He Kissed Me First (Kiss & Make Up Book 2) Read online

  To be fair, usually the only favors she ever asks are mundane; like the time she wanted to borrow a pair of my shoes to kill a giant spider (by the way, I refused... I’m sorry, but that freaking spider was humongo-giganto). Or when she needed to borrow my car because hers had no gas. Or the time she borrowed my iPad for an entire week because she forgot hers at her parents’ house.

  See? Pretty harmless entreaties.

  However, I have a sneaking suspicion - and can tell by the sound of her voice - that this ‘favor’ might be a doozy.

  I hear more rustling from her bedroom. “Would you please just come out here,” I request, exasperated, setting the remote down with a clank on the coffee table tote.

  Molly sighs and appears in her doorway, leaning against the cheap plywood door frame, and slaps her palms down against her jean clad legs in defeat. “I don’t have my phone or my laptop.”

  I blink at her and groan. “Ugh, Molly, seriously? Not again...”

  “I know, I know - it doesn’t really sound like that big of a deal, but I have some people I really really need to get a hold of before this weekend.”

  It’s Wednesday.

  “Well... do you at least know where your phone and laptop are?” I’m feeling slightly less irritated and like it might be safe to resume eating Cheetos.

  “See, here’s the awkward part. They’re in Westons’ truck. But he’s in, um... He’s in Cleveland and won’t be back until tomorrow night at the earliest?”

  “Um, okay... are you asking me or telling me,” I scratch my head. “I mean, don’t you at least have a spare key to his truck?”

  She rings her hands then throws them up in the air in exasperation. “Ugh, I wish! It wouldn’t normally be a big deal, but this time the team flew to Ohio. He’s got his truck at the airport because he missed the team bus this morning - and I’m not driving two hours to the airport just to fetch a laptop when he’ll be home in less than thirty six hours.” Molly throws her hands again. “This wouldn’t be a problem if he hadn’t traded in his crotch rocket.”

  FYI: Her boyfriend Weston used to have this green crotch rocket, but he traded it in when they came to college. More practical, I guess.

  FYII: Molly’s’ boyfriend is a total, certifiable hottie.

  Hey, I’m just saying!

  I let out a huge puff of air and a tiny orange chunk of Cheeto shoots out. Gross! I freaking hate when food flies out of my mouth - it’s so awkward. Wrinkling up my nose I search for the speck and pick it off the arm of the couch before asking, “Soooo... who are these people you need to get ahold of?”

  “Um...” Molly studies her nails, examining them this way and that before chewing on her coral colored pinkie nail. “Mattmph....”

  “Huh?” I squint, straining to hear her.

  “My brothmph...” She looks at the ceiling and averts her eyes.

  “Huh? What are you saying?” I’m so confused.

  “Ihavetogetaholdofmybrother.” The words come out in rush and I actually have to cock my neck like a dog and play the words back in my head to try and make sense of them. I have to grab hold of a gutter? I have to get fold of another? I have a bread load from a feather?

  Um yeah. Deciphering her mumbling simply ain’t gonna happen because none of it is making any sense. I majored in Economics, not Translating.

  “Can you please repeat that, only slower and less... like a spaz?”

  “You know I have this family dinner thing on Sundays and have to get ahold of my brother. I don’t normally need a ride to my folk’s place but this weekend I do. So... Could you... Um...” Molly’s waving her hands around airily to and fro.

  I groan.

  Loudly, not giving her a chance to finish her sentence I sputter and throw down the bag of Cheetos in a huff. A few Cheetos escape from the bag and land on the carpet. “Ugh! You know what Molly? You just ruined my entire afternoon. I can’t even take one night to be lazy. How am I supposed to enjoy this junk food with an email to your evil brother looming on my horizon? Good God Molly!”

  “Wait a second - are those my Cheetos?” Cheetos are Molly’s absolute favorite treat and the one thing she will not share.

  Growing up, she was never allowed to eat junk food because one time, her dipshit brother Matthew wiped his big, dumb, fat, Cheetos fingers all over the arms of her mom’s favorite armchair, staining the fabric orange and ruining it forever. Molly officially refers to it as “The incident of 2010 that ruined it for everybody.”

