When Cricket Hooper moves to Seattle she only has a couple of goals—find a job and an apartment near her friend Chelle, and basically to live a quiet, normal life. However, it isn’t long before life becomes far from normal.
When a mysterious man helps get her car out of the mud after she makes a wrong turn, she finds herself in his thrall. He wines and dines her, quite literally, and before Cricket can stop it, things are steamy and serious…very serious.
Cricket is thrown aback when Jyme turns out to be more than a simple fisherman, but then she isn’t telling all of her story either.
The man at the window started tapping, but I wouldn’t look at him. I couldn’t help but picture him with a hatchet. Making it this many years alone, I’ve learned if you don’t stare at people in their eyes, don’t remember their features, and definitely don’t remember their emotions, they will more than likely let you live.
The man tapped on the window again, but I still didn’t look at him. The rain had completely stopped now, and there was a hint of the sun coming back out. I tried to get a side view glance at him, but at the angle he was standing, it was impossible. I imagined him with a dozen tribal tattoos and piercings everywhere. I unhooked my seat belt, pulled my purse open and yanked out my mace. I was not going out without a fight. If he tried to rape me, I would spray him in the face with mace and try to break off his dick. I grabbed my cell phone again, still no signal.
The man tapped one last time at the window. “Get the hell away from me, psycho,” I screamed at him.
“Your phone isn’t going to work up here,” he said in a deep voice.
“Please just leave me alone; I’m just passing through and I got lost,” I told him.
“I’m not going to hurt you; I’m trying to help you,” he said. “You cannot be here; you are on private property. Visitors, who have not been cleared, are not allowed.”
Oh dear God, I am going to have to fight this whole damn neighborhood.
“I live right up the street. I’m going to get help. Don’t move. And don’t try to pull out anymore; you’re only making it worse,” he said in his psycho voice.
I nodded, still not making eye contact with him. I still hadn’t seen his face, so maybe he wouldn’t hurt me.
My parents planned for me, conceived me, and then birthed me. After that, things got much more boring. I didn’t do much, but I did do some things. I lived more and did more things. Then I found that I’m only happy when I write. So now, I mostly write and am, therefore, happy.