The Kiss | Part 7

SO. MUCH. NEWS to share.

Luckily, we won’t have to wait much longer because TOMORROW? I’m letting a couple of cats out of the bag.

(Poor metaphorical cats. But yay to us romance readers)

LOTS of updates from Deacon + Kayla’s steamy friends to lovers story THE KISS happening in less than 24 hours.

For those just coming in here, HAAIIII. For those already reading, WELCOME BACK.

It’s good see all of your faces. But has your face seen all the chapters that have been released for THE KISS yet?

If you haven’t been around, DON’T MISS OUT on the previous parts by READING them right below:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7 is taking us to a small, sexy corner of a coffee shop where two (former?) best friends come face-to-face.

START READING PART 7 of THE KISS below:

__________

KAYLA

PRESENT DAY

“Don’t. Scream.” Deacon releases a shaky breath as he holds me in the back of the coffee shop. “Alright? At least, not until I say something…”

He seems nervous.

Like I’ve never seen him before.

The dark hair I’d known as a child and teen is ink black, seemingly ten times darker. His skin is tanned, swathed in a sort of summertime glow, and as he plants one forearm over the wall behind me, I can’t help but notice how muscular it’s become, how chiseled the rest of him may be.

His biceps pulse beneath the sleeves of a blinding white t-shirt and beneath his dark eyebrows sits those same cement gray eyes that once stared playfully into mine.

Only this time, there’s nothing playful about the heat simmers beneath those ash-like irises. 

I grab for my purse, clutching it to my side.

“Depends. Are you here to rob me?”

Deacon’s eyes slant. “What? Of course I’m not.”

“Then the screaming part is optional.” I glance up at his hands planted on the wall on either side of me. 

How many women in Deacon’s arms have been able to say that?

“Kayla, listen…”

“Did you follow me here?” I interrupt.

“Kay…”

“What, I forgot to stop sharing my cell’s location from when we were sixteen?” I scoff. “Or did you follow the trail of ‘fuck you’s’ I left for you last night?”

He grins—an expression closer to a grimace than smile. “No, actually, I followed that trail just fine.”

“Then what?” I direct upwards at him, tilting my head to meet his eye. “What could you possibly want badly enough to try to kidnap me, Deacon?”

I can’t even consider what his answer could be. Not now, at least.

“Deacon, for the love of…” I trail off, glancing down the small hall as if being watched. “What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t blink. “I’m here to hire you for a job.”

My eyelashes flutter, my pulse racing. “But I told you last night that…”

“You would be stopping by this coffee shop.”

I blink. “I did?”

“You did. After reading about this street in a Truman Capote novel.” A small grin spreads over his full lips. “You also talk too much when you’re drunk.”

“I know I do.” I take a deep breath. “And I regret that day I told you about my Spice Girls obsession. But that’s also why I know that I wouldn’t have told you about this.”

His gray eyes flash. “And why not?”

My stare slants. “You know why not.”

One black eyebrow of his arches, and I secretly wish I could take a sip of my cold coffee to fight the fire working its way under my collar. The small space grows warm. The hallway in the back of the coffee shop is nearly stifling, but it is no match for the man once nicknamed “Dick-licked Deacon” in high school.

It was one thing to watch women fall over themselves to take part in “licking Deacon’s dick.” But it was quite another to be one of them. 

And in some sense, I hate him for it. For changing everything between us. For making my body respond this way against my will. I can barely breathe as he continues speaking.

“It was only a kiss. Not an act of terror.” Deacon announces after a few tense seconds. “I wouldn’t exactly call that a cardinal sin, Princess.”

“Now’s not the time to bring up nicknames. And the kiss isn’t my biggest problem with you right now.” I glare up at him.

“Not a fan of my breath then, huh?”

“Deacon…” 

“Spicy cinnamon gum not your thing?”

“Deacon!” I whisper-hiss, trailing off, taking a weighty breath. “You’re not making explaining this any easier, and I don’t know how to say this.” I lick my lips, looking up at him, and the admission on the edge of my mouth almost burns. Deacon, surprisingly quiet, gazes down at me, turning that burn into a fire. He says nothing as I wait. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be friends right now.”

Deacon snorts, crossing his arms across his chest. His very large, very muscular, tight chest. I look away. 

“Singing an old song now, aren’t we, Kay? I mean, you didn’t necessarily want to be friends when we were sixteen and I left for military school, right? No calls. No texts. Not even a letter, letting me know you hated me.”

“I didn’t…” I gasp out loud, tripping over my own words. I glare harder. “I couldn’t hate you. You know that. And it wasn’t like not reaching out was my choice. You know how my father felt about us—” I stammer. “I-I mean, how he felt about you. And I wasn’t the one who packed up and left for good.”

“You took off two years before that.” He shrugs. “Boarding school.”

“That was different. You left permanently.”

Deacon glowers. “You left first.”

“Are we competing for who hurt who most?”

“No.” He shakes his head, a slew of tattoos peeking beneath the sleeve of his shirt. He runs his fingers through his dark unruly hair. “I think we already know who would win that contest, Kay. It’s not like the last six months of your silence tipped me off to how you feel about me or anything…”

He takes a deep breath, his large chest expanding. And I have to fight to keep from staring at his unreal physique. The sound of his voice brings my eyes to his. 

