Welcome to the Official Blog Tour for Fragile Line by Brooklyn Skye!
Genre:
Young Adult Contemporary
Publish Date:
April 21, 2014
Publisher:
Entangled Teen
Summary from Goodreads:
It can happen in a flash. One minute
she’s kissing her boyfriend, the next she’s lost in the woods. Sixteen-year-old
Ellie Cox is losing time. It started out small…forgetting a drive home or a
conversation with a friend. But her blackouts are getting worse, more difficult
to disguise as forgetfulness. When Ellie goes missing for three days, waking up
in the apartment of a mysterious guy—a guy who is definitely not her boyfriend,
her life starts to spiral out of control.
Perched on the edge of insanity, with horrific
memories of her childhood leaking in, Ellie struggles to put together the
pieces of what she’s lost—starting
with the name haunting her, Gwen. Heartbreakingly beautiful, this
poignant story follows one girl’s harrowing journey to finding out who she
really is.
**About the Author**
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*Excerpt*
The balcony off the living room is tiny. About the size of a closet with a wooden railing and a bucket half filled with old Marlboros. There’re no chairs—not even room for one—so I stand with my elbows on the railing, splinters prodding the skin through my shirt.
Light from the glass door behind me spills onto the wet grass below. It shimmers like…
“Who broke this?” He moves closer, a shard of glass pinched between his fingers. The sunlight shining makes it sparkle like diamonds. “Was it you?”
With each heavy step he takes,
closer,
closer,
closer,
my heart pounds
faster,
faster,
faster.
The sound of denim scuffing and scraping fills the room as his fat thighs scour each other.
“Did you break the window?”
“No,” I say, trembling. “It was—”
“Godamnit, girl!” He yanks me off the chair, tears up the back of my shirt. “Don’t you ever listen? I said don’t horseplay!”
Lines of fire score into my back. I don’t scream. I don’t cry. And I don’t say it was him who broke the window last night.
I sniff away the memory. Wipe the single tear clinging to my eyelashes. I can’t believe I’m crying because of that assfuck. Slowly I twist the cigarette in my fingers, wave the burning tip from wrist to knuckles. Back and forth. Heat teases my flesh and, like a lawnmower, singes away each tiny hair. One by one they hiss and complain, and it burns but I don’t pull away.
“I’ve never seen you cry before.” The voice is behind me. Low and soft and not angry at all. I flick the cigarette to the grass below and turn, my back against the railing. If I concentrate hard enough, I can feel the exact spot where those gashes healed into gnarled welts. They became infected—I remember that. I also remember not being treated until I was sent to Millerton.
“Because I don’t,” I say without looking at Griffin. When I cried, he turned into a monster. When I cried, a rainy day became the perfect storm. It was a long time ago; Griffin doesn’t need to know this. “It’s pointless,” I add, pulling the sweatshirt’s hood over my head so he can’t see my face.
Moths flit about in the yellowy glow near the door. A mini swarm, bashing one by one against the glass. In the distance, cars whisper down Huntington. I bury one set of freezing toes under the other. Griffin clears his throat.
“I didn’t tell you on purpose. About Meg and I being through,” he says, folding his arms over his stomach. The hood mutes his voice, making him sound like he’s standing on the neighbor’s balcony rather than six inches away. “I wanted you to be jealous. And hurt…like I was.”
Meg said it, too: I haven’t talked to him in…
I glance sidelong at him. “That’s really mature, Grif.”
“Tell me about it. Like high school all over again.” Beyond the hood’s edge, his black boots scuff the gritty balcony floor. He’s not inching away. Not telling me it’s time to go now. Words are on his lips, waiting.
“Well,” I prompt, “you got what you wanted.”
“No.” He steps in front of me, blocking the light from inside so all of a sudden he looks like a big, black shadow. His face moves closer. Hot words caress my face. “I didn’t.” With his hands he gently sets me up on the railing, my eyes level with his. In the absence of moonlight, they look like puddles of ink.
Ten feet below, my cigarette fizzles out. My hands rest on my thighs and he grips handfuls of sweatshirt to steady me.
I tilt my head. “You want me.”
“That’s the thing...” He slides the hood off my head, traces a thumb over my lips. “I don’t know what I want anymore. You make my thoughts so f—”
I take his face in my hands and press my lips to his. I make his thoughts fucked up. That’s what he was going to say. And I should tell him his fucked-up thoughts are nothing. If he wants fucked up, he should jump into my head.
He pulls away slightly, keeping his mouth next to mine. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.” One hand slips beneath my sweatshirt. His fingers walk up my spine, notch by notch, until they reach my shoulder blades. Then retreat south.
Cold air tickles my waist, and I shrug. “I’m sorry I brought a crack head into your house.”
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**About the Author**
Brooklyn Skye grew up in a small town where she quickly realized writing was an escape from small town life. Really, she’s just your average awkward girl who’s obsessed with words. Her Best-Selling New Adult debut, Stripped, is out NOW! Represented by Bree Ogden of D4EO Literary Agency.
Stay connected with Brooklyn Skye
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***The Giveaway***
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