Lila Felix's Blog, page 7

Swoon Sunday

Today's Swoon Sunday post is courtesy of Forced Autonomy . You can find this and all my books on Kindle Unlimited.


As we got closer, I saw they were flowers blooming at night, yellow, the color of saffron. I knelt down beside them, putting my nose to the open bud, its smell tickling my nose.  “They’re beautiful.” “I thought you’d like them. It’s rare we find the good things amongst all the chaos.” “And when we do?” He had taken a reclining position on his elbows, staring up at the crescent moon. After a while, he cleared his throat, “When we do, we should take care of them.” I looked back at him, more entranced with the way the moonlight made his hair seem like it was flawless. Maybe he just felt obligated to take care of me because he was the one who found me. I wondered if maybe this was how he treated everyone.  “I appreciate you taking care of me. I’m sure you help everyone get back on their feet after you find them.” “Is that what you think I’m doing? You think this is some lobotomy rehab?” I shrugged, “I just don’t want to confuse my feelings for you with gratitude. You saved me.” “Come here, lay with me, look at the moon.” He dodged my question, but I laid with him anyway, covered my bad eye, and looked at the light. “Does it hurt?” He covered my fingers with his own. “Just when I stare at a light.” “It’s not because I found you,” his hand moved from my eye to the side of my jaw. “It’s not?” “No. There’s something about you. I think I’d do just about anything to make you smile.” “And mine is not just hero worship.” He laughed humorlessly, “Well, that’s good since I’m no hero.” “All those people you saved like me? I should start calling you Thor.” “Maybe it’s not saving people. Maybe it’s paying penance.” “Penance for what?”


You can find your copy HERE

His Haunted Heart Cover Reveal

It's a Throwback with a New Cover. I am so excited for everyone to see the new cover for His Haunted Heart. I absolutely love it.



Blurb:
Six years ago, deep in the swamps of Louisiana, Delilah’s face was marred forever at the hands of her sisters by the point of her mother’s kitchen knife. Despite her protest, her parents insist she make haste in finding a husband. But finding a husband isn’t an easy feat with a scar running the length of your face.
Porter Jeansonne keeps to himself. He lives in his mansion, set apart from the town he’s grown to detest. One night, walking through the town, seeking to collect a debt, he hears a man selling off his daughter in the most deplorable part of the darkened streets. He chooses to take pity on her and set her free from her despicable family. Until he sees her face. He then knows that maybe she is the mend for his haunted heart.
Amazon

Teaser Wednesday?

The teaser for this week is brought to you by the letter A for Alpha in my WIP Alpha Unseen

Cover Reveal Coming Soon!!!
"His hands made a path to my waist and dragged me forward. “There’s always this many people. The only place I’m alone is at home and in my office. Even then the phone is ringing and meetings. Never mind, I doubt you want to hear that crap.” His hands kneaded the dip above my hips as he spoke and when the motion stopped, I felt cold.Shaking my head, I replied, “No, that’s fine. We should—we should at least try to be friends through this, right?” His hold on me loosened and he took one step back, bringing us face to face. We hadn’t looked at each other most of the night. There were people to greet and smile at. But mostly, there was a crowd to convince.Forcing myself to look up and meet his brown, almond-shaped eyes, I gasped at the sight of him. I’d done such a good job of holding in those tiny gasps in the past but this one burst through without permission. “What?” His chest rumbled with the words.“Nothing.” I took a moment to collect my voice and the tremors in the core of me.  “So, friends? We can at least not hate each other through this.” I cringed at the words. I didn’t want to be friends with him, but there was no other choice. Kolani’s clan didn’t allow females to be educated and it certainly didn’t allow them to be anything other than baby producers.That’s why my clan broke free from his—if the females aren’t happy, no one is happy. He pushed one strand of hair behind my ear. “I don’t promise friends—but I don’t think I could hate you either.”"

I'm hoping to release this one in late March! Stay tuned!

New Cover for Swoon Sunday

My Swoon Sunday post is an exciting announcement. I am excited to show you the New Cover for The Bayou Bear Chronicles. I am putting all 4 of the books into one book. I will have these books at The Booking in Biloxi  Signing on March 25, 2017. In the mean time you can find your Kindle copy   HERE .

