Fairytale Kisses

by Kim Bailey

  But then, that kiss...

  That kiss has thrown me head first into a romantic fantasy. Zadie’s taken center stage in all my foolhardy dreams of the future. It makes me want to stamp Mine across her ass and battle any jerk who dares look at her funny.

  It makes me want a hell of a lot more than just a kiss.

  The cab bumps over a pothole, pitching Zadie’s half-limp body in my direction. When her shoulder hits mine, instead of pulling back, she drunkenly cuddles closer. Resting her head on my shoulder, she curls her body into mine. Gathering all my will, I ignore the way her curves press into my side. I pretend not to feel her hand brushing over my stomach. Or her breath, fanning over my neck as she burrows her face into it.

  Each time she sighs, or moves her legs against mine, I’m made painfully aware of how good she feels next to me.

  Too damn good.

  My body takes notice.

  Getting aroused by a few innocent touches would be embarrassing if she were sober enough to realize. It usually takes more than the brush of a knee across my thigh to turn me on. But it might be hard to convince her of that with an erection tenting my pants.

  Keeping my thoughts focused on her inebriation is the only thing stopping me from wrapping my arms around her and pulling her farther into my lap.

  After the cab stops and I pay the fare, I’m faced with a new challenge. Getting Zadie up to the condo. She refuses to walk. I’m forced to carry her from the taxi, through the condo lobby, and into the old-fashioned elevator—which seems to take an eternity to rise to the second floor.

  I juggle Zadie in my arms while struggling to get the key out of my pocket. I don’t want to drop her. Or inadvertently touch her in all the inappropriate ways I’m tempted.

  Finally in the apartment, I manage to quietly close the door behind us. Just as I’m turning the lock, Zadie’s eyes snap open. Her jelly neck turns rigid as she looks at me—first in confusion and then in slow recognition.

  At least, it seems like recognition.

  She perks up at the sight of me, and wraps her arms around my neck again. Deciding to torture me, she presses her mouth to my ear and huskily announces, “I’m horny.”

  I am a saint.

  Walking her to the bedroom, I try to ignore the way her tongue glides along my jaw, as I gently put her down beside the bed.

  “You’re drunk,” I tell her, helping to steady her on her feet. “And I’m tired. Get in bed and I’ll find you some aspirin and water.”

  With an exaggerated pout—her kissable bottom lip pushed out—she reaches for me. Grabbing a handful of my shirt, she coaxes, “But Cal, I want to fuck. You. I want to fuck you. Come on... you know you want to.”

  I’ve never wanted anything more.

  Holding her fisted hand in my own, I carefully detach myself. “Just get in bed, Zadie.”

  “Your bed?” she asks with a devilish smile. She unbuttons her pants and starts peeling away the tight denim, clinging to her shapely legs.

  I stumble backward. With my eyes glued to the hint of hot pink lace at the top of her hip, I force myself to ignore her invitation. Leaving the room and the promise of her bare flesh, I go search for my sanity.

  I take my time in the kitchen, looking for hangover remedies—she’s going to need them all. There’s not much in Chante’s cupboards, but I do find some control for my libido.

  Deciding it’s safe, I hesitate only slightly before checking back in on her. Mercifully, she’s sound asleep. Somehow, she’s even managed to find her way under the covers.

  I should leave her alone. I should just put a wastebasket beside the bed and shut the door.

  But, I can’t.

  What if she gets sick? What if she isn’t coherent enough to find the wastebasket? Or worse, what if she doesn’t even wake up, and chokes to death on her own vomit? It sounds ridiculous, but these things really do happen. I’ve spent enough time in hospital to see and hear the horror stories.

  So, I make an unconscious decision to stay up half the night, watching over her just in case.

  It isn’t my intention to fall asleep in the same bed as her. I plan to find my way to the couch and do the honorable thing. But somehow, I nod off.

  As I sleep peacefully beside her, my dreams are filled with musical laughter, soulful brown eyes and a sad, haunting smile. Her words, “I don’t believe in love”, echoing over it all.

