Ever watched a Nicholas Sparks or Nora Ephron movie and thought to yourself, “That would never happen in real life.”?
I’m here to tell you it can and does happen. Once in a blue moon someone with a romantic streak a mile wide really does come along. Someone that doesn’t hesitate taking that first kiss; someone that yells they love you across a public space; someone that sends you daisies because they know the simple romantic flower means so much to you; someone who feels like the most luxurious and softest sweater that was hand knit just to bring you comfort and warmth can actually exist.
I’d looked a long time for that person, then stopped looking altogether. I decided my time had passed and I’d wasted my best years being stupid and a little too wild for my own good. I always knew I wanted someone to look at me across a table like I was the light at the end of their tunnel. I always dreamed of having someone that would open my door, hold my hand as if proud to be by my side, and not hold back on emotions because they were uncomfortable. I always knew I wanted a lifetime partner, a “happily ever after.” I just thought there was time, until time got away from me.
The most interesting part in my case is I’ve had some of those “only in the movies” moments here and there through my life, but they never stuck. The romance, the passion, or the person left before I knew it and I was back to square one.
Here’s the kicker; the crazy part of all this romantic fantasy….not only do I know those moments and feelings exist, but also I can describe the person who can provide them for me down to her toes.
She’s witty, a little snarky. She has a sentimental heart and tough outer shell, like a tootsie pop personified. She is soft, yet strong. She is kind when she can be and takes no shit when she needs to. She is so smart; a mind full of curiosity and eagerness to grow. She is devoted to those she loves and a loyal friend. She goes out of her way to remind people they matter. She is creative and adventurous. She can cook, but also appreciates a good meal prepared for her. She doesn’t expect perfection and even applauds an honest effort. She loves to make love and fill your head with filthy thoughts. She is passion. She is temptation. She is tenderness. She is beauty. The love she gives feels like a luxury reserved for saints and royals. She has a tender touch and a firm hand. She kisses like a dream. One look in her eyes and you’ll know you’re lost and you won’t care a single bit. She can wrap you in her arms and you’ll feel protected from the world; sheltered from the storm. She will keep her promises even when it pains her. She means what she says when she says it. Her laughter causes your own to bubble up. Her smile will melt you into a puddle. Her skin is cream, her lips the color of soft pink petals. She works to make sure her family lacks for nothing. She gives of herself and her time even to her detriment. She is eloquent and professional. She is silly and a dork. She is calm when chaos is around. She is the chaos when her look turns hungry and wanton. She is the prize, the endgame. She is the best way to wake up and my favorite dream. She is worth the wait.
To many, I am little more than a myth. The Kiss of Death, a hired killer, revered by the some of the greatest criminal organizations in the world. Trained by the bratva themselves, without conscience, without mercy, the perfect soldier. I’ll kill anyone… for a price. Death doesn’t discriminate, she sells to the highest bidder, but even I have a weakness.
I want one thing—power. But power is merely a game of strategy. The pieces are on the chess board. Death is my queen, and also my pawn. She’ll paint this city red in exchange for the one thing she wants. Now all I have to do is watch it all play out. She’s nothing more than a weapon, and yet, I find myself wanting to dance with death, to possess her. And I always get what I want.
A game of power. A risk that could cost her everything. An obsession that would see the world burn at their feet. A bloodied king. A broken queen. Kill me or kiss me?
Lauren Lovell is an indie author from England. She suffers from a total lack of brain to mouth filter and is the friend you have to explain before you introduce her to anyone, and apologize for afterwards.
Lauren is a self-confessed shameless pervert, who may be suffering from slight peen envy.
LP loves to hear from readers so please get in touch.
“Lily Anderson, you get your ugly ass out here right this minute. Don’t make me come after you,” Daddy screams.
He’s so angry. I knew the moment I heard him come home from work I was in for it. I was in my bedroom, lying on the floor trying to do my math. He slammed the front door so hard the windows in my room shook.
And then I knew, I knew I was in for it.
“Lily Anderson!” he yells again.
As soon as I heard him yell I ran to my hiding spot. I’m inside the closet in the hallway, wedged as far into the corner as I can get. Mom’s old coat hangs in front of me and I can still smell a faint waft of the perfume she used to wear.
“Lily Anderson!” he shouts. I can hear the anger in his voice and I can already feel the pain he’s going to inflict on me when he opens the closet door. I know what’s coming.
I close my eyes tight, scrunching them up so no light can seep through. I put my hands over my ears so I can’t hear him.
“I swear to God; if I have to find you, you will not sit for a month.”
