Not really, The Stone Files is a work in progress because the main character is Jesse Stone. The book is a series and that will probably be the main series title, but I don’t have a title for book one yet. I’m debating on Blood Rings because it does involve vampire human trafficking.
All of the NBC series have titles and it shocks me. I’m terrible at titling things. They all came pretty naturally though. I’m a huge fan of alliteration so that happened a lot.
1. Affinity for Pain it just popped in my head when I realized the woman who couldn’t feel anything would come to love pain and is pretty good at dishing it out.
2. Burn the Bone is a reference to Dimitri and Red’s powers. She a fire demon and he can disintegrate a person including their bones.
3. Calling Evil Forth is a take on Rayne’s gift as a siren and Lucas’s status as a cop.
Are you seeing a theme here? There’s 10 books and I won’t bog you down with the others unless you’d like to know.
Airdyle sighed and ran a hand through his sparse, greying hair. “Glenn, honey, you don’t know who you’re messing with,” he said in a low, gruff voice. “They like the broken ones. It’s easier to put someone together how they want and make allowances for cracks, than it is to build something lethal from the ground up.” He sipped his glass of orange juice.
Glenn slouched in her seat and drummed her stubby nails on the table. “You saying I can’t cut it?”
Airdyle sighed, exasperated. “That’s what you took away?” He stood and pulled his shirttail from his jeans, revealing a jagged scar along his taut belly. “What’s this?”
Glenn shrugged. “Said it was an accident.”
Airdyle dropped his shirt and sat. “Brotherhood don’t have accidents, peach. This is early retirement, and they don’t give benefit packages no more. Stay out of it.”
Glenn nodded, but made no promises. She couldn’t lie to her uncle.
If Vera were born forty years earlier, her looks and figure could be the envy of all her friends. Instead, she lives hyper aware that contouring, styling and instagram fame are what’s important if she wants to have popularity and impact. She’s happy to go without those things – a shallow existence never appealed anyway – but she wouldn’t mind the attention if it got her causes notice. Soon, it won’t matter. She’s getting attention whether she wants it or not. The heir to a throne always does. Along with that attention she meets an intriguing man who is far more than his bland appearance suggests.
A vibrant businesswoman, unafraid to use every weapon in her arsenal to get the job done, Sorcha Dunaid is a force few reckon with and escape unscathed. Red-haired, brown eyed and possessing a honeyed, malt whiskey voice, first impressions imply she’s fun in the bedroom. The impression isn’t wrong, but she’s equally dominating in the boardroom. It’s a mistake to assume her good looks and charm are her only attributes. Her lightning quick wit and fierce intelligence are sharper than any blade, and she has no reservations cutting her enemies down to size. And she has plenty of them. They hide on the fringes, scavengers waiting for a bigger predator to arrive and take a chunk out of her. Leave her bleeding and weak, so they can devour what remains. Sorcha’s guard remains strong, she won’t fall so easily. Not in any business deal, and not to any pretty face offering to buy her a drink.
SarnaiRamchaa: quick-witted, brave and a little bit reckless when the situation calls. Tall and slim, with high cheekbones and sharp eyes, she’s travelled the world as a photojournalist, but never thought the biggest story would land in her lap during a break. Whispers of the Brotherhood pervade every culture, woven through world history. The myth of their true purpose slides off the religious charity organisation bearing the same name. Why? With many deaths attributed to the secretive assassins, Sarnai’s nose twitches with curiosity and suspicion. Smart enough to know if she looks into it she’ll wind up adding to the body count, she’s using the story of an old chemical factory explosion to conceal her true intentions. Still, even with this, she remains on guard. Perhaps too much. Knocking out a man asking the time because he approached at night and from behind might be a paranoid step too far. Or is it?
