Kiss the Sky (3 page)

I juggle a box of old invoices and a bag of salads
and chicken primavera that’s hooked on my arm, searching for my keys in my clutch.
My phone occupies one palm, and I struggle to maintain perfect balance on my
wrap-around porch, teetering in a pair of four-inch booties.

I live in a college town: Princeton, New Jersey. And my
gated colonial house has acres of sprawling green lands, black shutters, and
winter flowers. But right now, I can’t take pleasure in the serene atmosphere.

A lens gleams to my left, filming. The camera guy is roughly
around my age, wiry and lanky. In two days, Ben has talked as much as his other
two cohorts, which is not much at all. They just shoot.

His sole presence distracts my juggling act.

And red sauce leaks from the white plastic bag, missing my
pea coat and dribbling on my romper. I flail in distress, trying to maintain a
morsel of grace, but my box of invoices starts to tilt off me.
 

And then, all of a sudden, the cardboard is plucked right
from my arms, and I am left in an awkward, hunched over position, avoiding the
trickling plastic bag like it’s the source of the bubonic plague.

I glance over my shoulder and meet Connor’s eyes. And I
trace his features quickly: his thick, wavy brown hair, his fair skin and pink
lips, striking blue eyes and a conceited smile that somehow never gets him in
trouble. He wears confidence like his most expensive suit, with style and
dignity and so much charm. I immediately want to combat him, to match him smile
for smile, grin for grin, word for word. But right now, that conceited look
does not lessen my misery.

Although, I am overly grateful that my invoices weren’t scattered
along the porch. My profit margin is embarrassing, and I’d rather Connor not
catch a glimpse of the numbers.

“Are you auditioning to play Quasimodo?” he quips.

I flash a dry smile. “Very funny.”

“Give that here.” He gestures with his fingers to pass the
food.

“I have it,” I say. “The damage is already done.” My romper
will need to soak in spot-remover for an hour.

Still, he leans over and unlocks the door with his key. I
don’t know why this rouses me. Maybe the fact that he has a key at all. That he
lives with me. I still can’t believe our relationship has moved to
that
level
.
Especially since I have yet to fully comprehend Connor Cobalt,
and we’ve been dating for over a year.

He’s the hardest person to understand because he makes it
so.

But I would never admit that to Scott Van Wright.

I should be glad that my boyfriend has saved the day by
grabbing my things, but the fact that
I
ruined it makes me feel unraveled, as though my hair is frizzy, my lipstick
smudged, my dress crooked—oh, well it is stained, so there’s that. And my mouth
flies open before I can shut it. “You’re good at that.”

His brow arches, seeing exactly where I’m going. “Of
sticking my key into a hole.” His hand drifts to the crook of my hip.

“I said nothing about your keyhole,” I retort.

“No, I believe you were about to comment on
your
keyhole and my key.”

“If you’re trying to frazzle me with sexual idioms, it’s not
going to work.”

“I didn’t think it would, seeing as how you were the one
about to mention keyholes in the first place.” It’s as though he can read my
mind.
We think alike on too many
occasions. “You’ve been spending too much time around your sister,” he adds,
smiling as he says it.

I suppose he’s right. Lily would have been quick to make
that assessment. Keys. Holes. Sex. That’s where her mind travels. I would like
to say mine doesn’t go there on occasion, but I’m only human.

My eyes flicker to the camera, and Ben shakes his head like
you can’t look into the lens.
But I’m
not embarrassed by our talk. I’m just trying to get used to the third-party
presence that lingers like an awkward chaperone on a date.

“The door’s open,” Connor tells me.

So it is. I pass him my clutch and my phone. Then I
sacrifice my hands and dam the hole in the bag, the sauce collecting in a pool
but thankfully not streaking a red trail along the hardwood.

I head into the kitchen of my house and spot the second
camera guy—Brett, short and stubby and a little plump, the exact opposite of
Ben. His eyes grow big as he shoots, a
steadicam
attached to his chest like Ben.
 

It takes two-point-two seconds for me to find the source of
his wide-eyed expression. Loren has cornered my sister into a cabinet, his
entire body pressed against her so tightly that air can’t pass through. They
kiss deeply and passionately, as if no one else lives in the same universe as
them.

