After Tonight

by Annie Kelly

  Smith is still for a moment, then he starts stroking my hair with one hand.

  “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

  I pull back to look up at him. “You are?”

  He nods at first, then frowns.

  “Actually—no. I’m sorry. That’s a lie.”

  I bolt upright.

  “Are you kidding me? Who in the fucking hell tells a girl something like that, then takes it back?”

  He grins and tugs on my arm.

  “Come back here—let me finish.”

  I narrow my eyes. “No.”

  “Come on, Cyn.” He runs a hand up and down my arm. When I don’t budge, he sighs.

  “What I was going to say is I’m not falling in love with you—I’m already there. The falling has already occurred.”

  I blink at him, then slowly lower myself until our eyes are almost mirror images.

  “You love me?” I ask. He nods.

  “Yeah. I do.”

  I smile. “Even when I drink too much and fall on my face?”

  “Even then.”

  “Even when I get stressed and act like a lunatic?”

  “Even then.”

  “Even when I—”

  “Let me stop you right there,” he says, pressing a finger to my lips. “I love you—all of you. The crazy parts, the sweet parts, the angry parts, the brilliant parts. All of you. All of me loves all of you.”

  I tilt my head and press a kiss to the pad of his finger before lowering it from my mouth.

  “Well, that’s good.”

  Smith cocks an eyebrow. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “Because,” I say softly, leaning in to brush my lips against his, “I love you, too.”

  Smith’s smile is one of my favorite things ever, but the smile he gives me now is in a whole other realm. When he flips me over and cages me with his arms and lowers down to kiss me, I can feel his heart beating hard against my chest and I know mine is doing the same thing.

  “So, what should we do now?” He asks, running his lips along my earlobe, then just below to my neck.

  I shiver. “We could play a board game. Or cards.”

  “Nah.” He shakes his head. “No games.”

  I purse my lips. “No games, huh? Does that mean no dress up?”

  His eyes widen a bit. “Oh, fuck, please tell me you have some kind of sexy getup you’re going to prance around in for me.”

  I laugh. “I was actually thinking more along the lines of your uniform.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, were you now?”

  I shrug a little, toying with the edge of the blanket. “I mean, we don’t have to if you don’t want to . . . I just though we could have a little bit of fun.”

  He gazes at me and his smile turns wicked.

  “Can fun involve handcuffs?”

  “I don’t know—have I done something bad?”

  Smith leans in to capture my mouth with his, then pulls back and gazes into my eyes.

  “Sometimes, Hyacinth, the police get to actually do some good.”

  “And I’m the good?”

  He grins at me, then leans in until our foreheads are touching again.

  “The truth, Hyacinth Hendricks, is that you’re the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

  Then his hands slide back over my body and his mouth presses against mine, and I spend the rest of the night trying to prove to him that he’s right. That everything good we need in this bed, in this apartment, and between our bodies as we love each other into the night.

  ***

  “To Rainey and Hyacinth!” Carson says.

  I raise my glass and clink it against hers before taking a sip of my champagne. She’s grinning at me and her smile is genuine. Even though I feel terrible that she didn’t get to walk across the stage with us today, I think she’s beginning to feel better about delaying graduation.

  “Hear, hear!” Dad says, reaching over to squeeze my shoulder. “I can’t believe my princess is actually a college graduate.”

  He sniffles a little and Wyatt rolls his eyes. “Come on, Gary. Don’t start the waterworks. “

  Dad sort of grumbles something at him, and I shake my head. My cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling so much. I reach for my glass of champagne again just as a hand runs over my bare arm.

  “Hey—sorry I’m late.”

  I turn to smile at Smith, then tilt my face up for a kiss. He obliges me, but his eyes flicker to my dad first, and he makes it a chaste peck. I pout a little as he sits down in the empty chair next to me.

  “What?” he says, shrugging. “It’s your dad. I’m not going to grope you in public.”

