Nobody Has to Know Review Tour

Nobody Has to Know

by Frank Nappi

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BLURB:

Nobody Has To Know, Frank Nappi's dark and daring new thriller, tells the story of Cameron Baldridge, a popular high school teacher whose relationship with one of his students leads him down an unfortunate and self-destructive path. Stalked through text-messages, Baldridge fights for his life against a terrifying extortion plot and the forces that threaten to expose him. NHTK is a sobering look into a world of secrets, lies, and shocking revelations, and will leave the reader wondering many things, including whether or not you can ever really know the person you love.

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EXCERPT: 

Chapter One:

Cam knew he should not have encouraged her - should have never pursued her. It was the first thing he was told before he took the job. It wasn’t so much an admonition as it was a statement of fact.

“Remember, you can be friendly with these kids, but you are not their friend,” his mentor, a seasoned veteran of twenty nine years, warned. “Especially the girls. That’s just trouble waiting to happen.”

Cam shrugged it off. He had heard that warning before. Besides, he had no interest in teenage girls, especially the ones sitting in his classroom.

“No problem there John,” he had explained at the time. “I have it covered. I have no time for any of that. I’m involved already. College sweetheart. It’s cool. Really. We’ve been together for years.”

“Is that right?” John commented. “Then what’s the deal? I mean, twenty five isn’t old friend, but seems to me you should have taken it to the next level by now.”

Cam flushed and stood more awkwardly now. John marveled at his protégé’s attempt to free himself from the moment’s grasp.

“I don’t know,” Cam replied. “Why does everyone ask me that? I really don’t know. I guess the timing has never been quite right.” He paused briefly, gleaning some obscure meaning behind the raised eyebrows of his friend and mentor, then continued to speak, like an actor who had just been cued from offstage.

“But that should change soon. Hayley and I will probably be engaged by Christmas.”

Cam should have remembered John Volpe’s words. He should have listened to logic, and tucked away those feelings. He should have done a lot of things, like remembered his master’s thesis – the one that explored La Femme Fatale. He knew all the names. The sirens of Greek Mythology. Mata Hari. Memo Paris. Daisy Buchanan and Mattie Silver. And of course there was Nabokov’s Lolita. She was the one he remembered most. “All of them,” he had written, “are so very beautiful, so alluring, yet deadly – life draining vampires who possess the power to transfix the opposite sex with their feminine wiles, leaving these spellbound males weak, vulnerable and ultimately barren.” He should have remembered. He should have considered how much he loved teaching and his genuine affection for everyone at Hillcrest High School. He tried. But all he could see was her. For some reason, all he could think about was her long dark hair, and what it would be like to touch it – to let the soft strands cascade across his own body. And the wet shine of her lips. My God, what would it be like to feel those as well? To press his to hers. She was so beautiful, so exquisite, so young.

So many times, during their little chats before and after class, he stared into her blue eyes, marbled with gray flecks, and was lit by her electric smile, all the while wondering how it was that this universe managed to give birth to such a perfect creature. She was perfect. She was just as Nabokov had described his Lolita -- the nymphet, a mystical, magical, sweet smelling creature budding with sexuality, ripening on life’s vine, right before his very eyes. Yes, the forbidden fruit. Oh how she tortured him. The curve of her mouth; her slender waist and fully formed hips, both attenuators to the rhapsody of her walk; her sweet smell and the softness of her tan skin. Everything about her called to him desperately. It was a familiarly paralyzing feeling. The girl was also familiar. He could recall, as a kid, humid summer evenings with his friends, racing around on damp lawns under a gray sky that had just begun to soften into the pitch of night. Freeze tag was the game most often. Some complained it was a bit juvenile, but there were all sorts of variations, including a wrinkle that included their favorite alcoholic drink of choice.

The rules of the game were basic: once touched, you could not move. You remained frozen in place, sometimes drinking to excess, until someone freed you from your current state. He could still remember waiting, silent and still, for what seemed sometimes to be an eternity. It was uncomfortable. Cam’s knees would ache and his arms would burn. It was interminable. He was always tempted to transgress, to flex his muscles under the cover of the deepening night. He never did. Even though he could move, he never did, for the spirit of and passion for the game always trumped logic and reason.

