Complex Kisses (Here & Now Book 1) Read online

  Complex Kisses

  Copyright © Kim Bailey, 2016

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  ISBN: 978-0-9958552-0-5

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Disclaimer: This book contains mature content not suitable for those under the age of 18. It involves strong language and sexual situations. All parties portrayed in sexual situations are consenting adults over the age of 18.

  Co-Edited by Susan Fanetti

  Cover, interior design and formatting by Juliana Cabrera, Jersey Girl & Co. Design

  To my younger self, and all who’ve felt lost along the way.

  You can be found.

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  2 days ago

  Day minus 8

  Day minus 7

  Day minus 6

  Day minus 5

  Day minus 4

  Day minus 3

  Day minus 2

  Day minus 1

  Day Zero

  Day plus 1

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  What does pain sound like?

  The sharp slap that hits my cheekbone? The echo of it, reverberating in my ear? My stunned outcry at the heated trail his hand left behind?

  Or, is silence the true sound of agony?

  Looking at me, with no sign of remorse or misgiving, he says nothing. No apology. No regret. Not even a fuck you to back it all up.

  Yes, that’s the sound of my deepest heartache. My father’s silence.

  His offending hand turns to a tight, white-knuckled fist at his side. I should be afraid. Avoid his drunken animosity. Dread his unpredictability. Shrink from the malicious threat radiating from his every pore. Fear what he may do next.

  But it’s not fear that fuels me. It’s conviction. Righteous determination.

  He hit me.

  I came to him for help. Seeking guidance. Hoping for comfort. Trusting my father to be something better than the man he is today. Wanting to find the man he used to be. The man I once called daddy. The man I once respected and adored. I believed he could rise above the alcohol. Move past our ferocious exchanges. Find somewhere, deep inside of him, the love he used to hold for me.

  God, I wanted so badly to believe in it. I wanted to believe in him.

  That hope, that belief - all dashed with one simple strike of his hand.

  Pushing all my wasted desires inward, I create a new faith. A new vision.

  I will believe in me.

  Gathering courage, from a reserve I didn’t know I possessed, I let my hand fall from its protective cover of my face. Can he see the swelling of my cheek? Will the redness show? Will any bruising be evident? I hope so. I want him to see exactly what he’s done. I hope the alcohol isn’t clouding his vision to the point that it blocks the sight of my wounded, warrior soul.

  He seethes. It’s a broiling, rolling anger that vibrates just beneath the surface. When he finally breaks the silence, it’s with cruelty.

  “I’m glad your mother’s not alive to see you now. To see what filth you are.” His drunken slur deepens, “She can’t be disappointed. Not like me. I’m disgusted. You’re nothing but a whore.”

  Disappointed? Disgusted? Those are my feelings. How dare he use those words on me. What hypocrisy.

  Choking on his distorted truth, I want nothing more than to turn his vile hatred back on him.

  Don’t respond.

  Resiliently, I give him my reply. Silence. The same silence he gave me, just moments ago.

  Then, turning my back to him, I walk away.

  I ignore his cursing, stumbling, and smashing of innocent objects as I leave him behind. His pitiful attempt to intimidate and control doesn’t break my purposeful stride. Spurred by his vehemence, I take the first step in acting out my new vision.

  I do it quickly. I do it silently. I do it with a smile on my face.

  I run away.

  And I don’t look back.

  Why am I here?

  My heart beats erratically and a sense of dreadful trepidation crawls coldly up my spine. Nervous sweat breaks out in fine beads across my forehead. The air filling in my lungs becomes a crushing weight. On rubber band legs, I unsteadily take my first step through the hospital doors.

  Why am I here?

  Each slow and reluctant step taken over the gray tile floor reverberates back at me. The echo of my footsteps mixes with the staccato of my banging heart and jagged breaths. Together, the sounds remind me of a death march - something you’d see in a movie or experience in a nightmare. Only this is no movie and I’m not dreaming. This is far too real.

  Oh, dear God. Why am I here?

  I’m ignorant to my surroundings, until I walk so closely by someone that I lightly graze their arm, almost bumping into them. “Excuse me,” I mumble.

  A warmth rushes through me at the contact. I’m not sure where it came from or why I feel it. But it’s a bit of a wake-up call. I’m not the only person here in this awful place.

  I can do this.

  I remind myself how far I’ve come and keep in mind that this is just temporary. It’s a test. That’s all. Just a test. I can do this.

  Yes, I can do this.

  * * *

  A cloud lifts from overhead as I walk toward the hospital’s exit, sunshine streaming in from the glassed ceiling of the entryway. A woman walks toward me. A goddess. The light from the ceiling creates a halo effect around her white blond hair as she brushes past me with a murmured, excuse me.

  I breathe in deep and hold it. Exhale. Repeat.

  I think of all those bright rays of light pushing out the darkness. If a walking, talking work of art like her can exist in this place, then surely everything will be okay.

  The tests are all clear. Everything can proceed.

  Breathe in deep. Exhale. Repeat.

  I know I can be strong, I’ve managed this far and I don’t plan on calling it quits any time soon.

