Victim of Love

More Blatant Self-Promotion!

Here’s an excerpt from chapter one of Bury Me in Shadows:

Chapter One

“Was this an accident, or did you do it on purpose?”

I opened my eyes to see my mother standing at the foot of my hospital bed, her heart-shaped face unreadable as always. The strap of her Louis Vuitton limited edition purse was hooked into the crook of her left arm. Her right hand was fidgeting, meaning she was craving one of the cigarettes she allowed herself from time to time—never more than two in a single day. Her dove gray skirt suit, complete with matching jacket over a coral silk blouse, looked more rumpled than usual. Her shoulder length bob, recently touched up as there were no discernible gray roots in her rigid part, was also a bit disheveled. She wasn’t tall, just a few inches over five feet, and always wore low heels because she preferred being underestimated. Regular yoga and Pilates classes kept her figure slim. She never wore a lot of makeup, just highlights here and there to make her cheekbones seem more prominent or to make her eyes pop. No one would ever guess by just looking at her that she was one of the top criminal attorneys in the country, whose criminal law classes at the University of Chicago were in high demand.

I could tell she was unnerved because I could hear her Alabama accent, and it was strong. She’d worked long and hard to get rid of that accent while in law school. “No one would take me seriously after they heard me speak,” she’d explained to me once, “or they thought I was stupid.” Now she used it only when she wanted someone to feel superior to her.

It also came out when she’d been drinking or was upset.

And worked like a charm getting her out of speeding tickets.

I’d been neither asleep nor awake, hovering in that weird in-between state where I’d been living for the last three or four or however many days it had been since I woke up here.

“It wasn’t on purpose.” I croaked out the words. My throat was still raw and sore from the stomach pumping. My lips were chapped, and my eyes still burned from the aftermath of the insane drug-and-alcohol binge I’d gone on after the big breakup with fucking Tradd Chisholm. “It was an accident.” I shifted in the hospital bed, trying to sit up more, the IV swinging wildly. That last and final fight with Tradd flashed through my head.

Why are you so fucking needy? He’d screamed at me. I can’t fucking breathe!

Fucking Tradd, anyway. Why had I let him get under my skin the way I did?

Why had I let him isolate me from my friends?

Why, why, why.

He wasn’t worth this–that was for sure.

And you can order it right here if you like!

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