Excerpt from new book below, and under that there's talk about new chapters for Undercover Badge.
Please read and comment on if you like the preface.
***Forewarning: adult content.***
I'm not just talking about sex, because I am trying my hand at rougher stuff. But I actually mean more pain and heartache and really raw, current issues. Because of that, the prologue and some of the things the story will deal with may be triggering to some readers, so i ask you to use your own discretion in reading the prologue. I'm not going to give you and age limit and say "over eighteens only" because i think that's crap. I've experienced more in my relatively young life than some people will do in a life time, so i don't believe there's an age limit on maturity. So you decide, for yourself. Please, talk to me in the comments. I want to do stuff that matters, and i think with what i've experienced in life, that matters now more than ever. A big part of that is hearing what you have to say about it. So please, join the conversation and help me create a real, meaningful narrative. I would really appreciate it.
****
PREFACE
So there I was, discovering that at twenty-one that I was piss-poor at three things; intoxication, reckless abandon and self-discovery. I mean, this wasn't news to me. I'd been aware of my predisposition - you know, sucking – for quite some time, but not so much with the self-loathing I was experiencing at that moment.
I was drunk, which, tragically, I was not enjoying in the slightest. I found the experience more annoying than liberating, God forbid. My second problem was the reckless abandon, another I would have preferred to have down pat. Third was finding myself, which was the one I figured I could cut myself some slack for. Twenty-one wasn't the age of having life all figured out, after all. But overall, the score was pretty goddamn pathetic. Intoxication, abandon and self-discovery were the three things I failed at twenty-one. Which, you know, added insult to injury because wasn't drunk, passionate and finding your way the covenant of being twenty-one? Piss poor. The whole situation.
The second problem was that in that moment, I found myself unable to commit. Blonde, blue eyed, athletic and female, commitment issues hadn't been a hallmark of my personality before, but in that moment, it was. And the thing I was trying to commit to was suicide. Which, sure, is kind of a downer.
I sat on the floor of my shower holding a blade to my wrist for ten minutes, squinting in a perpetual wince because I knew this would hurt and I wasn't drunk enough for it not to. This fact rapidly got me irritated because I had no interest in getting drunker than I already was. I tossed the blade with disgust. I rubbed my hurting eyes and then stumbled, with purpose, toward the medicine cabinet and yanked out all the painkillers I had. Anti-inflammatories and paracetamols and all the sleeping pills went onto the stack on the counter. I stopped for a few seconds and leaned over, giving the boxes the most critical eye I could. Well, shit. I also didn't know if it'd be enough. Because if I had to suffer the indignity of having my stomach pumped and then be asked why I wanted to kill myself, I might well die of shame. Whoahp, wait. That gave me pause.
I cocked my head quickly. Would that work; dead from shame? My prefrontal cortex (swimming in the haze caused by the unholy trinity of tequila, vodka and rum in one glass) spat up a few memories from the last few months. My bones rattled in a shudder and I snorted out loud as I realized that ship had sailed. If I could die of shame, I would have by now. Oh yeah, I definitely would have.
So, I left the stack of pills right there and went looking for a belt. The first problem was that I had none. I was the kind of person that just incessantly kept pulling my jeans up. Some more rummaging revealed one; a sturdy leather number I'd bought for my father as a gift but had forgotten to give him. Oh yeah, poetic.
I'm sure I looked as stupid as I felt standing there with the belt around my neck like a choker, yanking it like a dog on a leash. Oh no, this was not for me. The whole thing felt undignified. I couldn't even wear choker tighter necklaces without getting aggravated and annoyed, and now I wanted to hang myself? Where would I even do it? I strained my neck looking for an exposed rafter or beam. Nope, this would not work. The belt clattered to the floor and I marched in what undoubtedly looked like a stumble though the house to the kitchen. Right. I could push a knife into my heart.
Oh yes, that felt even more poetic. Totally dignified. One hundred percent. And super badass for sure. The buzz of the idea lasted all of five minutes.
