimental items she carried with her from place to place. She wasn’t going to explain her life to him. If she wanted to bare her soul, she’d go to a therapist. Knowing it was a dream didn’t make her feel any better about him going through what he thought were her personal belongings.

“Why did you kill those people?” she asked, turning the tables on him as she intruded into his private life. An image of dead bodies on a night club floor surfaced in her mind. It took effort not to shudder. “What did they ever do to you?”

He laughed, throaty and deep. It was a sexy laugh that dried the inside of her mouth. She clenched her teeth. What was wrong with her? She hadn’t felt this way about a guy before. Why now? Why this murderer?

“Nothing,” he replied. Then he pointed a finger at her. “You, on the other hand, ruined my life.” “Stop saying that. I don’t even know you. Before you killed all those people I didn’t even know we were on the same planet.” “Ouch.” A wry smile curved his mouth. “So you aren’t one of my many adoring fans?”

Why was she arguing with a figment of her imagination?

He put her CD collection back on the edge of the dresser and reached for the tiny television set next to it, flipping it on without seeking permission. An old sit-com with a noisy family brought the square screen to life. He said, “We could watch a show to pass the time.”

“Pass the time until what?”

He shrugged wide shoulders, no comment.

In her sixteen years she hadn’t felt such an overwhelming attraction to anyone. Why now? Why Tyler Beck?

She shook her head to clear it, answering his earlier question. “No, I am not a fan. I don’t follow you online or turn the volume up when one of your dumb songs comes on the radio. I never think about you. Why are you in my head?”
“You tell me. It’s your—”
“Dream.” She cut him off. “I know. You don’t have to keep repeating yourself. I get it already.”
“Until this... dream ends, what do you want to do?”

He grinned at her. His eyebrows bounced in a comical leer, letting her know what he wanted to do without words.

Naughty thoughts tortured her. She could do whatever she wanted with him. Although she hated his music, she had to admit he was totally gorgeous. It was a dream so no one would ever know. No one would get hurt. She could kiss him, tease him, drive a dagger deep into his heart if she felt like it, anything. For once, she could just let go. The possibilities were delicious. Her tongue remained in knots. She couldn’t speak.

Tyler Beck, the hottest rock singer on the planet, the boy every girl fantasized about stared at her with hungry eyes. He planted a knee on the bed near her foot. His hand landed next to her upper thigh. The other knee and hand joined them on the bed. Slowly he crawled up her body, careful not to touch her until he was once again hovering over her mouth. In a husky whisper he repeated, “What do you want to do? Talk? Fight? Make out?”

The challenging tone sent a chill through her, a bad sort of chill. Doubts surfaced. What if this wasn’t a dream and this boy was not Tyler Beck? Maybe a monster had crossed over from the Spirit Realm to kill her. She needed to do something quick. If she died, it would be her own fault for being so stupid.

Her hand slid under the pillow behind her head to grab the ancient dagger she slept on. Gripping it hard, she prepared to attack. Something in her eyes tipped him off. Before she could bury the blade in his chest, he leaped off the bed without warning. Flying backwards, he stumbled and hit the wall near the dresser. A picture of two cats rocked sideways before falling.

“Another time then,” he mumbled before disappearing.

Bay-Lee blinked at the empty space where his body had been. A shaky laugh escaped her open mouth. She was dreaming. There wasn’t a monster out there that could vanish into thin air. Relaxed now, she collapsed on the mattress, breathing hard. Something was seriously wrong with her, having a hot dream about a psycho rock star. Maybe she should seek therapy. *****

“Rock star Tyler Beck is dead at the age of twenty,” the news anchor said, unable to keep a drop of excitement from her voice. “A nationwide manhunt for Bad-Rock’s front-man ended in tragedy earlier this evening when Beck lost control of his vehicle during a police chase. Band members could not be reached for comment. The rock star’s publicist has issued the following statement.”

Bay-Lee frowned in her sleep. Horrible images infiltrated her mind, twisted metal and a body burned beyond recognition. The frown deepened. She had fallen asleep with the television on again. It was the only logical reason for the intrusion of a loud female voice. Her hand slapped around the mattress, blindly searching for the remote in the fervent hope she wouldn’t have to open her eyes.

The news anchor read the statement.

“Tyler’s family and close friends request privacy and understanding in this difficult time as they grieve for a talented life cut too short. Although Tyler was accused of a horrendous crime earlier this week, we are confident his name will be cleared. In the meantime, we ask that...”

Giving in to the inevitable, Bay-Lee parted her eyelids in a painful squint. Light from the television nearly blinded her. Her head snapped around so she was facing the darkened side of her room. The remote was on the nightstand next to the alarm clock. Grabbing it, she switched the set off.

