“Yeah, you think I should join?” Sunday shrugs as if she were indifferent, and without warning a jumble of words gets lodged in my throat.
“No! I mean, yes, totally join if you want to. But it’s a big yawn. No offense to your big brother, but, wow, I almost had a serious snore-fest in there yesterday. I mean, there are other clubs, right? And don’t you want to give him all the room he needs to expand his wings?” Crap. Isn’t that the same speech I gave Knox after graduation when I told him to leave me the hell alone once we got to Briggs?
“Spread his wings?” She averts her gaze. “That boy has spread more wings than I care to imagine. And you know what? You’re right. I should keep my distance. I mean, it’s bad enough we’re at the same school. Thankfully, for me, it’s just one of my brothers, but you have two! Well, my soon-to-be sister-in-law, Misty, works at WB, but so far she’s just tackle hugged me once in the last week.” She cringes as if tackle hugs from Misty were catchy like a bad cold. “It’s Seth’s sister.” Just the mention of Seth sends her averting her eyes once again, and I want to giggle at how obviously she’s crushing on him. Something tells me she’ll discover this sooner than later on her own. “Anyway, you’re right. I think I’ll bow out of this one. Besides, Rush is having a moment.” She leans in as if she has a juicy morsel she was about to unleash and I can feel myself salivating to have it. “I think he’s actually into someone. As in looking for something more than just a bounce on his mattress.” She makes a face as if she’s about to be sick. “Sorry, I hate the thought as much as I hate that I just verbalized it. I’ve never understood why he’s conducted what amounts to a one-man panty raid through all the sorority houses in North Carolina.”
Sunday’s lips are moving, but my mind is still spinning around those first few words. Into someone? And not in the literal sense? Well, probably in the literal sense, too, and eww to that. Wait a minute…
My entire body catches fire. My God, could the prince of porn be into me of all people? I mean, that look in his eyes when he caught me yesterday—I’d swear I saw little pink hearts darting out of them. And the way he came in for that would-be kiss? I knew I wasn’t hallucinating.
A tingling sensation runs from my head to my toes at what this might mean. It means there will definitely be a repeat performance of that kiss we shared in that nasty frat house bathroom. It means I’ll get a second chance to see if his lip moves can shake the stars out of the sky like they did that first night. My heart thumps unnaturally at the thought of a repeat performance. The pit of my stomach melts into a sickly sweet puddle. It would be too good to be true. And if my parents’ marriage has taught me anything, it’s that if it’s too good, it’s probably not true.
“So who’s the lucky girl?” My cheeks burn with the fire of ten thousand sexual suns as I lean into the table as far as my oxygen-stifled lungs will allow.
Sunday scowls into the crowd streaming in through the entrance. “That girl, Miranda Smirnoff.”
“That girl, Miranda Smirnoff?” My voice pitches into the stratosphere as I gasp into the words. And as high up as my voice traveled, my heart sank just as low, barreling past middle earth and into the armpit of a dark oblivion below. “My Miranda? As in Randy Mandy? In the Media Club, Me-Randy?” I shake my head in disbelief and a horrible yelp comes from me unexpectedly. “Your brother is a bona fide idiot!” I lean back, folding my arms across my chest tight as if Rush himself showed up to offend me.
“Geez.” Sunday’s eyes widen as she attempts to make sense of my reaction. “I knew you didn’t care for her, but now I feel like I need to warn my brother. How about we change the subject? Back to the club—what’s your assignment? Are you spinning the beats to keep the commons room moving?”
I’m so stunned I actually have to force myself to answer the question.
“Not exactly. I’ve got the one to two a.m. slot, and I’m stuck talking about relationships. Know of any lovebirds at Whitney Briggs who are ready and willing to spill the sexual beans at such an ungodly hour?”
“I will,” a peppy voice pipes up from above, and we look over to find a cute dirty blonde with a pinched nose and almond-shaped eyes setting down a cheesy pile of nachos before us. Her name tag reads BAYA, and I’m guessing this is the owner’s wife Serena told us about. “I’m all about finding love at Whitney Briggs. It’s where I met my husband. Are you working on a paper?”