Ina Howell, dark-haired, blue-eyed, and a long way from the sleepy Welsh village of her childhood. She’s brought a piece with in the form of her younger brother, Lewys, and cousin Ghenha. Working at a research hospital in Seattle, her goal is simple: find a cure for her brother’s genetic illness before it kills him. He says they’ve got time. She knows better. She didn’t become a doctor by accident. All those books she read while studying informed her of the terrible things coming to her brother before he dies. She won’t let that happen, and why can’t her bosses understand her urgency? She told them what she needs to do, but they drag their heels. If she weren’t so level-headed she’d think there’s a conspiracy, and the annoying Japanese man harassing her isn’t helping matters. Although, his expression when he fails at lecturing her is kind of cute.
Glenn Oake is like the personification of autumn with her bright ginger hair the colour of falling leaves and skin the colour of steamed milk covered with cinnamon speckled freckles. She’s the sight that makes others imagine cosy days in a coffee shop whiling away hours for no reason other than comfort. Her smile is charm itself. She has an adorable gap in her front teeth that she refuses to have closed because it’s the same as Madonna’s. She’s perky and vibrant. The absolute last person anyone would accuse of being an assassin. Well, it runs in the family, so she’s not really to blame. With the Brotherhood haemorrhaging members, they’ve got no choice but to rely on outsiders to fill their ranks. It’s the chance Glenn’s been living for. Yolo and no regrets, and all that. This is her moment. Nothing will mess it up.
Anna Orlov. Russian officer stationed in Japan as part of a protection detail to the Ambassador. Tall, imposing, poker faced and with neat, bobbed red hair. Her dark eyes two pools filled with nightmares from the past. To escape herself, she wanted to embody the idea foreigners had of Russians. That they didn’t have feelings. They’re robots and cold as ice. Blunt instruments that bludgeon anyone trying to get close. She didn’t reckon on meeting someone like Ndiaye, and every day that passes she wakes wondering when the other shoe will drop. When it will end. As much as she prepared for all eventualities, she never saw this coming.
Mohammed al Sadat. Literally the most charming man anyone’s ever set eyes on in their life and he knows it. Think Egyptian James Bond and you’ll understand the persona he’s channelling with all the acting skills under his belt. Mohammed doesn’t look like a killer with his soulful eyes, earnest smile and smooth moves. For the most part he isn’t. He leaves the messy stuff for others to deal with unless told otherwise. That’s just how things are. His skills lie in seducing secrets from unwilling lips without the target even realising what they’ve done. He’s very good at it, too. Men or women, he’s not picky who’s in his bed and that makes him a valuable asset to the Brotherhood. No one can resist him. Until he meets her.
With the perfect poker face, Belias couldn’t tell if this was a set up or if she was serious. It could go either way. “Look into? Professionally or otherwise?”
Sorcha ducked her head and laughed. “Are you still mad about my little trick?” Warm brown eyes met steely onyx. She drew in a sharp breath. “You are!”
Dissolving into giggles, Belias had to wait for Sorcha to regain her composure before he replied. “You set me up.”
She flapped her hand. “Oh pish. It’s hardly my fault you won’t make the first move. He’s adorable and you look good together. I did you a favour.”
“Don’t tell me, you ‘ship it’,” he replied, making air quotes with his fingers.
She laughed, “Belias, you’re so pre-millennial.”
A dark brow shot up. “Did you just call me a baby boomer?”
More laughter. “Hardly! You’re far too booming to be a boomer, darling.” A notification on her phone had her rising from her chair. “Time to play with a real boomer and all his misogyny.”
Belias followed two paces behind, saying, “Try not to ruin his ego too much, you still need his vote when you go to the board.”
