Fairytale Kisses (Here & Now Book 2)

by Kim Bailey

  Zadie.

  When we connected, the way we connected. That kiss felt like something I’d been waiting my whole life for. The way she held her breath as I got closer. The way she looked up at me with something resembling starvation. The want, the desire—none of that was faked, none of it out of pity or obligation. She wasn’t putting on an act because of what I’ve gone through—it wasn’t about making a sick boy feel happy. It was a pure, blinding chemistry. Magic that’s slowly, hotly melding us together.

  Except, she’s pregnant. Pregnant.

  And I’ve fucked everything up.

  The thought of her having another man’s baby triggers something dark and scary in me. My mind’s been tumbling around it, tripping over the irony, again and again. The woman I’m hung up on. The one I basically moved here to be closer to. The woman I kissed like I’ve never kissed any other. She’s about to create something I’ve always wanted.

  Something I still want. Desperately.

  Something I’ve been told I can never have.

  I’m torn between wanting to feel sorry for myself and wanting to go beg for her forgiveness. I feel like shit, leaving her the way I did—looking so lost and yet, somehow determined—but I had no choice. My white knight complex is out of control and I was too tempted to do something crazy.

  Like get down on one knee and ask her to marry me.

  I might be prone to fantasy, but I’m still able to admit proposing to her would have been a very bad idea. Besides, even if marriage could solve the problem, I know Zadie would never say yes. She’s not going to look for someone else to save her. Not now. Not after Sean. She’s going to fight tooth and nail to make it on her own.

  Especially after I walked out on her.

  Instead of trusting her and the connection I feel pulling us to together, I let her push me away again. I should have put my heart in her hands. But, I carefully pushed it to the side and then proceeded to stomp all over it myself. Instead of leaving with my tail between my legs, I should have held her tighter, kissed her longer, and showed her I’m not going anywhere.

  Yep. I’ve fucked it up, for sure.

  Yet, here I am.

  It’s Halloween and the bar is packed. When Chante suggested the club as a good place to celebrate, I started feeling ill. It’s psychosomatic, I know, but that doesn’t stop my gut from clenching or my heart from racing. I’m not sure how she’s convinced me to come along, knowing Zadie’s working tonight. Chante has a knack for talking me into things.

  Now I’m faced with an entire evening of what’s supposed to be fun. All while Zadie’s only feet away, dressed in her cute little black uniform that outlines her delicious body—those soft, exquisite curves that fit my hands just fucking right. It’s going to be impossible not to fixate on her all night.

  “Will you grab us some drinks?” Chante yells over the music. In her heels, we’re practically the same height, but her bossy tone makes it feel like she’s towering over me.

  “I’ll lose you in this crowd. Why don’t you just come with me?”

  With a roll of her eyes she laughs me off, waving her hand at me in dismissal. “I want to dance!” She exclaims, wiggling her way between the bodies on the dance floor, arms in the air.

  Watching her go, I notice how she takes over the entire space. Even strangers recognize her power and make way for her. Hats off to the daring man who immediately approaches her. He’s going to need a hell of a lot more than his bold attitude, ridiculous gladiator costume, and bleached smile to get her attention.

  Silently wishing him luck, I head to the bar. The closer I get, the more nervous I become. If Chante was with me I could use her as my excuse—my shield. Without her, I’ll probably seem like a desperate stalker or a callous ass. Either way, I’m screwed.

  Weaving my way through the costumed crowd, I finally make my way to the bar, relieved Zadie’s not there. The redhead, Larissa, is at the opposite end from where I stand and the infamous Jean-Paul works this side. My jangling nerves start to settle. The feeling of anxiousness is slowly replaced with my dislike of this guy.

  “You’re a pretty little thing. Une jolie petite fleur,” Jean-Paul says to the girl beside me.

  With an uncomfortable giggle she replies, “Umm, thanks. Can I get a screwdriver, please?” She’s barely legal—her slinky white dress and bunny ears making her appear even younger. Eighteen is the drinking age in Quebec. I wouldn’t be surprised if this girl was here celebrating her birthday. She looks too young for me. Which makes her obscenely young for Jean-Paul, who looks like he could be in his mid-thirties.

