A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(45)

He props his palms on my knees and moves in. “I’m…uh…” He looks away, bites his lip with a frown, and takes a deep breath before continuing. “I’m…”

“Yes?” I breathe out the question in a whisper.

We’re interrupted then by Molly—as in Molly with the World’s Worst Timing—who stands over us, clearing her throat. “Whoa, you two are looking pretty chummy over here.” She glances at our canvases and starts a litany of questions. “Shouldn’t you be halfway done by now? What are you doing? Just sitting back here gawking at each other, or what?”

Yeah, pretty much.

“Yes,” Caleb answers her seriously.

Molly looks at my painting, eyes wide. “Umm, what’s with all the yellow? Never mind. Don’t answer that.” She shakes her pretty hair and titters. “I just got up to grab a bottle of water. You want anything while I’m up?”

We both give our heads a shake. “No, I’m good. We both have something to drink.” I point to my wine and Caleb’s beer.

Molly stalls a few more seconds. “Okay, just thought I’d ask. Hey. You guys wanna come out with us when we’re done, or…” Her question trails off.

“Any idea where you’re going?” Caleb wants to know.

“Best guess: Lone Rangers. You know, loud music, bad food, too many drunk undergrads with too little clothing.”

Lone Rangers is a college bar down on State Street, and is the establishment most frequented by the Wisconsin Badger Hockey team. In other words, it’s always packed. From regular students hoping to rub shoulders with the college athletic elite, to the athletes themselves, Lone Rangers is the off-campus place to be.

It’s also a complete dive.

The floors are so full of old and spilled beer that one cannot walk through the bar without putting effort into every step. It’s much like trying to lift your feet to walk through a floor full of sticky, liquid honey. My best guess for the last time they scrubbed down or mopped the floors? Over three years ago.

The lighting in this place is dim and a tad—fine, I’ll say it: rapey.

The place is rapey.

A young lady can’t actually see who she’s talking to without squinting in the faint haze wafting through the air, and the hallway to the restrooms are dark and damp—hence, a great place for pervy lurkers and rapists.

And let’s not forget to mention none of the stall doors in the woman’s bathroom actually lock, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Think about it. Not having the bathroom stalls lock actually forces girls to hover over the disgusting toilet if you want to take a pee, because you have to hold the door closed if you want privacy.

So if you’re going to spin that into a positive, this means you can’t actually sit on the toilet, because you’re leaning on the door. The toilet seats are dirty, unsanitary, and riddled with who knows how many STDs. Gross.

Hovering over the toilet seat is #winning in my book.

Despite all this, the owner clearly feels no need to update—not with a packed house every night of the week. Sure, it’s a total shithole, pardon my French, but why would the owner spend money doing repairs when its legal and underage patrons will come whether it’s a rapey dump or pristine?

Caleb looks at me, countenance unreadable, and shrugs his broad shoulders. “It’s your call.”

With Molly’s pleading stare and Caleb’s passive expression—ugh! I’m torn about whether or not we should go. The bar scene really isn’t my thing. Never has been, never will be. Nonetheless, because I can’t gauge Caleb neutral expression, I nod my head slowly. “Sure, why not?”

After all, what’s the worst thing that can happen?





CHAPTER 20

Caleb

Lone Rangers is packed. And by packed, I mean wall-to-wall people. My personal preference is not to be caged into the corner of any fire hazard, but whatever.

In most cases, it would piss me off being here. Under normal circumstances I probably would have taken two steps inside the building, hit the vast wall of people, and walked back out the door.

But not tonight.

Tonight, my hand goes to the tantalizing curve of Abby’s slim waist, and I firmly rest it there as we follow behind Molly, Weston, Chelsea, and Stephan toward the far end of the bar, to the place our teammates typically tend to congregate.

Tonight it looks like everyone has turned out, and I see many familiar faces in the crowd.

The music is too loud, the bass is shaking the walls, the floor is sticky from spilled alcohol, and the lights are too dim, but it feels damn good being here with someone. Abby. A date.

The dating thing is a first for me.

In the three years I’ve been at college, I learned early on that pretty girls would rather date an * than someone like me—moody, unsmiling, and aloof.

Greetings take place as we approach; high-fives, knuckle bumps, some back slapping. I’m relieved to see the group already has pitchers of the cheapest beer money can buy, which saves us from having to hoof it to the bar.

Maybe it won’t be so bad being here.

A cold beer appears in my hand, and I lean down to whisper-talk in Abby’s ear so she can hear me. “Is there something you want from the bar? Other than this shitty beer?”

“If you go to the bar, you’ll be gone all night. I’ll just stick with this.” She holds up the cup in her hand and takes a sip, foam sticking to her upper lip. “Mmmm, yummy beer.”