Rock Candy Kisses

by Addison Moore

  Maybe it’s time to give the romance novels a rest and live one. I show her my screen.

  A pair of beefed up dudes speed in our direction, and it’s not until they’re upon us do I realize it’s just Bryson and Holt.

  “What’s up?” Shit. “Was I supposed to do another set?” The last thing I need is to fuck up the gig at the bar. The guys and I all need it right now. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s bolstered the sales of our indie album one hundred percent from zero so that’s something.

  “You tell us what’s up.” Holt plucks me out of my seat by the jacket, and I push him off as gently as I can without knocking him out the window. “Dude, that’s our sister. We don’t want to see your fucking hands on her, got it?”

  “What?” I glance to Annie who’s standing by my side. She’s pissed, and I can tell slightly afraid of where things might go from here. I hold my hands up in surrender. “I get it. Look, we were just having coffee. I swear that’s all it was.” And by the looks of things, that’s all it’ll ever be.

  Bryson’s chest expands twice the size of a refrigerator. “Look, we get it. You can have who you want when you want—just know Annie is off your hit list.” He pulls her in, and she’s quick to sign to the two them, angry and stiff words that I can only guess spell out I’m pissed.

  Holt shakes his head at her. “We’re leaving together, and that’s that.” He turns toward the door. “Stay away from Annie if you know what’s good for both you and your band.”

  They shuttle her out the door so quick there’s no time for goodbye.

  That’s okay. I don’t plan on saying goodbye to Annie anytime soon. It’s funny how Holt had the balls to threaten both me and my band, but he had to turn his head away from Annie to do it.

  I can take her brothers. For Annie, I’d take on an entire football team. Nothing is going to stand between us and that hot air balloon ride I owe her.

  Annie glances back at me through the window as they cross the street. It looks like her day ended on a crap note just the way it started, only this was one collision I couldn’t pull her out of. I hate to break it to Bryson and Holt, but they can’t hold onto her forever.

  I have a feeling she doesn’t want them to.

  * * *

  The undercarriage of a 57 Chevy Impala is a thing of beauty. It’s a powerhouse like no other, and, if I had my way, this right here would be my one and only ride. As it stands I’ve got a truck, newer, raised just a touch too high by the previous douche of an owner. The impossible-to-remove dent in the fender was also an added bonus I acquired at purchase. It was Danny’s clunker. Danny has been the Sin’s drummer for the last three years. Benji slapped the skins before that, then we argued, and that was the end of his run with the band. Benji and I didn’t argue much, but, when we did, it always ended with a dramatic shift in the course of our lives. The last one ended his.

  I roll from under the car and pull out my phone. It’s quarter after five, practice is at eight, so I’ve got time to shower, grab a bite and figure out how I’m going to find Annie again. I can’t shake that girl out of my head, and, believe me, I’ve tried. I think maybe this self-imposed female drought has caused me to unnaturally latch onto her, but, the truth is, she seems like the only bright spot I’ve had in my life in months. Just one hit, just a few minutes with Annie was enough to pump me with the desire to open my eyes this morning. I hop to my feet and clean up my work area. I’ve been at the garage now going on seven months.

  Joe, the manager, heads over and I can feel my stomach twisting like bungee cords.

  “You got it?” He’s big and burly, always with a beer in one hand and his palm out with the other. By it he means the rent. Benji and I split the rent, but, now that he’s gone, there’s no way I can swing it.

  “Nope, I don’t have it man.” I glance across the street at the junkyard. Tiger, the Doberman Pincher barks up a storm at a passerby, and I wonder which old car carcass I’ll have to crawl into just to store my shit.

  “All right.” He flicks his fingers. “I told you three weeks ago I’d give you time, but now I see you’re just taking advantage of me. Gimme the keys tonight before the sheriff gets dragged into this.”

  “Done.” I dig into my pocket and take the rusted out key off my chain as a show of good will.

