HER KISS
(Griffin’s Story)
By Melanie Marks
Copyright 2014 Melanie Marks
Cover Image © iStockphoto.com/Geber86
All Rights Reserved.
CHAPTER 1
As I’m coming out of the university locker room after my victoriously crushing hockey game, there’s a college groupie waiting for me. She’s hot—and yeah … in college. I’m still in high school, so that’s always pretty cool to me—college fans. Not cool enough to sign my autograph where she wants though, ’cause I have a girlfriend—and I want to keep her.
I blink and divert my eyes, which is not the easiest thing in the world. I mean, I’m a guy. You show us stuff—we look. (And mentally say thanks.)
Covering my eyes with my arm for good measure (my lips twitching up at the corners, I’m sure) I draw in my breath and think of woodpeckers.
“Sorry, I’ll get in trouble if I touch you there.” I enlighten her with a grin, though she probably gets it already (since she’s a girl), “My girlfriend gave me rules—no signing body parts.”
College Chick does a pouty face—but the flirting kind. She leans in close to me, like she’s hoping I’m a cheater—which I’m not.
“I’m a really big fan, Griffin Piper,” she purrs, drawing closer, practically snuggling into my neck. “Is your girlfriend even around?”
Oh man.
“Um—yeah, somewhere,” I lie.
I step away from her. I’m really not tempted or anything. But she’s a fan, so I don’t want to insult her. I just need her to go away. Quick. Since she’s obviously not one to take no for an answer—and I’m not one that likes to give it.
“Hey, I’ve got to go talk to that reporter,” I tell her. That’s not a lie. Just a handy diversion.
“Here, I’ll break a rule for you.” Really quick, I sign a body part. But I don’t think my girlfriend will mind—it’s just the chick’s hand.
Before Groupie Girl can protest, I trot over to the reporter, Ms. Lewinsky, pretty sure I know what she’s going to ask—since every girl reporter does.
It’s okay, though. I don’t mind the question.
CHAPTER 2
Since my school—Jefferson High—won the state hockey championship, I get a lot of reporters asking me questions. Believe it or not, the question I get asked most (that’s not hockey related, I mean) is how did me and my girlfriend, Heaven, get together. I swear. That’s the major one—well, when it’s a girl reporter. I get the question from our girl school reporters too—though they already know the story. Everyone at my school knows it. It’s just, I guess they like it. Since I was known at our school as “The Grief-Master” then I winded up dating the sweetest girl in our whole school, Ally Grange. (AKA: Heaven) (Well, my heaven.)
The question: How did you, The Grief-Master, end up dating Ally Grange?
My answer: I have no clue.
I really don’t.
I guess what helped out was: I helped her once—back in middle school. She dropped her armload of books. It was me and my friends fault, though—that she dropped them. We were messing around in the school hall—and then this tiny, cute girl comes around the corner with a pile of books. But yeah, we were being rough. We accidently jostled her. And she jumped. And her books went flying.
I swear, her big pretty eyes looked terrified. I guess because we were so big … and she was so small. And me and my friends on the hockey team, we had this reputation at school as troublemakers—and she looked as though she believed the rumors. Which most of them were true, I guess, but still, we didn’t go around hitting girls. Maybe hitting on them. But even then, not ones like Ally. Ally wasn’t the hit-on type. She was the cute type. So cute. But she was also the type that we normally overlooked, ’cause we knew she wasn’t going to go for us. Some girls do. They go for us in a big, easy way—even back in middle school. We just went for that. We were lazy, I guess. Plus, all we wanted was some action—not a commitment. If that was even brought up—a commitment—we ran. Or laughed. I’m not proud of that, I’m just sayin’. We weren’t looking for girlfriends. We were looking for girls. And we weren’t that picky. They just had to be hot. Other than that, it helped if they didn’t go to our school—so they didn’t get their hearts broken or make a big scene when we didn’t eat lunch with them in the school cafeteria. But we made it clear—well, tried—well, I tried—to make it clear we weren’t guys to set your heart on. We could get it pounding, sure. But if you actually gave it to us—your heart—we’d break it. Not on purpose. Well, mine wasn’t on purpose. But I wasn’t into that—anything serious. I just wanted a good time—on the rink, with girls, in life in general. It was all pretty much the same to me—go for the score and move on.
