BLOG TOUR GIVEAWAY & SPOTLIGHT: Dead Dreams by Emma Right

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Eighteen-year-old Brie O’Mara has so much going for her: a loving family in the sidelines, an heiress for a roommate, and dreams that might just come true. Big dreams–of going to acting school, finishing college and making a name for herself. She is about to be the envy of everyone she knew. What more could she hope for? Except her dreams are about to lead her down the road to nightmares. Nightmares that could turn into a deadly reality.

 DeadDreamsBook1
 
 
 

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Prologue & Chapter 1

Prologue

 
 
Theysayeachdeadbody,ahumancorpse, has
ascentallofitsown,asweetsoursmell.Acadaver
dogpicksuptheodorasclearlyasamotherrecognizesa
photo
of her child. Ofcourse,
I wouldn’tknow, for I am no
dog.Imightaswellhavebeen,thewayI’dstoopedto yieldtomybasicinstincts.Mymindwanderedtoher,
whatheruniquesmellwouldbewhen,andif,theyever were
to findher.
 
 
  
Afterwhathappened,Idecidedtowriteoutthe eventsthatledtothatdayanddetailsincaseIdmissed something,ormightneeditfordefense,orincasethey foundme dead.
My relativesmight
need topiece together
thethingsthathadspiraledoutofcontrol,iftheywanted toputmetorest,toforgetmealtogether.Thatwouldb
leastpainfulforthem.InoddedtomyselfasIsatinthe car.
Ithoughtofmymostfavoritegirlintheworld:Lilly.
Atleast
L
illydhavemydog,
Holly, toremember me
by
 
MyfriendsusedtocallmeBrie,shortforBrianna.
But,Icouldhardlycountanyonea friend 
anymore.Id have toresort to
backwatchingif Iwantedtosurvive.
 
 
 
 ChapterOne
 
 
ItstartedonawarmAprilafternoon.Gusts ofwindblewagainsttheoaktreerightoutsidemy kitchenbalcony,inmytinyapartmentinAtherton,
California.Sometimesthebranchesthattouchedtheside
ofthebuildingmadescrapingnoises.Theyellow
huckleberryflowerstwiningtheirwayacrossmy
apartmentbalconyinfusedthe
air
with sweetness.
 
Mymotherhadinsisted,as 
washertendencyon mostthings,Itakethepotofwildhuckleberry,her housewarminggift,tomynewtwobedroomapartment. Itwa
sn’treallynew,justnewtome,aswastheentire experienceoflivingseparately,
awayfrommy  family, andtheprospectofhavingaroommate,someonewho couldbeabestfriend,
somethingI’ddreamedofsinceI
finishedhighschool
anddebutedinto adulthood.
 
“Waitformebythecurb,”mymothersaid,her
voiceblaringfromthephoneeventhoughIdidn’tsether
onspeaker.“Youneedtoeatbetter.
Herusual punctuationatthe
end
ofherorders.



 
So,I
skippeddown threeflightsofstepsandheaded
towardthesideoftheapartmentbuildingtoawaitmy
mothersgiftoftheevening,saladin análachickenstyle,
herinsistentrecipetocuremeofbadeatinghabits.At
le
astitwasn’tchickensoupdoubleboiledtillthebones
melted, I consoled myself.
 
Ihadn’twaitedlongwhenavehiclecareenedround
thecorner.Ihearditfirst,thathighpitchedscreechof brakeswearingthinwhenthedriverrammedhisfoot
againstit.Fromthecornerofmyeye,evenbeforeI turnedtofaceit,Isawthebluetruck.Itroundedthe bendwhereEmersonStreetmetRavenswood,tottered before
it righteditself andheaded
straight atme.
 
Itookthreestepsback,fellandscrambledtoget
backupasthevehiclelikeagiantbulletstruckthe
sidewalkIhadonly  secondsagostoodon.Thedriver musthavelostcontrol,butwhenhehitthesidewalkit
slowedthevehicleenoughsohecouldbridlehisspeed and
managethetruckashecontinuedtocareendown the street.
 
