My First Favorite First Kiss: A Halloween Treat

Hey! It’s me. Doing the irregular blog post thing. LOL

I have something special for you this time, though. You see, given that it’s fall and Halloween season, and people are wandering around corn mazes and all of that…I thought I’d do a special post with chapter 8 of Blindness. I’m sharing the entire chapter of the book here. Blindness was one of the first books I published, shortly after the first two Waiting series books. It’s a bit love-triangle-ish (okay a lot love triangle-ish) so fair warning if that’s not your thing. It wasn’t always going to be that way, but when I got far enough into the story I just realized that yeah…that’s how it was going to be. A lost girl and a lost boy who just didn’t meet each other first.

I love this story. It was my favorite first kiss scene for a really long time (my new favorite first kiss is Joss and Wes by the way…for now). I love that scene so much, I did a fun little partnership with two of my favorite narrators – Kai Kennicott and Wen Ross. They’ve narrated a lot of my books – you can find all my audiobooks here – and while Blindness is not fully narrated (*I really hope to have it fully done one day – audiobooks are tricky and an expensive endeavor though) I at least have this very special best first-kiss. And it’s in a corn maze, amidst a haunted house, with fall and Halloween and the chill in the air all swirling around a kiss that shouldn’t but did and just had to because…well…fate.

So if you’d like to listen – here you go! And if you love Kai and Wen…check out some of my other audiobooks! I think you’ll love the listen!

If you’d like to read…I’m sharing the chapter below. Also…Blindness is on sale for .99 the week, and FREE in Kindle Unlimited! It’s my little Halloween treat for you all! I hope you enjoy. If not, maybe dive in to the Reeses. 😉

Blindness by Ginger Scott
Chapter 8 Excerpt – Copyright Ginger Scott

Chapter Eight CATCH ME IF I FALL

Gabe and Cody both dropped me off at my car after the diner, and by the time I got home, I had one missed call from Trevor. He was already gone by the time I called him back, “Out with the Sumners,” he said. In my message, I told him I had been at tutoring and just ate dinner on campus since his parents are never really here for a formal dinner.

Trevor didn’t call me back until the morning, and when he did, our conversation was short and sweet—which left me little time to spin lies. Trevor’s excited about my trip, and part of me is, too. But not as excited as I am to go to a haunted house with Cody. I’ve turned into a junior-high girl, and I can’t seem to stop the onslaught of bad decisions I’m making. I’m an addict.

In full-on withdrawals, I’m standing in the middle of my bathroom, my hair wrapped in one towel, and my body wrapped in another. I felt like a child yesterday at the restaurant when that waitress caught Cody’s attention, and I want to make a statement tonight—but what that statement is I have no idea.

I don’t really have a style. I’m vanilla—plain, blank…a canvas. I know how to put on make up, but I always seem to turn out looking like I’m ready for a graduate exam or an interview. I sift through my closet, which is full of blazers and blouses and tailored pants. During my internship, I work in a drafting studio at a high-top desk most of the day—my look, the only one I seem to have, revolves completely around this one small fact of my life.

I’m almost sad that I’m so void of color and identity, but I’m not even aware enough to be sad. I step out into my room and slide open the iPad for inspiration, going to some of the popular fashion websites. I blow past the pictures of pencil skirts and heels—I’m going to be walking through corn, so I need to be practical at some level. I land on the celebrity pages, and then it hits me.

I rush to my dresser and pull out black leggings and slide them up my legs. I drop the towels from my head and body and walk to my closet. Flipping through the hangars almost manically, I finally spot the gray sweater hanging sideways, half folded, on a wooden hanger in the back. I slip it on, and follow it up with my warm Ugg boots.

The neckline is low enough that you can sometimes get a glimpse of the lacy black bra I wear underneath. It’s a risk, but I feel up to the dare tonight. I dry my hair and tip the ends with a curling iron so my golden-brown locks are soft against the dark gray of my top. I go heavy on the eye shadow, and keep my lips simple with a little gloss. And when I back away, I’m almost stunned by what I see in the mirror.

I look hot—and I somehow pulled this off all on my own!

I’m smirking at my reflection when I hear a slight tapping on my bedroom door. My eyes shoot wide at the sound, and I’m dashing about the room, tossing towels and ugly clothing into the closet on the floor—like I’m hiding the evidence.

Cody’s back is turned when I finally open the door. I bite my lip, nervously anticipating his reaction—hoping he has one.

“Hey, so, do you mind if we take your car? My truck’s—” he freezes mid-sentence, his eyes roaming the full scope of my body— literally head to toe. “Holy…”

I can’t help the smile on my face. Even though my cheeks feel like they’re about to pop from emitting so much heat, I love the attention. “Is this…okay?” I ask, stretching out my leg to show off my boots. “I wasn’t really sure what to wear. I’ve never been to anything like this.”

Cody just continues to stare, no blinking, no breathing, only his eyes falling once again down the length of my body. I try to mask it as best I can, but I let myself take him in now. He’s wearing black jeans with a pair of purple DC’s. His shirt is a dark gray thermal that he has pulled over a white T. He actually styled his hair into a low hawk, and the closer I step to him, the more I take in his smell—it’s a wooded scent with a hint of orange, and I feel like I’m drunk; it’s so delicious.

I close my door and raise my eyebrows at Cody, now trying to prompt him to speak, but also loving the fact that I’ve stunned him speechless—suddenly my torturous preparation for this evening feels well worth the trouble. “You were saying?” I say.

His swallow is noticeable, and he licks his lips slightly before he talks. He starts to laugh a little, and looks down at his feet, rubbing his hand along his neck before meeting my eyes again. “Yeah, not gonna lie—I was totally checking you out just now. You…well,” he’s stam- mering, “you just…you look hot, okay? There, I said it. You look hot.”

He’s sucking in his lips tightly, trying not to show me all his cards, clearly embarrassed. Not wanting to scare him off, I let him off the hook. “Thanks,” I say, taking my turn to look down at my feet. I owe him one for what he’s just given me. “You look pretty hot yourself,” I say, biting my lip when I turn back to him.

His eyes flash with that familiar fire, and then his grin spreads. He holds out an arm for me to take, almost as if he’s leading me into the debutante’s ball rather than taking me out to some old barn and a cornfield that’s probably plagued with mice. He guides me down the stairs and is even with me, step-for-step. His walking seems to be stronger tonight, his limp barely noticeable.

We get to the front door, and he holds it open for me while I walk out. The cold air blasts me in the face instantly. Cody notices my shiver, and his arm is around me tightly again, pulling me into his body even more.

“So, I was saying we need to take your car. My truck’s in need of some new brakes, and I don’t want to get us in any trouble on the country roads,” he says.

“Oh, sure. No problem,” I respond, reaching into my purse to hand Cody my keys. He takes them in his hand and squeezes them, like he’s surprised that I would trust him with this so quickly. Truth is, I probably trust him more than anyone in my life—and that’s part of the problem.

Cody runs to the door and opens it to let me in. Once I’m inside, he dashes around the front to the driver’s side and turns the engine over to get the heat going, but he quickly jumps back out. “Be right back,” he says, shutting the door.

I watch him run, almost smoothly, up the drive to his steps. He’s back in seconds with a black leather jacket, and as soon as he gets back in the car, he drapes it over my lap. I pinch my brow a little, not sure what he means. Are my legs too exposed? Is the sweater too short?

“Cold. You looked cold. I wanted to make sure you were warm enough tonight, so I thought you could use my jacket,” he says, shrug- ging it off, and looking back to the front while he shifts the car into drive.

