The Taste of Tears E-Book

Mia Kingsley

• Herausgeber: Black Umbrella Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 136

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

I definitely didn't go to the cemetery to kill four men and piss off the biggest crime boss in town—or to save a woman who refuses to talk to me...   This is a dark romance.

Leseprobe

THE TASTE OF TEARS

MIA KINGSLEY

A DARK ROMANCE

CONTENTS

The Taste of Tears

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

About the Author

THE TASTE OF TEARS

I definitely didn't go to the cemetery to kill four men and piss off the biggest crime boss in town—or to save a woman who refuses to talk to me...

This is a dark romance.

CHAPTER1

I was having a hard time standing up straight. That's why I wasn't exactly accurate on my first attempt at pouring the whiskey over Alexander's grave. "Here's to you, bro." I finished the sentence with a hiccup and took a hefty swig from the bottle myself. Not that I needed any more alcohol. This was already my second bottle, and it honestly surprised me that I was still conscious. I'd better get it together if I was going to swallow the pills I had in my back pocket.

It was a good night to die. However, for me, every night was a good night to die. Only today, I had finally completed all the tasks that had kept me from the release of death, so now the time had come.

At least I didn't have to worry about tomorrow's hangover since I wouldn't live to see it.

It had taken much longer to avenge my family's death than I had originally anticipated.

With a sigh, I wiped the tears from my eyes. Dad would surely have an opinion about crying men if he could see me now. But he was dead. He had been for four years, just like my mom and older brother.

I put the bottle to my lips and took a big swig, to help me forget everything. At the same time, I slid my other hand into my pants pocket to pull out the oxycodone. No more than two pills a day, the dealer had said. I planned to take all six at once.

At first, I had toyed with the idea of shooting myself. But there was too much that could go wrong, and I didn't want to spend the rest of my life sitting around in a nursing facility with brain damage and no jaw, hating myself even more than I already did.

No, it was time to end this life. It had never suited me anyway, and now that I'd had my revenge, it wasn't worth staying alive. I had nothing left—no family, barely any friends. Things were looking rather bleak in other ways too, because I'd been working for the wrong people on the wrong side of the law for the last few years to enable me to carry out my revenge. I had a fat bank account and knew a lot of shady characters—and those were the only advantages. The rest made me want to cry.

Even though I knew I should slow down on the drinking, I couldn't.

The moonlight fell through the thick fog as I craned my neck to take another big sip. It really was the perfect night to die. If this had been a Hollywood movie, they couldn't have staged the cemetery more perfectly.

The wind pushed the mist across the cemetery, the branches swayed in the wind, and every now and then, the clouds broke enough for me to read the names of my family on the tombstones I hadn't cared enough about.

The last time I'd been here was a few weeks after the funeral. After that, I'd not been able to get over it.

The other graves looked much prettier, not that I could have made out much in the foggy darkness.

Tomorrow the grave would look even worse, with my body on it.

I staggered and had to take two steps backward to regain my balance. The grass rustled under my feet, and I prayed that I was not standing on another grave.

My fingers closed around the pills, and I pulled them out of my pants pocket. I was shivering because it was freezing, and I'd been an idiot choosing to wear only a thin leather jacket over a T-shirt. Not that it mattered. I'd never catch a cold again.

Goosebumps crept up my arms, and my teeth began to chatter. Hmm, strange. I'd always thought this much alcohol would make me immune to the cold. But I was feeling it pretty damn keenly. My fingers were numb and clammy, so it was no surprise that I dropped the pills.

"Shit," I cursed, pulling out my phone to turn on the flashlight and search for the drugs. The gun was in my waistband as a last resort because I'd been at work earlier, but I'd rather take the pills.

The bottle hit a decorative stone as I set it down to scan the ground. I had a hard time focusing my gaze and holding the phone at the same time. Probably unsurprisingly, it too fell out of my hand before long. I heard the screen shatter. No matter. I wouldn't be needing it soon.

