The Complete Kiss Me Series

by Emma Hart

  ME: You’re welcome. I believe in complimenting someone every day.

  DICK GUY: Solid idea. Well, I’ve never seen them, but I’m sure you have great tits.

  I burst out laughing. He wasn’t wrong, in my opinion. I did have great tits, especially depending on the bra I wore, but I wasn’t going to share that anytime soon.

  ME: Thanks. If I was a picture sending type, I’d send one to thank you for the presumptuous comment, but I’m not, so you’ll just have to imagine a great pair of tits and attach them to a bodyless, headless person with purple hair.

  DICK GUY: I’m not the picture type either, but we all make mistakes while under the influence of beer and your team winning.

  ME: I didn’t think football season had started yet.

  DICK GUY: College football. I played once upon a time and like to yell at everyone that they’re doing it wrong.

  ME: Don’t tell me you were the quarterback.

  DICK GUY: All right, I won’t.

  ME: Ugh. So cliché. The quarterback has a great dick. That’s been written in every football-themed romance novel ever. Nobody ever cares about the big guys in defense.

  DICK GUY: None of the guys I’ve played with have had abs. According to years of dating, abs are important.

  ME: They’re certainly a bonus. A bit like winning the lottery. Five balls are great, but they’d be better with the bonus ball.

  DICK GUY: Interesting analogy. I assume great tits work the same way.

  ME: Obviously. I’m a fan of equality. Like eating a salad for dinner and a slice of cake for dessert.

  DICK GUY: Again, solid idea. Sounds like you have your life figured out.

  ME: Not at all.

  DICK GUY: We seem to have a lot in common.

  ME: Except a nice dick. I don’t have one of those.

  DICK GUY: I don’t have nice tits, so again, even.

  ME: Huh. You’re right.

  DICK GUY: It happens. LOL. I have to go to work. Sorry again, and thanks for being cool about all this.

  ME: Don’t worry about it. Shit happens.

  CHAPTER TWO

  * * *

  REAGAN

  Shit Really Does Happen

  “Aunt Bethel,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I am not going to stage a boudoir shoot for you to give Harry James for his birthday. He has a pacemaker and a stent. You’ll kill the poor man.”

  She leaned over the kitchen table, her blue hair flying in corkscrew curls around her face. I guessed she’d gotten a perm at some point in the last few days, because it hadn’t looked like that the last time I’d seen her.

  She pointed at me, her bright-pink nail flashing through the air as numerous bangles jangled on her wrist. “You should see the posters in his bedroom at the care home!”

  “I don’t think they like it when you call it a care home. They prefer the term ‘shared community’ at Creek Community.”

  “Creek Community is a stupid name for a care home, and if there are live-in nurses, it’s either a hospital or a care home.”

  “Nurses don’t live at the hospital.”

  “Ah-ha! It’s a care home!” She threw her arm into the air in triumph, and I winced, waiting for her bone to pop out or something.

  “It doesn’t matt—wait, how did you get into Harry’s bedroom? Did he let you in? If so, you’ve already killed him, Aunt Bethel. He doesn’t need your nudes.”

  She sniffed, standing up and straightening her ghastly orange dress. “Margaret and I were there for a card event they were hosting and he showed me around.”

  I stared at her. “You broke into his room, didn’t you?”

  “I would do nothing of the sort!”

  “You broke into his room and snooped around.”

  Leaning forward, she looked around conspiratorially and whispered, “He takes a lot of medication. I could make some money on the black Amazon.”

  “The black Amazon?”

  “Under the table deals. You know. The shady guys at gas stations with their non-descript brown paper envelopes.”

  “You mean the black mark—it doesn’t matter.” I waved my hands in front of me. “Aunt Bethel, you cannot break into someone’s room and snoop around. Even the police need a warrant for that.”

  “The state could save a lot of money if they let nosey old ladies snoop around instead.”

  Now there was a point I wasn’t going to argue with.

