Rock Candy Kisses Read online

  Rock Candy Kisses

  (3:AM Kisses 5)

  Addison Moore

  http://addisonmoorewrites.blogspot.com

  Contents

  Copyright

  Books by Addison Moore

  Prologue

  1. Whitney Briggs University

  2. Blake

  3. Perfect Stranger

  4. Blake

  5. Silent Kisses

  6. Blake

  7. The Sound of Music

  8. Blake

  9. Night Magic

  10. Blake

  11. Family Matters

  12. Blake

  13. Rock and Roll with the Punches

  14. Blake

  15. Last Song

  16. Blake

  A Note from the Author

  Books by Addison Moore

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “Oh my goodness, I loved Rock Candy Kisses! This book was all-around endearing, filled with hope and a distinct quality of sweetness, but completely swoon-worthy at the same time. Fantastic romance!”

  A.L. Jackson, New York Times Bestselling Author

  Edited by Sarah Freese

  Cover Design: Gaffey Media

  Copyright © 2015 by Addison Moore

  http://addisonmoorewrites.blogspot.com/

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. It is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Created with Vellum

  Books by Addison Moore

  New Adult Romance

  3:AM Kisses (3:AM Kisses 1)

  Winter Kisses (3:AM Kisses 2)

  Sugar Kisses (3:AM Kisses 3)

  Whiskey Kisses (3:AM Kisses 4)

  Rock Candy Kisses (3:AM Kisses 5)

  Velvet Kisses (3:AM Kisses 6) 2015

  Burning Through Gravity (Burning Through Gravity 1)

  A Thousand Starry Nights (Burning Through Gravity 2) 2015

  Fire in an Amber Sky (Burning Through Gravity 3) 2015

  Beautiful Oblivion (Beautiful Oblivion 1)

  Beautiful Illusions (Beautiful Oblivion 2)

  Beautiful Elixir (Beautiful Oblivion 3) 2015

  The Solitude of Passion

  Someone to Love (Someone to Love 1)

  Someone Like You (Someone to Love 2)

  Someone For Me (Someone to Love 3)

  Celestra Forever After (Celestra Forever After 1)

  The Dragon and the Rose (Celestra Forever After 2)

  The Serpentine Butterfly (Celestra Forever After 3) 2015

  Perfect Love (A Celestra Novella)

  Young Adult Romance

  Ethereal (Celestra Series Book 1)

  Tremble (Celestra Series Book 2)

  Burn (Celestra Series Book 3)

  Wicked (Celestra Series Book 4)

  Vex (Celestra Series Book 5)

  Expel (Celestra Series Book 6)

  Toxic Part One (Celestra Series Book 7)

  Toxic Part Two (Celestra Series Book 7.5)

  Elysian (Celestra Series Book 8)

  Ephemeral (The Countenance Trilogy 1)

  Evanescent (The Countenance Trilogy 2)

  Entropy (The Countenance Trilogy 3)

  Ethereal Knights (Celestra Knights)

  Prologue

  I wish I could say that being born profoundly deaf hasn’t shaped my life, that it hadn’t forged my heart to favor deaf culture in a hearing world, but it did both those things—after all, after the light of honesty is shed, it was inevitable. But my craving to fit in still lingered, that too was inevitable. When I was seven I sat in the school auditorium with my class and the interpreter my parents hired to shadow me. There was a group of high school students improvising on stage, a comedy—a tragedy if you ask me. One of them came over to where I was sitting. He mimicked my interpreter and brought down the house with laughter. I was devastated. I couldn’t understand why all of my friends, the entire school, would think that was funny. There was only one person in that room that wasn’t laughing, and it was me. It didn’t take long for my parents to move me to the Quincy School for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing. I was filled with relief. Dorm life was heavenly. Aside from our education, we played sports, board games, held book clubs, and curled up in the common room to watch closed-captioned TV. I made great friendships there, solid as iron. And having those people in my life is the sole reason I wouldn’t trade how I was born for anything.

  But I’m not seven anymore. I’m nineteen. I’m not at Quincy. I’m at Whitney Briggs University. Life is different, but then I knew it would be—although not for reasons you might think.

  It’s different because I met Him.

  Whitney Briggs University

  Annie

  Fall is my favorite time of year. The riot of color that nature displays leaves me breathless. Cool winds replace the scorching sun as the landscape transforms into a spectrum of crimson and gold. It’s a visual feast that I wait three whole seasons to gorge on.

  Baya and Bryson are busy with a conversation of their own as they enthusiastically walk me through campus like a kindergartner they’re escorting to the first day of school. It’s technically not my first day at Whitney Briggs University. I moved into my dorm weeks ago. I’ve spent the interim getting to know the grounds with my roommate, Marley, but my brother and his new wife feel the need to walk me directly to the door of my sociology class. Baya and Bryson recently married this past summer in a double wedding with their best friends, Laney and Ryder. I love them with all my heart, but I can’t help but feel like a child under their wings. It’s not like I wasn’t warned. When my friends heard I was coming to Whitney Briggs, they frowned at the fact my brother and Baya were within hovering distance. Usually living so close wouldn’t be a big deal, but everyone at the Quincy School for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing understands all too well how stifling family can unwittingly be.