Throwback Thursday: Forced Autonomy

This is how I’m gonna die. Not by machine or a shot to the head. I wouldn’t be lucky enough to just get thrown into the furnace. No, this effing hangnail—well, used to be hangnail, would be the end of me. A throbbing, pustule filled toe cavity would evolve into a full blown infection and then sepsis. Yes, death by sepsis. Now that sounds like my luck. Fever and a bum toe, so damned classy. I would’ve dug into myself, pulled out a lung and happily traded it for a dollar store first aid kit and some toe nail clippers at that point—I really would’ve. I’d picked the object of my malcontent from my toe with a sliver of metal I’d found on the ground in the factory. I didn’t often find metal in my factory, so I scooped it up at once, hoping the cameras didn’t detect my movement. That night by the light of a flashlight I’d stolen from one of the maintenance drones, I fashioned a rudimentary pair of tweezers out of the sharp, ragged metal. They didn’t work very well. Jerking and pulling, it took me nearly a damned hour to release the painful, jagged hangnail from its solitary confinement on the side of my toe. And I used the same tool to break through the bubble which had taken residence in its place. Hissing through my teeth at the sea sick green globule emerging from my toe, I wished for hydrogen peroxide—or that new skin stuff that burned like glowing brimstone itself. It released its prisoner of infection and throbbed in protest. I washed it the best I could with grime water courtesy of the hyper-recycled water bottle I’d once found behind the building. I used it to steal water from the bathroom in the factory.  I’d never stolen in my life before the collapse.  I’d once perfected the good girl routine, at least superficially. I dressed the part, cutesy vintage dresses that showed just the peep of a knee and nothing more. I kept my hair at that length, below shoulder—so that I could be accused of neither having short hair nor long. I certainly didn’t want to anger anyone with the length of my hair. My shoes were not flats which registered goody two shoes, but they weren’t too high, because that registered whore. I made straight A’s, I smiled when prompted and I never—ever moved an inch out of my little square. That’s what was expected of me. And I didn’t let anyone down.  But that time of my life and my family were long gone.  I tore a strip of cloth from my blanket and tied the wound up in a makeshift bandage. It would have to do until the next day. Then I’d have to take it off, letting the open, gaping hole exposed to the elements, the filth of the streets and the dirt of my work. It would get infected for sure. A wound that before could be cured with a hefty co-pay and five minutes of the good doctor’s time. But all the doctors, nurses and anyone else who had the knowledge or knowhow they needed had been swept away to other countries.  Robots didn’t need medical care. I lay on my back, my worn and tattered blanket making a sad pillow behind my neck and let my back spasm, trying to relax against the unrelenting, cold concrete floor. I fondled atop the window sill for my comb. Another thing I’d found or stole. I couldn’t remember which. There was a fine line between the two and no one left to define it for me. I combed through the tangles and tried to manifest a song in my head. The first one that came to my head was “Time of the Season” by the Zombies. My mom loved hippie music. She always dressed like a flower child for Halloween. I sang out the melodic, cool lyrics and giggled a little as I sway danced while lying down. The soldiers had just made rounds seventeen days ago and wouldn’t be back for a while—so there was no one to catch me singing or even giggling. I finished de-knotting my hair and pulled a greasy chunk to my nose. I already knew what it was going to smell like. It’s not like the strands had grown a garden of lavender while I worked that day. But I sniffed anyway, the scent reminiscent of dirt and body odor. It was a habit I’d failed to break, even after everything came crashing down. I used to revel in the smell of my hair, a weird and slightly obsessive compulsion. But there was no satisfaction to be held in the smell of my hair in that dump. I gagged on a daily basis from the plethora of blasphemous smells around me. I was a gagger anyway. I’d gag if someone described something gruesome in detail. I gagged if something gross came on TV. Like when my dad would watch one of those shows were people’s eyeballs were infested with parasitic worms or about kid who had flesh eating bacteria from eating cat feces in their turtle shaped sand pit. Pain and general ickyness never sat well with me. I passed out cold the first time I tried to use a tampon. I knocked my head on the tub beside me and came out with a defeated attitude and a goose egg which had to be iced. 


Yet I still had failed to use a tampon like a big girl. The tampons had gone into the trash. They’d managed to soak up what was left of my pride. A few days after I’d been working in my first factory—we made wooden shipping crates—I got a splinter in my finger. I worked with it for the rest of the day but by the time I got home it stung and whelped in anger. So that night, under the light of the moon flowing through my barred window, I quickly got over my fear of surgery and blood, completely by necessity. Many girly squeals and winces later, I was practically a suture expert. But the smells of those around me and the environment I was forced to work in—I just couldn’t take it. One woman, who somehow routinely stood beside me in the factory line, smelled particularly ripe and while the camera was turned and the turds in uniforms weren’t looking, I sprayed in her general direction with a stray can of WD-40. I burrowed a smile down into my white shirt—WD-40 never smelled so good.  Still wrapped in my cocoon of reminiscence, I heard footsteps coming down the hall just as I’d finished the last words to the song. The other tenants were so quiet, I could hear a pin drop. I flipped the comb in my hand, wielding the sharpened end, instead of the hygienic end and darted behind my shell of a refrigerator. The footsteps continued, the sounds indicating the carrier of feet grew closer and closer. A rattle on the door sent my heart into frantic palpitations followed by a complete seizure of beats. This was no toy soldier. They came in packs and never that late. The steps outside that night were heavier. Somehow they felt more determined though to most they would be nearly noiseless.  I sidestepped back into place behind the fridge as the owner of the footsteps entered. A male voice, scratchy and raspy claimed he was with the government. I may have been sheltered as a child but I’d never acquired a taste for bullshit. And he reeked of it. Then he confessed, though I could tell by the pieced together, almost quilted clothes he wore, that he was no government agent. His hair was the color of beach sand and pulled back in a ponytail, fastened with what looked like suede twine, the kind people used to make those salvation bracelets at summer Christian camp. He squinted as he explained that his job was to search for people like me. His light brown irises looked directly into mine, signaling a teller of the truth. He resembled a lost boy, maybe stranded on an island.  He said he was there to take me away. Anything has to be better than this.


I sent him to the next apartment, determined to make a break for it. I would need a carrier for the tracking device burrowed in my skin if I had any chance to get away. Over the years I’d contemplated every way I could to turn the damned thing off. I’d tried to drown it, burn it and even purposefully gotten my arm caught in one of the machines—all to no avail. I allowed myself one deep breath before I carved into my own arm, around and underneath the triangle metal tracker they’d embedded in my arm so long ago. It tracked me everywhere, but not everyone had one. Sooner than later, Lawson, that was his name, chauffeured in Mildred, and I began to give her a little taste of my luck. Desperate and wondering if that chance was my only chance at freedom, the decision was made to throw poor, unassuming Mildred under the proverbial bus. I didn’t know this guy. I didn’t really know where he was from or what he would do to me. But even death would provide me prayed for relief from my subpar existence. Some scavenged duct tape did the trick, and now my fate was temporarily connected to Mildred’s leg.


