When We Kissed

by Kim Roshell

  “Courtney’s housesitting for her neighbor.”

  “Playing it pretty close, bro. Careful.”

  “You’re one to talk. What the hell are you doing, dude?”

  “Push-ups.” I ignore his laugh. “Ain’t you supposed to be out with the girl of your dreams?”

  “That, I am, yet I’m sitting here on the phone gabbing away with you.”

  “Sounds like you’re off to a bad start, my friend.”

  “Nah, we’re building the anticipation. Soon as she’s done talking to Simone, we’re outta here.”

  That stops me at seventeen. “Simone?”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “Bruckner?”

  “Know another?”

  None that matter. “Where are you?”

  “Tate’s.”

  “You’re at Tate’s?” I repeat, even though I heard him fine.

  “Yup.”

  She’s working on a Wednesday night? In all the time Simone has worked there, Wednesdays have been an off night. Wednesdays are when she and Ashley usually do girls’ night. So what happened? Is she on a date? Tate’s isn’t the place where everybody gravitates unless they’re over the age of thirty. It is, however, the place you go if you want to keep your business out of hallway gossip. Everyone knows she’s not a fan of socializing. It’s a major reason guys haven’t had the balls to ask her out.

  Shawn, King of the Douchebag Dweebs might.

  “You, uh, see Simone? Working?”

  Yeah, I’m aware I’m fooling no one, namely Ryan.

  “Yup. That’s the other reason I called. Looks like she’s cleaning her area for the night. Might be able to clear that air, if you hurry.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Simone

  “Burgers any good tonight?”

  Two years of sharing classes and a lunch table, you’d probably figure I’d be used to the knee-shaking, husky timbre of his voice. You’d also likely assume I’d be repulsed by the mere thought of being in close proximity with a guy who’s been photographed standing anywhere in the vicinity of a Confederate flag (Ashley keeps this picture of him on her keychain—a picture, according to her, taken during a field trip at his old school, but he looked pretty comfortable to me).

  On both counts, you’d be wrong.

  Any other time, I expect the possibility of an agonizing eternity in said proximity with my best friend’s man. Have some forewarning to get my game face together.

  Not tonight.

  At the worst possible time, too. I’m exhausted, and my resistance?

  Hah!

  I straighten the condiments on my last table—salt to the right; pepper, left—then commence to wiping what I sincerely hope is gravy from the seat. “I’m off the clock. You’ll have to sit in Ms. Ida’s section.”

  “No thanks. Need a ride?”

  Scrub, Simone. “Nope.”

  “Sayin’ that ‘cause you plan on walkin’, or you actually have one?”

  “I have one, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Yeah? With who?”

  Avoid eye contact. “It’s ‘with whom’, Cowboy, and again, none of your business.”

  His laugh gives me tingles. “Don’t worry, I know proper grammar even when I ain’t usin’ it. However, if you’d rather keep this formal, with whom have you entrusted your safe delivery home on this evening, Miss Bruckner? Figure Ashley’s out, else you’d have named her right away.”

  Ashley’s mom is on the warpath because she missed curfew two nights in a row. Why she didn’t clue me in ahead of time remains a mystery, especially since she knows I have to check in with her mom on nights when Aunt Katie’s out of town. Ashley’s been super tightlipped on her whereabouts. Come to think of it, she’s been quiet about a lot of things lately. I assumed Whit was playing a part in the story, but now?

  Anyway, when Mr. Tate called, asking if I wanted to pick up a shift, I jumped on it. Anything to avoid sitting in a crossfire.

  “Williams?”

  He slides into the booth, resting his elbow directly in the spot I just cleaned. Intentional, or not—though I’d like to state for the record I believe this boy knows exactly what he’s doing, forcing his way into my line of sight—the action tests my paper-thin armor.

  Shawn and I seem to be on the slow fizzle back into the strictly-friends zone, something I’m not entirely unhappy about. Just takes me back to square one without a prospect on the horizon.

  I ignore the penetrable heat of his gaze on my face, keep my head down. Watch as his fingers tap the Formica surface, strangely mimicking the erratic rhythm of my heartbeats. For the sake of my equilibrium, the safest thing to do would be to run, but it’s like I’ve been glamoured, or something. I can’t make myself leave.

