Redwood Love Quotes

Walking, I can almost hear the redwoods beating. And the oceans are above me here, rolling clouds, heavy and dark. It is winter and there is smoke from the fires. It is a world of elemental attention, of all things working together, listening to what speaks in the blood. Whichever road I follow, I walk in the land of many gods, and they love and eat one another. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.

God. He was an eye-gasm if she ever saw one.

How southern belle of her.

Her mother and memory lapses were BFFs.

Hazard of the job. That's Ode de Anal Gland you smell.

Just about every available female--and some unavailable--seemed to think the way to his heart was through his blood sugar levels.

Translation: She's too good for you.

He used his soothing tone reserved for cray-cray animals.

I'll never get to hear her say, 'I love you, Mommy,' like other parents take for granted.

Popcorn, chocolate, coffee, ice cream, and pizza. The five food groups. Health nuts are going to feel stupid one day, dying of nothing.

One would think he'd become a Master Jedi at it by now, but alas, "no" was not in his Webster.

As I walk through the redwood trees, my sneakers sopping up days of rain, I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes, when grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.

I can feel you,” Willows whispered. Tears fell to down her cheeks, and he kissed her softly on the lips, pouring all his love into that one kiss.

Parrots, tortoises and redwoods live a longer life than men do; Men a longer life than dogs do; Dogs a longer life than love does.

The thought of seeing him had left her a tangled jumble of basket case, complete with a straight jacket for accessory.

If the gods of Gorgeousness and Charm and Sexiness had a threesome, Jason Burkwell would’ve been the resulting love child.

I don’t care if it’s been five minutes or five months or five years. You’re it for me and there’s no sense in waiting.

Twenty-five years, and it still felt like yesterday he’d ripped her heart out of her chest. While it had still been beating.

Ever make toast? The act of browning bread. Apply butter or maybe jam afterward. Once finished, you can’t unmake it. You can’t change it back to bread. That’s what love is. Toast.

Death carves holes in your soul, and love fills them.

When a person sees someone attractive to them, their eyes dilate twenty percent. Their brain floods with dopamine, which makes them happy. Thus, they believe it’s love. That’s a medical fact. Love doesn’t exist.

Live or die, but don't poison everything... Well, death's been here for a long time -- it has a hell of a lot to do with hell and suspicion of the eye and the religious objects and how I mourned them when they were made obscene by my dwarf-heart's doodle. The chief ingredient is mutilation. And mud, day after day, mud like a ritual, and the baby on the platter, cooked but still human, cooked also with little maggots, sewn onto it maybe by somebody's mother, the damn bitch! Even so, I kept right on going on, a sort of human statement, lugging myself as if I were a sawed-off body in the trunk, the steamer trunk. This became perjury of the soul. It became an outright lie and even though I dressed the body it was still naked, still killed. It was caught in the first place at birth, like a fish. But I play it, dressed it up, dressed it up like somebody's doll. Is life something you play? And all the time wanting to get rid of it? And further, everyone yelling at you to shut up. And no wonder! People don't like to be told that you're sick and then be forced to watch you come down with the hammer. Today life opened inside me like an egg and there inside after considerable digging I found the answer. What a bargain! There was the sun, her yolk moving feverishly, tumbling her prize -- and you realize she does this daily! I'd known she was a purifier but I hadn't thought she was solid, hadn't known she was an answer. God! It's a dream, lovers sprouting in the yard like celery stalks and better, a husband straight as a redwood, two daughters, two sea urchings, picking roses off my hackles. If I'm on fire they dance around it and cook marshmallows. And if I'm ice they simply skate on me in little ballet costumes. Here, all along, thinking I was a killer, anointing myself daily with my little poisons. But no. I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar. Even with the witches' gymnastics they trust my incalculable city, my corruptible bed. O dearest three, I make a soft reply. The witch comes on and you paint her pink. I come with kisses in my hood and the sun, the smart one, rolling in my arms. So I say Live and turn my shadow three times round to feed our puppies as they come, the eight Dalmatians we didn't drown, despite the warnings: The abort! The destroy! Despite the pails of water that waited, to drown them, to pull them down like stones, they came, each one headfirst, blowing bubbles the color of cataract-blue and fumbling for the tiny tits. Just last week, eight Dalmatians, 3/4 of a lb., lined up like cord wood each like a birch tree. I promise to love more if they come, because in spite of cruelty and the stuffed railroad cars for the ovens, I am not what I expected. Not an Eichmann. The poison just didn't take. So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.

Love should never be left to its own devices.

For the love of all the Gobstoppers in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, would he please just leave her alone?