You can grab your Copy of Forced Autonomy HERE

Sunday Sale Alert

Right now Sparrow For Free is on sale for FREE!  The sale ends on 2/6/2016 so make sure you grab your copy Now.
Sparrows for Free

Ezra is ruled by the ghosts of his past—and needled by the guilt they create. Not only does he have to manage his own guilt—his friends are forced to bear the weight as well. He lives in limbo, never dreaming of anything that lies beyond the grave....
He wishes for something beyond himself.
He hopes for her.
Hide and seek is Aysa’s game. She begs for small spaces and empty places. But, she secretly desires so much more. She's caught between wanting to hide and needing to break free.
When they find each other, a hope for something new is sprung.
She can't hide from him.
And he comes alive when he's with her.
Amazon

Throwback Thursday

Today's Throwback Thursday is Sparrow For Free. You can grab your copy HERE . If you subscribe to Kindle Unlimited you can find all of my books there.


Sparrows For Free
Contemporary Romance
Chapter 1
Aysa
I like hiding. I need to hide sometimes. I’m not talking about the childhood game where the ‘it’ person counts and finds their playmate who’s hidden in a ridiculous spot. I’m talking about shutting myself into a tight space and forgetting that the rest of the world absolutely loathes breathing the same air as me. When I was a teenager, my hiding spot used to be my room. It was private, and I could lock the world away. But now as an adult, I own the apartment that I live in, but still it feels too open, too exposed. I need someplace ever smaller to appease the itch of hiding.  I’m like a cow who finds comfort in one of those squeezing machines, even knowing that on the other side is a hot branding iron. I’m not sure if it’s hiding, or the sensation of being squeezed. Maybe it’s the feeling of being held that I like so much. Because if something isn’t holding me together, I just may fall to pieces.  My favorite spot is the right-hand side of my entertainment center. I know, it’s not made for that purpose, but it fits my purpose perfectly. I bought it for that specific reason. I’m sure most savvy furniture shoppers look for aspects like wood color, size and try to match their other furnishings’ style. I look for cabinet space. The one I have has two enormous cabinets on each side and I made sure that the left one had enough space to hold all of my DVDs and video games, leaving the other side empty as my own personal confessional booth. When I admit it to myself, it sounds a bit desperate. Okay, it sounds a lot desperate. It sounds flat out pathetic. I tell no one about my little hiding habit. Scratch that. I tell no one that my hiding habit has somehow continued into my adult life. The people I know wouldn’t care, or would use it as an excuse to alienate me further. I’m not sure it’s even possible for them to alienate me any more than they already do—they seem to be offended by the very breath in my lungs. My mother would have me committed—again. She committed me to a mental facility when I was seventeen for severe depression and then my father got me out the next day. I wasn’t depressed. I just liked to be alone where I didn’t have to hear her incessant whining about my father and how he didn’t make enough money to support her needs. And she had no room to complain about him. My dad only worked when he had to in order to insure he always had time to help me with homework or be my confidante. My poor father, always torn between the material demands of my mother and the fraternal needs of me. I try to stay out of it, simply to make his life easier. After Irene, they didn’t really trust me with anyone else.  I lock the doors and turn my phone off. I’ve had to feign lost signal or dead battery more time than I can count when someone calls during my cabinet time. Not someone, only two people, my mom or my dad. I have to hide. It’s the only way I can cope. Today is one of those days. I just need to forget the world. Just like it always forgets me. I would love to say my current spasm stems from something ultra-dramatic like someone called me a bitch or ruined my already flat career. How easy would it be to blame my fears on something so blatant? It wasn’t anything so straightforward. I kind of wish it was something so blatant, that way I’d at least feel semi-justified. Usually, like today, it was the general populations’ passive aggressive behavior aimed at me—or so I perceived it that way. I just happen to be one of these people who gets their feelings hurt all the time. I don’t plan to get hurt or to be so sensitive. It’s just who I am. People tell me to grow a thicker skin, but I must be missing that DNA link or something because I can’t just brush off the words of others. Anyway, isn’t that the great thing about humans, we are all different? I just want to feel safe again. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt safe.  I crawl into the cabinet, shove myself all the way to the back, and squeeze my feet in so that my knees are having an intimate meeting with my boobs. I curl my toes in and reach to shut the door—because inside that cabinet, the world goes away. There’s nothing and no one who can ignore me or pretend I don’t count in the cabinet. I can’t see the disapproving glares or the wordless shared glances of people who shouldn’t mean a thing to me, but who find a way to stab me daily. I hate that moment the most. The moment you find out you don’t even register as a blip on someone else’s radar. Especially if you’ve ever considered that person important in your life. And if my brain took the time to work it out thoroughly—if it took the time to explain to my heart that it wasn’t the people around me at all, it was me—I may have a shot. But my heart rules my world, no matter how many times I allow it to shatter—no matter how many patches it has to sew on, it finds a way to keep beating on.  I wrap my arms around my knees and blow warm breaths of confessions to them. I confess that I saw the way Leila rolled her eyes at my carb filled lunch as she crunched on her strips of bacon. I tell them how the boss constantly ignores my emails and requests for a change in job responsibilities. I piano my fingers across the bridge of my nose as I recall Adam ignoring my contribution to the idea pool for our new advertisement project. I excuse them with my own shortcomings, of course. Leila is in better shape than me, maybe she was inadvertently trying to give me a clue. The boss is a very busy man. He does read some of my emails. Adam is the leader of our team. It probably wasn’t a good idea anyway. See what I mean? I excuse everyone but can’t seem to cut myself a break.  