This Release is Fresh, Fresh!
This book was previously published as an e-book and is now getting a brand new print edition. I also have an excerpt from it. Thanks so much to St. Martin's Press for providing me with the new cover and excerpt. So... Check it Out!
Title: Shacking Up
Author: Helena Hunting
Release Date: November 27, 2018 for brand new paperback version
Now the Awesome Excerpt!
CHAPTER
3
SCREW
YOU,
AWESOME
KISSER
RUBY
I
eat
an
entire
Listerine
PocketPak
on
the
subway
ride
home
to kill
any
lingering
germs
in
my
mouth
from
Awesome
Kisser.
I’m annoyed
by the
whole thing,
but at least
he
apologized
and
seemed
sincere
about
the
accidental
tongue
invasion.
Too
bad
the
hotness
of the
memory
is marred
by raging
Brittany
and
the
hack in
the
face.
After
getting
home, I
rinse
with
mouthwash,
down
six vitamin
C capsules
and
some
anti-flu
holistic
stuff,
and then
I go
ahead
and
make
myself
my customary
before-
bed,
pre-audition
nighttime
drink
of
hot
honey-lemon
water,
and
pray
I’ve
done
a good
enough
job
of
ridding
myself
of cough
germs.
I
climb
into
bed,
note
my
sheets
lack
a fresh
scent,
question
when
I last
washed
them,
then
I set
my
alarm
and
close
my
eyes.
Behind
my
lids
appears
the
hottie—
whose
name
is
apparently
Banny,
or
maybe
I misheard
and
it’s
Danny.
It’s
not really
a hot
guy
name.
I’m going
to stick
with
Awesome
Kisser. Now
that
I’m past
the
shock-and-awe
factor I
can
fully appreciate
that
man’s
hotness
in
the
shouty
caps sense
of the
word.
It’s
unfortunate
he
dates
vapid,
self-absorbed
model-y
types
and
not
starving
artists.
I have
a feeling
“date”
isn’t the
appropriate
word anyway.
It’s also
unfortunate
that
he has
poor
coughing
manners.
I
consider that
he was
likely
a guest
at the
engagement party
and
he very
well
may
be
a guest
at the
wedding
as well.
If
I’m
still
dateless
by
then
he
could
make
an
ex- cellent
potential
dance
partner,
depending
of
course
on how
tight
he is
with
Armstrong.
If
they’re
close friends
I don’t
think
it’s
advisable
to
get
involved
in
any
semi-
unclothed
dancing
outside
of
the
wedding
celebrations,
no
matter
how
hot
he
is.
I don’t
want
to
run
the
risk
of encountering
him
again
should
things
not
go
as
well
as one
hopes. Eventually
I stop
fantasizing
about
what’s
under
his
suit
and
pass
out. I’m
about
to
find
out
exactly
what’s
in
Awesome
Kiss-
er’s
designer
pants
when a
repetitive,
annoying
sound
distracts
me.
I pause
just
before
I smooth
a hand
over
the
amazingly
prominent
bulge
while
he tilts
my head
back,
his
soft
lips
brushing
mine,
his
hot tongue
sweeping
. . .
The
wisps
of
the
dream
fade
and
I crack
a lid.
The
fantasy
breaks
with
the
obnoxious
sunlight
screaming
its wake-up
call,
along
with
my
stupid
phone.
Sometimes
I’m slutty
in my
dreams.
I
reach
for
the
phone,
remembering
that
Amie
promised
me
a morning
call,
just
in
case
I messed
up my
alarm,
which
has
happened
in
the
past.
I was
on the
ball
last
night,
though.
I set
three
alarms,
all
within
five
minutes
of
each
other
so
I wouldn’t
have
an
opportunity
to fall
back
asleep.
“Rise
and
shine,
Ruby! I’m
your
wake-up
call!”
How she
manages
to
sound
so
damn
chipper
at
seven-thirty
in
the
morning
after
her engagement
party
is beyond
me.
A
seal-like
bark
comes
out
when
I attempt
to
grumble hello
and
tell
her off
for interrupting
my dream.
“Ruby?
Are you
there?”
I
make
a second
attempt
at speaking
but all
I manage
is another
bark.
