Dirty Kisses by Addison Moore Page A

entire body quivers each and every time I think of it—think of every delicious sinful moment that took place on that mattress last night. Not that I could forget if I wanted to. I’m so sore I can hardly walk without being reminded of it, of him . I wonder if my body had somehow left a calling card of its own? Doubtful. Men have it easy in just about every respect. Sex doesn’t hurt. God knows bringing a child into this world doesn’t cause them one ounce of pain. Nope. Men have the sexual version of paradise, and women, as in life, are left to carry the burning, the polemic pain that comes with it all.
    Whitney Briggs University is bustling with skateboards and bicycles. If you’re not careful, either one will land you on the ground with tire tracks running down your back. It’s a virtual cluster of limbs and mechanics all moving in a stressful symphony as bodies jostle to get to classes. I’m all through with my last classes for the day. They’re all just okay with the exception of Interpretive Art, which is shaping up to be the best class I’ve ever taken. The first thing we’re going to work on is sketches, so in addition to the books I’ve already purchased, I need to make a quick run into the student store to pick up a few supplies, sketchpads, charcoal pencils, and a kneaded eraser.
    I wish life came with a giant kneaded eraser. I’m still making headlines on every tawdry website known to modern man. It seems the senator has lost his backers for his upcoming presidential bid, and every day a new lie is shed about me as a punishment. I can hardly stand the heavy stares from my classmates, their heated whispers as I try to sit unassumingly amongst them. I went as far as to throw my hair into a ponytail, donning a baseball cap and sunglasses, but it’s too late.
    The scarlet letter—an S to be exact is clearly stamped across my chest for all to see. I’d like to think the S stands for Slimy Senator, but I know that the world, much like my father, believes what they want to believe. The only person who doesn’t seem to have an opinion is ironically the girl who got me into this debacle. Caila hasn’t said a word to me yet, which of course, pisses me off to no end. I haven’t breathed a word to her sister, Cassidy. In fact, nobody knows of my loose connection to what amounts to a prostitution ring.
    I shake all thoughts of the day off before heading up the stairs toward the campus bookstore. The heady scent of paperbacks brings a sense of calm the second I walk through the door. On my way over to the art supplies, I take a quick detour through the girls’ sports department, which is typically dotted with the cutest tennis skirts you’ve ever laid eyes on. They’re amazingly sexy with their well-cut pleats and thick ream of grosgrain ribbon running along the edge. I’ve been tempted to take up the sport a time or two just to have an excuse to purchase two or six. I’m about to fondle one when a totally cute pair of Chuck All-Stars in the prettiest shade of pale pink catches my eye, and suddenly everything in me begs to have them. I haven’t bought a single thing since this entire nightmare broke, and I’m beginning to get the shakes just thinking about it.
    Last New Year’s Eve, I made the resolution to go on a thirty-day shopping fast just to give my credit cards a breather from the holidays—as much as I love spoiling myself, I love spoiling my friends. But that fast was rather short-lived, all of nineteen hours. Who knew the best deals of the year take place on New Year’s Day? But this seven-day foray into retail starvation has left me hungry and chomping at the bit, and, right about now, I have a craving for something light pink that can really take me places.
    “That’s right—I’m looking at you, Chuck,” I whisper under my breath. God, an entire week and counting without a single retail purchase to call my own has me practically jonesing for everything in this girly sports section.