A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(9)

Speaking of decent repair…

With a purposeful stride, I cross our bright-green manicured lawn, which is mowed weekly, over to the overgrown, dead, weed-infested Kappa yard. Climbing the dilapidated porch, I open the screen door and proceed to unceremoniously pound my flattened huge palm on the front door.

I push the screen back into place and stand back, waiting.

And wait some more.

It takes a few moments, but the door creeks loudly, shudders a groan, and swings open, hanging precariously on its rusty hinges. I look down at a skinny, dark-haired kid, who stares back at me.

“Sup?” His red, half-hooded eyes make him look stoned, but he gives a quick flick of the chin in greeting.

I cut to the chase. “I need to talk to the guy living in the corner room upstairs. Is he here?”

“Say again?” Unconcerned, the kid eyes me warily, scratching his dry elbow. “Can you be more specific?”

I barely manage to contain my eye roll. “Why yes, yes I can be more specific.” I speak slowly so he understands. “Go. And get. The prick. Living in. The corner. Room. Upstairs. Or… my fist is going to come through this lousy excuse for a door and beat the shit out of you.”

Okay, so maybe I’m behaving a tad like a psycho—but he’s making me talk and I don’t like it.

The kid gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his scrawny neck.

“Hold on a minute.” The door slams closed in my face, and a deadbolt slides into the lock.

Smart kid.

A few minutes later, the door creaks open and the “cousin” appears. Standing in ripped mesh basketball shorts that are too long, a sleeveless Nike tank top, and white ankle socks, I know it’s him, because believe it or not, he resembles the brunette. Tall with a shaggy mop of wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes, the douche also looks like he just rolled out of bed.

Or smoked a joint.

He arches his back in a yawn, unfazed by the sight of me. “What.”

“I need to get ahold of the chick that climbed out your window this morning.” How’s that for blunt?

“What for?” he asks, rotating his torso this way and that, stretching like he’s warming up for an athletic event.

“I have something I think belongs to her.”

“So? Just give it to me. She’s my cousin.”

“Because I don’t have it with me,” I lie, palming the ring nestled inside the pocket of my slouchy gray athletic pants, and rolling it around in my fingers. It’s warm from my body heat and solid in my hand, and I’m not offering it over to him. Not yet, anyway.

The cousin scratches his balls and yawns again. “Why don’t you go get it and bring it back?”

Okay, now he’s starting to piss me off…

“Why don’t you just give me her f*cking cell phone number, and you can go back to jerking off?”

“Why don’t you f*ck you, dude. Do I look dumb enough to turn you lose on Abby? You’re acting like a psychopath. My parents would kill me.”

Abby.

I turn this new revelation around in my head a few times, testing her name out and deciding I like it.

It fits.

I take a deep, calming breath and count to three. “Look. This isn’t a pissing match. My parents own the Omega house next door.” I point my thumb toward it. “And I was outside when Abby climbed out your window this morning. Trust me, I don’t want to hurt her. I just want to see if she’s okay, because she fell, and I have something to return to her.”

It’s more words than I normally string together, and quite frankly, it’s making me uncomfortable.

A shout from inside the frat house rings out—something I can’t quite discern—and the cousin turns for a second to yell back into the house. “Shit, hold on for one goddamn second.” The door slams in my face again, and Abby’s cousin disappears into the dark recesses of the house.

I rock back on my heels while I wait, tipping my head back to study the underside of the porch, which looks like it could collapse any day now. The boards are warped from water damage and haven’t been sealed or stained in years. Rusty nails are popping out all over the place, and wires hang dangerously out of the outdated light socket that should’ve been replaced ages ago.

How girls voluntarily step foot inside this death trap is beyond me.

Shaking my head in disgust, I let out a gust of air, mentally counting to ten so I don’t flip my shit, when the door finally reopens.

“Sorry about that,” he apologizes, not looking the least bit sorry. Instead, he narrows his dark eyes and gives me another once-over, and honest to God, he’s the first guy I’ve ever seen purse his lips. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

He nods his head before shrugging, his disheveled hair falling into his eyes. “Fine. You can have her cell, but you can’t tell her I gave it you. And if I find out you f*cked with her, I’ll kick the shit out of you.”

I almost laugh at his pronouncement. Kick my ass?

Whatever, dude.

Incredulously, I watch as he programs Abby’s cell phone number into my phone before slamming the half-hinged door in my scowling face.





Abby

The text notification comes through just before midnight.

Just as I’m closing my e-reader and taking off the tortoiseshell reading glasses perched on the bridge of my nose, the soft ping of my phone fills the quiet void in my bedroom—the gentle ping I’ve always considered a reminder that somewhere, someone out there is thinking of me at that exact moment.