Page 20 of The Last Kind of Kiss
“Thank you.” I try—and fail—to hurriedly unwrap it, scarfing down the first bite and letting out a quiet moan when the sustenance hits my tongue.
She scoops her belongings back into her purse, sympathy reflected in the magnetizing ocean-blue of her eyes. “Not a fan of fancy people food?” she quips, turning around to rest her back against the edge of the counter.
Since my mouth is disgustingly full of food, I force myself to swallow. “Oh, no. I, um, I just haven’t really had time to eat,” I lie.
“I know it’s none of my business, but you seem”—shesearches for the right word, carefully stepping on the eggshells strewn around my feet—“upset.”
Shit. Am I really that easy to read?
I attempt to erase the kicked-dog-look from my face, forcing an unnaturally wide smile that makes my teeth ache. “I’m okay. Just…overwhelmed.” Not entirely a lie, alright?
She scrutinizes me under her metaphorical microscope, shadows undulating over the soft planes of her face, and then the smallest of smiles climbs onto her lips. “I’m honestly right there with you. I’m more of astay-at-home-and-stuff-my-face-with-ice-creamkind of gal,” she chuckles, unleashing a warmth that thaws the unease from my chest.
Maybe it’s because I’m running on one measly chunk of granola bar—or because Bristol’s still poisoning my brain tissue—but I come clean without resistance. “I’m actually avoiding someone,” I admit, pacing my next bite. I’d like to save my stomach from further Bristol-related upset.
“Whoever it is must be the biggest idiot on the planet to get on your bad side.”
I feel a blush sprawl over my face like a kaleidoscopic sunset, and I’m blundering for a response yet again.
“Guy or girl?” she asks.
“Guy.”
“Cute?”
“Unfortunately.”
Ugh, I can’t believe I just said that. I think I’m gonna throw up.
She groans, but the deadpan look on her face tells me that she’s familiar with the territory. “What did he do?”
Whatdidn’the do?
I stare down at the half-eaten bar in my hand—now looking about as appetizing as those soggy, overcooked tomatoes I saw at the buffet—and bile backwashes my throat.
I hate thinking about Bristol. I hate thinking about when we were together. I hate knowing that I’ll never have that again…that I’ll never have the stability and security and unconditional love I thought I had with him. I hate carrying this pain around; I hate refusing to sanitize this open, bloody, festering wound.
“Led me on,” I whisper under my breath.
The redhead sucks her teeth. “Ledyouon? Seriously? What kind of Viagra-inflated dickwad does this guy think he is?” she full-on growls, looking about a second away from hunting Bristol down and ripping him limb from limb.
I wish he had to take Viagra. No, his dick is as big and thick as a horse’s cock. Not that I’ve…seen one before. I’ve just heard things, okay?
Then, everything comes out—every ill feeling, every bothersome grudge, every cell hell-bent on exacting revenge. “And now I have to work with him, or I’ll lose my modeling job. And I’ve worked so hard for this job, you know? I deserve this job. Hedoesn’tdeserve this job. But I can’t get him fired because my employers are smitten with him. How am I supposed to play nice with the man who broke my heart? How am I supposed to put on a brave face every time I’m reminded of the way he shattered every promise he made to me? How am I supposed to act like I’m not dying inside while he’s living his best fucking life?”
I’m huffing for air by the time I finish my tangent, and I’m ninety-nine percent certain I’ve just scared away this poor stranger with my hysterics.
She looks at me, wide-eyed, and thankfully doesn’t toss me a pity look—no, instead, her foxlike eyes narrow in a cunning manner, shimmering with a trace of devilry that would make Satan himself proud. “You wanna get back at him?”
I’m not sure what I expected her to say, but it certainly wasn’t that. Am I really plotting Bristol’s downfall in the bathroom with a random stranger? Does he seriously expect me to just forgiveand forget? Fuck that. I’ll make him regret ever treating me like a second thought. Apologies are empty words—real change comes from actions. And until he gets off his ass and does something to fix all of this, I’m not trusting any poorly constructed excuse that slithers off his forked tongue.
My indignation, no longer bridled by so-called “professionalism,” blooms in the center of my chest, stoked by the mere thought of having Bristol at my mercy, suffering to the same extent I did after he decimated the heart I’d given to him so easily.
“What do you have in mind?” I conspire, the darkest of thoughts percolating in my head—thoughts that, if my brain was a computer, would have to undergo a serious search history wipe.
The redhead winks at me as she saunters toward the exit. “Show him what he’s missing.”
Show him what he’s missing.
