Dirty Kisses (4 page)

I head into the next room and find a couple of girls huddled over the
Hidden Treasure
book I keep out for display purposes.

“Whoa, knock that off.” Normally, I wouldn’t object to anyone looking into that depraved style manual rife with pictures of piercings and tats where most piercings and tats should never venture to go, but with the girls in question, I feel I have the right to object to just about anything.

Lucky and Ava stand at attention as I snag the book away. Neither one of them looks too guilty, probably because the two of them are just alike—a ball of attitude and snark, two things I don’t usually mind in a girl, but when it comes to these girls, I firmly object.

I glance over to my sister and frown. Lucky is vamped up a little too much, but it was the first day of school. She probably went all out. Ava is a bit more girl next door, but she wears Owen’s devilish grin like it’s nobody’s business. She’s a handful. They both are. It’s not a huge surprise they get along.

“What’s up?”

“I’m up.” Lucky jumps onto the table and crosses her legs. Her shorts are way too close to home, and that tank top she’s wearing shows off more than her midriff.

I take a seat on the stool and roll over as if I were her doctor. “How were your classes? Did you like your first day?” It took a lot of fight not to head down to Briggs and follow her around from class to class. “Did you have enough money for books?”

“Yes, but you can give me more if you want.” Lucky blows a tiny pink bubble in my face, and I hold back a smile. Lucky will always be that same pigtailed six-year-old following me around, annoying the crap out of me. Only now the tables have turned, and it’s my turn to annoy the crap out of her. “I’m here because it’s time for you to pay up. You said if I got into Briggs, I could get the tattoo I wanted.”

“Crap,” I mutter. “What are you looking for?” It’s true. Last fall, in an effort to get her to apply to WB, I may have bribed her with some ink. In theory I have nothing against Lucky tatting herself up like a Japanese mafia princess if she wants to, but, now that the theory is about to become a reality, a part of me has changed my mind. I see the way people look at me, especially when I happened to wander into the campus administration building to help Lucky out a handful of times. I don’t want Lucky to endure a lifetime of those same judgmental looks. I can take it. Hell, I don’t give a rat’s ass what anybody thinks of me, but, then again, I pretty much have my life established, and hers is just starting out.

She clicks her tongue at me, eyes to the ceiling. “Stop overanalyzing this from every angle. Relax. I want something private, something just for the man in my life and me.” She glances to Ava as they break out in titters.

“You don’t have a man in your life, and that’s the way you should keep it for the next five years.” Make it ten.

She growls in my direction before stabbing her finger over her inner thigh. “I want a giant X right here so he knows where to put his tongue.”

“All right, stop messing with me and get out of here. Don’t you have finals to study for or something?”

“Very funny.” Lucky runs her finger up her leg a little too close to home. “How about a rose? I want the thorns leading all the way up my happy trail.”

“First, you don’t have a happy trail, so get that out of your head. And second, it runs the other way. Are you trying to give me a heart attack? That’s disgusting by the way. There’s no way I’m doing that for you, now or ever.”

Her eyes flit with fire, and that little angel I keep trying to envision her as turns neon red as a proverbial pair of horns and a tail pop out of nowhere. “Then what do you recommend?”

“Dinner on campus and then maybe a study group—toss in a Bible study while you’re at it.”

“Wow, you’re a real comedian. Have you considered stand-up as a side gig?”

Ava shakes her head at me as if I just let off an offensive odor. “Oh, I know!” She looks to Lucky with that same look Owen gets right before he births a piss-poor idea. “How about something ironic like
Mom
. It says wow backward.”

“No.” I don’t waste time in shutting down that idea. Next thing you know, she’ll be wanting a hula girl. How’s that for irony? All her life I’ve been protecting her from boys when it was the girls I really had to look out for.

“I like it.” Lucky gets her own wild look in her eyes, and I’m sunk because I’ve seen that look before. “But I think it should say
Dad
!”

Shit. My stomach clenches. “Nope.” It pisses me off that she even said the word in here. Not going there. For sure I’m not etching those letters into her skin for the world to see.

