The Rock Hard Roots
Blog Tour
Books: “Real Ugly”
“Get Bent”
~Real Ugly Blurb~
Turner Campbell is an asshole.
I f*cking hate him.
But I can't get enough either.
He sings like an angel and f*cks like a devil.
If I could, I'd run away and never look back because to tell you the truth, I
think this man might be the death of me.
***
Naomi Knox is a bitch.
I can't f*cking stand her.
But I can't stop thinking about her either.
She looks like an angel and plays like a devil.
If I could, I'd f*ck her good and forget all about her, but to tell you the
truth, I think this woman might be my last saving grace.
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~Get Bent Blurb~
Naomi Knox is missing.
I don't even f*cking know whether she's dead or alive.
What I do know is that she's the air I need to breathe.
She's my redemption, an all consuming fire that burns in my
blood.
And I'll do anything to find her. Anything. Even if means
the end for me.
& & &
Turner Campbell is searching.
But he has no f*cking clue what it is he's searching for.
There's darkness all around and enough secrets to choke.
There are angels, and there are devils. It's impossible to
tell them apart.
Light needs to be shone on the truth, but there's no one
left to hold the torch. The line between life and death is blurred, and the
players are all thoroughly entrenched in the game. The question is: am I still
one of them?
Releasing Soon
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~Author Bio~
C.M. Stunich was raised under a cover of fog in the area
known simply as Eureka, CA. A mysterious place, this strange, arboreal land
nursed Caitlin's (yes, that's her name!) desire to write strange fiction novels
about wicked monsters, magical trains, and Nemean Lions (Google it!). She
currently enjoys drag queens, having too many cats, and tribal bellydance.
Always a fan of the indie scene and 'sticking it to the
man,' Ms. Stunich decided to take the road less traveled and forgo the
traditional publishing route. You can be assured though that she received
several rejections as to ensure her proper place in the world of writers before
taking up a friend's offer to start a publishing company. Sarian Royal was
born, and Ms. Stunich's books slowly transformed from mere baking chocolate to
full blown tortes with hand sculpted fondant flowers.
C.M. is a writer obsessed with delivering the very best and
scours her mind on a regular basis to select the most unusual stories for the
outside world.
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~Excerpts~
REAL UGLY (BOOK 1) EXCERPT:
Through my sunglasses, I see a face
just offstage, hiding in the shadows with a smirk.
Turner. Turner fucking Campbell is watching me screw
this crowd with my axe, and I can't breathe.
For a moment, I'm afraid my fingers are going to slip, and I'm going to
blow this whole gig, but the inner me, the one I dragged out, turns up the
notch on my smirk and slides my tongue across my lips. Oh my
god! What the hell am I doing? I flick it out and suck it back in,
melding into Wren, sliding against him like we're screwing back to back. And I don't even like the guy. I don't like either of these guys, but I can't stop myself. The music's taken over me, and will do what
she fucking pleases.
I watch Turner watching me, and see
that his brown eyes are glittering dark, like a night sky filled with
stars. It's so off-kilter with his
personality that it really throws me for a loop. Once again, I find myself having trouble
hating him. Seem to be having a lot of
trouble with my loathing abilities as of late.
Guess when I get onstage, I am just fucked.
Our duet ends and Wren pulls away
leaving me cold. And in the middle of an
impromptu solo. Shit.
Luckily, Amatory Riot has functioned
as a unit long enough for the others to follow me, modifying our song right
then and there. The crowd goes fucking
wild, and the air escapes my lungs. The
lights overhead shift and I find myself bathed in color. My eyes shift to search for Turner again, and
I'm glad I'm wearing these shades. If he
knew I was looking for him, I'd never live it down.
A gasp goes up on my right and
Turner appears out of nowhere, snatching my mic from its stand and grabbing
Hayden around the waist. He makes a
little come on gesture at me and then
leans forward and grabs my lips with his.
I don't stop playing; I can't. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't stop the
burst of fucking power that's just taken hold of me. I'm both a victim and a master to it as it
draws my hands along the neck and plucks strings with a violent fervor that
both scares and amazes me. Hot wet heat
takes over my mouth and pulls the rest of the inner me out, and then I'm
kissing Turner back hard and fast and furious while the world's most intense
riffs are just pulled straight through me, cutting me up and bleeding me over
the stage.
When he pulls away, our eyes lock
tight, and I know he can see right through my shades, through my head, and
straight down into me. It's a trick;
it's gotta be. I want to remember the
way he spoke to me on the phone, the way he left that poor girl half-naked over
the PA speaker, but I can't seem to grab any memories that haven't been made
right here, on this stage. What else is there? my soul asks me as
Turner uses the cord of the mic to spin it in a circle and snatch it back in
one tattooed hand.
My solo comes to a natural end, and
I fall right back where I left off, taking the band with me, opening my ears up
to Turner's voice as it slides into the microphone. It's unbelievable – my words from his
lips. I step back and Hayden moves up
beside him, doing her best to out sex her colleague.
It doesn't work.
I don't think it's even possible to
out sex Turner Campbell.
