by Mimi Strong
It rang again, so I answered the phone, curious where this break with reality was going. By now it was half past eight, and I was so hungry, I could have eaten raw kale, no dressing.
“Good evening, Peachtree Books.”
A low chuckle. “Is it a good evening?”
“That depends on who this is and why you’re calling.”
“You hurt poor Vern’s feelings.”
I smiled and wrapped the long, curly phone cord around myself as I twirled in excitement.
“Poor Vern,” I said.
“You hungry?”
“No.” My stomach growled. “Yes.”
“Is this spaghetti place any good? I’m standing out front, reading the menu. They have a Forest Folk platter that’s free if you eat the whole thing, but I don’t know if I’m quite that hungry.”
“You’re at DeNirro’s?”
“You tell me.”
DeNirro’s was across the street from the bookstore. I twirled again to free myself from the twisty phone cord, made my way to the display window, pulled open the curtain, and peeked out.
There was a handsome, dark-haired young man, standing across the street, waving at me. He almost looked like a regular person at this distance.
“Is this Robert DeNiro’s restaurant?” he asked.
“No. Different spelling. Two Rs.” I pointed to the logo on the sign.
“I’ll have to get a photo and tell him about this place. Or maybe not. His lawyers don’t have a sense of humor.”
“You know Robert DeNiro?”
“Why don’t you lock up that bookstore and come join me for a carb-heavy meal that my personal trainer will beat my ass for eating?”
“They have some tasty salads.”
“Salads? Fuck salads!” He held the phone away from himself and stare confusedly at it. Then he brought it back to his face, yelling, “Who is this? I want the bad girl. The one who’s a bad influence on me.”
Giggling, I said, “Give me two minutes to lock up.”
“Two minutes. I’m starting the timer. If you go over, there will be Penalty Minutes.”
CHAPTER 11
“What?”
“Penalty Minutes. Tick, tick. Time’s running.”
“Eep!” I unwound myself from the phone cord, comically tripping repeatedly, then hung up the phone and raced around in a panic. Penalty Minutes! I didn’t want to rack up Penalty Minutes, whatever they were.
My finger was shaking as I punched in the alarm code, 1225. Gordon Junior chose that number because it’s the date of the only day we’re closed.
I ran out the front door, then back in for my purse, then back out again, my heart pounding in a panic as the countdown on the alarm beeped down.
By the time I got outside the store, I was moist with sweat and breathing heavily. With a wicked grin on my face, I noted that if things went well, it wouldn’t be the last workout that evening.
Penalty Minutes were most certainly accruing, and when I ran across the street to join Dalton, my face must have been bright red judging by the way it felt.
“Darling,” he said in a English accent, then took my hand in his and kissed my knuckles while bowing.
“Sorry,” I said breathlessly, pointing behind me like a fool. “Closing. Forgot stuff.”
“You must be terribly famished,” he said, still in the English accent. “You’re making no sense at all. Come, now, let’s get you off those running shoes. You girls and your ridiculous fashionable footwear. Why aren’t you in stilettos? You’ll twist a heel in those, walking with your feet in a normal human foot shape.”
Why was I suddenly in the middle of an improv skit? Actors, sheesh.
I played along, saying, “Cheerio, bangers and mash.”
“Darling, are you making fun of my accent? This whole time I’ve known you, I’ve put up a charade, speaking with an intolerable American accent, but I can stand it no longer! I must be me!”
He was really laying it on thick, and weirding me out more than a little, to be honest. Even his face had taken on a decidedly British look. How many faces did the guy wear?
A thirtyish couple walking out of the restaurant stopped to stare, and after a moment, the woman said, “You’re him, aren’t you?” To her husband, she said, “Drake. The vampire. I heard he was shooting a movie here in Beaverdale.”
Dalton leaped toward the woman, also yanking me with him. He pulled me in front of him, making a horrible snarling sound and biting me on the neck. Not nibbling, but full-on biting.
