Fighting Silence

*Excerpt*

“I swear to fucking God,” I snarled as I stomped a pattern around Eliza’s hospital room. She had just been wheeled out, but my anger and anxiety filled the room in her absence.

“Calm. Down,” Slate said from the doorway. “It’s no big deal. I’ll get it back.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, get your shit together and remember who the hell you are talking to.”

Eliza didn’t have insurance, and she had freaked when the doctor told her that he wanted to run a CAT scan because of the trauma to her face and head. She’d flat-out refused, spouting off some crap about not going into debt by racking up a huge hospital bill she’d eventually have to pay. She’d sworn she was okay, but I’d absolutely not been anything even resembling okay.

So I’d lost it. I’d snapped at her like a fucking asshole. Then I’d shouted at the doctor for reasons that didn’t even make sense. In turn, he threatened to call security, which only pissed me off more. It was a clusterfuck in that room until Slate came in and physically pinned me against the wall. While I was trying to get my shit under control, Erica was apparently informing administration that she and Slate would be financially responsible for Eliza’s hospital visit. While I was relieved as they wheeled her out of the room, I was sick and fucking tired of feeling like a broke-ass, worthless dick all the time. As it often was, my anger was aimed in the wrong place, and Slate was the only man in the room.

“Get my shit together?” My heart pounded in my chest, and every muscle in my body strained under the mounting stress. “I’d like to see how the hell you’d react if Erica looked like that and there wasn’t a fucking thing in the world you could do to help her.”

Slate’s eyes turned dark as his jaw clenched. “It was different. But I’ve been there,” he stated matter-of-factly. “It was the worst day of my life. I wasn’t even the one who got to make the piece of shit pay either. But honestly, Till, sometimes you have to accept that it’s not the way things get done or who does them. As long as, in the end, they are done. She’s getting that CAT scan right now, and you can sleep easy tonight knowing that she’s okay. It doesn’t matter one bit who signs the check that pays for that kind of peace of mind.”

“It matters to me. You have no fucking idea how it feels to be so goddamn helpless all the time. I can’t do this anymore. I’ve only truly had her for less then twenty-four hours and I’ve already failed to fucking protecting her and provide for her. My boxing trainer had to pay for her medical bills. It’s embarrassing!”

“It’s only embarrassing if you let it be.” He shrugged and settled into the chair next to the door.

I continued to pace. I couldn’t get over the heavy weight of failure compressing my chest. “Why the fuck would she want to settle for someone like me? I failed out of high school. I work sixty-three hours a week for minimum wage so that I can barely pay the bills on a shithole apartment. For fuck’s sake, I have two brothers I want to give the world, but last week, she had to buy us groceries. Oh, and there is always that fun fact that I’m going deaf. One day, she really will have to take care of me! I can’t handle knowing that she has to settle for a future filled with struggles just to be with me. I love her. I really fucking do. But at what point do I let her go because I know she’d have a better life with someone else?” I finished my rant on a yell.

“Wow. You have a really gone off the deep end. She’s not some puppy you can find a better home for.” He stretched his legs out and crossed them at his ankles.

If possible, it managed to piss me off more. I was in emotional upheaval and he was getting comfortable.

“Just leave me alone. I can’t deal with your shit right now.”

“You want to go pro?” he asked randomly.

“What I want is for you to leave.”

“Is that a no?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Nothing has changed. I still don’t have the time. Honestly, I think I need to give up boxing altogether. Maybe try to find another job or something.”

“I’ll bankroll eight hundred a week. Quit your jobs and come work for me in the ring. It comes with health insurance for you and the boys too.”

I stared at him, awestruck. That was double what I was bringing home each week.

I’d always heard that you couldn’t judge a man’s character by the balance in his bank account. Thank fuck for that because character might be the only place I wasn’t overdrawn. And right then, Slate’s offer sounded a whole lot like pity. No matter how appealing it sounded, I wanted to make it without having to rely on anyone else. I couldn’t afford to sacrifice character.

