The Kiss Quotient

by Helen Hoang

  A waitress in a short black skirt and a tight white top bearing the club’s logo sauntered to the table.

  Michael handed her Stella’s credit card. “We’d like to reserve the table for the rest of the night. Water for me. Stella?”

  He wasn’t drinking, too? She wasn’t sure she wanted to do it alone. “Something sweet, please.”

  The waitress arched an eyebrow but gave a professional nod. “Coming right up.”

  After the waitress disappeared, Michael explained, “I’m driving.”

  She smiled. “I like this responsible side of you.”

  “Michael is always responsible, aren’t you, man?” A stranger appeared out of nowhere, and Stella watched in awe as he helped himself to the sofa opposite them. He wore a tight black T-shirt over bulldog-hunched shoulders and kept his hair buzzed close to his scalp. She tried not to stare rudely at the intricate tattoos decorating his muscled arms and neck, but it was difficult. She’d never seen so many tattoos up close.

  Michael sat forward. “Quan—”

  The stranger gave Michael a hard look. “No, I get it. You must have lost your phone or something.” Switching his attention to Stella, he said, “I’m Quan, Michael’s favorite cousin and best friend.”

  Cousin. Best friend. Her nerves jumped into high tension. She held her hand out over the table. “Stella Lane. Nice to meet you.”

  He stared at her hand with an amused expression before he shook it and sprawled back against the sofa. “So he does have a girlfriend, after all. Let me guess, you’re a doctor.”

  As she opened her mouth to correct him on both accounts, Michael wrapped an arm around her and pulled her against his side. “Stella’s an econometrician.”

  She gazed up at him in confusion until she realized he was worried she’d divulge his escorting to his cousin. Then, she mentally rolled her eyes. Her social skills were bad, but they weren’t that bad.

  Quan surprised her by leaning toward her with a bright expression. “That’s related to economics, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has she met Janie yet?” he asked Michael.

  Who was Janie?

  But Michael didn’t appear to hear the question. His attention was focused on a petite blond woman seated at the bar. When she patted the empty bar stool next to her, he cursed under his breath and got to his feet. “I’ll be back in a second.”

  Stella’s body went cold as she watched him stride to the bar. He sat on the indicated bar stool, and the blonde trailed her fingers down his arm. They spoke, but their words couldn’t be heard above the music and the noise from the growing crowd.

  When had so many people arrived? Their numbers had almost doubled since she’d entered. More continued to file into the club in a steady stream.

  “I-is that Janie?” she asked.

  “I don’t know who that is, but it’s not Janie.” After glancing at Stella’s face, Quan smiled slightly. “He clearly didn’t want to talk to her, okay? You have nothing to worry about.”

  But it didn’t feel like she had nothing to worry about. The blonde laughed at something Michael said and edged closer to him. Enviably luscious breasts flattened against his arm. Whatever happened next was blocked from view as people gathered around the bar.

  “Are there usually this many people here?” Stella asked.

  “Nah.” Quan rubbed at the scruff on his head and stretched his neck side to side. “This popular DJ is spinning tonight, so it’s busier than normal. The acoustics are really good here. Prepare to be blown away.”

  She swallowed past a lump in her throat, and a sense of foreboding settled in her gut. Since when was being blown away a good thing? Hundreds of bodies packed the room now. Far more than she’d anticipated.

  A grating electronic boom erupted from speakers built into the ceiling, and Stella’s heart lurched so hard her chest hurt. The room flashed red before flames began dancing up the walls. The crowd screamed with excitement while Stella struggled to breathe. Lasers and smoke. The grating receded, and ephemeral, orchestral sounds whispered over the room. Before she could attempt to relax, a beat picked up in the background, gaining speed with a slow buildup.

  “Don’t look so scared,” Quan shouted. “That’s not real fire. It’s just LED lights and projectors.”

  The waitress appeared out of thin air and plopped a drink onto the table. She said something, but Stella couldn’t hear it. In two blinks, the waitress vanished into the mass of moving bodies. The music worked toward some kind of climax, and the people grew agitated as it neared.

  Stella picked up the drink and took a large gulp. Lemon, cherry, and amaretto. She wished it were vodka, or, better yet, straight ethanol. It would work faster that way.

  Quan gave her an amused look. “Thirsty?”

  She nodded.

  Loud digital sirens screeched, silence hung over the room for a good five seconds, and a melody cascaded from the speakers. Without warning, the bass resumed at a frantic, adrenaline-inducing speed. The crowd went wild.

  Her heart pounded in a dizzying rush, and fear threatened to swamp her. Too much noise. Too much frenzy. She bottled up her emotions and buried them deep inside herself, forced herself to take slow breaths. As long as she looked calm on the outside, she was winning this. The music raced, but time crawled.

  The bodies shifted so she got a clear view of the bar. The blonde was playing with the collar of Michael’s shirt, leaning in too close.

  She sealed her lips over his.

  Stella flinched like someone had slapped her. She waited for him to push the woman away. She waited for what felt like ages, waited until the crowd moved again and blocked her view.

