Rattled, стр. 13

the station.”

“We got that, Mr. Dosek,” one of the guys at the back says. “Go enjoy yourself.”

“I never leave my stations a mess.” I start to get the sanitizer.

“We got this,” another one says and nods toward Kelsey. “Go spend some time with her. It was a rough day.”

“You sure?” I don’t want to be screwed and lose my shot because I didn’t clean up.

“Don’t worry.” The guy is practically pushing me to the door.

“Okay. Thanks.”

I follow Kelsey out of the building, and we stop on the sidewalk outside. She looks up toward the sky, a huge smile on her face. “I’ve kept this envelope with me because I was afraid I’d forget. It’s the only pieces of them I have left.” She turns to me, still smiling. “But now I’ll have them with me always, right here.” She places a hand over her heart. “Thank you.”

More

Dear Readers,

Thank you for reading RATTLED. For more of Alex and Kelsey’s story, watch for STILL RATTLED, available in August, 2016.

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RECOMMEND IT – If you enjoyed this book, please recommend it to them for reading and let them know that there is more of the Rattled Series to come, and soon.

Excerpt - STILL RATTLED

Still Rattled: Rattled #2 - Baxter Boys Series ~ Rattled

Alex “Douche” Dosek isn’t really a douche, or at least not anymore, and I should probably stop thinking about him that way. I get why he resented me. He didn’t have the whole story, and after his mother shit on him the way she did, of course he’d think I was just as heartless because I had abandoned my baby.

But, now he gets it. If he didn’t, Alex wouldn’t have given me the most perfect tattoo.

It’s exactly what I needed, from the little foot that I thought I wanted, to the little handprint over my heart that I hadn’t even considered. The manila envelope still holds those precious items: her birth certificate, sheet music from Brahms’ Lullaby and the pink rattle I snatched from the bassinet. I’ve always had these with me, but now that everything, with the exception of the rattle and the only picture I have of Brandon, is permanently on my midriff, just below my boobs, I’m not as worried about losing the documents. I’ll still keep them close though, in the pink box on the top shelf of my closet with the letters I’ve written to Brandy. But nobody can take the art from my body. Brandy and Brandon will be with me always.

Shit! My eyes are tearing up again and everything in front of me is starting to blur. After sobbing inside of Reed’s, you’d think I’d be done by now.

“Coffee?” Alex pulls his gloves on as he steps outside in to the cold.

“Coffee!” I blink and quickly wipe away a few stray tears. I’m drained and really just want a nap, but it’s kind of nice spending time with someone I don’t have to guard myself around. Not so much protecting my feelings and heart and that type of stuff, but not having to watch what I say, or slip about Baxter, or mention I was once pregnant and lived on the streets. Those things are what people judge you by. Alex already knows the ugly. Far more ugly about my past than anyone else, with the exception of people at Baxter, like Mrs. Robak and a handful of therapists.

“There’s a diner a few blocks down,” he says and we head in that direction, keeping our heads down against the cold November wind. My hands are shoved in my coat pocket because I lost my gloves on campus two days ago. At least I have a warm, though not exactly fashionable, scarf around my neck, and I duck my chin inside.

I can’t believe that Alex did my tattoo. He’s lucky I didn’t walk right out when I found what artist had been assigned to me. Or, that’s what I thought then. I’m the lucky one. I don’t think anyone else could have done what he did. They would have given me the foot I asked for and left it at that.

Alex stops and I look up and into the long windows. I like diners, but they usually aren’t this busy, with people sitting at every table and the counter. How good could their hamburgers, fries and milkshakes be? “They must have good food,” I mumble as we step inside. The heat from the bodies, kitchen and furnace engulfs me. I’ll be sweating in my coat if I don’t get it off me soon.

“How long?” Alex asks.

The waitress in her mid-fifties with mousey brown hair streaked with silver gives him a disbelieving look. “It’s Thanksgiving. I’ve got about fifteen people ahead of you.” Then I notice the sign. Thanksgiving Special. Turkey and the fixings $3.99. I glance around again. I’d bet what remains of my savings that ninety percent of the people enjoying their meal are homeless or barely have two nickels to rub together. I so don’t want to take a table, or even a seat at the counter from someone who needs a cheap meal far more than me. And, $3.99 is way cheap for a meal in New York. A young couple, who look like they haven’t slept in days are in a back booth with two small children. Worn