Ryang Ji-hoon has the unfortunate luck to look like a member of a boyband. You might think otherwise, but for Ji-hoon, who needs to be invisible when he works, being asked for his autograph and getting his picture taken all the time makes his work so much riskier. A late arrival to the Brotherhood, Ji-hoon’s training went to extremes to get him ready alongside his peer group. His gratitude to Hisakawa Kagegorou carried him through the worst of it; reinforcing the reminder it was this or prison. He mentally cut ties with parts of his personality to cope, but still couldn’t wrap his head around how the organisation made its members grateful and willing to carry out assassinations for them. The money’s alluring, along with other perks, but late at night when he can’t sleep, Ji-hoon wonders why one stupid mistake as a teenager cost him so much. Maybe that’s why when he sees the chance to break from the Brotherhood he doesn’t think too much about consequences before leaping.
If there’s one thing Ambrose hates, it’s not knowing the answer. A genuine moment of confusion where he’s left fumbling for a reply. It happens most in social situations, and who can blame him? What is the right thing to say to the right person at the right time? It’s no wonder he sticks to the fringes, staying out of sight. It’s got absolutely nothing to do with the fact he’s just dropped something lethal in a passing glass and doesn’t want anyone to remember his face or name – not that he gives his real one. Still, he hates not knowing. It sends his lip curling like it’s misidentified with the ones on his head. Ignorance. An unfavourable comparison and expectation to his Rom heritage that lacking an answer equals lacking intelligence. Ambrose hates not knowing. So, it’s natural that when a target takes an interest in him he has to know why. There’s nothing odd in that. He’s doing his job. Knowledge is power, so Hisakawa Kagegorou says.
A Brotherhood Deacon instructing others how to kill in the most efficient ways, Hisakawa Yoshihiro is the best teacher available — and would be even if he wasn’t the third son of Hisakawa Kagegorou. He’s read all the books and studied until he got migraines. He has a respectable kill count under his belt, considering he rarely leaves Sakyamuni unless he’s taking students on educational field trips. His cordial appearance with gentle eyes and pleasant smile deceive anyone who doesn’t know better. He’s a wicked educator. Despicable and devious. He expects results and has no sympathy for those who can’t get the job done. What he’s asking isn’t hard. A little efficiency and a decent gun are all anyone needs. No, he did not shoot himself in the foot — figuratively or literally. Stupid rumours about teachers are commonplace. Everyone knows that.
My first piece of solid, uninterrupted writing for my story in over a month was a rewrite of a scene XD I’m trying to make use of some of the @yourocsbackstory scenes in the prequel, and this one is from the Week 2 - Friends prompt. I rewrote it to fit more chronologically with the story, and to include a little more worldbuilding.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
Bidding farewell to my father, I leave his study and proceed back down the corridor. Karolina is waiting for me, as she usually does, ever diligent in her duty.
The sunset makes this part of the castle seem much darker than it is. The winter months of course do not help things in this regard, but at least the sweeping hallways are lit up earlier to compensate.
There’s no one here at this time of evening, except the occasional guard patrols every now and then, as well as us. It’s lonely, almost, with how the only sounds being our own footsteps and the echo of steps far away from us, ricocheting down the stone to us.
My thoughts are plagued with grandfather’s words, his encouragement, for me to speak up and say something to my Maidens of Honour. If not all of them, just one of them. After all, dividing a daunting task into manageable chunks is an apt way to solve the problem.
It’s just me and Karolina here.
I decide then and there that we’ll take the long route back to the residential wing of the castle. I don’t want to cut our journey short by arriving back at the room, and I would rather not be interrupted by passers-by. Somewhere private. I don’t voice this intention to her, simply keeping it to myself. For now, at least.
I slow my pace as we pass one of the windows on the very outside of this building, the dusk skyline a strange mixture of orange into grey, feeding into a rich, midnight blue. Karolina matches my pace, maintaining the few pace distance between us, yet slowing down all the same, not questioning my action at all. Not that I expected her to either way.
It doesn’t feel right. How do I even break this silence we have? It feels strange to simply start a conversation. What can I even say?I slow to a halt in the middle of the corridor, trying to will myself to say something,anything to break the silence. But I don’t have to, because she speaks first.