He played it all the time, with Maleigha. She was his first love. It was the summer before he began high school when he met her. She had just turned fourteen, and was visiting her cousin, who happened to be his next door neighbor. He was slightly older and they had spent that entire summer together, swimming and riding bikes. He often thought, even now, how odd it was how they seemed to click instantly. She came from a Latin American family that lived in a trailer in New Jersey. She was a singer, and a lover of jazz music. He was just a kid from Long Island who loved the Mets. Their cultures and upbringing differed greatly as well. Yet somehow, none of it mattered. It was part of the magic.

The days that summer were filled with innocent fun with a group of others. They sat around many afternoons listening to their favorite tracks from Rage Against the Machine and The Smashing Pumpkins while playing Super Mario 64 on his Nintendo. When they tired of that, the world outside offered more frivolity, including wiffle ball, Marco Polo, tag, and man hunt. They were rarely at a loss for entertainment. Those were good days. But night time was really special. At night, it was all about Maleigha.

Often, Cam would take her for walks through the nature preserve not too far from his house. She loved the sound of the crickets, and the gentle trickle of the shallow waterway that snaked its way through the underbrush. It was there they would hold hands and talk about the summer and the beach and about their feelings for each other.

“This is very different from where I come from,” she said, marveling at the moon through the treetops. “I really love it here.”

“Is Long Island really that different from New Jersey?” he asked.

She looked at him with bubbling amazement.

“Yeah, just a little,” she answered, shaking her head playfully.

“Well, it’s not that far,” he said. “Maybe your family can move here.”

She never looked so sad.

“I don’t think so Cam.”

“Well, you never know,” he continued. “Besides, you can always visit, right?”

She was thinking of her mother, and the last thing she said to her before Maleigha left.

“Have good time at Carla’s, behave yourself Maleigha, you hear? No trouble, okay? But by time you get back, we be all set to leave for Ecuador. No worries mi hija. It be fine.”

It will be fine, her mother kept saying. Somehow, Maleigha just could not see how moving to the other end of the earth would ever be fine. Not now. Not ever.

“Sure Cam,” she said through glassy eyes. “I can visit.”

He thought of Maleigha often. It was eleven years since he had last seen her, and he was now a twenty-five-year-old man with a beautiful fiancée and a promising career. Time had altered many things for Cam, but Maleigha remained a part of him. And although life had offered him a promising path to follow, other thoughts were now surfacing as well, like how this new nymphet of his, Nikki, knew very well, on some level, just how enticing she was. That’s why her sweaters fell the way they did across her round breasts, and why her clothes left very little unknown about just how shapely she was. It was the same reason why she twirled her hair when she laughed and why she giggled flirtatiously every time she said hello to him in the hallway. She was no child. No way. And he was no longer a man in control, but a tortured soul, slave to her essence, lost always in beautiful, woeful distraction.

There were moments when it was almost more than he could bear. When she touched his arm playfully, or blinked her eyes in that coquettish way of hers, it rendered him in agony. His heart would rebel feverishly, and his reality would divide instantly into two sectors – the ecstasy felt from the passing of electricity through that touch or flirtation and the devastation of a world that simply forbade any further advance. Those fires of love, or perhaps lust, burned wildly in the chasm between hemispheres and transformed quickly into waves of passionate thought. What would it be like, he wondered, to press his body up against hers? Just once. To feel, with all his being, her tight, silky skin next to his. It was a desire that ruled his soul.

Even so, he should have known better. Although only seven years separated the two, it should never have gone any further. It should have ended with those harmless flirtations, like their conversations about things they both loved, like the Mets and Kanye West, and the way he always saved her a piece of his Orbit gum or the many visits he made to Carvel, where she worked part time, just because he was “in the neighborhood.”

“You again?” she said laughing. “This is the third time this week. You sure must love ice cream.”

“What can I say Nikki,” he answered. “I’m addicted.”

