A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(3)

I shake my head in disbelief.

“What the f*ck…” I can’t stop the curse from escaping, muttering out loud when the second leg appears, straightens, then strains toward the gutter guard. “That crazy bitch is gonna get herself killed.”

Still, I remain seated, eyes riveted to what is guaranteed to be an entertaining—albeit dangerous—show. Swaying back and forth on the white wooden swing, I can’t help but wonder what it is about that place next door that has girls scurrying to escape, like panicked rats in a flood, weekend after weekend.

I mean, yes, it’s a fraternity house. That in itself automatically draws girls to the it, not just on the weekends, but sometimes even during the week. But it isn’t a house where I’d want my kid hanging out if I were a parent. The house is dirty, inside and out, in disrepair, and looks like a Halloween haunted house 365 days a year. It even has an old, rickety wrought-iron fence in the front yard.

Haunted house, rape house: take your pick.

Not to mention, the guys who live there are slobs. Fat, drunken, pot-head slobs. Alright, fine. To be fair, maybe I’m generalizing, but it’s still definitely not a top-tier frat. Word on campus is if you have breath in your lungs and beer in your gut, you’re Kappa material.

The house is everything fathers warn their daughters about, and if you need more proof than that, just take note of the insane slut trying to escape via the upstairs window.

Yeah, exactly.

I angle my head in thought, mentally calculating her distance from the upstairs window to the concrete ground below. “Shit.” There is no way in hell she’s going to make it down that pipe without hurting herself, and the last thing the university needs is yet another story in the news about some moron hurting themselves after an off-campus party.

So naturally, I can’t just sit here and watch her break her neck.

Sighing loudly to no one, I stand and stretch before setting down my orange juice bottle, adjust my ball cap so it’s riding down over my eyes, and pull the hood up of my baggy sweatshirt. Arms extended, I crack my knuckles a few times before sticking both hands inside the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie and begrudgingly shuffling in my flip-flops down the steps to the side of the house.

It only takes me a few moments to reach the side yard of the common shared driveway, and when I do, my mouth sets into a grim line. Tipping my head back, I immediately receive an eyeful of the girl’s denim-clad posterior.

I’m impressed. At this point, she’s managed to grab hold of the gutter guard and shimmy one foot on the metal strap, securing the pipe to the siding of the house. Those metal straps, by the way, are flat, two inches thick, and extremely flimsy. Attached with a flimsy nail and flush with the siding, the straps are in no way secure enough for a person to rest their foot on.

Or in this case, their black heeled boot.

I clear my throat. “Hey. What the f*ck are you doing?” My voice comes out harsh and unrelenting. “Do you have a death wish or something?”





CHAPTER 2

Abby

I’m hanging.

I’m hanging, losing my hold, and am probably going to die.

It’s a veritable struggle-fest, and I’m in the center of it all. My stupid boot slips precariously from the metal thingy I’ve been perching it on, and I can hear the definitive creaking sound the gutter is making as it slowly releases itself from the side of the building.

Translation: it’s going to fall off, taking me along with it.

I tighten my grasp on the metal, one hand still on the windowsill. This does me no good whatsoever, because of the awkward positioning of my feet, and with both arms overextended like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle stretch toy, there is no way I can crane my neck to look around for help.

Dear Lord, please forgive me. This was a horrible mistake… although, Lord, I would rather be hanging here than face the humiliation in the hallway upstairs. No I wouldn’t. Yes, I would. Guh! Those boys are terrible. Help! Please send help.

“T-Tyler,” I croak desperately in the direction of the open window.

The only response forthcoming is that damn curtain in his window, wafting up and down, lilting airily from the breeze inside the room.

“Shoot, shoot, shoot,” I mutter, anxiety deeply rooting itself into every cell in my body. What the heck made me think this would work? Why didn’t my stupid cousin stop me? “Okay, Abby. Think.” I bite my lip and squint my eyes shut, but no ideas pop into my brain. A brain that, at one point, I thought was filled with brilliant ideas, until the part where that brain decided it should convince me to dangle from the side of a dirty, dilapidated fraternity house.

“Hey. What the f*ck are you doing?” From somewhere below, an angry voice booms up at me. “Do you have a death wish or something?” I loll my head, trying to determine the direction the voice is actually coming from. From my left? From my right?

Oh, thank you. Thank you, God. I knew you were listening.

“Let go of the gutter and I’ll catch you,” the voice demands.

Um, on second thought…

I shake my head. “Nuh-uh. No. N-no way am I letting go of this gutter. Are you nuts?” My tearful voice is high pitched and frantic with worry.

“Hey, man, I’m not the one dangling from a window, so maybe you shouldn’t be arguing with me. Drop to the ground before you fall and get hurt. I’m strong. Promise I’ll catch you.”