Blood to Dust (42 page)

So many names crammed into so little time.

Beat.

Nate.

Christopher Delaware.

Prescott.

Pea.

Country Club.

Silver Spoon.

Tanaka Cockburn.

And it all boils down to one thing at the end—
us
.

It took Prescott a while to get over Preston’s death, but I suspect that she always knew deep down that he hadn’t made it. Her family was torn apart, after tearing apart the Archers. She had no choice but to build something new, and I hope that someday, she’ll do it with me.

My argument for the past couple of months was simple and valid—I can’t be with a girl whose last name’s Cockburn. It’s embarrassing. For me, for her, for everyone involved. Tanaka said that Cockburn is a perfectly legitimate last name, and even pulled out some bullshit facts from the Internet, including a Wikipedia page for actress Olivia Wilde. Apparently, her original last name is Cockburn (can’t argue with that. She’s legit fuckable).

Since my girlfriend refused to take the hint, I’ve decided to lay it out pretty fucking simple and straightforward, Stockton style. No hearts and pink pony crap. When she arrived at the coffee shop we own together in her yellow dress, the one that reminds me that we still live under the same sun that makes the freckles on her shoulders pop out, I directed her to the restroom. She looks like gold in this dress. Pure. Cherished. Precious.

Daniel, our eighteen-year-old neighbor, who has been eyeing her in a way that makes me want to cut his tongue out and shove it down his throat, jogged from the corner of the street and I watched from the wide window as he entered Le Journal Rouge, just as she disappeared behind the wooden door to the restroom.

Now that he’s here, it’s show time. We’re always ready for show time, Tanaka and I.

“It won’t take long,” I growl as I slide under the counter and charge for the restroom.

She’s waiting for me the same way she did the first time we had sex. Her hands against the wall, her legs wide open. I love watching her fingerless hand. The wound has healed and now her outside matches her inside. Imperfect, broken and hurt, but so very beautiful. I flick her long dress up and unzip.

“No foreplay,” Beat whispers into her ear.

“No problem,” she says, just like she did then. I know this woman well. She’s always wet for me. Him. Us.
Always
.

I ride her from behind, just like I did the first time. Only this time, I’m not angry. A little anxious, yeah, but after the shit I’ve been through for her, she better say yes. I hold her waist with one hand and slip the other into my back pocket, producing the engagement ring I got for her last week. We have money, thanks to the late Camden Archer, but it’s nothing fancy. Just a silver hoop with a small yellow diamond that shines like her blonde hair. Linking my fingers with hers while fucking her, I slide the ring onto her engagement finger.

No words necessary.

No love declarations.

No
You’re mine
.

Everything is said in the way we move together.

“Oh my God, Nate.” My old name slips between her pinks. I can’t see her face but I can feel her pussy clutching my cock tight, like she’s about to see stars. “Are you. . .?”

“I am,” I confirm. “And I will. Forever. Fucking. Take care of you. That is, if you’ll let me. Will you?”

“Yes,” she says breathlessly.

We come together hard, and I spin her to face me. Her hair is stuck to her temples, sweaty and beautiful. She’s every ambition I’ve ever had.

I love her like a slave, I kneel in front of her like a subject, I crawl back to her at night like a drunk and I worship her like a believer.

She’s my truth, my lie, my storm and my peace.

Prescott Burlington-Smyth turned Tanaka Cockburn soon-to-be Tanaka Delaware has created a dystopian chaos only she rules, but I’m happy to be her soldier.

Godfrey.

Sebastian.

The Aryan Brothers.

And Camden, who tragically died in a lethal car accident on the outskirts of London, on his way to a vacation in York three weeks after we left the UK.

I didn’t quail. Godfrey was right—I’m not a killer, I’m a murderer. But with her, I don’t have any hard limits. And I will take my own fucking life to put a smile on those pinks. We’re going to be all right. We’re going to stick around in a place where no one knows us and no one cares. We’re going to make French babies together.

Wherever we’re going, we’re going there together.

“I love you,” she tells me, tears in her eyes. I kiss them away. She’s such a big fucking softie.

The dust has settled over the blood we’ve shed. Our previous lives are behind us.

The future is bright.

And clean.

And most importantly—it is ours.

Time.

A wise, vile
dead
man once told me that it moves differently according to circumstances. Sometimes it’s slow. But sometimes. . .it moves exactly as it should.

