Stolen Kisses Read online

  “No!” Although it is a rather swoon-worthy proposition—it would prove mostly deadly on his part.

  “Okay then. Hop on the handlebars. I’ll pedal you out of here in less than five seconds.”

  I hop onto the handlebars without thinking, and we whisk right by Owen with his eyes enlarged, the dark hole of his mouth widening with bewilderment.

  “Ava!” Owen shouts so loud my name reverberates through the wind like a hurricane.

  The golden god pedals us off campus, slowing just enough to ask where to.

  “The Row!” I shout, laughing and squealing as he traverses traffic of both the vehicular and human kind before landing us on that nefarious strip of Victorian mansions that house the universities honorary geeks—or Greeks, as it were. “You are insane—you know that?” I laugh, bouncing off the handlebars and into the sand pit that sits in front of Beta Kappa Phi. The overgrown sandbox is actually a volleyball court, the only one on the block, and the boys who live here allow anyone to enjoy it because they’re just that cool. They’re gorgeous, too, thus the reason Lucky and I chose to join its sister sorority Kappa Gamma Gamma, which sits nestled directly across the street.

  “Thank you.” I shrug as the golden god carefully rolls my bike before me like the gentleman he’s panning out to be.

  “Who was that?” He winces into the final reserves of sunlight as the wind lashes my hair between us like a den of wild snakes. He adjusts his backpack over his shoulders, and it’s only then I note how broad they really are, how amazingly tall this brooding golden-eyed boy really is. He’s at least a good two feet taller than me. An image of me wearing sky-high heels next to him in a club bounces through my mind, and I don’t fight the idea. Nope, don’t fight it at all. If I get my way, it’ll be a reality sooner than later. I’m ready to do all of the exciting things my brief stint in high school didn’t allow for—like clubbing and dating. And clubbing and dating with this particular boy has suddenly jumped to the top of the list.

  “Let me guess”—he ducks in close as if trying to capture my attention—“disgruntled ex?”

  “Ex?” I inch back at the thought. “No way. More like disgruntled—deranged big brother.” I leave my deranged older sister out of it for now—out of it forever. Aubree is one topic I don’t ever plan on broaching.

  “That dude was your brother?” His brows furrow, dark and thick, like a pair of overly concerned caterpillars, and I fight the urge to run my finger along each one.

  “Yes.” Something in me deflates with the admission. “And he’s totally annoying, so thank you for the speedy getaway.”

  “Don’t thank me.” He slouches a moment, staring off over my shoulder with a sudden void in his eyes. “I happen to be a fan of brothers. I used to be one myself.”

  Used to? An unexpected gasp gets locked in my throat.

  “Ouch,” I say it under my breath and regret the silly word as soon as it escapes my lips. “I mean—I’m sorry. My brother is just a bit too overprotective for my liking. It’s more like protective custody whenever he’s around. He’s like this lingering dark shadow. Plus, he practically runs the school,” I offer up stupidly. “I mean, I’ve always lived under his shadow, but we’re only a month into fall semester, and it’s already bordering on ridiculous.” When under duress, I seem to specialize in verbal diarrhea. “I’m sure you were a great big brother.” There. At least I’ve said something redeemable. I swallow hard as he meets my gaze once again. “Again, I’m really sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. And I was actually a little brother, so I get what you mean about the whole dark shadow thing—sort of.” He shrugs it off, nodding casually to a couple of girls walking by, and they giggle and ogle him long after he’s turned his attention from them. It’s clear the golden god who’s gracing my presence—rescued me from my captor—has quite the harem he could surround himself with. I glance back at the girls and can’t help but note their matching short skirts and how cute they look pairing those ultra short skirts with tall fur-lined boots and sweaters that are snug in all the right places. I know that several of the sororities on The Row play those matchy-matchy games, but thankfully, the sorority my friends and I pledged into frowns upon such wardrobe blunders.

  “So, where’s home?” He steps in close, and for the first time, the subtle hint of his spiced cologne hits me. The warmth of his body emanates from his flannel, his white T-shirt stretches taut from underneath, and the overwhelming urge to touch his chest envelops me. But that hypnotic gaze of his holds me captive—I can’t stop staring at those large whiskey pools he calls eyes.

