3:AM Kisses

by Addison Moore

  Laney and Roxy exchange looks before breaking out in a laugh.

  “Have you seen yourself?” Laney’s eyes expand like silver dollars. “You’re a freaking brunette version of Barbie. Half the girls in Prescott Hall breathed a sigh of relief last weekend because they can finally bring their boyfriends around again.”

  “Yeah, right.” I glance at the ceiling. “Half the girls at Prescott couldn’t pick me out of a line up.”

  “Laney’s right.” Roxy leans in. “I’d question if Bryson’s dick were in working order if he wasn’t into you. Besides, I’ve seen the skanks he’s bedded, and trust me it’s not an impressive list. You’re like the Holy Grail compared to the slut spectacular he’s been starring in for years. Of course, he’d want you.”

  “I’d like to think so, but a part a me just doesn’t believe it’s true.”

  A blonde in skin-tight jeans and tall furry boots saunters in. She’s got on a giant fuzzy hat that looks as if she shoved a rabbit’s ass over her head and a tiny silk scarf sits neat around her neck like a choker. I recognize her from our bizarre early morning encounter the other day—Bryson’s latest not-so-greatest bed buddy, Jules.

  “Speaking of skanks he’s bedded,” I whisper as she speeds on over.

  “Saya?” Her dark eyes round out as she narrows in on me. Her sickly sweet perfume clots up the air, dowsing all the oxygen out of the room.

  “Baya,” I correct.

  “I don’t really care what your name is.” Her jaw clenches, and her entire head shakes like she’s eighty. “You missed the first day of rush and made me look like an a-s-s. Do you want in at Alpha Chi or not?”

  “Y-e-s.” The thought of witnessing the parade of tramps walk in and out of my brother’s bedroom all semester makes my stomach turn. Not to mention the vocal effects that have seeped into my nightmares. The oohs, the ahhs, the right there, faster, please and thank you, and my all-time favorite fuck me like a roadside bitch. And don’t even get me started on the screams and giggles, the moans and groans. I’ve dreamed of dying barn animals for three nights in a row. Thank God Bryson’s penis has voluntarily issued a cease and desist order to females everywhere while I’m squatting on their couch, or I’d literally go insane.

  Jules sharpens her chocolate chip eyes at me. “The next meeting is Saturday night at nine. Don’t even think of missing it. Alpha Chi needs you, and an Alpha never lets her sisters down.” She turns on her fuzzy heels and makes a beeline out the door.

  “Alpha Chi needs you, Saya” Laney mocks. “For the record, Jules Flannery is a j-o-k-e. I may have to disown you if you cross over to the dark side.”

  “Bryson didn’t seem to think she was a j-o-k-e when she tumbled out of his b-e-d.” I chew on the inside of my cheek as an image of the two of them mattress dancing clouds my mind. “Anyway, she had it backward, I need them. My roommate at Prescott is having marathon sex with real live human vibrators, and I can’t get any work done with all that grunting—her hairy ass suitors waving at me while she bounces on their laps. We’re talking serious trampoline action—emphasis on the tramp.”

  Laney and Roxy laugh until tears roll down their cheeks. It’s nice to know they’re easily entertained.

  “I would have paid to see your face!” Roxy mimics the douchebag waving.

  “Believe me, it’s not worth the price of admission,” I lament. “Besides, she’s been nothing but inconsiderate—even he took a little time out of the thigh thumping to acknowledge my presence. She hasn’t bothered to say good morning once—well, at least not with her lips. I’ve sort of made friends with the Pointer Sisters—Thing One and Thing Two. They’re more than friendly with me.”

  Roxy lights up the place with a high-pitched cackle.

  Laney leans in with an incredulous look on her face. “You named them?”

  “I had to. It was getting lonely, and it was like they’re always trying to get my attention. They’re like two bloated puppies, happy to see me.”

  Laney joins Roxy in the laugh fest once again, and any moment now I expect a puddle of urine to form around them.

  I guess I could see why they find my relationship with another girl’s boobs slightly amusing, only I don’t feel like doubling over and slapping the table silly at the moment. The only thing I feel like slapping silly is Jeanie.

