Everybody Falls by J. A. Hornbuckle


Everybody Falls by J. A. Hornbuckle was an interesting book to read.  I liked the characters but I wasn’t a huge fan of the storyline. I am not sure why though because this is usually the kind of book I can’t put down. I loved the authors writing but the storyline just didn’t keep me at the edge of my set but it was a book I am glad that I read it and I am going to check out other books by this author.  I found at times that the story didn’t seem like it could really happen in real life.

Everybody Falls Book Cover 2

About The Book

Contemporary Date Published: 6/14/2013

At 25, Jax Wynter lost his life.

As the youngest member of America’s number one rock band, Wynter’s Vicious, Jax lived a life with no rules 

or responsibilities. At least until his older brother, founding member and vocalist, died in a fiery car crash. Jobless, 

clueless and deemed unfit to handle his own affairs, Jax must sober up, man up and adjust to living as a ‘normal 

person’ in the ‘real world’.

At 24, Lacey Emerson found hers.

Shuffled between her bi-polar mom and her former hippie grandmother, Lacey had no choice but to become 

responsible at a young age. Her chaotic childhood, though, gave her the skills and determination to succeed when 

she inherited her grandmother’s bakery. Her life was finally normal, real but very, very boring.

All it took was a five-point face plant to turn both their lives upside down.

From the author of Pole Dance, Human Hieroglyphix I & II and Tap Dance, comes the new novel, “Everybody 

Falls”, Book One of Wynter’s Vicious Series. Set in the beautiful town of Auburn, California and filled with a cast 

of quirky characters, it’s a story about learning to live, learning to love and learning to hold on when your brand 

of ‘normal’ comes undone.

Sometimes you have to fall from grace before you can fall in love

Me on 04212013

About The Author

Even as a young girl, J.A. couldn’t wait to read.   In fact, her first real temper tantrum was at the end of first grade when she realized that unless the book or magazine included the words, “Dick”, “Jane” or “Spot”, she was still at a loss.
 
The thirst for the written word has never left her.
But after reading three crap books in a row on her Kindle (or Ken-doll, as she calls it) in July 2012, she decided she could do better.  Armed with a few notes, she blithely wrote out the first draft of her first novel and found her first book was worse crap than the stories that had started the whole cycle.  Taking the advice of another author, she studied and learned, re-wrote and re-edited.   As of June 2013, she’s published five books with another in progress.
 
J.A. has been fortunate to travel throughout the U.S. and overseas, though she’s now calling the Phoenix, Arizona area home.  Those travels, places and the people she’s met help provide fuel for her books which is always why she includes the verbiage, ‘Although, if you recognize yourself in any character represented …maybe we need to talk.’  She calls it her rider to the disclaimer assuring readers that her characters are not based on any one particular person.
 
When asked to sum up what she wanted others to know about her, she simply says, “For those that have been with me on this life’s journey…Thanks for the memories!  And those that are still on their way…Where’ve you been?  My heart’s been waiting for you.”

