Landon & Shay: Part One (L&S Duet, #1)

by Brittainy C. Cherry

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved. In secret, between the shadow and the soul.” -Pablo Neruda

I never meant to be a monster, but sometimes I wondered if certain people were born that way, born with a darkness that oozed into their bloodstreams and infected their souls.

I didn’t know why so much darkness sat heavily in my chest. I didn’t know why I was so angry. I just knew that I was.

“Are you high yet? Did you relapse? Want to take a shot off my tits?”

She said it for that exact reason, too—to get to me. To push me. To make me the monster she had recently been missing. In her mind, she couldn’t use me to forget her scars if my wounds weren’t freshly opened.

Little Miss Perfect. More like Little Miss Fake. I didn’t buy her good-girl act. Nobody could be that good. Nobody could have so few demons in their closet.

I hated how unapologetically happy she was, hated how she had a way of moving around with so much confidence and joy. Her happiness annoyed the living hell out of me.

I’d take her hateful looks over her gentle doe eyes any day.

I knew loving a man like my father wasn’t an easy task. It took a strong heart to deal with a man like him, and I knew Mom’s heart beat with strength.

“You know, where a group of people get together, sit in a circle, and completely ignore one another for hours as they dive headfirst into a novel of their choosing? Does it happen in a library? Will there be bookmarks?”

I LOVE Eleanor.....

Oh? And how did Eleanor Gable die? Surrounded by a million happily ever afters and a handful of what-the-hell endings.

“You’re more than your body, and only the ones who notice that are allowed to have you in that way,”

I’d done it. I’d crossed the entrance into Satan’s den and lived to tell the story. And, shockingly, I wasn’t set on fire. Angels like me weren’t supposed to dance in the same ring as the Devil.

“Yeah, I had a feeling, but you know what they say: the heart wants what the heart wants.” And Tracey’s heart was locked and loaded for her next mistake. “That’s how herpes happens,” Eric said, making me giggle.

If Kentucky were a cock, Reggie would be the first in line to suck it.

Playa. This white boy from Kentucky, wearing an oversized Biggie Smalls shirt, had actually just said the word playa, and that sealed the deal for me—I couldn’t stand the new guy.

That was one thing about Shay that I couldn’t argue with—she had bark to her. I would have bet behind the bark was a nice bite, too.

Making my cock hard wasn’t the challenge, though. Making my heart soft was.

“You sure you want to put yourself in this position, Chick?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Because once you love me, every other man you ever date will be an utter disappointment.” “And once you love me, you’ll never be able to get me out of your head,” she said, stepping even closer.

“I can make you fall in love with me without you even tasting my lips.” “I can make you love me while still treating you like shit.”

You. Are. Fake. F-A-K-E. Fake. There is nothing real about you. You’re a walking lie.”

Don’t let her read your pages, Landon. She couldn’t have even handled my prologue.

“I get you not wanting to kiss. That’s intimate and personal, but if you want, this is your last chance to touch my cock while no one’s looking. I won’t stop you.” “No thanks. I’m allergic to peanuts,” she said so effortlessly and loudly, causing the crowd on the other side of the door to burst into laughter.

“If you’re not going to blow me then stop staring at me, sunshine,” I huffed out. “Don’t call me sunshine,” she said. Then, stop being so damn bright.

I didn’t reply to any of the messages, because they weren’t really talking to me. They were talking to the person I pretended to be on the regular.

“How’s your heart today?” she asked me, the same question she asked every time she stopped by. “Still beating.” “Good.”

I LOVE Mimi, I have a feeling she’s going to be really important in this duet.

I’d learned early on that there aren’t any real villains in life, just heroes who have been beaten down for so long they’ve forgotten they have the ability to be good.

I wanted to know his story. His ugly, hard novel. I wanted to read his words, even though they seemed to bleed across the page in the most painful way.

I knew I’d never carve his initials next to mine, because a person like me could never love a monster like Landon. In fairytales, the beauty fell in love with the beast. In reality, the beast destroyed beauty.

When someone saw your pain and didn’t look away, it felt like a gift, like they were allowing you to be exactly who you were without shame or judgments.

While my mother was a mouse, my grandmother was a lion, and she wasn’t shy about people hearing her roar.

I came from a household of addiction. My father was addicted to drugs—both using and dealing them—and my mother was addicted to him.

Wrong. I hated her. Monica hated the way I hated Shay, as if my hatred was giving too much attention to another girl.

What kind of person would want to love a broken heart? What kind of person would take the time to listen to the heartbeats of something so damaged? I just hope broken hearts can receive love, too. I think us broken hearts need love the most.

Sometimes, sitting in silence with someone who is willing to stay with you helps a heart heal more than talking about one’s hurts.

Funny how you could be a different character in different people’s storybooks.

“Really, Landon? Marijuana?” She always did that—called it marijuana instead of pot or weed. I didn’t know why, but it always made it sound so much worse than it actually was.

That was why I kept so much of my crap to myself instead of unloading it on her shoulders. Her baggage was already heavy enough—she didn’t need me weighing her down any more.

I never in my life doubted my mother’s love. I just knew it came in spurts. Whenever it showed up, like a famished child, I swallowed her love whole, using it to nourish my sick soul.

She made pancakes that tasted like baking soda, a burnt lasagna, and an extremely hideous coconut cake—my three favorite foods, completely butchered at the hand of my mother. Maria would’ve been horrified. Shit, I was horrified, but she was there, trying—failing miserably at the cooking thing, but trying nonetheless.

“Since when do you cook?” Since you left me home alone to fend for myself. I didn’t want to be a dick, though, not with her leaving soon. The last thing I ever wanted to do was make her feel like shit for being a shitty parent sometimes, even though, honestly speaking, she was a shitty parent sometimes.

“It’s still there, Landon,” Maria swore. “Your heart—I still hear it beating. You’re good. You’re okay. You’re all right.” That broke me even more.

Was he over it? Over me? Over our bet? Because I wasn’t. I still wanted to play, wanted to watch him, wanted to explore.

If Landon was fake, I was certain he’d learned his skills from the fakest girl of them all.

“Okay, good. I just wanted to let you know. Us girls have to look out for each other.” Yeah, Monica. You’re real Spice Girls “Girl Power” over there.

“So, I guess the game is still on,” I said, throwing a carrot her way. She caught it and bit into it as she shrugged her shoulders and began to walk away. “Catch me if you can.” Don’t worry, Shay Gable. I will.

“I had some free time on my hands and thought I might audition for the show.” “Yeah right. You don’t act.” “My whole life is an act, sweet pea.”

You probably couldn’t act your way out of a plastic bag if you had to.” “Why in the hell would I ever have to act my way out of a plastic bag? What does that even mean? Also, who has plastic bags that can just fit actors inside of them?”

The battle of God was more like a war for me. I wanted to believe in him, but he’d given me so many reasons not to do so.

“You’re meant to be Juliet.” She shivered from my heat and took a deep breath. “But you’re not my Romeo. You’ll never be my Romeo.”