(It was middle school though, so “scoring” with girls wasn’t that high of a priority—and didn’t exactly mean the same thing as it did later in high school.)
Anyway, (I digress a lot, sorry) there Ally was: her books scattered on the ground in the school hallway at our feet. She looked like she was going to take off running—just leave her books. Abandon them and run. Run away from us, because we were that scary to her. I could tell that’s what was swimming around in her pretty head—danger, run.
I grabbed her—just to stop her from running away. That’s it. The thing is though: I grabbed her hand. I was going for her arm, but at the last minute, I grabbed her tiny, trembling hand instead. ‘Cause I knew if I grabbed her arm it would scare her worse.
So, last minute, I grabbed her hand, then whispered, “Wait.”
Then, still holding her satin soft hand, I started picking up her books.
I have to tell you, her hand was really soft. And nice. So, I’m not really sure I would have let it go anyway, but I kept holding on to it so she wouldn’t run. Then, when I didn’t chuck the books at her or anything, just held them for her, she looked up at me all starry eyed—and I don’t know, I guess she started making up a love song right then in her head. (I accidently read it later—the love song—but it was on accident, I swear.) Not going to lie though, I was kind of doing the same thing at that moment too, sort of—writing a love song. I guess. It just wasn’t something I’d actually write down. Or think about writing down, not in a thousand years. It was more something that made my heart pound at night, made me yearn for something that I didn’t quite get (as in understand. But also—literally—didn’t get.) It was just a startling, confusing moment. One that made my breath tangle in my gut, and made my eyes narrow with wonder, like, “What the—????”
‘Cause my heart was doing something weird.
Something it had never done before.
Still, in the beginning, when I picked up her books for her, it wasn’t a romantic gesture—didn’t even cross my mind. It was our fault she dropped the books, so it was just me being nice. Not romantic. But THEN I offered to carry the books for her. It’s just she had looked so scared before, and now she was looking affectionate and like I was her knight in shining armor—and I liked it. And I didn’t want her to run away again. I wanted to keep being near her as long as I could.
Plus she had way too many books she was trying to carry. She’d just drop them again. Then she’d look at the next guy that picked them up all starry-eyed—and I didn’t want that. Or maybe the next guy she ran into would be mean to her, like she had been afraid I was going to be. I didn’t want that either. So I carried her books for her. And then right after that, she gave me a cookie—and it smelled like her.
I swear. The rest of the day, I just sniffed that cookie.
CHAPTER 3
The way the cookie thing actually went was like this: Afterwards—after helping trembling, terrified Ally with her books—she looked up at me like I was her hero,
which kind of took my breath away. I mean, I wasn’t expecting that from a girl like her, that sort of look. Usually girls looked at me like I was tempting candy … and they were hungry for a forbidden treat. One they’d been warned about. Usually girls like Ally would quickly look away, heed the warnings. But that day she seemed to forget they existed.
While I was still wrapping my head around the look—and the way it gave me strange flutters in the pit of my stomach—I watched her soft blond hair fall over her blushing pretty face as she reached into her lunch bag. Then baffled, I watched as she pulled out a huge cookie.
I blinked, not sure what that was about—the cookie. (Later I learned that’s how Ally shows her gratitude—through baked goods.)
But at that moment, I just saw her pull out a cookie. Which was weird because it was early morning—not lunchtime. Or even close to it. Plus the cookie was huge—bigger than her, practically. Well, you get what I mean. It was an enormous friggin’ cookie and she was tiny.