  “Baya.” Laney dabs the tears from her eyes with her pinkies. “I can see why you’ve lost your mind and think Alpha Chi is some kind of Godsend, but it’s like six blocks from Bryson. If you want to land Edwards, you need to keep in close proximity to him and his penis. I think you should thank the Pointer Sisters for putting you in a prime position.”

  “I totally agree.” Roxy shakes her head emphatically. “I mean, think of the possibilities involved when taking up the same living space. Have you had an ‘accidental’ run-in after a shower?”

  “No.” Although the thought of a dripping wet Bryson makes my mouth water. I can see his rippling chest with water beading over it, slowly running tracks to the defined V just above his forbidden forest of pleasure while he precariously holds his towel just before it drops to his feet.

  I catch a breath.

  Laney shakes her head. “Any late night chats by the fire?”

  “They don’t have a fireplace,” I’m quick to point out. “Besides he’ll get sick of me if I stay there forever. It’ll take away the air of mystery we’ve got going.” I reflect on this for a moment. “A little too much mystery if you ask me. Personally I’d like to see his Hardy boys solve a few mysteries with my Nancy Drew.”

  “Very funny but you’re getting bogged down with details.” Laney snips. “I think the problem here is he sees you as his best friend’s little sister. You need to cure him of that and fast.”

  “Little sister syndrome.” Roxy nods into this as if it were a real disorder. “You’d better step up your game. That’s a hard one to break.”

  “Step up my game,” I repeat.

  “Less clothes, more talking,” Laney says it stern, like an order. “Sexy talking.”

  “It’s called flirting.” Roxy over annunciates as if I were from another planet and right about now it feels like it. The planet Pluto to be exact which, ironically, the solar system relegated to little sister status not too long ago. I can see myself now on the lunar-like landscape sitting in a pile of rainbow-colored vibrators. God knows there aren’t enough batteries in the universe to quench this ache Bryson has set off deep inside me.

  “Flirting.” I let out a sigh. Truthfully I hadn’t really done any of that, not sure I know how. Suddenly a book boyfriend doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.

  “If he doesn’t know you’re interested, he might think it’s a red light.” Laney holds a finger in the air. “I bet Cole threatened to twist his balls off if he even looked in your direction.”

  “Cole did mention something to him when I first arrived—but Bryson kissed me. So that sort of debunks that ball-twisting theory.” Then again, Bryson did refer to us as “kissing buddies” which sounds like a significant downgrade from “fuck buddies,” both of which somehow leave a platonic aftertaste in my mouth.

  Laney straightens in her seat. Her face bleaches out.

  “What?” Both Roxy and I sing it out like a chorus.

  “Has he mentioned anything about his past?” She presses her lips tight as if sealing up the damning evidence.

  “No,” I say it so fast it sounds like a chirp. “Why? Should he?”

  Laney cuts a look to Roxy. “Only when he’s ready.” She cinches her backpack over her shoulder and picks up her coffee. “I’d better run. I’m going to be late for Sociology.”

  I clamp onto her wrist before she can make another move. “What happened in his past that was so terrible?” All sorts of wild scenarios fly through my brain—weapons of mass destruction, a secret divorce, whips and chains…Although that last one I sort of approve of.

  “I’ve known Bryson since we were kids.” Laney shakes her head. “There are som
e things he’s just not ready to talk about.” She bites down on her lip, and a bloom of grief takes over her features. “Look, go easy on him. When he’s ready, if he’s ready, I’m sure he’ll tell you everything.” She frees her wrist from my grip. “And, if he does—that means you’re pretty special. I haven’t heard him talk about the past…well, ever.” She takes a step. “Just flirt with him. Most guys just want to have fun, and he’d be insane if he didn’t want to have fun with you.”

  She takes off just as a flicker of lightning ignites outside the window.

  “Storm’s coming.” Roxy takes a deep breath. “Look, don’t worry too much about his past. Whatever it is, it’s history. You can be his future, Baya. Just let him know you’re interested.” She picks up her coffee and gives a quick wave before taking off.

  I could be Bryson’s future. I like the sound of that.

  Baya and Bryson. It has a nice ring to it.