“You know, I came here to New York to help handle my stepfather’s beholden estate. I never thought I would stay.” His dark eyes narrow. “But then there was your brother’s wedding here, Marilyn’s engagement party, the hotel suite…and well,” he exhales, “you.” 

He bites his bottom lip. “I don’t get you, Kay. I mean, it isn’t like we’re in high school anymore. Or your father’s house. You don’t always have to ‘follow the rules’.”

“What do you want me to say?” I lean in. “Seriously? I mean, you-You kissed me in that hotel suite at the engagement party,” I begin. “And that was…really interesting. And then that girl Nancy shows up at your hotel door and you practically rush me out of the room.” I inhale, my head going lightheaded as tears sting the back of my throat. Emotion clogs it. “I like having structure, Deacon. Or ‘rules’ as you like to call them. Boundaries work for me. And you kissing me? That definitely crossed one of them…” 

I sigh. “You know what? It doesn’t even matter. Have fun with your bar. Have fun with your Nancy or whoever. Beats having something more than your right hand to fall asleep with at night, I guess. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to get to.”

Deacon blocks me, lowering his arm against the wall to trap me. He’s so close as I can feel his cool breath on my cheek, a stark contrast from his hot body which radiates warmth in uncomfortable, panty-wetting ways. 

I glance up at him, my stare hardening as he offers up an arched brow.

“Is your brain leaking, ‘Dick-licked Deacon’?” He scoffs at the moniker as my voice starts to rise, anger working its way in. “This is real. My PR agency is real. This job is real. My need for real clients is real.”

“I know that. Because I know you. And I know you’re good at everything damn thing you do, Kay.” His voice rasps, sending a sensuous shiver down my skin that I can’t shake. “And that’s why I need your help. Why I thought we might be able to help each other.”

I snort, lowering my voice to a hiss as I glance towards the open doorway. “By blocking me from talking to Sevin?”

He nods slowly, that slightly crooked nose of his rising in the air before he blows out a long breath. 

“In a way, yes. Look, Sevin and I became good friends after meeting at your brother’s tattoo shop months ago. He stopped by the bar an hour ago. Told me he was coming here to negotiate with a possible new PR agency.” He shrugs. “I put two and two together.” With a regretful grin, he leans in. “Well, more like ‘four and four.’ Think I’m still seeing double after last night…”

I scoff, closing my eyes for a few torturous seconds. “And you thought that was your cue to kidnap me?”

“Woman-nap, technically…”

“And for what reason exactly, Deacon?”

“Basically, because I need your help. To give this bar a real shot. To show commitment to it. To its success. To stick…even if it’s only for a while.”

“I’m sorry, what are you saying exactly? And since when do you ‘stick’?” I hurl at him, my anger at his interference starting to rise with each passing second. “You’ve been running away for a long time now. From Kansas City. From reality.” I swallow, feeling as if my throat is suddenly on fire. “From me.”

He only blinks once. “This is different this time, Kay.”

“How?” I’m on the edge of screaming at this point. Guess I couldn’t keep my earlier promise after all. “The Deacon Cross I know?” I snort, my stare narrowing at him. “He has sixteen years of experience with ‘not sticking’.”

Deacon’s eyes flashes, his gray irises turning into a veritable storm.

And I like it. I like his pushing his buttons. Poking at them the way he’s lately been pushing at mine. I poke them to the brink.

“When’s the last time you ‘stuck’ or committed to anything? To a relationship? Or location? Hell,” I stop, pointing at the darkened lines along his forearm, “a tattoo!” I cross my arms, my ears heated, heart beating as I throw all of my pent-up venom Deacon’s way—the hurt inside of me spilling all around us. I scoff in his face.

“All I can say is that Grandmama June must be real proud. Your mother might have been too…but then again, you didn’t ‘stick’ around for much concerning her either, if I remember correctly.”

Deacon’s eyes drill in my direction, his body going cold. The heat that resonated from his chiseled frame is replaced by a chill frostier than anything I’ve ever felt and it freezes my tirade mid-stream.

I bite my tongue, tempted to rip it out as his gaze reflects gray pools of pain at me, the dark orbs turbulent as ever. Deacon straightens his shoulders.

“I haven’t kept count, if that’s what you’re asking. And maybe for once, I do want to make a commitment, alright? I’m not a kid anymore, and this isn’t my mother’s funeral. Or…or your eleventh birthday.”

He takes a deep breath, inhaling so slowly that I feel the air around us change, the atmosphere shift. Deacon shakes his head, hanging it. 

“My grandmother is on the brink of death, Kayla. And I’ve been putting everything—all that I have into making sure The Alchemist stays alive so that she does too. So that I can afford the mountain of hospital bills being thrown her way. And we’re drowning in bad press right now. Thought you might be able to help with that.” He glances back up at me, raising his dark glare. “But maybe I was wrong…seeing as how we’re not friends right now.”

I want to say something—anything to refute it. But I can’t.

Because I’m too tongue-tied to respond, too shocked. I wait a second too late to speak. Because the moment I open my mouth to say ‘I’m sorry,’ Deacon drops his arms, turns the corner and leaves.

__________

Are you READY for THE KISS?

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And drop by NEXT WEDNESDAY in Part 8 after Deacon + Kayla take a turning-point walk down memory lane that leaves their friendship (relationship?) in interesting limbo…

See you back here next week for more of THE KISS.

Happiest of hump days! 🙃