Spotlight: The Homecoming

Here is an exclusive first look at Chapter One of The Homecoming by Stacie Ramey!
Standing on the high school's lacrosse field in the town I never thought I'd go back to, I wait for my turn to do suicides. The sun blazes, and I take a drink from my water bottle and try not to chew myself out for landing here instead of getting to stay in Chicago with Uncle Dave. What would Leah think if she saw me now?
"Strickland!" Coach calls. "Line up."
It's not my turn to run again, and the unfairness starts a flame in my stomach, but I line up anyway. No way I'm gonna let Coach see he's getting to me. Or let the team know how out of shape I really am.
"Get your legs up!" Coach Gibson screams, and I think he's talking to me, but I can't be sure, because six of us are racing, and I'm losing. Bad. Guess the last few years of smoking weed hasn't helped my stamina.
Matt, a guy from my neighborhood who I used to play lacrosse with and one of two people Mom fought like hell to keep me away from, yells from the sidelines, "Wheels, Strickland, wheels." But he laughs as he says it, and I know he's just giving me shit.
I knew they'd go hard on me. Payback for moving away. For not playing lacrosse since fifth grade. For hanging with the druggies instead of the jocks. I'm one of the new guys on the team. An honor not usually given to seniors. So I'm treated to Hell Week like the freshman and sophomores. I don't mind. That's just the way it is.
Coach Gibson points to me. "Just Strickland this time."
Bodies collapse around me, and I hear their sighs of relief as I crouch in the ready position, sweat pouring off my chest and arms and legs while I wait for Coach's whistle to launch me like a bullet from a gun. I run from the end line to goal line. Goal line to end line. End line to box line. Box line to half field.
"Push, push, push," Coach yells.
I do what he says, push my body. Pump my legs. It sucks, but I do it, because with each stride, I feel my body taking over and my mind being left far behind. Maybe this time, Dad was right. Lacrosse is just what I need.
"Again." Coach points to me. He clicks his stopwatch, and I race again. He shakes his head as he documents my time. Like I don't know how bad I suck. Like I don't get how much persuading Dad must have had to do to get me on the team. Thinking of Dad fires me up to tap into my beast. I bend over. Try not to puke. Take a drink of my water and hit the line to run again.
I don't actually mind this part. Whenever I run full out, push my body past its limit, those are the times I'm not thinking of Leah.
"Again." I run my route one more time, my body failing a little more with each step. When I'm sure I'm going to fall to the ground, I make myself think of Leah. How I was supposed to save her. How I didn't. And that's enough to propel me forward. At the end of the run, I bend over, spit on the ground.
The other seniors and juniors start their Indian drill. They jog by us freshies, run their rhythmic jogging and even breathing, reminding me that they are warriors, and I am not. Matt yells out, "Damn, Strickland." Then laughs as I lose this battle and puke on the ground.
Brandon, another guy from the old team, joins in the hilarity. "We got a puker!"
I look at each exercise as a brick in some mythical wall I have to build before I can earn my walking papers. That makes it easier to face. One step. One drill. One minute. One hour. One week. One month. More than one year since my girlfriend Leah died. (Killed herself, I remind myself, careful to make the memory hurt as much as possible.)
Probably thirty minutes left in practice. Nine weeks till my first report card. Nine months of probation, ten months till I can graduate and move on with my life to California. The farthest place from my family I can go without getting a passport. Where I can cash in on my one and only talent: growing and selling weed. Legally there.
Finally, Coach calls us in. The juniors and seniors have already been sent to the locker room ahead of us, so he's only addressing us wannabes. "You guys didn't totally disappoint me today, so tomorrow, you can bring your sticks."
Some of the guys pump their fists. I don't even have the energy to do that.
"Now hit the showers and head home."
I'm turning to leave when Coach calls me over. "Hey, John, I wanted to say I'm sorry about your brother. And your girl."
The dragon roars. Flames engulf me. People just can't let an accident like Ryan's go, even after all these years. But Leah? That's too much. They didn't even know her. I don't want to share her tragedy, her life, her memory with anyone.
"You've had some tough breaks for sure."
Dad and his stupid mouth.
