Signed with a Kiss: A Novel (Signed with a Kiss Series Book 1)
Jessica Sorensen
Signed with a Kiss
(Signed with a Kiss Series, Book 1)
Jessica Sorensen
To Dav, Kiki, and Day, you guys inspire me every day.
Author’s note
Dear Reader,
Just a heads up! This is Signed with a Kiss Parts 1 and 2 combined into a novel.
I hope you enjoy Alexis’s and West’s story!
Thanks for reading!
Jessica Sorensen
Signed with a Kiss
Jessica Sorensen
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2019 by Jessica Sorensen
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.
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For information: jessicasorensen.com
Cover design by MaeIDesign
Created with Vellum
Contents
1. Alexis
2. Alexis
3. West
4. Alexis
5. Alexis
6. West
7. West
8. Alexis
9. Alexis
10. Alexis
11. West
12. Alexis
13. Alexis
14. West
15. Alexis
16. Alexis
17. West
18. Alexis
19. Alexis
20. Alexis
21. Alexis
22. Alexis
23. West
24. Alexis
25. West
26. Alexis
27. West
Note from Author
Alexis’ and West’s story continues…
About the Author
Also by Jessica Sorensen
One
Alexis
I started to wonder if people can break on the inside but remain completely put together on the outside. Not that I believe I’m put together on the outside. No, I can be a hot mess. But I don’t care about how my hair is styled or if the clothes I wear are trendy.
I’m not really talking about clothes or hair, though. I’m talking about the people who appear to have it all together, like nothing can bother them, as if they can handle anything. And it’s always in their faces. That indifference. That I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-anything look in their eyes. Just glancing at them, you’d think they had fantastic lives. But really, can you tell that just from looking at someone? I used to believe so. I used to believe everyone showed who they are.
I also used to be really naïve.
Not anymore.
Now I understand that people wear masks to conceal what’s really going on inside. I have my own on now, and I wear it all the time. It’s not sparkly or pretty but created from a neutral mask of indifference. When I put it on, no one can see underneath it. No one can see the pain crawling around inside me, underneath my skin.
“Oh God, here we go again,” my friend Masie says from the lounge chair across from mine, drawing me from my thoughts. It’s the start of spring break, and she has decided that we need to spend a lot of time hanging out and tanning. Not that I can actually tan without burning. “Seriously, Lex, you need to just tell him how you feel.”
I blink at her. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She gives me a tolerant look. “I know you were thinking about Blaine. You always are whenever you get that look on your face.”
In her simple statement, my point is proven—my mask is hiding everything inside me. All my dark thoughts. My emotions. My pain. Who I am now versus who I used to be.
“Sorry, but sometimes I can’t help thinking about him,” I lie, readjusting my sunglasses.
It’s not like I don’t sometimes think of Blaine. I do. Just not as much as Masie thinks. But there’s a good reason why she believes that.
Blaine has been my friend for years, and I’ve had a crush on him that dates past what I like to refer to as Before, which is the time when my parents were still alive. Everything that happened after that, I refer to as Nothing, because that’s how it feels—like nothing matters anymore, except for a few small things that I haven’t let go of yet.
Blaine is one of those things. But mostly because the way I feel about him hasn’t changed.
Deep down, I know I should let go of my feelings for him; let go of him. Just let everything go so I can just stop feeling any goddamn thing. Become a numb shell of a person. It’ll be easier that way. It’s easier to feel nothing than feeling everything, like I used to. I used to let feelings own me. Control me. It was a weakness that nearly broke me. Let them nearly break me.
“Why do you make everyone in school suffer by having to look at your ugly face?” Jay, one of the most popular guys in school, laughs at me.
Him and his friends are crowding around me in the hallway. It’s still early enough that hardly anyone is around—thank God. The last thing I want is for someone to witness my humiliation.
“We should make you wear a paper bag over your head so no one has to look at you,” he adds with a smirk as he steps toward me.
I step back even though I don’t want to and wrap my arms around myself, wishing I were invisible. Wishing he hadn’t noticed me.
I don’t know why he did and, at first, I thought he liked me, since he asked me out. But I turned him down because I wasn’t interested in him. I’m interested in my friend Blaine.
When I did, he laughed in my face and told me he was only kidding, but it was cute I actually believed he wanted to go out with me. Ever since then, him and his friends have taken every opportunity to remind me of how ugly and unwanted I am.
I hate it. Hate that I’m starting off my freshman year with some of the most popular guys hating me. I don’t remember Jay being this awful in middle school, but maybe he’s acting this way because he has friends who are older and it makes him feel cool.
