Valentine's Day Kisses : Boxed Set

by Addison Moore

  I’m sort of working on a happily ever after of my own—technically I’m working on a happily ever next couple of hours. As far as my life is concerned I’m not expecting some sappy forever after or any of that other fairytale bullcrap. I’m a realist when it comes to that four-letter word everyone in the world seems to wield so easily—love. True love is for other people—people like Annie and Izzy and just about everyone who works at this damn bar. It’s as if some rabid epidemic went amuck and infected everyone in the facility but me. Nope definitely not me.

  I’m a product of Walleye, a dirty small town in the valley that even the homeless struggle to flee from. It edges Hollow Brook like some distant slutty cousin. Which isn’t exactly saying nice things about the town I grew up in, but when just about every girl in my high school sported a baby bump at prom, even the Parent Teacher Association was forced to face the fact they might have a problem. I believe the term they used was “epidemic.” While the students rallied for OBGYN services in the health department, parents lobbied for condom dispensers to be placed next to the fruit vending machines.

  Yet, somehow, I managed to graduate fetus-free! (as my mother gushed) and, in the process, maintained an impressive GPA thus landing myself a scholarship to the esteemed Whitney Briggs University, playground to the children of the rich and infamous. My parents may not fall in the rich category, but they sure do give the infamous a run for their Swiss-bank-account-heavily-tax-sheltered money. Edward Cecil Jackson, my father, has been in and out of prison on armed robbery charges for the entire length of my life—holding up liquor stores and gas stations alike. And, for the most part, he always managed to elude authorities with the exception of the odd credit union. It was always the bank heists that managed to trip him up and end a stream of illegal revenue that my family had come to depend on, but I digress.

  The music drifts from the speakers as the 12 Deadly Sins finish their set for the night. Blake ends his last song with an “I love you” to Annie as he holds her in his arms and they sway their conjoined hips into the proverbial sunset. If she wasn’t my closest friend at Whitney Briggs, I would have long since barfed up the back-to-back nachos I’ve spent the majority of the night noshing on.

  Why couldn’t I be the one dancing off into the proverbial sunset right alongside Annie? Why couldn’t that hornet’s ass I dated for the last two years, William Abbey Richie, keep his wandering pants zipped for five solid minutes? Hard questions for a Saturday night.

  Annie’s face turns twelve shades of pink, and, if I had to guess, those sweet nothings Blake is whispering are a bit pornographic in nature.

  See? If only Will would’ve kept his middle stump pointed in my direction, he could be whispering all sorts of pornographic things to me right now.

  Will. Even the memory of him leaves a horrible taste in my mouth like sucking on a bucket full of rusty pennies.

  I finally managed to tell my mother and, Jemma, my slightly psychotic yet well-meaning sister, about the break up. Jemma has had her fair share of mangled relationships. She has a variety of kids with a variety of fathers. Jemma is a can of twisted worms all on her own. My mother just rolls her eyes when men walk out of Jemma’s life, but, when I told her that Will cheated on me, she clutched her chest dramatically informing me I was “cuckold.” If cuckold is code for “your boyfriend just went on a coed screwing spree,” then yes, Will very much cuckold me in the most heart-wrenching manner.

  I knew it would be hard for us going to different universities, in different states no less, but like a good, wide-eyed, unassuming girlfriend, I trusted him. I gifted him my heart two years ago and then six months after that my virginity. It turns out collecting V-Cards is something that William Abigail—whatever his highbrow middle name is—Richie does best. It’s true I don’t quite remember his middle name. Honestly all I remember thinking at the time he told me was holy hell that’s a girl’s name! I was drunk off the idea that this gorgeous, incredibly rich (as his last name attests) boy would want anything to do with me. Turns out he just wanted to do me—along with a few other people, of course. I was simply standing in a very long line of “things/people to do.” Apparently he does “it” quite a lot—so much so that he’s officially a card-carrying member of Jackasses United, an exclusive club that only cheating boyfriends belong to.

