Kissing Booth

by River Laurent

  I reach out and push my finger into her opening.

  She gasps.

  I push it in and out of her.

  Her breathing becomes faster and I shove two fingers into her and hers start circling her clit faster. I watch her sitting there pleasuring herself and it is a glorious sight. I stick a third finger inside her, pump her hard until her whole body arches back.

  At that point I can bear it no more and I push her back on the bed and plunge hard and deep into her. Her moan is a beautiful sound, and I feel the blood surging and pulsating in my veins as I ram my entire length into her. I don’t stop until we both explode.

  ‘Fuck, we didn’t use any protection,’ she says, startling me.

  I frown. What the fuck was I thinking of? I can’t believe I did that. I’ve never gone bareback with anybody.

  ‘Are you on any kind of protection?’ I ask urgently, lifting my sweat drenched body upwards.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I’ve got one of those five year things under my skin.’

  I breathe a sigh of relief. Hell, I’m losing it with this girl.

  Tori

  ‘Is this meant to be for two?’ I ask pulling more and more packets of food out of the picnic basket. ‘The delicatessen sure packed a lot of food.’

  ‘You eat what you can and I’ll finish the rest. After that session I need the sustenance,’ Cash says, looking extremely smug.

  Attached to the lid of the basket there are plates, cutlery and glasses. I take them down and put them on the bed. Cash goes and gets the champagne that has been sitting in ice and fills our glasses.

  We clink glasses and drink.

  ‘To the good life,’ Cash says.

  ‘To the good life,’ I echo.

  I open a transparent box of antipasto and nibble on a bit of cold meat while he takes a chunk out of a pork pie.

  ‘Good stuff,’ he says with relish.

  ‘Yeah, very tasty,’ I agree, swallowing a bit of potato salad.

  He picks up a Muffeletta sandwich. It is made from the sturdy heel of a loaf of Italian bread and piled with cured meats, tangy olives and salad. ‘Do you like Italian food?’ he asks before stuffing his mouth with food.

  ‘Love it,’ I say.

  ‘Same here,’ he says. ‘So where in the States are you from?’

  ‘Georgia.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ He wipes his hands on his napkin. ‘I had a tour stop a few years back in Atlanta.’

  I clear my throat and try to look at him with an interested expression. The truth is I never took into consideration how difficult lying to him would be. Not admitting that I was in Atlanta for his concert feels horribly, horribly wrong, but to admit it means everything will fall apart.

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘Yeah, it was good,’ he says with a languorous look in his eyes.’ I distinctively remember that Georgia girls were gorgeous.’

  Shocking, but I never had an inkling as to what a jealous person I am. I feel like slapping him across his smug face. I take a sip of champagne and smile tightly. ‘I’m glad you had fun.’

  His eyes light up. ‘Are you jealous?’

  ‘Probably as jealous as you are of the guy I was with at that time,’ I say coolly.

  He tears off a bit of bread and dips it into the olive and fig tapenade. ‘Now you’re just being a cloud over my sunshine,’ he grumbles.

  I smile inwardly. ‘Want some potato salad?’

  ‘Yeah, pass it over,’ he says and chews thoughtfully. ‘So who was this guy then?’

  ‘No one you know.’

  ‘I know that. Were you in love with him or something?’

  ‘Yeah, I was in love with him. Look can we not talk about him anymore?’

  I pick up a packet of biscuits from the basket. ‘What on earth is a garam marsala biscuit?’

  ‘They have Indian spices in them,’ he says.

  I make a face. ‘A biscuit with Indian spices?’

  ‘Try it.’ he suggests.

  I open the packet and take a small bite of a biscuit. ‘This is not bad,’ I say.

  ‘Let me have a taste,’ he says, and catches my hand. I watch him bring my hand to his lips. He bites into the biscuit while staring in my eyes. ‘Tell me more about Tori,’ he says softly.

  ‘There’s not really that much to tell. I come from a family of four, my parents and my brother and me. My father analyses numbers and data on computer spreadsheets, but none of us have figured out exactly what he does. My mom is a housewife. She’s funny and sweet and I miss her, and my brother is in college. I’ll be joining him this fall.’