  Acid and amaretto climbed up the back of her throat.

  She needed to find a place to vomit. She forced her way into the crowd, pushed through bodies swaying to the rapid tempo. The music bombarded her. Lights strobed. Sour body odor, cologne, alcoholic breath. Hard limbs and pointed joints.

  Was Michael still kissing that woman?

  Her eyes flooded with tears. The bodies formed a cage around her. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t cry for help.

  A hand closed around hers.

  Michael?

  No, it was Quan.

  He shoved people aside. A woman swore at him when he made her spill her drink. A guy shoved him back. Quan merely elbowed the guy to the side and brushed past. Through it all, his hold on her hand remained secure and steady. He led her through the people, opened a door, and cool, sweet air floated over her face.

  The door clicked shut, muting the music. Someone was gasping. The flashing light was gone. She covered her eyes and sank down to the cold cement. Her trembling legs refused to take her weight.

  “Thank you,” she made herself say.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Going to throw up.” Her nails clawed at the sidewalk as she tried to find a suitable place to be sick. She couldn’t get enough air into her lungs.

  “Easy, easy. Slow breaths.” He moved as if to touch her but stopped when she flinched away. “Sit up straight. That’s it. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”

  Who was gasping like that? The sound was driving her out of her mind.

  “Hold on. Let me go get Michael.”

  “Don’t.” She grabbed his wrist. “I’m fine.” She leaned back against the side of the building and turned her face into it. The coldness felt good on her fevered forehead, distracted her from thinking about Michael with that woman. Michael kissing that woman.

  With her mouth almost touching the wall, the sound of the gasping grew louder, and she realized it was coming from her.

  She gritted her teeth together, fisted her hands, and tightened every muscle in her body. The gasping stopped.

  “Do you need anything?” Quan asked.

  “I’m
fine. I’m just overstimulated.” She was already feeling better, though her temples throbbed.

  Quan tilted his head to the side. “My brother used to get overstimulated just like this. He’s autistic.”

  Her chest constricted at his words. She shouldn’t have used the word overstimulated. Most people didn’t use it. Why would they? When he narrowed his eyes, she could almost see the connections being made in his mind, the question forming there.

  She held her breath and hoped he wouldn’t ask. She could withhold the truth, but she’d never learned how to lie.

  “Are you?”

  Her shoulders slumped, and her throat burned with shame. She made herself nod.

  “Michael doesn’t know, does he? He never would’ve taken you here if he knew. You should tell him.”

  All she could do was shake her head. Anytime people learned about her disorder, they started walking on eggshells around her. It strained the relationship until they found a way to leave. She never told people anymore. Apparently, that wasn’t enough to keep some from figuring it out on their own.

  “Can I borrow a hundred dollars from you, please? I want to go home.” And her credit card was inside.

  “You’re going to leave? Michael’s probably looking for you.”

  She doubted that. He’d been busy. As she pushed herself to her feet, she marveled at the disconnect between her body and her mind. How could her limbs still follow orders when her head felt so tired and hollow? “I promise I’ll pay you back.”

  “Is this because that chick kissed him? I hope you saw Michael trying to peel her off. He sucks at protecting himself from women.”

  Hope sparked, bright and foolish. “Really?”

  The door opened, and a swift techno beat radiated from the doorway.

  “There you are.” Michael stepped outside, and the door shut behind him, silencing the music. His gaze jumped from her to Quan and back again. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  “I needed some fresh air.”

  Quan’s brow furrowed like he wanted to speak, and Stella held her breath.

  Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him.

  He’d change. Everything would change. And she didn’t want that to happen yet.

  “She was trying to borrow cab fare from me. She saw you and that blonde necking and wanted to run,” Quan said.

  Her stomach didn’t know if it should relax or knot tighter at his words. He made her sound emotional and possessive. She wished it weren’t true.

  “You were going to leave? Just like that?” Michael asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

  She stared down at the pavement. “I thought you and her—that you—”

  “No. With you right there? Give me some credit, will you? God, Stella.”

  He gripped her waist and pulled her against him. His smell, his arms tight around her, his solid presence. Heaven. She shut her eyes and sagged against him.

  “Do you want to go back in?” he asked.

  “No.” Adrenaline shot through her body, tightening every muscle that had relaxed in his embrace. As an afterthought, she added, “Please.”

  “Let’s go home, then.”

  { CHAP+ER }

  11

  Stella was reserved as they walked the few blocks back to her white Model S. Several times, Michael caught her massaging her temples, but when he asked if she had a headache, her response was an unintelligible mumble. He would have thought she was doing the silent martyr act in retribution for his supposed cheating, but that didn’t seem her style.

  No, her style was leaving him without a single word. When Quan had told him she wanted to abandon him at the club, it’d sucker-punched Michael in the gut. The last person to leave him had been his dad. But where Michael’s dad had left him with an enormous mess to clean up, Stella had planned to leave him with her car and her credit card. Who did that?

  Even worse, he hadn’t deserved it. Either time.

