Red Hot Kisses: 3:AM Kisses 15

by Addison Moore

  Scarlett rolls her oversized emerald eyes. I swear, Scarlett looks like an Anime character come to life. “I heard that.” She gives me a playful shove. “But since you asked—it’s twice as nice as you’d ever imagine.”

  Both Sunday and I let out a guttural groan.

  “You should go for it.” I give Sunday a light shove in Seth’s direction. “He’s muscular in all the right places, broad shoulders. The combo of that dark hair and those day-glow eyes? What’s to resist?”

  She smirks my way. “Sounds like he’s more your type. In fact, it sounds like you’re already smitten.” She does her best to shove me at him.

  “Just try to hide those budding feelings. The sooner you admit sexual defeat, the sooner Scarlett here can give you all the tips on how to land your brother horizontal. Sure, it’s probably awkward at the dinner table after you’ve done the nasty, but once you realize you’ll be having one another for dessert, I’m sure you’ll both get over it.”

  Now it’s Scarlett and Sunday groaning at me. Funny how they turn on a dime.

  “Hey, Trix”—Knox nods me over to where he is—“did you get any pictures of us on the field?”

  “Only the best.” I yank out my phone and pull up a close-up of both Knox and Rex as they ran for the ball side by side. “Last picture of the night was the winner, much like the Mustangs this fine evening.” I’m quick to show Rex and Knox who both whoop it up and share a fist bump as they relive the celebratory moment.

  “Let me see,” a deep voice rumbles from over my shoulders, and I take in that spiced cologne before turning around, hopeful that whoever owns that hot voice has an equally hot face to match.

  “Oh, it’s just you,” I say as Rush frowns down at me before taking my phone.

  “Good shot.” His thumb slides over the screen, and everything in me freezes. There I am on all fours with my hair fanned out as if I had just been electrocuted—my face done up like a possessed woman on the prowl, but it’s the fact I have nothing on but a thong. My back arched just enough to show my bare moon rising overhead qualifies it as soft porn at its finest.

  “Give me that!” Each word comes out like its own sentence. My face flares with the heat of a thousand hellfires, and for some unknown reason that tender spot at the base of my thighs twitches a series of throbs, and I glare up at Rush for inciting a panic-gasm in me. “You’re a darn pervert, you know that?”

  “What?” His eyes round out in horror, and my heart skips a beat at how violently handsome he is. On the day they were making Rush Knight, someone up there threw in way too much good looks into the mix. It was clearly a goof-up that has benefited the aforementioned perv down here on Earth where he consumes a healthy, steady might I add, diet of females of all shapes, sizes, and IQ levels. From what Sunday tells me, Rush is completely indiscriminate when it comes to entertaining the ladies. Some might say he’s a bit heroic in that sense. I say he’s just perverted.

  I glance to find my brothers and Seth laughing it up about something while Sunday and Scarlett are chattering away. Scarlett is probably giving a thorough dissertation on how to bed your brother in ten days, and Sunday is clearly rapt at attention. There is no doubt in my mind she’s going to hit that soon-to-be big bro of hers. I’ve never seen anyone talk so laboriously about someone they profess to detest, loathe, hate—Sunday has thrown every synonym in the book at poor Seth. Besides, Seth is lovable, unlike this foolish oaf I’ve lassoed myself to by way of a frozen glance.

  His glowing amber eyes penetrate mine, and it feels sexual as if I’ve just been mildly assaulted by him, and my insides pinch tight, because, hell, I think I kind of like it. Rush Knight is nothing but a modern snake oil salesmen, a modern-day charlatan that hooks the girls by the dozens simply by a glance, and there’s something primal in me that begs to fall under his sexual spell. I step hard on my own damn toes until I’m forced to bite my lip in pain. I will not fall victim to his wily bedroom ways.

  He glowers at me a moment before leaning in. “What the hell are you doing taking those kind of pictures?” His brows pitch hard and not in any sexual manner—in a brotherly way, and it vexes me to no end.

  My mouth falls open at the audacity this buffoon has to lecture me, or God forbid question my morals.