Amory Lovins says the primary design criteria he uses is the question “How do we love all the children?” Not just our children, not just the ones who look like us or who have resources, not just the human children but the young of birds and salmon and redwood trees. When we love all the children, when that love is truly sacred to us in the sense of being most important, then we have to take action in the world to enact that love. We are called to make the earth a place where all the children can thrive.

It was a memory so embedded, it was a part of her DNA. This was the exact reason why she’d never married or found a long-term partner after him. Because no one else could reach her where it hurt in order to heal what he’d done. And here he was, back again, making an old wound bleed.

John Hay, in The Immortal Wilderness, has written: 'There are occasions when you can hear the mysterious language of the Earth, in water, or coming through the trees, emanating from the mosses, seeping through the undercurrents of the soil, but you have to be willing to wait and receive.' Sometimes I hear it talking. The light of the sunflower was one language, but there are others more audible. Once, in the redwood forest, I heard a beat, something like a drum or a heart coming from the ground and trees and wind. That underground current stirred a kind of knowing inside me, a kinship and longing, a dream barely remembered that disappeared back to the body.... Tonight, I walk. I am watching the sky. I think of the people who came before me and how they knew the placement of the stars in the sky, watching the moving sun long and hard enough to witness how a certain angle of light touched a stone only once a year. Without written records, they knew the gods of every night, the small, fine details of the world around them and the immensity above them. Walking, I can almost hear the redwoods beating....It is a world of elemental attention, of all things working together, listening to what speaks in the blood. Whichever road I follow, I walk in the land of many gods, and they love and eat one another. Walking, I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.

So are we going to play this good cop, bad cop?" Brett asked as Nathan returned to the monitoring room. "Absolutely not. We're going to play this bad cop and on-the-verge-of-homicidal-maniac cop. You get to play bad cop." "But you know I love the maniacal, homicidal role better." "Let's just do it cleanly.

I’m passing the bar Where you first got in my car I’m not ashamed to admit That it’s you I won’t forget I saved your cigarettes and Bad habits I regret But the hours flew by like clouds Whenever I had you around Parachute lover Take me away From the plane that went crashing And the earth that’s in flames Saving you is saving me High above the redwood trees But down below I see shadows And parachute debris We're drifting like children Along for the ride Each time we find love Another parachute arrives Our madness will burn As bright as the sun And I’ll keep finding lovers But you were the one

Under the redwood tree my grave was laid, and I beguiled my true love to lie down. The stream of our kiss put a waterway around the world, where love like a refugee sailed in the last ship. My hair made a shroud, and kept the coyotes at bay while we wrote our cyphers with anatomy. The winds boomed triumph, our spines seemed overburdened, and our bones groaned like old trees, but a smile like a cobweb was fastened across the mouth of the cave of fate. Fear will be a terrible fox at my vitals under my tunic of behaviour. Oh, canary, sing out in the thunderstorm, prove your yellow pride. Give me a reason for courage or a way to be brave. But nothing tangible comes to rescue my besieged sanity, and I cannot decipher the code of the eucalyptus thumping on my roof. I am unnerved by the opponents of God, and God is out of earshot. I must spin good ghosts out of my hope to oppose the hordes at my window. If those who look in see me condescend to barricade the door, they will know too much and crowd in to overcome me. The parchment philosopher has no traffic with the night, and no conception of the price of love. With smoky circles of thought he tries to combat the fog, and with anagrams to defeat anatomy. I posture in vain with his weapons, even though I am balmed with his nicotine herbs. Moon, moon, rise in the sky to be a reminder of comfort and the hour when I was brave.

People of Redwood Ridge always referred to themselves as victims when they were found in the path of Cupid’s arrow, wielded by the sisters. They ran. They hid. They resisted. In the end, they succumbed. He was the sheriff. He got around. He saw and heard things most didn’t. And the truth was, not a solitary “victim” was unhappy after The Battleaxes were through with them.

He was nose-diving way past in like with her and headed straight toward Faceplantville.

Tan Chau lies on the Thanh Hoa canal, which sings with freedom as it flows into the Mekong River on its way to the sea. Only the wind and the water, which you cannot imprison, are truly free.

Whenever you see redwoods in the National Geographic, or fog, or watch Shamu on TV, you'll be seeing me. Whenever you smell pine and spruce and day-old socks, that's me. Whenever you hear wind in the tops of trees, that's me, and whenever you taste crab and wine and Brie, that's me, and whenever the wind blows your hat off or you get under a cold shower, that's me. Whenever you read about an earthquake, that's me, sure as gun's iron. Whenever you smell wet dog, that's Curtis and me, and whenever you see a Rattus rattus, that's Forrest, and I'm right behind him. Never see me again? You'll never not see me. And I'll never not see you . . .Didn't I say I'd always be your same stars? If you get to missing me, just look up.

