Never Been Kissed: A Never Been Novel

by C.M. Kars

  “It’s water, little buddy. No big deal. C’mon, help me with these things or you’ll stay in this car forever!”

  I get a giggle, and because I want to, I lean close and kiss his cheek in a loud smack that I’m sure everyone north of Australia heard. Matty looks at me smiling, starting to shrug off the should straps from his seat. “I love you, Sera.”

  A sweet slice of pain cuts into my heart, Matty grafting himself in place. I smile at him, pushing his damp hair back off his face, making my customary Mohawk.

  “I love you, too, little man. Now, we gonna get you out of here, or you really wanna stay here forever and ever?”

  “No! I’m coming, I’m coming out!” Matty tosses back his belt with such force, the buckle hits the tip of my finger which on the pain scale is somewhere from a ten to stepping on a lego. I grunt in response, moving out of the way so he can get out. I’m sucking on my finger by the time I get the door closed, startled to find Hunter right behind me.

  Around my finger I ask, “Were you staring at my ass?” I joke. How could he miss it?

  Hunter smiles, the light in his eyes says hell, yes. “Unabashedly.”

  “What? Why?”

  Hunter holds the doorframe and looks down at me. “I think about your ass a lot.”

  I look away. I feel like all my cells are squirming, and attempting to do complicated dance moves. Did that really just happen?

  “HUNTER MACLAINE WHERE IS MY GRANDSON?” The Lady Duchess has spotted us, standing in the doorway with a thousand stone stairs leading up to the palatial entrance. Poor Matty is hiking up those stairs as fast as his little legs will take him when it hits me.

  My hand with the injured finger wraps around Hunter’s (fraking awesome) bicep, pulling him back to me. Do not drool.

  “Your last name is MacLaine?”

  Hunter lifts both eyebrows at me.

  “Is your dad’s name John?” I ask, eyes probably big and round. Hunter doesn’t know it, but I’m on the verge of a geekasm. I’m biting my lip, waiting for him to answer.

  “No.” He grins at me, eyes dropping to where my nails have embedded themselves around his bicep, marking my spot. “But I really want it to be if it puts that fire in your eyes.”

  “You’re joking me right? You’re last name’s McClane! I’m going to start hyperventilating.” Excitement erupts in my belly and I feel like yelling and laughing and doing a little dance at finding out that Hunter SexGod’s real last name. Shit, shit, shit. I’m so screwed. I don’t think I even care. I’m gonna date this guy so hard, he won’t even know what hit him.

  “Can you wait until after we eat? I’m starving.” With that he tugs me up the stairs, a tension about his shoulders, snaking down his forearm to the way he holds my fingers between his.

  As we pass through the threshold, it’s like Hunter’s been hit with a baseball bat – his body jerks, and his foot stomps on the floor of the house entryway, like it abruptly had to hold more weight than it bargained for. He doesn’t like this place.

  “Hunter, what is she doing here? What happened to Alysha? Is she on her way? Do tell her to come inside as soon as she arrives, Edouard, won’t you?” With a whirl of awful Burberry perfume, the Duchess twirls with Matty in her arms, ignoring the way he’s squirming to be put down. Odd that he doesn’t just come out and tell her.

  This place is weird. And who the frak is Alysha?

  Hunter lets go of my hand like I’m lightning about to electrocute him, and steps away from me quicker than the Flash. What the hell?

  “She’s not coming, Mom. We’ll be back around midnight. See you then.”

  The Duchess teeters on her stilettos and comes back towards us. Now, this close, I can see she has the same blue eyes as both Hunter and Matty. On Hunter, the color is sexy; on Matty, innocent. On her – the effect is frosty - she’d give the Ice Queen of The Lion, the Witch and The Wardrobe shivers. I’m going up against an evil villainess that puts other villainesses to shame. I don’t gulp, but it’s a close thing.

  Putting Matty down, she faces both of us. With the giant divide (a whole two feet) between Hunter and I, the Duchess takes her time slowly crossing over it with her eyes, first looking at me, then Hunt, then me again. I feel that stretch, that separation.

  It says I’m with them, not with you.

  Fine. I can ask about this later. Hunter doesn’t owe me anything just yet.