I look down at his jacket and start to feel it, thinking about all of the times Cody’s worn it—how much of his life has been lived in this jacket, before I knew him. It’s soft, and when I tuck my hands into the sleeves to feel the warmth, it’s comforting and smooth. I pull it up my lap to my chest, pretending that I’m using it to warm up when all I really want to do is smell it. Once I do, I’m flooded with memories of the night I spent in Cody’s arms—it smells just like him, like his room, his shop, and everything about him. I think he may have a hard time getting it back.

The car ride to the haunted house is long and quiet. Cody and Gabe mentioned it was on the other side of town, but it’s actually on the outskirts of the other side of town, in Kent. The entire trip takes about 30 minutes; most of the ride is dark, and along a road I’ve never been on. I keep glancing at Cody, trying to find a conversation starter, but I can’t seem to get the nerve. The quiet isn’t helping, either, giving me time to think about my upcoming trip to Washington, and my relation- ship with Trevor.

Two months ago, I was stashing away wedding magazines, and pining after a proposal. But suddenly I find myself hoping like hell it doesn’t come. All I want now is time. Even if the responsible thing to do is to stay with Trevor, to finish out this thing that I once thought was such a fairytale—I want these few stolen moments of what if. I’ve never had doubts, but then again, I’ve never felt temptation.

I’ve never really felt.

We pull up to the large dirt lot packed with cars and spotlights powered by loud generators, and I’m chewing my fingernails raw with worry. Cody turns the motor off and holds the keys up for me. “Want me to hang onto them?” he says, a nervous smile playing out on his face.

“Yeah. Thanks,” I say. The confidence I was filled with when he first saw me was drained during the stressful ride over here. Too much time to think, time to think about all I’m risking. I’m suddenly afraid; this diversion I’m on, this journey, is dangerous and a bad idea. I’m almost thinking of excuses to end the evening early.

Then I feel him.
I feel him.
It’s amazing what his touch does. He’s at my door and grabbing my hand, refusing to let it go once I’m standing, and instead threading our fingers together like it’s normal, something we’ve always done.

Like he’s mine, and I’m his.

I can’t help but notice the smile on his face when we approach the entrance to meet up with Gabe. He’s proud, but not like I’m some checkbox he’s accrued to meet the standards of those he’s trying to impress. I know it isn’t fair to think—Trevor’s never really made me feel like arm candy. Actually, we’ve always felt like a team. But for some reason, when I’m with Cody, it gives my relationship with Trevor new perspective, and it’s starting to feel a lot less like love.

As we walk up, Gabe nudges his arm into a girl with dark purple hair and a nose ring. I can’t help but flinch when I see her eyes zero in and scowl at my hand in Cody’s. I’m defensive, and find myself pulling in closer to him. I pretend it’s just the cold, but it’s really my irrational fear of judgment from this girl I don’t even know.

“Hey, dude. What the hell, you’re like 20 minutes late,” Gabe says, pounding his fist with Cody’s other hand, and nodding at our hands with a smirk. Cody just rolls his eyes in response and lets go.

“Hey, you,” Gabe says, opening his arms wide to give me a hug, “so glad you decided you were up for this. You’re gonna love it; I promise.”

“Oooookkkayyyyy,” I say, looking around and taking in the screams coming from all directions. I’m not really much of a horror fan, and I’m a little nervous that I might cry in front of them all.

“Hey, this is Jessie,” Gabe says, directing me to Miss Purple-Hair. She’s managed to form a friendlier smile now, but I still notice the hesi- tation in her eyes as we shake hands.

“Hi, Jessie. I’m Charlie. It’s nice to meet you,” I say, using every last socialization skill I’ve learned from Trevor—firm shake, eye contact, follow-up question. Check. “So, how’d you and Gabe meet?”

She seems to like my directness, and I can feel her ice toward me melt, if only a little.

“I’ve known these dickheads since kindergarten,” she says, punching Cody in the arm—hard.

“Oww, bitch. What the hell?” Cody says, rubbing her target, and wincing while he shakes his arm out. I think he’s pissed at first, but then he pulls her in to his side for a tight squeeze.

“Yeah, we all grew up on the same block,” Cody says, winking at Jessie before letting her go. I start to feel jealousy creep in, but she’s back at Gabe’s side the second she leaves Cody, and it’s clear from the way she looks at Gabe that he’s her only interest.

We make our way to a makeshift ticket booth, and Gabe shells out $40. Cody tries to hand him a twenty, but Gabe punches him in the chest lightly and tells him to keep it. I love watching them interact— they truly love each other, like family.

The guys walk ahead as we enter a set of gates to the farm property, and I’m trailing behind with Jessie. I can feel her urge to question me, and I know she will. I can sense how protective she is over the two boys in front of us, so I’m less offended than I was at first, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to give her anything.

“So, I hear you’re dating Trevor?” she goes right in for the kill. I have to admire her for that; she has guts, and I wish I had a fraction of them.

I rub my hand on my cheek, almost as if she slapped me with her question. I nod yes before I speak, giving myself time to form a response, not that it helps.

“Yes, we’ve been dating a little more than a year,” I say, chewing on my tongue and forcing myself to stop.

She meets my eyes and squints a little. She pushes her lips together to form a tight line and then nods. “Right. Well, I’m glad you made friends with Cody. He’s a good guy,” she says, letting the last words linger slowly on her lips, to make sure I understand. And I do—prob- ably more than I let on, or admit.

“Yes. He is,” I say, looking at him as he walks ahead of me now, his arm slung over his friend while he talks in his ear, telling him some dirty joke, or talking about the short skirt in front of them, I’m sure.

Jessie keeps her eyes on me, but she lets up her grilling for the time being. “Hey, douchebags. How about you spend some time with your dates?” she says, kicking at the back of Gabe’s shoes just enough to make him trip.

He turns around in seconds and scoops her up, racing with her to the line at the barn and swinging her around to make her dizzy. Her giggle fills the air—it’s such a foreign sound, her happiness. The way she laughs, so freely and honestly. Nothing rehearsed—just genuine life happening, in the moment.

I turn to Cody, and he smiles with tight lips, and holds his arm out once again, his hands stuffed in his pockets. I can tell he’s a little cold. “Hey, do you need this?” I ask, starting to pull my arms from the sleeves of his jacket. Cody stops me instantly and just pats my hand as he pushes it against his bicep and pulls me in close.

“I’m fine. I got that for you,” he says, looking down at me with a wanting expression. I look away quickly, knowing if I don’t, I’ll be lost. The closer we get to the door, the more nervous I am. I can hear people

screaming, and the strobe lights are giving me short glimpses of fake blood and gory faces inside, making my legs want to run. My heart is pounding, and for once, it’s not because Cody’s next to me. No, this is actual fear.

It’s our turn next, and Gabe and Jessie run in through the dark hall, screaming with laughter. I squeeze onto Cody’s arm tightly and reach up with my other hand to blot away the tear that’s forming in my eye.

I’m pretty sure I’m terrified. I’m done trying to hide it—instincts have taken over, and when we push through the first curtain and a zombie jumps out at me, I clutch onto Cody’s chest with my nails digging in hard.

Jessie and Gabe are long gone, probably joining in on the scaring fun, making others cry for help, no doubt. I’m clinging to Cody like a frightened kitten, wishing I could get closer to him and drown out the sounds. I feel his arm shift, and I panic that he’s trying to push me from him. He doesn’t; instead, he reaches around to the back of my head, pushing my face into his chest, and pulling his jacket up to protect me and hide my eyes.

