There are still a few winners who have no claimed there copies. Stay tuned to see if those get relisted, and LEAVE A COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO BE ENTERED TO WIN A DIGITAL COPY!
Prefer the e-scene?Get it on Kindle for just .99 for a limited time. Or read it FREE with Your Kindle Unlimited Subscription.
Don't have Kindle Unlimited? You can get a month for FREE here:
Recently, I did a poll asking readers if they loved or hated book playlists; almost everyone said LOVE, so check out this one for 23 1/2 Hours to Live!
But you know what? That's not good enough. We can make this way more fun. This book is MADE of Awesome, so now everyone in the United States that pre-orders an ebook copy of 23 1/2 Hours by next saturday at 11:59 their timezone will get there very own 23 1/2 Hours pin, seen here------------------------->
Somethings to keep in mind. This book is a new adult romance, and is not suited for kids. The actual release date is May 17th.
Here's (some of)the blurb:
Coming soon from bestselling author Angela Kulig, a new adult romance about crazy people… who are maybe in love.
Forced out of college Freshman year and into a dead end job, Kaylee doesn't become angry and bitter; instead she does her best to not even exist.
Here's a quick list of what Kaylee Hall expects from life:
1. Nothing 2. Nothing else
She doesn't date. She doesn't make friends. She doesn't feel anything.
So when the guy who ruined Kaylee's life in every way shows up and tries to casually rewrite her life story, she consults her list and doesn't know what to think.
Spoiler Alert! Writers aren't well. How could they be? Everything they live for revolves around making up things in their head. People, places, whole worlds that don't really exist and made to seem real when it's quite obvious they aren't. Writers even invent relationships with fictional people.
Which is usually enough to get you committed. These themes appear in a couple of my books that are coming out this year, but I don't want to talk about fiction. I want to talk about me.
I really think I don't get enough credit for not being a violent psychopath.
Sane people don't write about skeletons. They don't write about exposed bones, or broken people with broken hearts but I do. I do, because I have a fondness for flawed people. Because I am a flawed person. Psychology plays a huge role in many of my works; not because I'm manic depressive or something, and off my meds, but because both writers and readers are obsessed with what makes people tick. Some people call that motivation. I call it, a character's diagnoses.
I'm mad, you're mad, they're all mad.
Just so we're clear.
Anyway, I told you that to tell you this. Next weekend (Jan 16ish) I'm heading out of town but I am going to leave the people on my newsletter a present first.
You remember this book? There was some drama with it. Because see, it's about writers. One of which was very similar to a character a friend of mine wrote in one of her books...also about witters. Except for how they aren't actually alike, just some of their things are alike. I have chickened out on releasing it like four times now because—because of a lot of things.
The plan is, I am going to send the people on my newsletter the first 1/3 or so of the book. It has a fantastic ending for that part—and you can tell me if you want to read the rest of it. Don't worry, there is still plenty of time to sign up.
Recently, my newsletter has grown and I have been wanting to find a way to reward those people I refer to as, "The In Crowd". I have huge plans for the list, after this. Such as: sharing exclusive short stories, and serializing a book I don't have time to release yet but is AWESOME. Special giveaways, of course, are a must. As well as other, opportunities. If you are already on the list, you don't have anything to worry about! Otherwise, fill this out:
Let's get real about fictional romance for a minute.
What are the kind's of guys girls like in books? There is a spectrum I think. Good boys, bad boys, but far fewer in between. The boys from my books tend to send the meter reeling back and forth. That's because I tend to write about people with massive character flaws.
But trust me, that's not a choice.
My characters come to me full formed, flaws more vivid that clothes. Having flaws, doesn't mean they are bad people--though some of them are--having flaws makes them more real. I don't like book boyfriends that are too perfect. Perfection doesn't exist in people, not really. So it shouldn't exist in fiction because fiction mirrors real life.