  I hope he thinks so, too.

  By the time I finish up with my classes and head to the apartment, both Cole and Bryson are watching TV, and, unfortunately, each of them has a skanky plus one on the couch with them. Just craptastic.

  I give a little wave as I stand awkwardly in the doorway, suddenly feeling like a fifth wheel. Literally.

  Cole is stretched out on one couch with a buxom blonde draped over him like a blanket. Bryson and a dark-haired girl that I swear is in my music appreciation class take up the other, although they’re sitting less than an arm’s length apart. She’s pretty in a tragically obvious way—tanned, toned, paper white teeth that go off and on like flashlights as she laughs at the television.

  “Want to watch a movie?” Cole nods over to me.

  “What movie?” I feign interest as I make my way across the room.

  “Aliens and Indians. It’s a classic, right up there with Gone with the Wind.” He casually taps his gal pal over the bottom with a nice crisp slap as if to annunciate his point.

  “Nice,” I whisper.

  Cole has always had an odd fascination with aliens, so I don’t see why his cinematic comparison surprises me. He used to be all about the X-Files, but now it’s all about the Sex-Files. “Sure. I’ll change real quick and be right back.” I take a moment to scrutinize the fashion sense or rather nonsense on display by team estrogen.

  Interesting. Both skanks are dressed to impress with nary the storm front in mind. It’s obvious those boob-hugging tank tops, the skintight minis, are meant to foster hard-ons more than they are to keep anyone toasty as the weather takes a turn for the nasty. The only thing about to get nasty around here is them. I glance over at the girl glued to Bryson’s side with her heavily-lined eyes and eyebrows that look as if they were penciled in by a clown at the fair. Two can play at that game.

  I head into the bathroom and dump my makeup bag on the counter until it turns into a pile of MAC vomit, producing enough calk and color to transform me into a guaranteed runner up at Miss Transvestite U.S.A.

  A pair of false eyelashes I bought last year at Halloween, mock me. They have a thread of tinsel in them, but it’s so damn dark in the living room, I doubt anyone will notice. I pluck them out of their casing and spend a small eternity adhering them to my lids. Hmm… I look…interesting—um…defined. Oh, hell, I look downright scary. I take off my Whitney Briggs sweatshirt and dig into my duffle bag until I produce a skimpy lace tank and my barely-there jean shorts I accidentally on purpose swiped from Jeanie-with-the-wienie-obsession. It’s not like I really meant to steal them. If I didn’t fear a gangbang was immanent, I wouldn’t have left in such a damn hurry. Anyway these Daisy Dukes are sort of my good luck charm because I happened to be wearing them last Friday night when Bryson and I engaged in a Guinness worthy lip-lock.

  I trade my sensible nude colored bra for my shiny black push up that makes my boobs feel as if they’re standing on the edge of a very tall building while my nipples peer over the ledge with that one-eyed look of terror. I throw on the lace top and saunter out of the bathroom while the girls bounce in rhythm. I bet they’re offended that I haven’t bothered to name them like I did Jeanie’s. Desperate One and Desperate Two sounds about right but, sadly, doesn’t have a fun ring to it.

  I reenter the living room only to find that the bimbo next to Bryson has made herself comfortable with her legs draped over his lap while she greedily lays her head on a throw pillow. I so would have let him have the pillow. She lifts her leg and her foot starts to wander up his chest, climbing further north until she’s casually relaxed her thigh over his shoulder—sort of giving him a perverse hug with her knee.

  “Take a seat.” Cole motions me to the floor in front of the television as if I were a three-year-old, but I turn down his offer and strategically land myself on the lounger across from Bryson.

  “You can’t see anything from there.” Cole frowns over at me as if he’s genuinely concerned about my movie experience. Little does he know I’m facing in the right direction to satisfy my viewing pleasure.

