Jane Harvey-Berrick's Blog: Jane Harvey-Berrick, page 7
January 1, 2017
A WINTER GIFT - a heartwarming short story, just for you
To celebrate the launch of my new book ONE CAREFUL OWNER tomorrow, JANUARY 2, here's a short story prequel about two of the main characters. Enjoy!
* * * * * * * * *
A WINTER GIFT
A heartwarming shot story for Christmas
Stan was more used to the cold than me and better equipped to deal with it. His thick fur shielded him from the worst of the biting wind that whipped along the street, snapping and tearing at my snow-soaked clothes.
I pulled my jacket tighter around me, burying my face in the layers of scarves that left nothing but my eyes uncovered. I shivered so hard, my whole body trembled. I didn’t remember the last time I could feel my feet.
A man with a heavy overcoat, laden down with brightly-wrapped gifts darted around me cursing under his breath, and I smiled grimly to myself.
“We’re not invisible today, Stan. Although I’m not sure that’s a step up.”
Stan rubbed his heavy head against my leg, and his deep brown eyes lifted in a frown. He seemed to say, Life sucks, boss.
We were both used to being ignored. It happens a lot when you’re homeless and hopeless.
But today was different. Today we had somewhere to go. And although we walked slowly, plodding along the frozen streets, we walked with purpose. My stomach growled, the emptiness burning a hole through the middle of me. I licked my lips in anticipation—Stan and I would eat well today.
Denver Rescue Mission was a large building on the industrial edge of the city, a distinct redbrick warehouse built in the 1930s, I’d guess. They were open 365 days of a year with 300 beds—more when the weather dropped below freezing. I never stayed there because of Stan.
But I knew that he’d be welcome today, although no sleepovers. Besides, I didn’t like being around people much.
The building seemed to glow with light and cheer as we approached, the large neon cross calling the faithful and unfaithful alike.
As we arrived at the front door, an older man in worn jeans and a thick sweater stood at the entrance.
“Welcome, brother,” he said.
I nodded without speaking, smiling slightly as he bent down to stroke Stan.
“He seems like a good ole boy,” he said, “but you’ll still have to put him on a leash.”
I nodded again, and pulled a piece of rope out of my pocket and tied it to Stan’s collar. He gave me an offended look, huffing softly.
“Please make yourselves at home,” said the man. “We have a donated clothes table if there’s anything that you need, showers and laundry are in the back, but there’s a waiting line for both, I’m afraid.”
We walked inside and were immediately hit by a wall of warmth that had me peeling off my hat, gloves, scarves and jacket. As the heat hit my wet clothes, a pungent wave of body odor drifted from them. I knew that I reeked, but most of the time, you can’t smell yourself after three days—and it had been a lot longer than that for me. Stan didn’t care. But here, among people, humiliation was stronger than hunger. And that’s saying something when you haven’t eaten since the day before.
I gathered up my stinking clothes, bundling them into my duffel bag. Then I snatched up jeans and a couple of shirts from the donated clothes. You know you’ve hit a new low when donated underwear seems like a good idea.
There was a young girl working the clothing area, late teens I’d guess—a college girl or maybe a senior at high school. Even though I was only 32, I felt old. Old and tired.
Her parents hovered behind, her father wearing black jeans, a dog collar and a wide smile; her mother friendly and bustling.
I was used to people side-eyeing me and Stan, but this family met my eyes, not afraid to smile.
As the girl handed me some extra t-shirts, her eyes fell on Stan.
“Can I pet him?”
I nodded, a smile hidden behind my thick beard.
Her fingers sank into Stan’s warm fur.
“What’s his name?”
My smile dropped. I hated this part.
“Sssss…” I hissed at her. “Sssss…”
Her eyes widened as she watched me warily.
“Ssss-tttt-an,” I finally managed to spit out.
She blinked several times.
“Stan? His name is Stan?”
I nodded, relieved that she wasn’t going to make me repeat myself.
“Hello, Stan,” she said softly.
Stan’s tongue lolled from his mouth in a happy smile, and she giggled when he licked her hand.
Her laughter was like liquid sunshine, and for a moment I bathed in the warmth of her smile. But I wasn’t the only one. Across the room, a boy of about the same age looked up at the sound of her voice. His eyes fixed on her immediately, admiration obvious in his gaze, desire in his eyes.
He was working on the food line, handing out plates of roast turkey, vegetables and mashed potatoes. He seemed out of place here, in his neatly-pressed, preppy clothes. But when he looked at the girl, I knew exactly why he was here.
Then the boy glanced away, his lips pressing together as his expression dissolved into hopelessness.
My stony heart cracked, and I remembered what it was like to feel that for another person, to feel love. My older, cynical side wanted to warn the boy to stay far away from the girl, but I knew he wouldn’t listen. And maybe that was the right thing to do. Just because my wife had turned out to be a cheating, evil bitch, it didn’t mean that all women were. Most of them, probably. But not all. Not this girl with the smiling eyes.
I glanced in the direction of the showers, seeing that the line was shorter now. I thought longingly of hot water and soap, trying to remember the last time I’d been able to shampoo my matted, greasy hair.
The girl noticed the direction of my gaze.
“Would you like me to look after Stan while you take a shower?”
I was going to say no. I didn’t trust anyone else with Stan. He was my only family now, and I couldn’t lose him. But some animal instinct told me that this girl wouldn’t hurt me and she wouldn’t hurt Stan. It was hard to trust, but…
I glanced across at the boy again as his eyes flicked to the girl. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
“Stan will be fine with me,” she said softly, as if reading the hesitation and doubt in my face. “I’m Honor.”
Of course you are, I wanted to say.
The boy was still watching her, even as he served the turkey dinner to a long line of homeless people.
And then I had an idea.
I knew I was broken. I accepted that. Broken and probably crazy, but maybe when society has abandoned you, that’s when you see most clearly the things that really matter.
My holiday gift to this girl would be trust.
“Ffff…” I stammered. “Fff…ood.” And I pointed to Stan.
“Oh! Of course,” she said. “Stan must be hungry, too. Would you like me to feed him while you’re showering?”
I nodded briefly, then knelt down next to Stan and whispered in his ear so only he could hear.
“Turkey coming your way, buddy. Just be nice to the girl. Do that cute thing with your eyes. Yeah, that’s it. Go sit beside that kid who’s jonesing for Miss Honor. Our good deed of the day.”
He cocked his head to one side, and I’d swear he understood every word.
Sure thing, boss!
He trotted off with Honor, enjoying the attention, as well as the aroma of cooked meat and gravy that filled the room.
I couldn’t help smiling when the boy just about tripped over his own feet when he saw the girl walking toward him, Stan at her heels.
I watched long enough to see him fix a plate for Stan, listening intently as the girl chatted away to him.
Joy, sadness—it’s all just a toss of the coin. And who’s to say which way it will fall for you.
I’d had it all: a wife I loved, a home, a job that I enjoyed and was good at. And I lost it all. Everything. Maybe even my sanity.
Life is made up of moments.
As I showered, enjoying the blistering heat that penetrated the cold center of my heart, I thought about the boy and Honor. Maybe it was their moment today. Maybe that moment would be the one they’d always remember—for good reasons, I hoped. But you can never tell.
Maybe in ten years, they’d be screaming at each other while their divorce lawyers prepared the paperwork.
Maybe. Maybe not.
But today, I’d seen something good, something hopeful. Maybe a crazy person sees things others ignore.
I am but mad north-north-west.
When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
I dressed in clean clothes for the first time in a month. I held the old, plaid shirt to my face, breathing in the faint scent of laundry soap. My eyes burned with unshed tears as a thousand memories filled my head, a thousand sounds, a thousand colors, voices and laughter, smiles and pain. Too much pain.
And I knew. This was my moment, as well.
I needed to change. I needed to get better. For my sake and Stan’s.
I threw my soiled clothes into a washing machine and went to find him.
He was still with the girl, lying at her feet, his eyes sleepy and his belly full. This was what he deserved. His life had been hard enough, and in his old age he deserved more.