“Why are you doing this right now? What part of that conversation confused you? I don’t want your charity.”

“It’s not charity. I’m gonna make a shit-ton of money off your ass. This isn’t a free ride. I’ll get all of your winnings until you’ve paid me back. Then anything you make over that, I get thirty-three percent. Erica’s been eyeing this condo on the beach in Florida. I’m hoping you can help me out and buy that for her.”

Outstanding. Slate wants to buy a condo on the beach and I just want to keep the electricity on.

“It has to be hard being you.” My voice dripped with sarcasm, but it only made Slate smile.

“I guess you won’t know until you try. I made every single penny I have from boxing. If you think money will solve all your problems, then put whatever preconceived notions you have about my motives aside and take my offer. But if you decide to refuse, you should know I won’t make it again.”

“Why now? Less than a month ago, you told me I wasn’t ready. Where was your offer to bankroll me then?”

“I’m not going to lie to you. You’re not ready. Not if you want to be great. But with enough time, I can get you there. You’re raw right now, and despite whatever you think, you’re driven by something greater than the almighty dollar or dreams of stardom.” He stood up and walked over to me. “To answer your question about why now, I was wrong. You’re not hungry for more in life. You’re fucking starving. I can work with that.

“Did you even listen to yourself while you were talking? Not one single thing you said was because Till Page wanted more money or a nicer car. You were concerned about Eliza and the boys…but never Till.” He poked my chest right over my heart. “I’m making an investment in you, Till. It’s no handout. I believe you’re going to set the boxing world on fire, because every time you put on those gloves, you’re doing it for them. Say yes. Accept the offer. Quit your jobs. Take a week off to take care of her. Then get your ass in my ring.”

I had no words. If I spoke, I was going to look like a sniffling little bitch. So I nodded instead.

“Good. I’m going to find Erica and get some coffee. I’ll send over the contracts and your first paycheck in the morning.” He turned and headed for the door.

I stood in the middle of an empty hospital room where my fantasy and reality had collided. Finally, I had the break I had dreamed of, but it had taken almost losing Eliza to get it. I would forever remember the way I felt in that moment. Cracking my neck and shaking out my arms, I decided I was done letting the world run over me.

Slate had just handed me my one chance to make a better life, and I was going in with gloves blazing. For the first time in my fucking life, I was climbing through the ropes.

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RELEASE DATE: February 23rd, 2015

Sound is an abstract concept for most people. We spend our lives blocking out the static in order to focus on what we believe is important. But what if, when the clarity fades into silence, it’s the obscure background noise that you would give anything to hold on to?

 I’ve always been a fighter. With parents who barely managed to stay out of jail and two little brothers who narrowly avoided foster care, I became skilled at dodging the punches life threw at me. Growing up, I didn’t have anything I could call my own, but from the moment I met Eliza Reynolds, she was always mine.  I became utterly addicted to her and the escape from reality we provided each other. Throughout the years, she had boyfriends and I had girlfriends, but there wasn’t a single night that I didn’t hear her voice.

You see, meeting the love of my life at age thirteen was never part of my plan. However, neither was gradually going deaf at the age of twenty-one.

They both happened anyway.

Now, I’m on the ropes during the toughest battles of my life.

Fighting for my career.

Fighting the impending silence.

Fighting for her.

Every night, just before falling asleep, she sighs as a final conscious breath leaves her.

 I think that’s the sound I’ll miss the most.

About the Author:

Born and raised in Savannah, Georgia, Aly Martinez is a stay-at-home mom to four crazy kids under the age of five, including a set of twins. Currently living in South Carolina, she passes what little free time she has reading anything and everything she can get her hands on, preferably with a glass of wine at her side.

After some encouragement from her friends, Aly decided to add “Author” to her ever-growing list of job titles. Five books later, she shows no signs of slowing. So grab a glass of Chardonnay, or a bottle if you’re hanging out with Aly, and join her aboard the crazy train she calls life.

