Page 22 of The Last Kind of Kiss
An unspoken goodbye. An unspoken goodbye that bludgeons my barely beating heart. An unspoken goodbye that inundates my eyes with regretful tears.
The long,awkward, silent drive is terrible, and not because the driver isn’t very talkative. It’s because Bristol never leaves my mind during the seventeen minutes it takes for me to get escorted to my apartment. Those last three words to leave his mouth have been eroding my confidence ever since, reminding me how terrible of a person I am, reminding me of my inherent selfishness and tasteless behavior—behavior no modeling agency is going to put up with. Aside from the depressing recap of the night, that half-eaten granola bar barely tided me over, and I have to keep apologizing for the constant gurgling noises coming from my stomach.
The minute the Uber pulls up to my quaint little apartment, I jump out of the vehicle, give my thanks, and hope to sleep this terrible night off, but apparently that’s a luxury I’m not afforded. There’s a random deliveryman standing at my door, holding a plastic takeout bag in his hands.
I approach with caution, readying my purse in case this, in fact, isn’t a deliveryman and is instead a convincingly dressed kidnapper, but all he does is proffer the bag to me.
“Are you Lila Perkins?” he asks in the most bored tone imaginable.
I have no idea what’s in this little bag, but it smells like greasy heaven with a hint of smoked bacon, so I’m inclined to say yes. I swallow the excess saliva in my mouth, refraining from snatching the food out of his grasp like some mannerless heathen.
“That’s me.”
I accept the stained bag—surprised at the weight of it—and I peek inside to see three large takeout boxes.
“One maple bacon burger, one three-cheese mac, a side of parmesan roasted zucchini, a side of large fries, and one slice of black forest cake,” he recites, looking at his copy of the receipt.
Oh my God. My favorite burger. From Hot Cross Buns.
Bristol still remembered.
I was expecting to eat cold pasta out of a serving dish, but this is so much better. Andsonot anything I ordered. My hunger’s ratcheted to adon’t-talk-to-me-or-I’ll-rip-your-head-offlevel, and I can practically taste the melted layer of Velveeta cheese searing my taste buds. But as my mystery deliveryman starts to walk away, I fess up, bearing an immediate clench of pain from my stomach walls.
“I didn’t order this!” I call out to him.
All he does is shrug his shoulders nonchalantly. “Says here it was ordered by a Mr. Brenner,” he informs me, resuming his trek down the sidewalk before disappearing into the adjoining parking lot.
I stare down at the fast-food order, trying to wrap my head around the fact that Bristol ordered me dinner to make sure I ate, and I’ve never hated myself more than I do right now.
8
FAKE IT TILL YOU MAKE IT
BRISTOL
Ican’t get Lila out of my head. I can’t believe she had the nerve to put on that stupid show. I’m not the type of person who gets jealous easily. I’m secure in myself. I was secure in my relationship with Summit. But last night was the first time I ever felt far from it.
The whole night was a disaster. And that comment she made about eating in front of the cameras—fuck. I could say anything in this world about how beautiful she is, and she wouldn’t believe me. I care about Lila. I don’t think I everstoppedcaring about her. And when you care about a person, you feel this inexplicable need to take care of them.
I’m not okay with any of this. I’m not okay with being Lila’s self-proclaimed sworn enemy. I’m not okay seeing her with other guys. This whole operation has gone up in flames before it’s even begun. I have to be a different breed of stupid if I thought I could win her back and we’d go skipping off into the sunset together.
I sit across a boardroom table, watching helplessly as the CEO of Kitty’s Catwalk uses all the air in the room to yell at me and Lila. This is like a Coach-equivalent type of debrief. Andhaving an older woman screaming at you doesn’t make it any less terrifying.
You fucked up? Say hi to the penalty box—or in my case, thecorporatepenalty box.
“You two made quite the splash last night,” Ester says. She turns her laptop toward me and Lila, and a huge headline is projected across the screen, one that’s bound to incite mass speculation over the now arguable quality of professionalism in the studio.
UPCOMING MODEL LILA PERKINS AND RIVERSIDE REAPERS’ BRISTOL BRENNER SPOTTED GOING HEAD-TO-HEAD IN A FRIENDLY PDA COMPETITION. TROUBLE ON THE CATWALK, ANYONE?
Lila’s pictured in that stupid dress that drove me crazy all night as she’s gettingacquaintedwith Glifford’s non-PG areas, and I’m staring her down with the rage of a thousand burning suns as what’s-her-face clings to my arm like a barnacle. I didn’t know her, alright? I didn’t engage in conversation with her. This random chick came up to me after Lila stormed off, commented on how lonely I looked, and then proceeded to fabricate a bunch of lies about how she’s abigfan of mine and loves the Riverside Rangers.
I’ve been called a lot of things in my life—a shit-for-brains captain, a talentless hockey player with the appeal of a disease-infected testicle, a lying son of a bitch (Lila), a cum-hungry demon bastard (Lila), but I’ll never, EVER accept someone calling me a “ranger.”
So, while Lila was rubbing herself all over Glifford like he had a Slim Jim in his pocket and she was a feral cat who hadn’t eaten in days, I was watching everything go down from afar, trying to refrain from choking the ever-loving life out of him. I wasn’t going to partake in whatever dick-measuring contest wasgoing on with her. I wasn’t going to play her twisted battle-of-the-sexes game.
Oh, and boyfriendmy ass. I’ve seen more chemistry between two slugs mating on the porch.
Her back is rigid against the hard, uncomfortable meeting chairs, her leg keeps shaking underneath the table, and she looks surprisingly apologetic for someone who fired the first shot. It doesn’t help that we’re seated so close to each other, either. That aromatic, jasmine perfume of hers smothers me in a cloud, reminding me just how intoxicating her scent is—how I inhaled it every time my mouth was on her neck, how she’d spritz it on her ankles so I could smell it when her legs were on my shoulders, how it would linger for days and kick my sleeping libido into high gear. But even as incredible as it smelt, nothing smelled better than that perfect fucking pussy of hers.
