Home>>read 27 Lies free online

27 Lies

By:MJ Fields

27 Lies
MJ Fields


This book is dedicated to my favorite band

My very first book, Blue Love, was inspired by the song Hate Me, by Blue October.

Their music is so inspiring and is always playing when I write novels  that are raw and full of the feelings that dig so deep you feel it in  your soul. That's what their music does to me.

27 Truths and 27 Lies was written while listening to many of their songs  on the album Sway. Worry List, and Not Broken where the top two.

The song Bleed Out is my go to when I need 'someone' to cry with.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for your music. It inspired, heals, and let's me feel.


In the name of love, we often do things we would normally question  ourselves for doing. One of those things is lie. Often times, they are  trivial, meaningless lies.

Yes, I'd love to watch that movie with you. In reality, we just want to  spend time with that person, and we've seen the movie and disliked it.

I love the way that looks on you. Even though it isn't flattering.

I don't mind. Really I don't. And in reality, you mind.

Then there are lies we tell ourselves.

It won't happen again. When, in fact, it's already happened before.

It doesn't matter; it's just words. When someone says something unkind  and we swallow it back, yet it chips away a tiny piece of our heart.

It's okay. I love him, and he will change. He doesn't change. It just keeps getting worse.

He loves me.

Love is so very complicated. In order to make love last, both parties  must love themselves and be on the same "page" as to where their futures  are heading: together...or in separate directions.

Like love, Luke's book is not easy.

The hero is flawed and has done things that may be unforgivable. The  heroine is, too, as well as broken, shattered, and growing into a role  that was meant to be shared by two people.

At it's very core, though, there is growth, realization, acceptance, a  mutual path to be traveled, and love in its truest form, one that is  shared.

In each chapter heading is a lie told in the name of love, as told by  one of my amazing readers. It does not necessarily introduce the  chapter.

This book does end in a HEA, but like all journeys worth traveling, it is not easy. It is about the beautiful and the broken.




My childhood was picture-perfect as far as childhoods go. I have a  loving mother, a great stepfather who raised me as his own, a brother,  and two sisters, who are funny and kind. They have never made me feel  like I'm not one of them.

Outside of that circle is an extended family who love me, who I love,  and who loved a man I was never able to meet. Through them, I learned of  their memories. Through me, they get to keep a piece of Tommy Lane.

In high school, I was a star basketball player, like my father. I  excelled at football, like my father. I was tall and built, like my  father. In essence, I used to be a constant reminder of the young man  who was some kind of wonderful. In reality, I was, and still am, no such  man.

The months preceding graduation, I felt lost. I felt like a child who  had held the hand of a man who was always there, but I knew he hadn't  been. I also knew I outgrew him, my father. One simple statement meant  to provoke thought and encouragement, instead incited anger.

I was angry at myself for never stepping out from the shadow of a ghost.  Angry at all the people who never gave me the opportunity to grow  outside of who he was and into my own person. Therefore, I joined the  military, something I heard my father had planned to do but was never  given the opportunity. He, too, lived in a shadow of sorts. He also died  in that shadow.

I was going to honor my father in my own way and grow beyond his shadow,  leaving behind those who held the both of us back. It was a wonderful  plan and, when executed, I became a man. I found myself, and in finding  myself, I got to serve my country, and she served me.

Home was a great place to visit, but not a place I ever wanted to plant  roots, until a little girl I could never say no to grew into a woman.

Ava Links, the daughter of my father's best friend, the man whose shadow  my father lived in until his dying breath. One night inside of her,  hovering over her, her calling out to God, to me, she was in my shadow.  At least, that was what I always told myself the morning after.

Seven years later, she was still at my mercy.

My. Mercy.

Then she told me she loved me, and my fucking world imploded.


I don't love you. - J. Dietrich


Sleep isn't always necessary. Hell, I have gone without it for days when  out in the field. When I am home, though, in Fayetteville, North  Carolina, it's welcome.

