Novels, Novels, Novels...
Wrong
When he moves in with his goody-two-shoes older brother, terminally lonely sixteen-year-old Clay Rainey must face the fact that everything about him is wrong. Well, it's either that, or live the rest of his life with a brother who hates him, a father who wants him dead, and a step-mom determined to break him for good. And then there's that little secret about his real mom's death...probably best not to mention that.
This is an excerpt near the beginning that I find rather amusing. Yes, I like my own sense of humor. Shocks.
The front door opens and two people step out, a man
and a woman. The man I know. He’s a little taller, less lanky, his features
more pronounced, his bark-brown hair cropped close to his skull. He looks
nothing like me except for the eyes, grey-blue and pressed into a cautious
squint. My brother.
I stare
at him, hoping maybe he’ll see me, catch my eye. He doesn’t. The woman does,
though. I can’t tell what color her eyes are, but I know they’re watching me,
assessing me. She tugs on the collar of her turtleneck and glances away. I
wonder if I passed her test. Probably not.
My
dad waves a hand toward the car, still engaged in conversation with my brother.
I get out, grab my bag, and shuffle up behind him, saying nothing. My
step-mom’s gaze sears into my neck; I ignore it and concentrate on Jason. He’s
dressed casually in jeans and a white t-shirt, both thumbs tucked into his
belt-loops. I can tell by the way his jaw keeps rotating that he’s pissed.
“You’re
just going to leave?” he demands of my dad, squinty eyes narrowing still
farther. “I thought you’d at least stay the night, make sure everything--”
“I
have a life, Jason,” my dad interrupts coolly. “And I’d like to get back to it
as soon as possible. The boy’s your responsibility now. You know that.”
Jason’s
woman peeks at me, lips pursing. She’s pretty, with the type of face that makes
age impossible to guess, and hair like a bushel of brown hay.
“You
do realize that Clayton is your son, right?” Jason says, getting straight to
the point.
Dad
throws up a hand, the poor, overworked father fed up with his ungrateful
offspring. “I’m not going to stand here and waste time talking to you when I
could be on the road. We’ll talk later. Goodbye, Jason. Alexa, we’re leaving.”
He grabs my step-mom’s elbow and ushers her back into the car. A few seconds
later, his Lincoln peels away.
I’m
bathing in the love.
Jason
clears his throat. “Well…Clayton.”
What
is it with the Clayton? “My name’s Clay, Jason. It always has been.”
“Right.
Yeah.” He regards his feet as though they hold the key to the meaning of life.
“So, uh…let’s go in and I’ll show you your room, okay?”
“Sure,”
I say, and follow him and his woman into the house.
I
take all the pastels and flowery paintings as a clue this’d been her house
before it’d been his, and for some reason this amuses me. I wonder if he plans
to introduce me to her or if he plans to pretend I’m not really his brother. I
wonder if he’s ever even told her about me at all. I wonder if she knew he had
a brother before last week.
“Clay?”
The
woman has stopped and is holding out her hand to me. I swing my duffel to my
left shoulder so I can shake.
“My
name’s Ronna. It’s good to finally meet you. Jason’s told me a lot about you.”
“Really?
Like what?”
Her
mouth now resembles that of a fish.
“Clay,”
Jason grates.
“Fine,”
I say. “Never mind.” I follow my brother up the stairs and into my new room.
It’s
empty save for the bare minimum of furniture and a single lamp. The walls are
yellow. Great. I also detect the faint smell of dog, which is never a good
thing.
I
drop my bag and slouch back onto the bed while Jason hovers in the doorway.
After a deep breath, he says, “Okay, look, this is how it’s gonna go: I have a
list of rules and I want you to follow them. If you don’t, you’re gone.”
“What,
no second chances?”
His
glare is answer enough. “Rule number one: No drugs of any kind. No drinking or
smoking, either.”
“Death
by dehydration?” I comment.
His
scowl forms a V between his brows. “No alcohol, Clay, and stop being a
smartass. In fact, I’m going to make that rule number two: no mouthing off.
Rule number three: You’re home by ten on weekdays, eleven on weekends. With me
so far?”
I
scrunch up my face, faking confusion. “Can you maybe repeat number two? I lost
it.”
“It’s
the rule you just violated.”
“Oh,
right. Sorry.”
“Can
I move on now?”
“You
don’t need my permission.”
Jason
sighs, rubbing his face. “Rule number four: You’ll pick up after yourself and
not make a mess of--”
“Say
again, Mom?”
“Dammit!”
Jason erupts, slamming his fist into the door-jam. “I swear to God if you make
one more snide remark I’m calling Dad. The end.”
My
stomach flips. I nod, mime zipping my lips.
“Last
rule: Stay out of trouble. Any kind of trouble, I want you out of it. Got it?”
Maybe,
maybe not. “Yes,” I say.
“Great.”
He nods, job done. “Well, why don’t you unpack and we’ll call you when dinner’s
ready?”
“Wife
or girlfriend?” I ask, not knowing why I care.
He
cocks his head. “Wife. Six months.”
“Oh,
right! How could I forget? I mean, I was best man in your wedding and all. My
mind is failing me in my teen years. It’s a tragedy.”
Jason’s
lips thin, then he shakes his head. “It was a small wedding. Just a few
friends.”
“And
no family?”
“What
family?” Jason shoots back. He winces, holds up a hand as if to snatch the
words back.
I
just nod. “Okay. Uh-huh.”
He
opens his mouth like he might apologize, but he makes this little pout instead
and walks stiffly from the room. It’s not until after he leaves that I realize
he still hasn’t once looked me in the eye.
Taming Shadows
College Freshman Shella
Danforth has spent the past four years running from the part of herself
she believes to be a monster: her wolf. Shella is a shadow-shifter, a
being who can shift into one of three forms: human, wolf, or shadow.
When
a string of unexplained disappearances rocks the city of Orlando,
Shella is sure that something supernatural is responsible. Forced to
team up with lifelong nemesis and fellow shifter Tran Dashner, Shella
discovers that the culprit may be closer to her than she'd like to
believe. To unravel the mystery, Shella must first learn to control her
wolf - before it learns to control her.
I found my gaze glued to the door at the opposite end of the barren room. “No chance she forgot to lock the door?” I asked hopefully.
Tran scoffed. “I’m sure it would be that easy.”
“Excuse me for wanting to escape this hell-hole,” I said. “I promise that if I find a way out, I’ll leave you behind to your peace and luxury.”
Tran didn’t say anything, only winced. I immediately felt guilty and disgusted with myself simultaneously for worrying about the Tran-Tan, especially when he was being so acerbic.
I banged my head against the wall with slow precision, enjoying the dull thunk that sent little tingling vibrations through my skull.
“What I can’t believe,” Tran said, “is that you’re still sitting here. I’d have thought you’d be stomping around, using my limp body as a battering ram to break through the door.”
“Wow,” I breathed. “You actually said that with a straight face.”
“Send all fan-mail to my P.O. Box.”
My brows rose. “Are you sure you’re okay? Being funny must take a lot out of you, since I don’t think you’ve ever made a joke before in your entire life.”
Tran groaned. “And you would know, being God and all.”
“Okay,” I said slowly, drawing the word out, “I think the blood loss has warped your brains. You just relax and let me do all thinking before you burst a blood vessel in your head.”
“You should eat something.” Cameron thrust a smelly tray of food my way.
I eyed him closely. “Looks to me like you need to learn to take your own advice.”
Cameron flushed bright red, looking down at himself. “Like I said. Food once a day.”