He grabs the hem of his shirt and
slides it up, flashing his taut belly and a sea of tattoos against pale, sweaty
flesh. His fingers rub the dark hair
above his jeans and then drop the fabric back into place, much to the dismay of
the crowd.
“Tearing
me up, shredding me inside; my walls are coming down in flames.” Hayden's voice slides in alongside Turner's
and for a split second there, I'm jealous.
Of what and who and why, I have no idea, because I fucking hate them
both, and they deserve each other, but …
I brush the feeling aside and slam my axe to bits with my pick. “If you
break me, baby, be prepared to pick up the pieces.”
Three. Two.
One. And the song is over, and my
pick is flying out across the crowd and landing in greedy hands. Sweat pours down my face in sheets and my
body is wracked with violent trembles.
Turner spins around and grins at me as the crowd explodes into a riotous
fervor that makes the bouncers nervous.
GET BENT (BOOK 2) EXCERPT:
I
tap the vein in my right arm with two fingers and check the rubber tourniquet
that's wrapped around my sweaty flesh, making sure it's pulled tight. I'm trying to set up a good injection site,
so I can take the syringe I've got clutched between my teeth and shoot up. It's the only way I'll get through this. The only fucking way.
“Turner! What the hell is going on in there?” I slump against the wall and ignore Treyjan's
hoarse shouting. He's been out there all
damn morning, screaming his friggin' head off.
I don't want to hear it anymore.
He's driving me nuts.
I pull the syringe out of my mouth
and slide the needle into my skin, hissing at the rush of white hot pain when
it punctures my vein. I press the
plunger down and wait. A few seconds
later, I feel it in the back of my throat.
It tastes like fucking victory, like accomplishment, like I'm king of
the fucking world. I yank the needle out
unceremoniously and toss it into the trash can.
It lands on top of a mountain of used condoms and tissue paper, and it's
probably unsanitary as shit, but I don't care.
I don't care about anything right now except Naomi.
Naomi.
“Turner, get your fucking ass out
here now!”
I rip the tourniquet off next and
lay it on the counter, clutching the sides of the sink as I lean over and
cough. Good meth always makes you
cough. And it makes you feel so fucking
good that even a nightmare like this starts to look like a dream.
“Are you slamming meth in there,
motherfucker?” Trey screams, and he sounds like he's about to burst a damn vein
this time. I lift my eyes up and stare
at myself in the mirror. It's not a
pretty sight. I look like shit. Jesus
Christ. Have I been walking around like
this for three days? My eyes are
bloodshot and ringed with purple, and my lips are pale and cracked. I look like a Goddamn zombie.
“Don't get your panties in a wad,
bitch,” I call out to him, standing up and sniffing, letting my eyes fall
closed for another minute. At least now
I don't have to worry about how I'm going to get through another day. The drugs will take care of that for me.
Naomi.
I reach over and unlock the door.
Trey doesn't waste any time opening
it and throwing me a death glare. I
ignore him in favor of putting on some eyeliner. We have a show tonight, and I want to look
good. Hell, I have to look good or I'm
not getting onstage. My pain is private,
not something to hang out for all to see.
I'm not on display here.
“You got a hard-on for me or
something?” I ask him, pretending that everything's alright, that my life has
not just gone from bad to worse, that the breath has not just been suctioned
out of my fucking lungs. “I can't even
shit in peace anymore?” Trey looks down
at the garbage, up at the tourniquet and sneers.
“You're just gonna get high everyday
now?” I shrug, applying black around my
eyes, making sure it's thick enough to hide the circles. Women love eyeliner on guys anyway. Or at least the women at my shows do, the
ones with the piercings in their noses and the tattoos on their hips. I want to pick one of them up and fuck away
the pain, but I can't do that to Naomi.
For the first time in my life, I can't even imagine screwing another
woman.
I look up at the ceiling as my brain
seizures with false pleasure, misplaced hope, fatal courage.
“What are you now, Mother
Theresa? We've gotten high everyday
since we were sixteen.” I pretend not to
notice that Trey is wearing Travis' cap.
Or whoever's cap. Still haven't
figured that mystery out. There seem to
be a whole shit ton of them floating around right now, and that's kind of the
least of my worries.
Naomi.
“Not like this, Turner. Not fucking like this. What are you doing? You're gonna kill yourself.” I don't tell my best friend that I don't
care, that I'd rather die than live without Naomi Knox. I mean, how fucked up is that? Love sucks balls. Everybody always acts like it's the one thing
worth living for, that spark in the fire that pulls you in, that strokes your
hair back and lets you know that everything's going to be okay. Well now that I've fallen into it, nothing is
okay. Nothing will ever be okay. I sipped from love's wine and now I'm drunk
as shit without a place to lie down. My
happy ending, my saving grace is lying dead in a morgue, cut up and fucked up,
so mangled they can't even identify her damn body for sure. Oh, they say it's probably her because if not
then, I mean, where the shit is she?
Where? Where? Where
the fuck are you, Knox? With your pretty
blonde hair and your sunglasses and your fuck you all attitude.
