Grab your e-reader and enjoy Hollow by Ava Conway and Cracks In The Armor by Helena Hunting and many more e-books this summer. Wherever you go, Pocket Star-E Nights are guaranteed to make your evenings shine!
Girl, Interrupted meet Beautiful Disaster in this thrilling and sexy debut novel, in which a college student learns her perfect life is a lie and finds new love where she least expects it—a mental institution.
Freaks, misfits, and psychopaths. Those are the kinds of people found at Newton Heights Psychiatric Hospital, and high-society girl Lucy White’s new home.
Freaks, misfits, and Jayden McCray. Jayden has his own set of rules for life at Newton Heights, and in this enigma, Lucy finds a way to live with the events that left her cheating boyfriend and best friend dead—and Lucy in the middle of the investigation into their demise.
The problem? Jayden makes her want things she’s not supposed to have, blurring the lines between fantasy and reality and making Lucy feel more at home in Newton Heights than she ever did at home. But this isn’t how her life is supposed to be…
EXCERPT:
“AFTER I PRESSED the accelerator, things get
a little fuzzy,” I said.
“Hmm . . .” The lawyer twirled his monogrammed pen between his
fingers and scribbled something into his notebook. “The same thing’s written in
the police report.”
I tried to move my hands, but remembered they were strapped to the
bed. After I ripped all the lifesaving tubes out of my arms last night, the
hospital staff wanted to make sure I didn’t do anything so stupid again.
“Does it look as bad as the papers are suggesting?” My father
pushed his fingers through his hair, which had turned more salt than pepper
since I had gone to college.
The lawyer slapped his notebook shut and slid it into his leather
briefcase. “You know the media will exaggerate anything to get a story.
Although I have to admit, an attempted suicide one week after the accident
won’t help her defense.” He clicked the briefcase shut with a loud, purposeful
snap and smoothed his designer suit. “The jury will think she has a guilty
conscience.”
“Come on, honey. Think.” My mother drew her neatly trimmed brows
together, bringing attention to her large, round eyes. Normally my mother’s
baby blues were her best feature, but the clumpy mascara and bronze eye shadow
she’d chosen that morning made her look tired and worn out.
“There must be something else you remember. Some little bit of
information that could help the police drop the charges.” She took my hand with
her long, manicured fingers. People said that we looked alike, but besides the
raven-colored hair and blue eyes, I didn’t see very much in common. It was
almost as if we came from two different worlds. Hers was stoic and orderly.
Mine was a neurotic mess.
I shook my head and turned to the lawyer. “There’s nothing more.”
My voice sounded hoarse and strained.
Probably because of all the tubes they had to jam down my throat
while trying to keep me alive.
My father swore and started pacing the hospital room. Even tired
he looked magnificent, like some great stallion in an Armani suit. His angular
features, tanned skin and outgoing personality drew people to him and made him
an outstanding lobbyist. It was a damn shame that it was for show. Only my mom
and I knew that the charismatic lobbyist waged an inner war with himself every
night, armed with his trusty bottle of bourbon and a Cuban cigar.
“Your friend was right. You shouldn’t have been driving that
night.” The lawyer leaned against the bottom of the bed and arched his brow.
“None of you should have.” The highhanded tone grated on my nerves. All my life
I had been trying to live up to my parents’ impossibly high standards.
The last thing I needed was this greasy-looking rent-a-lawyer
talking to me in such a condescending tone. I opened my mouth to tell him this,
but was cut off by my father.
“They can’t prove she was driving,” he said. “The car flipped over
and no one was wearing a seat belt.”
“He’s right.” My mother dropped my hand and stood. “The other two
were thrown from the car.”
“I know, and that’s why there’s still a chance of overturning the
manslaughter charges.” The lawyer studied me for a long moment with his beady,
green eyes. From day one, I didn’t like this guy. It wasn’t just that he was
conceited or condescending, it was how he always seemed to be calculating his
next step, as if life was this massive board game and he was playing to win.
While I had no doubt that his decisions were the best for him and his law
practice, I wondered if they were the best for me.
My mother certainly seemed to think so. She hung on his every
word.
“What if we send her away to live with extended family for a
while?” she asked. “It will keep her out of the press until things calm down.”
“No,” my father said. “We can’t send her out of state while she’s
facing charges.”
“You have no relatives close by?” the lawyer asked.
“We moved away from them to be closer to work,” my mother
explained.
I didn’t like how these people were discussing my future as if I
wasn’t in the room. “I don’t need to hide from the press.”
“Don’t be silly, Lucy,” my mother said. “You know we can’t afford
the negative publicity right now. If you stay with us, then reporters will set
up tents on our lawn, waiting for
some
crumb of information that they could use to tear us down.”
“She’s right, unfortunately,” my father said. “We have to find a
way to keep her in state, but out of the public eye until this all blows over.”
“I’m twenty-two. I can handle myself.”
