Inherit (35 page)

“I love you. I love you, too.” I nod and hold on for dear life, because something deep in the lightless, secret part of my mind knows that Jonas’s fear isn’t without foundation. I won’t tell him what I can barely admit to myself. That in the darkest, closed-off, shielded corner of my brain, I’ve heard a voice I know well, a voice that is unhinged, full of hate, and promising to do me in. A voice hell bent on a particular triumph that can only be achieved by getting rid of me.

“Wren. Promise me you’ll use your head. Promise me you’ll be safe.” Jonas’s face communicates his wild range of emotions, and I dig my fingers tight into his skin and say the words I already know are a lie.

“I promise. I’ll be fine, Jonas. I’ll figure it all out and be home in a few weeks. I promise.”

I bury my nose in his chest, focus on the hammered rhythm of his heart, squeeze my eyes shut, and wish, against all odds, that my words are actually the truth.

Acknowledgements:

Jumping into the world of paranormal has been an exciting and thrilling haunted house visiting/skydiving/ bungee jumping/spelunking/surfing with sharks kind of good time, and I want to thank some very, very awesome people for helping make this journey a smooth criminal.

Huge sloppy smooches to my incredibly cool husband, Frank, who pulled me deep under with his comic book fangeek adorableness and shared my sadness about the horrifying lack of episodes in the only season of
Firefly
…*sniffle.* His love of all things weird rubbed off on me. Or maybe I’ve just always been super weird and we found our weird sweet spot together. His motorhead tendencies also taught me to adore the smell of motor oil, hence Jonas’s particular fragrance.

Gremlin love to the utterly fabulous Nichole Chase, YA para novelist extraordinaire, who listened to me whine, called me from Atlanta to add one more note to her critiques, and helped suck me into the world of supernatural romance with her own outstanding tales.

Fan girl squees to the wonderful Sarah Ross, who allowed me the awesome opportunity to beta read her action-packed, swoontastic YA paranormal and did me a solid by culling through my book and helping me make it shine.

Noogies and hugs to Tamar Goetke, who runs through my books with an iron editing eye while juggling a million responsibilities at the same time. She’s never afraid to tell me like it is, and my love for her is bordering on sickeningly gushing.

Atomic high fives to Laura Bradley Rede, whose wonderful YA para encouraged me to stretch the limits of my own story, and whose friendship and positive vibes are so strong, I totally believe she’s got fairy in her and stopped by to sprinkle me with some of her magic dust.

Oceanic squeezes to Lani Wendt Young, whose fabulous books exploded the idea of cross-cultural legend and gorgeous, ancient/modern power in YA paranormal. Not only is she a writer who will blow you away, she’s one of the funniest, sweetest, warmest people I’ve ever had the great fortune to “meet.” (And I do plan to take the quotes off “meet” and actually meet her one day!)

Glitter cannons and pagina sparklers to my lovely, amazing, wonderful, supportive FP girls. You are rockstars, goddesses, sisters, jokesters, friends, and comrades. I wouldn’t know what to do without you, and am thankful every day that I have your love.

So many unlimited cyber smooches to the readers, bloggers, and book lovers everywhere who take a chance on authors and carry our books in their hearts. We authors cannot thank you enough for the passion you show our fictional worlds. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the readers who took a chance on my books and spread the word in the most positive, humbling ways! You guys rock…hard!

The ultimate, intergalactic hugs to my fam, the outrageously distracting and wonderful people who I love even while they drive me to the edge of the abyss of crazy. And to my lil’ bean, Amelia, who can melt my soul when she presses one finger to her lips, pulls the door closed, and says, “Da, shh, Ma’s writing. It’s hard work.” My heart is bursting!

Biography

I've been interested in writing since I rewrote the ending of *Romeo and Juliet* and killed them all off...every last one! My teacher loved it, and my inner writer came out kicking and screaming. 
My writing passion is YA, the more verbal sparring, melodrama, and steaminess the better! In my real life I love my gorgeous daughter who makes me laugh and drives me insane, my awesome husband (who is the inspiration for many of my best bad boys...shh!), all the rest of my crazy family, plus travel, great books, good food someone else cooked, movies, and laughing. 

