31 Kisses

by Sonya Jesus

  I’m not that lucky and neither is she. I recognize the signs of trying to blend in because I’ve perfected it. I do nothing that draws too much attention to myself or anything that loosens my lips. I carry a cup of alcohol at a party and sip sporadically. I take it to the bathroom with me, and always return with it almost empty. I count the cups and wobble on my feet when people are watching, but I’m probably the only sober frat boy you’ll find at Forrest Hill.

  She does the same thing, adapting in her own way. She always dresses to the theme, careful not to stand out amongst the other girls. She drinks for entertainment and never to the brink of obliteration. She doesn’t make an effort to meet new people, which I don’t mind because that means she comes here for me.

  She doesn’t need to speak to tell me she needs me. I wish I understood why she tries so desperately to fit in when she obviously stands out. I’ve never been so curious about someone in my life.

  Being curious can cost you your life, son. I remember my father’s words just before the day he disappeared. Keep your nose out of other people’s business and keep your head down. You’re going to get through this.

  My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach and soaks in bile, temporarily obliterating Kelsie’s presence. He never promised that we would make it through. Kade always said two things. The first was, “He didn’t want this kind of life for you, kid,” and the second, “Putting the right kind of information in the wrong kinds of hands is how you get yourself killed.”

  Those two things have plagued me for over five years. Dad didn’t want this life for me, but he gave it to me anyway. By leaving that pen drive he ensured I’d always be safe, but it also meant I’d always have a target on my back, and because of that target, I had to live my life like a nomad—a lonely nomad.

  I even have a single because I’ve been known to sleep talk every once in a while. It also means I can’t let girls sleep over, or fall asleep with them there. It’s earned me the kind of reputation the Phi Alphas worship, but I’d trade it for one night where I can wake up with Kelsie in my arms.

  I snort to myself and take a sip of my beer. Since when did I want I want to be more than just another jackass at Phi Alpha?

  Always.

  This isn’t me. My whole life I haven’t been allowed to be me. If my father hadn’t put us all in danger, I’d still be Jason. My mom would still be alive, and I’d be a football god somewhere at a Division One school, not some early education major at this nowhere school.

  I sigh and lay my head against the large pillow above the backrest of the wicker sofa and stare at the ceiling, contemplating the what-ifs of a life without a Beneventi threat on my back.

  Mourning my identity will get me nowhere.

  I finish the rest of the beer and head inside for another one. On my way, Stone wiggles his cup in the air. I sniff the vodka mixture and nod before entering the empty kitchen. I toss Stone’s cup in the trash and pour him some more of his homemade Alpha Juice, as he likes to call it. I take another Heineken from the fridge, uncap it, and take a swig. Then I head to the bathroom, lock the door, and dump the beer out into the sink. I refill the bottle with water until just below the beginning of the bottleneck and dry my hands. I grab both drinks and head back outside.

  The porch is empty, except for the gorgeous girl who is going to be the death of me one day. I’m eventually going to fuck up because of her, and get myself killed.

  She’s sitting in Stone’s spot with her legs propped up on the table. She looks pensive and beautifully lost in thought as she stares out toward the crowd. I hold the cup in front of her face, cutting off her line of vision.

  “Thanks,” she says, grabbing the cup and taking a sip. Her jacket is zipped up until the very top, covering her neck. She tucks her face within the flaps and hides her nose from the breeze that has picked up.

  I round the outer part of the coffee table, so I don’t disturb her, and take a seat next to her. I smile when our arms touch and she doesn’t move away.

  “You cold?” I ask.

  “Only guys would have a party where they make girls wear nothing in December.”

  I laugh and brush my fingers over the thin material of her very short skirt. “This is not nothing.” I lower my voice and get closer, in case Stone is somewhere listening. “I’ve seen you in nothing, and it looks a lot better on you than hooker clothes.”