  In a slow, scenic tour starting at his neatly blunted nails, my gaze traverses over long fingers across the fine hairs dusting his knuckles, captivated as it journeys along a river of raised veins, and how they flow over the striated muscles of his forearm.

  How in the heck does this boy stay so tan? Sleep on low bake during the winter months? “None of—”

  “Don’t you get tired of that line?” he interrupts, brows raised. “Seems to me you’d get sick of throwin’ it out there, knowin’ it hasn’t stopped me from askin’.”

  “No more sick than you seem to not get from hearing it.”

  “Oh.” He counters with this ridiculously over exaggerated cough. “Well, it does feel” another cough, “like I’m sorta comin’ down with somethin’, now you mention it.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How I get home isn’t your concern,” I amend my previously intended answer, “but no, it’s not Shawn.”

  Courtney Miller asked me almost the same thing right before she and Ryan jetted out of here. What’s up with that? Like I said, Shawn’s pretty much gone back to treating me the way he used to. Mostly platonic. Outside of seeing a movie together last weekend, the only time we spend together is when he’s met me at my locker.

  Wait.

  Courtney wasn’t the only one asking questions. I should’ve known Ryan was up to something when he asked how long it takes me to finish cleaning at the end of my shift.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Figured we’d finally get ‘round to talkin’ ‘bout what happened ‘tween us.”

  “I can’t swim, you saved me.”

  “You know that ain’t what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, Simone.”

  Okay. Deep breath.

  I allow my eyes to reach their ultimate destination, find exactly what I expected—that lethal hazel gaze and those kissable lips of his lifted in that sanity-erasing grin.

  My pulse shifts into overdrive. “Nothing to talk about, Cowboy.”

  Whit plows those long, tan fingers through his visibly damp hair, releasing the spicy fragrance of his shampoo into the air surrounding us. Like a druggie, I inhale the scent deep into my lungs, hold my breath.

  “Maybe not for you, beautiful girl, but I can go on and on.”

  The air whooshes out of captivity.

  Beautiful?

  Focus, Simone!

  “Where you want me to start?” he presses.

  “Ashley,” I manage. Really, do I need to say anything else?

  “Haven’t forgotten her. More reason for us to deal. Stop pretendin’ nothin’s happenin’, ‘cause I gotta be honest, a whole lot of somethin’s been happenin’ for me since that night.”

  Take a number, buddy. “It was just a kiss.”

  Sort of like how Beethoven was just a piano player.

  He chuckles. “Alrighty. Elvis was a singer—”

  Guess that works, too, sarcasm and all.

  “—regardless, we still need to talk about it.”

  “Why?”

  He flashes that easy, playful grin, waggles his brows. “So I can figure out how to get you to do it again.”

  Spell broken.

  I regain the use of my limbs, if not
my good sense, snatch the forgotten rag from the seat where it’s rested next to my knee for the duration of this nonsense.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” I toss up a parting wave so he knows this conversation is done.

  Thing is, he’s quick. Excels at just about every sport Grant High offers, so I shouldn’t be surprised when he easily catches me by the wrist, but I am.

  The roughened callouses on his palm sends electric jolts to every one of my nerve endings. An involuntary shiver races down my spine and a gasp glides from between my lips before I can stop it. Sweat glands open all over my body like floodgates despite the air from the vent blowing directly over my head. I darn near whimper when his fingertips lightly stroke the telltale evidence of how affected really I am by his presence.

  This time it’s him who sucks in an audible breath.

  “Thought I was in this alone, but I’m beginnin’ to think you’re feelin’ it, too,” he drawls softly, so low, were I not so in tune with everything about the boy, I might’ve otherwise misunderstood.

  Plausible deniability. We’ve discussed it in Civics. CIA concocted, back when JFK was president. Made it so they could withhold information from other government officials about their misdeeds in the event they ever got caught in some mess. Mr. Shreve explained it as a legal right to shrug or the license to say “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the same way I tell Whit now.

  Well, I’m sure they said it with way more confidence and a lot less stuttering, but, whatev.