  “Across the street.” I try to sound equally as cool, calm, and collected as he seems to be, but my face heats unnaturally, and the wind cools me down enough to let me know I’m sweating. “I guess I better g-g-go.” Crap. I give a quick smile. The stutter is new. A little over three-years-new exactly. I can trace its origin right back to the day they arrested my big sister. A part of me wants to clue him in on who I really am—let him know that siblings are a bit overrated if you ask me, but considering his loss I would never do that.

  “Cool.” He jumps into the sand pit with both feet and walks backward toward the building. “What’s your name?”

  Oh my God, is he Beta Kappa Phi? He’s Beta Kappa Phi! Case in point—totally fucking handsome, pardon my French.

  “You do have one, don’t you? I’m betting it’s not PB and J.” He ticks his head to the side and offers up a cocky grin because it must be pretty obvious by now that I’m ridiculously smitten. I hate that I’m so easy to read. “A name?”

  “Ava—and y-yours?” Not so bad. I blow a steady breath from my lips. I can blame my dictionary’s worth of anxieties square on Aubree’s killing spree shoulders.

  “Grant.” A pair of dimples appears and disappears in lieu of a smile as he steps into the dark mouth of the opened double door. “See you around!”

  “See you around,” I whisper under my breath as if they were words I would cherish for the rest of my days.

  And, truth be told, they will be.

  Who was that dude and where are you? I frown at the text from my brother as I give Lucky a hug.

  “What took you so long?” She leans over the Kappa G register and jots her name down. Kappa house holds the thick scent of floral perfume. Harper likes to point out they should hand out gas masks once you enter this place.

  “Met a boy,” I’m quick to confess. “Where’s Harper?”

  Lucky lets the pen slip from her grasp. “You met a boy and you want to talk about Harper? She’s running laps because she’s insane. Back to you.” Lucky spears into me with those lavender-blue spheres she calls eyes. Lucky Madden is as beautiful as her tatted-up brother is gorgeous. She, herself, tried to get a tat on her arm a few weeks back, but that turned ugly fast once it got infected. The tattoo was supposed to be a rose spearing through a heart, but it looked more like a duck sitting on a bike. Suffice it to say, it was a total and utter disaster.

  “Yes, a boy.” I motion for her to get to the task at hand. “Sign in for me, too, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Lucky, of all people, understands what a miracle it is that I had a close encounter with a member of the opposite sex. Her big brother, Jet, along with Owen have banded together to create the Big Brother Protection League. The security clearance alone rivals that of the most elite branch of the U.S. Defense System. The President himself should be so lucky to have such a bulletproof structure in place, or, in this case, a penis proof structure. And, although, they are seemingly okay with us befriending girls at the moment, I know for a fact sororities are a no-fly zone at least where I’m concerned. I haven’t dared breathe a word of my pledging to the dark side to Owen, lest I find myself locked in an Ivy League tower with my only hope of rescue being my long onyx hair. Only there would be no sweet prince to climb my tresses because Owen would be at the bottom waiting to hack them to pieces should anyone be foolish enough to try. Aubree was in a sorority, and I think tha
t left a sour taste in Owen’s mouth as far as the entire Greek system is concerned. Ironically enough, the sorority Aubree was a part of was actually shut down last year for hazing—by none other than Owen’s main squeeze herself. But Alpha Chi is up and running again, with the temporary suspension eased just enough for them to get on their feet. Kappa G, however, has an immaculate record. My brother couldn’t find fault with them if he tried.

  Lucky finishes up at the register and pulls me into the commons room until she’s backed us into a corner. “Spill every detail, you dirty little whore.”

  My lips twist to keep from smiling. It’s Lucky’s ornery disposition in life that makes me appreciate her that much more. I’ve always wanted a cantankerous friend who couldn’t control her mouth, and now I have one.

  And I do spill, right up until that final delicious detail.

  “He’s across the street!” Her eyes light up like lavender fields.

