I gag, then throw his phone at the floor, hard enough that it shatters.
Fuck him and his cheating ass.
Picking up my bags, I walk to the door and step through, pushing it hard behind me so it slams. Again, fuck him and whatever he thinks.
My car is parked out the front where I left it when I arrived to break this nightmare off. I knew I’d have to make a quick getaway.
I need to get away from him.
He’s poison.
Toxic.
A virus that has inserted itself in my system and won’t leave, sucking me dry.
Now is my chance to extract that poison.
I have to for my own health.
For my own good.
Marcus Stone is not good for me, that much is obvious.
Throwing my bags in the car, I look back at his house, and when I look up, I see him standing on his balcony staring down at me. Marcus’ hands are on the railing, his eyes locked onto mine.
“Fuck you,” I say under my breath as I walk around and get into my little red car.
The car creaks, and I wonder if it can hear my own heart doing the same.
Chapter Two
Rochelle
BEFORE
I pull at my curls, my fingers thrusting in my hair, wanting to pull it out. It has to come out. “This can’t be happening,” I silently scream, as I watch my parents walk into the crematorium.
How is this happening?
This is not happening.
It’s a mantra that screams in my head over and over again.
On repeat.
I am a twenty-four-year-old woman who doesn’t believe in death. I don’t want to believe in it, therefore it’s not true. I hate it. With a passion so bright I wanted to light the fucking world on fire.
Letting go of my hair, I sit in the hot sun rocking back and forth. This is going to be over soon. It has to be.
I don’t know why they brought me here.
Damn it! Why on earth am I here?
I feel like a child, but I am anything but.
I do have trouble functioning as an adult lately.
One week to be exact.
Laying my head back on the concrete, the ground beneath me warms my cold body. It’s October here in Australia and the sun’s starting to become hotter and hotter.
If I continue to lay here, the makeup I am wearing will melt off my pretty little face.
It will soon be Christmas time.
Fuck! Christmas time.
A loud hiccup leaves my chest as I squeeze my eyes shut against the harsh sun.
I don’t want to be here.
This is not happening.
My two most favorite people on this planet have left me. It was sudden. It was crushing. I am shattered I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
No one understands me like they did, not even my parents. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents, but the love I have for my grandparents is my favorite kind of love. Not a day would go by when I didn’t speak to them. Not an event would pass that they didn’t attend or know about. They were there for me, for everything and anything, and I’d like to say I was the same with them.
They were my world.
They were my everything.
My grandfather—my protector.
My grandmother—my confidant.
My hands clench, and I reopen my eyes. When I do, an involuntary scream leaves my mouth. Standing above me, looking down, is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He has designer glasses covering his eyes so I can’t see them, but his dark hair is cut short, revealing his perfect face—square, clenched jaw, thin lips, angular cheekbones—and he’s watching me. When I realize he means no harm, I look away and stand, but his eyes track my movements as he continues to watch me. I know the eyes behind those glasses are locked on me, following me. I know it as much as I know I am breathing.
“You scared me,” I say.
There’s a small, fake smile playing on my lips, and he says nothing in return, simply stands there like a statue.
“Sorry for screaming.” I blink a few times, but again, not a word is spoken. I look around and see no sign of my parents. Damn them, I shouldn’t have to be here dealing with this by myself. Where are they? I know they have to be here somewhere.
“Okay, well, you can go now.” I turn back around and drop to the ground. My mind and body not wanting to deal with him, even if he is the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.
Taking a deep breath, my hands run through my hair again, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to stop. One day I will pull out all my hair and then wish I did try to prevent myself from doing it.
Sighing, I lay down. And when I look up again, I squeak.
He’s still there.
Standing above me.
Watching me.
I didn’t hear him leave, but in reality, I wasn’t really thinking about him. At all.
My mind is elsewhere.
Hand to my heart, I look up at him from my spot on the ground. “You can’t do that to people. Gosh, dude…” I wait for my heart to slow. At least it’s beating, a voice inside my head screams at me. Yes, at least it is beating.
“Rochelle…” Pushing up on my elbows, I see my mother is at the door. She looks at the man standing behind me, then to me. “Come inside.”
“No,” I answer quickly, then lay back down.
I hear the door close again, knowing she went back inside the crematorium.
Looking up, he’s still standing there, his glasses firmly in place as he looks down on me. I feel his eyes roam over my body, but he still doesn’t say one single word.
“It’s creepy, you know. To stand there and stare at someone without saying anything.”
He harrumphs, and I smirk. Then when I realize I’m smirking, I put a stop to it and close my eyes.
“Why are you out here?”
My eyes fly open at his words. His voice is strong and has a hard tone. It sends shivers all over my body, in a good way. Not even bothering to get up, I answer him with the sun glaring on my face and my hands down by my sides. “Two people I love very much are in there,” I say, referring to the crematorium.
I don’t want to go in.
I can’t.
“And…” he says it as if I should know. As if I shouldn’t care.
“I can’t go in there. I don’t want to go in there. They aren’t alive in there.” When the words leave my mouth, I look up to see him staring off in the distance, as if he’s thinking about what to say next. My eyes skim him and come to a stop at his hands. One hand has a skull tattooed on it, making me shiver.
“They aren’t alive out here either.” He starts moving, so I sit up and watch him go. His trousers are black and hug his ass, showing off the nice curves. He’s wearing black boots and a crisp, white shirt.
“Hey…” The man stops as he reaches the door, but it’s not the same door my mother poked her head out of, this is a side door. “What’s your name?”
Distraction—it’s good for the heart.
I think he’s going to answer me because his lips move a fraction, but then he turns and walks in through the doorway, not looking back as it shuts hard behind him.
Sighing, I lay back down, my heart breaking inside my chest. It cracks and continues to crack further, so loudly I wonder when the pain will stop, when it will all go away.