Coach shifts his stance, crosses his arms- his clipboard with all my times now clutched to his chest. Numbers that for sure say I'm not good enough to be on any lacrosse team- definitely not the varsity team at East Coast High. "I don't want you to get discouraged. Coach Stallworth told me about you. Said you used to be a hell of an athlete. You can be again, I'm sure."
His state feels like he's trying to figure out what I'm made of. I want to tell him not to waste his time. I'm happy to tell him exactly who I am. I'm the kind of guy who doesn't mind taking whatever physical punishment he wants to dish out. But when it comes to my emotions? Coach is going to have to understand that that shit's off-limits. Emotions are for idiots. Feeling crap doesn't change what happened. Good weed works so much better. Hell, even bad weed beats feeling any day.
I gulp more water. Spit on the ground. Look him square in the eye. "Thanks, Coach. That all?"
I guess Coach picks up on my noncommunicative status, because his eyes go back to his clipboard. "See you tomorrow."
 I give him a nod and jog to the locker room so Coach'll see I've still got a little juice in me, even after everything.
***
Last one in the locker room also means last one out. I sit on the bench, lean over to close my locker as Matt and Brandon head for the parking lot.
"Later," Matt throws over his shoulder, the er reverberating as the door shut behind him.
Matt and I've got some history to get over. It was his big brother, Pete, who hit Ryan. Seven years later and that still hangs between us. Not that it was Pete's fault exactly. When it come to those things, fault hardly even matters. It's called an accident for a reason.
Besides, Pete hasn't exactly gotten off scot-free either. Some people might think becoming a high school dropout, working pizza delivery while feeding a major drug and drinking problem is not as bad as Ryan's deal, but I say that nobody has a right to judge. I stayed in touch with Pete even after I moved away. Nobody understands that, but it was like he was the only one who got the nuclear fallout of that accident.
I'm stuffing my sweaty clothes into my bag and zipping it up when I hear my cell chirp. I grab it, hoping it's one of Pete's connections I reached out to today. Someone who can help me with my little sobriety problem.
But it's not Pete's connection. It's Uncle Dave. Hey, just checking in. Hope you're settling in OK.
I text back. Yeah. Fine.
How was practice?
Somehow, that kills me. That he's still checking in on me. Uncle Dave. Not Dad or Mom. Him. This warm spot inside me lights a little every time he calls or texts.
He texts again. When someone you love dies, it changes you. Remember that.
He means Leah for me. My perfect big brother for Mom.
After Ryan's accident, Mom didn't change so much as reduce, like the sauce that Uncle Dave made for my filet the last night I was living with him. He explained how a little fire under you can intensify whatever's inside you. After the accident, Mom got more intense for sure. Driven. Focused only on Ryan. With me, I just got more angry. Just the way I am, I guess.
Uncle Dave always tries to turn simple moments into lessons. Not preachy ones, just different ways to look at life. His texts aren't meant to pry or annoy, but I can't help wishing he hadn't. I screwed up the best living arrangement of my life, the one Dad said I needed after I told him about Leah. But I killed the whole deal by hanging with a bunch of thugs and acting like a punk.
There's a mass of activity around me in the locker room that doesn't include me. Kids banging fists. Giving each other shit. Nodding when others ask if they've got a ride. Then it hits me: I'm completely ride-less.
The guys on the team have picked up on my not so subtle I want to be left alone signal. I know teammates are supposed to male bond or some shit like that, but that's not what I'm here for. I'm here to finish probation. Live according to Mom's rules. Then get out and go away. And never come back.
I text Uncle Dave. I'm exactly the same jerk I used to be.
He texts. Nice try.
As the door bangs shut for the last time, I realize my being a selfish ass and ignoring everyone means I'll have to walk home. Great work, Johnny. I almost laugh out loud at what an idiot I can be.
The phone chirps again. This time it's Dad. Picked up your Jeep from the compound. Cost me a fortune. Show me you've earned it and I;ll bring it to you.
Always pushing. Uncle Dave is so much cooler than Dad is that it's hard to believe they;re even brothers.
The door opens, and a janitor leans in. "You done?"
"Yeah. Sorry." I look around the locker room one more time. I am completely alone, even on a team of thirty kids. Classic me.

