Kiss Me, Stupid

by Gia Riley

  “What did you say?” I question, praying it’s not as bad as it seems.

  “I apologized. When he said he didn’t care, I realized we were talking about two different things. He thought I was apologizing about last night’s sleeping arrangements, so I shut my mouth.”

  I sit down on the edge of the tub, wondering if I should just cancel the date. Why make Wirth go out in the cold and waste his time when he’s just going to break up with me anyway?

  “This is bad, Hollis.”

  “No, it’s not,” he says with so much confidence that I think he must be crazy. “He told me you’re his girlfriend.”

  “Because he doesn’t know you and I kissed.”

  “He will if you don’t keep your voice down.”

  I cover my mouth with my hand. With wide eyes, I ask him, “Do you think he heard?”

  Hollis’s eyes are sad and remorseful as he shakes his head. “He didn’t. But I’d take all the blame, Chandler. Even if you did kiss me back.”

  He’s never going to let me forget it—that, for one whole second, I let myself get caught up in the moment. If I had just pushed him away the second his lips touched mine, there wouldn’t be a problem. But I went and kissed him back, and now, there’s this big gray area up for interpretation.

  I never wanted to hurt Hollis, and I did. I don’t want to hurt Wirth either, and there’s a pretty good chance that I might.

  “I’m sorry, Hollis.”

  He kneels down in front of me, so I have no choice but to look at him. “It’s my fault, Chandler. Throw me under the bus if you have to. But, if you can live with yourself, just forget it ever happened. I won’t say another word about it, and neither will you.”

  “You don’t want me to tell Wirth?”

  “No, I don’t. Wirth’s been through enough. He just got home from Nashville, and I can tell things still aren’t good with all of that. The only reason he isn’t drowning himself in alcohol is because he has you. Take that away, and I don’t know what’ll happen to him.”

  I get where he’s coming from, but the dishonesty is hard for me to wrap my mind around. We’re his friends and roommates—the two people he should be able to trust above all others.

  “I can’t believe you’d suggest that.”

  “Why? Because it’s the best thing for him?”

  “No,” I tell him. “Because it’s a lie.”

  Hollis shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

  I believe Hollis when he says he’d let it go. He’s not the kind of guy to scheme and plot against his friend. But it’s still too big of a secret to carry around.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Chandler, don’t get me wrong here. If I knew I had a chance with you, I wouldn’t sweep it under the rug. I’d fight for you. I’d tell Wirth everything. But I don’t have a shot, so why bring it up?”

  I flick a piece of his hair that’s sticking straight up off his head. He still looks like hell. But he’s a good guy. A guy who doesn’t deserve to get his ass beat or lose a friend over one silly kiss. The thought of that happening makes my stomach roll even more.

  There’s still a tsunami brewing inside me, so I help Hollis to his feet, and then I open the medicine cabinet, grabbing the bottle of antacids. They taste like chalk, but I’m desperate.

  “Hey,” he whispers when I struggle to get the lid back on because my hands are shaking so bad.

  “What?”

  “It’ll be okay, Chandler. You’ll see.”

  It has to be. And maybe it will be once I figure out what to do with all the guilt.

  “Have fun tonight,” he says as he leaves the bathroom.

  I check the hallway, and when the coast is clear, I hurry into my bedroom.

  Pulling out the nicest dress that I own, I slip it over my head. I’m struggling with the zipper when there’s a knock on my door.

  My gut tells me it’s Wirth because Hollis would probably just barge right in again. Though I can’t imagine he has anything left to say.

  “Come in.”

  The door opens, and Wirth stops dead in his tracks.

  “What?” I question.

  I can’t get a read on him, and for a minute, I think he might have been listening to my conversation with Hollis. Why else would he be staring at me and not speaking?

  “You look beautiful,” he finally says.

  “It’s not too short?”

  His steps are painfully slow as he makes his way to where I’m standing by the mirror. When he gets to me, he turns me around, so I’m facing it. “Look, Chandler.”

  “What am I looking at?”

  He runs his hand up my leg and it feels so good, I can barely breathe. When he reaches my thigh, he moves even slower, stopping just shy of my panties.

  “We’re looking at this sexy dress,” he tells me.

  “Can you zip it up for me?”

  “I’d rather take it off.”

  I’d like that, too.

  When the zipper’s all the way up, he rests his hands on my waist.

  I turn around, so I’m facing him, forgetting about the mirror. That’s when I get a good look at Wirth. He has gel in his hair, and he’s wearing a black button-down dress shirt with a nice pair of gray pants. I’ve never seen him in anything other than jeans.

  “You look hot.”

  His shirt stretches across his chest like a second skin.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” he warns.

  “Like what?” I question, feeling extra brazen in this sequined dress.

  “Like you want to miss the show.”

  Before I can respond, he grabs my face. There’s no easing into this kiss. It’s full throttle from the second our lips touch, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  I kiss him back just as hard, praying the uneasiness inside of me is erased by his lips.

  I can do this.

  We can do this.

  Nobody ever has to know what Hollis and I did in the kitchen last night.

  “I want you, Chan,” he says as he finally takes a breath.