It burns when I see things like the infamous eye-rolling, and I manage to seek them out. I wish I was one of those people who skirted through life not seeing the soundless sneers and jeers of others. I wish I didn’t see the way people shove themselves into the four corners of the elevator when I enter as if I have some communicable disease or social infection. I wish it would all go away. I have always been this way. I would spend hours upon hours organizing an event for one of the umpteenth clubs I participated in during high school and then be the only name left off of the flyer. I was left off of lists and announcements every single time. I was told I couldn’t go to certain field trips or school activities because they were full—only to find out they were full because spots were being held for the really important people. I’d never be one of the important people. I’d be the one found dead, weeks later, not because anyone missed me—but because I’d offended them one last time with the smell. I seem to offend everyone. Or did everyone offend me? I can’t remember. I know where I am on the totem pole of life. I’m not the eagle on the top or even the fox in the middle that makes children happy. Hell, I’m not even the distorted demon face on the bottom that scares people and makes them wonder why they were there in the first place. No, I am the base of the totem pole, the plain, insignificant foundation that holds the weight of the rest. And life never hesitates to throw it in my face. The other reason I love this cabinet is no glass on the doors. I can get in and really pretend I’m the queen of the tiny castle. Self-depreciating, weird, queen—I digress. Everyone in here loves me and would never slight me—which is not healthy or honest at all since I’m the only one in here and the first to knock myself down before anyone else gets the chance.  I clunk my head on the side of my abode, knowing that the next day I have to face the cruel world again. I try to make it easier on myself through sarcasm and my perfectly honed distraction techniques. But they only take me so far. Maybe it’s not the world. Maybe it’s just me. I feel awkward in every conversation. I’m the girl who sends an email or an instant message and lets her stomach plummet to the floor if the other person doesn’t answer immediately. I wait for the noise, letting me know I’ve been recognized as alive. I truly have a sense of being some low class moron in the presence of every other person in the world. Pathetic—that’s the word I’m looking for. I wish I could blame it on horrible parents or some kind of adolescent abuse scenario. I mean, I could. But I won’t.  After hours of crying in my safe place, I emerge. I’m hungry. I go into the kitchen and make a quick bowl of oatmeal. I think of picking up the phone and calling a friend to complain to or to build me up, but the off and on friends I have always treat me like the special kid. Instead of feeling better about myself after I get off the phone, I always feel like I need to put a check in their box. Annoyed them enough for the month: check. Thoroughly convinced them that I’m mentally unstable: check. Blocked my phone number: check. I get out of my cabinet after it prescribes me lots of comebacks and quips that I would never use to those people who slight me. No ten Hail Mary’s for me, just a bunch of ‘F’ you’s. Not that I am ever going to tell anyone F you. They might not like me anymore. Wait, hold up, they already hate me. Ugh. I eat, perched on the arm of my cream colored couch. Whatever had possessed me to get a cream colored couch, fails to come to mind. It’s not white like a cheesy music video couch but yet not brown like the insignificant, cookie cutter person I am. I’m afraid to sit on it, always preoccupied there’s something on my butt. I spend the entirety of my menstrual cycle sitting on my old leather recliner, passed down to me from my grandfather, afraid of a girly incident. I suppose it all boils down to trust issues. I’ve always been on the painted end of the one way only side of the friendship sign. I give and give while being as nice as I can be, bordering on kissing their ass until I realize every conversation, every phone call, every get together is initiated by me. I’m never invited to anything or mentioned in conversations. I’m invisible. I’m vapor. Sometimes, I like to pretend I’m strong. I tell myself I’m not going to write, message, call them, or anything. The next time we communicate will be when they want to talk to me. Of course, this begins a spiral. They never begin any communications with me or even notice my absence. Then I end up caving, letting the desperation of loneliness take over my psyche. So, I message them. Then they act annoyed, lather, rinse and repeat. I could just fade away. After washing my bowl and spoon, I turn my phone back on. I don’t even check to see if there are any missed calls or text messages—there are none, trust me. I’ve already spoken to my parents that day and my sister never calls. After changing out of my work clothes and into pajamas, I burrow into my layer upon layers of bedding. I’m one of those cold people. Even during a Louisiana summer, I freeze at night. Opening a new book on my iPad Kindle app, I read a few pages and then come upon the main character’s name—Blake. “He likes you. I heard him talking to Abe when I passed their table.” “Jill, you’re my best friend, and I love you. But you’re full of shit if you think a guy like Blake likes me. Anyway we’re in the seventh grade, what does he likes me mean anyway?” “You know he wants to go out with you.” “Out with me where?” Jill threw her hands up in embarrassment of my lack of knowledge about such things. “It just means you’ll be his girlfriend.” I chanced a glance over at the popular people table and saw Blake. But he was tossing pepperoni pieces at someone across the room. “He’s throwing chunks of mystery meat. He’s not even looking at me.” “You’ll see,” she smirked. I darted my gaze back down to my book while she attempted to give herself whiplash looking from me to Blake and back again. I click my finger on the top left of the app and chose ‘library’ from the menu that pops up. I have no desire to read about Blake and how he found the love of his life. It turned out that middle school Blake wasn’t talking about me that faithful day in the cafeteria. He was talking about Alyssa, the only other red head in the seventh grade class whose name happened to be eerily similar to mine. Jill hadn’t heard him talking about me. She’d simply heard him saying something about a pretty red head and jumped to conclusions. Conclusions that led me to write him a note asking if he liked me and my being laughed at for the rest of the school year. Thankfully, over that summer, Blake had been accepted to an elite Catholic prep school, and I never saw him again. Giving up on my books, I slide down lower into the covers and wonder at what point I became this person—this girl who spends her evenings hiding from people. I’m twenty one years old but still contain the same apprehension for people and my inability to judge the truth of their emotions as I did at the tender age of thirteen. “You are so screwed up, Aysa Branton.”
Amazon
Goodreads

Burden Trailer

I have a new book trailer for Burden that Rebecca Ethington made for me. I am so excited to share this with everyone. I hope you love it as much as I do.