  Breathe in. Exhale. Repeat.

  Caleb’s not going to die. He’s a fighter. A fucking champion. He will win this thing.

  Breathe. Exhale. Repeat.

  Game face on.

  Depression is more than just feeling ‘blue’.

  Signs of depression may include:

  - Feelings of sadness, guilt, helplessness or hopelessness

  - Changes to sleeping and/or eating habits

  - Problems with physical health, including physical pain

  - Anger or irritability

  Check, check, check and double fucking check.

  How is it possible for a medical pamphlet to be so intuitive? My entire state of being summed up, in four bullet points. Does this mean I’m depressed?

  I must be.

  Or …

  I’m turning into a hypochondriac.

  What I need to do is to pull my head out of my ass and stop wallowing in ridiculous self-pity. Two days sitting around a hospital and two sleepless nights in a hotel are obviously messing with my mind. Next step, I’ll be surfing Web-
MD.

  But really, the completely irrational self-diagnosis is just a way to distract myself from the actual problem.

  My father is dying. He’s dying an unbearably slow, painful, ugly death and I haven’t felt a thing about it, except resentment and guilt. My resentment is toward the dying man for dragging my ass away from my life. It’s a life that I’ve sacrificed, struggled, and even stolen for. A life that I desperately want to stay in. My guilt is for not feeling anything toward him, other than the resentment. He’s my father, after all. Shouldn’t I be sad?

  The whole situation makes my heart hurt. Not metaphorically either. No, there is an actual, physical aching deep inside my chest. This strange, uncomfortable pain was what started my neurosis. I began worrying that I might be suffering from angina or a series of mini heart attacks that would eventually kill me.

  One of my father’s nurses, Judy, assured me that it was just stress. Apparently, stress can physically manifest itself in some very scary ways.

  Nurse Judy’s probably right. But I have an alternate theory. I’m convinced the heartache is a symptom of leaving Hunter behind.

  Hunter, with his messy blond hair and fun-loving nature is my daily reminder that life is good. My life is really, really good. Without him here, setting my direction, giving me purpose, I feel completely off kilter. He’s my tether, grounding me in life. As my one and only constant he’s the single person in the world that I’d do absolutely anything for. But he’s back home and I’m stuck here, having a mental breakdown in a hospital cafeteria.

  My father wasn’t happy to see me either. But with the state he’s in, I’m not certain if his mind is truly registering reality. It’s disturbing. Disturbing enough to make me second guess my decision to come back. My decision to stay - at least until it’s all over for him.

  Ten years have passed since I last saw my father. As a seventeen-year-old girl leaving home I was a completely different person from the woman I am now. Back then I was a scared little girl, running away from a man I hated and a situation I couldn’t change. Now, I’m a strong survivor, confident enough to make the choice to stay by his side. Seeing him again wasn’t something I’d ever planned on. Yet, here I am.

  My seventeen-year-old self would’ve left him to die alone. Now though? Abandoning this incredibly sick old man, exiling him in his last days, just doesn’t seem right - regardless of what a mean son of a bitch he’s been.

  It saddens me that he has nothing and no one, that he hated his life so much he managed to push everyone away. And, maybe I’ll admit, I’ve been harboring a touch of regret for leaving him alone all these years. That’s why, despite my resentment toward being stuck in this crappy situation, I feel like it’s something that I just have to do.

  Clinical depression’s unlikely but my thoughts are all dark and cynical. It feels like bitterness is starting to root itself inside of me, taking hold of my mind. Maybe those bitter roots are the cause of the intolerable headache I’m developing. Perhaps my current state of pessimism is at war with my normal, steadfast positivity. My brain feels like it’s fracturing, like my skull could quite literally explode at any minute. Maybe all the negativity is sprouting into a tumor.

  Great. Add that to my neurotic list of imaginary afflictions. Brain tumor.

  “Here, I think you need this more than I do,” a bright and cheerful voice exclaims, as an open container of chocolate pudding’s set on the table in front of me.

  Startled, I look up to see a boy whose teasing tone is matched by his playful expression. The open and genuine smile he gives reminds me so much of Hunter, it’s painful. He’s young, no more than fourteen or fifteen, and despite looking very obviously ill, he’s beautiful. His mostly bald head and waxy complexion can’t take away from his green eyes sparkling with mischief as he looks down at me, expectantly.

  I’m transfixed. My ability to comprehend what’s happening – nil. Unsure how to respond to him, my only logical option is to look back in complete bewilderment.

  Quirking a smile, he lowers himself to the seat in front of me.

  “I already had a bite, hope you don’t mind,” he says smoothly. “It’s a very good chocolate pudding. Lots of sugar. I was quite enjoying it actually, but when I saw you and that look on your face? Well, I thought you might need something to perk you up.”

  “I look that bad, do I?”

  There’s no doubt in my mind, I look ten times worse than I feel. I haven’t showered in a day, my hair’s a giant mess of tangled waves, and I haven’t bothered with make-up. Top it off with my yoga pants and a sweatshirt that I think still has yesterday’s dinner on the sleeve? I’m sure I look like absolute hell. But compared to this kid, I’m the epitome of good health. My hysteric list of signs and symptoms seems so ridiculously selfish in contrast - it’s getting thrown away immediately.

