Connected

by Kim Karr

  I went to sit on the couch next to him. I told him he owed it to me to tell me what he knew. So he did. He said he was pretty sure Dahlia was fucking the guy he had seen her with. He told me he was really sorry after the words reluctantly came out of his mouth. Caleb went on to explain that he had followed them to some swanky LA neighborhood in the Hills. And as far as he could tell, she was staying there. Dahlia in the Hills. What the fuck?

  I was fucking furious at him, at me, at her. She’s already shacked up with someone? I really wanted to kill the guy, and I wanted to beat the shit out of Caleb. The thought of my Dahl fucking someone else drove me to the verge of insanity.

  I knew she’d move on eventually, but hearing it was something else entirely.

  I had walked over to the CD player on a table in the corner of the room and just stared at it. The song playing, ironically, was Go to Hell by Go Radio. Fucking appropriate, huh? I couldn’t help myself. I pounded my fist on the player so hard it smashed into a thousand pieces on the floor, and I broke my fucking hand.

  Caleb took me to the ER where they put a cast on my broken hand. God, could they just put a cast on my broken heart? I sat there in the ER, thinking back to Dahlia, and wondering why I hadn’t just insisted she marry me when I first asked her. Not that it would have mattered that much. Shit, either way I would never see her again.

  Caleb left the next day. He assured me he’d watch out for her and said he wouldn’t contact me again.

  September 21st, 2012

  Sitting here now at the large wooden conference table with a room full of suits from some government section I still don’t even know the name of, I can hear every tick of the clock hanging on the fucking wall. All I can think about is that, after almost three years, I’m finally going to see her again touch her again, love her again. I gave up everything to keep my Dahl alive, and now I’m going to be able to finally get it all back.

  Caleb told me she’s with some douchebag, supposedly it’s pretty serious, but I know the minute she sees me here in the flesh it'll be over. We just have too much history for it not to be.

  Damn, why did I have to be so fucking good at my job? Why did I want to make my mark on the world of journalism? Today, I couldn’t tell you why because I lost it all in the blink of an eye. Back then I was hungry for it, and nothing else mattered. Well, that’s not true. I cared about all those people and what they were allowing them to do. I really did care.

  I hadn’t heard from Caleb in almost nine months until he called me a few days. I knew something was up, but had no idea what. He asked me again if I had kept information, and once again, I lied and assured him I hadn’t. I tried to ask how my Dahl was, but he just hung up.

  So when they called me yesterday and told me they were bringing me back in, I knew something must have happened. All they told me was that it wasn’t over, but they wanted me back here. I was accompanied by one of the suits and on the next flight from New York to LA. The only thing the suit told me was my house had been broken into again. I wondered if this time they found the information, but how could they? I asked if she was okay, but he didn’t answer.

  And now I sit here. Where the fuck is Caleb? I asked them but got no answer. The answer I have received in the last twenty-four hours is, “Yes we have notified your family.” But I’m hanging patiently here because I can’t believe it’s actually going to happen when I never thought it would. My story will eventually come out. I will be free of them. Free to be with my Dahl. It seems surreal but so fucking real at the same time. My mother is on her way, and once I see her and tell her my story, I’ll finally get to call my Dahl.

  My family. And those words aren’t nearly enough. You have truly supported me through this crazy, fun, invigorating, and inspiring process known as—writing a book. You not only dealt with a messy house, dirty laundry, and many lists of groceries that were never purchased; you also gave me the time I needed to write this book. So thank you to my wonderful husband and my four beautiful kids. XOXO

  To the woman who very quickly became my best friend, Jennie Wurtz. We have spent countless hours on the phone; have sent so many texts I’ve lost count; and with the amount of PMs I’m surprised Facebook didn’t reprimand us. You’re not only a great friend but you assisted me all the way and provided invaluable input. I will love you forever!

