LÁYLA / DEMOLITION LOVE/ SAMPLE / 1 DEMOLITION LOVE. By Láyla. authorlayla.com

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2 LÁYLA / DEMOLITION LOVE/ SAMPLE / 1 DEMOLITION LOVE By Láyla authorlayla.com

3 LÁYLA / DEMOLITION LOVE/ SAMPLE / 2 Copyright 2016 by Layla Holguin-Messner All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Rights Dept, at the link below. authorlayla.com This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Cover design by Danica Schloss (danicaschloss.carbonmade.com) Author photo by Shinobi Smashwords Edition

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5 LÁYLA / DEMOLITION LOVE/ SAMPLE / 4 PROLOGUE Aidan No place in D-town to escape the sound of The Dance, and I m glad. The techno beat gives something to latch onto as the anarchist s fist crashes into my stomach like it will tear through and shatter my spine. Oomph. I double over. Awareness narrows to brilliant agony and the boom of the bass. If only my meditations were half this focused. A timeless moment later, I can breathe again, but not for long because Oomph. Another punch, followed by aching stillness. Boom-boom-boom. The beat carries me, red flashes of pain pulsing in time, and I lose track of everything else until the blows stop. I am lying on the ground with my right eye swollen shut. I open my left a little and meet the glazed blue eye of the A who s been beating me. I cower back before realizing he s sprawled on his side, too. Blood drools out of his mouth onto the broken concrete between us. Tattooed fingers grab the A s shirt, flipping him onto his back, and a black denim knee thunks to the ground by my lips. The new guy s fist smashes into the A s round face, splitting the skin over the cheekbone. The knuckles land again, widening the gash. Again. The nose this time, connecting with a crunch. The A s head jerks to the side, and a warm spray of blood mists my face. Bile rises in my throat. I close my eyes, turning away. You going to live? I ve been counting my breaths, and it takes a second to realize the sounds of impact have stopped and the question is for me. I nod, then crack open my good eye. The new guy crouches in front of me, one hand extended. His knuckles dominate my field of vision. Black letters tattoo the backs of his fingers. R-E-A-L D-E-A-L A black anarchy symbol is inked at the base of his thumb, the A s blood smeared over it. The same symbol marks the A s shirt, spattered with my blood, and even though they re not the same tribe, the similarity is too much. I cringe away. The movement shoots through me, sharp and hot, and air hisses between my teeth. The Real Dealer stands up. His fingers curl and uncurl in front of him, like they have somewhere else to be. He shifts his feet and drags his palms down the dirty thighs of his jeans. I

6 LÁYLA / DEMOLITION LOVE/ SAMPLE / 5 force myself to look up, not so far as his eyes, but to a clean-shaven chin and clenched jaw. The ends of messy brown hair curl around cheeks lightly dusted with freckles. He s looking down at me, I feel it, and my tongue sneaks out across my split lip. He bends down and again I flinch back. I managed to stay silent the whole time the A beat me, but now a whimper escapes. A tiny, broken sound like from a terrified animal. The Real Dealer freezes, then straightens one vertebra at a time. Brawny muscles shift under his t-shirt the body of a guy, not an in-between like me and before I can stop myself I ve looked up, all the way to his eyes. Light filters through the smog behind him, casting his face in shadow, and I can t tell if I ve hurt his feelings, or if he s just disgusted with me. I can t decide how to feel about him, either. He s an atheist. An anarchist. A militant. And he probably just saved my life. I lie there, curled in on myself waiting. To get used to the agony? For him to leave? For one of my tribe to find me? Idiot Bee, he finally mutters. You re going to end up dead. Defend yourself next time. I won t, though. He has to know that as he dusts his hands on his jeans one more time and walks away, leaving me sprawled in the grit next to my unconscious attacker.

7 LÁYLA / DEMOLITION LOVE/ SAMPLE / 6 1. DEMOLITION Tonight, I will talk to him. Of course I tell myself that almost every night and I never do. Sometimes, it s because he s not here. Most times, he is here but surrounded by tribe. Real Dealers form a wall around him three-people thick, as impregnable to someone like me as the glass edifices of Three Street. They re chatting, drinking, laughing, and hanging, and I m standing at the bar with Kylie, or Sam, or Kylie and Sam, pretending to chat, pretending to laugh, pretending I m drinking something other than flat soda pop. I tell myself I m waiting for my moment to catch him alone, but the chance never comes. I just want to say thank you. And ask his name because, in my head, I ve started referring to him as That Guy, like he s something more than human, and that s just ridiculous. He s a Real Dealer, that s all, not a bodhavista. He certainly hasn t given up the temptations of the flesh, because while some nights he s away from The Dance, and most nights he s surrounded by tribe, other times, like tonight, he s with someone. In The Dance, where the crowd packs in so tight it s one moving mass of bodies, dancing with someone means so close the denim of your jeans tries to fuse together, and sweat-damp shirts become little more than an extra layer of skin keeping you apart. So it s hard for me to tell the shape of the in-between pressed up on him. We in-betweens are hard to tell in general, but in a situation like this? Nearly impossible. And, anyway, everybody knows that an in-between is an in-between. So it shouldn t matter. But then everyone also knows that most people, whether they go for in-betweens or guys or femmes, have a preference for tits or dicks. So I m staring through the sweat-drenched haze of The Dance, craning my neck for a clear sightline, when That Guy catches me looking. He smiles and does something with the hand that s wedged between his hips and those of the in-between pressed against him. Something I can t see, but the movement of his bicep betrays it. Something that inspires his partner to press lips to the skin of his shoulder, maybe muffling a moan, maybe giving him a hickey. I m leaning against the wall, one foot propped up, trying to seem relaxed, aloof, removed. I swallow hard. He lowers his face to meet the lips in front of him, and my hand drops to the waistband of my jeans. Why not? I wouldn t be the only one doing it. Just a couple meters down the wall, a

8 LÁYLA / DEMOLITION LOVE/ SAMPLE / 7 Love Child femme has her long skirt pulled up all the way for better access. She catches my eye and gives me a lazy smile. You know you want to, she mouths before her lids drift down again. I try to focus on the metal strut of the wall digging into my back. I wouldn t be the only one doing it, true, but I would be the only Bee, and without thinking, I m staring again. At him. At them. Still trying to make out the subtle swell of breasts or something extra in the jeans. Like if the in-between has the same parts I do it makes my obsession more sensible. Like That Guy is a fellow Bee or at least from a friendly tribe. A Cross Bearer, perhaps. Someone whose hands I haven t seen covered in blood, whether in my defense or otherwise. Because, knowing what those hands are capable of, why would I want them touching me? A traitorous inner-voice whispers that hands aren t the only parts of him that could touch parts of me and I push the thought away, shove away from the wall, thrust myself into the moving bodies, becoming one with the dance, with the other D-towners friends and enemies alike and, by extension, with That Guy, and I tell myself that s close enough. As close as I ll ever get. That, in fact, it s as close as I truly want to be. For the remaining hours til dawn, the pounding rhythm and the hot press of D-towner shoulders and hips and thighs almost make me believe it. Click Now to Read Demolition Love for FREE!