3:AM Kisses

by Addison Moore

  Laney leans in. “So if we make it, do we have to morph into an Alpha Chi-bot?”

  “It’s the fashion camaraderie that links them together.” It looks more fashion jinx than link, but I keep the commentary to myself.

  “I don’t know.” She shudders in her jean jacket. “Something about the blue oyster cult is really creeping me out.”

  One of the walking pearls skips over in her heels, creating a grating sound over the floor. “Hi! I’m Lynn. Who’s your sponsor?” Her hair is curled under at the ears, and she’s in the requisite little black dress with discards from the ocean strung helpless around her neck. Suddenly I’m feeling a wee bit nervous because obviously I didn’t get the memo to get my pearls or my perky on—not that I own pearls, and God forbid that I own an ounce of perky.

  “She’s mine!” Jules rushes over with her blonde mane perfectly twisted in stiff little ringlets.

  “Oh my, gosh! You brought a friend!” She spasms over me as if Laney herself were manna from heaven. “Come, come.” She pulls us each by the hand and scuttles into the center of the room as if we were exhibit A and B.

  “Who is this?” A brassy blonde steps forward, and you can tell by her resting bitch face, that ultra-cruel look in her eyes, that she’s the one in charge of this quasi-hostage situation. “And why are they breaking dress code?” She barks at Jules, inspiring her to shrink three inches.

  “Relax, Aubree.” Laney rolls her eyes. “This is Baya Brighton, and you’d be lucky if she graced your presence.”

  I’m impressed that Laney knows her, but, then, Laney seems to know everyone and everything about them. Not that she’s filling me in on all the dirty little deets.

  The queen bee inspects me with a look of slight disgust. Her brassy hair is pulled up high, and she has on enough mascara to give her that spider lash effect. There’s a sinister feel to her, so it doesn’t surprise me that she’s driving this crazy train.

  “Did you tell me I’d be lucky to have her grace my presence?” Aubree squints into Laney until her eyelashes look as if they want to crawl off her face.

  Nobody moves, nobody breathes. Dear God, you would think I slaughtered their mothers the way every girl in the room looks like they want to personally murder me in my sleep.

  “Well, Laney and Baya”—she growls with a heated disdain—“we have a dress code to abide by. But, since you’re obviously clueless, I’ll let it slide just this once.” She snaps a finger in the air, loud and crisp as if she broke a bone in the process. “All new recruits line up against the back!” Her voice echoes through the room, vibrating the chandelier sconces until they sizzle against the wall. “Welcome to the hall of truth. Here at Alpha Chi we believe that authenticity and integrity are of the upmost value. We never hesitate telling a sister exactly how we feel because the truth is what separates a sister from a friend. For instance”—she glances at the bevy of girls behind her, and the entire lot of them shrink in fear, well, not really but you could see it in their eyes—“when Lynn here got her hair chopped off at a place that specializes in ten dollar hack jobs, I let her know that little follicular fuck-up was going to cost her a place at the next four social events with our matchups at Sigma Theta Tau.”

  A gasp circles the room while Lynn closes her eyes a moment as if reliving the horror.

  “And, when you, Jen”—she flicks a finger at a shorter girl with a mole the size of a dime just under her left eye—“tried to join the a cappella group after I graciously informed you that you sing like shit….” A smile that borders on a snarl graces her face. “Well, why don’t you tell everyone what happened next?”

  “I didn’t make it.” The girl with the mole gives a hard sniff.

  “What’s that?” Aubree barks it out like a command.

  “I didn’t make it! You were right. I sing like a sack of shit on fire, and I defamed the good name of Alpha Chi!” She yelps it out at the crowd as if the reprimand was meant for us all along.

  Holy crap. Are these people for real?

  “Now”—Aubree gives a soft clap while that stupid wicked smile plays on her lips—“the sisters and I are looking forward to getting to know each of you better. State your name and the reason you’d like for us to consider you as future members of Alpha Chi. Honest answers only.” Her eyes reduce to slits, and suddenly I’m fearing for my room at the haunted inn. “I have an exceptional radar for liars.” Her thin lips set in a line, and somehow I believe her.

