Excerpt: 'Wanted: Dead or In Love' by Kym Brunner

Today HEA gets to share an excerpt from Kym Brunner's YA debut romance, Wanted: Dead or in Love.

Here's the blurb (courtesy of Merit Press):

Eighteen-year-old Monroe (named for Marilyn) is smart, but she's outsmarted herself. She's got a full-ride scholarship ... and now, an arrest record. One more black mark and she'll be waiting tables for life.

The fact that she's grown up with crime memorabilia in her very molecules doesn't help. Her special fascination has always been with outlaw lovers Bonnie and Clyde, whom Monroe romanticizes as something other than the cold-blooded killers they were. Monroe, however, is full of good intentions, until her dad hands her some relics — poetry written by Bonnie Parker and bullets taken from the bodies of the outlaws after they died in a shootout. That's when things get really strange. Those murderous slugs prove pretty dangerous to Monroe and her new friend, Jack, as well, who suddenly begin to feel that the spirits Bonnie and Clyde are actually taking over their personalities.

But that's impossible. Or is it?

Here's the excerpt (from the middle of chapter one):

Monroe

"Hey, Dad. How'd it go today?" I plop down on the fancy swivel chair opposite his desk.

"Amazing!" He smiles broadly, the first time in weeks. "Wait until you see what I bought. Absolutely incredible." He reaches into the box and pulls out two acrylic cases, certificates of authenticity, and a brochure listing all the auction items. "There was a little casino in Dallas that went belly up. The owner needed cash fast, so I made out like the devil."

I raise an eyebrow at his word choice. "Considering what kinds of things you collect, I'd say that's not too far off. What did you buy?" I lean closer, trying to get a glimpse.

He holds up a small container. "Behold, the bullets taken from the corpses of Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow. The silver ones are from Bonnie, the gold ones, Clyde."

"Really?" My jaw drops open as I stare in awe at the five metal chunks mounted on a black velvet pad. "You've wanted to buy a Bonnie and Clyde item for a long time."

"I know. Wait until you see what else I bought." He pulls out a clear square container. Mounted inside of it is a nondescript tan beret. "This gorgeous relic cost me seven hundred bucks. Mom would have died if she saw this."

I wince at his accidental slip of the tongue. Despair licks at my heart for a split-second, but I will it away. I did enough crying two years ago to last me a lifetime. "Was this Bonnie's hat?"

"No, don't you recognize it? Faye Dunaway wore it in the Bonnie and Clyde movie. Check it out." His voice catches as he slides a color movie photo toward me. It's a shot of Faye Dunaway leaning against a car wearing the tan beret, looking achingly beautiful.

"Ohmigod, Dad! This is, it's ..." I can't finish my sentence, but I don't need to. Dad nods and squeezes my hand, both of us choked up. Bonnie and Clyde was Mom's all-time favorite movie. We watched it with her every year on her birthday, a tradition I looked forward to. Now it just makes me sad. Haven't watched it since her fifty-first birthday, shortly before she died.

I clear my throat. Dad coughs. "I bought something for you too, Monroe."

"Dad, why?" After all the crap I've put him through lately, I figured the only thing he'd be buying for me is a bus ticket out of town. I hope this means he's starting to forgive me.

"Think of it as an early graduation present." He holds up another clear plastic display case, this one the size of a magazine. He holds it gingerly, like he's presenting a newborn to me. It contains a piece of paper that looks yellow and fragile from age. "I know you like history as much as I do and thought you might like a keepsake for yourself. It's worth a couple grand, so you can either take it home or display it here in the restaurant. It's up to you." He hands it to me with a sweet, genuine smile. "It's a poem Bonnie Parker wrote called 'The Trail's End.'"

"Seriously? Thank you, Dad!" I pop out of my seat to hug him––our first time since the arrest. "This is so cool! I definitely want to bring it home with me, at least for a little while. This is the poem Faye Dunaway reads to Warren Beatty in the movie, right?"

"Yep. Bonnie Parker wrote it while she was in prison for bank robbery, when she was only a little older than you are." He pauses, looking at me.