I can feel his pace pick up, and I just let him guide me the rest of the way through. He steps quickly to the side, and I follow. I’m relieved when I hear a door squeak open and once again recognize the softer sounds we were hearing outside. Cody pulls me over to a bench and sits me down, then kneels in front of me.

“Charlie, are you okay? God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you’d get so scared,” he says, holding both of his hands to my cheeks and tucking my hair behind my ears. I let go of squeezing my eyes shut and open them to see Cody looking right back at me. He isn’t laugh- ing. He isn’t even smiling. He’s just focused on me, and my fear—and making it better. I take a deep breath and reach up to grab his hands.

“I’m okay. I’m okay,” I say, moving to stand. He stands with me and puts his hand under my chin.

“Are you sure?” he’s so worried. And as much as I NEVER want to set foot inside that barn again, I wouldn’t trade the way Cody’s looking at me afterward for anything. I just gulp and nod, unable to speak. He pulls me in for a hug and holds my head to his chest for a full minute before he lets go, and I’m pretty sure I could sleep standing up if it were in his arms.

“We should find Gabe and Jessie,” he says, sliding his hand down my arm and grabbing hold of my fingers. It’s clear he isn’t letting go again.

We find Gabe and Jessie at a lemonade stand, and it’s cute to watch them from a distance. They’re sharing a drink, and even after knowing each other for so long, their love seems so young and new.

“How long have they been dating?” I ask Cody.

He smiles at first, then laughs softly to himself. “Pretty much off and on since the sixth grade. She’s in every school dance picture with Gabe, minus prom—she went to that with me,” he says. I must not hide my jealous response well, because he starts to laugh when he looks at me. “Not as my girlfriend. They weren’t dating at the time, and my date had just dumped me. She felt bad.”

“Oh,” I swallow hard, embarrassed that Cody noticed my green streak. “That was nice of her, though…I can’t really see you getting dumped. Are you sure it wasn’t the other way around?”

Cody’s face gets suddenly serious, and we stop walking. “I’m sure. I was in the chair for six months after my accident, and Kyla, my ex- girlfriend? She just wasn’t up for all that.”

“Hey, man, that was awesome,” Cody leaves me and starts talking to Gabe suddenly, clearly wanting to leave the conversation we were having. I touched on something, and I can tell it was uncomfortable for Cody, something he probably prefers to keep buried, and I get that— probably more than most.

“You okay?” Jessie asks, sliding up next to me, and offering me a drink of some frozen lemon thing.

“Oh, thanks. I’m good. Yeah, that was a little intense,” I gesture to the barn. “I’m sort of a wimp.”

She laughs, and then throws an arm over my shoulder, dragging me to a section filled with rides and carnival games. “Girl, that shit’s scary as hell. I laugh the entire time so I don’t pee myself. You’re not a wimp. You made it through,” she says, slapping down a dollar for a set of three balls. She throws them at a stack of jars and knocks down every single one. The guy hands her a giant stuffed monkey, and she pushes it back at him, scrunching her face. “Just give me the little one. I don’t have room for that thing.”

Jessie tosses the tiny monkey holding a heart to Gabe and blows a kiss in the air. He hugs it like a little boy and rolls his eyes at her, laughing. “I’m gonna marry him someday, you know,” she says, chewing on a stick of gum, and holding out her hand with the pack for me. I take one, hoping it will calm my nerves.

“Yeah? You two are pretty great together,” I say. She looks right at me then, and nods.

“We are. It took awhile, growing up. But we were always great,” she says, turning back to watch her man throw darts—and miss every- thing, not just the balloons. I feel her arm slip through mine and squeeze, and I can tell I just won a level of approval—and maybe a new friend.

We spend an hour walking the game aisles, and Jessie’s the only winner. She wins a stuffed monkey for each of us, and it becomes our inside joke for the rest of the night—naming the monkeys, stealing them and hiding them, then begging to give them back.

We decide to try our hand at the corn maze before we go home. The woman at the entrance gives us each a map and a puzzle piece. If you find the other five pieces hidden in the maze, you win a pie, an entire homemade apple pie. I look at Cody with puppy dog eyes when I find this out.

“Will you win me and the monkey a pie? We want pie, pweeeeese?” I say, holding the small stuffed monkey’s hand and stroking Cody’s chest with it. He busts out laughing and throws his arm around me.

“Sure, come on, Charlie—let’s go win you a pie,” he says, waving the map over his head and pointing in the air like he’s signaling toCharge!

Cody pulls me through the entry to the maze at a quick pace, and he’s jogging at first, passing up a group of junior high girls who giggle when he says, “Excuse me.”

I watch them huddle together and cover their faces while they check Cody out, and I laugh at their exchange—both because it’s adorable to see, and because I could easily join them like we were at some slumber party, making goo-goo eyes at the cute older boy next door.

“They are sooooooo crushing on you,” I joke, elbowing him in the side. He pounds his fists on his chest at my joke, like Tarzan, which only makes me laugh harder.

“I’m all man, of course they’re crushing on me,” he says, almost on the verge of howling.

“Oh my god, you realize you’re bragging about being the pin-up dream for 12-year-olds, don’t you? Don’t get all carried away,” I say, trying to hold in the rest of my laugh.

Cody’s eyebrows lower as he turns his head to look at me and slows our walking down. He’s twisting his lips together, thinking, and then finally settles into a wide smile.

“Uh huh,” he says, and leaves it at that. He walks ahead of me a little, his posture perfect, and his hands dangling from his thumbs looped in his pockets.

“What does that mean?” I ask, brushing into his arm and catching up to his pace.

“Ohhhhh, nothing,” he says, clearly tempting me now. And of course, I set the trap.

“No, really…what does that mean,” I’m actually a little irritated now at his smugness, even though I know he’s only being playful. Cody takes a sharp turn while he’s looking at the map, and I follow him. There’s a table at the end of the passage, and we both look at each other.

“We found one!” we shout, running in the direction of the table with the black cauldron on top. Once we get there, Cody reaches in and pulls out a puzzle piece. I snap it in place with the first one we were given, and I can already tell the puzzle is going to be a pumpkin pie.

Cody holds up his hand to high-five me, but I just look at it and scowl as I walk by. I’m getting my edge back, I can tell, because Cody’s the one catching up with me now.

“Hey, don’t be mad. I was just teasing you,” he says, reaching for my arm to turn me around. I’m not really angry, and I want him to know—I don’t want him thinking I’m a drama queen. I smile when I face him, and I can tell he’s relieved.

“I know, I just hate teasing like that—makes me feel like you’re making fun of me,” I admit.

Cody’s smile falls a little at my words, and he reaches around my body to pull me in for a side hug while we’re walking. “I’m not teasing to be mean. I promise,” he says. “I was just going to say that those girls aren’t the only ones crushing on me…that’s all.”

He can’t look at me while he’s talking, and I’m so glad, because my eyes are wide with guilt, and my breath has stopped. It’s the most blatant admission he’s made about our flirting, and I’m not going to deny it, because yes—I’m crushing on Cody Carmichael. Hell, I’m doing more than that—I’m freaking falling for him!

I notice his smirk, and it matches my own. I hear him almost start to speak more than once, and each time, my heart thumps in antic- ipation.

“I have an idea—it’s a game we can play, you know, while we trek through the rest of this farmland and spend an hour looking for four puzzle pieces so you can get a pie,” he says, taunting me.

“Hey, that’s homemade pie, thank you very much!” I defend.

“Right, totally worth it then,” he says, a sassy snarkiness to his tone. I roll my eyes in response.