  Bryson picks up my hand—case in point. I try to wriggle free, but he clasps on tight as if saving me from falling into a bottomless pit. Crowds of girls waltz by, each one of them tossing their slanted stares to my brother. I’m sure Baya is used to having strange girls ogle her new husband. Both of my brothers are handsome and far too protective of their little sister than they need to be.

  The girls pause their animated gestures a moment as their heads swivel after Bryson. Their sweet perfume mingles with the scent of new clothes—and I note that not one of them is holding their brother’s hand. I pause, pulling him back and wait for Baya to stumble over.

  “What’s wrong?” The terror on her face says it all. Baya is beautiful, and bubbly, and I’m thrilled to pieces that she’s my new sister-in-law but…

  I shake my head to assure her nothing is off kilter.

  There’s a literal fork in the cobbled road, and I’m pretty sure this is as good a place as any to break it to them.

  I’ve got it from here, I sign. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think there’s something symbolic about me getting to class on my own. I’ve looked forward to this moment for as long as I can remember, and—well, I want to do this myself.

  The hurt look on my brother’s face says more than I can stand. A cool breeze whips by and ices my bare ankles.

  Bryson sags into me while a dull grin breaks loose on his face. He signs back, I know you’ve got this, kid. “She wants to head out on her own,” he says to Baya before pulling me into a tight embrace.

  I can read pretty much anyone’s lips. It takes some getting used to at first, but, after a while, it can
be just as efficient as signing. There are a few people with whom I can’t quite catch every word. But, with the exception of the occasional mumbler, I get by pretty well.

  Baya pulls me in, and I can feel her throat vibrating against my shoulder. It’s easy for people to forget that if I can’t see their lips, I don’t know what they’re saying. I pull back and dot my mouth with my finger.

  “Sorry!” She grimaces. “Are you coming to the bar tonight?” Baya has a tendency to over annunciate, and that’s fine by me. In reality it makes things easier, but I’d rather she didn’t. I don’t want to be treated any different than she treats Laney or Izzy, or anyone else for that matter.

  I nod and give a thumbs up. Apparently the first day of school is a pretty big deal at the Black Bear. There’s a local band performing tonight, plus the student body gets half off all drinks. My brothers and I bought out my father’s three bars last summer, the Black Bear being one of them. Despite the fact I’ve just turned nineteen and don’t make a habit of downing alcohol-laden libations, it’s pretty amazing to be business partners with my brothers.

  Bryson and Baya each offer an insecure wave as they take off. They both hold the same coloring, and from here they look as if they can be brother and sister as easy as they can be husband and wife. It’s a weird thought, but oddly enough I specialize in weird thoughts. I suppose that’s a side effect of years of living in my own bubble. That was the nice thing about Quincy, while I was at school I was never alone in that bubble.

  Bryson signs for me to text him as I head on my way.

  The wind picks up, and a maple rattles its already yellowing leaves. The earth lets go of its raw, wet scent from last night’s rain, and I take in the robustness of nature at its ripest. For the last eight years of my life, I’ve been a fulltime resident at the Quincy school for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing, nothing but a saturation of deaf culture and a shared sense of self with every single person that surrounded me there. And, here, at Whitney Briggs I’m pretty much alone with everyday people who have never known a world without sound, a world with hard borders much like that of a picture.

  An overgrown oak sits stoically in front of the English building with its fat, hand-shaped leaves dripping magenta and ruby. My fingers dip into my purse as I feel for my camera. I’m certain my favorite course of the day will be my final class, Digital Studios. I’ve loved photography ever since I was seven, and my parents, a.k.a. Santa, gifted me a hot pink Barbie camera.

  A skateboard whizzes in my direction, and I carefully maneuver into the center of the walkway. A group of girls hurry by, and one of them knocks into my shoulder. She gives a polite wave, and I can see her lips curving into an apology before turning away.

  Kaya, my best friend at Quincy, warned me that life is very different (I believe the word she used was scary) out in what she’s dubbed the real world. She’s at Texas A & M, apparently having her fair share of scary experiences. I fish my phone out to send her a quick text. Life is beautiful. Nothing scary at Whitney Briggs! It’s not too late to apply for spring semester. Before I can hit send, a body lunges at me and whisks me into an overgrown dogwood. My phone flies right out of my hand, and, just as I’m about to dive after it, a squared off delivery truck whizzes by, missing me by inches.

  My heart pounds wild in my chest. My head throbs and pulsates, threatening to explode as I take in what just happened.

  I glance at the person who pulled me to safety—a boy, older by a few years, handsome to the point of nausea. He’s saying something, his face filled with concern. His dark hair lies over his head like a shadow, his brown eyes are marbled with shades of emerald, and a part of me wants to freeze time and stay here all day. At least that way I won’t have to face the fact I almost found myself pinned under a tire.

  A mean shudder ripples through me at the thought.