“Oh no. Actually, I’ve got a show on campus radio. And I’d love to interview you and your husband! I’m sure just a phone call is fine, but you’ll be live and on the air. Do you think you’ll be able to stay awake until one in the morning?”
“Are you kidding?” she bubbles with a friendly laugh. “We operate this place on a nightly basis. We don’t hit the sheets until four most nights. We’ll be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for you whenever you need us.”
“Oh my God, that’s great!” I bounce in my seat as she refills our water. “I’ll clear it with my boss and get the details to you. I haven’t actually had my official debut, but I can feel it coming on like a shitstorm. Sorry.” I wince at the expletive.
“Not a problem. I’m pretty easy to track down these days.” She takes off, and I bite down hard over my lip.
“I can’t believe I just called Rush my boss.” My face heats again like a New York sidewalk in July at the idea of Rush Knight barking out orders at me. As much as I hate it, a part of me screams I don’t. Huh. Interesting wizardry he infused me with that day we kissed. Well, I have news for him. Under no circumstances will I tolerate anyone barking out orders at me.
“Don’t worry about my brother.” Sunday takes a hard bite out of a chip dripping with nacho cheesy goodness. “Once he gets his mind set on something, he gets tunnel vision pretty quick. You mentioned Miranda is in the Media Club? Trust me, he won’t even notice you’re there. You’ll practically have the run of the place. Hey! Maybe Miranda is a godsend after all?” She laughs at the idea as she dives into her food.
“Yeah, a real godsend.” Suddenly, it feels as if I’ve had my soul lacerated open and a dozen angry sparrows just flew out.
I’m not hungry for nachos anymore.
I’m right back to wishing I could wring Rushford Knight’s neck once again.
Him and those damn kissable lips.
I wish I never met him.
Wish I never kissed those lips.
Mostly.
* * *
Fall may be days from being official, but by the look of the oaks, the maples, the aspens as their leaves turn a fiery red, sun burnt orange, and neon yellow, it’s here in full swing. And if that wasn’t enough, the icy chill in the air is a stark reminder that it’s just around the corner.
Knox lives just north of The Row, and as Sunday and I hoof our way past the thoroughfare of lasciviousness, I openly glare at Beta Kappa Phi as if it were Rush himself. How dare he infiltrate his way into my brain and make me crave him in ways that are subhuman. I can’t believe I’ve spent far too many hours daydreaming like some silly teenager over the things I could do to that body. Speaking of that body, it’s been used and abused so many times, and by repeat offenders no less—I’m looking at you, Randy Mandy—it would need to be soaked in rubbing alcohol for two weeks straight before I could even think of touching it. But, oh, how I would touch it.
Sunday taps me on the arm. “You sure you’re okay? You look a little blue. Are you getting enough oxygen?”
“Oh, right.” I take in a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. “More like purple with rage.” My fingers fly to my lips because Sunday is the last person on the planet who I happen to want to share the reason for said rage.
“Oh no!” Her hand covers her mouth, and now we both look like a couple of idiots. “It’s that thing, right? That I hate nail salons and standing in long lines at Hallowed Grounds thing? Have you talked to anyone about this?”
God, she thinks it’s my bodily defect that has me frazzled, and, believe me, if I were locked in a crowd being f
orced to form a single line, it might be. But, at the moment, the only thing getting me hot under the collar is her annoying as hell brother.
“No, it’s not the thing.” I swallow hard as we skirt past the sorority girls festooning their doors with wreathes woven in autumn leaves. Most of their porches are already dotted with pumpkins. Not the old fat jolly jack-o-lantern of yore, but the white sterile Pinterest ones that have everyone drooling over them as if they were pumpkins reimagined. It’s funny because when I was a kid my mother would buy those as novelties and we called them ghost pumpkins. Just thinking of my mother has my arms itching like mad. “Look at that. I just broke out into hives thinking about my mother. Is it possible to be allergic at the thought of a person? Never mind. I think I just answered that question.”
Sunday shakes her head, her eyes widening at the red welts appearing over my arms. “I think my dad knows a good head doctor in Hollow Brook. How about we take you and see how small they can shrink your skull?”
