Synopsis
Naomi Knox is missing.
I don't even f*cking know whether she's dead or alive.
What I do know is that she's the air I need to breathe.
She's my redemption, an all consuming fire that burns in my blood.
And I'll do anything to find her. Anything. Even if means the end for me.
&&&
Turner Campbell is searching.
But he has no f*cking clue what it is he's searching for.
There's darkness all around and enough secrets to choke.
There are angels, and there are devils. It's impossible to tell them apart.
Light needs to be shone on the truth, but there's no one left to hold the torch. The line between life and death is blurred, and the players are all thoroughly entrenched in the game. The question is: am I still one of them?
My Review
Let me start by saying that you should not, under any circumstances, read this book before reading Real Ugly. It will completely ruin the ending of Real Ugly by reading this first, not to mention be extremely confusing because much of what happened in Real Ugly is directly related to how this book starts. Read my review of Real Ugly, and then go purchase a copy here:
Well, Ms. Caitlin did it again. Sorry, C.M., but since Katie kept throwing Dakota out there, I figured why the hell not? I cannot say this enough, but C.M. Stunich is a name to be watching. I have read her books for nearly a year now, and picking up a review for her Never Say Never blog tour was one of the best decisions I have ever made. I was introduced to an amazing author, woman, and now friend. I am blessed to be able to call her that. She has written so many stories that were real, raw, and gritty. They are believable. And as "far fetched" as this story is becoming, it is still freaking believable! How is that possible? Because C.M. Stunich is turning out to be a writing God. Goddess? No, I'm going to go with God. The girl has got some rock hard balls. She takes a story and tells it to suck her.... Well, lets just say she's like Demi Moore in G.I. Jane (If you do not get this reference, please watch the movie - that line is more memorable than Rhett Butler telling Scarlett that he doesn't give a damn).
What I love about this story is that it is not centered around sex (any and all forms). Sure, it is referenced on nearly every page, I mean Turner and Naomi are the most sexually frustrated people I have ever met on a page. But there is more to them than that. You get to watch them grow from Real Ugly and through Get Bent. Sure, they both have quite a way to go, but they are working and doing a darn fine job.
I absolutely love the mystery element to this series, and she has weaved this web with so many different possibilities that I am still trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Just when I think I have it figured out, something happens that completely changes the game.
I'm not going to go too far into this story because there is so much going on in this book, and it would totally ruin Real Ugly and the HORRIBLE (!!!!!) *gasp* cliff hanger (in Real Ugly - Don't worry, the cliff hanger is not nearly as mind blowing as the last). I'm not one for spoilers. But one thing I would like to say is that I literally had to remind myself to breathe near the end of this book. The detail that went into describing such a disaster was truly amazing and I felt as though I was there with them, experiencing every moment with them. It was like watching a dance. It took my breath away.
I tap the vein in my right arm with two fingers and check the rubber tourniquet that's wrapped around my sweaty flesh, making sure it's pulled tight. I'm trying to set up a good injection site, so I can take the syringe I've got clutched between my teeth and shoot up. It's the only way I'll get through this. The only fucking way.
“Turner! What the hell is going on in there?” I slump against the wall and ignore Treyjan's hoarse shouting. He's been out there all damn morning, screaming his friggin' head off. I don't want to hear it anymore. He's driving me nuts.
I pull the syringe out of my mouth and slide the needle into my skin, hissing at the rush of white hot pain when it punctures my vein. I press the plunger down and wait. A few seconds later, I feel it in the back of my throat. It tastes like fucking victory, like accomplishment, like I'm king of the fucking world. I yank the needle out unceremoniously and toss it into the trash can. It lands on top of a mountain of used condoms and tissue paper, and it's probably unsanitary as shit, but I don't care. I don't care about anything right now except Naomi.
Naomi.
“Turner, get your fucking ass out here now!”
I rip the tourniquet off next and lay it on the counter, clutching the sides of the sink as I lean over and cough. Good meth always makes you cough. And it makes you feel so fucking good that even a nightmare like this starts to look like a dream.
