Title: A Song for Julia
Author: Charles Sheehan-Miles
Release date: December 15, 2012
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Age Group: New Adult
Event organized by: AToMR Tours
Book Description:
Everyone should have something to rebel against.
Crank Wilson left his South Boston home at sixteen to start
a punk band and burn out his rage at the world. Six years later, he's still at
odds with his father, a Boston cop, and doesn't ever speak to his mother. The
only relationship that really matters is with his younger brother, but watching
out for Sean can be a full-time job.
The one thing Crank wants in life is to be left the hell
alone to write his music and drive his band to success.
Julia Thompson left a secret behind in Beijing that exploded
into scandal in Washington, DC, threatening her father's career and dominating
her family's life. Now, in her senior year at Harvard, she's haunted by a voice
from her past and refuses to ever lose control of her emotions again, especially
when it comes to a guy.
When Julia and Crank
meet at an anti-war protest in Washington in the fall of 2002, the connection
between them is so powerful it threatens to tear everything apart.
Excerpt #1 - Suburban Princess (Crank)
October
26, 2002
Maybe it’s just me. But I would have
thought that a girl at the center of the biggest anti-war protest since the
Vietnam War might not have had such a gigantic stick up her ass.
But no … there she was, her mouth
moving, and I didn’t understand a word. To be fair, she was wicked hot, even if
she did dress like a librarian; she wore a floral knee-length skirt that hugged
her thighs and a pastel colored sweater with what looked like a thousand
bangles and bracelets running up her right wrist. Her eyes were a striking pale
blue, framed with dark brownish-blonde hair. She had this schoolgirl look about
her that made me want to lick the back of her neck. It was the hostile stream
of words out of her sexy little mouth that caused me to step back, both
irritated and defensive.
“What was that?” I asked, hoping to get
the torrent of words to just stop.
She took a deep breath and closed her
eyes. I grinned.
“What I said was, you guys can’t set up
here just yet. Mark Tashburn is about to go on … then there’s a fifteen-minute
break. You guys can set up after that.”
I rolled my eyes. “And we go on at the
end of the fifteen minutes?”
She smiled, her face relaxing a little.
I don’t think she liked me that much. Her smile looked fake. Those ice cold
eyes? Her smile never reached that far. I wondered what a genuine smile from
her would look like.
“That’s right,” she replied.
“That won’t work,” I said. “Takes
longer to set up than fifteen minutes.”
She sighed. “And why, exactly, are we
just finding this out now?”
“Hey, not my fault. I don’t know who
organized the time schedule on this thing, but it’s a complete mess. If you
want us playing in 30 minutes, we needed to start setting up an hour ago. Takes
time to set up the equipment and tune up.”
She huffed a little and said, “Fine. Just
… try not to distract the audience too much.”
Jesus, whatever. She came running up
the moment we’d started to carry equipment on stage. Not like the crowd was
paying attention anyway, there must be a hundred thousand people out there.
Bunch of hippies and peace freaks and what looked to be effing soccer moms. For
the hundredth time, I asked myself how the hell I’d gotten roped into playing
at an anti-war protest.
Of course, this was the biggest venue
we’d ever played. But seriously, so far, the speakers had been a series of
retreads from the 1960s. If that didn’t show how disconnected this thing was
from reality, I didn’t know what did.
Whatever. This was Serena’s deal. She
was big in the anti-war politics. And what Serena was into, the band did. We
didn’t have a manager, but she was the closest to it. She sang with me and
played rhythm guitar and had a magic sense for what music would work and what
wouldn’t.
We rushed to get set up without
alarming the natives or hippies. Finished in record time, no thanks to the
princess who was off to the side of the stage with a clipboard, directing
people here and there.
So, between the setup, tune up, and
start, I had about fifteen seconds to take a breath and then launched into the
first licks. The college kids in the audience started to groove on it right
away, but the senior citizens and soccer moms … and holy shit, there was a lot
of them … stared up at us as if the stage had been swept with radioactive
contamination. I gave the guitar and vocals just an extra twinge for them,
blasting out the raunchiest original version of the lyrics to our song “Fuck
the War” rather than the extra special sensitive studio lyrics we’d ended up
releasing.
I don’t want to mislead you. Morbid
Obesity isn’t a punk band, more alternative rock, with a bit of an edge. I’m
the edge. To date, our most popular song was “Fuck the War,” which we released
on an EP a few months back. It’s a love song about my mom and dad, but you’ve
got to listen to the lyrics to get that. I put a lot of emotion into it when I
was writing it and when I performed it.
It was a perfect day to be on stage and
outdoors: cool, but not cold. The sky was clear and cloudless, an occasional
breeze wafting across the stage, a hundred thousand people of all shapes, sizes
and colors spread across the frickin’ National Mall. I’d never seen anything
like it.
I was on the second round of the chorus
when I looked to the right of the stage and saw Miss Princess. She was grooving
on the music. Moving just slightly, her lips were parted in a way that caught
my breath. Pouty lips. Kissable lips. I had to laugh at myself a bit. So not my
type. Well, except that she was female and kind of hot. Still, not my type.
