Page 27 of The Last Kind of Kiss
Bristol’s chest heaves with contemplation, his eyes skirting the curve of my lips, and I foolishly think he’s about to obliterate rule number one completely before the elevator doors ding open. Our little rendezvous is cut short by a disgruntled-looking maintenance man, and we both spring apart, blood welling under the thin skin of my cheeks as I brush my hands down my skirt. I step out of the elevator and apologize meekly.
That could’ve ended badly. Likeworse-than-being-stuck-in-an-elevator-for-twenty-four-hoursbadly. Every time I think I’ve got these pesky feelings under control, Bristol snaps my resolve in half with his big, masculine hands.
Bristol begins to walk off in the other direction, and surprisingly, I’m the one chasing after him this time. Before he reaches the exit, I call out to him, suddenly hating the spaciousness of the first floor, missing the excuse that stupid metal trap gave me to be close to him. “Thank you for dinner the other night,” I say, a wellspring of emotion disgorging in my chest.
He looks over his shoulder with his hands stuffed in hispockets, and a smile ghosts over his lips—lips that were inches away from reminding me just how badly I want to start over. “Anytime.”
I give a slight nod and start walking toward the other exit, but it’s his turn to stop me, and my heart secretly flutters when he does.
“This might all be for show, Lila, but I’ll always take care of you.”
He’s not fully facing me—his side profile’s shrouded in a grey haze from the midafternoon sun—but I wish he was. And then, without a second thought, he steps out of those swinging double doors, leaving me lonelier than I’ve felt in a long time.
10
MUTUALLY ASSURED DESTRUCTION
LILA
Usually I’m a grab-it-by-the-horns kind of gal when it comes to parties—especially parties inmyhonor—but right now, there’s enough fast-acting anxiety in my body that an Error 404 system failure is bound to happen. As with every internet-breaking campaign, Ester has taken it upon herself to transform Kitty’s Catwalk into the ultimate launch party, crowning me and Bristol as the guests of honor. Guests of honor who are lying to the entire world about their relationship.
I peek through the catwalk’s curtains, my eyes zigging and zagging between the consistent circulation of high-profile attendees, and my gut’s practically screaming at me to abandon my favorite Louboutins and make a Houdini escape out the window. This is all becoming way too real way too fast. The party’s already flooded with paparazzi circling the floor like ravenous sharks, and I’m the tasty chum that’s going to attract them. I could barely answer their questions about Bristol during the gala without gagging. And now we’re supposed to entertain this ludicrous scheme because I used a willing stranger as my stripper pole during my first public appearance. Who does that? Ugh!
Get it together, Lila. Get it together, Lila. Get it?—
“You know, you should be happier,” a rumbly voice says from behind me, two cups sweetener and one cup trouble.
I don’t need to turn around to confirm who it belongs to. There’s only one voice in the entire world that simultaneously grinds my gears and pacifies me like a sedative. While I may have found my Zen after Bristol’s and my…elevator escapade…it doesn’t mean I’m going to sweep all his misdemeanors under the rug. His past rejection’s still a hairline fracture on my heart, and one talk in a cramped elevator isn’t going to change that.
I hoover in a breath for four, hold it for seven, then release it for eight, hoping that it’s enough to suppress my more violent tendencies. “And why’s that?” I humor him.
Bristol, as usual, looksgenuinelyhappy to be here. He has the charm turned up to at least a seven tonight and wears his hair in that stupid, slicked back look that tripwires every sensation below the designer belt. Bad sensations. Sensations that have no business crashing this veryprofessionalparty. Why are suits even required for an event like this? Why couldn’t Bristol have shown up in some disgusting Hawaiian shirt and too-tight golf shorts that show off a very untasteful moose knuckle?
“Because you get to hang out with me for the entire night,” Bristol answers, either oblivious to the irony in my tone or having theaudacityto mortify me anyway. Probably the latter. Definitely the latter.
When I finally come face to chest with him, I’m reminded of just how many inches he has over me, and I lift my head up to glare daggers at him. Goose bumps flare over my arms, my heart does a triple axel in my chest, and the needle of my emotion barometer tips all the way into red. “You look like shit.”
Bristol grins—a blinding, disarming grin that probably churns out some signal to the nearest woman and raises her state of arousal before turning her into a sex-crazed zombie. “And you somehow look even more beautiful than the last time I saw you,” he drawls.
“God, you’re predictable,” I scoff, glancing at my cuticles in disinterest, though the not-so-dormant flutters in my pussy mock me. A Bristol-induced headache is starting to burgeon, and pressure squeezes my temples like an abrupt altitude shift.
“I think you meant to say ‘incredible.’”
“Oh, so now you’re putting words in my mouth?”
“Angel, I’ve puta lotof things in your mouth. But words? Never.”
I pat him on the cheek. "Look at you, refusing to monitor women's speech. You're such a feminist."
He inclines his head, leans into my clammy palm, and stares me down with heavy eyelids—a slipstream of tension that could easily drown me. My breath suddenly feels tight, sand fills my throat, and nerves begin to gnaw away at my stomach lining.
“What can I say?” he replies, and I’m doing a piss-poor job ofnotstaring at his lips while they form around each rasp of a word. “I love putting women on top.”
A cross between a snort and a laugh projectile out of my nose and mouth at the same time, and I try to cover it up with a weak throat clear. He rattled me! Oh, God. Now I’m no better than any other girl in this world who laughs and swoons at the idiotic things Bristol Brenner says. He’s already zombifying me. I need to amputate the infection site.
When I finally make the sound decision to drop my hand, I swear a brief flash of disappointment flickers across his face, though it’s probably just a trick of the light. “Are you ready for tonight?” I ask in a whisper, my voice fading below the rising decibels of the party.
“Are you?” He doesn’t need to comment on my sweaty hand or the pre-puke pallor I’ve probably adopted within the lastseveral minutes.