Yes, he should have recognized the signs and just walked away. But he didn’t. Somewhere, deep within the darkest chambers of his soul, lurked the feeling that he had to have her – that his body would not survive in her absence. It was an uncompromising pang. Not even John’s advice and knowledge of all that he could lose were enough to extricate him from the blissful imaginings and real life longings. No. It did not matter. Nothing else mattered. Not any more. His world had been turned upside down in an instant, and he had reached the point of no return. 

  

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AUTHOR Bio and Links:

 Frank Nappi has taught high school English and Creative Writing for over twenty years. His debut novel, Echoes From The Infantry, received national attention, including MWSA's silver medal for outstanding fiction. His follow-up novel, The Legend of Mickey Tussler, garnered rave reviews as well, including a movie adaptation of the touching story "A Mile in His Shoes" starring Dean Cain and Luke Schroder. Frank continues to produce quality work, including Sophomore Campaign, the intriguing sequel to the much heralded original story and the just released thriller, NOBODY HAS TO KNOW, which received an endorsement from #1 New York Times bestselling author Nelson DeMille. Frank is presently at work on a third installment of his Mickey Tussler series and his next thriller. He lives on Long Island with his wife Julia and their two sons, Nicholas and Anthony.

Nobody Has to Know book trailer: http://youtu.be/WdMjNDJ5hT4 

Twitter: https://twitter.com/FrankNappi  

Website: http://www.franknappi.com/ 

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorfranknappi 

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/589342.Frank_Nappi.

Nelson DeMille's Endorsement:

"A haunting, briskly-paced page turner that explores the darkest recesses of the human psyche while propelling the reader through an intricate series of hair-raising twists and turns. Nobody Has to Know is a masterfully written tale that is expertly told. Frank Nappi knows how to entertain the reader from start to finish."

-- #1 New York Times Bestselling Author Nelson DeMille.

More Stops on the Tour

March 11: Teena in Toronto
March 12: Fiction Writing and Other Oddities
March 13: Welcome to My World of Dreams
March 14: Long and Short Reviews
March 15: It's Raining Books
March 18: Reviewing Shelf
March 19: Bunny's Review
March 20:Book-Bliss
March 21: Farm Girl Books
March 22:J.C. Martin, Fighter Writer

Guest Author: Lise McClendon

If you're like me, you have a wide range of books you like to read and crime thrillers are on the top of my list. I'm particularly glad to have Lise McClendon here today as she's recently released a new thriller, Jump Cut, under her persona of Rory Tate. In the interview below, Lise gives us a fascinating glimpse into her creative process.

Lise McClendon
Why did you decide to write?
I decided to write because I love to read, and I wanted to tell stories. Now that I’ve been writing for twenty-five years, seriously, I have been become fairly intolerant of forms that don’t actually tell a story, that don’t have a beginning, a middle, and an end. They can be long, short, or in between, but if there’s just a little scene or vignette, a humorous slice of life, I start to twitch. I need narrative. I breathe it. I was a film reviewer and love movies too. I am somewhat more tolerant of a film without a distinct plot, like Ingmar Bergman, say, but still I like a well-rounded tale, the denser and more complicated the better.

Do you have a favorite theme or message for your readers?
I used to harp on theme to students and critique group members -- a lot. Man v. nature, man v. man, all that. But after writing for so long I have found out what my overarching theme is, in every book. Kinda strange to just figure it out after all these years, isn’t it? But all my novels are about connection, about the bonds of family and what they mean to each of us, about the disparate ways we can hurt each other, and love each other. And laugh at each other! Don’t forget that one. I never set out to have a “message.” Hey, use Western Union, right? But in looking back, the relationship theme, the weirdness that can be family, the drama, the turmoil: all is a recurring constant, sometimes just an underlying rumble, in my books.

How do you approach a new book? Outlines? Just an idea?
I am, sadly, an intuitive writer. Tony Hillerman always said he wouldn’t take an advance without writing the book because he never knew if he could do it again. He wasn’t an outliner either. I get an idea, or half an idea, and try to see if it will work as a novel length idea. (A short story idea is easier, because it’s more of a one-note.) I’ll get an idea that might work for a novel and fill a spiral notebook with ramblings, then fill a computer journal of more ramblings and copied-and-pasted-in research. This can take months and much of it is ultimately useless. But I don’t have a very ordered mind. I approach writing as someone who needs focus. Writing actually gives me that, a purpose, and grounds me. Eventually I do work up an outline, a very squishy one. I’ve even done post-it notes and index cards in different colors! I’ll do anything to get organized. Sometimes I have to cut photos of my characters out of catalogs or magazines to get me started. I’m visual that way.