  It’s his fault I’ve decided to eschew relationships for the time being (the words time being and lifespan are interchangeable). Everything that’s wrong in my life is Will’s fault at this point. It’s his fault I’m alone on a Saturday night. It’s his fault I’ve shattered my heart and ego to shards. It’s his fault I’ve developed a slightly skewed yet alarmingly real rage toward anyone with a dangling appendage in general. It’s most certainly Will’s fault that I’ve paired my pricey convertible fit and flare dress (better suited for temperatures in the triple digits) with an unfortunate pair of bright blue patent heels that peacock for attention. I thought red might scream desperate and perhaps suggest a cash exchange for the adventure I’m about to embark on because on this fine night I’ve set my mind, and my girl parts, on staking out a one-night stand.

  The dark-haired man keeps sneaking glances my way—most likely because I pretend to giggle and call him with my finger each time he happens to gaze in my general direction. He’s literally tall, dark, and handsome, built like a linebacker, oozing a palpable sex appeal that has women of all ages craning to glean a better look at him. He’s already dismissed an entire slew of Alpha Chi skanks that have migrated his way. But I’ve marked him as my one-night stand, and I’m determined to make this happen. Although, admittedly, I have no clue how other girls actually go about luring strangers to their dorm rooms. I’ve seen it done on numerous occasions, but most of those were boys, and staggering drunk at that, vomiting their way down the hall as they trot off to “get some.” I cringe at the lengths some of my dorm sisters have gone to procure a walking dildo. But tonight it’s my turn.

  Annie has already informed me she’s staying over at Blake’s for the weekend, so there’s no fear of an awkward run-in with my roomie and said one-night stand. Besides, it’ll be awkward enough with just me in the room. One-night stands are new territory—no thanks to Will and the sisterhood of his traveling pants.

  Annie and Blake head over toward my Tall, Dark, One-Night Stand, and he’s quick to pull Blake into a man hug—probably congratulating him on a job well done. The Sins really did rock it tonight. God—maybe he’s some high and mighty record producer with his own label? Maybe he’s offering Blake a contract right here on the spot! I swear it’s as if Annie and Blake are walking on sunshine. Everything goes right for the two of them, so this wouldn’t surprise me at all.

  The Tall Dark One glances my way and nods. Annie and Blake turn to look at me before whispering something to him.

  Oh, wow, this is getting awkward a lot quicker than expected. I turn and pretend to laugh at whatever it is the gaggle of girls next to me are cackling over. Instinctually I duck behind the mob of coeds and peer around a blonde with shoddy hair extensions who’s currently masking me from further humiliation by way of poorly weaved horse hair.

  I bet he thinks I’m stalking him—or worse, that I’m a hooker trying to reel in a john! He’s cradling his phone in his hand. I bet he has the Hollow Brook PD on his contact list, and his thumb is just itching to partake in a little social justice. Way to go. I close my eyes and cringe.

  Maybe that can be the next headline for my article? “How I Got Arrested While Trying to Seduce a Fantastically Sexy Businessman.” Obviously he’s way out of my league.

  Speaking of my article, I should go home and delete it. Who the hell am I to give sex tips anyway? I can count on one hand the close encounters I’ve had with the testicular kind. Will and I weren’t exactly active in that department. My article typically focuses on fashion with the odd sex tip thrown in for good salacious measure. It’s really my sex tips that bring the boys to the yard, regardless of the over-used euphemism. My sex tips br
ing the girls to the yard, too, and that, in and of itself, is why I have the most widely read article in both the print and online versions of the WB Daily.

  Tall, Dark, and Alarmingly Sexy sears over me with those day glow eyes of his, and my body sizzles as if I’ve just been thrown in the bathtub with a toaster. He has an authoritative appeal like a lawyer or an undercover cop.

  Cop! Gah! Forget calling the police. I bet he is the police. God. Of course, I’m going to be arrested—by him. He’s probably just off duty. Those types are always plaguing the Black Bear, trying to trip up the bartenders into serving minors. They live to shut places like this down. Unfortunately for Annie and her brothers, who actually own the Black Bear, this place is a magnet for minors, which, in theory, is fine since they serve a full menu and an entire array of non-alcoholic drinks to go along with it, but something tells me the odd hooker is not welcome on the premises.