  ***

  Zadie

  I HEAR FAR AWAY sounds. Everything is muffled and nothing makes sense. No matter how hard I try to focus on those sounds, I can’t make out their meaning.

  I’m surrounded by grey. My eyes won’t open. Or, maybe they are open and I just can’t see.

  Can’t hear. Can’t see. My head feels like it’s fractured.

  Am I in a coma?

  There’s movement to my right—someone shifting beside me.

  Slowly, things become clear. Well, not clear like the ocean. Probably not even tap water. It’s more like an algae infested swamp kind of clear. But awareness does filter in.

  I’m not dying. I’m simply hung-the-hell-over.

  I’ve never felt this horrible in all my life. Going on a bender is not common practice—I rarely even drink. This is a good reminder of why.

  The bed shifts again, and with the movement comes the reality that I’m in a bed, and I’m not alone.

  Cracking my eyes, I move my head gently, trying to not rupture anything in the process. The first sight that greets me is a pillow. Craning to look around a little more, I realize I’m in Chante’s guest room. I’d know this room anywhere. I spent many nights in this room while I was attempting to get my life in order, when I was too fragile to be on my own. This room was my solace when everything else had gone to hell. I must have found my way here on instinct last night when my pity party was in full swing.

  Ignoring the urge to vomit, I push myself to sit. Turning in the direction of my bed-mate, I’m praying to find Chante sleeping beside me.

  Nope. That is definitely not Chantal. That is a man.

  My sleeping partner has his back to me, but even through my still blurred vision, I can see he’s lean and muscular. His shoulder length dark hair is sleep tousled and wonderfully soft looking. If I could make a pillow out of that hair I think I could probably sleep on it for days.

  The idea of going back to sleep is tempting. But I know the person beside me is likely Chante’s cousin—the handsome guy I got obscenely loaded with and told my stupidly pitiful secrets. Sleep is out of the question.

  I told him about Sean. Sure, I kept the details to myself, but Christ, I hate talking about Sean. It’s embarrassing and degrading, and I can’t believe it’s part of my story.

  Cliché. That was the word thrown around last night. It totally fits. I am a walking, talking, living cliché, and it totally sucks to admit it. Talking about it with anyone is an uncomfortable exercise in self-depreciation. But, talking about it with a near stranger—especially one so damn hot?

  Well, I have the killer hangover to explain, in part, how that happened. Last night, though—it felt like more than just the liquor loosening me up.

  The way Caleb looked at me was so different from the way men normally do. He wasn’t just seeing the hair and the tits. He was seeing me... accepting me... I felt understood.

  His ribcage falls steadily with each breath. His peacefulness is so soothing, my headache seems to dull. Flashes of memory from last night filter in, like a tap being turned from a trickle to a full, steady stream. Images of the two of us talking and laughing. His brilliant green eyes sparkled, even in the dim lighting of the bar. The way he smiled at me, like I was the most interesting person he’d ever met. That smile had me turning to a puddle on the floor. It lights up his entire face and is somehow both mischievous and genuine at the same time. But the thing I remember most—other than being incredibly turned on by the sight of him—is the way he empathized with me. He was so real, so honest. So fucking hot.

  And I kissed him.<
br />
  Holy shit.

  Yes, I did that. It’s not something I dreamed up. It’s not an illusion borne of alcohol poisoning or leftover intoxication. I know I did it. As drunk as I was, it’s one memory I trust to be true. My lips still feel scorched from the heated desire that radiated off him. Or maybe that was my own desire burning things up.

  Beyond that searing kiss—nothing. I can’t remember anything more than how his mouth fused so effortlessly with mine.

  How did we end up in bed together? Did we have sex?

  Taking stock, I note that I’m still wearing my t-shirt, bra, and underwear, but my jeans are on the floor. My body hurts all over, the four (or was it seven) drinks I consumed, leaving their mark on more than just my brain. There’s a pleasant ache between my thighs. Is it because I’m thinking about that kiss and the hot man I’m in bed with? Or is it because I had sex with him last night?

