Page 56 of False Start

I was horny.

Definitely horny.

Not for Kit, of course. Or at least, not Kit as a whole. Kit certainly sparked some response for me, or else I never would have come on the trip. Cute pretty. Not my type.

But she might be right. We had sibling chemistry. Or something close to it.

Of course, I’d never caught myself daydreaming about kissing my siblings.

She tapped her fingers on the table, waiting for an explanation. A reason I’d even asked if she’d thought about kissing me.

“You have the best reactions. Like when Gavin flubbed an easy pitch at practice and tripped over the ball. You had that exasperated look on her face with your eyebrows all high and your mouth pursed like you sucked a lemon.”

She laughed, a breathy exhale followed by a quick smile, all white teeth. Her eyes fluttered up to the ceiling and back to me. She had a great laugh, too.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

I could have stopped there. Probably should have stopped there. But admitting one reason I’d thought about kissing Kit caused an avalanche, and I couldn’t stop.

“And you call me on my shit.” I said, my words halting as I searched for the right way to explain why I’d completely overlooked Kit the first time I met her. “And you actually expect me to do better. I have a lot of people who don’t call me out for anything and only a few who call out my shit, but don’t expect me to do anything about it. I like that you think I’m better than I act.”

She watched me, her lips pursed together and drawing my attention. Deep red lips with a hint of shine. Carmex lip balm she kept stashed seemingly everywhere. “You are better than you act, Trent.”

Yeah, I wanted to kiss Kit. Just out of curiosity. Nothing more than that.

And Kit wasn’t the type of girl to fly off the handle over a kiss. She wouldn’t call and text nonstop wanting to go out again. She wouldn’t show up at my house. Best case, she’d kiss me and then laugh in my face.

I still wanted to kiss her. So, I pushed.

“How curious are you, Kit?”

“Is that my second truth or dare?” she asked, pulling her knee further in so it didn’t rest against my thigh.

“Sure. Why not?”

“Fine, I’m a little curious. It’d probably be awful.”

“Maybe.”

“Like kissing a sleazy uncle who shows up every fifth Christmas and makes a point to kiss you on the lips because he ‘spent some time in Italy.’”

“Oddly specific,” I said, making a note to round back to that later. “But, yeah, maybe…or it could be kind of great.”

“Because you’re such a pro at kissing?”

“I haven’t had any complaints.”

She drained the last of her drink. The leaden tumbler thwacked against the table. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

I grinned, anticipation flowing through me. “Dare.”

“Alright,” she pitched forward in her seat, cherry lip balm and bourbon flooding my nostrils. “I dare you to go ask that bartender for his shirt.”

My head jerked back at the grizzled guy behind the counter. “Wait, what?”

“You said dare.” Her lips tilted up. “You don’t have to hit on him. Just get his shirt.”

“He’s definitely going to think I’m hitting on him if I ask for his shirt.” Besides a red bandana over his ponytail and a full beard that would make any member of ZZ Top wildly jealous, the guy wore a faded gray t-shirt, sleeves ripped off and “Blind Horse Saloon” emblazoned on the front.

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