  “Midnight, you say?” She does that awful tisk, tisk, tisk sound that no one does anymore. “I think you should pick up my grandson at eleven - the latest. I’ll be in bed, of course, but Edouard will do an exceptional job of watching over him while you both are...out. Together.” A smile that looks like the edge of a dagger runs across her mouth. “You will be at your lunch with Alysha tomorrow, yes?” Her eyes are on Hunter. I’ve been dismissed. Now I know where he got that nifty trick from.

  I have this awful habit of being struck dumb by shock. You think after years and years of verbal abuse from all members of my family, even myself, that I should have some inclination of the shit people come up with and allow themselves to say. Nope. I still see the good in people when I shouldn’t.

  “No,” Hunter says, voice low like he’s too tired to put up a fight. Maybe his sugar isn’t stable, either? If so, then how absolutely cunning of the Duchess to get what she wants when his body is fighting him, he doesn’t want to fight anything else.

  Bitch.

  Her face snaps to mine like I’ve said the word out loud. I mentally scroll back the last few seconds, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t. Pretty sure.

  “You. Make sure you’re done...eating,” Her eyes go up and down taking in my giant ass and thighs in my skinny jeans, “at eleven. You can skip dessert.” With another icy smile, she whirls like a fucking ballerina and picks up Matty again, who’s been quiet this whole time. The little guy’s yawning enough to suck out all the oxygen in the room.

  If I were a badass, I’d slap the bitch right across the face. Or say something. But I’m me, and all I can do is sit there and take the harsh words, and hope the fleeting pain and humiliation goes away.

  For Matty, I wave like I haven’t been insulted. For Matty, I paste a smile on my face, using the appropriate muscles to make me do so while the verbal knife is stuck somewhere in my ribcage. If I move, a single little twist, I’ll start bawling. I’m so sick of bawling about what I look like. But it hurts, and I wish it didn’t.

  “C’mon, hotshot. Let’s go,” I lean over to Hunter, grab his hand and pull him towards the door. Once we’re outside, I realize my body’s shaking, my vision winking in and out, losing bits of time as those words ricochet in my skull, throwing them back at me.

  I get to my door on my own, seat belt on before Hunter’s made the round to his side of the car.

  “Take me home, Hunt. This was a mistake.” God, I wish I had my own car. When I get into shit situations like this, I would just have my own car and high-tail it the fuck outta here. But no, I’m stuck with Hunter MacLaine (squee!), and his sexy body, and his beautiful blue eyes, and badass skull-trim and I’m fat and not what he wants, and the bitch of the west just made fun of me and I fraking let her.

  Hunter sighs, that weary sound escaping his lips in a heavy exhalation. I should feel bad, I shouldn’t be kicking a dead horse, but God, I want him to hurt, to realize why this will never work. As in ever. I want him to hurt for making me hope that he was different, that he could see past what I look like.

  “Please, take me home. I can drive if you’re not up to it.”

  “Shut up, Sera. Just shut it,” he growls, leaning over me to get at the glove compartment. He pulls out a juice box, tears off the straw with a kind of desperation that has my heart beating hard and fast. He sucks the juice back, and takes his time cranking the car over, putting the car in gear with jerky movements that tells me he’s reining his anger in. “I want to talk about something else. Please.”

  I turn to look at him, shocked to find his eyes bleak, his face ta
ut, skin pulled over his cheekbones, the rim of his mouth white with strain. Mayday, mayday, mayday. “Something funny?” I ask, watching his knuckles flash white on the steering wheel.

  “Yeah. Just... I really hate that place. Really bad memories. And my sugar dropped again. You have no idea what it’s like.” He sighs again, hands strangling the wheel. “Look, I’ll take you home, I promise. Just tell me something good.” His hands tighten around the steering wheel even more, the leather groaning at the abuse. “Please.”

  “I wear nerdy underwear.” I clap my hands over my mouth and shake my head. Holy Triwizard tournament I did fraking not. Where is the hole in the earth, oh please, open up for me. I want to die.

  Hunter barks out his laughter, showing off his dimples. It’s deep and wonderful and rich. That insane urge to beat my chest comes to mind again, but I keep my fists in my lap.

  “The question isn’t what kind of nerdy underwear you wear; it’s if you’re wearing them right now.” Sexy, why is he so damn sexy?