  Why can’t I remember?

  My eyes move over him again, inspecting him closely.

  He’s not wearing the same clothes he was at the bar last night. He’s got a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt on now. The shirt, clinging to his broad shoulders, brings back a memory of my arms being wrapped around him. Although it’s hard to place that memory. Was it before or after leaving the bar? Were our clothes on or off? I think I’d remember if they were off—wouldn’t I?

  Despite our clothing and separated sleeping space, I’m still filled with an anxious dread. What happened last night? The delicious ache between my legs isn’t helping my anxiety. It sure as hell isn’t giving any hints.

  Even though I’m tempted by this beautiful man. And even though I want to crawl over there, curl myself around him and drift off to sleep—I can’t let that happen. That would be a terrible decision.

  Clarity strikes like a lightning bolt through a rain cloud.

  I’ve got to get the hell out of here. Now.

  Not only is Caleb my best friend’s cousin, but I know from what little she’s told me, he’s her younger cousin. Much younger. Practically cradle robbing, younger.

  It doesn’t matter how attractive I find him. It doesn’t matter how extraordinarily perceptive and mature is. The only thing that matters is never letting this happen ever again. Whatever it might have been. I can’t afford any more mistakes.

  And there’s no question. This was a mistake.

  Keeping as quiet as possible, I manage to make my way out of bed and pull on my pants. Tiptoeing to the door, I look back to make sure he isn’t waking.

  Big mistake—I said I wouldn’t make any more, but fuck, I’m hopeless.

  He looks so good. His face, just as I remember from last night, fresh and inviting. Not the standard level of male perfection that most women go for, he’s not rugged or bulky. He’s lean and edgy, yet somehow refined and sweet. Even in his sleep, he looks honest and caring—perfectly constructed to make me fall for him.

  He looks a hell of a lot younger, too. Maybe it’s the hair. What grown man wears it that long, anyway? Maybe it’s his cleanly shaved face; no five o’clock shadow for this guy. Or maybe it’s just my guilt, I’ve got enough of it stored away.

  Using that guilt as my fuel, I quietly leave Chante’s apartment. Shutting the door behind me, I take out my cell phone and dial her number.

  “Hey babe, how badly are you hurting this morning?” She asks, loudly, as I step into the elevator.

  Here’s the thing about me and Chante—we hide absolutely nothing from each other. We’ve seen each other at our absolute worst. After Sean left me the first time, she helped me climb out of the hole he’d put me in. It was the same type of hole she’d pulled herself out of only months before we met.

  We both dated assholes.

  The difference is, when Chante and I first met, I was still putting up with Sean and all his bullshit. She’d already done the smart thing and ditched her loser. Although I never met him, and Chante’s always reluctant to talk about him, I know enough. I know he hurt her—he may be a thing of the past, but her wounds still seem fresh. That’s all I need to know.

  Our failed relationships, failed attempts at love, are what bonded us. Hell, she even stuck by me when I let Sean come back. She wasn’t happy about it. She warned me it was a mistake. But she stood by and supported me anyway.

  Chante knows everything about me. That’s not about to change, even if what I tell her next puts us in a month-long, or even year-long, fight. I refuse to lie to my best friend.

  “I think I might have had sex with your cousin.”

  Her answer is a bark of laughter, snorting included.

  “Why are you laughing? It’s not funny, you cow.”

  “Oh honey, yes, it is,” she replies, as the elevator doors open to my floor—one up from Chante’s. “Trust me, with the condition you were in, it definitely didn’t happen.”

  “You don’t know that,” I insist. “I have a very distinct memory of licking his neck. I’m pretty sure I didn’t dream it. Well, mostly sure anyway. And I woke up in your guest room this morning.”

  “So?”

  “So,” I answer, my boots echo softly as I walk down the carpeted hallway to my apartment. “He was in the bed with me.”

  Her laughter resumes, clearly at my expense. Normally, making Chante laugh would be the highlight of my day. I love this woman like a sister. When she’s happy, I’m happy. But right now, I feel like I’m on the wrong side of a very sick and twisted joke. And it’s pissing me off.

