Winter Kisses (A 3:AM Kisses Novella Book 2) (2 page)

“You need a hit?” He holds out a bottle of Seagram’s 7, and I’m quick to snatch it from him. I put my lips to the tip and effectively pour the brown brew down my throat, easy as drinking fire.

“Slow down, girl.” He tries to muscle it away from me, but I continue to chug until my insides threaten to detonate like a nuclear warhead.

The choir finishes up a sassy version of
Jingle Bells,
and the master of ceremonies takes his place at the podium once again.

“Ladies and gentlemen of this fine establishment,” he rambles it out with all of the theatrics of a circus conductor. “Whitney Briggs dramatic arts and dance department is proud to present a snippet of the Winter Spectacular’s prized presentation,
Les Miserables
. Feast your eyes on the fine cast as ten title characters are auctioned off as a part of our evening with the stars. Open your wallets and your hearts. All proceeds go directly to the department. And, now, please put your hands together as we present,
Master of the House
.”

The crowd breaks out into a mild applause, and I refuse to pan the front row. I refuse to let Ryder Capwell catch me glancing in his direction—for him to see even one hint of desperation in my eyes. God forbid I lock eyes with Meg or his mother for that matter—my ultra-pointy stilettos might go flying. And believe you me these are some serious weapons of mass destruction, or at least worthy of a good stabbing. They’re the killing-cockroaches-in-the-corner variety, but they’re cute as hell, never mind the fact they’re cutting off the circulation to my pinky toes. I swear the girl in the costume department hates me. This isn’t the first time she’s cursed me with something that’s capable of a quasi-maiming.

Bing plucks the bottle from my hands. “We’re on, kid.” The music starts up, and we saunter out with the ensemble. I try to keep my focus on Bing while he wails away his solo, but my thighs are shaking just being this close to Ryder. It’s like I can sense him in the room. My chest heaves for no good reason, my skin gets hot then cold, then sticky and clammy because, truth be told, that man still has a very real physical effect on me—also there was whiskey.

Nevertheless Ryder Capwell is a god, fit for altar worship and eternal veneration all of which I was physically and mentally prepared to do until he left me alone and naked in bed one night. He hightailed it back to his mother’s house to once again rescue the forever damsel in distress, Maniacal Meg.

Anyway, he apologized until his balls were blue in the face and asked what he could do to make it better—that he would do absolutely anything, so I asked the only logical thing I could think of. I told him to stay the hell away from me. I meant it at the time, but damn it all to hell if I haven’t hated myself just a little this past year for invoking such a harsh punishment. And, Ryder being the moral upstanding, albeit Rat Bastard, kind of a guy he is, upheld his end of the Laney embargo, and we haven’t been face-to-face in twelve solid months. I mean, he tried, but I was quick to instate Newton’s third law of
e-
motion: for every one of his actions, I enlisted an opposite and equal
reaction
—ready and willing to deflect his efforts. For instance—he called, I ignored. He texted, I blocked. He emailed, I unopened.

The tragedy of it all is that I used to believe in love. I used believe in Ryder and me. I thought we would last. I thought we had forever in our grasp, but we were just a lie. He couldn’t hold me up over the other women in his life. Instead, I was sloshing around the bottom somewhere beneath his mother and Meg, both of whom took turns urinating on me.

Bing stomps over and gives a stern look. It’s only then I realize the music is recuing itself on a loop as the band patiently waits for me to jump into the number.

“Crap,” I hiss, scuttling further onto the stage, and the audience chortles along with the cast—although the cast chortling happens to be scripted.

I belt out my number, slow, seductive, and I don’t squirm like I usually do during rehearsals when Bing pushes Guy Richards’ face between my boobs. This time I sort of jump into him, increasing his plunge into my cleavage, and I can actually feel him breathing right over my skin. I bend my neck back and let out a breathy sigh as if I’m enjoying the shit out of it because secretly I want Ryder to die a thousand slow deaths knowing his face will never again venture to be where Guy Richards’ lucky nostrils have landed.

I make the mistake of glancing down at his mother—
Rue
. There she is with her freshly died auburn hair, the veins in her neck distending as she forces a smile on those dry orange lips.

