Read the First TWO Chapters of Blurred Lines!
Have you thought about snagging up my contemporary romance, Blurred Lines, but would rather see what it’s all about first?
I got you, boo.
Check out the first two chapters here and then make sure you go grab your copy on Amazon to finish the story. It’s free on Kindle Unlimited!
BLURRED LINES, A SECOND CHANCE CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE, IS OUT NOW!
***
CHAPTER ONE
AVA
You Got Lucky by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
***
March, 2010
He shakes his hair out of his eyes and flips through albums at The Vinyl Kitty—my favorite record shop in all of Chicago. I don’t want to be standing here, gawking at him, but my eyes are drawn to him.
He’s tall, so fucking tall, easily six-foot-four or five. I can tell he works out from the size of his biceps, yet he doesn’t look like a typical gym dude. My eyes trail from his arms to his shirt—a Bob Seger concert tee. Intriguing. I wonder if he’s more of a We’ve Got Tonight or Old Time Rock N’ Roll kind of guy.
His hair is dark, matching mine. I like the way he’s left just a little bit of scruff on his face. His Converse look like they’re falling apart, like he’s been to a lot of places in them.
He stands dead center, in the rock section, one row away from me. I’ve never been the type of girl to walk up and introduce myself to a guy, but he makes me want to. It isn’t love at first sight—I don’t believe in that garbage—but it might be infatuation at first sight. I feel a slight pull toward him. Like the universe has conspired to put me directly in his path.
He turns in my direction, and I snap my head down to the bin of albums in front of me so hard I think I’ve given myself whiplash. I start thumbing through them like I’ve been doing this the entire time.
“Hey,” he says, and when I don’t answer, because I’m blissfully unaware that he’s speaking to me, he says it again.
I look up and around, trying not to seem too obvious. When we finally make eye contact, I see his are a beautiful emerald green—the kind you can get lost in, make bad decisions because of, and swoon over.
“Come here often?” he asks.
Did he really just use that line? My face must display my thoughts, because he immediately starts in again, smiling. My God, his smile.
“Yeah, that was stupid. My bad.” He laughs, walking my way, where he extends his hand over the albums that separate us. “I’m River.”
I take his hand in mine and he’s fire to my ice.
“You’re freezing,” he observes. “What’s your name?”
I forgot to tell him my name. Jesus Christ, this is going really well. “Ava Keyes.”
“Well, Ava Keyes,” he starts, smiling at me again—and his teeth are damn near perfect, blinding white, “The Doors or Black Sabbath?”
I laugh, nervously. “That’s kind of like asking me to compare apples to oranges.” I stare at him as he holds both albums up on either side of him. “The Doors would get my vote every time, though. Jim Morrison is one of the greats—a lyrical genius.”
He nods, cocking his head to the side and pursing his lips a little. “Hm.” He studies me, looking me up and down, and I’m fully aware that he’s taking me in. “Thank you, Ava Keyes. It was very nice to meet you.” With that, he flashes another toothy smile—placing the Black Sabbath album back in its place—and walks over to the cash register with The Doors album in hand.
I stand and stare at the space he’s left me in, wondering what the fuck that was all about. Until I hear the bells chime, signaling his departure.
I walk around to the spot he’d stood in while browsing, happy to see two more of the same record. My fingers make their way to The Doors album and I trace the lines of Jim’s face, admiring him, then I turn to head to the checkout.
Right before I leave, Frankie—the owner of the shop, and one badass seventy-year-old tattooed and pierced grandma—calls out to me.
“Ava!” She rushes around the counter toward me, her bright pink mohawk staying in perfect place. “I almost forgot to give you this. That guy who just took off, he left this for you.”
She hands me a small folded piece of paper—with a phone number—that reads:
“There are things known, and things unknown, and in between are the doors.”
Call me, Ava Keyes.
