Famous

Famous

Blake Crouch

Language: English

Pages: 212

ISBN: B003HNNHZ2

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


What if you looked exactly like a famous movie star, and one day decided, that along with their beautiful face, you wanted the life that came with it?

This eBook also contains a bonus interview with Blake, plus excerpts from his other four novels.

About the Author:

BLAKE CROUCH was born near the piedmont town of Statesville, North Carolina in 1978. He attended the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and graduated in 2000 with degrees in English and Creative Writing. Blake is the author of four novels and numerous short stories. He lives with his family in southwest Colorado, where he is at work on a new book.

Praise for Blake Crouch’s ABANDON:

ABANDON would make an excellent movie, switching back and forth between the plain-but-sturdy homes, saloon and church in 1893 and the same structures rotting to dust in 2009...a clever dual story.
CHARLOTTE OBSERVER

ABANDON [is] two separate works of past and present seamlessly melded together into a single novel that demands to be read in one sitting, so you can better appreciate the beauty of Crouch’s storytelling…[O]ne of those books that almost instantly puts you in the mind of a classic.
BOOKREPORTER

Haunting, fast-paced, and thoroughly engrossing... ABANDON is one of the most original tales of ghosts, greed and gold I've come across. Crouch aligns both eras so perfectly, it's as if the characters are occupying the same breath within the space/time continuum. ABANDON will be one of the most talked-about books of the summer.
THE MADISON COUNTY HERALD

Ambitious…the palpable suspense just keeps building, and many thriller fans—especially those who like a touch of horror—will lose sleep to find out how it all ends.
BOOKLIST

ABANDON is terrific…a great storyteller hitting his stride.
LEE CHILD

The Last Detective Alive

The Great Texas Joke Book

The Lost Second Book of Aristotle's Poetics

My Life in Jokes

The Pleasure of My Company

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

though it might rot apart into the water at any moment. The wedding was on a Saturday in July, and man it was hot. Since North Carolina was in the midst of a drought, the pond had nearly dried up, so all the ducks were congregated in the largest evaporating puddle of brown water in the center. They were so loud. You could see the lakebed, and it was cracked and the whole place smelled like dead fish. Even worse, since Lakewood was a city park, there were loads of people and their noisy, shitty

intelligent, too. I don’t know what he does for a living, but I’m sure he makes gobs of money. And he’s a genuinely nice guy. For instance, listen to what he did at that wedding I was telling you about. During the reception, instead of mingling with our family, he came down to the edge of the dried-up pond where I’d been sitting since the ceremony ended, avoiding people, as my mother would say. He asked me if I wanted to take a walk on the hiking paths, just the two of us. I said all right, and

practically assures me that she isn’t, and then says it’s time for her to turn in. After she’s gone, I unpack my suitcase since I’ll probably be staying awhile. I don’t feel like going to sleep yet, so I tiptoe out into the hallway and make my way back to the kitchen. Bo’s clearing dishes from the dining room table. “Want a hand with that?” I ask. “No, I’ll wash them tomorrow.” I sit down at the breakfast table. The glasses of tequila are still there, and I can smell that sweet Mexican

vodka?” he asks from behind a bar at the back of the room. “Sure. This is quite a place, Jim.” What a really dumb fucking thing to say. He knows it’s quite a place. That’s why he paid millions of dollars for it. I realize suddenly that I’m standing in front of a glass case filled with plaques and statues. My eyes immediately fix upon the bright gold Oscar. Jansen brings my drink over. He hands it to me and opens the cabinet. “Here.” Hands me the statue, which is even heavier than you might

researched enough murder trials to know that. As the phone rang, I stared up at the vaulted ceiling of my living room, glanced at the black baby grand piano I’d never learned to play, the marble fireplace, the odd artwork that adorned the walls. A woman named Karen, whom I’d dated for nearly two years, had convinced me to buy half a dozen pieces of art from a recently deceased minimalist from New York, a man who signed his work “Loman.” I hadn’t initially taken to Loman, but Karen had promised

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