The Kiss | Part 5

Happy Wednesday! It’s that time again as part of this weekly blog series and I’m so so so glad to have you back for Part 5 of The Kiss.

Can you believe we’re this far into the book? YUP, NEITHER CAN I.

This week’s part is a little longer than most.

Primarily because I want us to get knee-deep into this friends to lovers story and all the craziness that it brings. (I’m getting a little antsy to share this entire novel, if you can’t tell)

If you haven’t read the first four parts of this twisty contemporary romance, GO. (I’m not kidding.)

READ THE OTHER PARTS NOW before diving into this week’s lengthy chapters. (Yes, chapters, as in plural). And when you finish, more Deacon + Kayla will be waiting for you right here.

To make it easy, I’ve included the first four parts for you below. 🙃

THE KISS BLOG NOVEL SERIES:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

If you’ve already them all, then I love you! (No, but seriously)

I’m off to finish up the rest of this sexy, funny, suspense-filled Contemporary Romance story, so if you need me, I’ll be in the back drinking my store-bought Starbucks coffee and mouthing lyrics to Ariana Grande.

KEEP READING for more:

✔️ More twists and turns

✔️ One “Penile Yoda”

✔️ Two very sexually-frustrated former friends

__________

KAYLA

Saturday night

I can’t breathe.

But then again, maybe that’s because my own hand is clamped over my quivering mouth.

I see the fire before most of the other patrons can tell what is happening. And as the DJ begins to spin a hard-hitting Halsey record, my dancing slows to a stop, replaced by the silent scream that refuses to leave my lips.

Just two minutes before the bright flash of light met my stare, I’d been dancing in the middle of the cherry-colored hardwood floor, my arms in the air as I undulated to an rhythm and blues-laced EDM beat that mixed sultry sounds with a booming bass staccato.

It was my first night’s foray into Manhattan nightlife and for a woman who wanted nothing to do with anything that involved placing two feet out of her front door, I was doing too bad.

I’d worn makeup, a rare occurrence these days. 

Bronze and a faint orgasm-imitated blush blended across my high cheekbones, and I’d let my natural curls—full, long and dark—flow down my back and over the thin straps of the little black dress I’d pulled out for tonight.

I looked hot. At least, according to Sophia.

My new roomie twirled beside me on the crowded dance floor, a Jack Daniels drink in her hand that hadn’t spilled over the side by the grace of God only.

Her caramel-colored hair whipped around and she smiled at me, her white teeth bright under the dim golden light spilling across the space. She winked.

“Aren’t you glad you came out tonight?”

“I am!” I called out, my voice straining over the music.

“Isn’t this the best party you’ve ever been to?”

“Damn near!”

“And you’re so going to get laid tonight? Right?”

That little question made my arms drop, and I slapped Sophia with the back of my hand, my mouth twisting in skepticism as I glared playfully at her, my eyebrow forming a semi-circle.

“Not so fast, Soph.” I leaned in, letting her hear my voice above the noise. “You said this bar had lots of items on the menu. I just didn’t think my vagina was one of them.”

“But it’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” The hazel-eyed beauty nudged me as she danced. “At least, a part of the reason, right?”

I wanted to say no. I wanted to say that meeting a man was the last task on my already-occupied mind. But I’d guess I’d be lying.

Somewhere, somehow, in the back of my mind, I’d always been considering the fact that I just might run into Deacon Cross. The notion skipped across my mind the second I crossed state lines, and from the my toe touched New York soil, it was almost as if I could sense his presence, feel his signature touch, smell his scent. 

That woodsy mix of honeysuckle and cedar, as earthy as the thick hair on his stubborn head.

And when I did, I was transported back in time, to a solitary night six months when a line we never should have towed was crossed.

I’m still thinking about that line when a man crosses the room amongst The Alchemist’s crowd and I catch a glimpse of stone gray eyes. Mouth agape, my stare skims the pulsing bar floor until Sophia taps my elbow, reeling me back into reality.

And then I see it.

The orange-white flame.

It hits the window with a force that makes me flinch.

The flaming bottle crashes into the thick, plated window painted with the words The Alchemist, and the gray-tinted glass cracks into a spider web of destruction. The sound is sharp, like the snapping of a supernatural whip, capturing the partygoers’ attention.

The fire never makes it inside; the bottle smashes and falls miraculously to the sidewalk. But it does nothing to stop the panic of the patrons, and every Manhattanite in heels or loafers tries to make a break for the exit, their shimmering bodies squeezing into one another as they run.

I make a grab for Sophia who squeezes my hand instinctively, and we too head for an exit, our fingers slippery with sweat as we intertwine them.