Cool darkness settled over her bedroom, bringing instant relief. She closed her eyes again, breathing easier. Silence gave her a much needed break as she listened to the rest of the house. There wasn’t a single sound. Nothing. Her uncle must have gone to bed.

The news anchor’s words took a second trip through her mind.

They had been talking about Tyler Beck on the late night news. That’s why she’d been dreaming about him. Mystery solved. There wasn’t anything wrong with her that couldn’t be fixed by turning off the TV before going to bed.

All week long his face had haunted her. A person couldn’t turn on a television or pick up a magazine without seeing his image. Following a Sold Out concert last Friday night he had gone to a party thrown in his honor, and he’d massacred sixteen of his biggest fans. What sort of person murdered their own fans?

According to police, there was enough evidence to convict. Tyler Beck was caught with the smoking guns still in his hands. There was also a matter of a video on the Internet that had gone viral—five million hits in one day. It was shot by a teen outside the club and clearly showed Tyler exiting the party before police surrounded him.

The rock star had been running from the law ever since.

She sighed, a hundred percent awake now. Frustrated, she kicked at the sheet and struggled to get comfortable. She punched her pillow a few times. Stupid Tyler Beck. She was sick of hearing his name, and now the jerk was apparently going to ruin a good night’s sleep with his sudden demise. It was ridiculous. Before this week she hadn’t even noticed he was alive.

Now she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

In fact, Bay-Lee went back to sleep with Tyler Beck’s face firmly planted in her mind. He starred in her dreams, a bad boy with movie star looks and a terrible reputation. *****

The temperature in her bedroom plummeted thirty degrees. She shivered and flipped onto her stomach. Dark hair caught beneath one shoulder, pulling painfully at her scalp. She winced. The sheet proved a poor barrier between her skin and the Arctic air. What was going on? Had the heater stopped working?

Knowledge returned. Experience helped Bay-Lee’s tired brain connect the dots. The cold was due to a supernatural occurrence. It had been a warm evening when she’d gone to bed. What could change the temperature so drastically? She bolted upright.

At the same time she reached behind her, sliding her fingers beneath the pillow, and grasping the hilt of the ancient dagger, a rumbling sound came from the closet. The dagger was a gift from Van for her sixteenth birthday. The raised design pinched the tender flesh of her palm, but she barely felt it. Her fingers tightened. Simply having it in her hand had the power to calm her.

The urge to call for her uncle drove her lips open. She gathered a breath. White light seeped through the cracks around her closet door, outlining the tall rectangular plank. She had a visitor. It was too late to yell for Uncle Connor. The monster from the Spirit Realm would hear her.

Bay-Lee swallowed as she tried to remember every lesson Van had taught her about self-defense over the years. She purposely slowed her breathing. It would be better if she had the advantage. With that in mind she went down on the mattress and closed her eyes. Let the thing think it had caught her asleep and unaware. She held the dagger against her chest beneath the sheet and waited. Nothing was going to kill her, not in her own bedroom, not tonight.

The light died, her closet door opened, and a shadowy figure swept into her bedroom. A floorboard creaked beneath the unexpected weight. Her entire body stiffened beneath the sheet, knowing the thing was there to kill her.

With her eyes closed she couldn’t see the monster coming towards her, so she strained her ears to pick up on the slightest noise. Instead of footsteps, a disturbing dragging sound rested on the air. Her hand tightened around the dagger. The monster swished closer. It was almost to the head of the bed now. She held her breath. A plan of attack played like a silent movie in the back of her mind. She knew what to do.

The monster bent over her. Its breath stank of smoking ashes and decaying flesh. Bony fingers reached for her.

Now! She rolled in the opposite direction, leaped off the bed, and pointed the dagger at the intruder. Draped in a black cloak with tattered edges and a hood pulled down to conceal its face, the thing was obviously a Reaper. Although she’d read about Reapers in one of Van’s books, she’d never seen one in person.

Reapers could see better in the dark than a cat. She felt vulnerable in the silly bunny pajamas. There was a fuzzy robe hanging on the inside of her closet door. If she could have a single wish granted, she would want to be in that robe. But there was no point in asking the Reaper to allow her to get it. The Reaper wouldn’t give her time to put it on. They weren’t known for their patience.

She swallowed hard before reaching down deep to find her voice. “Are you here to reap me? Am I dying?”

The thing spoke to her in a voice that sounded like gravel in a blender, a mere whisper in an otherwise silent night. “I have not come to harm you.”

“Then why?” Everything she knew about reapers flitted through her mind, nothing useful. They collected souls and crossed them safely over the dark plains of the Spirit Realm. It was their only job, priority one. If the thing wasn’t in her room to collect her, then... “What do you want?”

