Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
I’m not sure how that’s going to work, considering that I already feel like I’m only half of who I’m supposed to be. I’ve lost my memories of Earth. I can only recall fragments of a rich cultural heritage that I want back more than I want to resonate.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be in the cards.
Instead of returning my memories, fate has decided that I should resonate to cat-like Valmir, the most unlikable gladiator stranded on this planet alongside the human clones. He thinks I should take him to my furs, but I think I’d rather fling myself into the ocean. To stall the inevitable, I make a honey-do list for Valmir. If he completes a task for me, I’ll let him win a bit of my attention. A flirty touch here, a quick caress there. It’ll buy me time to figure out who I really am.
And in the meantime, it’s rather fun to make Valmir squirm
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Prologue
I come over the hill, expecting to see home; instead, the devil bares his teeth in a heated smile, his wicked, dancing jubilation a most unholy welcome to hell.
My memories, my things, my home, picked for its perfect, quaint setting and idyllic white fence—up in flames.
The sight is a punch to the gut in every sense it can be, a glowing mix of orange and thick black and ash curling into the otherwise blue sky.
Before I can even think, my body moves. The truck isn’t fully stopped when I’m out, my boots hitting half-melted snow, and my knees jarring on the loose, sloppy ground.
But I don’t slow. I can’t.
The glow of fire through the shattered windows is all I see. All I feel. A living thing devouring everything I know.
I hit the front door with a shoulder, snapping the wood frame with ease and barreling into the house in what feels like a fraction of a moment.
My foyer is dismally dark, the normal laughter of jokes and banter created with love replaced by a smoke so thick I can’t even see my hand six inches in front of my face. My lungs feel heavy but not with soot—with the real, raw reality that my limitations as a human are on the precipice of being challenged. I overpower the feeling with urgency.
I can and will do whatever I have to do, no matter the cost.
Fear coats my movements, forcing me to rely on my training and muscle memory fully. I can hear my own breath in my ears, feel the thud of my heart in my chest, and see the film reel of a life in this house as it’s eaten by the lick of unbearably hot flames.
Palming the wall, I walk along it blindly with nothing to guide me but the experience of walking it a thousand times before and the determination to see if she’s okay—to see if they’re okay. To get them to safety as quickly as possible.
“Where are you?” I yell, my voice muffled unbearably. “Are you in here? Can you hear me?”
Ash and water mix with still-hot embers as they rain down on me, the crew outside fighting to knock down the flames enough to keep the structure standing. Beams above me burn near clean through, and the walls feel hollow to the touch. I use my elbows and fists to knock through barriers, but it gets harder and harder with every step I take forward.
This should be a hall—open and free from debris—to the back of the house, but it’s nothing more than an obstacle course now, burned and beaten by a fire that’s been unattended for just a little too long.
Words don’t seem clear or crisp right now, so I revert to anguish, screaming loudly instead.
I listen intently, and for a heartbeat, there’s nothing but my heavy breathing and the crackle and groan of failing wood in response.
Then, a sound. A cry. It’s faint, but it’s desperate enough to chill me to the fucking bone despite the temperatures being well over a thousand degrees.
The call wasn’t wrong. They’re inside.
Some part of me believed they weren’t; some part of me ignored the description of the dispatcher when she said people may be trapped. The most naïve part of me believed this couldn’t and wouldn’t happen to me.
Fuck!
I move more quickly, ignoring the creak and crackle of succumbing wood and pushing myself to my knees to go farther when structural collapse denies me at my full height. I have to get to them. I have to.
My brother Randy’s muffled yell rings out behind me, but I ignore it, pushing forward anyway.
I can save them, and I will.
Tad Hanson can do anything when he has to. There’s no other option.
1
Breezy
Monday, January 11th
If betrayal had a sound, it would be the rip of packing tape—a life redirected, a stage cut short, an eviction notice from best-laid plans.
If it were something new, I’d let myself be surprised.
But in my family, duplicity isn’t just common; it’s practically an art form. Cheating, arson, divorces, scandals—the Bishops could fill a museum with our disasters and still have leftovers for the archives.
The tape screeches sharply across cardboard and echoes in the newly hollow space of my Chelsea office like a taunt. Go on, Breezy. Pretend this isn’t gutting you. Pretend you’re not dismantling your whole damn life, one box at a time.
I catch my reflection in the big window behind my desk, and a humorless laugh bubbles up. It’s giving The Walking Dead: Manhattan Socialite Edition. My makeup is three days old and half sloughed off, my black bob is in wavy disarray, and the same gray dress slacks and white silk shirt I’ve pulled from the dry cleaner’s plastic three too many times tell the tale of a once-successful woman cast aside to the underworld of lost motivation and deep emotional wounds.