  “Pretty girls shouldn’t order their own drinks,” he says, reaching for a glass. “Where’s your man?”

  “Umm, I’m just out with some friends tonight,” she hesitates.

  “Well, then. Let me buy this one for you.” He smiles salaciously. Reaching across the bar, he runs his hand up her arm, stopping at her elbow. He caresses her in a way I’m uncomfortable watching. “But you have to promise to come back and visit me. Keep me company later.”

  Screw this guy. I can practically feel the panic radiating off the girl. She’s right to be on alert, Jean-Paul clearly has no moral compass. He’s a sleazebag.

  “Actually,” I cut in, “I already promised to buy this round.”

  I can see the air hitch in her lungs when she turns to look at me, her face flushed from her rising emotions.

  “I’ll take two bottles of Corona as well,” I say, aiming my glare at Jean-Paul. His contemptuous sneer doesn’t intimidate me the way I think it’s supposed to. Instead of playing into his testosterone battle, I smile politely. Turning to the girl at my side, I ask, “Okay?”

  “Umm...” Oh man, this poor little thing isn’t equipped for dealing with a situation like this on her own.

  After throwing some money down on the bar, I hand her the ordered drink. Placing my hand between her shoulder blades, I urge her to turn with me. We move away from the bar and the bartender, who’s busy telling me off in French.

  I bend close, so she can hear me. But, hopefully, not close enough to make her more uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, speaking into her ear. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Just figured he wouldn’t back off on his own. Maybe you should stick close to your friends for the rest of the night. Safety in numbers, right?”

  Breathing deeply, her body relaxing a little, she nods fervently. “Thank you, you’re really nice,” she says, getting a little closer.

  I’m standing too close to a tiny little girl in bunny ears. Her mouth’s only inches from me, and my hand’s still on her back. This is the moment I see Zadie. She’s standing just a few feet away. Her serving tray is held tightly at her side. Her other hand is held up at the base of her throat. She’s staring at me with her brow furrowed and her mouth a tight line.

  Our eyes meet, and the world drops away.

  All I see is her. All of her.

  Her impressive beauty. Her focused determination. Her drive to succeed. Her compassionate nature. All of it. I realize, she’s like me—a survivor. She’s survived circumstance, forgotten dreams, a broken heart, and a wounded soul.

  And she’s hurting. She’s scared.

  The tiny girl beside me is talking, but I don’t hear a word of it. I’m mesmerized by the vulnerability I see slipping through Zadie’s focused glare. When her eyes widen sharply, it’s like she knows I’ve seen beneath her defenses. Like she realizes she can’t hide from me anymore.

  Suddenly, her hand jerks away from her throat, up to cover her mouth. Before I can register what’s happening, she’s in motion, running past us, straight toward a door behind the bar.

  “Excuse me,” I tell the girl. “I have to go help my friend.”

  “Wait!” She yells, grabbing onto my arm to stop me from going. “Can I have your number?”

  “What?” I ask in confusion.

  “Maybe we could hook up some time.”

  “Hook up?” Shaking my head in disbelief I tug my arm o
ut of her grasp. “I’m not like that jackass behind the bar—I don’t do hook ups.”

  I’m revolted by her suggestion, and the thought of being compared to a guy like Jean-Paul. But I push the feeling away as I chase after Zadie.

  “Hey!” Jean-Paul yells, when he sees where I’m headed. “You can’t go in there!”

  Ignoring him, I don’t slow my determined stride, I walk straight in.

  The room’s empty.

  A desk and cabinets are to my left and a questionable looking couch sits straight ahead, but no sign of Zadie. I wonder how she disappeared, until I hear her. The muffled sound of Zadie getting sick echoes from behind a door off to my right. Light filters around the edges, highlighting the peeling linoleum floor and carrying the sounds of her retching.

  “Zadie?” I call, placing my head and my hand against the door.

  “What did I tell you, asshole?” Jean-Paul rages from behind me.

  Knocking, I continue to ignore him. “Zadie, are you alright?”

