Beautiful graves, p.1
Beautiful Graves, page 1
PRAISE FOR THE DEVIL WEARS BLACK
“A deliciously seductive second chance romance novel.”
—POPSUGAR; selected as one of the 10 Best New Romance Books of March 2021
“Fake-fiancé tropes for the win!”
—Marie Claire; selected as one of the Best New Romance Novels of 2021 (So Far)
“An expert at the dark and sexy antihero, Shen brings her seductive prose to an irresistible ‘second chance romance.’”
—OprahMag.com
“[The Devil Wears Black] sparkles with wit and chemistry . . . This is a treat.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Shen has created believable character arcs for her captivating protagonists, and the plot provides a terrifically smart twist on the fake-fiancé trope. Fans of Jennifer Weiner may enjoy this sexy contemporary romance.”
—Booklist
PRAISE FOR RUTHLESS RIVAL
“This addictive enemies-to-lovers romance . . . captures both characters’ intense emotions and undeniable chemistry. It’s sure to have readers hooked.”
—Publishers Weekly
OTHER TITLES BY L.J. SHEN
Sinners of Saint Series
Vicious
Defy
Ruckus
Scandalous
Bane
All Saints High Series
Pretty Reckless
Broken Knight
Angry God
Boston Belles Series
The Hunter
The Villain
The Monster
The Rake
Cruel Castaways
Ruthless Rivals
Stand-Alones
Tyed
Sparrow
Blood to Dust
Midnight Blue
Dirty Headlines
The Kiss Thief
In the Unlikely Event
Playing with Fire
The Devil Wears Black
Bad Cruz
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2022 by L.J. Shen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542036337
ISBN-10: 154203633X
Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson
CONTENTS
START READING
PLAYLIST
PROLOGUE
PART 1
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
PART 2
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PREVIEW: PLAYING WITH FIRE
PROLOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The things that we love tell us what we are.
—Saint Thomas Aquinas
Hope is a waking dream.
—Aristotle
PLAYLIST
Duran Duran—“Save a Prayer”
Oasis—“Don’t Look Back in Anger”
Annie Lennox—“No More ‘I Love You’s’”
Dubstar—“Stars”
The Hollies—“The Air That I Breathe”
Goldfinger—“Put the Knife Away”
PROLOGUE
This is not how I imagined I’d enter this church.
Wearing a black garment, my eyes sunken, my lips chapped.
The only thing roiling in my stomach right now is a lukewarm cup of coffee I gulped in one go to wash down the Valium.
Despite everyone I know being here, supporting me, I know it doesn’t matter. The thing about tragedies is, you can never outrun the Big Alone. At some point, it catches up with you. In the middle of the night. When you’re taking a hasty shower. When you roll in bed and the linen is pressed and smooth where your lover should be.
The big moments in your life are always experienced in solitude.
But I’m not ready to say goodbye.
“You don’t have to stay for the burial,” Dad, practical and to the point, tells me. We pass by people. I keep my gaze firmly on the church’s doors, refusing eye contact. “They’ll understand. You’re going through hell right now.”
Maybe it’s wrong not to care what people think, but I genuinely don’t. I’m not going to be here when the casket is lowered to the ground. I’ll be long gone before everyone falls apart. Before it becomes real. Maybe it makes me a coward, but I just can’t take it. Another premature goodbye.
“I bet he’ll have a beautiful grave.” I hear my own voice. It rises from the pit of my stomach, like bile. “Everything about him is beautiful.”
“Was,” a voice behind me corrects.
I don’t need to turn around to know who it belongs to.
It’s the man who holds the other piece of my heart.
And that’s it—I can’t take it anymore. Two feet from the church’s doors, I sink to my knees, drop my head, and begin to cry. Mourners around me murmur in hushed voices. Poor child and Not her first tragedy and What is she going to do now?
They’re not wrong. I have no idea what I’ll do. Because even in the best of times, I’ve always been torn.
Between the man I am about to bury.
And the man standing behind my back.
PART 1
ONE
Eighteen.
It starts with a dare on La Rambla Street.
With my best friend’s callous attempt to catch some guy’s attention.
“You’re killing yourself, bro.”
Pippa reaches for a cigarette clasped inside his mouth. She withdraws it from his lips and snaps it in two.
It’s our first hour in Barcelona, and already she is looking for creative ways to get us both killed.
“Here. You’re welcome. Just saved you from cancer.” With a toss of her ombré hair, she slips past the sliding doors of a pharmacy, leaving the guy to stand there.
“Sorry. We forgot to pack her manners.” I yank my earphones out of my ears, muttering to the smoker on the curb.
This is what we do, Pippa and I. She starts fires; I put them out. She runs hot and messy; I’m as emotionless as an ice statue at a royal wedding. She could get it on with a lamppost, and I . . . well, I still suspect I might be asexual, despite (or maybe because of?) losing my virginity a couple of months ago.
