#Giveaway: And Then, I Died by May Sage

And Then, I Died
by May Sage
Paperback, 250 pages
Published July 15th 2015 by Sage House
ISBN 1514160234

“Eliza had been long murdered and buried by Beth.” 
Yet, don’t let it fool you: this is her story.

She is Beth Carver – the Bitch. She’s spent her life trying to crush her fears and put the “Incident” on a leash. A broken heroine with the dark past who refuses to let it control her, Beth returns home to take a break from her lifestyle. She didn’t plan on a stranger living in her apartment.

Then, you’ve got Liam Slate – an actual genius. When he sees an issue, he identifies it, isolates it, solves it and sells the solution. However, there are two matters he can’t take control of: his growing desire towards his appealing housemate and the little problem of the target on his back. Someone wants him dead is growing very close to achieving it.
As strong as he is, he needs help and unexpectedly, Beth is the one to provide it.

Liam will be forced to question his past, his way of life, his friends and family, but Beth has a longer journey. The one she needs to understand is herself.

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Excerpt:

Chapter 1:

The Bitch

In light of recent events, Liam was seventy percent certain

he was dreaming.

A little under half a year ago, he would have been

absolutely positive, but all things considered, the scene

unfolding in front of him didn't seem that far-fetched.

The girl, however, surpassed the creativity of his

imagination. Whatever image might be attached next to

“female assassin” on Wikipedia, she wasn't it.

What he saw of her from the staircase where he was

standing was nondescript; comfortable grey layers

drowning the slightest hint of a shape, a ponytail tucked

under an old cap. He would have passed her without

looking back in the streets.

There was nothing wrong with the occasional casual outfit,

but he'd learnt that appearances generally reflected on

characters. Women who hid themselves under the plainest

clothes were either insecure or indifferent to how they were

perceived.

He respected neither.

As things stood, though, she got his attention; crouched in

front of the door leading to his apartment, she was testing

an assortment of keys in his lock.

Since Liam had hired Jack, they had gone over that sort of

situation a dozen times, so he knew what he was supposed

to do: text the bodyguard and stay hidden until his knight in

shiny armour hurried to the rescue.

He had emphatically nodded each time they'd discussed the

plan. It was a good plan. Of course he'd wait; Jack, a welltrained

ex-Marine, was indubitably more qualified to take

down a professional threat.

There was a catch, though. In each scenario he was

supposed to face an angry meathead or, at the very least, a

James Bondette armed with weapons strapped to her thighs,

not a girl.

Liam wasn't exactly what one would call a Damsel in

Distress. Admittedly, he'd gone through the whole nerdysix-

foot-four-twig thing back in high school, but that

particular phase had been over about a decade ago. He had

swum his way to a scholarship, earning himself a set of

rather well-defined muscles in the process. He wasn't Bruce

Willis, but he could still easily take half the guys he knew;

that wisp of a girl didn't stand a chance against him.

Nonetheless, he would have probably been good and

followed his instructions, if it wasn't for the data. Each

second he twiddled his thumbs brought her closer to the

laptop he'd left on the kitchen counter.

It would take a very good hacker to go around his security,

but could he risk it?

Liam had worked for Charlotte for a year before she'd caved

and asked him why he was wasting his time on her payroll.

He hadn't hated the job; programming was in his blood, and

the innovative softwares Knight Tech came up with weren't

half bad, but it hadn't been exactly satisfying.

“You're better than this. You're better than me, William.”

Thanks to her meddling, he'd posted a dozen patents in

robotics and now owned a thriving business selling his

work. Each and every one of his prototypes, his projects, his

ideas were saved in the laptop he should have locked away.

Making his mind up, he sent a quick text to Jack before

crossing the few steps separating him from the door as

quietly as he could; but suddenly, just as he passed the

threshold, the world went black.

The first thing Liam registered was a horrendous headache,

followed in close second by the throbbing pain on the left

side of his skull and a wave of nausea.

There were voices around him. Loud, annoying, but

reassuringly familiar voices, so he risked opening his eyes.

He recognized the setting and most of the present company.

He was home, in his black and white lounge with its large

sofas, its ugly, oppressive grand piano; Jack stood behind

the instrument, solemn and rigid as he always was when

they had company, and his two noisy neighbours, Charlotte

and Victoria, had taken their place of choice around the sofa

suite. That, he could process.