  ‘What were you like as a child? I bet you had some mouth on you.’

  ‘Actually no. I was a very quiet and insular child. My mother said I refused to speak to anybody unless they gave me sweets first, and even then I was a bitch about it’

  He laughs.

  ‘And you?’ I ask.

  ‘I was a messed up kid. I can’t explain it, but thoughts came really fast into my head. So damn quick it was like a tap left open on full. Water continuously rushing down a sink hole. It was like being bombarded. I couldn’t process them so I acted out.’

  He shrugs and picks up one of the plastic dishes of prawn cocktail.

  ‘ADHD wasn’t an available condition then, so the doctors thought it might have been a mild form of autism. They wanted to put me on medication to calm me down, but my dad refused point blank. I was seven years old. He thought it was a passing phase.’

  He takes a sip of champagne.

  ‘It was hard for me, but it was hell for all those around me since I was constantly lashing out. I think my father might have been about to cave in when we were passing a music shop one day and there was a shiny red electric guitar in the window. I was seven years old but knew straight away that I wanted to play it. He took me in and the salesman let me put the strap over my head and hooked it up to the amp. It totally dwarfed me.’

  He shakes his head with the memory.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it. The moment the first notes hit my brain the unceasing river of thoughts stopped. I wouldn’t leave the shop without the guitar. It became my salvation. I didn’t want to take classes. I played it just to stop thinking. I’d lock myself in my room and play for hours. As the years passed, my brain calmed down, or fucking rewired itself, who knows, but by the time I was eleven I guess I was a pretty normal kid.’

  ‘Oh my God. That is amazing,’ I say.

  He nods. ‘It was pretty amazing.’

  ‘So how did you end up as the lead singer of Alkaline?’

  ‘When I was fifteen I saw an advert in a newspaper. The ad was calling for young street smart, extrovert, ambitious boys who could also sing and dance. I applied and the rest is as they say history, but enough about me.’ He raises an enquiring eyebrow. ‘How does a girl from Georgia end up working as my sister’s PA?’

  I take a deep breath. I don’t need to lie. The only thing I will omit to mention will be my reason for wanting to work with his sister.

  ‘My best friend Leah and I had decided to take a year’s break before we went to college. We wanted to backpack around Europe and Asia. It made sense for us to start our journey from England since my aunt was here. The plan was for me to come over first and spend a couple of weeks with my aunt and niece, but then my aunt told me about a PA job to a young girl that did not require any PA skills. It was more of a companion thing. It seemed like the perfect fit.’

  I shrug and smile. ‘So I applied. Your dad interviewed me, and to my shock he offered me the job while I was still at the interview. He said he picked me over hundreds of other applicants because I was exactly the kind of smart go-getter he was looking for to broaden his daughter’s horizons. Apparently I was the only applicant from America and he was hoping some of my independence and bravery would rub off on his daughter. After listening to your guitar story I think he is expecting me to have the same effect on your sister that your guitar had on you, and he’s going to be very disappointed.
’

  Cash smiles. ‘How’s the job working out?’

  ‘Well, to start with your sister didn’t endear herself to me. I thought she was waaaaaay too spoilt, selfish, and ridiculously obsessed with her appearance, but the job paid well. It was live-in which meant I didn’t have to look for digs or worry about living expenses, and so I thought I’d stick it out.’ I pause and take a deep breath. ‘However, I’ve had a change of heart since then. Britney’s grown on me.’

  He smiles. ‘Yeah, my sister is like a fucking creeper. Before you know it she has entwined herself around your heart.’

  I frown. ‘How come your dad let her have plastic surgery when she was fifteen?’

  ‘She saved her pocket money and did her boobs secretly. She had arranged a fake ID and everything. One day dad is sitting in his office and gets a call from the hospital to come and pick up his daughter. She had already been operated on. My dad was livid.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say in wonder. ‘My dad would have killed me.’

