Or thank him, because now, she’s sitting here with me.
I don’t believe in love at first sight.
To me, that’s ludicrous. I barely believe in love, period, let alone in falling into it without knowing someone.
But, something inside me shifted the night I met Becca, and I feel that same stirring now as I watch her brow crease in concentration, her eyes flying over the different lines on my palm. It’s like a cold pool of water in the depths of my chest, coming to life as hot water mixes in, warming me from the inside out. It’s like finding something I never knew I lost, something I forgot about, or maybe never even realized existed.
It’s like a strange recognition, an unfamiliar thing I knew all along.
“So,” she says after a moment, scooting forward in her seat. “The first thing I notice is that you have an earth shape to your hand, which makes sense, considering how you’re an earth sign. With palm reading, it signifies to me that you’ve been shaped a lot by what has happened to you — more so than anything you’ve learned from, say, reading, or school. You’ve learned by living.”
I nod, the truth of that sinking in deeper than she could ever know.
She goes on to assess three different lines on my hand — the “head” line, the “life” line, and the “heart” line. And while I walk into the reading skeptical, I find myself leaning more and more into her as she traces the lines on my hand, telling me what they speak to her. She points out how the shortness in my head line tells me that I prefer more physically demanding tasks, and that I throw myself into physical work when I have difficult decisions to make or when I’m hurting. That wakes me up, the truth of it so real it sends a tingle down my back.
On and on she goes, pointing out how my life line tells her that I keep distance and caution in my relationships, and also that my heart line indicates that I have difficulty expressing my feelings, even when I’m aware of them. Each new word from her lips has me reeling, my wheels spinning as I conjure up example after example of how her assessment is true. Am I reaching for this stuff, or is she actually onto something? I can’t be sure, but all I know by the time she grins up at me, watching the different shades of confusion on my face, is that she’s an incredible girl.
Weird, but incredible.
“So, what do you think?” she asks as they announce the next performer — a young girl who will read slam poetry.
“I think that’s some crazy shit.”
She laughs. “It is. There are more lines, too, but I’ll go easy on you for this first one.” She furrows her brows, pulling my hand back to her. “Wait. There is one other thing here… it’s kind of troubling.”
“What is it?” I ask, leaning forward.
“Well, see the way this line curves?” she asks.
I nod, focusing on that line as she continues.
“It’s troubling, because that tells me that there’s someone in your life you’ve wanted to kiss, but haven’t. Someone you want to touch, to feel, but you’ve refrained. It’s a terrible, pent-up energy, and it should be rectified immediately.”
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head at my embarrassing eagerness, which only makes her teasing funnier. When my eyes find hers, she smirks, the light glossing off her irises.
“Real smooth.”
She shrugs, waiting, and I lean across the table, lifting my palm from her hands. My thumb finds her chin, tipping it up just a bit, and then I close the distance between us, pressing my lips to hers.
There’s a curve in her mouth during our first kiss, a sweet smile that permeates into my own lips like honey. She giggles when I break away, just marginally, enough to lick my lips and dive back in for more. It’s a kiss I never could have had with Shawna, or Lacy, or any other girl. It’s a kiss reserved for books and movies, for sappy, romantic guys who don’t refer to girls as bitches and fantasize about banging them the first time they meet.
What’s happening to me?
I vaguely recognize that I should care, I should give a damn that my chest is light, my heart kicking as her hands wrap around my neck. She pulls me in closer, nipping at my bottom lip, and suddenly that ravaging beast inside me is awake again. He kicks the sappy bastard who preceded him out in a flash, and I slide my tongue along the crease of Becca’s lips until she lets me inside. Our tongues swirl, a soft moan leaving her mouth for mine, and as the performer begins her first poem, we back away, our breaths heavy between us.
“What does my palm say now?” I ask, offering her the same hand.
She blushes, tracing one finger down the middle of it before tapping it twice. “It says you need another coffee, because it’s going to be a long night.”