“
Yes
,” she snipes back. Gone is her friendly demeanor. Lucky is about to go off the rails if she doesn’t get her way. I’ve seen Lucky hemorrhage into hysterics enough times to know. “He was the best dad in the world.”

“Right.” Wrong actually. Both of our parents are long gone, and I get that she wants to keep their memories alive, but my father is best long forgotten. “You can believe what you want, but it’s still not happening.”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

“Says every three-year-old.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not three. Maybe you shouldn’t treat me like I am.” She hops off the table, and they head to the front.

“Wait, I’m sorry. Nobody gets a tattoo on their first day of college,” I say, following them out the door.

Ava smirks at me as if I’ve just taken a crap on her book bag. “That’s not what Piper said!”

Lucky gives me the finger as they head to the used pickup I bought her last Christmas. “We’ll find someone else to take my money.”

“You mean
my
money. And don’t you dare! I’m the best, and you know it.”

I watch as they take off in a dust storm, the tires leaving their greasy tracks in her wake.

Nothing new.

Lucky always seems to leave her mark. But that tattoo she’s thinking of—that’s one mark I hope she has nothing to do with.

A
week drifts by
, and each night when I arrive home, another area of the living room disappears in a sea of boxes. It’s safe to say I’ve been Daisy Pembrooked. How the heck did she manage to cram all this crap in her dorm anyway? I’ve been in my fair share of those glorified coffins Whitney Briggs provides, and there’s no way she’s had this stuff lying around in or out of boxes.

Designers, knock-offs, sweaters, boots, summer clothes, coats
—three entire boxes labeled
purses
—but it’s the one down near the bottom that reads
kink
that has my attention.

“Don’t get your hopes up, tat boy.” I turn around to find a drop-dead gorgeous, dripping wet from the shower Daisy Pembrooke standing tall, hair slicked back like wet spaghetti, a tiny white robe wrapped around her body that highlights the fact her nipples are glad to see me. “It’s a misspelling. It’s supposed to say
Pink
, as in my supplier of all things underwear.” She snatches a pen off the counter and quickly rectifies the K to a P.

“Tat boy?” I cock my head a moment, taking her in like this with that pale blonde hair, those glowing eyes, and that mouthwatering body before heading to the fridge to cool myself off. It was the fridge or her. I knew I had to get my hands on one of them. “You want something?”

“No thanks.”

“Good.” I flip the lid on the OJ and down half the jug straight from the container.

“Nice.”

“I am nice. That’s why you’re here.” I thump the juice back into the fridge before turning around, hoping to hell my boxers don’t commit to a spontaneous salute.

“Oh, you’re nice, all right.” She nods with those wild eyes—a shade of ice blue that matches that glacier sitting in her chest where her heart should be. “Amy, Laura, Jessica, Michelle, and Tracy have all stopped by this week to tell me exactly how
nice
you are.”

I take a bold step in, her heaving chest a breath away from mine. “You have something you want to say to me?”

Her pink little lips knot up in a bow as if the words she wanted couldn’t quite get out. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be bitchy. I guess you can say I’m a little on edge these days.”

“No worries.” That tension wire in my gut snaps once she apologizes. She didn’t have to do that. In fact, I don’t ever want her to do it again. My finger grazes along her cheek without meaning to. Before I know it, I’m lifting her chin to get a better look into those pale starry eyes, and my dick gives in and salutes her the only way it knows how. “I’ve got a surefire way to relieve that tension.” There, I did it. I swore I wouldn’t, but my little head won out. It usually does.

“What’s that?” Her breathing picks up pace as if she already knows.

I pull off my shirt nice and slow, letting her get a good look at the offerings before unbuttoning my Levi’s, stepping out of both them and my boxers at the very same time.

Her eyes enlarge as she snakes up and down my body with a wandering gaze. Her lips twitch in that all too familiar smirk, and I don’t bother to suppress a smile.

“There’s the naughty little bitch I know and love.”

Her mouth opens, and for a second, I’m tempted to put something in it. “Did you just call me a
bitch
?”

“Did you call me tat boy?”

“Why are you naked?”

“Why do you ask so many damn questions?”