They spent a summer talking beneath the redwoods. There was a curiosity to the way they knew. She would take his hips in her hands and turn him to the left, so the sun would not be in his eyes. He would take her hips in his hands and turn her to the right, so the sun would not be in her eyes.. It is a dance. A very careful way they care.

Love in any language, Straight from the heart, Pulls us all together, Never apart.

I have had a lifelong association with these things. (Odd that the word 'trees' does not apply.) I can accept them and their power and their age because I was early exposed to them. ON the other hand, people lacking such experience begin to have a feeling of uneasiness here, of danger, of being shut in, enclosed and overwhelmed. It is not only the size of these redwoods but their strangeness that frightens them. And why not? For these are the last remaining members of a race that flourished over four continents as far back in geologic time as the upper Jurassic period. Fossils of these ancients have been found dating from the Cretaceous era while in the Eocene and Miocene they were spread over England and Europe and America. And then the glaciers moved down and wiped the Titans out beyond recovery. And only these few are left--a stunning memory of what the world was like once long ago. Can it be that we do not love to be reminded that we are very young and callow in a world that was old when we came into it? And could there be a strong resistance to the certainty that a living world will continue its stately way when we no longer inhabit it?

If you want to save the snow leopard, or the giant Redwoods, or the Okavango delta, or the Amazon, or the atmosphere, or the Earth, or those you love, or yourself, or the human race, this is the only path that can achieve that–so the truth is the sooner you support and adopt this path of transformation through understanding the better. The choice is self-destruction or self-discovery.

Relationships are tenuous, like a fragile seedling. You could ruin its chances at growing and thriving by carelessly trampling it or shrouding it in a canopy of darkness. And also like a seedling, if you give it light and love and time for the roots to grow deeply, it’ll flourish into a majestic redwood.

May God bless and protect you. May he smooth the path that lies before you, and give you the grace and humility to accept both fortune and sorrow. May you be strong as the redwood when troubles arise, and bend like the willow when forgiveness beckons. Above all, may you love joyfully, gratefully, faithfully, in Christ’s name. Amen.

In giving rise to man, the evolutionary process has, apparently for the first and only time in the history of the Cosmos, become conscious of itself. So, the Devil's Chaplain might conclude, Stand tall, Bipedal Ape. The shark may outswim you, the cheetah outrun you, the swift outfly you, the capuchin outclimb you, the elephant outpower you, the redwood outlast you. But you have the biggest gifts of all: the gift of understanding the ruthlessly cruel process that gave us all existence; the gift of revulsion against its implications; the gift of foresight — something utterly foreign to the blundering short-term ways of natural selection — and the gift of internalizing the very cosmos.

Their eyes, warm not only with human bond but with the shared enjoyment of the art objects he sold, their mutual tastes and satisfactions, remained fixed on him; they were thanking him for having things like these for them to see, pick up and examine, handle perhaps without even buying. Yes, he thought, they know what sort of store they are in; this is not tourist trash, not redwood plaques reading Muir Woods, Marin County, PSA, or funny signs or girly rings or postcards or views of the Bridge. The girl’s eyes especially, large, dark. How easily, Childan thought, I could fall in love with a girl like this. How tragic my life, then; as if it weren’t bad enough already. The stylish black hair, lacquered nails, pierced ears for the long dangling brass handmade earrings. “Your

It is not only the size of these redwoods but their strangeness that frightens them. And why not? For these are the last remaining members of a race that flourished over four continents as far back in geologic time as the upper Jurassic period. Fossils of these ancients have been found dating from the Cretaceous era while in the Eocene and Miocene they were spread over England and Europe and America. And then the glaciers moved down and wiped the Titans out beyond recovery. And only these few are left--a stunning memory of what the world was like once long ago. Can it be that we do not love to be reminded that we are very young and callow in a world that was old when we came into it? And could there be a strong resistance to the certainty that a living world will continue its stately way when we no longer inhabit it?

