A Kiss Like This

by Sara Ney

  “Oh, it was definitely amusing.” I beam up at him. “The look on your face was like a surprised dog getting his nose batted by a kitty cat paw.” I swipe at him and hiss. “Meow.”

  Then something remarkable happens. Wait for it. Wait…

  Caleb’s eyes crinkle, his head tips back, and a peel of laughter bursts out of him.

  Laughing—he is laughing.

  I can’t even do the sound justice. It’s an unhindered reaction; the baritone notes rumble out of his chest and are rich with emotion.

  Caught off guard, I stare wide-eyed like deer in headlights at the long column of his corded neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he chokes out the deep roar, and his shoulders shaking. I catch glimpses of his gap and gleaming white teeth before he bites down on his bottom lip, and I want to tackle him off the stool, to the ground, and do naughty, naughty things to him.

  Did you hear me? To. The. Ground.

  Naughty, naughty things.

  And this is me we’re talking about here. Ugh.

  I look away to hide my furious blush, clearing my throat to disguise the fact that my thoughts have gone from only slightly lascivious to downright dirty. My nerves are creating absolute chaos to my lady parts. My body and mind are completely and utterly messed up—just from the sight of his unexpected laughter!

  I love his laugh. It’s rich and full and sincere.

  I love his frown. It’s real and thoughtful.

  I love…

  I…

  I frantically dip my paintbrush back in the water, swirl it around for a few seconds, buying time as I select my paint color. Giving him a sidelong glance, I attempt to not undress him with my eyes.

  Epic fail.

  My blue eyes cannot help it; they are powerless against this side of him he only reveals sparingly, and if he were a smart person, now would be the opportune time for him to try and get in my pants.

  I give him a feeble smile and gingerly take the wine glass in front of me by the stem, bring it to my lips, and take a teeny tiny sip.

  Setting the glass back on the table, I consider what I’m about to say next, because it truly must be said. Inhale. Exhale. “That smile of yours… phew! It could get us both into big trouble.”

  He bites his lip again and his brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

  I weakly smile at the ceiling, unable to look directly at him. “I mean, that was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  There. I said it.

  I said it, it’s out there, and I can’t take it back.

  When he doesn’t reply, I add, “Oh, please, don’t act so surprised. You know how irresistible that gap is.”

  Nervously I slap more yellow on my canvas, aware that my painting has way too much yellow on it, dabbing it in circles like the instructor in front of the room is doing with small strokes. Only hers looks nice. My canvas is beginning to look like it’s been painted by a blind elephant at the zoo.

  “It’s my kryptonite.”

  Caleb’s brush hovers over his white canvas. “Huh?”

  I pause and turn to face him, swiveling on my stool. Our knees knock and I lean forward so he can hear what I’m about to say, loud and clear. “I am mad for that gap. So stop hiding it.”

  He props his palms on my knees and moves in. “I’m…uh…” He looks away, bites his lip with a frown, and takes a deep breath before continuing. “I’m…”

  “Yes?” I breathe out the question in a whisper.

  We’re interrupted then by Molly—as in Molly with the World’s Worst Timing—who stands over us, clearing her throat. “Whoa, you two are looking pretty chummy over here.” She glances at our canvases and starts a litany of questions. “Shouldn’t you be halfway done by now? What are you doing? Just sitting back here gawking at each other, or what?”

  Yeah, pretty much.

  “Yes,” Caleb answers her seriously.

  Molly looks at my painting, eyes wide. “Umm, what’s with all the yellow? Never mind. Don’t answer that.” She shakes her pretty hair and titters. “I just got up to grab a bottle of water. You want anything while I’m up?”

  We both give our heads a shake. “No, I’m good. We both have something to drink.” I point to my wine and Caleb’s beer.

  Molly stalls a few more seconds. “Okay, just thought I’d ask. Hey. You guys wanna come out with us when we’re done, or…” Her question trails off.

  “Any idea where you’re going?” Caleb wants to know.

  “Best guess: Lone Rangers. You know, loud music, bad food, too many drunk undergrads with too little clothing.”