***
CHAPTER TWO
AVA
We Are Family by Sister Sledge
***
Everything I’ve learned about life, love, and being a decent human has come from my father. He’s my number one go-to, the coolest dad to ever exist, and he likes to remind me of it often.
My family is comparable to the annoyingly perfect sitcom kind. My mom and dad were high school sweethearts who married at nineteen, had me at twenty-one, and my brother Dillon at twenty-four. The only time I can even remember things being almost rocky is when we were waiting to receive an answer on my brother’s autism diagnosis. But even if—or when—they were struggling, they never let it show.
I want a love like my parents have, the kind that sweeps you off your feet. I want a family like mine, even if we are the annoyingly perfect kind.
My mother glances over at my father. “Honey, can you please get a haircut? It isn’t the seventies anymore, and I love you, but you’re starting to make the neighbors think we just smoke doobies and listen to music all day.”
My dad turns to look at her, obviously perplexed. He arches just one brow and brings his hand to his chin, rubbing at his blonde scruff. “Honey,” he playfully mocks her, “isn’t that exactly what we do?”
“Hey!” Dillon yells out. “Drugs are bad. It isn’t something to joke about.”
“Dill, there’s nothing wrong with taking a load off.” My father flashes a grin, puffing at an imaginary joint, and my mom swats him on the arm.
“You’re right, babe. Your father thinks he’s hilarious,” she says, patting Dillon on the shoulder before she returns to washing dishes.
But I know that wasn’t all joke. I found a joint in his nightstand when I was looking for money for takeout when they went to see The Eagles last summer. I know all about their little recreational activities. My mom would never admit that, though. At least not to us. While the two of them are pretty open with us, that’s a line she won’t cross.
I admire the doodle my dad is concentrating on. He always has a sketchbook with him, insisting that inspiration can strike at any time.
He’s a freelance graphic designer, one of the most talented artists I’ve ever known. My mom, on the other hand, works solely with the left side of her brain. She’s an executive at a record label here in the city. She’s less artistic, more conservative all around. They balance each other out.
“Dad, what’s this one?” Dillon asks. The Devil Went Down to Georgia blares on the stereo. He’s been trying to learn the names to our parents’ favorite songs.
While our father explains the origin of the ballad, I remember being a few years younger and asking him these same questions. Now, at seventeen, I can name them all easily.
I love both my parents equally—most of the time—but I have a connection to my dad that runs deep. It’s almost as if we’re the same person, just in different bodies.
When I was younger, he’d always tell me, “Kid, there’s going to be good days and bad days. You’ll have them both. It’s inevitable. But as long as you’ve had more good days than bad, you know you’re doing all right.”
When I was sad after our dog died, or because a friend moved away, he gave me the same quick pep talk. It helped me realize I wouldn’t be sad forever, so I could put things into perspective. So I could understand these were just small blips on my radar. Soon I’d have another dog I’d grow to love, or another friend to hang out with. There would always be more good days than bad.
Dillon starts galloping around the kitchen, breaking me from my thoughts. “Lookin’ for a soul to steal!” he half-sings, half-shouts.
I look over to my parents, who are both now sipping from their matching coffee mugs and having a silent conversation with their eyes.
Yeah, we’re that family. The one that loves hard as hell and is probably about to get a noise complaint from the neighbor for the third time this week.
***
I sit cross-legged on my bed and look around my room. These walls have changed so many times over the years. From lime green, to hot pink, even black. Now, they’re white. Fresh and clean. They’re home to old school rock posters and shadow boxes with ticket stubs.
My bedroom is a sanctuary. Like, an actual sanctuary. It’s where I go to recharge. My beta fish, the plants on my dresser, even down to the fresh lilac candle that’s burning, it all adds to my comfort. A different kind of peace I feel only in here. My mom says I should practice yoga whenever I feel stressed, but I feel like that’s some woo-woo hippie shit I don’t need. Junior year has been stressful. The ACT is coming up, but I have zero motivation to study. I know exactly what I want to do when I grow up, although I already feel like an adult.