Many people have checked out the the excerpts for my upcoming New Adult Romance 23 1/2 Hours to Live--which is awesome. Jack Claret has been my absolute all time favorite book boyfriend to write about. His books aren't supernatural, or paranormal, his situations could happen to any of us (if we were so lucky!) and that I think makes him the most real. He's so fun, and he's also a writer--and most of us are insane. Jack Claret is not an exception to this rule, and I can't wait until you can read every single one of his flaws.
If you haven't Excerpt One is here: http://bit.ly/1oT6bof
Excerpt Two is here: http://bit.ly/1AOj5GR
In honor of Jack Claret, and 23 1/2 Hours to Live coming out at the end of the month--September is Book Boyfriend month here on angelakulig.com. Stay tuned for awesome posts about every book boyfriend I have written--and some I haven't.
And seriously? Who is your fave book boyfriend? I'm curious!
So I am trying really hard not to post blogs at 11:59 PM when most people would miss them. That's why this is late. But I am SUPER stoked for you guys to read chapter 2 of 23 1/2 Hours to Live. If you missed chapter one you can find it clicking here.
Don't forget to enter the awesome giveaway, and tell your friends!
And we were back to him telling me I had a nice rack… that’s what it felt like, anyway. How could a guy with such pretty thoughts and words deliver the absolute worst pickup line I had ever heard? Not that I had heard many pickup lines.
His ability to spew that comedic crap, with such a sincere face, made me wish I felt sick. I had serious reasons to doubt my willpower—there was a point in my life where I thought eating gallons of ice cream was a great idea. Worse, my willpower around good-looking guys was wildly untested.
Don’t ask me again. All I needed was to be his number thirty-four, or sixty-seven—or hell, two hundred and twenty-three. What was this guy doing in my bookstore?
“Um,” I stuttered, then I stalled. “Was there something else I could help you with?”
Lord, I hoped that didn’t sound as dirty as it did in my head. The edge to my voice said my mental state was somewhere between Warning! The edge of the cliff is near and Panic! Too late to turn back. But I pressed on. Where had the Kaylee with the calm voice gone? I wanted to scream, dance, shout, do something, but I could think of nothing besides the anger boiling under my skin.
The dude with two last names sauntered over to me, and he had total girl hips. But seriously, who saunters? Only whores and bad boys, in equally bad romance novels. In this case, he was probably both.
“I already told you what I want,” he said, cocking his stupid lady-like hips. Perfect pose for a cocky bastard.
Sure, he told me what he wanted. The G-rated version of it. He also told me he’d be dead tomorrow—and since he didn’t look like he was on his deathbed, one could only assume he was full of shit. I opened my mouth to tell him my suspicions about the content of his character, but he cut me off. I really wished he’d shut up; words were far more dangerous than fists, after all.
“But since you’re not interested,” he says to every pile of books in the space—but not me—he went to great lengths with his eyes to avoid mine, staring all the way back to the aisle of 1980’s cookbooks—”Got any Jack Claret novels?”
The guy made no sense, whatsoever.
“Of—of course," I stammered. "Those would be the kind of books someone like you would want to read…”
“Of course?” He asked, amused. Still, his eyes didn’t smile like his lying lips. Maybe it was hard to keep up the total jerk life. Maybe it was getting to him, being pretentious to people like me wherever he went. Maybe I was trying too hard to paint him as the perfect book boyfriend.
“We have every book he’s ever written, except for Dakota, because that’s the only book of his I’ll rec to friends.” Friends don’t let friends read stupid Jack Claret novels.
Suddenly the crooked stacks of 1970’s National Geographics were way more interesting than my internal monologue. First time for everything. Thinking about stupid Jack Claret made my mind shut down to protect itself. Blue screen. Something has gone terribly wrong. Pop up. Warning. Do not even go there, girlfriend.
“Dakota fan, huh?” he asked, making me flinch. “Couldn’t waste all that cute fangirl love on Greene?”
Deep. Breath. In. Have I mentioned that I really hate when people tease me about books? Especially pretty people.