  “Think you do. Nah, I know you do. Look at me, Simone.” With a gentle tug, he urges me to turn until we’re facing one another. My mouth goes instantly dry. His hypnotic gaze zaps the rest of my resistance. “You’re no victim here. Like it or not, you kissed me back. Unlike you, I’m willin’ to admit jus’ how much I enjoyed it. God’s honest truth, you’re all I think about lately. Also, there’s a damn good possibility I’ll be the buffest lawyer on the planet, all the push-ups I’ve been doin’ for a distraction. That’s provided I make it that far, given the danger of tankin’ my GPA, if I can’t shake you outta my brain.”

  His blunt honesty may be more than I can take. Can’t he see I’m trying to save both of us? Does he not realize that admission only complicates the situation? Obviously, one of us needs to do some serious damage control.

  I shrug, hope I’m conveying total boredom. “Fine. You wanna talk? Talk.”

  “Can we sit?”

  “No. Yes. No.”

  Crud.

  Mortified, I shift backward, desperate for escape. Unfortunately, I don’t get far since he’s still has a secure grasp on my wrist. Still some distance provides room for further inspection. I note the worn gray V-neck paired with faded black sweatpants that, too, have seen better days, and . . .

  Blue flip flops? Not even good ones. Those cheap dollar store variety. A definite contradiction of the boots he favors. Somehow, his unusual unkempt appearance is what I need to gather my runaway nerves. This is the closest to mortal I’ve ever seen him.

  “I rushed,” he explains, undoubtedly seeing the smile tickling my lips. “Ryan said you were near done.”

  “You can’t keep doing that.”

  “Rushin’?”

  “Thinking about me,” I correct. “It’s not cool.”

  Finally, he releases his hold on my arm, plowing both hands into his hair. His cheeks puff out with his exasperated sigh.

  “Think I don’t know that already? That’s why I’m tryna convince you we need to deal with this instead of you hidin’ out in the reference section of the library.”

  He knows about that?

  “Yeah, I know where you hide and it’s time you stop, Simone. Even Ashley speaks, so this vanishin’ act of yours only makes our—whatever this is more obvious.”

  Okay, he might have a point. Ashley did comment how she wished to have been a fly on the wall while Whit and I were in the closet because I’ve been so cold with him ever since.

  “All right, Cowboy, I’ll speak when I see you from now on. We done now?”

  Whit doesn’t appear the least bit fazed by my pitiful attempt at rudeness. To prove it, he reaches out, plays with a strand of my hair that has worked its way out of the limp bun resting against my neck. Using the tip of his finger, he traces the shell of my ear, igniting an inferno inside of me.

  The muscles in his neck constrict as he inhales.

  “You blush,” he whispers. “Maybe I’m imaginin’ things, but I’m thinkin’ this cowboy’s gettin’ under your skin. Am I right?”

  If he only knew. “What do I do to make it stop?”

  “Oh, man.” He chuckles, drags a hand over his mouth. “Not even gonna tell you how dangerous that question really is, Simone.”

  That’s where he’s wrong. What’s dangerous is how much I want to know the answer. Because I’ve tried figuring out the answer alone for years now. A little input might help. Tremendously.

  “This breaks girl code.”

  “What?”

  “You. Us. Here. Like this. Breaks the girl code. All the codes. We shouldn’t be talking, saying this stuff. I’m not that girl who cheats or messes around behind her friend’s back. Maybe . . . maybe I don’t really know you, but I don’t think you’re that guy, either.”

  “We need to spend some time together. Jus’ you and me.”

  “Did you not—”

  Whit places the same hand he used to cover his smile over my lips, shushing the rest of my question. The fresh scent of his cologne fills my nostrils. I lock my knees.

  “Hearin’ you fine, darling, and you’re right. I ain’t that guy, which is why I’m here. Believe it or not, I think we want the same thing, to undo whatever we did in that closet. Hurtin’ Ashley more than I already have ain’t somethin’ I wanna make a habit of, which is why I’m askin’ for your help. Hang out with me. One night, purely platonic. We’ll prove our chemistry, or whatever, is nothin’ more than the beginning of an overdue friendship.”

  Friendship.