Guilt filled me, along with the determination to be better, for his sake.
Honor smiled as I bent down to stroke Stan’s ears.
“He’s a cool dog,” said the boy.
“This is my new friend, Adam,” said the girl. “He loves dogs, too.”
I nodded, my smile hidden by my beard, my eyes hidden by my straggly hair.
Then I sat at the long trestle table and ate my turkey dinner, my eyes fixed on my food, glancing up when someone spoke to me, but not uttering a sound in return.
No one minded. Here, crazy was part of the picture. Besides, I had Stan. And people spoke to him when they couldn’t speak to me. It worked for both of us.
The boy and girl smiled at each other, and I watched them swap phone numbers.
My work is done. It was up to them now.
I pulled on my new-old overcoat, wrapping two scarves around my neck as I pulled my beanie down low over my ears.
Stan stood beside me, leaning his heavy head against my leg.
The girl looked up at me, a huge smile on her face.
“Thank you for coming!” she said. “I don’t even know your name. Well, happy holidays!”
I nodded briefly, then dropped my eyes to the floor.
We were already at the door, when I turned to look at the boy and girl for one last time.
“Alex,” I murmured. “Alex Winters. Happy holidays.”
And then we walked out into a world of white.
* * * * *
You can read the rest of Alex and Stan’s story in ONE CAREFUL OWNER.
Releases January 2nd.
US http://amzn.to/2fT4h4t
UK http://amzn.to/2guPm47
iBooks http://apple.co/2hBvkWP
Kobo https://www.kobo.com/gb/en/ebook/one-...
Barnes & Noble http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/one-c...
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3...
Book Trailer https://youtu.be/ysZZ4_lqUpw
* * * * * * * * *
A WINTER GIFT
A heartwarming shot story for Christmas
Stan was more used to the cold than me and better equipped to deal with it. His thick fur shielded him from the worst of the biting wind that whipped along the street, snapping and tearing at my snow-soaked clothes.
I pulled my jacket tighter around me, burying my face in the layers of scarves that left nothing but my eyes uncovered. I shivered so hard, my whole body trembled. I didn’t remember the last time I could feel my feet.
A man with a heavy overcoat, laden down with brightly-wrapped gifts darted around me cursing under his breath, and I smiled grimly to myself.
“We’re not invisible today, Stan. Although I’m not sure that’s a step up.”
Stan rubbed his heavy head against my leg, and his deep brown eyes lifted in a frown. He seemed to say, Life sucks, boss.
We were both used to being ignored. It happens a lot when you’re homeless and hopeless.
But today was different. Today we had somewhere to go. And although we walked slowly, plodding along the frozen streets, we walked with purpose. My stomach growled, the emptiness burning a hole through the middle of me. I licked my lips in anticipation—Stan and I would eat well today.
Denver Rescue Mission was a large building on the industrial edge of the city, a distinct redbrick warehouse built in the 1930s, I’d guess. They were open 365 days of a year with 300 beds—more when the weather dropped below freezing. I never stayed there because of Stan.
But I knew that he’d be welcome today, although no sleepovers. Besides, I didn’t like being around people much.
The building seemed to glow with light and cheer as we approached, the large neon cross calling the faithful and unfaithful alike.
As we arrived at the front door, an older man in worn jeans and a thick sweater stood at the entrance.
“Welcome, brother,” he said.
I nodded without speaking, smiling slightly as he bent down to stroke Stan.
“He seems like a good ole boy,” he said, “but you’ll still have to put him on a leash.”
I nodded again, and pulled a piece of rope out of my pocket and tied it to Stan’s collar. He gave me an offended look, huffing softly.
“Please make yourselves at home,” said the man. “We have a donated clothes table if there’s anything that you need, showers and laundry are in the back, but there’s a waiting line for both, I’m afraid.”
We walked inside and were immediately hit by a wall of warmth that had me peeling off my hat, gloves, scarves and jacket. As the heat hit my wet clothes, a pungent wave of body odor drifted from them. I knew that I reeked, but most of the time, you can’t smell yourself after three days—and it had been a lot longer than that for me. Stan didn’t care. But here, among people, humiliation was stronger than hunger. And that’s saying something when you haven’t eaten since the day before.
I gathered up my stinking clothes, bundling them into my duffel bag. Then I snatched up jeans and a couple of shirts from the donated clothes. You know you’ve hit a new low when donated underwear seems like a good idea.
There was a young girl working the clothing area, late teens I’d guess—a college girl or maybe a senior at high school. Even though I was only 32, I felt old. Old and tired.
Her parents hovered behind, her father wearing black jeans, a dog collar and a wide smile; her mother friendly and bustling.
I was used to people side-eyeing me and Stan, but this family met my eyes, not afraid to smile.
As the girl handed me some extra t-shirts, her eyes fell on Stan.
“Can I pet him?”
I nodded, a smile hidden behind my thick beard.
Her fingers sank into Stan’s warm fur.
“What’s his name?”
My smile dropped. I hated this part.
“Sssss…” I hissed at her. “Sssss…”
Her eyes widened as she watched me warily.
“Ssss-tttt-an,” I finally managed to spit out.
She blinked several times.
“Stan? His name is Stan?”
I nodded, relieved that she wasn’t going to make me repeat myself.
“Hello, Stan,” she said softly.
Stan’s tongue lolled from his mouth in a happy smile, and she giggled when he licked her hand.
Her laughter was like liquid sunshine, and for a moment I bathed in the warmth of her smile. But I wasn’t the only one. Across the room, a boy of about the same age looked up at the sound of her voice. His eyes fixed on her immediately, admiration obvious in his gaze, desire in his eyes.
He was working on the food line, handing out plates of roast turkey, vegetables and mashed potatoes. He seemed out of place here, in his neatly-pressed, preppy clothes. But when he looked at the girl, I knew exactly why he was here.
Then the boy glanced away, his lips pressing together as his expression dissolved into hopelessness.
My stony heart cracked, and I remembered what it was like to feel that for another person, to feel love. My older, cynical side wanted to warn the boy to stay far away from the girl, but I knew he wouldn’t listen. And maybe that was the right thing to do. Just because my wife had turned out to be a cheating, evil bitch, it didn’t mean that all women were. Most of them, probably. But not all. Not this girl with the smiling eyes.
I glanced in the direction of the showers, seeing that the line was shorter now. I thought longingly of hot water and soap, trying to remember the last time I’d been able to shampoo my matted, greasy hair.
The girl noticed the direction of my gaze.
“Would you like me to look after Stan while you take a shower?”
I was going to say no. I didn’t trust anyone else with Stan. He was my only family now, and I couldn’t lose him. But some animal instinct told me that this girl wouldn’t hurt me and she wouldn’t hurt Stan. It was hard to trust, but…
I glanced across at the boy again as his eyes flicked to the girl. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
“Stan will be fine with me,” she said softly, as if reading the hesitation and doubt in my face. “I’m Honor.”
Of course you are, I wanted to say.
The boy was still watching her, even as he served the turkey dinner to a long line of homeless people.
And then I had an idea.
I knew I was broken. I accepted that. Broken and probably crazy, but maybe when society has abandoned you, that’s when you see most clearly the things that really matter.
My holiday gift to this girl would be trust.
“Ffff…” I stammered. “Fff…ood.” And I pointed to Stan.
“Oh! Of course,” she said. “Stan must be hungry, too. Would you like me to feed him while you’re showering?”
I nodded briefly, then knelt down next to Stan and whispered in his ear so only he could hear.
“Turkey coming your way, buddy. Just be nice to the girl. Do that cute thing with your eyes. Yeah, that’s it. Go sit beside that kid who’s jonesing for Miss Honor. Our good deed of the day.”
He cocked his head to one side, and I’d swear he understood every word.
Sure thing, boss!
He trotted off with Honor, enjoying the attention, as well as the aroma of cooked meat and gravy that filled the room.