“Is something the matter, your highness?” she asks, voice rich with a genuine concern.
I close my eyes, take a silent breath, before forcing myself to answer her question.
“Actually… there is just one thing, Karolina,” I open my eyes, hold my left hand in the grip of my right hand, trying to hide just how nervous I am about this whole thing. “I apologise if this is forward of me, but may I ask you a personal question?” I turn around to face her, looking right into those deep emerald eyes of hers.
She nodded slightly, “of course, your majesty.”
I took a moment, looking at her, stood there perfectly straight and tall, long hair stretching down the length of her back.
“My name is Anjelika,” I fully turn my body around, so I am not looking over my shoulder, to face her properly, “please, call me Anjelika. In private, I don’t mind. Please.”
“Y-yes, Anjelika,” Karolina seemed surprised at my request. Was this an odd one? I don’t know. The only people in my life that have ever called me by my name are my family, no one else does. Karolina is the first person outside of my family to ever call me by my name.
“Let’s walk, Karolina,” I say, inviting her to come up beside me so that we can converse.
We aren’t moving quickly by any means, just slow steps down the corridor together, passing the various windows, banners, statues. Everything that decorates the hallways with life and colour.
“Do you… enjoy it?” I asked, watching her mesmerising emerald eyes for any kind of answer as we walked. She furrowed her brows to a slight questioning frown, so I continued quickly. “Living and working here, Karolina.”
“Of course, your – Anjelika. Why do you ask?” she tilted her head slightly, her bright red locks resting just so on her shoulder.
“Please, be honest with me,” I hold up a hand towards her, before returning it to its original position in my own grip, “I don’t know what you think of your positions, because you’re all so… quiet, about it. You don’t talk about it with me, and I’m… worried that I’m failing to uphold my end of the vow I made to you.”
She looked surprised at this, at my strange, odd request. My heart is racing as I watch her, and I can only hope that I haven’t offended her. But oh no, I’ve put her in a precarious position. She knows there is no consequence when I have insisted that she be honest with me, but… does she truly believe that? Does she think that I will dismiss her, based on my request? Is she thinking quickly, only trying to be honest enough that I don’t suspect anything is amiss? Does she want to try to placate me, to give me the answer I want to hear?
“If I may be honest…”
“Please, please do.”
“Anjelika… perhaps the reason we keep to ourselves is because we think you prefer your solitude.” She started almost hesitantly, carefully, not even looking at me yet. She had her hands clasped together in front of her, and nodded slightly as she spoke, before she finally looked me in the eyes and continued. “It’s not because we don’t want to be with you, that isn’t it at all, but you haven’t spoken to us much, nor initiated any kind of conversation with us.”
I listen closely to all of her words, both immensely relieved of her honesty, and a little hurt by it. Truth is always a bitter taste – you want it, you need it, but once you taste it, you wish you were still enveloped in your own blissful ignorance. But I can’t ask her to stop, I have to listen to everything she has to say. I still absolutely want to learn to be better.
“Maybe you could… try and be a little more involved, talk to us, and the others will open up just as much with you.” She shrugged lightly. She still seemed very nervous about how she spoke with me, and just what she was saying to me.
“I suppose you’re right, Karolina,” I replied, looking away from her and at the door to the main wing in the distance, “I never thought of it that way. But what on earth do we talk about?”
There was something dancing on her lips, something like a smile, one that finally broke through the nerves. She seemed more comfortable, more at ease, and I… I like it this way.
“We have a lifetime to figure that out, because honestly, starting conversations is sort of hard for me too,” she explained, a nervous laugh edging the end of her sentence.
“I guess we both have a lot to learn,” I returned her smile, before looking down and away from her, taking a silent breath just before I continue, feeling that smile waver ever so slightly.
The nerves in the air somehow seem much lighter, not as overbearing. The atmosphere seems brighter despite the ever growing darkness in the world outside us. Taking a longer route somehow doesn’t seem as daunting. It’s nice to know that we’ll have this extra time together.
