by T. L Smith
Copyright © 2020 by T.L. Smith
Kisses and Lies
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people, and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations or places is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. This book is intended for the purchaser of this book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the Author. All songs, song titles and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
Cover Design - RBA
Image - David Wagner
Editor - Swish Editing
Editor - Ink Machine Editing
Proofread - More Than Words
To Brenda, thank you for being you!
I met Marcus at a crematorium.
That should have been my first clue to keep away.
He was nothing I wanted. Yet, everything I needed.
He was dark, dangerous.
And I couldn’t stay away.
Even when I wanted to.
We made a deal—just our bodies.
But lines got blurred.
I asked for more than one night – I ended up asking for forever.
What a mistake that was.
What a mistake he was.
Sometimes love burns.
And sometimes kisses and lies are all you get.
Contents
1. Rochelle
2. Rochelle
3. Rochelle
4. Rochelle
5. Rochelle
6. Rochelle
7. Rochelle
8. Marcus
9. Rochelle
10. Rochelle
11. Rochelle
12. Rochelle
13. Marcus
14. Rochelle
15. Rochelle
16. Rochelle
17. Marcus
18. Rochelle
19. Rochelle
20. Marcus
21. Rochelle
22. Rochelle
23. Marcus
24. Rochelle
25. Marcus
26. Rochelle
27. Marcus
28. Rochelle
29. Rochelle
30. Rochelle
31. Marcus
Thank you!
Love Drunk
Also by T.L. Smith
Chapter One
Rochelle
Now
My hand grips the glass tightly, my breathing picks up as I watch Marcus Stone in action. I can see his skin glistening under the cold night as each stroke grows more powerful, one after the next. My eyes are glued to his body as he comes up for air. His strong jawline opening then closing with each powerful breath.
How can watching someone swim turn you on?
I’m not sure, but it can. Somehow, it turns me on.
Bringing the glass to my lips, I take one more drink, finishing the contents and feeling the burn as it goes down. I need the liquid courage. I need it to face him.
Marcus turns, his strokes finally stop when he looks at me. The light from the kitchen is not helping to obscure me while I sit in the dark, stalking.
My breathing stops as his two powerful eyes lock on mine, his strong hand lifts and strokes his fingers through his hair. I’m helpless, compelled to watch as the muscles in his arm flex during the simple action. His hazel eyes narrow in on me.
“Rochelle…” Marcus says my name as easily as the water drips from his body.
It makes me even madder.
The drink in my hand feels like it could smash any second with the pressure I’m applying to the glass. He pushes himself out of the water, his body glistening as he comes to a stand not too far away from me. Reaching for a towel, he wipes his body. His hazel eyes, now darkening, lock on me when I don’t answer him.
“I’m leaving you,” I say with a smile when my breath doesn’t hitch at those words.
“This is what you want?” Marcus asks.
No fight.
No argument.
Nothing.
“Yes. I’m leaving you,” I say it more to myself this time. Perhaps to help me believe it.
He chuckles.
The asshole chuckles.
“Off you go, then.”
With as much strength as I can muster, I throw my glass at him, just missing his head when he ducks out of the way. When he stands taller, I know that was a mistake. But I honestly don’t care. I can’t care anymore.
Pushing myself up from the lounger where I was reclining while working up the courage to tell him I am leaving, I step forward and come just under his chin.
Marcus is tall.
I hate that about him.
I hate a lot about him.
But then again, I also don’t.
“Is that all you’ve got to say?” I arch an eyebrow.
Marcus arches one back. “Yes.” Then he pushes past me, not caring that he almost knocks me over as he heads inside.
I follow. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself.
“You sleep with her… when I’m not here… in this house,” I yell.
He halts, turns, and smirks. “I do,” Marcus says, the towel now dropping. His swimwear is sitting low on his hips. “And I fuck her hard… all the ways you hate and I love.” His lips turn up, waiting for me to say something in return.
“I hate you,” I spit at him.
“I know you do.”
“I hate you sooo much.”
“That’s okay. You can leave now.”
“Is she coming over?” I yell.
Marcus turns, his hand touching the railing that leads up to his room.
I’ve never really lived here—I was simply a visitor. No one important. Just a person in this man’s life. No one can penetrate him. I feel sorry for the person who finally does get through his impervious walls. They will either be very stupid or love him more than anyone else ever has.