  “Dude, I didn’t want to do it. I had a brother that died. I understand the shit you’re going through.” He wipes his forehead down with his arm. “Get your stuff out by tomorrow. I’m changing the locks come morning.” He picks up his tool bag and heads to the back of the shop. “Times are tough for everybody. I know you’re a good guy. Your brother was a good guy, but good guys don’t always pay the rent, and I’ve got a mortgage, five kids—two in college. I can’t go on being Mr. Nice Guy. My wife’s got my balls in a vise. She’s got gallbladder surgery in two weeks. The beat goes on. I need someone who pays the piper.”

  “I hear you.” I wipe the grime off my face with my shoulder. “You’re still gonna let me hang out at the garage, right?” I give him a mock fist bump. “I don’t have classes, so you can up my hours if you want.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll let you pick up Saturdays, half the crew bitches they need the day off. No overtime, though. I have to hang onto what little of my balls that I have left.”

  “Got it,” I say walking out of the grease pit where I’ll be spending the rest of my days. “Appreciate it.”

  Appreciate it. I shake my head at the lie. I’d give anything to have turned in my monkey wrench. How did I go from a business major to college dropout groveling to work on weekends? A patch of dark clouds moves overhead unnaturally quick, and I can’t help think that the world—all of time—is speeding by too fast for me to feel safe anymore. I’d work seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day just to have five more minutes with Benji. First thing I’d tell him is to stay off that damn bike.

  I kick the tire on a Harley on my way out.

  “Watch it!” Joe shouts from behind, but this time I don’t apologize. I head upstairs and throw all of my crap, and that of my dead brother’s, into six oversized trash bags and toss them in the back of my truck just as the rain lets go of all of its pent-up grief. By the time I make it to downtown Jepson, the back of my truck looks like a swimming pool. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere that I’m too lazy to pick through.

  Jepson is one of the fastest growing metropolitan cities around, and, like any metropolitan city, if you make enough left turns, you’ll end up in the hood, AKA the crap neighborhood I honed most of my life skills in.

  There it is, the clapboard bungalow I once called home. The lights are on in the tiny two bedroom stacked house that’s more vertical than it is horizontal. The houses on the street are so narrow it’s become a haunt for modern day hippies, the artsy fartsy type that sit out front getting stoned all day, looking to the sky for inspiration. Pops is sort of old school around here in that he bought the house with his first wife. She died of ovarian cancer, and he’s stuck his head in a bottle ever since. Enter AA and that’s where poor unfortunate soul number two comes in—my mother. She was his AA leader and, apparently, not a very good one. She hooked up with Ronald Daniels, dreamer extraordinaire, until death chased her down two years ago through an untimely stroke. It was a freak thing, much like her marriage to my father. And now she and Benji are together in the hereafter. I’m not sure why I find so much comfort in that other than the fact they don’t have to worry about things like rent anymore or whether or not to risk the band’s only big break by taking a sweet girl out in a hot air balloon.

  I make a face at the tired looking house with its chipped paint and broken screen as I head on in. Not locked, no big surprise there.

  “Pops,” I shout. A cigarette burns in the ashtray on the coffee table. That seems to be a decorating staple around here. It’s a wonder he hasn’t long since burned the damn place down. The living room is stifled with smoke, and I fan the air trying to catch a decent breath.

  “In here,�
� he grumbles from the hall as the toilet flushes. “What the hell you doing?” He sputters and coughs as he stumbles out of the bathroom. He’s thinner than he was just a few weeks ago, granted we don’t see each other but a few times a year. He’s aged decades the last few years alone. His hair is all but gone, long and gray on the sides. He’s shirtless, his chest sunken and sickly looking. His eyes are ringed with dark circles, his lips purple and bloated. He’s a walking corpse, looking as shitty as I feel.

  “Just dropping a few things off if you don’t mind.”

  “Try again. I don’t need any more of your mess. I’ve got a boarder. A man named Jeff. Decent guy. Pays rent, too.”

  “Relax. I’m not looking for a place to stay.”

