he’s going to break me with his tongue, or at least any semblance of modesty or resistance I might harbor against this demonic indie-rocker boy charm of his. His hand reaches into my hair, stroking just softly enough to render me useless. Then he pulls his face from mine and smiles.
“I’ve been wondering all day what flavor lip gloss you’ve got on.”
“Dr Pepper,” I say, before my brain starts to work again.
“Lip Smackers?” He laughs. “Really?”
“My mom always puts a ton of them in my stocking at Christmas,” I try to explain but really, what’s the point now? He already knows my taste in cosmetics hasn’t changed since the seventh grade.
“I like it.”
“You do?”
“Well, let me double check,” he says and then he licks his bottom lip before he kisses me again. I feel the tip of his tongue soft against mine, taste the sweetness of his breath as he kisses me deeper. Then he moves his lips, all warm and soft over to my ear and kisses me there until I can’t speak. “Hey, do you want to get in the van for a minute?”
I can’t seem to form a coherent response so I nod, probably a little too enthusiastically by the way he laughs. His lips are full and red as they twist into a smile full of trouble. I want to grab him by that thick, dark hair of his and ride his adorable face like a rodeo star. Maybe we can have a hot, torrid tour fling. I think I might be willing to do that, even if it all ends when we get home with my heart in tattered shreds.
Cole takes my hand and leads me around to the side door and pops it open. We’re about to climb in when I hear Emmylou calling, “Sunny, are you back here?”
Emmylou Kelley is my best friend and the front girl for Stars on the Floor, the band otherwise known as Soft. (Yes, it should technically be “S.o.t.F.” but when you try to say “Sotf” it sounds weird and since Soft are loud as hell, it’s nice and ironic.) Emmy is the one who recruited me as tour manager for this road circus, and here it is, our first night out and she’s already cock-blocking me. I let out a frustrated sigh as Cole lets go of my hand and glares in the general direction of the club.
“The boss lady calls,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Back to work.”
Then you know what he does? He fixes my hair, tucks a few loose strands behind my ear and smiles, and it sounds small but is somehow the sweetest thing any boy has ever done to me. Even sweeter than those Tic-Tac kisses of his. I’m here thinking, Sure, I’ll get pregnant for you. How many babies do you want? You’re Irish Catholic, so probably like twelve, right? No problem.
“Other than loading out, my work is done for the night,” he says, then hops into his seat, always shotgun in the van. I pull some fives and ones off a roll of bills and then hand him the roll. He drops it into the band lockbox, hidden beneath the center console of Steady Beth (which most rational humans would simply call “the van,” but not Soft; they’re superstitious and their van has a name. An identity.)
“Cole, how much did you have to drink?” I ask him.
“Nothing. Why?”
“Because you kissed me,” I say. “You’ve never kissed me before.”
“Why—are you drunk?” he asks.
“Me? No, of course not. I’m the tour manager—I have to stay sober.”
“Yeah, well last time you tried to kiss me you were so drunk you couldn’t walk,” he says. “Remember?”
I try not to scowl at the reminder of that night and how dumb I still feel about it.
“Yeah, but you kissed me this time.”
“And you definitely kissed me back.”
“Well,” I say. “I’m not drunk.”
“Neither am I.”
“Sonia!” Emmy calls again, and now she’s walking across the parking lot. Damn it. “Where are you?”
“Coming!” I call back. Cole smiles at me and I still wonder if he’s drunk. Or if I am. Because I’m in such disbelief that this is happening.
“Don’t go anywhere,” I tell him.
“I’ll be here,” he says.
Reluctantly, I leave him there, my head fuzzy and warm and buzzing as I cross the parking lot to the club’s back door. There, under a full August moon my bossy BFF is waiting, literally tapping her foot.