Ocean
Kills
Ocean
Breeze Series Book One
Jade
Hart
Genre:
new adult sexy urban fantasy
Word
Count: 97,000
Book
Description:
Around
the world, murderers and rapists pick off the innocent. Killing loved
ones, separating families, and ruining lives.
As
an eight-year-old girl, Ocean witnessed her family’s massacre and
something altered inside her. Twisting her genetic code… unlocking
an ability to teleport.
Ocean
Breeze was never destined to be normal, especially being named after
air-freshener. She’s a shadow, a ghost—a dark savior of the
innocent. Armed with a switchblade in her bra, and a box-cutter in
her pocket, she hunts the filth of the world.
Callan
Bliss is a Sydney Police Officer whose skill set is far above a
normal cop. All his fellow officers see is a hard-worker who loves to
catch perpetrators and surf, but that’s because they don’t know
his past. When Callan arrests a suspicious looking prostitute, coming
face to face with a self-confessed vigilante, his secrets aren’t
that easy to keep silent anymore.
Ocean
hates the police with a passion, and has no intention of being held
captive by a cop, even if he is sexy as hell. Teleporting from under
his nose, Ocean hunts her next target—a man responsible for the
largest sex ring in South Africa—and he’s about to die. But she
doesn’t count on Callan giving chase, nor the body-quaking lust
which consumes them. However, Ocean's dark hobbies take precedence
over what her heart wants—her thirst for murdering is killing her
too, and not even Callan can save her.
Read an excerpt:
My name is Ocean
Breeze. Yep. Ocean freakin' Breeze. It was my mom's attempt at
some posh-sounding name. She was inspired by—get this—a bottle of
toilet air-freshener. My heart squeezed at the thought of a
cookie-scented woman with hugs that held sunshine.
The sound of my
Nikes pummelling the pavement chased away my thoughts. The slapping
of rubber against asphalt was similar to the slap the last
prostitute-abusing john gave me. Stinking bastard. No one raises a
hand to Ocean Breeze without losing an appendage. Or more, as the
case may be.
I swiped my hands on
my vinyl, red miniskirt. It wasn't exactly an attractive outfit—Nikes
with a miniskirt? But I've learned the hard way. Running in heels
never worked. Ever. The sleazy men who paid for sex didn't care what
was on my feet, only what was between them.
I jumped and jived
through the crowd. It was two in the morning, and the streets of
Kings Cross, Sydney, were a hive of activity. Drunken students hauled
themselves from karaoke clubs. Rich business men back-slapped each
other for the lap dance from the uni-student, who pocketed their tips
to pay for her law degree. This place was full of clichés and smut.
And I loved it.
I could disappear
here. I was a nobody. Even boasting a pair of ruby lips and a figure
that could've graced the center fold of Playboy, I didn’t stand
out. Beauty was coveted in the Cross, and plastic surgery was the
salvation if nature didn’t do the work.
So why was I
running?
I just killed a guy.
That's why.
I bolted past the
three-story sized Coca-Cola advertisement, blazing red and white, and
disappeared into an alley full of meth-heads and crack whores. I
leaped over comatose figures, sprinting toward the city centre. Keep
running. Get far away.
The night was heavy
with muggy heat, unusual for this time of year, and sweat made my
miniskirt slide against my thighs.
Kings Cross embraced
sin and naughtiness. The suburb encouraged unleashed pleasure and
endless partying. It also encouraged rapists and murderers who lurked
in the shadows. . . waiting.
A flash of blue and
red lights.
Sirens.
Fuck! I
pirouetted on my heel and charged down another alley, passing a gay
club blasting Kylie Minogue. Ugh.
“You! Stop!”
Yeah, no chance
of that, Fat Cop. I flipped him the bird, and kept running. He
jumped back in his cruiser and gave chase. Lazy bastard. Too
many kebabs and doughnuts for that slob. He wouldn't catch me. No one
ever caught me.
I smiled. I loved
the chase. I loved the kill. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I
didn’t enjoy murdering someone, but I did enjoy the knowledge that
he’d never hurt another. My cut-throat actions saved other would-be
victims. Plus, that john deserved it.