  “Yes, I know.” I hush her as the room begins to fill with our sorority sisters. Since Lucky and I are both freshmen, we won’t be able to get beds in the house until next year. For now, we reside tucked safely in a dorm on campus, Cutler Tower. Lucky is the Oscar to my Felix, whatever that means. Owen keeps saying it, so it must be true. As protective as he may be, I do look up to him in a weird, twisted way. I guess that’s what little sisters are destined to do, so I can’t really blame myself for that tiny bout of brotherly worship. “And if you squeal any louder, he’ll hear you.”

  Lucky wrinkles her nose. Gone is her happy-for-me attitude, replaced with that dismal frustration we mutually share. “You do realize Owen is going to kill you.”

  “Right. And then I’ll have two murderous felons for siblings.” My phone buzzes in my hand, and it’s a text from the prospective killer himself. “It’s Owen.” I flash the screen to Lucky, and we read the text together.

  I’ll ask again, and if you don’t answer, a manhunt will ensue. Who was that dude, and where the heck are you?

  “At least he’s being reasonable about it,” Lucky grunts while I busy myself with putting out the fire.

  I’m fine. He’s nobody. Leave me alone. Studying hard with Lucky. Bye, Felicia!

  “There. That should settle him for all of five minutes.”

  “Studying on a Friday night?” Lucky clucks her tongue at me. “If he buys that, he really is drinking the Jet Madden Kool-Aid.”

  A large group enters the room as Jenna Marshall and Sharon Ridgefield use their yell leader-worthy vocals to call the room to order.

  “Attention, girls!” Jenna bellows. “As we promised and hinted at earlier in the week, there is a very special event tonight just for Kappa house! Tonight is the annual sibling matchup mixer with our brothers at Beta Kappa Phi!”

  A spear of excitement rockets through me just hearing the mention of Grant’s frat house. And, the fact a mixer is involved sends my insides swirling like the double jackpot it is.

  Lucky leans in. “Don’t get all worked up, sweetheart.” She invokes that sarcastic drawl of hers, and I avert my eyes. If Lucky hadn’t quickly become a life preserver, I could have easily labeled her a bitch. But I know the truth. Lucky is a misunderstood villain personified. “The word sibling was just used, and you and I both know how off-putting they can be.”

  “Amen to that.” I hold my breath a moment as Jenna steps into the center of the room.

  “Per usual, it’s free dress. Mind the code of conduct.” The overly perky blonde wags her ponytail like a metronome. “We at Kappa G like to keep it just that—G.” A round of titters circles the room. The G might as well stand for gorgeous—a fact that made me a little prideful to be accepted into such a pack of beautiful people both inside and out, but now that I know all of my far-too-pretty-to-exist sisters will be around Grant the god with golden eyes for several hours during what amounts to a drunken splurge, I’m not feeling so prideful—more like pitiful. “There’s another little surprise, but I’ll let that little detail ride until we meet again. For those of you familiar with the ceremony—no spoiling the fun for others! Seven sharp! Be there!”

  The room breaks into a chatter, and it’s only then I note that the majority of those listening were freshmen recruits and a smattering of sophomores. Whatever it is, it concerns us directly.

  “Looks like I get to see Grant sooner than I think.” I give Lucky’s hip a bump with my own. “And you get to see the golden god with your own two eyes.” A horrible thought comes to me. “On second thought, keep your eyes posted in a different direction. The last thing I want is him falling into a Lucky-inspired trance. Wear a bag over your head, would you?”

  She averts her eyes. “For you I’d wear an entire garbage sack with the trash still in it. Don’t worry. Whatever this golden boy looks like, it’s hands off for me. The stupidest thing two girls can do is fight over a guy.”

  Just hearing her say those words spurs far more relief in me than need be. I’d hate to classify myself as insecure, but judging by the way my hormones beg to slay every girl in the room, makes it clear I’m more than insecure.

  Lucky waves her hand over my face. “Earth to Ava. We still have a few hours. Let’s head back to Cutler so I can start fashioning my Hefty bag couture.”

  We head out into the icy air and hop on our bikes. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  I pull out my phone and stare at it a moment. I’m going to see Grant. It’s ridiculous how excited I am over some boy I hardly know. And why exactly is that? My heart thumps hard over my chest as if to answer the question.