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Excerpt

Money isn’t everything, of course, but it’s a lot. If you’ve never been poor, you wouldn’t understand. When you have no means, you have no choices. Even something as simple as choosing the scented Secret deodorant at the grocery store was revolutionary for me when I first started dealing. Being able to grab a snack I want at a gas station, or buy one notebook for each of my school subjects, rather than a five-subject spiral notebook that would have to work for all my classes.

You know how they say ‘it’s the little things’? It so is. Like eating cheese. Not the boring, WIC-approved kind, but the good stuff: asiago, halloumi, havarti. When you have one pair of shoes, and it rains, guess what? They start to stink, because you have to wear them the next day, and the next day, and the next. Call me petty, but I don’t like stinky shoes.

I like crackers. Do you know how expensive a box of Cheese-Its is? Plus or minus four dollars. What about jeans? I like jeans that fit my curves in all the right ways; not the cheap ones. I like painting on canvases that don’t come from the discard pile behind Michael’s. Almost all my art from high school and my freshman year is done on ripped canvas.

I don’t want to be second-rate.

I don’t want to always be reaching.

I don’t want to be a cashier, or a gas station clerk, or a mill worker.

I’m so close to all my goals, I can’t give up now. Even if I have to spend a couple weeks at Kellan Walsh’s illicit river mansion, sticking my ass into the air for him.

It’s not as if I mind that, I remind myself. Sharing my body with him can be done without too much heartache, I think, if I can only manage to remember the limitations of our arrangement.

A strand of hair falls into my eyes, and I swipe it off my face. In doing so, I get a glimpse of Kellan, striding a half foot in front of me. He’s got my backpack slung over one muscled shoulder and my overnight bag hanging from the other. I notice, as I pull ahead to walk beside him, he’s still holding the sack.

“What’s in there?” I ask. My stomach rumbles at the sight of the grease stains on the paper bag.

He looks down at his hand, as if he’s only just remembered he’s carrying it. He gives me a small, lopsided smile—a smile that feels distracted, as if he’s only peeking out at me from wherever he is inside his head. He says, “You’ll see.”

He holds his free hand out, and I stare down at his forearm. The skin on the inside of his arm is smooth and pale, softness stretched over taut, rippling muscle. He’s so beautiful and well-hewn, he reminds me of the male gymnasts I used to watch in the Olympics.

I glance up at his eyes. They’re steely and blue, the color of the ocean. He raises his brows disapprovingly, urging me with just that look to take his hand, and me being me, I fold after only a moment.

“Skittish,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“You’re skittish. Like a deer.”

With a tug of my hand, he steers me to the right, toward a wall of bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling.

I open my mouth to tell him I’m not a deer. I’m a sloth. It’s my longstanding nick name, from back in middle school, and it’s evidenced by my favorite little necklace—now tucked safely into my bookbag—but I get the feeling he’d give me grief for it. Instead I say, “I’m not skittish. I’m suspicious.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.”

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RELEASE DATE: February 25, 2015

I whirl around, because I need to go now. Need to run.

He grabs my arms, snatching me around to face him, holding me in front of him. Holding me still as he tries to tell me things I never want to hear.

“Stop it! Shut up! Shut up, Kellan! Fuck you!” He pulls me closer, and I slap his face.

The sound echoes through the foyer. His smooth, tanned check stains brilliant crimson.

He doesn’t move a muscle. Doesn’t even blink as I look at him for what I know will be the last time.

I’m sorry. His lips move silently. I don’t care. I can’t. His secrets ruined my life. He ruined my life!

If I live to be hundred, my heart will never be the same.

Note: Sloth is the first in my new Sinful Secrets series. Each intense, erotic story is inspired by a sin, and centered around a life-altering secret. Each “sin” stands on its own, so they don’t have to be read in order. After Sloth, I’m writing Murder. Between these two, I’m releasing a stand alone: a more traditional romance called The Boy Next Door.

