OTHER CONTEMPORARY NOVELS BY SAMANTHA TOWLE
When I Was Yours
Trouble
REVVED SERIES
Revved
Revived
THE STORM SERIES
The Mighty Storm
Wethering the Storm
Taming the Storm
The Storm
PARANORMAL ROMANCES BY SAMANTHA TOWLE
The Bringer
THE ALEXANDRA JONES SERIES
First Bitten
Original Sin
Copyright © 2016 by Samantha Towle
All rights reserved.
If I Should Die reprinted from Thomas Gray (1771).
Visit my website at www.samanthatowle.co.uk
Cover Designer: Najla Qamber Designs
Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Jodi Marie Maliszewski, this one is yours.
And so is Liam.
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
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
My seat belt is fastened. Window shutter is down.
I have a window seat. I hate window seats. Because I hate flying. No, actually, that’s wrong. I don’t hate flying. I’m afraid of flying. So, sitting by the window with the view of clouds and sky for the next six and a half hours, reminding me that I’m thirty thousand feet off the ground, is going to be torture for me—not that I don’t deserve torture. I deserve everything I have coming to me. And in the grand scheme of things, flying on this plane really doesn’t matter.
But in my defense—yes, I’m defending myself against myself—fear is not rational. It doesn’t give you a choice. It just is. So, yeah, I’m afraid.
Still, I know what matters is the reason that I’m on the plane. I’m going to London—the place I have always wanted to go. I’m going to see where my mother was born and grew up, where my parents met and fell in love. And, while I’m there, I’m going to complete my list.
The list.
I pull the piece of paper titled Things to Do If I Live from my bag. It’s the list I wrote when I was sixteen years old, and I had a life-threatening brain tumor.
I have one of those again—a brain tumor, I mean. Well, I’m almost ninety-nine percent sure. The symptoms are here again—the severe headaches, vomiting, and fatigue. I just haven’t actually gone to my doctor to have it confirmed. Because, if I do, Dr. Hart, my doctor, she will want me to have surgery and radiation therapy and take endless amounts of medication.
She’ll want me to fight to live.
And I don’t want that.
I just want to complete my list while on the trip I was supposed to take with my family before they died, and then…
I don’t know what’s at the end of that sentence. Actually, yes, I do know. Death is what’s at the end of that sentence.
Death and relief. Relief because I’ll get to be with my family again.
I plug my headphones into my cell and put the buds in my ears. I select the Music app on the screen, find the song I want, and hit play.
The sound of Coldplay’s “Paradise” starts to bleed into my ears.
This song was played at my family’s funeral. I listen to it regularly, not to only torture myself—because I deserve to be tortured—but also to remind myself of what I did, what I stole from my family—their lives. It’s not that I need the song to remember because what I did is always there. The knowledge that my mother, father, brother, and sister all died because of me is with me every single second of each day.
But what this song does remind me of is that I will get to see my family again, and when I do see them, I’ll be able to tell them how very sorry I am. I’ll be able to beg them for their forgiveness.
I’ll be with them again. Hear their voices and the sounds of their laughter, touch them…hold them.
It’s all I want.
And, now, thanks to the tumor growing in my head, that day will be sooner rather than later.
I’m going to die. And it’s a relief.
Maybe I should rename my list to Things to Do Before I Die.
Grabbing a pen from my bag, I pull the Hunter Airways brochure from the storage pocket on the seat in front of me. I put my foot up on the back of the seat and rest the brochure on my thigh. Then, I sit the paper against the brochure. I correct the title at the top of my list.
Things to Do If I Live Before I Die
There. That looks better. More appropriate.
Okay, so let’s see if anything else on here needs to be updated.
Go to London, England.
Kiss a boy.
Kiss a boy definitely needs updating. I’ve kissed a boy since I wrote that.
I draw a line through it.
Kiss a boy.
Okay, what should I put there instead? What haven’t I done that I want to do?
I’ve never kissed a stranger. That sounds like it could be fun and daring.
Perfect. I’ll put that.
Kiss a boy. Kiss a stranger.
Okay, what next?
Have sex.
Done that, too.
Benjamin Harley in the backseat of his dad’s Toyota. It happened a month before my family died. I’ve not had much sex since. Benjamin and I did it a few more times after that first time.
But, when my family died, it changed things. It changed everything.
I have had the occasional meaningless one-night stand here and there over the years when I had too much to drink or the pain and loneliness was just too much to bear, but getting close to anyone wasn’t something I was looking for. I’m still not. But I figure I’m dying, so I might as well go out with a bang—literally.
