Page 30 of The Last Kind of Kiss
“The future’s so unpredictable,” I say.
Bristol pretends like I’m not even here. “Well, she’s definitely the one.”
“We’re still so young.”
“I love how she’s always so realistic. Remembers to get me out of my head sometimes, you know?”
“Someone has to, otherwise the house wouldn’t get cleaned,” I harp, my tone laden with irritation as he single-handedly sands down the last of my patience. We’ve shared a handful of nights together—enough nights that we’ve both picked up on each other’s irksome flaws. While Bristol keeps his area relatively clean, he doesn’t extend that same grace to the rest of the house.
Bristol finally turns to face me. “At least I know how to put dishes in the dishwasher.”
“At least I don’t get the wrong kind of cheddar cheese when I go to the grocery store, even though therightkind is specifically written out on a list.”
“At least I don’t leave hair portraits in the shower.”
I gasp, and then I bare my teeth. “At least I don’t eat everything in the fridge and force us to do two grocery runs within a week!”
“At least I don’t snore like I have a deviated septum!”
Oh, I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna wring his neck right here, where everyone can watch. Ester wanted a new headline? Here’s one:
JILTED GIRLFRIEND MURDERS HER INCOMPETENT AND OBNOXIOUS BOYFRIEND BECAUSE HE CAN’T KEEP HIS FAT TRAP SHUT.
I don’t know when the paparazzi begin to disperse, but by the time they do, Bristol and I are arguing with one another in the middle of the party. Thankfully, we’re not loud enough to disrupt the entire evening, but there’s no way in hell either of us are ready to surrender.
“You’re terrible with directions,” he snaps.
“GPSs exist. Why do I have to memorize directions?” I retort, the initial flame of rage in my chest nowhere close to gutteringout—unleashed rage that I’ve held together with duct tape and false promises since Bristol left. “You’re allergic to putting the toilet seat down.”
“Oh, sorr-y I don’t think about toilet seat etiquette when I’m getting up to piss in the middle of the night.”
“Well, you should! Do you know how many times I’ve almost fallen into the toilet?”
A low growl stirs in his throat as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Doyouknow how many times I’ve tripped over random shit you leave on the floor? You’re like a fucking squirrel leaving behind a trail of breadcrumbs.”
This is the first time I’m actually thankful that Bristol’s wearing a suit, because I grab his tie, yank him into me, and relish in delight when he loses his balance. “You’re getting a beer gut,” I lie, wrapping the silk around my acrylics. If I tugged any harder, I’d cut his airway off.
“You’re…” He doesn’t finish that sentence. In fact, it morphs into a half-groan, and he glances down at the precarious situation I’ve got him in. I don’t need to make (frankly dangerous) eye contact with him to know that this night isn’t going to end in a civil goodbye or a handshake. No, we’re gearing up for World War III, and the casualties are either going to be my dignity or the expensive pair of panties I have on right now.
I really don’t think he has the balls to retaliate, until he says something that’s even worse than him cussing me out or accusing me of hogging all the covers (which I don’t do).
“God, you’re fucking intoxicating.”
11
A LITTLE (UN)FRIENDLY FIRE
LILA
My first mistake was thinking that the first photoshoot of the campaign was going to be your average studio-lit backdrop. My second mistake was boarding a boat without bringing some anti-anxiety medication because I’ll be trapped on twenty acres of water with my fake boyfriend.
The stylist’s got me in this micro, royal-blue bikini that barely covers anything, and it would probably slip off if I actually swam in it. Small, triangular pieces of fabric sheathe my nipples, leaving a dangerous amount of boobage spilling out, and my poor, high-waisted thong consists of strings skimpy enough to make a plastic rubber band seem durable. My makeup is lightly applied this time around, giving me a natural look that won’t take away from the rather…showstopping…swimsuit.
Since Kitty’s Catwalk wanted to get stellar lighting and a background unobstructed by tourists or unsightly mountain bends, they decided that having Bristol, me, and the crew spend a night on the water would be the best course of action. And, of course, what was I supposed to say to that?Actually, Ester, I can’tbe left to my own devices because I’ll either drown Bristol or fuck him before we make it back to shore tomorrow morning.
I have to keep reminding myself that this is all just an act. It’s just work. None of this means anything—what Bristol said at the launch party didn’t mean anything. And the more I recite those words like a mantra, the more I believe them.
When I make my way to the top deck of the million-dollar yacht I’m on, I wish I was greeted by the picturesque sight of a clear, glistening lake, but my eyes are instead accosted by a heavily oiled Bristol and his unbelievably sculpted set of abs. He’s got on disturbingly small swim trunks—too small to contain the above-average monster between his thighs—and the dude needs to start carrying a gun license around to legally operate that much heat.