  I gurgle, not knowing how to answer. “Busted,” I say. The car’s too small, and we’re too close. My heart’s beating too fast, my hands start shaking, and I start shifting around in my seat.

  “You feel it, don’t you.” Hunter says.

  I know I didn’t say anything out loud this time, I swear.

  “Uh... what?” I cross my ankles. Nope, not comfortable. I uncross, and put my left over my right foot. Better but still awkward. I push down the window, let the cool air soothe the heat of my body.

  My insides squirm, each organ doing a little dance. Butterflies have nothing on this. I’m hyper-aware. I smell him, only him. I can’t smell the cedars we’re passing; I’m deaf to the bell of a cyclist using his hand signals, trying to make us pay attention.

  Hunter smells like a mixture of insulin – that chemical smell you get from hospitals – and his cologne. I like it, it mixes with his body chemistry and I just want to sniff at him for hours.

  I listen for his breathing – nice and even. I can’t bring myself to look at him.

  “I’ll take you home, if that’s what you really want. I’m just asking you to give this a chance.”

  “There’s no chance, Hunt. You left me to the Duchess. You don’t even respect me enough to even call me your friend in front of your mom. If I’m not good enough for that, than what good am I as a potential-” I don’t get to finish.

  “Shit with my mom is complicated. If I kept you close, trust me, she woulda been a hundred times worse. Consider the words she gave you as a light tap to the nose when I’ve been dealt uppercuts my entire life.”

  “Who’s Alysha?” I shouldn’t have asked. Hunt’s grip’s so tight around the steering wheel, I’m wondering if he’s imagining his hands around my throat instead. Shit.When we come to a red light, he swings his upper body so it’s facing me, giving me a full-assault. And what a glorious full-on assault it is. The temperature inside the car seems to rocket up a whole ten degrees.

  “I will discuss everything with you once we get to the restaurant. I promise.”

  “You make a lot of promises.” I’m scared and nervous. My head isn’t working right with him around. He’s dangerous to me.

  “I always keep my promises.” I roll my eyes.

  “Do you promise not to be an asshole for the whole time we’re there?” I say, motioning to the now green light.

  “Yeah. I just want to take you out to dinner. Share a meal.” Sounds like a line. “One question, though. What kind of nerdy underwear are you wearing?”

  Burning. My cheeks are burning, my entire body is burning. My nipples are tingling. Ack! No!

  “Sera...”

  I shake my head.

  A deep chuckle from his end of the car. “I’ll find out one of these days.”

  My mouth pops open and I turn to look at him, bun swishing out of place. “What?!”

  A wicked grin on his mouth – I swear I feel it all over. “Give this a chance. Whatever this is. Starting with tonight.”

  “And if I want you to back off?” He’ll be an asshole, or I’ll finally come to my senses and realize that he would never want me.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “What about Matty?”

  Hunter shrugs, but it looks more like he’s working the tension out of his shoulders. “If he asks about you, I’ll tell him the truth. But you’d want to see him more than you’d want to see me?”

  “Absolutely.” Not what Hunter MacLaine wants to hear.

  Hunter’s a throwback to another time. He moves my chair back for me, letting my ass hit the cushion, and sliding it carefully under me in time with my movements as I approach the table. Definitely not what I was expecting.

  Then again, I’m sure I wasn’t what he was expecting, either.

  I’m happy I brought a sweater. Now that summer’s coming, restaurateurs are abusing their A/C buttons, making goose-bumps erupt on my arms; I shiver so hard my spine cracks.

  When Hunter settles himself in front of me, his cell goes into his pocket, and not on the table. Point: Hunter. As he shrugs off his hoodie, I get a glimpse of tight muscles pulling against the fabric of his tee – not the kind that’s painted on, but tight enough across the chest and arms that I’m wondering why the seams don’t wave goodbye and give up on pretending to be a shirt.

  His tats are on display, now – on his biceps and into the crook of his elbows and snaking on the insides of his forearms.I can’t look away. I trace the words we are all self-fulfilling prophecies written up his left forearm, caressing his elbow with my eyes. I love watching him move, sinuous, graceful, but with an economy that means no energy is wasted. Even the flick of his wrists lining up to the edge of the table and come to rest in front of his plate is a battle strategy.

