In the Nick of Time (2 page)
Greetings. My name is Tiana Laveen and like the Hero in this book, I too have a problem. You see, I am addicted to writing. I thought I would begin there, since addiction—the how, when and why of it all—is a pretty significant part of this book. Nevertheless, this is still a love story, and the focus is on two people who life gave up on, but they didn’t give up on life. They’ve been given a sizeable helping of misery atop a splintered wooden spoon, and they must now find a way to make that stuff taste good going down…
As in all my love letters to readers/fans and newbies to my work, I want to preface this by saying, first and foremost, thank you for purchasing this book, ‘In the Nick of Time’, and giving it a chance.
I do not take anyone who has purchased a book of mine for granted, for each and every reader of my work is a blessing, in more ways than one. Now, for those of you not familiar with my work, I like to typically go over my style of writing, and so on and so forth, because I don’t want anyone lambasted, bamboozled, misled, or hoodwinked. Pleasure reading should be a satisfying experience, and that is what I personally try to provide, but just in case my creative delivery doesn’t fit into your expectations of how you like a story to be conveyed, I prefer to provide these cautionary signs before we jump onto the main road and begin our journey. Please, don’t read too much into this (no pun intended lol). It is just my way of trying to be courteous and considerate. Now, here are a few pointers (for those of you not familiar with my work) on how I tend to tell a tale. (Please feel free to skip this portion if you are already familiar with my work or simply not concerned.)
1. I like to paint pictures with words. I want you to be right there, as the reader, in the center of it all. Therefore, my storytelling tends to be highly detailed.
2. I typically write characters and plots that may make some people uncomfortable, even squirm a bit in their seats. In other words, my characters are flawed and imperfect, just like, well… all of us, in varying degrees. At times, however, they may have a bit more dysfunction than your ‘average Joe.’
3. I let my characters live their lives with little interference from me. What that means is, I start with a basic, loose outline, and then typically deviate from most of it before all is said and done. I let my characters do what they need to do, when they need to do it. (i.e., sex scenes may not come right away if it doesn’t fit the characters or circumstances, etc. Nothing is forced.)
4. I regard writing (romance fiction) as an art form, thus, it’s a personal expression. Personal expressions are not easily gradable. All I can do is promise to give you the best I can with each and every story I write, and I mean that. I’m simply doing the best I can, and giving it my all. It’s not perfect or imperfect. It simply ‘is.’
5. I typically write from the male perspective. Why? It is my comfortable ‘natural’ voice. It was not a conscious decision; I just found it to be befitting for me personally. It is my ‘default’ setting if you will. I do show various perspectives of all the main characters in my novels and give all of them their due time, but most of my novels show more introspection from the Hero.
6. I do not shy away from difficult, uncomfortable, or taboo topics, even in a romance novel. I try to do so in a respectful manner by conducting research, reading, and interviewing people that are well versed in whatever it is that I am discussing. My mission is not to shock, overwhelm or insult anyone. My self-appointed assignment is to create a love story, one that has been trapped in my mind and needs to get out.
7. I love my readers and fans. You make this writing expedition all worth it with your written and verbal encouragement, beautifully penned emails regarding previous works I’ve written, and kind social media engagements regarding my novels. I appreciate all that you do for a myriad of reasons and words can’t properly express my gratitude. Writing is a form of air for me. I need it to breathe, so thank you to all of you that open the window a bit wider, allowing me a place to exhale and get much needed fresh air…
Okay, now, let’s get into a few details about this book (why I wrote it, etc.), and then jump right in.
Many full, blue moons ago, and bloody red suns too, I worked in a drug rehabilitation facility. It was outpatient, but I did cover inpatient treatment from time to time as well. During this time frame, right after college, I was debating on becoming a drug rehabilitation counselor. I danced with the notion of going into social work for a split second after I’d already obtained my Bachelor degree in Business Communications (Please don’t try to understand my line of logic – yes, they are vastly different fields of expertise but for whatever reason, I gravitated towards both.)
In any regard, my heart was in the right place. I had seen some things in my lifetime and wanted to assist humankind in some way. I had seen people I loved and cared about under the influence, manipulated by an outside source that caused them to be a bit less of their true selves. It is almost a surreal experience to see a person literally fall apart from the inside out due to a terrible drug/alcohol addiction that refuses to shake them loose. Not only did I wish to assist in matters such as this, I honestly also had very real bills to pay and this particular non-profit agency called me back after I’d interviewed for front desk and assistant personnel in order to get my foot in the door. I was hired less than a day later and full of silly optimism that I, Tiana Laveen, would fling my vibrant Superwoman cape over my shoulder and single handedly change everyone’s lives for the better…
So there you have it. While I was employed there, I of course got a crash course in reality and was forced to wake the hell up. In this process, I got to talk to and meet all sorts of people. I was at the front desk, helping with assessments and intakes, and even doing urinalysis at one point in time—the only woman in an all male staff. The male counselors weren’t allowed to give the female patients/clients urinalysis because the process had to be visually monitored to ensure no ‘fuddy duddy’ stuff was going on. You know, the ol’ switch-a-roo. During this process, I saw for the first time a colorful feather clitoris piercing (being christened by a stream of piss I might add), but I digress.
Now, those suffering from addiction are at times interesting people to observe. Some of the patients were in complete and utter denial. You could see it in their body language, their tone of voice, and their attitude. They’d look at me and snub me, the lowly young lady that I was, and act as if their mere presence was a gift to all that were privileged enough to witness them walking about in the flesh. Some patients, however, were floating somewhere in between, on the fence of denial and ‘wait a damn minute’, I just may be an addict.
