Title: The Art of Hero Worship
Author: Mia Kerick
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: October 29, 2018
Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex
Pairing: Male/Male
Length: 51500
Genre: contemporary, bisexual, new adult, college, self-discovery, crime/school shooting, PTSD/disability, grieving/depression, family drama, violence, stalking
Synopsis
College junior Liam Norcross is a hero. He willingly, even eagerly, risks his life to save a stranger as a murderous, deranged shooter moves methodically through the darkened theater on the Batcheldor College campus, randomly killing innocent men, women, and children.
The stranger he saves is college freshman Jason Tripp. Jase loses everything in the shooting: his girlfriend, who dies on the floor beside him, and his grip on emotional security. He struggles to regain a sense of safety in the world, finally leaving college to seek refuge in his hometown.
An inexplicable bond forms between the two men in the chaos and horror of the theater, and Liam fights to bring Jase back to the world he ran away from. When Jase returns to school, theyâre drawn together as soulmates, and soon Liam and Jase fall into a turbulent romantic relationship. However, the rocky path to love cannot be smoothed until Jase rescues his hero in return by delving into his shady past and solving the mystery of Liamâs compulsion to be everybodyâs savior.
Excerpt
The Art of Hero Worship
Mia Kerick Š 2018
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
Pop-pop-popâŚ
At this point, heâs in the back of the theater, and the shooting hasnât slowed down at all. Gunshots ring out steadily in the shadowy darknessâŚalways in sets of three, letting me know where he is. Iâm scaredâŚso fucking scaredâŚbut not too scared to wonder what I did to deserve this special little slice of hell.
And Iâm frozenâŚI canât even move enough to swallow my spit. I know what I have to doâI have to search for Ginny, but I canât since Iâm frozen solid, like a leg of lamb in a walk-in freezer.
Pop-pop-popâŚpop-pop-popâŚ
âIâve been shot! Oh, sweet Jesus, Iâve been shot!â
Earsplitting blasts of soundâone, two, three. The gunshots have a life and a planâno, a missionâall their own, to maim and kill by ripping through the flesh of everyone in this theater. Iâm panting and sweating and wishing to God I knew how to pray because Iâd so pray right now.
And as suddenly as it started, the shooting stops. Is it over? With the utmost caution, I exhale the breath Iâve been hanging on to so jealouslyâŚas if part of me fears Iâll never get the chance to take another. But one more wary breath moves in and out, and I know I have to get hold of myself so I can find her. Because itâs over now⌠yes, I think maybe itâs ovâ
Pop-pop-popâŚ
Life-sucking and blood-spattering and gurgle-inducing, evenly spaced sets of three that are becoming so horribly predictable. I brace myself for the impact because I just know the next pop is going to come with excruciating pain that explodes in my head or my back or, if Iâm lucky, my ass. Or, if Iâm not so lucky, in all three places, one right after another.
This isnât happening. It canât be happening.
Is nineteen too old to want my mommy?
âGet down! Get on the floor!â Somebody yells. Too late for that warning. Iâm already flat on the floor in the narrow space between the rows of seats; my head is bleeding all over the arm itâs resting on⌠My left arm? My right arm? Somebody elseâs arm? Not so sure. Not so sure it matters.
âDonât shoot meâplease donâtââ
Pop-pop-popâŚ
âPut the gun down! Put it do-o-own!â
Pop-pop-popâŚ
I belly crawl forward a few inches and reach around in search of Ginnyâs hand, but when I pat the floor all I can feel is a pool of blood that wasnât there the last time I checked, and then thereâs this cooling mound of flesh in its center.
âI donât know what to doâŚâ These words escape on a single breath followed by a few sharp coughs from an elderly man.
Pop-pop-popâŚpop-pop-popâŚ
Annoying coughâŚforever suppressed.