  I mean, her mom must have been pretty pissed to banish junk food from the house.

  Molly narrows her eyes and I pick up the bag from the floor, only to shove it under an ugly throw pillow that’s in the corner of the couch. “Cecelia Jane Carter - I’m going to ask you one more time. Are those my Cheetos?”

  Dammit. Busted. “Um.... No?”

  She rolls her eyes and steeples the points of her fingers together, not even a little pissed off. I can tell she’s just had a Eureka! moment and I’m not sure I’m quite digging it. Slowly Molly smiles, the dimple in her right cheek appearing. “Tell you what. Since I love you so dearly, and this is your first offence, I’ll let this petty theft of yours slide. But you have to do me this one small favor.”

  “Two minutes ago you were calling it a huge favor.” I use air quotes when I say favor. “I’m sorry, but Cheeto theft or not - it’s a no.” Defiantly, I cross my arms and stare out the window with my chin pointed up. “The crime and the favor are not evenly matched. Sorry.”

  Molly stomps her slippered foot like a petulant child. “Oh come on CeCe! Please! Don’t make me walk down the hall and ask Creepy Writer Guy if I can use his computer.”

  Dammit, she had to bring Creepy Writer Guy into this?

  Crappity crap.

  She knows me too well.

  Creepy Writer Guy (CWG - or Pit Stains as Weston sometimes refers to him) is our name for the only other person in our apartment complex that we’ve actually ever met - and he’s exactly what you’re picturing: middle aged, scowling, and sometimes shirtless.

  Receding hairline with a comb-over.

  You know in that episode of Friends where Chandler, Monica, Phoebe, Joey, Ross and Rachel talk about Ugly Naked Guy, the fat guy they watch from Monica and Rachel’s apartment, and the guy they once poked with a large pole?

  Well, Creepy Writer Guy is our poor girl’s version of him. Maybe not so much the naked part... but he does live down the hall from us and every time we go in to the hallway, he opens his door a crack to steal glimpses of us.

  He’s totally weird - a total creeper - and we’re pretty confident he has a collection of women’s underwear inside a bathroom cabinet somewhere, but that’s just speculation (so don’t go quoting me on that).

  I think once our neighbor kid next door said the guy was an author or a writer or something (is there a difference?), so Molly and I decided to give him a nickname because, well... calling him CWG makes him less threatening.

  Less ‘rape-y.’

  So minus having to stare at him through a giant panoramic window like Monica and Rachel, we’re not too keen on having to ask him for anything. Or walk by his door.

  Or talk to him.

  Or look at him.

  Ever.

  Although... I’m sure if we were given the opportunity to poke him with a long stick, we would totally do it. Yup. We’d totally poke him with a stick.

  Hard.

  Not because we’re mean, but because he’s creepy (hence the name) and probably deserves it - especially if he really does have stolen underwear in his place.

  Ugh. Heebie jeebies.

  I could go on, and give you more details, but it would only incite nightmares - in you and me both. I know you’re probably totally curious, but trust me on this.

  When I finally remove my eyes from the window I’ve been gazing out and glance back at Molly, she is staring at me, bottom lip jutting out in the most unflattering way. Smirking, I ask, “What? Do you think you can influence
me by pouting? I’m not your boyfriend.”

  Molly responds by widening her eyes, and raises her hands up to her chin like girls do when they’re pretending to be a kitten. I laugh because she’s being utterly ridiculous. “Do you really think that’s going to work - the pouty kitty act? What am I, a guy?” I reach under my lap blanket to retrieve the Cheetos hidden there, open the bag, and take a loud crunchy bite out of a big one.

  The big fat ones are my favorite. Wait... did that come out sounding kind of pervy?

  The crunching is the only noise in the room besides Molly’s fake kitten meowing.