Why can't I sleep? Because five-foot-nothing; one hundred and ten pounds  of curves and ass; long, thick raven hair; and blue eyes pop into my  head when I close my eyes. I am a full foot taller and outweigh her by a  hundred pounds and yet the sight of her is enough to weaken me and  cause blood to pump into my dick, something I have kept in check for  years.   


Fucking is fucking, and yes, I like that I am fucking something I  shouldn't be. I like that I am breaking unspoken rules. I like that, in  fucking her, there is an invisible yet ever present wall separating me  and the people back home.

Guilt kicks in when I allow it, so I stop allowing it. She sure as fuck  doesn't want anything more than I do. We are both adults. Well, she can  be a little fucking brat at times, but for the most part, she is just as  self-serving as I am. And I know damn well she gets off as hard as I do  on the fact that we are a taboo...a secret. And that's all there is.

There is no path to opening up that spicy, little bit of information so  that shit's sealed as tight as her perfectly waxed, tight little twat  that strangles my cock every fucking time we are both home.

When I allow myself the time to think about it, which is usually on a  plane heading back to Ithaca, NY, or in the hot as hell monthly letters I  get from Miss A, I do feel a little guilt. And yes, I intend on ending  this fucked up game I am playing in my head, the one where I am in  control...until I see her and the desire she has to get fucked wipes my  mind of any thought of ending this.

Yeah, we are not in a relationship, but I know that, when I'm around,  I'm the one sticking it in her hot box. I'm the one who she cries out  to, the one fucking that perfect little pussy, and I don't have to worry  that she's thinking about anyone else. I know damn well she wants my  cock, and my cock fucking loves her pussy.

Five-foot-nothing; one hundred and ten pounds of curves and ass; long,  thick raven hair; blue eyes; and a pussy that has become my kryptonite.  That is Ava Links, the girl I can't seem to say no to and never have  been able to.

We fuck. We fuck hard, and I have had her at my mercy for over seven  fucking years...until now when she told me she loves me, and I told her  she didn't. She told me she knew I loved her, and I told her it wasn't  true. Then, true to Ava's nature, she pushed. True to mine, I wrecked  her.

Do I love her? I love my country.

Do I love to fuck her? Yes. Best piece of ass I ever had.

Did it feel good to hurt her? No, not at all.

Is it cool that some fucking drummer, who clearly needs his ass kicked, is going to be fucking her? No.

Do I hope it fails? Yes. She can do better.

I roll over onto my front and bury my head in the sheets. I think about  shit nobody should ever think about because, right now, all the shit I  have seen in seven years is more welcomed than the image of her when I  left this morning: angry, hurt, and completely confused, all caused by  me telling her exactly how it needs to be.

When I wake up in the morning, and seconds after my feet hit the floor  of my civilian apartment, I do one hundred crunches. Then, on the bar  hanging in my doorway, I do one hundred pull-ups. It gets my blood  pumping, and my body awake and alert.

I eat half a dozen eggs, a few slices of bacon, and a bagel. I drink  milk, the real shit, and then orange juice. Am I that hungry? Hell no.  In order to remain in my top physical shape, though, that amount of food  is necessary to fuel the man I have to be, need to be. The man I want  to be.

I throw on jeans and a tee-shirt; no government-issued fatigues for me.  Then I brush my teeth and consider trimming my six-day growth, but I  decide against it. It's no longer required because I have freedoms in  what I wear and how I groom. Obviously it's so we can decompress and  learn to blend, which is important for missions.

When I do wear a uniform, no one is able to classify me. The only people  who can are those within the unit. It doesn't bother me. I sure as hell  don't look like a soldier, and that's because I'm not.

I grab my gym bag, one of two bags sitting next to my door. The other is  for the middle of the night phone call, packed and ready for the next  mission.

When I pull up to the gate at Ft. Bragg, I see a new MP. I hand him my ID, and he looks at me skeptically.

"I need to call this in," he tells me.

Some of us take offense to this, not me. I'm like Batman. Soon, the new  MP will have the pleasure of not only knowing I exist, but that he has  seen the real fucking deal.