Meet Luke Crawley in Blake Austin's debut novel of loss,
redemption, and ever-enduring love!
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Blurb
Luke
Cawley is a broken man. After his wife's tragic death, he lost everything that
mattered in the world. Now, his life is filled with hard days, harder nights,
and a steady stream of alcohol and the wrong kind of women. Nothing helps.
Until the
letters arrive on Luke's doorstep.
Nine
envelopes. Nine messages. Nine chances to find his way back.
Rae Goode
is looking for the real thing. After fighting her way out of a string of bad relationships,
she's ready for something different--something true.
She meets
Luke while piecing her life together, and right away she can tell that he's
different. Drawn together by fate and the desire to heal, Rae and Luke discover
new ways to mend their broken hearts--one letter at a time.
Discover
Blake Austin's debut novel of loss, redemption, and ever-enduring love.
Excerpt
I was about twenty minutes early for my shift, but I got up
to the bar, grabbed a rag, started wiping it down, bussing some dishes.
"Damn, Luke," Jake said, watching me work.
"You win the lotto or something? Royals win the pennant last night and I
forgot to watch?"
"I'm just in a good mood, that's all," I said.
I thought about it a moment longer, decided I should tell
him more. Impart some wisdom learned from my not-particularly-advanced years.
"When everything's dark for so damn long and your eyes
get used to it," I said, "just a little glimmer of sunshine lights up
the whole world."
He nodded, then grabbed a bus bin and headed back into the
kitchen.
Warren though, Warren wasn't impressed. He was sitting by
one of the daytime barflies, but he'd stopped talking and was just watching me.
I was on thin ice, and I knew it. I couldn’t afford to lose my job. A
heartbroken, drunk, angry widower is probably as unemployable as the average
ex-con.
I came on at the end of the day shift. Warren liked tending
bar during the day, because it meant just shooting the shit with the regulars.
That day I had a smile for every customer, sparse words of wisdom like day
drunks want to hear. Tending bar wasn't my dream. But to hell with letting that
make me lazy. I kept the place clean, I poured drinks like I cared.
I was getting into the swing of it when happy hour kicked in
and a few more people filtered through the door. Couple of middle-aged bikers,
a retired couple that parked their RV out front.
The door swung open again, letting
in a little bit of that early-evening cold, and I glanced up to see a crowd of
three women, with two men. One of the women was a reddish blonde, radiant. Sort
of stole the light out of the room. It was Rae. Our eyes met and her smile gave
the room back its light.
She'd been in jeans at the shelter, but she was in a blue
dress now and she looked damn fine in either. Took my mind right off Maggie, faster
than I thought it would be possible. I met her eyes, and she gave out a little
gasp and giggle. I was probably smiling in surprise myself.
The crowd came over to the bar. I'd thought the other four
were two couples, but I realized pretty quick that the black girl with the afro
was dating the quiet white guy in a beard and glasses and tattoos, and that the
other guy was trying to impress Rae. He had a John Deere hat, but his clothes
were way too clean for me to buy it that he worked on a farm. I hated him,
right off. I probably would have hated him if he was the best guy in the world,
though. The other girl, she was tall, latina, and for some indiscernible reason
was interested in the poser farmer.
Most of the time, I'm awful at reading people. But for some
reason, at work I can tell you everything about everyone who walks in the door.
About who's into who, about who had a bad day at work. Who wants to get drunk
and miserable, who wants to get drunk and happy, who wants to get drunk and
start trouble. Maybe it's some magic of the job, maybe it's just how people
carry themselves at a bar. Helps with tips, that's for certain. You wingman
right, and the money flows in.
Warren, he likes to upsell them drinks when he's doing that.
Get them excited about the top shelf. Not me.
"Hey, Rae," I said.
"Luke," she said.
John Deere looked at me like I was the scum of the earth.
And maybe I was, but if I was the scum then he was... I don't know, something
worse than scum. Wannabe scum.
She introduced me to her friends. Nicole had the afro, her
boyfriend was Eric. The girl with bad taste was Irina, and John Deere had some
name but honestly it went in one ear and out the other. He was John Deere to
me. Yeah, maybe I'm an asshole.
"So, how do you know this guy?" Deere asked,
tossing me a look that said I clearly wasn’t good enough to be friend with
someone like Rae.
"Oh, he came in just the other day. Adopted the
sweetest dog, a bloodhound." She turned to me, flashing that dimple high
on her cheek. "How is he? You guys call a truce yet?"
"King's great," I said. "I mean, he's
probably at home right now, eating everything I've ever owned, but I figure I
was due for a purge anyway, right?"
It was a lame attempt at humor, but Rae laughed.
"What can I get you all? Friend of Rae's is a friend of
mine."
About the Author
Blake Austin is a guitar playing father
of one, who lives in Los Angeles. He's written
music for as long as he can
remember and was inspired to add book writing to his
repertoire. 9 Letters is
his debut novel.
For updates: Follow Blake Austin on
Facebook here:
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