  What if one of us surpassed that possibility ages ago?

  The two of us hanging out? It’ll never work, a reality he’s plenty smart enough to understand. Sure, on the surface, his proposition sounds safe, but there’s no way possible he’s forgotten how we lost our minds in less than two minutes while confined in a closet with a roomful of people sitting right outside the door, one being our strongest common link. Call me boring on top of crazy, but I am so not a threesome kinda chick.

  He has to know we can’t be trusted for one whole night, alone, no less. What are we supposed to do? Toss around a football, chat about which teams have a shot at going to the Super Bowl?

  Either I sit down, or I’ll melt into a puddle at his feet. Somehow, I doubt that will give me a leg up in the argument we’re about to have.

  I ease around him, careful not to touch any part of his body. The vinyl seat protests my undignified flop as I settle back into the booth we vacated. I hold my tongue until Whit reclaims his seat on the other side.

  “Listen—” I clear my throat, start again. “Listen to me, Whit.”

  He leans forward, crosses his arms on top of the table. Smiles. “You have my undivided attention.”

  Heaven help me. “What you’re asking can’t happen. We can’t hook up.”

  That earns me a head shake and a deep sigh.

  “Ain’t askin’ for a hookup, Simone. I’m askin’ for a chance to spend time with you. Get to know you so maybe, jus’ maybe, I can get over the fascination.”

  “Is that what you’re calling this? Fascination?”

  “Better than pretendin’ this is nothin’. Glad to hear you’re finally comin’ ‘round, though.”

  On any other day of the week, with anyone else, I’d like to think I’m quick-witted. Whit Devereaux, however, is winning every round tonight. My sparring capabilities are landing somewhere around non-existent. Maybe I’ve inhaled too many grease fumes.

  Where the heck is Aunt Katie?

&n
bsp; “How does getting to know me help this go away?”

  Out comes The Grin.

  Devereauxs are pure trouble. Earlier, I witnessed his little brother charming some poor girl into a future heartbreak.

  “Done a lot of thinkin’.” My eyes follow his movement as he rubs the stubble shading the underside of his chin. “Realized I know next to nothin’ about you. Weird, considerin’ how close you and Ashley are. All the times we’ve hung out, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about anything personal. You’re a mystery. Thinkin’ that’s the allure.”

  Is that supposed to be flattering? “Gee, good to know it has nothing to do with my irresistible beauty.”

  “Fishin’ for compliments, Simone?”

  A little. “Nope. Have you considered the possibility that there isn’t that much to tell? You know my friends, where I go to school. Where I work. How much more do you need to know?”

  “Don’t know. Big stuff. Little stuff. What makes you tick?”

  “Hold up, you’re saying all I need to do is tell you things like my favorite color or which peanut butter I prefer? Then, you’ll let this go?”

  The grin and another chin rub. Mercy!

  “You’re a riot, Simone. But, yeah, tell me ‘bout yourself.”

  I sit back in the booth, cross my arms over my chest. This boy has been chasing me for weeks all so he can find out which salad dressing I like best? He can’t possible believe this will work.

  “Fine, where do I start?”

  “Wherever you want.”

  “Clearly nowhere since we’ve established I’ve shared so little thus far.”

  “Good point. What’s your middle name?”

  “Really? You show up at my job at 9:45 on a Wednesday night to ask my middle name?”

  “Gotta start somewhere.” His left brow quirks high, underlining the slightly damp strands of hair that have fallen over his forehead.

  He’s serious.

  “Unbelievable.” I rub my eyes. “Elizabeth. Happy?”

  “Hmm, Simone Elizabeth Bruckner. Has a nice ring.”

  My cellphone buzzes. Finally. “I’ve gotta go. My ride’s here and my stuff’s still in the breakroom.”

  “I’ll wait, walk you out.”

  “Another not so good idea,” At least a few of my synapses are firing tonight. I cross my arms, determined to take home at least one win. “Your pseudo-girlfriend is coming to chill at my house tomorrow night.” This may be an untruth in light of her recent activities, but he doesn’t know that. “I’d rather not have to lie should my aunt casually mention how her pseudo-boyfriend escorted me to the car the night before.”