Welcome to Rainy Day Reviews!: **Giveaway** Pink Lock & Sequined Witch Hats by Carla Rehse

Pink Lock Picks and Sequined Witch Hats

Genre: YA

Release Date: July 24th 2017

Summary from Goodreads:

Seventeen-year-old homecoming queen, Gracie Mason, is a budding burglar.

While attempting her inaugural break-in, Gracie blacks out and wakes up far away from the scene. It turns out she accidentally intruded on a male witch’s “circle of power,” and now she’s bonded to him for life.

Gracie quickly learns that dissolving the bond with Asher, admittedly a very handsome and charming witch, is more complicated than she initially thought. To break the bond, Gracie must delve deeper into a society of witches that involves a secret club, a shadowy council, and all sorts of magical mischief. And right when it seems things can’t get any worse, witches start turning up dead.

It’s clear that Gracie is out of her depth as her quest to sever the bond magically turns into a murder investigation. But if Gracie and Asher don’t quickly uncover the killer, they might be next on the list.

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Excerpt:

Daddy told me

years ago that to succeed in life I need a strong plan, the right tools, and

the gumption to follow through. His words of wisdom helped me get elected

homecoming queen, become co-captain of the cheerleading squad, and voted on the

student council. Now I plan to use them to help me pull off my first burglary.

My plan is solid. I’ve also never backed

down from a challenge, not even last year when Brittany Thomas became overly

friendly with the entire football team in a sad attempt to deprive me of my

crown. People say I started the rumor about the rash of STD cases spreading

through the boys’ locker room faster than a brush fire. I didn’t, of course.

Why start gossip when the squad of doctors from the local Health Department did

it for me?

I take a deep breath as I enter the

Trinity Building. At almost four o’clock on a Friday before a three-day

weekend, the place is deader than a PTA meeting. It helps that today is the

hottest July first on record for Central Texas and the air conditioning in this

building is dismally subpar. The Trinity Corporation may claim to have the most

upscale rental space in town, but one look at the gold leopard granite floor

paired with peach-painted walls shows that’s a downright fib.

The only guard on duty leans back in his

chair and sucks down a Sonic Route 44 Coke like his life depends on it. I wave

as I pass the security desk, wearing a megawatt smile and fully confident in

the strength of my lavender-scented Lavanila deodorant—vegan, of course. Deputy

Dawg gives me his usual perv stare before returning to the comic book balanced

on his knee.

Centex Therapy, LPC occupies most of the

first floor office space. A small bell tinkles when I open the frosted glass

door. What decorum the overall building lacks, the waiting room has in spades.

Brown leather chairs sit on a bamboo rug and pastel paintings from local artists

brighten the walls. A tall grandfather clock in the corner softly chimes four

times. This late on a Friday means the room is empty of other patients.

Perfect.

Jane, the receptionist, fans herself

with a copy of Country Living.

“Cutting it awfully close, Gracie. Go on in.”

Dr. McDozzle gives me a pained smile as

I enter the room.

“Good afternoon, Miss Mason. Have a

seat.” For a head shrinker, he’s incredibly formal. And a non-Texan, who hates

football and sweet tea. I haven’t learned much more about him in the last month,

but that’s enough to get him tarred and feathered if word got out.

The leather recliner squeaks when I sit

down. “Thanks for seeing me on a Friday, Doc.” I twirl a strand of newly

highlighted platinum hair around my finger. It goes wonderful with my bubblegum

pink manicure. “Mr. Anderson, Daddy’s new lawyer, is now insisting I have two

sessions a month with you. Of course, Mama’s lawyer says once a month is just

fine, seeing how I’m such a well-adjusted high school senior and all. Almost a

senior, I guess, since school’s not started.”

Dr. McDozzle straightens his glasses.

“Yes, well, your parents do seem to have quite the barrage of attorneys

involved in their divorce. Have you worked on the homework I gave you during

our last session?”

This is such a waste of time. My parents

have spent the last five years embroiled in a divorce dirtier than a greased

pig-wrestling contest. Both sides of the family have more money than sense,

much to the delight of every lawyer in the tri-county area. Not that I want my

parents to get back together. Anytime they’re within spitting distance of each

other, the tension between them gives me a migraine. Besides, if they hadn’t

split up, I never would’ve met Ben.

Ben’s the son of Daddy’s ex-girlfriend.

Until four months ago, they all lived together in Daddy’s condo. Ben is a

sophomore at the local college and is truly hot, in a geeky, stud muffin, save-the-world,

kinda way. Crushing on my almost stepbrother might seem a bit sketchy, but it’s

legal—I Googled it twice.

Which means it’s time to start step one

in my Get Ben Plan.