“Are you slamming meth in there, motherfucker?” Trey screams, and he sounds like he's about to burst a damn vein this time. I lift my eyes up and stare at myself in the mirror. It's not a pretty sight. I look like shit. Jesus Christ. Have I been walking around like this for three days? My eyes are bloodshot and ringed with purple, and my lips are pale and cracked. I look like a Goddamn zombie.
“Don't get your panties in a wad, bitch,” I call out to him, standing up and sniffing, letting my eyes fall closed for another minute. At least now I don't have to worry about how I'm going to get through another day. The drugs will take care of that for me.
Naomi.
I reach over and unlock the door.
Trey doesn't waste any time opening it and throwing me a death glare. I ignore him in favor of putting on some eyeliner. We have a show tonight, and I want to look good. Hell, I have to look good or I'm not getting onstage. My pain is private, not something to hang out for all to see. I'm not on display here.
“You got a hard-on for me or something?” I ask him, pretending that everything's alright, that my life has not just gone from bad to worse, that the breath has not just been suctioned out of my fucking lungs. “I can't even shit in peace anymore?” Trey looks down at the garbage, up at the tourniquet and sneers.
“You're just gonna get high everyday now?” I shrug, applying black around my eyes, making sure it's thick enough to hide the circles. Women love eyeliner on guys anyway. Or at least the women at my shows do, the ones with the piercings in their noses and the tattoos on their hips. I want to pick one of them up and fuck away the pain, but I can't do that to Naomi. For the first time in my life, I can't even imagine screwing another woman.
I look up at the ceiling as my brain seizures with false pleasure, misplaced hope, fatal courage.
“What are you now, Mother Theresa? We've gotten high everyday since we were sixteen.” I pretend not to notice that Trey is wearing Travis' cap. Or whoever's cap. Still haven't figured that mystery out. There seem to be a whole shit ton of them floating around right now, and that's kind of the least of my worries.
Naomi.
“Not like this, Turner. Not fucking like this. What are you doing? You're gonna kill yourself.” I don't tell my best friend that I don't care, that I'd rather die than live without Naomi Knox. I mean, how fucked up is that? Love sucks balls. Everybody always acts like it's the one thing worth living for, that spark in the fire that pulls you in, that strokes your hair back and lets you know that everything's going to be okay. Well now that I've fallen into it, nothing is okay. Nothing will ever be okay. I sipped from love's wine and now I'm drunk as shit without a place to lie down. My happy ending, my saving grace is lying dead in a morgue, cut up and fucked up, so mangled they can't even identify her damn body for sure. Oh, they say it's probably her because if not then, I mean, where the shit is she? Where? Where? Where the fuck are you, Knox? With your pretty blonde hair and your sunglasses and your fuck you all attitude.
Get your copy of Get Bent today for $3.99!
About Author C.M. Stunich
C.M. Stunich was raised under a cover of fog in the area known simply as Eureka, CA. A mysterious place, this strange, arboreal land nursed Caitlin's (yes, that's her name!) desire to write strange fiction novels about wicked monsters, magical trains, and Nemean Lions (Google it!). She currently enjoys drag queens, having too many cats, and tribal bellydance.
Always a fan of the indie scene and 'sticking it to the man,' Ms. Stunich decided to take the road less traveled and forgo the traditional publishing route. You can be assured though that she received several rejections as to ensure her proper place in the world of writers before taking up a friend's offer to start a publishing company. Sarian Royal was born, and Ms. Stunich's books slowly transformed from mere baking chocolate to full blown tortes with hand sculpted fondant flowers.
C.M. is a writer obsessed with delivering the very best and scours her mind on a regular basis to select the most unusual stories for the outside world.
Excerpt
If you have not read Real Ugly DO NOT read this excerpt. If you have read Real Ugly, this excerpt will not give anything away. If strong language and drug abuse offends you, do not read this excerpt. 18 years and up.
I tap the vein in my right arm with two fingers and check the rubber tourniquet that's wrapped around my sweaty flesh, making sure it's pulled tight. I'm trying to set up a good injection site, so I can take the syringe I've got clutched between my teeth and shoot up. It's the only way I'll get through this. The only fucking way.
“Turner! What the hell is going on in there?” I slump against the wall and ignore Treyjan's hoarse shouting. He's been out there all damn morning, screaming his friggin' head off. I don't want to hear it anymore. He's driving me nuts.
