“Let’s do two truths and a lie.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You go first.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Snooze ya lose.”
“Fine. Okay. Number one: I’m scuba certified. Number two: I’d say approximately 95% of my personality boils down to either reading a bunch of and showing off all of my books. Number three: I got struck by lightning at golf camp when I was 13 years old.”
“Easy. The lightning.”
“Final answer?”
“Yes. Final. Answer.”
Kyle made a buzzing sound. “Incorrect. Can’t swim.”
“I have so many questions! Where did you get hit? Did it hurt? Golf camp? Is there a mark?”
“Okay, let’s see. My left chest. Hurt worse than stubbing a toe. And yes, there’s a mark. It’s actually a really freaky lightning scar.”
“Will you show me?”
“Here?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re at a restaurant?”
“So? We’re sitting outside and it’s LA. Who cares? C’mon now, don’t be shy.”
“I think you’re just doing this to see me with my shirt off.”
“You’re not wrong.”
Kyra scooted her chair over to his side of the table, wood scraping the concrete. She leaned her head in to look closer. She could smell his cologne (Fucking Fabulous by Tom Ford). His peck traced out red marks that branched from the center of his chest, and those branches had branches fractalling all the way around his pec. She reached up and traced the elevated skin gently, winding its way around, following it down until she touched his nipple. “Oh. Sorry.” Kyra said. Her face went hot and she looked at her shoes.
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “I didn’t mind.” Then he kissed her, cupping her cheek as he did. Kyra could feel how cracked her lips were and how dry her mouth was. Why hadn’t she been ready for that? Now he’s going to feel her sandpaper tongue.
He pulled away. “I hope that was uhh, okay to do. Usually I don’t do that, I don’t know what came over—”
She pressed her lips into his just to shut him up. “Do you want to get out of here?” she whispered. He nodded.
“Aye! You two get a fuckin’ room, will ya? And put on your shirt you little pervert! Can’t you read the sign? No shirt, no shoes, no service!”