“Ooh, Bitey,” I said.
The woman stared with a mix of horror and adulation on her face. The husband got out his phone and asked if he could take a picture.
Dalton said yes, and what did I do? I stood there, waiting for the guy to take our photo. Because surely this stranger wanted a picture of me, right?
Nope. He wanted a photo of Dalton with his wife, without me. That was an awkward moment, as he winced and I shuffled out of the way. That moment was followed by another awkward one, where they actually asked me to take a photo of the three of them.
The man said to Dalton, “Would you mind biting my wife for one of these?”
Dalton waggled his eyebrows at the woman and said, “I’m afraid if I do, she’ll never be the same.”
He had his smolder turned up to eleven, and I’d by lying if I said I wasn’t outrageously turned on.
The woman nearly collapsed in a heap of giggles and lust. Then he lunged at her neck anyway. She screamed. I managed to take the photo, by some miracle, because what I really wanted to do was jam the thing in her stupid mouth. Sideways. What can I say… I was an only child most of my life, and I don’t like to share my toys.
After the couple finally walked away and left us alone, I said, “You seem to enjoy interacting with your fans.”
He gave me a saucy look. “Jealous? Don’t be. I only have eyes for one fan, and she only joined my fan club recently, but I’m very glad to have her. Her username is Peachy22, I believe?”
I jumped back like mating dragonflies were flying out of his mouth. “You know I joined your fan club? Holy fuckchops. I’ll just die now, excuse me.”
“At least we know where your loyalties lie, and you’re not Team Connor.”
“Never. He’s the worst.”
Dalton stepped closer and seized me in his arms. “Kiss me,” he said.
People were still walking around, going in and out of the theater just up the block. We were out in the open, and I felt self-conscious, so I gave him a timid peck on the lips.
“No. Kiss me like I’m dangerous,” he said. “Kiss me like I’m bad for you.”
His dark hair flopped around in a breeze, ruffling on his forehead above his dreamy, too-cute, green eyes.
Oh, he was dangerous. And bad for me.
I stood up on tiptoes and gave him a real kiss, my pulse racing and my whole body tingling from the sensation of his lips on mine. The smell of his skin in my nostrils. The feel of his hot hands on the small of my back. The sun setting and glinting off the windows and vehicles around us. His hands reaching down to cup my buttocks and press me against his body, the full length of both of us connecting.
Heat rushed through me like a shot of tequila followed by another shot of tequila. As we locked lips and tongues, the extremely sensitive front of me detected movement in Dalton’s crotch region.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have liftoff.
I crushed my hips against his, teasing his hardness with my softness.
He pulled away, practically gasping for air. “Who’s bad for whom?” he said. “I think you’re the naughty one.”
“I’m the girl your parents warned you about.”
A look of mirth crossed his face. “If only you knew.”
“So, tell me. I’m yours for the night.”
He winked. “Tell me your secret, and I’ll tell you mine.”
I scratched my head, pretending to look innocent. “Evading each other’s questions would
be more fun over some food and wine.”
I started for the door, but he caught me in his arm. “I’m sorry for falling asleep the other night. I didn’t mean to shut you out like that.”
“I’m sorry I left without leaving a note, but I didn’t want to snoop around looking for stationery.”
“When I woke up and you were gone, I thought maybe I’d dreamed the whole thing.”
“I’m real.”
“You sure are.” He opened the door to DeNirro’s, letting the aroma of hot bread and meat sauce waft out in the evening air.
We went in and got seated at a cute table for two at the back, on the raised platform that also doubled as a stage on nights they had live music.
“This is new,” I said, running my hand over the tablecloth. DeNirro’s was known for its classic red-checked tablecloths, but this table and the others were covered in mustard-hued cloths. I looked around, picking up on other changed details. The taxidermy-stuffed stag’s head was no longer over the stone fireplace, and had been replaced by a wreath of branches.
“I was just in here last week,” I said, feeling uneasy. “They’ve done a whole redecoration thing since then.”