  “You have me,” I remind him, all while doing my best to push the secret far down into the recesses of my mind.

  But I have to firmly scream for my conscience to shut up as Wirth slips his hand underneath the hem of my dress and stares directly into my eyes.

  I should tell him the truth right now.

  Before this goes any further, I should be honest.

  But my mouth stays closed as he continues to tease me over the top of my panties, running his finger back and forth across the fabric. I grab on to his arms, wishing I’d gone commando.

  A silent string of curses gets lost in my throat when he sneaks beneath the lace and pushes a finger inside me. I’ve never felt anything so good in my life. I even let myself imagine what sex with a boyfriend would be like. Other than a couple of random hookups, no strings attached, I’ve never had relationship sex.

  “This is mine when we get home, Chan.”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  He pulls his finger out, taking the glorious pressure with him. I’m a little sad when he pulls my dress back down where it belongs and ends the excitement altogether.

  “We have to go,” he says before he puts his finger in his mouth and tastes me.

  Nodding, I look around for my heels, completely flustered by the gesture. My legs are jelly, and I’m wobbly as I bend down to grab my shoes.

  “Don’t wear those,” he tells me.

  I haven’t had time to go shopping, so I really only have one nice pair of black shoes to wear with this dress. “I don’t think I have anything else.”

  Pointing to my sneakers, he says, “Those will do.”

  I can’t wear sneakers with a dress to the theater. “I’ll look ridiculous.”

  “You danced all day. There’s no way you’ll survive walking around the city in heels.”

  My feet are aching. But I still want to look nice for him.

  He settles it for me when he grabs t
he sneakers and slides them onto my feet for me. “There. Perfect.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “Positive. You can wear the heels for me when we get home. Naked.”

  My stomach nosedives to the floor again.

  Wirth is dirty.

  Way dirtier than I ever imagined.

  Wirth

  Chandler’s still trembling when I slip her coat off at the theater. She hands it to the attendant at coat check and then takes my hand.

  I lead her to our seats, but as she walks up the stairs to the mezzanine level, she’s unusually quiet.

  “I hope the seats are okay.”

  She nods. “Of course they are.”

  I point to the first row of seats, wondering if she’s just nervous about this being our first time out together or if something’s bothering her.

  She sits carefully, pulling the hem of her dress down so that she’s not showing too much leg. But the dress rides up anyway, and I have trouble focusing on anything other than her smooth skin.

  All I can think about is the way she held on to me when I touched her, digging her nails into my arms. Her body responded instantly, and I’m afraid that, if I look at her, she’ll know exactly what I’m thinking.

  But, when I do, she just smiles and says, “I like the front row. Nobody tall can sit in front of me.”

  Obviously, her mind isn’t in the gutter like mine is.

  “I guess whoever sits behind me is screwed,” I joke.

  Laughing, she glances over her shoulder and then turns back around. “There’s nobody there yet.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes. Her eyes have scanned every inch of the theater, and I know she’s imagining what it’ll be like on opening night. For the very first time, she’ll be on the other side of a Broadway curtain.

  “How did you get tickets for 42nd Street on such short notice?” she asks. “I’ve dreamed about seeing the revival, but it’s been sold out since it opened.”

  “I told you, I can get tickets for whatever you want. A friend works in ticketing.”

  “Or maybe you can get whatever you want because you’re a big-deal country singer.”

  She says it with a smile. And I’m positive she didn’t mean anything negative by it, but I don’t want to talk about my music, so I change the subject.

  “So, you’ve seen this show before, Chan?”

  “I’ve never seen it on Broadway. Only local productions back in Nashville.”

  There it is again—Nashville. This would be the perfect time to ask her about her life before New York. But I’m afraid all those questions will lead back to my own time in her city. And I don’t think I can go there.

  “How many shows have you danced in?”

  “Not that many. A few shows in high school and college. I was just a competitive dancer until graduation. It was only after I left college that I realized working a normal nine-to-five job wasn’t for me. All I wanted to do was dance in the city, but I’m too short to be a Rockette. So, I thought maybe I had a shot at musicals. I just wasn’t sure I’d ever get cast after I saw how many applicants they got for each job.”

  “And look at you now,” I tell her. “About to open a brand-new show on Broadway.”

  She blushes, and if the lights weren’t flickering, letting us know the show was about to start, I’d lean over and kiss her.

  The second the orchestra begins to play, she sits up a little straighter and then looks at me. “Thank you for this, Wirth.”

  Those crystal-blue eyes of hers make sitting through the show worth it. And I’d do just about anything to see that sweet smile.

  You’re welcome doesn’t seem like enough, so I give her thigh a little squeeze, mostly because I need to touch her.

  She watches my fingers, like she’s not sure if I’ll try to go any higher right here in the theater. When all I do is rub the exposed skin above her knee, she turns her attention back to the stage.

  With my finger, I write out the word soon on her skin.

  She bites her lip, never once looking away from the opening number. She knows, if she does, she’ll likely miss all of it.