  I sink my phone into my pocket. “I take them because my pimp needs them. How else am I going to rack up business?” I snipe like a fully loaded machine gun full of estrogen-based bullets. His eyes widen just a notch, signifying the alarm is real within him. “Look, relax, would you? If you’re trying to give me brotherly advice, you’ve got the wrong little sister.” Sunday told me that her entire family is convinced she’s an angel sent to live amongst mere humans. I almost want to laugh in his face. Sunday has shared more than enough with me to assure me she’s a perv in female skin. She’s boy crazy, and once her hormones are unleashed on this unsuspecting university, Rushford Knight is going to have a heart attack nightly. So take that, I want to say.

  He pulls his lips in a dissatisfied line, and I can’t help but note how plump they look. “I may not be your big brother, but I’d hate to see that picture get in the wrong hands.” He rakes his fingers through his thick brown hair as if he were shaking with anger on my behalf—more like shaking with the need to find the nearest shower stall so he could alleviate all that sexual tension my rising moon just sponsored.

  I can’t help but notice the fact his hair is light on the tips, as if the sun had fried it. Both his face and eyes glow the same even shade of honey. The tail end of a summer tan lingers on his skin, and it makes him that much more godlike than I’d prefer to admit. It’s bad enough the girls around here treat him as if he just finished vacationing on Mount Olympus. I, for one, will never treat him that way. The Church of Saint Rush may have its fair share of worshippers just waiting to dive down his altar, but I won’t be one of them. In fact, I’ll be the one burning his effigy and openly mocking the girls that line up to worship. Anyone who would settle for a short ride on a dumb jock rather than a permanent seat placement with a decent guy deserves to have a mocking finger or two pointed their way.

  “The only wrong hands it got into were yours.” I hike up on my tiptoes and get in his handsome as hell face. Those cushioned lips of his call to me for a moment, and I can’t help but admire the vibrant yellow and bright green flecks in his eyes. “Now scat before I tell my brothers you were just begging to see the real deal!”

  “Honey, I see that nightly. And I don’t need to beg.”

  I gag on command. “Oh, barf twice. Get lost before the entire Toberman-Kent clan pulls you apart like a wishbone for even speaking with me about such perversion.”

  “Geez.” He ticks his head back and glares at me one last time, although layered beneath that glare is something shy of affection, like maybe he really does see me as that perennial little sister my brothers have packaged me as. Rush takes off and is immediately swallowed whole by a crowd of coeds in short skirts and matching hyena cackles as the music in the room turns up ten times louder.

  “Trixie!” Sunday pulls me over, and I find that my brothers and their girlfriends are nowhere to be seen and in their place stand Serena and Harley. Serena is a redheaded bombshell with sea green eyes. She’s one hundred percent the quasi-Disney mermaid her name suggests. And Harley is her sister, Harper’s, drop-dead gorgeous lookalike. Come to think of it, I’m afraid I’m the only troll in this equation, and I openly frown at the three of them for making my fear a reality. Not that there’s anything outwardly offensive about me. In fact, if I were a Disney princess myself, I’d be more of a caustic Snow White sans the cadaverously pale skin. I sport a mean tan year-round, mostly impart due to genetics. The Tobermans are prone to olive skin and, well, my self-tanner takes me to all the gorgeous bronzed places I want to go.

  Sunday’s mouth lingers open as if she were about to say something important but someone froze time. I glance over my shoulder just as Seth pops up with those intense eyes pinned right on her, and a dull
laugh pumps from me. My money says they’ll fall into one another’s face, and perhaps bed by midnight if this keeps up.

  “Anyone here interested in joining the Media Club?” He tenses for a moment as both he and Sunday share a contrived look of disdain for one another.

  “Not me.” Sunday heads off to the refreshment table where the frat brats store their illegal kegs and pyramid of red Solo cups. I’m guessing that plastic feat is the pride of all future engineers who may have had a hand in its efforts. And that, my friend, is why I’m afraid of the future.

  “I’m out.” Serena shrugs. “I’m already looking into the Drama Club, Student Government, and the Book Club. I can’t take another commitment.”

  “It is a commitment.” He deflates as he looks to Harley.

  “Does it involve public speaking?” she asks tersely as if she were expecting a confession from him.

  “It depends on your definition of public speaking.” His brows rise, and now I know for sure I’ve just met a master negotiator, or manipulator. Maybe it is best if Sunday steers clear of this salacious new member of her family.

  “Then I’m out, too.” Harley scans the crowd past his shoulder at the Beta boys who just showed up in a coven. I happen to know firsthand that Rush is a part of that perverted pack, although he’s usually more of a lone wolf. “I’m gunning to pass my classes,” she continues. “I’ve never been good at juggling sixteen things at once. Besides, public speaking and I don’t get along.”