  But then he reaches under the table and grabs my thigh, letting his hand slide up and under the hem of my skirt.

  “At least not so he can see,” he says, lowering his voice.

  I clamp a hand down on his and he grins, then slides his hand back down to my knee. I don’t know if I’m thankful or distraught when he does.

  “Hey, food’s here,” Carson calls out as the server sets down a large tray of burgers and fries.

  It took a little convincing to get Rainey to have our graduation dinner at Dino’s, but once I’d assured her they had champagne, she was all in. Well, okay, technically, it’s sparkling wine and it might be from Detroit or Alabama or something, but it sparkles, and Rainey seems to approve as she downs her second glass.

  As we start to eat, I glance around at the table, and my perpetual smile erupts again. Dad and Wyatt are digging into their fries and discussing the merits of microbrews. Carson is giggling at Rainey for taking apart her burger and putting it back together in some kind of arbitrary order she made up. Wyatt hasn’t said all that much to Carson tonight, but she told me he’d called her and set up a tutoring session for next week. Guess that means he got over his hang-ups—or at least decided to ignore them.

  “I’m so proud of you,” Dad says then, giving me a wide smile. He shakes his head and looks over at Smith. “And I still can’t believe you’re a cop.”

  Smith grins. “Guilty as charged—no pun intended.”

  Dad chuckles a little. “Is public service a family business, or are you and your brother gluttons for underpaid punishment?”

  “Dad,” I hiss. “Don’t be rude!”

  But Smith squeezes my shoulder with one arm. “It’s fine—he’s right. And, no, sir—it’s not a family business, but my brother and I have a lot in common. Both of our dads were on the wrong side of the law during our childhood. I guess we’re just trying to even the score.”

  Dad nods approvingly, then looks at me. “You got yourself a good one there, Cyn. I’d hang on to him if I were you.”

  I can feel my face redden a bit and I look at Smith. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, and, beneath the table, he runs his hand up my thigh again.

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” I say. “I intend to hang on to him as long as he’ll let me.”

  Smith leans in and brushes his lips along my earlobe.

  “Then you better get ready for forever.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Taking the plunge into writing romance was almost as natural as breathing. That being said, I never could have done it without many, many people.

  First, to the readers and bloggers and lovers of books—I owe you all big hugs and baked goods. You are the best people to have in my corner.

  Suzie Townsend. Agent. Czar of Reading. General Badass. I’m more than indebted. You’re the biggest reason I get to keep living this crazy writing life.

  My editor, Christina Brower, and everyone at InterMix. Finding people who loved Cyn and Smith the way I do was more than just gratifying, it was humbling.

  My writing community, including but not limited to The Lucky 13s, the Binder of YA Writers, and the Pub Hub blog. To Dahlia Adler—man, you’re a rock star and a wonderful friend. Thank you for your support—you really help keep me sane.

  My family, especially my parents—thank you for u
nderstanding why I get quiet and why I leave the room so much. Sometimes the characters are just too loud to ignore.

  My girls—Katie and Carly—who were almost as excited about my writing in this genre as I was. I love them for their support and even more for their everlasting acceptance. They stand behind me in an unfailing way and they’ve taught me what true friendship really is.

  My son, Max, whose life is best thing I’ve ever been a part of. Getting to say I’m your mommy is far, far cooler than getting to say anything else.

  And, in all ways, this book is for Josh. Our love story makes it possible for me to write about the love stories of others. All of me loves all of you.

  Read on for a sneak peek at the next book in Annie Kelly’s scorching hot Flirting with Trouble series.

  UNTIL TOMORROW

  Available from InterMix March 2016

  Six months ago

  The music is louder. The lights are brighter. My whole world is spinning and that’s exactly how I like it. I’ve been waiting for Friday night all week, but it feels like it’s been a month. Maybe longer. I’ve had graduate school exams for the last three days straight and I’m basically tutoring full-time now. I’m beyond exhausted, but the bump of coke I did in the car has made everything seem a little more possible. And all I want to do is dance.

