BOYFRIEND FROM HELL is the first book in the Saturns’ Daughters series. A short excerpt can be found at http://jamiequaid.com/bfhexcerpt.shtml but I thought you might enjoy a sneak preview of one of the later scenes. Tina has a slight anger management problem, but she really does try to control it…
Maybe I should have been looking into Max’s background. Why the devil had someone from that distinguished family been hanging out with bikers instead of working in a white-collar office? I couldn’t ask Lance or the other guys, not at a funeral. They might not know any more than I did.
I tried to let the organ music drown out thought, but then they let a preacher get up there to bleed over the audience, and his unctuous tones and ambiguous moral prosing made me want to hurl. I got up and walked out, thinking I could go back in when the preaching stopped.
I thought I caught a glimpse of Lily’s weirdo slipping out the front, and I followed, out of stupid curiosity. What would my wacko neighbor be doing at Max’s funeral? And why had I only noticed him after Max died? My paranoia was starting to show, and I decided I’d feel better if I confronted the problem instead of hiding.
The moment I limped down the front steps, my vision disappeared in a blinding flash of cameras. I was teetering on the brink of exhaustion, frayed and distraught, with a mascara-streaked face. I’d had enough surprises for a lifetime.
I could have reacted very badly. Instead, I swung to beat a hasty retreat to the pillared porch.
Cutting off my escape by trespassing on the funeral home steps, a talking head from the TV station got in my face with his microphone.
“How did the MacNeills react when you showed up this evening, Miss Clancy? Do they blame you for the loss of their son and heir?”
Son and heir?
Unnerved and off guard, I did not behave with decorum. Lacking a gun and a fast draw, I yanked the microphone out of his hand and snapped it into wires. A cameraman raced to film the incident. From my position on the steps, I kicked his knee to unbalance him, grabbed his video camera, and flung it against a brick wall, shattering it.
The crowd closed in, suffocating me. Some other jerkwad yelled and swung his mic too near my nose. I grabbed his wrist and may have broken it, from the pained sound of his cry. I was weeping too hard to care. I’d spent two years avoiding confrontation, for this?
The shouts and altercation brought Max’s buddies running. I was nearly crushed in the abrupt melee of flying fists and boots. Before I could catch my breath, Lance had the pretty-boy newsman on the ground and was unprettifying his face. Horrified, I didn’t want the boys arrested for my sake, and I certainly didn’t need any more black marks on my record.
I wanted a do-over, but fleeing was about the best I could arrange—if I could miraculously limp through the battleground without being noticed. In a fair world, a tornado would have blown the scrimmage across the lawn like autumn leaves.
Even as I thought about it, an unnatural wind whistled through the stately elms, gusting through the pillared porch and shoving me forward. Huge trees dipped and bowed their heads. Leaves blew sideways and men toppled. With the fearful wind at my back, I fled down a path that amazingly cleared across the lawn. Maybe I was crying so hard, I wasn’t seeing straight. I just ran, head down, tears falling.
Despite shouts of surprise and fright, I reached the Miata, gunned the engine, and got the hell out of there, too terrified to look back. If you had any kind of “other” power, what would it be?
One lucky reader who comments on my blog will be randomly selected to win a signed copy of BOYFRIEND FROM HELL. Good luck!