A Kiss Like This (7 page)

“Only if you stop being such a cock-guzzler and go talk to her.”

“Why are you pushing this?” Caleb hisses.

“Because you’re being a little bitch-ass.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you.”

What. Is. Happening.

Amused, I watch them feverishly taunting each other in hushed whispers. Their vulgar bickering actually makes me choke back an entertained laugh.

Curiously, I brazenly advance a few feet and cock my head to the side. “Does everyone around here have a terrible nickname, or is it just the two of you?”

“Terrible nicknames?” Blaze grins down at me. “Are you trying to say that Blaze is a terrible nickname? We earned those nicknames on the ice, sweetheart.”

“Ah. And here I thought Showtime and Blaze were just s-sex references.”

“Honey, if that were the case, they’d call me Hung Like a Stallion, not Blaze.”

I blush a crimson red, embarrassed to even have asked. And yet… “Well, what does your nickname mean, anyway?” My eyes dart to Caleb, who is intently watching my exchange with his friend.

He hasn’t moved an inch of what I assume are solid muscles.

“I’m fast, and I score. A goddamn blaze of glory! My buddy Showtime here—” Blaze jerks his thumb at Caleb. “Well, he’s the best damn goaltender in the entire NCAA. Did you know that? We used to call him the Lockhart Show when he was a rookie. You should see him work his stick.” He lets out a low whistle, and I hear Caleb let out a horrified groan at the innuendo. My brows only raise a fraction as he continues. “We shortened it to Showtime, right, buddy?”

The Lockhart Show.

Lockhart.

Caleb Lockhart.

God, even his name is schmexy.

My gaze shifts and our eyes meet as Blaze continues to ramble on obliviously, and I force myself not to stare at the grass. “Showtime here could show you moves you’ve never seen. Right, buddy?” He winks at me and slaps his hand down on Caleb’s shoulder, rotating his hips like he’s got a hula-hoop around his waist. “Hockey players are notorious for giving good swivel action.”

Caleb shrugs his hand off, agitated, causing the hood covering his head to shift and giving me a better view of his dark, unruly hair.

It falls into his dark, brooding eyes, shaggy and thick, before he reaches up to brush it back under his hood. I swallow at the sight of it, guiltily looking toward the detached garage in between the two houses to avoid his intense gaze.

Bashful now, I clasp and unclasp my hands, glancing back up at the porch. “Well, I didn’t find what I was looking for, so… I’ll just… you know. Be going. Home.”

I try stuffing my hands into a pocket of my short shirt before awkwardly remembering this shirt doesn’t have one. Self-conscious of the fact that my rear end is on full display, I descend down the driveway, tennis shoes crunching on the loose concrete.

I risk a glimpse over my shoulder and find Caleb glaring after me, then quickly scurry down the driveway.

CHAPTER 7

Caleb

“Bro, you should get on that,” Bryan “Blaze” Wallace announces beside me, giving me another hard nudge. He stares off into the yard at Abby’s retreating form, both of us appreciating the view of her in tight navy yoga capris as they showcase her firm runner’s ass.

Abby looks back over her shoulder, long chestnut ponytail swinging, before her hands fumble around her aqua-blue top, searching for a pocket and failing to find one.

“For fuck’s sake, dude. Don’t just stand here, go say something.”

I’m rooted to the spot.

“Jesus Christ, Showtime, she’s going to be halfway down the goddamn street before you pull your head outta your ass.”

Blaze shoves me again, aggressively, toward the stairs. But this time, instead of resisting, I go. I go because I want to. I go because my feet are on autopilot, forgetting that chasing girls across my yard isn’t something I would normally ever do.

Bounding down the stairs, I cross the yard and make toward the sidewalk.

“Atta boy!” Blaze shouts obscenely loudly from the porch, and I shake my head skyward, making a mental note to sack him in the nuts when I get back.

I jog down the sidewalk, bounding around the corner, and falter momentarily in my tracks when I catch sight of Abby leaning against the stop-n-go light on the corner, forehead pressed to the pole and arms hanging limply at her side.

I quicken my pace. “Abby?” My voice comes out slightly panicked. “Are you okay?” I ask as I approach, jamming my hands back in my pockets.