Pippa and I go way back. We met on the first day of kindergarten and fought over the same sorting cube (which, legend says, she bashed my head with). We’ve been inseparable ever since.
I’m the macabre, army-booted goth girl to her shining, Technicolor Ariana Grande self.
We went to the same elementary school, same middle school, same high school, and same summer camps.
Now, Pippa and I are both enrolled in UC Berkeley.
It was Pippa’s idea to go to Spain for two weeks. A last hurrah before we start school. She is half-Spanish from her mother’s side, and one of her aunts, Alma, lives in Barcelona, which means a free place for us to crash.
“Let’s make a new rule.” I adjust my backpack over one shoulder as we dip below the green, glowing FARMACIA: 24 HORAS sign. “No more aggravating the locals. If your ass gets in a street fight, I’m going to walk past and pretend I don’t know you.”
That’s a lie. I’d take a bullet for her. It’s just that I would strongly prefer not to.
“Please.” Pippa snorts, picking up a green basket on her way to the personal-hygiene section. “We have two weeks to let our crazy hang out before we get back to reality. College is serious business, Lawson. Now’s exactly the time to get in a street fight. Especially with a hottie like that dude.”
She tosses shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, and two toothbrushes into our basket. I add Tylenol, sunscreen, and body lotion. Neither of us wanted to pack anything that could detonate in our suitcases.
Pippa stops in the middle of the aisle with shaving supplies. “Do you think they sell Plan B over the counter here?”
“Why? Are you planning on having unprotected sex with a rando?” I ask.
“Your girl is curious, okay? Nobody said anything about taking it.” She shrugs, then grabs my hand and tugs me to the next aisle. I’m aware we’re about five decibels louder than everyone else in the store. It’s not empty either. There’s an elderly couple talking to the pharmacist, a pregnant lady squinting at a laxative bottle, and a bunch of guys in soccer uniforms checking out jock itch creams.
She stops by what we refer to as the Sexy Time ai
“Don’t forget to buy condoms.” I nibble on my black nail polish, desperate to get out of here. I want to throw myself into her aunt’s shower and wash away the twelve-hour flight, then decompress. “You know, just in case you change your mind about bringing back chlamydia as a souvenir.”
“Chlamydia is a lame souvenir.” Pippa swings her gaze my way, grinning. “We need a real souvenir. We’re getting tatted here.”
“You’re getting tatted here,” I correct. “I’m not.”
“Why? It’s not like you have a fear of needles.” She eyeballs my septum ring, popping an eyebrow.
I tuck it inside my nose. “Piercings are fine. Tattoos mean commitment, and I don’t do that. Might I remind you, I can’t even commit to a cereal?”
“You so are committed to a cereal,” she huffs. “Reese’s Puffs.”
“As enamored as I am with Reese’s Puffs, I’m always happy to destroy a bowl of Frosted Flakes and Apple Jacks.”
“Apple Jacks.” She shudders. “Sometimes I think you’re beyond help. Anyway, you have to get a tat. Your mom’s going to be hella proud if you take the plunge.”
“I’ll bear the burden of disappointing her.”
Pippa is not wrong, though. Barbara “Barbie” Lawson would be totally down if I told her I was getting a full-fledged arm sleeve. She herself inked the majority of her back, calves, and wrists. Quotes that are dear to her heart. Tattoos are like putting wallpaper on a generically painted house, she always says.
Born in Liverpool, England, Mom ran away to San Francisco when she was sixteen. She is not your typical mother. It’s why I love her not only as a parent but also as a human.
“Ever.” Pippa stomps. Everlynne is my name. But let’s be real: life’s too short. “C’mon.”
I use both my index fingers to do the sign of a cross, like she’s a vampire.
“Ugh, fine!” Pippa throws her arms in the air before plucking a pack of condoms. “No tats, but I’m going to corrupt you. I’m staging an intervention. Everlynne Bellatrix Lawson, you’ve been a bad, bad girl. And by bad, I mean good. Super good. Nauseatingly good. We’re Gen Z! Screwing up is in our DNA, okay? We grew up on social media and the Kardashians.”
“I’m screwing up plenty without screwing anyone,” I say, though we both know it’s not true. As far as rebellious acts go, I’m aggressively boring.
“I’ll drop the tattoo business if you promise you use one of these puppies during our two-week trip.” She is waving the condoms. I’m about to combust into miniscule pieces of embarrassment. The only thing stopping me from doing so is I’d hate to make a mess here on top of causing a scene.
A chuckle comes from the aisle next to us. We have an audience. Yippee ki-yay.
“I’m not a virgin.” I snatch the condoms, then shove them into the bowels of the basket under the tampons and toothpaste.
“Well, it was with Sean Dunham, so does it even count?” Pippa quips.
