Tag Archives: ebooks

The Big Bang Book Theory

I am not an author in this post until I tell you that I am.

I am a mother, a wife, the keeper of a large home (including an in ground pool – Lord help me) and a small business owner that supplements my husband’s wages so we can pay for college, another new home, and well other shit – like new sneakers for my nine year old that are dead in a week,

I have always loved stories and movies. However, my business is making knots on a board so I can’t look up often and I have to be mindful of my work ALL the time.

I discovered Audio books (an APP) a place that for 21.00 a month – I could download a book a day. So – I did.

I had NO idea who Jay Crown over was. Emily Snow who? even Nora Roberts? Duh. I would have never sat down out of my business time to read FSOG. (sorry!) I have shit I got to do and it ain’t pretty when I don’t participate for even 5 hours!

So I listened to all of them.  ALL – OF -THEM. I listened to more books that there were days in 2014. I know people’s work. It isn’t until after I listen do I go on social media and check them out – struggling just to get their name in a God damn news feed on a social media site. SMDH

I am an author now. I wrote a fantastic book called Plastic Confidence. Sorry – but after being told so many times and rereading it? Well – I did! I have 56 reviews and not one review is LESS than 4 stars. So why isn’t it selling even for 99 cents this week? Poor marketing (I did everything I could) people don’t want to buy? (Meh – they could spare a buck. They probably spent that in tax today on something.) Readers don’t have the time or the mental health to add ONE MORE BOOK to their carousel.

Would you promise ONE more author to read their book when you can’t even squeeze it that one book you are supposed to review for a blog?

GUILT is tearing our blogs down. No one has the time because everyone is writing a book and there aren’t enough readers to keep up with them.

BOOM. Then there was no one. Except me , making my knots, listening, laughing, and crying to new audio books.

COST? HELL NO they aren’t free and no author should ever make their book free. I did that once. 25K downloads and no reviews. Why? Because as a reader, I will never have the time to read all the books that came out in 2013 – let alone 2014. OH but I did!!!! I know more indies than just about anyone. The true indies that put their stories to audio so it gives people a chance to live life.

Oh – off course there – so no – they aren’t free BUT whisper-sync drastically changes the price when you have ALREADY purchased the book through amazon. Not sure of total cost but another way is to ask the author for a gift. It’s lame but they have them – and like everything – we don’t know what to do with them.

If they can’t gift it – It is the cost of what readers should be paying bc otherwise – (Social Problem #1537 people with more eBooks than it is possible to read in the next 12 months on their kindle –  are hoarders. Collectors of book covers. That is the biggest insult to an author ever.Worst line ever “I think I got that book on my kindle during a free day and I will be moving that one up!” )

Reading was supposed to be pleasurable. This year has proven (by signing cancelled, blogs shutting down, authors quitting, haters killing themselves for the best meme) that is another world of inadequacy, understaffed, over-runned with really LAME excuses.) I am guilty. Read Unmarked – I sold out and for TLOG – I have to live with that forever. tsu isn’t going to help my sales. Nothing is.

But I sell my audio books through Audible, iTunes, and whisper sync. People love my narrator and readers THANK me for a great story while they had to make that drive. I am so happy my book wasn’t read under pressure or because of guilt.

Download the Audible app and find out what FREE books you have come with a free audio and actually make those deadlines. You might hate it at first but eventually it is the story that binds us.

We live in a world where this is necessary. There are too many pressures. Press play and make dinner.

Alisa Mullen

Author of Unsettled, Unchosen, Unrequited, Unmarked

Plastic Confidence

One Missing Link

Pen name Kaycee Veil for R-rated novellas

move

kneel

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I’ve got your back ~ You have my word.

**INSERT ANNOUNCEMENT”

It is with great sadness and true humility that I will be postponing Artificial Love until ??? – My editor, whom I trust BECAUSE she is on the same page as my career, read the first draft and said – “You are not publishing this book next.”

2014-10-24 17.06.55

After her explanation – not because it isn’t a good story or well written – I understood that she had my publishing career in mind. She could have edited it, taken hundreds of dollars, fed me a line of bullshit, and went on her merry way. She said, “Get off the phone, Mullen. You have a new novel to write and this one is shelved.”

After a long talk with my PA – “Following the Sun” followed by “Both of Her” will be written and released in my own time. The royalties on the 8 books I wrote and the 2 audio-books released in 2014 are still amazing and well – I won’t release something because readers want it. I will release books that I put ALL of my heart and terribly deranged imagination into.