Daisy swallows hard while openly glaring at me. But nothing about Daisy’s demeanor has me retreating. My fingers find their way into the back of her hair. Daisy closes the distance between us as her hands sear over my chest.

“So, are you going to relieve my tension or what?” Her voice trembles. Her lips quiver with the question.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

A
ccording
to my American Express card, I’ve been spontaneous on more than one occasion and liberally so. I’m forever stymied by how a couple of small purchases here and there, over a span of thirty days, quickly add up to hundreds, thus leaving me
thousands
in debt and then some. So deductive logic begs to reason, that, yes, my spontaneous behavior has landed me in trouble on more than one occasion. And trouble is exactly what’s brewing in Jet Madden’s marble blue eyes.

His chest thumps with a quiet laugh, and my hands remain sealed over that scalding battleship he calls a chest. A part of me wants to study the intricate designs he has stamped over his body. Those muted blue-gray tones have been calling to me, and I’ve more than enjoyed the luscious sneak peeks I’ve stolen. That serpent wrapping itself around his neck has begged me to follow his slithery path for months—but, at the moment, I can’t seem to rip my gaze from his... There’s something paralyzing, magnetic, undeniably addictive about this inextricable bond we seem to be locked in.

Jet Madden has never shared more than a few words with me over the entire last year, and here his fingers are knotted up in my hair, his piping hot hard-on grazes my robe. For whatever reason, I’ve deemed Jet off limits. Most men have been just that to me for as long as I can remember. I’ve never wanted to be tied down the way some of my friends were. I never wanted to feel like I had to answer to anybody, or God forbid that someone else might actually think they can control me. Worse yet, I never wanted to fall dependent on anybody for any single thing. People only hurt you in the end. I’ve always known that the best way to avoid a crushing heartbreak is to build an impenetrable wall, high and fast. I’ve also had enough rejection in my past to know that’s one bitter cup I’m not interested in sipping out of ever again.

The heat radiates off his body in dizzying waves as this moment of silent debate rages between us. Verbally we’ve committed, but our bodies have yet to take the proverbial plunge. My gaze drifts to those full lips of his. It’s strange that I’ve never noticed the lips of any man before. I’ve noticed a lot of things about a lot of men, and their lips were not even on the short list. The subtle hint of his cologne permeates us like a cloud, spiced, luxurious, and unmistakably manly. If Jet Madden is anything, he is the textbook definition of manly.

According to his reputation, Jet has had his fair share of spontaneous moments. That fifth appendage he’s saluting me with has seen more action than prom night at every US high school combined in the history of ever. Do I really want a piece of this beautiful, hard-bodied, sculpted, well-chiseled, mapped-out-piece-of-art-that-belongs-in-the-Louvre, glowing blue-eyed man? My thighs tremble as if giving up an answer of their own.

There are so many reasons why I should turn around and run, but that dark cloud of a shitstorm that’s been following me has my feet taking root to the floor. To say I’ve had a crap week is an understatement. Those caustic phone calls from my father were enough for me to want to bury myself alive. My parents have never expected much from me. When I applied to every pricey university known to man, my father wasn’t shy about offering his opinions. He sang an entire choir of
you’ll be married and knocked up before you’re twenty! Both your mother and I know you’re sleeping around! College is a waste of time for you!
That right there is the sole reason I’m hoofing the tuition on my own, not that they could have afforded a state school, let alone WB. Between scholarships and student loans, I’m squeaking by without their help, but they did somehow manage to pay for my brothers’ tuition. Now
they
were an investment—the family treasure. Here I had proven to be the embarrassment they always knew I would be. And my boss down at Stilettos? Let’s just say I’ve been persona non grata for the last week. He suggested I come back in a few days when this entire nightmare blows over. Only, according to those stalkarazzi that have been posing as students all week, making my brand new fall semester fresh hell, this isn’t blowing over quickly. And those articles—the vile lies the media is openly vomiting on the Internet… Saying I bopped the senator’s bologna? Piper actually had to explain to me what that gross little lunchmeat tidbit meant. Who the hell speaks like that, let alone lies about it? And those hideous threats against me from the senator’s grown children? The cease and desist from his rabid wife?