“Of course you can, dear,” my mother soothed. “Now hush, we’re
thinking.”
The lawyer studied my face. Uneasiness crawled over my skin as his
beady eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “I’ve got it.”
“What?” my parents both asked at the same time.
The lawyer’s gaze never left mine as he addressed my parents. “Is
there any history of mental illness in the family?”
“Of what?” My mother stiffened and exchanged glances with my
father.
“Of mental illness,” the lawyer repeated, turning toward her. “If
there is, I could talk to her doctor about arranging an evaluation while we
wait for a court date.” He straightened away from the bed railing and began to
pace. “If we can prove she’s mentally unstable, it would help with the
defense.” He drummed his fingers together as he walked, as if closing a steel
trap.
“You want to put my daughter in a loony bin?” My mother swayed and
grabbed the bed railing.
“Not a loony bin—a mental hospital. And only if she needs it.” The
lawyer cracked his knuckles. The loud noise reminded me of how both of
Bethany’s legs had been broken in the crash. “Yes, putting her in an upscale
institution like Newton Heights until the investigation is over will help gain
sympathy for our cause.”
“Newton Heights. That’s where that celebrity went last year when
she announced she was being treated for depression, isn’t it?” my father asked.
“Yes, but . . .” My mother waved her hand in the air, as if
struggling to find the right words.
“It’s expensive, but for those who can afford the high costs, it
offers a sanctuary from the outside world.” The lawyer waved his hands to the
sides and flashed his slick smile. “There’s also a teaching hospital on site,
so if she should need physical treatment . . .” The implication was clear. If I
was ever to try to kill myself again, emergency personnel would be on site to
save my life.
Fear sliced through me at the thought of going to Newton Heights.
I didn’t want to be locked away with all of the crazy people, like some reject
in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I wasn’t sure what they did to
patients at Newton Heights, but if it was anything like that movie, I wanted no
part of it.
“I’m not going.” My voice sounded small and weak to my ears.
“You might not have a choice in the matter, kid,” the lawyer said.
“Not if you want to beat these charges.”
My father bowed his head and ran his hand over his face. “I can’t
believe this is happening to us again . . .”
“Clark—”
My father lowered his arm and nodded to me. “She’s turning out
just like him.”
“Who?” I asked.
The air became thick with tension. I switched my focus from my
father to my mother, but neither was willing to expand on my father’s
mutterings. Instead they stood there, staring at each other, and I couldn’t
help but think that some silent war was being waged in front of me.
“Mom, what’s Dad talking about? I’m turning out like who?”
Hair fell into my eyes. I shook my head, trying to remove the offending strands
from my field of vision.
“Whom,” my mother corrected, her gaze still fixed on my father.
“I was so convinced Lucy would turn out differently . . .”
The vein in my father’s temple pulsed, but otherwise his face
remained an expressionless mask.
My mother let go of the bed railing and put her hand on my
father’s arm. “Clark, she is different—”
“Would someone tell me what’s going on?” I raised my voice,
desperate for some answers.
“We can’t keep up appearances under so much scrutiny.”
My father unfolded his arms and placed his hand over hers. “No.”
I tried to sit up, but the restraints forced me back on the
pillows. “Mom, what’s he talking about?”
My mother moved to my side. “Not now, Lucy.” She swiped the hair
from my face and smiled reassuringly. “To answer your question, Mr. Jameson,
yes, there’s a history of mental illness in the family, but I will die before
that information is leaked to the press.” Her voice was a sharp contrast to the
gentleness of her touch.
“There’s no need to tell the press,” the lawyer reassured her.
“Just the doctor. All we need is an evaluation.” He glanced at me. “Since she’s
technically not a minor, we’ll also need her signature.”
“Leave that to me,” my father said.
A disoriented feeling settled into my core as I mentally flipped
through all of my extended family members. “Who was mentally unstable?” I
whispered to my mother. “Was it
Aunt
Heather? Cousin Paul?”
“Not now, Lucy.” My mother turned to the lawyer. Her face became a
cool, expressionless mask. “Will that be all, Mr. Jameson?”
The lawyer shifted his gaze between the three of us, as if
weighing his options. “For now, yes. The police are still going through
evidence at the crime scene. They’ll probably want to question her again at
some point.”
“What happens if Lucy’s found guilty?” my father asked.
“Vehicular manslaughter is a serious crime. It would most likely
involve prison time.”
My mouth went dry. Prison?
Chris, a sexy tattoo artist, tries to win the heart of Sarah, a grad student with little interest in him, in this second e-short and follow-up to Helena Hunting’s gripping love story, Clipped Wings—“twisted, dark, incredibly erotic…a love story like no other” (USA TODAY bestselling author Alice Clayton).
