Dear Secret Agent,
Presley O’Connor’s life has always been about keeping secrets.
As an Empath, eighteen-year-old Presley O’Connor feels perfectly in tune with those around her--until a note arrives wishing her a happy last birthday on her mutilated senior picture. Believing it’s a classmate’s sick idea of a joke, Presley keeps the threat to herself and bides her time.
But Presley is wrong about the note. Away at college, Reid Montgomery, a long-time crush, is having visions of her abduction and murder. When a serial killer makes his move, Reid is the one that rushes back to thwart the attempt. Blissfully in love, Presley is willing to ignore the dark secret Reid carries deep within his soul. When an accident reveals that secret, Presley’s life hinges on her ability to convince Reid that no matter what, she would have loved him anyway.
My YA paranormal romance, I WOULD HAVE LOVED YOU ANYWAY, is complete at 89,000 words. Pasted below are the first 250 words per the contest rules. Thank you for your time and consideration of my work.
I WOULD HAVE LOVED YOU ANYWAY
The ants go marching two by two.
The words of a childhood song loop through my head. I swear that’s exactly the way I feel—like an army of red ants are marching just beneath the surface of my skin. Definitely creepy. Even for me. My heart thuds erratically as a blistering pain travels up my arm. The ants go marching seven by seven. The little one stops to look at heaven.
A blur of white flashes before my eyes; squealing tires drown out the beats of my heart. “Jerk!” I yell as a panel van speeds through the stop sign at the end of our street, almost taking out my car. “Can’t you read?” The driver doesn’t look my way. You could have killed me. And dying on my birthday isn’t what I had in mind when I got up this morning.
My heart, but not the trembling in my legs, slows as I turn onto Oak Tree Lane. The safety of home is only a half block away. Our house, a two story white brick, sits behind four large oaks. Our neighbor, bent over in her flower beds, straightens up when I pull in our drive. Her lawn, like most of those along our street, is manicure-perfect. “Happy birthday, Presley,” she calls as I walk to the mailbox.