Mymotherarrived
ahalfminutelaterbutshehad seenitall.Likesuperwoman,sheleapedoutofher twentyyearoldMercedesandrushedtowardme,all
breathlessand blondehairdisheveled.
 
Are you all right?She
reached
out to
helpme up.
 
Yes,yes,”Isaid,brushingthedirtoffmyyoga pants.
 
“Crazydriver.Brie,Ijustdontknowaboutthis
businessofyoustayingaloneherelikethis.”Shewalked 
backtoherwhiteMercedes,leanedintheopenwindow,
and
broughtoutacasseroledishpiledhighwith somethinggreen.
Make that severalshadesof
green.
 
Ifollowedher,admittedlywinded.Seriously,Mom.
It’sjustoneofthosethings.Maddriverscouldhappen anywhere
I live.”
 
Shegavemenoendofgriefastowhatabadideait wasformetolivealonelikethiseventhoughsheknewI was going to get
aroommate.
 
“Mom,stopworrying,”Isaid.
 
Youreasking
metostop
being yourmother,
Ihope
you realize this.”
 
“I’llfindsomeonedependablebytheendofthe
week,Ipromise.”No
wayIwasgoingbacktoliveat
home. Not thatI came
from
a bad home environment. But
I had my reasons.
 
IhadadvertisedonCraigsList,despitemy mothersproteststhatonlyscumwouldanswer“those
kinds ofads.
 
PerhapstherewassometruthtoMothersbiases, butIwouldntexactlycallSarahMcIntyrescum.Ifshe was, what
would thatmakeme?
 
Sarah’sfatherhadinheritedthefamily“coalmoney.TheirancestorshademigratedfromScotland
(whereelse,withanamelikeMcIntyre,right?)inthe
early1800sandboughtanentiremountain(Ikidyou
not)inWestVirginia.Itwasaonehitwonderinthatthe
mountainhidacoalfortuneunderit,andhencethe McIntyreCoalRightsCompanywasborn.Thiswasthe
 
McIntyreclaimtowealth,andalsoasourceofremorse
andguiltforSarah,forsupposedlydozensofminers workingforthemhadlosttheirlivesduetothebusiness, mosttolungcancerorblacklung,asitwascommonly called. Hazards of the occupation.
 
Andthentherewerecave-ins,whichpresented
anotherset of drama
altogether, Sarahsaid.
 
Isatacrossfromher,thecoffeetablebetweenus,in thesmalllivingroomduringourfirstmeeting.So,that’s whyyourenotontalkingtermswithyourfamily? Because of
abusesof the
coal company?
”Iasked.
 
Wesippedhotcocoaandsatcrossleggedinthe
crammedlivingroom,whichalsodoubledasthedining
space.I’dneverinterviewedanyonebefore,althoughId
read tipson the
Internet.
 
“Ijustdontwanttoberemindedanymore,”she
said,twirlingherdarkringletsroundandroundonher pointerfinger.
 
“But,itsnotentirelyyourdadsfault
thosepeople died of
lungproblems.
 
“Iguess,butIjustwanttogetaway,you understand?Anyway,I’malmosttwentyonenow.Thats
threeyearstoolateformovingoutandestablishingmy
ownspace.”Shetooktinysipsofthecocoa,bothhands cupping the mug
asifshe werecold.
 
Iwalkedtothethermostatanduppedthe
temperature.Aslightdraftstillstoleinfromagapinthe
balconyslidingdoorIalwayskeptopenacracktoletthe aircirculate.
 
“So,yourfamily’sokaywithyoulivinghere?In
California? In thisapartment
that’s
probably smallerthan
your bathroom
W
ith a stranger?”
 
Firstoff,itsnoneoftheirbusiness.Secondly,you andIwon’tstaystrangers.Sarahflashedmeagrin.
“Besides,I’mtiredofbighouseswithtoomanyroomsto
get lostin. And,have you lived
inWestVirginia?
 