  My dear friend, Kerri Coakley. You are the first person I met in the Facebook Indie world. How lucky am I? You always read whatever I wrote over and over again and smiled about it. You encouraged me, supported me, and pushed me every day. I will forever be grateful to you!

  To the best beta readers—ever. As a new author, I couldn’t have asked for better. Jessica Hayes and America Matthews, you were with me from the start. You have my most gratitude. And a special thanks to Jessica for your help in music selection and for letting me use your quote; “Everyone has a destiny, it just matters which road you take to get there.” Also, Kristina Amit, Rebecca Berto, Kathryn Crane, Melanie Dawn, Jessica Dow, Ellie Lovenbooks, Nichele Reese, Nacole Stayton, Erika Taylor, Deb Tierney, and Summer Van Vynckt who all beta read Connected. Your input was invaluable and you helped shape this book into its final product.

  To Sarah Hansen for going out of your way to make sure I got the picture I asked for and then taking that picture and turning it into a work of art. To me it will always mean the world that you went above and beyond!

  To my editor Mary Kelley of Adept Edits—T.H.A.N.K.Y.O.U! Your kind words, support, friendship, and just plain funny comments were more than any first time author could ask for. And thank you for taking my words and making them so much better. You helped make the publication of this book a reality.

  To Aerie for the countless hours spent helping me, teaching me, and just talking to me. Your assistance was invaluable, and you will always be a friend. I am so thankful for the first day I PM’d you and you agreed to work with me. P.S.—My medicine cabinet is always open to you!

  To Kimberly Brower of Book Reader Chronicles—All I can say is I will be forever grateful.

  Finally, to the readers and bloggers. I hope you enjoy reading Connected as much as I enjoyed writing it, and again thank you so much for your time.

  Kim Karr lives in Florida with her husband and four kids. She’s always had a love for reading books and writing. Being an English major in college, she wanted to teach at the college level but that was not to be. She went on to receive an MBA and became a project manager until quitting to raise her family. Kim currently works part-time with her husband and recently decided to embrace one of her biggest passions—writing.

  Kim wears a lot of hats! Writer, book-lover, wife, soccer-mom, taxi driver, and the all around go-to person of her family. However, she always finds time to read. One of her favorite family outings was taking her kids when they were little to the bookstore or the library. Today, Kim’s oldest child is seventeen and no longer goes with her on these, now rare and infrequent, outings. She finds that she doesn’t need to go on them anymore because she has the greatest device ever invented—a Kindle.

  Kim likes to believe in soul mates, kindred spirits, true friends, and Happily-Ever-Afters. She loves to drink champagne, listen to music, and hopes to always stay young at heart.

  Connected is Kim Karr’s debut novel and is available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iBooks, and Smashwords.

  COMING Fall 2013

  TORN

  (Book Two of the Second Chances Series)

  Can a ‘Once in a Lifetime’ survive when secrecy harbors doubt?

  For a glimpse into TORN please visit www.authorkimkarr.com

  “There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice!”

  ~F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Turn the page for the first chapter of Nichele Reese’s debut novel,

  JULLIARD OR ELSE

  a New Adult Romance

  COMING Late Spring 2013

  This is a twisting story of young love, but what happens when the world won’t let Abigail an
d Tucker be together? What do they have to sacrifice to be together? Tucker has nothing, but Abigail has everything to lose.

  Following a glimpse into Julliard or Else, I have a special treat for you. Melanie Dawn’s So Much It Hurts will capture your heart like nothing else. This is a story of love, loss, redemption, and hope. Enjoy this sneak peek into her debut novel, due out EARLY FALL 2013.

  Julliard or Else

  Tucker

  “This going to be enough?” The stranger asked looking at what I had given him, opening his hand then closing it fast.

  “Should be,” I answered quickly, then glanced down the street because I heard police sirens getting closer to us as they headed our way.