His hands disappear underneath her blouse, but it’s quite
obvious he’s groping her breasts. And then one hand emerges.
Thank God.

He hikes her leg around his waist.
Or not.

Lily lets out a sharp gasp, her fingers gripping his brown
hair that’s thick on top and shorter on the sides. She’s tinier than me, and
she has lighter hair than I do. I have the bigger ass, the bigger boobs and the
fuller hips. She’s thin in ways that I’m not.

Connor clears his throat, and Lily detaches from Loren (or
Lo, depending on my mood. I usually swap between the two. He prefers the
nickname over his full-real name, but I don’t really care).

Lily’s whole face reddens.

“Did we disturb you?” Connor asks casually, setting my
things on the bar.

Lo wipes his mouth, eyebrows raised. “Actually, yes.”

“Don’t be crude, Loren,” I refute as I set the bag in the
sink. Lily tries to hide behind her hands. Connor and I are more comfortable in
situations like these.

“Crude?” Loren says with a short laugh. “Last week you told
me if you ever saw me with an erection, you’d slam my boner in a doorjamb.”

Connor nods to Lo. “In Rose’s defense, no one but Lily
really wants to see your erection.”

“That’s not what you said last night,” he banters.

Connor’s lips rise. “
Shh
, that’s
between us,
love.
”

I shoot him a look. “You’re asking to sleep on the floor
tonight.” Their friendship, while amusing, is coming at my expense.

Connor eases close to me, and he tilts his head down to whisper
in my ear, his eyes full of power. “If you think it’s best, I’ll convince you
to let me back in your bed later.”

His voice is deep and sexual, and something that shallows my
breath for an instant. I’m about to reply, but Lo tickles Lily’s hips and she squeals.
They distract me, breaking whatever brief moment was occurring with Connor.

Loren is a recovering alcoholic. Lily is working on her sex
addiction. They’re at a good stasis, but they can’t live alone since isolation
is what amplified their addictions in the first place. So they’re here. With
us.

And it’s about as awkward as it seems

With the cameras around I thought they might be more
discreet, but the opposite has happened. Loren has taken PDA to a whole new
level.

Some tabloids believe Loren and Lily are only engaged to
repair my sister’s tarnished image as a sex addict, so Loren sticks his tongue
down her throat (on camera), to give the world the middle finger for doubting
their love. He really doesn’t care what the public thinks at this point.

But I do.

It’s why I have the cameras around in the first place.

Before Lily escapes Loren’s hold completely, he draws her
back to his chest and playfully bites her shoulder. She fidgets with a goofy
smile and slaps him on the bicep. His bites turn into kisses.

And both cameras spin off me and zoom in on them.

I don’t mind at all. Lily is wearing a signature Calloway
Couture piece that viewers at home may like—a plum lacy skirt with a champagne
blouse (
untucked
thanks to
Lo’s
fondling). She’s usually in leggings and Loren’s baggy shirts without a bra, so
she looks slightly uncomfortable in the outfit, but I know she’s trying hard to
make things right.

I tap on the faucet with my wrist, and Loren tears his gaze
from Lily to see the red sauce that washes off my palms.

“Whose heart did you rip out this time?”

Scott Van Wright
.
I wish. “Connor’s,” I say, “but he stopped me before I got that far.”

Connor grins. “She has quick hands, but I’m faster.”

My eyes narrow. Oh, he wishes.

 
“When is the psychic
coming?” Lily perks up, combing her fingers anxiously through her hair, and she
shifts as if her body doesn’t fit her quite right. From behind her, Loren
tangles his arms around her waist and rests his chin on her shoulder. She
immediately relaxes into him.

His presence is a kind of reassurance that brightens her
whole being. If she didn’t have Loren, I’d imagine she’d be on street corners,
sleeping with random guys to satisfy her sexual compulsions. I’m more grateful
that he’s here, helping her,
than
I’ll ever let on.

“She should be arriving soon.” I use extra hand soap and
scrub beneath my nails.

Connor leans against the counter beside me. “A psychic at a
dinner party,” he says, “next thing you know, we’re going to be pouring salt
around the doors and creating spirit circles.”