“Oh my god, Caleb.” Abby’s head flies up, and her posture straightens as she clutches a hand to her chest. “You can’t sneak up on people like that. You scared the crap out of me.”

“I’m six foot three. It’s humanly impossible for me to sneak anywhere,” I point out sardonically. “Are you okay?” I ask again. “Why were you leaning against the pole? Did something happen?”

“Can’t a girl take a breather?” Abby ignores my question, looking both ways before hopping down from the curb and crossing the street, leaving me no choice but to trail after her.

I hesitate before gracelessly catching up.

“Yes. But you…”

When I don’t finish my sentence, she stops abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk and turns to face me. “But what?”

You scared the shit out of me
. But of course, I don’t admit that out loud.

So I just go with a casual shrug.

“I’m… sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.” My eyebrows go up as Abby emits a sigh. “I’m just frustrated. I was at the house looking for a ring.” She bites her lower lip. “It was a gift from my parents.”

Yeah, I know
.

“They gave it to me when I graduated from High School…”

I figured
.

“…and I lost it. I thought maybe it would be outside Tyler’s window, but…” She looks down at the sidewalk under our feet, her shoulders hunched in defeat.

I feel like the world’s biggest asshole.

“Have you searched his bedroom?” I casually suggest, trying to school my features so I don’t look like such a lying bastard.

“I asked him to look. I’d rather not have to go back up there; it’s pretty gross. I’m sure he would have mentioned finding it.” She doesn’t look very confident chewing on her thumbnail.

We continue walking, side by side, until we come to an old blue house with a small crooked porch that sags in the middle. Quickly assessing it, I determine it could use new siding, new windows, and new gutters. Abby stops at the end of its gravel driveway, gesturing over her shoulder.

“This is me.”

“This is where you live?”

I glance down the street, counting houses, making a mental catalog of the distance.

Two blocks away
.

“Yup. This is where I live,” she says, smiling. “Home, sweet dilapidated home.”

“It’s very majestic,” I say with a poker face, glancing over at her off-campus rental.

Her amused snicker carries in the wind. “For a dump?”

“I was going to go with shithole,” I tease, my lips almost tipping into a smile.

Almost.

Abby laughs a light, airy laugh that hums like a twinkle and causes my insides to involuntarily flutter. Then she smiles, her pale pink lips curving slowly, causing her eyes to crinkle at the corners, and I forget all about the flutters and instead focus on her face. She observes me under long, black, mascara-less lashes, and I allow myself to think that she looks damn pretty without it. Pretty without make-up, that is. Just pretty.

A smile for me, of all people.

I draw in a breath, enchanted, and stop daydreaming like a goddamn girl, when she says, “Okay, so… thanks. For, um… walking me home, I guess. At least it wasn’t very far.” She’s babbling.

I shuffle my feet uncomfortably as Abby turns her back to me, toward the house.

“See ya.” She gives a small wave over her shoulder, glancing back shyly at me like she did in my front yard. It’s a questioning glance that I’m not quite sure how to interpret. I’ve always been total shit at these kinds of things—one of the many reasons I tend to stay away from girls.

“See ya.”

But Abby doesn’t hear my reply, nor does she see my hand raised in a retreating wave.

Because she’s already in the house.

Because I waited too long.

Because I’m a fucking idiot.

***

Cecelia:
The suspense is killing me. Got any updates?

Abby:
Sort of. I went to the Omega house, which is now the hockey house, and was caught crawling around on my hands and knees
.

Cecelia:
Guys LOVE that sort of thing!
Just a
sk Jenna (wink!)

Abby:
Could you be serious for one minute
?

Cecelia:
I can only promise that I’ll try
…

CHAPTER 8

Caleb

I hate house parties.

Fucking hate them. They never end well.

What they
do
end with, is me fixing shit up—patching dry wall, repairing or replacing furniture, nailing, taping, or gluing something back together, and generally monitoring the landscape to keep the place in one solid piece so it doesn’t end up looking like the frat house next door.

House parties also occasionally end with me getting pissed off and holing up in my suite to spare myself the pain of socializing with my peers.

I should have pummeled Cubby when he started inviting people to the house, knowing it was going to get out of hand. But as usual, I don’t want anyone thinking that because my parents own the joint, I’m going to police everything that happens here.