  The faces around me are a bit blurry, but I can tell that my dance partner is at least somewhat hot. Hot enough to take home for a night, anyway. Not quite hot enough to tell my real name to.

  I grind up against his thigh and he puts a hand on each of my hips, flexing his fingers in a way that pinches deliciously. God, I’ve missed this. All I want is this—a night of complete and utter intoxication, where I can feel the rush of the night and the slight bite of pain. I can forget about school, about tests, about student teaching. I can forget my every-present anxiety and the panic in favor of feeling anything but anxious. I think they call this feeling “free.”

  “God, you’re fucking sexy,” the guy I don’t know murmurs into my ear.

  The music is loud but his face is so close to mine that I can hear him clearly—as clearly as I can smell the liquor on his breath mingling with a dose of Axe body spray. At any other time, it would be noxious and overbearing. Right now, it’s just right.

  Everything here is just right. And I don’t have to think about tomorrow.

  Over my dance partner’s shoulder, I glance up at the band. I don’t know if I’ve seen them here before, but they’re good. The lead singer, a muscular black guy with a shaved head and quarter-sized plugs in each ear, is clearly closer to professional than amateur. He’s got a wailing voice that’s both raspy and melodic, so much so that he practically drowns out the other instruments.

  Well, all except the drums—or, at least, the drummer.

  I blink rapidly, trying to focus on the drummer’s face. He’s beautiful—his brown eyes are wide and flash with energy as he holds the backbeat, then breaks into a cymbal-heavy solo. I lock my gaze on him and flip around, tucking my ass up against my new friend and grinding back against his already hard cock. His grip on my hips tightens and I relish that bruise-worthy pressure. All I can see is the drummer. All I can feel is my arousal.

  And we dance. Or, at the very least, move against each other like there’s no such thing as clothes or propriety. The first song fades into the next and the next. I don’t know if the drummer sees me—in fact, I’m sure he doesn’t, not with the bright spotlights blinding his vision. But fuck if I care. In my mind, he’s behind me, pressing against me and sliding his hands over my skin. I feel fingertips scale my arm from wrist to shoulder, then tuck inside the strap of my tank top and bra. The fingers move down over the slope of my breast until they meet my nipple and I gasp when he pinches.

  The pain always makes it ten times hotter.

  The drummer is going wild now, his body bent practically parallel to the kit. His arms and torso are cut and tan, glistening with sweat from his exertion.

  I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone so bad in my life.

  “I gotta get you home, baby,” the guy behind me whispers. “I can’t wait to peel you outta these fucking clothes and get my hands all over your body.”

  I swallow, still watching the drummer play his set. God, there are more tattoos on his arms than unmarked skin. I lick my lips, then glance back at the man behind me. My vision is starting to clear. He’s not unattractive or unappealing—he just isn’t the drummer. And that’s the only person I can imagine screwing tonight.

  “Let me run to the ladies room first,” I say into his ear, then give him a winning smile before sashaying off the dance floor.

  I know what I need to get me back in the mood—or at least, to allow me to find enough of it to transfer my desire to the man I’ve been humping on the dance floor rather than the one I’ve been watching all night. I teeter a bit on my lace-up boots and run a hand over the back of my neck. I’m sweating and I’m not exactly sure why. I need something to balance out the lust in my system, not to mention the martinis from earlier. Just one more bump—maybe a line? I’ll be good to go. I’ll be ready for anything. And, if I’m lucky, I’ll wake up tomorrow with a clean slate and an empty memory—just like last time. And the time before that. And the time before that.

  I turn the corner and slam right into two people who clearly couldn’t wait for home or a bed or even the backseat of a car. The girl is straddling the guy and he’s hoisting her up around his waist, both hands grasping her ass beneath a tight black skirt. I blink and start to mutter an apology when I realize who exactly I just ran into.

  “Dude, Lennon. What the fuck?” I narrow my eyes at my brother, who pulls his mouth away from the woman’s neck long enough to smirk at me.

