Kiss Me Slow (Top Shelf Romance Book 1)

by Tijan

  Naomi sat up, a look of horror on her face, but I grabbed her hands before she could sit back in her seat, and I finally told her what I’d been hiding from everyone else.

  “I don’t know how she found it. I don’t know why she had it with her, but she didn’t write that note. I didn’t read Willow’s suicide note because it wasn’t hers.” I let go of Naomi’s hands and sat back, finally, finally feeling some peace as I shared my last secret.

  “It was mine.”

  www.tijansbooks.com

  Dear Reader

  I have never written a book that changed me.

  There were books in my past that changed a part of my life, where they moved my career forward, etc. That’s happened. I’ve had books be so loved by readers, and I’ve also written books that seemed like a grimace, but I’m always proud of every single novel I write. I grew or learned some lesson with each one.

  But Ryan’s Bed is different.

  I began writing Mackenzie’s story when I would travel for book signings, and I think there’s something so lonely about hotel rooms that it crept into me and then through Mackenzie. I remember writing some chapters and thinking in the back of my head, “Where am I going with this? What am I doing?” And that’s how I felt for the first eight chapters, but I didn’t want to take the book into a path that I didn’t feel was right. I didn’t want to be careless with this book because there was something more with Mackenzie and Willow.

  I’m glad I waited.

  When I started writing it again, I felt Willow wanting a voice and I don’t know if she would’ve had one in the beginning if I just pushed through. And then as the book started to unfold, I heard Ryan’s voice more and more and then his storyline unfolded too.

  This book was so hard to write, not in the way where I felt like I was taking a chainsaw to a glacier, but in the way where I cried almost every time I wrote it or worked on it.

  A friend talked to me about how taboo suicide is, and how teen suicide is even more so, and that conversation really affected me. I agonized over if I should dare write this book. I thought about parents I know who lost a child, friends I know who lost their siblings to suicide, and even the ones I know who have gone. And when I really considered putting it aside, telling people it was abandoned, I couldn’t do that. I honestly couldn’t. I felt a huge cry inside of me that it was wrong to shove this book back down and ignore it.

  I even talked to friends about writing Ryan’s Bed. I remember having conversations saying that I didn’t know what I was going to do with the book, if I would just finish it for myself and not publish it. I was that scared to write this one and publish it, but I kept writing it because there was something in Mackenzie that wanted out.

  I know, I know. If you’re not a writer or an artist, you may not understand this and it makes me look crazy, but I kept writing this book because I had to. That’s the ultimate truth. I felt it was more wrong not to finish it so I started writing it again.

  I wanted to respect Willow. I wanted to respect the loss Mackenzie had about losing her twin. I wanted to respect grief itself, acknowledge it, and not have it shoved under a rug. I wanted to write about Mackenzie’s relationship with Ryan, but I also wanted to focus on Mackenzie herself.

  I always felt something dark with her, something that she was hiding from, even herself. It drove me nuts, trying to figure out what I was feeling from her, until I realized what it was. And even when I did, I was still so scared to address it in this book. If you’ve read any of my books before, you know that I’m not someone who will shy away from the real issue. I usually go head first into it, exposing it and making you, the reader, sit with it. I wanted to do that with Mackenzie, but I wanted to do it in a different way so if you’ve stayed with me this whole time, I hope this book will make you think, and I hope this book will sit with you because that’s what it’s done for me.

  No sequel is planned and I left the ending how it is because I hope it will make you think. I hope it will make you reread the book, but see it in an almost totally different way.

  Out of all the books I’ve written, this is the only one that has changed me as a person.

  Sincerely,

  Tijan

  Links & Resources

  https://www.crisistextline.org/

  Text 741741 from anywhere in the USA to text with a trained Crisis Counselor.

  https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org

  Call 1-800-273-8255 or if you go on their website, you can chat online.

  For more facts about suicide prevention and warning signals,

  go to http://www.211bigbend.org/nationalsuicidepreventionlifeline

  or call 1-800-273-TALK

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  We Own Tonight

  We Own Tonight

  By: Corinne Michaels

  To all the girls who dreamed of what could’ve been while singing along to your favorite band on your Walkman. This one is for you.

  Chapter 1

  Heather

  “Damn it, Heather. We’re always late because of you!” Nicole yells from outside the bathroom. She’s been my best friend since the sixth grade. You’d think by now she’d know to pad things by twenty minutes if she wants a snowball’s chance in hell of getting anywhere on time.

  “The peril,” I taunt her as I finish putting my hair up.

  “You drive me nuts.”

  “Such is life.”

  I hear her mutter something under her breath as she walks away. I don’t know why she gets so upset. We have plenty of time. With the way Nicole drives, her lead foot will have us at the concert fifteen minutes before the opening act.