But there is one place that I didn’t consider in this particular route, a corridor that simultaneously gives me a feeling of tremendous pride and overwhelming pressure all at once.
Lining this stretch of hallway, equidistant apart from one another, are portraits. 8 of them, so far, to be exact. Each of them are painted during one very specific instance, and so every portrait shares an unmistakeable similarity. We come to a stop at the very end of the line of paintings.
Ever since our country was founded, the family that ruled in this castle have had portraits painted of the immediate family when the eldest child – the Crown Prince or Princess – turns 10 years old. Every single portrait on this wall has at least one child with the reigning monarchs behind them. The proud parents. It continues on to the next portrait, when that very child becomes the reigning monarch. It’s beautiful, in a way, that you can follow our family history right back in a very cohesive manner. You see them as a child, and then as an adult with a family, and then their child with their family.
My generation is no exception. The very last portrait here is one of me and my parents, painted on the very day I turned 10 years old. Stood between my parents, in a navy coloured dress, the golden tiara perched on my head. I was small back then, at least in comparison to some of the other 10 year olds in these paintings. Skinny, big brown eyes staring back at me, that small smile on my face. Father’s hand rested on my right shoulder, with my mother on my other side. My hair was longer back then, just about longer than my shoulders. I haven’t had it that long in years. This painting is also one of the three that have only one child featured. Even my father has his younger brother – my uncle - next to him in the painting next to ours.
The striking innocence in that painting, when life was so much simpler, it’s so strange to look back on.
But then, the pressure fills me with an overwhelming dread as I catch sight of the empty space next to them. The empty space that a portrait of my family will fill, somewhere in my future. Looking at the long line of my ancestors, one after another, all playing a very important role in this country.
I wonder, did all of my ancestors feel this way when they looked upon the many paintings before theirs? Of course, a swell of pride, but a deep rooted anxiety that their rule will be remarkable for the wrong reasons. I would hate to shame my family like that, to crash everything to a grinding halt. But then again, many of their reigns were unremarkable. Is that the goal? To be so unremarkable that I’m not a blemish on my family name, or to be so remarkable that my impression is left for generations to come?
I don’t know. I suppose I’ll never find out.
But honestly, I also wonder if my Maidens think the same way about their role.
“I never did like this painting,” I say aloud, almost to myself, looking myself in the eyes as I do. Those wide, innocent, brown eyes. “That dress was itchy, I hated the fabric. I had to stand there for a long while until the artist had enough of my details. I remember I couldn’t wait to get out of it.” I finish on a slightly amused chuckle.
“I think it’s a lovely dress, Anjelika,” Karolina compliments. “It suits your eyes.”
“That’s what mother said. That’s why I had to wear it,” I smile at my companion, and she returns it. It’s so nice to see, it feels so warm.
And yet, something is still plaguing my thoughts. All we’ve talked about, until now, is me. About my situation and my position, and I feel awful that I haven’t even extended the slightest courtesy to Karolina of the same respect. But she will have been told not to expect to tell me anything. After all, according to the older and wiser people who run the household, I don’t need to know about them. They just need to know me.
But that’s a lie. I do need to know them. I want to.
“Karolina, I feel like I don’t know any of you.” I break our eye contact for the first time, feeling immensely guilty about it. “You all know me. You were told everything about me the moment you were accepted into your role.”
She’s watching me, not interrupting or even making any kind of indication that she wanted to speak next, so I continued, hoping she’ll understand, hoping that this will not backfire exponentially. I was taking her earlier advice, after all. The best I can do is to prove myself to her, that I want to know her better.