Not my job. Well, not technically.

Retreating to the front porch, both to escape the crush inside and to grab a beer, I ignore the freshman rookie posted at the door. I open a large red cooler, snatch out an ice-cold bottle of beer, twist off the cap, and take a long, refreshing pull. I debate whether or not I should return to the house—privacy versus responsibility, solitude versus socializing. Responsibility wins, and I grab one more beer, double-fisting it before ambling back inside.

The house is already filling with people and buzzing with excitement; the Omega house is known for loud, entertaining parties that last all night and rarely get busted.

Florida Georgia Line blasts out of the stereo, and the last MLB Game replays on the giant high-def TV mounted above the fireplace in the spacious living room. Elbowing my way through the throng, I head toward the kitchen and, relieved to find it empty, set one beer down on the counter and lean my hip against the solid oak table.

My solitude lasts for all of three whopping seconds.

“Thought I’d find you in here,” Weston says, coming through the door and walking to the pantry, where I can hear him rooting around noisily¸ like a squirrel digging for a nut. Or a bear digging through a metal garbage can.

Emerging with a bag of tortilla chips, he rips it open, stuffs a few chips in his mouth, and directs his attention back to me. “You aren’t in here hiding, are you? Cause that would be silly.”

I roll my eyes and take a swig of beer.

“Molly’s out there, and she brought a few friends she expects you to meet. That chick Abby that Blaze said you chased down the street is out in the living room.”

I choke on my beer and narrow my eyes.

Fucking. Blaze
.

“What the hell were you doing chasing her down? Jeez, man, she’s best friends with Cece Carter—you know, Matt Wakefield’s girlfriend?”

Clenching my jaw, I grit out, “I did
not
chase her down the damn street.”

Weston gives me a patronizing look, like I’m some cuckoo cat lady and he has to talk slow so he doesn’t unleash the crazy. “All I’m saying is you can’t stay in here all night. You have to get out there and make nice. It’s your house; that makes you the host by default.”

I grunt and shoot him a dark glower.

“Now what are you getting all pissed about? Abby’s hot… you know. In a
cute
kind of way.” Weston snickers and stuffs more chips into his stupid fat face. As he mutters, “You’re too sensitive, bro,” chip pieces fly out of his mouth and drop to the floor. “Oophfs.”

Grabbing the second beer off the counter, I straighten to my full height and stalk into the crowded living room.

~ Abby ~

The longer I stand here, the wetter I get.

Wait. That didn’t come out right…

Sighing, the cup in my hand is jostled yet again as someone drunk bumps/dances/falls into me, creating another oh-so-attractive wet spot on the front of my shirt, and I cringe, afraid the shirt is going to be ruined by the end of this torturous night.

The shirt I was required to borrow.

Ambushed while trying to sneak out of my bedroom unnoticed, my roommates waylaid my escape with a different shirt then forced me to sit in the bathroom while Jenna curled and styled my hair. According to Jenna, and I quote: “
Abby, if you’re trying to walk out of here dressed like a librarian, it’s working. But if you want Caleb to notice you, let me amp up the sexy-cute. Nothing trashy, just a boost. Trust in the Jenna System
.”

By the way, in case you’re wondering, sexy-cute is an actual term Cecelia and I made up.

Definition:

Sexy-cute

/'seksē/
ky
ü
t
/

Adjective

Too cute to be sexy, but too sexy to be innocent and boring.

Example: “
Oh my gosh! Did you see Margaret? I thought she was such a prude, but that outfit she’s wearing is actually super sexy-cute
.”

So, yeah. Sexy-cute. Get to know it.

Since I own too many basic cotton tee shirts, I was given (by Jenna) something to wear (of hers) before being plunked down in Jenna’s famous chair of torture and dolled up by the experts (Jenna).

Are you sensing a pattern here? She’s a tyrant.

Fortunately, my new roommate took my wishes to heart, and I was still recognizable when I gazed back at my reflection in the mirror; long hair down and flat-ironed straight, black liquid liner on my top lids with a hint of onyx mascara, shiny lip gloss with a hint of coral. Jenna has me trussed in dark skinny-jean capris, a skin-hugging baby-blue wrap shirt with a deep V neck, and a thin blue belt cinching it closed and emphasizing my waist.