Fuck. Why was I so fucking drunk? I should have been mad at myself, but instead, I was giggling like a schoolgirl while crawling around on my knees, looking for the pills in the wet grass.

I found them. Or rather, the remains of them. White lumps of half-dissolved pills. When I clenched my fist, the remains oozed out between my fingers like rancid sperm.

Annoyed, I lay on my back and stretched out, staring upward into the mist. That had gone well.

I felt for the bottle and knocked it over. Hastily, I straightened up and tried to save what could be saved. Now I'd have to shoot myself after all—what a shitty situation.

I awkwardly pulled out the pistol and rummaged through my inebriated brain for the answer to the question of whether I had shot anyone today. How many bullets did I have at my disposal?

As a test, I pressed the muzzle into the soft flesh under my chin. Or should I put the barrel in my mouth instead? So many things to consider. Why hadn't I just swallowed the pills? Instead, I staggered drunkenly through the cemetery like a fourteen-year-old emo, saying goodbye to people who had long since been eaten by worms.

I shook my head and opened my mouth so I could slide the barrel in. The world's shittiest blowjob, I thought, as my lips closed around the cold metal.

Wait, wasn't the gun in the mouth always how suicide attempts went wrong?

Damn. I rubbed my forehead and pondered my options. There was a knife in my boot—I might as well slit my wrists and bleed to death dramatically.

Because I had nothing better to do, I pulled out my knife. In one hand, I held the knife; in the other, the pistol.

I was just about to make a decision when I heard the voices.

CHAPTER2

Irritated, I straightened further and squinted into the misty darkness. The fact that the cemetery spun around me wasn't helping me see anything.

With a sigh, I put both weapons in my lap and slapped my palms against my cheeks, trying to think more clearly. It was no use.

With a shrug, I fumbled for the bottle and wistfully drank the last sip that had been left behind after I idiotically knocked over the precious alcohol.

The voices wafted over to me, and I thought I heard an aggressive tone of conversation. I pulled out my phone and pressed the home button, causing it to light up. The cracks made it hard to see the time.

Hmm. Who was arguing in a cemetery at 3:00 in the morning? I couldn't even kill myself in peace here.

I wanted to get up to look. It took me a total of three attempts, and in the end, I only made it by clinging to a gravestone. The granite was cold and hard under my shaking fingers.

When I finally stood, I realized I had forgotten the gun and knife because I was... fucking drunk. With a labored gasp, I bent down and gathered my belongings. Broken cell phone, empty bottle of booze, gun with five or six bullets, and a knife. All there.

The moon shone brightly from the sky, but through the fog, it was only a blur, barely visible. I cautiously put one foot in front of the other, wondering why I even wanted to look. It was none of my business what strange people were doing in the cemetery at night, and I wasn't interested in conversation either.

As I stumbled through the long row of graves, veering off the path more than once and trampling over flowers, it came back to me: I was going to scare the intruders away so I could finally kill myself. Or I would ask them what they thought made more sense—should I shoot myself, or slit my wrists?

I burped, and it tasted like something had rotten in my mouth for three days. I almost threw up. At the last moment, I conquered the impulse and stumbled on.

If I had taken those fucking pills, I wouldn't be having this problem now. My brother would be crying with laughter if he could see me. He'd always been disciplined and organized and would never have gotten too drunk to kill himself.

I wiped my nose and wondered if I would ever stop crying again. When I was dead, probably, but I had to die first to do that—a more difficult task than I'd thought.

I approached the intruders, the mist hiding them from me as much as it hid me from them. But I could hear them clearly.

I heard something that sounded suspiciously like a shovel being pushed into the ground over and over again. My instinct told me that it probably didn't bode well when people came to the cemetery at night with their own shovel.

After another burp, a new idea came to me. Maybe they weren't burying anyone. Maybe they were grave robbers.

I swayed precariously and held on to the first object I could grab. Because the cemetery was spinning around me faster and faster like a merry-go-round, I also leaned my forehead against my new support for safety's sake.

