“Can I be honest without you thinking I’m a jerk?”
“Um, yes.” Yes, please, in fact.
He leaned closer. Close enough that she could smell his woodsy cologne. “With so little time left, I’m just not sure I can help Rachelle find her savior.”
Millie couldn’t have heard right. “Savior?”
“Some people, it just takes longer and with the countdown already started, well, you understand.”
No, hold on. Did crazy train just pull in? Nope, not getting on it.
“With less than twenty-four hours before the second coming when the dead will rise, I have to have a partner of faith.”
“Um, back to the dead rising part...”
“Well, yes. Like I said, Shawn of the Dead. What sense does it make binding myself to a sinner?”
Millie stared at him a few seconds, blinking. “Sinner.”
“Exactly, yes.” He gave her lawyer hands, flat palms that cut the air with each word. “With the dead rising at dawn, be evening, the world will be in total chaos. Who else will we have but each other and Christ to see us through?”
Millie had no words, which Steve apparently took as agreement.
“Hey, you and I both know that even if I could help Christ into her heart, she’ll need protection. I don’t have a flak jacket that will fit her. She’s too big on top and it just wouldn’t fit.”
“A flak jacket. Sure.” Of course a flak jacket. “Or, nothing could happen and you’d meet a really nice girl who could eventually convert to your religion?”
“If only that was a possibility, right? Truly. I haven’t even asked you about faith, but I don’t need to Millie. No matter what you’d say, you are worth saving. Through Christ or my panic room. Don’t you see? God brought us together.” His hands sliced at each word. “You will fit my flak jacket.”
But, but, she was so close. She was picking out his China pattern. She was gifting him to a lucky woman who might never even know what a gift Millie’d given her. How could this be?
Steve recaptured her hand. “Look, this is fast. I know that, but with Armageddon coming, I need you in my bunker.”
She shook her head. “Not me.”
“Yes, you, Millie, Look at your excellent symmetrical features, those nice eyes. You’re smart, funny and have ideal birthing hips—”
Ding. Ding. Ding.
“That’s your cue, Steve. The next table is waiting for you. Double tap, okay?” She gave him a thumbs up. “Double tap.”
Steve only got up after Millie looked away, unable to watch his muscular legs carry him from her table. She sagged back in her chair. She tugged at the top bracelet. Not like it would budge. Still, maybe the cuffs weren’t so bad. She twisted one around, lining them into a neat stack. This was it. Her fate. Matching lunatics.
The bell dinged, but Millie couldn’t bring herself to hope. She couldn’t bring herself to even look up.
“Is that any way to greet someone?”
Millie’s head snapped up, recognizing her supervisor’s voice. “AJ!” She looked around. Date twelve was well under way, the chatter filling the bar, drowning down the music. “What are you doing here?”
“Sitting with you.”
Ah, crap. Busted. He wasn’t supposed to know about tonight. Had she left the web page open? Crap. Probably. She’d been so excited to get to it. This totally broke rule #148 that stated a Cupid must take one assigned love target at a time. Keywords being ”assigned” and, oh, probably that ”one” part, too. The way things were going—or more like not going—with her current match, she’d really hoped this could work. That she could match now and explain later.
Maybe he didn’t realize what she was after.
Ah, who was she kidding? AJ knew everything. Especially the rules. Verbatim. “We both know what I’m doing here. So, what’s my punishment?”
“Punishment? Wasn’t this punishment enough?”
He waved for a waitress. The one that had ignored Millie all but skipped over to their table. “Thirsty?”
Parched, but really? He wasn’t going to launch into whys and what fors? Didn’t he have five examples lined up in his brain to illustrate how he’d been her and done this and so had many, many others?
The waitress arrived and eyed Mille, pen ready. “Sorry. Hi. A sprite would be great.”
“With cherries on top,” AJ added. “Lots of cherries. And a Guinness for me.”
“We have a great happy hour appetizer menu,” the waitress said, her hips rocking a little.