  I lick my fingers and hold up the plastic Cheetos bag, peering inside to pick out another good one. I root around for a bit then hold one up, speaking to it. “Hey you, little orange guy. My, don’t you look yummy.” I pop it into my mouth, crunching down and chewing. “Mmmm, you taste so scrumptious. Thank you Molly for bringing these delightful little nuggets into our home.”

  “There’s more where that came from - how about I make sure the cabinet is stocked at all times...?” Molly sweetly attempts to entice me. She must be desperate.

  Although I must say, her bribery is almost working.

  But not quite.

  I cock my eyebrow. “Are you trying to make me fat? What other offers do you have besides that,” I ask, popping another fat Cheeto into my open mouth.

  Crunch.

  Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

  “Please stop doing that,” Molly says, wrinkling her nose in revulsion as I stick out my tongue at her. “Your tongue is disgusting.”

  “Well, please stop harassing me. I’m not going to cave just because you bring junk food home - you know I can’t stand your brother. No offence,” I add hastily.

  “He can’t stand you either. Plus he thinks you’re a raging lunatic, so I guess you have something in common.”

  “What?!” I shriek. “What do you mean he thinks I’m a psycho? Why didn’t you tell me this?”

  “Hello, I didn’t say psycho - I said lunatic. There’s a big difference.”

  Oh really, I think sarcastically to myself, that’s supposed to make me feel better? I’m not a psycho, I’m a lunatic? I don’t have time to question it further because Molly continues. “I’m sorry Cece, but when he was here all you did was yell and screech at him like a mental person. Not to mention you threatened him with both mace and karate. So, yeah...”

  Hmmm. She might have a point.

  But still - whose side was she on?

  I shift on the couch in a huff and point an orange, cheesy finger in her direction accusingly. “We both know it was a simple misunderstanding, and you were just standing there. You could have told me he was your brother, you jerk.”

  “I did tell you he was my brother... eventually...” Molly awkwardly mumbles this last part.

  Bored, I begin licking the cheese off my fingers, one by one - kind of like a cat cleaning itself.

  Sensing herself losing control of the situation, Molly consoles. “Okay, okay Cece... water under the bridge, water under the bridge. No big deal.” She presents her palms to me in surrender like she’s trying to sooth a snarling dog.

  “Yeah, maybe it wasn’t a big deal to you. I’m the one who now has a reputation as a nut job... It’s extremely embarrassing. Thanks.”

  “Well, I can definitely think of one way you can make it better and it would really be helping me out.” Molly smiles and sits on the end of the couch, putting her arm around my shoulder and squeezing. “You know you love me.”

  And that my friends is how I was manipulated into writing an email to Matthew Wakefield on behalf of his scheming little sister.

  ***

  TO: Matthew Wakefield

  DATE: September 13, 2014 at 5:07:04 PM CST

  FROM: Cecelia Carter

  Subject: From Molly

  To the World Biggest Asshole,

  On behalf of your bratty, ungrateful sister, I wanted to let you know Molly needs you to pick her up this Sunday. Please don’t come to our apartment because I can’t stand the site of your ASS FACE. By the way, you owe me a bag of Trail Mix...

  Alright, calm down, I’m just kidding. I wouldn’t have actually sent a note like that. Here’s what I really wrote:

  TO: Matthew Wakefield

  DATE: September 13, 2014 at 5:07:04 PM CST

  FROM: Cecelia Carter

  Subject: From Molly

  Hi. Molly asked me to send this note because she left both her phone and laptop in Weston’s truck, and therefore has no way to contact anyone. She wanted me to let you know to pick her up Sunday at 2 PM.

  - C

  Sent from my Android Smartphone.

  There.

  I did my part.

  Short and to the point.

  Boom, done.

  I can’t help thinking what a good friend and roommate I am, and I smile, satisfied with myself before hitting SEND.

  I glance again at Matthew’s email address, studying the jumble of letters more closely and choke back a laugh when I realize what it says. “I am a scoring Machine.”

  Sheesh, someone is full of himself...

  I know the guy is a great athlete and has a huge following, but man - that email address is super lame. On second thought, he’s probably had that email since he was ten - because only a kid would purposely call himself a scoring machine.

  Seriously. Soooo immature.