I want to be a writer. I want to make people feel something. To take them out of their world and into a different one. Right now, my writing consists of poetry and short stories, but one day I’ll be a real writer, writing real novels. My words will be out in the world for everyone to read.
I pick up the note River left for me at the record shop, running my fingertips over the words he wrote. It’s been two days. I’m nervous to call him. He probably thinks I’m not going to, but I’m just trying to muster up the courage to actually do it. I’ve never had a guy do something like that for me. Sure, I’ve dated, but his note was swoon-worthy. Mysterious.
My dad swings open my bedroom door and I smile at him, unable to ever be mad when he doesn’t knock. Now, if it were my brother or mom, I’d be fuming. But my dad, he gets free rein. It’s an unspoken rule between us.
He has a soda in his hand as he smiles back and extends the blue can toward me. I take it, gratefully.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, old man?” I ask, popping the top on the can before taking a quick swig.
“Ah, just needed to escape the chaos for a bit. Figured you’d be listening to some good jams. What do you have there?” he asks, nodding to the paper in my hands.
I immediately fold it and tuck it underneath the pillow resting behind my back. “Oh, nothing, Dad. Just…” All words leave my brain. “Nothing.” My voice shakes when I say it, and he gives me a suspicious stare.
He walks over to my bookshelf, quickly turning around and then swiping the note from its safe spot. Or, what I thought was a safe spot.
“Hey!” I shout, laughing. Annoyed, but somehow still laughing because that’s what he does to me.
“Ooh la la,” he says, in a high-pitched voice that makes me want to die inside. “Who is this River dude? He likes my buddy Jim, I see.” His eyes grow wide, a goofy smile spreading across his face while he waits for my answer.
Weighing the pros and cons of telling him, I decide it’s better to just spill it than continue to deal with his badgering. “He’s just a random guy I met at The Vinyl Kitty.”
“A random guy? Random guys don’t typically write you love notes, kid.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “Dad, a love note—really?”
“I’ll be right back, Aves,” he says, turning on his heels and hurrying out of my room.
What’s he doing? Is he going to get Mom so they can both try to get it out of me?
I go after him, walking down the long hallway to where I hear him rummaging through what sounds like papers.
“Dad, what on earth?” I round the corner to my parents’ room and see him digging through a clear plastic bin.
“Ah-ha!” he declares, clenching a paper in his fist and holding it above his head like he’s just won an award. “I knew I’d find it.” He flashes another one of his silly smiles.
“You’ve officially lost me, Father.”
“Let me recite this beaut’,” he says.
My god. The Jim Morrison thing really has him going.
He clears his throat. “Love, just a quick note to tell you I love you. And remember, like Jim says, ‘It’s like gambling somehow. You go out for a night of drinking and you don’t know where you’re going to end up the next day. It could work out good or it could be disastrous. It’s like the throw of the dice.’ Last night was great. Winking face—”
“Dad, what the hell! Too far! I don’t care how your night went. Gross.” I feel the contents of my stomach threaten to come back up.
“Oh, kid, it’s just sex. Relax. Your parents made you and your brother. You know that, right?” He laughs. “My point is, this is a guy after my own heart. This is a note I wrote to your mother after we…you know…for the first time. A Jim Morrison quote, Aves! I feel like this might be meant to be. Who is River, and have you utilized that phone number he left you?”
He seems excited—too excited. He’s normally over-the-top critical if I even have remote interest in a guy.
“So,” I start, “let me get this straight.” I look my father dead in his aqua blues. “You’re telling me, to call a random guy I met in a record shop. You are condoning this. You do realize he could be a psychopath, right?”
“Kid, anyone who writes Jim Morrison quotes on notebook paper and goes to The Vinyl Kitty is our type of guy. I’ll get you some pepper spray, just in case. But call the dude. This is going to be good.”
Did you enjoy those first two chapters? Snag it from Amazon here!
xo
Victoria
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