The Wrong Side of Kai

  First published in 2019 by Ink Road

  INK ROAD is an imprint and trademark of

  Black & White Publishing Ltd

  Black & White Publishing Ltd

  Nautical House, 104 Commercial Street

  Edinburgh, EH6 6NF

  www.blackandwhitepublishing.com

  This electronic edition published in 2019

  ISBN: 978 1 78530 275 6 in EPub format format

  ISBN: 978 1 78530 248 0 in paperback format

  Copyright © Estelle Maskame 2019

  The right of Estelle Maskame to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  EBook compilation by Iolaire Typesetting, Newtonmore

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgements

  1

  “So, what’s Harrison really like?”

  The vodka in my mouth almost ends up on the floor. I gulp it back and turn to face Chyna. She’s perched on the edge of the countertop, surrounded by bottles, swinging her legs back and forth. She has an eyebrow raised high as she fights back a laugh. It’s an abrupt change in topic from our previous pondering over where the other girls might have bought their cute outfits from.

  I nonchalantly raise my drink to her, a mix of soda and too much cheap vodka, and shrug. “Above average. He definitely knows what he’s doing.”

  Chyna releases that laugh. “I meant his personality.”

  “Oh, then kind of boring.”

  My eyes flicker back to the living room. I can’t stand her, but Madison Romy does always throw a good party every couple months when her parents leave town for business. Right now, her parents are in Florida, so the Romy house has turned into a social hotspot. A lot of our senior class is here, too many bodies weaving around one another and too many voices yelling out at once. The music is loud, the bass thumping. Only Maddie Romy has a house big enough to host parties like this. The kind of parties where the alcohol never runs out, where no parents ever turn up, where everyone is game for anything. They were fun at first, but now they’re just . . . predictable. And predictable is boring.

  I lay eyes on Harrison Boyd. He’s leaning against the far wall, chugging beer as he jokes around with some of the guys from the team. He scratches his temple. Like he always does. He looks up through the crowd and spots me watching him. A smirk toys at his mouth, and he flashes me a knowing wink. We’ve been hooking up for the past two months, so I know exactly what that wink means. It’s become so familiar, so routine. It means we’ll sneak upstairs at some point. It means his lips will find mine.

  I smile back at him, deliberately coy, then flick my hair over my shoulder and turn away, focusing back on Chyna. Harrison isn’t the only one who can flirt. “Do I keep playing hard to get?”

  “You can keep trying,” Chyna says as she slides off the countertop, “but you’re going to crack as soon as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear.” She deepens her voice and leans into me, angling her body against mine. “Hey, Vanessa. It’s me, Harrison. How you doin’, baby? ”

  I push her off me, trying to muffle my giggles. “Shhh!” Others in the kitchen are shooting us weird looks. It’s not like my fling with Harrison Boyd is a secret, but I still don’t need everyone all up in my business. I slam the rest of my drink then toss my cup into the trash. “I’m gonna go talk to him.” I fiddle with my hair, fluffing up my bouncy curls, then pull out my lip gloss and apply it. I want to look my best for Harrison. We’ve been carefully avoiding one another all night, and yet again, I’m the one who has to give in and make the first move. It would be nice if he took the initiative every once in a while, but Harrison is a little too cocky to do the chasing.

  “Go get it, girl,” Chyna says, cheering me on. “Isaiah is picking us up later, so don’t disappear on me, okay? Oh, and be safe.”

  “As always,” I say, then pout my glossed lips and blow her a kiss with my hand. She catches it, pretends to slip it under her dress, then blows me one back. It’s something we’ve always done.

  In freshman year, Chyna’s dad got a new job in Cincinnati and the day she left, we blew each other kisses and pretended to hide them so we could hold onto them forever. They dramatically moved away, but then her dad quit that new job three months later, and back home the Tates came. Chyna and I have never stopped blowing kisses to each other since.

  I leave the kitchen and make my way over to Harrison. It’s nearing midnight, so I don’t have much time before Chyna’s brother picks us up. Some people are already slumped on the couches, fighting to stay awake, while for everyone else, the party buzz has yet to wear off. I’m feeling upfront, and now it’s time to make my move. Harrison and I always play hard to get, always flirt from a distance, always make out like there’s nothing going on, even when we know that very soon I’ll be tearing off his clothes and he’ll be tearing off mine.

  I touch the ends of my hair as I approach Harrison and his friends, adjusting my skirt to keep my hands busy. Hike it up a little higher, revealing more of my legs, but then—

  Ow.

  I collide against something, then a drink splashes onto me and a cup is crushed between my body and someone else’s. My tunnel vision for Harrison breaks as I regain my full line of sight, the rest of the party comes back into focus, and my eyes shoot up to the person in front of me.

  I don’t instantly recognize the guy, which is unusual, because I have a pretty good awareness of everyone in my senior class. He takes a step back from me as he stares down at his jeans, clearly unimpressed by the sight of liquid seeping through the denim.

