Wicked Fame by Sasha Clinton EPUB & PDF

Wicked Fame by Sasha Clinton EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online

• Status: Available for Free Download
• Authors: Sasha Clinton
• Language: English
• Genre: Romance Literary Fiction
• Format: PDF / EPUB
• Size: 3 MB
• Price: Free

Francesca

I OPEN my eyes to an unfamiliar blackness for the third time that week.
Something glistens at the edge of my vision—a dark stream of water with
the bright glow of street lamps licking its shiny surface.
I sit up on a hard surface. A slow realization dawns on me as I make
sense of my surroundings. I passed out on a bench this time.
Unprotected. Alone. Stoned. Anyone could’ve done anything to me. Yet,
when I pat down my coat, my wallet’s still there. As is the rest of me.
It doesn’t fill me with any relief to know that I’m okay. Instead, my ribs
close around frustration and emptiness. Fear and hopelessness and a thousand
strange voices telling me I’m a mess are eating up the inside of my brain. My
stomach wails in hunger.

The high wore off. Damnit. Now I’m squarely back in hell.
With a groan, I swing to my feet and check my phone. Mom didn’t call. I
must’ve lied to her and said I was staying over at Ella’s.
Stories are so much easier to create than art. Sometimes, I wish I’d
become a writer instead of an artist. Maybe then I’d be less broken.
“Are you okay?” My neck snaps to the left at the newly-materialized
voice, burning a trail of pain behind my eyes down to the base of my spine.

Blurry splotches of a woman’s face thread into the black void of my
vision. She’s shorter than me but beautiful—even if the beauty is hidden
under shadows and scars and eyes gone cold with despair. Her teeth are
chattering, which is no surprise given that it’s January. Now that I think about
it, the jacket she has wrapped around her petite frame isn’t warm enough for
this icy weather. As my gaze moves further down, it snags on her socks. They
have a hole in them and she’s wearing slippers, not shoes.

My shoulders slump in sympathy for this stranger.
A homeless person. That’d explain what she’s doing here late at night.
“I’m sorry for hogging your bench,” I mutter, swaying on my feet. I can’t
even stand still or I’ll faint. I really need to cut back on the alcohol. “Is this
where you usually sleep?”
The brown-haired woman wipes her wet cheeks. A tiny sob infiltrates my
ears. I didn’t realize she was crying. I was so lost in my inner drama as usual
that I forgot to be sensitive to the people around me. Sure, I didn’t know the
bench belonged to someone else and I needed it at the time. Thanks to that,
I’ve killed half her night’s sleep.

“Really, I’m sorry,” I say, wondering if she won’t die sleeping out in the
cold. It’s not snowing today, but the temperature is low enough to numb my
fingertips.

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