I want to say I don't recall where I picked this one up from, but, in reality, I recall that Audible was having a "First Book In A Series On Sale For Five Dollars" sale, and I looked through 54 pages of first-book-in-a-series books to see if any were interesting or of interest. This one, and Rage Against The Dying caught my attention, so I checked them out of the library.
For the record, I didn't know this was going to erotic suspense. Had I known, I likely would not have picked it up to read, and I really wouldn't have checked it out from the library.
That said, I read it in one sitting.
THAT said, I read it in one sitting partly because I was a captive audience. It was the only book I had with me on a four hour flight. I know, I know. How the hell do I have ONLY one book with me on a flight? Poor planning and frazzled attention, that's how.
So, how about this book? Well, "Dexter meets Fifty Shades" is the blurb. Having not read Fifty Shades, I can't comment on that part. The Dexter part, yes. The overt sex parts were, well, jolting. Upside of being able to read quickly? Being able to read even faster over the parts that are eyerolling.
If you are a fan of this genre, I suspect this is a good book. It's a fast read, to be sure. There is no mystery in the book, but there is plot and it is fast paced. The sex parts, well, they are anatomically well described, and the swooning parts well absurd.
It’s amazing how much people give away on their way from the elevator to their apartment. Sometimes people step out of their apartment for “privacy,” a fact I find hilarious. From my doorside seat, I hear the fights, the secret phone conversations, and the everyday normalcy that gives away so much about a person.
For some reason, men feel more comfortable divulging their secrets when they are invisible.
I’ve taken those drugs, and I don’t want the life they would bring. To have a free body but a caged mind? To stumble through the world in a zombielike state, never feeling anything, never conscious enough to really know anyone? I’d rather live my life as it is. Where I experience everything, even the horrific fantasies of my psychotic mind.
I hate my former self; hate her selfishness and her lack of appreciation for her perfect suburban life. I had everything in the palm of my perfect, lazy hand and didn’t even realize it.
He didn’t understand that despite her actions toward my family, despite the fact that she took away everything good in my life, I love her. She is my mother, and one night of hell doesn’t take away the seventeen years of memories.
Self-pity. Millicent Fenwick describes it as a terrible squirrel cage of self. For me, it is a futile waste of time.
Lonely? Yes. Miserable? At times. But that is what being content is. Comfortable enough with the situation not to prompt change.
Thinking about a return to society is as dangerous as holding on to that scrapbook. Hope, in general, is dangerous. Hope can be the loose thread that pulls apart your sanity.
“I haven’t asked anyone about this. You know this kind of thing, Carolyn. Once you throw it out there, the thoughts, the suspicion, never goes away.
I am not afraid of justice. Justice is a good thing, even if I am on the losing end of it.
Hope is dangerous. Hope leads to expectations, which lead to disappointment. Disappointment in others is tough. But disappointment in yourself is far worse. I’m not expecting others to disappoint me. No—I am my own dream killer.
It is the first time, in as far as I can remember, feeling fear. When you are the darkest presence in the room, there is very little to fear.