So much for a simple night out.

I’m choking on my own regret as the heat inside the antiquated bar rises from warm to Hell levels, and with the crowd rushing this way and that, the sounds of surprised gasps and muffled shrieks overtake even the loud rumble of the music from the speakers.

Subdued shock slows gives way to impatient panic, and a multitude of faces blur in my periphery as they push, pull, propel towards every open door, a throng of feet stomping their way out.

I’m caught in a symphony of barely contained chaos.

The hardwood floor creaks underneath. The tinkle of drinking glasses sing.

And still I can barely hear either over the racing of my own heart, the organ inside my chest seemingly vying for its own standing ovation. We’re too far from the exit. Much too far.

And my eyesight spins, my head swiveling as I search for a safe space inside of the melee, relief releasing regret’s grip from my throat as my gaze finds the bar—nearly empty.

I tighten my hold on Sophia. With a “Come on!” I lead her to the bar-bounded area, determined to escape behind the exit I know lies beyond.

Body after body brushes against us, a startled tide of partiers in Prada and Gucci almost sweeping us away. We make it to the area behind the bar, barely alive and wild-eyed. Sophia speaks first.

“Holy Hell, I think I just saw my life flash before my eyes.” She shakes a head of cafe au-lait hued hair. “And let me tell you…it wasn’t that pretty.”

“Tell me about it,” I breathe back. “The highlight reel of my life is so short I probably should have pictured your life instead.”

Pathetic life—sex and otherwise—aside, I’m already exploring the confines of the tiny space around us as we crouch just beside the oak tabletop. Eyes scanning for a back exit, my gaze flashes against the stacks of bottles on the shelves, fresh lemons and limes strewn everywhere in the ruckus.

I find a door lurking just inside a small hallway leading out of the bar and just as I start to rush into it the tightened space, Sophia’s hand in mine, I hit a wall of human flesh.

Hard. Unmoving. Unforgiving.

My hand flies in front of my face, a weak attempt to ward off the steel-like chest that threatens to turn my nose into mush, and as my fingers swing, they are snatched from the air in a sturdy grip. 

Strong and firm. Familiar in the oddest way.

Curiosity pulls my eyes upward, and the scent that suddenly surrounds me causes me to shake—shudder just slightly—against my will.

The hot smothering air is nothing compared to the heat of the stranger in front of me, and when my stare finds his face, it’s as if the fire I just saw dive-bombed into my chest, warming me from the inside out.

My blue eyes meet dark cement-gray ones, and as I open my mouth to speak to the one man who has wormed his way into my thoughts tonight, my words are drowned out by the heavy huffs of a bearded man in a kilt who waves a fire engine-red extinguisher in front of Dread Incarnate.

Deacon Cross. Beacon of bad decisions.

Patron saint of soaking panties everywhere.

Bearded Man screams over the crowd. “Fire’s out, boss! Drew and I got the flames outside under control.”

A redhead I hadn’t seen until now chimes in. “And I called 9-1-1.”

“Good work, guys,” he asserts, his voice a booming force of gravity that draws all eyes to him. He spins. “Nance?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you get Drew to calm this crowd down? The worst should be over.” His silky voice is a steady calm amongst the storm. “Let’s just try to keep these guys from trampling someone under their overpriced Manolos.” He turns again, his eyes narrowing at the man with the beard. “And find Sevin.”

It’s a direct order—as firm and as soft as his hold. Which reminds me…

He’s still clutching my hand.

His large fingers, wrapped around mine, drop as soon as our eyes meet, and just as his steady stare sears something inside mine, it flickers away just as quickly. Deacon licks his lips before speaking again.

“And Nancy?”

“Yeah, Deke?” The pretty ginger haired woman glances at him behind the bar with stars in her eyes.

“Can you escort Miss Sophia Somerset?” He nods towards Sophia. “And Miss Kayla Jackson to my office until the craziness calms down? I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Sure.” She smiles, her long eyelashes fluttering fast. And I glance up at Deacon finding a question shimmering in his dark eyes. In that fraction of a second, the noise in the bar fades into a dull background roar, and I answer my former best friend’s unspoken plea with a nod, my mouth going as dry as the Sahara.

With Sophia next to me, I follow the redhead into the back office. The clamor of the bar disappears as she shuts the door behind us, and I struggle to breathe. In the scarcely lit wooden and brick-bordered room, I take in the plaques on the wall, the large oak desk in the center, and more importantly, the name atop the placard sitting in place on the tabletop.

Deacon Cross.

Another surprise. Nothing about this night is simple.

Even Sophia can see it too. 

