Wild Kisses (3:AM Kisses #7), Page 2

  “Excuse me?” He inches back as if I just dished out a slap, and, believe me, the idea is still very much on the table. “I saved you from a lobotomy by way of a football. How about you try that again, sweetheart? This time with a thank you.” His brows furrow like a pair of caterpillars struggling to escape his facial carnage—and something about his self-righteous indignation (the exact amount that matches my own) makes my stomach squeeze tight with lust. Stupid, stupid hormonal need to procreate. ARRGGH! I will not find him attractive. I will not fucking have this! If there’s one thing I won’t do, it’s let my ovaries determine whom I fall for. Income potential be damned.

  I kick him in his shredded Levi’s, naturally worn-out, of course. He’s about as far away from blue blood as one can get—as evidenced by the jeans that look as if they haven’t left his body in the last five years.

  I pluck at my trashed shirt, and it suctions away from my skin like the giant slurp of a tongue. “Looks like you’ve already met the lobotomy quota for both of us!”

  “What?” He blinks back in disbelief.

  “Piper?” a familiar voice penetrates the crowd as Marley, Wyatt’s girlfriend, pops up with horror stamped across her face. “Oh my shit!” She plucks me off the ground and away from the smattering of Greek isles that have cropped up for Welcome Week. Thankfully, I still have that Go Greek or Die folder clutched in my tight little claw. Hopefully, the perky ponytail brigade won’t remember me, and I can successfully give my well-crafted, heavily honed, and admittedly, slightly borrowed speech to them later. It was my brother Cade who spouted most of that off as a quasi-putdown on the plane ride here. He thought it was quite comical that I was penning a biography that branded me in a less than favorable light. He was shocked how easily I had relegated myself to asshole standing, which he pointed out I actually earned, but Cade loves me too much to mean it. I think.

  “I’m fine.” I shudder toward Marley. “The crowd was pressing in, and I must’ve tripped.” I glare momentarily at the bonehead with the boat feet who escorted me to the ground via his rock hard chest.

  Marley scoffs. She’s beautiful and sweet, and actually pretty fun to be around, with the tiny exception she has a habit of turning into the warden when it comes to my whereabouts. She seems to care for my well-being in that same sweet way Wyatt does—too damn much. It’s no secret that Wyatt has been a more prominent father figure in my life than the sperm donor we have in common. Wyatt is exactly a decade older than Cade. And Cade is just three years older than me. He recently transferred here from NYU just to keep vaginal tabs on yours truly. I don’t buy that, it’s-a-great-school-with-a-great-business-program bullshit, or that I-want-to-get-to-know-Wyatt-better crock. Cade can go to business school on Mars, and he’d still manage to make his first billion before he peaks thirty. He’s that brilliant. And trust me, we both know Wyatt plenty, so that excuse doesn’t hold water either. In fact, we know Wyatt’s half-brother Blake and his baby Ben plenty, too. Cade has long tried to perfect the role of annoying big brother in my life, and the fact he’s stalked me all the way to North Carolina only goes to show his devotion to making my life miserable knows no end.

  “The crowd was pressing in?” That deep annoying rumble stems from behind once again. “Oh, sweetie, you wish. Your head was about to do its best imitation of a wide end receiver. But not to worry—had you caught the ball with your teeth, I doubt you would have remembered any of it.”

  I turn to find the jerk that just landed a touchdown while using my body as a goal post smugly smiling to himself. His dark wavy hair gleams with a bluish cast under the late August sun. His eyes shine electric blue as if someone plugged them in and turned on the lights in his barren, hollow skull. A long string of tattoos runs up and down his beefy arms, inching their way past his sleeves in monochromatic tones of navy and gray. For a moment, their delicate curves and intricacies mesmerize me.

  I step into him, fists on my hips. “If that ball was smart, it was headed for your teeth. In fact, I suggest you duck and cover. I hear pegging dolts is an all new American pastime.” I wring out my T-shirt, and a river flows down my jeans looking as if I’m one tampon shy of flooding the world with the Red Sea. Just freaking great. As if having a public tealeaf facial wasn’t enough, there’s nothing like a faux Tampax moment to demonstrate to all my prospective sorority sisters my nifty hygienic practices, or lack thereof.