I pull the syringe out of my mouth and slide the needle into my skin, hissing at the rush of white hot pain when it punctures my vein. I press the plunger down and wait. A few seconds later, I feel it in the back of my throat. It tastes like fucking victory, like accomplishment, like I'm king of the fucking world. I yank the needle out unceremoniously and toss it into the trash can. It lands on top of a mountain of used condoms and tissue paper, and it's probably unsanitary as shit, but I don't care. I don't care about anything right now except Naomi.
Naomi.
“Turner, get your fucking ass out here now!”
I rip the tourniquet off next and lay it on the counter, clutching the sides of the sink as I lean over and cough. Good meth always makes you cough. And it makes you feel so fucking good that even a nightmare like this starts to look like a dream.
“Are you slamming meth in there, motherfucker?” Trey screams, and he sounds like he's about to burst a damn vein this time. I lift my eyes up and stare at myself in the mirror. It's not a pretty sight. I look like shit. Jesus Christ. Have I been walking around like this for three days? My eyes are bloodshot and ringed with purple, and my lips are pale and cracked. I look like a Goddamn zombie.
“Don't get your panties in a wad, bitch,” I call out to him, standing up and sniffing, letting my eyes fall closed for another minute. At least now I don't have to worry about how I'm going to get through another day. The drugs will take care of that for me.
Naomi.
I reach over and unlock the door.
Trey doesn't waste any time opening it and throwing me a death glare. I ignore him in favor of putting on some eyeliner. We have a show tonight, and I want to look good. Hell, I have to look good or I'm not getting onstage. My pain is private, not something to hang out for all to see. I'm not on display here.
“You got a hard-on for me or something?” I ask him, pretending that everything's alright, that my life has not just gone from bad to worse, that the breath has not just been suctioned out of my fucking lungs. “I can't even shit in peace anymore?” Trey looks down at the garbage, up at the tourniquet and sneers.
“You're just gonna get high everyday now?” I shrug, applying black around my eyes, making sure it's thick enough to hide the circles. Women love eyeliner on guys anyway. Or at least the women at my shows do, the ones with the piercings in their noses and the tattoos on their hips. I want to pick one of them up and fuck away the pain, but I can't do that to Naomi. For the first time in my life, I can't even imagine screwing another woman.
I look up at the ceiling as my brain seizures with false pleasure, misplaced hope, fatal courage.
“What are you now, Mother Theresa? We've gotten high everyday since we were sixteen.” I pretend not to notice that Trey is wearing Travis' cap. Or whoever's cap. Still haven't figured that mystery out. There seem to be a whole shit ton of them floating around right now, and that's kind of the least of my worries.
Naomi.
“Not like this, Turner. Not fucking like this. What are you doing? You're gonna kill yourself.” I don't tell my best friend that I don't care, that I'd rather die than live without Naomi Knox. I mean, how fucked up is that? Love sucks balls. Everybody always acts like it's the one thing worth living for, that spark in the fire that pulls you in, that strokes your hair back and lets you know that everything's going to be okay. Well now that I've fallen into it, nothing is okay. Nothing will ever be okay. I sipped from love's wine and now I'm drunk as shit without a place to lie down. My happy ending, my saving grace is lying dead in a morgue, cut up and fucked up, so mangled they can't even identify her damn body for sure. Oh, they say it's probably her because if not then, I mean, where the shit is she? Where? Where? Where the fuck are you, Knox? With your pretty blonde hair and your sunglasses and your fuck you all attitude.
Get your copy of Get Bent today for $3.99!
About Author C.M. Stunich
Always a fan of the indie scene and 'sticking it to the man,' Ms. Stunich decided to take the road less traveled and forgo the traditional publishing route. You can be assured though that she received several rejections as to ensure her proper place in the world of writers before taking up a friend's offer to start a publishing company. Sarian Royal was born, and Ms. Stunich's books slowly transformed from mere baking chocolate to full blown tortes with hand sculpted fondant flowers.
C.M. is a writer obsessed with delivering the very best and scours her mind on a regular basis to select the most unusual stories for the outside world.
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