  “Chante!” I exclaim, dragging myself home and slumping back against the door as I close it. “Stop laughing at me and tell me if I should be worried about him. Please.”

  “Babe, I’m laughing because I can guarantee you, without a single shred of doubt, you did not have sex with Caleb. I don’t doubt that you probably tried, you whore. But he’s an angel. He wouldn’t have slept with you when you were wasted. Not unless you somehow convinced him to get drunk with you.”

  “I can’t remember, but I know I kissed him, and it wasn’t one-sided,” I admit. Staring at the worn hardwood under my feet, I try to focus on anything other than the crushing guilt I feel.

  “Well then, I have no idea what happened between the two of you, and I don’t want to know,” she insists. “If you do somehow remember the details, be sure to keep them to yourself. I know how you love to over-share.”

  “Excuse me, Ms. And then he stuck it in my ass? I’m not the one with the wild stories. But I am sorry about any of my drunken escapades with your cousin.”

  “Don’t be. You’re human. If we can’t mess up from time to time, what’s the point? Besides, I really doubt anything happened. Why do you think I left you with him, instead of putting you in a cab myself? I trust him to be sensible.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling strangely disappointed. Why the hell I’d feel anything other than giant relief is confusing as hell. I blame it on the lingering hangover that’s still rocking my skull.

  “Oh?” Chante replies, skeptically. “Did you want to have sloppy sex with my baby cousin?”

  “What? No!” I object.

  “Oh my God. You really are a whore. You totally want to bone him.”

  “Oh my God, Chante, please never use the word bone again.” I laugh.

  “He’s a good guy, Zadie,” she says seriously. “A really good guy. But, he’s young, and he’s got his own problems. Plus, you don’t need a man—you just barely got rid of the last one, remember?”

  Like I could ever forget.

  “Honestly, I was just worried that I’d drunkenly seduced him. I don’t need you calling me cougar, whore is bad enough. How old is he anyway?”

  “Old enough to decide for himself,” she insists. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Let’s get together later, you can confess all your pervish fantasies over food.”

  “I don’t have any fantasies,” I insist. “Other than a shower and something to absorb the alcohol still swimming in my system.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. I’ll call you,�
� she promises, before hanging up.

  Finding my way to the bathroom, I strip off my bar-scented clothing, and hit the shower. The powerful spray does nothing to ease the throbbing of my brain. Or my heart. As the water rushes over me it mixes with the tears that are steadily streaming down my face.

  I’m not crying about Sean. It’s only been a week, but I really am glad to be rid of him. My tears aren’t self-pity, either—I had enough of that last night. Heck, I’m not even crying because of the pain from this wretched hangover.

  No, these tears are from my brief encounter with a thing called hope. Something I gave up on, right around the time I gave up on love. Last night, maybe even a bit this morning, I let myself feel a glimmer of it. Hope surfaced when Caleb smiled at me, hung on while he listened, tried to dig in when I kissed him... but then when I woke up, sobered up, and recognized the stupid impossibility, hope didn’t just die—I killed it.

  Keeping it alive would just be another mistake.

  How many can I make in one lifetime? In one night?

  I seriously hope Chante’s right and I didn’t make as many as I fear. Sex complicates things enough when you’re sober. Drunk sex that you can’t remember? Thinking of the possible repercussions reminds me why drinking my face off is never a good plan.

  But Caleb.

  With any luck, he’ll wake up like me—regretfully hung over, with little to no recollection of getting that way. He’ll return home to his life, and I can go on pretending like nothing happened.

  Mistakes forgotten.

  Hope left dead, right where it belongs...

  Beside the dried-up corpse of love.

  Caleb

  3 weeks later

  DRUDGERY.

  It’s the only word I can think to describe this... this holding pattern I’m in. The days have started blending together. Each is an echo of the one before. All are a fucking nightmare of wasted time and opportunity.

  “Mr. Anderson,” my professor calls from the front of the room, as the class is dismissed. “Can I see you a moment?”