About the Author:

Ella James is a USA Today bestselling romance author. Her books have appeared on numerous bestseller lists, including the Movers & Shakers list and the Amazon Top 25 overall; two were listed among Amazon’s Top 100 Bestselling Young Adult Ebooks in 2012. To find out more about Ella’s projects and get dates on upcoming releases, you can stalk her on the following social media sites:

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RELEASE DATE: March 3, 2015

You don’t know when…

You don’t get to choose if…

When it’s time to join…you’ll know.

You might think you want to be a member—but trust me this is one club you don’t want to join. It’s not a place where people go to live out their deepest, darkest sexual desires—there are no handcuffs or blindfolds.

The 27 Club only admits those who die young and tragically. My brother was recently bestowed membership and joined many of our ancestors before him. I know I’m next. This is my destiny, and I was ready to yield.

But then I met Nate. He awakened a sensuality in me that had never been explored, never satisfied. I knew then I could no longer accept my destiny. Nate’s presence controls me. I’m overwhelmed by his touch, his words; my every thought is consumed by desire. I believe he was brought into my life for a reason.

Nate doesn’t believe in destiny.

But I do.

And if there’s a way to cheat it—I must.

View a book trailer here:  https://vimeo.com/109601829

THE 27 CLUB

Kim Karr

New American Library

Coffee Beans Part II

Time to get down to business.

I stomp out of the bedroom and down the stairs. The TV is on and I can hear the weatherman announcing the same info the driver relayed to me. “Tropical Storm Angela seemingly having stalled out once it passed over Cuba is picking up wind speed as it makes its way toward the Florida Keys.”

The rain is still beating down, but there are no calls for evacuations so I can only assume I am fine staying here.

Determined to get this conversation over with, I’m stopped dead in my own tracks. Nate is standing in front of a built-in coffee maker, waving his hand frantically up and down cursing under his breath, “Motherfucking piece of shit.”

“What happened? Did the Miele not do what you told her to do?”

He turns.

I feel like I’m watching him in slow motion.

Without warning, the air crackles.

He’s momentarily taken aback, but then a look of amusement crosses his face. “Zoey Flowers, you are . . .”

Words pop into my head—sexy, beautiful, hot as hell, fuckable.

Where did those come from?

That grin lingers on his mouth. “Your brother’s sister, without a fucking doubt.”

Tears prick my eyes. Not the words I hoped to hear, but so much more meaningful.

His face contorts, the glow of amusement gone from his eyes, shadowed by something darker. He sets two cups of coffee on the counter that separates us. “Hey, I’m really not good at this stuff. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

I swipe the drops away. “No, really, it’s okay. I just miss him. That’s all.”

Nate’s hands grip the counter and his head falls. “Yeah, me too.”

Silence sweeps the vastness of the space, but strangely it’s not uncomfortable.

His gaze lifts. “Zoey, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

I can’t help but be charmed. “It’s nice to finally meet you too, Nate.”

He clears his throat and a bit of shyness seems to cross his face.

I fear I might be staring, so I avert my gaze to look down at the counter and it lands on the two cups. “Are those lattés?”

His head lifts at the same time mine does. The connection is immediate—a jolt of electricity travels between us and I swear I see a little smile—not a smirk, but an actual smile on his face.

The most adorable boyish grin.

My belly flutters and I can’t help but return the smile, feeling a little shy myself.

“Yeah, well that’s what they’re supposed to be. I didn’t know what you drank, but thought I’d try these.”

I move closer, close enough that my hipbones nudge the edge of the counter. “Lucky for you, I’ll drink anything made with coffee beans.”

Then it hits me, that his hair is the color of the finest imported coffee beans.

“Yeah, lucky for me,” he repeats.

Taking a seat on one of the barstools, I blow on the top of the latté. The froth is not exactly froth-like, more like big soap bubbles or maybe clumps of soured whipped cream.

“You’re a schoolteacher, right?” he asks.

“Something like that,” I say. “I’m employed by the University of Rochester. You’re a landlord, right?”

His lips tip up a fraction. “Something like that.”

I laugh. “Just kidding. I know all about you—big successful CEO of an up-and-coming development company, who buys unprofitable businesses, turns them around, and then sells them.