  “Hell no. You’re the hottest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he says, matter of fact. “But no one as pretty as you should ever frown. I wanted to see if I could make you smile. I bet a smile would make you even hotter.”

  I’m unable to hold back the loud and obnoxious burst of laughter that bubbles out of my chest. He’s incredibly forward. I don’t think I’ve ever met a man this upfront. And he’s just a kid. Is it creepy that I’m feeling complimented by his attention? He’s definitely a boost to my ego. I find it heartwarming that this boy is either trying really hard to hit on me, or even more miraculous, is trying to make me feel better.

  Since miracles of any sort are rare in life, I give him the biggest, brightest smile I can manage.

  “There it is. Yeah, that’s stunning.” His face shines with sincerity.

  “Am I on camera? Is this one of those shows where they punk people? Please don’t tell me Ashton Kutcher’s going to come running in here. I’m really not a fan.” My tone is teasing, but I’m halfway serious. None of this seems like it could possibly be real.

  “What? No, of course not! Now you’re just offending me.”

  His pained expression immediately makes me feel like a jerk for ruining his moment. Obviously, he’s just trying to be nice to me and I’m too comfortable in my normal sarcasm.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I was just joking around. I didn’t mean it.”

  His own laughter is exuberantly buoyant, contrasting his sickly appearance.

  Damn! I’ve been had. This really is like candid camera.

  Falling for his ploy makes me feel like an ass. But what makes me feel like an even bigger ass, is how I’ve been entertaining my own unhappiness. I’m being reminded that life’s got a sunny side.

  “I’m totally not offended at all. I’m just kidding around with you. You’re too much fun to be straight with,” he snickers. “And, did I mention that I think you’re really pretty when you smile? Keep doing that.”

  With his over-the-top statement, I find myself laughing again. This boy makes it nearly impossible not to. With his good nature, it’s easy to laugh and smile. Easy to set aside my troubles.

  “Wow, kid You’re really …” I trail off, at a complete loss for words. I have a litany of applicable descriptive for this boy but I’m having trouble concentrating on anything other than the guy who’s about to interrupt our conversation.

  Who is this magnificent man?

  “Hey, Caleb. There you are. Are you hitting on unsuspecting women again?”

  Never have I been so instantly attracted to a man. At least, not one in real life. The only other guy I’ve found this compelling lives on a wall of ice, has a wolf for a pet, and (I’ve accepted) will never reach through my television screen to extend my Sunday night love affair.

  The man standing in front of me is definitely a top contender to star in my next sexual fantasy. His dark hair is a little long and completely messy, just the way I like. He’s tall and fit looking, without being overtly muscular. And that face. My God, that face. He has the most amazing bone structure, all refined angles and flawless symmetry. His strong jaw hasn’t seen a razor in a few days, mak
ing him look even more masculine. The little cleft in his chin is like a beacon, artfully arranged to draw my attention to his wide and perfect lips. The amused expression he’s wearing is highlighted by incredibly expressive green eyes. Even his slightly wild and untamed eyebrows don’t distract from his features - in fact I think they somehow increase the allure.

  I may have lapsed into a hormone induced coma since I can’t quite seem to make coherent thought. It’s possible that I’m drooling, and it’s very likely that I look like a complete moron right now. And now he’s talking to me …

  Holy, shit! He’s talking to me!

  “What?” I stammer.

  “I mean...Caleb can be a bit of a charmer. But if he’s bothering you...”

  With his emerald eyes dancing over my face he gives me a slow, sly smile. It’s a smile that makes me feel like he can see right through me. Like he knows exactly where my mind was wandering. Like he’d be happy to lead my mind, and the rest of me, a whole lot further.

  “I was being a gentleman and offering the lady a bite of my chocolate. She’s having a rough day. And I wanted to see her smile,” Caleb responds earnestly to the man. Turning back to me he says, “You really do have a fantastic smile.”

  Nope, subtlety is definitely not his thing. But I smile again because I just can’t help myself. He comes across as genuine, even though he’s obviously a flirt, just like his gorgeous companion has suggested.

  “I thought you were giving me all of your chocolate,” I tease, “Well, all except that one bite that you stole.”

  With a deep, gruff laugh of his own, gorgeous man’s face is transformed by the most dazzling smile imaginable, bringing out his dimples and making my insides tingle.

  I’m in serious trouble here. He has a sexy freaking face with dimples, and his laugh alone has my body buzzing.

  “Ah, damn … Eric, you’ve done it again!” The boy, Caleb, exclaims as we both look over to him. “You’re stealing the show again, dude. How can I compete with you? You’ve got a full head of hair.”

  My face is turning bright red, I’m sure of it. But gorgeous, green eyed, Eric just smiles down at the younger kid with a knowing look. “Caleb, my man, no one can compete with you. You’re the biggest flirt in the world. All the ladies love you.” Turning his gaze on me he asks, “Am I right?”