I draw a line through that and write…
Have sex. Have LOTS of sex. Have sex with a stranger. Have sex with a stranger outdoors.
Okay, what is it with me and strangers? Kiss one. Have sex with one.
The one-night stands I had weren’t complete strangers. I spent some time with them—drinking with them and learning a little about them, like what their names were—before I jumped into bed with them.
I want no-names-wild-monkey-sex-within-minutes-of-meeting-a-stranger sex.
I guess it just seems hot—the thought of having sex with a total stranger. Someone who doesn’t know me. I wouldn?
??t be Taylor, the girl who killed her entire family. Or Taylor, the brain tumor girl. I’d just be the no-name chick, the girl to have sex with.
And the good thing is, everyone in England is going to be a stranger to me. Not that I’m going to have sex with the whole of England. Just a few guys will do.
Maybe I should add more sex things to the list.
What haven’t I done?
I’ve never received oral sex.
Sad but true.
Every time Benjamin and I had sex, he was too busy trying to put the condom on and put his dick in the right place to worry about giving me oral sex. And the one-night stands I had were for one reason only—for me to get off as fast as humanly possible. And I wasn’t exactly caring about how I got off, so long as I wouldn’t have to think or feel anything for that short period of time.
But I should at least have oral sex before I die. Even if it’s only one time. I don’t want to die an oral sex virgin.
Next to Have sex with a stranger outdoors, I write…
Receive oral sex.
There. That’ll do it. Next…
Dye my hair pink. Or purple. Or any cool color.
Go to a rock concert.
Get drunk.
I’ve done that one—hence the reason I ended up losing my virginity in the backseat of Benjamin Harley’s dad’s Toyota.
I put a line through that one and write next to it…
Get drunk. Get totally wasted until I vomit and pass out.
Perfect.
Get a tattoo.
Have something pierced.
Sing in public.
Dance in the rain.
Experience a true moment of romance, like they do in the movies.
Okay, that’s just plain cheesy. But, in my defense, when I wrote that, I was sixteen and thought I was going to die.
You’re twenty-two and going to die.
Romantic moment stays then. Not that it’s going to happen. Romance only happens between couples and people in love—and I’m not down for either of those things.
Do something that scares me.
Flying on this plane scares me. Does that count?
No, that sucks. I cross that out and write…
Do something that scares me. Do something that terrifies me to the point of pissing my pants.
There. Perfect.
That’s the end of my list.
Is there anything else I want to add? I press the tip of my pen to my lips.
A shadow falls over me. I pull the buds from my ears as I flick a glance to my left, and my eyes meet with a suit. A very nice black suit covering a really broad chest.
I drop my phone in my bag. Then, I remember my list, which is still visible on my lap. I turn the paper facedown and then place my hand on top of it.
In my peripheral, I see Suit Guy remove his jacket and stow it in the overhead compartment.
Hello, biceps. I can see them clearly through the shirt hugging them tightly.
Lucky shirt.
The guy clearly works out from the looks of it.
Suit Guy takes the seat beside me and turns to me with a smile on his face. I take in that face for the first time and—
Holy effing shit!
Hotness incarnate is sitting next to me.
Actual pure male hotness. All men should have been made to look like this. Seriously.
He looks like Clark Kent without the glasses, which would mean he looks like Superman—the Henry Cavill version.
Superman in a suit.
Lord, help me.
Dark brown hair with a natural wave to it. His nose has a slight bump, like it was once broken. Gorgeous eyes with the kind of long dark lashes that girls envy, perfect full lips, and tan skin.
He’s just…hot. I can’t think of another word to say—sexy, gorgeous, beautiful. Yep, he’s all of those.
I’m totally unprepared for this level of hotness—well, any kind of hotness, to be honest. I’m dressed in yoga pants and a T-shirt. I wanted to be comfortable for traveling, and now, I want to slap myself.
I am not dressed to meet a man of his caliber, especially not now while I’m going to be seated next to said man for the next six and a half hours.
Honestly, I can’t even remember if I put on deodorant.
Oh God, please let me have put on deodorant.
I’m trying to covertly sniff my armpits when he says, “Hello,” in the most delicious British accent I’ve ever heard.
I hear a whooshing sound in my ears. I’m pretty sure it’s the sound of a hundred panties dropping on this airplane—my own included.
Not that I haven’t heard a British accent in real life before because I have. My mother was English. I’ve just never heard a male English accent before, except for on television.
And I’ve never heard his English accent.
Sex toy manufacturers should record his voice saying dirty things and put it into vibrators. They’d sell out in seconds.