“No, thanks,” AJ said and leaned back, stretching his legs, putting his hands behind his head.
“You must be at least a little pissed at me.”
“How could I be?” One side of his mouth curved up. “Your heart was in the right place.”
Millie gave him a look like, come on.
“Well, maybe not your heart, but baby steps, right?”
She drooped a little. “I don’t get it. It’s the most romantic day of the year. It’s our day, literally! Not even one match.”
“Love takes more than a three-minute conversation,” AJ said softly.
Clearly. She knew plenty about what it didn’t take by now. If only she could also discover some of that Julia Roberts kind of magic. “What about soul mates? What about those great loves of all time? They had me at hello’s of the world?”
“Even the people who know right away didn’t truly know. They suspected. They feel a spark, stick it out, see it through. It’s in retrospect, once they’ve been proven right that they shout to the world, they knew.” He put his arms on the table. “You can’t determine how many sparks were lit tonight. Neither can I. Only time tells such things.”
Time. She didn’t want this time. Why couldn’t she see the sparks? Let alone a slow burn. The waitress arrived with her Sprite, a mountain of cherries on top, and AJ’s beer. Millie grabbed her straw and tore at the paper.
AJ stopped her, his hand a breath away from covering hers. “I almost forgot,” he said and reached under the table, retrieving a crunched up paper bag.
Giving him a suspicious look, she took the bag. She pulled out the contents. Long, thin, plastic. The lines down the body followed a curly cue shape that dizzied the eyes. “A super silly straw? No way!”
How many times had she begged her nanny and her mom for one? Silly straws were for silly girls and Kiki Kent had a future empire to inherit. But Millie Match was just a Cupid. No empire. No gawking public to let down.
“I can’t believe they still make these.”
Did they even still make these?
“Wait for it,” he said, removing the remaining wrapper and sticking it into her cherry piled drink. “Now sip.”
She did. A burst of sweet fizzy liquid pinched her taste buds and unaccountably stung her eyes. She looked down and laughed. With just one sip, her pink straw had turned blue. Bluer than her memories. Bluer than the commercial. Bluer than she’d ever imagined.
“It rocks!”
AJ grinned, shrugging one shoulder.
“Where did you find one of these?”
“I have my sources,” he said, then glanced around. “
Millie popped a cherry in to nibble on. The bar was filling up, the music louder now that the round of daters headed for the door or a stool. “Look,” she said, pointing. “I never would have put them together. She’s so, so normal looking.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
“Tell me about it.” She gasped, seeing The Condition put an arm around pigtails. “And I’d never have paired those two. Never.” She yanked a cherry stem off.
He sat forward, easing his arms onto the table and stealing a cherry. “Not never. You just have to realize love goes beyond putting people together like matching salt and pepper. And it takes more than things in common to cement a bond.”
She shook her head, dropping the stem. “I just don’t get it. Love should make more sense than that.”
“Maybe,” he said, snatchi
ng a cherry as she de-stemmed it. “But what would the fun be in that?”
Fun. Nothing had been fun about tonight. Until now. The blue on her straw was turning back to pink. She took a long drink off her soda. “You should know, the zombie apocalypse starts tomorrow.”
“Is that so? Then we should prepare,” he said and motioned for the waitress to come back.
“We will need sustenance. Apparently there’s a bit of running involved.”
“Speed walking, at the very least”
Imagining a herd of zombies shuffling after them, a grin tugged her cheeks. “Yes.”
He grabbed the small happy hour menu. “Onion rings?” he said, handing it to her.
She skimmed the menu. “And potato skins. Oh, avocado rolls.” Bar food. Sweet, decadent bar food.
“Change your mind?” the waitress asked, all batting eyes for AJ.
“The lady will have the works.”
The waitress turned to Millie.
“Yes,” Millie said. “Yes, she will.”