  That didn’t make it right. True, yes, but half of them would probably pop out their hip or something halfway through climbing the stairs.

  “You cannot break into someone’s room,” I repeated, letting my hair out of the bun I’d had it in all day. It was still damp in places, and I grabbed my brush from the counter to detangle the few knots that were buried in it. “It’s illegal. An arrestable offense. And before you try to tell me; no, I do not care to know what’s on Harry’s walls.”

  Aunt Bethel sniffed. “I thought you were the fun one. Your brother is boring now he’s all loved up with the girl who likes raccoons.”

  Lord, she was tiring. “I am the fun one. That doesn’t mean I condone breaking the law. Also, that girl who likes raccoons happens to be one of my best friends.”

  “Doesn’t dating your brother break the girl code? Or whatever it is you kids call it these days?”

  “If you need a girl code, it’s because you are going to break it.” I looked at her pointedly. “But you don’t follow the law, so what do I know?”

  She blinked at me. “Don’t you care she’s banging your brother?”

  The brush clattered to the floor as I dropped it in exchange for my phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Calling Mom. She needs to come and collect her child now.” I held the phone to my ear as it started ringing.

  “Nooo!” Aunt Bethel shrieked. “I’ll behave. I promise.”

  She was surprisingly spritely for her old age and made it to me right as my mom said, “Hello?” My aunt wrestled the phone from me and shouted, “Wrong number!” in a gruff, Brooklyn-esque accent.

  I gave her a flat look. “She has my number saved, you idiot.”

  “The disrespect to the elders!” Aunt Bethel clutched her chest, then glanced at my phone. “Ooh, you have a text!”

  “Give me my phone!”

  “It looks like it’s from a guy. Ooh, have you been texting someone?” She quickly scrolled, then stopped, her eyes going wide. “My, my, my, Reagan! You are the fun one of the family!”

  I froze.

  No.

  There was no way Dick Guy had texted me again.

  And that my eighty-year-old aunt had scrolled to the top of that conversation and seen—

  Jesus.

  Fuck.

  She had.

  Of course she had. This was my great-aunt Bethel. She probably received this for fun online.

  She pinched the screen. “Oh, he has tattoos! What a bad boy!”

  He had tattoos? I’d missed that.

  I snatched my phone right out of her wrinkly little hand. “Yep. Calling Mom right now.”

  “Why do you have a penis on your phone?”

  “Why are you zooming in to see the tattoos?” I shot back, holding the phone close to my chest. “It’s none of your business what’s on my phone.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why don’t you have his number saved?”

  “None of your business,” I repeated.

  “You don’t know him, do you?” A sly grin spread across her face, revealing a smudge of pink lipstick on her front tooth.

  “You’ve got a little lipstick on your front tooth.”

  She curled her upper lip up and ran her tongue over her front two teeth, dislodging it. “Why do you have a stranger’s penis on your phone, Reagan? Are you struggling for money? Are your parents cutting you off? Mind you, I’d cut you off if you were a hooker, too, it’s not good for the old reputation—”

  “I’m not a hooker!” Oh, my God. How had we gott
en this far? “It was a wrong number text and he appreciated that I was nice about his mistake. I was going to delete the conversation but a customer came into the shop, and here we are.” I held out my hands. “No, Mom and Dad are not cutting me off, because I live off my salary anyway. I’m self-sufficient.”

  She looked pointedly at me. “You’re self-sufficient in the family business. You’re not exactly the next Sam Jobs.”

  “Steve Jobs.”

  “What?”

  “It was Steve Jobs.”

  “Who the devil is that? I’m talking about Sam Jobs, the guy who runs the taco place at the end of Main Street.”

  Right.

  Of course.

  Why would she be talking about the co-founder of Apple?

  Small town tacos and innovative worldwide technology. Totally the same thing.

  “Anyway.” Aunt Bethel heaved a sigh and grabbed her oversized, fluffy purse from the sofa and headed for the door. Seriously, that purse was like a giant cat. “I have to go. I have a place to be.”