Spotlight: Unnatural Deeds

Here is an exclusive first look at Chapter One of Unnatural Deeds by Cyn Balog!!

Foul whisp'rings are abroad. Unnatural deeds

Do breed unnatural troubles. Infected minds

To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.

Shakespeare's Macbeth, Act V, Scene 1

Duchess- Police are investigating an apparent homicide after a body was found in a wooded area early Tuesday morning. Authorities have not yet released the name of the victim of the person(s) they are questioning in connection with the investigation.

-Central Maine Express Times

Is this thing on?

Ha-ha, I'm a laugh a minute.

Anyway, Andrew. It's me. Vic. I wanted to say I'm sorry. Sorr for... Well, where do I begin? I--

cough, cough, cough.

Sorry. I'm losing my voice. Something bitter is stuck in my throat, and the air is so cold it's hard to breathe. This place reeks of decaying leaves, of the musty, damp rot of dead things returning to the earth.

There's something soft and wet under my head. I hope it's not brain matter. I can't raise my arms to check because of the way I'm twisted here. I think my leg is broken. Or maybe my back? Damned if I can twitch a muscle without pain screaming its way up my spine.

Somehow I managed to pry my phone out of my jacket pocket and prop it on my chest, but you know how spotty service is around Duchess. All charged up with zero bars- not that I'd be calling anyone but you. I wish I could see the background photo of you and me. It'd keep me company. You know the one. It's the picture of us at the Renaissance Faire when we were fourteen. We're both grinning like mad and you have your arm around me, claiming me as your own. It's probably the only time you were ever comfortable with yourself. With us. I miss that.

Anyway, you know how glass half-empty I am, Andrew. I wanted to record a note for you on my phone. You know, in case I don't get out of here. 

Of course I'll get out of here. I wouldn't be lucky enough to die here. But maybe this'll be easier than telling you in person.

Cough, cough.

 Where should I start?

It's so quiet. You must have left me, Andrew. But you'll come back. You always come back. You were scared, maybe, when you saw what you'd done. And now I'm all alone here.

I don't really know where "here" is. I think it's a drainage ditch on the side of Route 11. The last thing I remember is rushing down the road near the Kissing Woods, feeling powerful. Immortal. Like everything I wanted could be mine. For an instant, I felt like he could be mine.

But that's not possible now.

I know what people have said behind my back in hushed whispers. They call me delusional. But I'm not. I know what is real and what isn't.

No, wait.The last thing I remember is you with that fierce look in your eyes. You sure surprised me. Who knew that my boyfriend, quiet, unassuming Andrew Quinn, that that in him?

I thought I knew you inside and out, but... I was wrong.

I guess I should explain.After all, I have no other pressing engagements. And you're overdue an explanation, aren't you? The tall pines can be my witnesses. They can pass judgement as they see fit.

I'm not sure when it all began, but Lady M said it best. Hell is goddamn murky.

Whoops. Blasphemy. Yet another sin to add to my act-of-contrition list.

Looking back, you knew when I started to change, didn't you, Andrew? You know everything about me. It was that very first day of school, the day my life began to unravel.

So here are the gory details. It won't be enough, but I'll try. You can;t know it all until you've smelled that intoxication cinnamon-and-clove scent, read those texts that elevated even the blandest words to poetry, and seen those heart-stoppingly blue eyes.

His eyes. Even now, I can see them with perfect clarity. I've seen them in my dreams, in the sky when the sun hits the clouds just right, and in my morning breakfast cereal. It all goes back to him. Every single thought always winds right back to him. Always. Always. Always.

It's no use. I want him out of my head. I wish I could scrape him out of my memory. I don't want to live with him etched in the deepest part of me. I don't want to die thinking of him.

But I know I will.

Spotlight: One Was Lost

 

 Check out the first excerpt of One Was Lost by Natalie Richards!

No one said anything about rain in the brochures. Not that there were brochures. There was a handwritten sign-up sheet in the cafeteria, followed by permission slips recycled from ghosts of field trips past. I'm not really sure why I was expecting a world-class production. Must be the director in me. I stumble under the weight of my pack, sloshing through a puddle. Cold water oozes through my boots and socks. So much for Mr. Walker's plastic ponchos keeping us dry. I guess after six straight hours of rain, dry is relative anyway. "I hope you packed your dirty clothes in the plastic bags I handed out last night." Mr. Walker booms from the front of the line. "They might stink, but they'll be dry." The other girls cringe a little at the idea- all except Ms. Brighton, our younger, cooler teacher guide. She's very Zen about these things, nodding along in her crystal earrings and mud-dyed Gaia Mother T-shirt. I'm in the last half of the group, behind Jude with his ever-present earbuds and imperious gaze. Since I'm five-two, the back of his poncho is about all I can see, but it's better than looking at Lucas. Anything's better than looking at Lucas.