  “Get out of here,” Jean-Paul loudly demands. “Go back to your little girlfriend. I’ll take care of Zee.”

  “No way in hell am I leaving her alone with you,” I tell him over my shoulder.

  A toilet flushes, and water runs. I stand in front of the worn wood, waiting to see if she’s alright.

  The door opens as Jean-Paul clamps his hand over my shoulder. “Listen muther-fuker —” he starts in his ridiculously slanted English.

  “Please!” Zadie shouts, standing directly in front of me, looking like she’s been completely wrung out. “My head hurts, I don’t need to listen to the two of you bickering like children.”

  “Are you alright?” I try to ask. While at the same time, Jean-Paul produces something that sounds like, “Whas da’ madder, sweedness?”

  I hate this guy. I hate his smarmy fake concern. I hate the pompous look on his stupid face. It bothers me to think of how long Zadie’s had to deal with him, and what I’m sure constitutes workplace harassment.

  “I’m fine. I think I ate something bad,” she lies.

  “Okay, good. One minute to clean yourself up, then I need you to get back out there,” the pushy jerk tells her. Looking back at me he orders, “You—get the fuck out of this room, or I’ll throw you out of my bar.”

  “I’d like to see you try,” I challenge.

  “Enough!” Zadie commands, “I can’t deal with this shit right now. I don’t care who has the bigger fucking sword.”

  “Sorry,” I concede. “I’ll go, but only if you’re coming back out there with me. I need to be sure you’re alright.”

  Her glare is hostile, making me feel like an even bigger asshole for barging in the way I have. “I can take care of myself,” she insists. “J.P.’s right, you should go back to the girl dressed as a wanna-be centerfold. Wouldn’t want to keep your date waiting.”

  “She’s not my date. I’m here with Chante. I don’t even know that girl’s name, but I think she’s supposed to be a rabbit.”

  Color rises in her cheeks, her angry scowl intensifying.

  Instead of continuing to enforce my removal, Jean-Paul snickers at me, like the asshole he is. He doesn’t need to yell any longer; I’m sure he can see I’ve dug my own hole.

  “Whatever, Caleb. It doesn’t matter. We’re not even friends anymore—right? Go have a good time with whoever you like. I’ve got work to do.”

  She pushes her way between me and Jean-Paul, heading back out to the club and leaving me alone with the French dick.

  “You fucked that up good,” he laughs.

  Leave it to the asshole to point out the obvious. Too bad he’s completely right.

  “Stay away from Zadie,” I warn him.

  The anger I’ve kept simmering, just below the surface, threatens to boil over. I’m angry at this dickwad. I’m angry at the situation. But most of all, I’m angry at myself for letting things get to this point to begin with.

  Maybe if I were more of a man and less of a boy, still living in a fantasy world, then I’d know what to do. How to fix this. I probably wouldn’t have messed it all up to begin with.

  “Or what?” he challenges.

  Or what? What are you going to do, Cal?

  Without an answer, I simply shoot him an angry scowl and leave his precious room. I know how I want to answer. I want to tell him that I’ll beat the shit out of him if thoughts of Zadie even enter his mind. But I could never act on that threat. Violence kind of disgusts me, although my thoughts about this douchebag are savage.

  My mood is grey.

  I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve felt this low, my outlook this bleak. This is the first time it’s not because of cancer. Things are bad. Very bad. But they’re never hopeless.

  I can’t give up. I won’t.

  Not when Zadie showed that hint of cracked emotion. She wasn’t just angry at me, or hurt by my refusal to play friends, I think she was jealous. Jealous of the tiny, bunny girl.

  Jealous or not, she needs me. She may not know it yet, but she will.

  That’s all the hope I need. A crack will do.

  ***

  Zadie

  LAUGHTER AND MUSIC GREET me as I let myself into Chante’s place. I can’t see them, but Chante and Caleb sound like they’re having a good time.

  For a moment, I hesitate at the door. I wonder if it’s still okay for me to come and go at will, now that I’ve made things so hostile between me and Caleb. Maybe he won’t want me making this my second home anymore. But then I remember how angry I am with him, and realize I don’t give a shit if he wants me here or not.

