Dirty Kisses (8 page)

Her chest rises and falls with her next breath. “Because I do take responsibility for my actions.” She bats those forest thick lashes before leaning back and taking a casual sip of her drink. “And step away, would you? I’d hate to shut my prospects down for the night.”

Now it’s my turn to scowl. “I know all about your nightly prospects.”

Her hands fly up to her ears, and a fat drop of strawberry sludge slips right down her cleavage.

“I wouldn’t mind cleaning that up for you.” I lick my lips without meaning to.

“First, that’s disgusting—and second, you do not mention nightly prospects.” Daisy hikes up and gets up into my face. “Speak no evil!”

She’s either batshit or blindsided with lust for me.

“Admit you were enjoying the hell out of yourself.”

Her eyes expand. Her face bleaches out as if I’ve just threatened her.

I graze over her cheek with my thumb as I pull her in with my gaze. “Don’t fight it.”

A series of choking noises emits from her, and oddly enough, it looks as if she’s enjoying the hell out of herself. Daisy stomps down on my foot like she’s killing a spider, shrieking like her hair is on fire before taking off in a fury.

Owen steps back in the room and makes his way over. “What the heck was that about?”

“I think they call it denial.”

“What’s she denying?”

“That I’m not a big hairy spider she can get rid of with the heel of her shoe. What’s up?”

“Lucky’s up. I think you need to see this.”

“Crap.” I follow Owen as we thread through the crowd. Girls brush up against me with a wink and a smile. A few of the coeds I’ve brought home before whisper open invites as I pass them by, but I’m too worried about Lucky to process anything right now.

Owen leads us to the women’s restroom, and my jaw drops when he walks right in like he owns the place. Inside, near the back, Piper and Daisy kneel next to a girl sitting in a chair in the corner. It’s Owen’s little sister, Ava. A curtain of black hair drapes over her knees, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s Lucky lying across her lap.

“Lucky?” I pull her hair back, and she lets out a deep, sickly moan. Her eyes are reduced to puffy slits as she shoots me a lazy smile.

“Brother!”

“What’s happening? Are you sick? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“She’s sick all right.” Piper pulls Lucky’s hair back. “She’s puking. Someone gave her a beer or two, and she’s freaking smashed.”

“What?” I bark so loud my voice echoes through the room like a boomerang.

“What’s happening?” a shrill female voice calls from behind, and I turn to find Baya and Laney, two of the waitresses, brimming with concern. “God, how old is she?” Baya rests her palm over Lucky’s forehead as if checking for a fever. “Should we call an ambulance?”

Daisy looks up at me with watery eyes. “How old is she, Jet?”

“Too fucking young for this.” I lean over, and Lucky sputters as she sits up. “What’s going on?” I brush the loose strands from her eyes.

“I was”—Lucky does a quick survey of all the concerned faces—“just being stupid.”

Baya sighs with relief and picks her hand up. “I’m so glad you’re okay. You really scared me for a second. How did you get the alcohol? There’s no underage drinking in this bar.”

“Tell me about it.” She smacks her lips like she’s about to get sick. “I couldn’t get a drink here, so I brought my own.”

A swell of rage runs through me. “Where the hell did you get your hands on alcohol?”

“Your refrigerator.” She shrinks a little when she says it.

“Shit.” I squeeze my eyes shut tight. I don’t drink. Not really enough to qualify anyway. I keep a few beers in the fridge for my buddies, but that ends tonight. There will be a fucking purge once I get home, but until then, I have a very loaded sister to deal with.

Laney pats me over the back. “I think we need to get her back to her place. Is everything okay, or do you guys need some assistance?”

“We’ve got it.” Daisy wraps an arm around Lucky, and something about hearing her say
we
so sweetly makes me feel better about the situation because I sure as hell don’t feel like I’ve got it.

Baya and Laney take off and so do half of the gawkers that have amassed behind us. I scoop Lucky into my arms, and she giggles up a storm as I lead her out of the bar and into the cool night air.

Daisy wraps an arm around Ava’s shoulders, helping her with her every wobbly step.

“You, too?” Owen growls out his disappointment for all to hear.

