Triple M 1 - Losing Me, Finding You.pdf

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C.M. Stunich
Sarian Royal
Losing Me, Finding You
Copyright © C.M . Stunich 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 1863 Pioneer Pkwy. E Ste. 203, Springfield, OR 97477-3907.
www.sarianroyal.com
ISBN-10: 1938623444 (eBook)
ISBN-13: 978-1-938623-44-8 (eBook)
"Triple M " Name Used With Permission From M elissa, M ireya, and M egan of "Triple M Bookclub"
Edited by Brandy Little of "Little Bee's Editing Services"
Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal
"Optimus Princeps" and "Ultra Condensed Sans Serif" Fonts © M anfred Klein
"Ink In The M eat" Font © Billy Argel
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended
by the author.
to the lovely Triple M Bookclub in all its many eccentricities.
thanks for the names, the (perverted) suggestions, and the continuous enthusiasm that you show for every book you read.
the world could use a whole lot more just like you.
in no particular order, I dedicate this book to: Melissa, Mireya, and Megan (the fearless leaders of the group). Jodie, Kimberly, Mint,
Brandi, Jen, Amy, Sali, and all the other wonderful members of Triple M who let me use their names.
to the book bloggers who wanted this so bad, they were willing to wait.
and of course, to my street team and my Kitty Crew: Jennifer M., Leanne J., and Marlena F.
couldn't do it without you.
I wake to a dull roar that quickly becomes deafening. The sound rattles the windows in my bedroom
and sends my father into a raging fury about
those darn criminals
which I can only assume refers to
the motorcycle gangs that have been rolling into town lately for the antique bike show. My father does
this every year, says these things every year.
I should really move out.
“Amy,” my mother says, opening my door the same way she has every day since I started
kindergarten. “Time to get up. We're meeting your aunt over at the church to plan the potluck on
Saturday.” I smile and nod, hold my tongue and refuse to tell her that a potluck plans itself. People
bring dishes; other people eat them. There isn't much to figure out.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say and blow her a kiss as she backs away and resigns herself to listening to my
father complain. What he conveniently forgets is that those 'criminals' make up a pretty hefty portion
of our town's summer economy. Without them, I don't think many of the shops downtown would still
be in business. I sigh and stand up as another wave of noise approaches from the direction of the
highway. Moved by my curiosity, I stand by the window and part the drapes so I can catch a glimpse
of the men and women who are so far outside my realm of being that they might as well be aliens.
They wear leather and have piercings and tattoos. The open road is their home and mine, mine is this
three bedroom, two bath prison which is perfectly nice but so stifling that sometimes, it makes me
sick.
I watch the wave of bikers drive by and press my fingertips to the shaking glass.
“Take me with you,” I whisper as they fly by and disappear around the corner. I imagine what it
would feel like to just run away with them, try something new, something different. I shake my head
and turn away. It's not going to happen, not for me. Girls like me don't wrap their arms around men in
leather, straddle massive hunks of metal that my mom refers to solely as
death traps,
drive to cities
we've never been. Girls like me put on their yellow camisoles, their white sweaters and their below
the knee skirts. We grab our purses, slather on some clear lip gloss and sit in the passenger seat while
our mother talks about the nice boy who just moved to town with his parents.
Poor guy,
I think as I

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