From the author of Fault Line comes an edgy and heartbreaking novel about two self-destructive teens in a Sid and Nancy–like romance full of passion, chaos, and dyed hair. Seventeen-year-old Amelia Gannon (just “Gannon” to her friends) is invisible to almost everyone in her life. To her parents, to her teachers—even her best friend, who is more interested in bumming cigarettes than bonding. Some days the only way Gannon knows she is real is by carving bloody lines into the flesh of her stomach. Then she meets Michael Brooks, and for the first time, she feels like she is being seen to the core of her being. Obnoxious, controlling, damaged, and addictive, he inserts himself into her life until all her scars are exposed. Each moment together is a passionate, painful relief. But as the relationship deepens, Gannon starts to feel as if she’s standing at the foot of a dam about to burst. She’s given up everything and everyone in her life for him, but somehow nothing is enough for Brooks—until he poses the ultimate test. Bleed Like Me is a piercing, intimate portrayal of the danger of a love so obsessive it becomes its own biggest threat. C. Desir writes dark contemporary fiction for young adults. She lives with her husband, three small children, and overly enthusiastic dog outside of Chicago. She has volunteered as a rape victim activist for more than ten years, including providing direct service as an advocate in hospital ERs. She also works as an editor at Samhain Publishing. Visit her at ChristaDesir.com. Bleed Like Me 1 I wasn’t supposed to be born. My mom’s doctors had told her over and over that severe endometrial scarring would make it practically impossible for her to carry a baby. But my infant self didn’t care about scarring. Or the partial hysterectomy Mom had to get after my delivery. And for most of my childhood, we were happy in our little pod of three—Mom, Dad, me. Until my parents got a different notion about the magic number three: adopting three boys from Guatemala. And I learned to disappear. It was easier for everyone. I became the quiet one. The one who didn’t drain my parents of everything they had. Pathetic as it might sound, going to school and working at the Standard Hardware were the good things in my life. When I wasn’t there, I was tucked away in my bedroom, coming out only to referee arguments between Mom and my brothers when one of the neighbors called about the noise. Or to help when Mom gave me the ragged, desperate face she had on now as I stood at the open front door. Her gray roots were an inch thick at the crown of her head, and she was wearing the same outfit she slipped on every day after work: stained, discolored T-shirt, saggy sweatpants with too-loose elastic at the waist. “Luis has locked himself in the bathroom again and Alex won’t eat any of his snack until Luis comes out.” Her exhausted voice passed through me. I’d heard it for almost five years, too long to even remember what the Mom of my childhood sounded like. I dropped my messenger bag at my feet and opened the drawer of the small side table next to the overloaded coatrack in the hall. I plucked one of the emergency hotel key cards from its box and took the stairs two at a time. My heavy boots squeaked on the scuffed hardwood. The loud explosions from Miguel’s Call of Duty game echoed from the living room. I pounded on the bathroom door at the top of the stairs. “Luis. Get out of there.” “Fuck off.” Jesus. What did the other fifth graders think of this kid? He spent more time in the guidance counselor’s office than in his own classroom. But no amount of “be respectful and appropriate” lecturing from my parents or school officials made a dent in his colorful vocabulary. I shimmied the card along the edge of the doorjamb, wiggling it into just the right spot. Click. I swung the door open. The bathroom was trashed. Toilet paper and shaving cream were everywhere. A bottle of cough syrup sat sideways on the sink, its contents spilled all over the toothpaste and toothbrushes. Not quite a childproof cap after all. Luis stood with his arms crossed. Brown, unapologetic face, black eyes boring into me as if I were personally responsible for the crap state of his life. “That cunt won’t let me play video games.” I squeezed my eyes shut. He’d trashed the bathroom over a video game? I shook my head. Mom didn’t deserve this even if she did sign up for it. “Clean it up.” “Fuck off.” “Clean it up or I’ll hide Alex’s blankie.” His eyes flared in alarm and then burned in hatred. The kid didn’t care one bit about himself, but threaten one of his brothers and he came out swinging. He snatched a washcloth from the drawer and dropped it onto the cough syrup mess. “I’m gonna get my brothers out of this shithole. Soon.” “I’m first,” I mumbled. “What?” he asked, pausing in his half-assed cleanup job. “What did you say?” “Nothing.” I pointed to the washcloth and he started sopping up the me