I couldn’t help smiling when the boy just about tripped over his own feet when he saw the girl walking toward him, Stan at her heels.
I watched long enough to see him fix a plate for Stan, listening intently as the girl chatted away to him.
Joy, sadness—it’s all just a toss of the coin. And who’s to say which way it will fall for you.
I’d had it all: a wife I loved, a home, a job that I enjoyed and was good at. And I lost it all. Everything. Maybe even my sanity.
Life is made up of moments.
As I showered, enjoying the blistering heat that penetrated the cold center of my heart, I thought about the boy and Honor. Maybe it was their moment today. Maybe that moment would be the one they’d always remember—for good reasons, I hoped. But you can never tell.
Maybe in ten years, they’d be screaming at each other while their divorce lawyers prepared the paperwork.
Maybe. Maybe not.
But today, I’d seen something good, something hopeful. Maybe a crazy person sees things others ignore.
I am but mad north-north-west.
When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
I dressed in clean clothes for the first time in a month. I held the old, plaid shirt to my face, breathing in the faint scent of laundry soap. My eyes burned with unshed tears as a thousand memories filled my head, a thousand sounds, a thousand colors, voices and laughter, smiles and pain. Too much pain.
And I knew. This was my moment, as well.
I needed to change. I needed to get better. For my sake and Stan’s.
I threw my soiled clothes into a washing machine and went to find him.
He was still with the girl, lying at her feet, his eyes sleepy and his belly full. This was what he deserved. His life had been hard enough, and in his old age he deserved more.
Guilt filled me, along with the determination to be better, for his sake.
Honor smiled as I bent down to stroke Stan’s ears.
“He’s a cool dog,” said the boy.
“This is my new friend, Adam,” said the girl. “He loves dogs, too.”
I nodded, my smile hidden by my beard, my eyes hidden by my straggly hair.
Then I sat at the long trestle table and ate my turkey dinner, my eyes fixed on my food, glancing up when someone spoke to me, but not uttering a sound in return.
No one minded. Here, crazy was part of the picture. Besides, I had Stan. And people spoke to him when they couldn’t speak to me. It worked for both of us.
The boy and girl smiled at each other, and I watched them swap phone numbers.
My work is done. It was up to them now.
I pulled on my new-old overcoat, wrapping two scarves around my neck as I pulled my beanie down low over my ears.
Stan stood beside me, leaning his heavy head against my leg.
The girl looked up at me, a huge smile on her face.
“Thank you for coming!” she said. “I don’t even know your name. Well, happy holidays!”
I nodded briefly, then dropped my eyes to the floor.
We were already at the door, when I turned to look at the boy and girl for one last time.
“Alex,” I murmured. “Alex Winters. Happy holidays.”
And then we walked out into a world of white.
* * * * *
You can read the rest of Alex and Stan’s story in ONE CAREFUL OWNER.
Releases January 2nd.
US http://amzn.to/2fT4h4t
UK http://amzn.to/2guPm47
iBooks http://apple.co/2hBvkWP
Kobo https://www.kobo.com/gb/en/ebook/one-...
Barnes & Noble http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/one-c...
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3...
Book Trailer https://youtu.be/ysZZ4_lqUpw
December 26, 2016
“The perfect balance of dark suspense and heart-warming romance, "
¸¸.•*¨*•♫♪☆•99¢ HOLIDAY SALE •☆♪♫•*¨*•.¸¸
“The perfect balance of dark suspense and heart-warming romance, this was a book that I could not put down, and loved in all its devastating, gritty, yet unreservedly romantic and compelling beauty.”
NATASHA IS A BOOK JUNKIE
How far can you fall in just one month? How quickly can the human spirit be broken? Where does evil hide in plain sight?
Ash wants to dance. Needs it. To leave behind a life of expectation and duty, to set his soul free.
But life is never that simple. Every step is a journey on a new road.
For every action, there is a reaction.
Every choice has a consequence.
And when you meet the wrong person, all bets are off.
Laney tolerates her limitations, pushing quietly at boundaries. But when Ash crashes into her world through rage and violence, it sets off a chain reaction that neither of them expected.
"If there's one thing we can say about Jane Harvey Berrick's writing, it's that she always manages to capture our imagination with the beauty and visionary of her stories!"
TOTALLY BOOKED
"This story is so wondrously written that if I could give it more stars I would. Because even though I am somewhat stingy with my five-star ratings, I’d throw many more at this incredible piece of art in the blink of an eye."
THE SUBCLUB BOOK CLUB
“This beautiful, creative, passionate man; a dancer, an artist—he’d killed, for me”
USA http://amzn.to/2233Lnu
UK http://amzn.to/1pQu2qX
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...
“The perfect balance of dark suspense and heart-warming romance, this was a book that I could not put down, and loved in all its devastating, gritty, yet unreservedly romantic and compelling beauty.”
NATASHA IS A BOOK JUNKIE
How far can you fall in just one month? How quickly can the human spirit be broken? Where does evil hide in plain sight?
Ash wants to dance. Needs it. To leave behind a life of expectation and duty, to set his soul free.
But life is never that simple. Every step is a journey on a new road.
For every action, there is a reaction.
Every choice has a consequence.
And when you meet the wrong person, all bets are off.
Laney tolerates her limitations, pushing quietly at boundaries. But when Ash crashes into her world through rage and violence, it sets off a chain reaction that neither of them expected.
"If there's one thing we can say about Jane Harvey Berrick's writing, it's that she always manages to capture our imagination with the beauty and visionary of her stories!"
TOTALLY BOOKED
"This story is so wondrously written that if I could give it more stars I would. Because even though I am somewhat stingy with my five-star ratings, I’d throw many more at this incredible piece of art in the blink of an eye."
THE SUBCLUB BOOK CLUB
“This beautiful, creative, passionate man; a dancer, an artist—he’d killed, for me”
USA http://amzn.to/2233Lnu
UK http://amzn.to/1pQu2qX
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...
December 7, 2016
Pre-order for 99¢
ONE CAREFUL OWNER
♥ 99¢ pre-order, a limited time promotion ♥
“Take me, all of me, broken and in pieces, or say to hell with me.”
WARNING!
This book will break your heart!
From the best-selling romance author of THE EDUCATION OF SEBASTIAN comes a sexy, heart-breaking and heart-warming story about one man and his dog. (Standalone)
Alex is lost and alone, with only his dog, Stan for company. He doesn’t expect kindness from anyone anymore, but sometimes hope can be found in the most unlikely places. He has a second chance at happiness, but there’s a dark side to Alex, and a reason that more than one person has called him crazy.
Single mother Dawn is doing just fine. Except that her ex- is a pain in the ass, her sister isn’t speaking to her, and her love life is on the endangered list.
At least her job as a veterinarian is going well. Until a crazy-looking guy arrives at her office accompanied by an aging dog with toothache. Or maybe Alex Winters isn’t so crazy after all, just … different.
Dawn realizes that she’s treated him the same way that all the gossips in town have treated her—people can be very cruel.
Contains scenes of an adult nature.
[This is a standalone novel with no cliff-hanger.]
US http://amzn.to/2fT4h4t
UK http://amzn.to/2guPm47
Kobo https://www.kobo.com/gb/en/ebook/one-...
Barnes & Noble http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/one-c...
iBooks to follow
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3...
www.janeharveyberrick.com
♥ 99¢ pre-order, a limited time promotion ♥
“Take me, all of me, broken and in pieces, or say to hell with me.”
WARNING!
This book will break your heart!
From the best-selling romance author of THE EDUCATION OF SEBASTIAN comes a sexy, heart-breaking and heart-warming story about one man and his dog. (Standalone)
Alex is lost and alone, with only his dog, Stan for company. He doesn’t expect kindness from anyone anymore, but sometimes hope can be found in the most unlikely places. He has a second chance at happiness, but there’s a dark side to Alex, and a reason that more than one person has called him crazy.
Single mother Dawn is doing just fine. Except that her ex- is a pain in the ass, her sister isn’t speaking to her, and her love life is on the endangered list.
