A Kiss Like This

by Sara Ney

  Her amused snicker carries in the wind. “For a dump?”

  “I was going to go with shithole,” I tease, my lips almost tipping into a smile.

  Almost.

  Abby laughs a light, airy laugh that hums like a twinkle and causes my insides to involuntarily flutter. Then she smiles, her pale pink lips curving slowly, causing her eyes to crinkle at the corners, and I forget all about the flutters and instead focus on her face. She observes me under long, black, mascara-less lashes, and I allow myself to think that she looks damn pretty without it. Pretty without make-up, that is. Just pretty.

  A smile for me, of all people.

  I draw in a breath, enchanted, and stop daydreaming like a goddamn girl, when she says, “Okay, so… thanks. For, um… walking me home, I guess. At least it wasn’t very far.” She’s babbling.

  I shuffle my feet uncomfortably as Abby turns her back to me, toward the house.

  “See ya.” She gives a small wave over her shoulder, glancing back shyly at me like she did in my front yard. It’s a questioning glance that I’m not quite sure how to interpret. I’ve always been total shit at these kinds of things—one of the many reasons I tend to stay away from girls.

  “See ya.”

  But Abby doesn’t hear my reply, nor does she see my hand raised in a retreating wave.

  Because she’s already in the house.

  Because I waited too long.

  Because I’m a fucking idiot.

  ***

  Cecelia: The suspense is killing me. Got any updates?

  Abby: Sort of. I went to the Omega house, which is now the hockey house, and was caught crawling around on my hands and knees.

  Cecelia: Guys LOVE that sort of thing! Just ask Jenna (wink!)

  Abby: Could you be serious for one minute?

  Cecelia: I can only promise that I’ll try…

  CHAPTER 8

  Caleb

  I hate house parties.

  Fucking hate them. They never end well.

  What they do end with, is me fixing shit up—patching dry wall, repairing or replacing furniture, nailing, taping, or gluing something back together, and generally monitoring the landscape to keep the place in one solid piece so it doesn’t end up looking like the frat house next door.

  House parties also occasionally end with me getting pissed off and holing up in my suite to spare myself the pain of socializing with my peers.

  I should have pummeled Cubby when he started inviting people to the house, knowing it was going to get out of hand. But as usual, I don’t want anyone thinking that because my parents own the joint, I’m going to police everything that happens here.

  Not my job. Well, not technically.

  Retreating to the front porch, both to escape the crush inside and to grab a beer, I ignore the freshman rookie posted at the door. I open a large red cooler, snatch out an ice-cold bottle of beer, twist off the cap, and take a long, refreshing pull. I debate whether or not I should return to the house—privacy versus responsibility, solitude versus socializing. Responsibility wins, and I grab one more beer, double-fisting it before ambling back inside.

  The house is already filling with people and buzzing with excitement; the Omega house is known for loud, entertaining parties that last all night and rarely get busted.

  Florida Georgia Line blasts out of the stereo, and the last MLB Game replays on the giant high-def TV mounted above the fireplace in the spacious living room. Elbowing my way through the throng, I head toward the kitchen and, relieved to find it empty, set one beer down on the counter and lean my hip against the solid oak table.

  My solitude lasts for all of three whopping seconds.

  “Thought I’d find you in here,” Weston says, coming through the door and walking to the pantry, where I can hear him rooting around noisily¸ like a squirrel digging for a nut. Or a bear digging through a metal garbage can.

  Emerging with a bag of tortilla chips, he rips it open, stuffs a few chips in his mouth, and directs his attention back to me. “You aren’t in here hiding, are you? Cause that would be silly.”

  I roll my eyes and take a swig of beer.

  “Molly’s out there, and she brought a few friends she expects you to meet. That chick Abby that Blaze said you chased down the street is out in the living room.”

  I choke on my beer and narrow my eyes.

  Fucking. Blaze.

  “What the hell were you doing chasing her down? Jeez, man, she’s best friends with Cece Carter—you know, Matt Wakefield’s girlfriend?”

  Clenching my jaw, I grit out, “I did not chase her down the damn street.”

