Bullets of Love and War

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What Happens When You Fall In Love With The Gang Leader? To escape the cruelty of his peers, Ron Mitchell makes a deal with the devil and is pulled into a life full of drugs, money, and violence. Bullets of Love and War is the story of a helpless, victimized boy who just wants to fit in and be seen as equal among his peers. Ron has had to endure bullying ever since his early childhood, and due to this reason, he has severe insecurity and always feels unworthy and unwanted by everyone. That is until one day, the school's most respected and fierce gang leader takes him in up under his wing and introduces him to a life he never knew he was capable of living. But what starts out as fresh and exhilarating soon leads to misery and hell when the death of one of their gang members turn up and the haunting of Blake's debt will have to be faced one way or another.

Drama / Romance
Jasmine Thompson
5.0 3 reviews
Age Rating:

Chapter 1

I never imagined that darkness could feel this good. It is safe. It is comforting. It is peaceful. Between the racing of my heart and vague consciousness prodding at my brain, I feel disoriented but somewhat relaxed in a way I cannot explain. But my conscious is blurred. I see nothing right now. A faint buzz sparkles somewhere in the back of my head and old, 20′s music is filling the room with despair.

Shuddering with uncertainty and fighting against the drumming of my heart, I roll my head around to regain consciousness but quickly regret it when the music overpowers my will to get up.

That music is starting to get to my head, which I realize is right next to a pool of vomit. The stench is unbearable and I lurch myself up - rather abruptly - and take a good, hard look around me.

Three or four sweaty bodies are sprawled around the disastrous living room like forgotten rags. One is a girl; bra untidy, skirt hiked up too high, and the others are boys, passed out in their bodies of despair. We are all a sad mess of bodies.

Especially me, who has no business being here. It is pitch black outside. I’m sure it is unremarkably late. With this in mind, I slowly stand to my feet, but my lower body aches and my knees buckle under me. I’m sent to the floor.

Worthless, I mutter with hoarse breath.

All of the acidic alcohol drowns my insides and everything feels like it’s burning. I tremble, trying to regain composure.

I find none, and let my body press into the fibers of the rough carpet, smelling of piss and old lady skin.

You gotta get home Ron. Get the hell out of this place.

Another song from way back in the day plays as I stand to my feet. It sounds mocking, with its cartoony era of style and the voice sounding enticing but dragged in a lazy sort of manner.

I don’t stay out late

Don’t care to go

I’m home about eight

Just me and my radio

Ain’t misbehavin

I’m savin’ my love for you

My stomach unbuckles a hot rush of fluid as I hunch over, grasping my knees for balance. Everything is disgusting. I have no idea how I’m going to make it out in one piece. No one is around to help me.

Until suddenly, I look up and see somebody staring at me. I don’t move, they don’t move. At first, I am terrified of looking such a mess in front somebody obviously better than me. This guy - maybe a girl - only continues to stare. And I throw up even harder. The alcohol is finally out.

Soon, I am too. I am out on the streets in the night feeling better. Cool air circulates through my body and I feel amazing that I’m alive. Unsure of anything on top of everything, I stop and try to catch my memory. It’s running away from me.

Upon entering, there was barely any room for me to catch my breath, which was taken away by the glow sticks and the bodies and the popping of beer bottles.

I was mad uncomfortable. So mad uncomfortable. Everybody nudged carelessly into me and it might have been my hint to leave. But I didn’t. I stayed and had a few drinks and danced and I didn’t know I was sabotaged.

I let the velvety blackness of the night help me breathe. It draws a moan out of me, a moan of discomfort. Walking again to better my breathing, I start to notice that I’m terribly uncoordinated. It may be the swishing and swaying of the little alcohol left in me, but I ignore it. I keep my mind stable on trotting home to get to a better environment, to get to a comfortable peace.

Why do I feel as if I know that face now?

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Linda Payne: I love cowboy novels. More please. You were right this is a teaser

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