“I’m sorry!” Ava buries her face in Daisy’s neck before murmuring something incoherently. The four of us help the girls across the street and up to Cutler Tower. I land Lucky in her bed while Ava has a brief shouting match with Owen before kicking him out of her room.

Lucky curls into a fetal position and hums goodnight before I even say goodbye. “Do you need me to stay?”

She waves me off.

“You’re texting me when you get up. Don’t go anywhere tomorrow. You won’t be feeling well.”

Lucky turns to me, her face still patchy from crying and vomiting. “I’m sorry, Jet. I didn’t mean to hurt you or anything. I won’t do it again. I promise.”

“No worries. We’ll talk more later.” I press a kiss to her forehead before heading out. Piper and Owen are nowhere to be seen. The only person to lay eyes on is Daisy, with her knee hiked up against the wall. Her hair falls over the side of her face, and something about her loosens me.

“You okay?” she asks nice enough, but I can’t seem to get on her level.

“Do you really care?” Normally, I would have taken the bait, but just knowing that Lucky is in that position because she used my fridge as a minimart makes me want to punch a wall. I head for the stairs without waiting for a response.

“Yes, I care.” Daisy scuttles alongside me, struggling to keep up. “I care about both of those girls. I’ll make sure I have a long talk with them about the ills of intoxication. Thank God they happened to be at the Black Bear and not some sexed-up frat house.”

I let out a groan at the thought of some idiot taking advantage of my sister just because she couldn’t control her drinking.

“I’d appreciate you talking to them. I know Owen would, too.” We hit the night air once again, and Daisy steps in front of me with that intoxicating scent that follows her around like a mist, her sweet perfume—the only thing good about this night so far. “I’m going to have a talk with my sister, too.”

“Go easy on her.” Her eyes grow heavy as she looks to the ground. “There’s nothing worse than disappointing your family.”

My heart breaks because I know she’s speaking from experience.

“I will.”

“Jet—” Her lips quiver as she looks up at me from under her lashes.

“Is she okay?” Cassidy cuts her off as she runs over with Piper and Scarlett.

“They’re both fine.” Daisy glances up at me, and her mouth contorts as if she wants to say something, but the words won’t come out.

“I’ll see you later.” I nod toward her buddies before taking off.

I head home and throw myself in the shower, hoping to wash away the memory of my sister lying in a heap over Ava’s lap. I get out and wrap a towel around my waist, not bothering to get dressed, not bothering to dry off. I clean the fridge out of all its malt liquor libations and dump them into the garbage can outside the back door.

“Whoa!” a small voice cries from the shadows as I dump the last of the bottles. “You could have found a home for that.” Daisy steps forward, her chest pumping as if she ran all the way here.

“I kind of like the symbolism.” A low growl rumbles from me as I let the lid slam shut. My father liked to drink. He let it control him, and that’s when I instated my one drink limit. Only God knows if I have any of my father’s natural tendencies, but I’ve never been in the mood to find out. And now that I’ve officially set a moratorium on all future liquor purchases—at least those that need to find a home in my fridge, that shouldn’t be a problem.

“Symbolism is a good thing, I guess.”

I hold the door open for her, and she walks straight to the hall before turning around. Her eyes scour over my chest, bumping over my tattoos, riding all the way down to my towel, and for a second I contemplate letting it drop, but Lucky—and what I’m praying isn’t her newfound hobby—has me rattled.

Daisy’s chest hiccups as she opens her mouth to say something.

“Goodnight.” I walk right past her and hit the bed without turning on the lights.

Lucky bounces through my mind, then my father—my mother with her bruised arms, her bloodied lips, her black eye. Lucky doesn’t realize the fact she’s playing with fire. Maybe it’s time to talk to her—tell her about what my mother went through. I wish my mother were here to help me do this. There are some family secrets a person shouldn’t have to shoulder alone.

The door opens and closes softly with a click. A pale figure moves in the dim light as Daisy appears at the foot of the bed. The moonlight drips off her, gold like honey, as she slowly, teasingly takes off her sweater. Daisy pulls off every last ounce of clothing like a second skin, renewing herself in the light like a goddess coming into her own, and she is.

