The Kisser
Meet Your Man
Liv Kingstown
The Kisser by Liv Kingstown
Edited by Kim Burger
All rights reserved © 2019 by Babe Fuel Books. This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author. This book may also not be re-sold, transferred, or given to other people without written permission of the author.
Just when you thought you couldn't dance...
* * *
Sometimes, you’re one of those people who is happy to go unnoticed.
Because you know you’re not one of the lucky ones.
The ones with all the beauty.
The money.
The talent.
Take Taylor Rose.
He’s the world’s greatest dancer adored by his fans the world over.
Including by me.
But that’s about to change.
I can’t be a fan of someone who knows exactly how special he is, thinking he can just do and get away with whatever he wants.
Like refusing to leave me – my lips, my pain, my heart – alone.
THE MEET YOUR MAN COLLECTION
Also by Liv:
The Cuddler
The Kisser
The Player (coming soon)
Contents
Prologue
1. Taylor
2. Rerun
3. Taylor
4. Rerun
5. Rerun
6. Taylor
7. Rerun
8. Taylor
9. Rerun
10. Taylor
11. Rerun
12. Taylor
13. Rerun
14. Rerun
15. Taylor
16. Rerun
17. Rerun
18. Taylor
19. Taylor
20. Rerun
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Liv Kingstown
About the Author
Prologue
Taylor
The first time I recall seeing myself dancing, I was just a boy looking through a wall-sized mirror. My toes were curled instead of pointed, my ballet shoes were a size too big, and my bare round belly poked out so far beyond the waistline of my loose black leggings, I saw drool collecting over the hump of my naked stomach.
I was three years old.
I pulled my toe to my knee—it took a few tries not to stumble—and I performed a sort-of spin. The fingers of each hand should have touched together above my head, but my right hand was more interested in digging around my belly button at the same time while I was attempting a pirouette.
“Good job!” My young mother clapped her hands together with a smile so big I was surprised she was pleased.
Even at that age, I knew what I’d done was total crap.
“Wonderful,” a photographer exclaimed. “Now, pick him up and let’s take a few close-ups of mother and son.”
Swiftly, my mother made her way across the worn wooden floors covering the Vander Rose Conservatory of Dance studio.
My family’s studio.
My family’s legacy.
My mother’s tiny feet wrapped snug in pink toe point shoes sprinted speedily but lightly towards me. The loose chiffon skirt of her pale pink leotard floated up behind her, which made her look like she had wings at her back.
And she tripped.
The photographer was more perplexed than I was, which made me laugh to myself. As beautiful as my mother was, I remember thinking how silly she looked, like a clumsy girl.
She collected herself, picking me up, and then squeezed and nuzzled her nose into my neck. The tickling made me squirm and I laughed louder, attempting to pull at her slicked chocolate brown hair—a darker chocolate than mine—tucked tight into a bun at the back of her head.
Gripping my hand, she pulled my claws free from loosening tendrils and stuck my chubby feelers into her slobbering mouth. I remember the feeling was gross, but also fun. I squealed in delight as my mother gnawed playfully on my fingers.
“That’s good,” the photographer interrupted. “But let’s get a few of the two of you dancing.”
“Do you want to dance?” my mother asked, her blue eyes as big as the sky outside of the studio blinked with a need for me to comply.
I didn’t want to dance. The camera lens looking at me with its monstrous glassy eye had interrupted our silly moment, making me uncomfortable. There always seemed to be cameras around and I didn’t like it. Beyond the camera, I knew what was waiting—the source of our fortune—an audience. At three years old, I already understood the concept of fortune and where it came from.
From the spectators.
From our fans.
Sometimes I’d wish I could have my mother to myself and that moment was one of those times, so I squirmed, upset that, as usual, everything revolved around the stage, which served no purpose but to please our fans watching.
“Come now, Taylor.” My mother’s voice was unusually shaky but sweet. “Dance with Mommy. Nothing makes me happier than when I see you dance. Let the cameraman take a few pictures. The world wants to see you move, too. Let them see you.”
The expectation infuriated me. There were always too many expectations and not just of me, but of my mother as well. As a little boy, I’d already felt it—the expectancy of following through on doing everything I was told to do.
I was expected to be seen.
I was expected to let people watch.
I was expected to be legendary.
I thought I was smart. I thought I knew better. Like any kid feeling restricted, I resisted and pushed on my mother harder.
Flying my head back and bouncing in my mother’s arms, I gave a hoot, howling loudly through pursed lips like a hungry little wolf, hoping my mother would set me free from this obligation of stillness and pictures and posing.
My mother was perfection. A prima ballerina. I could see why people wanted to photograph her regularly. She was so young and beautiful, but she was incredibly fragile. Her thin frame seemed easily breakable.
