by LP Lovell
I'm barely able to look at her without weeping. Her skin and the whites of her eyes are a deep yellow from the jaundice. She's dying, the cancer has spread too far. And as stupid as it sounds, even though I'm twenty-seven, I never really believed she would die. I stare at her bony fingers laced between mine; the hands that braided my hair when I was a little girl, the hands that have cared for me, that have wiped away tears all my life, and I just cannot comprehend my life without her. If ever a person was someone’s world, she is mine. My mother is everything to me. I’ve been holding out hope for a miracle, but at this moment, I’m forced to take it all in. This is death. Six months ago she had a head full of black hair, and now it's covered with a purple scarf. She doesn't even look like the same person, and really, she's not because she's defeated. She's given up. That vibrant glow she possessed that drew people to her like a beacon—that's vanished. I hate cancer because it's killed not only her body but her spirit. This is not how I want to remember her. I want to remember how her eyes used to sparkle with life, with happiness, not how dull, and listless, how defeated they are now.
"Baby, please. I can't die knowing that if he finds those things—I can’t hurt Isaac by letting him think I helped you hold onto that piece of your life." She attempts to lift her head from the pillow, but lacks the strength and lays back down, closing her eyes as she squeezes my hand in a silent plea.
"Okay, Momma," I answer, but don't move.
"It's where,” she coughs and fidgets with the oxygen mask. “It’s in the top of the closet."
I hesitate before rising from the bed and walking across the hall to my old bedroom. I pull open the door and my eyes scan over the shelves, stopping on a binder and two old, crumpled Adidas boxes shoved in the corner next to the blankets. My stomach knots. There's an entire relationship crammed inside those two boxes and that binder, notes and ticket stubs and cards—things I should have let go of long ago, but couldn't. Several times a year I come lock myself in this bedroom, spends hours reading through the letters, and fall into a sobbing heap on the bed because I'm pathetic. I swallow as I walk over and grab the binder. Dread mounts in my chest. My heart bangs against my ribs and I tell myself: Don’t open it. Throw it away. Don't look. Every time I grab this part of my past and bring it off that shelf, I intended to throw it away, but, unlike the times before where I pretend I can nonchalantly toss this part of my past away, I know I have to this time, and that makes this much worse. I sit on the floor, leaning my back against the far wall of the closet as I adjust the binder in my lap. This is the last time I can do this, this is the last time I can hide in this closet and feel him like this which means I’ll cry harder this time. Flipping to the first handwritten page, my heart jumps into my throat.
Happy Anniversary Angel,
This may make me seem a little pussy, but love does that I guess, and besides, I can just imagine the smile on your face when you read through this, so that's worth it.
Pictures are snapshots of memories, and we have tons of those to look back on. We can remember our past by looking at photos, but I want you to always be able to feel our past. Words make you feel, and I always want you to feel how much you mean to me, never question how much I love you. When we get into fights and you hate me, I want you to be able to read these words and feel how much I love you. Forever and always because there is nothing that could take my love for you away. Life is unpredictable, and I want to always be a constant in your life, no matter if I'm dead or alive. When you're old, I want your wrinkled hands to hold these letters and know that the kind of love we had is what stories are based on. So unbelievable that no one else would ever believe it weren't fiction. This is our love story...
This love is raw. And unforgiving. And that's just how it should be because those emotions in any good story will strip you bare and never let you go. I don't ever want to let you go.
I love you, Peyton.
Nicolas
I read that letter over and over, dwelling on the fact that I fucked it all up. I flip through the pages of letters and poems, and he was right, these are feelings. Words. They allow me to go back in time, pulling emotions from me as I read over them. These tattered pages allow my heart to be tethered to him, still feel that ungodly sense of want wash over me, and then, when I allow reality to set in, these letters brutally gut me. Reading them is like a slow, masochistic suicide to my heart. They make me question my life, my decisions, and at times, they make me hate myself. But I have them. These letters are the only thing I have left of Nicolas, and now I am being forced to part with them.