Or maybe I really am just as ugly and pathetic as they say.
One of Jay’s friends steps up beside him and gives me an exaggerated once-over. “We should make her cover up her body, too, so we don’t have to look at her gangly ass anymore.”
“And her flat chest,” another of Jay’s friends sneers, seeming pretty pleased with himself. “Seriously, why does she even bother wearing a bra?”
Jay rubs his jawline as he muses over something. Then a wicked grin pulls at his lips. “Maybe she doesn’t.” He suddenly reaches for me.
Panicking, I spin to hurry away, but one of his other friends steps in front of me and blocks my path. I start to reel back around the other way when Jay grabs the back of my bra through my shirt and tugs hard. So hard the clasp snaps.
“Nope, she’s actually wearing one,” he sneers.
Tears burn my eyes as I wrap my arms around myself and run away with their laughter hitting my back …
My eyes burn against the sunlight as the memory sears my mind. What sucks is that’s not even the worst thing they did to me. I was that weak.
Not anymore, though.
I’ve never told anyone all the details of how deeply J
ay and his friends bullied me. And they would always do it when hardly anyone was around, so reporting them was complicated. I did report some of the bullying right after one of the worst days of my life. I told the vice principal at the school, but not everything that happened—no one knows all of it—but some. The problem is Jay’s friends were the football stars so that didn’t go over well. No proof, no crime. At least, that’s how our vice principal saw it.
Still, the guys did back off. I think it’s because they knew I wasn’t going to keep my mouth shut anymore. So, I guess there’s that.
It still makes my blood burn thinking about how they—how Jay—got away with what he did to me without any repercussions. All the ugly words his voice cut across my skin. All the invisible scars he marked me with. I still carry all the broken pieces with me, locked inside me where no one can see them. A collection of pieces that tell a story no one will ever know, because I will never be able to put those pieces back together. Because doing so will put the pain back together, and I can’t do that. Ever.
Not that I’ve kept everything to myself. I did confess to Masie that Jay and his friends were being jerks to me, but again, I never told her the entire story, partly out of shame and partly because I knew she wouldn’t understand. Masie has always had an easier time getting along with people. Guys practically line up to date her. They never try to break her bit by bit.
Plus, while Masie is my best friend, she can’t seem to see me for who I really am. For instance, the conversation we had a couple of years ago, right after I told her a little bit about what was going on with Jay and his friends. She tried to convince me that the best way to get over it was to go to this pool party with her and rock a bikini so everyone would see how hot I was.
I smile and roll my eyes. “There’s no way in hell I’m wearing a bikini.”
She sighs. “Oh, Lex, when will you start seeing things for what they really are?”
I shrug. “I do.”
She sighs again. “I blame books. You read too much, and it messes with your sense of reality.”
“My sense of reality is fine,” I reply. Seriously, did she just say I read too much? Jesus, Masie. “And what does that even have to do with wanting to wear a bikini? Maybe it’s just not my thing. Not every girl wants to wear one.”
“It’s not just the bikini,” she says. “It’s all the clothes you wear. Seriously, you cover so much up. And you can be so shy sometimes. You hardly talk to people at parties. And don’t even get me started on dating.”
I hate when she does this—list all my bad qualities. Sometimes I call her out on it, but that usually just gets her listing off more.
“I haven’t even gone on a date in a year.”
“Exactly!” she says, as if it proves some hidden point. “Look, we’ve been friends forever, so trust me when I tell you that all that shit you went through our freshman and sophomore year messed with your head. But you’re not that girl anymore. You just need to realize it and start letting other people see it. You know, let your walls down or whatever.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet,” I joke, mostly to annoy her. “But, if you’re about to ask me out on a date, I’m going to have to decline. Not because I don’t like you and think you’re not pretty; I just don’t swing that way.”
She sighs. “Oh, Alexis.”
She says that a lot when she’s frustrated with me. She reminds me of my mom when she does it, but if I ever told her that, she’d get pissed …
I swallow hard at the thought of my mom. No matter how hard I try not to think about my parents, about the day they died, sometimes it creeps up on me.
They died in a car accident, and I made a vow that day to not deal with the pain, because not dealing with the pain meant I had control over myself. Just like the incident with Jay. And that’s what I need now—control. To never let anyone see me weak, crying, or lying on the bathroom floor …
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” The sound of Jay’s voice rising over my soft sobs makes me tense.
I start to push up from the bathroom floor when a foot comes down on my back—
“Earth to Alexis.” Masie waves her hand in front of my face. “Did you hear anything I just said?”
