by Kim Bailey
Other titles by Kim Bailey
Dedication
Once Upon a Time...
An Enchanted Encounter
Twisted By Fate
Friendship is for Cynics
Romance Isn’t Dead
Pretending Isn’t Easy
White Knights Do Exist
Fairy Tales are for Virgins
True Love is for Liars
Happily Ever After
What’s Next...
Bonus! Read an excerpt from Illicit Kisses
Bonus! Read an excerpt from Complex Kisses
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Fairytale Kisses
Copyright © Kim Bailey, 2017
Published by North Mile Books
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ISBN: 978-0-9958552-3-6
Digital ISBN: 978-0-9958552-4-3
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book. This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Disclaimer: This book contains mature content not suitable for those under the age of 18. It involves strong language and sexual situations. All parties portrayed in sexual situations are consenting adults over the age of 18.
Cover, interior design, and formatting by Jersey Girl Design
Editing by Melinda Utendorf, M.Ute Editing
A hopeless romantic.
A disheartened cynic.
An unforgettable kiss.
Caleb Anderson believes in fairy tales. At least, he wants to. Despite battling cancer, defeating death, and his overprotective family, he believes in promises of forever, enchanted encounters, and love at first sight. He knows his perfect girl is out there...If only he could find her.
Zadie Fisher doesn’t believe in love. At least, she doesn’t want to. Despite undeniable attraction, second chances, and resurrected hope, she doesn’t believe in soulmates, true love, or happily ever after. Not anymore. She knows falling in love is a mistake...If only she could avoid it.
However, fate has a funny way of twisting things and some mistakes are destined to be made.
Most fairy tales start with Once Upon a Time...This one starts with a kiss.
The Here & Now series
Complex Kisses (Here & Now #1)
Illicit Kisses (Here & Now #1.5)
Fairytale Kisses (Here & Now #2)
Broken Kisses (Here & Now #3) – expected release 2018
Standalone titles
Law – expected release 2018
For the love of my life.
Our story is the best kind of fairy tale - torn edges and all.
Caleb
6 years ago
IF PAIN WERE A color, what color would it be?
Red.
No, not red. Red’s too bright, too cheerful. It reminds me of checkered table cloths, picnics, and summer celebrations.
Maybe black.
But that isn’t right either, is it? Black is nothing. A void. It’s the color I pray for when the pain becomes unbearable.
White.
Yes, pain is white. Blinding. Scalding. Freezing. Loud and insufferable. And it’s eating me up from the inside out. If I opened my mouth to scream I think a beam of white light would release, instead of sound.
Gritting my teeth, I attempt in vain to hold it in, to keep the pain from turning me into a howling, writhing mass. My jaw’s clenched tight but it doesn’t stop a wretched moan from escaping.
Maybe cancer will devour me whole. Or, maybe it won’t be the cancer that kills me. Maybe my brother’s transplanted cells will be the thing to chew apart my soul.
A war’s being waged. My body’s the battlefield. And it doesn’t matter which side’s winning because I might not survive the fight.
White takes over. A blinding agony.
Every muscle seizes. Air is trapped in my lungs. My heart stutters. Stops. The white world bursts apart—millions of tiny fragments burning and blurring.
Until it all fades...
Black.
***
Caleb
4 months ago
THE CAMPUS COFFEE SHOP is packed.
It’s colder than average for April, the extra bite in the air convincing most to head indoors to study. The fear of final exams has created a panic of caffeine-fueled cramming.
But not for me.
I’m not here to warm up or to hit the books. I’m here for the people. Me with social interaction is like coffee beans with water—it transforms me.
Besides, studying feels pointless when I don’t really care if I pass or fail.
I need something to pull me out of this slump. So, I order an extra-large latte and then watch in interest as the pink-haired barista shakes her trim hips to the sound of the milk frother. She’s cute, but she doesn’t notice my smiled appreciation. She only has eyes for her burly, tattoo covered co-worker.
Drink in hand, I scan the full room for alternate entertainment. An open seat grabs my attention, so I head in that direction.
Ah hell, I’m not going to lie—it’s not the empty chair—it’s the pretty but sad looking blond who’s caught my eye. The frown she’s wearing is the thing pulling me in, the thing drawing me to her.
“Are the evil exams prevailing?” I ask. Taking the seat in front of her, I plaster on my most winning smile. I’ve been told it’s a good one.
“Excuse me?” she asks, looking up from her phone in confusion.
“You’re not studying. I thought exams might be defeating you. Unless you’re one of those genius types who doesn’t need to study.”
Her laugh is high-pitched and nervous. “No, I just didn’t feel like it.” She sits up straighter, and with a perfectly manicured hand, flips her glossy blond mane off her shoulder, putting herself on display.
“So, I can’t save you from the horrors of homework?”
“I’m fine,” she insists. “Although, I am distressed by this fashion blog. There are some seriously hideous trends coming out this fall.” Holding her phone up for me to see, she strikes a sexy pose, mimicking the model in the picture. “What do you think, would I look good in fur?”