  “I’ll do it.” I raise my hand as if we’re in class. Just the thought of public speaking scares the living daylights out of me, but I’m a glutton for a good punishment, and lately any form of public gathering seems to be just that. The room pulsates in and out right along with the caustic loud music, as the crowd grows denser by the minute. I swear, I’ve already made it to third base with seventeen different people simply by the bump and grind from the throngs of bodies surrounding me. “I’m a journalism major, so I’m a natural. And I love public speaking—although, not the actual public part. But I am an expert at saying the first thing that comes to my mind. My father says I have no filter, and it’s a trait I’ve never apologized for.”

  The three of them share a laugh.

  “Perfect.” Seth rocks back on his heels. He’s handsome enough, but for some reason doesn’t hold that stomach squeezing superpower that Rush has over me. “I was told I needed a recruit by the end of the night, and you just met my quota. I’ll catch you in the Annex tomorrow at noon. It’s behind the commons room in the Student Union.” He walks backward as the crowd tangles around him.

  “Wait. Tomorrow is Saturday! And noon? Isn’t that a bit early? I like to sleep in—until at least two thirty!” Okay, so it’s really three.

  His raises a hand my way, and his grin grows more devious by the second.

  “Met his quota,” I huff under my breath as I turn to face Serena and Miranda? I blink back at the skank who haunted my high school for four long years, three of which I had to endure under her tyranny. I couldn’t wait until she was carted off to greener scholastic pastures so I wouldn’t have to look at that elf-inspired nose job gone wrong. Her hair is pulled back into a severe ponytail, further stretching her features to unnatural stages of tautness, and her lips are slashed in a bright pink line that actually offends me on some level.

  “Hey, Miranda.” I try to sound casual. Miranda was a part of the Barbie Dolls—a group so popular, so exclusive, so mean you hoped with all your might you would never accidently fall victim to their shitty schoolgirl shenanigans.

  “I’m sorry.” She laughs, shaking out her blonde curls as she leans in. She’s doused in a sickly-sweet perfume from head to toe, and I can feel my allergies kicking in like a tsunami about to roar to life. Perfect. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll unleash an atomic sneeze right over her face. Miranda had honed the fine art of belittling you even if she wasn’t trying. “Do I know you?” Her mouth falls open, and she looks like the dolt she is. I’d pay good money to see a fly buzz right on into that pie trap of hers right about now.

  “I guess not.” I glance to Serena just as Sunday joins our group once again.

  Serena does a brief intro to both Sunday and me. “Miranda is my mentor for Kappa Kappa Gamma. I’m toying with the idea of rushing, and she was just giving me the rundown.”

  “I’ll give you the rundown,” I offer. “It’s all about the Kappa Kappa guys. Can’t you tell?” I wave a hand at the coital crowd. “They’re all fishing for someone to bed for the night. This frat house is quickly turning into a fright house if you ask me.”

  Miranda pulls her riotous lips into a tight line. “It’s a good thing nobody asked you.” She looks to Serena. “But she’s right.” She gives a maniacal wink, and something in me warms at the idea of being right. “We’re all about the boys at Kappa G. But not just any boys. The best boys. Beta Kappa Phi just so happens to be our matchups.” She points to ground zero.

  Rush and his cohorts strut by, and Miranda gives one of those wrist twisting beauty pageant waves.

  “What’s the matter, Randy? Cute boys give you carpal tunnel?” The Goth girls at our old school used to call her Randy Mandy due to her insatiable sexual appetite. A nickname she undoubtedly has not forgotten, considering how hard won it was. No one dared call her a slut to her face—but hey, if the ho shoe fits. I glance down at those glittering stilettos better suited for a three-year-old at a dance recital and give a knowing nod. The ho shoes clearly fit.

  Miranda nods in the direction of Rush and his crew. “That cute boy right there gives me everything I want. I’m just inches away from making him an exclusive edition to my dating repertoire.” A tittering giggle bubbles from her, and I’m suddenly moved to stuff her pie hole with old sweat socks.

  Both Sunday and Serena gag in lieu of a response. Clearly, Randy Mandy here isn’t their first choice as far as a plus one goes for Rush.

  “I’m sorry. Are you talking about Rushford, Whitney Briggs’ favorite fetish?” I inquire for the sole purpose of inciting a riot in Sunday and Serena.

