by Kelly Oram
by Kelly Oram
Also by Kelly Oram
Serial Hottie
Joni, Underway
If We Were a Movie
Sixteen Kisses
The Cinder & Ella Series:
Cinder & Ella
Happily Ever After
The Jamie Baker Series:
Being Jamie Baker
More Than Jamie Baker
Remember Jamie Baker
The Science Squad Series:
The Avery Shaw Experiment
The Libby Garrett Intervention
The V is for Virgin Series:
V is for Virgin
A is for Abstinence
The Supernaturals Series:
Chameleon
Ungifted
Scion
FREE READ! SIXTEEN KISSES, BY KELLY ORAM
All Cassie Caldwell wants for her sixteenth birthday is to finally be kissed. When Cassie’s older brother and his best friend—the lovable, sexy cowboy, Jared—discover her secret, Jared takes it upon himself to make sure her birthday wish comes true.
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Published by Bluefields Creative
Copyright © 2017 by Kelly Oram
Edition 1.1
Edited by Jennifer Henkes (www.literallyjen.com)
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-9977431-2-8
For Aunt Leslie and Uncle Chris.
Trisha reaches over Chase Lansing and punches my arm because I’m frozen, still as an ice sculpture. It’s my turn. I want to bail. I want to run away screaming like the scared little girl that I am, but I can’t back out. Eighth graders are brutal. If they figure out how afraid I am or that I’ve never been kissed before, they’ll make this moment so much worse than it already is.
Before I reach for the bottle, I try to wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans without anyone noticing, and I glance at all my possibilities. Eight boys sit crisscross applesauce around the tight circle, smirking, winking, or nervously wetting their lips in anticipation. Six of those boys I’d rather die than let kiss me, but the other two…
Spencer Schott and Wes Delaney are my two best friends in the entire world. Spencer’s house and mine are separated only by our backyards and one giant oak tree that turns a brilliant shade of red in the fall and is home to the greatest tree house ever built. Spencer, Wes, and I practically lived in that tree house, until we hit middle school and decided secret hideouts were for kids.
We’re still best friends, though, and both Wes and Spencer dutifully came to this party with me tonight even though they didn’t want to. It’s Trisha Talbot’s fourteenth birthday, and Wes and Spencer think she’s mean. She kind of is, but it’s better to be her friend than her enemy, so when she surprised me with an invitation to her party, I didn’t dare refuse. Now I’m about to give up my first kiss to a game of Spin the Bottle.
I twist the glass container that had only minutes ago been drained of Coke and give it a powerful spin while sending up a prayer to whatever higher power exists that it will stop on Spencer or Wes. I don’t care which one. Truth be told, I have a crush on them both.
Spencer has red hair and hazel eyes framed by nice-looking wire-rimmed glasses. Some kids make fun of his freckles and glasses, but I like them. He isn’t the cutest boy in the world, but he is the nicest and the funniest.
Wes, on the other hand, is hot. He’s taller than most of the other boys and has thick brown hair and eyes so dark they’re almost black. He’s quiet because he doesn’t like big groups, but when it’s just he, Spencer, and I hanging out, he talks like he needs to make up for lost time.
As the bottle twirls around in manic circles on the linoleum of Trish’s kitchen floor, I meet both Wes’s and Spencer’s eyes. Wes is on my right and Spencer is just to the left of being directly in front of me. Neither one of them looks as nervous as I feel.
The bottle starts to slow. As it sweeps past Wes, I know it won’t make it back around to him. Wes knows it, too, and his eyes narrow on all the boys still left in the running. The glare makes me smile. I know he’ll protect me if anyone gets too enthusiastic during the kiss—which is likely to happen if the bottle stops on Jake Wainwright. Jake was bragging about French kissing a ninth grade girl earlier tonight.
Not Jake. Not Jake. Not Jake.
The bottle stops on Penny Martin. Since she’s sitting between Jake and Spencer, she gets to choose which one I have to kiss.
Not Jake. Not Jake. Not Jake. Please, not Jake.
Either Penny picks up on my mental vibes or Spencer pinches her in the side, because the bottle looks like it’s leaning more toward Jake, but she still says, “I pick Spencer.”
For a brief moment I’m overcome with relief, but then I realize I’m about to kiss Spencer!
Spencer worries his bottom lip in his teeth as he rises up onto his knees. Swallowing down a stomach full of butterflies, I meet him in the middle of the circle. Neither of us says anything. Spencer wets his lips, and his eyes fall to my mouth. He’s shaking a little as he leans in.
I stop breathing.
The rule is our lips have to touch for five seconds. All the kids in the circle count it off. I thought having an audience would embarrass me, but when Spencer’s lips touch mine, I forget about everyone and everything around me.
My eyes are pinched shut, and I pucker my lips so tightly they’re hard as rocks, but Spencer’s touch is so light and soft that I relax. A small sigh escapes my mouth, and when my lips part, Spencer captures my top one between his. I instinctively copy his movements, and suddenly we’re kissing. Actually kissing, not just pressing our lips together while our classmates count to five.