  ‘Yup, and he let her do her nose, because she was so determined to do it she wouldn’t come out of her room for weeks. He made her promise that if he did let her do her nose she would wait until she was eighteen before she thought about any other reconstructive surgeries. Once she gave her word he took her to the best doctor in London.’

  ‘And now her eighteenth birthday is coming up and she’s making enquiries about cat’s eyes.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Can I ask you something about Britney?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Did something bad ever happen to her when she was young?’

  He stares at me hard. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘You know she paints right?’

  ‘Yeah, but she won’t show anyone.’

  ‘Well, she showed me.’

  ‘What?’ He looks at me astonished.

  I nod. ‘She did, and here’s the weird thing. She draws unfinished people and people with holes in them or strings coming out of their belly buttons, and she says that she always feels as though some important part of her is missing or lost. Can you think why she would feel that way?’

  Cash stares at me.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘Shit,’ he breathes.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask again.

  ‘It can’t be. It’s too incredible,’ he says almost to himself.

  ‘Tell me what it is,’ I demand impatiently.

  ‘My mum died shortly after she gave birth to Britney and it was a very traumatic time for all of us, so my father made the decision not to tell Britney that she had a twin who died that day.’

  I gasp in shock, my hands rushing to cover my mouth. ‘Oh, my god. I know that twins are supposed to have an invisible bond, but is it really possible that at some level she is missing her twin?’

  He shrugs. ‘It sounds totally out there, but there really is no other explanation for the paintings you describe. Britney has had the best of everything my father could provide.’

  ‘Will you tell her?’ I whisper.

  ‘I’ll tell my dad. He’ll know what to do.’

  Suddenly tears fill my eyes when I think of Britney. How misunderstood she was. ‘Poor Britney,’ I whisper.

  ‘Hey, why are you crying?’ he asks, shocked.

  ‘Damn onions,’ I sniff.

  ‘What onions?’ he asks, as he scrambles over to my side of the bed, making some of the food tip onto the duvet.

  ‘You’re destroying the bed,’ I mumble, embarrassed that I cried in front of him.

  He pushes me onto my back. ‘Your tough guy attitude is just an act, isn’t it? Inside you’re as soft as a marshmallow.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I deny.

  ‘Don’t,’ he says softly. ‘You’re beautiful when you cry for someone else.’

  Tori

  After I put the food away we go for a walk in the lovely grounds with their flowering bushes and tall majestic trees. There are rabbits everywhere and I put the salad and cut carrots that I found in the picnic basket on the ground, and watch delighted as the tame creatures come up to us and eat them right in front of us. They are so cute that I make a video of them on my phone to show my niece.

  When every last bit of food is gone and nose twitchers have scampered away, I suddenly spot a strawberry plant with a single, bright red strawberry nestled in the bushes.

  ‘Look at that,’ I cry. ‘It looks like a jewel.’

  ‘I’m going to get it for you,’ Cash says.

  ‘No, just leave it. You don’t know what’s hiding in the bushes,’ I warn.

  ‘I’m bigger than whatever’s hiding in there,’ he says, as he walks towards the plant. He stands in the middle of the bushes next to the strawberry plant and takes a bow.

  ‘And now to win the coveted prize for my lady,’ he says, and bending down plucks the strawberry with great flourish.

  I shake my head and laugh. He brings it back to me and places it on my lips.

  ‘Your eyes are such an unusual green,’ I say, looking into the swirling green depths.

  He shrugs carelessly. ‘When I was a baby they were like yours, bright blue. Then one day when I was about five they became green.’

  Looking into those green depths, I open my mouth and take a bite.

  ‘Oh yeah, babyyyyy,’ he says in a deep sexy voice, as my tongue comes out to lick at the juice squirting down my lips.

  Then his face changes, he blinks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh fuck,’ he curses, and sitting on the grass starts ripping his shoes off and tossing them away. Then he stands up and starts unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans before yanking them urgently down his legs. He kicks the pants off and I see them.

  Ants. Angry red ants. All over his legs.

