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The Trouble With St. John

By katiebloomstrom All Rights Reserved ©

Humor / Mystery


When shy, medium-looking Samantha Stone winds up on the romantic tropical island of St. John after getting dumped at the altar, she’s faced with two options: (1) sit in her sweaty villa and cry over her un-marriage to her idiot ex-fiancé while watching Love Actually on repeat and mass-eating Oreos and Xanax, or (2) pursue a hot vacation sexcapade with the gorgeous travel god she meets at baggage claim. Really, what’s a girl to do? But, after losing both her super spendy non-diamond engagement ring and her mysterious tropical island fling candidate in the same drunken night, Sam quickly learns that St. John isn't quite what she bargained for. In fact, she'll be lucky if she can make it back home alive. Join breakthrough author Katie Bloomstrom as she takes you on a journey into a picture perfect paradise filled with men, money, and mystery where nothing – and no one – is quite what it seems.


Now that this chapter of my blog diary is complete, I can hardly believe all the things that happened actually happened. I mean, the last thing I thought when I boarded the plane to St. John for my un-honeymoon was that I’d wind up right in the middle of a real live jewelry heist mystery complete with double crossers, sneaky photo takers, sexy island dwellers, attempted kidnappings, and at least one dead body. I don’t know about anyone else, but I think that’s kind of a lot of stuff to have happen in just one week.

But I’m getting way ahead of myself. In order to properly tell this story, I need to start at the beginning. The time I like to call…er – well, the beginning. I guess.

My name is Samantha Stone. Unfortunately, everyone I know calls me Sammy. Not Sam. Sammy. Like I’m a nine-year-old in pigtails whose favorite fun pastime is coloring in her Monster High coloring book.

In reality, I’m twenty-eight. I hate being called Sammy, I don’t have pigtails, and I don’t like to color. Not anymore, at least. Okay, maybe I do still color sometimes. With my niece. Whatever.

I live in Minnesota, which is pretty much the lamest thing ever. Plus, instead of living in one of the two partially-acceptable parts of Minnesota – the parts with enticing company headquarters and lofts and posh restaurants and hipsters and craft beers and things – I live in a long forgotten, half-dead place called Elkton, located about three hours southwest of anyplace worth mentioning at all. I’ve lived in Elkton all my life, along with 1,396 other sorry souls who have all lived in Elkton forever and will continue to live in Elkton until the day they die.

Nothing exciting has ever happened in Elkton, and I highly doubt anything ever will. Instead of enticing company headquarters, we have Peterson’s Meat Packing – a greasy, smelly place that exports elk and elk-related products to other, better companies. Instead of lofts, we have houses from the 1970s that come complete with floral wallpaper, plastic couch covers, and red shag carpeting. Instead of posh restaurants, we have bars. Crappy, hole-in-the-wall bars. Fourteen of them, to be exact. This makes our bar-to-person ratio the best in the whole state! Oh, and instead of hipsters and craft beers, we have acid washed jeans, scrunchies, perms, bedazzled sweatshirts, and Johnnie Walker. Lots and lots of Johnnie Walker.

Elkton doesn’t even have its own shopping mall. That’s in the next town over. We do have a Super Walmart though. It has a little pretzel stand inside that sells a variety of pretzel flavors and dipping sauces and is, unfortunately, where most of Elkton hangs out on the weekends. Those too young to go to the bars, anyway.

Aside from the Super Walmart and all the bars and the meat plant, Elkton also boasts a Fleet Farm, a gas station, a seedy pawn shop, two liquor stores, three churches, four elk farms, and one library. Oh, we also have a very questionable adult video store/gun shop.

Our dentist/physician, Dr. Brad, works out of his basement, as does Vera, our resident hair stylist. The police chief, whose name is Chomps Douglas, doubles as the fireman who doubles as the town’s plumber/electrician who doubles as the Pastor down at the Evangelical Free. But they’re all the same guy. They’re all Chomps. When Chomps gets sick, the whole town goes on a rampage, drinking Johnnie Walker and breaking laws and questioning their faith and setting things on fire.

Since Elkton is so boring and worthless, most Elktonites become alcoholics by the age of 14. Then they drop out of school and get jobs at the meat factory or the Fleet Farm. They proceed to get perms, start wearing scrunchies, and eventually spend their weekends scrapbooking, drinking, and bedazzling their sweatshirts. Once they make their first hot dish, their lives are officially over.

I used to be one of those people – the alcoholic bedazzlers – but then I met Colin.

Colin is my fiancé. He’s an artist from the big city. Minneapolis, I mean. We met last year at one of Colin’s classy art gallery events and, in a few short days, we’re getting married! Then my real life will finally start. My life away from Elkton and all its loser dumbness anyway.

Colin is so wonderful and loves me so much that he got me an iPad for my wedding gift to prove it. It’s the only iPad in all of Elkton! And it came complete with its own wireless keyboard thing in a special wireless keyboard case! When my mom saw it for the first time, she asked me if it was one of those Gameboys she’d heard about from Tammy Pedersen, her backyard neighbor. Try explaining an iPad to a woman who thinks the cordless telephone is the height of technological sophistication. And who literally just heard about Gameboys even though the first one came out in like 1989. (Hint: You can’t explain anything to a person like that.)

Of course, I don’t really know what to do with the iPad and its accompanying wireless keyboard, but I want Colin to think that I love it and use it adequately for lots of interesting things – aside from just playing Solitaire and reading Perez Hilton all the time. So I’ve decided to start one of those computer diaries. You know, a blog sort of thing. Like Bridget Jones, but with a wireless keyboard instead of a notebook and a sad Minnesotan accent instead of a posh foreign one.

Hey – it’s better than coloring in my Monster High coloring book, right? Not that I have one or anything.

Okay, I’m off to the Super Walmart with Amanda (my very best girlfriend) to check out the what’s happening, grab a cinnamon sugar pretzie, and select my eye shadow colors for the “Big Day.” Hurrah!

What an exciting life I live.

Introduction – Part II

Things to do on un-honeymoon:

1. Forget about Colin and all Colin-related things.

2. Work on tan and transform from pale freckled Midwesterner to glowy amazing travel goddess.

3. Splash about in the ocean as salt water good for the hair and skin.

4. Drink beachy cocktails and flirt with glowy island men.

5. Catch up on sleep and pretend there is a sexy man in bed with me, even though there is not and likely never will be ever again.

6. Change personality and develop positive, sunny outlook.

7. Read massive historical travel novel; become well-read person with interesting comments and perspectives.

8. Obtain new job and life.

Things not to do on un-honeymoon:

1. Wallow, cry, whack attack, or feel bad about self.

2. Think about Colin or any Colin-related things.

3. Sob uncontrollably in front of others.

4. Blame self for wedding-day dumpage.

5. Mix alcohol and prescription medications.

6. Mix alcohol and sexual encounters with glowy island men.

7. Call Colin repeatedly and leave sobby drunken messages, even though I’ve already done that like a hundred times. At least.

8. Think bad thoughts about self, especially state of hair and skin.

9. Think bad thoughts about any of the following: Colin, awful job, demon boss, dumb friends who bail on un-honeymoon last minute, Colin, boss.

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