“Okay, what’s this game you propose?” I say, sighing a little for emphasis even though I can’t wait to hear the rules.

“Okay, well, it’s called tit for tat,” he says, and I laugh as soon as the words leave his mouth, resulting in a disapproving glare.

“Sorry,” I say, slapping my hand over my mouth to keep my reac- tion in check.

“Don’t make fun of the name. It’s just what we’ve called it for years —no judging,” he says and I nod, crossing my heart while I do. “Me and Gabe used to play with Jessie and a few of our other friends in junior high and high school. It’s sort of like truth or dare—with a twist.”

I’m intrigued. I’m not sure how much I’m willing to share, but the desire of learning some of Cody’s secrets has an undeniable pull on my heart. Cody continues to explain.

“I’ll start. Here’s how it works, I share something with you, and you have to share something equal back with me. It’s fair, because the person asking has to answer their own question first, make sense?” he asks, biting at the inside of his cheek, almost worried that I’ll pass on his idea.

I think about it, and decide there isn’t much I have left to hide from Cody, and even those sheltered parts of me are ones I’m more willing to share with him than others. My only concern is the dare part of the

game, but I feel pretty confident that Cody won’t lead me into anything dangerous or humiliating, so I go for it.

“I’m in,” I say, holding his stare, not wanting him to see the mess of nerves I am underneath it all.

We’re barely walking, and Cody lowers his brow before he speaks again. “I was 16 the first time I had sex,” he says, and whoooooooosh, all color is gone from my face. Holy hell! I didn’t think he would hit so far below the belt this early in the game. I’m not sure I want Cody to know this part, but I’m not chickening out this early. I turn away from him before I answer.

“I was 20,” I swallow, knowing he knows what this means, and who it was with. I clench my teeth while I think of my next move; I wasn’t expecting this to stress me out so much. There are so many things I want to know, so I decide to take a small risk since he asked such a personal question to start.

“I’ve only been in love once, and I don’t even know if it’s real,” I say, letting out a heavy sigh with my admission, and also bracing myself for Cody’s response.

“Me, too,” he says. His answer comes fast, but it’s short and power- ful. I know he’s talking about the girl in the picture, the girl I’m pretty sure is Kyla—the one that left him when she thought he was broken, and he probably needed her most.

“The night you slept in my room…in my arms?” he starts, his voice giving out slightly. “That’s the happiest I’ve been since my dad died.”

The heaviness of his confession smacks me hard in the chest, and I lose my footing a little. Cody notices, and pulls me next to him, but doesn’t say anything. His focus is on our feet and the path in front of us. We’re not following the map any longer, but rather meandering around winding rows of corn, avoiding the crowded areas at all costs.

I don’t know how to answer his confession, so I say the closest thing that comes to mind. “That night was the scariest decision I’ve ever made,” I say, almost a whisper. I tell him the truth, though he doesn’t know all of the details of the turmoil that played out in my heart and head that night—or now, for that matter.

“I don’t take a lot of risks,” I say, almost ashamed of the way I’ve floated through life, letting it happen to me rather than actively participating. Every experience, the painful moments and the happy ones, playing out around me like a movie. I’m never the star, but I feel it all the same.

“I take too many,” Cody says, looking down at his feet as he comes to a complete stop. He rubs his hands over his face then tucks his thumbs inside his sleeves and crosses his arms, trying to get warm. I move a little closer out of instinct. The closer I get, the more Cody fidgets, and soon he’s staring at the sky above us.

He takes in a deep breath, and blows it out slowly, letting his lips vibrate softly, before he looks at me again. Long seconds pass, then finally, his right cheek pulls up into a tight dimple, his mouth a half- smile. “I want to kiss you. I’ve wanted to since the first time we met, but I really want to kiss you now,” he says, his arms falling limp to his sides, with a tired shrug, letting it all out for me to see—his declaration a challenge, a dare, the twist to the game.

I close my eyes and force my feet to move my body closer, and I swear I can feel the nervous patter inside his chest as well. Without looking at him, knowing I’ll never be able to say what I want to say if I do, I take the dare.

“I want you to kiss me,” I say, biting my lower lip, but unable to quell the numbing tingle that’s taken over my lips and tongue. I hear his breath hitch, but I keep my eyes closed, only reaching my hands up to grip the soft fabric of his shirt for strength. I know it’s my turn, and I know I’ve gone down a road that can’t be retraced—there are no U- turns here.

Deep breath.

“For once in my life, I want to live,” I say, hoping Cody understands what I mean.

The cold air whipping through the towering stalks around us sends goose bumps all over my body, and I know I’m starting to shake visibly—both from the frosty chill in the air and the complete vulnera- bility I’m displaying. I lift my eyes open hesitantly, terrified that I won’t find Cody’s eyes looking back at me. But they are. They’re still and crystal—and deliberating. He isn’t blinking. He isn’t breathing. He’s only looking at me, trying to decide if this game he started has gone on long enough, and I’m so afraid that he thinks it has.

Cody slides his hands up from my elbows to my hands that are now clutching desperately at his shirt. His eyes never leave mine, and he never flinches. He pulls my fingers loose from his thermal, and presses my hands flat together within his, pulling them to his mouth. My insides tremble watching him as he touches his lips slowly and softly to my freezing hands, pulling me even closer while he does.

He holds them flat against his chest with one hand, while he slides his other hand along the side of my neck, his thumb stroking the line of my chin first, and then my bottom lip. His eyes leave mine for the first time when he does this, his attention lost to my mouth, and when his tongue slips slightly from his parted lips and grazes his teeth, I shiver.

Cody is taking his time; it’s sweet and wonderful, and achingly torturous—I never want this to end. He pushes his fingers deeper into my hair while he erases the few inches left between us. He drops his other hand from mine, which are now locked onto his chest, and slowly sweeps the few strands of hair blowing across my face to the side and behind my other ear.

He pulls my face close to his, and I watch as his eyes lock onto mine—neither of us willing to close them, wanting to witness every moment of this. His gaze flicks to my lips again, and I hold my breath in anticipation. The first touch is gentle, a taste of what’s to come. The next time Cody pulls my top lip in between both of his, teasing me with his teeth and a soft stroke of his tongue, which fills my body with a rush of need and want so strong that I open wide in response.

My hands slide from his chest to his back, holding him closer, and not wanting to let go. With my permission, Cody slides his tongue deeper into my mouth with a sensual push and pull, his lips strong and hungry against mine. He keeps one hand in my hair, holding my head tightly to his, while his other hand slides down the side of my body, his thumb barely grazing my breast along the way. His hand comes to rest on the lower part of my back, and I bow to the pressure of his strength as he moves me even closer into him.

I feel him, every bit of him, hard and hot and strong against me, and I’ve never felt more alive. I know in that second that if we weren’t in the middle of a field surrounded by families, and strangers, and—oh god—Cody’s best friends…I wouldn’t be able to stop. I would give in—give myself over to him.

We both pull back at the same time when we hear the familiar giggles closing in on us, but our hands are still linked when Gabe and Jessie round the corner and scream out of surprise from running into us. I feel the sweat cover my body instantly—unsure if it’s from the panic at being caught or the desire coursing through me.

I notice Jessie’s reaction, and I’m not sure if it’s a smirk or a warning, but at this very moment I don’t care—I don’t care that what I did was possibly the most wrong decision I’ve ever made, or that I might be throwing away everything safe based on a kiss. All I care about is that Cody’s fingers are still looped through mine, and our pulses are in sync.

“Look!” Gabe says, holding up a baggie with a complete set of puzzle pieces, completely oblivious to our out-of-breath panting, “Free pie!”

