The Kissing Game (Innocent Series Book 9)

by Kendall Duke

  The

  Kissing

  Game

  By Kendall Duke

  Copyright © 2019 Kendall Duke

  The Kissing Game Published by Amazon Digital Services, LLC

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and other certain noncommercial uses as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  ASIN: B07VHJJ3DS

  Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  Front Cover design by designacover of Fiverr.com. Printing distribution by Amazon Digital Services, LLC, in the United States.

  First printing edition 2019.

  Benji

  This was the worst job ever.

  When I was fifteen, my uncle paid me to climb up onto the roof of the barn and clean out rat nests. When I was twelve, one of the guys at school paid me a quarter to stand on my hands for half an hour, and I did it because I really, really wanted a soda from the cafeteria—bad choice, but what the hell, I was twelve, right? Then, when I was nineteen, I worked as a CNA during the graveyard shift at the nursing home where my mom worked; it was the saddest, most depressing thing I’d ever done.

  But it still wasn’t as bad a job as this one.

  Now I was twenty-two, trying desperately to finish my nursing degree, and working as a bar-tender downtown, which kind of combined all three of the crappiest jobs I’d ever had into one: serving chronic alcoholics was about as depressing as chasing Alzheimer’s patients down at three in the morning, and made about as much sense. Cleaning puke out of the toilets every night trumped the occasional rat nest. And serving assholes until they were officially drunk assholes was very similar to the pointless and painful task of standing on my head for an indeterminate amount of time, only to be rewarded with a warm, flat cola and the reluctant respect of the seventh grade class.

  In a way, I guess I was prepared. But is there really anything that can prepare you for such disappointment? I don’t know.

  Because I’d expected all the upsides: the occasional free drink, listening to incredible music every night, meeting musicians and high-fiving them on the way off the stage like the band nerd I once was. But the reality was pretty different. They were drunk and exhausted, and if they were dudes they wanted a blowjob, not a high five. I was too tired to drink and still make it to class, and I worked all weekend. And half of the bands stunk—even if they were amazing in the studio, they were terrible live. It’s hard to describe what a let-down that was.

  But tonight was the best band yet, and I was trying hard to hold myself together. I didn’t want to be disappointed by them; I’d been listening to this group for four years, since I graduated high school and they had an addictive song on college radio that sucked me in right away. Their lead singer was a handsome devil; I’d been following along with their career forever, in spite of the name of the band: Groovebone. It made me cringe, but that first song… It was really good, not to mention the rest of the album. It hit you in the heart. I used The Kissing Game as my ring-tone for two years, before I started working at Dirge, and when I found out Groovebone was playing tonight I did everything I could to get out of my shift. Unfortunately, I’d be working the whole time, but at least I could still listen and sing along from behind the bar. I was pumped.

  “Batter up,” Geordie yelled over the bar, letting me know that the band were coming in for their comp meals and setting up the stage. I made myself available, putting the glasses I was washing away and wiping my hands on my apron. I allowed myself a quick look in the long, blurry mirror behind me and checked my teeth. When they sauntered in, I was ready.

  “Hey,” I said, smiling up at them. He was just as good looking in real life—Tony, the lead singer, smiled back at me and I already didn’t mind that I was working. Maybe this was even better? I could actually talk to them, at least a little bit. “What can I get you?”

  Uh-oh.

  All the joy drained out of my body.

  It’s amazing what you can tell from just one look. Especially after working behind a bar, because one look is all you’re going to get sometimes before a person reveals their true self to you: drunken asshole, entitled moron, hapless friend dragged out with a group of drunken, entitled assholey morons who stuck them with the bill…

  I was getting a quick read on Groovebone. A whole novel, in fact.

  I’m only five feet tall. For some reason, people think this gives them the right to talk about how cute I am as if I were also five years old, and as I watched Tony’s eyes slide up and down my figure while the guitarist and bassist giggled like idiots I could tell that the three of them were going to be trouble—not fun trouble. Shitty, puke-covered, macho prick trouble. And it was my responsibility to pour a bunch of beer on top of trouble to make it grow into all the macho shittiness it could be. Fantastic. I felt the smile on my face tighten as they leered down at me.

  I’m quitting tomorrow. I swear.

  “I’ll have a shot of you, darling,” the guitarist said. He’ll be known henceforth as Disappointment #1.

  “Mmm. Me too.” Disappointment #2, the bassist.

  “Relax, guys, give her some room,” the lead singer said, and I tried not to be overly grateful; he was so pretty, wrote such insightful songs… Was it possible I’d misread him? Please, please, please tell me I misread him. And then he turned towards me, swung his hair out of his eyes like a sorority girl tossing a ponytail, and gave me a look that crept over my skin like spilled motor oil. “She’s here for me. Aren’t you, sweetie?”

  Ugh. Disappointment #3.