Back in high school, some freak
accident of the Boston Public School system sent a group of rich kids from Back
Bay to South Boston High. That was a laugh. It only lasted a year, though I
don’t know if that’s because they got the zoning reversed, or the parents just
yanked their kids from the public schools. This girl reminded me of some of
those kids. Imperious. Superior. Some of them looked at the rats like me as if
we were future criminals.
I wonder if that’s why she was turning
me on so much?
It made me want to tease her a little,
so when I launched into the second verse, I sang right to her, and her alone. I
was on the second verse when she met my eyes. I held them. Her eyes, so distant
and blue, were arresting. She noticed I was singing to her and froze in place,
a deer caught in the headlights. I love it when girls react that way. Showed
she was human. If we’d been back home in Boston, I’d have grabbed her and
pulled her on the stage, but that wouldn’t go over with this audience.
After a second though, she met my eyes
and gave a sly grin, as if to say ‘I know
what you’re up to.’ I grinned back, belting out the lyrics. The bass and
drums in this song were powerful and demanded that the body dance. I broke off
eye contact and took off across the stage, threw myself into the solo,
screaming out the lyrics at the crescendo, and then I brought the song to a
crashing halt.
Despite the shock of the soccer moms
and lobbyists in the crowd, the college kids loved it and screamed for more.
Suburban Princess applauded, a mysterious grin on her face. I wanted to know
her a lot better.
That wasn’t going to happen. This was
an anti-war protest, not a meet and greet. As soon as the song finished, we
started breaking down the stage and golden girl jumped up to the microphone and
shouted, “Give it up for Morbid Obesity and their hit “Fuck the War”!” I paused
what I was doing to check her out while she was at the microphone.
The crowd went nuts again, which was
nice. Hearing the name of my song on those lips was even nicer. But five
seconds later, she was introducing the next round of speakers, a bunch of
broken down Vietnam and Gulf War vets who had been dredged up by the organizers
of this parade to give it some credibility.
Mark and I dragged most of the
equipment off the stage, while Pathin broke down the drums, and Serena pulled
the extra monitors and wiring apart. As I stepped off the stage for the last
time, the suburban princess met me at the bottom of the stairs. I stumbled down
the last step and ended up less than six inches away from her, looking down
into those fantastic eyes.
“You guys were pretty good,” she said,
her head tilted back, eyes on mine. “Thanks for doing this.”
I shrugged and grinned. “It was fun.”
Pretty good? That’s it? Jesus, she was close. I could smell her perfume, a
faint, pretty smell.
“So …” she said, looking me in the
eyes.
Awkward.
“How long is this thing gonna go?” I
asked.
“Half a dozen more speakers, then they
march around the White House. Maybe another hour.”
Mark walked up just as she was
answering the question. Our bass player, Mark, is a big guy, who might have
been a football player in an alternate universe where football players smoked
too much pot and hung out with the bugs in the Pit in Harvard Square. His eyes
widened when I opened my stupid mouth again.
“So, after it’s over, want to grab some
lunch?”
For just a second her smile faltered,
and she looked … almost angry. I know I’m not exactly wearing frickin’ tweed,
but I’m not a bad guy, no need to be offended.
“Come on,” I said, “it’s just lunch. I
won’t do anything too offensive.”
Mark spoke in a sarcastic tone, “I
don’t think she’s your type, Crank.”
She closed her mouth, eyes darting to
Mark. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips set in a thin line. It looked like she
wanted to hit him. This girl was volatile. I liked that. “Sure,” she said. “Where?”
I shrugged. “Um … I don’t know the
area.”
She looked thoughtful for just a second.
“Georgia Brown’s at 15th and K Street. They’ve got outdoor seating. See you
there … four o’clock?”
Yes! Was it me, or had she moved closer
to me?
Mark let out a chuckle and walked away.
“All right, see you at four,” I said,
looking at her eyes one more time.
I don’t know what the hell I was
thinking.
Giveaway per blog: (1) eBook
copy of A SONG FOR JULIA. Mobi and epub formats are available. Open
International.
About the Author
Charles Sheehan-Miles
has been a soldier, computer programmer, short-order cook and non-profit
executive. He is the author of several books, including the indie bestsellers
Just Remember to Breathe and Republic: A Novel of America's Future.
Author social media links:
https://www.facebook.com/CharlesSheehanMiles
Fan group:
https://www.facebook.com/groups/384693288275181/
https://twitter.com/CSheehanMiles
Website:
http://www.sheehanmiles.com
Buy Links:
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/0988273659/
Kobo:
http://www.kobobooks.com/ebook/A-Song-for-Julia/book-ZGax6QmN6UKhq8Q4Cgblxg/page1.html?s=bhQX3cKyPkevJmqHjCrIYg&r=1
BN:
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-song-for-julia-charles-sheehan-miles/1113891044?ean=2940015799866&itm=1&usri=a+song+for+julia
Apple:
https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/a-song-for-julia/id584188847?mt=11
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