“Don’t Look Back in Anger”
In one night, I lost five years of my
life. Here’s what I know …
I was homeless.
I’m a recovering drug addict.
My inked skin crawls from lustful eyes.
I have a serious aversion to women.
My gay partner is a home wrecker.
I own a gun and I’m a damn good shot.
I’m a makeup artist, but it’s an insult
to my talent.
I’ve never wanted to possess anything
except my Ducati … until I met Darby.
Now here’s what I know since that day in
the ER when she pieced me back together … nothing—but a few random thoughts.
My new “friend” is distracting, clingy,
and obsessed with acronyms, emojis, and phrases like “breakfast soul mates.”
I didn’t want to like her, but she
crawled under my skin and swallowed me whole. Now we’re best friends and she’s
my new addiction. I'd drink her from a shot glass, snort her up my nose, or
inject her into my veins if I could. What I won’t do … is ever tell her that.
She doesn’t know me … I don’t know me.
When those missing years come back, I think she will hate me … I think I will
hate me.
My parents named me Patrick Roth, and
this is my story.
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Excerpt
“He’s a makeup artist Gemmie recommended.
But he has not, nor ever will be ‘throwing his hat into the ring.’”
“Married?” She grins as if the thought of
me being someone’s mistress pleases her. It’s possible all my living relatives
are a bit twisted.
I shake my head and smirk. “No, Nana,
he’s not married. He’s … gay.”
She throws her head back and slaps her
hand against her chest in a fit of laughter. “Oh my goodness!”
“Why is his sexual preference so
hysterical?”
“Oh dear…” she wipes the corners of her
eyes “…it’s just you have the worst luck in love. When did you find out?”
I reach over and grab a tissue from the sofa
table and hand it to her, rolling my eyes. Then I proceed to tell her
everything, not leaving out one single detail—including my magnetic attraction
to him that shouldn’t be sexual but is.
“Well, dear, you’ve hit the jackpot.”
“What? How have you come to that
conclusion from everything I’ve told you?”
“A guy friend who’s gay? I hear they’re
every girl’s dream. Except, from the sounds of things, Trick needs to gay up a
little more and stop confusing unsuspecting women.”
“Gay up? Who are you?”
She snaps her wrist at me. “I read the
tabloids you know.”
“Yeah? Well then you should know that gay
doesn’t have a look.”
“That’s the problem. You used to be able
to tell by the ear piercing—right for gay left for straight. Or is it the other
way around? Anyway, these days everything gets pierced and so it becomes
terribly confusing.”
Nana provides nonstop entertainment, and
every time I come by to see her I chastise myself for not doing it more often.
“We’re friends, period. And maybe you’re
right. If he would ‘gay up’ a little more I might feel the jackpot effect.”
“Yes, shopping, hair, makeup, and chick
flicks without competing hormones or competing for the same men.”
“Or wishing he weren’t gay,” I whisper to
myself.
She tilts her head to the side, giving me
a soft, sympathetic smile. “Or that too, dear.”
Jewel is a free-spirited romance junkie with a quirky
sense of humor.
With 10 years of flossing lectures under her belt, she
took early retirement from her dental hygiene career to stay home with her
three awesome boys and manage the family business.
After her best friend of nearly 30 years suggested a few
books from the Contemporary Romance genre, Jewel was hooked. Devouring two and
three books a week but still craving more, she decided to practice sustainable
reading, AKA writing.
When she’s not donning her cape and saving the planet one
tree at a time, she enjoys yoga with friends, good food with family, rock
climbing with her kids, watching How I Met Your Mother reruns, and of
course…heart-wrenching, tear-jerking, panty-scorching novels.
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