  She throws her head back in a loud chuckle and then turns it toward me. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  I resist the urge to kiss her red-stained lips and bring the water beer bottle to my mouth and chug. When I’m done, I lean back. “You should. It’s true. Never seen a girl look as good in nothing as you.” I point to the hot pink stilettos. “Though, I wouldn’t mind seeing you in nothing but those.”

  “Don’t tell me you have a shoe fetish?”

  “I have a you fetish,” I admit, a little too boldly. I rein my libido back in. “Where’s Stone?”

  “Smooth transition there.” She bends her knees, not caring that she’s flashing anyone who looks toward the porch. “He and Breaker took a ride to talk in private.”

  I grab the blanket from the solo chair and hand it to her. “Why didn’t they just go inside to talk? No one’s home. Everyone’s off getting drunk.”

  She smiles, takes the blanket, and extends it over her legs. Cradling the drink in her lap, she takes a damp tissue from a packet in her pocket and wipes off the bright red lipstick. “I hate this stuff.”

  Good. She looks better without it.

  She looks at me with round eyes, awed and flawed, as if I caught her completely off guard with my comment, or offended her somehow.

  Shit. “What did I say?”

  “Nothing,” she says softly and wipes the rim of her cup before tossing the napkin onto the table.

  We sit there in silence. Me, repeating the words I said over and over in my head as I try to find the trigger, and her, distancing herself from whatever emotion they had triggered. A wave of sadness hits the air around us, blowing caution between us like a gust of wind. Both of us sit here waiting for the warning to dissipate, neither knowing how to make it disintegrate. The words that can clarify her ‘nothing’ comment lodge themselves in her throat, refusing to reveal the truths her mind holds.

  She sips from her cup and swallows more than just alcohol, while I stare at my bottle, seeing nothing but turbid clarity. I should ask for clarification and expose my feelings, but it’s not that easy to be transparent. So, I sit there, letting the now cooler December air numb my cheeks.

  “They’re going to take a while,” she says, breaking the comfortable silence we have become used to.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask, even though I know that’s her cue to go upstairs. Maybe a shard of my fragmented existence wanted more.

  She looks at me, confused by my concern. “Umm…yeah.” She trails off and then shrugs one shoulder. “Sort of.” She’s still studying me as if I were a frog on her dissection table that just hopped to life.

  “He’s sick.” She meant that to come out vacant, devoid of any kind of emotion, but it exposed the very thing she was trying to conceal.

  “Who’s sick?”

  “Their father.”

  “You’re scared?”

  Her eyes widen for a moment, baring her soul to me, but they quickly cloud over with indifference. “He’s worried. He wanted to tell Stone when he came home for Thanksgiving, but he never showed.”

  “We were in California, scoping out places for him to rent next year.”

  “Yeah,” she says, not at all happy with the situation. “That’s another thing Breaker is talking to Stone about. They need him here, not halfway across the country.”

  “What do they need him for?”

  She squints her eyes at me and smiles. “You’re really chatty tonight.”

  “Not every night that someone throws Stone off his game. He’s my best friend, I want to know what I’m dealing with to help him out.�
��

  She leans toward me. “You’re a good friend, Hayden.”

  “Thanks,” I say with a smile. I distract my mouth with the bottle before I say, I could be a good boyfriend too.

  “Close families are like that. Losing one is like losing a limb.” She holds both hands in the air, again cradling the cup on her lap. She wiggles her fingers. “If I slice one off, I still have nine others, but this hand would have to adapt to the loss. It’ll lose efficiency. Small tasks become hard, and it will never be the same again.” She lowers the hand that held four fingers. “The other hand has to pick up the slack.”

  I nod and take a swig of water. She has a morbid imagination. “It’s better not to lose any fingers,” I add.

  She smiles. “Exactly.” A little bit of the seriousness in her tone and face vanishes. “I love Stone, but I come here for you.”

  I nearly choke on my water. “For me?” I clear my throat.

  “For you,” she repeats as she transfers the cup from her lap to the floor.