“We perform the activities we do because they are the ones I chose, but I want to know what you all like to do. I…” I hesitated, my gaze fixated on the vase just over her shoulder, on the table over there, “I want us to be friends. I don’t want my only human interactions with you to be on a hierarchy. I want us to be…”
I had to actively fight to stop me saying something too forward, too serious. This was such a vulnerable conversation and I want nothing more than a real friend, but I just can’t say it. This also seems to private to be talking about in this place, but I know that if I don’t do it now, I never will.
"I would love to be able to laugh with you, cry with you and do everything that friends do, but… I’m sorry, I don’t know how. I’ve never had a friend before, just my cousin, and he, well…”
I didn’t have to continue, because she interrupted me before I could totally humiliate myself.
“Gardening.”
I looked up at her.
“I love to garden,” she said, smiling at me warmly, “back home, our garden was full of crops year round. We would harvest the apples and make szarlotka, and the strawberries made the best fruit tarts. It tasted better knowing our hard work made them possible.”
I could feel that same smile creep back onto my lips, and for the first time in ages I felt truly at ease… truly happy, “I’m sure if we asked, we could get our hands on a portion of the grounds and we can plant some crops together.”
Not sure why I got tagged recently, but @ellierenae knocked on my coffin lid, so here I am. The words I’m meant to find I’ll be pulling from my original WIP, Book 1 of the Zodiac Chronicles, Mystery in Tauri (title subject to change). (I’ve been overworking my chapter 1 because people were paying attention to it. I’m not used to that.)
Thank you for the tag! Let’s get started.
consume
He lingered, letting the Taurus meander slowly. Something about that familiar stranger demanded his attention. He crouched by the porch, anticipating a much longer wait, but before the large Taurus could be completely consumed by the darkness, a lantern emerged from the house. He watched the lantern moved with cold confidence down the steps and several feet away from the structure. The familiar stranger paused and dug into his bag. He removed an item, allowed it to unroll, and muttered a single command word. Hunks of serrated metal along a chain came together and stiffened into a something resembling a cane. The figure adjusted his bag and lantern and continued into the darkness, compensating for a limp with the magical item. Confusion filled the Scorpio at the item, not as familiar to him as the stranger.
(This is in one of the chapters I was banging out near the end of NaNo, so uh… quality bad.)
love
Eli smiled. “Well. Do you mind staying for dinner, Isolde? Did you tell your father you’d be late?”
Silence filled the kitchen, only broken by the sound of gently sizzling meats and boiling potatoes. Tristan furrowed his brow, startled at the sudden tension.
“I’d love to stay for dinner.” Her voice had lost a bit of her excitement, though she had plenty to spare.
The old bull hummed. Something lay beneath the surface of her statement, one that both men recognized. A silent agreement formed between them; they would not ask and she would not tell. Tristan’s curiosity piqued with tales of mundanity from the other children, but he understood the precious need for secrecy from time to time.
(I have the word ‘love’ in my WIP often because Tristan and his father say “I love you” a lot. So I chose an instance that wasn’t… that.)
together
Eli lifted his head. “I thought we had a hunter in the village.”
Isolde nodded. “Oh, uh. Yeah. But Mister Eamon said he hasn’t been able to track the creatures movements for a while now and I… I don’t know if we’d even be able to afford it.”
Tristan sighed and returned to his meal. His father’s brow furrowed. “Isolde, you should let your father worry about these sorts of things.”
Her eyes fell, her spoon tapping against the plate. “He’s… He can’t.”
Eli’s voice softened. “He can’t?”
“He’s… been ill for a while now.” The rest of the table fell quiet, the gentle scrape of metal against treated clay silenced. She continued, nervous. “The… the Doctor has been treating him almost since he arrived and… some days are better than others, naturally, but most days are bad.”
A collection of isolated events came together in Tristan’s mind. Isolde’s melancholy about his father’s blindness, her sudden desire to become leader of the community and prepare herself for being mayor, her puffy eyes that one day at school, her excitement at the prospect of opening the village’s borders. He regarded her, her hands quivering, her nose red, eyes glassy. An epiphany began to crystallize in his heart: every person led a life that he could barely imagine, haunted by just as many issues as he.
