Remember I’m Yours (Diesel Rose #0.5) Read Online Vanessa Luisa

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: Diesel Rose Series by Vanessa Luisa

Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 27113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)

From the moment I gazed into his melancholic onyx eyes, I knew he would be mine.
Elijah Diesel isn’t just my gorgeous, older, mysterious obsession, he’s also the lead vocalist of an up-and-coming alternative rock band due to take the world by storm.
He wanted nothing to do with me. Yet he kept coming back.
And I let him.
And now, only one thing is certain. This won’t be the end of us…
Because it’s only just our beginning.

NOTE: This is a 25,000-word prequel novella for DIESEL ROSE. The story concludes in DIESEL ROSE.


“I said maybe

You’re gonna be the one that saves me

And after all

You’re my wonderwall.”


“Scary Love”—The Neighbourhood


“Brooklyn Baby”—Lana Del Ray

“Tell Me The Truth”—Two Feet


“Beetlejuice chill”—Life After Youth

“Baby Came Home 2 / Valentines”—The Neighbourhood

“Enemy (with JD)”—Imagine Dragons, JID, Arcane, League of Legends

“True Rocker”—Monster Truck, Dee Snider

“Triggered”—Chase Atlantic


“Flawless”—The Neighbourhood

“Cherry”—Lana Del Ray

“Like A God”—Lia Marie Johnson

“Devil’s Advocate”—The Neighbourhood

“Scary People”—Georgi Kay

“Love Become Law”—The Cherry Truck Band, Black Stone Cherry, Monster Truck

I think I have a boy crush. Okay, let me rephrase that, I do have a boy crush.

One of my favorite things to do at a quarter to midnight whenever I can’t sleep is scrapbook. My mom is a hairdresser downtown and always brings home old magazines clients flick through so I can cut out whatever I like. At first, it gave me the heebie-jeebies touching magazines a dozen other women (and possibly men too) had touched, but now I guess I’m over it.

Tonight was supposed to be like any other night. Flip through the magazines, cut out aesthetically pleasing vintage pieces with my pink diamanté scissors, and slap them in my scrapbook. Except, tonight isn’t like any other night, it’s different, because my mom didn’t only bring home old editions of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar in a white plastic bag that’s laced with holes. There’s also something else.

Rolling Stone magazine.

And the good thing is, it’s the latest edition.


She’s never brought a Rolling Stone magazine home for me before, and I wonder if she accidentally got it from the barber section at her work. I wasn’t going to look through it, but I did, and God, how grateful I am that I did.

It’s the first page I randomly opened on.

Page twelve.

And I haven’t dared look away since.

Dark-gray eyes, the lightest shade of onyx stare back at me. They’re the kind of eyes that are so cold, they should scare you. Instead, they have a sense of sugary thrill flooding my body. They’re devilish. Wolfish. Everything my parents warned me about. And everything I crave.

My heart skips a beat because he’s the most beautiful man I’ve seen, in a dark and edgy kind of way. A deadly piercing gaze. Perfectly high cheekbones. Thin full lips that remind me of James Dean’s.

Everything about the black-and-white picture of this man leaning against a barbed-wire fence intrigues me. His punk-inspired leather jacket with silvery spikes around his shoulders and safety pins by the edges. The destroyed white tee underneath. His distressed black jeans. Those unlaced black Doc Martens with a single white broken love heart on the side of the left one, almost as if it’s been stitched.

It feels like there’s a story behind those white Band-Aids wrapped around some of his fingers that he has looped above his head in the wire. I’m fascinated by the ink on his hands, the ones more visible like the skull, serpent, and roman numerals, and I instantly wonder if he has more.

Why is he making my heart go so funny?

I like the way he’s looking at the camera with furrowed brows, a mixture between broody and motionless, making it seem like he just doesn’t give a damn. Like life has done a number on him.

I stare a little too long at the thin black eyeliner around his eyes. I always thought eyeliner was for girls, but seeing it on him, I know I’ve been wrong… wow, it’s really hot.

I brush the pad of my finger over his face, almost intimidated at first, as I wonder if his eyes are really that dark or are instead a dark cocoa brown. Maybe it’s just the dark ink of the page tricking me? Maybe.

Beneath his photo, a white cursive font reads:

The true hatesick up-and-coming sinner of Manhattan; Elijah Diesel.


“Elijah,” I murmur to myself, wanting to get used to the name on my tongue. “Elijah Diesel.”

He seems a few years older than me, okay, a lot older. Ten years my senior at the least, and although I so desperately want to read all of the little text surrounding the picture, I kind of want to make my own impression of the guy.

After chewing my bottom lip for the longest time, I cut out his picture, being careful to make it perfect, and stick it on a new page in my scrapbook.