Plastic Confidence (US – http://bit.ly/uspcam UK – http://bit.ly/ukplasticconfidence) will remain at .99 until the audio is released but AL – well – if you want the premise of that story as it stands – go one click Unmarked and then say – Alisa will never publish formula writing – never. Unique, raw, and original. Like all of my art.

Plastic Confidence

On to my year 2014 – https://www.facebook.com/alisamullenbooks?ref=bookmarks

Have you ever thought about writing a book?

Want to know how to get it published?

It is an amazing feeling to hold your first book while staring at the screen of your second novel. No matter what people say – publishing a novel is an extremely prestigious accomplishment. It trumps my Summa Cum Laude BA and my MSBA with a 4.0 GPA. It sometimes trumps every other job I have ever had because writing has and always been a healthy way to escape into another world. It takes me at least an hour to decompress after a 10K word count day.

I am not saying that sweeping trash in a high school at night or working with adjusters on insurance claims is less important to the way the world of commerce spins. The difference is obvious. People can live without my words but can I? It is far more important to me than sometimes my own self-preservation. I can get so lost in writing that I have no sense of time – or even what month it is. Sound crazy? Good – because authors are.

What is the downside? It may look glorious to the outside world but it isn’t. My first editor charged me $1200 to make five changes to Unsettled. I thought that was normal. Being a trusting person, I allowed a woman to overtake my life for six weeks. It was her envy, which by the way I have lost dozens of so called friends and family to envy, that made her shit all over my name. It wasn’t until her supporters came forward – clearing my name and the amount of apologies I received were overwhelming. I did appreciate the “innocent judgement” (Insert judge slamming down gavel) but that didn’t mean that staying a self published author became awesome. Yes, it has been an interesting first year. Day by day, my shield gets thicker, my trust grows fainter, and the true fans don’t need to follow up with what I ate for breakfast to one click my book.

I have been screwed over in this industry that I can’t even count anymore. Large Indie and Published Authors have also expressed that my Indie issues are not uncommon. Blogs have favorites. Signings will always be a place where readers want to meet one or two authors (with the exception of a few) and where I have seen respectable authors and models so stinking drunk that it was unfathomable.

Although cover models are fleeting, showing an average of an 18 month career – they actually gain everything from authors whereas authors don’t get shit from models joining them at said signings. Would people still stop at your table if you didn’t have eye candy? Sure BUT they won’t buy a book from you. They will get their photo of him and her and walk along. That is the majority – again there are exceptions.

I have a team. It took me nearly a year to find these people. I have an amazing editor, an amazing cover designer, and a personal assistant who tells me what to do and I don’t have to ask her to accomplish something more than once. Her professionalism, out of the box thinking, and true desire to see my books succeed are in every action she displays. She NEVER says I’ve got your back and you have my word to know that she does and more. For you aspiring writers, if you hear those two lines – run faster than a cheetah. It is bull shit talk. People either have the passion to step out of their comfort zone or they tail gate those who do. Be the 5% who actually follows their dream.

People will step all over you for money and social media attention. SO – my year is over. I am proud of my words, proud of my mistakes, and proud to be an international best selling author. Only 5% of that 5% ever really sell more than 500 copies of a book. I am proud to say I am one of them – whether or not I ever make USA Today. What is most important is trusting my editor when she says “Start again” and thank God – she understands me enough that I can’t be proud of a formula.

I wish everyone a healthy Christmas and New Year’s. I am so pumped to write about bowling, Nate Wilson, and Sunny, the spitfire that can’t be nailed down for fiver minutes.

Rock on Peeps. 2015 may be on MY terms but it will be even better – knowing that people can’t get all of me anymore. They just get my words and support to other indie authors who I KNOW hasn’t had a peachy road either.

Plastic Confidence By Alisa Mullen – Chapter One

Here is my weekly tease read, two more until released date!Catch them sooner on my page! Release Date is August 18, 2014! Come to the party!

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ONE

1993

Merrimack, New Hampshire

 

JULES ~AGE TWELVE

Ileaned into Frank for a final kiss good bye. He was twelve like me and had beenmy first kiss ever.Sigh. I was now aperson who kisses. A kisser. I kiss boys. Well, I kissed a boy. I knew how tomake out. All thanks to you, summer camp! Rock on.

CampWimberley sat in the White Mountains and had been a constant summer staple forme and my two best friends. Angie, Emmy, and I booked early for two weeks atthe end of June every year since we were eight. We would skip out of the lastday of class and know in less than two weeks we would be in one of our favoriteplaces. We loved the crystal blue pond with the mountains surrounding it. Momalways commented on how great I was at taking pictures of them but all anyonehad to do was point and click. Every view was a post card waiting to happen.