Blurb:
In the depths of the Louisiana swamps, clans of bear shifters roam freely. Hawke Turnclaw, the Alpha over all of his kind, is drowning in the legacy left to him by the Alpha before him, his own father. When he goes on a rescue mission to save a rogue Black bear from the clutches of a Grizzly clan, he finds more than just a Black bear, he finds his mate.
Echo has always been told she's an anomaly, a fluke. She's the only bear of her kind and that makes her a hindrance to her clan. She's tried to run away, but they keep her tethered through guilt and a shock collar around her neck.

And then someone shows up claiming he's her mate.
Now belonging to a new clan, will she ever be able to understand that she's so much more than just a burden?

Click HERE to grab your copy of Burden.

Throwback Thursday

Today's Throwback Thursday features His Haunted Heart. You can grab your copy HERE . If you subscribe to Kindle Unlimited you can find all of my books there.


His Haunted Heart
Historical Romance By Lila Felix



Chapter One
Delilah
The last button on my sweater was cracked in half, but maintained its threads enough to complete the task it was knitted for. Neither blush-colored silk nor the pearls of a queen would help my plight unless they were fashioned into a mask that covered my face. The last of the suitors would be at our door soon, and I would be expected to impress him with wit and intelligence since those were the only assets I had. It was embarrassing to say the least. I had been pretty once, but that was all gone now. My mother preached to me that marriages were about two complimentary personalities working together. Technically, she preached it to the fireplace, but I picked up the knowledge nonetheless. Yet, she constantly barraged me with speeches about how to sound smarter. I really shouldn’t have taken advice from a woman whose response to being asked for a second helping of potatoes was to chuck the nearest water vessel at my father’s head. A suitor who chose me for my brain was problematic, according to my mother, in that it meant I would be marrying an imbecile. My sister Adele married the clichéd rich, yet stupid man, who was brutish and carried around a lard vat of a belly. He picked his nose while no one was looking and grabbed my sister’s backside when she went upstairs. Elaine, my younger sister, married a smart man, but rail thin and, in her words, had a rail thin—well, other parts as well. It didn’t seem to deter their public showings of affection or her getting pregnant on her wedding night. At least she knew what to do on a wedding night. I wouldn’t even know what to expect after sputtering out vows that I was sure I wouldn’t mean. We weren’t allowed books on the subject or anything near the subject. And though I was sure my mother would oblige my concern, the last person I wanted to ask was her. A knock at my bedroom door startled me and caused my heart to double-time in my chest. I knew she would be coming for this inevitable talk. This was my last chance. I had no long line of suitors breaking down the door, vying for my affections. I had a cold-tempered father and a mother who hated the very air I breathed, and together they wanted their eldest daughter out—which meant I would have to endure one last speech about answering questions properly and maintaining a humble attitude. I had nothing but humility left. Humility was all I could afford. The corn cake and stray piece of bacon fat from breakfast somersaulted in my stomach as I heard a second knock, this one at the front door of our home. The door was so tumbledown that for every rap of knuckles, it slammed back in place with a knock of its own. When I was a girl, the noise scared me, made me think that someone was coming into my room. My mother told tales of my sleepwalking, claiming to be following a playmate. Pulling a bit of bone-straight raven hair over my face to cover some of the blasphemous scar, I looked down below and appraised the gentleman from my bedroom window, ignoring the knock at my own door. Though it was raining, I could see most of him through the curtain of drops. He was tall, even without the status-quo hat. His pants were ragged at the edges and in great need of a hem. Even the ends were a darker shade thanks to the sopped up water. Waiting for the door to be answered, he looked up. I gasped and ducked out of sight. He needed not see me before he absolutely had to. Even if we were married, he would probably whole-heartedly agree to look at me as little as possible. The overheard gossip of my sisters assured me that any marital duties would be handled in the dark, either way which contradicted their entire premise for ruining my pretty face. Then again, their claim to grabbing their perfect husbands was by the brow of their looks. My gaze was redirected across the way to a tiny girl standing at the cusp of the town, just in my line of sight. She was three or four years old at the most. She stared directly at me, her white dress, old-fashioned for the early nineteenth century, billowing in the bayou breeze. The Louisiana swamps on the edge of the street seemed to weep with the rain, tired of being overcrowded. But not the girl. The rain didn’t faze her in the least. In fact, her dress was untouched by any wetness at all. It didn’t droop or cling to her form. Movement caught my eye. Looking back to the street below, the man was now gone, having come into the house. Panic gripped my insides and shook them for effect.  Having to face another condescending suitor was last on my personal list of things to do today. I chanced one more look at the girl, but she was gone. Her mother had probably caught up with her, dragging her out of the rain. My mother came in, unwelcomed, and started in right away. “Delilah, he’s here. Heavens above, is that what you’re wearing? You look like a thundercloud come down to visit.” Her face was made of the thunderclouds, so if anyone would know the look, it was her. Shuffling my worn boots, I looked down and appraised my garb. “It’s the best I have besides my plum dress. He certainly won’t choose me for my looks. It doesn’t matter, anyway.” “It matters. Trust me, it matters.” She approached me and I stepped back out of habit, though my mother had never physically struck me. “If this man offers you his hand in marriage, you must accept. Let’s be honest. There weren’t many to begin with and there won’t be another one after this. We can’t be throwing food down another gullet.” Though her case for me getting married was