I left New York months ago, and somehow I’m back at Deacon’s mercy. Stuck between him and his redheaded mistress.

I’m in the same shoes I’d been in half a year ago inside his hotel suite. Only this time, I’m not running away.

Damn. That highlight reel of my life was looking worse and worse each minute.

__________

KAYLA

Monday afternoon

“So, how was it when I left?” Sophia crooned over the phone, her pitch way too breathy for a busy New York street.

I raised my hand for a taxi, my phone attached to my ear, my red business skirt clinging to my hips from the heat. The summer New York sun isn’t a friend to anybody apparently, and the people beside me on the sidewalks walk with the sort of frenzied purpose that could only accompany that “sizzling alive” feeling I’ve been experiencing all day.

The white-lined black streets in front of me are lined with wall-to-wall yellow cars. The tall buildings above the street traffic loom overhead and as if almost as if they are smothering with their powerful presence, sucking the very air from my lungs.

There’s something about New York. Something special (and suffocating) about the lively, noise-filled environment that gets me every time.

Even as I talk to Sophia, recounting the events of last night and earlier this morning, I have to find the will to breathe, to gulp in the air that seems to have escaped my body.

Maybe it is New York that’s doing it to me. Or maybe it’s the thought of Deacon.

His gray eyes. His wide, granite-like shoulder sucking in all the space out of the tiny office in which we stood.

I think of them even now as Sophia presses me for details, not noticing the slight sense of panic working its way under my skin. She clears her throat over the line as I stroll down the street in my too high heels, hand still held high in the air.

“Kayla!” She barks—probably for the fiftieth time. “Did you hear a word I just said?”

  “Maybe…Refresh my memory.”

“What happened with Deacon and that girl after I left?”

I scoff. “Oh you mean “abandoned”? After you abandoned me last night with me and Deacon’s new girlfriend?”

I can hear her smile. “I’d like to think of it as a ‘convenient exit’.” She takes a small breath. “And yes… Deacon was the friend who got me the invite to Saturday’s party. If it helps…I didn’t know he had a girlfriend.” She sighs. “And it just felt like it was time that the two of you talk. I mean, I didn’t know what happened between you two, anyway. You wouldn’t talk. The last time I saw you both at Marilyn and Jesse’s engagement party, you were as thick as thieves.”

I’m tempted to snort. 

The word ‘thick’ only applied to Deacon’s head which was as hard as they came.

As for the two of us? I guess thieves was an accurate descriptor…considering the time Deacon and I had stolen for ourselves. We’d snuck upstairs, away from the hubbub after I’d decked the dickhead at the party for groping me.

The party was all fun and games and hangover-inducing drinks until that moment. 

Watching Marilyn, one of my closest friends and first PR clients, get surprise-engaged to Sophia’s brother was an honor I’d have paid to witness. Being a witness to their blossoming love was a show I wouldn’t have missed for the world, and I was happy to have had front  row seats to it.

That is, until midway through the party, when I’d knocked knuckles with one asshole’s jaw…and later, in an upper hotel suite, connected lips with another’s.

I’d known at the time of the party that Deacon was in New York to settle his stepfather’s affairs. I just hadn’t known how settled he would be six months later as the new owner of Manhattan’s fast-growing fan-favorite bar, The Alchemist. 

And working beside the woman who, six months ago, had conveniently showed up at his hotel door.

My oldest friend on earth was always surprising me. Only lately…they weren’t the sort of surprise I’d been hoping for.

I drop my hand, taking a deep breath as the billionth taxi passes me by. I hold the phone closer, willing my own hands to stop shaking. I manage to find the will to inhale.

“Last night was…” I start. “Interesting.” I lick my lips, swallowing hard. “As you already knew,” I nearly growl listening to Sophia laugh lightly on the other end, “Deacon now owns The Alchemist. He’s drowning in some of the bar’s old debts, apparently, and a few other debts he conveniently avoided talking about.” I scoff. “It’s all typical. He actually asked me to run the PR for the bar since a lot of strange things have been happening there lately, giving the place a bad rep. That’s Deacon code in my book for ‘I’d like to find the easy way out since that’s what I’m good at—running.’” 

“That’s also code in my book for ‘Perfect’,” Sophia exclaims on the line, ignoring my coughing as a nearby truck shoots a gust of fumes into my face. Her pitch shoots sky-high. “And didn’t you say that Stanton PR requires that you bring your own clients into the agency?”

“I already have a client,” I point out.

“One,” Sophia stresses. “And Marilyn’s barely a client. You’re more like her horse-wrangler. And she’s the wild mare.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate the wild animal comparison,” I deadpan.

