Title:
A
Song for Julia
Author:
Charles
Sheehan-Miles
Release
date: December
15, 2012
Genre:
Contemporary Romance
Age
Group:
New Adult
Event
organized by:
AToMR Tours
Buy
Links:
Book
Description:
Everyone should
have something to rebel against.
Crank Wilson left
his South Boston home at sixteen to start a punk band and burn out
his rage at the world. Six years later, he's still at odds with his
father, a Boston cop, and doesn't ever speak to his mother. The only
relationship that really matters is with his younger brother, but
watching out for Sean can be a full-time job.
The one thing Crank
wants in life is to be left the hell alone to write his music and
drive his band to success.
Julia Thompson left
a secret behind in Beijing that exploded into scandal in Washington,
DC, threatening her father's career and dominating her family's life.
Now, in her senior year at Harvard, she's haunted by a voice from her
past and refuses to ever lose control of her emotions again,
especially when it comes to a guy.
When
Julia and Crank meet at an anti-war protest in Washington in the fall
of 2002, the connection between them is so powerful it threatens to
tear everything apart.
About the Author:
Charles
Sheehan-Miles has been a soldier, computer programmer, short-order
cook and non-profit executive. He is the author of several books,
including the indie bestsellers Just Remember to Breathe and
Republic: A Novel of America's Future.
Author
social media links:
https://www.facebook.com/CharlesSheehanMiles
Fan group:https://www.facebook.com/groups/384693288275181/
https://twitter.com/CSheehanMiles
Website:
http://www.sheehanmiles.com
Goodreads:
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/415636.Charles_Sheehan_Miles
Excerpt:
Suburban Princess (Crank)
October
26, 2002
Maybe
it’s just me. But I would have thought that a girl at the center of
the biggest anti-war protest since the Vietnam War might not have had
such a gigantic stick up her ass.
But
no … there she was, her mouth moving, and I didn’t understand a
word. To be fair, she was wicked hot, even if she did dress like a
librarian; she wore a floral knee-length skirt that hugged her thighs
and a pastel colored sweater with what looked like a thousand bangles
and bracelets running up her right wrist. Her eyes were a striking
pale blue, framed with dark brownish-blonde hair. She had this
schoolgirl look about her that made me want to lick the back of her
neck. It was the hostile stream of words out of her sexy little mouth
that caused me to step back, both irritated and defensive.
“What
was that?” I asked, hoping to get the torrent of words to just
stop.
She
took a deep breath and closed her eyes. I grinned.
“What
I said was, you guys can’t set up here just yet. Mark Tashburn is
about to go on … then there’s a fifteen-minute break. You guys
can set up after that.”
I
rolled my eyes. “And we go on at the end of the fifteen minutes?”
She
smiled, her face relaxing a little. I don’t think she liked me that
much. Her smile looked fake. Those ice cold eyes? Her smile never
reached that far. I wondered what a genuine smile from her would look
like.
“That’s
right,” she replied.
“That
won’t work,” I said. “Takes longer to set up than fifteen
minutes.”
She
sighed. “And why, exactly, are we just finding this out now?”
“Hey,
not my fault. I don’t know who organized the time schedule on this
thing, but it’s a complete mess. If you want us playing in 30
minutes, we needed to start setting up an hour ago. Takes time to set
up the equipment and tune up.”
She
huffed a little and said, “Fine. Just … try not to distract the
audience too much.”
Jesus,
whatever. She came running up the moment we’d started to carry
equipment on stage. Not like the crowd was paying attention anyway,
there must be a hundred thousand people out there. Bunch of hippies
and peace freaks and what looked to be effing soccer moms. For the
hundredth time, I asked myself how the hell I’d gotten roped into
playing at an anti-war protest.
Of
course, this was the biggest venue we’d ever played. But seriously,
so far, the speakers had been a series of retreads from the 1960s. If
that didn’t show how disconnected this thing was from reality, I
didn’t know what did.
Whatever.
This was Serena’s deal. She was big in the anti-war politics. And
what Serena was into, the band did. We didn’t have a manager, but
she was the closest to it. She sang with me and played rhythm guitar
and had a magic sense for what music would work and what wouldn’t.
We
rushed to get set up without alarming the natives or hippies.
Finished in record time, no thanks to the princess who was off to the
side of the stage with a clipboard, directing people here and there.
So,
between the setup, tune up, and start, I had about fifteen seconds to
take a breath and then launched into the first licks. The college
kids in the audience started to groove on it right away, but the
senior citizens and soccer moms … and holy shit, there was a lot of
them … stared up at us as if the stage had been swept with
radioactive contamination. I gave the guitar and vocals just an extra
twinge for them, blasting out the raunchiest original version of the
lyrics to our song “Fuck the War” rather than the extra special
sensitive studio lyrics we’d ended up releasing.