~~
Dear Diary … in Deadwood
by Ann Charles
“Hey, Mom,” said my nine-year-old daughter Addy, as she burst through my bedroom doorway. “Elvis found this old book in the basement.” She held out a book I hadn’t seen in over a decade—my old diary. The upper corner of the cover had been pecked—leaving it tattered.
Elvis was my daughter’s pet chicken. Long story short, she planned to save the animal kingdom one pet at a time. Elvis was just another in Addy’s long line of birds, mammals, rodents, fish, and amphibious creatures. I’d drawn a line at the garter snake. Indiana Jones wasn’t the only one with a loathing for things that go slither in the night … or day.
“It has a cool little lock on it. It must be a diary,” Addy said, holding up a paper clip. “Can I try to pop it open?”
I inspected the lock for scratches, wondering if she already had and was just covering her ass by asking. “You know how diaries work, Addy. They are for the owners’ eyes only.”
“But we don’t know whose diary this is. It could be the long-lost diary of Calamity Jane.”
Being that we lived in Deadwood, South Dakota, famous for a history of gold rushes and gunfights, my daughter tended to think anything older than she was belonged to some famous historical figure. Take the old rusted spur her twin brother Layne, my very own wannabe archaeologist, dug up in the yard last week. She was certain it had belonged to Wild Bill Hickok.
“We do know whose diary this is, Addy. It’s mine.”
“Are you sure? It looks really old.”
Shut it, child. “Isn’t it time for you to take Elvis for a walk?”
“What did you write about in it?” she asked, ignoring my attempt at distraction.
Your father. “Just some thoughts on life and growing up.”
“You should let me read it. I might learn something of value.”
It was ironic how whenever she wanted to get her way, she reflected my words of wisdom right back at me. “I’m not falling for that, Adelynn Renee. This book is for my eyes only.”
“Come on, Mom,” she whined. “Why can’t I read it?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
In the pages of this little book, I’d written the truth about her father, a man she had yet to meet. I didn’t feel like taking a trip down memory lane to visit him tonight, with her in tow. It would only raise questions that were better left for after she graduated from high school—or maybe college. That asshole of a sperm donor didn’t deserve her love and affection before she was able to fully understand what had happened a decade ago.
Addy sighed and threw herself on my bed. “I was hoping we could read it together and bond.”
Bond? I narrowed my eyes. “You need to stop watching the Hallmark Channel.” I picked up a pair of her pajamas that for some reason were on the floor of my bedroom and handed them to her. “Go brush your teeth and climb into bed.”
“Aw, Mom.”
“Go. Now.” I nudged her toward the door. “I’ll be in later to kiss you good night.”
She trudged out the door, her stocking feet sweeping a cluster of dust bunnies with her.
As soon as I heard the bathroom door close, I picked up the diary and popped it open with Addy’s paper clip.
Property of Violet Parker
Running my finger over my name, I frowned, remembering. I’d been so young, so clueless. I fanned the pages full of loopy cursive writing. Even my handwriting had been different then—flowing and pretty, not the rushed scrawls I used now.
I stopped on a page with a short, sloppy entry:
July 13th: Crappity crap! I just realized I totally missed my period. It must be the new birth control pills messing with my system. Seems like the nurse said something about this happening. Maybe I should call the doctor.
Ha! If only it had just been the pills making my period a no-show. I’d forgotten all about calling the doctor—thanks to the full load of college classes I was taking, my full-time job, and, of course, my preoccupation with Addy’s father. His blond hair, golden-brown eyes, and hard body had melted my underwear along with my resistance every time he came around to charm me into bed. I’d had a thing for sexy brainiacs back then, especially a science major who talked like Captain James Tiberius Kirk during sex. Don’t … stop … Violet.
I flipped a couple of pages, grimacing at the big, bold strokes I’d used on one of them.
July 29th: I’m going to kill her!!! How could she? She knows how much I like him. I hate her. I fucking hate her. I CAN’T BELIEVE SHE SLEPT WITH HIM!!!!
