Total pages in book: 212
Estimated words: 207966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1040(@200wpm)___ 832(@250wpm)___ 693(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1040(@200wpm)___ 832(@250wpm)___ 693(@300wpm)
A puff of smoke. A mirage. That the touch wasn’t what I thought. That the eyes don’t want what I thought I saw.
I’m screwed so much worse than ever before because those eyes, the touch, the feel. The stark thirst for something mine. Something real.
There’s gonna be salt in the wound. And it’ll sting when I grind it in. To remind myself that people like me don’t get what they want, don’t get what they need. I’ll just sit on the sidelines vacantly, watching myself bleed.
I’ve scrawled a lot of words, thoughts, lyrics, or poems about Jesse James Garcia.
You would not have wanted this whole story from my point of view. I think quite lyrically. Words come to life on a page for me, so you'd have grown bored of my interpretive dance monologues about his eyes. His abs. His scowl. His hands… damn but the things those hands can do. His tattoos. That piercing…
Not to mention his scent. The best thing I've ever inhaled. The thing that makes me unafraid of the dark. And to keep listening to me go on about how I’m sure he can't possibly believe I've got the potential to be worth something to him… something beyond the shell that has everybody thinking I'm a soulless, vapid bimbo. My inner monologue is pretty brutal and self-deprecating.
I would have hated a peek inside his head in the beginning. I didn’t need to know what he was thinking because it was all over his face. I was a pain in his ass assignment, and he didn't trust me. I grated on his nerves like a dripping faucet while you try to sleep.
That first night in his room, I kept hearing my own voice in my head reciting words I’d written years before.
Pull the pain from the vein and watch it wash away.
So I’ll feel alive again.
So I’ll see the red against the gray. Against the same old sad end, alone in my head.
He hated that I was in his bed. And I never slept with guys either. They usually sent me on my way when they were done with me. Men never went down on me either until him. Because I guess they figured too many had gone there before. Most times I’d barely get off because they were all about their own happy ending. But Jesse made it a mission to get me off. Jesse got off on getting me off.
But then to get to see things shift to where he made it his mission to show me this was about more than sex, to teach me what it feels like to matter to someone… to matter deeply? Yeah… I couldn’t believe it. I tried to talk myself out of believing it, but again it was right there. In those endless dark eyes. In his words and actions. The fight against believing it was futile. But I tried. And the impatient man learned patience in order to teach me I’m worth something.
God, I couldn't even dream up something this good for myself and believe me, I'm a dreamer. When life is as shit as mine was, living in my head was the only thing that saved me from turning into Kailey. Or Aunt Francie.
The reality of Jesse Garcia is way better than even the insanely broody-hot promise. And I still can’t believe he’s mine and only mine.
I also can’t get over how much my life has changed in a few short months. But he makes sure I believe. Believe that I deserve happiness. That I have a voice and I should use it, whether it’s to sing, scream, laugh, cry, or moan, but also, to stand up for myself.
The reality of Jesse is way more than I could’ve hoped for. And it scared the shit out of me when he started to show me he was all in.
Stories on your skin tell me where you’ve been. What you love. What you like. What you want. Why you’re right. Who is worthwhile. What is tight. Will you let me touch your stories tonight?
Would I ever want to leave once I dove deep?
What would I write on my skin to tell you who I am, where I’ve been? Who I love. What’s been hard. Why I hurt. What I want.
If I thought you’d care, I’d write a layer of notes you could hear. A song so dear. I’d weave a warmth so snug, you’d never want to leave.
I’d feel your breath on my neck, breathe your sweat like air. Hold your hand. Bury my hands in your hair.
If you really felt my love, would it be enough to fix what’s broken inside me?
It would be. It is. Because once I showed him what I felt, how much I loved him, once I showed him trust, the floodgates opened, and the rush was such I finally felt like maybe love was here to stay. It took time for me to learn, to believe. When I opened myself up to receiving love and goodness in my life, it started coming for me. And Jesse stayed.