Flirting with a pretty girl should make my day. Playful banter, the enchanted first encounter—these things should make me feel good. They should remind me to be grateful. Remind me how lucky I am.
But it isn’t working. I can’t find that thing... that spark...
And I can’t tell if it’s her or if it’s me.
Her expertly lined bright blue eyes, flawlessly styled honey-blond hair, and heavily glossed pouty lips are thoroughly polished. She’s sleek and shiny—the kind of girl that turns heads. But her plastic perfection does nothing for me.
Maybe I really am broken.
“I’m sure you could pull it off,” I compliment.
Putting the phone down, she examines me. “Don’t I know you? Aren’t you that guy who was sick? My sister was in your class.”
“Nope, not me,” I lie, not wanting to wade through the minefield that is my life. Not here, not now.
“You look like him.” She smiles and shrugs. “Is something else wrong? You look tense.”
What is wrong with me? “I don’t kno
w... I think maybe I’m stuck in neutral.”
Confusion pulls at the corners of her mouth. “What does that mean? Are you into cars? Or is that like a metaphor for money or something?”
“Yeah, I was speaking metaphorically. About life.” Which still seems hard for her to understand, since the look on her face hasn’t changed. Keeping it simple, I explain, “School’s not going too well. It’s supposed to be a challenge.” Something to accomplish, beyond surviving. Something to conquer, other than a disease. “But I guess I’m not that smart.”
“Oh.” She smiles in fake sympathy. “Can’t you just cheat or something?”
“Pardon?”
“You know, copy someone’s paper. I know a guy who can hook you up. He can get you advanced copies of some tests too. I don’t know how he does it, but he’s saved my bacon a few times. He’ll do it for cash or weed or... well, for you, just cash or weed.”
Cash or weed or... what? I wonder.
“Listen, a friend of mine’s having a party tonight,” she tells me, light catching her eye. “You should call my guy to hook you up, then you won’t have to worry. You can come get stupid with us and see what kind of trouble we can get into. It’ll be so much fun! I promise.”
Her casual attitude about cheating and her reckless desire to cause trouble do even less for me than her perfectly made-up face.
“Sorry. I’m sure you’re a fun girl, but I don’t think that’s going to work for me. I think I’m looking for something else. Someone else, actually.”
“Who are you looking for?” She pouts.
“The love of my life.” I shrug.
Her face is contorted by a scowl. When she snarls at me, I think I see fangs. “You’re a creep!” Standing abruptly, she knocks the table. Her still full, frothy latte sloshes over the lip of the cup.
I watch as she haughtily brushes her hair back from her shoulders before storming out. Whispers surround me. The forgotten, spilled coffee sits dejected. My thoughts are mirrored by the messy, still swirling, contents of the paper cup.
Hung up on childish fantasies, looking for a princess to save. True love, epic romance—am I fooling myself? Probably. But part of me has always believed, always known. This is life’s purpose.
To genuinely live. To love absolutely.
If I focused on reality, on things like school, maybe I wouldn’t be failing so badly. Maybe I’d be happier.
Maybe not—reality’s never been much of a friend.
The tired heaviness I’ve been carrying reattaches itself, piggybacking me as I leave the coffee shop. Stepping into the cold air, my feet hit the sidewalk, but I stand frozen.
I have no idea which direction I’m going.
***
Zadie
1 week ago
ROUSED FROM SLEEP, MY brain struggles to catch up with my body.
Sex. It’s not a dream.
Under different circumstances this might be a welcome violation. But not now. Not when I’m woken because my boyfriend is high-as-a-kite and wants to use me for his own sexual satisfaction. This isn’t gratifying. Not at all.
The party in the next room is still raging strong. The loud music vibrates the walls. We’re lucky one of the neighbors hasn’t called the building manager, or the police.
My tolerance for the festivities is low. My patience for Sean’s fake friends is even lower. But it’s my desire to put up with Sean and his crap that’s at its all-time lowest.
He’s got a lot of great qualities. His devil-may-care attitude was always a huge turn on. But the things I once found attractive about him now just irritate me. His insensitivity and ridiculous ego are annoying at the best of times, but when he’s drunk, high, or both, he’s unbearable.
“Shhh...” he soothes, his breath hot against my ear. The sharp sting of his intrusion wakes me fully. “Don’t worry, I used lots of lube.”
How romantic.
I’m lying on my stomach. His weight is over me, pinning me down and forcing my compliance. I should be turned off. I should be angry. I should tell him to stop. Yet, despite knowing what my rational reaction should be, my body has different plans. Slickness from more than just the lubricant is helping him ease his way inside of me.
It’s not that I want this—I don’t even want him—it’s the stimulation while half asleep that’s got my wires crossed.
