A Vivian Chastain Novel
Vivian Chastain is an adrenaline addicted veteran transitioning to civilian life in Sacramento, California. She settles into a new routine while she finishes up college and works as a bartender, covering up her intense anxiety with fake bravado and swagger. All Vivian wants is peace and quiet, but her whole trajectory changes when she stumbles upon a heinous crime in progress, and has to fight for her life to get away.
While recovering from the fight, she falls in love with someone who is tall in stature but short on emotional intelligence, and this toxic union provides Vivian the relationship that she thinks she needs. Given Vivian’s insecurities and traumatic past, she clings to the relationship even while it destroys her.
Prone to fits of rage, the spiraling of Vivian’s temper creates a turning point for her as she looks within to find the peace she seeks.
Vivian’s alcoholic brother and emotionally devoid mother serve as frequent thorns in her side, prompting her turbulent history to often bubble up to the surface. The bubbling turns to a rolling boil when Vivian’s brother lands himself in jail for drunken indiscretions, and not long afterward her partner is arrested for something so atrocious Vivian cannot even fathom it. She is left pondering whether or not to believe that the person she loves could have committed such an inexcusable crime.
Vivian’s relationships are strained to their breaking points as she continues to seek balance. She turns to her best friend for support, only to be left empty handed and alone until she finds comradery and care from the last person she would have thought.
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: Monday, October 26 2020
Word Count: 72,119
Cover Artist: Natasha Snow
Genres: Contemporary fiction, LGBTQ, crime/thriller,
Pairings: Not a romance, but pairings are FF
LGBTQ+ Identities: lesbian, gay, trans, poly
Keywords/Categories: Contemporary, crime/thriller, lesbian, polyamory, ex-military, bartender, drugs/alcohol abuse, PTSD. lesbian, gay, trans, poly, queer, LGBTQ, crime, thriller, contemporary
Warnings: This book contains sexually explicit material which is only suitable for mature readers, graphic violence, self-harm, abuse of a child by a parent, abuse by a sibling, alcohol abuse, and PTSD
Coming soon: Kobo ǀ Amazon ǀ B&N
Being an author is weird. I sit down, make up a story, and write it down in the hopes that someday someone will read it and enjoy it. People ask about my writing process, and how my stories come to be, so I figured I should share a little bit about the evolution of Canopy.
There are plenty of different ways to write, some have even been given names like “plotter,” “pantser,” and even “plantser.” I am definitely a pantser, which means I do not plot my stories out in advance, and write by the seat of my pants. I literally sit down and start writing, and whatever happens, happens. I usually don’t where a story will go until the moment I am typing it. So, you can imagine when I wrote my debut novel, Canopy, that it was not a smooth process (hint: it wasn’t).
Without giving any spoilers, I will just say that the original first draft of the manuscript had too much going on. My dear writing mentor and favorite beta reader, Pat Henshaw, had a few choice words for me. Pat is direct, to say the least. Anyway, she pointed out that I needed to choose one big event to focus on, instead of two. I had always intended for this to be a three-book series, so I split out one of the big events and saved it for book two, titled Stitches and Sepsis.
There I was, a fledgling writer, who had just ripped a massive chunk of her storyline out, leaving behind a gaping wound in the manuscript. I was super discouraged and didn’t look at the manuscript or write anything for six months. Eventually I got back to work, finally finishing off Canopy.
Finding a publisher though… that was a separate challenge in itself, and a story for another day.
As I approached Road 27, I saw what looked like an old warehouse. It was all closed up, the metal siding rusty, the dirt lot empty and overgrown with Russian Thistle. It was perfect for a bio break.
I backed off the throttle and downshifted. The bike rapidly slowed under me. I pulled into the dirt lot and parked along the side of the structure. I killed the engine and hopped off quickly, yanking off my helmet and gloves.
My bladder was screaming for relief. I grabbed a tissue from my tank bag and jogged around to the east side of the building so I wouldn’t be seen from the road. Dropping trou, I squatted against the side of the building. The heat of the warm metal siding radiated through the back of my shirt. Once I was finished, I stood, buckling my belt as the relief washed over my body.
The building was surrounded by row crops, and a breeze blew across the fields. The distant Sierra Mountains wavered in the hot air.
It occurred to me an abandoned warehouse like that would be a great spot for geocaching and I walked slowly along the side of the building, looking for potential geocache hiding spots.
I rounded the far corner of the building and stopped in my tracks. I was startled to see a car parked about twenty feet away. It was a rusted-out old Honda Accord, its windows rolled down. The burgundy paint was oxidized, and strips of the headliner hung down, fluttering in the hot midday breeze.
Some faint shuffling sounds came from inside the warehouse, and I realized I was standing directly in front of a rusty pedestrian door. I took a few steps back. My hands tingled and I balled them into fists.
It’s just a farm worker getting some tools, dumbass.
But the hypervigilance that had kicked in would not go away. Something was off, and it made me bristle.
I reached down for my M16 sling and came up empty. I looked down at my boots on the dusty cracked ground. They were my scuffed-up riding boots, not military issue jump boots. My pants were denim, not BDU’s.
I slipped away to another hot, dusty day five years prior. A day when RPG’s and bullets filled the air rather than the sound of the breeze rustling crops. A day when blood was shed.
I took another step away from the building and forced myself to breathe. Breathe in the smell of freshly plowed soil, leather, gasoline, and the faint hint of a dung heap.
I slapped myself across the thighs, hard. Even through denim, the sound and sting of it helped bring me back. My thighs and palms burned. I did it again to make the point to myself.
The door to the warehouse opened, and a woman stepped out. She was wearing a tan backpack, whistling, and twirling a key ring on her fingertip as she walked toward a spigot near the door. Her long hair was brown and tightly permed. She was short but solid and moved like an athlete. Scanning her, I noticed that her hands and shirt were bloody. I coiled up inside, ready to fight.
The door closed heavily behind her, and she took a few more steps before looking up and spotting me. She stopped whistling as our eyes met.
I immediately shifted into a fighting stance. With no hesitation the woman charged at me. I got low and opened my arms because I didn’t have time to try a side slip. As soon as the woman plowed into me, I wrapped my arms tightly around her.
We went down hard. I wrapped my legs around her waist. Dust and grit were immediately in the air.
I had a hard time keeping a grip on her torso because of the backpack. I worked my arms up until the crook of my elbow was wrapped around the back of her neck, holding her as close as I could. She bucked and tried to roll out of my grip. I locked my right foot into the crook of my left knee and squeezed the woman’s guts. She grunted as I clamped my thighs down around her, restricting her ability to get a full breath. She was solid and strong, deep down in her core.
Adrenaline and rage surged through my body, and a clear lucidity took over. I was in my element, and apparently so was the woman I was hanging onto.
Liz is giving away a $20 Amazon gift card with this tour
Liz Faraim is a recovering workaholic who has mastered multi-tasking, including balancing a day job, solo parenting, writing, and finding some semblance of a social life. In past lives she has been a soldier, a bartender, a shoe salesperson, an assistant museum curator, and even a driving instructor.
Liz writes contemporary fiction that highlights queer characters and often includes complex polyamorous relationships. Her writing has a hefty dose of soul searching and emotional turmoil while also taking the reader on fun adventures. She loves spending time in nature and does her best to share nature with her readers.
Author Website: www.lizfarim.com
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