I was standing in the kitchen poking at my sternum with one index finger and the other hand holding a butcher's knife. Again, I probably looked overwhelmingly stupid. Great. I frowned at the hard surface my finger continually prodded. People pushed blades through this stuff? How? No. The blade clattered on the kitchen tile. Damn it.
Back upstairs I was evaluating my window seat. I could climb out of the window, I mused. But the fall wasn't high enough to guarantee death. What about a nose dive? Brain first into the concrete and bam, dead as a doornail, right? I sighed. Yeah, I wasn't enough of a dick to take away the open casket funeral my grandmother would want. Well, Goddamn it all to hell.
My legs folded as I fell without grace to the floor and flat on my ass. Again, undignified, I crawled to where the glass of alcohol sat and I gulped some of it down before arching my palm. The glass tumbled over my fingers, spilling the brew before it hit the ground, bounced twice, and then shattered; but the truth was I'd turned my face away before the descent to breakage had even finished. So I hung my head over backwards and felt the crown of my skull thud against the wall. I sighed.
Intoxication, abandon and finding myself. Well. I'd screwed that. The drunken brain burped up images in my head that set my flesh on fire with goosebumps and made my scalp itch. It was not unpleasant.
Okay. So, maybe that wasn't true. Intoxication didn't always have to be a substance, I guess. It could be a thing. I had friends that got drunk on attention. Girlfriends who would act in certain ways because they got a rush from being stared at. I had friends who felt alive when they performed on a stage and strummed a guitar and would stumble into the seat across from me afterwards with these flushed cheeks and something about their eyes looking glassy and unfocused. That was intoxication, wasn't it? That look, the glassy eyed stare, the racing heart, the quick, sharp breaths in and out.
My eyes closed and I dragged the pad of my index finger across my bottom lip. My skin burned with that familiar itch down my spine. The feeling made me gasp- I heard the quiet inhale and my drunken consciousness took that moment to pelt me with dangerous feelings wrapped around memories. Sensations, intertwined with vivid pictures.
Hands - not mine; bigger, rougher, stronger - through my hair. They didn't just touch me, the palms pressed into my curves, cupping them with purpose to draw me near, to hold me. The sound of that same breathy gasp resounding from my throat and a voice lower than mine murmuring words. Those words were formed by lips lazily pressed against my shoulder and neck, the sharp flirtation of teeth on my flesh sending a dangerous hit of desperation through my chest. Hard planes pressed desperately against me- warm, solid muscle. A loving body held to me so tightly I didn't want to be alone again and the feeling of wrapping my legs and arms around him and pulling him so close, begging through tears that I would never have to let him go. And he would whisper that it was alright, that it would all be alright even though his tone was begging, the same as mine. He didn't want me to let go, because that's how we fit together, wound around each other and pressed tight like a coil. Because we fit. Together. Him and I. Not like puzzle pieces but like rope.
He tasted like everything – like freedom and seduction, safety and sin. My God, he tasted like sin. The good kind. Not the kind that drags you to hell, no. He tasted like the sin that makes you feel alive, the sin that paints the world in a wash of color so vibrant it burns your eyes but you can't look away. And yet he felt like home, warmth. Holy hell, the way he fit my shape and form like he was made to hold me with his pocketful of promises, his lips feeling like both forest-blaze and rain, burning me alive but soothing me at the same time. The breath of his whispers in the dark night set fire to my blood, and his hands around my throat had me arching my back and parting my lips in the submission I craved to give and he craved to take.
I blinked. Well, I thought, my heart fluttering in my throat, maybe intoxication isn't my downfall. Because heaven knows I've been drunk on him, high on his body and his voice.
I thought about the way we loved, unabashedly, honestly, freely. Well, maybe abandon wasn't the problem either. I had never lost control like I had with him. I'd willingly handed over my body in exchange for his dominance and, in losing control, I found freedom. He was my reckless abandon and I got off on giving myself over to him. Nope, abandon isn't the problem. And finding myself?
That one was tougher. I found parts of myself in him, big parts. I found a lot in him, really. I hadn't really finished that one, but with him I think I might have. Happiness was certain. He would have shown me how to choose love and for myself when I was so used to choosing others over me. He taught me to be selfish, which could have been bad but God, I think I deserved it.
