Broken Knight (All Saints High, #2)(9)

I’d yet to pay her any attention, let alone touch her. I wasn’t stupid—she wasn’t here for me. They all came here for the story. For the glory. It didn’t matter who got them in the door as long as they were chosen.

“Not in the mood. But…”

I grabbed her jaw and yanked her into my embrace. She moaned as I crashed our lips together, her grunt of pleasure swallowed in my mouth. Her tongue tried to pry my lips open, but I slammed them together, ignoring the wrongness of it all. I never, ever, ever kissed girls like this, but I was too stoned to care, and besides, my resolve was thinning after years of getting slammed down by Luna.

I smeared her lipstick like it was war paint, burying my fingers in her hair and messing it so it looked like she’d gotten fucked into the next decade. Then I pulled away, smirking down at her. Lipstick had smeared all over her chin, nose, and cheeks. I could only guess I looked just as wild.

“Maybe some other time?” Hope flared in her eyes, her smile drunk with newfound power.

“In a heartbeat, baby.”

Arabella got her story.

I faked mine.





Twenty minutes later, we ambled out of the entertainment room, heading down to wrap up the party. I made a stop in the kitchen to grab my sixth beer and found Arabella, Alice, and Vaughn’s piece leaning against the kitchen island, giving their exaggerated versions of what had gone down to their doe-eyed friends.

I knew my secret was safe with Arabella. No girl would admit that an All Saints’ legend hadn’t touched her after taking her to the room. Truth was, I didn’t want any of the other chicks to set the record straight either, and the only thing kinky about me was my fondness for watching breath-play porn (don’t judge).

I swung the fridge open and looked around for the Bud Light. I was still reeling from Vaughn’s comments about Luna needing to go somewhere else. Somewhere far. The notion that I could forget her just went to show he’d never been in love.

And then there was the other thing. The reason I’d drunk myself to near-death tonight. I searched the kitchen counter for vodka and took a generous swig before resuming my hunt for beer.

Dear life,

It’s cool. You can stop throwing shit at me. I’m already neck-deep.

Yours,





KJC


My mind had started doing weird shit shortly after Mom’s parents, Grandma Charlene and Grandpa Paul, died in a car crash and left Mom an orphan. That was five years ago. I didn’t care about my losing them; it was Mom’s pain that killed me.

That’s when I’d first started secretly drinking, and whaddaya know—I never really stopped.

“Supersized burrito huge, not even kidding,” Arabella exclaimed behind me, perched against the island and looking thoroughly fucked as she fanned her face dramatically.

She obviously hadn’t noticed me, or if she had, she knew I wouldn’t contradict her story.

“Too huge. At first I was like—how am I going to take Knight Cole? Am I even ready for this? But he ate me out for, like, thirty minutes. When his tongue ring hit my clit, I swear I started speaking fluent Swedish.”

Gasps, snickers, and intimate questions exploded in the room. I shut the fridge, turning around with a beer in my hand, and bumped into a small thing.

A small, tan-skinned thing.

With molten silver eyes and a constellation of freckles on her nose and cheeks—a map I knew by heart.

Luna Rexroth.

I could practically hear the chip in my mask cracking open before I cocked my head to the side, nudging the base of the cold bottle against her nose and watching a drop of beer sweat make its way from the tip, dropping to her luscious, full lips. I tugged at a stray curl that bounced over her eye in hello.

Luna Rexroth was beautiful. Sure. But so were a lot of other girls. Difference was, Luna carried her beauty like it was something borrowed. Carefully yet casually, not making a fuss about it. She wouldn’t stand in line for anyone, anywhere. She’d stand out, glowing with quiet pride.

Luna wore a white T-shirt rolled up at the sleeves, boyfriend jeans, and a pair of dirty, checked Vans. No evidence of makeup on her smooth face. Tragically, it only enhanced how much more beautiful she was than the other made-up girls. By the look on her face, I realized she’d been privy to the conversation going on behind me in the kitchen. She always gave me that disappointed look. That you-can-do-better-than-this look.

But I didn’t think I could. Because the best—her—was not available to me. She’d made it perfectly clear.

Three times, in fact.

Three kisses.

All ending in disaster.

Kiss Numero Uno was a bit of a stretch, even I’ll admit.

I’d been twelve, and she’d been thirteen. We’d been in a waterpark, behind a giant blue slide. We were laughing and splashing each other, and I’d just gone for it, the spontaneous fucker that I was. Up until then, the idea of Luna and me was, well, more of a fact. Roses were red. The sun rose in the east. A seahorse could move its eyes in opposite directions (Moonshine told me that herself), and Luna Rexroth was going to be my girlfriend, then fiancée, then wife.

Alas, she’d turned away and let out a little gasp.

Because she couldn’t—wouldn’t—talk, she’d just shook her head. Then, probably seeing the sting on my face, she’d melted, pulling me into a hug. Our hot skin had met almost everywhere. It was the first time I’d realized why I had kissed her.