  “Vanessa,” I hear Chyna saying, her voice scolding as though I’m a toddler she’s babysitting. She approaches me from behind, wraps a hand around my elbow, and yanks me back. “Sorry, she’s a little clumsy,” she says sheepishly on my behalf, then she leans in closer to my ear and mumbles, “You’ve got to watch where you’re going, girl.”

  The guy lifts his head to look at me. Even though I can fully see his face now, I still don’t recognize him. His blue eyes stand out against the warm bronze of his skin, and his curls are cropped short, shaved at the sides but heavier at the top. He doesn’t go to Westerville North – if he did, he wouldn’t be a stranger to me.

  “Yeah, Vanessa,” he says mockingly, and my name carries a certain weight to it, almost like he is amused rather than agitated. He narrows his eyebrows and I can’t help but focus on the one brow that has a slit shaved into it. “Watch out.�
�� His lips twist into a smirk, and then he saunters past Chyna and me before blurring into the crowd in the kitchen.

  I sniff at the air, inhaling the lingering scent of his cologne before it evaporates, then blink at Chyna. “Who was that?”

  “Does it matter?” Chyna says. She gestures in the direction of the lounge where I was supposed to be heading. “Are you going to get Harrison or not?”

  Right. Harrison.

  I take a second to compose myself then set off again. Harrison and his friends are still joking around together, and I elbow my way into the circle, pushing in between Noah Diaz and Anthony Vincent. Harrison’s gaze instantly meets mine.

  “Harrison, your booty call is here,” Anthony teases, nudging his shoulder into Harrison’s. Noah only glances down at the ground and swigs his beer. Not too long ago, I was fooling around with him. But it’s not a big deal. The guys I get with know the score. They know it’s only a fling and they know I come with an expiration date.

  “Aw, don’t be jealous, Ant,” I say with a grin, then sling my arm around his shoulder and plant a kiss on his cheek.

  “Hey,” Harrison says, clearing his throat. He presses his lips together, feigning disapproval, though I watch his mouth twitch as he tries not to smile. The best part about flings? There’s no jealousy. No trying to control someone else’s behavior. We don’t owe each other anything.

  My gaze meets his and I tilt my head to one side, keeping my expression neutral. “Oh. Do you need something?”

  Harrison cracks into laughter and reaches for my wrist, tugging me toward him. My chest presses against his, while his gaze mirrors mine and his mouth remains inches from my own. He places my hand on his neck, and I can feel the warm energy of his skin. “Have you been avoiding me for the past few hours?” he murmurs, his voice so low I hardly hear him over the music.

  “I could ask you the same thing.” I skim my lips over his, teasing. I’m trying to be seductive, so I bat my eyelashes a little more than usual. I can sense Noah and Anthony shifting away, giving us some privacy despite the fact that we’re surrounded by other partygoers. No one cares, though. Parties were made for this. Hell, I’m pretty sure Matt Peterson and Ally Forde were groping each other on the couch a second ago.

  “Okay,” Harrison says abruptly. He cups my face in his hand, his thumb on my chin, firmly holding me. “Let’s cut the crap,” he murmurs softly, but I recoil a little from the smell of beer on his breath. His smile is lazy, cocksure, as he narrows his eyes. “Am I leading the way upstairs, or are you?”

  I don’t hesitate. I’ve been bored all night and I’m dying to spice things up. My hand is in Harrison’s and I’m spinning around, pulling him across the living room with me. He tucks his other hand into the waistband of my skirt, his skin hot against mine. I spot Noah’s eyes following us across the room. Other people’s too.

  “What the hell are they doing here?” Harrison says suddenly, his voice gruff as he pulls his hand free from mine. He pushes past me and storms ahead.

  I stare after him, growing agitated as I wonder what could have possibly grabbed his attention more than me, and then I spot the fight brewing over in the kitchen. From what I can make out through the wave of people pulsing toward the commotion, some guys from our school’s rival football team have decided to turn up. And clearly, they weren’t invited, nor wanted.

  The rivalry between Westerville North, Central, and South is all too real. Especially between North – us – and Central. Last weekend, we played against Central. Usually, I don’t care for football much, but I went to that game only because I knew I was meeting Harrison afterward. We lost – no surprise; our team sucks – but the real highlight of the game, the only burst of energy, was the brawl that broke out on the field during the third quarter.

  And it looks like that fight isn’t quite over yet.

  I elbow my way through everyone toward the kitchen, toward Harrison, but Chyna pops up by my side again. Her braids swing around so fast they slap me in the face.

  “I will never understand why high school boys act like they’re in the NFL,” she says, but I’m only half listening to her. I’m on my tiptoes, trying to see the confrontation. “It’s not that serious, but all these bruised egos sure do make for good entertainment.”

  “It’s the Central guys, right?”

  “Yep. Am I allowed to say that their team is hotter than ours?” She dramatically fans her face with her hand. “Russell Frederick, though. Phwoar. I wouldn’t say no to that red hair.”

  Speaking of Russell Frederick, he’s squaring up to Noah Diaz. Because it just wouldn’t be high school football if the quarterbacks from rival teams weren’t the two fighting. I’m convinced these rules are engraved into a block of marble somewhere. Behind Russell, a handful of the Central players back him up. Behind Noah, there’s our own players. Our North players. Harrison.