  Miranda looks momentarily stumped at the pop quiz I sprung on her, and so soon into the semester. She blinks to life like a haunted doll. “Oh yeah, totally, Rush. He’s my man. I’ve already landed him on the mattress springs three different times in the last year alone.” She chortles at the ceiling in celebration of the feat. “That level of repeated action automatically elevates me to girlfriend status.” She fans herself with her fingers a moment as if the idea of chaining herself to the WB welcome mat with a wagging appendage is an accomplishment. Of course, I wouldn’t dare say that out loud because I would never want to offend Serena or Sunday. He’s blood to them—blood is thicker than the coffee at Hallowed Grounds—and right about now, that’s about all the fluids we have in common.

  “Mattress, huh? I guess that means you’re practically married.” Just as I’m about to introduce her to her new sister-in-law she waves at someone in the crowd—who I would bet my life on didn’t exist—and trots off quickly in an effort to ditch us. “Some things never change. I guess we’re not the in-crowd.”

  “That’s so high school.” Sunday averts her eyes.

  “So are her mattress moves,” I’m quick to offer. “You should warn Rush. She’s the clap that claps back. In fact, together they might actually develop a new disease that science doesn’t even know about yet.” I scowl across the room where Rush and my brothers are congregating. “Rush needs a good girl, not some twit with a nickname that precedes her reputation.”

  “Someone is bitter.” Sunday bites down on a laugh. “I wouldn’t worry about Rush. I’ll warn him about Miranda, but I’m sure he’s already moved on.” She gives a halfhearted shrug. “I’ll admit, he’s a bit notorious with the ladies, but I’ve heard rumors alluding to the fact the girls at Briggs are out to get him. It’s a sexual setup.”

  A laugh bubbles up my throat. “I love how you make him out to be the victim.”

  “He’s not a victim
.” Sunday looks mildly confused as if maybe he were. “Anyway, you steer clear. You for darn sure can’t go near him.”

  Serena shakes her head at me. “That would be weird. He’s like a brother to me.”

  Sunday leans in. “He is a brother to me.”

  “Well”—my eyes round out momentarily as I look to Sunday and Serena—“it looks as if majority rules. Rushford Knight is safe from both me and my virginal standing.” I give a tight smile. “Anyway, I’d better turn in for the night. I’ve got the Media Club calling my name. And if there’s any hope of me waking up by noon, my head needs to hit the pillow soon.” I say goodnight and brush off Sunday’s offer to go home with me. In truth, everything about tonight has my head spinning.

  The music grows louder, the screaming and dancing crowd only seems to get rowdier, and suddenly I’m feeling like maybe the Knitting Club is more my speed. Why must they turn up this metal riot on blast? What about putting on something decent like Elvis—as in Presley? My father loved Elvis and played the King’s greatest hits on a loop for the entirety of my childhood. I love my father with all of my heart, and just the thought of Elvis reminds me of him. My mother, on the other hand, couldn’t stand the King or my father as it turns out. In the midst of their ugly divorce, I distinctly remember her violently snatching off the stereo while “Love Me Tender” warbled away. After that, the only thing that warbled away was my mother.

  The room closes in around me, and it feels as if I’m about to be crushed by a wall of sweaty bodies. A ripe sense of panic hits me, and I can’t claw my way through this human chain of Friday night oppression fast enough.

  My heart begins to race, my bowels feel as if they’re about to explode straight through to middle earth—not pretty, trust me, I’m aware—and a gripping fear that I’m going to be trapped here forever takes over. This is the exact feeling I had last Tuesday when Sunday and I thought it a good idea to go to the nail salon and paint our nails in orange and blue in a sudden burst of school spirit. While Sunday was happily zoning out with earbuds plugged into her head, my breathing grew labored as the poor girl at the nail salon struggled to remove the dark chipped mess from my fingers. Just the thought of sitting through an hour-long session to have luxurious gel polish cured onto my being sent my skin crawling as if a dozen bats just landed in my hair. Heck, I would have preferred a dozen bats knotted in my tresses, two-dozen bats, in place of that torture session. I couldn’t breathe in there. I had the sudden urge to use the restroom, and my God, what if I were stuck in the middle of a very important part of the gel curing process and the need to visit the girls’ room arose again? I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sit there, trapped like some zoo animal with my fingers subjected to ultraviolet light.