I am the author of the Brenna Blixen Novels (
Double Clutch, Junk Miles, Slow Twitch
),
Forgiving Trinity
, and the upcoming YA romance,
Fall Guy
. My YA dystopian novel,
Blue Rebellion
, will be out in 2012/2013.
 

Write me if you want! I'm at [email protected]. I'd love to hear from you and am open to any questions/comments/hilarious Youtube video links. Oh, and check out my blog; 
www.elizabethreinhardt.blogspot.com
. Sometimes it's very funny! (Sometimes I'm the only one laughing.)

ARC Excerpt

Fall Guy:

A Youngblood Book

By

Liz Reinhardt

Coming 2012

My grandmother’s pearls slide soft and cool against the skin of my neck as I twist them nervously. I always imagined myself fingering them as I prepared to walk down the aisle on my wedding day, their soft gold hue complimenting a snow white wedding dress that showed a tasteful amount of skin and hugged me in all the right places. I had no idea I’d get a chance to wear them so much sooner and for such an embarrassing reason.

This morning she slides the little gold hook into the eye-shaped clasp and presses it tight, her dry fingertips light and gentle on my shoulders, the softly sweet, rich smell of her perfume reassuring in my nostrils. “Ninety percent of this entire ordeal is how you look, sugar. Keep that backbone straight, but don’t you dare even
think
one solitary saucy thought. You don’t have what it takes to keep your temper off your face.”

I glance up at her face reflection in the gold-framed mirror of my vanity, and guilt gives a long, silent scream in the back of my brain. There are lines between her ash-blond eyebrows I can’t recall being there before I’d become a permanent fixture in her life. Her smile strains across her face and her blue eyes, the same light, icy blue as mine, are dull with worry.

Granddaddy stands in the doorway and clears his throat, too much of a marrow-deep gentleman to feel comfortable entering any lady’s room while she is dressing. Gramma helps me slide my arms into the navy and white seersucker jacket that gives me an aura of demure sweetness.

“I’m ready, Granddaddy. You can come in.” All-encompassing shame shudders through me like a tiny tropical storm bashing underneath a bell jar. Granddaddy walks up to me with a sodden weight to his steps that pricks at my eyes like a sharp, relentless wind.

“Well, darlin’, you look a picture. No man in his right mind, judge or not, could see a young lady so beautiful and fail to realize this is all just a big misunderstanding.” His breath wheezes from his mouth in labored gasps. August is a relentlessly hot month in Georgia, and the humidity makes his lungs constrict. It’s painful for Gramma and I to see Granddaddy operating at an energy level less than his usual cyclone-riding-a-galloping-mustang.

“I’ll be fine. No matter what the judge decides.” I pressure my lips to curve in a perfect, patient smile that is an undeniable family heirloom, passed down from my Gramma like a birthright. Composure in the face of any obstacle is just how the women from our stock function.

“I can’t believe that boy’s family wasn’t willing to make peace over this whole…misunderstanding.” Granddaddy’s bright white mustache quivers with rage. “I understand a family’s connection to their land, but it was just a bunch of damn nut trees.”

Gramma squeezes his elbow and runs her hand in small circles on his forearm. “Come and lets have some sweet tea. Kailyn made a big batch before she left last night. Come on, now. Evan needs to get a move-on, or she’ll be late.”

“Shouldn’t we go with her?” Granddaddy demands for the hundredth time, and my heart squeezes with love for him. Especially considering the fact that Kailyn’s sweet tea is usually enough to calm that man into an absolute lull.

“No, Granddaddy. This is my own mess, and I’m going to take care of it all on my own.” Before he can protest, I hike up on my toes and pop a kiss on his cheek and my grandmother’s, making a registered effort to avoid looking either of them directly in the eye. “Plus that, we have a strategy we need to stick with. I show up with you, and the judge assumes I think I can get myself out of this using my name.”

“You should be able to.” He rubs the spot just over his heart with short, firm strokes of his fingers, a tic that always shows up when he’s particularly annoyed.

I’d worry, but the doctor always says he has the heart of an ox.