I don’t want to pause, and definitely not to rewind. If anything, a part of me wants to press fast forward.

To life without stress balls.

To domestic bliss.

To babies.

To growing old next to this man who occupies every inch of my soul.

All you need to know about life is that it’s just like an hourglass. Sometimes you’re down, and sometimes, up.

And right now, I’m up, baby. So. Flipping. High.

Hello, acknowledgements. We meet again.

For those of you who aren’t aware, this is the part where I forget all the cool people then beat myself about it for the rest of my life. So here’s a massive shout out to the people who keep me (relatively) sane. Bear in mind that I probably forgot a few of you. Sowwie with a side of oh-you-know-how-bad-I-am-at-these-things:

Special thanks to Mr. Shen and Baby Shen, who always put up with my crazy mood swings, weird schedule, sugary cravings and overall awful behavior (remember, you cannot leave me. I’m the only one who knows where we hide the Oreos in the house.)

A huge thank you to Vanessa, my amazing editor, who has taught me so much (including the fact that ‘alright’ is not an actual word. That was earth-shattering news right there.) I’m your number one fan, and working with you is always a pleasure.

To my street team – you’re THE SHIT. It’s pointless to try and explain how grateful I am. Amanda Farmer, Paro Madhur, Ilor Tsabar, Paige Jennifer and Lin Tahel Cohen – you girls are my anchor. You keep everything together. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Also, thanks to Erika, Alexandra, Avivit, Sabrina, Hen, Liran, Lisa, Tanaka, Denise, Erika, Donna, Cristina and Kerissa (see? I know I’m forgetting a bunch of people.)

To my beta readers – Author RB Hilliard, Amy Halter, Sunny Borek, Julie Kitzmiller and Sabrina Shalalashvili. Thank you for being patient and reading the earlier drafts of my work. For the helpful suggestions and ruthless advice. You rock.

To MY MAIN GIRL, my PA, rock star, soulmate and sister-from-another-mister, Amy Halter. Baby, you make me feel like I can climb Mount Everest when you’re around (don’t get any ideas, though. And this is DEFINITELY not turning into a bet). Thank you for everything. I couldn’t have done it without you. To my PR manager/Mama Bear Neda Amini. Love, love, love you. Thank you for taking the not-so-fun-stuff out of the way and leaving me to do what I enjoy, writing and mingling with my readers.

Thank you Sunny Borek, Lin Tahel Cohen and Bree Shalalashvili for the moral support. I have no idea why you put up with my nagging questions and insecurities. But you do. And I’m so grateful. To the Beat Museum in San Francisco for the muse and to the cool guys there for humoring the little weirdo girl with the muscle tees.

To Letitia of R.B.A Designs for this beautiful cover and for being so attentive and supportive, even when I clearly had no idea what I was doing or what I was saying.

Thank you, awesome bloggers who signed up for my release, reviewed, talked and shared my book. Where would I have been without you? Probably exactly where I am right now, sitting on my couch sipping light beer, only, you know, without nurturing a career from the comfort of my living room. You took a chance on me even though you didn’t have to. I’m forever in your debt.

One last thank you is to
you
, my readers. My main fear when releasing a book is that no one will read it.
Ever
. When that doesn’t happen, I get giddy and thrilled and all kinds of weird. I said it in Sparrow and I will say it again – you make my dream come true. You’re my heroes.

Thank you!

After I wrote Sparrow, I told everyone who’d listen that I’m taking a break to try and spend more time with my family and friends. Enjoy my sweet son, catch up on Veep, Game of Thrones, Silicon Valley and wine. But after I finished writing Sparrow, they came to me.

Nate and Prescott. Those sneaky bastards.

I wanted to fight it, but found myself binge-writing into the night.
Again
. Those hours of sleep I promised myself when I was editing Sparrow? Yeah, I never got them. I wanted to give you a totally different experience than the one you had in Sparrow, someone who is still badass, but not as cold and distant as Troy, and another strong woman – but in very different ways to Sparrow.

Again, I am asking you to put me out of my misery and leave an honest review. I want to know what you felt and thought when reading Blood to Dust, what you liked and disliked. Writing is a lonely job, and editing is the reason they invented beer. You guys are the fun part.

So be fun, okay?

As always, I invite you to engage in my reading group, where you can talk about my books freely and where I make an ass of myself on a daily basis:
https://goo.gl/lKsquA

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Thanks for taking a chance on my books.

L.

xoxo