I may have told Sunday a thing or two too many about my relationship or lack thereof with my mother, but only because I was trying to comfort her for not having hers around anymore. It’s apparent she took her mother’s death pretty hard. And who wouldn’t? Deep down, I’m ashamed to admit I could probably fulfill that small demographic.
“Wow, you’re both supportive and eerily cruel. I think I like you more by the minute.”
Sunday wraps an arm around my shoulders. “I knew I liked you the second you told me your life story in the first ten minutes we met.”
“In my defense, I wasn’t trying to be an attention whore. I just thought you should be warned about what you were getting into. You know, a person with issues should lay it all out for someone they’re about to lock themselves in a room with for the next four or five years—oh hell, it’ll probably be eight.” I give her an extra tight squeeze at the sad reality.
“And yet I said yes to the roommate.” She slaps my cheek with a kiss, and we share a boisterous laugh.
“We’d better get out of here.” I pull her along. “I swear, twelve girls just took a picture of that lip smack, and soon you’ll ruin all of my testosterone-based prospects in the tri-city area.”
“Prospects, huh? As soon as you find one, you’d better dish. I deserve to be in the know since I’m forced to endure that thong obstacle course you litter our floor with. You do realize hampers are a thing.”
“You’re a real ball yourself,” I snark right back. “Turning that entire thumbnail of a dorm room into a makeup studio was a borderline dangerous, piss-poor idea.”
“Dangerous?” Sunday tosses her blonde hair into the wind as she silently protests the idea. “Please—as if a lipstick had the power to land you in the ER. And believe you me, those dirty panties you have molting off your body are biological weapons of mass destruction and you know it.”
“Ha! And sure, a tube of lipstick is innocent enough, but that perverted tube of mascara that made its way into my bed last night nearly took my virginity.”
We howl out a laugh as we come upon Knox’s cute little home tucked in a quiet residential area just up the street from The Raunchy Row, and to our surprise he’s not in it. He’s next door moving a mattress—with Rush?
Rush Knight gleams under the harsh glare of the sun. The tips of his hair shine a brassy gold, and his leftover summer tan only accentuates those golden amber eyes. My God, the boy just looks delicious. He turns around, his biceps still flexed as he struggles to hold onto the bed, and for a moment our eyes lock. My heart lets out a thud. My insides do that weird Fourth of July firework thing, and for a second I’m pretty sure I’m going to flatline and die right here on the lawn of my brother’s rental house—full-blown cardiac arrest because I can’t handle the sight of a pretty boy. Figures. I always sensed something completely idiotic was going to do me in.
Sunday takes a few steps in their direction. “What’s this love-fest about?”
“Just moving some stuff.” Rush flashes that megawatt grin, and I picture myself stabbing Miranda Smirnoff’s eyes out with a very perverse mascara wand I happen to know intimately. It’s a sad day when envisioning someone else’s slow death brings you unimaginable joy.
Randy Mandy, my ass. What the hell does he see in her, anyway? And then it hits me. Rush has likely seen all of her—every last pink part, and my stomach turns at the prospect.
Hey? Why the hell do I care if Rush has been up close and personal with her skank factory? He can have at her for all I care. I’m not into him. That kiss the other night was simply in clear defiance to my brothers’ proclamation to stay the hell away. As soon as I stepped onto campus, I knew my rebellion was well underway. And, in keeping with the theme, I was practically coerced into kissing him. When you get right down to it, Rex and Knox forced him upon me. Stupid brothers and their inability to relegate me to a far less caustic no-fly zone. Seth, for example, would have been a perfectly reasonable prospect for me to make out with because I happen to have zero interest in him sexually. I happen to have zero interest in Rush sexually as well, but as fate and hyperactive hormones would have it, the gods have declared him comely to both men and women alike. I’m pretty sure there’s not a creature alive who could resist Rush and his obnoxious good looks.