  Then, just as easily as my elation came, my perspective shifts. Grant will be there. Suddenly, it feels more like a death sentence than anything to get excited about. I saw the way he looked at those girls, and it was nothing like the way he looked at me. Why couldn’t he look at me that way?

  Daisy thumps through my mind. If anyone knows how to get a boy to look at her, it’s the author of all things hypersexual. Daisy Pembrooke and I have been friends for all of five minutes—as far back as August—and I’m completely aware of the fact that Owen and Jet are hoping she’ll play the role of spy, but Daisy assured me it’s the last thing she’s interested in.

  Lucky isn’t so hot on Daisy because she’s dating her brother, Jet, but I more than like her. Daisy is easy to talk to. She actually treats me like my own person and not some extension of Owen’s or Aubree’s family tree, or worse yet, sins.

  Just as I’m about to tuck my phone back into my pocket, my fingers start tapping away as I shoot Daisy a text.

  Any tips on how to get a cute boy to notice me? Say a word about this to Jet or Owen and die a slow and painful demise.

  Perhaps the death threat was a little less than kosher, all things considering, but Daisy gets the picture. This is a conversation just between us girls, and I’d like it to stay that way.

  She texts right back. Cute clothes, cute smile (glossed, of course!) and make sure you get in that boy’s way a time or twelve. He won’t know what hit him. ;) No worries on the brother front. Your secrets are safe with me. The only thing I ask in return is every last dirty little detail! (And by dirty, I mean keep it clean. Like really, really clean.)

  I laugh out loud as I tuck the phone into my backpack. It’s ironic how much Daisy sounds like Lucky. I think if Lucky gave Daisy half a chance, she’d quickly replace my best friend standing.

  The wind sears over my face like a flame, but it feels good, it feels perfect. The world feels good, and in exactly two hours, it will be perfect.

  Cute clothes, cute glossy smile, and getting in his way—Grant will never know what hit him.

  Beta Kappa Phi is lit up like a lighthouse on the middle of rough Greek waters. Bodies stream in and out of the enormous doors as a rap song belts out its thunderous bass right through my solar plexus, thumping up my spine while tapping over each and every vertebra.

  “You girls ready to do this?” Lucky pushes up the sleeves on her sweater as if she were readying for a fistfight in a dark alley
.

  Harper stares wide-eyed at the enormous pale building, with its Friday night frat rager well underway, like a kid about to visit Disneyland for the very first time. Harper has a boyfriend, sort of. They’re pretty much on-again, off-again whenever the mood strikes, and judging by the way she’s drooling at the beefcake moving in and out of those doors, they might just be off-again tonight. Harper is stunningly gorgeous with her long, dark, red velvet hair, her year-round perfect cinnamon skin, and her glowing green eyes. Her father is part Black Foot Indian, which explains the mysterious undertones of inexplicable beauty. She’s the kind of a girl who makes you feel like a troll just standing next to her. If there were a beauty pageant on campus, Harper would kick every girl’s ass by a Gisele Bündchen mile—she’s that gorgeous. A wave of trepidation washes over me at the thought of Grant laying eyes on her. With his amazing features, they would make a shockingly perfect couple, and that thought alone makes me ill.

  “Y-y-yes.” It takes all of my energy to stammer out the word. “I’m ready to d-d-do this.” Crap. I am obviously not ready to speak a sentence, let alone woo Grant with my cute clothes and glossy lips per Daisy’s perverted orders.

  Lucky’s eyes round out in two white moons against the backdrop of this bleak, dark night. She’s not a fan of the stuttering. Neither am I, but each time I do it, she’s convinced she’s somehow broken me herself.

  “We can turn back,” she offers, her face quickly losing color. “I’ll drive us straight to WB, or we can go see a movie. No pressure. Don’t let some douche get you all rattled.”

  “Not me, girls. You count me right out of that chick flick. I’m heading in.” Harper traipses up the stairs, her long ponytail swinging proud in her wake. I’ve only known Harper for a few short weeks, but her affinity for the male anatomy has yet to be rivaled by either Lucky or me. As much as we do love the boys, Harper seems to be gobbling them up as if Whitney Briggs were about to experience a shortage—Justin be damned, and well, at this point, he sort of is.