  I spin to leave in my cobalt blue lady-of-the-night heels and smack into a body.

  “Marley?” Izzy backs up and steadies me by the shoulders. “Where are you in a hurry to? You want some more nachos?”

  Izzy is my sister Jemma’s best friend, only friend, and my nighttime supplier of never ending tortilla chips doused in a questionable cheese batter. She and Jemma went to high school together. Izzy is engaged to one of the owners of the Black Bear, Annie’s big bro, Holt, thus the free never-ending digestional maladies she gifts whenever I frequent the place.

  “Just taking off for the night.” I try to sidestep around her, but she rather elegantly blocks my path. Izzy is a dancer, who also happens to own her own dance studio, Electric Lights. As a savvy business woman, who, as far as I know has managed to escape the majority of her twenties without getting knocked-up, she’s the polar opposite of my sister, a three time divorcee with four kids under five. Have I mentioned different baby daddies?

  Izzy pulls back and examines me from head to toe. “Look at you!” She ogles my convertible fit and flare dress with its crisscross back, its high slit up the thigh that has no place being out on a January night where the mercury is dropping to artic levels. “Don’t worry, I’m not judging. I think you look amazing. Love the over-shoulder thing you’ve got going on.” She bites down on her lip. “I heard about Will. Sorry.”

  My stomach turns when she says she’s sorry. It’s all I hear now, sorry about Will! as if he passed away, and, believe me, I might have preferred that option.

  “No big deal.” I shrug it off, eyeing the coat rack before I remember that I didn’t bother to bring one.

  Perfect. I’m going to freeze on the way back to campus. I’ll lose my limbs to hypothermia, and then let’s see how many perverted police officers I can lure to my dorm that way. Never mind, I wouldn’t be lucky enough to survive the elements. I can see the school paper headline now, “Girl Freezes to Death in Blue Patent Leather Heels.” Knowing my editor, she’ll include the buy link for the heels at the end of the article. My name, of course, will be superstitiously omitted. People like me get through their fifteen minutes of infamy simply relegated to gender. Girl goes missing. Girl loses feet due to frostbite in an attempt to be sexually promiscuous. Girl gets arrested by the best looking member of the Hollow Brook PD and begs for a one-night stand on the way to the poky!

  I glance over my shoulder and spot the handsome-as-hell business suit leering at me. He makes his way briskly in this direction, and I gasp. His eyes are focused, his jaw set in a mean scowl. He’s a man on a mission—and I bet a very specific part of him is waiting for an emission. That’s either fresh lust in his eyes, or he’s looking to meet a correctional quota, and, right now, I’d bet on the latter. Dear God, I’m about to be accessorized with a pair of silver bracelets! Definitely something I would never pair with this ridiculous fit and flare, limb-risking catastrophe. Besides, those kinds of bracelets scream cheap.

  Of course, I might scream anything he wanted me to if he chained me to his bedpost.

  He steps in closer, a dark smile twitching on his lips.

  God, what am I thinking!

  “Look, I’d better go.” I twist my way around Izzy and spot her stopping him just a few feet away, making small talk.

  Brilliant! I’ll have to kiss her pretty pink dance shoes for stalling while I make a clean getaway. Next time I see him at the Black Bear, I’ll be sure to take a covert picture to post on all the school’s social media sites (anonymously, of course). Exposing him as the undercover P.I. he is. Everyone knows a man in a suit is litigious in nature. It’s just the way of our society. And I’m sure he’d like to screw me sideways for legally “defaming him” once I out him as a narc.

  An entire litany of inappropriate thoughts runs through my mind. That last scenario has a bit of a dangerous yet painful appeal. And I’m guessing I wouldn’t mind a little pain coming from him in that department.

  I thread my way through the crowd, inadvertently rubbing my body along errant arms and chests, the occasional pillowy boobs, and rock hard abs. Lord knows I’ve just had enough action for the entire weekend. The Black Bear is a seaman-like cesspool of people desperate to get laid. I should wear a body length prophylactic the next time I come in just to avoid any contact venereal diseases I might be exposed to.