“Hate to break it to you two”—I step up to Sunday as we ogle them from the lawn—“but you’re taking the merch to the wrong house.” I bet Knox needed a new bed because he and Harper drilled a hole through the last one. I happen to know firsthand that they go at it like bunnies on acid whenever given the chance. I stopped using my key to the place months ago after almost walking in on one of their romp and stomps. I swear on all that is holy, I would gouge my own eyes out if I ever saw Knox humping anything with a hole in it. For sure I don’t want to see Harper’s jiggling parts.
Knox frowns over at me. I know that look. I know all his looks. This one says, Shut up, smart-ass. I know perfectly well what I’m doing.
Knox and I have been communicating without words for as long as I can remember. When we were younger, my mother told me it would be that way when I fall in love, too. That it was a surefire way to know it was the real deal. And then when she went to jail, she all but gave my father and true love the finger. Knox and I were so desperately little. We still needed her so very much. Everything went wrong so fast. And then she came home from prison one day out of the blue and filed for divorce. She was over our family. Over us.
My arms flare up again and I pull down my sleeves, rubbing hard over them in hopes to quell the horrible itch.
Knox nods for Rush to hike up his end and he does. “It’s his place. He just signed a lease. I guess you could say I’m helping out my new neighbor.”
“No way!” Sunday runs ahead of them and screams her way into the tiny home.
Rush has secured his own bachelor pad? Wow. It looks as if Miranda might have to fight off the rest of the Knightly harem in this place. Surely he can handle ’em by the dozens now that he’s no longer sequestered to a five-by-eight cell.
I wait until the boys grunt their way inside before stepping in myself. It’s light and bright, a tiny shoebox of a home, but compared to my dorm room, it’s a luxury palace. The floors are dark-stained wood, and the kitchen is brimming with stainless appliances, white smooth countertops. There’s a dark gray sofa the shape of an L and a large navy blue rug eating up most of the living space. A television the size of my car sits in the corner, still waiting to find its way to its final resting place.
“It’s true. Welcome to my new abode.” Rush holds out his arms, and Sunday launches at him with a wild embrace.
“Trixie and I are moving in,” she squeals, and his eyes shoot over to mine for a moment.
“No way, no how. This is a no girls allowed zone.” He offers me a lazy wink, and my stomach squeezes tight.
“Oh, I see. It’s sluts only.” I offer an exaggerated shrug to my brother. “I guess I’ll have to work extra hard to earn my stripes.”
&nb
sp; Knox beans me with a pillow from off the couch. “Not only are you not allowed on the premises, but you should probably try to avoid all eye contact with the stream of strippers he’ll have running through this place.”
“That’s not true.” Sunday is always the first to foolishly defend her hormonal ho of a big bro. “Tell them, Rush. Your playboy days are over.” She cuddles into him as if he were a big teddy bear, and I can’t help but feel sorry for her. Clearly, both delusions and big egos run big in the family. Sunday got the former, while Rush dominates the latter.
“It’s true. I even dumped my famed condom box collection. I’m done.” Rush takes a moment to glance at me and my mouth opens to laugh, but then Miranda’s ugly mug drifts to the forefront of my mind and I shut my flytrap once again. Even I have heard of those empty condom boxes he collected like playing cards. Rumor had it, you could stack them and bypass the moon.
Rush heads to the fridge and tosses a water bottle to each of us. Sweat beads down his temples, his face is piqued with color, and for a moment I envision his hot body over mine, the sweat dripping down the sides of his face the way it is now, and his beet red face devilishly grinning down at me. A spear of heat so painfully visceral slices me in half, my own cheeks explode with color.
Knox bops me on the head with his water bottle as if reading my thoughts, and I quickly usher Rush and his naked, sweaty abs, those bionic biceps, right out of my mind.
Rush knocks back half his water bottle before regaling us with the rest of his fairy tale. He leans over the kitchen counter, elbows down, and his white T-shirt causes his olive skin to glow ten times deeper. There is a general warmth about Rush that makes him affable to any and everyone. He has all the charm and charisma needed to be a successful serial killer, I’m sure. “Never trust a million dollar smile,” my mother once said after handing us off to our grinning father. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I hear her voice clearly. I take a sharp breath and swallow her back down into the pit of my gut where she and her half-assed advice ultimately belong.
Red Hot Kisses Page 6
