Page 13 of The Last Kind of Kiss
The muscles in his upper body seem to writhe as he searches for a weak spot in my fabrication, prodding with those now-dead eyes that are intent on unearthing the truth. But I stand my ground, stare at him with the same soulless look, and practically get off on the mental pain I’m causing this man.
I can tell he’s holding back, trying to approach with caution, but said caution’s been blown off the door hinges.
“Where is he then?” he interrogates, the closeness of his body growing more irresistible by the minute, his cologne unfortunately having some kind of aphrodisiac effect on my psyche. It’s this intoxicating scent of sensual leather—not entirely overwhelming to be dizzying, but strong enough to coddle me in the faintest woodsy undertone. And it makes my stupid, apparently non-Bristol-proof hormones go haywire.
Uh. Um. I flounder for a second—hoping it’s not long enough to give myself away—then I make eye contact with the two-story building waiting for us.
“He’s waiting for me. Inside,” I say.
Ugh. Great going, Lila! He’s obviously going to want to?—
Bristol’s eyes flick nonchalantly behind me, then back to me. “I want to meet him.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to make sure he’s treating you right.”
“Oh, he’s treating me right.”
Ifhewas a battery-operated device named Melvin that I’ve started to grow attachment issues to.
“Plus, you lost all boyfriend-y privileges the moment you dumped me. Why on earth would I let you ruin this night and interrogate him just because you’re jealous?” I retaliate, haunches raised, the anxiousness in my stomach quickly replaced with prickling annoyance.
Bristol contemplates me, pauses, then has the gall to call my bluff. “You’re lying.”
My nose scrunches—an unfortunate tell I’ve always had. “I’m not.”
We finally start to inch our way toward the entrance, each fate-sealing step making my pulse burst out the side of my neck. I clutch my purse to my body, bear the nightly chill due to the laughable coverage of my dress, and walk my gelatin-like legs to my social execution.
Bristol not so discreetly rolls his eyes, a small scoff catching at the back of his throat. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Fine then. Be prepared to eat your words.”
5
A LITTLE LIE NEVER HURT ANYONE
LILA
If I didn’t think this night could get any worse, I was dead wrong.
One, I’m trapped in four hundred square feet with my ex-situationship. Two, I just lied about having a new boyfriend to aforementioned ex-situationship. And three, I’m going to become an even bigger raging bitch if I don’t eat something soon.
When we step into the ballroom, I’m overwhelmed by the grandiose nature of everything, not at all comparable to the lackluster childhood I grew up with in tiny Moreno Valley. My childhood was good for the most part, if you don’t count my deadbeat dad who decided to abandon my mom when he found out she was pregnant. My mother got pregnant with me when she was still a teenager in high school, so she raised me all by herself while my father slunk off to bumfuck nowhere without claiming any responsibility for the life he helped bring into this world.
My mom’s a badass. She’s the most determined, hardworking, selfless person I know. While I was growing up in our one-bedroom apartment, she was busy working three jobs to keep usafloat, and even though she wouldn’t come home until the early hours of the morning, I’d always have food on the table and a roof over my head. My childhood wasn’t glamorous by any means, but it was mine, and I shared it with my hero.
She was always a haven of safety for me, of solace, of reassurance. When it seemed like the world had turned its back on me, she was there to remind me that I was loved, and that I always had a supporter in my corner. It wasn’t easy growing up without a dad—it wasn’t easy seeing all the other girls in my grade being dropped off by loving father figures.
My mom, though, understood my pain like nobody else in the universe. She’d sing this song to me—“Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera—and it would always calm me when my nerves were too difficult to corral. I struggled with self-worth thanks to my abandonment issues. But the song…it eventually became a source of empowerment. It tranquilized my heart when it beat too fast. It took all that self-hatred and fear writhing inside me and held it at bay so I could escape for four beautiful, uninterrupted minutes. And there’s not a day that goes by where I don’t listen to it—where I don’t cling to the comforting past my mother cultivated for me. She sacrificed everything for me, and eventually, I realized it was time I did the same for her.
When I became old enough to understand big grownup terms like “Section 8 Housing” and “SNAP benefits,” I realized I had to help my mother with expenses. So, after I turned fifteen, I went searching for jobs at our local mall, and I must’ve won life’s lottery ticket that day because I was scouted to audition for a modeling agency. I didn’t necessarily want to pursue a career in modeling, but it was a good source of income for me and my mother, so I stuck with it. And the longer I did, the more I grew to love it.
I’m lucky that I was tall enough for photoshoots to turn intorunway shows. Nothing global or well-known, obviously. The agency had a small audience in California. It wasn’t until I began posting on Instagram that my career started gaining more traction. Now I’m here in good ol’ Riverside, loving my job but hating my coworker like every well-adjusted adult in their mid-twenties.
A crystal teardrop chandelier glistens overhead, sparkling with the brilliance of the night sky, and it accents the off-white sconces lining the walls, which are embellished with an intricate lacework of leaf designs. Pillars of expensive marble are stationed in pairs along the perimeter of the area, sandwiched by large ferns that nearly sweep the varnished floorboards with their overhanging leaves. The floor’s main design consists of concentric circles that resemble an antique sun dial, and the ceiling is garnished in matching golden trim, ultimately tying the whole slice of ostentatious heaven together.
Everything looks surreal, like a picture out of a royal architectural digest. I had no idea something like this even existed in Riverside. I’m so enthralled by the beauty that I almost forget about the eyesore right next to me, talking my ear off with how myvery reallie holds no merit. Hundreds of sophisticated bodies mill around us—dressed from head-to-toe in designer outfits—and I make a mental note of the guys who seem like they’d be the easiest to convince to be my fake boyfriend.
