Fear of Heights

Fear of Heights (The Heightsbound Series #2) by Mara White

Publication Date: September, 12, 2014


Book Description

What are you willing to sacrifice for love? Your family? Your freedom? What about your life?
She’s a wealthy, forty-three-year-old Upper East Sider with a PhD – He’s a twenty-three-year-old Dominican drug dealer from Washington Heights.
Kate Champion always did exactly what was expected of her. She was the perfect wife, the perfect mother – until the day she met Jaylee Inoa.
Their journey travels a path riddled with danger, deceit, scandal and loss – where nothing is as it seems. Yet Kate and Jaylee’s passion for one another remains nearly unstoppable.
Will this daring pair of lovers from two different worlds triumph over circumstance? Can they deny the past in their quest to be together? Or is fear the ultimate navigator – a force more powerful than love?



I couldn’t wait to jump in to the continuation of Kate, Robert, and Jaylee’s story. What I was not expecting was to be in a state of pissed off the entire read. I shouldn’t be surprised because we are speaking of Kate here, but really??!! I thought she’d make up for some of her mistakes, not just dig her hole even deeper. I think what rubs me the wrong way with Kate is her impulsiveness-it’s horrible and consuming her every thought and decision. Robert and Jaylee I didn’t know had it in them to conspire the way they did, again I shouldn’t be shocked but Mara has warped my mind with this novel. I wanted Kate to grow some balls and stand up for herself. She does what she wants at times but others she seems so week and cowers in the corner…leaving me perplexed and frustrated. We get some answers behind Robert and Jaylee’s actions, but I’d absolute love to see their perspective on these situations. Mara has again provided us with a intense levels of angst, betrayal and revenge. Give this a try and find your next book crush! Rating: 4 stars

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Author Info

I’m a reader, a writer, and a lover of all things romantic. I’m also a coffee, hot sauce, ink, telenovela and Bikram Yoga enthusiast. I live in New York City with my husband and two children, and I spend a lot of time on the playground.

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10 Miscellaneous Details About My Writing Process from Mara White

1. I almost always write with pen and paper first and then transfer the writing to my computer (double the work – smart, I know!) The more emotional the scene is for me the less likely I am to compose it on my laptop.
2. I always feel the need to write physically – like a hum in my body – as opposed to cerebrally – meaning I never have a bunch of ideas I want to get down on paper. I just write as a response to this physical feeling. This also means that I usually have no idea what is going to come out.
3. It’s difficult for me to control rhyming. I have a natural tendency to compose in a simple rhyme scheme – like Dr. Seuss. (hmm? Rhyming erotica.)
4. If I have a writing block, I can usually resolve it with a bath, coffee or exercise.
5. I’ve never been able to write a story in chronological order –never. I write scenes then expand them into chapters and not until the very end do I arrange them in chronological order and see if they make sense. (That’s how some of my writing turns out like poorly edited film with a character wearing shorts at the beginning of a chapter and then removing his pants halfway through. (Ahem. Jaylee. Fix it in post!)
6. It’s a genuine struggle for me to keep what I write from sinking into a black hole of despair. My writing can get pretty dark, pretty quickly and I have to fight to keep it relatively light and easy.
7. My most productive writing time happens while I’m riding the train to work. (NYC subway) I’m afraid of all modes of transportation and usually trying desperately to distract myself. Writing works!
8. I’m a very slow writer and I continuously go back and edit and rewrite my own work. I’ve accepted the fact that I’ll never be prolific. (Never say never!)
9. I love writing in vernacular. I’d write entire books in vernacular if I weren’t conflicted about issues of authenticity. I’ve learned to embrace it and to approach it with fearlessness but I still have to console myself with the idea of having authenticity as a writer alone – and being a legitimate listener and observer of humanity.
10. The only kind of music I can write to is the wordless kind – classical or instrumental. If there are lyrics I’ll start writing them right into my story. Another complication is that I can’t really listen to music and not dance. So even if the music playing doesn’t have lyrics, I’ll most likely drop what I’m writing to get up and dance.