Spencer’s hand comes to my cheek, and I lean into him. My whole body relaxes even though my heart is racing wildly in my chest. Kissing Spencer is the most amazing thing I’ve ever done, and right in this moment I know that I’ll never want to kiss anyone else ever again.
The count reaches five, forcing Spencer to pull away from me. He does so slowly, as if he doesn’t want to stop any more than I do, but we’ll be teased mercilessly if we keep it up any longer than necessary.
When he pulls away, our eyes meet and my face blossoms into a wide grin. It doesn’t matter if I look like a gigantic dork; I’m happy. I glance at Wes just in time to see him wipe a frown from his face. Somewhere in the back of my mind, it registers that he’s upset, but I can’t quite seem to let it sink in. I’m in too good a mood. That was the best first kiss I could have asked for.
Later, when my mom comes to drive us home from the party, Spencer holds my hand the entire way. When I walk him to the property line between my house and his, I stop us beneath that big oak tree with the tree house we’re too old to play in and wrap my arms around him in a tight hug. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I was so scared that my first kiss was going to be awful, but that was perfect.”
Spencer clears his throat and mumbles, “It was my first kiss, too, and it was more than perfect.”
I pull back from the hug to stare at him with wide eyes. His cheeks and the tips of his ears are bright pink. “I’m glad it was you,” he says.
“I’m glad it was you, too.”
I rest against the trunk of the brillian
t red oak tree in my backyard, with nothing but my journal to keep me company. Summer’s almost over. In South Orange, New Jersey, that means it’s humid, but not so hot anymore that the moisture in the air is unbearable. I close my diary and let my eyes flutter shut as I lift my face to the sky. I take in a deep breath, enjoying the light breeze tickling my skin and the loud hum of the cicadas singing their song in the leaves above my head. Blissful peace.
As I shift, I feel the uneven surface of the tree behind me. I run my fingers through the deep grooves cut out of the trunk and smile, remembering when Spencer carved our initials here. We had just started ninth grade, and it was our first anniversary as a couple. We were only fourteen at the time, but we’d already been together for an entire year. Spencer nearly cut his finger off with the dull pocketknife he’d used and had to have stitches. But he finish the carving before telling his parents he’d hurt himself, because he said he had to have proof of our longevity when we were old and gray. He wanted to claim a Guinness World Record for the longest relationship ever.
Laughing at the memory, I jerk with a start when a single white daisy pops in front of my face. “Whatcha doin’, sitting out here all by yourself?” Spencer asks, grinning as he takes a seat next to me.
I smell the flower he’s given me before answering him. “Just remembering all the good times. What are you doing here?”
“I came to check up on my girl, of course.” Spencer gives me another smile that makes my heart melt. After all these years, I’m still not tired of that boyish grin, so full of love for me. “And bringing her one of her favorite flowers on our anniversary. Three years. That’s longer than a lot of marriages last.”
“But not a Guinness record,” I tease.
I examine the flower in my hands. I’ve always loved daisies. They’re such a happy-looking flower, with their crisp, white petals and bright yellow center. Plucking one of the petals free from the stem, I smile and say, “He loves me.”
Spencer grins. This is one of our favorite games.
I pluck another petal. “He loves me not.”
Spencer lets me repeat this process a few times before reaching up to pluck a petal of his own. “He loves you.” Pluck. “He loves you.” Pluck. “He loves you. He loves you. He loves you.” Pluck. Pluck. Pluck.
Though only half of the petals are gone, he steals the flower from my fingers and tosses it aside. “I love you,” he says, leaning over to kiss me.
I wrap my arms around his neck and lose myself in his love. He lays me back on the grass and kisses me until I’m breathless and my head is swimming. Satisfied for now, he rolls onto his back and shuts his eyes, enjoying this perfect moment as much as I am. Our hands find each other, and our fingers tangle together.
“I miss you,” I whisper.
He turns his head to the side and smiles at me. “I’m right here.”
His answer makes me smile, too. “Yes, you are.”
We enjoy the peace and quiet for a moment before Spencer speaks. “You know…” I look at him, and though his face is serious, his eyes are filled with mischief. “They say kissing a ginger is good luck.”
I burst out laughing and shake my head. My long blonde hair gets caught in the grass. I can feel leaves in it, but I don’t care. “You’re not really a ginger. Your hair has faded so much it’s a light red-brown.”
“It’s red,” he insists. “And you can’t deny the power of the freckles. I’m a ginger.”
Okay, fine, he’s a ginger. But I’ll never admit it out loud to him, because he hates his red hair. “You’re not.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m still lucky.”
“How do you figure?”
His smile widens and he leans up onto his side, propping himself up with his elbow. “Because even though I’m a freckled redhead, I still managed to snag the hottest girl in school. I just had to snag her before she was hot.” He winks and says, “Back when she was all awkward and gangly. When her arms and legs were too long for her body, and she had a mouthful of braces…and before she got her boobs.”
When I gasp, he laughs and leans down to kiss me again, trying to cop a feel of said boobs. I smack his hand away but let him kiss me. “That wasn’t luck,” I tell him between kisses. “That was smart. You were thinking ahead.”
