Wild Kisses (3:AM Kisses #7)

by Addison Moore

  “Tell me what and where.” He gives a peaceable smile. Jet isn’t at all greasy or smarmy, and I’m thankful for that since I happen to have an aversion to those kinds of men, and, oddly, Winston sort of fits well in both categories.

  I show him the heart and dot my finger over my ankle, inciting a frown from him. “I really don’t want it to be that noticeable. But I don’t want it hidden, hidden either.” Like on my vagina.

  He gives a sober nod. “I’m going to be honest with you. This is going to hurt. You want to pick another spot? Like somewhere with more cushioning? There are lots of places that the sun don’t shine.”

  There he goes, pushing that va-jay-jay agenda on me. I’m thinking he’s eager to add another page to that book of Hidden Treasures he flaunts up front.

  “You wish.” I shoot him a look that says my white fluffy ass shall neither see the sun nor that halogen megawatt bulb he has pointed down from the ceiling. I’m starting to wonder if Mr. Happy Needle is also a pervert whose job just so happens to afford him the luxury of getting his jollies off while on the clock.

  I take off my shoe and pull up my jeans to my knee. “Make it hurt, sweetheart,” I bleat out Cassidy’s battle cry, but it comes out weak, pathetic. I think we both know tears will be joining us soon, probably both mine and his. I’m about as good with pain as I am in dealing with my temper.

  “It’s all on you, sweetheart.”

  He starts in, and I let out a throat-burning scream.

  Jet pulls back, turns off his drill, and glances to the ceiling. “You realize I haven’t touched you yet.”

  “Oh, right.” I bite down hard on my lip. “I was—um, practicing.”

  He grimaces. “I have an idea. Why don’t you think of someone you hate? Maybe someone who annoys the living shit out of you, and pretend it’s happening to him?” He looks away a moment and gives a private chuckle as if it’s some inside joke. I bet he tells all his clients the very same thing. He starts in again without warning, and oh my shit!

  It burns! I’m on fire! FIRE!

  I let out a series of hearty groans, imagining all this vexing torment is actually happening to Owen, in far more delicate places than his foot, but that doesn’t help worth a flying shit. Soon, my howls are traded for tears, and I’m boohooing at the top of my lungs like a baby.

  “Enough!” a male voice booms from the door, and both Jet and I stop our whining, me with my voice and him with that devil’s claw he’s using to dissolve my flesh.

  A dark shadow of a man stains the door with his extraordinary muscular build, his hotter-than-hell face that makes my thighs quiver at the sight of it, and then it registers who this freak of nature is.

  It’s Owen. Of course, it is. Honestly, I would have thought he was slacking off in the stalker department if he didn’t make his routine appearance in my life. I give a few good blinks just to be sure that I didn’t conjure him from my imagination. It was, after all, him I was envisioning with a needle in his eye. I was getting tired of picturing him with his pants down, his boxers pulled low, and his junk in one hand and Jet’s needle in the other. Okay, so I wasn’t getting tired as much as I was hot and bothered, but I’d die before I admit it.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Jet and I blurt out at the same time, leaving poor Jet to do a cartoon-like shake of the head.

  “I asked first!” We manage the second verse same as the first, and now it’s me doing a jowl jiggling shake of the head.

  “I heard the screaming all the way from Briggs.” Owen pumps out a quick shit-eating grin.

  “Liar.” That’s one truth I don’t mind pointing out.

  “At least you’re quiet now,” he muses. “You know what they say—silence is golden; duct tape is silver.”

  “Ugh.” I might actually vomit.

  “Screaming is a good look on you.”

  “You’re a pig. If I were you, I’d see if there was a vaccine for that.”

  Owen ignores my sage advice and treads closer to my foot. “Let’s see it, sweetie.” He glances down and winces as if the mere sight of the purple welt hurts to look at. “Now you’ve done it.” His brows notch like fishhooks, and my stomach pinches with heat. He’s unfairly gorgeous. I’ve already determined that, but with his face in deep concern for me, it adds another dimension to his comeliness. Stupid, stupid hormones.