  Our waiter comes, goes and brings back our two glasses of water. I order a grilled chicken Panini with melted provolone and roasted red peppers with half-fries, half-salad. Hunter gets the New York steak with a side of salad.

  I take a sip of my water before he starts – this awful play of getting to know each other – all surface questions that barely tell us who the other really is. I’ve learned more about him in his two lows with me than I could in six months of dating. I don’t know what he wants to accomplish here.

  “How many nerdy shirts do you own?”

  I swish the cold liquid in my mouth, taking my time.“About forty, I think. Why?”

  Hunt’s shoulders bunch as he moves his forearms tighter against his body on the table. He leans in, watching me with those beautiful blue eyes, staring at me like he really can see what I’m all about. Squirming in my seat, I catch his eyes dipping to my chest.

  “The Goonies?” Hunter says this with a grin, and I let out a breath. “My favourite movie of all time. I wanted to be Brand when I was a scrawny kid.”

  “And how old were you when it came out?” I’m trying to be coy, when inside I’m screaming. I think I’m flirting. I call it talking, but Katie would insist it’s flirting. I don’t know where the two separate and become different things. I think of Jo Harvelle and take a deep breath. I can be a badass; I so can be a badass.

  Hunt looks down at his plate, staring at the white porcelain like it’s going to tell him his age.

  “I’m twenty-five,” I say. “I love to read, and Supernatural is the best show ever created.” His eyebrows pop up on his forehead, a silent question. I shrug. “I talk when the silence gets too long. One of my bad habits.”

  “I’m twenty-eight. Some days I feel a hundred and nine.”

  Heavy. I like heavy subjects. I excel at heavy subjects. “Because of your diabetes?”

  The way his body stiffens up, it’s like he’s sitting on a bed of nails. I frown. Hunter shakes his head, a smile on his lips. It looks like a smile at his own expense. “Yeah. ‘Cause I’m broken in the health department.”

  I bite on my inner cheek. “Do you do this with all your dates? Throw your diabetes at them all the time?” I ask, and immediate
ly want to cut my tongue out. It seems in front of Hunter, I have the capacity to be a sassy badass. Fifty points to Gryffindor!

  As for him, he does that looking through me stare again; I try not to break eye contact. “I don’t go on dates.”

  I wrinkle my nose, eyes falling from his to stare at my hands in my lap. “So you’re basically telling me you’re a walking STD. Nice. I’ll be seeing you.”

  “No,” he makes a grab for my hand, but I dodge out of the way. “Would you let me explain?”

  I reach for a parting sip of water and knock it clear on its side. Moving faster than the Flash I get it upright with half the liquid still in it, but I’ve gone and ruined our tablecloth and soaked my jeans and Superman panties.

  “Fuck a duck. Good job, Delos,” I mutter, cussing myself out as I use the linen napkin to soak up some water from my jeans. Our waiter materializes at my side, placating me with useless words while my cheeks burn and the icy drip of cold water hits my lady bits and now I’m swimming.

  Hunter’s pulling me to my feet, the napkin still across my lap, fisted in one hand to hide the fact that it looks like I peed myself in front of everyone. I look up at him, pulling back on his grip.

  “I’ll take you to the washroom. You can use the dryer. I’ll make them get you another chair, alright?” His eyes are stark, face tight. His paw around my hand is gentle but urging me forward. We’re stuck there, next to our table, playing a tug of war without a rope. I let him win and go to the washroom to warm up.

  “I’m not good at this shit,” Hunt says as soon as I sit back down. My panties are still sodden even as I tried to open my fly and get some of the warm air down my pants. And then I thought how awkward I would look if someone walked in on me at that point so I stopped. I still have a giant wet stain on the front of my jeans, but whatever.

  “What?”

  “I don’t take women out to dinner. I don’t do this. I’m awful at it.” Hunt’s index finger waggles back and forth – indicating him and I.

  Frown in place, I blink slowly at him, brain engines working at full steam. “I’m pretty sure you don’t talk about exes and your sex life on the first date. Which leaves me with only one conclusion,” that he sees me as nothing more than a friend, and I’m the one that keeps using the word date, “you don’t like eating with a friend?”