Today we have the blog tour for
Dead & Buried by Jennifer Rebecca!
Check it out and be sure to grab your copy today:
Title: Dead & Buried
Author: Rebecca Jennifer
Genre: Contemporary Romance
About Dead & Buried:You ever hear the phrase, about as successful as a soup sandwich? Well, that's me, I’m the soup sandwich, but instead of a soggy mess, you have a twenty five year old with a Bachelor’s degree in nothing useful who just quit her job at the local home improvement store where there were definitely no tortured billionaires looking to tie anyone up--and that's not a bad thing. I know, it's looking pretty sad right about now, but at least I don't still live with my parents… So, here I am, embarking on a new journey covering the Funerals and Obituaries section of the local paper, the San Diego Metro News, for the editor--brace yourself--my uncle, Sal. Unfortunately, while my parents are on vacation, my Granny and her friends are determined to stir up some trouble--but this time, they may have bitten off more than they can chew--especially when some of the residents of the local retirement community are turning up unnaturally dead. There is nothing that will keep me from protecting the people that I love, no matter how crazy they may be--not even the sexy, I mean stubborn, homicide detective, Trent Foyle, can stop me. My name is Shelby Whitmore and I'm kind of the newest reporter for the San Diego Metro News, but hey, I'm a hit with the blue hairs.
Do you ever feel like you’re stuck
in an R. Kelly song? Because I’m definitely feeling like I’m living one. You
could almost say I’m trapped in one. But not the toot toot, beep beep fun of “Ignition” or the motivational “I Believe I Can Fly”-- I’m talking “Trapped
in the Closet.” All seventy-five parts. Because, you know, I am actually
trapped in a closet. A utility closet to be specific.
have no idea what happened. One minute, I’m walking up the stairs of the
building my granny lives in, Peaceful Sunset Retirement Village, singing,
ironically, “Ignition.” I had just gotten to the good part, you know, the “hot
and fresh out the kitchen” part—it’s the part where I like to mime driving a
car, the part after the toots when I pull down my arm like I’m honking the horn
on a big rig. I’m right in the middle of my song and dance repertoire—when all
of a sudden, I hear one of the doors to the stairwell open and close, which is
normal since the nurses and caregivers use these halls to get around faster and
not clog up the elevators that the seniors use. The next thing I know,
something hits me over the head, and it’s lights out. I never even saw the guy.
Or gal. Who am I to discriminate?
Anyhoo, fast forward, however long
that might be, and I find myself awake, with a killer headache. A headache a
lot like the one I got when I fell out of my friend’s parents’ camper in the
second grade. My friend who was also named Shelby. Weird, right? Anyway, we
were playing after school at her house, and her mom found nothing wrong with
our playing in one of those VW vans that were small campers with the part that
pops up out of the roof for you to sleep in.
So there we were, playing with our
Super Spy Barbies in the pop-up part, when she jumped down to get a clothing
change for her doll. Shelby B., as our teachers in school called her to
distinguish between us, was a lot bigger than me. I was the runt of the litter
back then. When she went to pull herself back up, dress included, she grabbed
the board I was sitting on, and I wasn’t big enough to hold the board down, so
Other Shelby pulled me and the board down on top of her. We landed in order:
board, then me, then the dolls and their accoutrements. After that, I bounced
off of her and out the open sliding door onto the sidewalk, face first.
Next thing I knew, I was coming to,
and her mom was running down the driveway with the phone to her ear. A couple
of minutes later, my mom and dad pulled up in my mom’s old Jeep Cherokee,
followed by a fire truck and an ambulance.
As it turned out, I had one hell of
a concussion, which we found out while my dad was hanging out with all of the
firemen and paramedics that he knew because they all played basketball together
at the gym. I spent the night in the emergency room and the next week with the
mother of all headaches, which is how I feel right now as I struggle to open my
eyes and make them focus.
I look around and everything is
blurry. I blink my eyes a couple of times to clear my vision. It helps a
little. I take stock of what’s around me—there are mops and brooms, shelves of
lightbulbs and other various paraphernalia, cleaning supplies—when it dawns on
me where I am, which is how I find myself trapped in a utility closet, à la R.
I’m sitting on the floor on my butt
with my back against some more shelves. My legs are straight out in front of
me, and my ankles are tied together with a zip tie. Yippee! I groan out loud
when I realize my hands are bound the same way behind my back.
I could lie down and wait for a
psycho to come back and finish me off, but that’s not how my daddy raised me.
And if I did die because I was being a big baby, Granny would bring me back to
life just to whoop my butt and kill me again. I wiggle around, trying to find
anything I can break these zip ties on. I notice the door has hinges that look
like little hooks, and I scoot over to try to hook the tie on my ankles to it.
I wiggle and kick my legs and wiggle some more, all pretty thankful I keep my
biweekly yoga date with my grandmother and her friends.
I hook the zip tie on the bottom
door hinge and kick my feet by bending and straightening my knees. “Come on,
come on,” I chant under my breath as I rub the plastic against the sharp side
of the door hinge. “Yes!” I shout as the tie breaks. I swing to my knees and
push up to my feet. My legs shake. Impressive considering there’s a polka band
playing in my head and I kind of want to puke.
I lean my right shoulder against the
shelves and squeeze my eyes tight, hoping to stop the room from spinning before
I can find something to undo the tie at my wrists. My eyes pop open at the
sudden quiet rattle of the door. I have to squint against the intrusion of the
bright light that is immediately switched on. When I open them again, I am
face-to-face with the vibrant jade eyes of one sexy Detective Trenton Foyle,
San Diego PD.
“Jesus, Shelby, you scared the shit
out of me!” he booms. I just roll my eyes, which I instantly regret, slamming
them shut again.
“What?” I ask innocently.
“You just can’t help yourself, can
you?” he asks.
“I don’t understand what you’re
talking about,” I say coyly.
“You just have to stir up trouble,
don’t you?” he asks, shaking his head.
I don’t care to answer, so I don’t.
It’s not like I find myself trapped in a closet every day. Who am I kidding? I
may not find trouble, but trouble always has a way of finding me. I’d like to
say this is the last time, but why lie? My name is Shelby Whitmore, and I’m
sort of a reporter for the San Diego
Metro News and most definitely trapped in a closet.