When she was younger, Ellie used to believe that her invisibility was a metaphor for something else, assuming it was her awkwardness, her fear of saying or doing the wrong thing. She had thought as she grew older, more confident, wiser, she would outgrow this not being noticed. But lately, Ellie really felt like a ghost. She would be in a place, but not really there. People looked through her, past her. Her invisibility had taken on a life of its own. It wasn't a metaphor anymore, or a defense mechanism or eccentric little tic. She was actually invisible. At least, that was how it felt to her. Ellie wondered whether her parents were to blame. They were, after all, children of the sixties who had met at a love-in or lie-down or something of that sort, about which Ellie knew little except that a lot of drugs had been involved. Could Ellie's lack of physical presence be a genetic mutation caused by acid or mushrooms? Ellie grew up on their hippie commune among the highest, densest redwoods, where they dug their hands deep into the soil and grew their own food, made their own clothes. So perhaps it is there that the mystery is solved. Ellie indeed was a child of the earth, a baby of beiges and taupes and browns and muted greens. Nature doesn't scream and shout, demanding constant attention, and neither did Ellie. Maybe her invisibility was just her blending right in.

San Francisco always felt like an island to me, surrounded by the mythical East Bay with its restaurants and parks and North Bay with its wealth and its redwoods. South of the city was where our dead were buried—but not my mother, whose ashes returned to the ocean that killed her, which was also the ocean she loved. South of that were little beach towns, and then Silicon Valley and Stanford. But the people, everyone I knew, everyone I’d ever known, all lived in the city.

I KNEW THAT if I continued to debate politics and science—and stayed in the mind instead of the heart and the spirit—it would always be about one side versus the other. We all understand love, however; we all understand respect, we all understand dignity, and we all understand compassion up to a certain point. But how could I convince the loggers to transfer those feelings that they might have for a human being to the forest? And how could I get them to let go of their stereotypes of me? Because in their mind, I was a tree-hugging, granola-eating, dirty, dreadlocked hippie environmentalist. They always managed to say this word with such disgust and disdain!

February 11: Andre de Dienes sends Marilyn a telegram calling her “Turkey Foot,” his nickname for her: “STOP FEELING SORRY FOR YOURSELF. GET OUT OF THE HOSPITAL. LET’S GO DRIVING AND HIKING THROUGH THE REDWOODS, INCOGNITO, AND TAKE BEAUTIFUL PICTURES LIKE NOBODY COULD EVER TAKE. IT WILL CURE YOU OF ALL YOUR ILLS. CALL ME UP. LOVE.” Nan Taylor, the wife of Frank Taylor, producer of The Misfits, writes to Marilyn: “It seems to me again, as it did last summer, very sad that we who have been given so much by you cannot give you even what little we might in return. You have my admiration for your courage, my gratitude for the many delights of charm and beauty and humor your presence has meant, and my deep sorrow for your troubles. I believe in your strength, Marilyn, as I believe in the sun. If at any time I can help in any way, please let me, Love, Nan.

The morning after / my death” The morning after my death we will sit in cafés but I will not be there I will not be * There was the great death of birds the moon was consumed with fire the stars were visible until noon. Green was the forest drenched with shadows the roads were serpentine A redwood tree stood alone with its lean and lit body unable to follow the cars that went by with frenzy a tree is always an immutable traveller. The moon darkened at dawn the mountain quivered with anticipation and the ocean was double-shaded: the blue of its surface with the blue of flowers mingled in horizontal water trails there was a breeze to witness the hour * The sun darkened at the fifth hour of the day the beach was covered with conversations pebbles started to pour into holes and waves came in like horses. * The moon darkened on Christmas eve angels ate lemons in illuminated churches there was a blue rug planted with stars above our heads lemonade and war news competed for our attention our breath was warmer than the hills. * There was a great slaughter of rocks of spring leaves of creeks the stars showed fully the last king of the Mountain gave battle and got killed. We lay on the grass covered dried blood with our bodies green blades swayed between our teeth. * We went out to sea a bank of whales was heading South a young man among us a hero tried to straddle one of the sea creatures his body emerged as a muddy pool as mud we waved goodbye to his remnants happy not to have to bury him in the early hours of the day We got drunk in a barroom the small town of Fairfax had just gone to bed cherry trees were bending under the weight of their flowers: they were involved in a ceremonial dance to which no one had ever been invited. * I know flowers to be funeral companions they make poisons and venoms and eat abandoned stone walls I know flowers shine stronger than the sun their eclipse means the end of times but I love flowers for their treachery their fragile bodies grace my imagination’s avenues without their presence my mind would be an unmarked grave. * We met a great storm at sea looked back at the rocking cliffs the sand was going under black birds were leaving the storm ate friends and foes alike water turned into salt for my wounds. * Flowers end in frozen patterns artificial gardens cover the floors we get up close to midnight search with powerful lights the tiniest shrubs on the meadows A stream desperately is running to the ocean The Spring Flowers Own & The Manifestations of the Voyage (The Post-Apollo Press, 1990)