  “That result was . . . harsh,” I hear Russell say. He’s built of stone, I swear. His shoulders are as wide as a bridge. Russell cocks his head at Noah. “I’d have cried too.”

  “You really want me to throw another dent into that nose of yours?” Noah fires back, and he’s already curling his hand into a fist, ready to swing if he’s triggered enough. There’s a lot of muttering and grunting. Players exchanging insults and taunting remarks.

  Yawn. I’m so stuck in this boring routine that even all this party drama posturing can’t excite me anymore.

  “Hey, Harrison, you wanna catch these hands again?” one of the Central guys calls out, and when I pinpoint the voice, I realize it’s the sweet-smelling guy with the bronze skin I encountered a couple minutes ago. That’s why I don’t know him – he goes to Westerville Central, and he has turned up at this party in tow with the rest of the Central football team, ready to stir up trouble. And he’s calling out Harrison, of all people.

  Which is a bad idea. As per usual, Harrison lurches forward, provoked and looking for a fight. He busted his lip during that brawl last weekend when one of the Central players swung at him, probably this same guy who’s antagonizing him now, but at least I got to kiss it better all night. Maybe tonight I’ll do the same.

  When Harrison throws himself toward the opposing team, it sets everyone else off. I watch, unimpressed, as Noah rams his body into Russell, as Anthony propels his fist through the air, as Harrison grabs this mysterious guy who clearly has a problem with him. Boys. I hate them sometimes. Their egos are too easily wounded; they’re so desperate to prove themselves.

  There’s a lot of yelling and shoving, everyone cheering on our guys to kick the crap out of the Central team, everyone pushing to get closer to the action. A couple of girls are screaming at them to stop, but no one else is even pretending to be civilized. All I can focus on is Harrison. He’s got that guy pressed up against the countertop in a headlock, but the Central player is quick and strong. He slides out of it, and he grabs the first cup he finds and slams the drink into Harrison’s chest.

  Maddie Romy’s shrieking voice slices through the atmosphere, and she comes barreling into the crowded kitchen. “Stop! My parents will literally kill me if you guys smash up the house!” she screams. She’s flapping her arms around and I don’t expect anyone to actually listen to her pleas, but the brawl stops, each guy freezing on the spot. Harrison is staring down at his soaked T-shirt with rage. “Take this crap outside if you have to. This is a North party. Not a South party, and definitely not a Central party.” Maddie wrinkles her nose and points to the door. I’m impressed by her sudden authority. “Leave if you aren’t supposed to be here.”

  There’s a lot of shoulder barging as the Central players leave. The guy who just threw that drink at Harrison smirks as he brushes past him, smoothing a hand over his hair. He glances up for a moment and I swear his gaze locks directly on me, bold and intense, causing my stomach to flip. Just as quickly, he looks away again. I wish I knew his name so that I could mentally refer to him as something other than hot-guy-whose-drink-I-spilled.

&n
bsp; Like a pack of wolves, he and his teammates leave, slinking away and growling under their breaths. The second they disappear out the front door, it’s like they were never here to begin with. The music bumps straight back up, the circle around the kitchen disperses, the voices and the laughter return.

  “Now I have to go soothe Harrison’s ego,” I whisper to Chyna. She laughs and nudges me in his direction, wiggling her perfectly shaped eyebrows at me. I don’t need much encouragement.

  “Kai Washington,” Harrison is muttering when I reach him. He motions down at his T-shirt, damp and clinging to his sculpted torso. “He’s really starting to push me.”

  So that’s his name, I think . . . Kai Washington.

  I try to focus on Harrison, but I couldn’t care less about his lame football rivalry, so I’m quick to cut in before he can say anything more. “Who cares? I’m taking that shirt off anyway.” As the words leave my mouth, I grab a fistful of the soaked material and tug him toward the stairs, desperate to leave the dregs of the party behind, to feel his hands on my body. We’re both buzzing with energy after the fight – Harrison because his adrenaline is pumping, and me because the powerful look Kai Washington gave me has sent an electric current through my body. I try to shake the unsettling feeling and concentrate on Harrison instead.

  We stumble upstairs together. Whatever, we aren’t exactly sober, but we both like it that way. Matt Peterson and Ally Forde have moved upstairs from the couch too, and they’re making out against the wall. They’re oblivious to Harrison and me as we slide past and disappear into the first room we arrive at. I don’t even flick on the lights; don’t even care whose room we’re using.

  I tighten my grip on Harrison’s shirt and pull him toward me, slamming my chest against his at the same time as his mouth finds mine. We’re off balance in the dark, bumping into furniture and stumbling over each other’s feet. I can hear music echoing around the house, muffled and distant behind closed doors.

  Harrison tugs at my lower lip with his teeth. My hands are in his hair, pulling roughly on the ends. He’s squeezing my butt. I’m kissing him harder. We collapse back onto the bed and I’m straddling his hips, leaning forward to plant a row of kisses along his jaw and down his neck.