At least her job as a veterinarian is going well. Until a crazy-looking guy arrives at her office accompanied by an aging dog with toothache. Or maybe Alex Winters isn’t so crazy after all, just … different.
Dawn realizes that she’s treated him the same way that all the gossips in town have treated her—people can be very cruel.
Contains scenes of an adult nature.
[This is a standalone novel with no cliff-hanger.]
US http://amzn.to/2fT4h4t
UK http://amzn.to/2guPm47
Kobo https://www.kobo.com/gb/en/ebook/one-...
Barnes & Noble http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/one-c...
iBooks to follow
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3...
www.janeharveyberrick.com
November 28, 2016
FREE! This week only: THE TRAVELING MAN
Spent too much on Black Friday?
No worries! Because for THIS WEEK ONLY, your favorite carnival story is FREE!
Aimee is eight years old when she meets carnie kid Kestrel. Over the years, friendship grows to something more.
“Kes took me out of my safe little box and showed me the world could be magnificent.”
US http://amzn.to/21WmMpC
UK http://amzn.to/1pQtOjx
Goodreads http://bit.ly/16t5Gu0
No worries! Because for THIS WEEK ONLY, your favorite carnival story is FREE!
Aimee is eight years old when she meets carnie kid Kestrel. Over the years, friendship grows to something more.
“Kes took me out of my safe little box and showed me the world could be magnificent.”
US http://amzn.to/21WmMpC
UK http://amzn.to/1pQtOjx
Goodreads http://bit.ly/16t5Gu0
November 17, 2016
For animal lovers...
“Take me, all of me, broken and in pieces, or say to hell with me.”
* * * * *
ONE CAREFUL OWNER, my new book, is going to be out on January 2.
Add it to your TBR list now!
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3...
* * * * *
A new standalone romance
* * * * *
ONE CAREFUL OWNER, my new book, is going to be out on January 2.
Add it to your TBR list now!
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3...
* * * * *
A new standalone romance
August 31, 2016
Chapter 5 of my serialized novel A BAD START - out today!
I've just released the fifth chapter of my FREE serialized novel A BAD START via my newsletter http://eepurl.com/-B3zn
But you can catch up with the first four chapters on my website here -->
http://janeharveyberrick.co.uk/portfo...
Chapter 5 – A Long Way From Home
US Marine Jackson Connor is taking a much-needed break from his dangerous life, although spending time with feisty war reporter, MJ ‘Maggie’ Buckman is beginning to look hazardous to his health, certainly his status as a single guy.
It was supposed to be a fun, no-ties fling with an intelligent, attractive woman. Now, it’s becoming so much more.
But when MJ is sent to one of the most dangerous places in the world, Jack learns it can be pretty tough being the one left behind.
But you can catch up with the first four chapters on my website here -->
http://janeharveyberrick.co.uk/portfo...
Chapter 5 – A Long Way From Home
US Marine Jackson Connor is taking a much-needed break from his dangerous life, although spending time with feisty war reporter, MJ ‘Maggie’ Buckman is beginning to look hazardous to his health, certainly his status as a single guy.
It was supposed to be a fun, no-ties fling with an intelligent, attractive woman. Now, it’s becoming so much more.
But when MJ is sent to one of the most dangerous places in the world, Jack learns it can be pretty tough being the one left behind.
July 30, 2016
"All the feels" - FREE serialized story
You can now catch up with the first three chapters of A BAD START.
US Marine Jackson Connor has a tough job to do. Babysitting journalist MJ 'Maggie' Buckman is not top of his priorities. But when she's risking death in the war torn district of Helmand, Afghanistan, all the protective instincts of a true warrior come to the fore.
But there's more to MJ than an idealistic do-gooder, and soon Jackson is spending more time thinking about than he likes. And he has to do something about that...
*•.¸(*•.¸(´*•.¸(*•.¸¸.•*´)¸.•*´)¸.•*´)¸.•*
Chapters 1 to 3 are now on my website http://janeharveyberrick.co.uk/portfo...
And make sure you SIGN UP here --> http://eepurl.com/-B3zn
to read CHAPTER 4 - out next MONDAY August 1st
US Marine Jackson Connor has a tough job to do. Babysitting journalist MJ 'Maggie' Buckman is not top of his priorities. But when she's risking death in the war torn district of Helmand, Afghanistan, all the protective instincts of a true warrior come to the fore.
But there's more to MJ than an idealistic do-gooder, and soon Jackson is spending more time thinking about than he likes. And he has to do something about that...
*•.¸(*•.¸(´*•.¸(*•.¸¸.•*´)¸.•*´)¸.•*´)¸.•*
Chapters 1 to 3 are now on my website http://janeharveyberrick.co.uk/portfo...
And make sure you SIGN UP here --> http://eepurl.com/-B3zn
to read CHAPTER 4 - out next MONDAY August 1st
June 18, 2016
Serialized novel A BAD START
Have you signed up to my newsletter?
If you have, you'll already have received and read TWO chapters of my serialized story about super-hot Marine Jackson Connor and war correspondent Maggie 'MJ' Buckman.
Each month, you'll receive a new chapter, completely FREE!
Sign up here--> http://eepurl.com/-B3zn
There's a new chapter due in a week....
But Here's how it all started!
* * * *
Chapter 1 – A Bad Start
Two hours later and my hands were still shaking.
I’d been sitting in the cafeteria, fingers pressed against a cup of coffee that was now lukewarm. I could still smell the faint scent of soap and sweat as the man’s hands gripped around my waist and pulled me towards him, the scream dying in my throat.
Another shudder ran through my body. If he hadn’t been there … the other man.
My brain refused to consider what could have happened next. He was there—and I was thankful for that.
Working as a foreign correspondent wasn’t as glamorous as it sounded. I spent my time in harsh climates, trying to talk to people who were too scared to have their words reported, too intimidated to have their photographs taken.
It was important work—I thought it was important. My family didn’t disagree, but they worried about me. And after everything that had happened today, it seems they were right to worry.
I couldn’t help replaying the afternoon’s events in my mind.
My guide and interpreter, Omar, had taken me to a small, mudbrick house on the outskirts of the tired-looking village of Washir, trapped in the war torn land of Helmand Province, Afghanistan.
We’d been careful. Omar had borrowed a rickety, beaten up car from one of his numerous cousins rather than risk being seen in the modern American vehicle that I had access to. Then I’d been covered from head to toe in a blue burqa, so I couldn’t guess how we’d been spotted.
But ten minutes into the interview with Anoosheh and her family, there was a loud thump against the door, then one of the windows was smashed. An angry mob had gathered, and they were threatening to drag me outside. Omar wouldn’t tell me what else they were threatening to do to me.
I was terrified. With no escape route, no backdoor, and no plan, my hands were shaking as I used my satellite phone to call the emergency number I’d been given upon arriving at Camp Leatherneck, the USMC base where I’d been living for the last week.
The noise outside grew louder and more windows were smashed. I cowered into the back of the room with the other members of the family as Omar and Anoosheh’s father piled furniture against the door, their eyes wide and panicked.
Suddenly, I heard shots outside, the sounds of a semi-automatic weapon firing. I thought I was going to die.
The door was kicked in and then I saw the most beautiful sight in the world: US Marines, armed and deadly.
The leader grabbed me by the hand, yelling something I couldn’t hear above the clamor and noise. Then he wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me toward the door, his men clearing a path to the waiting jeep.
Anoosheh and her family followed quickly, and we sped away in a cloud of yellow dust as the furious mob rained down rocks on us.
Omar insisted that we leave him and the family I’d been interviewing at his uncle’s house. I pulled out my wallet and gave him every dollar I had in there. It wasn’t much, but it would help them leave Helmand. I hoped.
The Marines stoically ignored me as they drove back to Camp Leatherneck. They’d checked I wasn’t injured, but they had nothing to say to me. I could sense their dislike.
