Revenge Kisses
Page 20
“Mattress, huh? I guess that means you’re practically married.” Just as I’m about to introduce her to her new sister-in-law she waves at someone in the crowd—who I would bet my life on didn’t exist—and trots off quickly in an effort to ditch us. “Some things never change. I guess we’re not the in-crowd.”
“That’s so high school.” Sunday averts her eyes.
“So are her mattress moves,” I’m quick to offer. “You should warn Rush. She’s the clap that claps back. In fact, together they might actually develop a new disease that science doesn’t even know about yet.” I scowl across the room where Rush and my brothers are congregating. “Rush needs a good girl, not some twit with a nickname that precedes her reputation.”
“Someone is bitter.” Sunday bites down on a laugh. “I wouldn’t worry about Rush. I’ll warn him about Miranda, but I’m sure he’s already moved on.” She gives a halfhearted shrug. “I’ll admit, he’s a bit notorious with the ladies, but I’ve heard rumors alluding to the fact the girls at Briggs are out to get him. It’s a sexual setup.”
A laugh bubbles up my throat. “I love how you make him out to be the victim.”
“He’s not a victim.” Sunday looks mildly confused as if maybe he were. “Anyway, you steer clear. You for darn sure can’t go near him.”
Serena shakes her head at me. “That would be weird. He’s like a brother to me.”
Sunday leans in. “He is a brother to me.”
“Well”—my eyes round out momentarily as I look to Sunday and Serena—“it looks as if majority rules. Rushford Knight is safe from both me and my virginal standing.” I give a tight smile. “Anyway, I’d better turn in for the night. I’ve got the Media Club calling my name. And if there’s any hope of me waking up by noon, my head needs to hit the pillow soon.” I say goodnight and brush off Sunday’s offer to go home with me. In truth, everything about tonight has my head spinning.
The music grows louder, the screaming and dancing crowd only seems to get rowdier, and suddenly I’m feeling like maybe the Knitting Club is more my speed. Why must they turn up this metal riot on blast? What about putting on something decent like Elvis—as in Presley? My father loved Elvis and played the King’s greatest hits on a loop for the entirety of my childhood. I love my father with all of my heart, and just the thought of Elvis reminds me of him. My mother, on the other hand, couldn’t stand the King or my father as it turns out. In the midst of their ugly divorce, I distinctly remember her violently snatching off the stereo while “Love Me Tender” warbled away. After that, the only thing that warbled away was my mother.
The room closes in around me, and it feels as if I’m about to be crushed by a wall of sweaty bodies. A ripe sense of panic hits me, and I can’t claw my way through this human chain of Friday night oppression fast enough.
My heart begins to race, my bowels feel as if they’re about to explode straight through to middle earth—not pretty, trust me, I’m aware—and a gripping fear that I’m going to be trapped here forever takes over. This is the exact feeling I had last Tuesday when Sunday and I thought it a good idea to go to the nail salon and paint our nails in orange and blue in a sudden burst of school spirit. While Sunday was happily zoning out with earbuds plugged into her head, my breathing grew labored as the poor girl at the nail salon struggled to remove the dark chipped mess from my fingers. Just the thought of sitting through an hour-long session to have luxurious gel polish cured onto my being sent my skin crawling as if a dozen bats just landed in my hair. Heck, I would have preferred a dozen bats knotted in my tresses, two-dozen bats, in place of that torture session. I couldn’t breathe in there. I had the sudden urge to use the restroom, and my God, what if I were stuck in the middle of a very important part of the gel curing process and the need to visit the girls’ room arose again? I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sit there, trapped like some zoo animal with my fingers subjected to ultraviolet light.
I made up some lame excuse about feeling the flu coming on, paid for a regular manicure, and waited for Sunday in the car. Of course, Sunday sucked the vital info out of me over pizza back at the dorm. I let her know that those episodes were only on the rise in my life, and I had no idea why. I used to love to do normal things, like shop, grab some coffee, see a freaking movie, but a line with more than three people in it makes me feel as if I were waiting in line for the electric chair—thus the birth of the three-person line rule. I guess you could say something good has come out of the madness. I no longer tolerate long lines, a majority of the public at large, and badly mismatched manicures.