The room warbles a moment, and Jet comes clearly back into focus. It’s just he and I behind these four walls. Nothing that happens between us ever has to see the light of day. I’d do anything to get my mind off the madness that’s taken over my existence. And I think I’m ready to do just about anything.

“Are you going to kiss me, or do you have a much more creative way to start the night?” This time I say it with conviction. This time my voice doesn’t warble or shake because
this time
I’m in control of who I’m with and why.

Jet grunts with the curve of a smile. Something about that caveman-like response gets my heat index rising to levels too hot to ever be safe.

He works my robe open nice and slow, allowing it to drop to the floor at his command, leaving me breathlessly exposed. His gaze runs down my body with a pressing heat, searing its trail all the way to my feet and back. Jet touches his lips to mine before I let him in, allowing him to probe me thoroughly, hotly, viciously with his thick, strong tongue. Before I realize it, I’m off my feet as Jet carries us down the hall, bouncing us on his bed. The heady scent of a warm breeze filters in through the slit in the window and makes this feel that much more like some nocturnal fantasy that’s come to life. His hands find my breasts as he cups them, kneads them, rolling my nipples between his fingers, and a hard moan evicts from his throat.

In a strange, and perhaps foolish way, the fact I drew that sound from his body makes me feel powerful, in control, and in charge for the first time in a long while.

His knee falls between my thighs, and his lava hot mouth rakes a sopping wet line down to where his hands still lay claim. Jet tries his God’s honest best to swallow down each of my nipples. Both the sucking and pulling draw me to the brink with every tug and pull. My wetness for him increases with each playful bite, and now it’s me groaning and moaning as he frantically buries his face in my chest.

Oh my shit. This is happening! How is this happening? Clearly, I wasn’t thinking straight. Clearly, I’m certifiably insane as evidenced by this man ravaging my boobs as if they were a five-star meal. They
are
, but that’s beside the point.

God, I haven’t had a decent night of sleep in a week. Everyone knows that alone can sponsor all kinds of questionable behavior. A part of me struggles to reach for my phone and put in an emergency text to the girls, but this is a real time deal, and that digital deadline has long since passed.

Jet Madden’s mouth glides down my torso—oh, wow, he’s just dove straight down to my—

“Whoa,” I moan, getting up on my elbows a moment. Through sleepy eyes, I spy Jet Madden’s dark head of hair bobbing between my thighs, and I can’t stop the moans from ripping from my throat. His tongue is frantically licking, sucking, pushing me to the brink of insanity. This is no first-timer roaming around the pink playground, no senior citizen looking to “feed the kitty”—
gah
! So disgusting! This is a bona fide professional, a certified skin diver who is not only familiar with the lay of the land but could map it out in detail for NASA if need be. Jet launches in an all-out assault as if his lone job in the universe were to vacuum my vulva up with his mouth.

“Oh, wow,” I groan so loud my face grows hot with embarrassment. It’s clear a shift in power is taking place beneath the proverbial sheets. If I thought for a minute that I was in the power position, Jet is making it crystal clear as his sparkling blue eyes that I’m completely dependent on the nimble flicker of his tongue. My body grinds with pleasure as my head pulsates with this dizzying state of insanity. The moment I’m trembling for is right there in front of me. I can feel my body ready and willing to collapse like a dying star, but a part of me demands I stay in control, keep the upper hand no matter how high the cost. I can’t. I won’t give in.

Jet pauses a moment, snapping his dark head up to meet with my gaze.

“Don’t fight it.” The words come out like a command as he gets back to business, and that first tender touch of his mouth sends my body bucking into a violent stream of earthquakes so hard and strong my soul reverberates from the feel-good vibes. Jet knew I was fighting it, fighting him, and called me on my bullshit. A part of me almost likes him a little for that. Almost.

He takes a hearty bite from my thigh, and I let out a sharp cry. The pain coupled with the trail of pleasure sets me off on another wild quaking spree as if he knew the exact way to prolong my ecstasy.

“You’re a mean son of a bitch.” It comes out breathy and far less caustic than I meant for it to.