Bred Is Going Live!

In case I haven’t been obnoxious enough shouting about this book in all corners of my digital universe…BRED is about to go live or already is depending on where you are and what time you’re reading this!

I’m so in love with this story. And I have to admit, writing it scared the ever-loving crap out of me. At its heart, Bred is a coming-of-age love story inspired by Great Expectations. The Dickens classic happens to be one of my favorite books of all-time. Add this formula up and you get gut-unsettling fear.

But I didn’t want to let intimidation stand in my way. This was a scary thing I wanted to tackle–one that I wanted to slay. And I am so very proud of how BRED came out. It’s a unique story, but classical as well. There are small nods (and a few bigger ones) woven into the story to pay homage, but there’s also a lot of me.

Dark and wonderful. That’s what someone told me after an early read. That small review made my heart feel full, and I hope this story does the same for you.

In case you’re still waiting for it to go live (it will be on Amazon and Free in KU by the way!), here’s a small taste. I wanted to share a short excerpt just to give you an idea of what’s to come.

Enjoy! And if you read on and enjoy Bred, I would love your review.

Find BRED here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07RKK8P4L

Excerpt from BRED by Ginger Scott
(copyright Ginger Scott – 2019)

“Lily, I love watching you play. I really do. And you’re getting so good. You’re better than me now. God, that first day! Remember how I played the piano?”

“I thought you were amazing,” I say, the goofy grin tickling my cheeks.

“You just thought I was cute,” he says with a tilt of his head. Arrogant and adorable. “I was awful. I know, like…six chords.”

He takes my hands, urging me to my knees in front of him as he places my hands on his chest. He spreads my fingers out and looks down.

“You can play Chopin.” He runs his thumbs over my knuckles, and I fan my fingers along his chest, then play what I remember of the most recent piece I’ve tried. I’m not nearly as good as he says, but he seems so convinced and that makes me think maybe I’m better than I say.

My fingers drum along his chest while his hands hover just above them with the occasional light, feather touch.
“What is this called?”

His lashes are like deep flecks of gold as he looks down at his chest. I love looking at him from this angle, the playful tinge on his lips and new stubble aging his young cheeks. He smells like aftershave sometimes when we’re up here on the rooftop. I like it.

“Polonaise-Fantaisie,” I say, drawing the word out with a curl to my tongue. Henry’s face lifts and his eyes glimmer, narrowing on my lips first, then lifting to my gaze.

“Can you play that for real?”

I move my hands to the right along his body for a run, then lift briefly and move back to the center to tap, just as I would on the keys. My teeth grip my top lip and I shrug.

“I’m working on it. I’m not smooth yet, but it’s getting better.”

I keep thrumming my fingers on his body as I stare at him, but eventually his gaze begins to make me flush, so I look back to my hands. His cover mine when I do, flattening them against his chest and bringing them together so he can hold on with his right hand and move his left to my chin.

“I’d like to hear it tomorrow.” His eyes penetrate, and while I know he truly would, I also know that he isn’t thinking about the piano anymore.

LIFT 4 Autism Auction 2019 Now Open for Bidding!

Quick link to auction site: charityauction.bid/lift4autism

“My oldest was diagnosed with autism in 2009 just days before my husband left for Afghanistan. He was gone for eight months while I navigated the autism world alone with a two-year-old and a baby. I turned to romance books to keep my sanity. I found out about LIFT and felt so empowered that the community that helps keep me sane as I walk through autism was raising money for autism!”

— Michelle, Romance Reader & Autism Mom

It’s here! Our annual banquet for the bookish, the online auction features more than 300 signed paperbacks, hardcovers, full series sets, out-of-print covers, foreign editions, cannot-even-buy event tickets . . . and MORE, all donated by authors, publishers, bloggers, readers. Just people who wanted to be a part of something to help autism families.

Since 2016, LIFT 4 Autism, a charitable initiative organized each April by myself and Kennedy Ryan (and a whole ton of volunteers who are the most amazingly kind people in the world), has raised more than $100,000 to benefit families living with autism. All proceeds go to non-profit organizations serving the autism community. This year’s charitable partner is Kulture City, whose programs serve the autism community with compassion and generosity.

Every item up for bid is deeply appreciated! We have highlighted just a few that we anticipate being hot commodities here: http://bit.ly/LIFT19High

Here’s some FAQ about the auction and the bidding process that may prove helpful

http://lift4autism.com/auctionfaq/

★ Winning bidders will be emailed with payment instructions.

And if you don’t win your bid, you can STILL be involved!

  1. Make a tax-deductible “no amount is too big or too small” donation to our Kulture City Fund: https://bit.ly/2JLKLuP
  2. Buy LIFT Gear like t-shirts, mugs, sweatshirts, mugs, etc…
    https://teespring.com/stores/lift4autism
  3. Help share the news with others!

ABOUT OUR PARTNER:

Kulture City, with its emphasis on acceptance, accessibility and inclusion, is innovating service to the autism community. In addition to partnering with the NBA and other organizations to make stadiums sensory-friendly, they provide much-needed safety resources through their lifeBOKS program and equip autists with tablets to bridge communication gaps and open new opportunities for learning through their tablet: KULTURE program. We are so very honored to stand with Kulture City in their compassion and ingenuity.

Thank you all for helping us each and every year! Together, we LIFT for autism, and together we are mighty! XOXO

I’m going back to the start…

Let’s all take a moment to hear the Coldplay song my headline quotes in our heads. (If you don’t know the song I reference, it’s The Scientist…and that song has the power to make you cry, I tell you!)

Those words just felt fitting for this post. It’s release-eve…though by the time most of you read this post, The Hail Mary will be live and out in the world. This book…it was the end of a journey for me. I’ve been thinking about what to write here, for my regular-irregular blog post…and the thing that just kept sticking in my mind is the fact that this trilogy was a duet for so long. I keep asking myself why?

I know…I know…a lot of you have been asking me that for about five years. Six? Damn…shoot, yeah…six years. I know…I know…it always was meant to be a trilogy. I think I probably knew that deep down. But these characters, more than any I’ve ever written, are family. My bones are their bones, my insecurities are Nolan’s, my bravado is Reed’s, and the wisdom of my family members is in Buck. This series is my home. It’s rooted here, quite literally. And the truth of the matter is I never wanted to do anything to these books – the first two…Waiting on the Sidelines and Going Long – that would make them less than what they were.

Waiting was my first, and it will always be my precious baby. It’s the book I always wanted to write, and every time a girl like me finds it and identifies with it, my heart beats a little harder. Going Long was the ride. That book was fueled by joy and a new-found confidence that yes…I could do this. But their story–the story of the girl with a boy’s name and the screwed up, competitive, little jerk that she loved and forgave maybe more than she should–yeah…it wasn’t over. You guys were right. They needed their sunset.

I’ve said this a few times in posts and in various places, but this book – The Hail Mary – is the most satisfying cherry on top I could have ever written. I’m never this certain at the finish. I’m never this bold or confident at release. But I know that if you’ve loved the ride, you’re going to love this trip back home. The Hail Mary is for you. Turns out…it was for me, too.

It’s perfect.

I hope you all enjoy!

XOXO

Ginger

New Covers for Waiting on the Sidelines & Going Long

That’s right! Not only do I have a third book coming out in January to make this series complete, but the covers are all get a little update. Book 1 is just a little update, but Going Long is a whole new look – I can’t wait for you to see all three together! You’re going to love them! Check them out below!

Stay tuned for me to add the third soon! One more week for reveal!

That’s right! A new Waiting Series book is coming in January!

