SING TO ME by Jeff Rivera Book Blitz
They want to pull the plug on his brain-dead wife.
When rock-star-to-be, Cody White meets sassy Emma Lohan, he doesn't know what to make of her.
Obviously out of his league, she’s outspoken, full-figured, beautiful, college-educated and has a heart of gold.
She's perfect and he can't stop thinking about her. She’s nothing like the girls he's dated before.
It doesn't make any sense.
And yet, true love rarely does.
Little does he know she will teach him what it means to love, what it means to fight for the girl of his dreams and what it means to give up everything he's ever wished for; for the chance at something he never thought was possible.
True love and kisses from the heart.
But when tragedy strikes and her life is on the line, Cody is broken. He must make a choice: accept that the girl he knows will never be the same again or stay with her when she needs him the most and give up his life-long dream of becoming a rock star forever.
They want me to pull the plug on her. I won't. Not now, not ever.
Word is she could go any day now. I refuse to believe that as I sit with her, holding my new bride’s fragile hand, my fingers entwined with hers. I have hope. I won’t let them take that hope from me.
Prayer can work miracles. So can love. Love is so dynamic and all-encompassing. It can heal anything, even a brain-dead girl hit by a semi.
The gentle rasp of her breathing machine and the monotonous beep of her heart monitor offer no comfort.
I kiss Emma on the hand and whisper, “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll protect you.”
My mother steps inside the room. She knows I don’t want to talk anymore. We’ve been over this, and I’m not budging.
“Cody, there’s something else,” she says, her expression troubled.
“What is it?” I ask her, trying to control my growing exasperation. I'm so mentally exhausted and worn down physically. They say I have bags under my eyes, and I can’t remember the last time I combed my hair. The past few months have been a living hell. How ironic that my love can't wake, and I barely sleep.
“Emma’s grandmother is trying to get a court order to force them to pull the plug,” my mother says cautiously, gauging my reaction.
“What?” My heart stops in its tracks. I rasp disbelievingly. “I’m her husband.”
“They’re going to fight this, son, and they could win. One way or another, you’re going to have to say goodbye.”
“Over my dead body,” I grit out between clenched teeth. She knows better than to push the issue and judging by the way her shoulders hunch and her head is bowed; I’ve hurt her feelings. It’s not her fault, and I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
I place an extra knitted blanket on top of Emma to keep her warm. It feels like an icebox in here, and it’s the least I can do to keep my baby comfortable.
Twenty-years-old and all I can think is “what a waste of her life.”
I love her. Love doesn’t even come close to how I feel about my Emma.
How can I say, love, when she’s become the air that I breathe and my reason for living?
I know this accident that happened is all my fault, and it sickens me to think about it. I clench my teeth and take a deep calming breath. My anger won't help her come back from the brink of death.
We had so many plans and so many dreams. I should never have let her go. I know that now more than ever.
The first time Emma walked into my life, there was an eruption inside me I hadn’t experienced before. Not since the horrible break up with my ex two years ago had I thought of girls as anything but conquests.
The day my life changed forever, I was supposed to be with my best friend, Aaron. He wanted to meet at the apartment we shared to practice a new song for our band that he was raving about starting up.
I loved the band but being cooped up with them 24/7 took its toll sometimes. So, instead, I was alone tuning my guitar in the makeshift garage we'd rented back in Beaverton, Oregon.
The place should have been remodeled—no, torn down decades ago. Scattered in the crowded unit, our equipment looked like a tribute to The Rolling Stones. Lined with concrete and rusted metal, it reeked like a cheese factory.
Emma sauntered in the open door as if she’d walked onto a million dollar yacht. Strawberry blonde hair rested on her shoulders, her flawless skin marred only by a smattering of light freckles and her eyes the color of the ocean—the type I could stare into for hours.
She wiped the dust from the doorframe as she entered, her face contorted in disgust. "This place is a fire hazard."
I plucked the strings of my bass guitar and said, “Excuse me?”
"You deaf?" She folded her arms and leaned against the door. "And ever heard of a mop or air freshener?"
I shook my long hair out of my face. “You sure you got the right place, lady?”
"I read online you’re giving music lessons, right?" She strolled to the keyboard and ran her fingers over the keys.
"Don't touch that, and no, not anymore."
She poked at the keys again, as if daring me to do something. "Why not?"
"Changed my mind," I said and stood, joining her at the keyboard.
A semblance of a mischievous smile curved her lips as her eyes searched for something else to touch. "So you said you'd do it in the ad, but now you won't?"
"Too much hassle and too many broke assholes," I said as my eyes followed her wondering what she was going to touch next. "Do you always walk around other people’s places touching their stuff and snooping around? Wanna take a seat or something?"
She placed her hands on her hips and looked around the room. “Take a seat where? On the dirty floor or the filthy futon?
"What?" I asked with indignation as I raised a brow. Did this girl really come here to insult me? We didn’t have much at that point, but we were serious about our music and determined to make it. Having a band may have started out as a way to get laid, but now it was more than that.