  Marley scoops me in like a child about to wander onto an L.A. freeway. “You’ll have to excuse my friend. She must be a bit confused after hitting her head.” Marley’s eyes widen as if mortified by my words, despite the fact I seem to have morphed into a magenta maven. While I usually appreciate her sage advice and motherly doting, I’m not too into the fact she’s siding with Dr. Destructo at the moment.

  “She didn’t hit her head.” The raspberry beret folds his arms over his enormous chest while pouring out his disappointment in my direction. I don’t know what the hell this guy has to be disappointed with other than the fact he’s wasting our time. “I shielded her with my arms.”

  Marley melts in a choir of Aw! as if a puppy just leaped from his mouth. “Piper, apologize so we can get going.” She gives my elbow a firm tug without taking her eyes off him.

  My mouth falls open as words, although plentiful and not altogether pleasant, stifle in my throat. The band ratchets up again, and the crowd screams with delight or torment—uncannily, they both sound the same right about now.

  I give a quick glance behind me and note the Greek girls have disbanded, leaving their tables barren. I spot their ponytails swinging in the distance as they gather around the football team that parades through campus like deities.

  As much as I detest the idea of thanking the takedown teetotaler for christening me crimson, I don’t want to disappoint Marley either. Reluctantly, I turn to the moron who has decreed himself my hero.

  “Thank you.” I do my best to quell my temper, but I can feel it biting around the edges of my sanity, threatening a takedown of its own. My lips twitch at the caped-crusader who might have just swiped my entire sorority-based future right off the map.

  His brows rise as if he were amused with the gesture.

  Marley takes me by the hand and begins to navigate through the crowd.

  I glance over my shoulder. He’s still watching with those brooding eyes. That disapproving look sears me to the bone. Why would I care what that ’roided-out douchebag thinks of me?

  He offers a meager smile in my direction, and I grunt as we fly through the crowd on the way to my dorm—anger emanating off me like a vapor. The pot is boiling; the lid is rattling. There is only one thing that can stifle this dull ache in me from turning into an all-out rage, so I do the only thing I can to make myself feel better.

  I stick my tongue out at him.

  * * *

  It takes an hour to convince Marley that I’m more than okay after what she’s labeled “the incident.” I’ve showered and changed and blown out my unruly mane while Marley chats it up with Cassidy as if she understands every word that comes out of that girl’s mouth. Bless her heart. Actually, that little country idiom is the one thing I do understand—especially when the barb that precedes it is aimed at me. If it’s one thing country girls do best, it’s put just about everyone else on the planet in their place.

  Wyatt calls, and Marley happily trots off to join him for dinner.

  “I thought she’d never leave.” I fall onto my bed and make snow angels over the comforter as I bask in the freedom. Marley and Wyatt are as close to parental controls as it gets in North Carolina for me. Cade will simply have to learn to let me be myself. The last thing I want is my big brother’s shadow falling over me everywhere I turn.

  “She’s nice.” Cassidy breaks the word nice into two pieces.

  “I’m nice, too.” I roll over onto my side. “Mostly.” I wince. “Honestly, I don’t know what gets into me sometimes. It’s like I’m ready to tear apart the world for no good reason. You’re nice,” I po
int out, using her same inflection before it occurs to me that I probably just came across as a sarcastic bitch. “Sorry,” I mouth.

  “Oh, hon, not a problem. You just have too much of that stuffy old boarding school still on the brain. You need to let loose a little bit.”

  “You’re right.” I pluck the white folder with its glaring pink lettering off my desk. “There’s a general interest mixer tonight at Sigma Theta Tau. You want in on this?”

