CRYBABY is a DARK ROMANCE containing mature themes that might make some readers uncomfortable. It contains strong violence, sexual assault, murder, accidental death, attempted murder, profanity, drug use, theft, criminal activity, pyromania, blood gore, and some dark and disturbing scenes. In no way, shape, or form are we glorifying any of the situations or circumstances in this book.
There is no cruelty to animals.
This twisted tale is not intended for the fainthearted. So, if you’re game…follow us down the rabbit hole, baby.
Firstly, I’m dedicating this book to my co-author, Monica James, because without her, I’d be lost. This book was inspired by a conversation we had regarding a sexual assault I experienced during my high school years.
The feelings and words expressed are all those that came from the heart and then rolled into a wild fictitious story with satisfying revenge elements. Monica’s character, Rev, will forever be my crush, and he is living and breathing in my heart and mind.
I’m grateful to have gone on this journey with Monica and cannot wait to begin book 2.
For anyone who has experienced sexual assault, I stand by you with strength and compassion. You’re not alone.
I hope you enjoy this dark little tale as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Much love,
Michelle xoxo
This goes without saying, but this book is for my partner-in-crime, my soulmate, the love of my freaking life, Michelle.
This book wasn’t easy for either of us. But it helped us heal. It helped us escape the darkness which threatened to drag us under. It was therapy. And I am so blessed to have shared this crazy ride with Michelle. This year has tested me in every possible way, and Michelle has held my hand for every step of the way.
So my little monsters…welcome to our deliciously dark world.
MJ xo
There’s something about the force of a kick to the head that lets you know you’re human. The blood rushing in your ears, pulsing to the beat of your heart. Everything sounds like it’s underwater. Like the water in my brain sloshing around, realigning synapses.
I was reborn that night.
In the dirt, in the grass, amongst smelly guys with their cheap aftershave and wet cocks. Their voices barely broken and cheering as if it’s a homecoming game to egg each other on.
“Fuck her harder.”
“Hold her down.”
Words that will forever echo in the deep recesses of my mind.
I was dragged by my arms across a football field that night, as if I’m not light enough to carry.
The floodlights blinded my eyes as they rolled back into my head, which hit the edge of the bleachers at one point. I still have the scar on my scalp.
War wounds.
I thought God would save me and just let me pass out. My parents taught me that God was our Savior and Heavenly Father. But life is cruel, and survival instincts made me stay awake to watch and witness every moment.
Did they know they were creating a monster that night when they used my body like a fun park? Deflowering me as my naked ass kissed the night sky.
I broke my fingernails clawing at the dirt just trying to dig my own grave.
They tore at my clothes and used me like a fuck toy for their own amusement. Was it power, lust, or revenge? I’ll never know, and I don’t care.
I found something within me that night, with every thrust and beating…I got a taste for havoc. I knew then that I’d be back for him, and him…and him too.
A wrath so bittersweet…I could taste it mixed with the blood in my mouth as I screamed silently into the night…Forgive me, Father, for I will sin.
Three days.
72 hours.
4,320 minutes.
259,200 seconds.
That’s how long the average human can survive without water.
However, food is an entirely different ball game.
One to three months is the ballpark figure, but as I stuff my cheeks full of this Reuben sandwich on rye, it’s evident whoever came up with this cookie-cutter number was never a thief.
I don’t know what it is about stolen goods, though. They just seem to feel, smell…taste better. This sandwich is no exception. However, I suppose, technically, I didn’t steal it.
I fucked Maree Vanderbilt six ways to Sunday and made her come, and in return, as she lies in her post-orgasmic bliss, chasing her Oxy with an expensive scotch, I’ll experience my own high as I help myself to the contents of her fridge…and the priceless artwork that hangs on Maree’s kitchen wall—the real reason I’m here.
Red.
Yellow.
Pink.
Green.
A kaleidoscope of colors is before me, but all I can focus on is black.
How the stroke of a single black line can transform something so picturesque, so colorful, into something else.
How, in the end, the darkness…it always wins.
As I appreciate the splashes of color, I wonder what Maree thinks when she looks at it. Will she, too, see that beauty can be found hidden amongst the darkness?
But women like Maree—bored socialites—don’t concern themselves with shit like this. I’m sure the only reason this Floyd Brassard—a local artist who made it big and moved to Germany before cutting off his cock to use as his favorite paintbrush—piece hangs in Maree’s mansion is because she thought it matched her feature wall.
We walk, talk, function like we’re alive, but the truth is, we’re all waiting…waiting for something more.
And when you have it all, you’re always chasing a bigger, better ending, never satisfied with the riches you possess, which is why I can do what I do…and not feel a fucking thing.
With elbows resting on the marbled counter, I chew my sandwich leisurely. I’m in no hurry. Ballsy, I know. Helping myself to Pierre Vanderbilt’s prized corned beef after desecrating his marital bed.
Looking at the stolen gold Rolex on my wrist, courtesy of Pierre, I see he’ll be home any second. Maree said he was working out at the gym, but I’m sure he didn’t break a sweat doing cardio. Doing a pretty blonde at the gym is the most probable scenario.
Most would make haste, but I’m not most.
I wipe the spilled sauerkraut from the corner of my mouth with my thumb, sucking it with a pop. The fridge door is ajar, and the light inside is the beacon I need. My scuffed black Converse squeak on the linoleum as I walk toward the painting.
I stand in front of it, my reflection staring back at me from the polished glass frame.
“You could be a model,” Maree said as she lay spread out on her king-sized bed, nestled in Persian silk. “With those piercing, come fuck me golden eyes, dark, tousled hair, and a jawline that goes on for days, you must have all the young girls wrapped around your little finger. Your mere presence commands attention, and you’re not even aware of it.”
I’ve heard this before, but I don’t really understand it. Sure, I fucking love being in control, but I don’t really look the part of Prince Charming. But it doesn’t seem to matter.
“Why would I waste my time with young girls when I can fuck a real woman?” I confessed, leisurely winding the silk tie—the one Maree insisted I use—around my wrist as I stood at the foot of the bed. “There was a reason we met at the farmers’ market.”