"So ... which am I? A hassle, an asshole, or broke?" She tilted her head, widening her eyes.
Two could play that game. “My guess is all of the above.”
"You're a real charmer," she mumbled with sarcasm. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and turned around to sashay past me. Her heels clicking and clacking, echoing against the concrete floor as I watched her tight, sexy body walk away. Every curve was exactly where it should be, and my imagination was going places it shouldn’t. My mother always believed in love at first sight, and I’d always laughed at her. I had a feeling my mother would be getting the last laugh this time.
Emma screamed class. She was a lady and a lady like that deserved to be treated with respect. Something I haven’t done in quite some time. I was going to have to play this cool and be a good boy which wasn’t an easy feat for a guy like me.
"Yeah? Not too bad yourself. Hey, stop touching things. Cool it, will you?" I growled, growing irritated.
“Did you just tell me to ‘cool it’?” she asked, gasping in mockery and then looking at me with false irritation. Damn, she’s so pretty I can’t stay annoyed at her.
“Now, who’s deaf?” I smirked.
A mischievous grin formed on her face again, as if she enjoyed the challenge and a man who would stand up to her.
"That your bike parked out front?” She sat at the keyboard and crossed her legs, but not before she wiped the seat.
“Hmm.” There was a glint in her eye.
“Hmm, good? Or Hmm, bad?”
“What do you want it to be, good or bad?” she teased.
My imagination stirred, but I had to be a gentleman.
“Yep,” I said, surprised a woman like her would notice.
“1200 Explorer, right? 950 Watt alternator?” she said, brushing her nails.
“Yeah, you know bikes?” Fancy girl who liked bikes, hot. Maybe it was that or those eyes of hers, or maybe those legs that made we wonder where they led to.
“I hope so. My dad owned a chain of motorcycle shops,” she said. “I like your tattoos.”
My muscles flexed as I set my guitar down, my arms wrapped in designs on my biceps and triceps. I worked out a lot, and it was moments with a girl like this, which made me glad I did.
“You like tattoos?” I asked her.
“Yep,” she said, blushing a little.
“Got any?” I asked her, eyeing her up and down.
“Not that you can see,” she teased.
“When can I see them?” I asked in a low sultry voice.
“So ... lessons?” she asked, changing the subject and giving me, “come get me” eyes.
I liked this girl, strong sassy, wild, spoke her mind, held her own. I wanted to tame her, and I would, or at least have fun trying. Never imagined I’d ever entertain the thought since my ex-girlfriend.
"Piano, of course." She flipped the keyboard on.
"It's fifty dollars a lesson," I offered, blocking her view from the keyboard. God, she smelled good; expensive too, way out of my league, but I was intrigued.
"Are you insane? I'll pay you twenty," she bartered, standing up to challenge me head-on.
"Forty and I'll take you to dinner." My grin spread across my face. I may have to open up those lessons again, just for her.
"Fifteen and I don't do dinner on the first date." She wetted her lips with the tip of her tongue.
"No?" I whispered, my voice husky as I stepped over the line into her personal space. My eyes fought from looking at every inch of her curvaceous body.
"No. I don't want to get stuck with you longer than necessary."
“Longer than necessary for what?” My eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“To know ...” she said, letting the word hang in the air.
She looked at me as if wanting me to fill in the blanks.
“Do we get to ride on your bike?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Does that mean you’ll go out on a date with me?” I asked hopefully, but not trying to sound too excited.
She pondered my question for a beat, and then answered, “Fine, only because I want a ride on your bike. Don’t get any other ideas.”
I grasped her hips and pulled her to me, wearing a sly grin. “And what kind of ideas would those be?”
She placed her hands on my chest and nudged me back a step. “I know of a nice little kosher restaurant a few miles away.”
“Your wish is my desire,” I told her.
“We’ll see about that,” she smiled.
Get your copy today. Click here: http://bit.ly/SINGTOME
True love exists and if I can inspire people to know that, then I've done my job.
My stories take place in the towns I lived in while searching for my purpose: Oregon, Nevada, New England, the South and the heartland of America. They are dedicated to the angels I met along the way who showed me true love comes in all forms, unconditionally.
It wasn't that long ago that I was living in my car with my mother and pets. But whether it was being abused as a child, bullied at school or taking care of my family's illnesses, one thing kept me going: my writing.
I knew if I kept writing from the heart, people would connect and one day my dream of being an author would come true.
Jeff Rivera is an author and inspirational media personality. He has appeared on national television, radio and print in such outlets as Forbes.com, The Boston Globe, Publishers Weekly, Right On! Magazine, Rotarian Magazine, TMZ, WABC, WNBC, WCBS, SITV, American Latino and NPR.
He also writes or has written for Entertainment Weekly, Mediabistro, GalleyCat, Publishing Perspectives, Digital Book World, Examiner, American Chronicle, School Library Journal and the Huffington Post and has been invited to speak and inspire groups all over the world from South Carolina to Nigeria. He has been on panel discussions for The Library Journal, Authors Guild, the Harlem Book Fair and many others.