Now that’s a future I can get on board with.
MY MOTHER TOLD ME about Murphy’s Law when I was seventeen.
I still remember that day — how I’d woken up late, missed the bus to my field trip and had to stay back while the rest of my classmates went to a local museum, then I’d broken my sandal, having to use duct tape to temporarily fix it for the day. When I got home, thinking that the bad day was over, I discovered that I had lost my wallet somewhere between school and home — and it had all my babysitting money in it. The final straw was when Mom brought me my laundry later, showing me one of my favorite shirts with a rip in the side from the washing machine.
That’s when I’d lost it.
Mom held me as I cried, soothing me as she told me about Murphy’s Law, about when you just have a day where nothing can go right. But, she said the best thing about it was that I would go to bed, and the day would end, and I’d wake up to a fresh new start tomorrow.
I’d thought that was the worst day ever, thought I knew how bad Murphy’s Law could get.
But today proved me wrong.
Kip is on my heels as I storm toward a waiting cab outside the downtown casino, and I slide in without a word or a glance in his direction. My eyes focus somewhere beyond the glass, on nothing in particular, as I try and fail repeatedly to calm my racing heart.
I blew it.
I blew a tournament that I should have easily won, not only missing out on the opportunity to stack up my savings for the entry fee in Vegas, but also giving the tabloids plenty to write about. I can already see the headlines.
Skyler Thorne on Tilt at Local Tournament — Pressure Too Much?
I sigh, leaning my head against the back of the seat. It bounces a little as Kip climbs in next to me, and I’m reminded that now I have to share a ride home with him, with the guy I want to blame for everything tonight, even though I know it’s my fault.
I can’t look at him when he shuts the door behind him. I can’t do anything but sit there and wonder how the hell this all happened.
Last week after my breakfast with Clinton, I’d gone straight to class to find Kip waiting for me in our usual spot — with a coffee for me in hand. It had become a running joke between us, him trying to guess what kind of coffee I drink — which is ironic, considering I only drink hot chocolate. But after the dance, I figured that would stop. Hell, I figured he wouldn’t even look at me, let alone invite me to sit next to him.
But he’d been there, and he’d acted like nothing was wrong. In fact, he’d apologized, told me he understood my feelings for Adam and respected them, and asked if we could be friends.
Friends.
I laugh a little, my breath hitting the cool glass at the fog. How naïve I was to believe I could go back to being Kip Jackson’s friend after having his tongue down my throat.
But for some idiotic reason, I’d agreed — and not just to being friends. He’d also asked me to do the tournament tonight, telling me it would be good practice, and a great way to make some cash for the entry fee. He wasn’t wrong, but honestly, this tournament wasn’t even on my radar until he suggested it.
I’d said yes as if I had nothing to lose.
Maybe it was because I didn’t want to lose him.
Selfishly, I wanted to hold onto him — however I could,
even if it wasn’t the way I wanted to. I told myself this was better than nothing, that being with him in any capacity was better than not having him at all.
Wrong.
So, so wrong.
If I hadn’t figured it out when my stomach rolled every time he came to the house for Erin over the past week, or how I felt like throwing up when I saw her name pop up as a text message on his phone, then I definitely got my reality slap to the face earlier today at the gym.
There I was, just minding my business on my way to spin class when I saw Kip in the weight room. He was already dripping sweat, his arms and chest bulging as he did reps, and for a while, I just stared. That’s when I first realized it. I felt a rolling wave of something unfamiliar, yet something I placed immediately.
Mine.
The thought had crossed my mind unashamedly, and I didn’t even take the time to process it before I jogged over to him, ripping his headphones out of his ears and making light conversation. That’s what we’d been doing since we had our truce. The conversation stayed surface level, nothing deep, nothing too emotional.
But he’d flirted with me.
His eyes couldn’t stay off my cleavage in my workout tank, and I’d felt that heat of his gaze all the way to my core. Trying my best to shift the conversation into safe territory, I’d asked him if he wanted to take spin with me to get in some cardio. He’d smiled, that same sexy smirk I’d come to love, but his words were delivered like a bullet to the chest.