  “I can see just fine.” I glance at the T.V. Actually, he’s right. I can’t see shit. But what I can see is the brunette bimbo giving Bryson a massage with her freshly manicured toes. Eww. Her left leg has meandered as well, and her knee has precariously placed itself over the zipper of his jeans. She’s flexible, I’ll give her that. Her legs are wide open, her skirt is hiked up rather ingloriously around her hips, and, from this vantage point, it looks as if her pink G-string is flossing her in all the wrong places. My gaze floats up his chest, to his blessed by God face, and oh—he’s staring right at me. His cheek cinches up one side, and he raises a finger as if he’s waving, so I give a little wave back and feel silly in the process.

  Crap.

  I sink in my seat and revert my attention to the movie just as an alien unhinges its jaw and swallows an unsuspecting Indian chief whole.

  My face burns with heat. I wish an alien would swoop down and swallow me whole.

  Shit. Bryson saw me. Even worse he saw me checking out his gal pal’s love canal, and now he probably thinks I’m playing for the other team. Stupid Cole for even implying it a few weeks back—and even more stupid me for substantiating his theory by engaging in a crotch watch.

  Cole leans up on his elbows and peers over.

  “What the hell’s that thing hanging off your face?” He leans in further to inspect me. “Dude, you got a bug on your eye?”

  I glare at him for a moment. Note to self, embarrass the living shit out of Cole Brighton, soon and often.

  “It’s nothing.” I sink further into my seat and glance over at the exit as if I were planning an Alcatraz worthy escape.

  The blonde draped over my brother looks into me with a blank face. “Who is she?” Her hair lies over his forehead, and it looks as if Cole is wearing a bad Halloween wig.

  “That’s my little sis.” There’s a sense of pride in his voice when he says it—the kind you reserve for the family pet.

  “Aww!” The blonde sits up and coos into me as if I had morphed into an infant. “And those fake eyelashes are so cute!” She brings her hand to her chest as if I’ve touched her on an emotional level. “So, like, what grade are you in?”

  Grade? “I’m a freshman,” I’m quick to apprise her of my quasi-adult standing.

  “Really?” She gawks at me as if it were impossible. “I would have thought you were a lot younger. I have a sister in junior high, and you sort of remind me of her.”

  Just crap.

  The brunette molesting Bryson with her kneecap leans forward. “You have some lipstick right here.” She points just under her nose. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but it’s not like you’re trying to impress anyone.” She strums her fingers across his chest like an afterthought. “You know, if you ever want tips on how to do your makeup, I could totally teach you. I have about nine tutorials up on YouTube right now. You should check them out.” She looks over at Bryson. “I love playing with makeup. Plus it helps with my modeling.”

  Great. I’ve
just been reduced to a seventh grader, and she’s a model. I sink in my seat until my bottom actually slips off the edge and watch the remainder of Aliens and Indians until my ass goes numb.

  After the movie, Cole sends the blonde packing to his bedroom with a firm squeeze to her behind, and she giggles her way down the hall. I’m sure she’s amped up just thinking of all the loving, touching, squeezing about to take place.

  Bryson and the super model hit the fridge, probably to load up on carbs they’ll soon burn up in his bedroom, and I’m left in the living room all by my clown-faced lonesome. Suddenly going back to Prescott Hall and watching Jeanie engage in a series of naked calisthenics doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. In fact, I’d rather subject my brain to her sexual performance piece than watch Bryson score a homerun with a runway model.

  Cole barrels toward me with his dimples depressed in a frown.

  “What’s going on?” There’s a tenderness in his voice that I hadn’t heard since I’ve touched down in North Carolina. It’s the phone-call version of my brother. The one I’m far more used to, even though he was nothing but a lie.

  “Nothing’s going on.” I cross my arms over my chest in an effort to hide my cleavage. It’s like I’ve got my boobs set at the right trajectory to launch to the moon, and he’s the last person I’d want to witness the intergalactic event.

  “Get some clothes on, would you? I get it. You want to get comfortable before bed. But I don’t want anyone seeing you like this. You’re practically naked.” He glances over his shoulder at Bryson and his pop tart of the night. “There’s a pervert on the loose, and I don’t want him to get the wrong message.” He pulls me into a long, strong hug.

  “Yeah, well”—I shoot a look to Bryson who currently has his back to me—“the pervert has a hot date. I seriously doubt he notices I’m even in the building.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way.” He tousles my hair and gives a wry smile. “Night kiddo.”