I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes as she held the gigantic thing out to me with her smooth, pretty hand, and I just wanted to snatch it again. Not the cookie, but her hand. I’d kissed girls before, lots of them, but I’d never held hands with one, ever. Not until her. Ally was my first. And she was the first girl that had ever looked at me like she was—like I was good. I had a reputation as a thug—and I’m not going to lie, I was no saint.
Girls looked at me a lot of ways. Like I was appetizing, or tempting their hearts to walk on the wild-side. That sort of stuff. And really, they were right to do that—to look at me with trepidation. My dad was an alcoholic, my mom was mentally unstable—and that wasn’t even the worst of my family lineage. That stuff was tame compared to the junk in my life counselors told me to keep hidden from the general public of middle school. What I’m getting at is, I was seriously messed up—yet this girl was looking at me like I was her hero. Her knight in shining armor. The feeling it had running through me was new. And confusing. But I liked it. I just wasn’t sure about it. It was kind of like, “What is going on???”
‘Cause it sort of seemed like my friends were right—the ones that had teased me as I helped Ally pick up her books. They’d kept laughing and saying, “Griffin’s gone soft for the school girl.”
Kind of seemed like they were right. It had me mentally scratching my head.
And staring at her soft hand.
“It’s a snicker doodle,” she told me when I just stared at her offering. Well, she thought that’s what I was staring at—the cookie.
Her shy voice snapped me out of my daze, and I was tempted to take it—you know, what she was actually offering—which wasn’t her hand, but the big, fat cookie with cinnamon sprinkled all over it. It looked really good. But it was from her lunch bag. Which meant she’d been planning to eat it herself. So there was that. And also there was the cliché thought niggling and squirming in my brain about bullies. You know, that they steal people’s lunches. And until I’d helped her with her books, she’d thought I was like that—a bully. I knew a lot of girls were under that misimpression. (Well, misimpression—to me.) I just liked to fight. A lot. It wasn’t to pick on anyone though. I just liked to fight. Not with girls though, ever. Of course. But I was in middle school, and I had issues, and slamming heads in helped me blow off steam. I tried to keep the slamming on the hockey rink, though. I really did. But it didn’t always turn out that way. Which is why I was constantly in detention—well, that, and I have hilarious thoughts running through my brain, constantly. Well, hilarious to me, not so much to teachers. I try to keep the thoughts bottled up, I swear, but man, sometimes I have to share them—with the class. At inappropriate moments. So, yeah. Detention. Constantly.
Anyway, about the “bully” thing, I hadn’t really ever worried about the label before. I didn’t care what anyone thought … but I found I cared what she thought. It had me mentally scratching my head again.
Seriously, what was going on?
Instead of taking the cookie from her, I made a lame joke—you know, about the “snickerdoodle” (which you have to admit is a pretty funny word). I raised my eyebrows. “You named your cookie?”
She laughed. Actually laughed. It was an amazing sound. It made my heart—or stomach—or somewhere deep inside me swoop.
“It’s the kind of cookie—” she started to explain, turning the prettiest shade of pink I’d ever seen.
But the explanation—it seemed to be too many words for her to get out. I mean, to actually say to me, the huge scary guy that had made her drop her books—then held her hand to keep her captive. Also, I’m sure she figured out I’d just made a stupid joke.
“—never mind,” she whispered, taking a flustered breath, though her eyes were still all starry. “I just want you to have it.”
I couldn’t help smiling at that. I knew she baked it herself. And well, she wanted me to have it. So, I took it then. Because it looked really good. And smelled like her.
Now whenever I smell a cinnamony cookie I think of her—well, then and every other minute of the day. But Ally’s hands—they always smell like cookies. And her neck smells like baking cherry pie. Not kidding. I think it’s because she bakes so much. Or because I’m insane. Probably that. But either way, the smell of her drives me wild.