  Of course, I’m taking my sweet ass time getting ready. I have zero desire to be forced to put on makeup or any version of pants.

  Nicole’s idea of girls’ night out and mine are totally different. I could stay home, drink a martini, and be happy. My best friend wants to paint the town red. I’m too old for that shit. I end up smelling like a garbage can and feeling like I ate a jar of cotton balls. I’d rather be comfy in pajamas than wear these jeans that I had to lie on the bed to shimmy into. I can only imagine what I looked like while I was sucking it in and bending backward to get the damn button closed. Then I did about fifteen lunges to “stretch” the pants, all the while praying I didn’t bust a seam. Nothing like a workout just to get dressed.

  I make a mental note to call my trainer friend at the boxing ring.

  She knocks again. “I’m leaving you.”

  No, you’re not.

  I open the door a smidge. “I have the tickets in here. So, you know what? Go ahead.” I stick my tongue out and then quickly close the door and lock it. If they hadn’t already left me twice before, I wouldn’t have to go to such lengths. I learned quickly that I always had to have the upper hand with my three
best friends. Then again, if I had let her leave me, I could be watching Netflix and shoveling popcorn into my mouth.

  Nicole may not have figured out to pad time, but she has learned I have a spiteful side, so she lets me finish without another interruption. I could stay in here longer just to piss her off, but that would mean more time staring at the pink tiles on the wall that I loathe.

  My house isn’t bad, but it isn’t great, either. When my parents passed away, it was passed down to me. It’s old and probably falling apart more than I’d like to admit. Yet, I can’t get rid of it. It’s the only thing of them I have, and the only place I can afford.

  The mortgage is paid off, which allows me to put what little money I have left over after my monthly bills to go toward my sister’s medical care.

  Once I’m happy with my appearance, I head out with a shit-eating grin.

  She looks at her watch as I emerge and shakes her head. “I swear.”

  The best way to keep Nicole from blowing up is with diversion. “You shouldn’t swear, it’s unbecoming of you. Are we picking up Danni and Kristin?”

  “No, and I’m grateful we aren’t, because we would miss the opening band.”

  She and I are the two most sarcastic and the biggest assholes out of the group. When we start to bicker, it gets bad—quick. Without our two mediators, it’s best not to engage.

  “Are you sure?” I ask ignoring the jab.

  “Yes, I’m sure. They’re meeting us there.”

  Nicole and I walk out and get in her car. I wish she’d buy a normal size vehicle. I’m five-foot-five, and my knees mash my boobs because of how squished I am. Between my already tight jeans and this sardine can, I’m going to bust a gut.

  “Please,” I say dramatically, “tell me they’re not bringing their husbands.”

  She laughs. “Dickhead One and Jackhole Two aren’t coming. They’re going for a boys’ night.” She sticks her finger in her mouth and makes a gagging sound.

  Thank God for small miracles. Their husbands are the worst, especially Danielle’s.

  “Maybe the two loser husbands will fall madly in love with each other,” I muse while I shift to get comfortable.

  Nicole smirks as she watches me. “And figure out they were never meant to be married to such amazing women like them.”

  “And then we’ll finally build that compound where the four of us can live.”

  “No. We’re going to need penises. There’s no way I’m living with you people without having someone to bang. You three will drive me so far up the wall that I’ll need the release. Daily.”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “You’re damn near celibate.”

  Here we go again. “Shut your face.” She whips out of my driveway so fast that I almost smack my head on the window. “Nic!” I yell as she takes another turn way too fast in this damn death trap. “Jesus! Slow down!”

  “Stop being dramatic. I’m with you, and you have a badge. No one is going to ticket me.”

  “I don’t care if you get pulled over.” I right myself and grab the edge of the seat. “I care about dying.”

  “You’re going to die from lack of sex if anything.” She rolls her eyes and cues the ’90s station. “Listen to Four Blocks Down, and get ready to watch the boys shake their delectable asses on stage. After that, you can remove the stick up your ass, maybe then you won’t be so miserable.”

  “I’m not miserable.” I slap her arm.

  “Okay.” She shrugs and ignores me, which is her typical way of blowing me off.

  Am I miserable? No. I’m happy . . . for the most part.

  I have a great job that keeps me fulfilled. Being a female police officer isn’t easy, but I love it.

  The only real downside to my job is that I come face to face with my ex-husband every day. Luckily, things didn’t end that badly. But I’d be full of crap if I didn’t admit how much it bothers me. Things with Matt are—weird. Sometimes people just don’t work or you realize the person you married isn’t what you thought. I wish I could transfer to another town, but my sister Stephanie and the twelve years invested in my pension keep me here.

  Nicole belts out another round of lyrics. “Sing it with me, Heather!”

