"A Different Kind of Beauty" by Alyssa Cooper Now Available!

Sometimes there is love, even when it is painful. The kind of love that floats with pain, the kind of love that is simply there, suspended in the air, and no matter how much that person hurts themselves, they are still loved. Lindsey has the love of her life. She and Jesse have been destined for forever since they were children but perceived shortfalls drive Jesse to an addiction, and Lindsey is helpless as she watches him spiral downward.

Currently only available in Kindle format from Amazon.

Be on the lookout for other editions coming soon!

Read an excerpt here.

Download "Sunshine" e-book for FREE!

To celebrate the release of "A Different Kind of Beauty" by Alyssa Cooper, Fiction Lake is offering a
FREE download of "Sunshine", also by Alyssa Cooper, via Smashwords.

Smashwords offers readers downloadable e-books in a variety of formats so whether you have a Kindle, a Nook, another type of e-reader, or simply want to read it on your phone or computer, you can!

Click here to go to Smashwords, click "Add to cart", and use coupon code VK68D at the checkout to get 100% off the listed price. This code will expire May 31, 2013 so download it while you can. If you like "Sunshine", head over to Amazon and buy "A Different Kind of Beauty"!

Happy reading!

"A Different Kind of Beauty" by Alyssa Cooper - Excerpt

 

Silently, I check the freezer and the cupboards, reaching far into the back, even the drawer under the stove, which is hard to open without making a sound. I don’t find the bottles, as I know I won't. I don’t know where he hides his alcohol, and he'll never tell me. Jesse would never lie to me, but he's very good at avoiding the truth. I suspect he keeps it in the nightstand, or somewhere in his closet, but his bedroom is a place I have not been invited to share in a very long time.
 

He's lounging on the couch when I wander back into the other room. His robe has fallen open, and I see his thin skin stretched over jutting rib bones. I watch his heart beat.

Slipping into the bathroom without a word, I soak a washcloth in the sink. I carry it back to him and he wipes at his face, scouring away his night sweats. Tapping the corner of my own mouth, I show him the vomit he missed, and, embarrassed, he scrubs it away.

I kick off my shoes and finally sit beside him on the couch. He folds the washcloth carefully and lays the square on the coffee table, making sure that it is centred on a coaster. He'll shower when I leave, although I know that sometimes it exhausts him to stand for so long. He will shower, and brush out his beautiful curls, and dress in loose jeans and a worn t-shirt, so if I come back after work, I'll almost be able to pretend nothing is wrong.

Almost.

I reach out and gently take his hand. I hold his palm without lacing our fingers.

"How is it today?" I ask him.

"It's okay." His voice is low and hoarse. He always speaks quietly in the morning, because his throat still aches from the vomiting he does at night. "It's not too bad."

I lift his arm and drape it over my shoulders, laying my head on his shoulder. He is bonier every day it seems, but I can always find a place that I am comfortable. He smells like himself, the soft blend of Ivory soap and eucalyptus aftershave and an undertone of bitter sweet sweat. The smells of my youth.

“Are you going to drink when I'm gone?”

He shifts uncomfortably. I know that while I’m at work, he tries to drink lightly, just enough to get him through the day. Enough that he can get dressed and do his laundry, clean the apartment, even go out if he absolutely has to, without being plagued by his withdrawal. He keeps himself on that edge, so when I come to see him after work, he is rarely drunk, although I can always smell the alcohol on him.

***

The third [memory] was the night that we saw the moths from his front porch. We were only children, fascinated by the insects' heavy, bobbing paths. As we watched, they emerged from the darkness and were drawn to the light; they flew into street lamps, bashing themselves over and over, until they fell to the sidewalk, dead and still. We ran to the lights when we saw them drop, horrified to discover their fate.

Taking matters into our own hands, we found a butterfly net in my bedroom and then hurried back to the street. Very gently, we netted the moths as they approached the lamps, carrying them into the backyard, where we were sure they would be safe.

But every time, they would bob back to the street on their feathery wings. They would return to the lamps. They would kill themselves against the lights, and no matter how many times we tried to save them, they always came back.

Please, he begged, we’re only trying to save you.

And there was nothing more frustrating than seeing them coming back, over and over, killing themselves. No matter how many times we tried. No matter how hard we fought for them.