I toss my hair over my shoulder before

pulling out a pink glitter notebook from my Eiffel Tower-shaped mini-purse.

“You wanted me to write down my feelings

about my parents’ shared custody thing. Honestly, I don’t understand why the

lawyers are so panty twisted about me spending a week with Mama and the next

with Daddy. It means I get double the wardrobe. Hello? What girl would say no

to that? It’s way better than Heather’s situation. I told you about her last time,

I think. The girl with the hideous frizzed-out curls but drives a cute BMW Z4

roadster? Anyway, her parents are

insane.” I continue a steady stream of babble until Dr. McDozzle’s eyes glaze

over.

There’s no clocks in the room, but Dr.

McDozzle keeps checking his watch. I’m sure the poor man created a nice therapy

plan for me, but I’ve completely derailed it. Mama always says a girl has many

tools to choose from in her arsenal—perfectly curled hair, well-placed boobs,

and endless chatter are my faves. Besides, Daddy’s been paying therapists a

fortune for years to show the divorce court how concerned he is about me. Dr.

McDozzle’s earning his car payment today.

I snap

my notebook shut and sit up straight. “Thanks, Doc. I feel so much better.

Maybe I should go to the reflection bench for a spell?”

He nearly

trips over himself to hustle me out to the courtyard in the center of the

building. The concrete patio surrounded by four walls radiates enough heat to

grill a steak, not that I eat meat anymore. Ben’s a founding member of the

Texas Animal Army Movement, which preaches a vegan lifestyle and the rescue of

abused animals.

Dr.

McDozzle wipes at the sweat running down his reddening face. “You have fifteen

minutes until the doors are locked for the weekend. We’ll continue our, uh …

conversation next time. Jane will email you with an appointment date.”

I sit

down on the edge of the bench. My hot pink and black-checked miniskirt is mucho cute, but doesn’t offer my thighs

much protection from blistering plastic. “Will do, Doc. Enjoy your holiday.”

leaves with a quiet sigh. During our first session, I blathered for a solid

forty minutes while barely taking a breath. Daddy says I’d make a natural

politician. In desperation, Dr. McDozzle hit on the idea of the “reflection

bench” out here. He’s not really a bad therapist, but I only chose him ‘cause

his practice is in the Trinity Building.

iPhone beeps a two-minute warning. I head inside. The lights appear off at

Centex Therapy. I hotfoot it to the Ladies’ room across the hall. It’s not the

most sanitary place to wait until the coast is clear, but I brought

santi-wipes.

I scroll

through my photo album to pass the time. Ben has an entire folder dedicated to

him. When he and his mom first moved in with Daddy, I thought he was an

obnoxious douche with his constant sermons about how humans are destroying the

environment and enslaving animals.

After a

few stormy months, I shut my trap and listened to him. Ben knows what he wants

out of his life and is determined to get it. I’ve never met anyone so brave and

determined.

So, I

gave up meat, and threw out my makeup in favor of vegan-only skincare lines.

Now, I can’t live without my fuchsia metallic lip tar from Obsessive Compulsive

Cosmetics. I even got Barksie, my cream-colored, toy Yorkiedoodle, on an

all-natural diet. I haven’t gone all cray cray and converted Barksie to a

vegetarian, but it is my responsibility as a pet parent to ensure he gets the

least processed food available.

Fate is

a true bitch, though. Just as I realized Ben was The One, Daddy decided his mom

wasn’t. Now, Ben and his mom live across the city in a tiny apartment and Daddy

is dating Whitney, who really knows how to put the “w” into witch.

Ben’s

gone through a lot of turmoil lately. Not only did he move to a new zip code,

but also his girlfriend of two years dumped him. Sad for him, but perfect for

me. I now have the chance to catch his attention.

My plan?

Simple. To get information that really means something to Ben. He’s too soulful

to be distracted by short skirts and tight shirts; trust me I’ve tried. No, I

need to prove I’m a true partner in his cause—rescuing abused animals.

The

mission: break into the office on the fifth floor of this building.

Labpartners,

Inc. sounds like an innocent enough company. In truth, their office owns two

huge warehouses that supply care products for lab animals. All I need to do is

break in, riffle through their files until I find their mailing list. And then

I can hand over a list of every animal broker they sell to. Ben will be so

stoked. Not only will we know who’s raising the poor bunnies to be tortured,

we’ll also know where their labs are.

Footsteps

ring in the hall. I duck into the last stall with my heart hammering against my

ribs. As expected, the security officer cracks open the door. “Anyone in here?”

He waits a few seconds before turning off the light and shutting the door.

Too bad

my bestie is on vacation, ‘cause no one’s better at creating a diversion than

Abigail. And my usual wheelwoman, Seraphina, is also out of the country.