  “I mean, I always suspected,” I joke. “I like being told I’m right.”

  She’s not laughing.

  I have a feeling the talking part of our night is over, and the way her hungry eyes stare me down, confirms it.

  “Want to go inside?” I ask, like I always do.

  She gets up first, shoves the blanket aside, steps over the cup, and heads into the house. I follow her up the stairs, down the hall, and straight into my room. She takes her phone out of her jacket pocket, shuts it off, and places it back inside the jacket. I lean against the dresser when I catch her determined gaze in the mirror. A fluttery feeling fills my chest as I watch her kick off her heels. Her fingers reach for the zipper and she tugs it down. She shrugs off her jacket slowly and throws it on the computer chair.

  My mouth moistens with anticipation until I realize her shirt is torn. Her perfect breasts are not entirely hidden under any articles of clothing. Alarms sound in my head. “What happened to your shirt?”

  She looks down and pumps her shoulders, calming me slightly. “I wanted to play the part.” She smiles at me, dissolving my doubt in the process. “What? I didn’t want to stick out, so I tore my shirt to show my new hot pink bra. Like it?” She lifts her shirt over her head and drops it on the floor.

  God, there’s not a thing on her worth disliking. She’s by far the hottest girl I’ve ever had in this room. “Yeah,” I say, not at all referring to the bra. “Perfection is hard to dislike.”

  She saunters over to the light switch, and flips it off. “Are you saying I’m perfect, Hayden?” She removes her skirt; the light from the desk lamp outlines her curves.

  Hell, fucking yeah, she’s perfect.

  She reaches for the clasp of her bra, unfastens it, and drops it to the floor. “Because I’m not perfect. I’m far from perfect.” Her panties drop around her ankles, negating every word out of her mouth. She saunters over to me, her distance from the light diminishing the darkness.

  “I’m usually a good judge of these things,” I add. Every fucking inch of her skin is glowing in front of me, providing evidence as to why she’s perfection in the flesh.

  “Would you still like me if I wasn’t perfect?”

  That right there—the self-doubt and the lack of arrogance—attests to the perfection within her. “Yeah, Kelsie,” I say as she gets closer. “I’ve always liked the perfect, imperfect you.”

  She sighs at my words with her body. Expertly wedging herself between my arms, she presses herself flush against me. Her lips find my neck, and her hands find my waist. While skillfully freeing me of my pants, she asks, “Why are you still dressed, Hayden?”

  I agree. There’s too much cloth between us.

  She steps back so I can pull my shirt over my head. I step out of my sneakers, jeans, and boxers, kicking them under the bed. She comes to me again.

  Arms wrap around bodies.

  Bodies press against skin.

  Skin pulses with every exhilarating thump of the heart.

  Her lips find my neck again, and I close my eyes. The hasty beat of my heart overwhelms my mind with endorphins, electrifying every modest touch and transforming it into bold, commanding demands, which my dick is quick to respond to.

  “Hmm,” she purrs when she feels my excitement against her skin. She retracts her lips from my neck momentarily to say, “I’ve missed this.”

  I open my eyes. The small confession elates me more than the fact that she drops to her knees in front of me. She’s let me into her heart tonight, more than ever. I step closer, insinuating my approval. Eye level with my arousal, she slides her hair to the side, exposing the bruises on her neck.

  The crushing impulse to protect her overrides any sexual instinct and snaps me back to a normal state of mind. Before she reaches for my shaft with her lips, I gently brush back the strands of hair covering the marks on her skin.

  She freezes. Her hands are wrapped around me.

  “Did you paint these on too?”

  I expect her to withdraw and internalize the truth, but she surprises me. “No, those are real.”

  “Kelsie…” I trail off as I reach for her to stand.

  “Not what you think.” She knocks my hand away before gliding her tongue over my tip.

  I hiss as she takes me in her mouth. I run my hands through my hair as frustration and fulfilment battle it out within me. I want to know more, but she’s naked and sucking my dick like it’s a cactus with the only water in the desert. I groan, “Fuck, Kelsie.”