Buy A Copy

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Excerpt

I made coffee in my second hand machine up in my apartment over the store and freshened
myself while I waited for it to brew.
This was the way I started my day, every day.
And, everyday, I missed having Grandma to start it with.
Her passing so suddenly, it still hit me like a ton of bricks every awakening; an unfilled hole
in my heart echoing her loss daily.
Pouring a cup, I went downstairs and out the front door of what used to, at one time, be a
biker bar. I sat on the worn, wide steps that welcomed people into the old-fashioned, old-time
strip mall. Too early for either customers or other store managers, I sipped my brew and
watched the dawn light twinkle on the different trees that lined the other side of my street.
Grandma had told me all their different names but I could only remember Ponderosa Pine
and Incense Cedar. I wished I remembered more.
All I know is that I couldn’t start my day without my coffee or greeting the morning light on
the trees.
Inevitably, I heard the slap-slap of his chucks on the pavement.
The man came by every morning like clockwork, running as if his life depended on it,
instead of the gentle jog that other people used to get their exercise in.
Nobody in their right mind exercised in chucks.
They were too thin. Not enough sole, enough support, to run in.
Yet, every day, there he was.
Running the street in his chucks, his long legs reaching and eating up the asphalt. His broad
shoulders and muscled, inked arms keeping a counter rhythm as he ran.
At least he’d lost the leather jacket that he used to wear.
He’d become such a fixture of the morning scenery, the sounds of his feet on the asphalt
keeping time to whatever was in his head. I had taken to putting on music that had a beat to
match his cadence. Today, my MP3 in the store was playing Soundgarden’s ‘Black Days’.
The low volume of such a rock anthem was probably illegal in more than a few states.
In fact, the hard-driving rock anthems seemed to be my music of choice when I waited for
him. There was something about the set of his shoulders, the tattoos that fully covered his arms
spoke to me of deep pain when I watched him run, but I couldn’t have told you why.
Normally, he’d run right by me with only a quick wave, which was more than alright by me.
Today, he’d stopped.
But, not by his own volition.
He tripped, wind-milling his way past me on the porch steps. Taking giant, wobbly steps
trying to find his balance before failing, before falling.
Before doing a skidding face plant on the asphalt not ten feet away from me. Just there on
the other side of the road, yet still on the asphalt. That cold, hard surface, sprinkled with the
various pinecones from the beautiful tall, tall trees on the other side.
“Arrg,” he shouted as his face had hit the ground.
I placed my new bright blue mug on the worn piece wooden step and made my way slowly
to his still figure sprawled on the blacktop. I could see his back rising and falling with his
breaths, so I figured he was, at least, alive after his dive. That would’ve been a horrible epitaph,
‘Death by Pavement’.
Either that or a great name for a band.
I approached slowly.
I may not be all that old, but my twenty-four years had taught me well.
Men had to be approached with caution. Especially if they were drunk, mad or hurt.
Well, actually even if they were happy, laughing and in a good mood.
Men were, at all costs, to be approached with caution.
“Are you alright?” I asked, crouching and bending over the man-who-ran, admiring the back
view prone almost as much as I enjoyed the back view upright. Not many men can look as good
leaving as they do coming, yet the running man had a great body which seemed to look good
from every angle. I admit it, I had noticed him from just about every view.
I watched as he brought his hands up to his shoulders and levered himself back, his inked
biceps flexing as he flopped from his stomach onto his back.
Oh, sweet chocolate, I thought, looking him over.
Okay, some people have religion and some people don’t. I don’t, so I don’t tend to swear
using religious deities. I use what I know, what I believe in and what’s important to me.
Chocolate being number one.
But, man, this was bad.
He was a mess. A bloody mess.
“Do we need to call an ambulance?” I asked him quietly tucking my hands in the pockets of
my sweats before hunkering down next to him, my hands itching to push his long shiny black
hair away from his face.
Some mornings he tied it back, but today it was loose. Or maybe it got that way because of
his fall.
His panting got in the way of talking so he just shook his head slowly.
“No 911, then,” I said and watched as he nodded shallowly, his panting harsh in the chilly
morning air.
“You’re a mess, though,” I tried to explain.
I saw him as he closed his heavily fringed eyes and simply nodded shallowly again.
I waited, hoping he’d get his breath back and tell me what I could do to help him. I was a
baker, a dessert maker, not a nurse and wasn’t really comfortable in the role, if the truth were
known.
“Do you think you can walk?” I asked gently after a time.
“Ess,” he hissed through mangled lips.
“Can I help you up?” I pressed, my voice still almost a whisper and watched as he turned
himself over slowly, bracing his weight gingerly on his hands and knees.
He paused before getting up onto his feet.
‘Oh, he’s tall,’ I thought, watching him stretch himself up to his full height. Easily six foot if
not more. My heart sped up at the thought.
Big men meant bigger problems.
“Come sit on the porch and I’ll help you get cleaned up,” I suggested, watching the tall man
sway towards me as I spoke. “No, this way,” I caught myself saying softly, briefly, touching his
arm and providing direction for his wobbly feet.
His sweats were blown out at both knees and I could see drizzles of blood on them as well as
deep grazes on his forearms and palms.
A five-point plant on dirty asphalt. Yipes! He had to be hurting yet, outside that initial
shout, he didn’t make a sound.
I glanced up and got caught in his chocolate-eyed gaze that was pointed down at me.
You know him, my mind announced suddenly. But, that was silly. He only seemed familiar
because he ran by my bakery every morning.

“Do you think you can walk?” I asked gently after a time.

“Ess,” he hissed through mangled lips.

“Can I help you up?” I pressed, my voice still almost a whisper and watched as he turned himself over slowly,

bracing his weight gingerly on his hands and knees.

He paused before getting up onto his feet.

‘Oh, he’s tall,’ I thought, watching him stretch himself up to his full height. Easily six foot if not more. My

heart sped up at the thought.

Big men meant bigger problems.

“Come sit on the porch and I’ll help you get cleaned up,” I suggested, watching the tall man sway towards me

as I spoke. “No, this way,” I caught myself saying softly, briefly, touching his arm and providing direction for his

wobbly feet.

His sweats were blown out at both knees and I could see drizzles of blood on them as well as deep grazes on

his forearms and palms. A five-point plant on dirty asphalt. Yipes! He had to be hurting yet, outside that initial shout, he didn’t make a

sound.

I glanced up and got caught in his chocolate-eyed gaze that was pointed down at me.

You know him, my mind announced suddenly. But, that was silly. He only seemed familiar because he ran by

my bakery every morning.

Margaret Tidwell

I am a 33-year-old blogger. I write about my life and my struggles with Multiple Sclerosis. I also am a huge bookworm, and I have been doing book reviews for years now. I even blog about adoption, Multiple Sclerosis, and things that go on in my life.

Margaret Tidwell

Margaret Tidwell

Margaret Tidwell

Margaret Tidwell

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