laughable, I didn’t dare speak against her. My sisters both came over for breakfast and sometimes tea, nearly every day—even though their houses were bountifully stored with any food they wanted. Of course, they were beautiful and refined. Beauty granted women anything in this world. Which is why I had nothing. “I’m sorry, Mother. If he makes an offer, I will go—no matter what. You needn’t worry.” I’d apologized for my parents having to feed me. Then again, I apologized for everything—just in case. My words and tone addressed her as though she were a mother who actually cared whether or not I was wedded to a troll or an insolent murderer. As long as she no longer had to see me and my wretched face at the table, everything would be well. I did what I could to help them. Working for three different households, doing all their laundry, brought in a decent amount of money, but my father demanded the lot of it, claiming that it didn’t even equal how much I ate. I handed it all over without complaint. I was used to it. It wasn’t a revelation, the disdain of my father. From the time I was born, he’d been adamant about my air of vanity and haughtiness. He claimed that he would break me of it one way or the other. The notion was silly, that I attained any measure of vanity. I wasn’t vain. I knew that I was pretty—just like the other girls. I knew I was thin—mostly because I was only given scraps to eat, like the family pet. And I knew I was smart because I had good marks in school. Vanity wasn’t my friend and I took no comfort in her. Even if I had, she granted me no favor. My face was ripped open—a fatality of my own sisters’ war on vanity, as if the society we lived in didn’t hold enough protestable sins. Still, an ember of hope lay lit in my chest, telling me that there was someone who could still love me. It probably wasn’t the man downstairs. “Good. Now get yourself down there. Let’s not keep him waiting. We’ve got enough of an apology coming down the stairs without adding to it,” she added, flicking my cracked button with a grimace. I allowed myself one last look to the rain before succumbing to her pull. The rain had always calmed me and the rumble of the thunder reminded me that I was alive. With her hand pinching my elbow, she shuffled me down the stairs; the bass of two male voices going back and forth could be heard over the crackle of the fire. A discussion was being had about whether or not the man in question could properly provide for a girl of my stature. My father might as well have asked him if he could afford to feed the heifer. The banter was so curt and strained, it sounded almost rehearsed. “She wouldn’t need for a thing—that I can guarantee you.” A grunt was my father’s only response. That and the squeak of his rocking chair were the only noises in the room. Maybe I could sneak in and just serve as a silent audience to this auction for their gnarly beast of a daughter. The last stair creaked and announced our arrival. It was the same creak that usually made the mice shuffle about, scampering back to their homes and announced to everyone the one time I’d snuck downstairs to grab a piece of bread to subdue my gurgling stomach. “That’s her.” The vision of my face was so grotesque that even my own father thought I didn’t warrant a name. “Your name?” The tall gentleman took a step forward, his face coming into the light of the fire. A strong-looking jaw worked back and forth as I stuttered out my name and something akin to ‘pleased to meet you’. He was easily five inches taller than me and as he got closer, his shadow made an umbrella over mine. I shrunk back, frightened and intrigued at the sight of him. His eyes matched the color of the smoke that billowed in every chimney in the village. They bore into me as the hint of a sideways smile began, but never took shape. Surely, this whole scenario was in jest. A man of his degree of handsome would never stoop to a betrothal with me. It must’ve been one of my sisters’ idea of a sick bit of comedy. “Delilah. A lovely name. Can you cook?” A dastardly question if there ever was one. My mouth opened, but my father interjected before my tongue could conjure a proper response. The man’s stare was still locked with mine and I could hardly work up a thought, much less a word. “She can cook, clean, wash the clothes and we are confident all your other needs will be met.” My belly soured hearing my father speak of me as though I was a sow in heat. It wasn’t the first time my father had been unabashedly lewd and revolting when boasting of my wifely skills. Bile rose in my throat and by instinct I turned away from the whole scenario. The gentleman, who stood stoic, would soon be disappointed if he believed one word my father said. “Excellent. If Delilah would have me, we would be married in the morning.” My knees buckled. I barely caught myself on the wobbly bannister of the stairs behind me before I slumped onto the filthy floor. Father had barely taken three puffs of his cigar and a proposal was made. What nonsensical man does that? My father smiled, revealing teeth dotted with tobacco pith. “She’ll have you. Would you like to eat with us tonight?” I didn’t see the point in prepping me for instant acceptance of any proposal if they were just going to answer for me. “I’d be honored. Thank you.” At once, my mother scuttled into the kitchen, with a firm grip on my skirt, dragging me along. My head was swimming with prospects and at that point, none of them were good. Her dusky apron was tied around her waist as she planned with a finger pointed at me. “We’ll make chicken and roasted vegetables. That’s sure to warm his belly and keep him satisfied.” With jerky movements, I wrenched the carrots, turnips, and potatoes from their bins. God forbid my parents actually offer me a congratulations or at least something close to it. A relief warmed my chest as I chopped up the meal’s accompanying vegetables. This was it. Answering a couple of questions and cooking a meal was the price of my freedom. I sent up a silent prayer that I wasn’t trading the devilish duo for Beelzebub himself. My intelligence wasn’t needed after all, which frightened me more than it should’ve. Maybe all that was expected of me would be obedience. Obedience I could handle. Just as it came, the relief faded and was replaced by skepticism—a gnawing that curled my insides and made me pop my head into the living room more than once to verify the truth of his presence. He’d seen my face, I knew that. Yet, not a word was said about it and no mention of