“For the movie. This is one of our shooting locations. The owner liked the changes the location manager requested, and decided to implement them permanently.”
A waitress came up to drop off menus and take our drink order.
I asked her, “Are the red-checked tablecloths gone forever? Can they come out for special occasions, if we call ahead?”
“I think we have a few that we kept.” She blinked at me, tilting her head to the side. “Petra? Peaches Monroe?”
“Chantalle Hart?”
She smiled, the dimples in her cheeks appearing. Had I not seen her in the five years since graduation, and did she really look even more gorgeous than ever, with her perfect tan, big brown eyes, and silky auburn hair? I still had mixed feelings about her, feelings you might describe as a girl crush. She was just one of those girls everybody likes.
“It’s me,” she said, pressing her fingertips to her eyelashes, the way I’d seen her fuss with her lashes a thousand times back in school. “You probably didn’t recognize me because my eyes are puffy. Don’t worry, I’m not sick. I had mono last year and I’m over it, Doctor says.” She sniffed, looking pitiful. “Just been cryin’ over a guy. An older man.”
“So, you live here? Back in the Beav?”
“Since last month, yeah. Didn’t Golden tell you?”
I glanced over to Dalton, who wasn’t paying any attention at all, his gaze down on the menu in his hands. What a guy! Chantalle was a very pretty girl, and it just proved how clever Dalton was that he’d found somewhere smarter for his eyeballs to point.
“We’ll hang out sometime,” I said. “I’m renting a house with Shayla, up on Lurch Street. We Lurchers are a nice bunch.”
Her pretty brown eyes widened, a huge smile spreading across her face. Now I could see the puffiness, the bags under her otherwise-lovely eyes.
She said, “We can invite Golden, and get the whole gang back together!”
Ugh, Golden. Also known as Little Miss Guess What. Everything was a big production, a big secret with an elaborate teaser campaign. Whenever you finally found out the big news, it was wildly disproportionate to the amount of fuss Golden put into it.
“Sounds great,” I lied.
“For the record, I just want you to know that I was against the whole Least Fun category.”
Dalton looked up from his menu, intrigued. “Who’s-a-say-what now?”
“In high school, Peaches was voted Least Fun,” Chantalle said, sucking in her cheeks and deepening her dimples. “But there were a lot worse things people could be voted.”
“Yeah, but Chantalle, you were voted Biggest Dimples.”
“Exactly!”
I shook my head and opened my menu.
Wow. If you don’t move out of your hometown, you never really leave high school, do you?
“Did you hear Adrian Storm is back in town?” she asked, not taking a hint.
“Yes, apparently he’s flat broke and living with his parents. Tragic. Utterly broke.”
Just because I didn’t want him didn’t mean I wouldn’t sabotage his chances with Chantalle, just for old times’ sake.
“That’s too bad,” she said, jiggling and standing on one foot, kicking the other up behind her. Double-wow. I’d completely forgotten about that kick she did. Why didn’t I have a signature move? I had to work on that.
She asked us if we wanted to start with some wine, and Dalton chose something from the menu. I batted my eyelashes and nodded at his excellent choice.
After Chantalle walked away, I said, “Remind me I’m a grown-up now. I don’t care what other people think of me.”
“Grown-ups still care.”
I shook my fist in mock rage. “My parents lied!”
He pursed his lips. “All parents lie. The good ones tell comforting lies.”
“Dark. Next you’ll be quoting Nietzsche.”
“I don’t know who that is. I’m an actor. A meat puppet.” He gave me a sly grin.
“I can’t wait to lend you some great books.”
“I can’t wait to undress you. I can see your nipples through that shirt.”
I fanned my face. If my nips hadn't been hard yet, they certainly were now.
He continued, “I’m going to peel your clothes off and lick your breasts like ice cream.”
I took a sip of ice water, then replied, “I’m going to peel your shirt off and treat your nipples like they’re Skittles. And I love to suck on Skittles. I can suck them all night.”