  The girls at the far end start in on the fun while Laney leans into me.

  “Aubree and I grew up together,” she whispers. “She’s been hot and bothered over Bryson for as long as I can remember, so I wouldn’t mention him—Cole either just to be safe.”

  I give a barely-there nod. “What do I say?” I zip the words through the side of my lips like a ventriloquist.

  “Say that you’d die to live here,” she whispers. “That you came to Whitney just for Alpha Chi.”

  “Excuse me?” The brassy bitch snaps her fingers in our direction. “It looks like someone here likes talking out of turn.” Her dark eyes narrow in on us, her jaw roots itself to the ground, incredulous that we even bothered to breathe out of turn. I half-expect her to punch us in the throat. “Why don’t you two go next since you’re so excited, you could hardly keep your pie holes shut. You first.” She hardens her gaze at me.

  “Baya Brighton, and I would l-o-v-e to become a member of Alpha Chi—” I thought spelling it out would be a cute touch since Jules seems to be addicted to the alphabet. Wait...do I really want to be a member of Alpha Chi and have more of this f-u-n?

  “Why?” Aubree’s eyes expand the size of baseballs. “Spit it out.”

  Lynn and Jules drape her like bookends, albeit frightened, quaking in their patent stilettos, bookends.

  “I would really love to become a member of Alpha Chi…”—now would be a great time to dream up some craptastic answer, but, truthfully, I’m a little short on lies at the moment so I go for the truth—“so I don’t have to witness Jeanie Waters fornicating herself into a cardiac episode.” Thing One and Thing Two blink through my mind as if they were waving hello.

  The room lights up with laughter, and I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.

  That’s a good sign right? Adding levity to the situation and all that good stuff? I can feel a bite of perspiration under my arms because I seriously doubt inciting a laugh riot is a very good fucking sign.

  Shit. I can’t believe I just said that crap about Jeanie out loud. It was one thing to tell a few people but an entire crowd of questionably stable girls? My mouth has officially morphed into the rumor mill.

  “Also”—it’s like I’m on autopilot, and my lips won’t stop moving—“sharing a bathroom with my brother and his roommate is growing a little old.” I manage to leave the parade of sluts out of the equation for now, although Bryson did mention he was handing the keys to the carnal kingdom to my brother.

  Aubree narrows her gaze at me. She leans so far in my direction, I’m positive she’s about to flop over. Her jaws cut back like razors, her lips are pulled into a thin line of hatred, and I’m pretty sure I’ve just reduced my stay at this glorified mortuary to zero. Why don’t I just tell them I hate tea length dresses and pearls? Or really go out in style and swing a sickle from the second floor balcony while screaming, die bitches!

  “So let me get this straight?” Aubree takes a few steps toward me, and the room echoes with the click of her heels. “You want to join our sorority because you ran away from your romping roommate? And you don’t like the bathroom accommodations at your brother’s place?” Her pink glossy mouth contorts in disapproval.

  Oh, what the hell. “Yes.” I bite down on my lip in an effort to block my vocal cords from spewing any more hardcore truths, but it’s no use. “And, I happen to hate tea length dresses and pearls.” A circle of gasps titter around the room. “This is the hall of truth, right?”

  She sucks in a breath and darts he
r finger toward the exit.

  Laney and I laugh our asses off as we speed over to the Black Bear Saloon.

  “You were brilliant.” She shakes her head into the dark two-lane highway.

  “So do you think they’ll let us in?” I can’t even finish the thought before the two of us hack out another round of good old-fashioned air laughs. Laney swerves momentarily before pulling into the parking lot.

  “If they did let us in, I’m pretty sure Alpha Chi would be a lot more fun. Seriously though”—Laney wipes the tears from her eyes with her pinkies—“you’ll probably wish you didn’t blow rush.”

