AAMBC (African Americans On The Move Book Club)
New Book Release
Every Twenty Four Hours
Cynthia Johnson (CJ) is a Christian, wife, mother, college graduate and a career woman. She is also a breast cancer survivor and Caring Angel volunteer for Hospice of Dayton. CJ has been jotting down storylines and poetry since grade school. She has self-published two previous novels,Stop the Music and Straw Dreams, which are both inspirational novels that deal with her love of and dependence on God. She loves animals and long walks on the beach with her husband of twenty-five years. She someday hopes to retire from her day job and lead a national cancer initiative to provide family support services for cancer patients.
The corners of his mouth turned up. Eileen’s cheeks warmed. Within milliseconds, her insides felt mushy as a Popsicle on a hot summer’s afternoon. He was tall, handsome, clean-cut, and somewhere in his early twenties. His broad chest sculpted his tailored blue suit, and the scent of his cologne, geraniums with a woody musk base was a delight to her nose. Her mouth filled with saliva. Now she understood the hype in psych class about Pavlov’s dog. She swallowed several times.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes.” She stood before him, mesmerized. Was jet fuel pumping through her veins instead of plasma? All she knew was that her head was definitely in the clouds.
“Okay, but did you make sure the gun is still here?” Sammy asked.
“No, but he wouldn’t take the gun. We only have it in case someone breaks in.”
“I don’t think he’d take it either, but I’d feel a whole lot better if you checked. You remember no one thought Tony would try to commit suicide either.”
“That’s ridiculous!” There he goes again comparing James’s emotional state to his father’s. “If it’ll make you shut up, I’ll show you,” she shouted. Eileen stormed to her bedroom. The sea-blue walls looked red through her enraged lenses. She grabbed hold of the doorknob and slung opened the closet door. It crashed into the plaster. But she didn’t care. Sammy had hit a nerve—severed the damn thing with his ice-pick tongue. Eileen pulled out the footstool that James had made her in shop class from beneath the rack of clothes. She saw Sammy watching her tensely. With her feet planted firmly against the wood grain, she reached high on top of the shelf where she kept the gun beneath an old blanket. Sammy offered to help, but she ignored him. Hadn’t
he done enough? She ran her hand along the wooden shelf and could feel a metal handle graze her fingertips. With her fingers locked around the metal, she pulled her hand back for Sammy to see. The proof was in her grasp. He was going to eat his words. All of them—choke on them like a big fat side of beef.
Thanks for reading and supporting my summer reading list!
Follow me on Twitter: @ivywriter
Follow me on Goodreads, www.goodreads.com/ivywriter