  “I’ll bite—now I’ve done what?”

  “You chose the most painful part of the body to put one of those damn things.”

  Jet holds up his hands. “I swear, I warned her, dude.”

  “What are you doing here?” I glance to the partial purple heart on my ankle that looks like nothing more than a bad run-in with a Sharpie. Just great. Can’t wait to tell my grandkids about this fiasco.

  He glances to Jet. “I came in scouting for a new tat. Jet here does all my ink.” He tugs at the sleeves of his flannel and gives a depleted smile. “You need someone to hold your hand, sweetheart?”

  It comes out sarcastic, but I’m pretty sure that’s as close as he gets to anything genuine anyway.

  “Ha!” I bark so loud that half the patrons out front stop to ogle into the tiny room. “In your dreams, Vincent.” I nod to Jet. “Get moving. I’m ready to have this over with.” I lean back and bite down on my lower lip so hard my taste buds run metallic.

  Jet switches out that forked devil’s tongue in his hand for a new one, and the drill starts up again. My entire body wills for me to stop this madness. The needle touches down, and a shrill cry rips from my throat. I will never fucking have children! If this is how bad an assumingly innocent ankle can kill, how much more pain can that delicate vaginal part of me inflict when it’s time to push out a watermelon-sized human?

  The drill hits a nerve, and my entire body bucks as I scream at the top of my lungs. I bat Jet and his demonic machinery away until that beast in his hand ceases to moan.

  “Swear to God, come near me with that dental drill, and you will be down one colorful limb, my friend.”

  “I’m not done.” He inverts a smile, holding up the damning instrument of terror in his hand as if there were no other way out of this mess.

  “Oh, you’re done. Dress it up like a turkey on Thanksgiving. I’ll pay you for the whole thing. I’m out of here.”

  It takes less than thirty seconds for Jet to apply ointment, dress it with gauze, and for me to hit the receptionist’s desk already flashing my wallet.

  Owen pops up and shakes his head at the emaciated girl. “Put this one on my tab.”

  “You have a tab?” I snort at the idea. “Wow, you are really trying too hard to impress me.”

  “He has a tab,” the spinal cord says with an eerie grin that shows off too many teeth. “You need anything else?”

  “Yes, the bill. The sign said it was fifty bucks.” I pluck out a fifty, and she snarls at it.

  “Sorry. I don’t have change.”

  “You don’t need it.”

  Jet walks up, and I stuff the money into his hand.

  I head out into the crisp evening air, and the stench of urine and sour milk fills my nostrils. Some men look up from across the street, and I pull my jacket over me tight, feeling vulnerable and very much alone.

  Owen pops up beside me, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m glad about it.

  “You need a ride?”

  “You offering?” My eyes drag over his tight rippling abs, ashamed for whatever reason to meet up with his gaze.

  “You taking?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then, yes, I am offering.” He leads me to a beat-up red pickup that looks as if it’s circled the circumference of the earth both land and sea, twice. “What did you get?”

  “Half a heart.”

  “Sounds about right.” He starts up the engine, and we pull away from Think Ink with a heave.

  “Please.” I scoff at the dig. “You don’t know me.”

  “I know you about as much as you know me.”

  “I kno
w you’re a player.” My brows lift as he straightens with pride at the sexual badge I’ve just slapped him with. “Yup. I hear you’re pretty good in the sack, too. You should consider trying it with a partner sometime.”

  His head ticks back as the smile slips from his face. “You’re not funny. But I take it you’re signing up to be my partner, so I guess you’ll know firsthand just how good I can be.” I open my mouth to say something, but he cuts me right off. “That screaming you did back there was just a vocal warm-up, princess. They’re going to hear you all the way back in your hometown. Manhattan, is it?” His dimples dig in as he grins.

  “Someone will be screaming all right.” I shoot Scarlett a quick text and let her know she won’t have to make a trip back, that I scored a ride with one of the locals. His urine penmanship is staggeringly amazing.

  She texts right back. Sounds like bar boy found you again. Cassidy says don’t do anything she wouldn’t do.