In case you missed it…which, I’ve been a bit obnoxious about it so kudos on being able to shut me out, yo!…but…there’s a new Waiting book coming out in January!

The Hail Mary, Waiting Series Book 3, will pick up where life left off for Reed and Nolan. Now grown up with a teenager of their own, our favorite high school sweethearts are facing down the harsh realities of a football marriage. Quarterbacks get older, life gets harder, and sometimes holding on through it all feels impossible. The Hail Mary is a story about climbing though the depths and fighting for the things we want- even when life gets ugly. Plus, you’ll get to see a few favorite moments from their past–from Reed’s point of view!

Stay tuned for cover reveals (that’s right…reveals…the series is getting a little look update) and lots of teasers, excerpts and pre-order mania! I can’t wait to share this third book in what is now a trilogy with you all! I’ve wanted to share their lives as they’ve grown older with my readers for a long time, but I knew it had to be just right. Reed and Nolan deserved my very best! I hope you love them!

Want to catch up on the series?
Start with Waiting on the Sidelines here- https://amzn.to/2pU4JXy
Going Long is book 2, and find it here – https://amzn.to/2yk3lSC

A Gang Member and a Love Story

Hey. It’s me. It’s been a little while since my last irregular blog post, and I was feelin’ one. I wanted to share a little about my new book (it releases tonight.). More pointedly, I wanted to tell you a little bit about my process writing this book. Where the genesis of it came from, where I drew inspiration and scenes, and a little bit about my old neighborhood.

I had the idea for Cry Baby a little over a year ago. It was sparked by a few things. Like a lot of themes I write into my fiction, some great reporting inspired me here. I was listening to an in-depth piece on NPR about a kid who had to run home after school and hide in his apartment because he was avoiding joining the gang that ravaged his neighborhood. If they saw you, and you were male and of the right age, you were in. It was that simple. Or rather, that complex and horrifying. He couldn’t hide at school, so he survived the torment there. I think about that boy and his story often, wondering if he made it out alive, or if he was sucked in.

The rest of my inspiration came from my world. I grew up in a part of Phoenix that often led the state in gang activity. My street happened to be a few hundred yards away from the one two rival gangs used to divide up territory. I used to have this recurring dream because of some of the things I’d seen and heard, and I had just had it for the first time in years right before I started this book–it had maybe been a decade. The dream always goes like this: Me and my dad are pulling out of a gas station that vaguely resembles the one on the corner of the main street in my old neighborhood. I’m always a young teen girl, twelve or thirteen, and my dad is always in his forties. It flips to slow-motion, and both my dad and I see a car slow down and begin to turn into the gas station, the passenger-side windows facing us and two men leaning out the windows with guns turned to the side and ready to fire. We’re just in the way, but it doesn’t matter. They begin to shoot. Glass shatters. Sometimes my dad is hit in his arm or his chest. He’s never killed, but we’re always both terrified. He pulls me down and ducks above me, shouting at me to push the gas because for some reason he’s no longer able. I always push it with my hand while he turns the wheel, and sometimes I can feel our car dip into the gutter and level out on the road back home. Sometimes we crash. Sometimes, we just keep turning and driving, in circles while bullets pierce our car. It goes on like this until I wake up.

It’s always the same dream. Always so real feeling. I covered a shooting at that very gas station for the newspaper when I was fresh out of college. But this last time I woke up from the dream with a strange feeling. I used to write the dream off to things I heard about at school, to the gun shot sounds we could hear at night from the living room of the house I grew up in, or to the boys I watched grow up in grade school only to read about their incarceration or tragic death in high school or after graduation. This time, though, I woke up thinking about Tristan. He had a name. He had a backstory, and a tragic existence. He was trapped in the same dream I was, and he was loud and demanding. His prologue flew out in minutes. The rest of his story would take a lot longer.

I ruminated about Cry Baby for months, while I worked on other projects. I spent time in my old neighborhood, revisiting the scene of some dreadful things. I sifted through police reports from shootings I was there for, only a block or two away from the place I slept. I began to save stories about MS13, the gang that’s made a lot of news over the last few years. It’s become a political spotlight, of sorts. The saddest part to me, though, is the kids the gang members all start out as.

Kids like Tristan.

I began researching MS13 cases, and digging into old Bloods and Crips articles. Some of the stories truly broke my heart, and every single time, I thought about the young kids who didn’t have a choice. Choice is tricky. If you’re only shown one thing when you’re young, it’s hard to realize you have one. It’s harder still when you know that not falling in line might mean torture and death.

This book is one of my greatest accomplishments. It was tough to write. Honesty is that way, I think. I didn’t sugarcoat things. I gave my readers the real world that some have to survive, and that others fall to. I also hope I gave you characters to love, to root for, and to want in your lives. Maybe people we all wish we were a little bit like, too. Brave.

I hope you enjoy Cry Baby. I hope you feel it in your bones and let it simmer in your soul. I hope it hits you like that NPR story hit me, and I hope we all think about the ways we’re lucky for just a little while, even though there are often ways we aren’t.

Until next time.

XO
Ginger

Cry Baby by Ginger Scott
A Contemporary Young Adult Romance Release day: June 22, 2018 Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2rjlag4

Purchase here–>
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2MBpTnt
Google Play: http://bit.ly/2t69Wxt
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2K3WFyY
Nook: http://bit.ly/2JZEM14i
Books: https://apple.co/2M5qiNW

 

Why I Went Indie

There are two ways I reacted to the recent Guardian op-ed about reasons to not self-publish. (You can read it here.) My first reaction was ouch. Ouch because of the quotation marks around the term “indie publishing.” Ouch because the picture painted of a career I and many others are incredibly proud of, despite the “non-traditional” tracks we took, was being compared to some not-so-flattering things. And ouch because…well…I’ve heard and read this before.

My second reaction was a less emotional one. It was seasoned, likely because of that last point I made above. It was proud because of the truth woven along with the presumptions in the article. And it was inspired to offer a bit of a rebuttal and education because there are probably a lot of people like my past self out there who need the you can to combat the you can’t.  

Let me begin with a short background on how I found self-publishing. I decided to become a writer when I read my first Judy Blume chapter book at the age of twelve. (The book was Forever, for those curious or who haven’t heard me share this story before. Also, let’s just say it was several years ago.) The writing bug became solid after I read The Outsiders. I wanted to write mature young adult stories—ones that dug a little deeper than the books I’d read before. I wanted to create stories that reflected the real world of being young—all the crap, and hurt, and anxieties and battles that feel small to adults but are everything to the young people experiencing them. I also came from a family where you work hard, and you get a job, and earn a living and pay the bills. I had a deep understanding of the value of responsibility, which the life of a writer in many ways conflicted with. I found a way to blend my dream and passion with an 8-to-5 paycheck. I studied journalism. I was a bit of a rock star at it. I won awards. I wrote massive in-depth stories for magazines, and I perfected the art of painful and tedious research. I also learned the power of noting the details and delicately portraying the emotion in real-life tragedies. It enabled me to paint pictures with words and authentically translated important true stories to the masses.

I studied. And while I studied and practiced in one writing world, I imagined and slowly crafted my work in another. But there were a lot of op-eds out there like this one—a lot of tales passed along and shared at author engagements where people I looked up to told me over and over how impossible it was to stand where they were. How lucky they got. How so many people collect nothing but rejections. These warnings, at least that’s how they echoed in my head, flamed my fears. I kept crafting, but my story was quickly becoming a pipe dream. An indulgence. Until the man I married, my very best friend in the world, started convincing me otherwise.