  “If it’s Creek Community, I’m calling the police.” I opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine.

  She looked at it. “It’s Tuesday. Are you drinking already?”

  “Yesterday, I woke up to an unexpected dick pic and tonight, you’re in my kitchen. Yes, I’m drinking.”

  “You could have offered me one.”

  “And be responsible for when you and Margaret strip off in the middle of the park? Absolutely not.”

  She huffed and opened the door.

  “Do you need a ride anywhere, Aunt Bethel?”

  “No. I can walk.” She stopped in the doorway. “Your brother is picking me up and taking me to the grocery store. Toodles.”

  Toodles?

  Better Preston than me, I’ll tell you that. The one and only time I took her shopping two years ago, they had wine samples at the liquor store next door.

  That was my mistake, but I swear she’d been in the car when I’d gone in to get the fixings for margaritas for girls’ night.

  I’d even locked her in. I had no idea how she got out.

  I removed the cork from the bottle and poured myself a glass, stopping halfway down.

  A whole glass seemed appropriate.

  I poured again and then set the bottle back in the fridge door. Closing it, I paused, glancing at my phone.

  Didn’t she say I had a text?

  I cradled the glass as I picked my phone back up. Of course the notification didn’t show now, so I closed all the apps with two taps on the screen and opened my messages app.

  Yep.

  There was a new message from Dick Guy.

  Did I want to open this? There was no reason for him to message me. We’d ended the conversation well earlier this afternoon, and I really was going to delete the thread until someone came into the store.

  Shit. I still had to email the girl who called earlier.

  Taking a big slurp of wine, I acted like the responsible adult I was and sent the pictures over via the email that was sitting in my draft box in my Gmail app.

  All done, I turned my attention back to the unread message from Dick Guy.

  I really needed his name.

  No, I didn’t. If I had his name, that made him a real person.

  Right now, he was whoever I wanted him to be. He was the tall, hot, tattooed firefighter with a rescue chihuahua that I had occasional dream-sex with. That was my fantasy and I was sticking to it.

  I didn’t want to find out he was a balding man in his forties who lived in his mom’s basement.

  Not to judge those guys. They were great people, I was sure, but they just weren’t my kind of people.

  I didn’t like basements. Ever since my brother had played a Halloween prank on me when I was nine, I’d avoided them at all costs.

  I stared at my phone.

  I couldn’t open it and read it. That was insane. I needed to delete the entire conversation and block his number.

  How did I know it was an accident? Had he somehow gotten my number and deliberately sent me a photograph of his genitals?

  Oh, my God.

  What if he had?

  Was he stalking me?

  What was I thinking, having a full-blown conversation with him earlier?

  Sure, he’d been nice. Charming. Lovely. Funny. But you know what? So were serial killers.

  It’s how they lured you in.

  My fire alarm beeped, sending my thought train crashing into the station. I glared at it, but it didn’t stop. Hauling a chair over beneath it, I climbed up and hit the button to make it be quiet.

  It didn’t work.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Fucking.

  Beep.

  Oh, my God. It was the goddamn batteries. The guy who’d been here a few weeks ago checking them all said I’d need to replace them within weeks and I’d totally forgotten.

  It was still beeping.

  I had no choice. I had to take the batteries out. I’d replace them tomorrow after work—the stores would all be shut now, and there was no way I had any in the apartment.

  I supposed I could ask my neighbor… But as a rule, I tried not to ask Arthur Jennings anything. A simple request for a battery would turn into a half-hour story about them.

  Once, I’d asked if he had any milk since mine had gone sour after a weekend trip with the girls. He’d launched into three stories about various grocery trips, and by the time I’d finally gotten the mug full of milk back to my apartment, my coffee was cold, and I had to get to work.

  That was the day I’d ordered a small coffee machine for the back room at the store. Now, I never had to be without my coffee.

  The alarm was now silent, but it felt as though my phone was screaming at me. I knew the message was there, but…

  Jesus, this was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. That was what happened when Aunt Bethel showed up unannounced—her ridiculousness rubbed off on me.

