Excerpt and Giveaway: Heart Shaped Rock by Laura Roppe

Release Date: May 2014

Description:

“If you liked the music collaboration of Maybe Someday, you’ve got to check out Heart Shaped Rock.” — New York Times best-selling author of Maybe Someday, Colleen Hoover

"Laura Roppé has written a moving and emotional novel of first love, accurately capturing the voice and mind of a dramatic and emotional sixteen year old girl caught in a maelstrom of grief and loss, love and heartbreak. And then there’s Dean…you'll just have to read the book, ‘cause I can't do him justice in a few short sentences.” –Jasinda Wilder, New York Times and USA Today best-selling author of Falling into You

Sometimes a shattered heart needs to sing to love again . . . Sixteen year old singer-songwriter Shaynee Sullivan hasn't so much as touched her guitar since her mom died six months ago. In fact, Shaynee hasn't felt like doing much of anything lately, except maybe playing Whack-a-Mole on her "emotionally intelligent" brother's head. But when she meets a gorgeous and surprising rocker named Dean, her shattered heart begins to mend . . . and then burst at the seams. Heart-wrenching, heart-warming, and sometimes even heart-racing, Heart Shaped Rock will leave you laughing through tears and rooting for love in all its forms.

Hear the original music performed in Heart Shaped Rock at www.LauraRoppe.com. All music available on iTunes.

EXCERPT

Nowadays, no one other than Tiff, Kellan and my teachers says a word to me, condolence or otherwise. I guess they just don’t know what to say. I’ve never been much of a talker, anyway, so not chatting about manicures and boy bands and juice cleanses and hashtags suits me just fine. I’m not missing out on anything, really. What do I have to talk about with anyone, anyway? Which cheerleader is hooking up with Chaz Alvarez this week? Whether glitter eye shadow has jumped the shark? Whether neon is the new black? How about . . . how my soul shriveled up and flaked off in one unfathomable day? Or how I’ve fallen headfirst into an abyss filled with darkness and silence and nothingness and rage? How about how I’ve awakened to a wet pillowcase every single morning for the past six months? Or, hey, maybe how my heart hurts so much, so goddamned much, it literally physically hurts, as if someone has been whacking my heart with a meat tenderizer? It’d be better not to have a heart at all. 

Maybe my classmates would like to hear about how I’m on the verge of throwing up at any given moment, thanks to the scent of Mom’s perfume still wafting through the house, even after all these months. Or maybe they want to know about how rail-thin and frail she became at the bitter end, or how her sunken eyes flickered with such deep apology in that very last moment, I had to turn away? I’m sure they would all love to hear me say, “How can one person cry this many tears without actually dying?” I’m sure they want to hear me admit, “I died that day, too.” 

Sure they do. 

And so, when no one talks to me at school, I don’t talk to them, either. It’s just that simple. Last month, when Tiffany was absent for four straight days with a nasty case of strep throat, I literally didn’t utter so much as a sound the entire time (except for when I stubbed my toe on a bench in the girls’ locker room). 

The whole nobody-talks-to-Shaynee thing is fine with me, really. The thing that’s a little bit disturbing, though, if I’m being totally honest, is that no one even looks at me anymore. Maybe they don’t want me to think they’re staring at me with pitying eyes. Maybe they don’t want me to think they’re analyzing my every sigh and furrowed brow and orphaned expression. And so they simply don’t look at me at all. I don’t mind. Mostly. But sometimes, occasionally, if I’m being totally honest, it sucks ass. 

******

A log in the bonfire falls, and the entire fire crackles and pops and sizzles. A wave of thick smoke envelops me for just a moment with the shifting of the breeze. I begin to cough and wave the air with my hands to clear a clean patch to breathe. 

“Looks like you’ve picked a dangerous spot,” a voice says. I turn, expecting Jared. But it’s not Jared. It’s some guy I don’t know. 

Wow, yet another Casanova. Do I have “please talk to me” stamped on my forehead? What’s going on tonight? 

I don’t reply to his pick-up line. I mean it’s pretty lame. 

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, motioning to the sand next to me. 

I shrug. 

His voice seems really familiar to me. But I can’t place it. 

He looks to the fire for a moment, and the flames dance across his face. Wow, he has the most alluring collection of features I’ve ever seen. Well, in person, anyway. I’ve seen movie stars and rock stars rival this guy, but I’ve never seen such perfection up close. He truly is a work of art. His hair is dark. His cheekbones are high. His nose is sculpted. His lips are . . . wow. 

“I’m Dean,” he says, extending his hand. 

I put my hand in his and immediately feel a current of electricity jolt through my body. I jerk my hand away. 

“I’m Shaynee,” I say, sounding more confident than I feel. “I recently learned I’m supposed to say my name when someone says theirs. So, there, I did it. I said my name. It’s Shaynee.” Oh God, I’m rambling. 

He laughs a masculine, guttural laugh. 

I freeze. I know that laugh. Oh my God. I look down at his clothes. Jeans. Combat boots. He’s not wearing the leather jacket, but . . . 

Another plume of smoke from the bonfire hits and envelops us. Again, I cough ferociously. But he isn’t coughing at all. 

When the smoke clears, he lets out his breath. “You’re a bonfire rookie, Shaynee.” 

When he says my name, my stomach flips over and that electricity from our handshake bounces throughout my body. 

He turns to look at me, flashing a wicked grin, and I finally see those startling blue eyes in the flickering light confirming what I already know. Motorcycle Boy. 

“When you see smoke coming,” he says, “you gotta hold your breath ‘til it passes.” 

“Or, hey,” I say, “here’s an idea—we could just move back a bit.” 

“What, and sacrifice warmth?” He grins. 

“It is a bit of a Sophie’s Choice, isn’t it?” 

Dean laughs like he actually understands my movie reference. 

Gah, is it super-duper hot out here tonight? Am I sitting way too close to the fire? Is my hair burning? “Actually, holding my breath is my superpower,” I blurt. “I can hold my breath all day long.” God, I sound like such a dork. 

“Well, that’s a handy superpower. You could totally team up with Aquaman and fight underwater crime and stuff.” He shoots me a crooked smile. “And make some really beautiful tadpoles.” 

I can’t take it anymore. I have to call a spade a spade. “You’re the guy on the motorcycle.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Motorcycle Boy.” 

“Yes, I am. And you’re the girl with the walkie-talkie. Walkie-Talkie Girl.” He laughs. 

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About the author:

Laura Roppé is an award-winning singer/songwriter, author, audio book narrator, speaker, and former attorney from San Diego, California. In 2011, Billboard Magazine ranked her as Number Three on its chart of the Top 50 "uncharted" artists in the world. In May 2013, Laura began hosting Amazon's weekly podcast, "Kindle Love Stories," for people who love hearing about love stories, romance, and happily ever afters.

Her first book is the non-fiction memoir, Rocking the Pink. Her latest is a YA-teen romance novel entitled Heart Shaped Rock, featuring a soundtrack.

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