“That’s right.” He gives my bottom a sharp slap. “On your knees.” He rolls me over and hoists my hips toward his, landing my face in his spring fresh sheets for a moment. The sound of a wrapper tearing precedes the plunge of a finger deep inside of me, then the far heftier sensation of his body entering mine. Jet slams into me, inciting my body forward until my head bangs against the wall, and I crane my face into the pillow, hoping I won’t die by way of a broken neck. God forbid he snaps my spinal cord, and I spend the rest of my life doing a circuit-speaking tour on the dangers of aggressive sex from the confines of a wheelchair.

Jet drags my body down the bed several feet as if he read my mind, or was tired of the racket, and in doing so fills my body until I’m certain that fifth limb of his will pop straight from my throat. He thrashes and smashes our bodies into one another until he grips my hips and lets out a roar that blows the membrane out in both of my eardrums.

Jet collapses next to me, gently rubbing my thigh as if tapping out. I land next to him and listen to the sound of our wild breathing until we smooth out to nothing.

A part of me wants to admonish him for momentarily deafening me, or in the least serve him a nice helping of sarcasm along with that kitten he ate for dinner, but I can’t seem to do it.

Jet and I are officially familiar with one another in the biblical sense. There, I’ve done it. I’ve officially become the whore my father accused me of being. At least now when I think of how much those words scarred me I won’t be so angry with him for getting it wrong. Maybe my heart won’t ache, and that searing wound he created as far back as my childhood will finally have the chance to heal. A hard sniffle comes from me, followed by an unexpected watershed of not so quiet tears.

The bed stirs as Jet wraps an arm around me. He buries a tender kiss to the back of my head and lingers for a moment before seemingly falling contentedly to sleep.

Then, in a miracle to end all miracles, I fall right asleep, too.

M
y phone never stops buzzing
.

A text from my mother.
Congratulations! You’ve officially killed your father. He’s quitting the Elks. He no longer has the gumption to face his friends.

My heart sinks. I hate that this ridiculous nightmare has snowballed into a monster that’s eating through my life and now that of my family.

A text from my brother, Jonas.
What the hell, kid? Tell me you’re not a dancer. And that senator? No fucking way. Jen is due in four weeks, and now she’s stressed that the firm is in danger. Lay low for the next four years, would you?

A text from an unknown number.
We can talk anytime you want. I’ve got two good ears. Rumor has it I’m a good listener.

I bet they’re a good listener. It’s probably FOX Hole news or Capitalize Off Your Emergen-C-NN. No thanks. I may be blonde, but I’m not that blonde.

I reply right back.
Thanks for nothing, jerkwad! Take your two good ears and shove them up your asshole!

And another, this time a group message from Tiffany Ikeman, president of the WB Legal Eagles.
Remember to keep your eye on the message boards for news of upcoming events! Welcome to a brand new school year! And, remember, the future legal challenges of our great nation will be in your hands one day!

All of that enthusiasm crammed in one small text makes me want to vomit exclamation points. At least it wasn’t caustic. So what if it was a group message? At least she didn’t exclude me. Right about now, I want nothing more than to blend deep into the crowd, and at this point any crowd will do.

All day at school I drift from class to class, attempting to hide from the angry dark cloud of photographers who rabidly follow me around and yet have proven impervious to campus police. Students stop to gape at me as if trying to place my face before offering a depleted smile or an honest gasp. It’s as if I’ve singlehandedly managed to disappoint every single person at WB. How the hell is this my life again?

But the one thing that can’t seem to leave my mind, that overshadows even the most despondent of thoughts, is a replay of what happened between Jet and me last night. It’s as if I’m stuck on a replay of one earthshaking moment—the one where Jet looked up with sleepy, stoned eyes and commanded me not to fight it. My entire body quivers each and every time I think of it—think of every delicious sinful moment that took place on that mattress last night. Not that I could forget if I wanted to. I’m so sore I can hardly walk without being reminded of it, of
him
. I wonder if my body had somehow left a calling card of its own? Doubtful. Men have it easy in just about every respect. Sex doesn’t hurt. God knows bringing a child into this world doesn’t cause them one ounce of pain. Nope. Men have the sexual version of paradise, and women, as in life, are left to carry the burning, the polemic pain that comes with it all.