When it begins it is like a light in a tunnel, a rush of steel and steam across a torn up life. It is a low rumble, an earthquake in the back of the mind. My spine is a track with cold black steel racing on it, a trail of steam and dust following behind, ghost like. It feels like my whole life is holding its breath. By the time she leaves the room I am surprised that she can’t see the train. It has jumped the track of my spine and landed in my mothers’ living room. A cold dark thing, black steel and redwood paneling. It is the old type, from the western movies I loved as a kid. He throws open the doors to the outside world, to the dark ocean. I feel a breeze tugging at me, a slender finger of wind that catches at my shirt. Pulling. Grabbing. I can feel the panic build in me, the need to scream or cry rising in my throat. And then I am out the door, running, tumbling down the steps falling out into the darkened world, falling out into the lifeless ocean. Out into the blackness. Out among the stars and shadows. And underneath my skin, in the back of my head and down the back of my spine I can feel the desperation and I can feel the noise. I can feel the deep and ancient ache of loudness that litters across my bones. It’s like an old lover, comfortable and well known, but unwelcome and inappropriate with her stories of our frolicking. And then she’s gone and the Conductor is closing the door. The darkness swells around us, enveloping us in a cocoon, pressing flat against the train like a storm. I wonder, what is this place? Those had been heady days, full and intense. It’s funny. I remember the problems, the confusions and the fears of life we all dealt with. But, that all seems to fade. It all seems to be replaced by images of the days when it was all just okay. We all had plans back then, patterns in which we expected the world to fit, how it was to be deciphered. Eventually you just can’t carry yourself any longer, can’t keep your eyelids open, and can’t focus on anything but the flickering light of the stars. Hours pass, at first slowly like a river and then all in a rush, a climax and I am home in the dorm, waking up to the ringing of the telephone. When she is gone the apartment is silent, empty, almost like a person sleeping, waiting to wake up. When she is gone, and I am alone, I curl up on the bed, wait for the house to eject me from its dying corpse. Crazy thoughts cross through my head, like slants of light in an attic. The Boston 395 rocks a bit, a creaking noise spilling in from the undercarriage. I have decided that whatever this place is, all these noises, sensations - all the train-ness of this place - is a fabrication. It lulls you into a sense of security, allows you to feel as if it’s a familiar place. But whatever it is, it’s not a train, or at least not just a train. The air, heightened, tense against the glass. I can hear the squeak of shoes on linoleum, I can hear the soft rattle of a dying man’s breathing. Men in white uniforms, sharp pressed lines, run past, rolling gurneys down florescent hallways.

Absent all speculation, the contemplation on everything known and unknown, there’s always an invitation to listen. We could even cease the meaning-making and surrender to the mystery. Be willing to feel the grief, not just for our own losses but for the big losses throughout time. We could exhale heartbreak for the death of mothers and children, grandparents and lovers, tribes and democracies. The crack of falling redwoods and splitting glaciers, the disappearance of the monarchs and the mourning of the giant tortoise. The landslides, the floods, the fires. We could feel the destruction of mountains, comets, galaxies. All the losses without redemption. All that has been broken. And in that silence between breaths we could pause. We could acknowledge… absence. In the liminal space we could feel the emptiness. Behold the big, spacious silence behind all noise. And there, right there, at the edges or perhaps smack in the middle of our awareness we might feel a fullness. The nearness of something sacred, the quiet presence which can’t be captured in words—only felt. That which is deeply personal and undeniably universal, that which is me and yet everything not-me, that nearness some people call Source, God, the Great Mother, the Great Perfection, that which can’t be named. And as we inhale, we can breathe in all of it, the richness of seas, the quiet dignity of deserts, the opalescent sheen of babies just born. The melody of a downpour and the clarion birdsong as the earth begins to dry. The warm symphonies of stars and the roar of everyone laughing at once. All the beauty beyond description. The truth that everything terrible exists alongside everything miraculous, that loss gives way for finding, and through it all, only love keeps us fighting for what’s right.

Papa Ji was like a great redwood tree,” Joyce said to me. “He was ancient and life-giving at the heart of the forest that is your life. The tree provided shade and you didn’t know how the forest could be without it. Then one day, the tree fell—there was a thunderous crash, and it threw up dirt and shook the entire forest. Every time you walk through the forest now, you stumble over the fallen tree and bloody your knees, over and over. You do not know how to move through the forest without crashing into it. In time, you will slowly learn to walk around the tree. And then one day, you will decide to sit on its great trunk and notice how moss is growing over it, and flowers now, and it is becoming part of the forest. You will learn to be still and take in the beauty and be in it. Then you will find him.

