Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart (14 page)

The dare said I had to get a number wearing the outfit. It didn’t say I couldn’t alter the outfit. I roll up my acid-washed jeans as much as possible, so they look more like hipster leggings than relics of the eighties. It’s neither stylish nor completely modern, but considering the amount of body paint going on in this bar, I’m pretty sure as long as I’m showing some skin, I’m good to go. I pull out my ponytail holder, shake my hair loose, and give myself one last look in the mirror before heading out to battle.

When I return to the bar, Kennedy nearly drops the glass he’s holding. His eyes go wide, and if I’m not mistaken, his cheeks have gone a little red. Next to him on the bar is a second cup, which I can only assume is for me. Before he has time to comment, I grab the drink and swallow it down. If my skin felt all warm and tingly before, it’s full-on blazing now. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I tell him, making sure my hip brushes his as I walk by.

Without having to look back, I can feel him watching me walk away. Which is exactly the way I want it.

Altering my outfit was only step one of my plan to win this battle. Once, after watching the Ken Burns documentary on the Civil War, I became obsessed with reading books about war strategists. I learned that any good strategist not only comes up with a distraction in hopes of using the element of surprise to his advantage, but also must use surveillance in order to best pinpoint the weakest ground to attack. While Kennedy was going on and on about some band they were playing when we walked in, I was scoping out the play for my weak link.

My victim? The one hipster boy beached on the Island of Misfit Toys. Sure, I expected there would be many hipsters at the music festival, but they were the types that would be hanging out in artsy coffee shops talking about the existential crisis the latest Mountain Goats album caused them, not hanging out in a place like this. No doubt, he was tagging along with the hippie/techno kids for a ride, or maybe he was just lost. Plaid shirt. Oversize glasses that he probably didn’t even have a prescription for. He was perfect.

The boy sat awkwardly in the corner, cradling his can of PBR like it was the Elder Wand. I had watched as a few of the glitter glams tried to talk to him earlier in the night. It was obvious by the way he kept staring at them that he wasn’t interested. Maybe he was bored with all the usual hipster girls he knew and wanted to try something outside his world? No matter the reason, it wasn’t pretty. I felt bad for him until I saw the copy of
The Fountainhead
sticking out of his shirt pocket. And then I felt even worse for him because he suddenly became the launching point of my first attack. He wanted a hipster girl under a glam veneer, and that’s exactly the role I was going to play.

“Drink every time Rand says bromide?” I call out over the music.

The boy narrows his eyes at me, and I’m not sure if he doesn’t get the joke or he couldn’t hear me. It’s a great joke. Rand used the word “bromide” like every other page in that beast of a novel.

The boy clutches at his chest where the book rests. “Oh! Right! I don’t think they have enough beer in this place.”

“Right? If only someone would have bought that woman a thesaurus or something,” I say with the most girlish laugh I can manage.

The boy smiles and brings his can of PBR to his lips. And then the can just sits there. Either he’s in a state of near-death dehydration or he is desperately thinking of something witty to say in return. I feel a bit bad for him again. “Have you finished it yet?” I ask.

“No, just started.”

Great. So…I can’t use that.

“Going to the music festival?” It’s such an obvious question that I feel pretty stupid for asking it. It’s like asking what his major is. Or even worse—what’s his sign? But the boy is really giving me nothing to work with.

“Yeah.”

Yeah. Kim Kardashian is a better conversationalist. I glance over my shoulder to where Kennedy is standing at the bar. I can tell by the grin on his face that he infers all the way from there how not-great this whole thing is going.

“How about that new Mountain Goats song?” I ask. Desperate times call for desperate measures. The last thing I want to do is get some hipster boy going about music. It’s not like when Kennedy talks about music. I think I could listen to him discuss music for hours. He sees the complexity in it. Hipsters do nothing but relate songs to themselves. When sometimes music is about much bigger things.

The hipster boy sets his can down on top of the table next to him, and I know I’ve opened the floodgates.

Thirty-five minutes later, I saunter over to Kennedy and slam my phone on the counter. “If you scroll down my contacts and look under
S
for Sad Hipster Boy, you’ll see his number. I made that dare my bitch.”

Kennedy chooses to ignore my moment of triumph and leans close to me. “What did you do to the beautiful outfit I put together for you, Le Chat?”

I place my hands on my hips, sticking my chest out a bit. “Oh, you noticed? I just made a few improvements.”

Considering where Kennedy’s eyes go, I can tell he thinks it’s an improvement as well. “And did Sad Hipster Boy like it?”