  “What are you taking about? That girl had I-specialize-in-breaking-lady-balls written all over her face. There’s no way I’ll ever regret not scoring a room at the mansion of misery.” Well, maybe I’ll regret it a little.

  “I know, but I was just thinking, you might be right. If things get serious between you and Bry—you know, once you’re officially together, you’ll want to find someplace else to stay to maintain that air of mystery for a while.”

  “Officially together,” I whisper. Just the thought of being with Bryson sends me soaring. I’d be the envy of every girl at Whitney Briggs. Hell, I’d be the envy of me.

  Laney and I hop out of the car and head on in. The Black Bear is jammed packed with bodies tonight. Music pulsates through the speakers at lethal decibels, and Holt lifts a drink to us from behind the black granite bar. It’s just this side of creepy the way he looks almost exactly like his brother—I guess being fraternal twins will do that. Then I see him—the real deal. Bryson’s smile expands as his eyes lock onto mine. His jaw cinches tight. He’s got that five o’clock shadow peppering his cut features, and his entire face lights up when he sees me.

  “Would you look at that?” Laney muses as she ties on her apron. “He’s like a kid on Christmas morning with you around. Looks like someone’s about to get l-a-i-d,” she sings that last part before disappearing into the crowd.

  Right. More like paid, as in, by the patrons. At least I can almost guarantee that’s going to happen tonight. Not that I would mind getting “laid,” but something about the word makes me squirm. I’ve always envisioned my first time to be in a bubble of perfect love with someone who wanted me as much as I wanted them. And, with Bryson, I feel an emotional push in the opposite direction, I don’t know why.

  I slip behind the bar and pluck an apron from under the counter.

  “Ready for some action?” Bryson curls into me, and, for a moment, I think he’s propositioning me.

  “Action? I bet half of the girls that come in this place are trying to get lucky with an Edwards brother.” I wink as I tie the white frilly apron around my waist.

  Holt barks out a laugh, and I startle. I didn’t see him swoop on over, really I was referencing one Edwards in particular, that being Bryson.

  “Listen, sweetheart”—Holt leans in with that come hither look in his eye—“if you can’t find an Edwards brother to pleasure you tonight, track me down at about three in the morning.” He socks Bryson in the arm before heading to the other end of the bar.

  “That wasn’t awkward,” I say, mostly to myself.

  “If you’re in the market for an Edwards brother, I can tell you Holt’s the wrong one—unless, of course, you’re also in the market for a medication-resilient STD. Then you’re free to venture.”

  “Oh? Does his scoreboard put yours to shame?”

  His lids hood over. “The only thing I’ve scored lately is a clean bill of health per my last physical.” A slight dimple goes off on his left cheek. His face looks tan from the boat ride this afternoon, and his stubble has taken over, giving him that hot, scruffy look I’m a sucker for. He leans onto the bar and gazes at me as if he’s flirting.

  “So”— I swallow hard, never taking my eyes off his—“which Edwards brother is the right one?”

  The music cuts out, and a sharp bite of feedback takes over the speakers, inspiring ten different people in the vicinity to cover their ears. A slow song starts in and resettles the mood in the room.

  Bryson pinches his lips together, taking me in as if I was dessert, but he doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he tilts his head and stares into me dreamily, at least that’s the story I’m buying.

  “You want to dance?” He nods over to a small clearing between the tables.

  “I’ve never seen anyone dance here before.” Heat rises to my cheeks, and I take a breath at the prospect of holding his perfect body to mine.

  “I think maybe it’s time people start.” Bryson clasps onto my fingers and gently threads us through the crowd until we’re centered in the tiny clearing. He pulls me in and wraps his arms around my waist, warming me from head to toe with an instant inferno. His knees press against my inner thighs, he intertwines our fingers, and another wave of heat sears through me. Bryson never takes his eyes off mine while his pelvis pushes into me as if giving me the carnal green light.

  My throat goes dry. My heart thumps in my ears so loud I swear he can hear it.

  I glance up at him starry eyed. Bryson Edwards is the sex god of Whitney Briggs, and he’s dancing with me. In. Public.