“Hi.” My word comes out strangled.
He smiles again—God, he has a beautiful smile—and then he glances past me to the window.
I take advantage of the moment to eye-grope him. I mean, who wouldn’t? You don’t see many men like this every day.
He’s built and tall. His long legs barely fit in the space in front of him.
God, I want to climb him like a tree.
When I bring my eyes back to his face, he’s staring at me, and he’s smiling—an amused kind of smile because he knows I was totally checking him out.
I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. Because I don’t care. It was totally worth getting caught just to be able to stare at him.
How the hell am I going to cope with sitting next to him for the next six hours?
My sex hormones are off the charts just from being in close proximity to him. I might need to go to the restroom and put my hand to good use just for some relief.
Or…he could be my stranger.
Now, wouldn’t that be something?
“You have to have the window shutter open on takeoff,” he tells me, nodding in the direction of the window, pulling me from my reverie.
I think I’m supposed to move to open the shutter, but I can’t seem to function like a normal human being right now because I’ve had the normal knocked out of me by this English Hottie here.
And then he goes and shows me that beautiful smile again, sending my body into overdrive.
He moves forward, leaning over me—I’m guessing to open the window shutter—and I don’t know what comes over me.
Maybe it’s because he smells like heaven with his rich cologne and something totally masculine. Or because I haven’t stopped thinking about sex since he sat next to me—well, actually, I was thinking about sex a fair bit before that also. Or maybe it’s because his delicious, kissable lips are so close to mine. Or because he’s just that hot.
But I kiss him.
I totally plant my lips on his, and I kiss him.
Guess my sex hormones got the better of me. Because I’m kissing a stranger.
Holy fuck! I’m kissing a stranger! What the hell am I doing?
When I wrote Kiss a stranger on my list, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. Said stranger kind of had to want to kiss me, too. Not just have me plant my lips on his without his permission.
Oh God, I’ve just kiss-assaulted him. I’m so going to jail.
Abort mission! Abort mission!
But, oh my God, his lips feel so good and firm, like a man’s should, but plump enough that I want to bite them…and he just tastes so phenomenally good. Like cinnamon and coffee and just something uniquely him.
I can’t seem to part myself from him.
So, we’re here, my lips stuck on his, and he’s frozen in place.
All in all, this has probably lasted seconds, but it feels like hours.
Hours of his delicious lips against mine. God, wouldn’t that be something?
This moment is so going in the spank bank
. Even if it proves to be the most embarrassing thing I have ever done, I don’t care. I’m totally revisiting it in my head later when I’m alone.
Okay, Taylor, time to move your lips off the nice, hot stranger.
I’m just readying to pull away when the craziest thing happens. English Hottie moves his mouth. His lips part on a whisper of a moan, and he starts to kiss me back.
Holy shit.
His hand touches my face. His fingers push back into my hair, getting all tangled up in it, and then he tips my head back and starts to kiss me. I mean, really kiss me.
Now, I’m the frozen one.
What do I do?
Kiss him back, you idiot! You have the hottest guy you’ve ever seen with his tongue in your mouth—oh God, his tongue is in my mouth…
My hand finds its way to that awesome chest of his, my fingers curling into his shirt. His chest is as hard as I thought it would be. I can feel the ridges of muscle beneath my palm.
Needing to feel more of him, I slide my other hand up his chest, feeling those awesome muscles, and over to his shoulder. I curl my hand around the back of his neck.
He groans in my mouth, and it’s the sexiest sound I have ever heard.
Then, he starts to kiss me harder, like he’s hungry and I’m the food source.
Jesus Christ. This is the hottest kiss of my life.
English Hottie’s other hand comes around my waist. He unclips my seat belt without even looking, and he tugs me closer.
Of course, I go willingly.
His hand moves from my waist and lands on my thigh. He lifts my leg, putting it over his, and then he slides his hand up my leg. High.
Oh my God!
I feel close to combustion. And my vagina is getting ready to start a party all on her own.
God, this guy is good. If he can do this while we’re both fully clothed, then I wonder what he could do if he had me naked in bed.
And, right now, I wouldn’t be opposed to that.
Do they have beds on airplanes?
Then, the moment is suddenly broken when the intercom announcement comes on with the captain telling us there’s a slight delay while we wait for another plane to take off before ours.
Our mouths part. Both of us are breathing heavy, staring into each other’s eyes.
God, his eyes are amazing, really unique—a mixture of green and hazel, like a greenish gold. They remind me of autumn when the leaves are turning from green to brown.