Last week, I released the prologue to this novel, Plastic Confidence. I forgot to put it here. So, the blog gets two posts! Lucky!
Plastic Confidence – Book 1 of The Good Bye Trilogy Copyright Material 2014 by Alisa Mullen
I woke up singing Don McLean’s American Pie… again. It wasn’t the first or the last time the up tempo “Did you write the book of love?” would startle me wide awake. It went hand in hand with the nightmare or dream or whatever it was. Memory. It was the memories from one summer when I was twelve years old and lost a great chunk of my innocence. This morning, however, was different for one reason. I woke up naked and sweating, smelling like body odor and sex. I felt like I was going to throw up. It was so real this time. I was living it all over again and I didn’t fucking want to. I wish there was a button I could press or a pill I could take that would erase that one stupid summer from my brain. I would pay millions of dollars, travel to any psychic healer, invest in any drug company, and maybe even cut off a finger. I would do anything. I just wanted it gone from my head.
Grace Miller. Jason #2. Emmy. Angie.
All the kids from my past were making their casual and unwanted appearance in my present. It wasn’t that the dreams necessarily haunted me but it was so extremely vivid that it left me feeling like I was missing something. I had purchased every dream book out there. From the murder to the OUIJA Board to the night I lost my virginity, the books all said that I am facing a big change. A brand new path. It was time to let it go of what is comfortable. Whatever it was, it had been years and my path was steady and solid. No changing paths now. My life was pretty fucking great.
I rolled over to try and locate the blankets but found a blond haired, tatted up hunk of sex laying next me. In my hotel bed. In the morning. Oh hell no! Sure, he was cute but I was most definitely too far gone last night to kick his ass out after we screwed.
I racked my brain, as I tapped my fingers to my head. Oh! He kissed like a lizard but that was okay when he went down south. No! Shit! That was the guy from the night before.
Oh! He was the one that had a small dick but still knew how to use it… pretty well actually. Multiple times. Yes, that is why he was still here. I was too exhausted after three hours of him pleasuring me.
Still, it had to be done. I smacked his shoulder.
“Wake up, Casanova. Time to hit the road,” I shouted at him. He groaned and as he rolled over to face me, he slowly opened his eyes.
“Jules Delaney,” he smiled as he, too, remembered who he was in bed with.
“Up and at ‘em! Now you have to get out.” I was a little more forceful with my tone.
“What? Why? We could…you know,” he said suggestively as he started for my neck. I pushed his face back with my entire palm. Hard.
“Hell no! You were lucky that I didn’t toss you at four this morning. Time to go,” I repeated and I swear to fucking God if he didn’t listen this time, I would start screaming rape. Grace Miller was raped. Shut up, shut up, shut up.
I started off the bed and purposely shoved the memory back into my brain. I didn’t have the energy to think about what I was supposed to do. Obviously it was something huge since my subconscious was bringing it to my conscious once again.
He grunted out something foul in reference to me. Cold bitch, fucking tease, slutty whore, or you label it. I had heard them all. Just go, douchebag. Yes, I am all of those filthy names but much, much more. Now leave… Please.
“Hey,” I called out. I hadn’t bothered to learn this one’s name. “I am going to take a shower. If you aren’t gone by the time I am out, consider spending the next four hours in a police station, answering the age old question about what the word ‘no’ means. Okay?” I smiled brightly at him. “By the way, you were amazing last night.”
I walked into the bathroom and grabbed my toothbrush as I looked in to the mirror. Not too bad for a late night gig, hours of sex, and hardly any sleep.
“The name is Jason by the way,” he shouted to me. I heard the door of my hotel room close.
“Jason,” I repeated. “Of course it is.” The memory of that summer pops up everywhere. Call it serendipity. Call it fate. I call it suckass.