  “Good”—he barks as he passes me by. His body odor smothers me, ripe as an onion with the welcome hint of vodka begging to sanitize the air. “Because you’re not going to get it. I’ve got enough trouble without having you on my back.”

  I head over to my old room and crack open the door. Bunks are still intact. Both made. A pile of dirty clothes sit in one corner. An older laptop sits on the desk, and it draws a frown from me.

  “Out!” He picks up a broom with half the bristles missing and jabs me in the ribs. “I know what you’re up to, and it ain’t happening. Once you turned eighteen you weren’t my problem anymore. You got that? You see that crack you just crawled in from? You’re welcome to crawl right back out.”

  I pause a moment looking right at his glassy eyes. “You’re wasted. I can smell the booze from here. Don’t bother calling to apologize tomorrow. It’s already forgiven.” I head for the door. “So about the shed.”

  “No!” he roars, slamming the door behind me.

  The rain presses down around me, but I don’t bother moving for a good five minutes.

  After all, I’ve got no place to go.

  Perfect Stranger

  Annie

  Digital Studios is quickly becoming my favorite and least favorite class. Tristan stands by my side as we dissect a camera from yesteryear while the professor explains the marvels of technological advances.

  So you weren’t telling the truth? Tristan signs in lieu of what the professor is saying. I guess that’s the advantage of signing. We can have a conversation regarding just about anything right here in the open. That was just some random dude?

  I smile up at him. It took Tristan a few good hours to work up the nerve to go there, the least I can do is give him the truth. I wonder what my brothers would think if I dated someone like Tristan? Not that I’m dating Blake. I hardly know the guy. I can, however, attest to the fact he’s got a chest made of steel and a grip of iron when it comes to saving a damsel in distress. A wry smile creeps up my lips. I happen to have an aversion to weak heroines—at least when I read. And here I’ve inadvertently become one in my own story. The thought makes me want to vomit. I’m not weak. In no way am I a damsel in distress. Yesterday was just a fluke. Blake just so happened to be there when I needed him. My stomach explodes with heat as if letting me in on some deep, dark secret. I glance down. I get it. I’m hungry for Blake on a psychological—correction, sexual level. Well, too bad. That’s not what I signed up for this semester. I’m at Whitney Briggs to get an education, not a broken heart.

  He’s not my anything, I sign. He’s more like a stalker. I wince because, for one, I’m totally joking. I met him yesterday morning, and it’s just a fluke that he’s the lead singer of the 12 Deadly Sins. My brothers and I own the Black Bear, so I sort of had to be there.

  Sort of had to be there? My lips twitch at how defensive I came across. So what if Tristan knows I’ve got the hots for the guy? My body flares with heat. God. I try to get my bearings. I do not have the hots for anybody. That’s Kaya’s territory. I’m calm and rational, and the first to point out that lust is the hotbed in which STDs breed.

  Oh, so that little get together afterwards was just a business meeting, huh? He teases.

  Sort of. My brothers and their Hulk-like aggression floods back to the forefront. I don’t know. I don’t think I’m quite ready for a relationship just yet. How about you? I glance to the curvy, toothy Johanna and her glittery friend Courtney who haven’t stopped their lips from moving since they set foot into the classroom. I’ve seen the way Johanna has been sending open invites to Tristan and to just about every other guy in the class including the professor. I think there are a few people in this very room that might be ready to have a relationship with you. I glance back at Johanna, and she turns quickly pretending not to see. It’s fine. I’m used to it. For some reason being deaf has effectively been a cloak of invisibility. When the world doesn’t know how to classify you, it renders you invisible. It’s not just like that for me, so I try not to take it personally.

  Tristan waves his hand over my face. “I’m not interested in those girls,” he says the words extra slow, so I know he’s mouthing them. “They’re too easy.” His eyes lock onto mine as he gives a depleted smile. “I like a little more of a challenge.”

  My face floods with heat. Trust me, I’m not the challenge you’re looking for.

  He shrugs. “We’ll see.”

