Valentine's Day Kisses : Boxed Set

by Addison Moore

  The girls file into the room before I can properly sucker punch him.

  We finish up, and Annie and Blake both retire to the sofa like an old married couple. I pause at the door a moment just looking at their heads knit together as they enjoy a brief moment of solitude. They’re in love. Annie and Blake are proof that the unicorn indeed exists. If my mother were here, she would flood the room with tears.

  Marley and I drive back to Whitney Briggs in a contented silence.

  “So are you going to get that business plan together?” she asks, as she opens the door to the car.

  “Yeah, I am. Why don’t you do the same?”

  Marley cocks her ear toward me as if she misunderstood. “My plan?”

  Her shirt hangs low in the front. She’s all but offered the girls to me on a platter, but my eyes still manage to stay trained on hers. Marley’s plan to herd me toward the bedroom is working spectacularly. If she’s demanding to be tied to the bedpost, who the hell am I to stop her? I should be penning a thank you—tattooing her name across my chest for the privilege.

  “Yes, your plan.” I gently touch my finger across her lips, and her eyes close involuntarily. “Draw up an inventory of what you’ll need for that research of yours.”

  “My research?” Her beautiful features soften. Her lips fall open, and I memorize her like this. “It requires a willing participant—no inhibitions—a good back and lots of stamina.”

  “I have all of the above and then some.”

  Marley leans in, her cleavage dips as if to say hello. Her eyes light up the dark interior of the car like sirens.

  “Are you telling me you’re in?”

  “I’m in.”

  Words I hope I won’t live to regret.

  Something tells me I won’t.

  At least not in the immediate future.

  Good Vibrations

  Marley

  “So? Did he fall for it?”

  “Of course, he fell for it. He’s a red-blooded American male with a boner the size of the Washington monument. He’s designed by nature to fall for it.”

  I wasn’t being totally dishonest when I asked for a little assistance with my article. Wyatt just doesn’t realize it’s for a much larger piece I’m working on tentatively titled “Sex and the Modern Woman: What’s Love Got to do With It?” If I’m lucky I’ll sell my coitus opine to the New York Post and have a real journalism badge under my belt. Scratch that. I’ll sell it as a memoir and make millions.

  “You’re not going to hurt him are you?” Annie looks nervous as if I’ve proposed to skin him alive and wear him as a winter coat.

  “Only if he asks real nice.” I make a face. “Blake himself said he was practically a gigolo.”

  “Did not!”

  “Okay, I believe the verbiage Blake used was man-whore. Same difference. I’m using Wyatt for sex. He gets pleasure. I get pleasure and perhaps the start of a very provocative thesis. It’s a trade as old as time. The only point I want to prove is that it’s high time women turn the tables on men and make something lucrative come out of their fornicating adventures.”

  “Now who’s the gigolo?”

  “Point taken.”

  “Why not just fill him in on the rest?” Annie is literally pale at the thought of Wyatt laying it all out on the line literally.

  “Please. We’re talking about a man who would have gladly used me for his own promiscuous purposes night one had I not squandered that opportunity spectacularly by way of my mouth.” I take a breath and consider Annie’s point. “Besides, the thought of me spotlighting his bedroom moves in a lasting memoir might make him skittish. He thinks my article is silly. Trust me, I’ve done nothing but amuse him at the thought of us engaging in sexual research. He even asked me to come up with a naughty checklist so we can cross things off with a fat, red pen as we blow through the condoms. It’s panning out to be as clinical as can be.”

  It’s safe to say Will wrecked both my head and my heart. There’s no way I would have even remotely considered penning a sexual memoir as a way to prove the point that you can lead a very productive life without a man to pin your happiness on. It was only after weeks of greedily inhaling Netflix marathons of Gilmore Girls did I even begin to get a kernel of hope, and, by hope, I mean revenge.