Just as I’m about to hit the exit, I bump into a body.
“Whoa.” I pull back to find myself staring at my stepsister, Scarlett.
“Leaving so soon?”
I bite down over my lip as I glance around the boisterous crowd, laughing, screaming at one another as if the walls were on fire, and those boys with their bedroom eyes, the girls with their legs flying open at the ready. “I don’t know. This isn’t what I thought it would be. College isn’t what I thought it would be.”
She wrinkles her nose. “No offense, but you’ve only been here a week. What’s getting to you?” She pets my hair as if I were her favorite kitten, and something about the action warms me. My mother hasn’t always been the most maternal, and something in me craves this physical brand of attention.
“I guess I thought I’d feel like a grown-up. You know, less like a little kid with everyone telling me what to do, who to like, who not to talk to.” I spot Rush by the hall talking to a group of girls as Miranda slowly makes her way into the mix. I can’t help but scowl over at the entire lot of them. Trollops.
“Hey!” She pulls me in, and for a moment I bury my face in her cinnamon-colored locks. Scarlett always smells like spice cookies to me, sweet with a mysterious hint of clover or nutmeg. “Trust me, you’re going to have a great time at Briggs. Don’t you let others define you. College is the perfect time to reinvent yourself. How about you try to do something unexpected? Maybe step out of your old skin for a while. Do something that the old high school you would never dream of. You know, join a sorority or the Book Club. Start a novel of your own! The possibilities are endless. Just loosen up a little.” She jostles my shoulder with a sisterly grin. “How about you get back in there and hang out with Sunday for a few more minutes? I’d feel better if I knew you weren’t walking back to campus all by yourself. The Row is a bit farther than you think, especially all alone on a Friday night.”
“Fine.” I openly glare around the room as if it personally offends me. And come to think of it—it does. “You’re right. I need to stop letting other people define me. It’s time to reinvent myself—the new Trixie Toberman is here.”
She laughs while pulling me into a brief hug. “That a girl. Now, get back in there and start making some memories! Step out of your skin for a while!” Scarlett takes off for her friends, and I set out to do the same.
The music switches to a heart thumping rap song, and the room goes wild as if the roof just ignited with flames. I do a quick scan of the vicinity, and there’s not a sign of anyone I know. Perfect. I’m stranded in a sea of sexed-up bodies—half of them think I’m some seven-year-old who needs to be reminded of what she can and cannot do.
My brothers and their reprimands come to mind. Trixie’s a good girl. She stays out of trouble. She’s outright boring when you get down to brass tacks. My blood begins to boil at the thought.
The lights dim and the crowd screams ten times louder as if the 12 Deadly Sins themselves just appeared from nowhere, ready to hit the stage with a live concert. I swear, I’ve been in that bar where people lose their minds for the house band. This level of hysteria isn’t all that big a stretch.
Miranda and her tribe of super skanks strut by with their mocking jewel-toned fingernails, their loud laughter biting through the air at obnoxious glass shattering decibels.
Maybe I should step out of my skin for a while.
I spot Rush as he
finishes up a conversation and begins to walk back into the crowd alone.
Rushford Knight is never alone. It’s practically illegal for him to be three feet away from a person with female genitalia at all given times. There are serious rules in play for manwhores like him. The governing authority of ho bags everywhere could readily revoke his douche card for such an offense.
Without thinking, my feet move in his direction, and for one strangled moment his hypnotic, warm honey eyes lock over mine. My body jolts with a mild electrocution, and my insides squeeze tight once again at the sight of him. It’s not fair he gets to illicit such a volatile response in me. I bet he’s not having a single visceral response to my presence, outside of irritation, that is. And I do hope he’s feeling at least that.