I shrug, feigning disinterest. “I think so. I’m supposed to meet up with him for some show tomorrow afternoon, so I guess he liked what he saw.”

“Oh? So you’re going to meet up with him, then?”

“I guess. I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t. Do you?”

Kennedy clears his throat, scratching at the back of his head. He hesitates before answering me, and I would give away my official copy of the
Oxford English Dictionary
to know what he’s really thinking. “Nope, can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t. You are a free woman now. You can spend your time with whoever you want, doing whatever you want.”

“Yeah, I guess I can. Thanks for getting me back on that proverbial horse. You’re the greatest asexual friend a girl could ask for,” I say, patting him on the chest.

Kennedy snatches my hand and holds it in his own. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes search mine. For a second, the shortest second of all time, I think he’s actually going to kiss me.

But he doesn’t. He pulls me close and whispers a word I’ve been afraid of hearing my whole life. “Karaoke.”

“What the what?” I ask, a feeling of uneasiness settling in the pit of my stomach. I’m not entirely sure if it’s a result of the complete and utter terror I’m currently experiencing or the alcohol finally catching up with me.

“Dare number four, Annabel Lee. I dare you to get your ass up there and sing me a song.”

And then I let go every cursey word I’ve ever heard. Even the German ones Grandma taught me. I am going to owe the Cursey Word Jar a lot of money by the time I get back from this trip.

Chapter Fifteen

Kennedy

I’m not really a violent person. Seriously. My propensity for blood and guts is limited to video games and episodes of
The Walking Dead.
But when I saw Annabel flirting with that poser, there was a part of me that wanted to take those glasses and shove them down his throat.

Which is how I know things are way worse than I thought they were. I’m not saying I’ve never experienced feelings of jealousy. Despite many years of trying to subscribe to the Jedi philosophy, I’ve had my share of angst in regard to members of the opposite sex. But never like that. I feel a great deal more for the girl next to me than even I realized.

I only came up with that stupid dare to make a point. Remind her that she’s single now, and if she wanted me, I was right here waiting for her. I didn’t actually think she would go through with it. Sure, the ghost of old daredevil Annabel was out and about, but that didn’t mean New Annabel had been destroyed. Nor did I want her to be. The things I felt for her were for the woman she had become, not the girl she used to be. And this Annabel isn’t the type of girl who goes after guys; she’s the type of girl who waits for men brave enough to go after her.

When she came out of that bathroom, her shirt torn in all the right places, I nearly lost my shit. Seriously, I thought about carrying her right out of the bar, taking her to our hotel, and locking the door for the next three days. Who cared about the musical festival? I wanted that girl.

I gently press my hand over Annabel’s mouth to stop the slew of obscenities spilling out of it. It’s hard as hell to ignore what the feel of her lips against my skin does to my lower extremities. “Annabel Lee, what would your grandmother say if she heard you cussing like that?”

Annabel scowls, pulling my hand from her mouth. “I think she’d be pretty proud, considering she’s the one who taught me most of those words.”

“Touché. Now, do you accept my dare or not?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Isn’t there some kind of rule about more than one dare in a day?”

“I don’t believe that was discussed.”

She takes a deep breath and pulls herself up so she’s standing as straight as she possibly can.

Her battle stance.

“Dare accepted,” she replies, staring me down. “And just so we’re clear…when I use one of my double-dog dares, it’s going to be so good, it will make all the other little dares you used cry themselves to sleep at night.”

Fuck.

Annabel flips her hair, turns on her heel, and heads toward the man who’s in charge of setting everything up. By the time I catch up with her, she already has the binder full of song choices in her hand.

“You do realize there are like close to a hundred people in here, right?” I ask, hoping to psych her out of going up there.

“You mean a hundred drunk people. Which means anything I sing will sound pretty good.”

Point to Annabel.

I clear my throat. “Well, I’ll let you get to it then.”

“Where are you going?” she asks as I turn toward the bar. I don’t miss the small note of panic in her voice, and I know this battle is not entirely lost.

“Going to get another drink. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to get you one, too. No doubt, you’ll need it before going up in front of
all those people
.”

By the time I return with two shots of whiskey, I’m pretty sure there’s sweat on Annabel’s brow. “Pick a good one?” I ask, handing Annabel her drink. She nods, her legs bouncing up and down like she’s sending out a Morse code message. She moves the glass of whiskey back and forth from one hand to the other. “Did the guy say how long it would be until you were up? I want to make sure I have enough time to secure a seat right in the front,” I continue to prod her.

“You’re up, honey bun,” the karaoke guy says.