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Rikers Island, East Elmhurst, New York
My stomach growls from the shit lunch of bologna and American cheese. I’ll die before I’m twenty-five in here from all the crap they been feeding me. I need more calories because of my workout routine, and the commissary just don’t cut it. Half the time I probably burning muscle, but what the fuck you gonna do about it? You can’t change this fucked-up machine. What I wouldn’t give for some Spanish food—just a goddamn plate of my grandma’s rice and beans.
I flip the pen around and around in my hand, trying to think of what to say. It brings me right back to being eight years old, the school-assigned social worker jabbing at me to “write him whatever you please!” I pick at a popped blister from going at the weights in the yard. Soon enough it’ll get hard and callous—just like everybody who been up in here too long.
“He’d love to hear anything about you. Why don’t you tell him about basket-ball?” As if it was easy, when you hadn’t talked to him in years. An’ my ma bent over the kitchen table with cried-on love letters to my dad, praying on lighted candles and over special oils to Dios Santísimo, that he don’t get sent to Sing Sing.
We couldn’t afford the trip up there, so we saw him less and less. The sound of his voice just became a memory to me, and when we did get up there, I pitied the man I saw. Couldn’t get past the fact that he fucked up. I felt like he let them put him away. I swore to myself if I ever got there, I’d be smarter than he was. That I’d get revenge before I’d let ‘em make me live my life behind bars. Now look at where I am.
At least I got a plan.
Love letters. Kate wrote me one once. There’s a trick to them, right? You gotta try to convince a woman that you’ll love her forever. It’s not just about the first time she reads it, she’s gotta see it every time she looks. Try doing it on jail-issued stationery. I had to earn the privilege to use a pen. How the fuck you tell someone they everything you got—when all you got is a page? How do I tell her how much I want her to have my kid? I love knowing that he’s inside her, that there’s part of me with her. Thing is, I can’t control the lies she’s being fed; she’ll choose the lawyer over me.
How do you say all that on paper when all you ever got through was public school? She got everything she needs—or at least that’s how it’d seem to anybody looking in. But I know—I know—how much Kate needs me.
I crumple up the last sheet of the ones they gave me and toss it onto my bunk. I don’t know how to put my heart on paper. I can’t make her understand why I did what I done.
On Friday they call me out for a visit, though I’m not expecting nobody. Mamá, Janinie, and everybody coming next week—or that’s what we said on the phone. I’m never expecting Kate again. I have no idea what she decided to do with the baby. I don’t know if he still here with us or gone already. The baby’s the only thing I ever cared about more than her, but I’m not gonna let myself hate her for it. She shouldn’t a’ had to go through it by herself – either way. If I’d watched my back, I wouldn’t a’ ended up here.
I stick my hands out the drop door in the cell so they can cuff me. The corrections officer calls me “Dorado,” ‘cause that’s what they called my pops when he was here. I try not to get involved, but it ain’t easy when your ties run deep like mine do. My old man spent a minute in Rikers; he up the river now in Sing Sing. He’s spending his days at the big house, but he got connections all through the whole system. He got his reputation too, and I’m expected to keep it.
Probably an ex or somebody I was messing around with before Kate who come to see me. Girls got something about visiting guys in jail. They love the drama. They love the attention they get from everybody else. Girls that won’t even give you the time of day on the outside start writing you letters about how much they miss you when you in the box. It’s bullshit. But I admit—it do make the time go by faster. And right now I got nothing but time.
I get stuck in the hall for the count—which means whoever waiting for me is stuck too. The guard I’m with lets me do wall push-ups after he cuffs me to a door. I go at it, hard as fuck, until I’m dripping sweat and my muscles are burning. Working out helps me not to think about her—or the baby. The burn is good. It shuts up the furia. There ain’t shit I can do anyway, so why make myself crazy playing it all over again in my head?
The count takes forever and I’m betting whoever’s out there waiting is regretting this. First and last visit. Nobody want to see me that bad.
When we finally walk into the visiting room, my eyes catch her before anything else, even though the place is packed. I’m a homing pigeon. I can’t see nothing else.
She’s Kate, but she ain’t Kate. Same black hair, same pale face. Same scared blue eyes. Her body is slamming too, less hip, more tit, and she a little taller. Maybe it’s the heels. She looks good. But I know who she is.
It’s the sister. Arriving like the grim reaper. She come repping for the other side. I gotta smile that this mina got herself into Rikers. I can tell she’s shitting herself, even worse than Kate. She ain’t never been in no place like this before, that’s for sure. All dolled up to come see a criminal like me.
There’s some part of me that wants to run to her just ‘cause they family. And then another part that wants to refuse the goddamned visit. I know Kate feel like she ain’t good enough for her own family. Makes me fucking hate ‘em. Kate is good—that’s her main problem. It’s something she won’t let herself see.
Now she’s starting to work her hands like she in full-blown panic mode. I guess I take pity on her. She looks too much like my girl. Shit, it’s messing with my head—and my dick.
I pull out a chair and sit down, drilling my eyes into the back of her head. She spinning around, looking across the whole room. She don’t know who the fuck I am. She turns and stares, her eyes taking everything in. I can practically hear her heart pounding from over here. She like a baby bird—ready to flip out and fly into the fucking window. She looks at me and I gesture to the chair across the table. Relief hits her whole face and her shoulders relax. She smiles quick and then it disappears and she look scared again. She marches over to the table and sits down fast.
Why she gonna ask me after she already sit down? I’m tempted to say no, but I just stare at her instead. I can see how much they look alike, but I can also see how they different. She got doubt all over her face. She wanna fly the fuck out of here. That makes two of us.
“Emily,” I say not giving anything away. I’m gonna make her work hard for it.
“Oh, Kate told you about me?”
“She didn’t tell me much. ‘Nough to know you exist. Otherwise I’d think I was seeing ghosts.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“Pfft. Naw, not since she came in here to tell me she was pregnant. Not that it’s your business. They send you to come tell me she got rid of it?”
“I came on my own, Jaylee.”
She stops and looks down.
“Kate’s missing; I was hoping you could tell me where to find her.”

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