Stacia Kane - Wrong Ways Down

He got into the Chevelle and started it up, rolled down the windows to clear that cheap-soap smell. Oughta head home, he ought. The next day’d be a full one. Aside from all the shit Bump gave him to do, he had fifty bucks to hand over to Edsel—Ed hadn’t been real helpful, but he ain’t needed to know that, and Chess’d be glad to hear he’d gotten a lashback—and a long list of them with owes. Plus it were Tuesday, always the busiest for him causen that’s when he went around to collect protection money.

But he were still keyed up. Awake. And Chess’d said she’d be around and he could give her a ring-up, and he wanted to. He couldn’t tell her on everything—last thing he wanted to do was say how he’d left eleven people dead that night—but he could tell her he’d ended it, and see her smile at him over it. He could head over to hers and sit next to her and talk to her.

He ain’t thought there were anything in the world he’d rather do.

So he picked up he phone and sent her a text. Her reply came just a minute later, almost like she’d been waiting for him; he shoved the Chevelle into gear and headed for her place, feeling better than he had in days.

I'VE NEVER DONE a project like this before; it's a little scary, to be honest. It would be even scarier if I didn't have the support and encouragement of the world's best readers, so of course I have to start with a big huge "Thank you!" to all of you. The way you have embraced these books and these characters is a constant source of amazement to me.

Big thanks also to copyeditor Alice Loweecy, who let me know when the Downspeech was too thick, when my grammar was accidentally instead of deliberately wrong, and caught my continuity errors; to Alessandra Kelley, who painted the fantastic cover art; and to Fran Walker, Chelsea Mueller, and Lauren Dane, who offered valuable feedback.

And of course to my agent Chris Lotts and his assistant Jolie Hale, and to my family who still put up with me. Thank you all so much.