  Her hands come around to my back, and she cups my ass, guiding me in deeper and deeper. I have to pull back. Either I’m going to come and she’s going to choke on my nut, or at this pace, I’m going to hurt her.

  “What are you doing?” she asks the second I free myself from her.

  I’m throbbing. Desire is pulsating through me, but I listen when she berates me. “Tell me what those are.”

  “You shouldn’t care,” she says with a softness to her annoyed tone, like she’s happy that I do. She stands and studies me. Then shoves me against my dresser, nearly knocking off the contents on the top of it. She puts both hands on my shoulders and hops onto my lap, wrapping her legs around me as she holds onto my neck.

  Instinctively, I hold her up. “I do care,” I affirm, as she looks deeply into my eyes.

  “Shit,” she whisper-growls and climbs up my body, putting herself in position and groping me. “I’m going to need you to stop doing that.”

  A second later, I’m inside her, and she’s using the muscles in her legs to set the rhythm.

  I moan her name as she moans mine, and I relinquish control because she seems like she needs it. I suppose vulnerability isn’t something she’s used to.

  Her hands are in my hair, and her eyes are on mine, watching my reaction to her. I match her every movement, giving into her every whim. Before we topple over, I lead her to my bed and gently lay her down.

  “Say you’re going to stop caring after tonight,” she orders in the form of a whisper.

  That’s one whim I won’t concede to. “No.”

  3

  The Real Breaker

  Kelsie

  Hayden’s lips feel like fire on my skin, burning through every trace of Major Stein. He’s always done that. Fixed me.

  That’s why after every kill, I always end up here—in Hayden’s room—in his arms, with no barriers between us. With him, I exist outside of the Beneventi family. I can be a girl whose major concern is not drinking too much at a frat party, rather than an assassin with a hit list waiting for my next kill. I can pretend with him and still feel real.

  I hate that.

  I hate that this son of a bitch makes me normal.

  I hate that I love him.

  He’s not supposed to care. As a matter-of-fact, I need him to stop caring before it gets us both killed, but it feels so fucking perfect to know some of his heart belongs to me. That the first person I’ve loved since my father died, might lo
ve me back.

  Shit.

  I’ve said the word love too many times already—but maybe now that he has me pinned underneath him—he’ll give in. I dig my nails into his back. I’m close to reaching my orgasm, and I’m afraid to come down from this high, knowing our relationship has shifted. So, before I unravel, I beg in the form of a demand, “Say you’re going to stop caring after tonight.”

  Then I hold my breath and selfishly hope he doesn’t.

  He doesn’t break a stride. He thrusts skillfully into me, with all the gentleness I need and all the strength I crave. “No,” he answers adamantly while propelling me to the brink.

  “Hayden,” I warn him that his answer is wrong because I loved it. Loving Hayden is like putting him on my hit list. One day, I’ll be the reason he’s gunned down on a street, or blown to pieces in his car. Mobsters don’t fall in love, unless they want the person gone from existence.

  I try to save him one more time. “Say it.”

  “No, Kelsie.”

  “Please,” I submit my plea to the air. My eyes water as he breaks through my defenses, lifting me to a place where the weight of the night and my life can’t crumble me to pieces.

  “I’m still going to care tomorrow.”

  I reach the top and cling to his answer as I swing wildly in the air of our release. He collapses beside me. Our heartbeats syncopate with each other as we dangle in the throes of our ecstasy.

  Our breaths slow, and each exhale brings me closer to reality. I turn into him and rest my head on his chest. I trace the ridges of his muscles, admiring the care he takes in his appearance. His hand closes in on mine as if he needs me to listen to what his body is whispering. My palm soaks in the vibrations of his heart, listening. Without words, he tells me the one thing I’m most afraid of.

  “You still care?” I ask. Fear latches on to my heart as I wait for confirmation.

  “I don’t have a choice.”