I didn’t want to wait years. I’d put in the time. I’d become damn good at building my kind of cabinet, to borrow the analogy from the Guardian blog post. Most of the stores weren’t really selling my kind of cabinet, though. My stories were long. My genre bent rules. My young adults swore and drank and made sexual mistakes and experienced awakenings. They were, in every sense, the teens I grew up with and once was, and the teens I know exist today.

On the other side of waiting years and hoping someone would understand the need for these stories I had burning in my soul was, to put it in my lingo, a hella-ton of hard work. I got that—that…was not scary. It was just hard work. It was time, and faith in my art, and diligence, and persistence. It was initial expense for something I believed in. It was paying for quality editing, buying or directing emotive images, and yes—it was marketing. But it wasn’t rocket science. It wasn’t brain surgery. It wasn’t some crazy formula I didn’t understand. It was time, and hard work.

It was possible.

Mine happened to pay off. Even if it hadn’t, though, I wouldn’t have done anything differently. If I could travel back in time to visit my twenty-year-old self as she sat in an auditorium hearing all of the reasons she should give up, I’d tell her to get up and leave and start her own thing now. I’d tell her that being rich or famous isn’t the objective so who cares if she makes a work of art that only seventeen people see. I’d tell her that she’s going to be bold and do something different. And while she may not be invited to one party, she’d be welcome in a lot of others. She’d get letters from girls just like her who see themselves in her stories. She’d cry every time she read one. She’d be inspired to write these young adults something new.

Now, don’t take this as anything other than shedding light on points not brought up in the other editorial. There were lots of valid points in there, and I think in many ways praise for the people willing to swim upstream and dare. But it does get some things wrong, at least using myself and a lot of fellow independent writers I know as examples. I don’t think it was really meant to come from a mean-spirited place, despite how it felt. I think it comes from one writer’s journey—a journey that is different from mine.

I’ve heard it before.

I’ve heard it recently.

A colleague and traditionally published YA author was on a panel with me a few months back, and even after complimenting the legitimacy of my book, managed to also tell our audience that when she started she wrote as a hobby, too…like I do. I grimaced inward; she wasn’t thinking through her words as she spoke, and I knew that was the case, but it’s that thinking that ruffles feathers and fuels misconceptions. Independent publishing has come a long way, but there’s still educating to do. These types of conversations don’t happen over independent music and independent film. And both of those types of artists can win Grammys and Oscars.

All of this being said, I am still pursuing a US traditional deal. I have had novels traditionally published in other languages for foreign markets. I want to walk the traditional path from the beginning, though, to experience it and grow from it. More than anything, I want to reach young readers—the mini-me’s out there—who are shopping in the mass spaces and picking up print books from shelves. I want to give them a YA book done my way because I know in my heart they’re dying for it. I know it because I was. And I believe in my work. It’s a damn good cabinet.

Because marketing is important no matter what route you take, I’m adding a little boiler plate to the bottom of this post about me. Ginger Scott is a bestselling and Goodreads Choice nominated author who is willing to push hard for her stories to find the hearts in need of them. One day, you’ll find one of her books in one of the traditional places. She will always be proud of them all. 

 

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Special Excerpt from Memphis, My Newest Release!

I’m excited to share this one with you guys today. I don’t post a lot of excerpts on my website…but this one screams out at me, and it’s dying to be read.

Here’s a taste of Memphis.

“Come here,” he says, calling me with a finger.

I wait a second before giving in, letting my arms fall to my sides as I take the few steps from where I am to where he is. His hands wrap around my biceps as soon as I’m near enough and I breathe in fast, just once. His eyes widen a little.

“You’re stronger than you look,” he smirks.

My gaze is held by his when he speaks. He holds it hostage and when I start to look away, his hands slide down to my wrists and he shakes them lightly until I look at him again. His head tilts, and he waits until I get it.

I’m stronger than I look.

“Thank you,” I say, pulling my lip in tight, so afraid I’m not. I’m stubborn for certain. I’m hardened and jaded. I’m not sure if any of that makes me strong.

My muscles bend to Memphis’s will as he threads his fingers through my right ones and lifts my arm, his other hand holding my elbow into my side. He lets go of my fingers and wraps his palm over my knuckles forming a fist and then moves my entire arm forward slowly, stopping when my body lunges with it.

“Here. You lose everything…right here,” he says, stopping my fist where it is then placing the tips of his fingers on my hips.

Memphis’s eyes are intent on where his hand rests at my waist, and he pauses to take a breath, his tongue pinched by his teeth, his lips twitching up at the corners, his eyes blinking fast—all in a second.

I think about kissing him again right now.

“Your weight is already spent, and you haven’t even made impact with something yet. Think about it,” he says, eyes flitting up to mine.

I shake my head a little from the brief stare and silence we share.

“Okay,” I say, following his lead as he brings my arm back and steps behind me.

“You hit me hard, but that was without everything you have behind it. Imagine,” he begins, adjusting his hold on me, his right hand sliding down my arm and covering my hand, feet straddling one of mine from behind, his chest against my back, his breath at my neck and a thousand beads of nerves dotting my skin.

“You’re here,” he says, his voice low and right at my ear.

My eyes flutter when his left hand runs down the side of my body to my hip, and my breath hitches when he grips it more forcefully.

“Your opponent is standing right there. Do you see him?”

I nod.

“Yes,” I say, my voice barely audible.

“He’s cocking,” he says, and I giggle at the word while his nose moves closer to my skin, tickling against my ear. “You’re such a child.”

I clear my throat and wriggle my hips and roll my shoulders, all under his touch.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” I say, still smiling.

A short breath escapes him in laughter.

“He’s about to swing, okay?” he says, coaxing me to focus.

“Trust me.” His voice falls to a whisper, and my eyes fall closed.

Memphis drives my body, the space between us gone so much that I am lying against him while standing. His hand brings mine up, tucking it close to our bodies. His fingers splay on my thigh, and my leg feels strong. He leans with me, our bodies in sync as we twist to the left, our right shoulders stretching backward, necks rolling until we’re nearly back where we started.

“His balance is off,” he says at my neck. There are no areas of my body that aren’t affected by the vibration of his voice. “You have him. He’s yours. You have balance. His is gone. This is where you win.”

His hand holds my left side still, and his right hand brings me back to swing with a tighter form than I had before. He takes me through the motion once slowly, almost like we’re just part of some intimate ballet performance, then he brings my fist back in and tucks his chin into the side of my neck.

“Again,” he says, this time leading me through the motion faster as his hand slides from its hold on my hip to my diaphragm.

“Breathe out,” he says, and I do slowly at first, but with each swing we repeat, the motion is faster.

My air escapes with my thrust, my body something mechanical now, parts working in unison until I’m able to do it all on my own.

“Keep going,” Memphis says as he steps away. My eyes flit open, and I imagine everything that has ever hurt me. I see their faces—my parents, Enoch, the angry crowds at trials, reporters.

Memphis picks up one of the pads and steps closer as I swing, bending down to hand lift one of my abandoned gloves, eventually holding his palm out for me to pause.

“Put it on, and I want you to hit me now…not like before. Hit me with what you know. Hit me with what you feel, but always there is balance. You can’t give that away. It’s not theirs to have.”

My eyes lock on his as he slides the glove over my knuckles and I form a raw fist with my other hand. He takes two small steps back and readies himself before nodding.

I clear my lungs and consider his words and everything he just led my body through. I was so strong. I’m stronger than I think I am.

My feet shift to find the perfect fit against the mat, and I bring my hands in, fists raised and ready.