  What better way to turn my weak, broken heart into a solid sheet of iron than to remove the element that is lauded as a god to be worshiped—horrifically fictitious in nature—love. Love is a fickle, slippery serpent that coils around its victim when they’re least aware and slowly suffocates them by the token fantasy that all it promised ever really existed. Love is a big, fat, fake, and I intend to blow its cover—ironically between the covers.

  “So what do you make of Blake and me?” Annie sits on her bed with a self-righteous repose as if she’s ready to knife my plan to shreds before I get a single blowjob out of the deal.

  “You and Blake are a fairytale—the unattainable gold standard in the land of gilded hearts and all that other stupid cupid crap. Sorry—no offense.” Annie has quickly become my bestie, and I’d hate for my acid tongue to ruin our blossoming friendship.

  “None taken.” She squints at me, studying my body as I lie on my belly ready to pen my next “Sex and the Coed” article. “What happens if this great use ‘em and bruise ‘em plan of yours backfires? You know, what if you stumble into the real deal and fall in love?”

  “I’ll eat my words, literally. Paper equals fiber, right? Not that it’ll ever come to that digestionally challenging phase. I’m pretty sure the only foreign object my mouth will be hosting happens to dangle between Wyatt James’ legs. Sex is his thing. He has the gratuitous variety with women on a regular basis.” I swing around and sit up so that we’re facing one another. I’m used to showing Annie my mouth and speaking a little slower than usual so she can read my lips. But about a month ago she had hearing implants turned on, and I just can’t seem to get used to the fact.

  Annie pulls my hand forward. “Do you want to have non-committal sex with men on a regular basis? Is that really what you want?”

  I contemplate this for a moment. A lifetime of hoe down showdowns in the bedroom with an entire parade of strangers does seem a bit sexually prolific even for me.

  “Nope. Just the one for now. He seems game to keep me on a string. It’ll be the most honest relationship I’ve ever been in.” Might ever be in.

  “What happens when he falls in love?”

  My stomach bites with acid as soon as the words leave her lips. Wyatt is handsome in an agonizing way. He’s unfairly intelligent and perfectly independent. I’m sure he’s a good catch that someone will want to snag away in the middle of our arrangement. I don’t know why I’d find this surprising.

  “If that happens, I suppose I’ll have to scout the Black Bear for another potential bedmate, and, my unbroken heartbeat goes on. The keyword here is unbroken.”

  She looks to the ceiling with a silent laugh. “I meant with you. What happens when Wyatt falls in love with you?”

  “Ha! Trust me, he won’t.” They never do. I’m quick to wave off the ludicrous idea. “Men like Wyatt are always looking for something fresh and young to bury themselves in. If he wanted monogamy, he would have married years ago. I guarantee you that women have tried and failed to land Mr. James in a wedded and bedded position. He’s a slippery fish. Most men are. Those, my friend, are what I like to call the honest ones—with the exception of Blake of course. Take my sister, Jemma, for example—four husbands? Three baby daddies? And, believe me, she’s just revving her procreative engine. She’s already got her eye on the government dole out prize. I know this because she’s asked me to help fill out a ton of applications to secure just that. Hello, Uncle Sam! I’m on my way to conceiving my thirteen children and use them to collect my government payout for the next two decades and beyond! I can’t wait to put everyone else’s hard-earned tax dollars to work—for me! My sister is the epitome of what’s wrong with society. If she were ho
nest with herself, like I’m being, she would have succeeded in life on her own and simply used men for what they’re good for—sex.”

  “Ah yes— the fine art of fornication.” Annie frowns. “What about kids? Don’t you eventually want to have them?”

  Baby Ben pops to mind with his sweeter-than-silk skin, those butter soft rolls amassing around his chunky legs. He’s a living doll. My sister’s brood tends to melt me on an unnatural level as well.

  “Easy—I’m going to be everyone’s favorite Aunty.” My gut pinches with heat as if my body were trying to have its say. My body is a ball of hormones set on a timer to pump out babies, so, of course, it wants its say. My screaming ovaries are primitive in the most barbaric sense, but that’s simply a function of nature. Thank God I’ve risen above my primal state of being and can see what lies before me, the true brokenhearted, pockmarked landscape of love. The real one in which the L word is quickly excised from my vocabulary and set on a shelf with Grimm fairytales and Greek tragedies. Even Shakespeare’s most beautiful plays, in the end, were simply fiction. I’m a woman of the new millennium, one that takes control of her body and her heart.