Give me the things that I need more often than the things I want. You see, I hope the universe brings us to our knees every time that we start begging for the sun more often than we are thankful for the rain. You see, I never want to know love without heartbreak. I want the universe to take me for my best parts and my worse ones. Just as I try to take people for theirs. You're not perfect, but I hope that we never try to be. You see, scientists say that for giant redwood trees to grow, they must first run at over 1000 degrees until their seeds gain the courage they need to release their seeds back down to the earth. This, this is for the people still burning. The rooftop dreamers, the naive believers, the late-night shower singers. You see, this is for the people with rough parts, with sandpaper in their history. The out-of-tune orchestra performers, the two-left-feet dance club goers, the poets, still trying to figure out how to rhyme. You don't need to hide. You need to let your rain shine. And yes, I said rain shine. As in let your best and worst parts be on display. Because you are not just your name. You're not just your biggest mistake or your shiniest trophy. You are a perfect story. Built up of highs and lows, lessons learned and lessons earned. and this, this is for you. When all else fails, let it remind you that you are a masterpiece of everything that we call art. You are a hot thunderstorm, a bright shadow, a cold volcano. You are every part of you.

You like watching me fuck your girl, Landon? Because I fucking love being inside her tight little cunt, the way she whimpers on my fingers.

What will happen to Williams?” I asked again. “João will kill him,” Kai said as if it were nothing. Something inside me snapped, and I nodded. “Good.” “Good?” Kai asked, eyes widening and brows shooting up. “I thought you hated that.” I swept my fingers across his cheek. “I’m sorry about the other night. I overreacted and was scared because I had never seen so many weapons in one place. But I don’t blame you for wanting to protect the people you love. And anyone who drugs and dumps a woman deserves to die.

And while this whole thing might’ve started because we were getting each other off through a video chat, this woman had really done something to me these past few months. She became the only fucking person that I wanted to protect from the bad things at Redwood. She had become a woman I loved.

I really wanted to kill them.” A tear slid down her cheek. “And I still do.” She curled her fingers into my chest and stared down at me. “I know you guys do that stuff all the time, but I… does that make me a bad person? Am I a bad person for wanting to kill the people who almost killed you?” Pulling her tighter to my chest, I shook my head. “That doesn’t make you a bad person.” “But I want to end their lives,” Imani whispered. “Your own parents.” “You’re protecting someone that you”—I sucked in another breath, my chest tightening—“love, Imani. You said it yourself; you want to do what anyone would do to protect the people they love. That doesn’t make you a bad person, especially to me.

What?” she shouted, causing a couple people to look over, including Landon and Kai. I placed my hand over her mouth. “Don’t yell about it! Long story short, they found out about… my freaky side and—” She snorted. “Your freaky side?” I grinned at her. “Okay, don’t judge me. Ms. I Love Having Public Sex with My Stepbrother After He Fucked Me Over.” I gestured up and down my body. “A girl has needs, and ya girl is a freak.

Suddenly, he unclenched his jaw and softened his eyes and stared at me how he had when I came down the stars in a silky pink dress. He had never looked at me like this before tonight and I loved it.

Loosening his hard grip on my throat, João Rocha gently took my face in his hands and kissed me. Not ruthlessly, but lovingly.

I didn’t know how the hell Poison did it, but they made me into a cock-loving slut.

I pushed away all those thoughts that said I didn’t need anything from anyone, and I called her because I wanted something from Imani, and it was more than what I had been giving her. It was more than sex. For the first time, I realized that I wanted her to love me.

I thought I was going to have to teach you a lesson, but you’ve taught yourself one. You’ll never hate me more than you love my cock being buried inside you.

And it was at that moment that I realized… I didn’t fear Poison. I feared that I liked this too much. I feared that I loved the thought of these hands having killed bastards and assholes. I feared that I loved João, too, because I knew he’d break my heart.

I don’t care what you think of me,” he snarled, “because I know what your pussy feels like whenever I’m fucking it. I know that your tight holes don’t drip for anyone like they do for me. I know that when I shove my dick into you, you’ll come all over me because you love the way I make you feel.

Keep struggling, Imani,” João growled, “because I fucking love it.

Can you stop and listen to me?!” She hurried over to me and grabbed my forearm, pulling me back. “Please, João.” I yanked myself away from her and opened the door. “Why are you so hard-headed?!” She shouted, voice trembling, making me stop dead in my tracks, entire body tense. “Why can’t you just listen for once?! I don’t know what you want me to say to you. I answer your question, and you flip out on me.” “I didn’t like your answer.” “Well, what do you want me to say then?” “That you love me!” I shouted before I could stop myself. I swallowed hard and glanced at the ground between us. “That you fucking love me,” I whispered to myself, knowing that I had fucking screwed up by admitting some shit like that to her because, fuck, I didn’t even know what we were anymore.