  I don’t want to, but I’m taken back in time when the four of us had bangs that were so high they could cause whiplash, wore colors that no one should ever wear, and drooled over Four Blocks Down without a smidgen of shame.

  Smashed in the tiny death trap posing as a vehicle, I let go a little.

  We both sing along, belting out the lyrics of our first crushes. “I wish I still had my Eli pillow case,” I grin.

  “I had a Randy towel. I would like to wrap myself up with him again.” Nicole sighs.

  I swear this girl needs sex more than anyone I know. “Does your vibrator ever get a break?”

  She looks over at me with her usual you’re-an-idiot face. “You’re going to realize very soon, my love, if you don’t use it . . . you lose it.”

  “And you’re going to overuse it,” I say. She’s the only one of us who never married. Nicole lives in downtown Tampa. She has to schlep it all the way out to Carrollwood to pick me up, but she knows if she didn’t, I wouldn’t go.

  Sometimes, I envy her life. She has everything she dreamed of. Opening Dupree Designs and then landing her contract with one of the wealthiest developers in the city was pure luck. She slept with him, got a few more jobs, and before she knew it—she was on top.

  Then she dumped him.

  We park the car at the arena, and Nicole shifts in her seat. “Listen, I know you’re hell bent on being the responsible one of us, but tonight,” she grabs my hands, “I beg you to let loose. You need a break.”

  I glare at her. “I do let loose.”

  “Your hair is in a bun,” she raises her brow. “You’re the definition of tight.”

  I touch my hair, hating that she has a point. But this is me. I like to make good choices. Other than marrying Matt, which wasn’t bad per se . . . just hasty. Never mind that he was an asshole. And he sucked in bed.

  Okay, so maybe it was a bad choice.

  Moving on. “I’m not uptight, Nic.”

  “I didn’t say uptight. But let your hair down. It’ll make Danni jealous since she can’t get her hair your color blonde no matter how much money she spends. Maybe one day she’ll get over herself and stop trying.” Nicole and Danielle have a love/hate relationship. This week it seems to be more on the hate side. I wish they’d get over this already and talk it out, but they both claim there’s no issues.

  From what I can gather, Nicole slept with Danielle’s ex three days before she got married. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I wouldn’t be surprised since it is Nic we’re talking about. When I heard the back story, I distanced myself from the entire thing. No way was I getting in the middle of it, but Nicole typically has something snippy to say about her and vice versa.

  Feuds aside, Nicole is right. I don’t ever go out. If I’m not being a couch potato, I’m with my sister.

  I pull my hair out of the bun, allowing my blonde locks to fall around me. Thanks to the twist, it almost has curls. Nicole grabs her bag from the backseat and tosses her makeup pouch onto my lap. “Put some of that on. You know, look hot. Not like a frumpy divorcée.”

  “I often question why I didn’t drop you after high school.” I grab some eyeliner and darken my brown eyes. I add a little blush and lip gloss. “Better?”

  “Much.”

  We head into the concert, and I can’t stop giggling to myself. Everyone is around our age—all here to see a freaking boy band. The group we all lusted over as teens is now fully grown, but here we are, ready to swoon and scream their songs.

  I can’t remember how many dreams I had about Eli Walsh or how many notebooks I filled with Mrs. Heather Walsh signatures. I’m sure I’m not alone, either. There are probably a few hundred middle-aged women here tonight who had done the same thing.

  Some
more scantily clad than others.

  “What the hell is she wearing?”

  Nicole glances over and makes a disgusted face. “Dear, Lord. Someone needs to tell her that a muffin top and a mini skirt don’t mix.”

  I snort.

  “I feel like this is our version of a high school reunion,” I cogitate while scanning the crowd for Danni and Kristin. I know we’re not spring chickens, but when did we get as old as some of the people standing in line? Sheesh.

  “Heather!” Kristin waves as they rush toward us.

  Even though we see each other at least every three months, I miss them. We made a promise when we graduated high school we’d have a quarterly date, and so far, we’ve all made a point of sticking to it. It helps that we all stayed in the greater Tampa area, but I think no matter the distance, we’d always be there for each other.

  Some friendships are unbreakable—even if someone sleeps with someone else’s ex.

  “I’ve missed you,” I say as she wraps her arms around me.

  She plants a kiss on my cheek. “I missed you more.”

  We all stand here, hugging it out. We’re dorks, but I couldn’t care less. Other than my sister, they’re the only family I have.

  “How’s Steph feeling?” Danielle asks.

  “She’s doing good, I think. I’m waiting for her to call me.” It’s so sweet how Danielle always asks about Stephanie.

  “I’m glad she’s doing okay.” She smiles.

  “Yeah, she should’ve called though. I should probably give her a call . . .”

  Danni grabs my hand, stopping me from going for my phone. “I’m sure her nurse would let you know if there were something wrong.”