Right after the second round of shots, when everybody had started rushing around, all frenzied and scrambling, Iâd lost track of Ginny⌠In fact, Iâd lost track of everything. Maybe because it had suddenly sunk into my stunned brain that this place was now a death chamber. My death chamber.
It seems as if so much time has passed since the first bullet whizzed past my right earâŚthat for a month or a yearâor for my entire lifetimeâIâve been waiting for the gunshots to stop. But a tiny voice inside my head suggests that Iâve been in this living hell for less than five minutes, at most.
Pop-pop-popâŚ
Right after the shooting started, but before I lost Ginny, I caught a glimpse of the gunmanâs silhouette against the bright stage. Heâd seemed huge in his dark baggy clothing. He towered over the audience, or maybe it just seemed that way because he was pointing a long gun at us. I recognized the shooter from seeing him around campus. And when I saw his face profiled in the lightâthe bulging forehead, prominent nose, and receding chinâa name had sped through my brain, but soon the name was as lost to me as my girlfriendâs lax hand.
Pop-pop-popâŚ
The gunman doesnât say a word; his weapon does the talking. And the deafening popping sounds are closer again, like the gun has something it wants to say to me personallyâŚsomething like, âYouâre gonna die today, Jason.â
âIâm gonna push on your back really hard, and I want you to squeeze as much of your body underneath the chairs as you can, got it?â The voice seems to come from a million miles away, but itâs coming from right behind me. On top of me, really. I feel his breath on the back of my neck.
Pop-pop-popâŚpop-pop-popâŚ
âAre we going to die?â Iâm not sure if I ask this or if it comes from the lips of the little old lady whoâd been sitting on the other side of Ginny at the start of the play. The old lady who told us sheâd come to the Harrison Theater to see her granddaughter play Ophelia in the Shakespeare in the Spring Performance Series, not to die in a hail of bullets. I know that Ginny didnât ask the question, though. Sheâs been silent since the second volley of gunshots when her head slumped over unnaturally onto my shoulder, and by instinct, Iâd pulled her to the floor.
Batcheldor Collegeâs small theater has been called âan acoustic gem,â and right now, itâs ringing with the erratic sounds of screaming and moaning and crying and shouting and shooting. But most impressive is the resounding silence of the gunman, which speaks louder than words, or gunshots, ever could.
All in all, itâs noisy and confusing and crazyâŚthe Beatlesâ tune âHelter Skelterâ comes to mind. This is not how I want to die. Mostly because I donât want to die!
The guy on my back is poking a single finger into the blood on my head, then twisting in such a way that I think heâs reaching to his backâŚlike maybe heâs smearing my blood there. Iâm distracted from his action by the squealing of the fire alarm, and I find my blurry mind wondering if, in addition to the problem of a crazed gunman, we also have a fire to put out.
Would I prefer my death be a result of hungry flames or a hail of bullets?
âWeâre gonna survive; just stay still. Completely still. âKay?â I feel the pressure on my back that he promised me, and even though it hurts to have my belly pushed into the metal rungs at the base of the seats in front of us, I feel strangely safe. He speaks into my ear. âPlay dead, dude.â
Pop-pop-popâŚ
No, Iâm not even remotely safe. But thankfully, I play dead far better than my dog Goliath did when I tried to teach him that trick at the age of seven.
The shots are already earsplitting, and growing louder, as the shooterâs heading our way. Iâm so fucking scared I tremble as if Iâm having a seizure, and I promised the guy lying on top of me that Iâd stay still. I concentrate on taking short shallow breaths, one after another, in my effort to stop shaking. To stay frozenâthe way my heart has been since I pulled Ginny to the floor and promptly let go of her hand so I could curl up into a tight fetal ball.
Somebody near me sits up, scrambles to his knees, and impulsively crawls toward the far aisle.