  Lone Rangers is a college bar down on State Street, and is the establishment most frequented by the Wisconsin Badger Hockey team. In other words, it’s always packed. From regular students hoping to rub shoulders with the college athletic elite, to the athletes themselves, Lone Rangers is the off-campus place to be.

  It’s also a complete dive.

  The floors are so full of old and spilled beer that one cannot walk through the bar without putting effort into every step. It’s much like trying to lift your feet to walk through a floor full of sticky, liquid honey. My best guess for the last time they scrubbed down or mopped the floors? Over three years ago.

  The lighting in this place is dim and a tad—fine, I’ll say it: rapey.

  The place is rapey.

  A young lady can’t actually see who she’s talking to without squinting in the faint haze wafting through the air, and the hallway to the restrooms are dark and damp—hence, a great place for pervy lurkers and rapists.

  And let’s not forget to mention none of the stall doors in the woman’s bathroom actually lock, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Think about it. Not having the bathroom stalls lock actually forces girls to hover over the disgusting toilet if you want to take a pee, because you have to hold the door closed if you want privacy.

  So if you’re going to spin that into a positive, this means you can’t actually sit on the toilet, because you’re leaning on the door. The toilet seats are dirty, unsanitary, and riddled with who knows how many STDs. Gross.

  Hovering over the toilet seat is #winning in my book.

  Despite all this, the owner clearly feels no need to update—not with a packed house every night of the week. Sure, it’s a total shithole, pardon my French, but why would the owner spend money doing repairs when its legal and underage patrons will come whether it’s a rapey dump or pristine?

  Caleb looks at me, countenance unreadable, and shrugs his broad shoulders. “It’s your call.”

  With Molly’s pleading stare and Caleb’s passive expression—ugh! I’m torn about whether or not we should go. The bar scene really isn’t my thing. Never has been, never will be. Nonetheless, because I can’t gauge Caleb neutral expression, I nod my head slowly. “Sure, why not?”

  After all, what’s the worst thing that can happen?

  CHAPTER 20

  Caleb

  Lone Rangers is packed. And by packed, I mean wall-to-wall people. My personal preference is not to be caged into the corner of any fire hazard, but whatever.

  In most cases, it would piss me off being here. Under normal circumstances I probably would have taken two steps inside the building, hit the vast wall of people, and walked back out the door.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight, my hand goes to the tantalizing curve of Abby’s slim waist, and I firmly rest it there as we follow behind Molly, Weston, Chelsea, and Stephan toward the far end of the bar, to the place our teammates typically tend to congregate.

  Tonight it looks like everyone has turned out, and I see many familiar faces in the crowd.

  The music is too loud, the bass is shaking the walls, the floor is sticky from spilled alcohol, and the lights are too dim, but it feels damn good being here with someone. Abby. A date.

  The dating thing is a first for me.

  In the three years I’ve been at college, I learned early on that pretty girls would rather date an asshole than someone lik
e me—moody, unsmiling, and aloof.

  Greetings take place as we approach; high-fives, knuckle bumps, some back slapping. I’m relieved to see the group already has pitchers of the cheapest beer money can buy, which saves us from having to hoof it to the bar.

  Maybe it won’t be so bad being here.

  A cold beer appears in my hand, and I lean down to whisper-talk in Abby’s ear so she can hear me. “Is there something you want from the bar? Other than this shitty beer?”

  “If you go to the bar, you’ll be gone all night. I’ll just stick with this.” She holds up the cup in her hand and takes a sip, foam sticking to her upper lip. “Mmmm, yummy beer.”

  I’m not sure if she’s being sarcastic or sincere. “Abby, if you don’t want it, I can get you something else. I don’t mind.”

  “Caleb, it’s fine.” She takes another sip, regarding me above the cup’s ridge with a smiling, impish glint in her eyes. “See? Refreshing.”

  My eyes go to her foamy upper lip, which she immediately licks away with a flick of her pink tongue.

  God, she is so unbelievably cute.

  If this weren’t a first date, I would lean down and plant a kiss on her pretty, foamy lips. Or run my rough palm through the wispy hair at the base of her neck…

  True, we’ve already kissed a dozen times, already been in bed together—and to that point, my dick has already humped her pajamas until we both came in our pants like two horny, pubescent teenagers.