Deep. Breath. In. Speak. “Dakota is the only one of Claret’s novels worth a damn. It can make you love enough to want to bleed when it’s over. It can make you want to live only long enough to die. But he must have lost his fucking mind after that, because the rest of his crap is all commercial garbage slapped together for pretentious pricks like you.”
For milliseconds, Jackson Bennett looked as though I had slapped him. My triumph, however, died before it could get to my head. Jackson looked like I had slapped him, but he also seemed to like it.
“You like Dakota—you’re not just—you’re serious! But it doesn’t even have an ending!” His arms went up, flailing as he spoke.
I wasn’t watching, I was thinking about the book. So Dakota didn’t end with a well-organized bow. Jackson didn’t exactly scream happily ever after, and predictability was for teenagers who read about emo werewolves who are shockingly devoid of facial and chest hair as they stand half-naked on their book covers. Jackson reminded me more of ripped-off butterfly wings than dying of old age. Really, what was his deal?
“You know why it doesn’t have an ending, Kaylee? Because Jack Claret doesn’t just write books—he is one..
The heat kicked on with a thud and a whir—mechanical, like the iron lung I was about to need. Stupid Jackson might be every book-loving girl’s wet dream come to life, but he seriously needed a warning label. Danger! Fire! Run away! Three hundred and forty-seven!
That snapped me out of it.
“Now,” Jackson said—and he was so close I could see every pore in his almost perfect nose, “ask me how I know.”
As near as he was, I could have smelled his soap—or eau de douche cologne, like the guys wore too much of at the clubs downtown—but Jackson didn’t smell like those things. He smelled like ink.
“It’s not a secret. Everyone thinks Claret is an—”
Jackson flinched. It was really obvious because he was all up in my personal space.
“Not think, Kaylee! Know. Ask me how I know Jack Claret is an absolute asshole.”
I glanced down, watching Jackson clench and unclench his fists. His knuckles turned white, but the sides of his fingertips were stained red like mine were stained blue. Colored by smeared, hurried writing.
“How do you know?” I asked. I didn’t have to fake the curiosity. It was there, as real as the towers of books that encased us. My heart no longer needed to be reminded to beat. It was fluttering into warp drive, or the angry percussion of speed metal. I got the feeling I was about to be let in on juicy, plot-worthy gossip.
But the A-hole shut the book in my face.
“I’m not going to tell you until you kiss me.”
I could still say no. It was in my power. So was turning off the light after reading one more chapter. Just because I could doesn’t mean I would. Even if I knew I’d regret it in the morning.
Besides, every guy I had dated wound up being a jerk. At least I knew Jackson was one to begin with. The idea was kind of freeing, and kind of really, really hot. A kiss with a super sexy guy and gossip about my least favorite guy in publishing? No messy attachments? It sounded amazing…
Unless he was lying, but even then he was still hot. Super hot.
You never realize how tall a guy is, until you are leaning in to kiss him and have to stretch up and up. My bare feet were not doing me any favors. My legs—still warm—brushed against his denim-clad ones, as Jackson bent down to meet me.
The kiss was just light enough not to draw blood, and just firm enough for me to realize this had been a terrible, no good, awful idea. Jackson moved one hand to push the tendrils of sweat soaked hair off my neck. I couldn’t be embarrassed. I couldn’t even breathe. For the rest of my life, I’d dream of his smell and this kiss. It wasn’t fair. Every love interest I’d attempt to pen for the rest of my life would pale in comparison to my idea of him. I’d never be able to write another word again. I hated Jackson Bennett for it, but I still wouldn’t stop kissing him.
You wouldn’t have either.
I didn’t need to pull away, though. He did. Killjoy. I’m sure I sighed, or did something equally embarrassing. I didn’t have time to over-analyze what I did or did not do, however, because Jackson—with his lips swollen from our kiss—or pride at getting his way—rested his cheek against my temple. Probably just to relish in the frantic pace of the blood through my veins. Or to drive me crazy with nothing but breathing out. He also did it to tell me exactly what I wanted to know, but I had forgotten.