Ah, yes. My little sister, aka Psycho Susan. I should have known that she was going to be a permanent burr in my ass back when she was four and she cut the hair off all of my Barbie dolls because I’d told her she couldn’t play with them while I was at school. Since birth, she’d lived by the motto: What was hers was hers, and what was mine was hers to destroy.
The night I came home early from work and walked in on her naked and gasping in my bed underneath Addy’s father was the night I had shut them both out of my life. I still feel a slight kick in my solar plexus whenever the image of them together popped into my head. Her game had sunk to a new level. It was no longer about whom Daddy loved more.
Shaking my head, I flipped forward a few more pages. The writing was short and sweet and slightly smudged.
August 24th: I’m ten weeks pregnant. Shit.
I grimaced, remembering the choking fear squeezing my esophagus when I’d stared at the ultrasound image on the monitor. A baby. Oh, my God, a baby.
My sister had still been hot and heavy with Addy’s father at the time. We’d become our own soap opera: The Young and the Pregnant. So much drama was in the air that summer, especially the night Addy’s dad had come to my door and declared his love for me. When I asked why he was having sex with my sister, he claimed it was only because he couldn’t have me.
I tried to break his nose with the door when I slammed it, but he’d been too quick for me.
For the next few weeks, I’d chewed my knuckles about whether to tell him or not about the baby. Maybe he really did love me. Maybe, somehow, we could carve a happy family life out of this mess. Maybe I was delusional from pregnancy hormones.
In the end, Natalie, my best friend, had talked me into giving him a chance to be a father.
I turned the pages until I found the entry about me coming clean with him. Two pages later, I had written down his response.
September 12th: Psycho Susan called me this morning, crying hysterically. When she finally calmed down enough to make sense, two words rang clear. “He’s gone.” So much for having a loving, responsible father for my child. If I ever see the dickhead again, I’m going to tear his nuts off and turn him into a eunuch.
After our little chat about me bearing his child, the jerk never did contact me to tell me I was going to have to fly solo. Apparently, being a genius didn’t guarantee he was smart.
&nbs
p; A bunch of self-pity filled the next chunk of pages. Then I came across an entry I remembered all too well.
October 5th: TWINS! I’m having twins. Oh! My! God! I’m so screwed. The nurse gave me some information on adoption today after I mentioned that the father had run for the hills, abandoning me to raise two babies on my own. The flyer says that they screen the potential parents, including an FBI background check. I don’t know what to do.
I scanned through the next bunch of pages, chuckling at my attempts to return to the dating circuit with a very obvious bump sticking out in front of me. It had been Natalie’s idea for me to get out, meet some new men, and sniff out a potential father. The only thing I smelled in the dates was a lot of cologne and freakiness.
First, there was the fellow classmate who’d been shocked to learn I was pregnant—he’d just thought I was chubby because I ate like a 300-pound construction worker.
I still wince about the insurance salesman, who after learning why my belly stuck out so far, had wanted to cover my baby bump with olive oil and rub his stubble-covered cheeks all over it. Before I shut my apartment door in his face for good, he tried to sell me whole-life insurance.
Next came the serious college professor who looked like Tom Selleck in Magnum, P.I. He turned out to be hiding his true age behind dyed hair, a glued-on moustache, and a fake tan. His gray chest hair gave him away, and I did not fulfill his desperate fantasy of “boinking” a young female student.. My boinking days were long over.
Then there was the angry dentist, the possessed baker, and the narcissistic toy airplane maker. My life had turned into a disturbing nursery rhyme.
Around that time, I finally gave up on men and focused on my new job—administrative assistant at a local engineering firm. I decided to keep the babies, much to my family’s relief. Well, except for Psycho Susan, who suddenly found the spotlight shining on me and didn’t like it that I had toys she couldn’t take and mess up—they were attached by umbilical cords.
8 Hearts Beat As One: A Romance Anthology Page 5