Thelogged cabins were hot but so comfortable. Emmy, Angie, and I took up three ofthe cabin’s four bunks and every year we made a fourth best friend forever inthe last bunk. Throughout the school year, we would keep in touch with thatgirl until the next summer when we would get a new bunkmate. We told her how luckyshe was because we knew the ins and outs of Camp Wimberley. We knew the ropes.We were sleek and total mission impossible at night to retrieve food from thecafeteria or enjoy a late night walk around the lake. We got away with a wholeheap of stuff over the years.

Swimming,boating, and field games took up most of our daylight camp hours. The mess hallwas a huge building and it allowed us three or sometimes four a place to playtricks on the camp counselors. One little frog dropped in the pudding made fora lot of ruckus but no one could pinpoint us as we were already walking throughthe sea of campers back to our reserved table. I think they eventually caughton after two years but they loved the three of us nonetheless. We wereentertaining.

Now that we were in the older group, weenjoyed more freedom- nightly dances, later curfews, and interactions with boysfrom the camp down the road. Frank and I kissed the first night we showed upfor registration and the opening dance. I liked him right away. He was funnyand made me feel special. We swapped love notes and slow danced to American Pie at every dance, where hewould sing all the words to me. It became oursong. Angie and Emmy also met boys but Frank and our love connection cementedmy growing up. Being twelve was so rad. Boys and Junior High were the futurelife of Jules Delaney.

Iheard someone clear their throat behind me and I turned my head to see mymother with her hands on her hips.

“JulesDelaney!” She admonished me. I immediately stepped back from Frank and flushed.

“Mom!You are early! Pick up isn’t for another two hours,” I stated firmly.

“Yes,well, all of us wanted to get you girls home now. Something extremely tragichappened yesterday and we got permission to pick you girls up early.” She washer normal, cold self. No hug, no smile. Pickup the kid from camp, check.

Ilooked around to see Angie with a miserable face and speaking to her parents,who were comforting her with hugs and hushed tone. Emmy was listening to herparents— stoic and emotionless—with no reaction at all. She nodded every oncein a while but seemed resolute. Obviously she didn’t mind our early departure.I turned back to Frank and smiled at him. I pulled out an envelope withpre-stamped postcards, addressed to me. He grinned down at them.

“Iwill send one today. I will put my phone number on it for you to call me,okay?” Frank seized my hand and kissed it. I blushed again.

“Jules!”My mother snapped. I rolled my eyes as I twisted back to face Frank. Catchinghis wondrous gaze, I mouthed ‘I love you’. He brightened up and mouthed it backto me. Yes! We finally admitted it.Summer camp was magnificent through and through. I could go home knowing that Iwas a new girl, almost a woman. A boy had kissed me and he told me he loved me.There was no better feeling.

Withone final look at Frank, I trailed my mother with my trunk in tow. I waved overto Angie and then to Emmy. They made the phone signal with their hands and Inodded quickly with wide eyes. Something was most definitely happening. Were weall in trouble for something we had done before we left for camp? I tried toremember but all I could think of was Frank. I sighed as I looked back to him, buthe had already moved from our spot. I looked at my best friends again. Both girlshad stunned and freaked out expressions on their faces as they handed their owntrunks over to their fathers.

I had what my mother referred to as an absentfather. He was alive and well, but to me, it wouldn’t affect my daily life ifhe wasn’t. He left Mom when I was five. He got himself a brand new family, whoI liked enough to visit on occasion. Okay, that isn’t true, I didn’t like hiswife. I called her my step-monster.

The day my dad left my mother for that woman,two things changed. I knew what it actually felt like to hate someone and the joyfullight in my mother’s eyes completely flickered out the day my dad left for good.

My brother, Kent, and I are our father’safterthoughts. To be fair, he is myafterthought, too. Rarely do I have memories of our family all together and theyfade just as quickly as I try to grasp more detail from my brain. I don’tremember very much of my life back then. Everything I know is from what momtells me. I believe what she says because, well, he isn’t around to give me hisside of the story. It is times like these that I wish a fatherly figure couldmake an appearance and show everyone that I am loved by two parents.

AsI hoisted the trunk into the back seat, I dismissed the thought. I was a twelveyear old who was in love for the first time. Nothing else matters. I just wish I didn’t appear different in anyrespect from my friends. Explaining a divorce to my friends is just asuncomfortable for me as it is for them. Daddy just didn’t love us anymore.

