Ryder on the Storm

Yes, my new paranormal romance novel is now 1,000 pages in and in part I pay homage to Jim Morrison and the Doors who I have loved since I was maybe seven years old (thanks Dad!!).  It hit me today when I was talking to a friend (who is actually editing FALL OF IA for me).  Here is my intro chapter (pretty rough so far) but what do you all think??

When you first realize you are different it can come as a shock.  It should come as a shock.  Storm just took it in stride, as if her mother said “Your eyes are blue” instead of “You are a Seer.”  She was seven.   Storm had awakened from a nightmare, or what she thought was a nightmare, to find herself seated between her mother and Aunt Trin.  The rough fabric of the 70s style sofa, the one her mother refused to part with even though it was fraying and covered in stains, chafed her legs beneath her gingham checked romper.  Aunt Trin stroked her hair, from the nape of her neck to her waist and over again. 

Even then Storm knew that Trin was moral support for her mother, not her.  Nothing new.  Trin had been there when Storm’s father left, and the next three boyfriends after him.  Aunt Trin, her mother’s twin, the stronger of the two.  Aunt Trin who taught Storm to control it.  Aunt Trin who took Storm in when her mother couldn’t handle it anymore.  Aunt Trin who was being lowered into the ground, the grinding of gears echoing through the graveyard.  The stargazer lilies on the top of her coffin were wilting in the heat, sweat dripped off Storm’s brow.  She wondered briefly of the sheen made her appear to be crying.  Trin would have liked that. 

Two caretakers emerged from a truck with shovels and began filling the grave.  Burly men with sweat stains under their arms that had spread in all directions, the larger man even had sweat lines down his back.  Storm refrained from sneering as she approached them. 

“Could I have another moment, please?”  She loosed the belt of her jacket revealing the navy sheath dress beneath.  As expected the caretakers’ eyes bulged slightly at her defined curves and nodded in that stunned manner Storm had become accustomed to but failed to grasp.  Once they were out of sight, she knelt beside the grave and took a handful of dirt from the pile.  With the other hand Storm reached into the pocket of her jacket and withdrew a vial.  She cast them both into the grave, stood up, brushed herself off, and walked away. 

In the driver’s seat of her VW Beetle, Storm exhaled.  It was done.  Everything she’d been asked to do.  She was free.  Sort of.  The visions would still plague her.  Unless she could break the curse.  Storm started her car and kicked the radio on, this one’s for you Aunt Trin, as Jim Morrison blew through her speakers with her namesake song.