“I know Jack Claret is a pretentious asshole because…”
More breathing out. More brain cells I would never get back.
“Because I’m him.”
Whoa, his lips were way better for kissing than telling lies.
“Get out,” I said.
“No,” he breathed out again, but now I just wanted to hit him, “really.”
“No,” I mocked—because the witty part of my tongue was still only getting static from my brain, “Really.” I pleaded, shoving him toward the door and away from me. Forever, I hoped.
I had to give it to the guy. He was way more original than I gave him credit for. He probably told girls he picked up in clubs that he was the DJ. He probably told the girls he picked up at the mall that he was Versace. Those were the kinds of girls that would fall for it.
But he knew a lot about books. Maybe he normally picked up girls in Barnes & Noble.
“You are so full of crap,” I added for good measure. It didn’t make me feel better, though, and it didn’t seem to detour Jackson in the slightest.
“What will convince you?” He whirled back toward me again. I looked back at the clock by the register, willing it to be closing time. Jackson Bennett and I would probably better off with a locked door and a wall of iron bars between us. Alas, the stars and the clock were never in my favor. Twenty more minutes.
“I know!” He snapped his fingers. “Look at this!” He pressed something cold and slick to my face.
“A SighPhone," I grumbled, still unable to come up with anything remotely witty. "So what? You and a million other conformists have one. That just proves you're a tool—not that you’re a famous one.”
Jackson laughed. He thought I was hilarious. I didn’t feel funny. Just too tired to stand up.
“But do you know who this is?” He asked, indicating whatever was on his screen. Against my better judgment, I looked. I had to. It was a contact from his address book, for a Harold Silverman. Harold Silverman. I had attended three of his Webinars.
I tried to swallow, but I couldn’t make my throat work. I had written twenty-seven query letters for Harold Silverman, and deleted every single one of them without hitting send. For you non-writer types out there, query letters are what a writer does when they decide that they are really, really, into pain and punishment—and want people of power to crush their dreams and cut their souls.
Harold Silverman wasn’t just a crazy hot literary agent in New York City, he was like the agent. The guy on the top all the dream sheets, the guy lusted after by losers like me. He represented some of the top writing talent out there. Including stupid Jack Claret.
“Fine,” I admitted. “You’ve done your research, but that number could belong to anyone.”
His finger slid across the screen.
“Speakerphone,” he told me, but the phone didn’t ring. It went right to voice mail.
“You’ve reached the private line of Harold Silverman. I’m off getting the doctor recommended eight hours—but if I gave you this number I would probably be inclined to call you back. In the morning. Oh, and if this is Jack…” The man’s voice changed suddenly, “Jackson, for Christ's sake, don’t do anything drastic. Not without talking to me first, and Jackson don’t hang up without—”
23 1/2 Hours to Live is a New Adult Romance coming very very soon. Click the cover to add it to your Goodreads TBR list! (No, it's not coming out in December... I SWEAR!) It's currently away being edited, so this bit could contain typos, and mundane writer drama like that. Not that the book isn't absolutely filled with a completely different kind of writer drama!
“Tomorrow, I’ll be dead and… would you kiss me?”
Nine words kept bouncing around inside my head, trying to find a way out. Meanwhile, I was one graffiti-covered door away from the hottest guy I had ever even considered dating—a guy who may or may not be dying, like tomorrow.
I had left town with a stranger without telling a soul, but that didn't worry me. I didn't mind that this total barf-worthy bathroom hadn’t been cleaned since like, ever. No, the biggest deal in my whole tragic life was that all my underwear was as all as ugly and dull as I was. I had one thong to my name, and it was soaking wet, for the worst reason possible: an argument in a Denny’s parking lot plus a November rainstorm.
You know, it’s kind of a long story. Maybe I should start over.
If someone wrote a book about my life, no one would ever publish it... let alone read it. Up until two hours ago, critics would have been stumped, trying to describe my trifling existence with sharp words and poor ratings. ‘Twenty-something college dropout works in bookstore. Dreams of being an author, but thanks to a sudden dash of real life is too afraid to try. Likes dogs. Two stars.’
