Jenny's Blue Velvet: Velvet Nights and Black Lace Stories, #1

By A.C. Davis

Jenny's stuck.

She's tried just about every occupation she can think of and will be digging out of student debt for a very long time, but has nothing to show for it. Her everyday routine feels like a prison. And her marriage? Well, let's just say it's been a little one-sided lately and the money she threw down on the toys from Lover's Erotic Store was well worth it and then some.

Jenny decides her next big step is to become a romance writer. Romance books are flying off the virtual shelves, after all. This will be her big break, her escape from the prison, and a way to freedom. Self-publishing is all the rage these days. She'll be a best seller in no time.

When Jenny makes friends with a woman named Cassandra from the gym, she instantly decides that her new friend will make a perfect main character in her upcoming book. After the first chapter, real life begins to resemble the fiction she's writing. Her friendship blossoms, sex with her husband turns into a daily feast, and her job gets more interesting with each chapter written.

Out of the blue, a person who is a close friend with her husband and who is dating Cassandra disappears. As the mystery behind the missing person unfolds, Jenny wonders if she might be responsible for his possible death. And if she is, what will be the consequence? What has this writing business gotten her into?

JENNY'S BLUE VELVET, a novella, is a psychological horror/thriller for adults only due to sexual content.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gray Days Publishing
• Release date: Dec 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781502218940

Book preview

Cover Design: Steven Novak

Edited by: Jenn Sommersby

––––––––

Jenny's Blue Velvet

by A.C. Davis

Copyright 2013 A.C. Davis

––––––––

All rights reserved.

This book or any part of this book may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, names, places or incidents are coincidental and not intended by the author.

1st Edition: August, 2013

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

––––––––

This book was originally published under the pen name Angela Carlie.

––––––––

for fred and morgan

––––––––

Jenny’s Blue Velvet

a novella

by A.C. Davis

***

graceful

adjective

characterized by elegance or beauty of form, manner, movement, or speech; elegant

I can’t breathe.

My lungs collapse into the size of peas and are having a fit in my chest. I’m panting. Sweat drips from my face, probably the color of a beet. And the pain burns from deep within parts of my body I only learned about in cadaver lab while in college—part of my eight years of higher education, even though I never received a degree in anything. I’m still paying off student loans and have nothing to show for it. Okay, that’s not entirely true. I did get a certificate in the dental assistant profession, which was only a ten-month course. But after working that gig for a few years, my back protested from bending over patients all day and I couldn’t do it anymore.

A victim of an indecisive personality. One minute I want to be a nurse, the next a paralegal, a dental assistant and so on. And now? A runner. I must be crazy.

You’re doing great, honey! My always-looks-hot-especially-while-running husband, Jason, turns around for a brief break in his jog. I smile. What does he know? He’s not even out of breath. I’m dying here. This is a piece of cake for him. He’s so sweet to stick it out with me for my first ever 5K. What was I thinking? I wasn’t ready for this stupid race, and why the hell did I pick the Starlight Parade of all the runs in Portland to choose from? I’m sure there are plenty of races that don’t include an audience waiting for a parade to start along the entire route.

A group of skinny girls in tutus giggle by me. Jason’s head follows as they pass. I can’t blame him. Their skin isn’t purple and sweaty.

Did I mention my lungs are burning? And my legs? My thighs are probably chaffed from rubbing together.

I slow my pace on this hill. The crowd cheers the runners on. Tall buildings loom high above the narrow streets. The sun is setting, reflecting a mellow orange onto the runners ahead. A stuffed giraffe head bounces up and down along with all kinds of costumed people, celebrating the joy of running or something like that. I find no joy in this.

Two kids stick their hands out in front of me. I unenthusiastically tap them with my sweaty palm. Gross. Right on! Keep it up! they say. Whatever. I growl.

Step. Step. Step. My feet tap the concrete. Gentle. Keep my steps small. Just don’t stop. This pain will end soon. Deep breaths. Oh, crap, I can’t. Is that the finish line up there?