Ithrew my seat belt on and played with my silver bangles on my wrists. Momstarted up the old Buick and I watched the luscious green grass and trees as wemade our way out of the most magical place. My summer camp experience wasunforgettable and I sighed heavily as I started to long for it already. I hadto switch gears and get back into home mode which was heavily clouded by mymother’s mood. Mom was upset and more than a usual upset. It wasn’t like she was a cold person but hugs andkisses just weren’t her way of showing affection. Talking was her thing.

“Communicationis key,” she announced at the beginning of every argument. I decided to takeher stance and use it against her. I would not let her mood ruin mine.

“Sowhat is wrong with you Mom? I like Frank. He is very sweet. We kissed. So what?”I asked incredulously.

“Frank?Was that the boy you were with? Yes, well, I suppose it is time for a trip toPlanned Parenthood. I suppose you are growing up, huh? I was around your agefor my first kiss, but my mother would have cut off my lips with an exactoknife if she saw me. See, I can behip.” Her humorous laugh faded off into silence.” She shook her head. I balkedat that image. Geesh, it was only a kiss.

Shecontinued.

“As much as I would like to be solely concernedabout you kissing a boy, that is not what is upsetting me and the communityback home,” she croaked out, as she started to straighten her body in aprotective stance. She meant business. I, myself, sat up a little taller in theseat.

“Whatis going on, Mom?” I asked, alarmed. “Are you mad at me? Did I do somethingwrong at home before I left for camp?”

Sheshook her head again. She was silent, probably trying to figure out how to fixthe problem inside her own mind. She could do it, too. My mother, the world class Ms. Fix-it. The pipes are leaking? Callthe plumber. Failing math? Hire a tutor. Kissed a boy? Go on the pill.

My mom was good to us despite thecircumstances. With a full time job and a single mom, she was stretched thin.Kent and I got away with a lot. Her expression morphed back into a nervousconsideration as she handed me the MerrimackDaily newspaper and asked me to read it. A photo of Grace Miller was on thefront page. She was a year ahead of us in school. She was already in JuniorHigh, so we would be at her school next year. Pretty blond. Popular socially.Trendy clothing. Sometimes snobby to people outside her circle of friends. Onthe rare occasion, she said “hi” to Angie because they knew each other fromgymnastics camp. Emmy and I would give Angie crap for that. We teased mostly,saying she would ditch us for the popular crowd when we started school.

As I read the story below her photo, I saw thewords rape, strangled, and murder. How was Grace’s picture associated withmurder? I tried to tamp down the car sick feeling when I read words in the carbut it was too late. I was focusing too hard on each word and my head startedto throb. My stomach became a pit of snakes that were eating their wayunderneath each rib.

“Mom,reading is making me car sick and I don’t understand what I am reading here.Just tell me what you want me to know. Gracey Miller is dead?” I asked as thesluggish, nauseated words stumbling their way out of my mouth.

“Shewas strangled to death,” she emphasized, and then paused so she knew that Iunderstood the enormity of what she was telling me. “She was riding her bikehome from the camp at Merrimack Elementary.”

She looked at me pointedly like I should havealready been aware of whatever she was telling me. My friends and I, andespecially Grace, was too old for that camp at the school. It only went up tofifth grade so it didn’t make any sense that Grace would have attended. Thewords from the newspaper replayed over and over in my head as I felt theheadache start to subside.

“Whoa,that is… ” I didn’t know what to say. I suppose I had more questions than knowingwhat to say. A murder. That didn’thappen in our daily life. Murder was made for television and newspapers thathighlighted those high crime areas in the bigger states. New Hampshire wassafe. I felt safe but maybe now, I wasn’t? Was I?

“Mom, what is rape?” I felt my eyebrows werepinched together with curiosity and it seemed to make my head feel better.

Mymom’s lips went into a thin line and she paled. I could tell she was trying toreign in her feelings. Maybe she didn’t mean to show me that portion of thenewspaper story? It appeared that before she was strangled, she was raped.Whatever that meant. Mom took a deep breath like she always did when she aboutto say something that she didn’t want to, like the day she told us our fatherwas never coming home.

“Rapeis something that is very cruel. It is an illegal crime when someone makessomeone else do things they don’t want to do,” she explained. “Sexually,” she added.

“Oh,”I peeped. I couldn’t manage to say anything else. Rape wasn’t something I knewabout but the word itself sounded awful. I had seen someone being strangled ontelevision and it was a cruel way of killing someone. I couldn’t imagine tryingto suck in air. The victims always fought against the hands. They always shooktheir heads and bodies to get out of their grasp. The fear hit me then.

“Mom,did they get him? You know, the man who strangled Grace?” I asked, as I felt mystomach inch its way into my esophagus.

