Vicious sentiments a dar.., p.1
Vicious Sentiments: A Dark Why Choose Romance, page 1
Gigi Meadows
Vicious Sentiments
A Dark Why Choose Romance
Copyright © 2024 by Gigi Meadows
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
First edition
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Dedicated to the girls who haven’t met a good man.
I promise he’s out there.
Maybe even two of them.
Contents
Trigger Warning
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Bonus Content
Trigger Warning
As the title states, this book is full of vicious sentiments and by no means morally correct. Only proceed if you are into morally black opinions and actions. This book contains dark themes and sensitive topics relating to sexual abuse, death idealization, and violence. With that said, this is a spicy, steamy book and I hope you enjoy it.
Chapter One
In my heart, I know that Death is a she. Call her the Grim Reaper or whatever you please, but she is definitely a woman. Only a woman could handle the intricate delicacies of death. Men are too laid-back, and the afterlife calls for order in its chaos. It couldn’t be run how the world is, with men at the helm.
Definitely not.
The peace and sadness of death are gripped best by a dainty hand, one I’m all too familiar with. I know Death like I know birds in the sky or money in safes. Always just out of reach, but acutely aware of its presence.
Right now, it’s in the frigid waters below my dangling feet. The water, black with only moonlight glistening the ripples, is where she is, where peace is.
I’ve never felt peace.
I generally only have two modes, pain or numbness. There is a third mode, a trick of the switch like a dimmer on a light, but it’s fleeting. I can’t stay in that mode too long or else the bulb will buzz with annoyance and impatience for being stuck in limbo too long.
That mode is the one I’m in right now. A mode that I can only be in when so close to Death. I can feel her near and it is beyond euphoric. I’m one slip away from basking in her peace and it’s exhilarating.
Everything would go away. I would never have to see the damp water marks tinged with mold on my bedroom ceiling. The empty cupboards and my growling stomach wouldn’t bother me. The bruises and raw tears on my skin wouldn’t hurt anymore. I could never get another bruise, if I was with her, with Death.
And I would go to her if I wasn’t afraid of what it took to meet her. But it seems the only way to get there is to endure even more pain and I don’t know if I can do it. Not when I already feel so much of it. I just want to close my eyes and never open them again.
Life has given me nothing but suffering. A cruel and thorough agony from things that should bring comfort. At the hands of my father, my boyfriend, my runaway mother. My home gives me a sore cough. Even school should have been a safe haven, but the teachers turned a blind eye to Mr. Canes.
There is no light at the end of the tunnel, the tunnel of childhood. When I turn eighteen, nothing will change. I’ve graduated but there are no scholarships or colleges to run away to. My grades reflect the life I’ve lived. There is no dream of getting away. Where would I go? No other options seem any better. Life will continue to hurt me.
I’ve learned I can’t get away from it.
The only solace I feel is when I’m close to the edge. The edge of this bridge or the edge of a blade. But again, it’s fleeting. Death doesn’t like to be teased and impatience is her strongest trait.
I either do it or I don’t.
I edge closer on my butt, and the hems of my shorts curl as the feel of the fabric against my skin turns into cold and scratchy concrete. I grip the bar above my head, imagining my hands loosening their grip as I drop. The wind whipping through my hair as I fall, my body slicing through the air. The sting of a thousand needles as I splash into the ice water. My lungs reactively taking in the muck of the stream, the sputter, the involuntary fight my body will put up.
Warm tears pool in my eyes and then slip down my cheeks.
All I want is peace. I don’t want to feel this pain anymore. Why is the only way to get peace to go through more pain? If it’s to earn it, then I’ve earned it a hundred times over.
I just need to get it over with. I loosen my hand on the bar.
“Hey! Hey! You’re going to fall!” a man’s voice echoes in the night.
I’m startled, caught red-handed, and pull myself back quickly, looking to see who witnessed my dance with Death.
Billrock Bridge is at the edge of town—a town of less than three thousand—and no one should be here right now. Not only that, no one would want to be here. It’s also close to two a.m., with a cloudy sky that threatens rain.
I should be the only one out here.
But I’m not. There is a man at the end of the bridge, the side not coming from town. He’s hard to make out, but jogging closer to me.
“I’m fine,” I holler, trying to control my voice, and stand up.
Please go away.