“She will be now. I have steam I need to work off.” He takes the steps two at a time and disappears, leaving me standing in the foyer with my hands clenched as I look around for my things. Luckily for me, I never moved out of my house. What a mistake that would have been if I had.
But worse, what a mistake Marcus was.
While rushing around and grabbing my things, I hear a ding. Looking over to the countertop, I see his cell light up. For some reason he doesn’t have it locked, so I slide it open and up pops a girl’s name.
I gag, then throw his phone
at the floor, hard enough that it shatters.
Fuck him and his cheating ass.
Picking up my bags, I walk to the door and step through, pushing it hard behind me so it slams. Again, fuck him and whatever he thinks.
My car is parked out the front where I left it when I arrived to break this nightmare off. I knew I’d have to make a quick getaway.
I need to get away from him.
He’s poison.
Toxic.
A virus that has inserted itself in my system and won’t leave, sucking me dry.
Now is my chance to extract that poison.
I have to for my own health.
For my own good.
Marcus Stone is not good for me, that much is obvious.
Throwing my bags in the car, I look back at his house, and when I look up, I see him standing on his balcony sta
ring down at me. Marcus’ hands are on the railing, his eyes locked onto mine.
“Fuck you,” I say under my breath as I walk around and get into my little red car.
The car creaks, and I wonder if it can hear my own heart doing the same.
Chapter Two
Rochelle
Before.
I pull at my curls, my fingers thrusting in my hair, wanting to pull it out. It has to come out. “This can’t be happening,” I silently scream, as I watch my parents walk into the crematorium.
How is this happening?
This is not happening.
It’s a mantra that screams in my head over and over again.
On repeat.
I am a twenty-four-year-old woman who doesn’t believe in death. I don’t want to believe in it, therefore it’s not true. I hate it. With a passion so bright I wanted to light the fucking world on fire.
Letting go of my hair, I sit in the hot sun rocking back and forth. This is going to be over soon. It has to be.
I don’t know why they brought me here.
Damn it! Why on earth am I here?
I feel like a child, but I am anything but.
I do have trouble functioning as an adult lately.
One week to be exact.
Laying my head back on the concrete, the ground beneath me warms my cold body. It’s October here in Australia and the sun’s starting to become hotter and hotter.
If I continue to lay here, the makeup I am wearing will melt off my pretty little face.
It will soon be Christmas time.
Fuck! Christmas time.
A loud hiccup leaves my chest as I squeeze my eyes shut against the harsh sun.
I don’t want to be here.
This is not happening.
My two most favorite people on this planet have left me. It was sudden. It was crushing. I am shattered I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
No one understands me like they did, not even my parents. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents, but the love I have for my grandparents is my favorite kind of love. Not a day would go by when I didn’t speak to them. Not an event would pass that they didn’t attend or know about. They were there for me, for everything and anything, and I’d like to say I was the same with them.
They were my world.
They were my everything.
My grandfather—my protector.
My grandmother—my confidant.
My hands clench, and I reopen my eyes. When I do, an involuntary scream leaves my mouth. Standing above me, looking down, is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He has designer glasses covering his eyes so I can’t see them, but his dark hair is cut short, revealing his perfect face—square, clenched jaw, thin lips, angular cheekbones—and he’s watching me. When I realize he means no harm, I look away and stand, but his eyes track my movements as he continues to watch me. I know the eyes behind those glasses are locked on me, following me. I know it as much as I know I am breathing.
“You scared me,” I say.
There’s a small, fake smile playing on my lips, and he says nothing in return, simply stands there like a statue.
“Sorry for screaming.” I blink a few times, but again, not a word is spoken. I look around and see no sign of my parents. Damn them, I shouldn’t have to be here dealing with this by myself. Where are they? I know they have to be here somewhere.
“Okay, well, you can go now.” I turn back around and drop to the ground. My mind and body not wanting to deal with him, even if he is the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.
Taking a deep breath, my hands run through my hair again, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to stop. One day I will pull out all my hair and then wish I did try to prevent myself from doing it.
Sighing, I lay down. And when I look up again, I squeak.
He’s still there.
Standing above me.
Watching me.
I didn’t hear him leave, but in reality, I wasn’t really thinking about him. At all.
My mind is elsewhere.
Hand to my heart, I look up at him from my spot on the ground. “You can’t do that to people. Gosh, dude…” I wait for my heart to slow. At least it’s beating, a voice inside my head screams at me. Yes, at least it is beating.
