Riddick by Kathy Coopmans is NOW LIVE!
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She told me Heaven would knock on my door one day.
That I would be swept away from the hell I lived in.
She was right about one thing and so wrong about the other.
Heaven came in the form of an angel just like she said.
My life became hell.
She disappeared. Vanished.
I left. Went to war. Killed. All for her.
Every face was the man who took her.
Every dream filled with her.
For twelve years I existed in hell. Breathed in the fires from down below.
Until her, the woman on the beach outside of my home.
It couldn't be my Cora, my angel, my heaven on earth.
She was dead.
Jesse’s threats should make me want to shut my mouth; they don’t. I’ll make all the noise in the world to find out why I feel like I’m being dragged to my death. Oh God, please tell me they do not know!
Without warning, Cutter grips me by my hair, yanking me out of my spot in the corner. My backside is landing on the rough gravel with a solid thud. The sharp stones are penetrating through the flesh on my back. I scream out in agony as this man bores his fingers into my cheeks, digging into my skin enough to draw blood with his fingernails penetrating through my flesh. They’re going to kill me.
“You’re finally getting a chance to get out of here. If you fuck this up, I’ll kill him. Do you get me?” What? I ignore his comment about leaving here. That rolling in my stomach starts to turn, spinning out of control until it crashes into my chest, making it hard for me to breathe. I know exactly whom he’s referring to, and the thought makes me want him to stick his dick in my mouth so I can bite the repulsive little thing off. He’s talking about Riddick. Cutter nods my head for me using his greased, stained hands, his fingernails so dirty I gag at the sight. Those hands that make me cringe every time they touch me leave my face and go right back to my hair, where he pulls me behind him across the lot while I stifle my cries of pain. Not from the gravel clawing and embedding into my skin. From the words he spits out like it’s an everyday occurrence to threaten me with the only thing that can plunder my soul. This is the first time he’s physically hurt me, which makes me realize that whatever I’m here for is the worst kind of bad.
My life is not my own anymore. It belongs to my brother, and I’m a nut job because of it. I live inside my own head, talk to myself, pretend like I’m carrying on a conversation with the one person I want with me all the time. Riddick. I stare at walls for hours upon hours of the day and night, daydreaming of a better life on the ocean, where I can roam freely. Feel the wind swaying in with the tide, my hair blowing back away from my face as I breathe in the salty air. These conscious fantasies are a young woman’s fairy tale we all wish to come true. Riddick knows how much living on the ocean means to me. He is going to kill them for thinking they can put their slimy hands on me. This will be the end to the street fighting gang war my brother seems to think he’s the king of. People stay clear of Jesse Barrick for a reason. He’s maniacal crazy. Certifiably teetering on the edge of insanity. And whatever his reasons are for mistreating me have crazed him out to the point where I’m tumbling over the edge first.
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About the Author:
Amazon Best Selling Author Kathy Coopmans, lives in Michigan with her husband Tony where they have two grown sons.
After raising her children she decided to publish her first book and retiring from being a hairstylist.
She now writes full time.
She's a huge sports fan with her favorite being Football and Tennis.
She's a giver and will do anything she can to help another person succeed!
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The Drifter by Kathy Coopmans is
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To the outside world, Kray Brooks had it all growing up.
Wealth. The devoting parents.
The beautiful girlfriend.
All of it a lie, except her. The woman he left behind thirteen years ago to try and achieve his real dream... to become a musician.
Life doesn't always go according to the plan you set out for yourself.
Sometimes, you drift. Become lost, lose hope and crash.
For thirteen years he's been drifting wherever his guitar takes him, avoiding his past. Never thinking of his future.
Not once did he think it would all catch up to him. Until it did.
“You in there or what?” Josh nudges me with his hip. His finger rises up to tap me on my temple, startling me out of my slumber. I stumble forward, damn near tripping over a guitar case that’s sitting on the edge of the sidewalk. I should be paying attention to where I’m going. There are many people here singing and offering up some sort of trick for money up and down this strip. Only the ones who can carry a tune catch my wandering eye for more than a second. Not that they all don’t deserve my attention, but the people who sing have a raw, natural talent. I become lost in their voices. Attuned. Familiar. There’s no sweet, tender, or rough and seductive voice close by. Therefore, whoever owns this particular case isn’t singing, or otherwise I may have pulled Josh to a sudden stop to listen before tumbling over it like an idiot. “Shit. Sorry about that,” I tell the man I notice standing up against the brick wall without looking at him. This is what I get for thinking about things I shouldn’t. “It was my fault,” Josh comments as we both bend down to shove the few dollar bills that fell out back into the case. The man behind us just mumbles something incoherent. I instantly feel worse for some reason. He’s worked hard for this money. In the heat no less. And here I am, scrounging around to make sure I gather it all up while assholes walk around me not giving a shit there are two people squatted down on the sidewalk. They just step around us, not bothering to offer help. Insensitive assholes. I reach into my purse and toss a hundred-dollar bill inside the case. I know most of these people spend their money on booze and drugs. I don’t care. Well, I do, really. They should be using it wisely. But who am I to judge? I only wish I could have heard him sing before we walk away. The talent they have is remarkable. It’s sad, really, how I enjoy listening to them sing on these streets for food, a home, or more than likely a fix of alcohol or drugs. I can’t help it; those voices carry me away. Some of them are truly mesmerizing. Wasted talent on a dirty street. I’m sure some are runaways with dreams shattered and hopes burned. This is the only way they know how to survive. The Hollywood record producers should listen to some of these talented people instead of shoving their lying butts into the faces of the fake boob Barbie to either get in her pants or rake her back over hot coals, sucking as much money out of her as they can. If only the rich would seek out the poor. To lend a hand to those who only think life has fed them nothing but shit. For these people to see that no matter how bad your life has been, if given the chance or a choice, you can become whoever you want to be, even if you’re alone doing it. I turn to the man whose face is darkened by the way he stands. His face is completely out of my sight with his chin tugged down to where it’s almost touching his chest. One black, shiny-booted foot rests up against the wall. His jeans hang low. He’s wearing a faded gray t-shirt that, if I’m correct, was black at one time. It also looks way too small, because my god, is it tight across his massive chest. He has shoulders any woman would love to reach around and grab as he lies on top of her. I’d give anything to see his face. To hear him sing. To observe and dissect his talent.