  Weston gives me a patronizing look, like I’m some cuckoo cat lady and he has to talk slow so he doesn’t unleash the crazy. “All I’m saying is you can’t stay in here all night. You have to get out there and make nice. It’s your house; that makes you the host by default.”

  I grunt and shoot him a dark glower.

  “Now what are you getting all pissed about? Abby’s hot… you know. In a cute kind of way.” Weston snickers and stuffs more chips into his stupid fat face. As he mutters, “You’re too sensitive, bro,” chip pieces fly out of his mouth and drop to the floor. “Oophfs.”

  Grabbing the second beer off the counter, I straighten to my full height and stalk into the crowded living room.

  ~ Abby ~

  The longer I stand here, the wetter I get.

  Wait. That didn’t come out right…

  Sighing, the cup in my hand is jostled yet again as someone drunk bumps/dances/falls into me, creating another oh-so-attractive wet spot on the front of my shirt, and I cringe, afraid the shirt is going to be ruined by the end of this torturous night.

  The shirt I was required to borrow.

  Ambushed while trying to sneak out of my bedroom unnoticed, my roommates waylaid my escape with a different shirt then forced me to sit in the bathroom while Jenna curled and styled my hair. According to Jenna, and I quote: “Abby, if you’re trying to walk out of here dressed like a librarian, it’s working. But if you want Caleb to notice you, let me amp up the sexy-cute. Nothing trashy, just a boost. Trust in the Jenna System.”

  By the way, in case you’re wondering, sexy-cute is an actual term Cecelia and I made up.

  Definition:

  Sexy-cute

  /'seksē/kyüt/

  Adjective

  Too cute to be sexy, but too sexy to be innocent and boring.

  Example: “Oh my gosh! Did you see Margaret? I thought she was such a prude, but that outfit she’s wearing is actually super sexy-cute.”

  So, yeah. Sexy-cute. Get to know it.

  Since I own too many basic cotton tee shirts, I was given (by Jenna) something to wear (of hers) before being plunked down in Jenna’s famous chair of torture and dolled up by the experts (Jenna).

  Are you sensing a pattern here? She’s a tyrant.

  Fortunately, my new roommate took my wishes to heart, and I was still recognizable when I gazed back at my reflection in the mirror; long hair down and flat-ironed straight, black liquid liner on my top lids with a hint of onyx mascara, shiny lip gloss with a hint of coral. Jenna has me trussed in dark skinny-jean capris, a skin-hugging baby-blue wrap shirt with a deep V neck, and a thin blue belt cinching it closed and emphasizing my waist.

  It could have been considered sexy-demure had it not been covered in wet spots. Now it’s downright ‘wet tee shirt contest.’

  Thank God for padded bras.

  Molly looks down at the front of my borrowed shirt—the one now plastered to my chest—and raises her eyebrows. “You’re not going to want to hear this, but that’s actually a really good look for you.”

  Jenna leans over and inspects the damage. “I’d say it’s an improvement.”

  “Shut Up and Dance” by Walk the Moon comes blasting out loudly over the speakers, and Jenna bounces on her heels, shaking her wild hair as she shouts, “I freaking love this song!” and sings along. “I said you’re holding back, she said shut
up and dance with me!”

  My roommate tries grabbing my wrist, tries to get me to dance, but I’m wet and not in the mood, considering we’ve only been here for, what? Half an hour? Playfully slapping Jenna’s hands off my arm, I quickly gulp down what’s left of the warm beer in my plastic red cup, sputtering a little from the putrid taste of it.

  Ugh, so gross. I hate beer.

  So why am I drinking it?

  Easy. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out I’m drinking because we’re here. In Caleb’s house.

  The moment I realized where we were headed tonight, I stood transfixed in the yard of the Omega house. While Molly, Jenna, and a few of our other friends busted through its door, I stayed there, debating. I so badly did not want to come. Even on a Friday night, I would have preferred to stay home and bury my head in a textbook rather than come here. Or finish season two of Game of Thrones.

  Because I’m petrified.

  It took every ounce of courage I had to put one high-heeled foot in front of the other, climb the stairs to the Omega house, and push through the heavy front door.

