Tuesday, December 10, 2019

EXCERPT: Hometown Heartless by Carrie Aarons


     
    Hometown Heartless by Carrie Aarons  

Cover Reveal on January 8, Book Releases January 23

    














One year ago, the boy next door was captured as a prisoner of war.

The boy whose window faces mine.
The backyard buddy who bandaged up my skinned knees.
The childhood crush that kept me up at night, wondering if he’d ever be my boyfriend.
The town hero I wrote endless letters to after he shipped out.
The green-eyed charmer who promised me a kiss the day I turned eighteen.

And now, he’s home.
But he didn’t come back as the boy I once knew.
He’s a man now, one with demons I can’t comprehend.
The damaged soldier keeps telling me I’m not his anymore.
That the war took him, turned him into someone unrecognizable.
What he hasn’t considered is that it took me, too.

He swears there is nothing left between us, that his heart died overseas. But with each look through our windows, we both know his lies are just that. With each fated meeting, the truth only becomes more evident.

Everett Brock occupies the shadows now.
And as much as I try to pull him into the light, it seems the switch is permanent.
What he doesn’t realize is that I’m willing to follow him into the darkness.
This EXCERPT  is from Chapter One of Hometown Heartless
read from the point of view of it's heroine, Kennedy. 
Keep in mind this sneak peek is completely unedited. Enjoy!



He’s alive.
“Everett, honey. They rescued him. He’s alive. Oh, thank God. Marcia and Grady got the call two hours ago, that he was on U.S. soil. He’s coming home. Everett is coming home.” My mom practically shakes me to knock the news into my brain.
Have you ever been so shocked that all you can do is laugh? It’s a morbid reaction to emotional news, especially horrible news. Not that this is horrible news, this is incredible news. But, I’ve always been one of those people who cackles hysterically in high pressure, sad, emotionally charged, or otherwise situations. It’s a defense mechanism, like my soul can’t take the seriousness of the matter so it revolts against societal norms.
Well, my tried and true behavioral technique doesn’t fail me now. While the rest of the neighborhood stands on the street crying tears of joy and weeping with relief, I double over, spill my pom-poms on the driveway, and laugh my goddamn head off.
“He’s … coming … home” I giggle, holding my hand over my mouth to make it appear like I’m crying.
“Oh, Kennedy, not now!” Mom scolds, chiding me.
As if I can help this. I want to roll my eyes at her, but I’m too caught up in my fit of chuckling to do so.
It’s comical, if you think about it. For an entire year, I’ve mourned the death of the boy I’ve dreamed about since I was old enough to have crushes. Laughter is the only way to react to the news that the prisoner of war, the hometown hero the entire town wept over, is coming home. That he’s alive.
Everett Brock. And just like that, my memory jumps back two years time, to the last time those bright green eyes held mine.
The rumbling of the truck coming down the street is unmistakable. No ordinary car sounds like that. It isn’t the sleek, black car of death that visited the house next door just nine short months ago. That vehicle had been silent and vicious in its attack on our street.
No, this one announces its presence, causing everyone on the street to whip their heads toward it.
I make out the camouflage paint on the old Ford pickup before I even realize that it’s headed straight for me. Everything feels like a dream right now, as if my life is moving in slow motion but my heartbeat has settled somewhere between manic and atrial fibrillation. 
I straighten, my mouth sobering to the point that not only will laughter not come out, I’m not even sure breath is escaping past my lips. 
He’s in there, I know it. Why else would an army vehicle from the base about an hour from here be driving down the street we both grew up on?
“Oh my Lord …” Mom gasps, because everyone is watching this like some kind of car crash they can’t look away from.
None of us have any idea what he might look like.
A car is fast on the truck’s tail, and this I would know anywhere. Marcia and Grady Brock come screeching around the corner in their navy blue BMW, and the car slams into park on the street. They’re out in a flash, dashing across the driveway, and Marcia sends a watery smile Mom’s way.
The door to the truck opens in the driveway next door, an officer pulling the handle.
I see a boot first, black, scuffed. Part of me wants to look away, wants to wait until he’s fully out of the car. I’m not sure I can handle it bit by bit, or if seeing him full on for the first time in two years will be worse.
But I am helpless at this point. I wish I could stop time, have a minute or two more to process this.
A long leg follows it, and then another, and then he’s appearing from the truck as if he hasn’t risen from the dead.
No longer the boy I waved goodbye to as he drove off to basic training, Everett stands before me in the body of a man. Ropey muscles coat his arms, the height I thought he possessed before now put to shame by the couple extra inches he miraculously sprouted since eighteen. A scruffy beard masks most of his face, and his hair is too long and greasy, but anyone can see how intensely handsome he is, even under the coarse forrest.
It’s one of those moments in life, when you look back on it, that will be set to music in the memory. As my eyes trail up, hitting every part of his long, lean body, a sorrow-filled, haunting melody plays in my ears. The kind of tune that departing lovers dance to before they’re separated. A harmony with only one note of hope thrown in at the end, only a singular note of uplift.
I swear, I almost lose my balance when my face is level to his.
Because there are dozens of people on the street now. His parents are practically sobbing over him. My own mother is calling his name, yelling her congratulations. The army officers are murmuring to him, and I hear the slamming of doors as I know that local reporters must have rushed to get the news on the missing hero who has just returned.
But Everett is only looking at me.
The whole world might as well have vanished, that’s how soul-deep his exploration of me is. My feet are rooted to the ground, every cell in my body completely paralyzed by the direct, familiar gaze he’s pinned on me.
I look at him, trying to memorize every pore. Yes, he resembles the boy who left to serve his country. But this … man is no one I truly recognize.
And those eyes, the blazing green clovers that I’ve daydreamed about for years, are … dead. In them, I see only ghosts and horror.
Everett Brock is back in Brentwick. And nothing will ever be the same.
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