To support this new release, I've re-edited The Tinder Chronicles and will make it available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited soon. I didn't change the story at all, but I'm a much different writer five years down the road, so I've just given it a bit of a polish.
I've also given books set in this universe a series name, which is The California Obscura Series. I love the idea of a hidden world existing just below the surface of bright, sunny Southern California, which is where I grew up.
Now I'd like to introduce you to Griffin and Sam, the two main characters from my work in progress. Griffin the narrator is a train wreck, and Sam steps in to help at the start of their story. The following excerpt is still unedited:
It
should have come as no surprise.
The well-worn strap on my messenger bag had
been hanging on by a thread for days. Weeks, even. Since the zipper had broken
months ago, there was nothing to contain the cascade of notebooks, pens, and
miscellaneous detritus as the strap finally gave way and the bag hit the floor.
But why did it have to be that morning, while
I was waiting in line at my favorite coffee house? I’d rolled out of bed minutes
before and had wasted no time pursuing my caffeine fix. That meant my dark hair
was sticking up in every direction, I’d put on my thick, clunky glasses instead
of messing with contacts, and I’d thrown a jacket over the T-shirt
and sweats I’d slept in. In other words, I was already a hot mess even before the
strap broke, and now every single person in a twenty-foot radius was staring at
me.
When I dropped to my knees and began collecting my
scattered possessions, an absolutely beautiful guy knelt down right in front of
me and exclaimed, “Oh no! Let me help you.”
We both reached for the same item, and when his
fingers grazed mine, embarrassment made me pull my hand back like it had been
scalded. Ugh,
why did I have to be such a dork? While the people in line stepped
around us, he began gathering my dozen notebooks and asked, “Are you a writer?”
“Kind of.” People used to assume I was a student
when they saw the stuff I hauled around with me. But at twenty-seven, maybe I
no longer gave off that collegiate vibe.
His hair was light brown, streaked with gold
by the sun, and I watched as he tucked a lock behind his ear. Even though he’d
tried to tie it back, several wisps had escaped, and they almost reached his
shoulders. It looked like it was probably really soft. After a moment, I
realized he’d asked me a question, and I muttered, “Huh?” Smooth.
“I asked if this is a book you’re working
on.” He rested a hand on the stack of mismatched notebooks he’d collected. All
sorts of notes and papers were sticking out of them, and a lot more had fallen
out. God, what a mess. When I nodded, he asked, “What’s it about?”
Oh man, I hated that question, mostly because
I didn’t really know the answer. While I flailed around for something to say, I
noticed he was wearing a black apron over his T-shirt and jeans, along with a
plastic name tag that said ‘Sam’. He must be new, because I was in that coffee
house all the time, and I sure as hell would have remembered him.
Finally, I admitted, “I don’t even know
anymore. It started out as a noir-style murder mystery set in 1930s L.A., and
then it sort of morphed into a gay love story. Well, kind of. The two main
characters started having loads of sex, and I just ran with it. Then about
halfway through, I added some science fiction elements, but that was a huge mistake.
I tried to weed them back out again, but that left me with great, big, gaping plot
holes. Now it’s around four hundred, thirty-seven thousand words of total
garbage. I should really just throw it away and start over, because the more I
work on it, the more convoluted it becomes.”
His smile revealed an adorable pair of
dimples. Holy crap, as if he wasn’t already cute enough. And his eyes, wow. They
were pale blue rimmed in cobalt, and they were absolutely striking. He pulled me
out of my reverie by saying, “You definitely shouldn’t throw it away. I’ll bet
there’s a lot of great stuff in here.” He held my notebooks in the crook of his
arm and ran his fingertips over a scribbled note on one of the covers.
Okay, I really needed to stop staring at this
guy. I turned my attention to the floor and raked a bunch of pens, sheets of
paper, and miscellaneous crap toward me, then began throwing things into the
bag by the handful as I told him, “Even if there is, you’d have to slog
waist-deep through raw sewage to find it.” Gross. Maybe I could have found a
less stomach-churning mental image.
Sam handed me the notebooks, and then he
straightened up and looked around. It was bad enough when he produced a small
box of condoms from beneath a nearby table, but then he glanced at it and said,
“You should probably be aware that these expired three years ago.”
Kill. Me. Now.