I knocked my head against the wall once, hard. The image of him wrapped around me - fists in my hair, my thighs around those powerful hips - ruined my flimsy control on my thought process. The growl in his throat when he'd press his teeth to my flesh, the way he would gasp in my ear at his own undoing. Oh, the dark, dangerous tone he'd use when he was taking control of me were wrecking my already unfocused mind and making me wish I had him even more. Jesus Christ. I wanted him under me or on top of me or behind me. I needed him.
A dull light lit up the other side of the room. I narrowed my eyes and my drunk mind registered the vibration a second later. I arched my neck and straightened my spine, too lazy to stand. My vision was slightly blurry, but I'd recognize the caller ID with an eye patch on and a bag over my head. I turned my head away from my phone as the picture it showed tore through my gut with those grass green eyes. Unbridled, the drunkenness in my body let me remember those eyes looking down at my naked body with mischief. But I also remembered the way they would crinkle at the edges when he was laughing at me, and I was so happy I'd do silly things just to bask in his smile. I remembered the way they looked filled with tears in the dark and how I'd pulled him close and wrapped myself around him while he broke apart in my arms. I remembered them looking at me like I was made of magic and moonlight, just the same as I remembered them red around the edges and looking at me like I was nothing. Like I was worth nothing. Like I was a mistake. Punishing me for wrongs I didn't commit. I could see him destroying me in his head, in his eyes. Oh, those eyes.
The vibrating stopped, his picture and caller ID dropped off my phone, and I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. My mind began to swim and tears burned my nose in a sharp sting, the tell-tale sign that the pain would finally spill over my lashes, and a moment later they did. I wrapped my arms around my own knees and dropped my forehead to them. The vibrating began again, and I pinched my eyes shut, boiling tears dropping. A minute later the vibrating stopped. And then it started again. And I knew he'd be talking to the dial tone. "Come on, Baby." He'd be muttering, even though I hadn't been his baby for a while, with his nailbed between his teeth as he chewed nervously. He'd had that tick as long as I could remember, chewing his fingers bloody when he was scared. But he'd called so many times, he wouldn't be scared anymore. I pictured his green eyes spitting glass and his voice breaking from how hard he was screaming at the ringing to- "Pick up the FUCKING phone, Ker!". And he'd be in the car. He liked to drive when he was angry, and I knew he'd be livid at me right then. This wasn't his fault. I didn't want to die because of him. He wasn't the cause of me wanting to die – but he could have stopped me. He could have stopped this. He should have.
I saw the image of him driving in my head. And I knew that if he was angry enough at me, he was in the car on the way to me. And I wanted him to be. God, I wanted him to be coming here to fight for me. But it was too little too late for that. I could hear the words in my head clear as day. "Someday, maybe." Like a taunt.
I got up, grabbed my gym bag and tossed what my drunken, numb fingers could reach. Three cosy sweaters, leggings, socks, underwear and uggs. My travel toiletry bag went in. I threw it on my bed, zipped it up, sat down next to it. I had to go, because if he found me he'd pull me into his arms and put me back together. And that wasn't fair. He didn't get to just do that.
I looked up, the hot tears tearing down my cheeks in earnest. How did it start? How did it get this way? How did I find myself here, trying to unsuccessfully depart this earth with a half assed plan and a truly gross taste in my mouth? How did it end in wanting to run, to bolt for the hills while I perfect my plan to die? How did this happen? I sucked at this, clearly, but how does it end?
Intoxication, abandon, finding myself. Fuck it. Here we go.
****
Hey everyone. Thank you so much for being part of this series and what it meant to all of you.
1) First off, i've been getting a lot of requests for a stand alone intimate chapter between Matthew and Katherine. If that is something you're interested in, please sound off in the comments.
2) Then, I'm working on something new. It's darker and its harder and it draws on more unhealthy, real world stuff. Its real and emotionally violent. I've attached the prologue above, if you like it, please let me know in the comments if this is a story you'd like me to pursue and something you think might add real meaning and value.
Please sound off in the comments.
All my love,
J.