Daisy climbs onto the mattress, and her shapely silhouette enlivens every cell in my body. She gets on all fours and crawls over until she’s seated on my lap, the weight of her tits falls over my chest and pulls a guttural groan from me.

“The things you do to me,” I whisper.

Her finger falls over my lips before she finds a better way to silence me—with her sweet, sweet mouth. She pulls at my hair, runs those nails over my chest, pulls at my hard-on like it’s her new favorite toy, and it just might be.

It’s true.

Daisy Pembrooke has no idea what she’s doing to me.

A
ll day
long classes moan by in agony—about as fun as having my skin peeled off slowly. You would think that, after a good three weeks have drifted by, the novelty of who I am and what I’ve supposedly done would wear off, but I’ve listened to fresh quip after quip just this afternoon.
Hey, Daisy! Heard you’re sitting on the senatorial staff! Heard you’re in the running for the senatorial DNA award! Rumor has it you’re familiar with the Gross National Product!
And last, but not the least, by a mocking long shot,
Congrats on being the head staffer of the senatorial erection!

The most hurtful aspect of all this negativity hurled my way? It was hurled my way by girls. That’s right. My own species has turned on me.

As soon as I get out of my last class, Interpretive Art, an entire hour of sketching, which is shaping up to be my favorite, I hop into my car and a watershed of tears begs to let loose. I catch my reflection in the mirror and press my lips tight in a weak attempt to hold back the deluge. I can’t succumb. If I open the floodgates, I may never be able to close them again. Instead, I suck in a cool breath of air and blink like mad until the feeling subsides. Then, I do what I should have done weeks ago—I drive straight to Stilettos.

All the way down to Jepson, I think about the crazy nights I’ve spent with Jet. His strong arms encapsulating my body, his heated kisses that have the power to take my breath away.

The other night, after he caught his sister tanked off her ass, I knew he was vulnerable, maybe not even feeling up to our little game of mattress tag. But in truth, on that particular night, I went into his room with the specific intent to comfort him with words, to say anything that might reassure him that it would all work out just fine. Girls may be girls, but I can tell Lucky is a sweetheart deep down inside, a good girl testing out the waters. But as soon as that door shut, as soon as that moonlight lit up his glistening body like a flash fire, I was pretty much done. What Jet and I shared that night was fueled with a level of intensity, with a tenderness neither of us had experienced together thus far. I felt his thankfulness for the kindness I showed his sister. Jet didn’t use words. He didn’t have to.

Stilettos comes up on me faster than I expected. Did I really just let Jet Madden occupy my mind for the last thirty minutes? I can’t do this. I can’t let a boy take up residency in my brain, or God forbid far more delicate places. And what the heck am I doing with that boy anyway? What was supposed to be a one-time indiscretion has morphed into some sort of fun-fest for him on a nightly basis.

A slow brewing anger percolates in me at the thought of being sexually manipulated by Jet Madden. A part of me knows this isn’t the case, and yet there’s simply no other explanation. How have I landed on my knees, ready to please the king of fornication—a man I otherwise can’t stand—night after ever-loving night?

I sit dumbfounded by this as I pull in front of Stilettos, another area of my life that I’m dumbfounded to have landed myself.

The parking lot is bare, and for that I’m thankful. It’s still light out, but fall is hitting us full force with the days melting faster and faster. I duck into the back and head straight for hair and makeup where I find Caila laughing it up with a few of the other dancers. There she is, the glammed-up version of my very best friend. Caila and Cassidy are both obviously beautiful, but Caila takes her beauty to a cutthroat level. Once she trowels on the foundation, glues on the false eyelashes—not long after, she has her glam team attack her with a thousand different brushes—she morphs into a bona fide work of living art. I think a part of me has always idealized her otherworldly beauty, the attention she receives once she hops on that stage, and I wished to God I could have just a sliver of that for me.

A few of the girls spot me first, and the mood shifts to something just this side of somber.

“What the hell is this about?” Caila spins in her seat and gasps once she lays eyes on me. “Oh, hon!” She leaps out of her chair and wraps her arms around me so tight I can hardly take my next breath. Her chest trembles out of control as tears come. It takes a full minute to figure out who’s crying here, Caila or me. By the time we pull away, the room has cleared. Caila wipes down her tear-stained cheeks and coaxes me onto the white vinyl sofa.