  I can just imagine the three of them dying in a fit of giggles, and I drop my phone to the bottom of my purse. I definitely won’t be doing anything Cassidy’s coital mind would dream up, not with Owen Vincent, of all people.

  “I still say you were stalking me.” I sink into my seat.

  “Maybe I was.”

  This might be the one exception when I’m glad about it.

  “Hey, can I ask you something?” Not that I have a million questions for my self-appointed superhero, but there is one thing that’s kind of been gnawing at me.

  “Shoot—it’s proverbial, by the way, in the event you’re packing.”

  “Not packing.” I glower at him a moment. “What happened to your sister? You mentioned she was dangerous the other night, and then I heard Bryson say he hoped she was getting the help she needed.”

  He winces as if I had sucker-punched him. “I don’t talk about her.” The air grows stale around us. His Adam’s apple rises and falls. “Aubree—she’s in prison for murder. She tried to kill Baya, too. Don’t bring her up again.”

  We drive all the way to Whitney Briggs in silence.

  * * *

  At nine o’clock on the button, while Cassidy is busy bopping around in her pajama shorts with her headphones securely on, my phone buzzes as does hers as we each receive a rather ominous text from Jules Flannery.

  Alpha Chi in fifteen minutes. Those who can’t make it won’t make it.

  Cassidy and I scramble our way downstairs. We each have a bicycle parked out front, and at least thirty other girls from our dorm are fiddling with their locks.

  “I’ll drive!” Scarlett shouts as she and Daisy beat us to her Jeep.

  Alpha Chi is lit up like a Christmas tree with a million sparkling twinkle lights. It’s clear something very special is about to happen as dozens of girls file in wearing an odd assortment of robes and ratty old sweatshirts. It sort of reminds me of the “kidnappings” that would take place in high school, where your friends would take you to Denny’s at five a.m. for a pancake breakfast and then force you to go to all of your classes still wrapped in your bathrobe, face covered in pimple cream. Thankfully, I was never “kidnapped,” but a part of me wishes I had the friends that did those kinds of crazy things. A part of me wishes I had real friends.

  Cassidy tugs me by the arm while staring up at the glittering house. “If their point was to catch us off guard, they did a hell of a job. We look like the walking dead.”

  Scarlett moans, holding the back of her neck where she had her first tat carved into her flesh. “More like the walking wounded. I’m not really feeling this. I just want to crawl back into bed.”

  “Me, too.” Daisy cowers at the sight of Scarlett’s newfound flesh wound.

  The Alpha Chi bots greet us with their ultra perky ponytails in full swing. Their glittering teeth pop white under the duress of their blood red smiles. They are all pep and pearls as they lead us into a sitting area that looks as if it could hold fifty of my dorm rooms in the least. To say the living room is gargantuan, mausoleum-like is a gross underestimate. There’s an air of Gothic appeal with its Victorian décor and navy velvet sofas.

  Lucille clears her throat into a wireless microphone, and the feedback wakes those of us half asleep and even those of us stoned off one too many ibuprofen. I happen to fall into that latter category.

  “Welcome to the first official candle lighting ceremony at Alpha Chi!” she bleats. “This is the commitment phase of our relationship. Those of you who were tapped are lucky enough to have been chosen as official PNMs! And, should you accept to participate in tonight’s ceremony, you will officially begin rushing for the Alpha Chi Whitney Briggs chapter!”

  The room breaks out into ear-piercing cheers with my whoop and holler right up there with Cassidy’s. This, right here, has the power to wipe off the horrible memory of what will forever be known as the tattoo travesty we endured this evening. I’m pretty sure I’ll spend the rest of my life explaining to people that I had a run-in with a magic marker. It just never goes away! I must be allergic. Now, thanks to my inability to listen to my better judgment, I’ll be spewing lies for the rest of my natural days.

  I’ve gone from dreading the whitest of lies to manufacturing an entire dictionary’s worth of misgivings. This little temporary intuition glitch is sure to haunt me straight into the business world. But I’ll be damned if I let this tiny purple faux pas take down my impending financial career.

