Hannah Blackbird

Lost Angels Hannah Blackbird

Some memories don't stick. They're not important or consequential enough to make a lasting impression. But I remember Aiden. Everything about Aiden. For the first time in my life, in my messed-up shunted around excuse of a life, I felt as though I'd found someone who came from the same place. We were young. Young and angry and selfish and dangerous. I think we felt as though the world owed us something. It was easy to make that assumption, especially when we were wandering around Los Angeles, wide-eyed and hungry. We were always hungry back then. I'm not sure what for. Success. Excitement, maybe. We'd slope down the streets of Bel Air, Brentwood and Beverly Hills, shirts and hair damp with sweat as we looked at everything we didn't have. There's no harm in looking. We saw the wealth, the homes, the cars; everything jutting out, offensively on display like a porn-star with over-enhanced tits. There was something both sickening and extraordinary about it. Summer had set in. The rich families had gone on vacation. The houses lay empty. Big, gated residences with pretty gardens. Palm trees. Balconies and pools. We'd see the maids go in, the pool cleaners, and once a week, the gardeners. They worked in a perfect routine. We timed it. Picked the easiest house. Waited until the maid left. Ran around the back, pushed through the tall hedge and cut a hole in the wire fence. It tore a scratch in my leg, made the blood trickle down to my ankle. This is an erotic story with a woven plot that will keep you wondering and stimulated with the hot and steamy descriptions