anything else was muttered. Something beneath the surface must be wrong with this man. While I allowed doubting thoughts to meander through my mind, I watched my mother prep the chicken to be roasted. She’d never allowed me into the kitchen and so, the boasting of my cooking skills was dishonest at best. I hoped there was a slim possibility of me learning the craft of chicken roasting in one afternoon. That way, Mr. ‘Can you cook?’ wouldn’t go hungry and throw me to the street. We’d have chicken every night, but neither of us would starve. “Start the coffee and the biscuits. Don’t just stand there like a twit.” “I don’t know how to make biscuits.” She turned around, looking shocked and then recognized the accusation in my squint. It was her fault she’d never taught me to cook. She was always afraid that I’d excel at something—anything—and maybe outshine the other three women in the house. “Yes, well, I’ll make them. Just start the coffee and get Gran’s good tablecloth from the cabinet.” There was no use getting the good stuff out now. He’d probably already seen the decrepit floors and the layer of aged soot around the fireplace. It wasn’t as if he thought he was dining with royalty. I shrugged and retrieved the tablecloth after putting the kettle on to boil. A stray rag was used to swipe the crumbs from the table and into my hand. There was no use in putting a cloth on top of crumbs, it would be like throwing a curtain over the pebbles on the beach. I’d never seen the beach, but I’d read about it. An hour later, everything was ready and the table was set. Halfway through the meal, a question rose in my mind and in my critical situation, I didn’t know whether or not to broach the subject or keep my mouth shut until the vows were exchanged. My father seemed to acknowledge the oncoming question and pointed his knife in my direction, effectively slicing the question from my tongue before it had a chance to coalesce. I glanced at the stranger, now my betrothed, to see if he could detect the family strife beneath the clanking of forks and knives. What I didn’t expect, when my eyes met his, was the concern written on his pristine, un-marred face. “You don’t eat much,” he regarded with a nod to my plate. “Usually she gorges like a cow,” my mother snapped, her cheeks puffed full of her own ball of cud. When she spoke, her eyes never left her plate, concerned that some of her chicken would vanish if she didn’t offer it constant worship. “Yet, you remain a slip of a thing. Strange.” He spoke directly to me, ignoring the false jab. Pooching my lips together, I defied the rising smile. Already he could see right through my mother’s antics. Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as I’d assumed. There must’ve been some secret deformity if he’d chosen me. The rest of the meal went off without a hitch and before I knew it I was already feeling as if I’d left this place yet was no closer to knowing where I was going or who I was going with. I only owned three skirts, three shirts with ragged corsets and various other garments including two sweaters, more like glorified rags—and one dress left behind by Adele. I didn’t even own a coat and my only pair of shoes was a worn-thin pair of lace up boots that had been thrown to the garbage bin by a woman I washed clothes for.
~~
“You’ve got everything?” My mother barged into my room at the break of day, and seemed to have a genuine concern though I could see right through it. I’d been up since dawn, staring out the window, letting the promise and curse of my future flit through my mind. I nodded to my suitcase. “It’s all in here.” During the night, I’d wondered if I would be provided a wedding dress like the other girls, or maybe even just a clean, patch-free dress. It was less of a question and more of an unrequited hope. None of those things ever came. When the sun broke through my window, giving up on the prospect, I dressed in my plum-colored dress with a black fitted coat on top, my best, and ruined the little beauty the ensemble contained coupling it with my failing boots. I’d tangled my hair into a loose braid so that it hung over my left shoulder, masking the part of me he’d regret being wed to. The man had already seen my face, this outfit would probably serve as a welcomed distraction as it showed a great deal of the upper swell of my breasts. Even my threadbare jacket couldn’t contain them. “You can’t take your blankets and things. Those will be needed for the boarders.” Less than twelve hours and my parents had already arranged to have my absence serve as a steady income. It was no surprise. People were always in and out of town and most families had at least one room that served as extra income. It was a small town, more like a village and newcomers didn’t stay long, either pushed out or turned off. “That’s fine, Mother. I’m sure they’ve got blankets.” “Well, you best get to the church. Do everything he asks, Delilah. You don’t want to be sent to the Plots.” My mother’s best threat, other than her stringing backhand, was that I’d be destined to go to the Plots. The Plots were the whore houses on the outskirts of our village and if you were thrown out of your home, other than the poverty stricken lifestyle of the laundry washers and maids, prostitution was the profession that chose you. Either that or a slow death due to starvation. Though sometimes I wondered how much worse selling yourself could be in comparison to being hated by your own family. From her clipped tone and the finality in her words, I assumed they wouldn’t be present at my wedding. Though unrelished tears stung the corners of my eyes at the thought, I knew it was better this way. There were no feelings between us other than obligation and I was no longer their responsibility. Even so, remorse for a better set of parents washed through me, wishing they were at least interested in seeing me married. With a cold nod, I grabbed my suitcase—which was, if possible, more worn than my boots and made my way downstairs. My father was at work, so no goodbye was necessary. Still, I turned one last time and took in everything I wouldn’t miss—the rat infested cupboards, the dingy rugs, and the scratch on the wall where the knife had sliced after it was done with my face and my back. A slammed door behind me was my official goodbye. The walk through town was almost embarrassing. By now, word of my marriage to-be had gotten around. Waiting until my age of twenty-three was unheard of in this place. Women in their fine attire whispered to each other in couples. Owners of stores walked outside and crossed their arms over their chests.  