And now, ladies and gentlemen, do not lick your computer screens as it’s highly unsanitary. Coming from Dreamspinner Press in June 2014, Tequila Mockingbird (Sinners: Book Three), in which the Morgan men just keep getting sexier, and Forest Ackerman is the luckiest dude in fiction. :-D
You cracked me open
Sucked out my filthy core
Held my heart in your hands
And gave in when I begged for more
“Fucking hell,” Forest spat as he fell back into the garbage again. The damned dumpster’s sides were too tall. Or he was too short. Either way, he couldn’t get the hell out of the thing and his arms were now shaking from the numerous times he tried.
The last thing he wanted was to be there in the morning. Someone would find him and that someone would bring down the cops on his head. Cops meant Social Services and that meant he’d be spending a good amount of time fighting to get out plastered walls and plastic suburbia.
He’d rather die in the dumpster.
He just didn’t know if he could try to get out again.
He hurt so damned much.
Mostly—this time—it was his face. It definitely was his jaw. Or maybe his cheek. Whichever. He just knew he hurt. He tried to remember who told him to always trust guys in a minivan but Forest couldn’t recall where he’d gotten that information. Whoever it’d been, he’d kick the guy’s ass whenever he found him again.
Because apparently guys in minivans with those happy little sticker children on the back glass really didn’t want to pay for their hand jobs ahead of time.
Now, Forest was in a dumpster because mini-van guy thought it would be fun to toss him in there when he was done beating the shit out of him and he still didn’t have more than fifty cents on him.
Fifty cents did not go a long way when someone needed food. Even dogfood tacos cost two for a dollar and tax ate up a nice piece of the money pie all on its own.
“Yeah, Mrs. Whatever-the-fuck-your-name-is, tell the principal I’m stupid,” Forest muttered as he glared at the dumpster’s too-high edge. “Go hungry for a bit, bitch and you learn math real fucking quick.”
He heard a door slamming—a heavy thick sounding door—and he froze, hating himself for holding his breath because it was stupid and doing so made his chest hurt. There were bruises there too, Forest was sure of it and his back wasn’t doing too good either. From the familiar throbbing along his spine, he was going to be pissing blood as soon as he had to take a pee.
Something slippery under him gave and Forest went down, biting his tongue when he hit the hard floor. He tasted blood—for the third or fourth time that night—and the light from the street lamps spun, leaving trails of stars on his eyes.
Swallowing at the salty taste in his mouth, he sighed, “Fuck me.”
About the Author: I’m Rhys Ford. I am an author and also a reader. You can find me at the following places:
And at the Starbucks down the street. No really, they’re 24/7. And a drive-thru. It’s like heaven.
My books can be purchased, folded and first chapters read at Dreamspinner Press.