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From the First Verse (Life of Debauchery #1)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

M. Robinson

Language:
English
ISBN/ ASIN:
B0841CKSXX
Book Information:

Dear diary,

Once upon a time…

There was a girl with long golden hair who had the bluest, truest eyes that turned white when she cried.

She lived in a kingdom far, far away in a tower made of stone, but her mind was made of glass that she kept sharp as knives.

Where her memories hid behind her darkest doubts.
Her deepest thoughts.
Her diary became the only thing she could rely on.

No one saw through her looking glass.
No one cared.
No one tried.

Until the villain presented himself as the hero in her life.
He took and took and took some more.

With no regret.
With no shame.
With no apology.

The page never turned.
Their story didn’t end.
Tomorrow never came.

His life of debauchery was their journey to nowhere.

She’d give anything to go back in time.
To walk where she had walked.
To see what she had seen.
One step.
One breath.
One day at a time.
Though in the end, “I love you” were just words.

That destroyed us inside.

Books in Series:

Life of Debauchery Series by M. Robinson

Books by Author:

M. Robinson

Prologue

<>Journey<>

June 29

Dear Diary,

Once upon a time…

There was a girl with long golden hair who had the bluest, truest eyes that turned white when she cried. She lived in a kingdom far, far away in a tower made of stone, but her mind was made of pieces of glass that she kept as sharp as knives.

Where her memories hid behind her darkest doubts and deepest thoughts. Her diary became the only thing she could rely on.

To make her smile when she wanted to cry.

To make her laugh when she wanted to scream.

To make her feel when she wanted to die.

No one saw through her looking glass. No one cared, no one tried.

The girl knew there was no end in sight until the villain presented himself as the hero in her life.

She begged.

And she prayed.

And she fought.

Until she died a little more inside…

The villain took and took and took some more.

With no regret.

With no shame.

With no apology.

They were long past that. Merely words with no meaning coming from a brilliant musician, he was a paradox of contradictions.

The villain disguised as the hero pleaded with her through the wooden door to show him what love was.

“Journey… Juniee…” He sought out her soul.

In some city.

In some suite.

In the middle of who knows where.

His life of debauchery was their journey to nowhere.

The page never turned.

Their story didn’t end.

Tomorrow never came.

Living within a broken record of albums they played.

“Journey,” she heard him whisper. “I love you. You know I fuckin’ love you.”

His words.

His presence.

Rang in her ears like the vibration of his guitar.

“Junieeeeeeee … baby … show me what love is,” he slurred, sliding down the wooden door.

Knowing exactly what to say, what to do. How to manipulate her by playing with her existence as if she was the strings on his electric guitar. Effortlessly, he strummed her chords, creating yet another narrative from their tainted love story.

Except, she was no longer the little girl who had a crush on the older boy from down the street. Now, she was the woman in love with the man who was a slave to his very own demons.

If she walked away.

If she stopped loving him.

If she started over today…

It all would have still been worth it.

Even through the terrible mistakes she’d made and would unmake if she could. Even through all the ups and downs, the highs and lows.

Losing herself to save him when nothing else mattered but the ring of fire he burned in.

Her biggest mistake was believing the truths amongst his lies when he promised the world to her.

Silly, stupid girl.

Believing in the fairy tales with happy endings, always taking place on the last page of the book.

And they lived happily ever after…

She’d give anything to go back in time.

To walk where she had walked.

To see what she had seen.

One step.

One breath.

One day at a time.

Though in the end, I love you were just words.

That destroyed us inside.

Chapter 1

“Music makes me high on stage, and that’s the truth. It’s almost like being addicted to music.”

-Jimi Hendrix

<>Cash<>

Now: Twenty-nine-years-old

“Cash! Cash! Cash!”

The sold-out stadium yelled my name as loud as they fuckin’ could. Over and over again.

“Cash! Cash! Cash!” Their voices roared through the hazy smoke, bellowing over the crowd of faceless people.

They craved.

They wanted.

Me.

Only fueling the adrenaline spiraling full speed through my veins.

Hard.

Fast.

Throbbing.

Like a soaking wet pussy about to come on my face.

“Cash! Cash! Cash!”

Nothing in this world compared to the sensation coursing through my body, taking me under right before I stepped on stage.

Not booze.

Not drugs.

Not even being balls deep inside of some random groupie.

It was pure magic.

The freedom.

The excitement.

The high before the rush.

“Cash! Cash! Cash!”

There was always an indecipherable energy in the air. This electricity, this spark, this bone-crushing awareness of having the world at my fingertips.

Where women screamed my name.

Where men would give their left fuckin’ nut to be me.

Where the only thing that mattered in the moment, in this second, was the performance they were about to experience.

All at the hands of me.

“Cash! Cash! Cash!”

I threw back the bottle of whiskey in my grasp, chugging it straight down. Completely numb to the amber liquid burning its way down my chest.

I was a creature of habit in every sense of the word. This scenario wasn’t unfamiliar territory for me. This was my goddamn routine.

“Motherfucker,” I muttered, wiping away the excess alcohol from my mouth with the back of my hand.

“We want Cash! We want Cash! We want Cash!”

“You ready?” Jim, our stage manager, questioned.

Whose sole purpose was to make sure my ass got on that fuckin’ stage.

Drunk.

High.

Fucked up as shit.

No one gave a damn ’cuz the simple truth was…

Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, baby.

It wasn’t just a bumper sticker on the back of a 1966 Mustang Sally. It was a fuckin’ lifestyle.

A stigma.

A curse.

“Cash! Cash! Cash!”

The crowd hoot and hollered, consumed with the desire to hear me jam out on my electric guitar. We were the closing act every night for this weekend rock-and-roll festival.


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