To celebrate the day of love (and hot guys), I thought I'd gift you all with something fun. I've been working away on Altered 3 these last few months, and it's getting closer and closer to the end! I'm so excited for you all to read this book, but unfortunately, it's still eleven months away. To hold you (and me) over, I'm posting a short excerpt from Altered 3, from Nick's perspective.
For those of you who don't know, Altered 3 is a companion novel to Altered and Erased, and it's told from the dual points of view of Nick and a new girl character --- a girl from Nick's past. When I first set out to write this book, I was terrified at the idea of writing from Nick's POV. How could I capture someone so brooding and dark and angry? I wasn't sure if I could pull it off, but I'm happy to say, writing Nick has been one of the best writing experiences yet.
So, without further preamble, let's get to the good stuff!
This is the opening of Altered 3 as it is now. I don't think the scene itself will change much at this point, but this is still in the middle of editing, so things could change on a sentence level.
I hope you all enjoy it!
I never took to fighting like the others. I could do it well enough. Maybe I was even good at it. But I didn't like it. Or maybe it was that I liked it too much.
Sam only fought when it meant something. Like escaping. Surviving. Protecting. Cas treated fighting like a dance—he always wanted to show off the best moves. Mostly because he's a jackass.
When I fought, I had a hard time pulling back.
I slammed a shot of whiskey, the cheap shit, and felt the muscles in my stomach tense. Pull from the core, that's what Sam always said. Or maybe it was something he used to say, back before we lost our memories to the Branch—the shadowy organization that turned us into super soldiers, and then tried to kill us when we didn’t obey like dogs.
"Did you hear me?" the man next to me said.
"I did." I felt the gloom of the bar settle over me. There'd always been something about dark, smokey bars. Something familiar.
"Well, what do you have to say then?" the man said.
He was taller than me by a handful of inches. Bigger too. Fatter, though, which meant he was slower. Speed always wins over brawn, if you ask me.
I turned to the man, wavered to give him the idea I was drunk, which I wasn't. Or at least, not entirely. I peered at him from beneath heavy lids, and then looked over his shoulder at his girlfriend or sister or maybe it was his mom. "Your mom is pretty. I'm sorry I hit on her."
The woman frowned. The man scowled.
"That ain't what I'm talking about. My friend says he saw you steal my wallet back near the john. Did you?"
"Well he said you did."
If I were really trying, there wouldn't have been witnesses to the lift. So I guess I'd been sloppy on purpose.
Maybe I did like fighting after all.