Find Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy - Book Two) (11 page)

Math and Logic have no place in the
highest states of the mind and emotion where love is a song sung by
a voice so heavenly that only an idiot would ever claim its
non-existence. And even if it doesn’t exist, only an assassin would
tell the world the truth of it—someone who wanted nations to bomb
each other and start wars and kill everyone in them. Because what
are we all living for at the end of the day?

I
believe, that we live for the song of love. That
piece of heaven right here on earth.

The only heaven there is.

My Heaven:
Blaze’s touch on my hand. Her green eyes in a dark
world. Her tentative smile appearing from behind the blackened
smoke of life’s bloody battlefield. It’s her whimper, her breast on
my lips. It’s the music she makes, her bare leg under my hand. My
fingers inside her.
Me
inside her.
My lips to hers. The flutter in my heart as she caresses my
back.

None of that follows any logic...

Like I said, I was never very smart, I got
Ds at school. And right now, sitting with Blaze at this café,
wondering what I did to deserve the feeling I’m experiencing now,
I’ve never been so glad for it.

Here’s to us dumbasses who believe there’s
more to life than just the Failures and the Sadnesses.

To
The Romantics.

To T
he Lovers.

“I love you, Blaze.”

“I love you too, Deck.”

And suddenly, just like that, everything’s
OK.

Isn’t it
?

I text Trev.

Deck: Dino Moretti came after me today.
Threw a Molotov into Blaze’s building. I’m hanging with her
tonight. But tomorrow, wanna go hunting?

Trev: Name the time.

Deck: I’ll call. Ask Skate if he’ll watch
Blaze. Lots happening around her. Makes me nervous.

Minutes later.

Skate: No probs. Pity I’ll miss the hunt.
Leave a piece for me.

“
Your secret girlfriend?” Blaze asks as we
get to my car.

“Nah, just updating Trev on what
happened.”

“And what did he say?”

So I don’t tell the
whole
truth. Does that count as a lie? “He’s
pissed.”

The Belieber party is exactly what
you’d
expect it to be: A
bunch of rich teenagers (barely out of their tweens actually)
partying it up with OJ in their hands and braces on their teeth.
Two adult chaperones mill about looking like Hogwarts
disciplinarians.

Regardless,
I can’t help being amazed by a few incredible
things—incredible to me. Because I suppose they’re pretty normal
actually. Or so I’ve heard...

One. The kids are happy. Truly and
wonderfully happy.
No
booze, no drugs, and nothing even close to sex near them. (Well,
except for the heated discussion at point two, below.)

Two. There aren’t any drugs anywhere.
Nowhere. Not even a spiked punch. The most exciting thing at the
party is a heated discussion (within earshot of the DJ box) of
where to play Spin the Bottle and whether or not they’re willing to
do first base “with tongue.” (Which is quickly vetoed away by our
birthday girl, Alanna Shrewsbury, with the revealing statement:
“There isn’t a freaking chance in hell I’m letting Brayden
Worthington kiss that skank Rebecca with his tongue if the bottle
lands on them!”)

And, Three: Blaze is happy. Despite
Bieber’s
Somebody to Love
playing in the background (which sounds like the smashing
windows and the screeching tires of a jackknifing truck on black
ice to me), she’s happy. Not a care in the world. Just a bunch of
people dancing away to the beats she produces. Beats which
they
enjoy. Not me, not her. The
crowd.

I figure she’d be able to play to a crowd
of
spiked-collar
metal-heads if she had to. She can read the crowd, and play to
them.

And make them happy.

Don’t we deserve the same
happiness? Or are we so far
past Alanna Shrewsbury’s frizzy hair and braces, so far beyond that
level of innocence, to deserve the same kind of joy?

I fucking hope not. Because that shit
would just be too damned depressing.

Blaze Ryleigh

In
Declan’s truck, we joke like a pair of lovebirds driving
across
Route
66
with the top down,
desert sun blazing, hair in our ears and
Thelma and Louise
shades on our eyes. It doesn’t matter that
there’s trash on the streets and that it’s two in the morning—when
I’m with Declan, the sun’s always shining.

“
Hunter Hayes? Blaze, tell me again, who
the
fuck
is Hunter
Hayes!?”

“
C&W singer. Looks not even old enough
to have sex, never mind drink. But he’s legally allowed to do both.
In any state.”

“And you know about him, how?”

“It’s my job.”

“
Those kids went freaking
wild
when you put his shit
on.”

“
I knew they would. He sings some pretty
romantic stuff, and it appeals to that crowd.”

“
And how would you define
‘that crowd’?”

“
Dunno, care-free. Still believing in
Happily Ever Afters.”

“You don’t believe in Happily Ever
Afters?”

I look out the window. “I’d rather not
comment on that.”

He puts his hand on my jeans, rubs up and
down. “You’re incredible, Blaze.”

I put my hand over his, and say nothing.

We arrive at his apartment block at the
corner of Bushwick and Bed-Stuy. A nondescript brick building
with
stairs leading up
to the entrance that conjure up images for me of people sitting
outside and reading a newspaper with a mug of coffee in the
morning.

He opens the door to his
apartment, flicks on a light.
All I see is a blue football jersey with a huge
56
on it,
on the wall, before his lips are on mine. And then I don’t
see shit. My fingers loosen around the grip of the my rucksack and
it falls next to my feet.

Now
I’m thinking about a whole new type of music. One that
doesn’t come with any instruments, and where Deck and I are the
only band members; playing in a crowded house without any air
conditioning.

’
Cause I’m sweating now...