Ishookmyhead.ThefarthestI’dbeenwasNevada
whenwewentforourfamilyannualskivacation.I hearditspretty.
 
“Ifyoulikehot,humidsummersandbittercold
winters. So,
do I pass?
As
aroommate?
 
Shelookedaboutattheceiling.Iwonderedifshe noticedthedarkwebinthecornerandthelackof
cornicesandcrownmoldings.IwassureIsmelledmold
inthelivingroom,too.ButIwasn’tinapositionto
choose. Sarah was.
 
Aslongasyourenotapsychopathandcanpay
rent.”Ireturned
her
smile.
 
Idontknowaboutthepsychopathpart.She
shruggedanddisplayedherwhite,evenlyspacedteeth. Buthere’smybankaccount.”Shetossedmeanavyblue bookletwithgildededgesandwithgoldenwords“Bank
of America”onthe cover.
 
IfumbledasIcaughtitandwasunsurewhattodo. ShouldI peek?
 
“Goon.Shegestured,flicking her
fingersat
measif
Iwereastraycatafraidtotakeamorselofheroffering.
 
No secrets. I can
well afford to payrent.
And
,I’m astable individual.
 
Iflippedthefirstfewpagesandsawthenumerous transactionsinlumpsmyparents,whowerebyno meanspoor,wouldhavegaspedat.Thelastpage registeredthenumbers:underdeposits,$38,000.My
eyesscannedtherowofnumbersandrealizedthatthe sum $38,000 came
upeverysixth of the
month.
 
Mymouthmusthavebeenopenforshesaid,“You canstopgawking.Itsonlymytrustfund.Itcomestome regardlessofwhereIam,orwhereIstay.So,doImake the cut?”
 
Ihandedthebankbookback.Wediscussedthe
houserules:no smoking;
no
drugs,andthatincludedpot; noboyfriendsleepoversorwildparties,whichwasa clause
inmylandlordslease;andSarahwastohandme
hershareoftherent,amere$800amonth,onthe
twentyeighthofeverymonth,sinceIwasthemain renterandshe thesubletter.
 
Shedidn’twantanythingdownonpaperno checks,nocontracts,and noway
oftracing thingsbackto
her, shedstressed
afew times.
 
ShefishedinherLouisVuittonandhandedmea brownpaperbag,thekindkidscarrytheirschool lunchesin.Ipeekedinsideandtookoutastashofwhat lookedlikeawadofpapersbundledtogetherwitha rubberband.Herthreemonthshareofthedeposit,a
totaloftwentyfourcrisphundreddollarbills.Theyhad
that distinct newbanknotes-smell
that spoke of luxury.
 
Igulpeddownmyhotchocolate.Whyallthe secrecy?Ihopeyourparentswillatleastknowyour
address.
”IsaidasIwrappeduptheinterview.Icould
understandnotwantingparentsbreathingdownher
neck,butaslongastheydid
n’tinsistonpostingaguard atthedoor,whatwastheharmofthemknowingwhere
she lived?
 
Sarahglancedabouttheroomasifafraidthe neighborsmighthavetheirearspinnedtothewalls, listening.
 
Sheleanedforwardand,herfaceexpressionless,
said
softly,
“My parentsare
dead.
 
 
About the Author

Emma Right is a happy wife and home school mother of five living in the Pacific West Coast of the USA. Besides running a busy home, and looking after their five pets, which includes two cats, two bunnies and a long-haired dachshund, she also writes stories for her children. When she doesn’t have her nose in a book, she is telling  her kids to get theirs in one.

Right worked as a copywriter for two major advertising agencies and won several awards, including the prestigious Clio Award for her ads, before she settled down to have children.

 
 
You can stalk, I mean follow Emma here
               
 
 

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1 Paperback copy of DEAD DREAMS (DOMESTIC ONLY – ebook for International)1 Amazon Gift Card for $15 

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