Annabel throws back the shot of whiskey and heads onto the stage without speaking a word to me. It reminds me of watching golf, a sport that is oddly mesmerizing. One day, I was pretty hungover after a rager at my friend’s house, and the only comfort I found in the entire world was lying on the couch and praying not to meet the porcelain god. Too lazy to search for the remote, I lay there watching hours and hours of golf.

The way the players seemed to be able to freeze the whole world and time itself before taking their shot. The way they stared down that ball, willing it to defy gravity itself. That’s the way Annabel looks as she walks onto the stage.

Now that the music has stopped, a few people, those not too drunk or high, notice Annabel, which results in a few catcalls. Every time some idiot yells out a dumbass comment, she turns a shade paler until I’m pretty sure she looks more like Casper the Friendly Girl than Le Chat I’ve come to know and love.

“Shows us your tits,” someone yells as the organizer hands Annabel the mic.

“Why don’t you show us your dick, so we can all have a good laugh,” she snaps into the microphone. Now, if she was hoping to avoid getting the attention of every single person in the bar, that was not the way to do it.

Soon almost every single girl in the place is cheering while most of the boys are laughing. I can’t help but chuckle and clap myself. She is one hell of a ballbuster, and I adore her for it. My amusement is short-lived as I realize that now all eyes are on her as the music starts.

Oh. Shit. I can’t believe I made her do this. I feel awful. Annabel looks like she’s about two seconds from puking. And then there is her song choice. “Wait,” she mumbles into the microphone, frantically looking for the man responsible for the karaoke, “this isn’t the song I chose.”

“Just sing already,” yells some douche.

“Kennedy, this is not the song I picked,” she calls out to me, wide-eyed.

Fuck.

With three giant strides and a leap, I’m on the stage with Annabel in a matter of seconds. No, I highly doubt that Annabel Lee chose Drake’s “Hotline Bling” as her karaoke song of choice. Finally deciding to show back up, the karaoke coordinator hands me a mic. And in that moment, I’m left with no other choice than to sing Drake. To a crowd full of people.

I promised her on that bluff that I was here for her now.

“You use to call me on your cell phone…” I sing. A few girls hoot and holler, no doubt telling their friends this is their jam. Annabel stares at me slack-jawed, so I just continue singing. When I finally manage to get to the musical interlude, I grab Annabel by the shirt and pull her close to me. “I need your help, Le Chat. I can’t do this on my own,” I say into her ear. “You got my back?” I ask. “Just like in the old days?”

Annabel nods, her face still an alarming shade of white. So white, it’s almost clear. Her hand shakes as she brings the mic to her lips.
We got this
, I mouth to her.

Annabel Lee starts singing the Drake song. I’m not sure what I’m more surprised at: that she knows every word or how she begins to sway back and forth to the beat. This certainly gets the attention of the men in the room, who begin to cheer.

“Get it, girl,” a chick from the back of the bar yells out.

Maybe it’s because of the girl’s support or the whiskey doing its job or maybe she’s even enjoying herself, but Annabel starts to sing even louder. And as the crowd noise grows, so does my own confidence. It’s infectious. Their support. It fills me up and ignites me more than any whiskey could, and it’s no wonder people love doing this for a living.

I reach forward and tug on Annabel’s shirt, pulling her close enough to where my body is almost pressed up against hers. I begin to move to the beat with her. The closer we get to each other, the more the crowd goes wild. Annabel starts laughing between the words of the lyrics, her free hand reaching up and pulling on my shirt. She moves against me, and I don’t worry about the fact that she can probably feel what it does to me.

There’s no hiding it anymore. I wrap an arm around her waist and press my forehead against hers. She’s grinning into the microphone, and I know I’m probably smiling like an idiot, too. We’re singing in unison now, and my mind is racing with all the things I want to do to her when we get back to the hotel.

The whole crowd is with us now, singing at the top of their lungs, and I’m pretty shocked at the number of people who know the words to a Drake song. I’d take Annabel right here on this stage if I thought I could get away with it.

This
is my Annabel Lee.

When the song finishes, Annabel drops the mic to the floor and throws her arms around my neck. I wrap my arms even tighter around her waist, lifting her up off the ground. Her legs encircle my waist. “Let’s get out of here, Annabel Lee,” I whisper into her ear.

By the time we get to the hotel room and check in, I expected some of the high from the bar to wear off, but my need to completely ravish Annabel Lee is still as strong as ever. She sang Drake all the way home, laughing and grabbing at my hand every time she came to the chorus.

“So…you actually got two beds,” Annabel notes as we enter the room. If I’m not mistaken, I think I can hear a bit of disappointment in her voice.