Pop-pop-popâŚ
âBang, bangâŚyouâre dead.â The voice comes from directly above me; itâs blank and monotone and controlled. The snicker that follows is chilling. I want nothing more than to throw the big guy off my back and run like hell toward the double doors, but I just keep on going with the short, shallow breaths and stay as still as Iâve ever been in my life. The guy on top of me is totally exposed; I canât move because if I do, Iâll cheat him out of his life, for sure. Which is so not cool when heâs trying to save mine.
I smell blood. Never noticed the smell of blood before. It reminds me of Grandmaâs penny collectionâŚif it got spilled onto the sticky floor of the theater. The scent of old copper is everywhere like wet pennies strewn all around me on the floor.
Pop-pop-popâŚ
Shooterâs practically on top of us now. Donât moveâŚdonât moveâŚdonât moveâŚ
âDear God, help me!â This request seems to catch the shooterâs attention, and he turns around and steps away from us. I curse myself for feeling as relieved as I do.
Pop-pop-popâŚ
We wait and it seems like forever. We wait as voices beg and plead and pray and he shuts them up with bullets. We wait as the sound of shots moves to the front left near the exit, where I figure heâs shooting at anyone who tries to get out through the double doors.
And then, for a second, itâs quiet.
âNowâŚâ The big guy whispers, but the sound seems to blast into my left ear. âWe have to make our move now.â Before I agree, the heaviness of his body lifts and I feel cold and exposed. âThis is our chance to get outta hereâŚâ
His hand is attached to the back of my wrist, clutching me so hard Iâll have fingerprint bruises for a weekâŚif I live so long.
âCome on! Get up!â
âGinnyâŚâ I whisper back. âI canât leave Ginny.â
He reaches out to touch the flesh mound in the center of the pool of blood and whispers firmly, âGinnyâs already gone.â He releases my wrist just long enough to adjust his grip. âI worked here last year. I know how to get away. Come onâŚâ
He pulls me to my knees and drags me. Ginny. I only think her name this time because Iâm literally too petrified to speak. We crawl like two sneaky toddlers through the narrow alley between the rows of seats and then down the outside aisle, over a couple of bodiesâsmall ones, kidsâ bodies that are way too still and coolâand to a trapdoor at the base of the stage. Itâs a small gray square in the wall. I never noticed it before, and Iâve been to the Harrison Theater at least five times this year to see Ginnyâs roommate perform. The guy beside me pulls out a pocketknife and fiddles silently with the screws holding the little door in place.
Pop-pop-popâŚ
The thin slab of metal covering the small door drops to the floor and contributes a new sound to the quieting chaos. It clangs in such a way that nobody left alive in the theater could miss it.
âWhere do you think youâre going?â The gunman has stopped shooting, and I hear the heavy stomping of combat boots coming toward us, down the aisle. Not runningâŚjust walking in swift, determined steps. My guardian angel grabs me and stuffs me through the opening in the base of the stage. I land on my chin in a pile of music stands. My helper isnât far behind in squeezing his bulky frame through the small square in the wall. Weâve landed in some type of a cluttered crawl space, maybe the orchestra pit, and I struggle to make my way through the music stands in the pitch-blackness. When weâre halfway through the mess of metal, crawling through unruly stacks of folding chairs, the overhead light in the pit flicks on.
âWhatâs going on in the theater, you guys? Itâs mega-loud in there.â A clueless college girlâs voice. I canât see her clearly because the sudden bright light stings my eyes, making me squint.
âGet out of here, ladyâjust run for it!â shouts my guardian angel. We canât run yet because weâre still trapped in a dense forest of metal.
âI see you two⌠I see you.â The shooterâs voice is deadly calm. âAnd I think I know you.â
Pop-pop-popâŚ
For some reason, he doesnât climb into the orchestra pit to come after us but pushes the gun through the opening and pulls the trigger three times. Bullets ricochet off the metal chairs and stands. Again I freeze, not sure which way to go. Iâm grabbed fiercely by my right forearm and dragged over the remainder of the chairs to the door.