“Rochelle…” Pushing up on my elbows, I see my mother is at the door. She looks at the man standing behind me, then to me. “Come inside.”
“No,” I answer quickly, then lay back down.
I hear the door close again, knowing she went back inside the crematorium.
Looking up, he’s still standing there, his glasses firmly in place as he looks down on me. I feel his eyes roam over my body, but he still doesn’t say one single word.
“It’s creepy, you know. To stand there and stare at someone without saying anything.”
He harrumphs, and I smirk. Then when I realize I’m smirking, I put a stop to it and close my eyes.
“Why are you out here?”
My eyes fly open at his words. His voice is strong and has a hard tone. It sends shivers all over my body, in a good way. Not even bothering to get up, I answer him with the sun glaring on my face and my hands down by my sides. “Two people I love very much are in there,” I say, referring to the crematorium.
I don’t want to go in.
I can’t.
“And…” he says it as if I should know. As if I shouldn’t care.
“I can’t go in there. I don’t want to go in there. They aren’t alive in there.” When the words leave my mouth, I look up to see him staring off in the distance, as if he’s thinking about what to say next. My eyes skim him and come to a stop at his hands. One hand has a skull tattooed on it, making me shiver.
“They aren’t alive out here either.” He starts moving, so I sit up and watch him go. His trousers are black and hug his ass, showing off the nice curves. He’s wearing black boots and a crisp, white shirt.
“Hey…” The man stops as he reaches the door, but it’s not the same door my mother poked her head out of, this is a side door. “What’s your name?”
Distraction—it’s good for the heart.
I think he’s going to answer me because his lips move a fraction, but then he turns and walks in through the doorway, not looking back as it shuts hard behind him.
Sighing, I lay back down, my heart breaking inside my chest. It cracks and continues to crack further, so loudly I wonder when the pain will stop, when it will all go away.
“They say death changes people.”
“Oh God!” I yelp at my mother’s voice, not hearing her approach. She sits next to me, her hand sits on my thigh and she gives me a reassuring pat, and continues, “A significant death.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” It’s my way of coping, and yet, at every chance, my mother reminds me they’re dead. Like I need to be reminded. I fucking know. I’m not stupid. But it doesn’t mean I want to accept it. She simply doesn’t get that fact.
“It’s changing you. You’re becoming more distant.” I look to her to see her eyes are lost, then she looks down at me. “Who was that man?” she asks, changing the subject. Mother’s good at that, getting lost in her own thoughts.
“A man,” is all I can manage to reply.
I hear more footsteps and sit up. My father walks toward us with his hands in his pockets. It became his burden to deal with it—they were my mother’s parents and my grandparents. Though, I have to admit, I saw them more as my parents and, quite simply, my best friends.
My heart, it cracks again.
“It’s time we go.”
“I’m going to catch a cab,” I say to Father.
He nods in understanding.
My mother stands. “No. We can drive you. Don’t be silly,” she says as if it’s obvious.
I look up to my father for help, but he shakes his head. His hand goes to my mother’s back, touching her softly, and she instantly moves into his touch.
“No. I’m not getting
in the car with you.”
“Rochelle, really?” Mother says.
“Yes, I’ll ring you later. I might even walk home. It will do me good.”
“Gosh.” My mother shakes her head and walks off.
I lie back down on the concrete and close my eyes as I hear their car take off.
To live in this world is to hurt, I don’t care what anyone says. It hurts. It hurts so fucking bad that I’m struggling to breathe. Sitting up, I drop my head between my legs and a strangled cry escapes me. My eyes begin to water, and my heart beats so fast I wonder how this pain will ever go away.
“Stop thinking. It helps.”
Wiping at my face, which is covered with snot and tears, I finally look up. The man from earlier is standing in front of me again. There’s a bag slung over his shoulder, a very large bag, and he’s looking down at me.
“I don’t want to,” I reply.
I need the pain—it’s a reminder of who they were to me.
Every-damn-thing!
“Your loss.” He starts walking while I wipe angrily at my face and stand, my black boots clicking on the ground as I follow him to a large, black truck.
“Can I have a ride?”
His brows pinch together, then he turns and opens the back, throwing in the large black bag before he shuts the truck and leans against the door to stare at me.
“You’re asking for a ride at a crematorium? I could be a murderer.”
I shake my head—I couldn’t care at this moment. “I need a ride.”
The man doesn’t answer me.