“Wait!” He picks up speed.
Just great, I think, more suffering. This man in the night probably wants to leer at me, grab me on my already sore bruises, and take advantage like all the rest. I cast my head down and make a quick turn away from him, heading back to town.
“How much farther till I find a gas station or something?” he calls.
“A mile.” I throw over my shoulder, not slowing. “But it’s closed.”
He’s close enough now that I can hear his footfalls and I involuntarily start to shake. It has to be a ruse. He’s going to grab me from behind. I can feel the pain before it even starts.
“Do you have a phone?” He’s breathy and falls in step next to me.
I jerk my head to get a quick glance, surprised he hasn’t pounced yet, but I don’t linger long enough to pick up any features.
“No.” I want to laugh, as if I could afford a phone and even if I could, who would I call?
“What? How do you not have a phone? Am I in the twilight zone?” he has a playful lilt that is most likely coating deception.
I shrug and step away from him, but he scoots closer. So close that with my head down, I can see his shoes. Shiny leather with buttery laces made of suede. The hems of his pants are pleated and crisp. I risk another look at his face.
Despite myself, I relax. I really shouldn’t. I know that bad men come in all forms, but there is something different in his face. He’s older, maybe late twenties and he has some stubble, but it’s lined to perfection. He’s clearly not from here. And his eyes, despite the darkness, aren’t beady or sinister. They are bright, sincere, and colored like a warm chestnut. They
He’s not happy though, actually the opposite. His lips are turned down, but it looks foreign on him, almost as if frowning is not something he does often. The subtle lines on his face indicate he normally sports a smile.
I must be looking at him oddly because he furrows his brows and looks down at his dress shirt, fidgeting with the shiny buttons. It’s not the type of shirt teachers wear or even the kinds of insurance men. No, this is fitted tightly over lean muscle, the sleeves rolled up, the material something softer than plain old cotton.
“Do I—” he starts, but then shakes his head and looks back up. “My car broke down.”
I give him another odd look because that seems unlikely. He doesn’t seem like the type to drive the kind of car that breaks down. Even his cologne, which is gently wafting towards me, gives off a pleasant and masculine scent. It smells expensive, mixed with the scent of a new car.
“McLaren,” he clarifies at my expression. “That’s what I get for buying foreign. Almost a million yet a Honda would have served me better.”
He gives a small smile, which makes me feel like I am supposed to laugh, but I don’t. He doesn’t look like a threat and foreign cars breaking down seems plausible, but I’m not going to show him my guard is down. I’ve been tricked before.
“Right,” he straightens his mouth and nods, running a hand through his hair, as if realizing his joke has fallen flat. He starts taking me in, probably wondering what kind of person I am that I didn’t laugh at his joke.
I cross my arms over my chest and take another step away from him. I don’t like being examined. I don’t know what it is about me, but when a guy starts looking, that’s when the pain comes. I have long hair because that’s what girls are supposed to have. I’ve thought about chopping it all off to thwart the men who make me uncomfortable, but have never done it. I like my hair and it’s easy to hide behind. I’m also wearing shorts, which I shouldn’t because my legs are always the first thing men touch when they get too close, but it was abnormally hot today and my dad hasn’t fixed the AC that broke three years ago. I’m wearing a loose t-shirt to hide my cleavage, but that doesn’t stop someone from realizing that the bulge from my chest is large on my frame. I’m grading myself on how tempting I might be to this stranger when I suddenly feel his hand on my arm.
I jerk quickly, though I know it’s futile. How stupid of me to think any man could resist their urges.
“Relax,” his voice takes on a hardened edge and it makes me freeze like a dumb human because even an animal would run. “Did someone do this to you?”
I hazard a glance at my arm, the one that he’s surprisingly not manhandling, but holding up lightly with his fingertips. I cringe at the sight. It’s a lot worse than it was this morning when my so-called boyfriend grabbed me, slammed me against the side of my house, and shook me till his anger petered out. You wouldn’t think a hand could do that much damage, but he was on something, gripping with all his strength and twisting until the skin burned and slightly tore.
Still, it was better than what my dad had done under my shirt.
I can’t get away from my dad and I’ve tried to shake away from my boyfriend, but at this point, I’m his girlfriend whether I like it or not. He’s made that very clear.