What he didn't get was the presence of the figure in grey

perched on the minibar. The figure which, if memory

served, had broken into his flat and attacked him.

Somehow, nobody seemed to find it rather peculiar.

“You're awake! Here.” Charles was handing him some sort

of medicine and a glass of water; he dropped the pills in his

mouth without question, grateful at the prospect any form of

relief.

“I told you he wouldn't need to go to the ER,” the stranger

said dismissively.

“Someone want to tell me why my face feels like a train hit

it?”

“I kicked it. Sorry.”

This heartfelt apology did convey a whole world of regret

and shame. Or not.

“You knocked me out with a kick?”

His vision was still blurry, but he saw distinctly enough to

judge those legs incapable of administrating much damage

to a grown man.

They were slim.

And long.

Very long.

His gaze slowly crawled up and up the leggings, finally

finding a loose tunic dress doing its best to hide most of the

dips and curves. Despite the sack’s best efforts, her general

form was quite promising. And above, there was flesh.

Tanned, golden flesh.

Damn. Those pills were really good, or somehow, the girl

had been concealing a pleasing cocktail wrapped under her

boring rags and the Giants hat. He couldn't place the actual

heritage those lips, her darker complexion and the green

eyes claimed; all he knew was that the invisible girl-nextdoor

was definitely worth the second glance.

Not a lot of women would have held their own while

standing in the same room as Victoria Grazinski and

Charlotte Knightley.

“No. I knocked you out with the pressure point in your

neck, before kicking you,” she clarified.

And hell if that wasn't one of the sexiest things he'd ever

heard. He blamed the low, sensual intonations of her voice.

“Someone would like to clarify why it's suddenly alright for

strangers to break inside people's homes and knock them

out?” he asked when it was evident that no one felt an

explanation was necessary.

“Well, that's the thing. You're in my home.”

Liam wasn't the open, sharing type, but as a main

shareholder of Slate Inc, Charles had been one of the

suspects after the third attempt on his life; the police had

interrogated her, which lead to the disclosure of his

circumstances.

The damn woman hadn't been ashamed to use the threat of

tears to make him hire Jack, her own head of security.

After the fourth attack, undertaken by the pizza delivery

guy at his house, Charles had stepped in again, offering him

the apartment.

“Victoria and I rent next door; technically Beth, who owns

the building, lives in the 4A, only it's been at least two years

since her last visit. Let me contact her, we'll see if she says

no.”

The elusive Beth hasn't said anything at all, so they'd gone

ahead and signed the paperwork at the end of December.

One of the many security measures now part of his routine

consisted in going to the home he owned down in Brooklyn

every night before leaving by the back door and driving

back to Manhattan. Liam found the whole process

overzealous, but Jack had given his hearty approval and, so

far, nothing led him to think anyone – save for Jack, Vick,

and Charles – knew where he spent his nights.

“And as a matter of fact,” the girl said, her soft alto friendly

as a pit of deadly snake “I'd very much like to know why

you'd think it's yours.”

His glare would have been more effective had she deigned

raising her eyes from the nails she was staring at. Did she

really suggest he might be squatting her place?

Liam didn't take offense at the first insult. The City's

abundant collection of trashy papers constantly threw

unflattering descriptions his way and he was fine with it.

They didn't know much about him, past his inerrant

inability to entertain a pointless, polite conversation with

their journalist. Of course they'd call him a high-handed

autocrat. To an extent, he was.

He could handle criticism. What he couldn't stand was

disdain. He'd come too far to put up with it now.

The girl didn't even bother meeting his gaze as she

addressed him. Some would have seen it as a sign of

timidity, but that couldn't be it. Women who looked like her

weren't shy, they were stuck-up.

A twenty-year old entitled brat didn't know what she was

stepping into if she felt free to undermine him.

It was exactly what the beautiful bitch was: girls of that sort

didn't own buildings like theirs in the most exclusive

neighbourhood of NYC without coming from money.

He wondered at her connection to Victoria and Charles.

They'd referred to her as an old friend, but there had to be

more to it; she was obviously younger, as well as

considerably less accomplished than the two

businesswomen.

Vick had spent half a dozen years paving her way up at her

father's investment firm, under a different surname. The

CEO wooden plate had been hers since the instant of her

birth, but when it came, it would be deserved.