  I took one last gulp of wine, and with a prayer up to whoever controlled this stuff in the sky, grabbed my phone and hoped I really wasn’t communicating with a serial killer.

  DICK GUY: Can I ask you something?

  ME: Can I ask you something first?

  DICK GUY: Sure.

  ME: Are you a serial killer luring me in with an ‘accidental’ dick pic so we’ll become friends and meet for a drink where you can later strangle me with a shoelace and dump me in a river?

  DICK GUY: You caught me.

  ME: All right, you’re not. No serial killer would ever admit it.

  DICK GUY: Maybe I’m just saying it…

  ME: What do you want, dear stranger with the nice penis?

  DICK GUY: Ah, thank you, dear stranger with the self-proclaimed great boobs.

  DICK GUY: Would you confront the girl who gave you the wrong number?

  ME: Depends. Is there a reason you’re asking?

  DICK GUY: She messaged me asking where it was.

  I blinked at the screen. That girl was either as thick as two short planks or she had some serious lady balls.

  Unless she was my number neighbor. You know, that thing where you have the exact same number as someone else, bar one digit?

  There was a relatively easy way to figure that out…

  I sent two text messages, one to each of my number neighbors. I sent the exact same message.

  ME: Hi! You’re my number neighbor! I’m Reagan and I’m conducting an experiment. What’s your name and where are you from?

  I had no idea if this would pay off, so I sent Dick Guy another text right after.

  ME: There’s every chance she messed up her number and she could be my number neighbor. I texted mine to ask what their name is and where they’re from.

  His response was swift.

  DICK GUY: What the fuck is a number neighbor?

  Oh, my God. Was this guy allergic to the Internet? I swear I couldn’t go a day without seeing
a meme or some shit about it.

  I sent him a quick text back explaining.

  DICK GUY: That sounds like the quickest way to get yourself killed.

  ME: Yet here I am doing it for you.

  DICK GUY: I hope someone reads these messages and invites me to your funeral.

  ME: I hope someone reads these messages and blames you for it.

  ME: Also, my great-aunt read these earlier. She’s not a fan of privacy.

  DICK GUY: Did you delete the dick pic?

  ME: No. I had to go to work and forgot.

  DICK GUY: I guess I hoped she liked it.

  My phone dinged with a message from a number that was eerily close to mine. I clicked on the dropdown notification and to that conversation.

  NN #1: Ch eryl? Is th t you ? Did you lose your h ou s e key a gain ?

  Yep. It was safe to say that one of my number neighbors was not the intended recipient for Dick Guy’s picture.

  ME: Bad news. One neighbor texted. She’s clearly old enough to be my grandma.

  DICK GUY: How’d you know that?

  ME: *screenshot*

  DICK GUY: …You’re right. Any news from the other potential serial killer?

  ME: Not yet. I’ll keep you posted.

  DICK GUY: She’s playing me, isn’t she?

  ME: More fool her. My great-aunt was very impressed by your photo.

  DICK GUY: I wouldn’t usually respond to that, but I’m not gonna lie, I’ve had an ego hit this week.

  ME: She zoomed in on your tattoos.

  DICK GUY: She’s an artistic type. I like that.

  ME: I didn’t even notice.

  DICK GUY: You’re not. I like that, too.

  ME: I’m a florist. You arrange two dozen roses without getting stabbed by a thorn and tell me I’m not a fucking artist.

  DICK GUY: My apologies. Why was she zooming in?

  ME: Excellent question. She didn’t answer. Too busy talking about Sam Jobs.

  DICK GUY: Doesn’t she mean Steve Jobs?

  ME: You’d think, but no. She’s a weird one.

  ME: So… If you’re an artist, what are the chances of me getting to see those tats?

  What? If you don’t ask, you don’t get.

  DICK GUY: You wanna see my tats?

  ME: I’ve already seen your cock. It’s not that much of a stretch.