Roommate's Promise

Don-Michael Smith

Description

From the beginning, Lewis's roommate, Aden, is mysterious yet intriguing. The inconsiderate 3:00am move-in and the rare disease, polymorphic photosensitivity, are just the start of Aden's strange secrets. Will Lewis discover Aden's most fatal secret, or will he continue to make lethal promises? While trying to balance love, friendships, classwork, and his deadly new alliance with his roommate, Lewis must figure out what is truly important. As he struggles to unravel the mystery of Aden's bizarre and inexplicable behaviors, he gets closer to solving the mystery of a string of deaths and missing people on campus. Lewis's inability to detect the common denominator in all of the non-stop twists and turns of his life will carry you on an addicting and frenzied ride.

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 29 janvier 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781645753698
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

A R oommate’s P romise
Don-Michael Smith
Austin Macauley Publishers
2021-01-29
A Roommate’s Promise About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgment Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26
About the Author
Since early childhood, Don-Michael Smith has been a lover of literature. He is currently a contemporary literature teacher at a high school in East Harlem. Don-Michael grew up in Hampton, Virginia, before attending Virginia Tech, where he received a bachelor’s of science degree in 2001. Upon graduating from VT, Don-Michael moved to Atlanta, Georgia, where he obtained his master’s degree in education and began his career teaching.  
A Roommate’s Promis e is his first novel.
Dedication
To Mom and Dad,
my wild imagination finally paid off!
Copyright Information ©
Don-Michael Smith (2021)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Ordering Information
Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Smith, Don-Michael
A Roommate’s Promise
ISBN 9781645753681 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781645753674 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781645753698 (ePub e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020924217
www.austinmacauley.com/us
First Published (2021)
Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302
New York, NY 10005
USA
[e-mail]
[phone]
Acknowledgment
Army, Armo, Ms. Blue, Amy T, Dhonielle—you guys had eyes on this work when I couldn’t stand to look at it. Thanks for all the glows and grows you provided. This would not be possible without you. Ms. Ferguson and Ms. Wampler, my favorite writing teachers who never gave me an A because I deserved it, but B s because I could always be better. Thank you!
Chapter 1
I tossed an old yearbook into a box labeled attic before standing up to survey the damage. The past four years of my life were sprawled out everywhere with sparse glimpses of carpet peeking desperately through the rummage. No wonder my bedroom is completely trashed, I’ve been struggling to get things into boxes for weeks. My dilemma—filtering unnecessary items of teenage obsession from articles deemed as college appropriate. Truth be told, it’s not as easy as I thought it would be.
To date, my life can pretty much be summed up by the brimming, attic-bound box in front of me bursting at the seams from old science fair ribbons, graded papers, horrifying school pictures, and a Keyboarding Club T-shirt! No doubt, that has definitely got to go into the Relics of Loserville Past box. I mean damn, I’m about to be a college freshman for all that’s good and holy!
It’s hard to believe that the much-anticipated summer after my senior year has ended and that I’m really headed to Southern California University tomorrow morning. Getting accepted was not a total surprise because both of my parents are alumni. Speaking for my own contribution, I’ve always done pretty well in school. I don’t know why, but for some reason, high school just got easier as I passed from one grade to the next. But don’t misunderstand me, I’m by no means a genius. I wasn’t Valedictorian or Salutatorian either. I’m just Lewis Lewis , with the 3.5 GPA, ranked 53 in a class of 315, and the son of two college lovebirds who insisted that I attend their glorious alma mater of SoCafo (that’s what privy folks call Southern California University). Non-privy folks often confuse SoCafo with The University of Southern California, which is actually in Los Angeles and better known as the research snooze fest, USC… if I had to go there you could shoot me between the eyes right now. SoCafo is further south, just an hour east of San Diego. And yep, you heard me—I was given an unusual punishment at birth by two seemingly sane parents, identical first and last names. My mom always wanted to name her firstborn son after her Grandpa Lewis, who died shortly after she married my dad. She has this humiliating and over-told monologue about how she just knew it was meant to be with Dad after she found out his last name was Lewis. Now fast-forward eighteen years and I, Lewis Emmanuel Lewis , am reaping the absolutely ridiculous brunt of a well-rehearsed yet mediocre love story.