And up until five hours ago I knew exactly where you could find me tomorrow: at Price’s Used Books on 32nd Street. Sounds like a great address, but it's in a ratty strip mall hidden behind a Walgreen's, sandwiched between a long-closed video rental joint and a new neon-encrusted vape shop. I would have been at Price's tomorrow, just like last night and most nights of the last two years. I was content, mostly, encased in a sarcophagus of books. The walls were yellowed, the pages were yellowed, the carpet was yellowed, the thermostat was stuck on Broil, and my beat-up old blue Ford was the only car in the parking lot. The heater had kicked on again, threatening to turn the whole damn place to cinder. I had already stripped down to a black cami, and my bare legs had begun to grow slick with sweat under a very modest pencil skirt. My dirty blonde hair looked more of dirt than of blonde twisted in a messy knot, loose tendrils sticking tight to the back of my neck like thick scars.
I am sure I looked like a ghost of an edgy librarian as I wandered the aisles of the store. All I needed was a fog machine and some kids to scare as I glanced through rows and rows of books.
You would be surprised at how hard it can be, to find something to read in a bookstore. I was just about to leaf through my favorite Abbbi Glines novel when the bell of the door gave its usual half-ass clink, but in the unoccupied space it was a sudden and terrible as a clap of thunder.
Dropping the book by my bare feet, I became conscious of how I was dressed. Though, I was sure at the time it was just a regular. The men who came in looking for Michael Crighton and other old military-themed paperbacks would likely ogle my boobs and make a half-dozen crass jokes—though honestly they always ogled and made sexist comments—and probably would continue to do so even if I decided to wear sweats every day. Trust me, I’d thought about it, but I didn’t want to sweat to death.
Or kindly Miss Fuller, who pretended to only be interested in wholesome Christian Fiction and owned more Regency Romance than Harlequin. She would probably just tell my mother about how I dressed for work. Or worse, blurt it out at in the hallways in church. Not that I had bothered to attend in a few, four years.
And if it was my boss Mike—
It was none of those people.
It was no one I had ever seen at all.
It was a boy—a man really, with dark shredded blue jeans. They did not have holes, but the jeans had large patches where it looked as though they had been carelessly dragged across dirty cement. Perhaps from the back of a loud black motorcycle.
I hated to typecast the characters of the bookstore, but this guy was nothing like the people who came here. He wore a red, long sleeve T-shirt, which was thankfully devoid of any road rash. It did, however, stick to his shoulders and flat stomach like it was wet. Like he had been out for a stroll in the November yuck, instead of coming into a bookstore to bother me.
Beautiful boys were hard work, and outside of fiction they were usually assholes. Still, I had to dig deep to be able to despise him, so I worked my face into the best frown I could manage just to eclipse the look of shock I was sure had just been set on my lips. I had just got my arms across my chest, goosebumps prickling my unclothed arms, before he noticed me and smiled.
“Hey,” he said, like we were the best freaking friends. “Nice rack.”
I would like to think my mouth did not hang open like an idiot, but I am in denial about a lot of things in my life.
“No, seriously,” he told me, but I don’t believe him. “Shakespear, Sendak, Bradbury, Hemingway. Some of my favorite dudes and all on the same display. It’s awesome. None of those books even match!”
None of them matched. I had said that exact same thing to Phil—the guy who owned the bookstore, and I hadn’t been talking about the array of different volumes and covers. But Phil just looked at me with his usual tired indifference and said, “They’re all dead.” I repeated Phil's words now.
“Come again?” Redshirt arched a perfect eyebrow, and I really wanted to ask him not to do that. Only I knew it was better not to prove I was insane.
I could hear the voice of my father, warning me it was better to look like a fool than to open my mouth and remove all doubt.
But I knew I was going to remove all doubt anyway.
“The authors who wrote them,” my voice sounded smooth—which was good because I felt just as goosebumpy on the inside as I was on the out. “The authors who wrote them, they’re all dead.”