I avoid his gaze, running a fingertip across his nameplate that reads, "Don't Mess with Gordie Baker or You're Dead," complete with fake bullet holes. I know he's sending me a mental message: If I don't get my act together, I'll be heading to prison too.

He rubs his eye. "She won a few writing awards in high school. Who knows what she could have done with her life if she hadn't dropped out of school at age fifteen to get married."

Something doesn't jibe with the movie. "She married Clyde at fifteen?"

"Not Clyde––a man named Roy Thornton. He just up and left one morning and never came back. Supposedly Bonnie met Clyde at a party not too long afterwards, and they were inseparable until death did them part two years later."

So Bonnie got hitched at fifteen, ditched at sixteen, robbed banks at seventeen, and everyone thinks I'm a mess? "A match made in Hell, huh?"

He smiles. "That's what some people say. Do me a favor and read the first two stanzas aloud. I barely got a chance to look at it during the auction." He leans back and relaxes.

"Sure." I glance at the clock and see I still have five minutes until I need to meet Clarissa. I pick up the plastic container and am stupidly amazed to discover that it's written in Bonnie's own handwriting. Duh. No electronics back then. The idea that her fingers touched this piece of paper and it's now millimeters away from my fingers makes my heart race, making me feel both exhilarated and dangerous. All the years separating us evaporate in an instant.

I clear my throat and begin reading.

"You've read the story of Jesse James

of how he lived and died.

If you're still in need;

of something to read,

here's the story of Bonnie and Clyde.

Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang

I'm sure you all have read.

How they rob and steal;

and those who squeal,

are usually found dying or dead."

I picture a girl about my age blowing on the end of her gun, prodding a lifeless body with her shoe. "Ya shouldn't have snitched," she says without emotion. A creepy chill works its way up my spine and I shiver. "Pretty brutal––if it's true."

"Of course it's true. Bonnie and Clyde killed at least twelve people. Most of 'em cops."

Good, I think, but instantly regret it. Cops are great until they bust you––then they suck. Somehow that jolts my memory about the wallet. I dig it out of my purse and toss it on the desk. "One of my customers left this behind tonight. Guy was a scumbag, so it serves him right."

"Why? What did he do?" Dad growls.

I wave in the air dismissively. "Nothing horrible. Just asked me out."

"Jerk." Dad shakes his head in disgust. He picks up the wallet and casually glances inside, like he's looking for identification, but I see him check the dollar bill part. My heart sinks. He obviously thinks of me as criminal first, daughter second. He stands. "I'll be right back. Going to see if Percy can track this guy down. Maybe I'll have a word with him when he shows up."

"Dad, don't," I call out, but he heads down the hall toward his general manager's office.

I can't help smiling. Typical Dad. Always wanting to protect me from the world. I turn the display case over, noticing that the back of the poem is filled with doodles of clouds and flowers, just like I do to my spirals. I imagine a girl my age in a jail cell lying on a cot, writing this poem.

"Hello, Bonnie," I whisper. "Did you have a lot of stuck-up chicks at your school, too? Is that why you dropped out?" I laugh, feeling silly talking to a dead girl. I pull the slug box toward me, thinking how cool it would be to touch one. Like touching death head on. When I don't hear footsteps, I think, why not? You only live once. Look at my poor mother and how much she missed out on. I dive for the box, pulling at the clear plastic seal. It's stuck tight. I slide a fingernail under the edge of the sticker and slowly pry it up, careful not to rip the seal itself.

A rush of bubbling nervous energy makes my fingers tremble as I lift the cover. A puff of stale air with the scent of rancid meat assaults my nose. I breathe through my mouth as I pull out one of the silver gnarled bits. Is this the bullet––the one that actually killed Bonnie Parker? I spy a tiny spot of dark brown nestled between two twisted nibs of steel. Is that her dried blood? Could it be locked inside here after all this time? I lick my finger and touch the spot.

It smudges, turns brownish red. Holy s***––it is her blood! I rub it a bit harder when something sharp pierces my fingertip. A bright red dot from a tiny jagged cut sprouts on the pad of my index finger. I ram my wound into my mouth and glare at the slug.

That's when I realize that Bonnie Parker's blood was on my finger.

And is now on my tongue.

You can find out more at www.kymbrunner.com.