Without my girls, I had no choice but to recon the building last Friday in my

cheerleading outfit under the guise of seeking new sponsors for the school’s

booster club. The Lanier Day Spa actually agreed. I need to remember to tell

Coach Sanders. Mr. Smith, the accountant, offered me his cell phone number so

we could discuss my college plans, as long as I don’t call on the weekend when

his wife is home.

Five

video games later and my phone buzzes a warning. It’s six o’clock, time to get

started. Conventional wisdom might say a burglar needs to dress in black and

wait until midnight to do the deed, but screw that. If I get caught, all I need

is a few tears about getting locked in and a weak cell signal. Besides, who’s

gonna believe I’m a thief in Michael Kors wedges and pearls?

Time for

step two.

Most of

the security cameras I’ve seen are focused around the elevators. I head toward

the stairs next to my therapist’s office. None of the doors to the stairs have

alarms, or at least the SWAT team has never jumped me for using them before.

After climbing three flights, with two more to go, I’m seriously rethinking my

choice of footwear. And what the heck is the smell in here? The Trinity

Corporation really needs to change janitorial services.

At the

fifth floor, I’m forced to take a breather for a few minutes. My heart is

pounding and my knees shake. Thanks to my daily kickboxing routine, I know it’s

not due to poor fitness. Once I leave this stairwell, I’m committed. Should I

really do this? Then I think of Ben in his cute glasses and cargo shorts.

Hells yeah, I’m doing this.

I edge

open the door, cringing at the squeak. The hall is dim with security lights

mounted on the walls offering the only illumination. Four quick steps and I

enter a dark breakroom. The Coke machine chooses this moment to kick in,

startling me into swallowing my gum. Too gross.

The room

has a well-used appearance to it. I scanned it last week under the pretense of

a desperate PMS need for a Snickers. The soda and candy machines are crammed

along one wall. Across from them is a small table holding an icky microwave

splattered with the Ghost of TV Dinners Past and a coffee pot missing its

carafe.

Businesses

have come and gone in the building. This wasn’t always a breakroom, since the

microwave table blocks a door leading into Labpartners, Inc. When the nice

receptionist let me in last week, I spied the other side of this door. A potted

palm tree tried to hide it.

I shove

the table to the side. My knees are still shaking, but my hands are steady as I

retrieve the hot pink lock picking kit I bought online for $12.99. It even came

with a brochure, though it warned its customers not to use the product for

criminal deeds. After watching a few online videos, I spent a week roaming

around Mama’s house, practicing my skills. The front door gave me some fits at

first, but I opened the cupboard in the hallway where she hides her erotic

novels and European chocolates without a hitch.

Daddy

gave me a faux diamond encrusted pocket light for Christmas three years ago. I

balance it in my mouth, while I bend down to work on the door lock.

Footsteps

sound in the hall. The flashlight tumbles from my mouth, and I freeze rabbit

still. Ringing in my ears makes it hard to determine if the footsteps are

coming toward me or moving away. Should I replace the table and bluff my way

out or quickly open the door? Is it the security officer or some dimwitted,

no-life office worker?

Damn it. Make a decision.

Opening

the door, it is.

It’s a

simple generic lock. I can do this. The footsteps stop and then start again. I

balance the flashlight on the microwave table and aim it at the lock before

inserting a tension wrench into the keyhole. I turn the wrench, then insert the

pick, hoping I can rake the lock pins up. I try the handle. It doesn’t move.

Freaking fantastic.

Sweat

dots my forehead as I listen for footsteps. Someone’s close by, muttering

something in a singsong fashion. Italian, maybe? I use a wider pick on the lock

to try again, though a voice in my head loudly tells me to stop. The door still

won’t open, and I want to throw the tension wrench across the room.

Why

won’t it work? I can tell the pins in the lock are moving. It should freaking work. The Italian singing in

the hall gets louder, more like chanting. Stomach acid burns a strip up my

throat. I’m failing, and I don’t do failure.

I stare

at my kit, unsure of which pick to use, before acquiescing defeat. My

concentration is blown due to the idiot outside. Ben’s adulation will have to

wait for another day. I edge my way to the door and peek outside. Some guy in a

dark hoodie is kneeling and sprinkling something on the floor. If he’s the

cleaning crew, no wonder this place is a mess.

His back

is to me, giving me the opportunity to sneak across the hall to the stairway. I

step outside and my shoe skids across chalky powder. I flail my arms, eyes

going wide.

A bright

blue flash blinds me and then there’s nothing.

~One~

New Hobbies

About the Author

Although not a native Texan, Carla prides herself on having mastered the correct usage of “y’all” and “bless your heart.”

Carla is owned by a persnickety kitty, who rules the computer keyboard and only allows Carla to write when demands for cat treats are met.

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