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| Coming November 26, 2015 |
10 skins, each with a story to tell
10 perfect tattoos so they'll never forget
A little bit of healing
A whole lot of heart
An anthology of ten short stories by ten different authors who are donating 100% of the proceeds to benefit Alzheimer's and brain health. Join Lexi and this group of New York Times, USA Today best sellers and award winning authors to help combat this terrible disease.
Now available for pre-order on Amazon and iBooks!
More formats coming soon.
Excerpt from Lexi's short novella, Coldwater Blues
“Sign on a dumpster
in New York City: QUALITY WASTE
Ain’t that just the
story of my life.”
~ Michael Evans, a
month after he started hitching wherever anyone would let him ride
“Him. Take him next.”
“Why? The guy doesn’t even
have a questionnaire filled out.”
“With a face like that, who
cares what his story is? You, there. Hey, I’m talking to you.”
The woman was so in his face,
the people on either side of Michael in line turned and stared at him, too. He
had no idea why she was singling him out. He was just waiting his turn like
everybody else.
The woman was in her late
fifties with impossibly dark, frizzy hair. A smoldering cigarette dangled from
her lips. A cross between a vindictive old maid school teacher and a parole
officer, she peered at him over the top of her half-spectacles. He shifted
uncomfortably under her steady gaze. Since he’d been living rough, he’d gotten
used to people looking right past him and that suited him just fine. He didn’t
know how he’d managed to land in this woman’s cross-hairs.
“Yeah, you, pretty boy. You’re
up.” She gestured to her anorexic assistant who seemed to have a phone glued to
her hand and was texting to beat thunder. “Follow my assistant. She’ll get you
ready to go.”
Well,
this is different. Usually when he was waiting to get into a
shelter or, if he had a few dollars, a hostel, it was first come, first served.
Not this time. The stiletto-wearing, painfully skinny assistant waggled her
fingers, signaling him to come after her.
Why
do all these big city types think ‘starved-half-to-death’ is a good look?
He felt a little guilty
about being bumped to the front, but the openly hostile glares of the other
people in line surprised him. Even though the queue snaked around the corner,
it was early enough in the day that all of them would probably get a bed. That
was how the system worked.
Mike followed the assistant
wondering how she stayed upright on those heels with no visible muscles in her
pencil-thin calves. She stopped at a tattoo parlor where the name ‘Reeds’
blinked in neon in the window.
An oversized Class A motor home
crowded the sidewalk in front of the parlor, taking up several coveted parking
spaces. Michael wondered where they’d found someone brave enough—or dumb
enough—to drive it into Manhattan. “Forget Me Not Productions” was plastered
across the motor home in bold lettering.
“Ok, there’s a shower you
can use in the production van.”
If that big honking thing
was a van, he was the vice-president.
Stiletto Girl led him into
the motor home and shut the door behind her. “Get cleaned up, but don’t shave.
That scruffy look works for you, babe. By the time you’re out, I’ll have
something for you to wear.”
“I have other stuff.” Mike had
two changes of clothing in his backpack and they were both clean. He might be
running a little lean at the moment, but he didn’t need charity. Just a place
to crash for the night.
“Whatever you’ve got in that
pack, it’s probably not right for this. I’m thinking we go for a Neo-James Dean
look, you know, ripped jeans, wife-beater, leather jacket. Got any sun glasses?
Never mind. I’ll get some that’ll work.” She narrowed her eyes as she gave him
the once-over. “You’re not shy, are you?”
Mike frowned at her. “What
do you mean?”
He’d been approached by a
few pimps who were looking to expand their stable to include a gigolo or two.
He’d bloodied their noses and high-tailed it out of their neighborhoods so fast
they’d wonder if he’d really been there.
“Depending on where the
artist wants to put the ink, you’re ok with taking off your shirt on camera,
right?
Ink?
On camera? “Wait a minute. What is this? You mean I wasn’t in line
for a shelter?”
Stiletto Girl laughed. “Good
thing the camera’s gonna love you, ‘cause you won’t make it in this city on
your brains, babe.”
That sounded about right.
All through school, Michael had been weighed in the balance against his perfect
older sister Crystal and found wanting. Everyone underestimated him. Everyone
expected him to screw up, to get into more trouble than his folks could get him
out of and to eventually land in the penitentiary. Or the county morgue.
Everyone
except Gran…
“So what is it you’re
wanting me to do?” he asked.
“Oh, this is priceless. You
really don’t know. There’s never a camera around when you need one.” She rolled
her eyes expressively. “We’re shooting a reality show at Reed’s. That means we
need people to volunteer for a free tat and let us shoot them while they get
it. Do you have any ink already?”
“Nope.”
“A tattoo virgin! You’re a
blank canvas. Can Louise pick ‘em or what?” Stiletto Girl clasped her hands
together and barely refrained from hopping up and down. Then she settled
suddenly and eyed him with suspicion. “Everybody gets them now. Why haven’t
you?”
“Never saw the point.” A tattoo
was permanent and nothing in his life was. “Getting a tat is supposed to hurt,
I hear. Guess that’s why people want to watch it being done to someone else. Sort
of the whole Christians and lions thing.”
“Huh?”
Well,
vote her most likely to have skipped Sunday School. “I
expect it makes for good TV.”
“Yeah, it does and you’re
about to become a star,” she said in a rush. “Here are the disclosure forms and
a waiver for you to sign.” She pushed a sheaf of papers into his hands. “You
don’t have to read it. Trust me, it’s all standard boilerplate.”
Michael’s dad was a lawyer.
If the old man found out he’d signed something without trying to read it, he’d
think even less of his son than he already did. But when Mike saw what they
were offering to pay him to take his shirt off for the camera and get a tat, he
stopped struggling through the “whereas’s” and “heretofore’s,” took the pen she
held out for him, and started signing.
Stiletto
Girl handed him a pay voucher in the amount named in the contract. “Just
present that to Louise at the end of the shoot and she’ll see that you get your
check.”
“Who’s Louise?”
“The casting director, of
course. She’s the one who pulled you out of that line. Honestly, you should
come with a sign that says ‘clueless.’” She made air quotes with her neatly
manicured fingers.
Sarcasm aside, she was
right. Michael had no idea what he’d done to deserve a break like this, but
this much money would get him off the street for a while, even in a crazy
expensive place like New York. What was an inky violation of a little skin
compared to living indoors and eating three times a day?
For
as long as the money lasted, at least.
“Thank
you.” He handed back her pen. “I appreciate it, ma’am. I surely do.”
“Ugh!
Don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel old, like you think I’m thirty or
something.”
Michael wasn’t twenty yet.
Maybe it was just because she was so very skinny, but she had such a drawn,
stretched thin look about her. She seemed all of thirty and then some.
She grimaced at him. “But do
keep that accent. There’s just enough cowboy in it to really work.”
Mike
shrugged. “There’s nothing special about my accent. Everybody from Coldwater
Cove talks just like me.” He headed for the shower, hoping Stiletto Girl
didn’t expect him to wear a Stetson. He was more at home in a motorcycle helmet,
but he’d sold his along with his bike when he ran out of money.
Now
he didn’t have anything left to sell.
Except a little skin.
***
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