The heater stuttered to a halt, but my traitorous heart refused to do the same. The damage had been done, I had long ago passed the threshold of glistening and had leaped over to the side of sweating like a pig.
“Are you sure?” he asked, but his voice had taken on an off far away sound. It was hot, but I really wanted him to leave so I could write books about him. Books where he wasn’t an asshole. Books that I would hide under my bed for the next… oh, seventy or so years. You know, until I died and couldn’t be embarrassed anymore.
“Yeah,” I snapped, “sure.”
Sure, I was about to think of a whole damn series of books about the hot, sensitive guy, who was into ridiculously sexy librarians. I mean…I have to keep up with the theme I had built up. If I wrote about my own mundane self, no one would give a crap.
“Really?” He scoffed, and he slung his arms across his red chest, mocking me.
MOCKING ME.
By the time I dropped my arms to my side, I didn’t have to work so hard at hating him.
“So I assume you’ve seen the bodies? Because writers, sweetheart, writers are villains. I don’t know about you, but I never ever believe a villain is dead until I see the body.” He dropped his arms, too, and there was a smile behind his brown eyes.
“Oh, we are not—” I stopped and corrected myself. “Writers aren’t villains.”
“What’s your name?” he asked, but I just chewed my cheek and admired his leather shoes. I didn’t really want to be on a first-name basis with some moron who thought writers were the bad guys. As usual, what I wanted, and what happened were two starkly different things. In this case because—
“Kaylee!” He shouted, “Sorry, almost couldn't read your name tag, what, with all the stars and… stuff…”
He stopped at stuff.
I had clipped the stupid tag all awkward on one thin spaghetti strap. I had also covered most of it in blue and silver star stickers, but he didn’t need to know why.
“John Greene fan?” he asked, and his stupid eyebrow went at it again!
Also, yes. I am a huge John Greene fan, but that wasn’t it.
“Anyway, like I was saying. Authors are the absolutely worst sort of villains.” He says it like it’s a dare, and like he dares people to do dumb things all the time.
“That is such a stupid thing to say,” I told him. Straight out.
I wished I could just walk away. I, Kaylee Hall, am a firm advocate for the traditional flight response to confrontation. Sadly, I worked here and couldn’t just leave. It didn’t mean I couldn’t daydream of tossing him right out of the door.
“How so?” he asked, and I think right away it couldn’t be that hard. He couldn’t possibly weigh that much… and then I realized he couldn’t really be responding to the soap opera in my head. Writers are villains, that was probably his whole argument. He probably wasn’t going to explain anything.
I started to form a rebuttal in my head, but I knew it was useless. It was just like the high school debate team. There was no beating the jerks whose daddies were State Senators. It didn’t matter what I said, because dudes like him won at life. I worked part-time in a thrift store for books. I hadn’t won at high school, and I definitely hadn’t won at college.
You know what, I really shouldn’t go there.
“Writers are villians. Presidents?” he says, positioning himself so he can lean against the second-hand rag mags, “People of power? They may push buttons and launch bombs, but not without the might of the people behind them. Not without armies. Not without ammunition and guns. But writers? They wave pens and ruin lives. They break hearts with punctuation marks. They could be merciful. Saint-like. But they aren’t.”
My heart stopped right there next to the display of dead guys. Apparently it wasn’t good enough my life was dull, it had to be wrong too. Was this guy for real?
“Who are you?” I asked him.
I couldn’t believe my mind had shocked my remaining organs back into working order.
Did I dream you into existence?
“I’m Jackson Bennett. Mind if I ask you a question Kaylee?"
The good news is, I managed to nod without falling to pieces. No need to tell him after his last speech he could ask me almost anything because my brain was total mush. Anything but where we kept the manga, or porn, because that was the only thing the young hot guys did ask for.
“Great, but don’t answer until you consider all the facts first,” he said.
“Okay.” If I sounded skeptical, it was because I was skeptical.
“Tomorrow, I’ll be dead and… would you kiss me?”
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