Are the others going to meet us at the mall?” “The mall?” Landon asked. “Why are we going there?” “I, um… kinda asked my mom to help me sign you guys up for health insurance. I hope that’s okay. I want to make sure that you guys are covered, especially if you’re going to do shit like you did last night with”—I glanced at Mom and lowered my voice—“Vaughn.” “Health insurance?” Landon asked me, eyes widening, and a small smile stretching across his face, as if he couldn’t believe someone could love him so fucking much that they wanted to make sure he was good in that area of his life. “You really asked your mom to help us do something like that?

We need to talk.” “No, we don’t.” Instead of walking back to her seat, she stood next to me and crossed her arms, mirroring my pose. Then, she rocked back on her heels, lips curling into an uncomfortable smile. “So, you were sad because of me?” “Don’t be a fucking bitch,” I said through gritted teeth. She smacked me across the face. “Don’t call me a fucking bitch.” “You fucking are,” I growled, rubbing my cheek. “Just because I didn’t tell you that I loved you?” she asked, the words so damn sharp and sour. “Are you really that butthurt over it, João? Because if you are, you should’ve let me at least respond to you last night before running out of Landon’s and driving away like a maniac!” “I needed to get Ana.” “That’s always going to be your excuse.” “It’s not a fucking excuse.” I seethed. She poked a finger hard into my chest. “That doesn’t give you the right to call me a bitch. And still… you could’ve waited two fucking minutes for me to tell you that I—” She paused and glanced behind me. “That you what?” I asked and followed her gaze, my eyes landing on Landon and Ana together. “Of fucking course.” “João, come on,” she said, hurrying after me. “How do you expect me to love you when all you are is rude to me?! God, you’re so frustrating.” She ran her hands through her hair, frustration all over her face. “Don’t be stupid! If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be doing any of this shit!” “I’m not being fucking stupid,” I growled. I was fucking scared.

For a split moment, my heart stopped. A black fucking cloud of unknown bullshit suddenly loomed over me. I was fucking scared. Scared because… what if Imani did really love me? What if she was saying this and had really asked her mom to bring us here because… she loved me? What if Imani loved me, and one day, I lost her?

You do as I say, Imani. Do you understand me? You might have João and Landon wrapped around your finger, but”—he wrapped his finger around one of my curls and gently tugged on it—“you’re wrapped around mine, and you know it. You fucking love it.

I didn’t understand how one little comment from him could make me feel this way. We both hated each other but loved each other. In some fucked up way.

I love you,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I love you so fucking much, Imani Abara.” “I love you too,” I whispered. “You don’t know how much that means to me to hear you say that, especially now. I know that you’re hurting.” João gripped my waist so tightly that I was sure he’d leave bruises, but I’d rather have bruises than watch him fall apart. “I wanted to tell you sooner. I didn’t want it to come to something like this. But I didn’t know how to say it.

Jeez,” Maddie said, her ginger hair flying back. “You’re so fast.” “We’re late!” “Well, that’s not my fault, now is it, Miss I-Love-to-Write-Smut?

She fucking loved him too, and I wanted her to say that to me as well one day, but I didn’t know if it would ever be soon.

I stared at her smaller frame for a few long moments, wishing that I could tell her that I loved and cared about her the same way she cared about me. I wanted her to tell me that she loved me too, not just appreciated me.

They’re so in love with her. I never thought I would say this, but it’s actually cute.

No matter how rude João was to Imani, she gave him a small smile, her eyes lighting up. She looked at me the same way, but it still felt different between her and me. We had chemistry, but I hadn’t told her that I loved her yet. But I wanted to tell her so badly. So fucking badly.

He leaned down and placed a kiss on her lips, like she had kissed me earlier. Except she kissed him for a bit longer, with a bit more passion, with more… love. Fuck.

I jogged over to her, grabbed her face in my rough hands, and kissed her hard on the mouth. She froze a moment, then placed her hands over mine and smiled into our kiss. Resting her forehead against me, she moved her lips on mine. “I love you,” I whispered as soon as she pulled away. “I love you so much.” “Kai,” she whispered. “I thought you wanted to wait.” “I can’t anymore.” I seized her waist and pulled her closer to me, wanting to touch every single inch of her. “I can’t wait until we take care of Akio’s parents. I want you to know how I feel about you now.” Time seemed to stop as I waited and waited and waited for her to say it back. “I love you, too.