Once I was safe in the compound, I was debriefed by my liaison, Captain Luis Fernando. He offered to make an appointment for me with the Base’s counselor. I just wanted to take a hot shower and wash away the fear and grime of the day.
When I finally felt clean, I forced myself to the cafeteria, but my stomach churned too badly for me to risk eating. Thankfully the coffee was drinkable. Okay, it tasted like crap, but coffee helped.
Until one very large and very pissed off Marine came marching over to me.
“You don’t belong here, lady,” he snarled, standing next to my table, his broad, tanned hands resting on lean hips.
“Excuse me?”
“You nearly got yourself killed today. I had to risk my men to come and get your ass out of a sling. You risked lives: yours, ours, that Afghan family, your terp. For what? Another damn story about how badly the US is fucking up Afghanistan!”
“I don’t! That’s not what…”
“I’m not finished!” he snapped, and I couldn’t help flinching away from his obvious anger, from the raw power locked inside his muscled body.
“We’re supposed to be winning hearts and minds out here, but your dumb stunt has set us back weeks—maybe months. You don’t belong here. Go home and leave the real work to us.”
My mouth hung open, moving uselessly as I tried to reply.
He shook his head in disgust, his dark blue eyes flaring with anger.
My own fury ignited at the sight of his broad back and arrogant lift of his head as he marched away from me.
I called out loudly. “Do you have sisters, Sergeant?”
He stopped and turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he decided whether or not to answer my question. His eventual reply was grudging.
“I’ve got a younger sister.”
“That’s nice,” I said flatly, my eyes flicking up and down his tall body. I guessed he was in his late twenties, so a younger sister would be … what … early twenties? “What’s her name?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just interested.”
I could see him examining my question, searching for any danger areas, any way in which answering would show weakness.
“Lucy.”
“That’s a pretty name. Did Lucy go to high school?”
“Of course she did,” he scoffed. “She’s in college now and…”
His words cut off when he realized he was coming close to having a conversation.
“That’s nice,” I said again. “Good for her. The girl I went to interview today is 14. Her name is Anoosheh—it means ‘lucky’. She’d like to be a doctor, but that’s not going to happen. I know you won’t ask me why, so I’ll just tell you. Her family has been told to take her out of school or she’ll be killed. For wanting an education. And it’s not just her—the same thing is happening all over Afghanistan.”
I saw a muscle in his jaw twitch as he clamped his mouth shut.
“Schools for girls have been burned down and teachers educating girls have been threatened or killed; girls have been attacked walking to school and even at school. So education is unsafe for them—it’s rare to find any females educated past elementary age. Annosheh is an exception—until now. Eighty-five per cent of Afghan women are illiterate*.”
The sergeant frowned, his full lips thinning as he pressed them together. I had his attention and I was on a roll.
“Maybe you read about Malala Yousafzai, a 15 year old Pakistani girl? She was shot in the head by Taliban gunmen because she spoke up for the rights of girls to be educated. Or maybe you read about the 276 girls who were kidnapped from their school in Nigeria two years ago by Boko Haram—their crime was attending school. Many are still missing. Does any of this sound familiar, Sergeant?”
He nodded, a staccato tilt of his chin.
“Well, that’s why I do what I do, because I believe that we in the West need to read these stories. We need to keep fighting for what is right because otherwise we let the darkness win. That’s why I’m here. And that’s why I’ll continue to do my job.”
“Fine,” he said, his dark blue eyes glittering in the harsh lighting. “You do your job, you go save the world. In the meantime, poor slobs like me have to save you from yourself!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I bristled.
“You come here, to a fucking war zone, and think being a liberal do-gooder is going to save you? Well it won’t. People like me, people with guns are going to save you. You’re so naïve and ill-prepared, but you think that you have the right…”
“I am not ill-prepared!” I snapped back. I certainly wasn’t going to have this asshole tell me that I didn’t know my job. “I do my research, Sergeant, just like you.”
It was true: I’d read up everything I could find about Helmand Province—correct behavior, local customs, even a few words of the Qu’ran to use in an emergency. Although I had to admit none of that preparation had helped me today.
“Just like me,” he mimicked, an ugly smile on his handsome face. “So with all that research, with all that preparation, how do you think they found you today? You think it was just an accident that a mob turns up outside the house where you’re conducting an interview—a mob with the intention of dragging you out and stoning you to death?”
I felt faint as every drop of blood rushed from my head, leaving my body cold and shocked. For a moment the asshole sergeant looked chagrined, but then the stormy expression returned.
“I didn’t know,” I whispered.
When he spoke again his voice was still stern.
“Your footwear,” he said. “In Afghanistan, women don’t wear white socks and white sneakers: your research should have told you those are banned, because the Afghan flag contains white, so wearing white shoes would signify walking on top of it.” His voice was acid as he sneered at me. “You were seen. So much for your preparation. You should stick to reporting from the Bronx—it would be safer.”
When he walked away this time, I didn’t stop him.
I sat stewing for another hour, alternating between fury at the way he’d spoken to me, shock at how close I’d come to dying today, and the danger that I’d put myself in along with Omar and Anoosheh’s family. And then the shameful realization that I hadn’t even thanked Sergeant Asshole.
He was right: he and his men had put their lives on the line for me. I felt small and ashamed.
I left the cup of cold coffee and went to speak with Captain Fernando again.
He looked irritated when he saw me standing at his door for the second time that day.
“Yes, Miss Buckman, what can I do for you now, ma’am?”
There was a slight emphasis on the word ‘now’, as if he really meant, ‘why are you bothering me again?’
“I wonder if you could tell me the names of the men who came to my rescue today, Captain?”
“For the purpose of?”
“I want to thank them,” I said simply.
He looked surprised. “Anything else?”
“Well, I’d offer to buy them all a drink, but seeing as alcohol is forbidden here…”
He smiled.
“You don’t need to do that, ma’am. I’ll pass on your thanks to the men in question,” and he turned back to his paperwork.
“I wonder if I could thank them in person,” I pressed gently. “It would only take a moment—it would mean a lot to me.”
He sighed, but nodded and stood up.
“This way, ma’am.”
We walked through the camp, sweating in the heat, despite the long shadows cast by the setting sun. He led me past rows of military vehicles and featureless temporary buildings, until we got to a long, barrack-style tent, and heard the sound of men’s voices.
“She sure got you chasing your tail, Jack,” someone laughed. “Not that I blame you, man, that pretty little journalist is a sight for sore eyes.”
“I don’t care how smokin’ hot she is,” came the reply. “That stupid bitch risked her life to…”
“Ten hut! Officer on deck!”
One of the Marines lounging by the entrance had noticed us. Captain Fernando risked a quick look at me then clearly decided it was better if he pretended neither of us had heard that last sentence.
The only giveaway was the dull flush of red beneath the tan of the handsome asshole’s cheeks as his voice cut out, the words ‘stupid bitch’ dying on his lips.
My own cheeks were equally red, not just because of what he’d said, but because he was standing bare-chested in front of me, a t-shirt hanging from one hand as if he’d just yanked it over his head.
His skin was smooth and tanned golden by long hours in the sun. I could see the muscles of his chest and stomach, an eight-pack, before I tugged my eyes upward to his strong chin, ruthlessly shaved, and those intelligent, heated, dark blue eyes.
“At ease, men,” said Fernando, clearing his throat. “I think most of you know our resident reporter. Miss Buckman, this is Sergeant Jackson Connor, the man who led the extraction party today. Men, Miss Buckman has got something she’d like to say to y’all.” Then he turned to me. “The floor is yours, Miss Buckman.”
I looked at each of the men in turn. The oldest couldn’t have been more than 30; the youngest, a teenager who barely needed to shave. But they all had hard bodies and the flinty expressions of men who’d seen too much.
“I didn’t get a chance to thank you before,” I said, my voice carrying across the length of the long tent-covered dormitory. “You know, what with all the bullets flying around and the angry mob out for blood.” There was a soft murmur of laughter, but I had to close my eyes briefly as the feeling of terror began to crawl up my throat again. I swallowed twice before I could continue. “So, thank you—all of you—for saving my life.” My eyes locked on Sergeant Connor. “I mean it—without you guys, I wouldn’t be here now.”