And, unfortunately, I don’t have the word obsess in my WIP, though confronted with this knowledge, I may want to use it now. There are plenty of characters that might have an obsession, or appear to be obsessed with something or someone.
I don’t know that many people to tag, but uh… lessee…
I am procrastinating very hardcore atm so I thought a good use of my time was to create a comic sans powerpoint based on Michal’s Story since I did one already on my other blog for the main story that this is based on!
I am currently doing one for the whumper gathering series as well, and thought it would be fun to make a meme out of this in the whump community as well, if people are interested? Make a comic sans powerpoint about their stories (any! go wild!) in a fun way! XD whether it’s fluff, angst, pure torture or the sweet caretaking afterwards.
I think it’s a fun way to get into other people’s stories in a simple, light hearted and jovial manner! I’d love to see what other people come up with!
Anyone is free to do this if they wish, but I’ll tag a few people because I’m curious to see how their story is depicted in this format! Please don’t feel pressured though, there’s no obligation to do it!
“You are more to me than all art can ever be.” - Oscar Wilde, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’
Excerpt #1
James had never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve. He much preferred to keep it securely tucked inside his chest beneath the cashmere layers of his sweaters. He would likely never have spoken to Adrien at all, would’ve been too shy to even attempt it, had Adrien not chosen during one of the class tea breaks to speak to him first.
Before long, James had found himself looking forward to class in a way he never had before. Some mornings, he took the spiral stairs two at a time. He dreaded the moment of class ending almost as much as he longed for it, because Adrien always hung around afterwards for just a few moments to talk to him. And James had grown familiar with the envious glances of his classmates because, of all the interesting and talented people who milled around the studio, Adrien - bright, charming, vivacious Adrien - had chosen to speak to him.
That was the other reason why the prospect of submitting the painting tomorrow filled him with dread: it meant that the project was over, that Adrien’s job was finished, that James no longer had the means or the excuse to see him every other day.
Yes you read that correctly! If you want a story that’s funny, unique, and has a little Dwayne Johnson love, then this is the book for you! It is a self-discovery, LGBTQ novel about a teenage girl who wants to be just like Dwayne Johnson. Chapter One has been released on Wattpad, so follow the link below and enjoy!
Summary: "While girls my age are more into Shawn Mendes, Tom Holland, shopping, nails, getting their hair done, getting to that 1k follower status on social media, I’ve decided a whole new course for me to take. I am into sports, getting my hands dirty, wrestling, and…oh, yeah, Dwayne Johnson!“
*
Seventeen year old Harper Leavings is anything but your typical teenage girl. She’s a total tomboy, and very proud of this. She’s not afraid to speak her mind and doesn’t shy away from her beliefs. Her mother tries relentlessly to have her daughter conform to the girly ways while her dad embraces his daughter’s spitfire personality.
All the while, Harper has one goal in mind: to become just like Dwayne Johnson.
To Harper he is like god reincarnate. He’s strong, an impressive wrestler, and a rather funny actor. Not to mention he’s managed to charm the world with his lovable, charismatic personality. It’s something her mom finds absolutely exhausting and embarrassing, while her dad just laughs it off and gives her a pat on the back.
But when Harper meets and begins to fall for the mysterious new girl, Juniper, Harper realizes that maybe she doesn’t need to become like Dwayne Johnson to find her way in this chaotic world.
One more chapter down, one more to go! Book One of the Panaysia series is almost finished and you can find the updated chapters this way!!!
Excerpt: "It seems the Prince hasn’t whipped that fight out of you,“ she sighed, "It doesn’t matter what I want from you. What matters is who you are, little Iris.” Her eyes glinted dangerously, and instinctively Iris took a step backwards.
“We have a lot to talk about,” she continued, adjusting her gown, and stretching out along the length of the couch. “You might as well take a seat.”