She shakes her head as her lips tremble, her eyes blossom red as cherries. “I can’t—” she snatches a tissue from next to me and blows her nose. “There are not enough words in the English language for me to even begin to formulate an apology.” Her gaze darts past me, over my shoulder, to the floor, the ceiling, everywhere but where it needs to be. Not only is she at a complete loss for words, but she can’t muster the strength to look at me.

“Hey”—I gently pinch her chin up until she meets my gaze—“I’m okay.” It’s not entirely true, but I wasn’t sure myself what to say to her.

A broken smile comes and goes. “You’re a great liar. You are not okay. And if you think you are, I’ve hurt you far worse than I imagined.”

“How exactly did you hurt me?”

Her eyes harden over mine, this time with a spark of anger. “Daisy, that day you asked to dance at the club, my gut said no.”

“Who cares?” I force a tired laugh. “I wouldn’t have listened to your gut.”

“That’s because you’re feisty, like me.” A smile wobbles on her well glossed lips. “And that’s why, despite my better judgment, I let you stay.” She lays her palm over my cheek, and a cutting grief takes over her features. “Listen to me. You do not belong here. You—you’re my sister’s best friend.” Tears spill down her cheeks in a deluge. “I took you under my wing. That was bad enough—we let professors in here just like anyone else. If you weren’t going to look out for your best interests, I should have.” She swallows audibly. “And what I did next was reprehensible. The Platinum Club? That wasn’t for you either, hon.” She keeps shaking her head as if her remorse knows no bounds. “All I can think about since then is how I can make this up to you. And I can’t. There is nothing I can do to remove this horrible stain from your life, Daisy. It’s my fault. You wandered too close to the fire, and I let you linger.” Her fingers feather through my hair. “And you’ve burned yourself. I burned you. I take full responsibility for this.”

A moment bounces by where we lose ourselves, each gazing through the other—one wondering if what she said was true, the other knowing that it is.

“I guess you’re not feeling up to listening to me grovel for my job back.” Now it’s my turn to swallow hard. I’m fifteen days past due on my lease agreement—four nasty calls have already surfaced on my voicemail from the dealership. One more week and the impound man will find me, no thanks to that fancy car jacking device I had implanted in the event some loser took off with that crap mobile. It looks like the only loser around here is me. I don’t dare say a word to Caila about it. She feels so bad she’ll probably buy that heap of metal for me outright.

Her eyes do their best impression of egg whites. “No way, no how, missy. There is no job for you here anymore.”

“Fine.” Now it’s me blinking back tears. A thousand thoughts sale through my mind, and not one of them yields a solution to my current employment dilemma.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“Doubt it.” In fact, I’m sure in less than thirty seconds she’ll recommend I trot my pretty little behind to the university bookstore and get myself a nice part-time position. Caila has no clue that in the real world no coed sees as much green as I did unless they’re staring at a salad from the café—wilted at that.

“No, really I do.” She tweaks her head as if not only does she completely understand my current financial deficient dilemma but she can commiserate. “You need a job.” She shrugs. “You have a car payment, and you’re basically penniless.” She pumps a dry smile, victorious at that.

Holy wow, Caila really can read minds. Who knew? But my situation is as easy to read as a cheap horoscope.

“So, now what?” I give her a little nod, letting her know it’s okay to ply me with false platitudes regarding my future employment, perhaps even the joys of working the hygiene department of the student store. God knows the girls at WB only use organic tampons. I foresee the stocking issues a mile away.

“I don’t expect you to take some menial job at menial pay.” She lifts her chin, her eyes reduced to slits. It’s her best move when she’s up on stage. People think Caila’s magic lies in her perky C-cups, but it’s really that commanding look that brings the boys to the club.

“What did you have in mind?” My voice dips to its lower octave, letting her know that whatever it is I’m open to listening.

“I have a few private gigs”—she holds up a hand and closes her eyes—“nothing to do with escort or lounge work.” My insides twist when she says it out loud. It’s as if hearing the word
escort
makes it all real for me. There, it’s true now. That’s what I had become—reduced to the lowest common denominator. I was a whore long before I suspected I was. For the rest of my life, I’ll try to wipe clean the grime of that night off the landscape of my past.