“I got in plenty of cardio earlier, trust me.”
It was a casual enough response, but the implication behind it was murderous. He’d been with Erin this morning. I knew because she’d come in from seeing him high as a kite and giddy as a lottery winner. If he’d gotten in cardio, I was pretty sure I knew exactly how he’d done so.
And that was it.
That stupid, ridiculous scene was what threw me for the rest of the day. I bailed on spin class early, dodged across campus, and let myself stew. Then, when it was time for the tournament, I’d dressed in my classic jeans and black hoodie and I’d settled into my pre-tournament rituals like I had a shot in hell of getting out of my head and into the game.
Fat chance in hell of that.
Kip didn’t even glance at me in the cab as he told the driver the address, and I couldn’t blame him. I’d been nothing short of sassy to him all night long. From him trying to coach me before the tournament to him slipping up and saying my name in the bar, getting me roped into an interview with a reporter who overheard him, I made it clear that Kip wasn’t welcome in my head that night.
Or in my heart.
It’s only when I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to reconcile with the fact that the tournament is over and there’s nothing I can do about it, that I realize which address Kip gave the driver.
My eyes pop open.
“Wait,” I say, turning to Kip. “She needs to take me home first. It’s on the way.”
“You’re coming home with me tonight.”
My cheeks betray me in a blush, but I use the heat to fuel my anger. “What? Um, no,” I correct him. “Not happening.”
I lean forward, ready to spout off my address to the driver when Kip’s hand reaches for my elbow.
“Damnit, Skyler, you’re coming home with me or I’m going to call that reporter and tell her I was the guy from the bonfire.”
My eyes widen, stomach sinking at the headlines that would run with that. Lacy, the reporter from earlier, had asked if Kip was the guy I’d been caught kissing at the bonfire. We’d played it off, me making a joke about it being cute that she thought I was only kissing one guy. I told her I didn’t even remember his name, and Kip played along.
If only that were actually true, maybe I wouldn’t be in this mess.
“And I can tell her way more fun stories about you than what she got earlier,” Kip finishes, his threat clear.
My mouth pops open, something between disbelief and intense hurt passing through me. He wouldn’t do that to me, would he? I mean, I knew I hurt him at the dance, but he wouldn’t put my career on the line…
Right?
“You wouldn’t do that,” I challenge.
Without so much as a second of hesitation, Kip pulls Lacy’s business card from his pocket, holding it like a weapon between his fingertips.
I just stare at that little card, wishing I could set it on fire with my gaze, and then I throw myself against the seat like a child throwing a tantrum.
“You’re a Class A douche right now.”
“You can insult me all you want, but you’re still coming home with me.”
“Why do you want me to come home with you, anyway?” I argue, crossing my arms over my chest. And before I can stop myself from the pettiness, the next words slip out. “Wouldn’t you rather call Erin?”
Kip isn’t phased in the slightest.
“I’m not asking you to come home with me for sex, Skyler,” he chastises, like I truly am a child throwing a fit. “I’m your friend, and whether you want to let me or not, I’m helping you get ready for May and we need to talk about tonight.”
I barely register the last of his explanation, because I’m too busy focusing on the first blip that came out of his mouth. I gave him a chance to prove me wrong, to ask me what the hell I was talking about when I referenced how Erin should be the one he’s calling for a late-night booty call. Instead, he’d only proven my suspicions right.
He’s had sex with Erin.
That bullet from before is lodged somewhere in my throat, making it impossible to swallow. Bile rises anyway, my stomach churning. But as much as I want to break down and sob, my poker face is in full effect.
We pull up to Kip’s apartment, and I whip around to face him fully as the driver brings us to a stop.
“You aren’t asking me anything,” I remind him. “You’re blackmailing me.”