The monster’s eyes began to burn, yellow at first and then red. That was the only part of its face she could make out in the smothering darkness. It spoke slowly, enunciating every word with excruciating detail, and it hissed on the letter S, reminding her of a snake. “I can s-see into your s-soul. Do not fear. Your s-secrets are s-safe with me.”

What the hell? Her own voice quivered. “You have thirty seconds to tell me why you’re here before I cut your tongue out.”

“We both know that isn’t possible.” To prove its point, it remained silent for an uncomfortable length of time. By the time it spoke again she was ready to scream for backup. “You do not know who you are or the importance you will play in the s-scheme of things. Your s-soul is a mess of contradictions. Every time you move to another location, they give you a new part to play. S-sometimes you s-stand in front of the mirror and s-stare into your own eyes as you s-search for your true s-self.”

The dagger in her hand trembled. Quickly she took control of her body and stopped the involuntary movement. How could this thing possibly know what she did or how she felt? Had it been spying on her?

The idea that this thing knew her deepest most private thoughts made her sick to her stomach. Wrapping herself in an air of false bravado, she said, “For the last time, tell me why you’re here. Then get out of my house or I will find a way to tear your face off.”

Did reapers have faces?

“S-soon you will know who you are, who you truly are. All of your questions will be answered. You will find your other half, your destiny.” It paused before adding, “They are keeping s-secrets from you?”

“Who?”

“Your uncle and... your father. They want to keep you from your destiny, child. Open your eyes. S-see the truth.”

Things from the other side lied more often than not. She wasn’t prepared to believe it and yet she had to ask, “If they’re keeping secrets from me and you know what they are, tell me.”

The monster shook its head beneath the cloak. “I am bound by rules, child. I can only give you a hint.”

She waited, saying nothing.
“Follow your heart. Love what you want to love. Be who you want to be.”
“That’s it? I could find that in a fortune cookie.” Clenching her teeth, she said, “Get out.”
The thing remained statue still. Then he said, “There is more.”
Her frustration grew. If it was possible to kill a reaper, the thing would be dead on her floor. “What?”
“Why must I tell you everything? You must s-sense it. S-something is coming. S-something bad.”
“Something worse than you?”
It chuckled. “Beware. It kills—.”
“Newsflash, buddy. Everything from your side kills. That’s what I’m here for, to stop them.”
“It kills you on your birthday.”
“That’s depressing.” She wondered if monsters understood sarcasm. Her eyes narrowed on the creature. “Why bother to warn me? I know The Order wants me dead.”
“S-soon, yes. But not yet.”
“Why not?” They’d been on her trail for years. Why would they suddenly send her a warning? Could monsters lose their minds?

It didn’t bother to answer her question. The monster disappeared into the closet before she could swallow. A light flashed around the edges of the door. Darkness once again stole over her bedroom. It was gone.

Her flesh itched to chase the monster down and torture answers out of it. Problem was she couldn’t remember if Reapers felt pain. Following it would be stupid. Getting caught on the other side without an arsenal would be doubly stupid. She turned for bed. Her gaze swung back to the closet door. She didn’t want another visitor. The next one might kill her instead of handing her a useless warning.

Bay-Lee got on the other side of her dresser. She pushed, scooting it across the floor until it blocked the closed door. Let something try to enter her room now. On her way back to bed her gaze found the cat picture on the floor. The breath caught in her throat. If she’d been dreaming before, how had the picture gotten knocked off the wall?

She’d had two visitors tonight.

What was going on over there in the Spirit Realm? Had someone opened a doorway between there and her bedroom? Had they put a sign out front saying This way to Van Helsing’s daughter?

Adrenaline pumped through her veins. The encounter with the two monsters had her body burning extra hot. Too bad she hadn’t been able to fight one of them. A good fight might have helped calm her. Now she was too wound up to return to bed. Maybe she would listen to some music or read a book. It took hours for her body to relax enough to sleep.

     About the Author     

Born and raised in California, I fell in love with writing while reading The Outsiders. Then I fell in love with Stephen King's writing style. I enjoy reading many types of books, but YA Paranormal is my favorite. I used to write for Harlequin under a different name. So that's my background. Exciting, no?

K.C. Around the Web:    Website  |  Goodreads  |  Twitter 


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With love,
Margaret

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Excerpt: reEMERGENT by A.M. Hargrove

Title: reEMERGENT
Series: Book #4 of Guardians of Vesturon
Author: A.M. Hargrove
Genre: YA (Science Fction/Fantasy, Romance)

Synopsis from Book 1: Survival. "Maybe I was caught between the two worlds. I was having serious trouble distinguishing fantasy from reality."