Charlotte wasn't front page news as of yet, but it was mainly

because she hid too effectively for anyone to dig out dirt on

her. For starters, she went by Charles and, to her endless

amusement, the public still refer to her as a “he.”

Nevertheless, she had emptied her fair share of inkwells; it

was common knowledge that KS, the interactive, fast,

secure, and entirely free operating system most schools and

businesses had embraced, had been launched from her dorm

room.

What have you done, little girl, to give you the right to

breathe our air?

Thankfully, Victoria took pity on them both, interjecting

before he could open his mouth:

“I texted you a couple of months ago about renting your

place to a friend for a little while.”

The hellcat immediately retracted her fangs and claws. Her

voice lost all its edge as she responded almost

apologetically:

“You know I don't have access to my phone most of the

time. I just got it back and there were about two hundred

unread messages from you. I thought we could catch up at

home. And by the sound of it, we'll definitely have the time;

I'm crashing on your couch, if you don't mind.”

The bitch wasn't playing fair. Had she proved herself

difficult, demanded he'd left the premises, he could have

bitten back, shaken a copy of his tenancy agreement in front

of her nose and talked about lawyers and court. However,

she didn't even sound annoyed about the unappealing

prospect of bunking on Charles and Vick's sofa.

So, he offered reluctantly, “I can go. I'll need less than an

hour to pack.”

It was a shame; the apartment was perfection. Had he not

felt foolishly attached to his home and ever reluctant to

needlessly spend what he earned, it was exactly the sort of

place he would have purchased.

Large open space, floor to ceiling windows in each room

save for the very atmospheric, dark master bedroom painted

in the deepest shade of wine. The minimalist décor married

to the antique furnishing just worked for him. He was even

going to miss the obnoxious piano gathering dust Sunday

through Saturday, up until Linda painstakingly polished it.

He had been surprised that a woman had lived in this

setting, but now that he saw her, from the Converses to the

old baseball hat, he got it; she was missing the froufrou and

taffeta gene. Was she even wearing any makeup? He was no

expert in cosmetics, but he would have sworn she wasn't.

Liam didn't mistake this as a form of humility; she was

simply conscious of the fact that her honey skin and those

long, dark lashes of hers didn't require enhancement.

“No,” she refused, to his surprise. “You're paying rent and

I'm only here for a few months, regardless.”

“Months?”

Vick and Charles' eyes popped out from their pretty faces as

they took that in. From what he'd gathered, the girl wasn't

known to stay in town more than an occasional weekend

here and there.

“They made me take about five years’ worth of holidays.”

Boys born in his neighbourhood didn't make it to where he

now stood without a fairly good bullshit meter, and the

detector was buzzing something fierce. She was lying, her

countenance screamed it: the change of tone, the way she

crossed and uncrossed those legs...

While the enticing movement of the limbs was unnerving,

the duplicity didn't bother him; according to statistics,

women lied about three times a day – men, twice as much.

I'm fine. Nothing is the matter. Don't worry about it. Your

butt doesn't look fat in that dress. I'm on holidays.

That couldn't be much of a fib: she'd resigned, been

suspended, or sacked. Not a lot of people would have felt

comfortable admitting failure in a room full of young,

prosperous executives.

To be entirely honest, the reason why she didn't want them

to know the ins and outs of her presence didn't score very

high on the list of things he'd like to clear up at the minute.

All he wanted was to get the conversation back on track and

resolve the situation as soon as humanly possible.

High-handed autocrats had a tendency to deal with hiccups

promptly.

“You can't spend months on the couch next door,” he heard

himself say, angling to the logical suggestion he hoped Vick

or Charles might come to.

He didn't relish in the idea of being the one pointing it out,

but the girl had to stay with him.

God knew there was enough space in her flat and he

preferred that to the only other option: he'd have to move

out.

“Hell, you can't spend a night there; that thing is a torture

instrument.”

He tuned out Vick's protests in defence of her bright yellow

monstrosity made of the slimiest leather known to man.

That couch was so vile their surround-sound system, the

alcohol, and the company barely made up for it.

“Anyway, you should stay. There are three bedrooms here,

only two next door.”

He wished he could have sounded more enthusiastic but

cohabiting with the brat was going to be a challenging

experience. It had a shade of domesticity.

