Home of Fallen Angels

Prologue

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If there is one thing I know for sure, it's that romance novels are bullshit. A capitalistic scheme created to hold women hostage.

Really though. Think about it.

Women write romance novels, showing the way they would like men to be. Romantic, kind, caring, emotional... but those men don't exist in the real world. The publishing industry knows that women will keep coming back, spending money they don't have, trying to feel something they'll never have in real life. It's a drug. An addiction if you will.

I'm willing to bet that romance novels have made more women orgasm than most men have. I'd bet $200 on it.

If you had asked me a month ago what my view on love would be, I think it would have been the same. I'm nothing but consistent. But if you had asked me a month ago where I saw myself at that moment, I don't think my answer would be "tied up in the back of a van with a dislocated arm," and yet there I was.

The van rumbled along as I tried desperately to take in my surroundings, to identify the driver- anything. It's far too dark for that, and I was in far too much pain to do much of anything but kick whatever was nearby- the pang of plastic against metal shooting through my ears.

I sit for a minute, thinking about what happened to get me in this very position. Trusting the wrong man- that's what. Looking past differences, giving myself up too early. I fucked myself over royally in only a few moves. I let myself open up to someone and was screwed.

But even at that moment, I could feel myself grow hot as I thought about his body over mine in that car that night, his rough, tan hand around my throat.

The van came to a halt, the driver jumping out. I waited for a couple of moments, listening.

Nothing. Not even the peepers I always heard outside, their croaks echoing against the mountain.

Suddenly, a groan of metal snapped me back into reality, my head whipping towards the door.

And... I wasn't thrilled with who I saw staring back at me.