My knees are folded into my chest. I’m trying to make myself small, invisible, so he forgets I’m here. I’m rocking myself, trying to block out what he’s saying.
School is safe. School is safe. School is safe. I keep repeating the mantra because in a few short hours I’ll be back at school. Maybe tomorrow I can go to the library after school, stay there until it closes and then sneak in after Dad’s passed out, because he’s had too much to drink.
It was never like this before. Ever.
I’m twelve years old and I can remember when Mom, Dad, and I were all happy. But that was years ago. It’s been a long time since there’s been any happiness in this house.
Well, before Mom died anyway, and not a day since.
Mom died when I was nine. I don’t remember much about her, except I remember her telling me how ugly I am. How life would be better if I was taken away from them. How I’ll never be anything, because I’m stupid and ugly.
Sometimes I dream happy things. Like me, Mom, Dad and a little blond-haired boy all going for a picnic. The sun beamed down on us as we played outside and laughed. We’d eat yummy sandwiches Mom made for us, and we’d drink homemade lemonade. We’d spend hours outside, laughing and talking and just having fun. Mom would tell me how pretty I am, and how much she loved me. She would play with my hair, braid it, and then we’d go and pick bright flowers to take home and put in a vase. Dad would smile and call us “his girls”, always kissing Mom and hugging me. Dad would put the little boy on his shoulders and run around the park, trying to catch the clouds.
I love those dreams, and I hold onto them; wishing they were real. But I’ve never had a mom like that, and my dad doesn’t talk much unless it’s with his fists, or to tell me how ugly and useless I am.
I feel him walking around the house. The floorboards creak and the vibrations from his footsteps come through the floor to where my bottom is. I close my eyes tighter and try and breathe as quietly as I can.
Please go away, Daddy. Please go away.
My heart is beating so fast. My hands are shaking and I’m trying really hard not to think about what’s going to happen the minute he opens the closet door.
Shhh, it’s so quiet. The only sound is my heart thrumming in my ears. Nothing else. Not a whisper, not a rattle…nothing.
Maybe Daddy’s left. Maybe he’s gone to the pub to have a few drinks. Maybe, just maybe, he’s left…forever.
I take a deep breath and just relax for a moment. My shoulders drop and I finally stop rocking.
Slowly I take my hands down from my ears, and I’m so happy because I can’t hear him yelling at me. I can’t hear him at all.
Gradually, I begin to unscrunch my eyes from the way I’ve tightly closed them. But something’s not right. There’s light coming into the closet.
I don’t even get a chance to open them fully before a rough hand reaches in, latches onto my ponytail and yanks.
“I told you it’d be worse for you if I had to find you,” Dad says, as he drags me out of the closet by my hair.
I’m desperately trying to hold onto my head so he doesn’t rip my hair out. My feet are trying to find traction on the dirty floorboards.
“Please, Daddy. Please. You’re hurting me,” I begin sobbing as I plead with him.
“Then your ugly ass should’ve come when I called you, you stupid bitch. You’re fucking worthless, you ugly idiot,” he says. But now his voice is calm as he continues to drag me toward the family room.
That’s when he’s most scary. When his voice is low and his eyes are filled with hate.
He throws me against the side of the sofa and takes a step back to look at me.
I look up and can see he’s the angriest I’ve ever seen him. “You dumb, ugly piece of shit,” he says, as he paces back and forth in front of me.
“Sorry, Daddy. Whatever I did, I’m so sorry.” I cower into myself, trying to make myself as small as possible.
“You’re just too fucking stupid, aren’t you?” he spits toward me as he brings his hand up to scratch at his chin.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. Tears are falling hot and fast down my cheeks. My head hurts from where he was pulling my hair, but I don’t dare try to rub the spot.
“You ugly fuck.” He kicks a boot into my leg.
The pain is instant and my leg feels like it’s shattered. “Please, Daddy,” I beg again, burying my face into my hands.
But ‘please’ never seems to work.
I’ve just got to take the beatings, because that’s what stupid, ugly girls do.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
There’s something about the written word that is pure magic.
Possibly it’s the fact there are 26 letters in the English alphabet, and they can create something so beautiful or so empowering they’re capable to change our lives.
How important is it that we break suit and stretch our minds?
I like to think of myself as ‘unique’. My stories aren’t for everyone, and sometimes I may push what you believe to be ‘normal’.
Normal is subjective.
I prefer to be known as a person who’s never been ‘bound by custom’ but is ‘unique by choice’.
Check out these wild ladies! Authors Caitlyn O’Leary and Elle Boon with some tidbits of insider info on upcoming releases, some awesome giveaways, some drinking, some sweets and let’s not forget cleavage!