by Amy J. Heart
With his eyes glued to mine, he plops his glass on a pile of magazines. It topples over, amber liquid pooling on the paper and underneath his laptop. He doesn’t spare it a glance. “Hold it right there. You’re trying to tell me, Eden, that you greased him up like a fair day hog and then kissed him, and he just stood there and let you?”
“Yes. He let me. He even kissed me back. All through it, in fact.” I would love a photo of Coop’s stunned face. I’d get it printed, turn it into a poster and stab my kitchen knife into several times a day.
“It was like he’d never been touched that way before. With kindness. Like he’d never had sex that started slow. Sex that kindled from a gentle spark and blazed into a wildfire. And he was into it, Coop. Really freakin’ into it.”
Coop’s mouth reduces to a thin line. “Tell me what happened?” His voice rasps low. “What did he do? Tell me, Eden.”
This story isn’t pleasing to Cooper Martinez. Not one bit. But he’s paid for the truth, and I’m going to give it to him.
I lock eyes with him and go for it. “I thought L wouldn’t be turned on by the idea of it… or by me. That your whole stupid plan would fail and he’d just have to beat the living crap out of me to entertain those evil shits out there. But, I couldn’t believe my eyes, Coop, he was hard almost straight away. He wanted to do it. So badly that he fumbled like a boy who’d never even kissed a girl before. Or at least like a guy who hadn’t had much practice. But it didn’t take him long to work it out… to learn how to go with the feel of it… just like any boy who was into girls would do.”
The room is quiet—except for the hard rap of nails on the coffee table. Not my nails—Coop’s.
“So, you’re wrong about him only being into guys. He must be bi.”
“Nah.” Coop reaches for his glass. “I’ve never seen him even look at a chick…” He frowns down at the mess on the coffee table, pushes his laptop out of it, and then fixes me with a dark stare, brimming with barely restrained violence. “But there’s no way in hell that he came while fucking you—”
“He did.”
Coop shuffles to the edge of the couch, white-knuckled hands gripping his knees. “Was he… quiet?”
“Pardon?”
“Did he make any sound when he came?”
Wrapping my down coat tightly around my middle, I get to my feet. This is ridiculous. Why is Coop obsessed with the details? It’s almost as if… unless he… I step a little closer, gaze into his steel-gray irises, and see fervor glittering there as clear as any mad obsession.
Oh. My. God.
Coop has it bad for Lightning Boy.
Un-freaking-believable.
Well, come to think of it, it’s not that difficult to imagine anyone being messed up about L. I’ll be dreaming about him. Probably forever. Those crystal-blue eyes. Cold. And at the same time flaming hot. The delicious curve of his mouth. The whole package, really. It wouldn’t look out of place on a billboard. One that would cause nasty traffic pileups.
Well, praise be and hallelujah—it seems that, finally, I have a weapon to stick into Coop’s foul gut. One I can twist hard and use to cause real pain.
The truth.
My face only inches from his, I say, “No. He wasn’t quiet. He moaned and he groaned. He said no. He said yes. Cursed over and over. And at the end he even begged. Said please. Jesus. And fuck. Fuck… Fuck.”
Mouth slack, Coop edges backward as I press forward, his hands shaking on his thighs.
Smirking and trying to hide the frightened wobble in my voice, I say, “And I’m pretty sure he chanted an apology to someone as he came in incredibly violent shudders inside me.”
Coop winces.
“Although, I’m not sure who it was he thought he had let down in some way—himself or me. I couldn’t tell, because by that point, I was going into cardiac arrest from the 300K volts of electricity he was pulsing through me.”
Slumped against creases of soft leather, Coop looks withered well beyond his fifty years.
“You’re lying.”
I pluck my backpack off the carpet. “No, I’m not lying. Ask your filthy friends in there. They heard every moan. Watched every clumsy stroke of his hands, his mouth, and other impressive parts.”
Anger flares in Coop’s eyes, sending an icy shiver up my spine. He opens his mouth but doesn’t speak. Shocked, I watch him tug his long-sleeved shirt over his head, messing up his wiry, salt and pepper hair.