How do you develop your characters?

Sometimes a character springs full-blown from the imagination, but usually it takes some work to get not only the voice right -- the internal thinking, the view of the world, the mood -- but also the physical attributes, the background, and especially the name. Naming your character is so important. Work can mean writing and rewriting, or just thinking hard. In my latest manuscript I changed the main character’s job several times, making her less and less an expert. She ended up a policewoman, plain and simple, who just happened to be back from Iraq with PTSD and an expertise in bomb investigation. Which leads me to this question....

How much research do you do?
I could have made my character an ATFE agent with an expertise in explosives. I needed somebody to help at an explosion site in the first scene of the book. I even interviewed a very helpful federal agent. But in the end I wanted her grounded in her community, not popping in from the big city. And guess what, it would have been a lot more research to make her an expert. I love to research, don’t get me wrong, but it can overwhelm me, and scare me with so much information I can never find my way back to the story. Sometimes you just have to tell yourself, stop!

Who are your favorite authors? Have any authors inspired you or influenced your work?
One of my favorite authors is Alice Hoffman. She is so original, and writes such great characters. Her book, ‘Turtle Moon’ is everything a novel or a mystery should be. I wish I could write magic realism but apparently I am too literal! On my practical side I am a Jane Austen Jane-ite of long standing. In mystery fiction I love Jasper Fforde’s crazy vision and James Lee Burke’s lyrical writing. They all inspire me.

What makes a great book in your opinion?
A great book transports you into someone else’s life and makes you feel what it would be like to be that person. So a living, breathing, full-bodied character (or three). Then, I was told years ago that every story needs a birth, a death, and a sacrifice. In crime fiction, deaths are not difficult. Births somewhat more so, if you take it literally. But a birth can be a new start, a reckoning, a sea change in perception. Keeping in mind the need for sacrifice in a story can give you focus while writing. Who can sacrifice, and what can they altruistically give up? Maybe that’s why we love that O. Henry story where each lover sacrifices their favorite thing for the other: double bonus.

Where do you see the publishing industry going in the next few years and where do you see yourself within this industry?

I see publishing fragmenting so that there really is no “publishing industry” per se. There are big publishing corporations some of whom also sell books directly, there are authors who publish with them or on their own, and there is everything in between. I started a small press a few years ago with my friend Katy Munger, to bring our backlist into print again. With the rise of digital books and readers we’ve gone that direction. My new novel, Jump Cut, is our third original title. We’ve also ganged up with other authors to create a group called Thalia Press Authors Co-op. We blog together and we just published our first short story anthology, Dead of Winter. There are so many opportunities these days. You have to stay sharp and don’t try to do everything. And don’t forget to actually write. That’s what it’s all about. I tell myself that daily.

Brief Bio
Lise McClendon’s new novel, Jump Cut, written as Rory Tate, is out from Thalia Press. A modern thriller, it follows a Seattle TV reporter and a narcotics detective searching for answers in the deaths of three prostitutes to redeem their reputations and save the city they love. She is co-editor of the new anthology of chilling crime stories, Dead of Winter. Her website is http://lisemcclendon.com/ and Rory Tate’s is http://rorytate.com/ where you can view a short video trailer about Jump Cut. Her suspense novel, Blackbird Fly, has just been released in audio from Iambik. She lives in the wilds of Montana where she has discovered she is a ‘bear magnet.’ Learn more about Lise on her blog, on Facebook and Twitter: @LiseMcClendon.

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Funny note: I got a kick out of her being a "bear magnet." We're just a "weird magnet" here in North Carolina and our daily walk to the mailbox often has unexpected surprises. Once, there was a barracuda (yes, the fish) lying in the middle of the road. Another time, there was a cow trimming the weeds around the mailbox. Don't ask. All I can say is, it's a weird world out there.

Thanks Lise!