“How old are you?” The stranger asks, letting go of my arm. “What’s your name? Do you live nearby? Who did that?” His questions are a jumble because I’m still waiting for him to take his piece. But his eyes haven’t turned ravenous and he’s taken a step away from me, running a hand down his face and clenching his jaw.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, confused. Why is he getting angry?
“Who did that? How old are you?” He repeats.
I stutter trying to answer, but some sort of sob begins forming at the back of my throat. Angry men lash out, they cause more pain, and I don’t even know what this man is capable of.
“Seventeen,” I somehow manage, but I don’t tell him who did it, mostly because I don’t understand why he cares.
He takes a step closer and I flinch, coil in on myself, and brace for the pain. When it doesn’t come, I peek out from under my hair.
He’s shaking his head, breathing through flared nostrils. When he catches my eyes, it roots me into place and I freeze as he steps closer.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He takes a deep breath like he’s trying to calm down. But I’ve seen those fail before.
“I promise.” He leans down to level our eyes, and I realize how tall he is. He could easily overpower me. My boyfriend does it and he’s twice as small as this guy. Mr. Canes does it and he doesn’t have the muscles this stranger has.
I should step back, maybe run. I know this. I know this game like the back of my hand. No man is safe. They all cause pain and they all lie. The words don’t mean anything. He just wants to gain my trust and then rip it to shreds. He wants to leave me coated in his cologne that’s so expensive I can’t scrub it from my skin.
“I promise,” he repeats, settling the palms of his hands under my elbows. “but I am going to hurt whoever the fuck did that to you.”
Chapter Two
Dawn has started to break and the hum of the gas station owner’s car has filled the silence as it pulls into the two-pump parking lot. I’ve been with the stranger, Julian, all night, sitting on the curb.
Despite myself, I believed him when he said he wouldn’t hurt me. I don’t know if it was his soft eyes or the way his voice ground out vengeance, but I led him to the gas station. I even let him pull me down onto the curb with him when I tried to walk away.
Sit with me.
So I did.
No one has ever shown anger at my pain, not even myself. I prefer to be numb, one of my two, almost three modes. But a new feeling is swirling inside of me, so faint I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s because of him. So I stayed with him all night, trying to decipher it.
He asked me my name. I told him, Hailey. He asked me who hurt me. I didn’t say anything. He told me about his car and his cell phone that shattered on the road the second he opened his door. He even slipped it out of his pocket and showed me. He told me he was late but didn’t explain why. He asked me if I lived here, and it was obvious that I did, so I didn’t answer. He asked if someone was going to miss me being out so late, and I couldn’t help but snort at the idea. He asked about school, and I told him I had just graduated. He brought up college, and again I snorted.
I needed to stop snorting. It was in my nature, as prey, to not seem tasty, and snorting was something I developed to protect myself. I’m not sure I even know what my real laugh sounds like because I never get the chance to hear it. But I made a note to stop snorting because as the gloom cleared, and I caught more glimpses of Julian in the buzzing Fred’s Station light, I realized how handsome he is. I would have noticed sooner if my caution hadn’t kept me blind.
I still don’t want to seem tasty in his presence but I don’t want to seem inedible either. That realization keeps me sitting on the curb, uncertain, as Julian stands to get into the store that Fred is unlocking.
When the bells on the door jingle, I expect I’m alone, until a hand shoots out in front of me. On instinct, I flinch.
“Stop that. I’m not going to hurt you.” The hand stays where it is, waiting for me to take it. After a second, I do. He pulls me up with unexpected ease and I tumble lightly into his chest.
I suck in a tight breath at the pain and grab my ribs, bending slightly.
I hear Julian exhale through his nose. “Is there more that I’m not seeing?”
I look up at him with no intention of answering and see his jaw ticking again.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.” he growls, and my heart speeds up. He has been calm all night, and I’m not ready for his quick temper.
Please don’t lash out.
I’m not sure what he sees on my face, but his voice drops low and he mutters, “Sorry.” His face relaxes with the word.
“Come on.” He tugs my hand and leads me into the store.
Fred is a heavy man in a white beater with chest hair overflowing from the top. His face is normally disgruntled but now it’s pinched, and aimed at Julian from behind the counter.
“I need to use your phone,” Julian says.
“Phones for customers.” Fred harrumphs and folds his arms over his bulging stomach.