  “Three PBRs, coming right up.” I turned to the fourth guy, the drummer, with my smile still frozen on my face. He and the lead singer started the band together; all the songs were credited to both of them. But he didn’t talk in interviews and tended to stay in the background. He was a very long, lean guy with a shock of black hair that hid his eyes, broad shoulders, wide chest. Not bad looking, but something about him was intimidating instead of approachable. He had the wariness of a wild animal… Feral, I thought. He looked a little bit wild—and not in the wild-on-the-weekends kind of way. He looked like he might be carrying a knife, instead of just wearing a tattoo of one like these other three punks. “And for you?”

  A dark eye met mine from under the sheet of black hair hanging in his face, but he just shook his head and turned away, studying the stage.

  “Sweetie, listen,” the lead singer said, draping himself over the bar. “I really, really need a special friend tonight. Like a cheerleader—a sweet, supple, teensy-tiny—”

  “Leave her alone,” Disappointment #2 said, and I was relieved until he continued. “I called dibs.”

  “I saw her first,” Disappointment #1 called, and then all three of them laughed like they’d told a really funny joke.

  “Here are your beers,” I said, plopping them on the bar. Disappointment #3 snaked out a long arm and wrapped his fingers around my wrist. I stared down at it, letting him see the disgust in my face, but he didn’t let go.

  “How about you be my Big Yes tonight?” It was a play on words—kind of, I suppose, if you were an idiot—and the name of their latest single. He waggled his eyebrows while the other two giggled again.

  “You know, I really liked that song until about five minutes ago,” I snapped, yanking on my arm. “How about we say a big yes to me biting your fuck
ing fingers off?”

  “Yow! Fiesty!” Something glittered in his eyes under the dull sheen of expectation and entitlement. Jesus, what a let-down. I reached down and picked up the knife I used to cut lemons when a long-fingered, muscly paw wrapped around his wrist.

  “L-let her go, Tony.” It was the drummer, and not only did he look like a wild animal right now, he sounded like one too. His voice was a growl, barely human.

  The singer did, immediately, almost as if he’d suffered the consequences of defying the drummer before. I yanked my arm away and gave Disappointment #3 another tight smile, but this time I flipped the knife in my hand, letting it land in my palm before I put it back on the counter and sauntered away.

  I really need a new job, I thought again. Tomorrow.

  Tomorrow.

  Leo

  I needed to quit this band.

  Fuck it. This was the last gig. Tomorrow I was out, even if it meant I had to go back to working construction. Tony’s dad wouldn’t even tell me no, I was sure; he understood the way things were, better than just about anybody else. No way in hell was I going to spend another minute with these pieces of shit.

  Tony and I grew up together. When we started playing music our sophomore year of high school, it took one wink from a pretty girl to make up his mind: we were going to be rockstars. No matter what it took. No matter who got hurt or who we let down or what sacrifices we made, we were going to be legends.

  The thing was, I didn’t understand at the time that Tony wasn’t really capable of making sacrifices, or of having the discipline it would take to climb the ladder of fame and learn how to make good music; he just collected people who did all the hard work for him, and then they got hurt and let down.

  And he became a legend.

  I blamed myself most of all.

  I let him take too much credit. I shouldn’t have given him any, really, for our first album—he hadn’t written a word. But I guess he contributed to the harmonies, and I was a better friend than he was, in the end. Even his own father kept telling me that. Why isn’t Tony coming to work, Leo? Why are you here at eight in the morning when I know you went to sleep at four, and he can’t even make it out of bed to apologize? His father’s construction crew made decent money, and I grew up doing the work, so it wasn’t too hard on me to lean into the grind. Besides, I didn’t want to tell anybody the truth, not Tony’s dad or anyone else: I hated being on stage. I hated the spotlight. I didn’t look the part—people expect pretty boys to front bands, and that’s not me. But the real problem was my stutter. I play drums, guitar, bass, I write the songs… But I don’t want to stand up and sing them in front of people.

  It’s not exactly shyness. It’s more like… Realism.

  So we did that for a long time, maybe three or four years—they all blur together for me, I slept so damn little. But I built a lot of buildings, and I built a couple decent albums, always pretending to be in the background. Tony got this idea that he was a real musician somewhere along the way so he started adding more of his touches to the songs. Some of them were really catchy. Some of them were absolute garbage. But I could always rely on him to strut around the stage looking hot, and he never came across as his real self in interviews. People loved him.

  People didn’t feel like that about me. When I’d been younger I wished they did, but I was just plain different, and too intense besides. Too much went wrong too early, and I just set off something in most folks that made them feel like they had to be careful around me. Although I used it to my advantage these days, I still had moments when I was truly jealous of the easy way Tony moved through the world.

  So our whole dynamic was fucked, you might say. And you’d be right.

  The other guys in the band were basically tag-alongs; we’d chosen them early on and they could party like Tony so they stayed. I still laid down most of the master tracks for our recordings, but they did alright live. Most of the time. But if they were already starting the night by fucking with the sexy bar-tender and tanking a six pack apiece, we were probably in for a ruinous show.

  Not that it would matter tomorrow. Tony always found ways to excuse the failures of the band, and the press gave him an amplifier and the fans loved him no matter what, so it’d be fine.