  And I do miss it because I spend more time watching her reactions to the production than the actual performers. She laughs along with the dialogue and sits on the edge of her seat when they roll out giant coins for “We’re in the Money.”

  By the time intermission rolls around, she’s practically breathless.

  The entire second act is much of the same, and when the curtain finally closes, Chandler’s eyes are heavy with exhaustion. You’d think she’d just danced in every single number.

  But then she pushes some hair away from her forehead, and a couple of curls stick to her neck. Something’s wrong.

  “Look at me, Chan.”

  Turning her head, she licks dry lips. “Can we go home, Wirth?”

  I had plans for dinner after this, but all the color’s drained from her face. If I took her to a restaurant, she’d probably fall asleep in her soup.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She places her hands on her stomach and takes a deep breath. “I don’t feel so good. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” I tell her as I take her hand and help her out of her seat.

  It takes a few minutes to file down the stairs and out of the theater. She waits along the wall while I grab our coats from the attendant.

  As I’m slipping hers over her shoulders, her teeth chatter like we’re already outside.

  “Wait here, Chan. I’ll get a cab and then come get you.”

  “No, they’ll leave. I’ll wait with you,” she insists.

  Against my better judgment, I take her hand and lead her outside with me to the cab line.

  The line’s long, but a few nice people let us jump ahead of them, mostly because Chandler looks like she’s going to pass out.

  When it’s finally our turn, she slides in the cab first and then rests her head on my shoulder.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m just cold,” she says.

  The driver takes pity on us and turns the heat up, which I’m thankful for. You don’t get many thoughtful cab drivers in the city. Some won’t even look at you, let alone make you more comfortable.

  But traffic’s heavy this time of night, and it takes forever to get to the apartment, so he still gets paid pretty damn well regardless of the gesture.

  Once I grab my receipt, Chandler slides out of the cab, much weaker than she was at the theater.

  There’s no way she can climb three flights of stairs, so I scoop her up and carry her the rest of the way. She doesn’t object, and that’s how I know she’s feeling pretty bad.

  “I think you caught what Hollis had.”

  She sniffles, and when I glance at her, a tear trickles down her cheek, and then it’s quickly absorbed by her scarf.

  That lone tear moves my ass, and I practically kick the door down to get inside the apartment.

  Hollis opens the door, ready to give hell to whoever’s on the other side. When he sees it’s me, carrying Chandler, the confusion switches to concern.

  “Fuck, she got it,” he says.

  There’s no doubt about it. Chandler definitely caught Hollis’s plague.

  I take her straight to my room, but the second I step over the threshold, she shakes her head.

  “I can’t sleep in your bed, Wirth.”

  “Why not?” I question, wondering if sharing a bed with me is something she’s entirely against or if she’s unsure because she’s sick.

  She hesitates and then says, “Because I’ll give you all my germs.”

  “Let’s just get you in some pajamas and not worry about your germs.”

  I set her down on my bed and run to her room. But then I realize I don’t know where she keeps her pajamas. I’m not about to go through her shit, so I grab the robe from the back of her door.

  In my room, I give her one of my T-shirts along with the robe.

  “
You want me to wear your shirt?” she questions adorably.

  “I didn’t think you’d want to be naked under your robe.”

  She sighs and says, “No, I don’t. But I don’t want to dirty your clothes. Wash is expensive.”

  Laughing, because she sounds like the girl I first met on the plane, I help her stand up.

  As I pull down her zipper, she shivers again.

  “Wirth,” she whispers.

  “Yeah, Chan?”

  I read her all wrong because, the second she turns around, she covers her mouth with her hand—the universal sign for I’m about to puke on your shoes.

  In one fell swoop, I grab the trash can and try to hold her hair back at the same time.

  Between gasps, she yells, “Please, don’t look at me.”

  Hollis hears the commotion and sticks his head in my room. “Is she okay?”

  Before I have a chance to tell him that I have it under control, she moans, “Hollis, stay,” and then sticks her head back in the trash can.

  Hollis forces me to let go of her hair and then pulls me into the hallway.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I ask him.

  “You heard her. She doesn’t want you in there.”

  Is he serious right now?

  “She’s in my room, Hollis. I put her there, knowing she was sick.”

  “That’s not the point. You’re her boyfriend. She doesn’t want you seeing her at her worst.”

  “Hollis,” Chandler groans again.

  And hell if it doesn’t make me crazy jealous that she’s calling his name and not mine.

  Hollis squeezes my shoulder, like he knows I want to punch him in the face, and then he says, “She’ll pass out soon. I’ll come get you when she does, and then you can take over.”

  “Fine,” I tell him. “But don’t look at her naked. The dress is unzipped.”

  He holds up three fingers, giving me the Boy Scout salute. There’s no way Hollis was a damn Boy Scout. The guy can barely make a grilled cheese on the stove, let alone fend for himself in the wilderness.

  But, regardless of how I feel about the situation, I trust him.

  Chandler

  After I throw up so hard that my abs ache, Hollis turns around and gives me some privacy to change into the T-shirt and robe. Wirth’s shirt falls all the way to my knees, and it smells like him. I can’t help myself as I hold the fabric up to my nose and take a deep breath.