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King of the Causeway (King #9.5)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:
A massive hurricane looms off the coast of Florida while a different kind of storm is brewing in Logan’s beach.
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Guess who? I’ll give you a hinty-hint. I’m as handsome as a supermodel, and as devilish as, well, the devil. I get a hard-on for both pussy and pancakes. I like my blow with a side of blow, and my man meat is enormous.
That’s right! It’s me, Samuel Motherfucking Clearwater.
If you’re wondering how I’m able to do this introduction, then you need to read Bear’s story ‘cause the end will blow your mind! Then, read my story, you know, because it’s about me. I tell you what. If you read it, I’ll make you pancakes. Dirty, dirty, delicious pancakes. I’ll stand over you and pour that syrup right into your sweaty hot…you get the point.
But, I motherfucking digress.
Basically, I’m here because I’m fucking alive. Like Stefano from Days of Our Lives, (Don’t pretend like you’ve never seen it). I just keep coming back for more.
There, you’re all caught up on me. Onward and upward, motherfuckers.
I’m going to need you to sit back, hold onto your nipples, and get ready for the continuation of Boss-Man and Doe’s story. Or King and Pup. Or Brantley and Ramie. Shit, between the two of them, they’ve got like a million names, but it doesn’t matter which one you call them, the story is still about the same two people, who just happen to be my family as well as my two best friends.
Important note: Don’t tell Bear I said that. That motherfucker will get his titties in a jealous twist if he knew he wasn’t my number one man. I mean, sure he plays hard to get, but the shirtless wonder has a soft spot for ole Preppy, and we don’t want to go hurting all his big burly man feelings before we even get into the story, right?
So, relax. Take a bubble bath. Put on some nice calming music like some Offspring or old school Limp Bizkit. Maybe, pour yourself a glass of wine or a light fat joint. A bucket of blow is always a fun option.
Now, for a little recappy cap. *Clears throat*
Once upon a time in a land far, far away, but centrally located in Southwest Florida, was a little awesome, yet shitty town called Logan’s Beach. There, long, long ago, two people fell madly in love very much the way most couples do.
It’s a tale as old as time. You know, girl with no memory offers herself to boy as a hooker hoping for safety. Boy rejects girl, then kidnaps girl. Then, girl runs away; then boy decides to keep girl. Boy and girl fall in love and have dirty sex and get tattoos. Somewhere in there is a carnival and an incorrect statement about penguins being the only flightless bird. Coolest person in the fucking world dies. Boy offers girl back to her father in exchange for boy’s daughter. Girl thinks boy is dead. Girl marries a fucking prick in order to adopt boy’s daughter. Boy is actually alive. Girl regains memory and realizes the prick is a super prick. Prick dies violently and much deservedly. Boy and girl get two kids for the price of one in an epic family BOGO.
And they lived happily ever after. The end.
Dum dum duuuummmmmmm!
Imma go make me a delicious sammich. Catch you on the flip side.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Three huge speakers, stacked one atop the other, vibrate and pulse as the music forces itself through them. Deep, bass notes beat against my chest, penetrating my rib cage. My already pounding heart sputters. I cough and wheeze, pulling in a shaky breath. I place my palm over my breast as if it could somehow calm my heart through the layers of clothes, skin, blood, muscle, and bone.
A sheen of sweat breaks out on my heated skin, but inside, I’m ice. Maybe, it’s a foreboding. A warning not to take another step.
But I’ve been through this already.
I don’t have a choice.
I choke down my unease with a dry swallow. Each step I take down the narrow hall through the sea of closed-eyed dancers gyrating against one another moves me closer toward the hell I’ve created for myself.
I’m so sorry, but I don’t see any other way, I silently apologize to the girl I don’t know. The one I was before I lost my memory. The one who took up residence in my body before I woke up on a bench with nothing and became friends with a hooker I don’t even like.
I don’t dislike Nikki because she’s a hooker, but because she’s a bitch.
Through the eerie drug-induced movements of the bodies surrounding me and between the flashes of pulsating light, I manage to keep my eyes trained on the goal.
The door at the end of the hall.
The door to my salvation.
The door to my— a sense of deja-vu breaks my focus.