It Started with a Kiss

At fourteen, I knew that life wasn’t for me, and I was happy not to follow in my mother’s footsteps.

My dad said I was pretty and could make it in Hollywood if I put in the effort. It was a constant fight between them. But I know my mom married him for his money, so I’m not sure she thought beyond the wedding. She left to get away from him after the divorce, but I wish she would have stayed for me.

None of it matters now, so why do I feel like a child begging for her attention?

“Jackson St. James. We’ve met a couple of times over the years. I’m a good friend of Marlow’s.”

“How good?”

My mouth falls open while Jackson takes the question in stride. Reaching for my hand, he holds it as he moves to my side. “Very good friends.”

“I see.” Her eyes shift to mine. “I didn’t know you were dating anyone.”

A server squeezes by, and I realize we’re blocking the walkway. “How long will you be here?” I hate that I sound like a little girl again, but I’ve asked her this same question many times over the years. It’s not so far-fetched that not much has changed.

She smiles. “Paolo’s waiting for me in the other room, so I should get back. We flew in to celebrate a friend’s birthday tonight.” Grabbing my wrist, she asks, “Lunch or dinner before I leave?” An air kiss is given to each cheek before she turns to leave. “I’ll text you tomorrow. Bye, darling.”

Reaching for my throat, I cover it, hoping the lump of pain she left in her wake doesn’t get stuck there forever.

Jackson rubs my lower back and angles me toward him, putting the rest of the patrons behind us. Whispering, he says, “This place isn’t so great. Why don’t we get our order to go?”

I manage a smile under the waterfall of emotions trying to drown me. I take a sip of my champagne and then just finish it because who cares about appearances anyway. Setting it down, I say, “I’m good without the food.”

“I think we should eat.” He sits down and then adds, “Please sit.”

Besides feeling numb from running into my mom in the first place, her blatant disregard hurts the most. I sit, and then I reach across the table to grab his glass and shoot the rest of his lowball of whiskey. Why not?

“As much as I don’t want you puking on the ride home, do you need another?”

“My throat is on fire.” It’s hard to catch my breath through the rasps and coughing. “I don’t know how you drink that stuff.” I sip water to douse the fire. Setting the glass back down, I say, “I want another round.”

Twenty minutes and two drinks I shoot like shots later, I’m feeling less—physically, caring emotionally, less of everything—which is what I wanted.

“What about tacos? We could get tacos on the way home or a hot dog. Mmm, a hot dog sounds so good. Doesn’t it, Jackson?”

“The food should be here any minute, but you might want to slow down, Marlow.”

I set another empty glass of champagne down on the table and rest back, trying to calculate how many drinks that’s been but start laughing, which, in turn, becomes a fit of giggles. “It’s Mrs. St. James, remember?” When he doesn’t crack a smile, I round my shoulders forward, and try whispering, “You’re not having fun.”

“I’m fine.” His reply is as flat as that line across his mouth. Doesn’t matter that he’s a sourpuss. I still want to kiss him silly. But even tipsy, I know that’s not supposed to be done in a restaurant. I roll my eyes. Society’s rules and all that.

Stretching my leg out, I rub the tip of my shoe under the hem of his pants. “Do you know what drinking does to me?”

Suddenly, he’s entertained. Amused, he sits there with that happy sexy face, his gorgeous eyes staring into mine. “I do. We’ve gotten drunk together many times over the years.”

“But why did we always fight? We’ve wasted so much time when we could have been having sex all these years.” My voice pitches, but I’m okay with it. More than okay.

“We didn’t really know each other until—”

“Until now. The sex is so good.” Struggling to stave off the slur trying to kick in, I narrow my eyes and try to be serious. “Intense.”

“Marlow,” he whispers, leaning forward against the edge of the table. “People can hear you.”

I pick up my glass of water and take a sip. “It’s not my problem they don’t have sex like we do. Like animals who can’t get enough of each other.” I turn to look across the room, disappointed when I don’t see our server. “When’s the food going to be here? I’m starving. I need tacos.” The water sloshes in the glass.