some more preview – visit www.jigsawfiction.com for the book

Not many people knew each other that night at the beach. It
was a rave party, the ones that get you high with music, then higher
with little expensive secrets, and then you lose yourself on vodka,
tequila, and little deaths in extremely small glasses. They call them
shots, as if the barman holds a gun to your face, always with a big,
astonishing, white-toothed smile.
She was shot two or three times that night. Once with a B52, a
weird shot made of Kahlua and Baileys. Then she had tequila, after
licking her salted palm and chewing on a slice of lemon. She really
felt her knees bend on that one. Last came a sweet red shot, a really
tasty one. Karpouzaki is what they call it on the island of Cyprus, and
the barman explained to her right away, without her asking, that the
name meant ‘small watermelon.’ It was a good choice of a name.

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