“It’s two hours,” I remind him, “and you don’t have to
believe in it to enjoy a reading.”

He watches me so intently that my heart starts to pound. My
eyes skim his lips and rise back to his intense gaze. “No,” he says after a
long moment, “I just have to listen to some crock stir up shit between us.”

I squirt more soap in my palm. “That won’t be happening.”

“I can tell the future better than whoever walks through
that door—and I bet you a thousand dollars that she’s going to make someone cry
tonight.”

“Fine,” I say. “If you want to lose a thousand dollars, then
I’ll take your bet.” Who would cry? Not any of the guys. Not me. That leaves
Lily and Daisy, and I do not see my youngest sister shedding a tear. And
Lily—she’s a wild card. But I would bet on her strength.

“No way,” Loren cuts in. He has Lily swaddled in his arms.
“That’s not a good bet. You need real stakes.”

“That’s a lot of money,” Connor tells him.

“For who?” Loren asks. “You’re the heir of a multi-billion
dollar company, as is Rose. All of our parents shit gold bricks.”

“That’s disgusting,” I say flatly.

“A lap dance,” Loren suddenly says. “If Rose loses, she
should give Connor a five-minute lap dance.”

My chest constricts, and I glare so hard at Loren that my
eyes feel like they’re being serrated.

“You don’t have to do that,” Connor tells me. He studies the
way I lock a breath in my lungs.

I am not my sister.

When it comes to intimacy, I am a chicken. I’ll fully admit
that. I’m more likely to run out of a pair of arms than in them.

And Loren is aware of my hesitance. A part of me wonders if
he feels badly for Connor, knowing that I’m not putting out after such a long
time together. But maybe Loren’s just trying to provoke a reaction out of me.

Which everyone is about to see.

“You don’t think I would do it?” I ask Connor. I’m not sure
I could grind on Connor. In public. Without being humiliated. I am confident in
all areas except these: Being sexy, being skilled in bed, being
great
at sex. I believe, wholeheartedly,
that sex is not something you can study to ace. No, you have to learn by
experience.

And I have none.
 

So I have a feeling that once I do have sex with Connor, our
relationship will be different. Any attraction that pulls between us will be
cut with my sloppy moves and my inability to please him.

So far he has never pressured me to have sex, but I wait for
the moment when he walks out—when he’s had enough of my high-octane personality
and my obsessive compulsive behavior.

Hell, I want to walk away from me
sometimes. My therapist even hates me. She’s prescribed me
Alprazolam, Paroxetine, Fluvoxamine, and Clomipramine, drugs that I have taken
and then disposed. On them, I feel so high I could be floating through life or
I’m so heavy I could be sinking into mortal hell.

I am not the girl you want to sleep with every week. I’m the
chase. The one you catch and then release. And once Connor has sex with me,
he’ll be done. He’ll have won the hardest challenge of his life—de-
virginizing
the biggest virgin.

I know this. It’s how all men work with me.

And I never, ever let them win.

But Connor is getting close.

He watches me scrub my skin harder, my whole body tense and
unmoving except for the bristle brush in between my fingers.

“Don’t answer her,” Loren warns him. “It’s a trick.”

Connor doesn’t move his gaze off mine. “I can handle her,
Lo.”
Yes, he may be the only one.
He
edges close and shuts off the faucet.

I turn it back on. “I’m not finished.” There’s a thin layer
of sauce underneath my nails still.

“We both know you won’t give me a lap dance. So let’s stick
to the thousand dollar bet.” His voice is unreadable. If there’s
disappointment, he won’t ever let me hear it.

I feel defeated in some huge way. “I can do it,” I retort.

“I’m not trying to use reverse psychology on you, Rose. I
really don’t think you should.” He shuts the faucet off again, and when I go to
turn it back on, he slips in front of me, blocking the sink, and he wraps a
towel around my hands.

“They’re clean,” he says.

I glance down at my romper, which is still stained. “I need
to change.”

Loren cuts in, “So have we established whether or not we’ll
be seeing a lap dance tonight?”

“Only if I lose,” I say.

Connor’s jaw muscles twitch, the single sign that I can
read. He really doesn’t want me to do this, but I don’t like the way he’s
staring at me. Like I’m a scared little bird.