  Annie winces. “Are you at least going to tell him?”

  “Tell him what? That we’re just hooking up for the sake of my article? That we’re nothing more than bed buddies? He already knows that part—and trust me—he likes it. He couldn’t care less if this experience gets tossed on a pie chart or ends up in an entire rainbow of index graphs. Once I have about six or twelve of these consensual romps under my belt, I’ll publish my memoir—Sex and the Modern Woman. Believe me, Annie, social literature is all the rage. I smell a spot on the Times awaiting my arrival. It’s not like I’m starting some immoral movement. I’m simply compiling evidence that spells out that this way of life works. And, it is going to work for me. It already does for him.”

  She swipes her phone off the dresser and starts texting. “We don’t know that it will work, Marley.”

  “It will. What are you doing?” Annie isn’t one to ignore someone for the sake of social media. She’s up to no good. That little lift to her eyelid tells me so.

  “I’m starting my own documentation diary of your little experience.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “If you can turn Blake’s brother into some sort of glorified vibrator, I can very much make note of how things are going. Besides, the real reason I’m doing this is for your own good. Once you get your heart broken, and you will, I’ll make a graph of my own showing how clearly this was an error that you refused to see coming.”

  “And then?” My voice gets swallowed up in unexpected emotion. The thought of Annie outsmarting me at my own game doesn’t sit well with me.

  “And then, I’m going to make some mac and cheese and we’ll watch the entire marathon of Gilmore Girls all over again. I’ll be there for you when you break your own heart.” Her eyes enlarge as if making sure I get the point. “I’ll help you through it. You’ll see this tragic, deformed version of love is a heretic you’ve brought to something sacred.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Love doesn’t work for everyone—anyone, really—except maybe you. I’m here representing the rest of us.” God knows someone has to.

  Annie scoots off the bed. “I’d better get to Hallowed Grounds. I’m meeting Kaya and Tristan before class. Don’t do anything insane today, ‘kay? I still want to talk about this.”

  “Tell Kaya, I said hi.” Kaya is Annie’s good friend who happens to be dating Annie’s old interpreter, Tristan. He and Kaya are just another deliriously happy couple, living the hallucinatory dream at WB. It’s as if some love struck plague has hit, and, for some God forsaken reason, I’m immune to the infestation.

  She waves me off as she heads out the door. “Love works!” She shouts as she makes her way down the hall.

  It doesn’t. And I don’t need a thesis, a memoir, a survey, or a dozen cheating boyfriends to prove it.

  I just know it.

  Some things don’t work for me, and love is one of them.

  Capwell Enterprises is tall and daunting—nothing but a collection of mirrored windows that reflect the ominous threat of an upcoming storm. I wonder if in some way this is symbolic, something that signifies a very dark period in my life that I’m about to undergo. A dull chortle rips from my throat as I enter the revolving doors. If I don’t believe in something as pie in the sky as love, I certainly don’t need to entertain symbolism by way of the weather. Reality doesn’t dictate itself in ominous signs and premonitions. Reality deals in movements, in small increments of time that are decided by wary humans with growling stomachs and desperate appetites for sex and power. Greed is the real name of the game, not I love you, certainly not I do. Marriage is an institution most likely developed by divorce lawyers, and, if I had any inclination for all things legal, I’d become a celebrated member of that elite society. At the least, I could navigate Jemma through the next few legal entanglements she ensnares herself with in the name of wedded bliss. Bliss. I smirk stepping into the elevator. More like blister as in it needs to be popped. If it sounds painful, it’s because it is.

  My phone buzzes and I fish it out. Speaking of painful—it’s Will. A heavy sigh expels from me as I examine it.

  You missed my tryouts. Made the team. Knew I would. You up for lunch?