Even behind me, I can feel him. Looming. Everyone's tall measured against me, but Lucas is ridiculous. He towers. If there were actually a sun to be found in this Appalachian monsoon, his shoulders would cast a shadow you could hide two of me in. I have no idea what you have to eat to grow like that. Corn? Eggs? Small children?

I trudge onward, slowing to shift my backpack. The right strap is digging a painful trench into my shoulder, and I can't find a way to move it. My poncho slips with the effort, and a river of icy water slithers down my back.

"Holy crap!" I say, arching in a futile effort to escape.

"Keep moving, Spielberg," Lucas says behind me.

I grit my teeth and walk on. If I respond, I might have to look at him, and I've worked very hard not to do that. I've not looked for sixty-two days. It's a pretty good track record. I'm not going to wreck it just because he ended up on my Senior Life Experience Mission. At the last possible minute, no less.

"Is this really top speed for you?" he asks, sounding like he's on the verge of a laugh.

I stare at the line of backpacks and ponchos ahead of me, resisting the urge to snap back at him. I need to be the bigger person here. It's not like I don't know why ge's picking at me.

"Still sticking with the silent treatment?" he asks. "Gotta give it to you, you're committed. Slow-moving as shit but committed."

OK, I'm bigger personed out.

I whirl around. I shouldn't- I know I shouldn't-but the words blurt out. "Newsflash, Lucas! I'm moving as fast as  I can. Not all of us are loping around with giraffe legs like you, so if you're in such a rush, feel free to move ahead.:

He steps closer, and it happens. I see him. Really see him.

Fricking crap.

He tilts his head until his face is visible inside his plastic hood. How does he do it? He's just as wet and miserable as the rest of us, but somehow, he's owning the hell out of a poncho that makes me look like I need a zip tie and a trip to the curb.

I should walk away, at least look away. Lucas is all sharp lines and hooded eyes, and I should have learned my lesson. Because standing here brings me right back to that night on the porch. My ears go buzzy with the memory of crickets singing and the backdrop of the cast party inside. My face tingles because I remember other things too- his scratchy jaw and soft mouth and my heart beating faster than it ever should.

My gaze drifts to his smirk and leads pools into my stomach. That's what I'm really mad about. It's not his teasing of the rain or anything else. It's the fact that he turns me into the same fluttery mess  I was all summer. He still turns me into my mother, and I hate it.

I try to move away, but he catches the edge of my poncho- keeps me facing him.

"Huh."

I cross my arms. "Huh, what?"

"Look who suddenly remembers me," he says softly.

"Don't."

"I won't," he says, though his grin needs a parental advisory label. "I didn't then, did-"

Lightning flashes, bright enough that we both jerk.

One Mississippi.

Two Mississ-

The sound that follows is like the sky being torn in two. It ends with a bone-deep rumble that rattles the ground and bunches my spine. I close my eyes and take a breath, yoga-slow. It doesn't cleanse anything, so I try another.

Across from me, Lucas is searching the sky. I take the opportunity to turn and bolt ahead on the trail. Not that there's anywhere to go. Away from his is good enough.

 I plow into Jude's back in my eagerness to escape. He spares me one millisecond of irritation, and then he's back to pretending we're all part of the scenery.

The trail widens here, or maybe the forest is less dense. Who knows? It gives me enough room to move past Jude until I'm next to Emily, my tent mate for the last two nights.

Emily looks back at me- a sparkle of dark eyes under her poncho- and her mouth twitches. Is she smiling at me? That's new.

"Some trip, right?" I ask.

She ducks her head. And that's as close to a conversation as we've gotten. I sigh. We have three more days of awkwardness in the woods. Three. More. Days.

"Hold up." Mr. Walker is ultra-alert. "Everybody stay right here. Don't move." 

I finally read One Was Lost and you can check out my review here!!!

Brown Girl Dreaming

After picking this book up several times, I finally decided to read it. And I am so glad I did.

