“In a heartbeat, baby.”

Arabella got her story.

I faked mine.

Twenty minutes later, we ambled out of the entertainment room, heading down to wrap up the party. I made a stop in the kitchen to grab my sixth beer and found Arabella, Alice, and Vaughn’s piece leaning against the kitchen island, giving their exaggerated versions of what had gone down to their doe-eyed friends.

I knew my secret was safe with Arabella. No girl would admit that an All Saints’ legend hadn’t touched her after taking her to the room. Truth was, I didn’t want any of the other chicks to set the record straight either, and the only thing kinky about me was my fondness for watching breath-play porn (don’t judge).

I swung the fridge open and looked around for the Bud Light. I was still reeling from Vaughn’s comments about Luna needing to go somewhere else. Somewhere far. The notion that I could forget her just went to show he’d never been in love.

And then there was the other thing. The reason I’d drunk myself to near-death tonight. I searched the kitchen counter for vodka and took a generous swig before resuming my hunt for beer.

Dear life,

It’s cool. You can stop throwing shit at me. I’m already neck-deep.

Yours,

KJC

My mind had started doing weird shit shortly after Mom’s parents, Grandma Charlene and Grandpa Paul, died in a car crash and left Mom an orphan. That was five years ago. I didn’t care about my losing them; it was Mom’s pain that killed me.

That’s when I’d first started secretly drinking, and whaddaya know—I never really stopped.

“Supersized burrito huge, not even kidding,” Arabella exclaimed behind me, perched against the island and looking thoroughly fucked as she fanned her face dramatically.

She obviously hadn’t noticed me, or if she had, she knew I wouldn’t contradict her story.

“Too huge. At first I was like—how am I going to take Knight Cole? Am I even ready for this? But he ate me out for, like, thirty minutes. When his tongue ring hit my clit, I swear I started speaking fluent Swedish.”

Gasps, snickers, and intimate questions exploded in the room. I shut the fridge, turning around with a beer in my hand, and bumped into a small thing.

A small, tan-skinned thing.

With molten silver eyes and a constellation of freckles on her nose and cheeks—a map I knew by heart.

Luna Rexroth.

I could practically hear the chip in my mask cracking open before I cocked my head to the side, nudging the base of the cold bottle against her nose and watching a drop of beer sweat make its way from the tip, dropping to her luscious, full lips. I tugged at a stray curl that bounced over her eye in hello.

Luna Rexroth was beautiful. Sure. But so were a lot of other girls. Difference was, Luna carried her beauty like it was something borrowed. Carefully yet casually, not making a fuss about it. She wouldn’t stand in line for anyone, anywhere. She’d stand out, glowing with quiet pride.

Luna wore a white T-shirt rolled up at the sleeves, boyfriend jeans, and a pair of dirty, checked Vans. No evidence of makeup on her smooth face. Tragically, it only enhanced how much more beautiful she was than the other made-up girls. By the look on her face, I realized she’d been privy to the conversation going on behind me in the kitchen. She always gave me that disappointed look. That you-can-do-better-than-this look.

But I didn’t think I could. Because the best—her—was not available to me. She’d made it perfectly clear.

Three times, in fact.

Three kisses.

All ending in disaster.

Kiss Numero Uno was a bit of a stretch, even I’ll admit.

I’d been twelve, and she’d been thirteen. We’d been in a waterpark, behind a giant blue slide. We were laughing and splashing each other, and I’d just gone for it, the spontaneous fucker that I was. Up until then, the idea of Luna and me was, well, more of a fact. Roses were red. The sun rose in the east. A seahorse could move its eyes in opposite directions (Moonshine told me that herself), and Luna Rexroth was going to be my girlfriend, then fiancée, then wife.

Alas, she’d turned away and let out a little gasp.

Because she couldn’t—wouldn’t—talk, she’d just shook her head. Then, probably seeing the sting on my face, she’d melted, pulling me into a hug. Our hot skin had met almost everywhere. It was the first time I’d realized why I had kissed her.

Boner. I’d had a boner. Which was…not great.

Kiss Numero Dos occurred when I was fourteen and had a pretty good grasp of the fact that my cock liked Luna just as much as the rest of me.

By then I’d learned a bunch of tricks to avoid attacking her with it, especially since we slept together every night.

I’d been a freshman, Luna a sophomore. I’d been gaining popularity at All Saints High thanks to my last name and ability to throw a fucking ball, which was something the rest of the football team wasn’t so good at.

Girls had been all over me, and I’d hoped Luna might’ve noticed all the notes that poured out of my locker whenever I opened it. We’d still been best friends. Nothing had changed. Well, other than me. I’d started to fill out my skin with muscles, and a few growth spurts had resulted in my reaching five-eleven seemingly overnight.

It had been nighttime when I’d climbed up to her window like I’d done every single night for years after our families went to sleep. When she’d opened it to let me in, I’d pressed my lips against hers, whispering, “Take two.”

Biggest fucking mistake I’d ever made. She nearly slammed the window on my fingers. It had grazed my nails before I’d pulled away. By some miracle I’d managed to hold on to her chimney, and it had taken Luna a second to realize what she’d done. Once she did, she’d pulled me back in and saved me from certain death.

That night, while I’d been pretending to sleep in her bed, she’d been for-real writing me a letter of apology, in which she’d explained that she loved me, but only saw us as friends.

This time, I’d accepted it. Not long-term, obviously. But I knew this was a Luna problem, not a Knight problem. I saw the way she looked at me when girls were around, when notes were passed to me, when my phone lit up with unanswered text messages.

There was hunger there. Desperation—that hot, green liquid that slithered into your soul when you watched something that was yours be admired by others.

And so, I continued to slip into her room every night. I got it. She needed time. Time? I had plenty.

I’d decided to show her I wasn’t some kind of obsessed stalker. That I was capable of moving on. To bring the point home, I’d stopped ignoring other girls’ advances. I’d started dating, texting back, and flirting.

I stayed closest to her, keeping my alliance firmly with the girl next door. But I also had a chain of girlfriends who came and went—a revolving door of glossy-lipped beauties who wore the right brands and said the right things. I paraded them around school and brought them over for family BBQs, expecting Luna to ease back into our friendship now that I wasn’t trying to suck her face every time she looked my way.

Ironically, that’s what brought on kiss number three.

Kiss Numero Tres happened when she was seventeen and I was sixteen. I call it The Kiss of Death, because the damage it inflicted on our relationship was huge. Even now, a year and a half later, I was still dealing with the echoes of its destruction. For instance, Luna before kiss number three would have told me she was coming to Vaughn’s party. Luna after kiss number three barely communicated with me about what she was doing or where she was going. We were still hanging out most days, but it had turned into a bad habit more than anything else.