  Except that this time, when they got back on the bus I wasn’t joining. I was out. I was done. We’d finish the show, but we had a group contract and I was under no personal obligation to stick around—they’d have a new drummer by next week. The record company would find one, no problem. Might already have a couple different people lined up in the case of car accidents, overdoses, and those fist-fights I occasionally found myself in—money people were prepared for anything. And they should be, in our case.

  So I didn’t feel guilty when I grabbed his wrist and let him know I would snap it in fucking half if he didn’t let that girl go. She was the hottest thing I’d seen in ages—we had so many women coming and going on that bus I honestly thought I was immune to beauty at this point, but as soon as we came through the door I noticed her. She was tiny, with huge black eyes and long, straight dark hair, and this set to her mouth that told you she was trouble. And sure enough, the first fucking words out of Derek and those giant black eyes just shuttered, as if she were turning out the light. We weren’t getting shit out of her but what her job required.

  It made me like her. A lot.

  And when she threatened Tony and flipped that knife around in her hand I had to turn back towards the stage just so I wouldn’t fucking propose.

  I couldn’t remember the last time a girl didn’t adore Tony. That whole gambit was status quo, these days, and more often than not the girl just melted under the glow of his attention. Even if she didn’t hang around after the show, she never caught on to the fact that he was basically unzipping his fly the whole time he talked to her. If she spent the night on the bus, she left in the morning with a glassy look in her eyes and didn’t seem to understand why he couldn’t wake up to say good-bye. The manager would usher her out, give her some cash for breakfast, and tell her how much Tony loved his fans. It was disgusting.

  I’d met my fair share of women that were enchanted with musicians, and I’d spent a couple nights with them myself. But I was burned out on all of it; there wasn’t a bit of glamour left in the business for me.

  Although apparently there were still a few things I hadn’t seen. And watching that little strut as she went back to whatever didn’t require her to serve the band was probably the highlight of my night.

  “L-let’s go check on the guys,” I said, drawing Tony’s attention back to me. I didn’t like the way his eyes followed her. There was something mean-spirited in Tony, and it poked its head out sometimes… Like right now. She’d embarrassed him. “Come on,” I said, leaning down to speak directly in his ear. “Danny and Joe are doing all the work.”

  “Isn’t that what we pay them for?”

  Technically. “We n-n-need to check on the sound. They can’t do that part, Tony. If we s-start now we’ll be ready by curtain up.”

  “I don’t give a shit about the time,” Tony said, glaring at me. “I want another beer. Or four. And then I’ll get on stage.”

  “So you don’t mind sounding l-like shit?” I glared right back. “Because I do. We’ve talked about this.”

  “You’ve talked about it,” he said, shrugging me off as his eyes wandered back to the bar-tender. She had to be barely five feet tall. Probably a buck ten, soaking wet. Not that it would matter in a fight; I’d bet on her over Derrick and Louie. Not Tony though. He fought dirty. “I don’t give a shit what you say, Leo. I’m hanging out here.”

  “Tony, I’m gonna tell you this one fucking time,” I growled, and I could see his eyes widen as he registered the force in my voice. I’d lost my temper with him more than once, and I knew he remembered. “You l-l-leave her alone.”

  “I’m just ordering another beer,” he said, turning towards me with an incredulous smile. “That’s all.”
>
  “That better be.”

  His eyes narrowed and his smile became sly. “That’s cute. You got a crush, Leo? You like her?”

  “Just don’t l-let me catch you fucking with her,” I snarled. “Got it?”

  “You think she’d let me fuck with her?” Tony’s eyes popped in mock surprise. “Why, I never. You’re an animal, Leo, an absolute beastie.” He curled his lip. “She bring out the beastie in you, Leo?” Leaning forward, he whispered in my ear. “Do you really think, between you and me, she’d choose you?”

  “We go on in an hour,” I growled. “Get ready.”

  Of course she wouldn’t, but fuck him for saying it out loud.

  I was definitely quitting tonight.

  I stalked off to help the guys unload and do the sound check, his words ringing in my head.

  Because anyone with sense knew who she’d pick. When it came down to it, even if he was an absolute prick, a monster, and a terrible musician… She wouldn’t choose me. Too scary looking, too weirdly intense, too much something. And that was before she heard me stammer for the first time. I already knew it, and he did too.

  All the same. I’d keep an eye on him, and if he tried anything…

  Well. I was quitting anyway. May as well go out with a bang.

  ~~~

  Benji

  I have four brothers. I’m in the middle, so the two youngest and I managed to keep things pretty square in our house—no bullies allowed. But here behind the bar, I didn’t have any back-up. Not tonight. Groovebone was a huge band, with a real contract, building up to a serious international tour. They’d opened for a couple really big names and were going to be in a few festival line-ups next year. They were right on the cusp of actual super-stardom, and everybody in town—and fifty miles outside of it—was coming to Dirge tonight. So all of our security people were busy peeling sticky squads of groupies from the stage, dragging off free-loaders hiding in the bathroom stalls, and kicking out the drug dealers. I had to deal with these punks myself, as well as every other asshole that showed up at the bar.