Prologue #2
Because Jamie’s funny. Nice. Thoughtful in ways Jordan’s not used to from anyone who isn’t family.
Jordan clears his throat. “I’ve never been on a date.”
“That’s nothing,” Jamie assures. “Most guys your age have no clue what a real date is anyway.”
“Jamie, you’re eleven months older than me.”
“Which still makes me older.”
“Barely.”
“Technicalities exist for a reason, my young apprentice.”
Jamie beams at him. The intensity is almost too much. Jordan’s tempted to look away, but he forces his gaze to remain steady.
“So, that’s your only problem?” Jamie asks. “Lack of dating experience?”
Jordan bristles. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make me sound like some pathetic loser.”
“Whoa, whoa.” Again, Jamie’s hands go up. He settles one on Jordan’s shoulder. His long fingers rest on the edge of Jordan’s worn-soft T-shirt collar. “I’d never call you pathetic.”
“You would,” Jordan counters.
“Okay, but only after I whooped your ass on Mario Kart.”
Jordan rolls his eyes. Like that’d ever happen.
“Jordan,” Jamie says, serious, “you’re fucking amazing.”
Warmth licks across Jordan’s skin. He tries to wiggle away from it without dislodging Jamie’s hand. Why does he like Jamie’s fingers there? Right on his trapezius? So close to his neck?
Behind them, Denz tosses. His feet kick and, for a second, Jordan thinks he’s awake.
Jordan’s heart thuds a little too loudly. Like he’s been caught doing something illegal. But he’s not. He’s just talking to Jamie. Joking around, like they always do.
There’s no reason for him to feel this anxious.
Eventually, Denz’s breaths even out.
Jordan relaxes again.
Jamie cocks his head. “Is it just the fact that you’ve never been on a date?” In the room’s swimming-pool-blue glow, Jamie looks different and the same all at once.
Fuck, how high is Jordan?
Clearly very, because he admits, “There’s something else.”
Jamie waits for him to finish.
“I—” Jordan’s eyes lower. He can’t say this with Jamie watching him. “I’ve never kissed anyone.”
Silence.
Jordan anticipates a laugh. A full-body cackle that finally wakes Denz. What he doesn’t expect is Jamie’s soft “Okay.”
Or the gentle squeeze he gives Jordan’s shoulder.
Or the what’s the big deal? carved into his expression when Jordan finally looks at him again.
Jordan certainly doesn’t predict Jamie’s next five words:
“Do you want to practice?”
“Practice?” Jordan’s voice hasn’t reached that octave since he was five.
Jamie shrugs. “Yeah.”
Jordan’s eyes bulge. His heart is so far up his throat he can taste his arteries.
“On a pillow,” Jamie continues. “Or the mirror. Maybe your hand.”
“My … hand,” Jordan repeats.
“That’s how I learned,” Jamie says. “Actually, I started with the inside of my elbow.” He raises one arm, demonstrating.
“Okay,” Jordan says like he doesn’t even know what the word means. Like he can’t believe he’s watching Jamie, eyes closed, making out with the skin between his forearm and surprisingly defined bicep.
Why is that a thing Jordan notices?
“It’s a little weird,” Jamie confesses, dragging his wet arm across his brIGHTON ACADEMY SOCCER TEAM T-shirt. “Mouths don’t feel like that.”
“They”—Jordan blinks once—“don’t?”
“Nah. But it’s a start.”
“So.” Jordan swallows. “To clarify: You were suggesting I practice kissing on my elbow. Not—”
He stops short.
“What?” Jamie’s right eyebrow flexes. “Did you think I wanted you to practice on—”
There it is. The light behind Jamie’s eyes. The slow climb of his mouth on one side like he’s solved the mystery of the Loch Ness monster.
“Jordan,” he says with far too much amusement.
“No, no, no.”
“Jordan.”
“I wasn’t thinking—”
“Jordan Carter,” Jamie repeats, and the way he says it—with patience, sounding out every vowel—makes Jordan want to simultaneously crawl underneath Denz’s bed and stay perfectly still, washed in Jamie’s keen gaze.
A long beat passes before Jamie finishes: “Did you think I was suggesting you practice kissing with me?”
Despite the painful heat assaulting Jordan’s face, he blows out a mocking breath. “You? Me? Kiss? Why would I think that?”
“Because I have experience,” Jamie says matter-of-factly.
“That doesn’t qualify you as a good kisser.”
“I’m a great kisser.”
“I doubt it.”
Jamie’s eyebrows pinch. “I have amazing references. People line up around the city for these lips.”
For emphasis, he puckers his mouth. That perfect, full, pink mouth.
God, Jordan has gone from high to hallucinating.
“Well,” he says after refocusing his gaze to Jamie’s left ear, “don’t count me as one of your desperate fans. If they even exist.”
There’s a moment where Jordan believes that’s enough. He’s shut Jamie up. They can move on. Get back to playing Mario Kart. Forget this discussion ever happened.