  Blake comes to mind. I wasn’t really planning to be a challenge for him. Too bad my brothers are panning out to be just that.

  * * *

  For the next two days, I avoid Bryson and Holt and all of the apologetic messages they’ve inundated my phone with.

  The thick and heavenly scent of coffee lights up my senses as I collect my cup from the barista at Hallowed Grounds. Baya and Izzy have cornered me at the student café, so I don’t really see a way around this conversation.

  Why are we doing this again?

  I type into my phone. You’re both very sweet, but remember I’m a girl just like you. Did you let anyone stand in the way of seeing my brothers? Not that I plan on seeing Blake, but it’s the principle involved. Soon I’ll be sleeping with him just to prove a point.

  Baya’s lips take on all sorts of interesting shapes. “They want you to be happy. But they also just want the best for you.”

  Izzy types into her phone with frustration. She’s not as open to me reading her lips as Baya. I think she’s afraid I’ll miss something. It’s hard for them to imagine their sweet little sister dating anyone. And, in their defense, he had on guyliner. Izzy is quick to add.

  “And tattoos.” Baya nods. “Of a skull on his bicep.” She points to her arm as if the location itself had horrible implications.

  Geez, you’d think he were a serial killer in training the way they’re going on about him.

  I’ve yet to see it. You do realize that both Bry and Holt are covered in tats. I’m thinking about getting one myself. Not really but they’re pushing me in that direction. Right after I sleep with the guyliner, tat sporting person in question.

  “Annie, no!” Baya smacks herself over the forehead as if I just threated to let a rat gnaw off my arm. On second thought, Bryson and Holt might prefer it. “You realize you’re going to kill your brothers.”

  I let out a silent laugh before typing into my phone. Trust me, that’s not the plan. Anyway, I really appreciate the two of you going to bat for my big bro’s. I get it. They love me. Don’t worry, I haven’t seen the tattooed, guyliner wearing bad boy since the big shakedown, so you can tell them they did their job. He’s steering clear, and so am I. Graduation will come and go with my virginity still intact. No worries here.

  Izzy bites down over her lips so hard I’m afraid she’s going splatter me with blood. “He’ll be at the Black Bear tonight.”

  Baya smacks her before softening toward me. “He’s already come by asking about you—twice.” She holds up two fingers and gives a meek shrug. “And he didn’t have any guyliner on either time. He has very nice eyes, by the way.”

  My entire body heats at the thought of those marbled eyes that look like a maple in the spring.

  Are you really into this guy? Izzy looks almost sorry for me. I think we all know I’
m doomed on some level when it comes to Blake and those gorgeous eyes.

  I shake my head. I guess I wouldn’t mind getting to know him a little better. He seems pretty nice. Guyliner and all.

  “What about that tutor of yours?” Baya wags her straw at me. “Frenchie? Ooh la la.”

  I roll my eyes at the thought. Tristan is very nice but definitely not for me.

  “How do you know he’s not for you?” she teases. Baya has enough bubbly personality to outfit an entire sorority house.

  Because I just don’t feel anything. You know—that special spark just isn’t there. Like ever. And God knows I’ve tested the waters. I had to. How else would I know that Blake is the only one capable of delivering that electrifying bodily response?

  They both sag, nodding in unison.

  “And with Mr. Guyliner?” Baya is probing for the exact answer my brothers dread to hear. “Are you feeling that spark with him?” She says that last part extra slow.

  A familiar leather jacket catches my attention near the door, and I can’t take my eyes off it. He’s here! I shrink a little in my seat, but his wide grin finds me and warms me from head to toe.

  Baya gently kicks my foot to get my attention. “Guess who’s got a spark in her eyes?” She’s giggling, and I’m hoping it’s low key because, quite frankly, she’s embarrassing me to the point of bursting into flames. My entire body is ready to go up like a parched hillside.

  Blake comes up, breathless, his chest expanding and retracting at a quickened rate, but it’s his eyes that command my undivided attention. This is usually the part where I’d write out something witty or sarcastic, but all I can manage is a little wave.