Ghost of A Chance (Chances Are #4)

By Lee Brazil

Chance thought he knew true heartache when Cannon walked out on him. He finds out how wrong he is when current lover Rory decides he's done waiting for Chance to return his love.

After two months of seeking amnesia in the bottom of a bottle, Chance is on the verge of resurrecting the protective shell that kept his emotions safe for so long. Then the past comes knocking on his door again, and he

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee Brazil
• Release date: Aug 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301563401

Lee Brazil

Somewhere in a small town in up-state New York are a librarian and a second grade teacher to whom I owe my life. That might be a touch dramatic, but it’s nevertheless one hundred percent true.Because they taught me the joy of reading, of escaping into worlds crafted of words.Have you ever been nine years old and sure of nothing so much as that you don’t belong? Looked at the world from behind glasses, and wondered why you don’t fit?Then turn the page and see... there you are, running from Injun Joe in a dark graveyard; there you are fencing with Athos; there you are...beneath the deep blue sea- marveling at exotic creatures with Captain Nemo.I found myself between the pages of books, and that is why I write now, it’s why I taught English and literature for so many years, and it’s why my house contains more pounds of books than furniture.If I’d had my way, I’d have been a fencer...or a starship captain, or a lawyer, or a detective solving crimes. But instead, I am a writer, and that’s the best thing in the world to be if you ask me, because as a writer, I can be all those things and more.If I hadn’t learned to value the stories between the pages, who knows what would have happened? Certainly not college...teaching...or writing.

Book preview

Chances Are #4

Ghost of a Chance

Chance thought he knew true heartache when Cannon walked out on him. He finds out how wrong he is when current lover Rory decides he's done waiting for Chance to return his love.

After two months of seeking amnesia in the bottom of a bottle, Chance is on the verge of resurrecting the protective shell that kept his emotions safe for so long. Then the past comes knocking on his door again, and he has no choice but to own his mistakes.

Odds are fifty-fifty he’ll get a second chance…will he make the same mistakes all over again or does he stand a ghost of a chance?

Pulp Friction Presents

Ghost of a Chance

By

Lee Brazil

Copyright April 2013 © Lee Brazil

SMASHWORDS EDITION

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. As such, any resemblance to any persons, living or deceased, businesses, events, or locales is coincidental.

Cover Art photo by © Laura Harner

Editing by Jae Ashley

Copyright July 2013 © Lee Brazil

Acknowledgement

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Trademark Acknowledgements:

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following trademarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Chuck E. Cheese: CEC Entertainment Concepts, L.P.

Cuervo Gold: Tequila Cuervo La Rojena, S.A.

Delray: General Motors, LLC

Ferragamo: Salvatore Ferragamo S.P.A.

Flintstones (including Yabba-Dabba-Doo): Hanna-Barbera Productions, Inc.

iPhone: Apple, Inc.

Jack (referencing Jack Daniel beverage): Jack Daniel’s Properties, Inc.

Levi's: Levi Strauss & Co. Corporation

Peapod: Peapod, LLC

Speedo: Speedo International

Ghost of a Chance

Part One

I pushed a shred of paper into the flame on the citronella candle, watched it blacken and wither. Heat like a thick cotton blanket hung heavy over me in the late Georgia afternoon. Sweat beaded on my brow. No, Darrin. Even after two months back, it felt strange to sit on my patio and look at a lawn of vibrant green grass instead of the black asphalt of the bar's parking lot. The air was cleaner. Mrs. Philpot's roses sent their sweet scent over the chain metal cyclone fence on the left with every stray breeze, and the heavier, more cloying odor of Phil the mailman's pot hung in the intervals between breezes.

My neighborhood was a lot like the one behind the bar, except quieter and there was no bossy homeowner's association telling people what color they could paint their shutters and where to put their mailboxes. All together there were about two hundred homes mostly built in the sixties in an odd sort of style Cannon had once called colonial ranch. My place was a three bedroom single floor of red brick that reminded me a little bit of my grandmother's house. I bought it when I got out of the academy, and the payments were a stretch for my meager salary then. Once I'd rented a room to Wick, but we sucked as roommates. Thankfully, he'd gotten his own place renovated pretty quickly, and for the last fifteen years, with the notable exception of the period when I avoided the place like the plague because of the memories of Cannon it housed, my house had been my sanctuary. At one time I'd thought that Cannon would share it with me. The sharp edges of the memories I'd run from had softened with time.

The lesson I'd learned from bringing Cannon into my home was one reason why I'd never brought Rory here, I suppose. Damn good thing too, because now that Rory had