But then something feral pulls at Jamie’s features. Sharpens his eyes. Curls his already watchable mouth.
“You’re scared I’m right. That I’m a great kisser,” Jamie says. He yanks his hand from Jordan’s shoulder to poke him in the chest. “You’re scared that I might teach you something.”
“You’re wrong,” Jordan says with as much confidence as he can muster with Jamie’s finger still pressed to his sternum.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Prove it.”
“Prove what?”
“Practice on me,” Jamie all but commands. “If I can’t teach you anything about kissing, I’ll—”
“Shut the fuck up and let me finish beating you at Mario Kart?” Jordan offers.
Jamie squints. Soft pink lines surround his brown irises. But Jamie’s eyes aren’t just brown. There’s a range of unidentified colors splashed through that sepia sea.
Holy fuck, Jordan is never touching another brownie in his life.
“I’ll let you win at Mario Kart,” Jamie proposes. “This time.”
“Let me win?” Jordan laughs. But Jamie’s gaze doesn’t falter.
Another shiver runs through Jordan.
“Fine, fine,” he huffs. “Whatever. Try your best, you fake expert.”
Jamie beams. “I will.”
There’s not a second for Jordan to rethink what he’s agreed to.
Jamie scoots even closer. He rests a careful hand under Jordan’s jaw. His fingertips are warm, a little callused. His thumb smooths the skin beneath Jordan’s lower lip where prickly baby scruff grows. His other hand eases along the back of Jordan’s neck.
Jordan swallows. At least, he thinks he does.
Everything slows down when Jamie’s head leans in. He coaxes Jordan forward. Without thinking, Jordan’s eyes slide closed.
He’s never kissed a guy. Or anyone. But here he is, allowing Jamie Peters to be his first.
In the beginning, it’s weird, Jamie’s lips on his. Neither of them moves. They just sit there, perfectly still.
It’s nothing like the movies.
Maybe he should’ve practiced on his hand instead?
But then, Jamie’s thumb drags along his jaw. Jamie’s mouth nudges along his with a gentle, irresistible pressure. He’s like a star, his gravity pulling Jordan out of his own orbit into Jamie’s. Their mouths open simultaneously. Jordan’s lips follow the steady, earnest motions Jamie’s create.
There’s no simple way for Jordan to describe it.
Kissing Jamie is like a handful of freshly popped movie popcorn. It’s that first breath of peppermint and pine during the holidays. The cool shock of diving into a swimming pool. The hissing crackle of a summer bonfire. It’s sunrise splashing color back into the sky.
It’s a million little things at once.
And then it’s over.
Jamie pulls away.
Jordan waits a second before blinking. His vision is hazy. He finally focuses on Jamie’s face, the dizzying glint in his eyes.
(It’s another full minute before the warmth in his own belly settles.)
“Well?” Jamie prompts.
“W-what?”
Jamie snorts, eyes scrunched. “Tell me, young apprentice.” He looks the way he does when he’s about to win at something—annoyingly content. “Did you learn anything?”
Numbness spreads through Jordan’s lower lip. His skin is cool where Jamie’s hands once were. His heartbeat is deafening. The room feels sideways and inside out. He doesn’t know how to process any of this.
“I—” He grimaces. “Yes?”
“What did you learn?”
Jordan’s brain comes back online. “That you’re an average kisser. Sorry, dude. People have been lying to you.”
He almost expects Jamie’s face to fall. For him to look hurt.
Instead, Jamie lets out an indignant laugh. He half-heartedly shoves Jordan.
“Bullshit! I’m a ten.”
“Minus four,” Jordan corrects.
“Best you’ve ever had.”
“Which, again, is no one,” Jordan reminds him.
In the blue of the room, a hint of color pops against Jamie’s cheeks. Is he embarrassed? Regretful? Something else?
Jordan never gets a chance to find out.
The game restarts. Rainbow Road flashes in all its prism glory. Jamie turns his attention back to the TV.
Their practice kiss fades into the background.
Except it doesn’t stray far from the front of Jordan’s mind. The soft pressure of Jamie’s mouth. His thumb drawing lazy circles on the back of Jordan’s neck. The noise Jamie made before he took things a step further. How Jordan just … went with it.
Willingly. Feverishly?
He could do the same for Yazzie, right? Kiss her with that much smoothness? Leave her confused and excited and dizzy?
Does he want her to feel that way?
Why does he feel that way?
It’s just Jamie. His cousin’s best friend. His friend.
“Wow.”
Jordan startles at Jamie’s voice.
“You must really be high,” Jamie barely gets out, grinning too hard.
Jordan tilts his head, confused.
Jamie points at the flat screen. “I just beat you and you didn’t even react.”
Huh. He’s right. The game’s over.
Jordan lost.
He traces his tongue over his swollen lower lip. The aftertaste of chocolate still lingers. The heat of his first kiss.
Jordan tries really, really hard not to react.