“Taylor, please,” she begged, trying to get a grip on me, but it only made me kick and punch.
The cameraman gurgled something under his breath, frustrated. It made my mother sigh.
She was thoroughly disappointed at that point. I could see it in her face. Perhaps she was even embarrassed. Embarrassed of me! I bounced heavier in her arms, forcing my body, my will, to dominate the moment and let my chest, my arms, and head fly higher.
“Taylor, don’t do that!” My mother pleaded. “Please, I don’t want to drop you and I don’t want to fall. A dancer never lets his partner fall, remember?”
With one arm my mother tried to coddle me as she wiped her other arm across her forehead of beading sweat. I recall I paused when I noticed her face was glistening and paling. The pink of her cheeks was dissipating. It was not like her at all and for a second, I was afraid of the woman carrying me.
So, I did something horrible.
I kicked my mother in the gut causing the most unthinkable thing to happen...
We fell.
She dropped me and we both went down, each landing flat on our backs.
I didn’t cry or feel bad right away. The throbbing bruise forming on my tailbone took a backseat to the triumph I was feeling. I had succeeded in my attempt to kick expectation in the ass.
My triumph was short-lived, of course. It took several minutes before I star
ted to cry, watching the photographer run out of the studio to get help while leaving me alone with my mother sprawled flat across the floor but flexed in the most awkward position.
And lifeless.
Death, with its cold fingers, spread its icy prickle over my shoulders. I was so young but I knew—felt—what it was and I would never forget the feeling.
Or, the scent of the room that enveloped from my mother. Decorated with hundreds of bouquets from the previous night’s finale, the studio was draped in roses—odes to my mother’s greatest performance the previous night. To this day, I cannot let go of the smell that engulfed my nose. In fact, it’s the only thing that makes me feel alive nowadays—whenever I smell roses.
“Remember” was the last word I would ever hear my mother speak because it was the last time I saw her alive.
For years, that’s all I did was remember because I forced myself to. The event of kicking—killing—my own mom replayed in mind every day of my life. The vivid memory ate at me, at my young heart, my childish and stupid foolish soul.
One day, I was finally old enough to understand the mistake I’d made and do something about it.
I made a vow.
I vowed that no matter what the task, I would always do what my family expected of me and I would never let anyone I ever cared about fall again.
1
Taylor
“I. Don’t. Care.”
“Then meet me,” she says.
“Pfft.” I flap my lips. “There’s no way I’m going to meet up with you after what you did yesterday. Posting pictures of us? In bed? All over social media for the world to see? And not to mention, the lies I heard you wrote in the text.”
I hang up on Diamond. I haven’t seen the images she took while I was naked and asleep on the one night we were in bed together a few months back. Diamond is hot—thick, long, shiny raven black hair and plump plum lips with soft, pale skin on a perfectly fit frame, a ballerina’s frame, except with tits.
She’s gorgeous and she’s been my dance partner for nearly a year. Naturally, I thought the chemistry we had together as dancers would translate into the bedroom and we ended up in bed together for one night.
Big mistake.
“You shouldn’t have slept with her,” says Dirk, removing his sweatshirt.
Now he tells me.
“You don’t seem upset over what she did. Have you seen the pictures of you she posted?” Dirk slips off his sweat pants.
“Nope.” I also slip off my clothes.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t care.” And I really don’t. I’ve already slept with at least a dozen chicks since Diamond.
“You should care. The second your grandmother finds out—”
“When Penny finds out?” I laugh, grabbing the bundle of flowers out of my sack that I was asked to pick up this morning. “Trust me, Penny already knows.”
Dirk and I leave our stuff piled in a corner of the studio classroom and tiptoe through the mess of teen dancers sprawled out in the hall waiting to get into their next scheduled class. Each girl gives off a little feminine gasp when she realizes who’s just stepped over her backpack stuffed with leg warmers and tap shoes for later.
“Oh, excuse me,” I say as I accidentally step on a teeny bopper’s toe feeling her tiny little bones crumble beneath my feet. Surely, that’s got to hurt although the teenager doesn’t show it. The little dreamer smiles instead as if she’s been blessed to have been crushed by me.
Poor little dreamers, I think.
Each and every one of them is hoping to be the next prima ballerina, hoping to get a chance to dance with me—be my partner—one day.
Sometimes I feel bad for ‘em. Not one of these young ladies stands a chance. It doesn’t matter how hard we train them, how many toes they break, or how many nasty blisters and ingrown toenails they acquire over their lifetime, a girl will never be prima unless she’s willing to die for it.
And these girls? They’re all a little too starry-eyed, distracted by hope, plagued by silly dreams, and way too easily amused by testosterone.