Warmth spread around my chest, and I grinned like a fucking doofus. Imani loved me.

His hands all over my body again, but this time, they weren’t rough and demanding. This time, he was soft and gentle and—dare I say—loving.

I refused to give myself to someone else, love them with my whole heart, only to have it ripped out of my fucking chest and smashed into pieces by the barrel of Akio’s family’s gun.

Are you and Imani dating, dating, like, for real now?” “Dating João?” Imani said, peeking her head into the room and scrunching her nose playfully. “Ew, boys are gross.” Ana giggled for the first time tonight, and then she turned back to me and pointed at Imani. “But I know that you like her. She’s so pretty and perfect for you, João. You have so much in common, like you both love me!

When I was in the hospital,” I said, knowing that it was a moment I would never forget. I had ingrained it in my memories for forever and refused to let go. “Sometimes I think back to it and still don’t believe that she could love someone like me.

But Vera… The look of fear in her eyes earlier… God, I fucking loved it. She cared about what I did, who I told, how I talked to her in front of the rest of the students and teachers. Vera Rodriguez didn’t want me telling anyone anything.

I didn’t care how much money Blaise Harleen had, how attractive he was, or how he resembled all of my dirty-mouthed love interests. I still hated him.

With a mind as dirty as hers, she fucking deserved it, and I hadn’t missed the way she loved it too.

Vera, baby, didn’t you write a scene like this? Isn’t this what your dirty mind loves? The thought of the good girl being caught with the bad boy with his cock buried so deep inside, so much of his cum just dripping out?

I don’t know what you’ve done to me, Sunshine, but I can’t get enough of you. You’ve been the only person there for me, the only person who truly cares.” “Blaise, I…” “I know you want me to take it back and act like the same guy I was toward you that first day in World History, but I can’t. I don’t want to take it back. I fucking love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. You’re the best damn thing that’s happened to me.” This wasn’t a character saying this in one of my stories. This was real. “You don’t have to say it back right now.” He took my hand in his and gently kissed my knuckles. “I promise I’ll wait until whenever you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere. So, if you want to run out of here, scared shitless, then you have another thing—” My chest exploded with warmth. I turned onto my stomach, gently gripped his chin in my hand, and kissed him deeply, passion completely overtaking me. “I love you too.

Never in a million freaking years had I thought someone would say those words to me. I had been alone for so long, throwing myself into love story after love story and wishing that I could find someone to love me as much as my characters loved each other.

I love you,” he murmured over and over and over. “I love you. I love you. I love you.

Tell me that you love me again,” he mumbled against my lips. “I want to hear you say it again and again and again, Sunshine.

I love you,” I whispered, tangling my fingers into his hair. He thrust into me deeper. “I love you.” Another deep thrust, nearly sending me over the edge. “I love you so—

I fucking love you, Vera Rodriguez. I always will.

All I wanted was for someone to fucking love me. Someone. Fucking anyone at this point.

And in that moment, I didn’t say it aloud, but I knew that I liked Blaise more than I’d let on, more than I’d told him, maybe even more than I’d told myself. I might’ve loved Blaise Harleen.

God, you’re nasty, and I love it.

God,” he whispered, pushing strands of hair out of my face. While he had been smiling and laughing only a moment ago, his face was now relaxed, completely with no strain, only… awe. He parted his lips and brushed the pad of his thumb across my cheek. “I fucking love you.

I… I didn’t…” he stuttered for a couple moments, stumbling aimlessly over his words until he finally pressed his lips together and stared at me even more seriously this time. “I love you, Vera.” Blaise Harleen loves me? Me?

You’re not leaving yet.” “No,” I said, taking my backpack back and unzipping it. “I wanted to, um…” I thrust my hand into my backpack and gripped a stack of what must’ve been three hundred double-spaced and double-sided papers. I pulled them out and handed them to him. “To give this to you, as a… housewarming gift.” Blaise arched a brow and slid onto one of the stools beside me. “What is it?” I glanced down at my feet, heart pounding inside my chest. “It’s the story that I’ve been writing… about us. It’s our story. It’s not finished yet. I still have to write the last chapter, but I wanted you to read it.” With brown eyes so big, Blaise peered over at me. “You wrote a story about us?” Somehow my cheeks burned even hotter. “Yeah, I did. And I plan on publishing it one day because I love us so fucking much.” I moved closer to him, so I stood between his legs, and then I grabbed his face. “And I love you more than I ever thought I could. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Blaise Harleen.