Brown Girl Dreaming is an autobiographical telling of Jacqueline Woodson growing up as an African American girl in the South. It delves into so many social issues from the 1960's and 1970's but even the issues we're having in the world today. Jacqueline was raised the same way as everyone else and deserved to be treated that way. She watched Angela Davis on television every day and held her fist high. She wrote about what she wanted, needed, loved, and missed. She wrote about what she knew, and what she didn't know she made up along the way. This little girl didn't realize she had a hard life. But she knew what she had shaped who she was. With family dying, incarcerated, or just gone, she had to continue with her life. Jacqueline Woodson definitely created a perfect little world for her childhood past. 

Brown Girl Dreaming may be a children's book, but it truly is a book for all ages. 

Written in poetry form, the words literally fly off the page. 

The words form little melodies that will stick with readers for long after they close the book.

Grab a copy and read her life.

Might as well add her newest book, Another Brooklyn, to your "to-read" list too! I know I will be. :)

Spotlight: Labyrinth Lost

Check out an exclusive first chapter of Labyrinth Lost by Zoraida Cordova!!

The second time I saw my dead aunt Rosaria, she was dancing.

Earlier that day, my mom had warned me, pressing a long, red fingernail on the tip of my nose, "Alejandra, don't go downstairs when the Circle arrives."

But  I was seven and asked too many questions. Every Sunday, cars piled up in our driveway, down the street, around the corner of our old, narrow house in Sunset Park, Brooklyn. Mom's Circle usually brought cellophane-wrapped dishes and jars of dirt and tubs of brackish water that made the Hudson River look clean. This time, they carried something more.

When my sisters started snoring I threw off my covers and crept down the stairs. The floorboards were uneven and creaky, but  I was good at not being seen. Fuzzy, yellow streetlight shone through our attic window and followed me down every flight until I reached the basement.

A soft hum made its way through the thin walls. I remember thinking I should listen to my mom's warning and go back upstairs. But our house had been restless all week, and Lula, Rose, and I were shoved into the attic, out of the way while the grown-ups prepared for the funeral. I wanted out. I wanted to see. 

The night was moonless and cold one week after the Witch's New Year, when Aunt Rosaria died of a sickness that made her skin yellow like hundred-year-old paper and her nails turn black as coal. We tried to make her beautiful again. My sisters and I spent all day weaving good luck charms from peonies, corn husks, and string- one loop over, under, two loops over, under. Not even the morticians, the Magos de Muerte, could fix her once-lovely face.

Aunt Rosaria was dead. I was there when we mourned her. I was there when we buried her. Then, I watched my father and two others shoulder a dirty cloth bundle into the house, and I knew I couldn't stay in bed, no matter what my mother said.

So I opened the basement door.

Red light bathed the steep stairs. I leaned my head toward the light, toward the beating sound of drums and sharp plucks of fat, nylon guitar strings.

A soft mew followed by whiskers against my arm made my heart jump to the back of my rib cage. I bit my tongue to stop the scream. It was just my cat, Miluna. She stared at me with her white, glowing eyes and hissed a warning, as if telling me to turn back. But Aunt Rosaria was my godmother, my family, my friend. And I wanted to see her again.

"Sh!" I brushed the cat's head back.

Miluna nudged my leg, then ran away as the singing started.

I took my first step down, into the warm, red light. Raspy voices called out to our gods, the Deos, asking for blessings beyond the veil of our worlds. Their melody pulled me step by step until I was crouched at the bottom of the landing.

They were dancing.

Brujas and brujos were dressed in mourning white, their faces painted in the aspects of the dead, white clay and black coal to trace the bones. They danced in two circles- the outer ring going clockwise, the inner counterclockwise- hands clasped tight, voices vibrating to the pulsing drums.

And in the middle was Aunt Rosaria.

  Her body jerked upward. Her black hair pooled in the air like she was suspended in water. There was still dirt on her skin. The white shirt we buried her in billowed around her slender legs. Black smoke slithered out of her open mouth. It weaved in and out of the circle- one loop over, under, two loops over, under. It tugged Aunt Rosaria higher and higher, matching the rhythm of the canto.

The the black smoke perked up and changed its target. It could smell me. I tried to backpedal, but the tiles were slick and I slid toward the circle. My head smacked the tiles. Pain splintered my skull and a broken scream lodged in my throat.

The music stopped. Heavy, tired breaths filled the silence of the pulsing red dark. The enchantment was broken. Aunt Rosaria's reanimated corpse turned to me. Her body purged black smoke, lowering her back to the ground. Her angles cracked where the bone was brittle, but still she took a step. Her dead eyes gaped at me. Her wrinkled mouth growled my name: Alejandra. 