Momshook her head. I watched her shake out her hands and firmly put them back onthe steering wheel. I stared at absolutely nothing for a long beat before I satback in my seat. I stayed silent while she sniffled and looked devastated. She wasdriving but her vision was all over the place, like she was looking forsomething. I wanted to ask her more but this woman was someone I hadn’t seenbefore.

Herface proclaimed that she was furious. Her jaw set implied that she didn’t wantto start crying. Her automatic hand to rub her breastbone admitted that she wasscared. I watched her and wondered what else she knew about Grace Miller’smurder that I didn’t. What was she not telling me? Did Emmy and Angie know morethan I did? I would call them as soon as I could.

Sheheld the front door open for me at our white ranch style house in Merrimack.The familiar country smells were welcoming. I was home. Our home was set up ina small but family focused town. Everyone knew everyone. I had great memories ofcamp but the summer still had a great deal of time left. I couldn’t wait to geton my bike and spend every day scrounging up coins for the penny candy down atthe MM Country Store. Emmy, Angie and I would ride the long country roads formiles and enjoy the butterflies and small lakes. We were always on a missionfor an adventure.

Mybrother, Kent, was in the front room reading a magazine. He was seventeen and Iwas surprised to see him home. He was never ever home. Either he was playingbaseball and hanging out with the Jasons.Yes, all three of his good friends were named Jason. If he wasn’t with them, hewas trying to stick his tongue down his girlfriend’s throat.

Krysta,a petite blond that went a little heavy on the makeup, was nice to me. They hadbeen dating for a couple years and my mom really liked her. She showed me howto apply my own make up one day and I sort of looked up to her, since I didn’thave a sister. I told Kent that if he breaks up with her I would never talk tohim again.

“Hey,twerp.” He stood up and whoa, he was taller. He threw the magazine on the tableand enveloped me into a hug, while mom observed us with a faint smile.

“Heybig brother. Whatcha doing home?” I asked, as I wrapped my arms around hislanky frame. My brother was super nice, but he was kind of a geek. He worethick lens square glasses, but listened to heavy metal. He head banged, forGod’s sakes, to The Cult, Guns and Roses, and Metallica. He was a walkingcontradiction.

“Ijust wanted to see my Julia Child before I headed out,” he smiled at me. Thatnickname was ridiculous. I tried to speak like her once. I sounded more like adrunk cat, not that I had ever heard one. But that is what Kent and the Jasons said, and I went with it,laughing right along.

“Whereare you going? Can I come?” Excitement streamed through my veins at the idea ofchilling with my big bro. Sometimes,he would let me tag along and I would be the special little sister for the day.It made me feel somewhat superior to my friends.

“Noway! Jules you are staying home until I tell you that you can leave!” Mom bellowedwith the sternest voice in history. Kent and I were taken aback.

“Oh…kay,” I drew out. This stern attitude was a little over the top, even for Mom.I mean I would just be going to hang out with Kent. He would watch over me thewhole time. What was the big deal?

Kentgave my mother a look that my Dad would have given her, if he was still around.Kent must have felt uneasy with her temper, as well. For the second time that day,I thought about my Dad.Weird. Heleft when I was five and we hardly saw him. He lived about two hours away inMassachusetts, but since he had a new family, the drive was too long forfrequent visits, he had argued once. Birthday cards and Christmas gifts wereKent and my only expectations out of him.

I don’t know why he didn’t want to see us butI think it had something to do with seeing my mother at drop off. She tried sohard to say something nice to him. He would nod at her, without even looking ather, and get us in the car as quickly as possible. Kent and I slowly acceptedthat we would never be fans of our father. Our loyalty remained with ourMother.

“Itis so great to be home,” I sassed at them, with a slight pucker, and made myway back to my room. My room was big and it was set in the far back corner ofone side of the ranch home. I thought about the car ride and my mother’soutburst. What did she mean I couldn’t leave the house? I was considering sneakingaway for the day. I mentally thought of everything I needed to pack in mybackpack. Water, change for candy, a swimsuit, towel, and… as I started formy empty backpack, the lawn mower’s loud reverberation started up outside mywindow and I drew back the blinds to find my brother. Kent was head banging tohis Walkman, pushing the old lawnmower over freshly mowed grass. I rolled myeyes at my mother’s deceptiveness. Obviously, Mom sent him out because she knewI would crawl out my window to go to Emmy’s house. She was so annoying. Andright.

Plastic Confidence By Alisa Mullen – Weekly Sneak Peeks

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

PROLOGUE
2009

Front Cover Teaser

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.

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