I’m not sure if I imagined it, but his hard expression seemed to have softened slightly.
“I’m flying home tomorrow,” I continued. “Someone told me that the Bronx is safer than Lashkar Gah…” I paused as a few more laughs echoed down the room, and even Sergeant Connor cracked a small smile. “But the next time any of you are in New York City, I’d love to buy you a drink. I work for the New York Times, a darn great building on Eighth Avenue, so I’m pretty easy to find.”
I looked across at Captain Fernando. “That’s it,” I said softly.
As I left the room, I could feel Sergeant Connor’s dark blue eyes burning into my back. I squared my shoulders as I walked away. The bastard had called me a stupid bitch; but he’d also saved my life … and said I was ‘smoking hot’.
* * * *
I’d been back in NYC for a month. I’d tried several times to find out what had happened to Omar and Anoosheh’s family, but so far—nothing. They’d disappeared into the chaos of a country still at war after a decade of intervention.
I kept thinking about what Sergeant Connor had said to me: had I made things harder for the troops out there? I’d had such a strong belief that I was on the moral high ground, but now I wasn’t sure. I certainly hadn’t improved things for Anoosheh, but my articles about the plight of women’s education in Afghanistan and elsewhere got a lot of publicity, and several charities had benefitted by receiving large donations from the public. So maybe it had been worthwhile.
My musings were interrupted when Allison, my PA, put her head around the door.
“Hey, MJ, you’ve got a visitor waiting for you in reception.”
I frowned at her. “There’s no one on the schedule?”
Besides, it was after six, and a lot of people had already left for the day.
She shrugged, a mischievous look on her face. “Nope, no one scheduled, but you’ll want to make the time for this one, I promise.”
“Well, who is it?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re the reporter—go find out!”
Irritated but intrigued, I rode the elevator down to reception, scanning the lobby for my mystery guest.
My breath caught in my throat when I saw Sergeant Connor leaning against the wall, his arms folded and an amused expression on his face.
He wasn’t in uniform, and he looked far more relaxed than I’d seen him so far. He was wearing worn blue jeans and a plain gray t-shirt stretched over his broad chest and shoulders. I remembered that chest all too well, especially as it had starred in several erotic dreams over the last four weeks.
The automatic doors slid open bringing a gust of air toward me, along with the faint scent of soap and something more masculine.
I realized I was still staring, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a smile.
“Sergeant Connor!” I choked out. “This is a surprise.”
I held out my hand and he shook it surprisingly gently.
“Jackson,” he said. “My friends call me Jack.”
“Mine call me MJ. So what are you doing here? Can I help you with something?”
“Waal,” he said, a slow drawl in his voice, “I met a journalist out in Afghan who said she’d buy me a drink if I was ever in Manhattan. So here I am.”
I blinked rapidly. “Oh, okay! Sure!” My laugh was a little nervous. “I definitely owe you a drink. After all, you did give me valuable sartorial advice about my footwear and, you know, saved my life.”
He grinned for the first time since I’d met him.
“Sartorial advice on footwear? Did you swallow a dictionary, Ms. Journalist?”
“Did you graduate from charm school, Mr. Marine?”
He laughed loudly and several people turned to look at us, although it was possible all the females still in the building were already looking.
“So, how about that drink?” he asked again, his eyes flicking up and down me quickly, but not so quickly that I didn’t catch him doing it.
“Do you usually take drinks from stupid bitches?” I asked, my voice bland.
He winced and looked uncomfortable for a second.
“I’d like to apologize for saying that…”
I interrupted him quickly.
“Well, I was stupid. I made a very bad error of judgment, and if it hadn’t been for you and your men…”
My voice trailed off and a shudder ran through me as the memories made my stomach lurch.
“I’m still sorry,” he said softly, then touched my arm, a light, fleeting touch.
His eyebrows lifted as we both felt the shock of electricity jump between us. I licked my lips and risked looking into his eyes. His gaze was so intense, I had to look away.
“But I’m only a bitch to ex-boyfriends,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
He grinned again. “Noted. I think I’ll take the risk.”
I smiled as he held out his hand to me.
We might have had a very bad start, but now it looked like a very promising beginning.
Oo-rah.
Statistics: http://www.trustineducation.org
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There's a new chapter due in a week....
But Here's how it all started!
* * * *
Chapter 1 – A Bad Start
Two hours later and my hands were still shaking.
I’d been sitting in the cafeteria, fingers pressed against a cup of coffee that was now lukewarm. I could still smell the faint scent of soap and sweat as the man’s hands gripped around my waist and pulled me towards him, the scream dying in my throat.
Another shudder ran through my body. If he hadn’t been there … the other man.
My brain refused to consider what could have happened next. He was there—and I was thankful for that.
Working as a foreign correspondent wasn’t as glamorous as it sounded. I spent my time in harsh climates, trying to talk to people who were too scared to have their words reported, too intimidated to have their photographs taken.
It was important work—I thought it was important. My family didn’t disagree, but they worried about me. And after everything that had happened today, it seems they were right to worry.
I couldn’t help replaying the afternoon’s events in my mind.
My guide and interpreter, Omar, had taken me to a small, mudbrick house on the outskirts of the tired-looking village of Washir, trapped in the war torn land of Helmand Province, Afghanistan.
We’d been careful. Omar had borrowed a rickety, beaten up car from one of his numerous cousins rather than risk being seen in the modern American vehicle that I had access to. Then I’d been covered from head to toe in a blue burqa, so I couldn’t guess how we’d been spotted.
But ten minutes into the interview with Anoosheh and her family, there was a loud thump against the door, then one of the windows was smashed. An angry mob had gathered, and they were threatening to drag me outside. Omar wouldn’t tell me what else they were threatening to do to me.
I was terrified. With no escape route, no backdoor, and no plan, my hands were shaking as I used my satellite phone to call the emergency number I’d been given upon arriving at Camp Leatherneck, the USMC base where I’d been living for the last week.
The noise outside grew louder and more windows were smashed. I cowered into the back of the room with the other members of the family as Omar and Anoosheh’s father piled furniture against the door, their eyes wide and panicked.
Suddenly, I heard shots outside, the sounds of a semi-automatic weapon firing. I thought I was going to die.
The door was kicked in and then I saw the most beautiful sight in the world: US Marines, armed and deadly.
The leader grabbed me by the hand, yelling something I couldn’t hear above the clamor and noise. Then he wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me toward the door, his men clearing a path to the waiting jeep.
Anoosheh and her family followed quickly, and we sped away in a cloud of yellow dust as the furious mob rained down rocks on us.
Omar insisted that we leave him and the family I’d been interviewing at his uncle’s house. I pulled out my wallet and gave him every dollar I had in there. It wasn’t much, but it would help them leave Helmand. I hoped.
The Marines stoically ignored me as they drove back to Camp Leatherneck. They’d checked I wasn’t injured, but they had nothing to say to me. I could sense their dislike.
Once I was safe in the compound, I was debriefed by my liaison, Captain Luis Fernando. He offered to make an appointment for me with the Base’s counselor. I just wanted to take a hot shower and wash away the fear and grime of the day.
When I finally felt clean, I forced myself to the cafeteria, but my stomach churned too badly for me to risk eating. Thankfully the coffee was drinkable. Okay, it tasted like crap, but coffee helped.
Until one very large and very pissed off Marine came marching over to me.
“You don’t belong here, lady,” he snarled, standing next to my table, his broad, tanned hands resting on lean hips.
“Excuse me?”
“You nearly got yourself killed today. I had to risk my men to come and get your ass out of a sling. You risked lives: yours, ours, that Afghan family, your terp. For what? Another damn story about how badly the US is fucking up Afghanistan!”
“I don’t! That’s not what…”
“I’m not finished!” he snapped, and I couldn’t help flinching away from his obvious anger, from the raw power locked inside his muscled body.