Zach said you are very business savvy.”

This is true, but what I fail to mention is Zach told me so much more about him.

He raises one brow in the sexiest way. “You’re going to make me blush if you keep talking like that. But it sounds to me like you’re leaving some crucial things out. I’m sure your brother must have given you some dirt on me.”

How does he know Zach told me all about his inability to commit, his obsession with work, and his need to always be in control? He never spoke of him in a demeaning way though. No, rather Zach seemed to idolize this man. The words integrity, hard working, and respectful always followed anything that might have been construed as negative. Zach once mentioned that he thought something must have happened that triggered Nate’s extreme behavior.

He could understand that.

Honestly, so could I.

“Z never could give a compliment without making sure to put a little bite in it. My guess is he would have said something like this: “Big shot asshole of some  rising development company.”

I shrug. He did have my brother pegged. “Maybe it did go more like that.”

He smirks, and God help me. I have to look away.

I try to tuck my emotion aside by sipping on my latté. It tastes more like water, but the coffee lover in me is distracted by the trouble that’s watching me.

His eyes seem to darken as they follow the liquid into my mouth and then down my throat.

His breath seemingly goes shallow as if he’s picturing my mouth on something else.

My imagination must be in overdrive. I shake it off and point to my cup. “Not bad.”

He takes a sip of his and practically spits it out. “Not bad! It tastes like shit.”

I can feel my lips turning upward again. I swear I haven’t smiled in so long that I snap and just let the laughter roll through me—my body quaking, my hair bouncing like a lion’s mane.

Nate stares flabbergasted, and I can see his body tensing.

Once I’m finally able to speak, I manage to say, “Really, it doesn’t taste terrible. You just have your timing and ratios off, that’s all. Steam the milk a little longer, and add more beans.”

He sets his cup down and gives me a skeptical look.

“I used to work at a coffee shop when I was in college. I can show you if you like?”

Our gazes lock.

When he doesn’t respond, reality crashes down around me. I can’t let this become flirtatious.

I clear my throat. “Well, anyway, can we get back to why you’re here in the middle of the night? You can be honest with me—have you been staying here?”

A muscle twitches along Nate’s jaw, but he doesn’t answer me. Instead, he picks up his cup and turns to the sink, dumps his full latté down the drain, and then walks to the back of the house in the darkness.

My head twists so my eyes can track him.

He flicks a light switch on and twists his own head.

I know he must have caught my stare, and God knows what possessed look I might have had on my face. I quickly turn back.

“Zoey, I think we need to talk.”

“I know we do. And Nate, it’s okay. Really. I don’t mind that you’ve been staying here,” I reassure him as I turn back around.

He opens one of the many sliding glass doors and the sound of the storm gets louder. “Come over here. I want to show you something.”

Something draws me toward him.

He’s a man of authority. I can tell he’s used to getting his way, but I’m not usually one to submit to dominance. I’ve been around it enough at work—male professors are the poster children for authoritative personalities.

But still I move forward, approaching him with caution.

The sound of the waves crashing against the shore is beautiful. With the door open the smell in the air is pungent in the most delicious way, or maybe that’s Nate—clean, fresh, manly.

Without realizing it, I’m standing right in front of him. I get lost in the wind, the air, the sound—and him. I tilt my head back to look at him. I’m tall, but he’s almost a head taller than I am—he must be six-two. Something about his proximity makes my body feel possessed.

It’s nothing like I’ve felt before.

He steps out the door and onto a covered deck, scrubbing his stubbled jaw. “I told you I’m shit at this kind of stuff so I’m just going to get this over with.”

Relief takes over.

Here it comes.

Finally!

About the Author:

I live in Florida with my husband and four kids. I’ve always had a love for reading books and writing. Being an English major in college, I wanted to teach at the college level but that was not to be. I went on to receive an MBA and became a project manager until quitting to raise my family. I currently work part-time with my husband and full-time embracing one of my biggest passions—writing.

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