Last winter, Ryder’s mother called me a common street whore. Yes, she went there. The insult came after I sent him a private picture of me changing for a play that I was starring in,
Annie
. I thought it was hilarious the way I looked with my cupie-doll makeup and curly red wig with nothing else on but my pink lace bra and matching thong, so I took a selfie and shot him one. Only Ryder was at his parent’s house, and his mother somehow got ahold of my need for redheaded self-expression of the Victoria Secret variety, and, well, the word
whore
bubbled from her lips. Of course, Ryder didn’t relay the message, Meg did, but when I had the big confrontation last Christmas Eve, Ruthless Rue, a.k.a. the woman I myself shall never call “mom,” didn’t bother to deny it. Instead she backed it up with a potshot at my own mother that went something like,
the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Anyway, Rue Capwell is the cruelest most judgmental person on the planet, and I have no problem saying that, considering she’s my best friend’s mother because it just so happens to be a solid fact. To deny it would be akin to saying that the earth is flat, or that a shoe sale at Macy’s is a thing to be ignored.

Meg is no angel either. When I think of the night it all came crashing down for Ryder and me, it’s her naked body that burns into my mind. I’d rather stick my face in a hot skillet than relive any part of it. There are a lot of words to describe a person like Meg, and they’re all way too nice for her—a canine of a certain gender, a delicate part of the female anatomy. But I’m not going there. I couldn’t hate her more if I tried.

In the end, his mother and Meg wore me down. I would never be enough for his mother, and Meg would never quit. The saddest part of the equation was that Ryder never seemed to believe me when it came to his mother’s special brand of cruelty. He was always ready with an excuse, too quick to overlook her grievances. His mother and Meg created an ocean of hurt, and time after time Ryder set me down in it, surrendering me to the wind like a cheap paper boat.

I finish up the solo portion of my number, and the ensemble joins in as we round out the scene together. God—I hate when my attention is spliced in two while I’m trying to perform. It’s a serious mindfuck because on one hand I’m flaunting my cleavage trying to convey this clever dialogue through song while I’m really off somewhere in my brain having hot make-up sex and simultaneously strangling my ex.

Then, without warning, my eyes commit the biggest grievance of all. I glance down, and the unthinkable happens—our eyes lock, and I freeze solid.

Ryder Capwell still very much has me in more ways than one, whether I like it or not.

His ebony-colored hair is combed back in lustrous waves, a little longer than it was last year. His navy eyes sear right through to my soul while my panties spontaneously combust beneath my tattered gown. Swear to God, smoke is going to plume from under my skirt at any moment, and there aren’t enough fire extinguishers in the world to douse these flames. My nipples inch out of my costume and ache to look at him themselves while my stomach ignites in a ball of fire just imagining the things he can do to me with those oversized hands, that long, serpentine tongue, his soft-as-air lips. Ryder looks impeccable tonight in his inky black suit, his silver tie—luscious enough to bind my wrists with. Every part of me screams for him to touch me, and all the while our gaze is immovable as concrete.

Crap.

I’ve broken my sacred rule, and now, here I am, openly lusting for the entire world to see—his mother—Meg.

Damn it all to hell.

Ryder Capwell still very much holds my heart.

Ryder

She’s looking at me.

Holy shit if Laney Sawyer didn’t just land those sweet sky blue eyes right over my person, twice in one evening. I take her in with those sugared lips, that black hair that makes her eyes glow like a pair of swimming pools.

The trace of a smile plays on my lips, but I won’t give it.

The audience breaks into applause as the performance comes to a close, but I don’t move or breathe or think one lewd thought of her in that carnal catastrophe of a costume. Instead, for one fleeting moment, I pretend we’re still Laney and Ryder, and that later I’ll be mapping out every inch of her lily-white skin with my mouth. An image of her beneath me with her dress hiked above her hips takes over, and there goes the ridiculous idea of not thinking one lewd thought about her tonight.

The truth is, I’ve had nothing but a stream of insanely indecent thoughts about Laney for the past twelve months. It’s been one long porn flick starring the two of us, and just when I think they can’t get any lewder or cruder, I surprise the hell out of myself. There have been clowns, and monkeys, and, hell, I’ve even thrown in a bottle of crazy glue a time or two because without Laney around to keep me reasonably sane I tend to go off the rails a little both in and out of my fucked up imagination.