“I’ll be just fine.”

I kept a hold on the breezy, confident way my voice sounded like it was my life-jacket in a shipwreck as I ran my hand down the shiny, curved wood of the left staircase that led down into their gleaming, crystal-filled front foyer, my feet tripping over the glossy marble tiles before I burst through the double doors and beelined through the stagnant heat to the cool interior of my pre-started car.

I manage to hang on to that cheery optimism all the way to the courthouse door, in through the metal detectors, and right up to the doorway of my assigned courtroom, but that’s where my confidence explodes like water from a balloon dropped from the roof to the cement far, far below.

I’m positive the splash of my shattered courage should be audible, but no one gives a so much as a quarter glance my way.

Lawyers with scuffed briefcases, a man with slicked-back hair and a clip-on tie, and a woman in saggy sweatpants rolled at the waist walk by, but no one notices me skulking in the corner. My gold watch flashes at me from the limp bend of my wrist, warning me not to be tardy, not to make a bigger, more complicated mess of this than I already had. I’m tempted to call my best friend, my life-line, Brenna, but what would she say? She’d make me go in, and I
can’t do that
.

So I sit on the chilly slate floor, not worried about the wrinkles setting in on the sheath dress Gramma had pressed for me this morning. I bury my head in my clammy hands and resolve to stare at the floor until I manage to convince it to open wide and ingest me whole.

A voice punctures through my self-pity and fear. A smooth, obnoxiously confident voice with the undercurrent of an accent I’ve never heard before and can’t place.

“Are you nervous?” The words are overly familiar, like he’s backstage with me before a big recital or at my side just when my mother disappears on another bender.

I focus on the polished shine of his black boots, and try not to admit that his voice is a sweet caress in my ears, despite my strong mental protests.

“I’m fine. I just…needed a second. To sit.” It may be the most idiotic thing I’ve ever uttered, but I refuse to back down from my resolve to sit on this floor. For a second. Like I said.

The boots shift slightly, and I realize he’s leaned over to open the door of the courtroom. A woman thanks him in a high, nervous voice.

“You’re welcome, ma’am.”

My head whips up at the ‘ma’am.’

Not that I haven’t heard that word spilled like sticky sweet syrup from a thousand mouths of a thousand boys who’ve been born and bred to use it every day.

It’s
this
boy, the way it slides off
his
tongue, buoyed with cautious respect and elegant pleasure. Like he loves saying the word. Like his lips weigh the worth of it.

I crane my neck back, and he’s looking down at me with half a twisted smile, his hand extended. I put my freshly manicured hand into his, rough with callouses, and he coaxes me to stand up with a gentle tug, so I’m suddenly nestled close to his tall, lean frame.

“Have you had long enough? To sit?” The questions are sweet, but his lips have a twisted curve that makes my heart double-beat to the tune of one word:
wicked
.

I smell him, and it’s a smell that’s not part of the deep, salty musks of this area. It’s clean and fresh and sweet. It smells like clover, wet with a sheen of overnight dew. “I’ve had long enough.” I pull my hand from his, reluctantly, and press my palms down the front of my skirt. For an instant, the wrinkles smooth out, but the second I take my hands away, they spring back. I can’t keep the
tsk
of my tongue locked in my mouth.

His laugh rings out, boldly happy and a little too loud for this dim, serious court hallway. “Hey.” He says it informally, like we’ve known each other forever, and I move a step back to keep him out of my physical territory even as the imprint of his laugh twines through my neurons. He gestures with his long, fingers. He has an artist’s hands. “You can get away with them.”

His eyes are blue, but not glacial frozen blue like mine. His are like sun-warmed blueberries, dark denim blue, well-deep and framed by overlong jet black lashes. He blinks slowly, and his lean, chiseled face is soft and calm despite its cut lines. “Get away with what?” I keep my voice coolly unaffected.

“Wrinkles. Stains. Tears. You’re too pretty to bother worrying about any of that. The first thing people notice is your face, and once they notice that, there’s no noticing anything else. Trust me on this one.” He leans his head to one side, indicating that we should head into the courtroom, and I notice that his short, dark hair is newly cut, expertly done.