Page 28 of The Last Kind of Kiss
“Believe it or not, pretending to fake date someone is not in my wheelhouse.”
Bristol fiddles with his cuffs, and a deep chuckle ricochets against his ribs. “Pretending, huh?”
“If you feel me up tonight, you’re losing a hand. And it’ll be your good one. Try jerking off without it.”
The devious way he smirks at me has my heart flip-flopping and my confidence flaking off like a painful sunburn.
“You imagine me jerking off?” Arrogance drips from his brow, and self-satisfaction contorts every perfectly proportioned feature on his flawless face.
“Yeah, when I’m having a nightmare in bed.”
“So you dream about me?”
“Not intentionally.”
“Which means you think about me.”
“Again, not intentionally.”
“I don’t know, Lils.” He makes a show of flexing his biceps when he crosses his arms over that ridiculously strapping chest of his, and I only realize I’m gawking a second too late. “Kind of sounds like you think about me.”
This is going to be impossible. Pretending like I don’t utterly despise him…is going to be impossible. Pretending like I don’t want him to fuck me in the bathroom…is going to be impossible. My head wants one thing, my pussy wants another, and if I don’t get my hormones under control, we’re all going to end up getting fucked tonight. In the asshole. No lube.
He’s just trying to get under your skin, Lila. Remember why you’re here. You’re doing this for your career.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” I say saccharinely, facing forward and running my hands down my bright red bodycon dress.
Bristol mirrors me. “You. Next to me. Preferably in that pink Victoria’s Secret nightie.”
Since we’re backstage, I’m not sure how visible my blush is, but there’s enough heat circulating through my body to fuel an entire apartment building in the dead of winter.
Deep breaths, Lila. You got this. Everyone will probably be too drunk to remember anything that happens tonight anyways. All you have to do is pretend like the gala wasn’t a total shit show and take back control.
I think Bristol’s about to say something when Ester flits over in her kitten heels, glowers at both of us with her resting bitch face, and—distastefully, mind you—fixes a strand of my hair with her talons. “Showtime, people. You better bring it tonight. If I don’t see a new headline by tomorrow morning, I’ll fly in my models from Belize to take both of your places. Capiche?”
Bristol gives her a salute, clearly immune to her fear tactics. “Sure thing, boss.”
I, on the other hand, tremble in my six-inch heels. “Mm-hm.”
There’s no warning before the curtains swing to the sides, I’m flash-banged by a spotlight, and Ester takes a long stroll down the catwalk with her arms outstretched like she’s some kind of evil villain. Which, actually, may be fitting. Bristol and I both stand at the curtain line, frozen from the sudden calamitous uproar in stimuli, and I know for certain there’s at least one bead of sweat running through my foundation right now.
Some blurry figure hands Ester a microphone, and to add to my onset blindness, a lovely, shrill screeching grates my eardrums. “Thank you all for coming to Kitty’s Menoulé launch party. We couldn’t have done this without all your support. This is the start of an entirely new era for fashion and fragrance alike, and I implore you to follow us on this journey as we, for the first time in Menoulé history, partner with the biggest NHL team in the entire tri-state, The Riverside Reapers.”
Another spotlight blasts to overpowered life on Bristol’sfigure, and a rumbling of claps, cheers, and hollers shakes the entire room. All he does is nod and give a close-mouthed smile, and despite both actions being inherently boring, he somehow makes them look good. A cavalry of Reapers is hyping us up to the left (I’m guessing because I still can’t see twenty feet ahead of me), and some of the anxiety in my chest actually de-bloats upon hearing Aeris’ famous wolf whistle.
“And Kitty’s Catwalk is proud to introduce our star of the season, newcomer Lila Perkins,” Ester announces, gesturing to me as a godforsaken spotlight washes me out completely. I wave because I don’t know what else to do, and even though I’m evading Bristol’s general direction, I can stillfeelhim watching me. An indescribable chill tickles my nape, coexisting with the crackling warmth in my belly. The crowd is still on a celebrating high, and a few drunken shouts harpoon the air—which I’m half-sure are emanating from my tipsy best friend somewhere in the faceless sea.
Ester’s got this whole shtick down, selling parasocial relationships like realtors sell crappy houses for a million-dollar profit. “Gift bags are on the back table as a little thank-you from Menoulé. Make sure to tag us in whatever pictures you take here tonight. We’d love to see all your beautiful faces.”
And then—dear God—Ester turns toward me, beckons me with her hand, and instructs me to walk twenty-eight feet without tripping over my freakishly high heels in front of three hundred people. My 4-7-8 breathing technique isn’t working anymore. My stomach is pinched into a knot that I’m nowhere near equipped to untangle right now. Of course I was going to have to walk down a runway. We’re ON a fucking runway! If I don’t move in the next five seconds, I’ll endure Ester’s wrath.
My heart’s racing a million miles per second. I’m gonna have a sweaty underboob by the time I get down from this elevated platform. Every worst possible scenario is flashing through mymind right now like a stuck camera shutter. Right as I’m about to wobble over to her like a newborn deer, Bristol hooks our arms together, forces me to match his stride, and just starts walking.
“What are you doing?” I whisper-hiss.
He doesn’t bat an eye. “My boyfriend duties.”
“Fakeboyfriend duties.”