He considers arguing the point but gives in. “Fine.” His lips move from my mouth to my neck, making me shiver. “If I’m not really lucky, can I at least get lucky?”
He pulls back to waggle his eyebrows at me, and I laugh again. No one has ever made me laugh more than Spencer. Grinning wickedly, he lifts his gaze to the old tree house perched in the branches above our head. “We may be too old to play Indiana Jones with Wes up there, but there are certainly other movies I wouldn’t mind role playing with you.”
“Like?”
Spencer pushes himself up on to his knees and beats his chest with his fists. “Me Tarzan. You Jane,” he grunts.
I lose myself in a fit of giggles and gasp out, “You are way too skinny to be Tarzan.”
“Skinny!” He pretends to be insulted and attacks me, tickling my sides until I can’t breathe.
“Okay, okay, I give!” I squeal. “You’re a big, strong, sexy, wild gorilla man, and I’d pay good money to see you in a loincloth.”
“That could be arranged.” His laughter is replaced with a hungry stare that warms my entire body. “I love you, Bay.”
I know he does. And I feel the same about him. More than anything. “I love you, too, Spencer.”
. . . . .
The alarm goes off, and I’m pulled back to reality before Tarzan-Spencer can drag me up to his tree house. My chest tightens and my eyes glisten, but I don’t shed tears. As much as the dreams haunt me, I would die if they ever stopped. They’re all I have left of him.
Hands shaking, I pull myself out of bed and prepare to survive another pointless day. After a nice hot shower to loosen my tight muscles, I get dressed and blow my hair dry. It takes forever since my hair is thick and reaches nearly to my waist. I go for the curling iron next and then apply my makeup, taking extra care to cover up the dark circles under my eyes. I’m not concerned about impressing anyone, but the monotonous routine is something I need. I survive on repetition now.
My dream about Spencer still fresh in my mind, I take a moment to look myself over, thinking about what he’d said. I really was an awkward-looking preteen. I suppose I had the honey-blonde hair and bright blue eyes going for me then, but Spencer had no way of knowing I’d grow into the tall beauty I’d turned out to be.
I’d been lucky, too, though. I figured Spencer would always be an awkward, tall, gangly ginger—and yes, he had enough freckles to map the stars on his body—but he’d grown into himself well enough. It wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t, but he did get a little cuter and less awkward each year we were together.
Coating my lips with my favorite lip gloss, I take a deep breath and prepare for this rotten day. Dream Spencer had it right. If he were still alive, today would have been our third anniversary. I don’t think anyone will remember that except for me, but it’s going to haunt me, whether people bring it up or not.
I make my way from my third-floor bedroom down to the kitchen, where my younger sister Julia is eating a bowl of brightly-colored breakfast cereal. Instead of claiming the rest of the Froot Loops, I opt for a bowl of Cheerios—the plain kind, not the honey nut. I’ve never been able to tolerate sweet stuff in the morning.
Julia doesn’t say anything to me as I sit down. She’s busy finishing the homework she “forgot” she had yesterday. She receives a text message on her phone and then scribbles down another answer. I wonder which of her freshman boys is doing her homework for her this time.
She slips her phone in her pocket when Mom breezes into the kitchen, clasping a set of pearl earrings in place. Mom’s heels clack against the tile floor as she crosses the room to the fridge and snags a V8 fruit blend. “Bailey, honey, can you pick up your sister after cheer prac
tice this afternoon? I’m going to be busy setting up for the fundraiser this weekend.”
My mom is technically a stay-at-home mom, but she’s almost never home. She’s on the board of directors for the South Orange Historical Society and is the president of the women’s auxiliary for our church. She’s always got something or other going on, but I don’t mind so much. She’s always there when we need her, and when she is home a lot, she tends to hover too much.
“That’s fine. I’m not doing anything later.”
Julia scoffs. “She’s never doing anything anymore.”
I ignore the dig and finish off the last of my breakfast. I feel Mom watching me, but I don’t look up. She’s worried about me. I know it, and she knows I know it. But there’s no point in having another tired conversation that will only upset her and in no way help me. After a moment, she sighs and says, “You girls better hurry, or you’ll be late for school.”
Julia shoves her homework into her book bag, and I put my bowl in the sink. Mom wraps her arms around me from behind and kisses my head. “Have a good day today, sweetheart.” It’s the best she can do. The sadness in her voice tells me she knows exactly what day today is. I’m grateful she doesn’t say it, though.
There’s no way I’ll have a good day today, but I force a smile on my face for her sake. “I will.” She knows I’m lying, but she appreciates the gesture, and I’m grateful that she cares, even if I don’t say so.
It’s the second week of September, but we’re having a bit of an Indian summer this year, so I put the top down on my VW bug convertible for the drive to school. I’m a junior this year, which means I’m one of the privileged upperclassman who were issued parking permits for the school’s student lot. I am so glad I don’t have to take the bus anymore.
“I love this beautiful machine,” Julia says wistfully, gliding her hand over the front dash. “I wonder what kind of car Mom and Dad will get me when I turn sixteen.”
Not one like this, I want to say but don’t, because I know it will hurt her feelings.