Even Dirk gets a few flirty nods, which I always find odd. Every woman here young and old knows my best friend is gay. They stand less of a chance hooking up with him than they do with me. It’s just more proof these girls won’t get to “make it big” one day.
The only thing a dancer should ever be thinking about is dance. That’s how you rise to the top—become the cream of the crop. It’s why I’ve already fulfilled my family’s legacy and become a legend in my own right.
Every day I die—kill—myself and for that, I’m the best, known the world over.
But I don’t hurt myself every day because I want to be known.
I do it because that’s what’s expected of me.
Dirk tugs on my bare arm, the one supporting a bundle of fresh roses, and points to a man in overalls hanging halfway out of the ceiling. “Speaking of your grandmother, I’m not comfortable with this, Taylor. I don’t think we should be adding video cameras at every corner of the studio.”
Continuing to tread through the sea of dancers in the hall, I slip from Dirk’s grip. The halls are extra crowded this afternoon. They are not just filled with students but also an electrician crew armed with tool guns, ladders, and rolls of heavy wire. They’ve been contracted to install video cameras, which includes sound so people can hear the music along with the drama over the Internet when we’re rehearsing.
When I see one of the cameras aimed at the janitor’s closet, I realize why Dirk has a problem with this.
“You’re just going to have to find another place to make out with Jesse when no one is around.”
Dirk sighs, continuing to follow from behind. “That’s not the reason I’m wary of the cameras.”
“Sure, it is.”
“Jesse and I are over,” Dirk says. “I’ve already met someone else.”
I stop dead in my tracks. “But you’ve been after Jesse since he moved here six months ago.”
Dirk rakes his hands through his blond hair, letting his green eyes wander as he thinks. Whimpers of ogling teenagers sound off in admiration around us.
“I don’t think Jesse’s ever going to come fully out of the closet.” Dirk shrugs. “Everything we do is always in the closet. You know we can’t expect people to be...” Dirk eyeballs me, his eyes get glossy as they graze over my wavy brown hair, cropped at the back, and practically naked body, “be what they’re not.”
“Shit, man,” I stomp away. “You can’t do that.”
“I’m sorry.” He follows.
“Dirk, I’m serious. You can’t freakin’ look at me like that.”
“I know, I know.” He catches up. “Taylor, it’s just really hard to be around you, you know?”
Ugh. “And don’t use the word ‘hard’ around me ever again.”
“Ah,” his voice is sour. “I didn’t mean it like that. You just confuse people sometimes. I mean, nobody knows your preference.”
Da-fuh?
I stop again, turning to him. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m not gay. Clearly, you saw the pictures Diamond took and posted. I’ve slept with a lot of women since that night.”
“But I’ve never seen you...” He hesitates, scratching his head. “You only hang out with me and my friends. My. Gay. Friends. And I’ve never seen you hook up with anyone seriously. It’s like you’re either overcompensating or you’re afraid to fall in love. Diamond was a perfect match and not just in beauty but a prima. The two of you are so beautiful together, on and off the stage.”
Love? Is he serious? What kind of stupid bullshit is that?
I step up to Dirk. “You’re talking about a relationship that lasted one night.” And it was with a woman who is a total bitch! I should know. I’m her dance partner that has to cater to her every whim when I’d really just like to drop her on her ass.
“Diamond said you were gay. Said it was the worse sex she ever had in her life.
She posted it everywhere online yesterday. Why didn’t you ever say anything in response?”
Again, because she’s a conniving brat.
“She’s desperate, man. She’s trying to get me to convince people otherwise by trying to get me to sleep with her again. But I don’t give a damn about what people think. And besides, I don’t manage my social media, someone else does. It’s why I went to the marketing agency, so I don’t have to worry about this crap. The marketing person, whoever that is, manages all my stuff. It’s the same person who suggested we model for a few fashion designers months ago to increase the school’s social media presence. And it’s the same person who suggested to Penny we add video cameras in all the rooms and down the halls, so our sponsors can watch us twenty-four seven. According to my marketer, our sponsors are more obliged to pour more money into the school and the company when they feel connected to us. It’s the same person who even arranged this private meeting this morning.”
“Private meeting?” Dirk scratches his smooth jaw. “I thought this was an exhibition.”
I flail my free hand up and down between us, so he takes note of what we’re both wearing, which is...
Nothing.
Tight, nude-colored, briefs that barely cover our crotch and show every contour of our chiseled asses. That’s all we have on.
“This is an exhibition, Dirk, and we are the exhibit.”
Dirk clasps his own cheeks with two hands. “Why do I feel so dirty all of a sudden? Like I’m being used. Dancing has never made me feel dirty except when we’re at Club Max. Actually, I think I like this.” He winks.
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