Today I have a great excerpt from Finding Home by Lauren K. McKeller to share with you, as well as another chance to enter to win the YA bundle that includes it!
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‘Amy, we need to talk,’ Dad said.
I sat across from him at a table in a crowded restaurant that was full of the usual Sunday morning types. Dad looked completely different to the man I’d seen onstage the evening before. Then, his look had been slick: ripped jeans, designer shirt; now, he appeared a lot older than his 37 years and more tired. His hair looked a mess, sticking up in all the wrong places, and his clothes were dated.
‘About what?’ I sipped my orange juice. The cool liquid helped my head, which throbbed from my efforts of the evening prior.
‘Your behaviour at the show,’ he finished. It hadn't happened yet, but — oh, yes, there it was — the sigh. That inevitable exhalation that always seemed to occur just before Dad did something he didn't want to do. ‘You’re seventeen. You know full well that you shouldn't be drinking.’
‘I’m 18 in three months. And so what, anyway?’
‘So you can't keep acting like this.’ A frown creased his face.
I twirled my straw around. Little flicks of juice spun up the sides of my glass, creating a tiny, orange mosaic. ‘It's not like I do it all the time.’ I shrugged.
‘Just every time you come and see the show. And when you're not at the show, you're in a hotel room by yourself.’
‘And?’
‘And it's not normal, it’s not healthy, and I want you to stop.’ He ran his hands through his thick black hair and stared me down. His craggy face was a minefield of peaks and troughs, and he had the sort of distinguished nose that would make an actor on The Bold And The Beautiful jealous. It felt weird to think of the thousands of middle‐aged women who had worshipped him onstage the night before. To me, he was just my dad and a pain in the ass, at that.
A lady strutted her way over to the table. ‘Excuse me, but can I please get your autograph?’ She threw her blonde curls over her shoulders until they were resting on her double D‐sized boobs, and then shoved a piece of paper under Dad's nose. Two tables away, a group of women in their early thirties were giggling, whispering, and pointing in our direction. I averted my gaze. It was enough to make me sick.
‘Can we get out of here?’ I squirmed in my chair.
Dad ignored me, signing the napkin and making polite small talk with the lady. She leaned forward again and touched his shoulder, tossing her head back when she laughed. It would only be a matter of time before she would reached across the table to grab something and ‘accidentally’ brush her breasts against his chest. I think a tiny bit of vomit
actually began to work its way up my throat and into my mouth.
‘I'm leaving,’ I said, grabbing my bag from the floor beneath me.
‘Amy, wait.’
‘What?’ I spun around. The blonde had retreated to her table, and Dad was now indicating I should sit. I did, rolling my eyes and letting my bag slump to the ground. I’d had enough.
We sat in silence for a while, studying each other.
‘I think you should go to your aunt’s.’
‘For a holiday?’ I asked, my brow furrowing.
‘No, Amy,’ he said, sighing. That brought Dad’s total count for the day to two. ‘To
live.’
The words resonated in my head, sounding over and over again, like I was in a church hall or a bad horror movie. To live, live, live, live.
Dad was sending me away.
I sat across from him at a table in a crowded restaurant that was full of the usual Sunday morning types. Dad looked completely different to the man I’d seen onstage the evening before. Then, his look had been slick: ripped jeans, designer shirt; now, he appeared a lot older than his 37 years and more tired. His hair looked a mess, sticking up in all the wrong places, and his clothes were dated.
‘About what?’ I sipped my orange juice. The cool liquid helped my head, which throbbed from my efforts of the evening prior.
‘Your behaviour at the show,’ he finished. It hadn't happened yet, but — oh, yes, there it was — the sigh. That inevitable exhalation that always seemed to occur just before Dad did something he didn't want to do. ‘You’re seventeen. You know full well that you shouldn't be drinking.’
‘I’m 18 in three months. And so what, anyway?’
‘So you can't keep acting like this.’ A frown creased his face.
I twirled my straw around. Little flicks of juice spun up the sides of my glass, creating a tiny, orange mosaic. ‘It's not like I do it all the time.’ I shrugged.
‘Just every time you come and see the show. And when you're not at the show, you're in a hotel room by yourself.’
‘And?’
‘And it's not normal, it’s not healthy, and I want you to stop.’ He ran his hands through his thick black hair and stared me down. His craggy face was a minefield of peaks and troughs, and he had the sort of distinguished nose that would make an actor on The Bold And The Beautiful jealous. It felt weird to think of the thousands of middle‐aged women who had worshipped him onstage the night before. To me, he was just my dad and a pain in the ass, at that.
A lady strutted her way over to the table. ‘Excuse me, but can I please get your autograph?’ She threw her blonde curls over her shoulders until they were resting on her double D‐sized boobs, and then shoved a piece of paper under Dad's nose. Two tables away, a group of women in their early thirties were giggling, whispering, and pointing in our direction. I averted my gaze. It was enough to make me sick.
‘Can we get out of here?’ I squirmed in my chair.
Dad ignored me, signing the napkin and making polite small talk with the lady. She leaned forward again and touched his shoulder, tossing her head back when she laughed. It would only be a matter of time before she would reached across the table to grab something and ‘accidentally’ brush her breasts against his chest. I think a tiny bit of vomit
actually began to work its way up my throat and into my mouth.
‘I'm leaving,’ I said, grabbing my bag from the floor beneath me.
‘Amy, wait.’
‘What?’ I spun around. The blonde had retreated to her table, and Dad was now indicating I should sit. I did, rolling my eyes and letting my bag slump to the ground. I’d had enough.
We sat in silence for a while, studying each other.
‘I think you should go to your aunt’s.’
‘For a holiday?’ I asked, my brow furrowing.
‘No, Amy,’ he said, sighing. That brought Dad’s total count for the day to two. ‘To
live.’
The words resonated in my head, sounding over and over again, like I was in a church hall or a bad horror movie. To live, live, live, live.
Dad was sending me away.
Moody, atmospheric, and just a little bit punk, Finding Home takes contemporary YA to a new level of grit...
When
Amy’s mum dies, the last thing she expects is to be kicked off her
dad’s music tour all the way to her Aunt Lou in a depressing hole of a
seaside town. But it’s okay — Amy learned how to cope with the best, and
soon finds a hard-drinking, party-loving crowd to help ease the pain.
The
only solace is her music class, but even there she can’t seem to keep
it together, sabotaging her grade and her one chance at a meaningful
relationship. It takes a hard truth from her only friend before Amy
realises that she has to come to terms with her past, before she
destroys her future.
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For your chance to win a YA bundle featuring Finding Home as well as four other fabulous stories, be sure to comment with a way to contact you!
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Open internationally!
**On Saturday I have another excerpt to share with you--this time from A Warlord's Lady
by Nicola E. Sheridan**
Thanks so much for the chance to win!! fictionaddiction (at) nicoleandscott (dot) com.
ReplyDeleteFantastic thank you.
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These look like Awesome reads!
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Wow! Thank you so much!!
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