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There are only seven weeks until my book comes out. Seven weeks until my baby is birthed and the world gets a glimpse of what my mind looks like.

Since I’m a wreck, between the holidays and finishing up Love in the Fast Lane book 2, here’s an excerpt from the opening of Crazy on You…releasing in seven weeks.

 

Chapter One

Leave it to me to fall asleep in the back of my car…and wake up kidnapped.
Deep voices blended into the rumble of the engine. It stuttered and shimmied before settling into a whining rest that rocked all the way to the carpeted back seat where I hid.
My eyes scrunched tight and my heart wanted to curl up and sploosh out of my chest like the last vestiges of toothpaste in the tube. Sweat trickled down the valley of my boobs and ended in the dip of my thighs.
Buried under material, each pant of breath seared my nostrils as fresh oxygen was replaced with the sour smell of the good times I’d enjoyed at dinner. Intended as donations for Goodwill, the clothes and blankets would apparently now become my funeral shroud.
Most people could escape a bad dream once they woke up. It was my luck to discover reality was the true nightmare.
A low squeal of tires pitched me forward. Cloth fibers scraped against my cheek and shoved my glasses against my forehead. My stomach swished, a wave of nausea crashing and receding against the back of my throat. Only the grace of God and a large trash bag full of clothes breaking the fall of my face kept me from moaning and drawing the thieves’ attention.
I swallowed, plastic and acid bittersweet on my tongue. Whoever had said the root of all evil was money had never indulged in a bottle of Jose Cuervo.
“This car is trashed.” A male spoke, tone somewhere between a two-packs-a-day habit and the wheezing of a sinus-infected bulldog. A pause. Then, “What’s that smell?”
The rough crunch of paper. “Probably whatever’s in this crusty old Burger King bag.” This voice wasn’t as deep and gravelly as the first, but still belonged to a dude.
People were in my car. Strange, judgy people at that. I’d end up an episode of Nancy Grace. Just like Mama had always warned.
My heartbeat echoed in my ears. Starbursts exploded at the sides of my vision, luring me into unconsciousness. I resisted. My glasses fogged in the confined space as I panted quietly.
“This car must belong to some hoarder or pack rat.” The smoking bulldog’s voice drowned out under a scrape and thump.
Whatever vestiges of alcohol were left in my system sweated out, as each frantic heartbeat replenished my blood with fresh oxygen. My fingers clutched the bag against my face. How dare these men criticize my personal habits? They were the ones stealing a car. Oakvale wasn’t an urban area like New York City or D.C. but it had its fair share of crime. Joyriding and theft were common. So was murder. Kidnappings were rare but had been known to happen.
I’d never thought it would happen to me.

 

You can add Crazy onYou to your Goodreads list here.