Two reviews/interviews for Kay'sVille on the same day?
Option #1: The Cannon Curse
Mike Cannon’s family history reads like a Shakespearean comedy of errors, thanks to what has come to be known as “the Cannon Curse.” The Cannon men are known to fall in love first, fall in love hard, and fall in love once. And the women they love always—always—have the opposite reaction.
Having heard the stories of romatic toil and rejection all his life—including his own brother’s tale of falling love in the 5th grade only to have wait until his wife was 23 to even like looking at him—Mike has developed a plan of attack: be irresistible to all females, and when the right one comes along she won’t be able to refuse.
Unless, of course, she just happens to be engaged to his best friend.
Option #2: Polyga-Date
As dirt-poor graduate students at the University of Utah, Alex and his roommates have developed the perfect system of dating: the “Polyga-date.” With an uneven amount of guys and girls, no official couples, and everyone paying for themselves, these polyga-dates are the perfect way to a.) not spend money on a girl, while b.) still getting their flirt on, and c.) enjoying welcome breaks from intense school and work schedules.
For years the polyga-date system worked until Denver, the little sister of one of Alex’s oldest friends, starts joining in. Back from completing her Bachelor’s degree back East, Denver isn’t the shy little sister Alex remembers, and Alex can’t believe he’s the only one who objects to her going on multiple dates each week and... well, acting just like one of the guys.
It might be a double standard to disclude her from the polyga-dates, but all Alex knows is that if they don’t, eventually some guy is going to get punched.
Option #3: Quick Steps
Before Lace Campbell ever walked, she had danced. Nothing made her feel more alive and she’d built a business on teaching others to share in her passion. She’d proudly believed she could teach anyone to dance—until she met Mac Deveraux.
For six months Mac has stumbled through her classes three times a week, his movements so awkward that more than once she’d been tempted to close the studio blinds. Forcing herself to have a candid conversation with Mac about how worthwhile the classes are for him, she discovers his true motivation for learning. It’s for a girl. Mac’s in love with a co-worker at his software company. He’s known her for years but has never had the guts to ask her out because she swears up and down she won’t consider any man who can’t dance.
Willing to help the poor guy on his plight, Lace spends an evening spying on Mac’s lady love and devises a new plan of attack. She’ll do better than teach Mac to dance. She’ll teach him all the right moves to win the girl so that in the end everyone will get what they want.
Or will they?
A few hours after posting the poll, I went to a reception and caught this AMAZING bouquet. (Seriously, pictures don't do justice and you should TOTALLY smell it. Sabs, thanks for tossing it! Pretty sure I would have kept it if it were mine...)It’s a longstanding nightly tradition for me to die. I wake up at 12:08—always 12:08—unable to breathe, my throat caught in an invisible death grip and the hand-me-down shirt I sleep in drenched with sweat. Always.
Within a few seconds I’m able to remind myself that I’m not hogtied and being dragged to the bottom of a river by a kettle bell. If I breathe in, water won’t fill my lungs. I’m not drowning. It’s only 12:08, just like it is every night.
Sliding from bed, I “borrow” my roommate Candy’s digital watch with a backlight and fasten it around my wrist. Outside the window a lone raven sits at the top of the tree line leading to the forested area. Ravens are everywhere around the children’s home. They’re not supposed to be nocturnal, but this one is. And every night it watches me run.
Years of practice have made me an expert at slipping out the window of my shared room without a whisper of a sound. The cool earth greets my feet like a welcome mat. I can’t wear shoes. Bare feet can’t be an excuse to slow me down. I change the watch’s mode to timer and press “start.”
Then I run as if my life depends on it.
I’ve measured my trail multiple times to make sure it’s exactly three miles. My dad is a runner. He can run a mile in five-minutes flat. It’s one of the many skills he picked up in the Special Forces. Years ago my uncle called my dad a human Swiss army knife, which offended my dad. He preferred to think of himself as something more formidable and feared than a pocket knife. If he had to be categorized as any type of blade at all, it should at least be something like a seven-inch SEAL knife that he could slide between two ribs and directly into a beating heart for a quick kill.
That’s how my dad kills when he respects his prey. If he doesn’t respect it—or perhaps even hates it—then he takes a whole different approach altogether.
Two miles in my stomach lurches, trying to empty itself but succeeding only in burning acid trails up my throat. Tears sting my eyes, making it even harder to see in the dark even as I push to go faster. The vision I’d had the first day authorities had brought me to the children’s home is still as clear in my mind as it was nine years ago.
One day my dad would find me again and be handed a second chance to kill me. When he did, if I could outrun him to my secret place, somehow I would be safe. If I didn’t, I would be dead. Either I would make it, or I wouldn’t.
Stumbling across my invisible finish line, I look down at the watch. It reads 15:07 and counting. Might as well just serve myself up on a platter if I can’t shave at least another twenty seconds off.
“Congratulations, Hex,” I mutter. “You just died.”
But just in case the night comes when I am faster than my dad, I get to work on the secret place beneath my feet.
Copyright, Sheralyn Pratt 2010