“I’m going to use my mouth on your belly button like it’s a single-serve pudding snack and I don’t have a spoon.”
I leaned across the table and whispered something almost too filthy to repeat. “Forget the belly button and try the pussy. It’s today’s special.”
He raised his eyebrows and leaned back, arms crossed, considering. “Sold on the special,” he said, a wicked smile crossing his gorgeous lips.
Chantalle returned with the wine, pouring it as the two of us tried to behave ourselves without success.
Dalton turned to her and said, “I’m dying for the special. I had it once before and the taste was maddening and decadent.”
Chantalle scrunched her face. “We don’t have a special. Do you mean spaghetti? It’s our house specialty.”
He rubbed his chin. “Does the sauce dribble down your face like this?”
I kicked him under the table.
“Spaghetti for me,” I said.
Chantalle turned to me. “How many balls?”
My voice squeaked out, “How many balls would you recommend? Like, at one time?”
“Three is popular,” she said.
I turned to Dalton, making a serious face. “Two at a time sounds about my speed, unless you’d like a nibble?”
He grinned. “I’ll have the baked tortellini, and give her four meatballs with her spaghetti so I can have a taste.”
“Good choice,” Chantalle said with a knowing, patient smile. She could be an airhead at times, but she wasn’t stupid.
After she left, I pulled out my phone and said, “I should probably give you my actual number, right? Just so you can reach me if I’m not at the bookstore.”
“If you’re not at the bookstore, I hope it’s because you’re with me.” He gave me a million-dollar smile.
Another waitress came by with two long, skinny breadsticks and some butter.
I read out my cell phone number, and he punched it into his own phone. He didn’t immediately give me his number, though. I sat there, aware of this, and feeling annoyed, until I got a text message from an unknown number.
He messaged: You can gobble my breadstick. You can munch it any time, and I’ll watch.
I saved his number to my contacts, and then I nibbled the end of his breadstick in a suggestive manner.
&n
bsp; The flirting continued through dinner, with both of us making inappropriate faces and jokes about everything going in our mouths.
As we ate dinner, he moaned and rolled his eyes up, enjoying the forbidden carbohydrates. He was a manly-looking guy, with his square chin and muscled arms, which only made it more funny that he was showing the kind of high-calorie reverence Shayla and I have for the Lemon Meringue Mile-High* at Chloe’s Pie Shack.
*The meringue isn’t a mile high, but it’s damn close. You have to tilt your head sideways to get it in your mouth. Think about that lemony goodness for a minute and tell me if your mouth doesn’t water.
“Did you ever work here?” Dalton asked as we were finishing up our last bites.
“No, but my best friend did for a bit. She manages a different restaurant now. Why do you ask?”
“You seemed rather attached to the old tablecloths. The red-checked ones.”
I squirmed in my seat, feeling silly. “My parents took me here for my birthday dinner every year since I turned five. We sat at different tables, but the pictures always turned out the same, because of the decorations.”
Dalton crossed his arms and rested his chin on one hand. “Now I’ve brought this movie here and turned your whole world upside-down.”
“In more ways than one, yes.”
“Are you afraid?”
I gave him a long look, not sure how to answer that.
He cleaned up a bit of sauce on his plate with his thumb and licked it clean.
He explained, “Most people won’t admit they’re scared, but with admitting something comes great peace. For example, I’m scared about the damage this movie is doing to me.”
“You’re doing your own stunts?”
He poured out the last bit of wine evenly between our glasses, looking very serious and sad.
“The damage is emotional, or psychological, I guess. Have you done any acting?”
“Sometimes at the bookstore, I act like I’m not bored senseless when I am.”
“Imagine acting like you’ve just walked away from a horrific car accident, and your small children didn’t survive.”
I imagined Kyle being hurt, and the pain was so strong, it manifested as physical pain in my guts.
“That’s horrible,” I said, shaking my head. “Don’t say crap like that or you’ll give me nightmares.”