  Cursing, he begins slapping at them and frantically brushing them off his legs and I feel laughter bubbling up inside me. I can’t help it. I laugh so much I have to drop to the ground and hold my stomach. He collapses beside me.

  ‘I risk life and limb to get you a strawberry and you laugh at me,’ he says with mock petulance.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr. Act First Think Later, but I did warn you. Remember? I’m bigger than whatever’s hiding in the bushes? Though you were right about that bit.’

  ‘Funny girl. You can at least kiss me better,’ he says.

  ‘Let’s go back and get some ice on it,’ I suggest.

  He laughs. ‘It doesn’t hurt that much. I was just trying it on.’

  I punch his shoulder.

  ‘Awww,’ he screams.

  I shake my head. ‘You’re such a drama queen.’

  ‘And you’re sour as balls.’

  I look at him. ‘I’m sorry you got bitten by ants,’ I say, and spoil it by giggling.

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘I tell you what. Let’s get your mind off your … er … injuries.’

  ‘I know exactly what’ll get my mind off the damn bites,’ he cuts in.

  ‘No, not that,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ll ask you a question and you answer me, but really fast without thinking about it.’

  ‘How is that going to help?’

  ‘It’ll be fun. Then you can turn around and ask me whatever you like, OK?’

  He rubs his hands. ‘Cool.’

  ‘Right. First question. Name your favorite actor.’

  ‘Matthew McCononaughey.’

  ‘Favorite actress?

  ‘Angelina Jolie.’

  I nod. ‘Name the actress that you fancy the most.’

  ‘She’s like god knows how old now, but Cameron Diaz.’

  ‘For real?’

  ‘Oh yeah, for real. And can I have one more?’

  I grin. ‘Go on.’

  He grins. ‘Jennifer Lawrence. Now she …’

  ‘A celebrity you wouldn’t want to do?’ I interrupt quickly.

  ‘Kim Kardashian.’

  I look at him curiously. ‘Why?’

  ‘Have you seen her s
ex tape? Man that’s one lazy woman.’

  I laugh. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously, someone showed it to me.’

  ‘Right, favorite color?’

  ‘Lucky blue.’

  ‘Favorite food?’

  ‘Macaroni and cheese.’

  ‘Favorite musical artist?’

  ‘Aww, babe. That’s like asking me to choose between my ribs. They’re all necessary.’

  I smile. ‘Give me a few.’

  ‘Led Zeppelin, Prince, Chuck Berry, Pink Floyd, Bob Dylan, Tupac, Michael Jackson, The Beatles, Oasis, Coldplay, Green Day, The Killers, Maroon Five. The list goes on.’

  ‘Are you secretly gay?’

  His eyes widen. ‘Come here, you little …’

  I giggle. ‘Favorite word?’

  ‘Sex.’

  I shake my head. ‘Do you have to be so predictable?’

  He opens his palms out. ‘What’d you want from me? I’m a man.’

  ‘Biggest regret in life?’

  ‘Pass.’

  ‘Biggest mistake in life?’

  ‘Pass.’

  We stare in each other’s eyes and I realize he has a huge regret that he doesn’t want to talk about.

  ‘Favorite TV show?’ I ask.

  ‘Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Is it my turn yet?’

  I grin at him. ‘Yes, it’s your turn.’

  ‘Your smile is killing me.’

  I feel myself blush at the intensity in his eyes. ‘That’s not a question. You’re supposed to be asking questions.’

  ‘Can I have your number?’

  ‘No.’

  He laughs. ‘Favorite movie?’

  ‘How To Lose A Guy In Ten Days.’

  He nods sagely. ‘Ah … Now it all makes sense.’

  ‘You’re supposed to fire the questions really quickly,’ I remind.

  ‘Favorite animal?’

  ‘Hummingbird.’

  His eyebrows rise. ‘Favorite color?’

  ‘Green.’

  ‘Favorite person?’

  ‘My mom.’

  ‘Favorite singer?’

  ‘You.’

  He freezes. ‘I thought you didn’t like my songs,’ he says slowly.