I expect more shooting, but thereâs none. Instead, that cold, creepy voice increases in volume, to assure us, âDonât worry, Iâll find you.â
We take to our feet and start to run. Soon weâre holding hands in a narrow hallwayâŚrunning for the back of the buildingâŚand then weâre outside in the breezy darkness, still clinging to each other. We sprint through the muddy grass in the direction of the parking lot.
And we stop at an old model, cherry-red muscle carâa Dodge Charger.
âGet in!â His voice is husky as he opens the passenger door, pushes me inside, and quickly shuts it. Then he scrambles over the hood to get to the driverâs side. He flings the door wide open and jumps into the seat, not gracefully, but with more speed than I could ever have imagined was possible for a guy his size. Adrenaline counts for a lot⌠And soon weâre driving off the college grounds, out of the supposed safety of the âBatcheldor College Bubble,â and into the real world.
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Meet the Author
Mia Kerick is the mother of four exceptional childrenâone in law school, another at a dance conservatory, a third studying at Miaâs alma mater, Boston College, and her lone son still in high school. She has published more than twenty books of LGBTQ romance when not editing National Honor Society essays, offering opinions on college and law school applications, helping to create dance bios, and reviewing English papers. Her husband of twenty-five years has been told by many that he has the patience of Job, but donât ask Mia about this, as it is a sensitive subject.
Mia focuses her stories on the emotional growth of troubled young people and their relationships. She has a great affinity for the tortured hero in literature, and as a teen, Mia filled spiral-bound notebooks with tales of tortured heroes and stuffed them under her mattress for safekeeping. She is thankful to NineStar Press for providing her with an alternate place to stash her stories.
Her books have been featured in Kirkus Reviews magazine, and have won Rainbow Awards for Best Transgender Contemporary Romance and Best YA Lesbian Fiction, a Reader Viewsâ Book by Book Publicity Literary Award, the Jack Eadon Award for Best Book in Contemporary Drama, an Indie Fab Award, and a Royal Dragonfly Award for Cultural Diversity, among other awards.
Mia Kerick is a social liberal and cheers for each and every victory made in the name of human rights. Her only major regret: never having taken typing or computer class in school, destining her to a life consumed with two-fingered pecking and constant prayer to the Gods of Technology. Contact Mia at miakerick@gmail.com or visit at http://www.miakerickya.com to see what is going on in Miaâs world.
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Nick is an award winning narrator with a fan following for his work in fiction, specifically in the romance genre. His performances in two of Amy Lane’s books, Beneath the Stain and Christmas Kitsch, made him the recipient of Sinfully M/M Book Review’s Narrator of the Year – 2015. When he’s not in the booth, Nick enjoys spending time with his wife, Jessica, and kids, (aka their beagle Frank and cat Stella), drumming in his cover band, exploring rural back roads with his wife on his motorcycle, or being enthralled in a tabletop role playing game with his friends.
Addison Albright is a writer living in the middle of the USA. Her stories are gay romance in contemporary, fantasy, and paranormal genres. She generally adds a subtle touch of humor, a smidgen of drama/angst, and a healthy dose of slice-of-life to her stories. Her education includes a BS in Education with a major in mathematics and a minor in chemistry. Addison loves spending time with her family, reading, popcorn, boating, french fries, âopen window weather,â cats, math, and anything chocolate. She loves to read pretty much anything and everything, anytime and anywhere.
Nick is an award winning narrator with a fan following for his work in fiction, specifically in the romance genre. His performances in two of Amy Laneâs books, Beneath the Stain and Christmas Kitsch, made him the recipient of Sinfully M/M Book Reviewâs Narrator of the Year â 2015. When heâs not in the booth, Nick enjoys spending time with his wife, Jessica, and kids, (aka their beagle Frank and cat Stella), drumming in his cover band, exploring rural back roads with his wife on his motorcycle, or being enthralled in a tabletop role playing game with his friends. 
