Beauty. Danger. Survival.

Skinless is a literary psychological thriller told entirely in Charmay’s raw first‑person voice.

Lower East Side, New York City, 1999. Fresh from teenage homelessness, Charmay—a street‑smart, trauma‑bruised, velvet‑voiced singer—wants more than survival. By night she becomes Cindy, the seductive armor that protects her—and threatens to take over. By day she pours truth into song, turning pain to power.

Across two turbulent years—slipping from past to present—in the city’s underground, three forces converge: producer Eddie Cruise hears fire in her voice and pushes her raw; Sam Black—the Miami‑raised son of Cuban exiles—earns her trust, but his vendetta against a privileged partner draws danger; Rex Raven—a Wall Street financier who wants Cindy, not Charmay—opens glittering doors—and traps. Family ties pick old wounds. Hustles collide. Masks switch places. Chaos ricochets. Beats. Bullets. Bedsheets.

By the final chorus, Charmay must decide: cling to the mask that kept her alive—or claim the voice that could set her free. Honest, tense, and compassionate, Skinless is a psychological portrait of a woman fighting to overcome trauma’s scars—and learning that healing begins within. For readers of The Bell Jar, Just Kids, and literary noir.

“An eloquent crime novel… sentences vacillate between beauty and despair… Charmay’s raw will to live.” — Foreword Reviews, B. Welton

“Charmay is willing to be whatever she has to be to survive… wringing hope from the desire‑soaked streets of 1990s New York City.” — Clarion Reviews, D. Ballantyne

“Lyrical… with the grit of Jim Carroll.” — Goodreads review, D.H.

Charmay’s “seductive alter ego:”  Cindy.  

From the book: “But my mom named me after Cinderella. . .” Cindy eeked. That was a new story I had concocted. . .

Cindy’s Wall Street financier. Depressed divorcèe. Obsessed. Offers doors- and traps.

Across two years slipping between past and present in New York’s underground, we see it through Charmay—our velvet‑voiced, street‑smart, trauma‑bruised singer who, by night, becomes Cindy. Three forces keep the pressure on: producer Eddie Cruise hears fire and pushes her voice raw; Sam Black earns her trust even as danger gathers; and Rex Raven opens glittering doors—and traps. Between gigs and after‑hours sessions, Charmay chases Eddie for a record deal.

Surrounding her is a family out of true: parents who unsteady her; Wanda, five years ahead, aloof; Aidan, two years behind, at the crux of the storm. Hart, the uncompromising vocal coach, pulls her toward the mic until the truth shows through. In Sam’s orbit, Eric—a recent law grad itching to go into business—stirs the pot. Comic detours arrive via Doctor Ski, Sam’s psychologist who meets the couple once, and Doctor Doggie, the dog‑obsessed referral who sends Charmay sideways. Down in Miami, Sam’s Cuban‑American family—his parents and sister Barbie—spin a fun‑loving visit that barely hides the fractures. And Sam’s vendetta zeroes in on Jesse—a well‑educated son of a state judge, newly addicted as he chases a rock‑drummer dream, naive as a deer—putting their cash side hustle on a knife‑edge as his loyalty comes into question.

The city adds its chorus. At Lucky Strike, Rex Raven and his trio of associates hold questionable court while a pop singer and a little wicked man slip between sets. In a Tribeca loft, Director O., a power filmmaker, works the room to woo Charmay as Eric’s friends whirl through—and after the party, the NYPD pays a visit. At Hudson’s, Felp presides, Max the vampiric maître-d’ deadpans, Frank hits his cues, and a jazz singer scores the night. Elsewhere, at Darling’s Gentleman’s Club—where Cindy takes shape—Gil, ever loyal, offers dad‑like counsel; at Chanel, where Rex suits Cindy up, an associate fashions her armor; and at Fortunoff’s, Stringbean, the comic diamond rep, performs a sales routine to seal the deal for Rex and Cindy.

Across town, Sam and Charmay explore La Trapeze—a crisscross club of hidden fantasy—while the Morgan Hotel homes the late‑night Sam‑and‑Jesse scheme. A penthouse suite at the Peninsula glitters above it all; underground Brownies steams in the small hours. After hours at Nightingales, the East Village haunt, Hart pushes Charmay to the raw as Skinny on guitar and Bleu on bass lay down a pulse that follows her home, Jesse’s wide‑eyed college friends crowding the tables.

And through it all, family moves like silent snipers; Charmay muscles through her father’s abandonment as the inner voices swell. Woven through that chorus is a reflective voice—steady, lucid—speaking from the other side now, threading hope through the noise. But back in the story present, Charmay runs from Skinless toward Cindy for solace; in the desperate hours, she writes songs on New York City streets, fleeing surfacing shadows—figures from the past and Skinless flashbacks, PTSD flares that render her formless—tilting the present into a waking nightmare.

Yet that reflective line keeps time, offering spiritual ground born of metaphysical and hard‑earned experience. In the end, the click of Charmay’s heels on New York City pavement becomes the pickup into the next song.

Skinless is an X‑ray of survival and artistry—urgent, unfiltered—offering a raw look at trauma, resilience, and how we adapt to survive; how we find light at the darkest edges of our minds and the city streets, along the fault lines of race and class—for readers who love literary noir and psychological thrillers with a hard‑boiled edge.