Page 38 of Hot Mess Express
Even while he continues to kiss me deeply, his breath rushing desperately out of his mouth with his efforts, I have to process for a solid ten seconds that he isn’t, in fact, still trying to attack me.
I don’t even realize it’s happening. It was never a possibility.
Not truly.
And now I’m kissing him back. Gripping him by his shirt, too. Fingers tangling into his clothes.
One of his hands gropes me so suddenly, I grunt with surprise. Is he copping a feel? A genuine, committed, five-finger grappling of my junk through my pants?
He’s hard as fuck. I can feel him throbbing as he humps my leg while the kiss intensifies.
What the fuck is happening?
Where the hell did this come from?
I don’t know. I can’t answer. All I can do is scramble to keep up with his sudden, assaulting intensity. I don’t know what it is about the feverishness of this kiss, but it’s pulling out everything from inside of me.
My own needs. My own lonesomeness.
My own desire to get this beastly hunger out of me.
Is this the truth I’ve been refusing to see since first stepping foot in this town? That Anthony is just another lonely fool in need of affection—like me?
The kiss ends so suddenly, I let out a whimper as Anthony rolls off of me like a lump of dead meat. “I’m so … so fuckin’ tired of … of …” His eyes are closed, his head lolled back on my shoulder. “… of your pretty face,” he finishes at last.
Then silence.
Piercing. Breathless. Incorrigible silence.
I lie there, stunned, as I stare up at the burned-out fluorescent light, wide-eyed, Anthony half on me breathing quietly, deeply.
Asleep. The fucker fell asleep.
Not a muscle in his body moves, save for his gently rising and falling chest. Like a baby cradled in my arms. A big, sweaty, messy baby. Face tucked into my shoulder. His weight on me.
Of all the things to possibly notice right now, after the words we shared, and that ridiculously aggressive kiss, my attention is wholly captured by a single, surprising observation.
He isn’t snoring. Sleeping like a goddamned rock.
Above us, the dead fluorescent light buzzes, flickers and spits, then comes on.
11
ANTHONY
The sound of birds chirping.
Tweeting cutely, like in a cartoon or some shit.
I open my eyes.
Where the fuck am I…?
I lift my head off the pillow, blinking, confused. The sun burns bright through the tall windows. I’m in the church. On a pew in the back of the chapel. And the pillow under my head isn’t a pillow at all, turns out.
It’s a folded-up denim jacket.
I take it into my hands, even further confused. For some weird reason, I bring it to my face and give it a sniff. Then I find myself recalling Bridger wearing a denim jacket at the restaurant. But is this the same one? Why would it be tucked under my head?