I
don’t want to mislead you. Morbid Obesity isn’t a punk band, more
alternative rock, with a bit of an edge. I’m the edge. To date, our
most popular song was “Fuck the War,” which we released on an EP
a few months back. It’s a love song about my mom and dad, but
you’ve got to listen to the lyrics to get that. I put a lot of
emotion into it when I was writing it and when I performed it.
It
was a perfect day to be on stage and outdoors: cool, but not cold.
The sky was clear and cloudless, an occasional breeze wafting across
the stage, a hundred thousand people of all shapes, sizes and colors
spread across the frickin’ National Mall. I’d never seen anything
like it.
I
was on the second round of the chorus when I looked to the right of
the stage and saw Miss Princess. She was grooving on the music.
Moving just slightly, her lips were parted in a way that caught my
breath. Pouty lips. Kissable lips. I had to laugh at myself a bit. So
not my type. Well, except that she was female and kind of hot. Still,
not my type.
Back
in high school, some freak accident of the Boston Public School
system sent a group of rich kids from Back Bay to South Boston High.
That was a laugh. It only lasted a year, though I don’t know if
that’s because they got the zoning reversed, or the parents just
yanked their kids from the public schools. This girl reminded me of
some of those kids. Imperious. Superior. Some of them looked at the
rats like me as if we were future criminals.
I
wonder if that’s why she was turning me on so much?
It
made me want to tease her a little, so when I launched into the
second verse, I sang right to her, and her alone. I was on the second
verse when she met my eyes. I held them. Her eyes, so distant and
blue, were arresting. She noticed I was singing to her and froze in
place, a deer caught in the headlights. I love it when girls react
that way. Showed she was human. If we’d been back home in Boston,
I’d have grabbed her and pulled her on the stage, but that wouldn’t
go over with this audience.
After
a second though, she met my eyes and gave a sly grin, as if to say ‘I
know what you’re up to.’
I grinned back, belting out the lyrics. The bass and drums in this
song were powerful and demanded that the body dance. I broke off eye
contact and took off across the stage, threw myself into the solo,
screaming out the lyrics at the crescendo, and then I brought the
song to a crashing halt.
Despite
the shock of the soccer moms and lobbyists in the crowd, the college
kids loved it and screamed for more. Suburban Princess applauded, a
mysterious grin on her face. I wanted to know her a lot better.
That
wasn’t going to happen. This was an anti-war protest, not a meet
and greet. As soon as the song finished, we started breaking down the
stage and golden girl jumped up to the microphone and shouted, “Give
it up for Morbid Obesity and their hit “Fuck the War”!” I
paused what I was doing to check her out while she was at the
microphone.
The
crowd went nuts again, which was nice. Hearing the name of my song on
those lips was even nicer. But five seconds later, she was
introducing the next round of speakers, a bunch of broken down
Vietnam and Gulf War vets who had been dredged up by the organizers
of this parade to give it some credibility.
Mark
and I dragged most of the equipment off the stage, while Pathin broke
down the drums, and Serena pulled the extra monitors and wiring
apart. As I stepped off the stage for the last time, the suburban
princess met me at the bottom of the stairs. I stumbled down the last
step and ended up less than six inches away from her, looking down
into those fantastic eyes.
“You
guys were pretty good,” she said, her head tilted back, eyes on
mine. “Thanks for doing this.”
I
shrugged and grinned. “It was fun.” Pretty good? That’s it?
Jesus, she was close. I could smell her perfume, a faint, pretty
smell.
“So
…” she said, looking me in the eyes.
Awkward.
“How
long is this thing gonna go?” I asked.
“Half
a dozen more speakers, then they march around the White House. Maybe
another hour.”
Mark
walked up just as she was answering the question. Our bass player,
Mark, is a big guy, who might have been a football player in an
alternate universe where football players smoked too much pot and
hung out with the bugs in the Pit in Harvard Square. His eyes widened
when I opened my stupid mouth again.
“So,
after it’s over, want to grab some lunch?”
For
just a second her smile faltered, and she looked … almost angry. I
know I’m not exactly wearing frickin’ tweed, but I’m not a bad
guy, no need to be offended.
“Come
on,” I said, “it’s just lunch. I won’t do anything too
offensive.”
Mark
spoke in a sarcastic tone, “I don’t think she’s your type,
Crank.”
She
closed her mouth, eyes darting to Mark. Her eyes narrowed, and her
lips set in a thin line. It looked like she wanted to hit him. This
girl was volatile. I liked that. “Sure,” she said. “Where?”
I
shrugged. “Um … I don’t know the area.”
She
looked thoughtful for just a second. “Georgia Brown’s at 15th and
K Street. They’ve got outdoor seating. See you there … four
o’clock?”
Yes!
Was it me, or had she moved closer to me?
Mark
let out a chuckle and walked away.
“All
right, see you at four,” I said, looking at her eyes one more time.
I
don’t know what the hell I was thinking.
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