  A group of girls turn their heads in our direction just as a few other couples meander over and dance alongside us.

  “Looks like your evil plan worked.” I bite down over my lower lip to keep from spewing out any additional suggestions that might work, such as reenacting our moves in a horizontal position sans clothing. God knows that the nightmare at Alpha Chi has unleashed word vomit central in my brain.

  “I figured if you’re in the market for an Edwards brother, I might as well put my best foot forward—literally.” He gives a lopsided grin, and my stomach pinches.

  “Yeah, well, you’re a pretty good kisser so I’d be a fool not to choose you.” What am I saying? Choose you? I’m the desperate one, not the other way around. Besides, it was just one kiss—one long, fantastic, mind-blowing lip exchange that will play out in my fantasies until I’m dust and bones, but, nevertheless, he relegated me and my pucker to the buddy rack before the night was through, so there’s that. I’ve practically made a pass at him on three other occasions but he’s declined every offer since that magical night. I guess Laney was right, parking lot magic isn’t a real thing after all.

  “You want to blow this place and go have some fun?” His eyes hood over again, and a surge of adrenaline pulsates in that sweet spot between my legs.

  Oh God. What the hell is good time code for? Am I really going to sleep with Bryson and become some nameless tally mark on his wall?

  A tiny voice that creeps from somewhere deep in my vagina screams a loud, demanding, hell yes.

  “Sure,” I hear myself say. “I’m ready to have all the fun you’re willing to give me.” Give me? I glance down at his chest briefly. Who the hell has taken over my mouth? This is exactly what I swore I would never do, meaningless sex with cute frat boys. Even if he’s not a frat boy, the premise is still the same. I want it to mean something. I want Bryson to care about me, to want me in more than just a sexual sense—well, ideally anyway. Maybe he feels like the only way to get me off his back is to pin me down with his boy toy and get it over with? And, sadly, he’s probably right.

  Laney gives a thumbs-up from over his shoulder, and I try not to break out in a goofy grin.

  Bryson swivels his hands up over my back, and my insides give a mean quiver. He leans in with his cheek an inch away from mine, and I can feel the heat emanating off his skin in waves. The song wraps up, and he leads me by the hand to the exit, giving Holt a quick wave on our way out the door.

  The crisp night air enlivens my senses, and then it hits me—I’m off to who knows where on a Saturday night with Bryson Edwards. And if that doesn’t qualify as a date then I don’t know what does.

  “So where to?” I jump a little at the thought of going anywhere with the god of good times at my side.

  “How about we start with dinner?”

&n
bsp; Bryson and I hit a Chinese restaurant down the street, and I tell him all about my misadventure at Alpha Chi over dinner and the fact I still sort of wish I could get in. I leave out the “air of mystery” portion of my argument. But now that we’re ditching work for a little alone time, I’m seriously reconsidering that whole air of mystery thing.

  His chest thumps with a silent laugh. “You’re a non-conformist. I like that. Most girls would have lied, and you told the truth. That’s what I like about you—you’re so innocent, it’s cute.”

  A slight rail of alarm spirals through me.

  “I’m not that innocent.” My entire face darkens to the shade of the maroon tablecloth, giving away the fact I totally am. I’m not sure I like the idea of being “cute” either.

  “Hey”—he leans over the table and clasps my hand—“there’s nothing wrong with being innocent. I swear, I didn’t mean it like an insult.”

  My eyes grow heavy, and I inspect every item on the table because I can’t bring myself to look up at him.

  “Yeah, well”—my fingers loosen from his grasp—“I guess I’m ready and willing to find someone to defile me.” Not really. This all feels so achingly desperate that a part of me wants to run all the back to Prescott Hall and ask one of Jeanie’s many bare ass suitors to have their way with me just to take the edge off.

  Bryson pulls his sad, pale eyes over me. “Trust me, the last thing you want is for someone to defile you.” His glassy eyes roll over mine. He looks serious as death. “Promise me you’ll hold out for something better.”