  “Excuse me.” A deep voice, dark and lush as midnight, whispers in my ear from behind. Even with my high rise FMs on, he’s taller than me by a foot. His heated breath falls over my shoulder like a furnace. I don’t need to turn around to confirm that it’s the hottest narc on the planet. And me without a single illegal pill-popping remedy. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  I give a short-lived smile before pausing just shy of the entry and swiveling around.

  The sight of him in this close proximity is like a swift punch to the gut. He’s good looking and by good looking I’m talking drop to your knees and beg him to shackle you for his enjoyment type of good looking. He’s dressed to kill, with eyes that look as if they want to punish you just for fun. He’s death-threat sexy. No wait, that sounds horribly violent. He’s more of holy-hell-isn’t-it-illegal-to-be-so-damn-good-looking sexy. He must know he’s abnormally attractive. Judging by the hint of a lewd grin that says I know I can have you—I’m most certainly right.

  If he is a cop—if he does have handcuffs, I’d gladly let him put them to use.

  Those velvet cuffs I bought hoping to use with Will come to mind, and I immediately push them right back out. I let out a dull laugh at the thought of Will. Will who looks like a toothless, disheveled frat boy in comparison with this man whose chest is broad and heavy as a battleship, emitting the warmth of a steam engine as I move in slightly closer.

  His lime green eyes sear over mine, and my stomach turns into a fireball that races up my throat, leaving my thighs throbbing for attention. His body, so thick and muscular under that dark navy suit, moves inches from mine causing my mouth to water, my knees to go slack as I try to maintain my composure. His gray and navy striped tie looks sleek and expensive, and it’s all I can do not to run my fingers over it.

  “A drink?” I suppose this is where he catches the bartender in an illegal underage transaction, rendering both the Black Bear and my vagina useless for the night. “No thanks.” I flat line. “I’m not thirsty.” I try to force myself to move one foot in front of the other, but my feet are stuck in slow motion because my eyes can’t seem to pull away from his.

  “How about a bite? My treat.” He holds up his hand like a Boy Scout, and something about this gesture endears me to him. “At my place.”

  And there’s that. He’s gone from Boy Scout to serial killer in a single bound. He’s obviously trying to lure me to his lair so he can hack off my limbs and fry them up in a pan. I just might be the meal in question. But something in his bedroom eyes says no. Or perhaps I am the meal in question but not in the frying pan sense—in the mattress sense—which happens to be just what I’m looking for. Then it hits me.

  “Oh, my, God!” I whisper a little too loud. This is it! I cast my
net and caught myself a one-night stand. “Wait—are you a cop?” I heard once on TV that if you ask them point blank they’re legally obligated to disclose their true identity, or any arrests they make are totally bogus. At least that’s my weak cable-based defense in the event he decides to book me for little late night harlotry. To my knowledge the only thing that defines prostitution is the passing of a few bucks, and I’m innocent enough to take a ten-dollar bill from him thinking he wants me to pick up a Big Gulp from the Circle K. Of course, that would lead to my infamous hooker nickname, Big Gulp. At least it shows promise, if not productivity.

  “A what?” He winces, leaning in—obviously feigning confusion.

  “You know a night stick wielder, a badge carrying member of the Bay of Pigs, an undercover Private Dick who has it out for a sweet innocent coed like me.”

  His lip twitches just this side of a smile, and I can tell he’s silently contesting both my sweetness and innocence. “You think I have it in for you? On what charges should I have you arrested?”

  “God, I don’t know, let’s see, a false narcotics charge? Perhaps railroading me into a prostitution indictment? Oh, I know! Get me to the bar and suddenly “misplace” your wallet so that my underage self will volunteer to purchase the both of us a beer, then bam”—he ticks his head back a notch as I blow up in his face—“the bar loses its liquor license within the hour. Face it, Officer Cocks”—I give a quick, totally uncalled for glance to his crotch—“you’ve just been outted.”