Page 8 of The Second Kiss
I lean forward, finish smoothing out my eyeliner, and paint my lips with “satin pearl” lip gloss—the best color to bring out my fading tan. I’m being paranoid. I can’t let Lexie get to me. I try to forget everything I overheard and go out to meet my football star.
The party is pretty uneventful, boring actually. Brad kissed me long and hard when he first saw me. Long enough for there to be catcalls and whistles from his admiring fans, but for the last thirty minutes I’ve kind of been forgotten. I’m standing next to Brad, his arm around my waist, listening to yet another recap of the game.
Brad remembers I’m with him as the last group drifts away. “Let’s go somewhere quiet.”
"Where?" My heart races. Two couples have headed up the stairs since the football team arrived. Neither has come back down.
"C'mon." He takes my hand, leading me to a little room on the other side of the stairs. "We've barely seen each other today." He sits on a leather couch and pulls me down next to him. “I don’t think you need this anymore.” He slides his hands around my waist, up my back and into the sleeves of his letterman’s jacket, pulling it off as he goes. He drapes it over the back of the couch. “So how did you like the game?”
“It was great. You’re amazing. That touchdown you made in the second half with the interception, and the tackle on the twenty-yard line and…" I know I’m babbling, but being alone with Brad suddenly makes me nervous.
“Wow, you were watching, and you know your stuff.” He leans close to my lips. “I didn’t know you were into football.”
“Oh yeah,” I pull back. “I used to play football with Jac–” I stop myself before the name that’s been on my mind comes out, “with my brother Matt.”
“Matt?” he sits back like he’s thinking. “Matt Roberts is your brother?”
“Yeah.”
“He was an excellent wide receiver. I guess I didn’t make the connection between you two. Where is he now?”
“He still lives at home. He’s going to community college until he can transfer somewhere bigger.”
“Small world.” He runs his thumb across my bare shoulder and moves in for a kiss.
I want to keep him talking, so I turn my head. “Whose house is this anyway? I’m kind of lost.”
“Grant's. His parents are cool. They go out of town all the time. Leave the fridge stocked. Don’t ask a lot of questions.” He cups my chin in his hand, turning my face back toward his. He slides his fingers across my cheek, below my eyes. “You have the most amazing eyes.” He traces my lips, then slides his fingers down my neck. I close my eyes. His mouth finds mine. I lean forward. Breathe him in. Mold my lips to his. He slides his hand along the edge of my shirt, resting his fingers on the skin at the small of my back. He leans against me, kissing me harder. His hands press into my back. He’s trying to get me to lie back on the couch, but I resist the pressure. Anxiety flutters in my stomach.
Brad pulls away. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I should just ask him about the conversation I overheard. Maybe we could laugh about it.
“You want to go someplace more private? We could go upstairs.”
“No.” It comes out abrupt and louder than I mean it to.
He smiles. “How about a drink? Something to help you relax?”
“Sure,” I answer before I remember what a drink might imply.
“What would you like? Beer? Something sweeter?”
“Water.” The warning voice in my head tells me that water would be the hardest to disguise something in, and if he leaves for a minute, it might give me a chance to catch my breath and decide where this is going, or maybe where I want it to go.
“Are you sure you don’t at least want a soda?”
“Just water.”
“With ice?” His brown eyes are teasing.
“Plain is fine.”
He kisses me again, soft and tender, so when he pulls away, I wonder how I could ever doubt him. He puts his finger on my lips. “Don’t move okay? I’ll be right back.”
But I can’t sit still. I pace around the room. Pick up a picture of a little boy in a baseball uniform from the coffee table. The boy in that picture seems too innocent. Too far removed from what’s going on around him–the loud music, the overflowing plastic cups, and the smoke that hangs in the air.
Like the little boy in the picture. I’m not sure I belong here.