“We’re supposed to be winning hearts and minds out here, but your dumb stunt has set us back weeks—maybe months. You don’t belong here. Go home and leave the real work to us.”
My mouth hung open, moving uselessly as I tried to reply.
He shook his head in disgust, his dark blue eyes flaring with anger.
My own fury ignited at the sight of his broad back and arrogant lift of his head as he marched away from me.
I called out loudly. “Do you have sisters, Sergeant?”
He stopped and turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he decided whether or not to answer my question. His eventual reply was grudging.
“I’ve got a younger sister.”
“That’s nice,” I said flatly, my eyes flicking up and down his tall body. I guessed he was in his late twenties, so a younger sister would be … what … early twenties? “What’s her name?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just interested.”
I could see him examining my question, searching for any danger areas, any way in which answering would show weakness.
“Lucy.”
“That’s a pretty name. Did Lucy go to high school?”
“Of course she did,” he scoffed. “She’s in college now and…”
His words cut off when he realized he was coming close to having a conversation.
“That’s nice,” I said again. “Good for her. The girl I went to interview today is 14. Her name is Anoosheh—it means ‘lucky’. She’d like to be a doctor, but that’s not going to happen. I know you won’t ask me why, so I’ll just tell you. Her family has been told to take her out of school or she’ll be killed. For wanting an education. And it’s not just her—the same thing is happening all over Afghanistan.”
I saw a muscle in his jaw twitch as he clamped his mouth shut.
“Schools for girls have been burned down and teachers educating girls have been threatened or killed; girls have been attacked walking to school and even at school. So education is unsafe for them—it’s rare to find any females educated past elementary age. Annosheh is an exception—until now. Eighty-five per cent of Afghan women are illiterate*.”
The sergeant frowned, his full lips thinning as he pressed them together. I had his attention and I was on a roll.
“Maybe you read about Malala Yousafzai, a 15 year old Pakistani girl? She was shot in the head by Taliban gunmen because she spoke up for the rights of girls to be educated. Or maybe you read about the 276 girls who were kidnapped from their school in Nigeria two years ago by Boko Haram—their crime was attending school. Many are still missing. Does any of this sound familiar, Sergeant?”
He nodded, a staccato tilt of his chin.
“Well, that’s why I do what I do, because I believe that we in the West need to read these stories. We need to keep fighting for what is right because otherwise we let the darkness win. That’s why I’m here. And that’s why I’ll continue to do my job.”
“Fine,” he said, his dark blue eyes glittering in the harsh lighting. “You do your job, you go save the world. In the meantime, poor slobs like me have to save you from yourself!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I bristled.
“You come here, to a fucking war zone, and think being a liberal do-gooder is going to save you? Well it won’t. People like me, people with guns are going to save you. You’re so naïve and ill-prepared, but you think that you have the right…”
“I am not ill-prepared!” I snapped back. I certainly wasn’t going to have this asshole tell me that I didn’t know my job. “I do my research, Sergeant, just like you.”
It was true: I’d read up everything I could find about Helmand Province—correct behavior, local customs, even a few words of the Qu’ran to use in an emergency. Although I had to admit none of that preparation had helped me today.
“Just like me,” he mimicked, an ugly smile on his handsome face. “So with all that research, with all that preparation, how do you think they found you today? You think it was just an accident that a mob turns up outside the house where you’re conducting an interview—a mob with the intention of dragging you out and stoning you to death?”
I felt faint as every drop of blood rushed from my head, leaving my body cold and shocked. For a moment the asshole sergeant looked chagrined, but then the stormy expression returned.
“I didn’t know,” I whispered.
When he spoke again his voice was still stern.
“Your footwear,” he said. “In Afghanistan, women don’t wear white socks and white sneakers: your research should have told you those are banned, because the Afghan flag contains white, so wearing white shoes would signify walking on top of it.” His voice was acid as he sneered at me. “You were seen. So much for your preparation. You should stick to reporting from the Bronx—it would be safer.”
When he walked away this time, I didn’t stop him.
I sat stewing for another hour, alternating between fury at the way he’d spoken to me, shock at how close I’d come to dying today, and the danger that I’d put myself in along with Omar and Anoosheh’s family. And then the shameful realization that I hadn’t even thanked Sergeant Asshole.
He was right: he and his men had put their lives on the line for me. I felt small and ashamed.
I left the cup of cold coffee and went to speak with Captain Fernando again.
He looked irritated when he saw me standing at his door for the second time that day.
“Yes, Miss Buckman, what can I do for you now, ma’am?”
There was a slight emphasis on the word ‘now’, as if he really meant, ‘why are you bothering me again?’
“I wonder if you could tell me the names of the men who came to my rescue today, Captain?”
“For the purpose of?”
“I want to thank them,” I said simply.
He looked surprised. “Anything else?”
“Well, I’d offer to buy them all a drink, but seeing as alcohol is forbidden here…”
He smiled.
“You don’t need to do that, ma’am. I’ll pass on your thanks to the men in question,” and he turned back to his paperwork.
“I wonder if I could thank them in person,” I pressed gently. “It would only take a moment—it would mean a lot to me.”
He sighed, but nodded and stood up.
“This way, ma’am.”
We walked through the camp, sweating in the heat, despite the long shadows cast by the setting sun. He led me past rows of military vehicles and featureless temporary buildings, until we got to a long, barrack-style tent, and heard the sound of men’s voices.
“She sure got you chasing your tail, Jack,” someone laughed. “Not that I blame you, man, that pretty little journalist is a sight for sore eyes.”
“I don’t care how smokin’ hot she is,” came the reply. “That stupid bitch risked her life to…”
“Ten hut! Officer on deck!”
One of the Marines lounging by the entrance had noticed us. Captain Fernando risked a quick look at me then clearly decided it was better if he pretended neither of us had heard that last sentence.
The only giveaway was the dull flush of red beneath the tan of the handsome asshole’s cheeks as his voice cut out, the words ‘stupid bitch’ dying on his lips.
My own cheeks were equally red, not just because of what he’d said, but because he was standing bare-chested in front of me, a t-shirt hanging from one hand as if he’d just yanked it over his head.
His skin was smooth and tanned golden by long hours in the sun. I could see the muscles of his chest and stomach, an eight-pack, before I tugged my eyes upward to his strong chin, ruthlessly shaved, and those intelligent, heated, dark blue eyes.
“At ease, men,” said Fernando, clearing his throat. “I think most of you know our resident reporter. Miss Buckman, this is Sergeant Jackson Connor, the man who led the extraction party today. Men, Miss Buckman has got something she’d like to say to y’all.” Then he turned to me. “The floor is yours, Miss Buckman.”
I looked at each of the men in turn. The oldest couldn’t have been more than 30; the youngest, a teenager who barely needed to shave. But they all had hard bodies and the flinty expressions of men who’d seen too much.
“I didn’t get a chance to thank you before,” I said, my voice carrying across the length of the long tent-covered dormitory. “You know, what with all the bullets flying around and the angry mob out for blood.” There was a soft murmur of laughter, but I had to close my eyes briefly as the feeling of terror began to crawl up my throat again. I swallowed twice before I could continue. “So, thank you—all of you—for saving my life.” My eyes locked on Sergeant Connor. “I mean it—without you guys, I wouldn’t be here now.”
I’m not sure if I imagined it, but his hard expression seemed to have softened slightly.
“I’m flying home tomorrow,” I continued. “Someone told me that the Bronx is safer than Lashkar Gah…” I paused as a few more laughs echoed down the room, and even Sergeant Connor cracked a small smile. “But the next time any of you are in New York City, I’d love to buy you a drink. I work for the New York Times, a darn great building on Eighth Avenue, so I’m pretty easy to find.”
I looked across at Captain Fernando. “That’s it,” I said softly.
As I left the room, I could feel Sergeant Connor’s dark blue eyes burning into my back. I squared my shoulders as I walked away. The bastard had called me a stupid bitch; but he’d also saved my life … and said I was ‘smoking hot’.