I blink, forcing the memory from my thoughts, but pain still simmers underneath my flesh and vomit burns in the back of my throat.
Stop thinking about that day.
Just stop.
Turn it off.
It’s in the past, and that’s not part of you anymore.
I take a deep breath, and then another, the simmering slowly fading from my body until all I feel is numb.
Just the way I like it.
“Um, sure,” I lie, looking at her. I literally have no idea what she said.
She draws down her sunglasses and narrows her eyes at me accusingly.
I sigh. “Fine, I didn’t hear you. I was just thinking about … something.”
She cocks her brow. “About Blaine?”
“No.” It’s the truth, but I’m glad that’s where she thinks my thoughts are. She doesn’t need to know what’s really going on in my head.
She doesn’t need to know about that stupid day when I was so weak and broken.
She rolls her eyes. “Sure you aren’t.”
“I’m telling the truth.” I flip the page of the mystery book I’ve been trying to read for the last hour.
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes again then slides her sunglasses back on. “You might want to put on some more sunscreen. You’re starting to get a little bit pink.” She glances down at her legs. “I’ve got an awesome tan going, though.” She smirks at me. “Bet you’re so jealous.”
I just smile, because that’s what she wants me to do. Not that I don’t envy her ability to get tan.
Masie is the opposite of me. Her tanned skin always seems to glisten and never burn. Add that to her sun-kissed blonde hair and curvy body, she’s practically a beach goddess. And then there’s me: long, dark brown, nearly black hair; pale skin with a few freckles here and there; tall; and slightly on the gangly side. I look like I belong in a basement or a crypt. That’s okay, though. The look doesn’t bother me. It might have back in the day when I used to wear a lot of pink and glittery things, but after everything, I became a new person, became the darkness that took over me when my and my brothers’ and sisters’ lives shattered. Became the girl that lied on that bathroom floor and broke in front of them. Became a person who wears a lot of black and studded clothing and who would never, ever be caught dead wearing anything sparkly. I became the opposite of what I was when I felt alive.
Dead. I feel dead sometimes.
Dead in a crypt.
Where I feel nothing.
“What’s dead in a crypt?” Masie asks with confusion as she reaches for her glass of lemonade that’s on the table between us.
I frown. “I didn’t mean to say that aloud.”
“Yeah, well, you did.” She takes a sip of the drink then sets the glass down. “You know, you talk to yourself a lot.”
“And you say that a lot.”
She grins. “Touché.”
I mimic her grin, but it’s fake. Most of my smiles are. Then I frown when the back gate creaks open.
Bolting upright, I reach for my towel to cover up.
“Don’t you dare.” Masie sits up and snatches the towel from my hands.
“Give it back,” I growl, lunging at her.
Grinning, she jumps up from the lounge chair and skitters toward the diving board.
The gate is around the corner of her two-story brick house, so I don’t have a view of who’s coming back here. The last thing I want is for her younger brother, the pool cleaner, the landscapers, or anyone seeing me rock these black boy short bottoms, embroidered with stars, and a matching top. My belly, legs, cleavage—what I have, anyway—and even the bottoms of my ass cheeks are on display.
“Masie …” I warn as I hurry toward her. “If you don’t give me my towel
back, I’ll …”
She hops onto the diving board with my towel in her hand. “You’ll what?” She inches toward the edge.
“I’ll …” As panic and anger set in, I rack my brain for a vicious threat, my gaze skimming the backyard, the pool, the lounge chairs. When I spot the high-heeled, designer shoes she wore out here, an idea strikes me. I turn around. “I’ll throw your shoes in the pool.”
Her teasing grin fades. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wanna bet?” I pad over to the lounge chair, pick up her shoes, and then walk to the edge of the pool, dangling her pretty footwear that I could never afford over the water. She knows I’ll do it, too. “Now, come on; give me back my towel.”
She eyes the shoes then sighs as she backs up. “Fine. But please just step away from the water. You’re making me nervous.”
I take a few steps back, remaining close enough in case she backs out of our agreement.
Frowning, she makes her way off the diving board and climbs down the ladder. As her feet plant on the concrete, the back-gate intruder rounds the house.
Suddenly, her younger brother, the pool boy, or the landscapers don’t seem that terrible of options, because the person who enters the backyard is none other than Blaine.
Several different emotions run through me; from lust, to want, to self-consciousness. I hate that I feel this way. Hate that I still care about stuff. And I try to shove the feelings away, mentally burn them with my mind, but it doesn’t work.
As Blaine walks closer, I take in his light brown hair that’s styled in a messy sort of way and his board shorts and a green shirt …