  One police car rounded the corner and I watched it as it pulled over to the curb to stop in front of us, with its lights flipped on. “Stay still man,” I told the stranger who complied. “Whatever you do, don’t run.” I turned my body and looked at the lit up vehicle. Of course, I’m pretty sure I knew who was driving it, the one and only, Officer Daniels. He always patrolled this area and knew me pretty well; including all the shenanigans I had gotten myself into over the years.

  Sure enough, it was Officer Daniels who stepped out of the patrol car. He slowly walked over to us, taking his sweet time, one slow step after another. He had on his usual policeman attire, but today he had on an extra jacket. The weather took a turn for the worse, making it a very cold and windy during this early morning. It almost felt like tiny paper cuts on my face, the wind was that cold. It always got really windy around the beginning of September in Brooklyn, to remind us that winter was coming.

  “Tucker,” Officer Daniels growled and nodded his head. My body went stiff as a board when he used my name like that. He already knew what I’ve been doing this morning.

  “What, Daniels?” I snapped, shoving my hands in the front pocket of my hoodie.

  “I hope you’re not selling your product out here to this guy… or I should say boy,” I glanced over my shoulder at the kid, who slowly backed away from me. I knew he was young, but he was old enough to know what the hell he was getting himself into by coming into this part of town and even contacting me. Watching him back away from me some more, I already knew what he was planning to do, and before I could say anything to stop him, he took off down the sidewalk at full speed.

  “God damn it, Tucker! You promised you were done with this shit!” Officer Daniels yelled at me, while pulling off his Walkie Talkie to give out the description of the kid who took off and which direction he was headed in.

  I heard the sirens of the rest of the cop cars that always patrolled this area with Daniels. No matter what, the kid was going to get busted; he didn’t stand a chance against the cops around here. He was a noob in the drug world, even I could tell. But if I didn’t get rid of it fast, my buddy would be in trouble more, life or death kind of trouble.

  Daniels just glared at me, “You said you were done Tucker, or should I just finally take your ass into custody?” Daniels knew my situation at home. He knew I didn’t have any money to get myself out of jail; my mother wouldn’t bail me out either. She didn’t have a dime to her name and even if she did, it would evaporate faster than water.

  I put my hands up defending myself, hearing more sirens coming in our direction. “I’m done Daniels, swear.”

  He let out a big breath that I could see in the cold morning air, “Get outta here,” he warned me and he jerked his head to the side.

  “Alright man,” I muttered at him, turning around to leave, cutting through the alleyways to head back where I belonged - Bushwick, Brooklyn.

  The morning sun was beginning to shine through the tagged buildings, marked up in graffiti. The sound of beer cans echoed through the empty alleyways as the cold wind blew around them.

  I made my way back to the rundown apartment I shared with my mother. The cold air was hitting my face harder than before, so I pulled up the hood from my gray hoodie, to help keep warm; wishing that I had worn something heavier.

  As I rounded a corner, I kicked an empty pop can most of the way back. Thinking about what Officer Daniels just told me, I really did need to stop dealing, or I was going to find myself in a situation I would regret. As I passed more buildings, black trash bags lined most of the front walls, just another day to show that the garbage man could give two shits about our trash. Most people considered where I lived an unwelcome part of the neighborhood and it was. You shouldn't be caught walking around here after dark, carrying any money or wearing any sort of jewelry on you. It was simple; you shouldn't come to this part of town, but if you did and you were smart, you’d carry a gun.

  A screaming woman on the sidewalk shouting at her husband didn’t make me move any faster as I buzzed myself in to my cold dirty building and walked up the creaky four flights of stairs to my apartment. The screaming woman reminded me of my mom and my dirt bag of a father always fighting. When I was eight, I would scream at them to stop, my dad just ended up beating me until I stopped, or passed out. They could never get along and my dad finally left us. He left me and my mom dirt poor and in a shitty apartment. He never came around at first, but then he started coming around sporadically to beat my mom and take what little money she’d had, but I haven’t seen him in a couple of years, so I don’t know what’s happened to him.

