Sunday, March 26, 2017

Pre-Order Blitz with Excerpt for Crazy for You by Daisy Prescott



Reminding myself of the lowered percentage of oxygen speeds up my breathing again.

My heart thumps faster, creating a wooshing sound of blood in my ears.

Is it suddenly hot?

I feel hot.

Could be the blazing sun. That’s probably it.

What are the first signs of hypothermia?

Leaning back, I do the one thing my earth science teacher, Mrs. Roe, made me swear I’d never, ever do. I stare at the pale sun. I’m living on the edge, literally. What do I have to lose?

I remind myself I’m sitting in a pile of snow and the temperature probably hovers near thirty.

I wonder if I’ll ever see thirty

More crazy people ski by me while I begin writing my obituary.

Dr. Mara Keiley, DVM, 28, recently of Snowmass Village, Colorado, foolishly believed she was confident and skilled enough to tackle a double-black diamond run after years of being a solid teal skier—a low risk combination of blue and green slopes. She is mourned, and judged for her poor decision making by her parents, Raymond and Sheryl Keiley, who always wanted a doctor in the family, a real, human doctor, not a veterinarian, and her younger brother, Todd, who played high school football, and is still the favorite child. She was unmarried, single, and a size twelve at the time of her death, but not a virgin. Dr. Keiley is survived by two cats and a dog of dubious origin.

Nailed it.

Sounds about right if my mother is put in charge of writing it. Perfectly captures her vague, passive aggressive disappointment. If she only she knew, she’d be thrilled my last thoughts are of her.

“Hey,” another man shouts from above me. “Are you okay? You, in the red hat. Hello?”

His deep, resonant voice and confident delivery remind me of a movie trailer narrator.

Twisting to see behind me, I lean too far to the left, shifting my body weight, and slide downhill sideways. In an attempt to right myself, I lift my left ski pole and stab it into the snow.


Now I’m lying with my head downhill and my legs spread eagle, skis akimbo. A pole rests a few feet away. Sitting up to reclaim it requires stronger ab muscles than I possess. I should’ve listened about strengthening my core.

I can’t even think “core” without cringing. I blame my grandmother’s romance novels I snuck as a kid. Her core trembled as Sir Reginald stroked her slick folds. Shudder. A girl can learn many things about the ways of love and throbbing manhoods by sneaky reading romances.

With the sun in my eyes, I can’t clearly make out the face of the speaker, but I recognize his red and black uniform. White crosses decorate the chest and sleeve.

He’s ski patrol.

Thank you, God.

“Are you injured?” he calls down to me.

“Only my pride,” I mumble into my jacket.

“Anything broken?” He continues as if I haven’t spoken.

“No, I’m fine,” I raise my voice so he can hear me.

“You don’t look fine. Think you can right yourself and uphill? Climb back to me?” I can’t see his eyes behind his reflective goggles, but I can hear the smile in his voice. I can’t tell if it’s friendly or condescending.

“I think I’m kind of wedged in here.” I use my remaining ski pole to gesture at my skis jutting out of the snow at right angles.

“I can see that. Can you pop yourself out of your bindings? Use the big long stick in your hand.”

“You use your big stick,” I mumble as I jab at my bindings. If shooting fish in a barrel is easy, spearing them must be the opposite.

I fail.

“Never as easy as it looks.” He executes a small hop and glides down the mountain like a commercial for men’s deodorant. Or beer. Something manly and smooth. Razors.

He’s like a damn razor commercial with his smooth moves.