I sit, hanging on every word, trying to burn lines from some of the poems into my memory. I cry. I hate myself all over again, and when I feel utterly broken, I cram the letters back inside and gather everything into my arms. I quickly make my way through the living room and out the door to the side of the house so she won’t see the tears streaming down my face.
The late August heat swallows me when I set foot on the porch. The grass brushes against my bare legs as I slowly walk to the side of the house, fighting the tears the entire way because I am throwing away something I can never get back. When I stop next to the garbage can, my heart hammers harder. I lift the lid and the pungent smell of rotting food wafts out into the humid heat causing my stomach to turn. Am I really supposed to take something that holds so much meaning, something I have treasured so much that I’ve kept it hidden for six years and just toss it in with this muck and waste? Words… feelings… memories… I throw the first box in, followed by the other, and then, I take a deep breath before I toss the binder in. Slamming the lid, I swallow back the overwhelming urge to cry, I clear my throat in a bid to force the tightening sensation away. I should be ashamed that I’ve held onto those things for so long. I’m married—have been married for almost six years, and if my husband knew I still wept over what may have been with Nicolas, but then again, your first love is awfully hard to let go of. At least, it is for me because I’m the reason it all ended. It’s the guilt I can’t get over; the mistake I wish I’d never made.
"It's over. It's been over," I chant as I make my way back up the worn wooden steps. It has been over for six years, but still, even after everything, I can’t seem to let him go. In order to let go of something you love, you have to forget it, and I will never be able to forget Nicolas.
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Excerpt – High by LP Lovell
Oh my fucking god, my head! I open my eyes and groan as the light scorches my retinas.
“Fuck.” I grumble, pulling the duvet over my head. Of course then comes the sound of a very deep, very masculine laugh next to me, and I freeze. Don’t breathe. Don’t move. I try to work my way through my useless bloody mind, trying to remember something, anything… the lay out of the room I’m in even.
Can I make it to the window before he can catch me? No idea. Is he ugly? Ugh! Of course he will be. Damn. Why my drunk brain cannot fathom the basic laws of attraction, I will never know. My brain has bailed and been replaced with a ball of sharp, spikey, stabby stuff.
Well, here goes. One, two, three. I flat pack myself against the mattress and try to slide out of the bed like a ninja. Only I just end up falling out of bed. I hit the floor with a thud and spring back up. I wince against the bright light and stagger sideways, cracking my hip on some stupid fucking piece of furniture.
“Fucking shit!” I brace my hand on the wall, breathing through the pain.
“And here was me thinking you were a lady, Duchess.” Oh, so we’re onto pet names already? No, hell no! That voice though…it’s so deep and husky and ovary twinging.
I still don’t look at him. This is a technique I’ve developed. When you find yourself in such a position, you get up, find clothes, go to the bathroom, all without looking at him. That way I won’t
have to vomit in my mouth later when I think about the fact that I let him in my vagina, and possibly sucked his dick. God knows my entire mouth tastes like ball bag right now. Then when I’m ready, I just have to make a break for it—bee line to the door and run. Denial is your friend.
My head is pounding so loudly I don’t even hear him approach, and I jump when his hand brushes my hip. My bare hip.
“You really should be more careful.” He says.
I don’t know why, but his voice draws me in, and I open my eyes to see a chest, a very bare, very muscular chest. Well, kudos to me, the guy has a body. What’s the betting he’s got a face like the back end of a bus? Don’t do it!
I can’t help myself. I drag my gaze up, all the way up until I meet his face. Okay, seriously high fiving drunk Blake right now. He has that whole sex and sin thing going on. He’s the dangerously edged, yet effortlessly sophisticated bad boy, even standing here in just his boxers. Something about him screams power and alpha, and just bad, dirty, amazing things. He combs a hand through his dark hair, which is slightly long, bordering on messy, and damn I’d love to run my fingers through it, preferably while riding his face. And his face... He’s all man, yet savagely beautiful at the same time. Sharp cheek bones contrast full lips and a square jaw covered in a five o’ clock shadow. And if that wasn’t enough his eyes are like weapons of vaginal destruction, a hazel so rich, they’re gold, and framed with thick, dark lashes. They remind me of honey and caramel and good, yummy, lickable things.