In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never once seen him in just a t-shirt. Never noticed the numbers stamped in black ink running down his arm. The ones he’s scratching and rubbing. Funny, they’re the exact length as a cell phone number. The red letters underneath, crafted to drip like blood, say ‘Change this. You die’.
So, ominous!
Coop sweats, squeezing the tattoo. And as his eyes skate between mine and the Persian rug, the truth suddenly hits me, and I know. As sure as I know that I prefer dark chocolate over milk, have a thing for storm clouds and guys with eyes so blue they hurt to look at, I’m certain whose number it is tattooed on Coop’s arm. It’s a sick reverse-brand. A statement of ownership. And a warning.
It’s also a fairly easy number to remember.
I straighten to my full height, all five feet three of it, rolling my shoulders back. “I’m out of here. Don’t make me do this anymore, Coop. I’m begging for mercy. I am not the person you force me to be. And it’s killing me.”
I wait for a response but get none.
Feeling his glare on the back of my skull like a blowtorch, I sprint to the door, fumble it open, and slam it behind me. I fall back against the wall, pull out my cell and plug the numbers from Coop’s tattoo into my contacts. There is no way I will risk forgetting them.
Now, how shall I save it? Under his name? Hm…no… maybe I should hide it. Might be the sensible decision. I chew my lip which makes me think of his mouth—sensuous, lush.
Nope. There’ll be no hiding. My thumbs speed over the screen.
My work boots clumping against floorboards, I head down a brightly lit hallway toward the lift, praying that Coop won’t follow, won’t chase me down, because if he does, it will only be to strangle me. And I’m not ready to die yet.
First, I need to find out everything I can about that boy. If Coop is so obsessed with him, maybe L holds some bizarre power over him. Maybe it’s something I can exploit to get the farm back sooner. And plus—Lightning is lick-the-plate-clean delicious. It will be a pleasure to make him a research project.
The lift doors zip shut behind me. I grin down at the black letters on my phone screen before clicking it off, a hot thrill panging through me at the sight of his name.
Lightning Boy.
I shove the cell into my backpack. Good God—if I use that number, if I call L, I will definitely go down for it. Because when Coop finds out, he really will kill me.
END OF LIGHTNING BOY PREVIEW… Release date 30th of July or subscribe below and get your ARC copy of the full-length, HEA, standalone! SEND ME A LIGHTNING BOY ARC!
A Boy called L paperback is live at a special release price! It’s only $5.99 to hold your very own sexy waif and pet him as often as you like. Keep turning to check out the cover or to leave L some review love on Amazon or Goodreads. Thank you so much!
http://www.amazon.com/dp/0648339238/
About A Boy Called L
A street boy who doesn't want love. One night, one girl changes everything.
I’m young. Homeless. And angry.
I sell misery and pain to guys who get off on it.
Am I into men? Nope.
Sex? With my past. No thanks.
But I want to stay alive, and a blowjob equals money which means I eat. And on the cycle goes. Until tonight when a girl who shivers in the rain, shocks my dead heart to life.
This girl is everything.
I don’t know her name, but I wish I did.
There’s that saying—be careful what you wish for.
&
nbsp; But I had to learn the hard way, because my name is Lightning, and I don’t know what love is.
Contains strong language, sex scenes, and a character with abuse in his past. For mature audiences only.
Read Lightning Boy, the full-length novel, to find out how L gets his happy-ever-after with the mystery girl who blew his mind one rainy, life-changing night.
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About Amy J Heart
Amy J Heart adores damaged bad-boys in dire need of redemption. Heavy on grit and steam, her stories explore the duality of life. She's a little obsessed with the idea that things are never quite what they seem. She loves indie music, mad hair colors, nuclear strength coffee, Siamese cats, and guys with long hair. But not in that order!
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Copyright
A Boy Called L - A Taboo Love Story
Copyright © 2018 by Amy J Heart
All rights reserved.
Cover design by L.J. Anderson Mayhem Cover Creations.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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mailto:[email protected]
ISBN: 978-0-6483392-0-5