This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Stacey will be awarding an eCopy of Never Forgotten to 3 randomly drawn winners via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.
Being a writer is about dreaming. Daydreaming to be precise, and putting those daydreams into words. When I’m writing, I often find myself staring off into space while I’m thinking about where the plot is headed or what are the next words I need to get down. So, I spend a lot of time looking at my writing space or looking out the window that’s right by my little spot.
What about you? Where do you like to gaze when you’re daydreaming?
Since the strike on Collective territory during Anamae's rescue, things have taken a turn for the worse. Unprovoked attacks on innocent people have Anamae and her friends fighting day and night to minimise the damage. With hundreds of lives lost, morale amongst the resistance fighters has plummeted. But that's the least of her worries.
Manvyke still has Anamae's mom, Annie, secreted away somewhere and after the way they parted, Anamae worries it's not at her mother's bidding. Maybe Annie's disappearance all those years ago wasn't her choice. But with Manvyke scouring the world, there's something far more pressing than the need to find Anamae's mother ...
It's a fight against time to find the other keys before Manvyke. In his hands, the three relics could unlock enough power to reek a much worse havoc than the current issues at hand. If the councillor gets his hands on those keys, civilisation will bow down.
Enjoy an excerpt:
This is my life now.
The same every day. Well, almost every day. Today, it’s Wednesday. Wednesdays and Saturdays are different.
On those days, he comes.
I look from the door to the window and back again. My whole body tense with the anticipation of him and the show I’ll have to put on. The show that I don’t care. That I’m strong. I’m unflinching, when on the inside I’m absolutely not.
The pale walls—a creamy-dirty pink—are a reflection of my constant mood: dull, monotonous. But I have no regrets. I’d do it all again.
Anything to save them.
Click, click, thwack. The round lock at the top of the door flicks open first, followed by each one below. The brass, chrome, and silver knobs rotate quickly and snap to the unlocked position: all from the other side of the door. It’s not possible to unlock them from the inside. I should know; I’ve tried a hundred times over.
I take the two generous steps from my place by the window to the red suede couch and sink into it, lying back with arms roped across my chest, my eyes closed.
The door creaks open.
My heart accelerates, and not in the way it might at seeing a loved one, but in the nervous anticipation of an enemy about to walk into my life.
Like he does twice a week.
Silence hangs in the air for several moments while I breathe slowly—pretending to sleep. I’m not playing his game today.
The smell of fresh donuts mixed with strong coffee enters with him, the delicious aroma assaulting my senses and making my mouth water. It’s a Kenyan blend, which he knows is my favorite. Trying to ignore it is no use, not with the smooth smell growing stronger and stronger until steam dampens my face. The jerk must be waving right it under my nose. Yet I keep my eyes closed, my face masked.
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”
If my resolve snapping had a sound that would be crack. “More like Rapunzel,” I say, a dig at my captivity.
When I open my eyes, that ridiculous half-a-dumbass smile stretches across his face. He tips his chin toward the corrugated, disposable cup in his hand. CityBoy.
Really? He thinks we can be friends, huh? Just because he brings a coffee from a place I once loved. That was a lifetime ago and we can never go back. Not now, not ever.
“Take it.” He inches the cup closer to me. “I walked halfway across town to get this for you.” He shoves the offering further under my nose. If I opened my mouth and sucked in the air, I’d probably taste the sweetened coffee.
Giving him the satisfaction of taking the cup irks me, but it’s been so long since I drank the smooth, rich nectar that only CityBoy can perfect. Stupid hand has a mind of its own, closing around the warm cup. Now that it’s in my hands, there’s no point missing out. I’ve already let him win, so I may as well get some enjoyment out of my miserable predicament.
“It’s been a long week . . .” He relaxes into the couch, flipping a pair of bronze coins through his fingers. I stop listening. No matter how he treats me, we’re not friends. We haven’t been for years.
We never will be again.
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