  Which was totally awesome, by the way.

  However, as fucked up as it sounds, being at this bar still seems far more intimate, probably due to my lack of experience with the actual act of dating. If I were any other dude—like any one of my friends—I would have had that shit with Abby locked down by now.

  But I don’t, mostly because I’m awkward, and reserved, and out of practice. I haven’t had a steady girlfriend since eighth grade, when I dated Sarah Michelle Schroeder for seven whole days. I promptly dumped her one week later at the school Halloween dance for trying to kiss me during a slow song. I had to hide out in the bathroom from Sarah’s vengeful friends until my dad came to get me. After that, well, I decided that having a girlfriend was way too stressful, and sticking to hockey and hooking up with the occasional nameless co-ed was the better path to follow.

  It’s served me pretty well. Until now.

  Now, I wish I knew what the fuck I was doing. I feel like a douchebag. Twenty-one years old and still awkward as all hell. Besides holding my beer, I hardly know where to put my free hand. Should I touch Abby like Weston is touching Molly? Put my arm around her like Blaze has his arm around Shelby?

  Dammit.

  I scowl, staring down intently into my cup of beer, like the answer to all my problems could be found floating in the foam.

  A large, firm hand clamps down on my shoulder, jolting me out of my thoughts.

  “Showtime, man, do my eyes deceive me, or did you bring a date tonight?” Liam Tielke, a teammate, asks at the same time he refills my cup with the pitcher of beer.

  I avoid answering his question by giving him one of my famous non-committed shrugs.

  “Come on, man, fess up. Legitimate date or blowjob artist?”

  I give Liam a glare when Abby gasps, eyes growing wide and face getting red, but seize the opportunity to wrap my hand around her waist, keeping it occupied—you know, just in case I’m tempted to put it through Liam’s already fucked-up face. He really can’t afford to lose one more tooth.

  Abby clears her throat and gamely replies, “Um. Legitimate d-date.”

  Jenna, who is standing nearby, loudly adds, “She’s too pretty to give blow jobs, don’t you think? Everyone knows only ugly girls need to suck -“

  “Jenna! Please!” Molly shrieks. “Good Lord, what am I going to do with you?”

  Liam holds the pitcher of beer aloft like a prop, gesturing with it. “No, no, she’s right. Ugly girls do need to suck cock more often.” He looks down at Abby from his six-foot-two stature, his gaze lingering on her breasts. “You are a dime piece. I don’t suppose you do anal?”

  “Dude, too far.” Cubby gives a low whistle from nearby. “Even I know better than to say shit like that.”

  “Know what we should do, Showtime? Change your nickname from Showtime to Preacher, on account of your vow of celibacy.”

  This kid has a death wish. I seriously want to punch him.

  Lucky for Liam, he has the attention span of a toddler and abruptly turns his back to shout insults at Blaze and the team’s forward, a great guy named Malcolm ‘The Enforcer’ Schwartz.

  No matter. I’ll make sure he gets what he has coming to him at practice next week—and it won’t be pretty.

  “What is up with that guy?” Jenna asks with a laugh, her long gold earrings dangling down to her shoulders. “What a pig.”

  Beside her, Molly snorts. “You little brat! You were encouraging him, so don’t even start.”

  “Maybe.” She takes a drink from her beer, shooting me a wink above the brim. “But you have to admit, I do have a point about them BJs.” I feel heat rising up my neck and shift on my heels, uncomfortable with the direction this conversation has taken.

  Cubby wraps his arm around Jenna’s waist. “You’re not really celibate, are you, Showtime?”

  I give him a rigid stare.

  “Enough. Leave him alone before he walks out of here,” Weston interjects.

  Cubby has the nerve to look affronted. “It was an innocent question! I really wanted to know!”

  “Yeah right, d-bag. Go grab the pitcher from Foreskin over there and get Showtime’s cup filled up.”