  The way he walked out the other night, right after I told him I was pregnant. After I practically begged to be his friend. It maddened me. My body was still pumping adrenaline when he left. Partly from telling him the truth. Partly from the toe-curling kiss he’d delivered. Once his departure truly registered, my system crashed. I ended up a shaking, heaving mess.

  The toilet bowl and I have become very well acquainted.

  Then, when he dares to shows his face around me again, he does it while flirting with another girl. Like our friendship was as fake as the pretend date. Like kissing me made no difference at all. Like I didn’t matter.

  Never mind, I tell myself. I’m not going to let anything take away from my good mood. I’ve been sporting a goofy smile and sparkling eyes for the last couple of hours. The idea of pregnancy glow is probably borne from moments like this one—a moment of happiness so epic, I’m high with giddy excitement.

  All from one trip to the doctor.

  Well, the health clinic to be exact. My high isn’t about the pregnancy. It’s from the results of my STD testing. The clean results, in black and white, are folded neatly into an envelope in my pocket. The twinkle in my eye is from the leftover tears I didn’t predict and can’t seem to stop.

  Knowing that I’m clean is great. Even knowing that Sean is probably in the clear makes me feel good. But it’s the well-being of the tiny creature growing inside me that’s most important. Knowing my baby hasn’t been negatively affected by my poor life choices puts me over-the-moon.

  My smile doesn’t subside when I step into the living room and find the furniture all pushed against the walls. Chante and Caleb are in the center of the room—a skateboard under Chante’s feet. Her eyes are squeezed shut as she wobbles on the board, clutching onto Caleb’s arm like he’s her center of gravity.

  “Just breathe,” Caleb instructs. “You’ve got to relax or you really will fall.”

  “How do you do it? You jump around on this thing and do all those crazy tricks. You make it look so easy.” Chante declares with a panicked laugh.

  I like that they haven’t noticed me. I love seeing the two of them this way—acting like kids, having fun. Even if it also makes me a little jealous.

  “You here for a lesson too?” Caleb asks, his eyes lifting to mine.

  “Wha...” Chante starts in confusion, looking up in haste.

 
; The skateboard gets away from her. She tilts backward as the board slides forward. It’s imperceptible at first, as though in slow motion. Then with sudden blinding speed, it launches across the room, straight toward me.

  Acting on nothing more than instinct, I cover my stomach, curling in on myself. The skateboard hits me in the head.

  “Zadie!” Caleb shouts, “Shit! Are you okay?”

  His hands are on me. My head hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, but all I can focus on is the fact that Caleb is touching me. He’s gentle. He’s caring. The headache blossoming across the top of my head isn’t fully from the blow. It’s also from the dilemma, tearing apart my mind.

  I don’t want him to ever stop touching me.

  I want to talk to him, to register how awkward things are going to be between us, to tell him how I’m feeling. Except, I don’t want to look at his face, I’m still so bloody mad.

  “Let me look,” Chante demands, pushing him out of her way.

  I almost cry out at the loss of his touch. But that could also be from the sore spot on my head. Chante’s expertly probing it with her professional grace.

  “How’s your vision?” she asks.

  “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?” she insists, her eyes moving down the length of my body.

  “Yes, Chante. Everything is fine.”

  “I’m banning you from skateboarding,” Caleb says, pointing to Chante. “Maybe anything on wheels. You’re a freaking menace.”

  “Oh, fuck off. I can’t help if you’re a lousy teacher,” she retorts.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be skateboarding in the house?” I suggest.

  With a smirk, Caleb expertly tosses the board to the ground and hops onto it. With a tricky little push and a kick, he somehow launches it once again into the air. This time, the board does a spin and a flip before landing smoothly back on the floor. Caleb lands solidly on top of it.

  “Still a fucking show off,” Chante mutters.

  I want to cheer and jump around like a hyper cheerleader, but all I manage to do is stand with my mouth hanging open. “Seriously,” I say. “You make it look so easy. How do you do it?”