* * * *
I’d been back in NYC for a month. I’d tried several times to find out what had happened to Omar and Anoosheh’s family, but so far—nothing. They’d disappeared into the chaos of a country still at war after a decade of intervention.
I kept thinking about what Sergeant Connor had said to me: had I made things harder for the troops out there? I’d had such a strong belief that I was on the moral high ground, but now I wasn’t sure. I certainly hadn’t improved things for Anoosheh, but my articles about the plight of women’s education in Afghanistan and elsewhere got a lot of publicity, and several charities had benefitted by receiving large donations from the public. So maybe it had been worthwhile.
My musings were interrupted when Allison, my PA, put her head around the door.
“Hey, MJ, you’ve got a visitor waiting for you in reception.”
I frowned at her. “There’s no one on the schedule?”
Besides, it was after six, and a lot of people had already left for the day.
She shrugged, a mischievous look on her face. “Nope, no one scheduled, but you’ll want to make the time for this one, I promise.”
“Well, who is it?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re the reporter—go find out!”
Irritated but intrigued, I rode the elevator down to reception, scanning the lobby for my mystery guest.
My breath caught in my throat when I saw Sergeant Connor leaning against the wall, his arms folded and an amused expression on his face.
He wasn’t in uniform, and he looked far more relaxed than I’d seen him so far. He was wearing worn blue jeans and a plain gray t-shirt stretched over his broad chest and shoulders. I remembered that chest all too well, especially as it had starred in several erotic dreams over the last four weeks.
The automatic doors slid open bringing a gust of air toward me, along with the faint scent of soap and something more masculine.
I realized I was still staring, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a smile.
“Sergeant Connor!” I choked out. “This is a surprise.”
I held out my hand and he shook it surprisingly gently.
“Jackson,” he said. “My friends call me Jack.”
“Mine call me MJ. So what are you doing here? Can I help you with something?”
“Waal,” he said, a slow drawl in his voice, “I met a journalist out in Afghan who said she’d buy me a drink if I was ever in Manhattan. So here I am.”
I blinked rapidly. “Oh, okay! Sure!” My laugh was a little nervous. “I definitely owe you a drink. After all, you did give me valuable sartorial advice about my footwear and, you know, saved my life.”
He grinned for the first time since I’d met him.
“Sartorial advice on footwear? Did you swallow a dictionary, Ms. Journalist?”
“Did you graduate from charm school, Mr. Marine?”
He laughed loudly and several people turned to look at us, although it was possible all the females still in the building were already looking.
“So, how about that drink?” he asked again, his eyes flicking up and down me quickly, but not so quickly that I didn’t catch him doing it.
“Do you usually take drinks from stupid bitches?” I asked, my voice bland.
He winced and looked uncomfortable for a second.
“I’d like to apologize for saying that…”
I interrupted him quickly.
“Well, I was stupid. I made a very bad error of judgment, and if it hadn’t been for you and your men…”
My voice trailed off and a shudder ran through me as the memories made my stomach lurch.
“I’m still sorry,” he said softly, then touched my arm, a light, fleeting touch.
His eyebrows lifted as we both felt the shock of electricity jump between us. I licked my lips and risked looking into his eyes. His gaze was so intense, I had to look away.
“But I’m only a bitch to ex-boyfriends,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
He grinned again. “Noted. I think I’ll take the risk.”
I smiled as he held out his hand to me.
We might have had a very bad start, but now it looked like a very promising beginning.
Oo-rah.
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June 16, 2016
LUKA - LIVES TODAY!
This is what they're saying about LUKA...
“I stayed up reading this till 4am and it WRECKED ME.”
Meagan Burgad (Love Between the Sheets)
“I can't even describe what Jane Harvey-Berrick Author has done to my emotions tonight. Dudes. When LUKA comes out, READ IT.”
Mo Sytsma (The Scarlet Siren)
"This story shocked the hell out of me"
Grace After Dark
“5 UNEXPECTED STARS *****”
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“Coming out on Thursday!! Luka by Jane Harvey-Berrick Author...I loved this book!! Highly recommend one clicking...I will be!”
Sarah Lintott
“5.5 IMPOSSIBLY MOVING stars”
Beauty and the Beastly Books
“This is the first time I've read any of Jane Harvey-Berrick's work and I have to say, she has a new fan!”
Stacey Broadbent
“An unconventional story about love and the family we choose to have in our lives. 5 *”
Annmarie, The SubClub Team
“I could hardly bear to put down this story, to sleep and work, but at times, I wanted to slow it down, not yet ready to read ‘The End’.”
Lisa Zeigler
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US http://amzn.to/1XWWT8p
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“I stayed up reading this till 4am and it WRECKED ME.”
Meagan Burgad (Love Between the Sheets)
“I can't even describe what Jane Harvey-Berrick Author has done to my emotions tonight. Dudes. When LUKA comes out, READ IT.”
Mo Sytsma (The Scarlet Siren)
"This story shocked the hell out of me"
Grace After Dark
“5 UNEXPECTED STARS *****”
Ana Beatriz Travesso
“Coming out on Thursday!! Luka by Jane Harvey-Berrick Author...I loved this book!! Highly recommend one clicking...I will be!”
Sarah Lintott
“5.5 IMPOSSIBLY MOVING stars”
Beauty and the Beastly Books
“This is the first time I've read any of Jane Harvey-Berrick's work and I have to say, she has a new fan!”
Stacey Broadbent
“An unconventional story about love and the family we choose to have in our lives. 5 *”
Annmarie, The SubClub Team
“I could hardly bear to put down this story, to sleep and work, but at times, I wanted to slow it down, not yet ready to read ‘The End’.”
Lisa Zeigler
#HotNewRelease #Rhythm #Luka #MMFM
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May 25, 2016
LUKA
Did you catch the cover reveal on Facebook, Twitter, IG for LUKA?
Second in the Rhythm Series, but a standalone novel, LUKA tells the story of a man who has two roads ahead of him, but can only travel one.
¸¸.•*¨*•♫♪☆•SYNOPSIS•☆♪♫•*¨*•.¸¸
I’m not a good man.
I’m not a bad man.
But I’ve made some bad mistakes, made the wrong choices. Who hasn’t? But the consequences are tearing us apart.
I love two people.
I love them differently.
The world tells me I have to choose. Why? Why do I have to choose?
Loving hurts.
Dancing heals.
Love makes you soar, makes you fly and sets you free—and then it lets you freefall until you’re smashed and bleeding on the ground. Ultimately, love is the worst thing that can happen to a human being.
In my opinion.
I love two people.
I love them differently.
One is a man.
One is a woman.
And they are brother and sister.
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US http://amzn.to/1XWWT8p
UK http://amzn.to/1N2AOoo
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Published 15 June
Second in the Rhythm Series, but a standalone novel, LUKA tells the story of a man who has two roads ahead of him, but can only travel one.
¸¸.•*¨*•♫♪☆•SYNOPSIS•☆♪♫•*¨*•.¸¸
I’m not a good man.
I’m not a bad man.
But I’ve made some bad mistakes, made the wrong choices. Who hasn’t? But the consequences are tearing us apart.
I love two people.
I love them differently.
The world tells me I have to choose. Why? Why do I have to choose?
Loving hurts.
Dancing heals.
Love makes you soar, makes you fly and sets you free—and then it lets you freefall until you’re smashed and bleeding on the ground. Ultimately, love is the worst thing that can happen to a human being.
In my opinion.
I love two people.
I love them differently.
One is a man.
One is a woman.
And they are brother and sister.
¸¸.•*¨*•♫♪☆•HATE•☆♪♫•*¨*•.¸¸
US http://amzn.to/1XWWT8p
UK http://amzn.to/1N2AOoo
¸¸.•*¨*•♫♪☆•LOVE•☆♪♫•*¨*•.¸¸
Published 15 June
Jane Harvey-Berrick
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