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Summary: Small town girl Chérie Abella Manhattan has a problem – a few of them actually. Her first problem is about 5’3” tall, 190lbs, hair the color of liver, and eyes that seek out every hole in Chérie’s flimsy, cheesecloth armor. Yes, she’s big, she’s overbearing and she’s Jill Primcott, Chérie’s boss at the community center where Chérie teaches aerobics. Jill’s got this strange ability – she commands these noxious, red-eyed, bat-like creatures that prey on human insecurities and suffering. And Jill’s got a vendetta against Chérie – a big one.
Her next problem is more perplexing. This guy – this gorgeous guy with hair like a cascade of nightfall and eyes as intense as solar flares - slipped up behind her on the dance floor. He whispered “Sexy girl” in her ear, told her not to turn around and left her to melt into a steaming, sizzling puddle on the floor before she caught a glimpse of him. Now he’s taunting her in her dreams. Her live-in boyfriend, the avid rock climber and kayaker Cam Tyson, knows nothing about this encounter.
Cam, meanwhile, wants her to be more available – you know, sexually – to him. He wants her to do things like enjoy herself when they…when they…she can’t even bring herself to say words like that.
As if that wasn’t more than enough problems in her piñata, she has a new student, this ancient crone of a woman with skin like a dried apple. The old bat has piercing hawk-like eyes, dresses in shabby-chic, psych-ward attire, and just stands there in the back of the room while Chérie teaches. Chérie feels like a mouse in the middle of the field about to be someone’s next meal when that crazy hag is in her class. She often loses her place, stumbles and once she almost ran into another student, she was so distracted.
While all of this perplexing mystery pools around her like she’s in the middle of a tub of water, complete with bobbing clown ducks and sinister plastic dolls, lies and deception from her childhood swirl at the apex of the water twirling down the drain. She just can’t quite figure out what they are. All she knows is a) she doesn’t enjoy sex, b) she doesn’t enjoy sex and c) she thinks she should enjoy sex more but she just doesn’t. Now that’s a big problem.
The challenges that Chérie and Cam face, individually and collectively, are as fun as being flung around a roller coaster track at crazy speeds clinging to the car railing to keep from getting dismembered. At the core of their many changes, beat a couple of hearts as big as the sun. While these hearts may not prevent them from going through tumultuous change, they guide them towards a future they could never have imagined. All because of A Wicked Awakening.
Read Chapters 1 through 4 >> or
Read about the Characters >>
A Must Read..."A Wicked Awakening is a must read for anyone with voyeuristic
propensity to observe various forms of love – primal, energetic and cosmic – at
work and play. This multidimensional read awakens memories of soul connections that
we crave and rarely find in our earthly realms, it quenches our inner-beast’s desire
for loin-quivering, heart-quickening narrative, and most of all, inspires the desire
for our own energetic healing to heighten our self-love and increase our power,
taking charge of our lives."
Meloney Hudson, author of
Sexy, Spirited and Strong: Becoming a Positive Energy Woman, producer
of television shows and commercials.
...Then, I noticed a new student, an elderly woman wearing a long plaid wool skirt
and an oversized sweater of golden brown. Worn leather shoes poked out from underneath
the folds of fabric. It was an odd costume for working out, but I had seen worse.
“Hello. Are you new?” I inquired, clipboard in hand, ticking off the names of the
students. “What’s your name?”
The woman looked over at me, unblinking, with cold eyes like an eagle with a mouse
in her sights. Her auburn hair, streaked with white, hung in two braids down her
back. Tendrils of escaped hair sprang in coils from the cloth that bound her braids,
giving her the appearance of being caught in an electrical storm. She smelled of
dried leaves and sweet herbs. Her skin was remarkably unlined and taut, yet she
looked as old as a Roman temple. “Not new, not by a long shot…been on this planet
a long time.”
Her response unnerved me. I stammered, “I meant new to the class.”
“I know what you meant.” She regarded me without speaking further.
Some of the students glanced over at us, and I began to feel tiny trickles of sweat
at my hairline. “Well, find a place, and we’ll begin. Just follow along – I repeat
the steps over and over – and if you have any trouble we’ll work on it after class.”
“Oh, we began a long time ago,” she said softly, gazing steadily into my eyes. “And
if YOU have any trouble…let’s just say we’ll be in touch.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood up as she spoke. I smiled a discomfited and
uneasy grimace and strode towards the front of the room. “okay…ready? Let’s get
moving.” “Legs apart, toes turn out, take a few deep breaths as you raise your arms
up overhead,” I began. “Now reach to the side and breathe…that’s it…slow and easy.
Take your time warming up.” As I focused on the warm up I hoped my voice did not
sound as shaky as I felt. “Now, face the step and make an easy step tap, that’s
it, step tap. One, two, follow the beat, step tap, step tap…” I kept what I hoped
was a smile on my face and took the class through a well-memorized routine.
Filled with anxiety, I kept glancing surreptitiously at the woman in the back of
the room. She stood in front of her step, arms folded, eyes trained on me like she
was looking through the crosshairs of a scoped rifle. She made no attempt to follow
along. I focused on the other students, trying to appear calm and cheerful, all
the while feeling unnerved. Time stretched into a long, slow ribbon of molasses.
I kept nervously watching the clock, observing the hands inch along, willing them
to move faster. Finally, the class was over. “And, that’s a wrap! See you next week!”
I called, feigning gaiety. Then, I blew my cheeks out and exhaled a long, slow breath.
The students made their way back to the dressing room as I gathered up my belongings,
my back to the door. When the room was quiet, I turned to head to the next class.
The old woman stood right behind me. “Oh!” I jumped, straight up, the CDs and iPod
clattering to the floor. “I didn’t hear you.”
She did not say anything, just kept the steady stare. I felt my solar plexus start
to hum. Instinctively, I pressed my palms against my stomach, like I did so many
years ago at the edge of the field in gym class.
“Don’t,” she barked, in a husky, gravelly voice.
“D-d-don’t what…?” I stuttered. I felt like I was the tongue-tied 16 year-old again.
“Don’t try to suppress what you are feeling. Take your hands away from your stomach.”
She reached out to me, and I stumbled backwards.
“What are you doing? Get away from me.” She had backed me into a corner and
there was no escape.
“I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help you.” Her voice became diffuse and seemed to
come from every direction.
“I don’t need your help.”
“Yes. You do. And you will, more and more.”
God, she sounded like she was going to be my sponsor or something. I didn’t need
a sponsor. And I sure didn’t need her. My teeth were starting to chatter, I was
so frightened. I felt my knees start to give way, and I slid to the floor. “Please,
please, don’t hurt me,” I whispered, eyes closed, mouth dry with fear.
“Hurting you is the last thing on my mind. You and I, we’ve got work to do,” she
stated in firm, decisive tones. With that, she turned and walked gracefully out
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