While on a backpacking trip in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park, nineteen-year-old Maddie Pearce finds her world has been thrown into a vortex and is madly spinning toward the impossible. Abducted by a mad psychopath, Maddie narrowly escapes with her life. But that is only the beginning. Her mysterious rescuer introduces her to a world that Maddie has difficulty accepting as reality. Will this strikingly gorgeous stranger be the key to her future or will she return to her mundane world, scarred from her experience? Follow Maddie as she is forced to make difficult decisions that carry her to mysterious places.

 View the series on  Goodreads

Excerpt

PROLOGUE THE PLANET EARTH THE FEMALE TRUDGED THROUGH THE STREETS OF ATLANTA, POST-PANDEMIC ATLANTA, NOT FOCUSING ON ANYTHING BUT THE BACK OF THE INDIVIDUAL IN FRONT OF HER. HER BLACK HAIR WAS FILTHY AND MATTED, HER FINGERNAILS RAGGED AND TORN WITH DIRT CAKED BENEATH THEM. THE SOOTY STREAKS COVERED HER SKIN, BUT IF ONE TOOK THE TIME TO LOOK CLOSELY, THEY WOULD HAVE NOTICED THAT AT ONE TIME SHE HAD BEEN QUITE BEAUTIFUL. THE VACANT LOOK IN HER EYES HID ANY KIND OF RECOGNITION, ANY KIND OF TRIGGERED MEMORY THAT MIGHT EXIST, BURIED DEEP WITHIN HER MIND. “HALT!” THE COMMANDER YELLED. THE LINE OF WORKERS CAME TO A STOP AS THEY WAITED FOR THEIR NEXT ORDERS. “THIS IS WHERE WE STOP FOR THE NIGHT.”

THEY WERE IN FRONT OF A LARGE EMPTY WAREHOUSE IN WHICH THE WINDOWS HAD BEEN BROKEN AND THE DOORS TORN AWAY. THE STREETS HAD BEEN ABANDONED MONTHS AGO, WHEN THE HEMORRHAGIC SMALLPOX DISEASE HAD SWEPT THROUGH THE CITY, AND THEN THE COUNTRY AND FINALLY THE WORLD, LEAVING MILLIONS OF PEOPLE DEAD IN ITS WAKE. THAT’S WHEN THEY CAME...THE XANTHIANS. THEY CAME TO TAKEOVER EARTH AND MAKE IT THEIR OWN. SHE WAS PART OF THEIR SCHEME, ONLY SHE DIDN’T REMEMBER THAT. SHE SCARCELY KNEW ANYTHING ANYMORE. HER MIND WAS NOW CONTROLLED BY THEM...BY THE NANOCHIP THEY HAD IMPLANTED INTO HER CEREBRAL CORTEX. IT HAD TAKEN OVER HER BRAIN AND TURNED HER INTO A MINION. SHE NOW BELONGED TO THEM, DOING EXACTLY AS THEY TOLD HER, WITHOUT A THOUGHT OF HER OWN.

     About the Author     

One day, on her way home from work as a sales manager, A. M. Hargrove, realized her life was on fast forward and if she didn't do something soon, it would quickly be too late to write that work of fiction she had been dreaming of her whole life. So, she rolled down the passenger window of her fabulous (not) company car and tossed out her leather briefcase. Luckily, the pedestrian in the direct line of fire was a dodgeball pro and had über quick reflexes enabling him to avoid getting bashed in the head. Feeling a tad guilty about the near miss, A. M. made a speedy turn down a deserted side street before tossing her crummy, outdated piece-of-you-know-what lap top out the window. She breathed a liberating sigh of relief, picked up her cell phone and hit #4 on her speed dial. "Hello." "Boss, is that you?" "Why yes, A. M., who else would be answering my phone?" "Er... right. Well, I'm calling to let you know you can pick up my luxury Ford Focus at Starbucks near the interstate." "Why ever would I want to do that?" "Because I quit you idiot!" A.M. hit the end button and speed dialed her husband. "Hi hubs, can you pick me up at Starbucks?" "Sure... Having some car trouble?" "Not at all. I don't have a car to have trouble with because I just quit my job." "WHAT?!" "It's time for a new career and I am going to be a very famous novelist." So began A. M. Hargrove's career as a young adult paranormal romance author of self-published ebooks. Her series, The Guardians of Vesturon, centers around a family of six siblings and is a mix of humor, mystery, suspense and of course, love. Survival is her first book in the series and her second, Resurrection will be released in January. If you're wondering, it didn't happen EXACTLY that way, but....

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**Be sure to check out the freebie list, the Prequel as well as Book 1 are listed!!**

--
With love,
Margaret

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