  Every. Single. Ounce. Of. Courage.

  I didn’t see him at first.

  For the first half hour, he was completely missing in action. Then, I watched as Jenna whispered to Molly, who leaned over and whispered to her boyfriend Weston, who then walked off and disappeared into some back room. Suddenly, I became overly conscious of everyone whispering to everyone but me.

  Conscious of the fact that I’m a little too sober.

  Conscious of the fact that Caleb was somewhere in this house.

  I take a deep breath and run a finger through my long hair, giving it a gentle toss so it rests over my left shoulder, then give the front of my pale blue shirt a tug. A lot tighter than I would normally wear, it was sticking to my chest before we even got here. Now that it’s covered in beer, it’s like a second skin. Adding to the fact, like a fool, I let Jenna talk me into a padded push-up bra—well, I look like the kind of girl who does the walk of shame on regular basis. Or stars in one of those Girls Who Show Their Boobs on Spring Break videos.

  Groaning, I look back up and find Molly watching me with a smirk on her face. “Need another drink?” she asks smugly, extending another cup toward me. “Here, take this. Weston went to get me another one.”

  I eye her above the brim of the cup and take a sip.

  “I would take a bigger drink if I were you,” she says, eyeing the door behind me and leaning forward. “Weston told me about your little run-in with Caleb Lockhart.”

  “What? How. I don’t get it…”

  She waves her hand around aimlessly. “Blaze told him and he told me. Better watch out, he gossips like a flipping girl.”

  “Who? Blaze or Weston?” I ask dryly, unamused.

  “Both.” Molly laughs and reaches over to tip the cup toward my mouth, silently urging me to take another drink. “I don’t want to pry or anything, but…”

  “But you’re going to anyway?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. Don’t worry, I haven’t told anyone else what Weston told me, so Jenna is still clueless enough to leave you alone. Besides the mini makeover. Better steer clear though, because once she hears you were on your hands and knees in his yard—” Molly shrugs causally and sighs “—you’re screwed.”

  “Well, then I’m so excited to be standing here in this damp shirt with half the room knowing my business. I look like I’m about to enter a wet tee shirt contest, for crying out loud.”

  Molly looks me up and down, then smiles wickedly. “You want my opinion?”

  “No.”

  “That damp shirt looks hot. I’m sorry, but he’s gonna lay those big angry eyes on you and not know where to look. I almost feel bad for the poor guy.” She giggles. “He’s so awkward.”

  “Shut up, Molly,” I whine, taking yet another sip of beer. At this rate, I need all the courage—liquid or not—that I can get.

  “Whoa, Nelly, bring it down a notch,” Molly lectures. “Pace yourself.” She looks up and across the room, her eyes going wide. “On second thought, drink up.”

  My thoughts exactly.

  CHAPTER 9

  Caleb

  “Pace yourself, bro, or we’re going to be dragging your Yeti-sized ass up the stairs before bar time,” Stephan Randolph, one of my teammates, complains, giving me a disgruntled sidelong glance. “What’s your problem tonight, anyway?

  “There’s a girl here he’s trying to avoid,” Blaze responds helpfully into his vodka glass, nudging me with his elbow. He lifts his free hand and points across the room. “See? She’s in the tight blue shirt.”

  I slap his hand and scowl. “Put your fucking hand down.”

  Stephan raises one drunken eyebrow and squints over in Abby’s direction. “Whoa, she’s pretty damn cute. What’s her name?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “Huh. That’s a weird name. Terrible, in fact.” Stephan sways slightly, slapping me on the back and laughing directly into my ear. “I take it you haven’t introduced her to Showtime Junior yet?”

  Flexing my free hand, I stuff it in the pocket of my jeans so I don’t accidentally put my fist through the shitdick’s face.

  Blaze notices and steps in. “Whoa, Steve-O, watch it. Showtime here isn’t amused.”

