C.M.’s answer to “Hi! I was wondering if you are writing another book in the series of 'Eerie'? I loved it but you ca…” > Likes and Comments
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So that thriller…when can we expect that?
I'm putting the finishing touches on it now, and then it goes to my agent :-) She'll submit it to publishers, and we will cross our fingers. I'll keep you posted on a publication date. In the meantime, here's a teaser:
Chapter One: The Dump
Alaska.
It was not the best way to end the day, sandwiched in the front seat of my car between two thugs with garlic-laced B.O.
And it wasn’t like I needed their help. Yeah, the guy in the trunk was heavy, but nothing I couldn’t handle.
Dad didn’t care.
For whatever reason, he didn’t want me driving at night, regardless of the midnight sun. And he wasn’t about to send me out with one goon—that’d be too much like a date. So both these idiots had to come. And they’d probably insist on heaving our latest client into the pit themselves, not because they were gentlemen.
No.
“The toss” was that one last slap in the face—one final opportunity to strip this guy of whatever dignity he had left. No doubt they’d shout something inane as they did it too. Lately, “How do you like me now?” was their favorite sendoff, and though they did force a fairly believable southern drawl, they didn’t sound close to country. More like pro-wrestlers who’d smoked a little too much weed—big, dumb, and ugly.
I hated the drive to the dump, but at least if I did it alone, I could take a moment to reflect. Maybe even say a prayer, God forbid, for the sorry soul whose own family didn’t care enough about him to pick up his remains. With these two oafs though, I’d have to remain impassive, lest one of them actually registered a thought and told Dad I was going soft.
They had the combined IQ of a carrot. Just one. But even an idiot can sense weakness, and Dad, or Dr. Death as the hired muscles not-so-secretly referred to him, would never let me do another capture if he knew I had a conscience.
And I was really looking forward to reeling in our next “guest.” That’s how I preferred to think of him, because if I were to let myself dwell on his true status, I might blurt it out when I met him:
Hi, I’m Hannah Starkey. I lure wayward teens into POW-style rehab. My mission: return you sober or in a body bag. Pleased to meet you.
That wouldn’t fly.
So “guest” it was. The airstrip would be our second stop, and I’d be on the red-eye to D.C. after a long week of survival training, which, at least for the sap in the trunk, didn’t go so well.
This whole day literally—
“—stinks,” I muttered, careful to keep my elbows close. Naked arms had me flanked, and I didn’t want to get slimed. “Something stinks,” I said louder.
The sweathog on my right grunted.
As we crawled off the road and into the woods, the car wobbled, and I danced in my seat with it, trying to evade any accidental skin-to-skin contact with the ogres.
It was an unseasonably warm Alaskan August. Even at 10pm it was too hot for sleeves, and I refused to sit in the back seat of my own car, especially after my last trip to the dump. That was when we were still using regular garbage bags—the kind that leak, only I didn’t realize it until after I’d tossed them in, and though I’d tried my damnedest, I just couldn’t get the stain out.
Nobody wanted the back seat now. Something about dead-girl juice made even these two giants squeamish.
I’d manage. Another five minutes, and we’d be there. Then we’d be 140 pounds lighter, and I’d put about 3,000 miles between myself and Camp Aurora—for a few days at least.
I was almost smiling at the thought of new scenery when something more pungent than B.O. wafted through the car. I fumbled with the AC vent.
“What is that?” I demanded.
“Smells like shit,” said the one on my right, and I closed my eyes, scrunching my face.
“No,” I moaned.
This car was vintage, a mint-condition classic, my sweet-sixteen gift from Dr. Death. I loved this car, and when I got back, I’d have to burn this car.
The body bag was leaking.
YAY!!! I just finished my won on Goodreads copy and really, really hoped there was a sequel. Great book!
That's so sweet! Thanks Marti! I can't tell you too much about the sequel without spoiling things, but I can tell you that I think it's more riveting than the first book. Loads of surprises and an awesome dynamic between the characters. Still playing with the ending (I'd love a HEA, but it seems my brain doesn't want to cooperate, so we'll see what the characters want....)