Turning off my brain, I allow the physical sensations to take over. If my body can adapt, so can the rest of me, right? Maybe my mind can go back to sleep. With a sweet dream, this moment might not be so awful.
My hips tilt upwards as he begins to thrust in from behind, his strokes uneven and sloppy.
“Don’t move,” he complains, pushing me back down with his powerful thighs. “Be my pretty fuck doll. Just take it.”
Even with my brain switched off, the harshness of his tone and the crudeness of his words hits a nerve. Every part of me reacts. My limbs all lock in rigid protest. Even my core muscles clamp down tightly, trying to force him out.
My reaction only manages to spur him on.
Grunting, he slams into me—over and over and over again. His weight is crushing. The bite of his hands, cruel. His invasion turns from a simple annoyance to a wicked punishment.
“Sean,” I plead, “You’re hurting me.”
My begging either doesn’t register, or he doesn’t care. I know it’s the horrible cocktail of booze and drugs influencing his decisions. Right now, none of that matters to me. Right now, I just want him to stop.
Yet, despite the pain, despite my loathing, I don’t tell him to stop. I don’t tell him anything. I’m mute. I do exactly what he told me to do.
I lay there. I take it.
“Yes!” He shouts as he thrusts deep and hard, battering my cervix.
I can feel him pulsing inside me. His climax is dramatic, but short lived. His whole body seems to spasm once before he falls on top of me, squashing me to the mattress.
Breathing heavily into my ear he slurs, “Good girl. Love you.”
He kisses me once on the side of my tear stained face before rolling partially off me and promptly falling asleep. I’m trapped under half his heavy body.
I’m disgusted by him, repulsed by the wetness coating my inner thighs, but it’s myself that I’m most completely and utterly appalled by.
What have I become? A weak, dependent doormat who can’t even say no. I’m no better than any of the stupid groupies who are still partying in my living room. I’ve been hanging onto him, so tightly, for so long—and I can’t even remember why.
He was supposed to be my escape. We were going to fall in love. I was going to leave my shitty life and dumb mistakes behind. Too late, I’ve realized he’s just another bad decision. One of the worst.
When I wake up the next morning, having cried myself to sleep, Sean’s nowhere to be seen. Instead, I find a note in his messy scrawl that tells me he’s leaving. Again.
A quick search around my apartment lets me know he’s already gone.
This time it’s good.
This time I’m glad.
Caleb
THE LIGHTING’S DIM. THE music’s loud. The air’s thick with humidity. All around me, people are moving to the rhythmic sound surrounding us. My body buzzes with energy—charged by the crowd, lit up by the excitement—I’ve plugged into this place.
I’ve plugged into life.
That feeling’s grown steadily, turning my short Montreal vacation into a life altering adventure. It’s been less than two weeks, but each day here’s felt fresh and new. Each day I’ve felt fresh and new, leaving the baggage of illness behind.
Tonight, the adventure’s brought me to an underground bar. When my cousin first suggested it, I’d thought she meant it was illegal. Turns out, it’s literally underground.
Right in the heart of downtown Montreal is an underground city. It’s mainly shopping and restaurants. Places for the weekday warriors to have their breaks. But set back in a corner is a place you’d never exp
ect—a nightclub that doubles as a lounge. When the other shops close for the day, the club opens its doors and loud dance music pours out.
Like children following the Pied Piper, we chased the sounds of reverberating electronica. We danced through the corridors until being absorbed by this party.
“What the fuck?” Chante yells.
A second ago, we were joking about the sticky floor. Arguing over whether it was inhibiting or enhancing our dance moves. I have no idea what’s prompted my cousin’s outburst.
“What’s going on?”
“Just stay here a minute, okay? I’ve got to take care of something.”
Staying put isn’t a choice. We’re in the middle of the dance floor and I can barely lift my beer to my lips without being jostled by the person next to me. But Chante moves easily through the crowd—quickly swallowed by the masses.
I’m alone, immersed in a mob, and I love it.
I love the gritty atmosphere and drunken depravity. I love the heavy bass vibrating through me. I love that in a room full of hundreds, not one of them gives a shit about me or my problems. It’s terrific. Just one more example of how vibrant this city is.
I wish every day could start and end with this feeling.
Chante suddenly reappears, looking more pissed off than usual.
“Everything okay?”
“No! I need you to do me a giant favor—and you can’t say no, or I won’t let you stay at my place free next time. So, be a good cousin and do exactly what I say.”
“You ask so nicely, how can I refuse?”
“Cut the bullshit, Caleb,” she orders, convincing me her threat’s not idle. “My best friend’s here on her own, and she’s shit-faced. She shouldn’t be alone.”
“Okay. Should we take her home?”
“Yes, you should.”
“Me? What about you?”
“Remember when I said I was on call tonight? Well, perfect fucking timing, I just got called in. I’ve got to go to work.”
Without waiting for agreement, she grabs my hand, pulling me along behind her. The beer in my other hand spills with each elbow and shoulder I bump.