  Tonight, he’d been busy preventing his crazy ex-client from making an enormous scene in front of Stella. Aliza was a true diva and loved drama in all forms. Now that she’d finally succeeded in divorcing her millionaire husband—and taking half of his net worth—she wanted Michael back. She was willing to pay whatever it took.

  She refused to accept that Michael would rather fuck his way through splintered driftwood than return to her bed. She’d detained him for long minutes, tossing extravagant numbers at him before plastering her mouth to his.

  He would forever associate the taste of cinnamon gum, cigarettes, and whiskey with Aliza.

  So different from Stella, who tasted like . . . mint chocolate chip ice cream.

  They piled into her car, and she activated the seat warmer, sank against the backrest, and stared out the window, absently tapping her fingers on her knees. He turned the radio on to break the silence, but she promptly turned it back off. Her fingers resumed their tapping. It was hypnotic but a little annoying.

  He sent her a pointed look, but she didn’t notice.

  After he took them out of the city and merged into the light traffic on 101S, he broke down and said, “When you do that finger tapping, are you playing a song? Like on the piano?”

  She stopped tapping her fingers and sat on her hands. “It’s Debussy’s Arabesque. I really like the combination of triplets and eighth notes.”

  “So you play?” When he’d picked her up from her downtown Palo Alto house, it had been impossible to miss the black grand piano dominating her otherwise empty living room. If she was artistically talented on top of being smart, successful, and gorgeous, she was officially his dream woman in the flesh. And so far out of his league as to be laughable.

  Even if he didn’t have all the shit associated with his dad dangling between them, he had almost nothing a girl like her could want. There was his face and his body, but anyone could have that if they paid enough. Maybe she would have been attracted to the old him, the man who had been free to pursue his passions. There’d been a lot going for that guy. Michael barely knew him anymore.

  “I do,” Stella said. “I started playing before I could speak.”

  He arched his eyebrows. Apparently, in addition to being his dream woman, she was also Mozart.

  “That’s not as impressive as it sounds,” she said with a wry lift of her lips. “I was a late speaker.”

  “I have a hard time picturing that. You seem so perfect to me.”

  She bowed her head and released a heavy breath, but when he began to ask her what was wrong, the slow minivan in front of him caught his attention. He switched lanes and accelerated soundlessly past it. Smooth as buttah. He loved fast cars.

  But thinking about cars always reminded him of his current car, a shiny black BMW M3, and how he’d gotten it.

  “She’s my crazy ex-client,” he said.

  He felt the weight of Stella’s gaze on the side of his face. “The woman in the club.”

  “Yes.”

  She lifted a hand toward the bridge of her nose. When she couldn’t adjust her glasses, she clasped her neck instead. “Did you like kissing her?”

  “I didn’t kiss her. She kissed me. But no, I didn’t like it.”

  “Can you be very honest and answer one question for me?”

  This was going to be interesting. “Yes.”

  “Are you a different person when you’re with me?”

  “You mean, if I bumped into you when you’re not my client anymore, would I be a dick around you?” If she was no longer his client, she’d probably be with another man. He twisted his lips as a bad taste filled his mouth. “No.”

  “Are you lying just to make me feel better?”

  “Stella, I’ve never lied to you. You’re going to have to decide if you believe me.”

  They didn’t speak for the rest of the drive. He drove up the driv
eway to her smart, renovated cottage, complete with rosemary hedges and solar panels on the roof, and parked in the surgically sterile two-car garage. Once he turned off the car, her eyelids fluttered open.

  “You’re home.”

  She ran a hand over her sleep-matted hair. “I’m almost too tired to get out of the car.”

  “I can carry you.”

  She aimed a sleepy smile at him, clearly thinking he was joking.

  “I’m serious.” The idea of carrying her to bed was highly appealing at the moment. He liked holding her, and as messed up as it was, he wanted to check boxes. He hadn’t gone this long without fucking in three years, and seeing Stella in that dress was giving him full-body blue balls.

  “Don’t be silly.” She pawed her door open and stood up with movements that were clumsy even for her. When he locked the car and met her at the door to her house, however, her eyes were steady. “I don’t have energy for lessons tonight.”

  “It doesn’t have to be lessons.” He trailed his fingertips down her arm, and her skin dotted with goose bumps. Her eyelids went heavy, her eyes sensual. Beautiful Stella. “I can just make you feel good.” He stroked over her palm, and her fingers unfurled, inviting him to touch. “You already paid for tonight, Stella.”

  Her hand fisted shut, and she turned to face the door. “I wanted to talk to you about that. Please come in.”

  * * *

  • • •

  After returning her shoes to their place in her coat closet, Stella padded past her beloved Steinway to her dining room, enjoying the feel of the cool hardwood on her aching feet. Michael followed behind her quietly, and she suspected he was noting how barren the space was.

  No centerpiece adorned her dining room table. No artfully arranged place settings, either. There was nothing but . . . she didn’t know what kind of wood the table was made of, but it was soft. She ran her fingers over the satiny surface as she walked to the far end of the table where she usually sat. The chairs surrounding the dining table were the only ones in her entire house.

  “Did you just move in?” he asked.