  I could A) ignore this message. B) block him from ever bothering me again. Or C) say yes and never show. I think I like C.

  Congrats on making the team! I’ll be sure to make it to every single game. Look for me in the stands! Meet you in Founder’s Square in five!

  I don’t really care if he made the basketball team or the underwater basket weaving team. I wouldn’t be caught dead in the stands of either to cheer him on, but I like the thought of distracting him several times throughout the game with the prospect of seeing me there.

  A wicked grin rides up my cheeks. Don’t feel too bad for him. He deserves it. And, in about five minutes, I’ll have the satisfaction of envisioning him in Founder’s Square, with a five-foot snow bank ensconcing him on either side. I like the idea of Will freezing his nuts off in anticipation of my company. It may be a shallow attempt at getting him back, but, hey, it’s a start—and, if he simply goes away, a most successful end. I’m not really that motivated to go all Fatal Attraction on him. The bunnies of Hollow Brook can rest easy for now.

  The doors whoosh open, and the not-so-subtle scent of men’s cologne, the scent of testosterone, permeates the air like an extravagant buffet of virility and domination. World domination. It’s a man’s world, and we’re just living in it. I smirk as I spot an entire bevy of suits and not a skirt in sight. I suppose that’s just fewer women to ogle Wyatt.

  Wyatt. That dull smile rides up my cheeks again as he comes to mind. I can’t wait to get our little sexcapades underway. I just love this new in control version of myself. The me of three months ago was simply a hollow shell of who I’ve become. A vision of myself stupidly holding those velvet cuffs, scalding tears staining my face as Will relayed to me (over the phone because evidently that’s how cowards do it) how he might have had an indiscretion or two. He was simply confirming what I heard from Cat Alice.

  Cat. I shake my head. I can just see her gloating face. She’s always wanted Will for herself. I’m sure she’s wasted no time in cozying up to him although she denies it. I know that barb Will tossed at me, that first night at the Black Bear, about burying himself inside her simply isn’t true. I stagnate on the thought. Is he into her? Cat Alice is tall, like Amazonian tall. Beautiful but beauty like hers can be purchased at any Sephora counter across the country. She swears she doesn’t have lip injections—that she’s just “very good with make up.” But we all see past the smoke and Botox-inflated mirrors. Her mother is an avid believer in if God didn’t give it to you give it to yourself!

  Ah, the crazy days when Cat Alice and I used to troll the mean streets of Walleye. She was always the wild one, experimenting
with boys far too early, knocked-up far too early. She lost that one, by the way. And then, of course, bitter far too early. In hindsight, she might have been the smart one. She excised love from her vocabulary long before I did. While I was pining for Will, setting my net and capturing Will, getting cheated on by Will, she parted her legs for anyone who looked twice in her direction. I know for a fact she’s always had a thing for Will, but then Cat Alice has had a thing for just about anyone. But, now that they’re both at Whitney Briggs, I suppose the inevitable is about to happen.

  My stomach sours. I hate that the thought of Will with Cat Alice has the ability to make me sick. I think I’d almost prefer him with just about anybody else. And, worse than that, I hate that deep down they both still have the power to hurt me.

  I take a deep breath and give a confidant knock against Wyatt’s door.

  “Come in.” His strong voice vibrates through to my bones and warms me.

  Wyatt stands and greets me with that mega-watt grin of his, and I can’t help but feel like I’ve just been caught off guard and swallowed whole. I kind of like the thought of swimming inside of Wyatt—getting to know him from the inside out. All thoughts of Will and Cat Alice scatter like pigeons as I step in and close the door behind me.

  Wyatt’s broad shoulders pull back. He’s decked out in a dark, inky suit with a slick silver tie that reflects the light just so. His dark hair is slicked back. He’s fresh shaven compared to the slightly stubbled look I’ve grown accustomed to on him. His eyes shine a bright shade of sea glass, with a mixture of lust, hope, and elation blooming from their nexus. I’m sort of hoping I’m the reason for the latter three.