  I glance over to where Abby stands surrounded by her friends, so pretty and seemingly unfazed by all the bullshit surrounding her. See, here’s the thing: sometimes being in the spotlight—even on a smaller scale, like on a college campus—is exhausting. Guys pretend to be our friends. Some want to drink with us on those rare occasions we throw a rager. Strangers invite us to their parties, begging us to come to increase their social status. Girls stalk us in various ways, vying for our attention, just to say they dated us. Or flirted with us. Or screwed us. Or blew us.

  Take your damn pick.

  I glance around the room and notice my teammates getting pawed, hung on, petted, and groped.

  Granted, not many guys in their twenties actually mind getting their cocks grabbed, but… still.

  Lay off mine.

  I watch a few girls hang on members of the baseball team while others flirt outlandishly with my teammates, all of them overzealously competing for attention.

  It’s actually painful to watch.

  Abby, on the other hand, looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here, which is… refreshing. Encouraging. Definitely different.

  I guzzle the rest of what’s left in my beer bottle and nod above the crowd toward the freshman rookie managing the door. He instantly disappears outside but is back in record time with another bottle for me in a short few, top twisted off and ready to go.

  I tip it back and chug.

  Someone snickers. “Hey, Showtime, you think if you drink enough of those you’ll grow some balls and go over there?”

  Not likely.

  ~ Abby ~

  “This is getting ridiculous,” the voice mutters beside me. I can barely hear her because the music is so loud, but Jenna is loud enough I recognize the tone when she’s complaining. “What is he doing just standing there?”

  My slight buzz has me craning my neck to look around the room. “What are you bitching about?” I curse. My eyes widen and I clamp a hand over my potty mouth, apologizing through my fingers. “Sorry. It’s the three beers talking. Absolutely no one should be letting me drink.”

  Jenna rolls her eyes. “Keep it up, trucker mouth, and you’ll be useless by the end of the night. Sheesh. Get it together.” She’s teasing, but it sobers me up and I straighten my posture, mindful not to stick my damp boobs out.

  Molly taps her chin thoughtfully and loops her arm through Jenna’s. “I think we should mingle, don’t you ladies? This corner is getting boring. Let’s go chat with the guys.” She jerks her head, indicating the group of guys Weston is standing in the middle of, holding court.

  I can see him gesturing wildly from here, animated, obviously in the middle of a story. A
funny story too, if the laughter surrounding him is any indication.

  Before I know it, I’m being pulled through the crowd by my two determined friends, toward a crowd of boys with whom I’m hardly familiar, let alone comfortable with. I mean, besides Weston. It’s all I can do to not dig my heels into the carpet to stop myself from being propelled forward by my wobbly arms, strong-armed against my will by both Jenna and Molly.

  I want to stomp my feet like a baby and run out of this house.

  I make a mental list of things I could be doing right now if I weren’t being dragged in a struggle cuddle toward Caleb, whose broad back is facing me, and I recite them in my head:

  1. Study for my mid-terms, which are in a few short weeks.

  2. Clean the bathroom toilet.

  3. Watch Game of Thrones on Demand. Again. For the twelfth time.

  4. Hide under my covers.

  5. Hide under my covers.

  I don’t know about you, but I’m quite partial to numbers four and five.

  ~ Caleb ~

  “Incoming!” Blaze announces at the top of his voice, hands cupped around his mouth to create a megaphone. “Girlfriend rapidly approaching,” he says to Weston.

  “And she’s dragging None of Your Damn Business behind her,” Stephan jokes. “Showtime, your lover looks like she’s about to barf. Maybe you should take her upstairs and introduce her to your big, cold, empty bed.”

  Luckily, I’ve already tossed back about five beers—which, combined with my large six foot three frame, hasn’t made me drunk, but it has given me a decent buzz and taken the edge off.

  I ignore Stephan.

  Feigning indifference to his barb, I reach up and readjust my ball cap, turning the brim so it faces the back of my head, and hold the brim in my palms, squeezing it to reshape the bill. I lower my hands at the same time a warm body is shoved, stumbling, into our circle. Molly and the girl with the purple hair tactlessly propel Abby so she’s standing directly in front of me.

  Someone else gives her a gentle push until she’s faltering, tripping into my personal space. Instinctively, my palms shoot out to stop her from falling, settling on her slim waist to steady her.