  She snatches the folder from me, and the corners of her lips depress. Cassidy is gorgeous, flawless even, with the exception of a scar that runs from her eye to her left cheek. It fragments around her lips into a million little tendrils like the roots of a tree. At first, when we met, I thought she was her mother. If you see Cassidy from the left, she looks much older than she is—like way older, Dorian Gray older. I feel bad for her, but she is totally beautiful. For the short time we’ve been hanging out, I’ve noticed the way people stare at her. Some of them don’t even hide the fact, but it’s always the same when we meet someone new, the big eyes, the quickly lowered gaze. It’s sad that the first thing people do when they see her is wipe the smile from their faces. I know it hasn’t been easy on her. She does cover it up expertly with makeup, so you can’t even see it, unless you’re right on her. But the scar still holds a silver tint to it, like lightning streaking down her face when she turns her head just right. I think it adds a sort of a badass quality to her, and I admire the way she carries herself. Cassidy wears her scar right there on her face. Albeit not by choice, it still lets the world know you can’t mess with her. She’s a survivor—she’s already survived something pretty awful. She hasn’t brought it up, though, and I’ve never asked about it in the event it’s a touchy subject, thus leaving my mind to fill in the gruesome blanks.

  “Sorority, huh?” It comes from her singsong, and I swing my legs to the rhythm.

  “That’s right. And I hear Sigma Theta Tau is loaded with the best-looking guys on campus.” This may or may not be a rumor that I’m currently constructing and perpetuating from this very dorm room, but let’s call a spade a spade. The chicks from Alpha Chi were hot; therefore, one can only deduce their matchups are their superficial equals.

  “Cute boys? Sorority shenanigans?” Her dimples dip approvingly as Cassidy exemplifies every country cliché this side of the Mason-Dixon line. Cassidy is beautiful. It’s a fact whether or not her scar-haters agree. She’s as blonde as I am raven-haired. Our eyes are the same shade of denim, and our skin the same shade of bisque that we’ll forever curse our ancestors for. “I’m in like sin, sweetheart. Let’s get this Friday night rollin’!” She lets out a whoop and high-fives me before diving into the closet.

  Two hours, sixteen wardrobe changes, and three lattes later, we show up at Sigma Theta Tau, each sporting a tiny black dress and heels, and more than a slight caffeine buzz. Scarlett and her friend Daisy have joined us, both of whom are already onboard to finding the nearest sorority to strap ourselves to.

  “Alpha Chi has the biggest house on the row,” Daisy informs while slicking her lips with a roller ball gloss that I haven’t seen sold in stores since I was in elementary school. The bubble gum scent permeates our small circle. Daisy seems nice enough. She’s a matching blonde to Cassidy. Scarlett and I are the two brunette bookends of the bunch—with the exception her hair has a strong auburn tint to it.

  The Row, as in Greek Row, is where all the sorority and frat houses are lined up. Boys on one side of the street, and girls on the other as if some great gender standoff were about to take place. I bet the early risers make a sport out of watching those participating in the walk of shame. Knowing today’s hyper-sexualized collegiate climate, it probably looks a lot like a parade.

  I glance over my shoulder at the large, boxy mansion nestled in the middle of the street surrounded by smaller brownstones and brick homes. Alpha Chi offers all of the glitz and glamour the other structures wish they had the masonry to provide.

  “Tonight is about mingling with all of the sororities.” Scarlett doesn’t take her eyes off the gaping double doors of Sigma Theta Tau with the constant rush of people threading in and out. It’s so impacted with bodies, I’m positive it’s breaking at least twelve different fire codes. “We need to find the one that fits us best. Just because Alpha Chi seems to be running this peepshow doesn’t mean they’re the one for us.”

  “Who invited this voice of reason?” Cassidy gives one of Scarlett’s curls a tug as we make our way up the walk. “Time to weed the horses from the dogs, girls—may the best sorority bitches win!”

  We head inside, and the backbeat of some obnoxious rap song thumps through my chest. It’s riotously loud, perilously crowded, and far too difficult to assess if people are having a good time or running from the authorities with the way the exit is teeming with bodies struggling to get out. But since just as many are streaming their way inside, I suspect it’s a typical Friday night. In hindsight, the high school party scene was pretty tame compared to the overpopulation, or more to the point, overcopulation of the student body at Whitney Briggs. My senior year nicks through my mind like a rusted knife, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight for a moment evicting it from my brain.