CHAPTER 4
Griffin in middle school (after the book incident with Ally)
No other girl had given me a cookie before. Hickeys, phone numbers, semi-dirty messages—those were the kinds of things I was used to getting from girls. I freely admit it was most likely because of the girls I chose to associate with. You know, different types of gifts from different types of girls. I got that. I did. Still, it intrigued me. The home-baked cookie thing.
An hour after getting it—the cookie in my hands—I was standing at my locker. Out of nowhere, I was nudged hard by Hailey, my friend (repeat, friend). (Yeah, Hailey is a girl—but I don’t really see her as one. Seriously. I’ve known her my whole life because she lives a few doors down from me in our shoddy apartment building. Her mom used to baby-sit me sometimes and we’d play video games together. Still do when she presses hard enough—but these days video games don’t really do it for me like they used to—so she has to press pretty hard. Otherwise, I’m all about hockey.)
Hailey gave me a suspicious look—not even kidding around. “You’re in love with that cookie.”
I choked on a laugh. “I’m not.”
“Then eat it,” she challenged.
“I will.”
She crossed her arms. “Now.”
I scrunched up my eyebrows at her, though I still couldn’t help laughing. “Why are you freaking out about it?”
“Because of the way you’re acting. Please do not fall for Ally Grange!”
“I’m not falling. Have I ever fell?—ever?”
“No, but you’ve never acted this way over baked goods.”
“I’ve never gotten baked goods.”
Hailey huffed. “No, but you’ve gotten fan-mail—written on your body.”
I closed my eyes, holding back a grin. It was true. Lacy Webber had written on my chest—with a permanent marker—that I have “to-die-for pecs” and “smokin’ abs.” But that was Lacy Webber. She’s a little bit psycho … and not in a good way. Sure, she’s nice to look at, but that isn’t enough to make up for the fact she’s not a nice person. She takes catty jabs at innocent girls if she sees them as competition, and she’ll spread mean lies like lightening to get what she wants. The girl bugs me. So her “fan mail” was scrubbed off my chest as soon as I got home from the party. The one we’d run into each other at—with our tongues.
Thinking of Lacy, I grimace.
“It’s not the same thing,” I tell Hailey. “Lacy Webber is—” I shudder “—Lacy Webber.”
Hailey rolls her eyes. “What you really mean is: You’ve already made out with her. You won’t even give a second look—let alone thought—to a girl you’ve already kissed.”
I l
ean the back of my head against my locker, not totally sure that’s true. My eyelids squeeze shut though, as Hailey goes on to actually speak reality.
“—but face it,” her voice seems laced with accusation, “you’ll never kiss Ally Grange.”
My heart squeezes a little.
Although I try to block out Hailey’s delusional next words, I hear them. Loud and clear. Her voice is curiously bitter. (All of this over a freakin’ cookie!)
“—therefore,” she decrees, “there is the crazy, totally irrational chance you’ll fall for her. Actually, her—and her alone.”
Without opening my eyes, I smirk. “You think I’m going to fall for a church girl?”
Hailey shrugs, though she smiles tightly as she does it, like the thought is impossible—and she knows it. Still, she says around her smirk, “You fell for her cookie.”
I sigh and go to take a huge bite of it, just to show her she’s being dumb. But then, I can’t bring myself to do it.
“Eat it!!!” she groans.
The smile that creeps on my lips is sheepish. I know it, but I don’t care. I don’t even try to hide it. It’s true—I’m a goner. For the moment. “I’m not going to eat it in front of you.”
Hailey rolls her eyes. “You have to be alone with your cookie.”
She doesn’t say it as a question, but a statement.
Still, I grin. “Yeah.”
“This sucks!” she growls in my face, then storms away, only half-kidding. If that.
Then I’m left alone with my cinnamon cookie that smells like Ally Grange. I still don’t eat it though. But I lick my fingers. They’re sticky from holding the cookie for so long. As I lick, I wonder if this is what her kisses would taste like. I’m almost positive it is. The thought makes me think, I’ve got to get me some of that—Ally kisses.
Her Kiss (Griffin) Page 1