Memories overtook my
vision. Heavy breath on my cheek, rancid smell as he slobbered on
my neck. Then warm, oozing blood as my weapon of convenience—a long
skinny oyster knife—buried deep in the man's groin. Ridding him of
a vital piece of his anatomy and draining his body of crimson. One
moment alive, the next—not. Then rushed practicality: Dispose of my
surgical gloves. Wipe the corpse with antiseptic wipes. Remove the
man's DNA, fingerprints, and blood from my body.
Adrenaline spiked,
dousing my already overloaded system. My heart thudded as fast as the
bass at a techno club. The pavement flickered and I stumbled.
No, not now!
My vision danced like a mirage. I no longer had control of my body.
Sirens were closer,
breathing down my neck. Keep moving, Ocean! For freakin' sake,
move!
No amount of yelling
could stop the migraine from consuming me. I screamed and clutched my
temples, slamming to the concrete. The sidewalk danced under my
phantasm goggles, no longer acting like rock and tar, but candy floss
and gossamer. I'm going. I'm going. . .
Cold claws grasped
my bare shoulders. “You're coming with us.”
No! The
unrelenting crush of pain ricocheted in my skull. I wanted to die.
Cuffs shackled my wrists, and I was dragged, then stuffed into the
back of a police car.
The agony danced
with nausea, tangoing in a way that tested my stomach’s willingness
to evacuate its measly contents.
Precious minutes
passed while I grappled with the migraine. When only a gentle
pounding remained, I opened my eyes. I didn't know where I was.
The tense shoulders
of policemen kick-started my breathing. I narrowed my eyes. This was
quite a predicament: shackled in the back seat of a police vehicle.
I glared at the fat,
uniformed man who'd cuffed me. “You have no reason to arrest me.”
Please tell me they didn't find the john. There was no way they
could’ve found him already. And I knew there wasn't a drop of blood
on me. There never was. I was clean. Efficient. Ruthless.
While I waited to be
graced with an answer, the lull of the car tires slowed my heart, and
the rest of my headache seeped back like a tide.
“You're a working
girl. We have every reason to arrest you.”
I sighed, slouching
into the cracked vinyl seat. Relief flooded me. If this was just a
routine grab-and-administer-friendly-sex-education, that was fine by
me. I might even get a free dinner out of it. My stomach rumbled in
agreement. Food would be good. Food was hard to get when you had no
cash. Too long this time, Ocean. You need to suck up your pride
and go back.
The cop mistook my
relief for annoyance. He turned in his seat, pointing a finger in my
face. “You listen here, girl, we're only looking out for you. Don't
pull that attitude.”
I slipped into
slutty prossie. An act I'd perfected, but never played in real life.
It was all an act—my entire existence. I didn't know the real me
anymore. Batting my eyelashes, I pouted. “Attitude? I don't have an
attitude. But if you let me go, I'll make it worth your while.” I
licked my lips suggestively. Ugh, this was gross. As if I would stoop
to sleeping with strangers.
**My thoughts**
The premise and the beginning of this book reminded me a lot of Dexter. I am a fan of both that book and TV series, which lured me to take on this book tour. Both characters were "born in blood" as they witnessed the brutal murder of family members and sat in blood for days until the police finally arrived. Both are vigilante killers, seeking revenge for their lost innocence and then unable to stop. Both are adopted by a father figure who embraces them for who they are, yet also tries to help them to better cope. Both have difficulty with their relationships.
But Ocean is different. She loses more and more of herself the more that she seeks her revenge in life. She also has this ability to teleport, adding a fun paranormal twist to her story. You feel sorry for her past, but sometimes wonder if you really like her or not.
Her story is action-packed, which keeps you up reading, even though the book is quite long. The narration alternates between her and Callan telling the story. That allows for an extra level of intimacy while also providing multiple points-of-view. I will be interested to read the next one!
Author
Bio:
Jade
Hart is a self-confessed book worm who is happiest glued to a lap-top
with an eternal battery life, and typing up stories running rampant
in her head.
Her
three favorite things are:
1.
Unlimited books on an Ebook Reader
2.
Cracking the sugar on a creme brulee
3.
Travelling
Jade
currently resides in Middle-Earth, but has lived in Australia,
England, and Hong Kong.
Twitter:
@jadehart8