When I dared to open my eyes again, I was looking directly at a hard nipple. Irritated, I looked up and realized that I was clinging to an angel statue.

Startled, I took a step back and promptly lost my balance. I landed on my ass, the ground beneath me fortunately soft because I had fallen on a relatively fresh grave. With a growl, I scrambled back up. This really wasn't my night.

All the exertion made me sweat, and I wiped the droplets from my forehead. I'd been cold only minutes ago. Unbelievable.

What else did I want to do?

Ah yes, consult the grave robbers as to the best way to kill myself. I stumbled forward and came nearer the end of the path. In the middle of the cemetery stood a little building with a lone lamp burning at the entry. From here, the light seemed like a tiny firefly, but it at least offered me a clue as to which direction I needed to stagger in to get to the exit. I would meet the grave robbers on the way.

I had covered about fifteen paces when I reached a group of slender trees, their scrawny branches swaying slowly in the wind. The breeze crept under my shirt, right past my open leather jacket. I almost laughed. At almost forty, I still dressed like an absolute idiot. I didn't even know if I owned a scarf.

I propped myself up against a tree and looked around until I spotted the grave robbers.

They had lamps set up around the grave they were digging. I squinted, but apart from the darkness, I was probably seeing double or triple, so I wasn't sure if there was one guy digging or three.

Wrapping my hands around the thin trunks, I wound my way between the trees, slowly working my way forward. A new belch rose, but this time my instinct for self-preservation was great enough to fight it down. I wanted to kill myself, not get shot by others. There was a world of difference.

No, there were actually four men busily working. They seemed to be digging up a grave that had only recently been buried. So my theory that the men were grave robbers wasn't so far-fetched.

At least that's what I thought, until I heard the loud rustling. In between the men on the floor, in the light of the lamps, I saw a rather large worm writhing and squirming.

I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and leaned forward as if twenty inches would make a difference. Funny worm.

More like... a person in a sack.

As far as I could tell, that was no corpse. Did the men know that they were digging a grave for a living person?

It was none of my business, but... principles.

Me and my fucking principles.

With a sigh, I pulled my gun from my waistband. My chances to survive this were basically non-existent, and I didn't have the slightest idea why I wanted to get involved in the first place. All I had to do was hold the barrel under my chin, and the problem, which wasn't mine anyway, would no longer be a problem.

Instead, I shook my head, trying to think straight and see normally again. Maybe one last good deed would rebalance my account and make it easier for me to kill myself. What did I have to lose?

CHAPTER3

I was sober enough to realize that it was a stupid idea to get involved. But at the same time, I was too drunk to give a shit. Fuck the consequences. I'd be dead tomorrow anyway.

The four men had picked a good spot to get rid of their living cargo. If I surmised correctly, they were going to bury the poor guy in the sack without killing him first. Otherwise, they would have done it long ago. There was simply no other reason to voluntarily listen to the whining.

One of the men kicked the worm after it tried to roll to the side. "I told you to stay the fuck down!" he hissed and was already lunging again when his buddy stopped him.

It wasn't out of pity for the worm. No, it was pure selfishness.

"Hey," he said. "How about you concentrate on digging like we are? It's late, and I want to get home."

The third in the group rammed his shovel into the ground, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one. "I don't know. Wouldn't it be a waste if we didn't make the best of the situation and have a little fun with her?"

Her? Wait a minute, wait a minute. Was that not a worm, but a worm-woman? I shook my head to clear the cobwebs from my brain. A woman, I meant, of course. Had that one guy really just kicked a woman writhing helplessly on the floor?

I didn't exactly have high moral standards, but you really didn't do something like that. With narrowed eyes, I looked at the gun in my hand and wondered if I was holding it the right way up. I wish I wasn't so drunk.

"Shut up, Walt. You know the rules. What the boss orders gets done."

"So?" retorted Walt nonchalantly. "It's not like the boss has to know if she ends up in the ground an hour early or late."

The guy who had kicked the woman shook his head. "It's not a good idea to screw Foreman over."