Some were court mandated, thus, quite resentful. They brought along buckets of anger, and poured them onto anyone that would listen. Some came of their own free will—no one forced them into treatment; they’d simply hit their own rock bottom and it was far too prickly and uncomfortable for their liking. Some believed that they’d in some way been framed and their mission was to clear their name, regardless of the footage of them in the act of purchasing illegal narcotics from an undercover officer. Some realized, in the middle or almost at the end of treatment, that yes, there
was
a problem, and they were at the center of it all. Some had chips on their shoulders, and readily admitted that they rather enjoyed crack (or whatever their drug of choice), and insisted their actions weren’t hurting anyone; therefore, it was none of anyone’s business. However, one thing was for certain: Each and every single one of them was different, despite their commonality of having a drug addiction; and each and every one of them had hurt someone due to their behavior and illegal activities, whether they realized it or not.
They were from various socio economic statuses, races, and religious/spiritual beliefs. This was many, many years ago, and I am convinced some of them are now deceased due to their drug dependency or other related issues, or in prison, not getting out any time soon. Others went on to keep their sobriety, while yet others still struggle to keep their heads above water and remember that loving and caring about themselves is an investment, not a one-time purchase. So… these people are flawed, dysfunctional, in need of help. Damaged, emotionally broken people do the same things most other people do, though, as well. They have to eat, they need to sleep, they laugh, they get angry, and yes, they fall in love…
As seen in many of my other novels, I sometimes delve into subject matters that, like this one entails, are a bit risqué. I’ve written love stories about a myriad of people, from pimps to priests. There are some things in this world we have little control over, and how we feel about someone is often times one of those things. How we decide to express that sentiment, if at all, is a choice—but the actual feeling, the core of it all is, more times than not, is unable to be turned off, manipulated or denied. In this book, you meet the hero, Nick Vitale, and he is in such a predicament.
Nick grew up in Brooklyn, New York, the neighborhood of Brownsville to be exact. Those of you not familiar with Brownsville may be unaware of the history as well as the modern day plight of this area. It is one of the few places in New York that was not adversely affected, “blessed” by large doses of gentrification. There are many places in the five boroughs that did not receive the same level of care as, say, Manhattan in the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s. However, Brownsville is one of the least discussed, though it is quite evident that poverty, joblessness, and a bit of hopelessness are alive and well there.
With that said however, there is an interesting duality to this neighborhood. There are areas that are the complete opposite—it truly depends on where you look and where you are going and even, believe it or not, what time of day it is. As in many neighborhoods with these sort of challenges, you will find pockets of people working hard, not involved in any criminal activity, and making their living quarters a better place. It is a neighborhood where you can literally walk down one street and see nothing but public housing, and then go to another block and see small, albeit well maintained homes.
It is located in east Brooklyn, and is noted as a place many people do not wish to explore in the daytime, let alone the evening, but again, one must be careful about over-generalizing this part of Brooklyn. I keep jumping back and forth because this neighborhood jumps back and forth. It is literally as if one portion was highlighted with a promise of success and the other forgotten, with a proverbial tombstone set upon it; and most disturbing of all, there appears to be no rhyme or reason to it.
Not every block is filled with gang and drug activity, and not every area is ripe for vitalization. I am simply saying that it has not received the same level of care and financial backing to turn it around and be an upward moving, thriving community to the level of some of the surrounding areas in the same borough or adjacent neighborhoods, period. Carelessness…
Nick, our hero, grew up in the area that received less care. For the longest, that’s all he knew. For a police officer that is born and raised there, and then later works in the same penurious, at times startling area, Nick’s days and nights are filled with observing drug addicts bobbing their heads from heroine addiction, arresting unapologetic rapists, chasing seasoned burglars, and attempting to convince prostitutes to get off the streets before it is too late.
He is inundated with non-stop domestic violence calls beginning in the wee hours of the morning and stop on the 23
rd
of never. These are not occasional situations for Nick Vitale; they are
daily
situations. He still resides in Brownsville, though he moved to a safer area of it, and he enjoys his home—it is his castle. He was one of the lucky ones, however. Though his life started out as quite challenging, he had enough love and support around him to help him survive in an environment that appeared to be hell bent on destroying each and every inhabitant that crossed its path. However, he survived.
But what does that really mean? Does it mean one forgets the trauma they lived and try to turn a blind eye? Does it mean one can deny all the pitfalls and booby traps life placed before the half Puerto Rican, half Italian kid from Brooklyn? No, because each and every one of us, no matter how big or small the traumas we have endured, is simply trying to withstand the experience, trying to make it.
We often attempt to not let the words, actions and behaviors of others bring us down, influence our moods and set us on a path of self-destruction. The problem, however, is like that of head trauma; if you are hit in just the right spot, more times than not, the victim of the unfettered cruelty of others is never the same…
It’s the same for those that suffered as children, whether it was because of a father or mother that wasn’t in the home, or on a larger scale of damage, such as a form of habitual, physical abuse where no one intervened, or at least, not in time. Despite Nick’s opportunities and helpful breaks along the way, he suffers from insurmountable guilt, a hidden life he has cloaked away from the outside world, and a strong desire to be needed and loved. To me, he is an interesting, albeit complicated character. He is a lovely, flawed, human being who simply needs another human being in his midst, one that he can trust, one that he can connect with, one that can make him see the world through a different vantage point, and cling onto it, appreciate the life he
does
have and not take it for granted.