“Looks like I did,” I say with a sigh, dropping our bags by my feet. I had asked for two beds at the other hotel as well, but they’d messed up. Of all the times for a hotel staff to be efficient. You’ve got to be kidding me, Kanye.

Maybe it’s the sight of the beds or the frigid temperature of the hotel room, but whatever it is, it appears to start to sober Annabel up a bit. Not that I would want whatever went down between us to only happen because of the whiskey. The mood just feels different.

“I’m going to get changed into my pajamas. I’m exhausted,” Annabel says, picking up her duffel bag and slinging it over her shoulder before heading into the bathroom. The fact that she went into the other room to change and the comment about being tired is about as close to “I have a headache” as you can get.

I get it. Maybe she’s just not ready, or maybe I’m just not a risk she’s ready to take. I have to be okay with that. I am okay with that, because her friendship means more to me. I crouch down and search my bag for a water and a bottle of aspirin. Annabel comes out of the bathroom wearing a pair of gray leggings and an oversize
Drunk History
T-shirt. Her hair is thrown back up into a ponytail.

She’s still the damn sexiest girl I’ve ever shared a bed with.

“Here. It’s always a good idea after a night of drinking to guzzle a bottle of water and take a few aspirin,” I say, holding out both to her. “Also, do you have a preference to which bed you want?”

Annabel stares at me for a moment without speaking. Maybe she’s drunker than I originally thought she was. Before I can ask if she’s all right, she rushes toward me and throws herself into my arms. Both the water and bottle of aspirin fall to the ground as I attempt to catch her. Except I only half catch her as both of us topple to the floor.

Annabel Lee lands right on top of me. And despite this being the start of many a fantasy involving the girl lying on me, I have to ask the most obvious question: “Annabel Lee, are you wasted?” I reach up and cradle her face in my hands.

“Shut up,” she demands. And so I do. Because when a hot girl literally throws herself on you, you do whatever the hell she wants you to do. “This is really stupid,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re really stupid.”

“I’m really stupid,” I agree, nodding furiously. Not quite sure why I’m agreeing or what I’ve done to deserve the comment. Not that I really care in the moment.

“So fucking stupid,” she says. And then she leans down and gently presses her lips against mine. So softly that at first I’m not entirely sure it’s actually happening. Of course, there’s a certain part of my body that fully understands exactly what is happening.

Annabel pulls away, and her eyes widen slightly. And then her lips are back on mine, and I don’t wait this time to see if it’s real or just a dream. I press back, sucking in slightly on that damn beautiful full bottom lip of hers. Annabel moans, and I’m about to lose my mind. She parts her lips, and I don’t wait to graze my tongue against hers.

Everything inside me tightens.

The kiss deepens as my hands move from her cheeks to her hair, pulling out the rubber band that holds it up. Her hair falls over us, and I can smell the lavender from her shampoo, and I know I’ll forever connect that scent with this moment. I get so lost in the kiss that I’m finding it harder and harder to breathe.

Annabel is the first to pull away. She shifts up on her knees, and I think my fears are about to be confirmed when, instead of ending the moment, she straddles me. She’s all breathy and flushed and beautiful and perfect. Slowly, she begins to rock her hips, and I’m the one moaning as she moves against me. I can see her nipples are hard through her T-shirt, and I can’t quell my need to feel those breasts under my hands any longer. I reach up a hand and run it under her shirt. Annabel arches her back as my hand cups her breast. My other hand rests firmly on her hip as she continues to grind against me.

I gently rub my fingers against her nipple, and she gasps. She moves harder and faster against me, and it takes everything in me not to let go right then and there. Damn, this girl really has me going. I move my hand from her waist, cradle her back, and shift my weight so we’re both sitting up. Caught off guard by my sudden movement, Annabel stops moving, but that doesn’t mean I’m done. I lift her shirt up and gently lick her nipple.

And Annabel’s back to moving against me like her life depends on it.

I pull her whole nipple into my mouth and gently suck. Her hands find my hair, and she pulls. The harder she pulls, the harder I suck. Her moans come faster and louder, quickly replaced by all the cuss words in all of the languages ever created.

I move my mouth away from her breast only because I want to suck on that damn bottom lip of hers again. I feverishly kiss my way up her chest, her neck, her face, until I find those lips. I take her all in, and it’s the damn sweetest mouth Kanye ever created.

Now I’m the one moaning and groaning and cussing. Part of me contemplates moving this to one of the beds, but there comes a point where there’s no hope of stopping a runaway train. Annabel cries out, and I’m not far behind her.