  As I climbed the stairs, my eyes scanned over the dirty green and brown flowered wallpaper stripping away, the holes in the walls seemed to grow larger by the day, and the broken banister looked like it had its day a hundred years ago, when the building was first built. The hallway lights flickered as if they were trying to stay on but the electricity was deciding on something else. This building was so run down and old that you had to watch your every step on the stairs, or you might just fall through the boards, each step almost felt like it would be your last.

  A little warmer now that I was inside, I pulled my hood down as I reached the top of the dirty stairs. I paused a moment as I heard loud bass music coming from the end of the hall where my apartment was.

  Groaning, I knew when that type of music was playing, it meant Skinner was with my mom. I made my way down the hallway to my apartment and reached above the doorframe for the little copper key. When I stepped into the apartment, all the lights were off. The music pounded away as if the speakers were ready to blow and my eyes scanned around the room, looking around for evidence of Skinner.

  Inside the apartment was shittier than the building itself. Garbage was everywhere, fur stuck to the carpet from my mom’s three cats, and the crappy furniture looked even trashier since she never vacuumed. Dishes flooded the sink with old food stuck to them. Newspaper was crumbled up all over the counter and table. I stomped my foot hard at one of the cats, making it hiss and skitter away fast as lightning.

  God, I hated cats.

  I turned down the stereo in the living room and walked into the kitchen to the fridge for a beer. When I opened the fridge door, it smelled as if something had died in there because of all the rotting food. Mold contaminated a full loaf of bread; I don’t know which revolted me more, the rotting food smell or the loaf of bread that had just gone to waste.

  When I was a kid, that bread would have lasted me at least a week. When my dad left us, my mom stopped trying to take care of me. I taught myself to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for my main meal of the day and wash my own clothes in the bathtub. Sometimes, it was days before I could eat because she went on a drug spending spree. Now sitting here in the fridge was a loaf a bread, just fucking rotting away.

  Out of anger and pure disgust, I slammed the door shut, causing the fridge to rattle and bang into the wall behind it. I stalked my way to my mom's room and turned the doorknob, but it was locked. I banged on the door with my closed fist and yelled for her, but no one answered . . . no sounds…no movement. I tried again . . . nothing.

  With my hands clenched in fists I yelled, “I’m gonna break down the god damn door if you don’t answer!”

&nbs
p; Nothing.

  “Mom!” I pounded on it again, hoping Skinner or my mom would finally answer.

  I hated to cause more damage to this shithole of a place and have Skinner bitch at me for more money that I don’t have…or so I told him. I banged on the door once but no one answered. Grabbing the doorknob, I slammed my body into the door. It gave away fairly easily and I watched as the door fell back into the wall, barely hanging by its broken hinges.

  My mom, who was beautiful at one point in her life, was motionless; her body was sprawled out on the bed, in her dirty pink nightgown just barely covering her body. Her eyes were closed as Skinner crouched over her right arm.

  Heat blazed my face as I saw the rubber strap wrapped tightly above her elbow. Skinner was drawing a needle out of the vein from the crook of her arm.

  He whispered to her, “Sleep now, baby girl,” and then kissed her cheek.

  I walked over to her in two short steps and pulled her nightgown down to cover her more modestly. “Damn it, Mom.”

  I pulled on her free arm but she didn’t move. I expected her eyes to flutter open, but when she was high like this, she never opened them. I looked up at Skinner, who was now injecting the same crap in his own arm, using his belt and the same damn needle he just injected into my mom’s arm.

  Shit!

  He inhaled a rush of air and looked up at me. “Now that's some good shit.”

  I watched as his eyes rolled into the back of his bald head. He deeply exhaled and opened his eyes to look back over at me. I just wanted to punch him in his stupid fucking face for always doing this to my mom… to us. So what do I do? The answer was simple; I punched him in the face.