I throw open my door, the weight of it bouncing off the hinges before I stand and slam it shut again. Leaning down to glare at him through the window, I steady my voice as much as I can to deliver my final blow.
“And it’s so nice to know that if it were Erin here, it would be for sex. Sorry I’m cock-blocking your cardio plans.”
Then, I storm off toward his apartment, realizing I’ve just cornered myself and admitted I’m affected by who he has sex with.
Fuck.
So much for my poker face.
Kip is hot on my heels when I reach his apartment door. I try but fail to open it, huffing like my flagrant annoyance and anger will save me from the fact that I just put my foot in my big, stupid mouth.
Before that moment, Kip had no idea why I wasn’t on my game tonight. It could have been anything — a sorority event, my family, school. But no, I just lit up a bright neon sign that said he is the one on my mind, the reason I’m so off, the reason I couldn’t keep my shit together and win the tournament.
I’m supposed to be into Adam — that was the role I agreed to play. That’s what Kip is supposed to think. And if that was the case, then there is absolutely no reason I should be upset about him being with Erin.
I’m not supposed to care about him.
I told him I didn’t care.
And now, I’ve fucked everything up.
“Skyler,” Kip says my name again, out of breath as he jogs up the last of the steps after me.
I cross my arms over my chest defiantly. “Just open the damn door.”
He huffs, shoving the key in the lock and swinging the door open. “What the fuck, Skyler?” he yells when we’re inside, tossing his keys on the table by the door. His hands run through his hair next, pulling a little like I’m driving him mad. “Why are you mad at me?”
My eyes skirt to the bedroom, to the bed where Kip put his hands on me.
The same one he fucked Erin in.
Ugh.
“You wanted this, didn’t you?” he presses when I don’t answer. “We’re friends. You have Adam, and I’ve moved on. I ha
ven’t made this weird. I didn’t hold what happened against you and I didn’t make shit awkward. I moved on and you got what you wanted, because clearly Adam wants you.”
His voice cracks a little at that.
“I see him texting you every fucking day, and he’s always talking about you. This is it.” He tosses his hands up, letting them slap against his thighs when they land again. “You asked for this. So, why does it matter who I’m fucking?”
And there it is.
I assumed before, and after his admission in the car, I may have been reaching. But with those words, I know with absolute certainty.
I’m not allowed to care that he’s fucked Erin. That was the plan, that was what I signed up for.
I’m not allowed to care.
But that doesn’t change the fact that I do.
“Let’s just drop it, okay, Kip?” I beg, crossing my arms over my middle to try to suffocate my urge to vomit.
One quick glance at Kip has me wishing I could sink into the floor and disappear. He’s just standing there across the room, arms outstretched, chest heaving as he watches me under bent brows. He’s sporting a light green t-shirt, one that sets his icy eyes ablaze in the low light of his apartment.
He’s absolutely beautiful.
And absolutely off-limits.
“Let’s just talk about the tournament,” I try. “And then we can both go to sleep and clear our heads.”
“No.” The word is more of a growl, his jaw tense when it leaves his lips. “Fuck that.”
He takes a few steps toward me and I instinctively back up, finding the wall with my back and then my palms.
“I don’t know what fucking game you’re playing,” he spits. “But I’m calling it tonight. Why do you care about me and Erin?”
“Kip, please…”
“You broke me that night, Skyler.”
My chest tightens at the rasp in his voice, the earnest honesty. He moves closer, and I pin my bottom lip between my teeth, willing it not to quiver. I roll my eyes up toward the ceiling, fighting against the urge to cry, to break and tell him everything.
Kip taps his fist on his chest. “Everything I felt between us,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “Everything I know is here, you told me it didn’t exist. And you know what? I knew it was bullshit. I knew it. The words were coming from your lips, and it was your eyes I was looking into as each one slammed into me, but it wasn’t you I was hearing. So,” he says. One step closer. “Now’s your chance to tell me — why do you care?”
Legacy: A New Adult College Romance (Palm South University Book 4) Page 25
