Kenny takes up the envelope and peers inside. “Wow, thank you! I’ve never been to a salon before. My mom usually cuts my hair.” She plucks at an errant strand, and it shines like glass in the light.
“Dear God, child—you have been abused!” Mom rattles out a laugh that ends in a cough, which seems par for the course these days. She’s running herself ragged, and if she doesn’t watch it, she’ll end up taking a nice long dirt nap to make up for the lost shuteye. “Molly’s with Brayden.” Mom frowns at me. Brayden is my seventeen-year-old sister’s boyfriend, and neither of us approve too much of Brayden. “I’m headed out to see Aunt Donna. Wanna come?” She presents the offer to both Kenny and I.
“Thank you,” Kenny says, “but I promised my mom I’d spend it with her friend Jackie.” She looks to me. “I told Pennington I’d be there.”
“Jackie Alexander?” Mom arches a brow at the news. “Suit yourself. Sounds like a waste of a perfectly good Christmas if you ask me.” She makes a face. “Ta-ta for now.” She waves, making her way down the driveway and groans when she sees what my Michelin’s have reduced her marigolds to.
“I guess she doesn’t care for the Alexanders,” Kenny muses, tucking a lock of hair between her lips like a beautiful black rose.
I don’t tell her that I don’t think too much of them either—that I’m biologically one of them.
“I’ll give you a ride if you want,” I offer.
“Sounds like a plan.” She glances up at the mistletoe hanging over the door and steps into me. “Butterfly or Eskimo?”
“Foreign import.” I step in until I’m pressed against her. “I say we implement the French.”
“Definitely French.” She pants into the fog until it encircles us like a wreath.
I close my eyes and land myself over the soft pads of her lips. She swipes her tongue over mine and I lose it. Her clean scented perfume lures me in like opium. I dig my fingers into her lush hair before indulging in a series of kisses far more animal than either of us had bargained for.
Seismic. Kissing Kenny shifts the landscape of everything I ever thought I knew about the lingual art in general. Kenny blows every kiss I’ve ever known off the map and pins her star high over the geography with perfect mouth-watering splendor. I’ve had sex that was less erotic. This was the pinnacle of wanting, a nirvana of passion—sublime in every way.
Kenny brings the magic, the miracles—her kisses are better than wine and I can never get enough.
4
Kendall
Familial Festivities
Snow dances from the sky, dusting the windshield with miniature paper-like flakes as Cruise drives us up an elongated driveway in an opulent gated community. The Alexander estate looks gothic in appeal with its cathedral windows, its upright stone lions just feet from the entry.
Cruise comes around and escorts me toward the tall mahogany doors. A pair of oversized tinfoil wreathes adorn the entry and manage to look slightly out of place among all the grandeur. But honestly, the only thing on my mind this past hour has been those heated kisses. My face still burns from their fire. I can still feel his tongue in my mouth, bumping against mine, and I replay it over and over like some muscular memory.
Cruise gives a good strong knock, and we wait in awkward silence. He washes a quick glance over my body in a covert manner, and his chest expands in response to my curves.
I wonder if he’s thought of those kisses—if he still feels me in his mouth and how I measure up to the long line of girls who had been there before.
Cruise leans toward me and fills the interim between us with his spiced cologne. “So, Pennington”—he pauses—“asshole or douchebag?”
A voice emits from inside the house and the door rattles.
“Douchebag,” I whisper.
Cruise locks eyes with mine while giving a brief nod. It’s as if we’re bonding right here on the porch over, of all things, Pennington’s douchebag status.
I hope Aunt Jackie won’t mind that I’ve brought someone along. Oddly enough, I know Cruise better than I do “Aunt Jackie.”
The door swings open, revealing a woman dressed in gold lame from head to toe.
“Well look what the cat dragged in!” She sings the opera-like greeting. Her long black hair is frayed at the edges, and she sports an over-processed tan that looks less St. Tropez and more Oompa Loompa. Her lips glow a pale pink as if she smeared them with toothpaste, and her eyes are powdered a vulgar shade of indigo frost. “And who the hell is this hot little cutie?” She leans back on her heels—it takes a moment for me to realize she directed the question to Cruise.