Taige Crenshaw Birthday Bash with Megan Hart!

 

Megan Hart

Tear You Apart starts with five words. “This is a love story.”

And it is. It’s about a love so strong it breaks the heroine, Elisabeth. A love that knocks her to her knees, over and over and leaves her forever changed.

But Tear You Apart is NOT a romance.

Why? Why didn’t I write a book with a neatly tied up Happily Ever After, everything wrapped in a bow? Why would I take on these characters, Elisabeth and Will, who fall in love and tear each other apart when all they want to do is be what keeps the other together?

Because sometimes, the things that teach us the most are the things that don’t turn out the way we expect them to. Or want them to. The universe brings us what we need, not always what we want.

Sometimes, the things we love tear us apart.

 

Blurb

I’m on a train. I don’t know which stop I got on at; I only know the train is going fast and the world outside becomes a blur. I should get off, but I don’t. The universe is playing a cosmic joke on me. Here I had my life-a good life with everything a woman could want-and suddenly, there is something more I didn’t know I could have. A chance for me to be satisfied and content and maybe even on occasion deliriously, amazingly, exuberantly happy.
So this is where I am, on a train that’s out of control, and I am not just a passenger. I’m the one shoveling the furnace full of coal to keep it going fast and faster.
If I could make myself believe it all happened by chance and I couldn’t help it, that I’ve been swept away, that it’s not my fault, that it’s fate…would that be easier? The truth is, I didn’t know I was looking for this until I found Will, but I must’ve been, all this time. And now it is not random, it is not fate, it is not being swept away.
This is my choice. And I don’t know how to stop.
Or even if I want to.

Excerpt

The room is lit in lines of blue and green, and though most of the rest of the club is jammed elbow-to-elbow, crotch-to-ass with strangers grinding and writhing, this room is much smaller and almost empty. At least this part is, the raised step with benches built in against the wall. I sit with a sigh, and Will sits next to me.
DJ's don't spin anymore -- but I do. I spin even though I'm sitting, because Will's thigh presses mine, the warmth of his calf rubs my bare skin, and he jiggles a little to the beat of an 80s classic. When the music changes, shifting into the familiar opening strains of Michael Jackson's "Beat It," he gives me a grin.

"Show me your sweet moves," that's what I say.

And he does.

Nobody's ever danced for me that way before, all silly and goofy. It's heart-stoppingly sexy because it's not all smooth and concentrated, the way the guys in the corner are dancing with the girls bending over to shove their asses into the guys' crotches. Will just dances like it doesn't matter what he's doing, and I watch with my smile growing wider and wider. I can't stop smiling, and I clap my hands and bounce a little on the smooth vinyl bench.
And then, just then, in that moment with the lights that are blue and green and gold and the music keeps pumping, I know that I love him.
I am in love with him, and I think I've known that for a long time, but now I can't stop myself from admitting it. I love the way he dances for me, trying to make me laugh, not caring if he looks a little like a fool -- he is adorable and charming and the breath leaves my lungs and my heart forgets to beat, moment after moment.

I love him.

I love him.

I love him.

You never fall in love with anyone the same way you fell in love with someone else. It's always different, every time, if you're lucky (or cursed) enough to have it happen more than once. But I've never been uncertain about love, not any of the times I found myself in it. Love is always real, even when it doesn't last.

I love him, and I want this night to go on and on forever, I want this song to never end, but of course it has to and he slides into the bench beside me. He's laughing, but I can't find the air to laugh with. All I can do is kiss him.

More slow kisses, feather brushes of lip on lip, the quick and furtive slip of his tongue inside my mouth.

"Kiss me harder," I'd said earlier in the night, but this is not hard. It's slow and sweet and soft, and I can't get enough.

"Let's get out of here," Will says, linking his fingers in mine. The squeeze of his hand is perhaps meant to be casual, but there's a weight of meaning in it.
"Yes," I say. And again. "Yes, yes, yes."

The alcohol didn't intoxicate me. His mouth does. His hand on the small of my back, tugging at my dress to keep me from stepping into the street. The way he hails a cab and opens the door, waiting for me to slide inside before he gets in after me. The press of his knee on mine. I am drunk on Will.

The streetlights seem elongated and wavering, the view from the pilot's seat of the Millenium Falcon. Traffic lights are a rainbow. The driver's music is low and something foreign I don't recognize, and he barely says a word to us, not even glancing in the rear view mirror. Maybe he's had too many drunk and horny couples in the back of his cab and he knows better. More likely, he just doesn't give a fuck beyond getting us to where we want to go. I give him the address of a hotel close to the train station because it will be convenient for Will in the morning.

We don't kiss or touch except for the inconsistent press of our calves, the occasional brush of our fingertips, each of our hands on top of our knees. Everything is surreal. Nothing seems right. Am I dreaming this, and if I am, I don't want to wake up.

"Salvador Dali," I murmur.

Will turns his head. "What?"

"Dali," I say. "All of this...everything is like Dali. It's all Dali."

Will laughs and takes my hand as the cab slows in front of the hotel. "Melting clocks?"

"No." I can't explain it. I wave a hand and turn to him. "Just that nothing seems real, that's all. Why are you here?"

He leans close and kisses me, his reply too low for anyone but me to hear. "Because you wanted me to come."

 

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Biography

I was born and then I lived awhile. Then I did some stuff and other things. Now, I mostly write books. Some of them use a lot of bad words, but most of the other words are okay. I can’t live without music, the internet, the ocean or Coke Zero. I can’t stand the feeling of corduroy or velvet, and modern art leaves me cold. I write a little bit of everything from horror to romance, and I don’t answer to the name “Meg.”

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