Part owner of the Chicago tattoo shop Inked Armor, Chris Zelter is a talented artist who decorates skin with gorgeous designs. He might look the part of the typical jacked-up, inked-up bad-boy, but underneath is a fiercely loyal, complicated man. Kicked out at sixteen, Chris has had to fend for himself for the last twelve years, making his Inked Armor crew as much family as they are business partners. For him, it’s enough—until he meets Sarah Adamson.
A grad student waitressing at the local strip club, Sarah is used to propositions and crude comments. The job is a means to an end—finish her MBA, pay off the tuition loans, and get a good job. Then she won’t have to rely on anyone to take care of her. So when brawny, tatted up Chris begins hanging out at the club, she rebuffs his advances. At first. But Chris isn’t like her usual clientele: despite his hard exterior, he’s almost…sweet.
Sometimes, the people with the roughest edges have the biggest hearts.
EXCERPT:
At the
end of my shift I changed out of my slut attire and back into my jeans and
T-shirt, then headed out the back door. The security guard had changed. He was
one of the ones I didn’t know. Or trust.
He gave
me a sidelong glance. “You want me to walk you to your car?”
“I’m
right there.” I pointed to my Tercel.
His eyes
narrowed. “That’s your ride?”
It wasn’t
much of a ride, compared to some of the flashy cars parked out here. The girls
who performed the best also got the best perks, leased cars being one of them.
I was perfectly happy not to be among the privileged few. “Yeah. Have a good
night.”
“I think
I should walk you over.”
I was
parked under one of the lights. If he was looking for a little end-of-night
action, it wasn’t the most covert place to have it happen. He must have read
the skepticism in my expression.
“One of
the guys on camera detail warned me that some dude was out here fucking around
by the cars. It was during shift change, so there wasn’t anyone here. I’d feel
better if you let me check things out.”
I glanced
nervously at my car and shrugged. “Yeah. Okay.”
I trailed
behind him as he stalked across the lot. He walked around the vehicle, looking
for . . . signs of forced entry maybe? When he didn’t find anything sinister, I
pulled on the handle to find that it was locked.
“Huh,
that’s odd.”
His
shoulders rolled back and his eyes shot around the dark lot. “What?” His hand
went behind him, as if he was getting ready to go for a piece. It wasn’t the
first time I suspected the security was armed with more than brass knuckles and
walkies.
“I don’t
lock my doors.”
“What?”
He looked at me like I was crazy.
“Do you
see this?” I gestured to the Tercel and then motioned around the lot. “Of all
the cars here, who would choose mine to steal?” I peered into the backseat. All
the doors had been locked. Only one person would do that.
I
rummaged around in my purse until I found my keys. After unlocking the door, I
bent down and felt around under the front seat until my fingers closed around a
keychain. I bit my lip to stop the stupid grin from breaking out. Though it
would be more convenient to have my own key, there was satisfaction in knowing
he’d drop one off for me because he wanted to see me. “It’s cool. My b— friend
was just leaving me a key.” I almost stumbled over the word.
“Next
time, tell your friend to leave it with one of us instead of sneaking
around back here. We’ll get it to you.”
“Yeah,
sure. Thanks.”
Chris
would never leave his key with one of these beefcakes. I slid into the driver’s
seat and let the bouncer shut my door. He waited until I pulled out of the spot
before he ambled back to his post. He was a lot nicer than some of the other
guys who worked for Xander, surprisingly.
I checked
my phone at the first red light. There were several texts from Chris—the most
recent were admonishments for not locking my doors. The ones before and after
contained an invitation to stay the night and a message about the key he left
under the driver’s seat. Tonight hadn’t been bad, so I wasn’t about to pass up
the offer. I was glad I’d packed an overnight bag, as I always did.
I pulled
into the parking spot reserved for Chris’s bike. He’d angled it at the top of
the space so there would be enough room for my car. He was always thoughtful
like that. It made me feel like a bitch for not inviting him over to my place
more often, where parking wasn’t an issue.
It had
been too long since I’d spent any real time with him. I didn’t like how much
that bothered me, or how excited I’d been about the text and key. That I
constantly packed a bag in advance was a red flag I chose to ignore.
I was
quiet as I made the trek up the stairs to his apartment and unlocked the door.
The light above the ancient, avocado-green stove was on, casting a pale glow
over the dated kitchen. There was a note propped up on the counter with my name
written across the front in Chris’s elegant cursive. I always teased him that
he wrote like a girl.
I set my
bag down quietly, though a bomb could go off and Chris would sleep right
through it. I left my shoes on, because Chris insisted I never walk barefoot
around his place, and crossed over to the counter. There were little doodles in
the corners of the note he left me. Designs that reminded me of the tattoos he
put on other people. Ones he refused to put on me.
Hey sweetlips,
I hope you had a decent night. There are fresh towels in the
bathroom and a sandwich in the fridge. Give me a kiss before you
pass out.
~Chris
I folded
it and put it carefully inside my bag. I had a little box of notes like these
from him in my bedroom. I kept every single one.
1 comment:
Never heard of those authors before.
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