A snort comes drifting toward us, but I can’t see who the person is because there’s a wall of condom packs blocking the way. Talking in English really sucks. No matter where you are in the world, everyone knows what you’re saying.
“Hey! We went all the way.”
“More like crawled there. It was so underwhelming. And you broke up half a second after,” Pippa counters.
Accurate. Disturbingly accurate. I can’t argue with that.
“What if I don’t like anybody?” I fold my arms over my chest.
“You never do,” she sighs. “I’m not counting on you falling in love here. Just do it for the pleasure.”
The person on the other side of the aisle is full-blown laughing now. The voice definitely belongs to a male. Low and gruff.
Would you like some butter on your popcorn, my dude?
“You need to learn how to be a team player, Ever. That’s your exercise for this trip. Finding pleasure with a total stranger. No consequences. No relationship. Just a hookup in a foreign country.”
Positive the person on the other side of the aisle has heard enough about my sex life (or lack of), I turn to Pippa with a death glare.
“I’m not having sex with a stranger.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then I’ll just have to bug you to get a tattoo with me.”
Tired with her antics, I groan. “Whatever. I’ll use one. Go find us some snacks. I need to make a call.”
“If it’s Barbie you’re calling for emotional support, don’t bother. She’ll side with me, and you know it.” Pippa flutters away like a fairy, leaving stardust of giggles in her wake.
I produce my phone from my backpack and wait for the reception bars to appear.
I call Mom. She picks up on the first ring, even though it’s gazillion o’clock or whatever in California.
“Ever!” she coos. “How’s Barcelona?”
“Been here for a little less than an hour, and Pippa has already tried to pick a fight with a local, bought condoms, and tried to convince me to get a tattoo.”
“And I’m guessing you’re horrified by the entire thing?” There’s a smile in Mom’s voice.
“Gee, Mom, it’s like we know each other.”
“Well, then. All is normal in the land of Pipper.” Pippa and Ever. I love that she gave us a shipping name. Barbie Lawson is a supremely cool mom.
“I already miss you.” I dig my teeth into my lower lip.
“Actually.” She chuckles. “The reason I’m awake is because I’m going through old photo albums of yours. I can’t believe my baby is across the ocean, in Europe, on a girls’ trip.”
Ugh. I’m not going to cry in the Sexy Time aisle. I’m not.
“Yeah, neither can I. Gotta go now, Mom. I love you.”
“Same, to the moon and back.”
I end the call and am about to tuck my phone back into my back pocket.
A shadow looms over my frame, blocking the entrance to the passageway. I glance up. It’s Smoker Dude from the street. Pippa is right. He is kind of hot. In a nonobvious way. He seems tailored to my taste. Drawn in sharp strokes of coal, like a manga character. He is tall, more than conventionally attractive, and lean. His posture mimics that of a wilted sunflower. Head tilted down, like he is struggling to hear normal-height people. He has dark-blue eyes and a square jaw and a nose that is a little too long and pointy. The averageness of his nose gives his otherwise-flawless features more room to shine. It’s nature’s final stroke of genius, making him both attractive and relatable.
“Water balloons,” he deadpans, in an American accent.
“Um, what?”
He jerks his head toward the condom shelf. Right. Pippa’s insane demand that I use at least one condom.
“Fill it up, smash it over her head.”
“That’s mean,” I say.
“Mean? No. Fair? Yes.”
“Can’t do water balloons.” I untuck my septum ring from my nose. “That’s cheating.”
I want him to see the ring. I’m not sure why I want him to see it. Maybe because he is wearing a faded pair of Levi’s folded at the ankles and worn-out Chucks. Or maybe because his tousled dark hair and Anti Social Social Club: Applicant Need Not Apply tee call to me, the way a stranger reading your favorite book on the train calls to you.
“I didn’t realize we were playing on high moral ground here.” His face breaks into a haywire smile. Something inside me melts. It’s warm and gooey and settles in my stomach. Jesus. No wonder Pippa is obsessed with guys. This feels like getting on a Six Flags roller coaster after stuffing your face with a superburrito.
I’m suddenly extremely aware of my arms. Were they always this long? This heavy? This clumsy?
“Were you eavesdropping?” I ask, trying to see myself through his eyes. With my kilt and ruthlessly orange hair. The color rivals that of a perfectly baked autumn leaf. But since redheads make up less than 2 percent of the entire world population, I don’t have it in me to dye it.
He raises his arm, gesturing to a little pack in his hand. “I came to buy this.”
“Lip pencil?” I cock an eyebrow. “To go with your fake lashes?”
There’s a dark edge behind his smile, and it calls to me to come closer, peer in.
“Fine.” He shrugs. “I came in to give your friend a piece of my mind but stayed for the entertainment. Sue me.”
“Sorry about that.” I chuckle. “Pippa’s cool, you know. In a sometimes-I-want-to-duct-tape-your-mouth-but-I’ll-always-love-you kind of way.”