“Do
you
have
a bad
connection?
I told
you
not
to
go with
the
cheap
provider.
You
know
how
terrible
the
reception
is.”
I
clear
my throat
and
immediately
regret
it,
as
it feels
like
knives
are traveling
up my
esophagus.
“Ruby?”
Amie
asks
again
and
then
sighs.
“I’m
hanging
up and
trying
again.”
Once
the
line
goes
dead
I immediately
hit
the
video
call.
Amie
picks
up right
away.
She’s
wearing
a white
robe
with
her
wavy
hair
pulled
up
into
a ponytail,
looking
as fresh
as baked
bread out
of the
oven. I
on the
other
hand,
look
like
yesterday’s
garbage
based
on
the
small
image
in the
corner
of my
phone.
“Oh
my God.
Are you
okay?”
I
motion
to my
throat
and
shake
my head.
I give
speaking
another
shot,
just in
case
my inability
to make
more than
random,
audible
sounds
is
a result
of
waking
up.
I usually
don’t
have
to
use
words
until
after
my
morning
coffee.
All
I get
is
another
one
of
those
squeaky
moans
and
more sharp
pain
in my
throat.
Amie
sucks
in
a gasp
and
slaps
her
hand
over
her mouth.
“You have
no voice!” I
nod.
“How
are you
going
to audition?”
The
final
dregs
of sleep
slip
away. I
mouth
oh God.
A mime
is the
only
part
I can
audition
for with
no voice,
or one
of
the
dancer
roles
with
no
lines.
They
don’t
make
nearly
as
much
money
as
central,
or
even
secondary
character,
roles—which
is what
I’m hoping
to score.
The
pay
scale
for
that
is
far
higher
than
for
a lineless
role.
It definitely
won’t
cover
the
basics,
like
rent
and
food,
let alone
the
minimum
payments
on my
credit
card.
I’ve been
banking
on
this
audition
to
get
me
out
of
the
hole I’ve
dug for
myself
over the
past
few weeks.
The
phone conversation
is pointless
since
Amie
can’t
read
lips
and
I can’t
respond.
She
tells
me
she’s
coming
over.
I try
to tell
her not
to bother,
but again,
with
the
lack of
words it’s
impossible
to convey.
I wait
until
she hangs
up
and
text
her to
tell
her it’s
not necessary.
Besides,
this
thing
I have
is
clearly
contagious
since
I must’ve
gotten
it
from
Awesome
Kisser,
and
I don’t
want
to pass
it on
to her. Damn
Awesome
Kisser—ruining
the
already
questionable
state
of my
life.
I
roll
out
of
bed,
the
full-body
ache
hitting
me
with
the
movement.
I must
be
dying.
And
I’m
not
just
being
dramatic.
Every
cell
in
my
body
hurts.
I drag
myself
to the
kitchen
and
fill
the
kettle.
Maybe
a lemon-honey
hot water
toddy
will
help restore
my voice.
Based
on my
re- cent
unlucky
streak,
I have my
doubts.
I
shuffle
to the
bathroom,
turn
on the
shower, and
root around
in
the
medicine
cabinet
for
some
decent
drugs.
All
I have
is regular-strength
Tylenol, so
it’ll have
to do.
I climb
into
the
shower without
checking
the
temperature
first—it
takes
forever
to
heat
up and
then
fluctuates
be-
tween
lukewarm
and
scalding.
I step
under
the
spray
during
a scalding
phase
and
huddle
in
the
corner
until
it’s bearable.
I’d
like
to say
the
shower helps
me feel
better.
It does
not.
The
warm
water
also
does
little
to
help
my
voice.
Although
I’m
past
just
squeaking
to
barely
audible
one-
word
phrases,
such as
“ow.”
I’m
praying
to
the
voice-miracle
gods
that
the
honey-lemon
combo
will
further
improve
my ability
to speak.
Once
out
of
the
shower
I doctor
up
my
water,
adding
extra
lemon
and
honey.
Not
only
do
I burn
the
crap
out of
my tongue,
it feels
like
serrated
blades
coated
in acid
sliding
down
my throat.