In between tasty kisses, I say, “No tour of
your place?”

“Later.”

He starts taking off my top. I fight with
his own. I feel the heat in my chest like a shot of tequila. I have
him to the back of his two-seater couch—
56
jersey behind me now. I open my eyes briefly and
see a TV so huge I actually laugh.

“What?”

“
TV.” We’re not sharing many words, because
our lips are both occupied. “Movie fan?”

“
Football fan.”

“Figured.”

I allow myself a moment to appreciate his
body. The sinewy feel of it, the hardness
, his eight-pack. It makes me smile widely, and I
feel the flush on my cheeks like an embarrassed
schoolgirl.

He doesn’t notice. His hands are all over my
A-cup bra, trying to take it off.

“Wait.” I smile coyly, push him back. “I
wanna look at you.”

“
And I wanna put my lips all over you, all
over your breasts, between your legs...”

It takes me a moment to realize I
haven’t
just been hit by a train,
because it feels like I have. And dunked in water. Warm water. Down
below...

“This is the first time...” I bite my lip,
savoring his beauty slowly with my eyes. “...It’s the first time
I’m not so ‘overwhelmed’ by...us. And I wanna enjoy it.”

Not willing to wait anymore, he pulls me
toward him.

He’s h
ard and ready. My crotch presses against his. It takes all
the will I have to not fall on him and have him take me.

“You’ve been ‘overwhelmed’?”

“
A little. I’ve never been with a guy like
I’ve been with you. And I’m not talking about sex only. Because
I’ve done plenty stuff that was like sex. All the times
we’ve
made
love
”—I clear my
throat—“it’s been a little like holding on while waves take over
me. I’ve felt a little ‘taken for a ride’—and I don’t mean that in
some sick sort of pun!”

“
No, I get you. It’s been that way for me a
little as well. Not completely, but, I get you. It’s almost like
the emotion of it was such an unbelievable rush that I got ripped
along with its current.”

I fe
el that current now. Whitewater-rafting strong. I put my
hands to my breasts and fall on him, rest my forehead on his
collarbone, let him hold me. “That’s exactly what it’s been
like.”

“
For me too, babe.
For me too.” His voice is soft. Warm,
soapy water on my skin.

“
Well, I had plans of stepping back,
perving over your masculine
body a little; riding the wave instead of having it ride me. But
I’m losing. I love you
so
much, Declan Cox.”

“
You sing to
me, Blaze Kablowsky.”

I laugh. “
Kieliszewski
!”

“
Doesn’t matter. You still sing to me.” He
kisses me on my ear, then on the tatted stars on my neck. And what
strikes me strongest is that his eyes are closed tighter than a
virgin’s— Let’s not go there.

H
e says, “You’re my music.”

Which is when the
music begins: Hard, drumming breaths and
moist, slapping licks while the wave blasts over me and I take him
over the top of the couch with me. I rip his pants off. Then my
own.

And I put him inside me.

By now, I think you know me pretty well.
So you’ll know that I’ve never done it on a couch. It’s a little
uncomfortable, let me tell you that. Where to put the leg, where to
put the other leg, the foot. Then his ass falls slightly off the
side...

But these problems don’t last long.
Because Deck
is
thrusting into me so forcefully and passionately that the momentary
cramp I feel on my left leg (the one squished between his
magnificent ass and the back of the couch) gives way to the
plummeting sensation I feel in the bottom of my stomach as the
orgasm teases me with every potent upward thrust of his into
me.

I’m bouncing. And it’s like I feel his
cock all the way up into my eyes
as he rams it into—

H
e roars! And it’s the most glorious fucking sound I’ve
heard on any goddamned album ever made by anyone in any country and
in any studio. Anywhere.

And with that roar comes a spasming thrum
of his cock inside me
as
it collides and explodes and shoots—

“
Oh, baby....
urgh
...I’m also coming. Oh, god, oh, honey! Deck,
baby...”

The wave is a
ferocious backhand to my head.

I land on his chest.

And I grip for dear life
as we come together.

Have you heard that duet with Ashley
Monroe and Hunter Hayes?
What you Gonna Do
. That’s what it’s called. Starts off with a
single piano key, one-note-at-a-time tune. Then a funky, groovy
acoustic guitar. And his voice. It’s like milk on honey. A single
beat appears—bass drum.

Then she comes in. Mellifluous
silver...
Still
slow.

And so it goes. His voice, hers. A few
more beats. Then the electric
guitar. But none of it’s heavy. None of it’s hard. There’s
no build-up like in Hard House—you know, where all the instruments
get cut except for a
tick-tick-tick-tick
tinny beat, and then a
SLAM-BOOM-EXPLODE
top-of-the-mountain bass beat after
that.

No, duets work differently. What makes a
good duet is the intertwining of the man and the woman’s voice.
Never a slam-dunk beat, always a constant rhythm, always gentle,
but hard passion hovering just below the surface—so thick that you
can feel it spike against your hand like static
electricity.

Music mimics life.

I think you know what I
’m talking about here.

There are two types of fearless people. Those
with nothing to lose, and those who don’t care. A week ago, I had
nothing to lose, and I certainly didn’t care.

Imagine
where I fit on that scale now.

Right. I’m shittin my ass off.

In the morning, I try and act strong. But
I’m freaking out. Not about me. I’m not freaking out about me at
all.
A dude just threw a
Molotov Cocktail into my building, trying to kill Deck. Or was he
just scaring us? Deck’s father was murdered barely three days ago,
but the psycho-chick who did it was aiming for Declan’s best
friend. And once aimed that same gun at Declan himself!