“He’s going to swing now,” Memphis says, and I react just as he taught me.

I dodge. The motion so swift and natural I barely remember doing it before my legs steady themselves, my middle twists and my arm swings forward, fist landing in the same spot as it did before only this time my body doesn’t stumble. Memphis does. Inches, but there is reaction to my action.

“Ha,” I breathe out in disbelief. My eyes lift from the fist-shaped dent in the pad to Memphis, and my lips part in awe.

“Yeah,” he says, glancing around to the front of the pad. “You did that by yourself.”

Giddiness takes over my face, my mouth stretching wide with parted lips. Memphis lets the pad fall again, and the physical proof from my force disappears as the padding evens out. It was there, though. I fought back, and left a mark. More than seeing it, I felt it. I still feel it.

“I want to do that again,” I say, blinking as my vision slides from the pad to Memphis’s proud smile.

“Baby steps, Champ. Let me show you a few drills, and then maybe you can punch me one more time before we’re done,” he says, chuckling.

“I wasn’t hitting you,” I say, handing him the glove.

He holds it in both of his hands before bending down to pick up the other glove, pairing them together. His gaze hits mine.

“I know who you were hitting.” Silence settles in for a long second. I don’t have to respond; Memphis doesn’t expect it.

 

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My New Year’s-ish Post

For the most part, in general, I’m a mess. Oh, I make it look easy on the outside. But truly, underneath the cool, calm, collected exterior is a scramble of Flintstone car proportions. Let me explain.

In accordance with one of my goals this year, I am keeping up with updating my website, social media, posts and all of that jazz a little better. In accordance with my bad habits, I am a day late for the new year’s post.

You can’t go to A+ student overnight.

So goals, yeah…

Like I said, I make them. I’m a big goal setter. I don’t reach them all right away. This goal in particular has been on the list a few times. I’m sure it will be on the list again. I’m sure I will always fall short. I’m okay with that, though.

And that…falling short, and being okay with it…is another goal this year. In fact, I think this is its first appearance, at least formally, on my goals list. And I’m sure I’ll fall short with it as well, but just putting it there, and acknowledging the fact that some things are just going to have to wait, some other things might not be in the cards, and yet others might come in different ways…this is huge for me. It’s a mental relief – letting go of a burden that screws with my emotions. And I know it will take the full year just to make a dent.

I’m pretty open about talking about my anxieties. I’ve come to learn that anxiety is almost a requirement in the writing world. Maybe you have to have a certain mental tilt to be able to imagine the worlds us writer types create. Whatever it is, my anxieties have had a direct link to my disappointments for years. I think the first time I had a pretty major, full-on panic attack, I was 17 and studying for an AP history exam in high school. A lot of things in school came easy to me, but for whatever reason, history and government didn’t stick. I had to work hard at it, boiling things down, my brain’s inclination to soak up the minutia and miss the big picture. I didn’t score enough to earn the early college credit, and the whole process made me sick with self-disappointment. Looking back through a wiser (aka older) perspective, that class and those credits didn’t matter a lick to the person I was working to become, and certainly not to the person I became. This wisdom didn’t make me any better at failing at things gracefully though, and coping with the impending disappointment.

So, in the spirit of the season, I’m making my first blog post of the year a top-5 list. This is going to be brutal and honest about myself. It’s gonna show some of my ugly parts. It’s a list of my biggest personal disappointments or flaws or frustrations that I’m either going to do something about, or let go, because in the grand scheme of things – this stuff doesn’t matter a lick. It’s all just one big AP history exam.

  1. I cannot put USA Today or NY Times bestseller on a book. It makes my stomach hurt I want it so bad even though it doesn’t really matter. It’s pretty much proven. Readers don’t really care. I still want it, though. If it ever happens, I will cry. A lot. Happy cry. It’s one of those things I’ve dreamt about since I saw the superlative on a King book when I was 12 or 13. I make a living doing something I love, and 99.9 percent of the time that is bliss–it’s enough. But damn that .1 percent. It’s a sense of legitimacy perhaps. It’s an Oscar. It’s the writer equivalent to “bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded, Ginger steps up to the plate.” I’m not going to be able to let this one go. Believe me, I’ve tried. The fantasy creeps right back in. I am, however, going to do something about it. I’m going to write my ass off. Because that’s the only thing I can control. And while it might not happen this year, some year, in the future history of those two media empires, one of them will put a book of mine on a list. And even if I’m 80, you’re all invited to the party.
  2. Trucker hats. Not for my head. I know this seems frivolous and like it doesn’t belong here, but you haven’t seen the collection I’ve accumulated and never worn in public because…it’s not a good look on me. I’m letting this one go.
  3. Here’s a biggie for me–my local indie bookstore doesn’t really make indie authors feel super welcome. It’s ironic, I think. And hypocritical for certain. I won’t say the name because I don’t want to be mean, but I’ve made a few attempts over the last five years to do an event there, put books there, be a part of annual teen events, etc. I usually don’t even get a response. Once I tried to set up an event for charity, and that got strung along for months and eventually I had to go a different route. This store very much still sees a line between books published traditionally and those published independently. Yes, I can consign books there, buy my shelf space, and rent a room for something, but I really would have loved to have been included in the teen day the year I put The Hard Count out. I think a book about racism in high schools is the kind of thing our youth needs, regardless of the method the words appeared on paper. I could go on and on about this because of everything, the subtle “shun” here hurts the most. It’s because this store is sooooo me. I look like I belong in the space. I am their vibe, and I have personally run my fingertips along book spines on their shelves. The love affair started in college. This is one of those things I’m going to have to change expectations on though. I’m not going to let it go. I’m going to chip away and change THEIR perspective. I’m going to work my ass off to educate them, with the help of some fellow local indie authors. And I’m going to be vocal, but kind, when I think they’re missing the point and perhaps missing out on some really hard working authors. This one, I will kill with kindness…and an overload of information and persistence.
  4. I don’t know how to say no. This has been a lifelong problem. I can’t say no to myself. I can’t say no to friends. I can’t say no to acquaintances who I just want to help with a favor. I don’t think it’s all bad. I actually like trying to do what I can whenever and wherever, but…sometimes, I can’t. Or rather…I shouldn’t. I overextend myself, and that has led to a year teetering on exhaustion. This one, I’m easing into letting go of. Sometimes, I am just going to have to say “maybe” instead.
  5. The traditional deal. I don’t have much to say here. It’s a lingering want, a past disappointment, a fear, a future ambition, an ultimate, and so many other things that intertwine with the first four items on this list. (Ok, maybe not with trucker hats.) Right up there with a signing at X book store and a book on a list is getting a deal with a big publisher. This one for me is less about that stamp of approval. It’s about seeing my book on a shelf in a major retailer where teenagers can discover it. Above all, my YA books are the kind I craved more of when I was a teen. I write the kind of stories that I wished were there, and I just know in my heart of hearts there are girls out there like me who want to find them but can’t because they aren’t on shelves. Teens love print. I love that they love print. This one…I’m never giving up on.

There it is. My list. The things in my head I don’t talk about much because I don’t want to seem self-absorbed or whiney or ungrateful. I’m not, I swear. I look at what I’ve had happen over five years and I cannot believe I have been allowed a seat on this ride. But just like Disneyland, I’m expanding the park of my self-expectations. I’m going to phase out the rides that aren’t working and add in a dash of Marvel and Pixar. I don’t really know where I’m going with this analogy, but it seemed too good to abandon. I hope you get it. Beyond any of this, my readers will always come first. Fact is, I need you. Without you, there is no list.

All there is are fucking trucker hats.

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