And slowly my brain kicks back in. He’s hot, really hot. I probably look like I got run over, and my breath tastes like balls so it must smell like I ate dog shit. Brilliant.
“Fucking great.” I grumble, shoving past him to the bathroom.
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Thank you so much for reading this twisted, truly depraved story. You are the reason we write and without you we wouldn’t be able to do what we do, nor would we want to. We write books to immerse you in our world—scary as that may be at times—and pull you out of your own for a few hours.
So thank you for reading. Thank you for taking a chance on us.
We hope that you loved it!
If you would be amazingly kind and leave a review, then we would owe you a leg humping. Lauren gets the right leg; Stevie gets the left leg.
There are so many people to thank for helping us with Absolution, so here it goes.
Big thanks to SM Piper for her hard work on the beautiful cover.
Thank you to Kim Ginsberg for your hawk eyed proof reading. You are amazing!
Thanks to our lovely formatter, Leigh Stone, for making this book look so pretty and professional.
Thank you so much to all the ladies on both of our street teams. You campaign endlessly to put our books in the public eye and it is so, so appreciated.
There are so many blogs and individuals who have helped us along the way and you are all hugely appreciated. We wish we could list each of you individually, but that would be a book in and of itself. Thank you to every single one of you! Although we can’t list everyone, there are a few blogs we have become very close with, that we would be absolutely lost without, and we would like to give them a special acknowledgement.
Give Me Books and One-Click Addicts. We love you girls and we couldn’t do this without you. Thank you for your awesome PR and your mad organizational skills. Thanks to Missy and Devlynn for your fierce loyalty and your willingness to always help. Massive love to mummy Kylie. We adore you more than words can possibly say.
Jenny and Gitte of Totally Booked, you girls are awesome goddesses. Thank you so much for your continued support and guidance. We love you hard!
Schmexy Jen: You are always there, and that is appreciated more than you will know. Thank you for talking Stevie off the ledge. Much love!
Sarah-Jane, and her breasts: You are the best, best, best PA a girl could want, and an awesome friend. And your knockers are amazing.
To the sister wife, Angela, you are a great support, wonderful beta, and an amazing friend. Thank you for loving us as much as we love you.
(To Caleb James from Stevie: Thank you for listening to all my crazy plot ideas, for telling me I can do this, and for reading the book even though you probably think I’m crazy now. I love you.)
There are so, so many people who have helped us, and you know who you are.
We hope we haven’t missed anyone. Just know that anyone who has ever written a review, posted a teaser, or read any of our books…Thank you. Your ongoing support means the world.
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Also by LP Lovell and Stevie J. Cole:
Wrong
Wrath
LP Lovell
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 apologise for afterwards.
She's a self-confessed shameless pervert, who may be suffering from slight peen envy.
Other books by LP Lovell
She Who Dares series:
Besieged #1
Conquered #2
Surrendered #3
Ruined #4
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lplovellauthor
Twitter: @Authorlplovell
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7850247.LP_Lovell
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/LP-Lovell/e/B00NDZ61PM
Stevie J. Cole
Stevie J. Cole is a secret rock star. Sex, drugs and, oh wait, no, just sex. She’s a whore for a British accent and has an unhealthy obsession with Russell Brand. She and LP plan to elope in Vegas and breed the world’s most epic child.
Other books by Stevie J. Cole
Pandemic Sorrow Series:
Jag
Rush
Roxy
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorsteviejcole
Twitter: @steviejcole
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22680249-jag
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Stevie-J.-Cole/e/B00K9PK3EY