  I’ve already eyed Cassidy’s makeup, the one she uses on her scar. I looked it up on the Internet, and it’s medical grade—the stuff they give to burn victims so they can resume a normal existence. I have no idea what’s under that cover-up of hers. For all I know, she could have a rainbow-colored gash, and I’d never be the wiser. Although, a rainbow slash running down your face in the shape of a lightning bolt would be a little too kick ass for me to ever want to cover up.

  Anyway, I digress. I’m totally committed to getting my hands on that insane miracle-working foundation and slathering it on my purple broken heart each and every day in the event I have to don a pair of heels on Wall Street. I want to be taken seriously, and I’m pretty sure looking like a toddler attacked me with a melted crayon isn’t the proper way to go about it, not to mention there’s my mother to contend with. Nope, modern-day cosmetics are the only hope I have. God knows there’s no way in hell I’m going back to that torture chamber to finish the job.

  “Ladies, look around at the beauty and splendor of Alpha House!” Jules belts it out as if she’s about to break into song. The entire night is starting to feel like some Broadway musical we’ve been pulled into as a part of some spontaneous ensemble casts. “If you feel as if Alpha Chi is not the right place for you, please feel free to leave the building. You will not be judged. We strive to create a loving community of sisters, and we pass judgment on no one who feels this isn’t the right time in their lives to pursue a sorority commitment.”

  A few girls trickle out the sides, and don’t think I didn’t notice the sisters fully taking into account who they were. I’ll bet good money they won’t be matriculating with the likes of Sigma Theta Tau any time soon. But thanks to some good-natured hard ass looks from Cassidy and me, both Scarlett and Daisy decide to stick around.

  Cassidy and I are pretty psyched to be here, so as soon as it’s our turn to light the candles in tonight’s PNM opening ceremony, we give a giddy running high five to all the sisters as we bop down the aisle and back to our place in the lineup.

  In all, over sixty girls are gunning for forty-two seats, twenty-seven beds since the rest of us are freshmen who wouldn’t be able to enjoy a good night’s rest in this overgrown museum for another year entirely, nor will we get to enjoy the home-cooked meals by the five-star iron chef they hold hostage in the kitchen. But a year should totally fly by, and I’m betting that by the time we’re seniors, we’ll be running this circus. It’ll probably be Cassidy in charge, and, knowing her, there will be one hell of a line down at Think Ink on that special day—sans me, of course. I�
��ll cheer everyone from the sidelines while fanning Daisy so she doesn’t barf on a perfectly good pair of shoes.

  The ceremony ends, and each of us receives a tiny pearl pin to wear with pride throughout our three weeks of rush—which we were ensured several thousand times would be easy peasy and fun to boot! Their words, not mine, but I kind of like them, especially the easy and fun part. Also, there was an entire lecture on wearing ponytails and red lipstick—and if you value your standing, not with an orange undertone!—lest we be disqualified for failing to perform a simple task that will one day become perfunctory.

  Just as the four of us are leaving, Jules pokes her head out the door.

  “Piper James?”

  I turn around.

  “Can you come back in?” Her crimson lips expand to reveal an entire picket fence of perfect white teeth. “I think you left your sweater in the commons room,” she says through a smile, and I can’t help but feel a sisterly warmth about her.

  “Sure!”

  Scarlett pulls me in. “You didn’t bring a sweater. You and I both know it feels like a dragon is breathing down our necks, it’s so hot out. Don’t go back there. This is the classic start to a horror movie.” Scarlett is clearly feeling a bit stabby about this whole sorority thing, but I’m not too worried about her psychoanalysis, emphasis on the psycho, since she’s just had her necked sawed on in the last few hours. Jet and his flesh hungry needle can make anyone a little psychotic.

  “Relax, would you?” I attempt to calm her by petting her forearm. “I’ll be right there!” I call to Jules, and she dips back into the house. “The only fire on anyone’s neck is yours, remember? And I might have brought a sweater,” I say coyly, knowing full well I didn’t. Everyone knows that a callback to the popular kids table is the inevitable Midas touch waiting to fall upon you, and I am very much ready for my world to start turning a lot less Owen and a lot more Alpha Chi gold.