Liam didn't do domesticity, relationships, or anything

involving another living human being capable of reaching

him emotionally. His upbringing had taught him better.

He was hopeful, though. The girl didn't appear to be a

threat.

While the enthusiastic lovers he'd taken to bed frightened

him in broad daylight, the trio scattered around the room

didn't.

Analytic by trade and temperament, he'd already come up

with a theory explaining his friendship with Victoria and

Charlotte: They were as wary of emotional involvement as

he. He could go next door every night with a bottle of wine,

takeout, a Blu-ray, and neither would be likely to write Mrs

W. B. Slate on their diary the next morning.

But he'd been cautious at first. Their familiarity was built on

years of acquaintance.

The new girl? Zero awkwardness. He just knew she had no

intention to step anywhere near his boundaries; her

demeanour was too cold to suggest otherwise.

Whatever her requirements for potential mates might be, he

hadn't made the cut.

It was reassuring and perhaps a little bit irritating at the

same time. Daunting as being seen as a potential future

wallet could be, he was accustomed to it – as successful

men of twenty-nine generally were.

“No need, I have other flats nearby. They might just need

some cleaning and... Why are you shaking your head?”

“You've left me in charge of them, Beth,” Vick reminded

her. “They're rented out.”

“You've rented all of my properties?”

«Entitled brat» appeared more accurate each time she

opened that mouth of hers.

“My company has grown over the last couple of years.”

Charles cut in.

Understatement: Knight Tech, run by three members of

staff in 2012, now occupied two floors in the glass building

they shared with Slate Inc.

“The recruits from out of town were grateful to find flats in

Manhattan straight away.”

“No worries, I'll take a room next door for now.” she said,

no doubt referring to the overpriced, understaffed

establishment on their left. “If you've rented three dozen

flats out, I can afford it.”

Liam was familiar with the hotel; he had indefinitely

booked their best suite for Jack's use in an effort to keep the

bodyguard close yet out of his face. It wasn't the worst place

to stay, but he felt uneasy at the prospect of letting her

spend money on a room. Vick had only asked a grand a

month from him; a thousand dollars, for a very newly

renovated three bedroom with library, office, and a gym,

carved into the fourth and last floor of a handsome Upper

East Side townhouse. The girl would spend at least as much

per night next door.

“It's unnecessary; I haven't taken up the master bedroom

and I practically live at work in any case. I'm sure we can

put up with each other for a little while. You're staying.”

It came out as an order, because it was exactly that.

For the first time, she looked directly at him, her green eyes

blazing as she conveyed as much distrust, dislike, and ire as

one could through a single glance.

Bitch.

People were generally against insulting women.

Nobody ever thought twice when referring to a man as a

complete dickhead; however, in this day and age, years of

PR wouldn't cover the damage he'd cause by calling a

woman names. It just wasn't the done thing, even when the

woman's behaviour made the words entirely accurate.

Fuck that. They'd justly fought for their independence, their

respect, their rights, and here it was: Respectfully, equally,

PCly, Elizabeth Carver is a bitch.

He did his best to hide the smile forming at the corner of his

mouth, but failed miserably; and strangely, right when he

felt his upper lip curling up on the left side, she nodded and

crossed the room, hand outstretched, offering to shake his.

It was only then, holding the small palm, meeting those

angry eyes, that he felt it.

While its potency wasn't by any means ordinary, he had no

issue identifying the cause of that spark. He had

experienced it before, to some degree. Chemistry. Pure,

undiluted chemistry between his body and hers.

However, when Liam could barely hold a coherent thought

as the shock passed through his limbs, she seemed entirely

unaffected by the explosion of senses he'd just survived.

He could think of nothing but the feel of that soft skin

against his… but he thoroughly despised men unable to

back off when a lady wasn't interested and he could tell: she

really, really wasn't.

About the Author:

Once Upon A Time, there was a little girl who just loved telling her own stories. Fast-forward about two decades? Not a lot of change, there.

My mother's collection of novels extends to three rooms, the stepfather who raised me writes awesome short stories: really, I didn't have a choice, I caught a bug.

I absolutely love writing, and I thought it was past time I shared some of my work.

Now And then, I died is published, I am working on my modern Cinderella, Artless – a post-apocalyptic fiction which is going to be amazing – And then, I ran as well as Play with fire. That’s a handful, but oh well, I’ll sleep when I’m dead :P
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