  Oh, God. I have to get out of here. I pull my book bag off the ground and scramble for my phone nearly getting my hand run over by a bicycle. Wow, I’m really on fire today. I’ll have to do a roll call of my limbs if I ever get back to my dorm in one piece. My body spikes with heat. I can practically feel my mother panicking when I fill her in on my first day of misadventures, not that I plan on sharing this tidbit with her. All I need is another lecture on how beneficial the Excel Implant will be. I understand the fact that hearing is valuable, but all I see is red (as in blood) whenever I envision myself on that operating table. It’s enough to make me want to pass out on the spot and inadvertently feed myself to the tire gods.

  The handsome boy appears to be having a lively conversation with me as I wave a quick goodbye. This is usually the part when I pull out my phone and let them see my standby note I’ve shown at least fifty people since arriving two weeks ago—the one that more or less reads, I’m sorry—I’m deaf, and I can’t hear whatever the hell you’re saying. In reality, it starts with an apology and ends with an explanation of what it means to be deaf. People are generally stymied by the fact I can’t hear because to them I look average in every other way. The thing about being deaf is no one really wants to believe you for the first few minutes. Some days I’d rather not believe it myself.

  He pulls me back gently as I try to make my way past him, and the soft scent of his spiced cologne washes over me in a warm heated wave, orange and mint. His eyes squint out a smile all their own as his bowed lips expand for me with kindness. My stomach gives a hard pinch followed by a detonation of heat I’ve yet to feel before. Whoever this boy—man—man-boy is, he’s got my full anatomical attention. Funny because that’s never really happened before.

  “What’s your name?” His lips are full, the bottom more so than the top. They look softer than that of most men’s, and, oddly, I’d like to lose myself staring at them all day.

  The bodies have all but cleared off campus, a good sign that I’m already late to class. I shake my head and point to the English building before bolting out of his grasp. My heart pounds so fast it pulsates right through my skull. Adrenaline shoots through me as if I’ve just conducted a prison escape—more like a Grim Reaper escape. That truck could have killed me. Correction, it would have—should have.

  I’m starting to think Kaya was right—life is different and scary. That boy’s face comes back like a photograph I’ve unwittingly pinned to my mind, and my lips curve into a smile.

  Despite Kaya’s worldly cynicism, I still believe life is beautiful.

  * * *

  In Sociology I meet my interpreter, the one the university graciously furnished me with, an undergrad like myself. He’s tall and lanky and wears an easy grin.

  My name is Jean-Paul, but don’t call me that. He winks as he signs. It’s too French. I’m going by Tristan. John-Paul—Tristan—is a French foreign exchange student who knows American Sign Language (very well might I add). He goes on about how he’s studying to become a professor at a school similar to Quincy in Provence, and how (according to himself) he ironically speaks impeccable English. His mother is profoundly deaf, like me, so he’s been proficient in signing since he was a young boy. He works with the university’s DSP department, Disabilities Services and Programs. Tristan is taking all four of my classes this semester.

  I can sign three different languages. He seems stoically proud about this.

  That’s nice. I can only sign the one. My face heats when I smile.

  I think we should coordinate our schedules as much as we can for the next four years. He signs while the professor takes roll.

  Tristan has a calming spirit and boy next door likability to him, and already I want to be his friend. He also plays for the basketball team, which he’s mentioned about a dozen times in the last five minutes. He’s cute in a Muppet sort of way. He has clear blue eyes much like my own and a nice, although thin-lipped and exaggeratingly long smile—thus the Muppet reference.

  My thoughts revert to the boy who snatched me from a waiting casket just a few minutes ago, and I envision what it would be like if he were my interpreter for the next f
our years. A pulsating heat shoots through my stomach. I think I’d have a cardiac episode before lunch. Pretty boys and I have never mixed well. Not that he was a pretty boy, more like a beautiful man. And judging by that tattoo creeping up the side of his neck, a little rugged around the edges.

  Tristan gently taps my arm, and I come to.

  Four years. I sign back. That’s quite a commitment. I smile. Yes, I guess that would make it easy. I’m a Fine Arts major, though.

  That’s perfect. I plan on get my masters in English. You’re welcome to tag along. He gives a little wink, and my chest rattles with a laugh.

  Silent laughter is something I had to learn to perfect. Speaking isn’t something I prefer to do. Most of my profoundly deaf friends have broken out of their lingual shells and speak freely, but, despite years of speech therapy, I haven’t had the best experiences with my vocal cords, so I prefer to mute them whenever possible—which is pretty much always. When I was little I would ask my brothers to describe the sound things would make, the slam of a door, the babble of a brook, and soon they made a game of trying to describe any and every sound on the planet to me. Of course, the descriptions were rife with emotion because that’s about as close as I could relate them. There was angry thunder, happy trees as the wind rustled through their branches, surprised doorbells, and the trash trucks that drove down our streets at early hours were always described as tired. Ironic since those were the very things that would wake my brothers an hour earlier than necessary on Thursdays, leaving my mother with a very tired Bryson and Holt. I, on the other hand, slept like a log. Still do. It’s my only talent, really.

  Class moves all too fast for me. Tristan decides to take copious notes before shooting them to my laptop immediately. Whenever the professor says something he deems witty, Tristan is kind enough to sign it for me.