She is particularly famous for writing The Nine Lives of Chloe King, which was later adapted into a TV show in with the same name. Braswell is also known for writing the Twisted Tales series of novels. She has also written several standalone books in her career and has also contributed a few omnibus collections. In addition to writing under her original name, Braswell also uses the pen names of Celia Thomson and Tracy Lynn for writing certain kinds of novels.
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Chloe grinned. She looked out the window—yup, fog. In a city of fog, Inner Sunset was the foggiest part of San Francisco. Amy loved it because it was all spooky and mysterious and reminded her of England although she had never been there.
But Chloe was depressed by the damp and cheerless mornings, evenings, and afternoons and liked to flee to higher, sunnier ground—like Coit Tower—at every opportunity. It even had a verse of a Styx song penned carefully in ballpoint on one of the sleeves. She emptied her messenger bag of her textbooks and hid them under her bed. Then she stumbled downstairs, trying to emulate her usual tired-grumpy-morning-Chloe routine. Uneager to pick a fight this morning, Chloe swallowed her sigh.
King put her hands on her hips. She looked like someone out of a Chardonnay ad. Amy was already at the bus stop, juggling a bag of bagels, her army pack, and a cell phone. Today she wore a short plaid kiltlike skirt, a black turtleneck, fishnets, and cat-eye glasses; the overall effect was somewhere between rebellious librarian and geek-punk.
The two of them were comfortably silent on the bus, just drinking coffee and glad to have a seat. Amy might be a morning person, but Chloe needed at least another hour before she would be truly sociable. Her best friend had learned that years ago and politely accommodated her. They glowed almost orange in the light when the bus got to Kearny Street and the sun broke through.
Chloe felt her spirits rise: this was the San Francisco of postcards and dreams, a city of ocean and sky and sun. It really was glorious. Paul was already there, sitting on the steps of the tower, reading a comic book.
He held out a brown bag. Chloe smiled curiously and then opened it—a plastic bottle of Popov vodka was nestled within. There was a slight indentation in his short, black, and overgelled hair where his ear phones had rested. That had grown old real fast. She swirled her cup of coffee for emphasis, mixing its contents. Chloe sighed; she should have expected that answer. Paul walked from window to window, game.
Looking over his shoulder, Chloe could see colorful little sailboats coming and going with the wind, dreamy, hazy islands in the distance. She smiled. It was a very Paul choice. What should have been a beautiful blue day with puffy white clouds, now that they were out of Inner Sunset, had rapidly given way to the same old stupid weather.
Paul had already drunk his diet Coke and was now sipping directly from the amazingly cheesy plastic vodka flask. Chloe looked dreamily at the black-and-red onion domes on the label.
The Fallen (Nine Lives of Chloe King Series #1)