  I sit back in my chair and stare blankly at my computer screen, thinking how strange it is that after all this time living with Molly, I’ve only just met her brother once. Sure, I’ve heard about him before in passing - not just from Molly herself, but from practically everyone else once they find out Molly Wakefield is my roommate.

  Actually, he has been to our apartment a few times before, although we’ve never crossed paths (for whatever reason). Once to help her move in, and occasionally to pick her up for their occasional Sunday family dinners - that is, if he’s even in the state.

  His last year as a Badger for the University of Wisconsin, he was drafted by the Anaheim Ducks - I know he has an apartment in California during the Ducks hockey season, and one halfway in between Madison and River Glen - the Wakefield’s’ home town.

  So yeah - when people find out I live with Molly Wakefield, I get bombarded with questions about Matthew by default; have I met Matthew Wakefield before? What’s he like? How tall is he? Does he have all of his teeth? Do you go to his games? On and on and on it goes. Simply because I live with his little sister.

  Kind of explains why he’s such a dick.

  People love the guy.

  TO: Cecelia Carter

  DATE: September 13, 2014 at 7:09:12 PM CST

  FROM: Matthew Wakefield

  Subject: RE: From Molly

  Dude, who is this?

  MSW

  Sent from my iPhone.

  Oh my god, really?

  What an ass.

  Matthew knows damn well who I am - but I guess I shouldn’t expect a guy like him to make anything easy, or take me seriously. In his universe, I’m a nobody. Can’t he just be nice because I’m doing his little sister a favor?

  Having sent the message for Molly like she asked me to, there is no need for me to reply and get chatty with the guy.

  Really, should just ignore his quip and let it go.

  On the other hand....

  My fingers hover above the small keys on my smartphone and before I can stop them, they nimbly compose a new message.

  Seriously. I couldn’t stop myself even if I wanted to.

  Which I clearly do not. Not gonna lie.

  TO: Matthew Wakefield

  DATE: September 13, 2014 at 7:12:19 PM CST

  FROM: Cecelia Carter

  Subject: RE: RE: From Molly

  Your sist
er’s roommate. - C

  Sent from my Android Smartphone

  TO: Cecelia Carter

  DATE: September 13, 2014 at 7:23:16 PM CST

  FROM: Matthew Wakefield

  Subject: RE: RE: RE: From Molly

  The angry one?

  MSW

  Sent from my iPhone.

  Oh my god, he really is infuriating.

  Insufferable.

  I reach up and palm my cheek, first feeling one and then the other, like I’m checking for a temperature. My face is hot, slightly feverish.

  And once again, as if on their own accord, my fingers deftly hit REPLY and frantically start typing.

  I am so irritated that irritated doesn’t even begin to describe it.

  Vexed. Furious. Peeved. Aggravated. Take your pick.

  Not to mention, the fact that we’re emailing is annoyingly inconvenient. I can’t help but think this whole back and forth conversation we’ve embarked on would be so much easier if we were texting...

  TO: Matthew Wakefield

  DATE: September 13, 2014 at 8:09:23 PM CST

  FROM: Cecelia Carter

  Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: From Molly

  The angry one? Try the ONLY one. I don’t have time to respond to your idiotic comments. - C

  Sent from my Android Smartphone

  TO: Cecelia Carter

  DATE: September 13, 2014 at 8:12:18 PM CST

  FROM: Matthew Wakefield

  Subject: You are angry

  I respectfully disagree, since you DO keep responding. I don’t blame you; none of the ladies can stay away.

  MSW

  Sent from my iPhone.

  Okay.

  Now I’m freaking pissed (This is a lie. I was pissed before).

  I set my phone down on our scuffed up Formica kitchen counter and walk away, determined to stifle the urge to really give him a piece of my mind.

  Counting from one to ten (twice), I walk into the hall and stand with my hands on my hips, thinking and surveying the apartment. I look around, trying to come up with something to do that will keep my mind and hands off that damn cell phone - and am so desperate I decide the large pile of laundry spilling out of our tiny hall closet could use some attention.