I can’t help it. I gave her my heart—buried it deep inside her, and I never want it back. There’s no one out there for me but Laney Sawyer, and I couldn’t care less if I was making a scene or much to mother’s embarrassment, a fool of myself by holding Laney’s beautiful eyes hostage with mine.

To hell with the world, I’m about half a second away from getting down on my knees and begging her to take me back.

The MC claps his way to the mike, and it sputters and pops as his hands get too close to the receiver. He waves over at the cast, and that’s when Laney takes a bow and the spell is forcibly broken—our magic moment gone too soon, just as swift and unexpected as our relationship was revoked.

My eyes land on the numbered paddles on the table because I know what’s coming next. All night I’ve watched as my mother and her socialite cohorts have bid on item after item to help raise funds for the drama department, and now, the unthinkable is about to go down. Laney, herself, is about to be put on the block in the name of Whitney Briggs.

The MC barters away half the cast before he finally gets to beautiful, sweet Laney, and my gut cinches as she parades around the stage in full character. She’s sassing it up to a room full of catcalls, mostly from the
Les Mis
ensemble, but, still, she’ll always be my girl, and deep down I can’t stand the thought of anyone else touching her, let alone ogling her body for retail purposes.

Laney pauses with her back to me, sending a clear message that this is one business opportunity both me and my dick are welcome to sit out. Laney would rather cover herself with honey and roll in a pile of fire ants than have anything to do with my dick or my dollars.

The auction starts, and, much to my relief, the only people bidding for Laney’s company are a handful of women. A boulder rolls right off my chest because for a second there I envisioned some preppy prince charming riding in and sweeping her away to his frat house. With my luck they’d fall in love, and Laney would get right to the task of having an entire herd of preppy babies. But I won’t put up a fight if a few older women want to listen to her belt out a couple tunes for kicks. They can do brunch and call it a day. The university gets paid, and there’s no harm no foul to Laney or her girl parts. Speaking of which, two of my favorite parts have been quivering for my attention ever since she stepped on stage.

Master of the House
, I glare over at Guy Richards and withhold the urge to punch him in the neck. I’ve got a master of the house that wouldn’t mind some of Laney’s attention and a couple of innkeepers that could use some comfort themselves. It was all I could do to keep from clocking him after he did a face-plant in my girlfriend’s chest. Not that she’s my girlfriend anymore, or even a friend for that matter.

“Who else is up for a dining experience with this fine wench?” The MC points out at the crowd at random. “Dinner and a dance? One magic-filled night? Have her your way, hold the lettuce, pickles, cheese.” A dull laugh circles the room at his lame attempt to make Laney sound like a cheap piece of meat.

Laney glances over her shoulder. She’s biting down on her bottom lip, and my dick perks to attention ready to pick up the damn paddle itself.

“Right here,” a male voice booms from the back. I turn to find Holt Edwards flashing his million-watt smile, and my jaw tightens. The last person Laney needs to be paired with is that loser. His brother and I are pretty close, but Holt took Laney out a few times after she dumped me with all of the emotional fanfare that the shit parade calls for. And now I can’t stand the sight of him. I work with his brother, Bryson. Actually he’s doing an internship at my father’s company. The Edwards family own a bunch of bars, and one of them happens to be where Laney is currently employed. Holt and Bryson are twins—fraternal, but nonetheless, they look like one and the same, and for a while it was hard to sit in a meeting with Bryson because as much as it made no sense, I was constantly a little ticked at him.

My mother picks up her paddle and outbids the douche, and now I’m very fucking alarmed because I know for a fact Laney can’t stand the sight of the woman who gave birth to me.

I give Mom that what-in-the-hell look, but she dismisses me with nothing more than a placid smile.

“Isn’t this exciting?” Meg leans over in an effort to distract me. I shake my head for a moment, but it has nothing to do with whatever the hell she’s going on about. Last year she worked in perfect synergy with my mother to wear Laney down, and I let it happen. Laney cried out to me from the quick sand, time and time again, and I waited until she was up to her eyebrows to notice. But it was too late.