I hung my head low and kept my eyes on the ground as the bells of the chapel beckoned me to the call. There was no point in looking around anymore. The buildings and windows of the town were wrapped in a film of amber dust that seemed to reproduce from thin air. It was as though the Lord had drawn in a great breath and instead of releasing the blowing wind, blew a blast of rusty dust everywhere. It clung to my lungs and provided a canvas for the children in the street to draw in. Finally, I reached the church. A blast of warm air washed over my face when I opened the chapel doors. Our town chapel was as dirty as the rest of the town and in terms of the condition of souls, maybe even filthier. The air felt good on my chapped cheeks and on the frigid tips of my ears. The pews were empty and the smell of beeswax burning candles filled my nose. “You made it Delilah.” Surprise blanketed his face as though I was the one in this equation who was the unknown. The man liked to say my name, and I couldn’t deny the buzzing warmth in my belly when he did. No one had ever said my name with such emotion behind it. But in less than a day, how could any emotion back up my name on his tongue? “Where are your parents?” “They’re not coming. I’m sorry…” I gestured toward my dress while he strode toward me down the middle aisle. There was a purpose in his steps and a stir in his eyes that I did not recognize. “You look beautiful. All this black hair…” He pulled at the ends of my braid and cleared his throat. “Let’s get this over with.” At least the consensus on this marriage was unanimous—everyone wanted the deed done in a rush. A flash of emotion crossed his features as he spoke of my hair, but when I’d gasped, it all whooshed out of the room taking his smoky gaze with it. I thanked the Lord for that moment of clarity. I understood what I was up against.  Hot and cold was certainly better than raging hate. I nodded and answered, “Yes, please.” The local Constable and his wife stood as witnesses while the priest read his stiff vows for us to repeat, preferably with some emotion. Neither I, nor my fiancé, were able to summon such things. No blame for it would be put on my betrothed’s hands, since anyone in their right mind couldn’t be all that much in adoration at the thought of pledging their life to be spent with a roughed up creature like me. I tugged at my dress, uncomfortable standing opposite this finely dressed man, holding my hands, making promises neither he nor I knew whether or not we could keep. Even the Constable’s wife seemed enamored with him. Her eyes flicked to his form more than once during the ceremony. “Porter Quentin Jeansonne do you take Delilah Catherine Sharp to be your lawful wedded wife?” Porter. His name was Porter. The first thing I’d learned about my new husband was his name. No matter what his name was, he was my savior. He was also a good bit older than me. His date of birth was scribbled on the certificate—he was twenty-seven to my twenty. He must’ve been as desperate to marry as my parents were to get rid of me. The rest of the ceremony was more of the same icy procedure, signing forms and curt nods of the head. It was when the priest said, ‘Go, enjoy your marriage and be fruitful’ that the weight of what had occurred that morning settled like a brick in the pit of my stomach. There would be expectations and the fear of them gurgled into my throat and down to my toes, anchoring in place. Porter must’ve seen the damned things grow into concrete blocks because he took my hand and with a swift pull, bid me follow him. On our way to the exit, I bent to retrieve my suitcase but I was beat to it by my new husband. “Let me.” He offered me his arm. I’d never been offered the arm of a gentleman in my life. Even in my younger days, the rumors my sisters spread about me were so foul that no one dared come into my presence, much less offer me a kindness. My first kiss had been a taken one behind the school building—he must’ve been dared. No one in their right mind would kiss someone like me. “Thank you, Sir.” No correction was made, in my address, so I assumed that was how he preferred me answer him. He nodded once then gestured toward a black horse with cinnamon tipped ears that seemed just as happy to have me on him as I was at the prospect of riding the beast.  “We are to ride that?” A black gloved hand covered his mouth and a laugh, but the slight crinkle in the corner of his eyes could not be covered. He was laughing at me. “He is a gentle one. Don’t be afraid. You didn’t strike me as a female who is easily frightened and you still don’t.” “Is that why you chose me?” My question caused him to grow rigid in gait and look around the town as if to check if anyone was listening. They all were. Nothing could be done in our town without it being a community affair. Hunching my shoulders in regret, I punished myself for my unwarranted words by biting into my bottom lip as hard as I could. The metallic taste told me I’d done well. “We will talk later.” My suitcase was hoisted onto the side of the saddle and fastened in place with a rope. Porter—I would call him that in my mind if nothing else—with one foot in a stirrup, mounted the monster and with an outstretched hand, asked me to follow his lead. I did so without an ounce of grace, and before I could settle myself in, we were in a full gallop, to where, I had no idea.

Tuesday Teaser: Renegades

5 Friends4 Graduates3 Boys2 Girls1 Trip to Break all the RulesRenegades
A Contemporary NA romance from author Lila Felix
Unedited Teaser:

She puts one foot on a chair and then before I know it, Embry’s on top of the library table.“This is our one chance. It’s the one chance we’ve got to say we did it. To say we did even though they said we couldn’t or shouldn’t. Let’s go because our parents never did. Let’s go because we know the journey will change us. Let’s go because I don’t want to feel that sliver of regret lodged in my heart when I’m old and too tired to go.”Instead of her chosen future profession of veterinarian, she should be a lobbyist or a full-time protester-if there’s such a thing.It works, of course. Her little speeches always work. She’s talked us into so many schemes and plots that we all have records three inches thick. I’m surprised any of us are actually making it to graduation.Everyone is sitting up, enthralled with her words and her charisma. Beauty queen—she should’ve been a pageant girl. No, she hates lipstick.