Kiss the Boy (Twisted Retellings #1)
Chapter 1
Erica
There are three types of people in the world.
The first type—the type that I fall into—are the people who like to roll the window down in the car.
Not because it’s hot, necessarily, but because we want to stick our arm out the window and feel the wind wrap around it.
For some reason unknown to us, allowing our hand to flow through the air while we move it in a wave-like motion feels like magic; we can’t explain it, but we can feel it in our soul.
The second type—which is my best friend Maxine’s type—are the people who genuinely don’t understand but will smile while someone of the first type embraces the weird things that bring us peace.
The third type—and unfortunately my boyfriend Vann’s type—are the people who get irrationally annoyed at the first type.
He usually starts with an irritated grunt, quickly followed by incoherent mumbling.
If I choose to ignore the initial warning, he will generally escalate to yelling, rolling the window up with the driver controls whether I bring my arm in or not, and then proceeding to lock the windows.
Today, I’m able to pull my arm in, just in time.
I usually do a better job of remembering not to roll my window down when I’m with Vann, but it’s an unbearably beautiful day today.
It’s seventy-something degrees, and the sun is casting beams of light through the scattered clouds, looking like a heavenly painting if I ever saw one.
I couldn’t have helped it if I tried. Hell, I could barely keep myself from sticking my whole head out the window.
I can feel Max glaring daggers into the side of Vann’s head from the back seat, but he remains completely unbothered by my watchdog of a best friend.
She’s always told me I’m too nice and that I love too easily.
She’s not wrong. My heart is an overactive little monster that lands me with men like Vann.
Men who are gorgeous and kind at first, but then slowly turn into ill-tempered brutes.
It almost feels like I’m the problem. Like I somehow poison them with my own secret toxicity that makes them this way.
“I still can’t believe you were able to get us all tickets. Thanks again Maxi-Poo.” I try to distract her, filling my voice with enough sunshine to chase away the storm clouds gathering in the car threatening to wreak havoc.
Her shoulders loosen a fraction, and she thaws a tad as she finally meets my eyes. “There was no way I was going to see Atlantica without you. No matter what.” She sends a quick, sideways glare into Vann’s head at the same spot she sent her invisible daggers to.
Maxine works at the massive amphitheater built into the ocean-side cliffs that make up this part of California.
All the touring acts stop here, and as a perk, tenured employees get first access to tickets.
She can usually only get two tickets—one for herself and one for a guest—but she knew there’s no way Vann would let me go to a concert without him, so she bribed one of her co-workers into letting her buy their guest ticket so we could still go together.
It pisses me off because we used to go to shows together all the time. Even if we didn’t know the band, we’d spend the night dancing and sweating it out to music together, letting our minds have a break while we embraced the elements and sounds that wound around us.
I know Vann is a colossal tool that I should break up with and move on from, but it’s hard.
Change is hard. Not knowing if I can afford to live on my own is hard.
I’ve almost broken up with him a hundred times just in the last couple months, but every time I get close, all the warning sirens start blaring and my fear keeps me here. Right where he wants me.
When we pull into the parking lot, along with what looks like the rest of the state, I ignore the annoyance of my miserable relationship and focus on enjoying seeing my favorite band with my best friend.
Atlantica has been our favorite band since we were in fourth grade when they released their first album.
I don’t know how they keep pumping out the best music I’ve ever heard, but they do.
Max totally zones out when we’re listening to them, but I connect to every single word.
The music has the same magical ability to wrap around me like the wind around my arm, feeling like the same tug on my soul.
I consistently try to convince myself that I don’t have a stupid celebrity crush on the band’s singer, Ari, but I mean, come on.
He has the kindest royal-blue eyes set in his boyish face, and that’s before you even get to his red hair.
Not your standard copper-red hair. I’m talking grab a set of markers and grab the red one hair; maybe a shade darker. And his voice . . . a sigh escapes me.
“Let me guess, you’re not even listening to me?” Vann’s sharp voice cuts through my car and hits me like a physical blow.
Cringing and hanging my head, I try to mask my own frustration when I respond, “Sorry, I was thinking about something.”
He lifts an eyebrow and shakes his head but thankfully drops it while he parks my car.
My car because he refuses to drive his if we’re going anywhere that has too much dirt that could get on the floors, or if we’re going to be drinking because he doesn’t allow vomiting in his car either.
Like anyone ever wants to throw up in someone’s car.
I can’t get out of the car fast enough. I need fresh air.
But it doesn’t last long. Vann is instantly crowding me with a possessive arm around my shoulder.
Not in a kind and cozy way. In a way he thinks tells the world that they can’t even so much as look at me.
I don’t know why he’s worried though. He’s constantly telling me how lucky I am that he likes the fat girls.
Then he’ll follow it up with the usual lecture about how I should be more grateful that he loves and takes care of me when no one else would.
I wish I was kidding.
Sure, I’m thick. My five-foot-four frame carries roughly two hundred pounds.
I stopped weighing myself when I realized it didn’t matter how long I spent on the treadmill or how long I starved myself.
My hair would still fall out, my stomach and thighs would still jiggle when I walk, and those three hairs on my chin would keep coming back with a vengeance.
Instead, I focus on living a happy, healthy, and balanced life to the best of my ability, ignoring how my PCOS impacts everything and keeps me from ever feeling “normal.”
A group of guys walk by us, and Vann decides their gazes are more than just passing glances, provoking him to make a scene by shouting obscenities at them before Maxine can take no more and barks at him.
“Could you at least pretend to be a functioning human long enough for us to enjoy this show, you fucking neanderthal? As my guest, you are a reflection of me and if you can’t handle that, then you can just wait in the car.
” She pulls me from his bruising grasp and levels him with a narrow glare.
He grumbles under his breath something that sounds an awful lot like “whatever, stupid bitch” and takes off toward where the line grows from the entrance. My cheeks burn in shame at the man I’ve chosen to spend my life with.
Max is already over it, rubbing her hands up and down my arms. “Shake it off, babe. We’re here to have fun. You ready?”
I nod, wishing I could absorb some of her confidence. We’ve always been an eclectic pair, but I’ve been trying to tuck most of my eccentricities away to appease Vann’s temper and irritations.
Tonight, Max and I are dressed in my favorite style: rock concert girlie vibes.
I have sparkly black fishnet leggings on, my favorite combat boots, a pleated black mini-skort, a cropped and chopped homemade Atlantica band T-shirt, giant black hoop earrings, and my black under-loc’d hair is done up in a braided and messy space buns look.
My makeup is done heavily in black and glitter, including body glitter covering my cheeks, chest, and arms. Her look mirrors mine, but she’s wearing her knee high, platform combat boots.
Then there’s Vann, who probably already forgot the name of the band and decided his Augusta Vultures hockey jersey was just the right thing to wear to a rock concert.
I’d roll my eyes, but I don’t want to push his temper to the point that he has a fit and demands we leave early.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that.
When we reach where he is waiting in line with his hands jammed in his pockets, he doesn’t even acknowledge our existence, his eyes trained straight ahead with his jaw clenching.
I’ll be in trouble later for how Max spoke to him, but I try not to think about it now.
I just want to enjoy my night, seeing my favorite band ever, with my best friend.