Seven shots And it's going to ruin everything.
I wake to the sound of a drill-saw attempting to channel through a concrete pylon right next to my head.
“Why?” I grunt. Only it sounds more like “uggghhh”, even to my ears. Apparently being woken by drill-saw seriously impedes my ability to form words. I reach my hand out and slam something in front of me, presumably the drill-saw, most likely a clock radio. Regardless, the action makes the noise stop, thank hell.
Ugh. While the blast of noise has stopped, there’s still a ringing in my head of dizzy-making proportions. Not to mention that my tongue tastes like I’ve been eating road-kill. Yuck.
I squint one eye open and then scrunch my lid shut immediately as protection from the harsh yellow light coming in through the window framed by black-flowered curtains. What fresh hell is this? Who has opened my—
Shit.
I don’t have black-flowered curtains.
I inch open my lid at snail’s pace, this time preparing myself for the assault of light from the left of the room. Yep. Black floral curtains still there.
I open my eyes wider and take in more of the room in front of me. Aside from the window, there’s a black bedside table with a digital clock on the top of it, right next to a red lamp. The floor is covered in a shaggy-looking cream carpet, a black skirt and red lacy bra lying on top of it.
Oh, no. Please, please no …
I slowly raise the white sheet from my body. Yep, exactly as I’d suspected.
My black skirt and red bra.
This, of course, leaves only one question. But do I really want to look? Can I?
I rack my brain, trying to put together the pieces of the night before. There was the party at Joe’s. I’d gone there with Kate, because Dave and the band were playing. Michael. I saw Michael. Tequila. Lots of tequila.
I glanced down at my hand. Seven little lipstick lines mar its surface. One for each shot. At least I can remember that.
But how the hell did I get here? And, more importantly, where is here?
“Why?” I grunt. Only it sounds more like “uggghhh”, even to my ears. Apparently being woken by drill-saw seriously impedes my ability to form words. I reach my hand out and slam something in front of me, presumably the drill-saw, most likely a clock radio. Regardless, the action makes the noise stop, thank hell.
Ugh. While the blast of noise has stopped, there’s still a ringing in my head of dizzy-making proportions. Not to mention that my tongue tastes like I’ve been eating road-kill. Yuck.
I squint one eye open and then scrunch my lid shut immediately as protection from the harsh yellow light coming in through the window framed by black-flowered curtains. What fresh hell is this? Who has opened my—
Shit.
I don’t have black-flowered curtains.
I inch open my lid at snail’s pace, this time preparing myself for the assault of light from the left of the room. Yep. Black floral curtains still there.
I open my eyes wider and take in more of the room in front of me. Aside from the window, there’s a black bedside table with a digital clock on the top of it, right next to a red lamp. The floor is covered in a shaggy-looking cream carpet, a black skirt and red lacy bra lying on top of it.
Oh, no. Please, please no …
I slowly raise the white sheet from my body. Yep, exactly as I’d suspected.
My black skirt and red bra.
This, of course, leaves only one question. But do I really want to look? Can I?
I rack my brain, trying to put together the pieces of the night before. There was the party at Joe’s. I’d gone there with Kate, because Dave and the band were playing. Michael. I saw Michael. Tequila. Lots of tequila.
I glanced down at my hand. Seven little lipstick lines mar its surface. One for each shot. At least I can remember that.
But how the hell did I get here? And, more importantly, where is here?
The problem with crazy is that crazy, by itself, has no context. It can be good crazy, bad crazy . . . or crazy crazy—like it was when my ex-boyfriend sung about me on the radio.
Eighteen-year-old Kate couldn’t be more excited about finishing high school and spending the summer on tour with her boyfriend's band. Her dad showing up drunk at graduation, however, is not exactly kicking things off on the right foot—and that’s before she finds out about his mystery illness, certain to end in death.
A mystery illness she is likely to inherit.
When your whole life goes from adventure and ecstasy to sad and suicidal, what’s the point? Not knowing who to love, and who to trust . . . where does it end?
The Problem With Crazy is a story about love and life; about overcoming obstacles, choosing to trust, and learning how to make the choices that will change your life forever.
Title: The Problem With Crazy
Series: Crazy in Love #1
Author: Lauren K. McKellar
Genre: NA/Upper YA Comtemporary Romance
Genre: NA/Upper YA Comtemporary Romance
Release Date: February 13, 2014
Lauren K. McKellar is an author and editor. Her debut novel, Finding Home, was released through Escape Publishing on October 1, 2013, and her second release, NA Contemporary Romance The Problem With Crazy, is self-published, and is available now. She loves books that evoke emotion, and hope hers make you feel.
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