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Mar 28, 2016 07:46AM
So that thriller…when can we expect that?
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I'm putting the finishing touches on it now, and then it goes to my agent :-) She'll submit it to publishers, and we will cross our fingers. I'll keep you posted on a publication date. In the meantime, here's a teaser:Chapter One: The Dump
Alaska.
It was not the best way to end the day, sandwiched in the front seat of my car between two thugs with garlic-laced B.O.
And it wasn’t like I needed their help. Yeah, the guy in the trunk was heavy, but nothing I couldn’t handle.
Dad didn’t care.
For whatever reason, he didn’t want me driving at night, regardless of the midnight sun. And he wasn’t about to send me out with one goon—that’d be too much like a date. So both these idiots had to come. And they’d probably insist on heaving our latest client into the pit themselves, not because they were gentlemen.
No.
“The toss” was that one last slap in the face—one final opportunity to strip this guy of whatever dignity he had left. No doubt they’d shout something inane as they did it too. Lately, “How do you like me now?” was their favorite sendoff, and though they did force a fairly believable southern drawl, they didn’t sound close to country. More like pro-wrestlers who’d smoked a little too much weed—big, dumb, and ugly.
I hated the drive to the dump, but at least if I did it alone, I could take a moment to reflect. Maybe even say a prayer, God forbid, for the sorry soul whose own family didn’t care enough about him to pick up his remains. With these two oafs though, I’d have to remain impassive, lest one of them actually registered a thought and told Dad I was going soft.
They had the combined IQ of a carrot. Just one. But even an idiot can sense weakness, and Dad, or Dr. Death as the hired muscles not-so-secretly referred to him, would never let me do another capture if he knew I had a conscience.
And I was really looking forward to reeling in our next “guest.” That’s how I preferred to think of him, because if I were to let myself dwell on his true status, I might blurt it out when I met him:
Hi, I’m Hannah Starkey. I lure wayward teens into POW-style rehab. My mission: return you sober or in a body bag. Pleased to meet you.
That wouldn’t fly.
So “guest” it was. The airstrip would be our second stop, and I’d be on the red-eye to D.C. after a long week of survival training, which, at least for the sap in the trunk, didn’t go so well.
This whole day literally—
“—stinks,” I muttered, careful to keep my elbows close. Naked arms had me flanked, and I didn’t want to get slimed. “Something stinks,” I said louder.
The sweathog on my right grunted.
As we crawled off the road and into the woods, the car wobbled, and I danced in my seat with it, trying to evade any accidental skin-to-skin contact with the ogres.
It was an unseasonably warm Alaskan August. Even at 10pm it was too hot for sleeves, and I refused to sit in the back seat of my own car, especially after my last trip to the dump. That was when we were still using regular garbage bags—the kind that leak, only I didn’t realize it until after I’d tossed them in, and though I’d tried my damnedest, I just couldn’t get the stain out.
Nobody wanted the back seat now. Something about dead-girl juice made even these two giants squeamish.
I’d manage. Another five minutes, and we’d be there. Then we’d be 140 pounds lighter, and I’d put about 3,000 miles between myself and Camp Aurora—for a few days at least.
I was almost smiling at the thought of new scenery when something more pungent than B.O. wafted through the car. I fumbled with the AC vent.
“What is that?” I demanded.
“Smells like shit,” said the one on my right, and I closed my eyes, scrunching my face.
“No,” I moaned.
This car was vintage, a mint-condition classic, my sweet-sixteen gift from Dr. Death. I loved this car, and when I got back, I’d have to burn this car.
The body bag was leaking.
YAY!!! I just finished my won on Goodreads copy and really, really hoped there was a sequel. Great book!
That's so sweet! Thanks Marti! I can't tell you too much about the sequel without spoiling things, but I can tell you that I think it's more riveting than the first book. Loads of surprises and an awesome dynamic between the characters. Still playing with the ending (I'd love a HEA, but it seems my brain doesn't want to cooperate, so we'll see what the characters want....)