Jason gives me a thumbs up. Look at him, all supportive and gorgeous. His ass, bopping in front of me, is totally squeezable if only I could catch up with him. Strong shoulders and legs. With each lunge forward, his calves contract. His entire body is one lean bundle of muscle. How I ever got so lucky, I’ll never know.

We met when I was twenty-two and taking classes at the community college. That’s back when I wanted to be a nurse and took my prerequisites to get into the RN program. We were partners in a CPR class. Yeah, the instructor who paired us knew what he was doing. Six feet of raw athleticism paired with the short, chubby-luscious chick in the hippie skirt and Birkenstocks. The past is always a little fuzzy, but that’s how I remember it. Needless to say, it worked out well for me. Eighteen years, several careers—twenty-seven to be precise—and two kids later, here we are. More like, here I am. He’s way up there, trying to keep within reach to make sure I don’t stop.

You may be asking yourself why the hell I’m running in a 5K if I don’t enjoy running. Well, to answer that very good question, I shall shrug. I’m almost forty years old, and deep inside of me, I know there is a runner waiting to burst out. I’ve suppressed her my entire life and it’s time for her to emerge. To break through, bringing her vibrant, young, in-shape body with her.

My name is Jenny. J-E-N-N-Y. Plain and simple. Not Genevieve or Jennifer, but Jenny. When I was in high school, I played with various spellings to appear more eccentric, but only ended up confusing my teachers. Genni, Djeni, Zhenny. None of them worked very well, so I went back to my mother-given name. Jenny. It fits me. There’s nothing special about me. In my head, I’m tall and thin and have flowing, sunshine-blond hair and porcelain skin. In the mirror, which I try to avoid, I’m about five feet tall. Five feet and three-quarters of an inch, to be precise. Not thin, but not fat, either. My hair is graying, but was once dirty blond. I’ve never really completed much that I’ve started. Well, to be precise, I’ve completed one thing. I wrote and published a novella. An erotic horror titled Still Nights. I was so utterly embarrassed that I used a pen name that I pulled from a hat, A.C. Davis. It’s sold one copy. To one Jenny Arthur’s Kindle. Mrs. Arthur liked it. That’s me, in case you didn’t catch the reference.

I’m going to write a romance novel. I’ve never really read one, but they seem to be selling like bonbons to housewives on a hot summer day. My romance novel is going to be a bestseller. Once I figure out what it’s going to be about.

Elvis passes me. Elvis! I’m slower than a dead dude. He’s lit up with small Christmas lights. I will finish this. I’m not going to quit. This time it’s all me.

The air is so sultry that if all these people weren’t here, I’d start tearing off my clothes. This sweatshirt tied around my waist would be the first to go. I’d be graceful about it too, like those girls in the tutus. A runner so good at what she does, it’s like she’s a dancer instead of a runner.

Something zips into my mouth, smashing against my tongue. I spit. I gag. I wipe the nasty from my tongue onto the back of my hand. I cough, my dry lungs wanting no more of the torture.

An old man sitting in a fold-up chair on the sidewalk smirks at me. I jog the two steps it takes to reach him and wipe the back of my hand on his white shorts, bug guts galore. He jerks away and says, Hey! but I’m already on my way toward the finish line, so I don’t see what he does next. It’s not like he can catch up with me; he’s old. Well, maybe he can.

Jason looks back at me with those gray eyes of his. Almost there! He points.

There it is. The finish line! It’s not what I pictured it should look like. Runners clog beneath the metal frame built over the road. There’s an electric clock ticking away overhead. We aren’t close enough to read the time, though. Just blurry, red numbers.

I turn up my iPod. Pitbull says, Bon, bon, bon, bon, and then some words I can’t understand. It puts a fire into my step. I catch up with Jason. He gives me a side glance and a half grin. How people can have articulate facial expressions and run at the same time is beyond me. I’m sure