She took another step. Her ankle turned and broke at the joint, sending her flying foward. She landed on top of me. The rot of her skin filled my nose, and grave dirt fell into my eyes.

Tongues clucked against crooked teeth. The voices of the circle hissed, "What's the girl doing out of bed?"

There was a scent of extinguished candles and melting wax. Decay and perfume oil smothered me until they pulled the body away. 

My mother jerked me up by the ear, pulling me up two flights of stairs until I was back in my bed, the scream stuck in my throat like a stone.

"Never," she said. "You hear me, Alejandra? Never break a Circle."

I lay still. So still that after a while, she brushed my hair, thinking I  had fallen asleep.

I wasn't. How could I ever sleep again? Blood and rot and smoke and whispers filled my head.

"One day you'll learn," she whispered.

Then she went back down the street-lit stairs, down into the warm red light and to Aunt Rosaria's body. My mother clapped her hands, drums beat, strings plucked, and she said, "Again."

This is Where it Ends Celebratory Giveaway!

 

So guys, remember when I raved about This is Where it Ends? 

Looks like I had good reason to, because it is now a #1 New York Times Bestseller! 

Not to mention it's been on the bestseller list for 25 WEEKS! 

To celebrate, Sourcebooks Fire is offering a HUGE GIVEAWAY of 25 book bundles, with ONE GRAND PRIZE WINNER receiving a $25 Barnes & Noble giftcard AND a book bundle! 

Giveaway starts today, September 2 at 2pm (ET) and will run until September 9 at 12pm (ET)!!

GIVEAWAY IS NOW CLOSED!

Good luck everyone!!

I'm Thinking of Ending Things

I don't even know how to begin reviewing this book. That's how much I hated it. So please beware that this review will be incredibly biased. Apologies in advance.

 For starters, when I started reading this book I was reading the point of view as a man. Surprise, main character is actually a very dull girl.The story starts with her thinking of ending things with her boyfriend Jake. BUT for some reason, she has agreed to go on a road trip to meet his parents and see his childhood home. 

The first third of the story is told in the truck on the way to Jake's parents house. Everything they talk about is SO philosophical if you will. Jake knows oodles of annoying science facts and randomly shares them with her. Whereas she spends a lot of time in her head wondering why she agreed to this trip, knowing that she wants to end things (which let me tell you that exact phrase is used in the book at least 600 times). 

SO, they finally make it to Jake's parents house. Jake makes a show of touring the outside of the home, where the barn is, the horse, oh and the dead pigs that just hangout in the pig pen. Once they go inside, she wanders around (I don't know about you but being in someone house for the first time does not grant you access to every single room in the house for you to peep your nose into). His parents keep telling her how great it is that he's found someone like her; how she keeps him grounded. Then randomly at dinner, his mother says she hears the voices too. At the end of the visit, his mother seems genuinely scared for them to leave. 

Last third of the book we are back in the truck and headed home when Jake decides to stop for ice cream in the middle of a snowstorm. Ya, okay good idea.

When their lemonades start melting he decides to drive down a very deserted road to throw the cups away at a school he remembers. When they decide to just make-out in the truck a little, Jake supposedly sees the janitor watching them from inside the school, freaks out, and takes off to show him who's boss. 

Once Jake doesn't come back, she decides maybe she should go in and find him. This sends her on a massive hunt to find Jake, but she's not going to find him because there was no janitor, it was just Jake trying to trap her in the school so that he can hunt her...

**BEWARE SPOILERS BELOW:**

The ending of the book was so terrible. So inaccurate. So absurd. So confusing. So ridiculous. At literally the turn of a page, she begins acting as if she and Jake are together hiding from the janitor. Except she and Jake are not together. When she finds him, he says that he needs her help ending things. Then he hands her a metal wire and she stabs herself in the neck and makes the decision to end things right then and there. BUT Jake is actually the one that stabs himself in the neck. The girl was never real. Jake was never real. The only person that died is the janitor in the school. Who SUPPOSEDLY when he spent hours bleeding out from his neck wound, he began writing this story and Jake and the girl were the main characters.

THIS BOOK HAD SO MUCH POTENTIAL. But it was awful. I think I should have ended this book before I even started it. So read at your own risk, but I highly recommend not wasting your time.