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Jax Nicoles

Jax Nicoles

7

4

Indiscretions

58ff27d2

{FYI: I write with the penname Jax Nicoles.}

Target Audience: My target audience is romance lovers, and anyone who loves drama and uncertainty. The age range for readers is 17-25. It's a little graphic with cussing, alcohol/substance abuse, abuse and things of that nature, so it's for older readers. I have the lowest age at 17 because I read books like this all the time, and most parents I know let their children read these types of books as well. The reason the highest is 25 is because I'm a young writer, and I feel that anyone older than that might not enjoy my book as much as someone closer to my age (if that makes sense.) 

Blurb: 

Lyric Andrews' world is falling apart.

Her mother and father have just admitted to her that they don't love each other, and that they're getting a divorce. Her father is running off with his boyfriend of four years, and her mother has started dating a 50-something year old man-child. 

The only thing that gives her hope is the promise that her brother is visiting, but what happens when the friend he's bringing starts shamelessly flirting with her? He seems like a good guy, and his words of love seem genuine, even if he is a little older. Can she trust that this 20-something year old really likes her, or is he just trying to take advantage of her?

{I need to work on the blurb, but I haven't gotten around to it.}

Preview:

1|

Little Danny ran across the road to catch his cat, Mittens.

No, that sounds like a boring way to start a book.

Danny and his friend Joseph sat together, their heads bent as they focused on their test.

No, what am I doing? That's stupid.

As the sun lifted over the horizon, light filled Danny's room, waking him up from his slumber.

Yea, no shit. That's what happens when the sun rises.

I sighed, leaning back in my chair. This writing business was harder than usual. Rubbing a hand down my face, I took another sip of my coffee, rolling my eyes. Great, I'm so cliche a writer that I drink coffee when I have writer's block.

I set the cup down on one of the papers on my desk. It already had coffee rings all over it, so it was too late to worry about it now, even though it was an essay that was due tomorrow. The good news was the fact that I had very ingeniously saved it to my computer, so I could always print out another copy if it got too illegible. 

"Lyric? Are you home?" my mother's voice called, shattering what little focus I had. With a slightly annoyed, and yet, partially thankful, sigh I hauled myself to my feet.

Peeking my head out of the doorway I called, "In here."

Within moments I could see my mothers too-big hair come into view, along with her clown face. Yes, I know it's rude and probably a betrayal to call your mother a clown, but when she put on as much makeup as my mother did you kind of got excused from the "all-powerful Karma". I mean, if my mother ever tried to wipe all of her makeup off, it would take months, and even then, her face is probably stained with electric blue eye shadow and "sinfully red" lipstick.

"I have groceries in the car. Go get them."

I stepped out of the room. "Yes, of course Queen. Is there anything else I can do for 'Her Majesty?'"

My mother shot me a glare that could curdle milk. "Just go get them will you? And quit being a smart ass." 

When her back was turned, I did my own impression of her, making her seem super snotty and nasty; personally, I think I hit the nail on the head. Before she could ask again, my mother hated asking more than once, I walked the rest of the way down the hall and to her 1999 Volvo. It was the first of the month, the back was filled, bottom to top. Groaning, I realized how long this was going to take me if I didn't man up real quick.

With the determination of a warrior, I began putting bag after bag on my right arm. Unfortunately, I was a short girl, meaning I had short arms, so I could only fit up to nine bags on each arm. This, in turn, made it to where I had to make three trips to get everything, which was mutiny by my "lazy people standards."

I finished setting the last bags on the counter when my mother's voice stopped me. "Lyric?" Her tone was slightly annoyed, and I had to suppress a sigh, lest I make it worse. 

"Yes, mother?" I asked, giving her my most innocent (and least sarcastic) smile I could muster.

"You didn't put the food away." My mother sat at the kitchen table with her feet up on a chair as she filed her "oh-so-perfect" nails.

I bit my lip. "You see, mom, I would love to help. I mean, you know me, I'm a helper," I began, "but, you see, the thing is, I have homework that's due tomorrow. You know, a big project, so I don't have time to put everything away. It would be much appreciated if you could, and I'm sorry for the inconvenience." With every sentence I was backing up closer and closer to the hallway. "I promise, next time." I quickly turned, but I wasn't fast enough.

"Lyric Faith Rosenberg Andrews. I will not tell you again. The food needs to be put away, right now. It is not my job or my responsibility. I am your mother, not your maid. Remember dear-"

"Yea; yea. I know; 'M' is for 'mom', not 'maid.'"

My mother stood up, putting her hand on her hip. "Fine, if you're going to be a little smart alec about it, you can do it by yourself." She picked up her purse and walked to the front door. "Unlike you, dear, I have important things to do. Not unrealistic things like writing or getting 'good grades'. It's not hard to get a 4.0, so I suggest you think about that the next time you decide to fail a test."

I groaned internally. Well, this means that the principle definitely called my parents last week. My mother turned and walked out of the front door, leaving me to put the things she bought away. Sometimes, my mother's parenting style really peeved me. You see, in my mother's opinion, if you find out something about your child that's bad, you wait to punish them. You wait until they smart off to you, or until they have accumulated quite a few "bad deeds" and then you strike. 

"It teaches her to not screw up," my mother had said on one of their many arguments about the matter. "Plus, it makes her honest. This way, she knows she can't hide anything from us, so why even bother trying?"

Of course, my father never agreed with her screwed up logic, but at the same time he never stopped her. My father is a quiet spoken man, and it takes a long time for him to get to the point where he wants to argue with my mother. Not that I can blame him, though. She was so good at arguing and winning arguments, that she should have been a lawyer. You could catch her stealing from your bag, confront her about it, and by the end of it, you're the one apologizing and giving her the money. Believe me, I've seen it happen more than once.

With no other choice, I turned to the kitchen and began putting everything away. Since my mother was gone, I was the only one here to put everything away.My father wouldn't be home for a few more hours, and by then it'd be late and he'd be too tired to it. Not to mention, most of it would have spoiled by then anyway.

After about an hour, I had everything where it was suppose to be, and the clock over the stove said it was 11:30 pm. Yawning, I decided to call it a night and wake up early to print out the essay my coffee stained. After taking a brisk shower and brushing my teeth, I crawled in between my soft, cotton sheets and soon fell into a deep sleep.

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