“Seriously. You did say that the agency spent the better part of this morning reminding you that you needed to keep steady clientele. They basically dangled your job like a cock on a string.”

“Don’t you mean ‘carrot on a string’?”

“No, I mean ‘cock’. You’ve been on a dick diet for way too long.”

I roll my eyes, fighting a smile I know Sophia can’t see. “This is the second time in as many days that you’ve mentioned this. What, are you now my ‘penis guru’?”

“I prefer the term ‘Penile Yoda’.”

“Well, for your information,” I say, finally finding a cab that will stop. I hop into its tattered back seat, shutting the door behind me. I direct the driver to the coffee shop I’d picked specially. I hiss into the phone. “I’m actually working on a way to collect new clients now.”

“Cock clients or actual clients?”

“Jesus, Soph. Actual clients.” I inhale deeply. “I did some reading on Sevin Smith, that baseball player from last night’s player.” I hesitate, shifting in the back seat. “And it turns out he doesn’t have PR representation…yet. I tried calling his agent all morning, then his lawyer, his manager. Finally, sometime around noon, my luck kicked in and I got a hit. I’m meeting him for coffee.”

“Sure this wasn’t a crack hit you’re talking about there, Kay? You’ve clearly been smoking something if you’re thinking about representing a baseball star. In case you forgot, you know absolutely nothing about sports!”

I can basically see her dark eyebrows hitting her hairline. I bite my bottom lip as my cabbie slows to a stop in front of the designated coffee shop I’d pointed him towards. I exhale.

“Open up your mind, Sophia. I’m just trying something different.” I hand the driver the fare, scooting out of the cab and onto the sidewalk. “I’ve already done my homework on Sevin and he seems great.”

“Great in what? The bedroom?” She stresses. “From what I’ve heard, Sevin has them hanging from the rafters. And by ‘them,’ I mean half the ovaries of women in the Tri-state area. And for good reason: I hear he has a sterling silver cock.”

Sterling silver cocks in mind, I’m surprised my heels find the ground as Sophia’s words hit my ear, and I flit quickly into the trendy coffee shop’s front door, my eyes finding a convenient table towards the back. I stride over to it in my favorite power skirt-suit, feeling half-ready, half-terrified—my roommate’s doubt starting to sink into my thoughts.

I try to shake them off, even as she utters, “Still… I’m on your side, Kayla.” Her voice grows firmer. “Always.”

I grin weakly as I sit as the small, lonely wooden table across from the shop baristas, pulling from my purse my favorite paperback of Jane Eyre. I set it on the counter. “Thank you, Soph.”

“Seriously, I am. I’m just joking with you. I think you’re extremely brave. Moving here from Kansas. Pursuing your PR dreams.” She pauses. “Now go forth. Be the bad-ass I know you are.”

“Will do.”

“And may the force and dick be with you.”

We end the call much like we started it—with a few laughs and inappropriate comments. I settle in, checking my cell phone for the time.

Only ten minutes until the first respondent shows. I pull the weathered pages of Jane Eyre and start reading—something I’ve done a million times already and plan to do for a million more. Strolling to the front counter to order a medium-sized Americano from a nearby barista, I inhale the hot coffee the minute it hits my hand, checking my phone for messages.

I sit back at my tiny wooden table just as my newest potential client shows. And I have to fight to keep my jaw from dropping as I stare his face.

Sevin Smith.

Citywide hero and, according to Sophia, the holy grail of stiff penis.

I never got a chance to meet the actual man amidst last night’s chaos, but I’d seen enough faces to know you don’t forget one like that.

And he looks every bit of the “baseball god” Sophia described him as when she showed his picture . And suddenly the earlier smile I’d been plastering on my face for work is real.

He turns to talk to a barista, a grin affixed his handsome face, and as soon as I stand to my feet, as soon as I attempt to emerge from the dark back table at which I sit, something grabs me from behind. Something hard.

A hand, rough and slightly calloused, clamps over my mouth, preventing a scream and I’m pulled like a yo-yo on a string into the back hallway that holds the bathrooms. 

The light is dim, my pulse pounding when the person who grabbed me holds me close against the wall, enclosing me with his hard body. The stranger turns me quietly in his arms, and I find myself face to face with my worst nightmare.

A darkly delicious-looking Deacon…but there’s nothing dream-like about his hot stare.

__________

Are you liking it so far? Or loving it?

Be sure to tell me your thoughts in a comment below!

Be sure you never miss a new chapter by joining the The Kiss serial alert list!

And find out what happens NEXT WEDNESDAY in Part 6 when a blast from Deacon’s past reveals one longtime secret.

Stay tuned for more THE KISS next week.

Happy Wednesday!