His jaw tightens on cue as if the very sight of me brought out a certain level of disdain in him, and the savage bitch in me gives a secret smile. Although, how dare he even imply it. Then, as if in an act of surrender, he tips his head to the side. No sign of that lazy smile he uses to seduce the girls by the dozens. After all, I had already been relegated to the bottom of the little sister deck. My brothers, Sunday, the world made sure of that. I hate labels, but that particular label is one I loathe the most.
I stride over and take up his hand, quick and tight. My feet pivot and I lead us up the stairwell, down a hall, and into the first open door, landing us in a bathroom. I leave the light off as I shut the door behind us.
His warm breath rains down over me as my body lands taut against his, pushing him to the edge of the sink as I hike up onto the balls of my feet. Rush Knight’s body feels as if it’s fashioned from steel, and a breath hitches in my throat at the feel of it—at the reality of what I’ve just done. His chest expands, and the slight rumble of laughter filters through him. My God, he’s so obnoxious I want nothing more than to school that oversized ego of his. Without hesitation, without another living thought, I stab my fingers into the back of his hair and pull him down to me. For a brief moment, in this, the dimmest of light, our eyes meet. There’s an arrogant look on his face that suggests he knew I would cave to his comeliness, and as much as I want to battle it, I don’t.
And just like that, I draw first blood. My lips slap over his like a punishment—hard and greedy for something his stiff muscles are too stingy to give. Rush takes a quick breath, forcing his chest to nearly buck me right off him, and then the unthinkable happens. His mouth moves over mine in a sinful rhythm. These slow, delicious movements smoke every theory I’ve ever had about Rush being a louse in every area of his life. Clearly, Rushford Knight is a master at one thing, and at the moment we’re engaging in the very act.
My stomach squeezes tight again until it painfully burns. Every last nerve in my body is alive and electrified at the touch of his mouth over mine. I can feel the sizzle from the ends of my hair to the tips of my toes. It’s unfair, and perhaps illegal to give anyone the power to invoke these apocalyptically huge feelings in you.
A small moan works its way up my throat, and as soon as I give it, his body relaxes for the first time, his chest melting against mine as if it were always supposed to be there. Rush brings his hands up over my back, slow and warm. His thick fingers carefully migrate to the back of my neck, threading into my hair, pressing our mouths furiously together as I open for him. Rush invades me with his tongue with a frenzy, as if it were his sole responsibility to teach me a lesson. And he’s kissing me. Soulfully, Rush delivers a lashing that grows darker by the moment.
He spins me against the counter and lifts me onto it until the cold tile burns right through my jeans. He takes up my hands, opens my arms against the mirror behind me as if exposing me in this way were supposed to speak to me. Rush is owning me, claiming me the way he does his floozies by the dozens. I might have stunned him to begin with, but it’s clear he’s on autopilot. Unless, of course, this is his way of saying don’t you mess with me, little girl. In that case, game, set, and match. Well played, Mr. Knight. Well played indeed.
I yank my wrists free from his bondage-like stronghold and cup my hands over his stubbled cheeks, holding him there, making him kiss me softer, drinking down all he has to offer as if it were the most potent wine. I’m pouring his mouth straight into mine and drinking down the intoxicating elixir that I should never have been privy to.
A deep guttural groan comes from him, and my entire body begs to faint. There is no sweeter sound than that of someone desiring you on such a primal level. That groan signified everything I was hoping to hear. I’m certain I’ll replay it in my sleep for the next eighty years, reliving my victory time and time again.
Rush runs his tongue over mine, rough and greedy, his lust for me amping up by the nanosecond.
The lights slap on, and we both look to the door to find a glossy-eyed boy looking momentarily stunned. “Sorry.” He slams the door shut behind him but forgets to turn off the lights, thus breaking the spell and landing us both back in that horrible place known as reality.
Rush and I glance at one another apprehensively at first with something shy of horror.
***To continue reading on click over to Red Hot Kisses (3:AM Kisses 15) to download! Happy reading! XOXO ****
A Note from the Author
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***Read Red Hot Kisses (3:AM Kisses 15) Rush and Trixie’s story NOW!*****
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Books by Addison Moore
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