  “Girls!” a high-pitched voice squeals, and I recognize the ponytail bopping, red lipstick wearing, pearl clutching cartoon-like beauty skipping our way as Jules Flannery from the embarrassment at Founder’s Square Flannerys. “Come, come!” She takes me by the hand and walks us to where her doppelgangers matriculate freely with the crowd, with the boys to be exact—hell, these are men. Each one is so shockingly handsome that it actually hurts to look directly at them. They’re all sporting that after prom look with their business casual attire, neatly trimmed hair, loosened ties, dress shirts rolled up to the elbows, and it gives me a bit of a yuppie-gasm. Each one is a little preppier than the next. One of them in particular, tall, requisite handsome with hard chiseled features winks over at me, and I inwardly cringe.

  Who winks? Is this a thing? If I somehow manage to procure a preppy handbook, will I find that winking is totally acceptable under line item thirteen hundred? Pity. He was pretty much perfect up until that point. People don’t really wink, do they? Creepers wink. My grandfather winks, but he doesn’t know any better. Hell, it’s downright adorable when he does it. But I think this poor guy just winked himself off my vagina’s hit list.

  My mother’s effigy stains my brain, and my heart thumps just once reminding me that it’s not my vagina that gets to “choose the gentleman I’ll invite to take a seat inside my body.” According to her, it’s my heart. It’s the one piece of advice she has given me. My mother touts that four-letter L word—love, as if it actually means something. She’s tattooed it on my skull until I believed it will magically appear before me when I least expect it, like the cystic acne I get after woofing down a tub of fried chicken or that elbow wart that bloomed the night before prom.

  “Welcome to the Alpha Chi sorority mixer!” a lookalike blonde chimes while popping up next to Jules. A trio of sorority sisters passes between us handing out red Solo cups brimming with beer as if we were readying to partake in a shared barley-based communion. “My name is Lucille Hoffman, and everyone here wearing the signature Alpha Chi look is one of your potential sisters!” She waves her hand over at the plethora of pony dwellers. “At Alpha Chi, we rush for just three weeks. We have a strict no hazing policy—and should it be broken, we will spare the jury of any PanHellenic trial and hang ourselves!” They break out into cackles, and I catch Scarlett rolling her eyes.

  I do a quick sweep of the vicinity for Marley or Annie, Blake’s fiancée. I didn’t exactly run my sorority dreams past any of them in the event they disapproved, and, judging by the matching ponytails and perhaps brain cells of these PanHellenic propagators, that might just be the case.

  “Who here is a junior?” Jules calls out, and a few prospects raise their hands. “Sophomore?” Daisy uncurls her hesitant fingers. She and Scarlett are both from
North Carolina, having known one another in some way prior to WB. “Freshman?” Jules says freshman with a grimace as if it were the bane of society to bear that first year cross. Scarlett, Cassidy, and I each raise our hands with pride, as do several other girls.

  “Very good!” Lucille claps up a storm as if we’ve just given the performance of a lifetime. “Unfortunately, freshmen are not eligible to live at Alpha House until sophomore year, but should you be tapped to be a sister, you will very much be a valuable and cherished member of the Alpha Chi legacy. Participation in all chapter meetings, mixers, and philanthropic endeavors are strictly required to hold your bed until move-in day next fall.”

  “Not to fret!” Jules bellows over the deep bass that’s shaking down the room. “I myself was a freshman plebe who endured an entire year at Cutler Tower before transitioning to Alpha House the summer of my sophomore year—best summer ever.” She gives a side eye to her ponytail-wielding consorts.

  Cutler Tower is the exact dormitory Cassidy and I are in. Scarlett and Daisy, too, but they’re on the fifth level, which is a bit more exciting since it’s one of the many coed floors in the building. Much like my life in boarding school, I’ve managed to score an unwanted estrogen buffer when it comes to my sleeping arrangements. I’m betting one of my many self-appointed vaginal protectors, i.e., Wyatt, Blake, or Cade, guaranteed a penis-free environment with a simple monetary exchange down at the registration office.

  Cassidy leans in and whispers, “A whole year?” She breaks the last two words into separate syllables until it sounds like yee-are, and it takes a minute for me to decode it.

  “I know it sucks”—I whisper back—“but trust me, if there’s anything I’ve learned from my dad, it’s that the rules only apply to some people.” I give her a hard wink and cringe. The tall, abnormally chiseled-faced winker catches my eye, and once again indulges in my grandfather’s favorite pastime. Apparently, it’s as catching as a yawn.