I’m an only child, so lucky for my hypothetical sibling(s) my mom didn’t get to name any more Lewis’s. And lucky for me, my best friend, Dean, has been my brother through all the painful years of life a guy loathes talking to his parents about. Dean got accepted to UCLA, so I’m hoping to get a cool roommate in his absence.
Across my room on the desk, the only visibly clear surface remaining, my phone vibrated with what I can only imagine being a text from Dean. After stepping over my sloppily packaged high school life, I discovered that sure enough, it was.
CU @ Sharkey’s n 10.
With tonight being my last night in town, Dean and I made plans to go to Sharkey’s, our young-adult hangout with a bowling alley, arcade, dancefloor, and the best pizza on the West Coast. I’ve been so caught up with packing that our plans totally slipped my mind. I have a shit ton left to pack but certainly could use this break from the monotony. My only concern is that Dean is not exactly a guy of moderation. If I’m not careful that troublemaker will have me out all night, and then I’ll never finish packing before tomorrow.
In addition to being a magnet for trouble, Dean also has this incredible talent for talking his way into and out of any situation. To say that Dean is mischievous would be beyond an understatement. It’s really nothing legally harmful, just stuff like sliding down the bowling lanes on his stomach, unplugging the videogames, breakdancing very badly on a crowded dance floor, and throwing slices of the best pizza on the West Coast across a very frustrated arcade.
Harold Sharkey would have long ago stripped Dean the privilege to step foot inside of his establishment if it weren’t for Dean’s aforementioned ability to talk himself out of all unfavorable circumstances. However, most Vedadonians attribute Mr. Sharkey’s continued graciousness to the obvious—Dean Eddleston Senior is the most successful public relations attorney in Vedado, California, and Harold Sharkey is one of his oldest clients.
I do lovingly pity Dean. One day, when he finds himself in a situation at UCLA without daddy in his corner and too drunk to articulate himself, he is going to suffer an imperial wakeup call. I just hope that I’m not there to witness it. Not to mention he’ll probably need someone to bail him out, and I’m sure that I won’t be able to foot that bill. But let’s not think that situation into existence.
It was already 8:15 when I shot a short text back.
Meet ya n 30, SSS.
I could probably be out of the door in twenty minutes if I finish packing this last box quickly. So, after about twenty seconds of hurriedly throwing random objects that were within reach into a half-full cardboard box, I stood up again to look at the remaining task. There was a clear circular space of carpet in the middle of the floor from where I’d been sitting for hours enclosed by a mass of unpacked destruction…it would have to wait until I got back to be addressed.
I waded through the boxes blocking my bathroom door and skirted them out of the way pulling it open. I was masterful at an efficient SSS therefore on my way by 8:40. Oh, and FYI SSS stands for shit, shower, and shave . I don’t have my own car, so I share the minivan with my mom. To be honest, it’s more humiliating than my name. She’s a stay-at-home-mom and thus insisted on getting a Dodge Caravan because of the dual sliding doors and grocery storage space in the back. Mom has a degree in Elementary Education and used to be a teacher, but she and Dad agreed that she was needed more at home when I was six. I think she may start working again once I’m out of the house though. I just hope that she realizes an SUV would be just as spacious as and ten times more fashionable than that janky minivan (or disgrace on wheels as Dean calls it).
But I digress… So, by the time I got to Sharkey’s Dean had already managed to sneak-guzzle a pitcher of beer. I guess he was serious about me being here at 8:25. It was now 8:50, and he was tapdancing, in bowling shoes, on the back bar in front of a seventy-two-inch television. Mr. Sharkey must not be managing tonight because he’d on no account let Dean get away with these crowd menacing shenanigans. Harold Sharkey is a nice guy: heartily Scottish, in his late fifties, widower, grown children (I think two girls), with a harsh Scottish accent that guards an overprotective and loving heart. I think I should stop Dean for his sake, poor old man.
“Dean! C’mon dude, get down from there. Mr. Sharkey doesn’t need this for business. Besides, you’re making me look bad,” I pleaded half-hearted