Touch (A Denazen Novel, Book 1) by Jus Accardo

Author:Jus Accardo
Language: eng
Format: epub

Ebook ISBN 978-1-937044-44-2

Print ISBN 978-1-937044-45-9

Manufactured in the United States of A merica

First Edition November 2011

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of

fiction: Hello Kitty, Taser, Vans, FML, Subway

For Kevin…

Every miracle in my life is because of you.

1

I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were there, waiting at the bottom. Bloodthirsty little shits—they were probably praying for this to go

badly. “What do you think—about a fifteen-foot drop?”

“Easily,” Brandt said. He grabbed my arm as a blast of wind whipped around us. Once I was steady on my skateboard, he tipped back his

beer and downed what was left.

Together, we peered over the edge of the barn roof. The party was in full swing below us. Fifteen of our closest—and craziest—friends.

Brandt sighed. “Can you really do this?”

I handed him my own empty bottle. “They don’t call me Queen of Crazy Shit for nothing.” Gilman was poised on his skateboard to my left.

Even in the dark, I could see the moonlight glisten off the sweat beading his brow. Pansy. “You ready?”

He swallowed and nodded.

Brandt laughed and tossed the bottles toward the woods. There were several seconds of silence, then a muted crash, followed by hoots and

hysterical laughter from our friends below. Only drunk people would find shattering bottles an epic source of amusement.

“I dunno about this, Dez,” he said. “You can’t see anything down there. How do you know where you’re gonna land?”

“It’ll be fine. I’ve done this, like, a million times.”

Brandt’s words were clipped. “Into a pool. From a ten-foot-high garage roof. This is at least fifteen feet. Last thing I want to do is drag your

ass all the way home.”

I ignored him—the usual response to my cousin’s chiding—and bent my knees. Turning back to Gilman, I smiled. “Ready, Mr. Badass?”

Someone below turned up one of the car stereos. A thumping techno beat drifted up. Hands on the sill behind me, drunken shouts of

encouragement rising from below, I let go.

Hair lashed like a thousand tiny whips all along my face. The rough and rumbling texture of the barn roof beneath my board. Then

nothing.

Flying. It was like flying.

For a few blissful moments, I was weightless. A feather suspended in midair right before it fluttered gracefully to the ground. A drenalin

surged through my system, driving my buzz higher.

The crappy thing about adrenalin highs, though? They never last long enough.

Mine lasted what felt like five seconds—the time it took to go from the barn roof to the not-so-cushy pile of hay below.

I landed with a jar—nothing serious—a bruised tailbone and some black and blues, maybe. Hardly the worst I’d ever walked away with.

Stretching out the kink in my back, I brushed the hay from my jeans. A quick inspection revealed a smudge above my right knee and a few

splotches of mud up the left side. A ll things the washing machine could fix.

Somewhere behind me, a loud wail filled the air. Gilman.

Never mix tequila and peach schnapps with warm Bud Light. It makes you do stupid things.

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