“Escort,” I whisper, trying the word out on my lips for the very first time. “What’s this new gig?” I practically growl it out at her.

“The Geisha Grill caters for corporate events.” Her lips twitch as if holding back the greatest secret of all. “At each event, they have a
sushi
girl. I provide them with a girl for the function. You’re paid for two hours for one hour of work—a strict sixty minutes is on the table, and then you’re free to leave.”

“Two hours pay for one hour of work?” I can totally do one hour. “How much and what the hell is a sushi girl?”

“One fifty an hour.” She lifts her chin. “You’ll be naked and covered with sushi rolls. You’ll have a fig leaf over your kitten. Shaving everything from eyebrows down is a non-negotiable. Come here to the club first, and I’ll glam you up. You’ll head to the venue, and they’ll take care of the rest.”

“A hundred fifty dollars an hour.” I can keep my car! “Um—naked, huh?”

“Fig leaf.”

“Fig leaf.”

I
t turns out
, as luck would have it, that the Geisha Grill has a “gig” for me tomorrow night, which means I have a hell of a lot of hair to remove and just one night to do it. Thankfully, Jet’s house allows me to have my very own commode, which I’ll be living in for the next few hours if my waxing math is spot-on. The old spendy version of myself would have happily trotted off to the nearest spa, and considering that my girl bits are involved, it would have been a pricey spa at that. The financially frugal part of me—meager as it might have been—would have insisted I at least visit one of the many nail salons in Hollow Brook that willingly rips the hair off your privates on top of doing a mani/pedi for an extra ten bucks. But this new fiscally sound version of myself, that needs every single penny, insists I do my own nails in cheery shades of Mustang orange and blue before I purchase a wax kit from the local drugstore. Of course, my nails look like crap with polish bleeding over the sides, encrusting onto my skin, but a dollar saved is a dollar I don’t need to earn, so there’s that.

Jet is out in the living room watching television with his hand down his pants for all I know. For the most part, Jet and I are business as usual during waking hours, which consists of letting the sarcasm rip and or virtually ignoring one another’s existence. As opposed to when darkness falls and all penile hell breaks loose. Still not sure what I’ve gotten myself into with that one, but I’m sure once I secure a few more sushi gigs, I might just be able to afford my own place—one in which I’ll need about thirteen roommates in order to make rent, but hey, it’s a start.

I hop into the shower and shave my legs and arms—the latter of which totally gives me the willies as if at any moment the razor might slip and I’ll end up slitting my wrists. Not the way I want to go, and definitely not before I earn three hundred big ones for sitting on a sushi table. I’m so psyched about the huge haul I’ll be making off with tomorrow night I practically do the happy dance under this power sprayer Jet calls a shower nozzle. I put an end to the dance party before I end up on an episode of
Razors Gone Wild
and quickly pat myself dry. I’ve had a mini slow cooker at work for the better part of the evening melting wax like it’s nobody’s business—I borrowed it from Scarlett who borrowed it from Roxy. I’m pretty sure if Roxy knew I was using her chocolate chip emulsifier to assist in stripping off my pubes, it wouldn’t go over so well. Roxy is famous, or perhaps more aptly put
infamous
for her not-so even-keeled temper.

I lift the mini lid, and sure enough, the wax has formed a smooth, velvety surface that affords me to see straight to the bottom just the way the instructional manual suggested. You wouldn’t think a block of wax that set me back a measly two ninety-nine would come with a dictionary length missive on hair removal. And while we’re on the subject of the Brazilian manifesto, logic would only dictate there would be at least one fucking photo to visually depict the “mane” event, but nary a cartoon pictorial awaits. It’s all dry reading, sit with your feet together, and blah, blah, blah. I refuse to study this guide to all things depilatory. Don’t have to. I’ve watched Scarlett have her legs waxed at the salon on at least two different occasions. All the beautician did was slip on a smooth layer of wax as if she were icing a cake—waited a moment before taking what looked like a strip of cotton, ironing it over the wax with the palm of her hand, and voila! Scarlett was bald as a baby’s bottom and cursing up a storm.