  “Sup, sis. How goes it?”

  I cock a brow at him. “Couldn’t keep it in your pants long enough to find a storage closet?”

  The girl giggles and Lennon shrugs. “Why bother?”

  I shake my head, then motion to the restrooms at the other side of the bar. “I’m gonna hit the ladies and get outta here. You can get a ride?”

  Lennon’s blue eyes dart at his lady friend, then back at me.

  “Yeah. I can guaran-fucking-tee there’ll be some riding.”

  My lip curls involuntarily. “Gross. Well, make good choices.”

  I brush past them and hurry closer to the bathroom. My high is wearing off too quickly and my good humor is fading fast. There’s nothing like being sober to remind me that my older brother is a womanizing fuck-up who still lives at home with our parents and who asked me for a ride to the bar tonight. Again.

  Once I’m inside a stall, though? Yeah, it’s easier to forget.

  I dip my nail into the tiny brown vial I had stashed in my jacket pocket and take the bump like a champ. I breathe deep and wait for the shimmer of a delicious high as it travels through my body.

  It takes less than five minutes. In the meantime, I focus on the sounds from outside. The band has stopped playing, replaced this time by the pumping bass of a DJ’s set. There’s a loud crash and some yelling, but I’m too far gone to even consider what the commotion could be. When the coke hits my system, it hits hard—like a freight train of pleasure. It’s better than sex—at least, any sex I’ve had lately.

  After a few more minutes—Two? Four? Twenty-four?—I manage to get back to my feet and stumble out of the stall. I glance up at the mirror. The streak of deep blue in my hair always surprises me when I see it—I added it to my spiky pixie cut last week, but I’ve gotten used to the jet black I’ve been dying it for years. Below the hair, my eyes look glassy, their pale grey framed by slightly smeared navy liner. Everything about me feels a little less than perfect lately.

  Fuck if I care.

  I readjust my tight black tank top and smooth a hand over my bared midriff. My belly ring winks at me in the mirror. I wink back, then giggle as I move toward the door.

  I’m still laughing when I exit the bathroom—and slam right into a very str
ong, very muscular body to my right.

  “Fuck—sorry. Apparently I’m just going to run into shit all over the place tonight.”

  I glance up and then freeze.

  It’s the drummer.

  He’s even hotter up close. Like, literally and figuratively—he’s sweating enough that his grey t-shirt appears almost black. In this dim light, his eyes are about the same color. I lick my lips, which are suddenly dry.

  The drummer, though, seems like he couldn’t be less interested in me right now. He’s huffing and puffing and rubbing his right fist with left hand. When I look a little closer, I can see his knuckles are bleeding.

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  I begin to reach out to touch him, but he shakes his head, then stalks past me into the men’s room.

  For an irrational second, I consider following him. Consider walking into the men’s room and standing before him, giving him a look that he just knows means “take me now.” He’ll push me up against the porcelain sink and yank down my pants. He’ll realize I’m not wearing panties and it will thrill him. Then, he’ll enter me from behind with a force that’s beyond nature. He’ll grab my hair and make me look at myself in the mirror as he fucks me again and again and again . . .

  I fall back against the wall behind me and swallow hard. If this coke is gonna give me visions of sweaty sex with strange drummers, maybe I should start using it more often. I consider my current options.

  I could go find the guy I was dancing with and get him to take me home.

  I could go drag my brother away from his blow-up doll and force him to come home before he gets himself in trouble.

  Or I could head straight for the men’s room and never look back.

  But then, the drummer comes barreling back out of the bathroom and stops a few feet from me. This time, he has a towel wrapped around his injured hand, but he’s wearing a different kind of fierceness as he looks right into my face.

  “Hey—you know Lennon Tucker, right?”

  I lick my lips, then nod. “He’s—uh—my brother. He—he’s around here somewhere. Last time I saw him, he had his tongue down some blonde chick’s throat . . .”