  ~ Abby ~

  All in all, the night went well—despite the continuous interference from our friends, who just cannot seem to stop themselves from embarrassing us. For example, at one point in the evening, Miles sent out a Tweet that said:

  @LoneRangersMadison Stop by and take a #Selfie with #BadgerHockey goalie @CLockhart33 and his #lover @WalkofShame

  So, yeah. We basically spent the entire rest of the evening fending off hockey fans and puck bunnies wanting to take selfies and pictures with Caleb, while his teammates laughed their butts off from the side. As in side-splitting, bent-over, gut-holding laughter while they watched Caleb ward off strangers.

  Some friends he has.

  Poor Caleb.

  Despite how far out of my comfort zone I was earlier, I actually laughed harder tonight than I have in my entire life. Sure, there were some cringe-worthy moments, like when a touchy-feely blonde came over, wanting to pose with Caleb as she cupped his, uh, package. That pissed him off. He started yelling at Miles, shouting obscenities about the “fucking Twitterverse,” and the blonde walked off crying—sans selfie.

  But for the most part, tonight was awesome. I normally wouldn’t admit it, but my friends help me not take life too seriously.

  Just go with it.

  Cecelia’s advice has been resonating with me a lot lately. I’m normally so regimented. It’s the only way I know how to behave, planning things down to the smallest detail and organizing my week, day in and day out. Studying constantly. Tirelessly.

  Here I am at the tender age of twenty-one, almost having all but forgotten what it means to be uninhibited and have fun. I’ve never had a boyfriend, never had sex, rarely go out.

  Caleb and I gravitate toward each other because we have those things in common.

  “So, tonight was…” Caleb starts beside me, his sentence trailing off in the dark cab of his pick-up truck as we drive toward my house. He stops at a red light, waiting patiently for it to turn green, in silence.

  It’s late, and I give the clock on the dash one more glance: one thirty in the morning.

  “Tonight was fun. You probably didn’t think so, but I’ve never laughed so hard,” I say with a crooked smile and a yawn, and he rests his elbow on the center console in between our seats. His fingers tap on it but he stares straight ahead, concentrating on the road.

  I kno
w what he’s doing—I’ve seen this move before. He wants to make a move on me but is hesitant.

  Emboldened by the two cheap beers I ingested at the bar, my hand slides over his and our fingers automatically interlace. Content, I lay my head back on the headrest, my face angled so I can watch him while he drives.

  Study him.

  He threw his baseball cap on in the parking lot of Lone Rangers, and his eyes appear obsidian cloaked under the gray bill.

  I wish I had more time to watch him, concealed in the shadows of his truck, but it doesn’t take us long to reach our destination, and before I know it, we’re driving past Omega house, more rentals, then pulling into the driveway of my house.

  He releases my hand reluctantly to put the truck in park, and we both unbuckle when he cuts the engine.

  I glance at the house. It’s dark inside, and only the glowing light above the stove in the kitchen can be seen through the window. Caleb reaches into the back seat of the truck and pulls out the canvas he painted tonight. It’s a sunset with reds, oranges, and a leafless, silhouetted black tree.

  “Here. You take mine and I’ll take yours?” He gives me a shy smile, unsure, the tiniest sliver of his gap visible between his lips.

  Oh my god. Swoon.

  Nodding dumbly, I fumble with the keys inside my purse and glance at him in the dimly lit cab. The planes of his face are nearly unreadable, his mouth and brows set in a thoughtful line as he watches me raptly.

  “I’ll walk you to the door.” His deep voice rumbles close enough to my ear that I drop my keys while digging through my purse, then nervously trip my way to the covered back porch.

  As I fumble to put the key in the lock, Caleb pushes on the doorjamb with the heel of his palm, testing and jiggling it under his weight. He looks up into the overhang then gives the porch steps a good, solid kick. They rattle from the impact and a wooden board pops up. “Structurally, your house is as bad as your cousin’s. Do you have the same landlord?”

  “Um… I’m not sure? My roommates and I are always joking about how easy it would be for someone to bust the door in,” I joke, pushing the door open.

  His scowl is back. “It’s not funny, Abby. One well-placed kick, right above the deadbolt, would splinter this whole doorframe. Easy access.”