Still,
I get
dressed
in
basic
black tights
and
a black
tank
with
a loose,
gauzy
gray
shirt
over top.
I dry
my
hair
and
put
on
makeup
in
hopes
that
appearing
put together
will
make
it so.
I have
to double
up on
powder
when the
effort
to prepare
my face
causes me to
sweat.
I
take
a second
hot lemon-honey
toddy
with
me on
the
subway
and
arrive
for my
audition
half
an
hour
early.
Not that
my
promptness
matters.
I’m
still
unable
to
speak
above
a whisper.
My
despair
balloons
like
a marshmallow
in
the
microwave
at
the
mass
of
people
performing
voice warm-up
exercises
around
me.
I
make
an
attempt
to
do
the
same,
but
the
hoarse,
croaklike
sound
is drowned
out by
the
crystal
clear
voice of
the
perfectly
gorgeous
woman
standing
next to
me. As I
listen
to
the
sound
of
a thousand
soaring
angels
spew
out
of
her
mouth,
I shiver
with
what
I fear
is
the
beginning
of
a fever.
Sweat
breaks
out
across
the
back
of
my neck
and
travels
down
my
spine,
along
with
a violent
shiver.
As if
today
could
be
any
worse
than
it already
is, my stomach
does
this
weird,
knotting
thing.
“Ruby
Scott.”
I
glance
at the
director,
who’s thankfully
still
looking
fresh,
and
not beaten
down
by hundreds
of craptastic
auditions.
Those
are
yet
to
come.
I shoulder
my
bag
and
follow
him
to the
theater.
“You’re
auditioning
for
the
role
of
Emma
today,
correct?”
He doesn’t
give
me
a chance
to confirm.
“I’d
like
you to
start
with
the
song at
the
beginning
of act
two.”
“Okay,”
I croak
feebly,
cringing
at the
raspy
sound.
At least
I can
speak,
even if
I sound
like
a prepubescent
boy with
his
nuts
caught
in his
zipper.
The
director
looks
up
from
his
clipboard,
his
frown
an omen.
“I
seem
to
have
lost
my
voice.”
He
has
to
strain
to hear
me.
He
heaves a
frustrated
sigh.
“You can’t
audition
if
you don’t have
a voice.”
“I
didn’t
want
to miss
it. Maybe
I could
audition
for a dancer
part?”
Fewer words
are better.
He
purses
his
lips.
“Auditions
for
dancer
roles
aren’t
until
later
in the
week.”
“I
understand,
but
I’m
here
and
if
you
can’t
hear
me sing,
at
least
you
could
see
me
dance?”
I fight
the
gag
reflex
as
another
wave of
nausea hits
me.
He
sighs
and
relents,
gesturing
to
the
stage.
I thank
him,
then
drop
my
bag
at
the
edge
of
the
stage
and
get into
first
position.
My brain
is foggy
and
my body
aches horribly,
but
I can’t
pass
up
this
opportunity
for
a mod-
est,
yet steady
income
for a
few months.
I can’t
afford
to rack
up
additional
credit
card
debt,
and
I don’t
want
to ask
my
father
for
more
money,
because
that
will
make
him
aware
of
how
much
of
a struggle
this
is.
Then
he’ll
make
his
case for
me to
come work
for him,
as is
his
master
plan.
I know
I can
do this.
The
music
cues
up,
and
as
I start
to
move
my
stomach
does
that
rolling-heave
thing
again.
There
isn’t
any
food
in
it,
but
all
of
a sudden
the
honey-lemon
water
I consumed
this
morning
decides
to
stage
a revolt.
I’m
in the
middle
of a
spin—not
the
best
idea when
nauseous—
and
the
next wave
hits
me; violent
and
unrelenting.
I
attempt
to
keep
my
mouth
closed,
but
the
intensity
of
the
spasm
forces
it
open.
I spray
the
stage
with
partially
digested
honey-lemon
water,
and
what
appears
to be
last
night’s
shrimp
tarts
and
mushroom
canapé
appetizer
dinner—in
an
Exorcist-like
dramatic
flair.
And
thus
ends my
audition.
And that's my Fresh, Fresh Releases for this week. I know I missed some. Tell me what books you're excited for.
