by Allie Kay
What the hell was I going to do?
I paced the length of her living room, hands fisted at my sides. Last night was supposed to be fun. I'd went to Garden with a simple plan—to find Claire and tease her with a few dances and kisses before letting her see my face at the end of the night. Give her a taste of what could be between us and hopefully convince her to go out on a single date with me.
Not this. Never this.
Sinking down onto her couch, I buried my face in my hands. I'd waited ages for a shot with Claire. A drunken one night stand couldn't be the end of it. But how did I get out of this without Claire flipping her lid.
What a fucking mess...
Leaning back, I yanked the stupid mask off my face. Twirling it around on one finger, I squeezed my eyes shut and fought down a wave of nausea. At least the cool temperature in the room helped quell the hangover-induced queasiness.
When I opened my eyes, my gaze was drawn to the bookshelf. To the tiny snow globe holding a place of honor. Distracted by the little ornament, the mask flew off my hand and crumpled on the table, the folds looking like a letter 'Z' in the dim light.
Inspiration struck. Despite her words and all the rejections, she'd kept the little trinket I'd given her last Christmas. Obviously, her feelings for me weren't all bad or she'd have chucked the snow globe the minute she was out of sight. Maybe I wasn't out of this yet.
Hurrying out of the apartment, I was both happy and appalled to see my truck in her parking lot. Squashing the disgust at myself for driving last night—or sometime in the early hours of this morning, I couldn't exactly remember—I climbed into the cab and sped over to the twenty-four-hour market. The flower selection at five a.m. was dismal, but I picked through the wilted daisies and carnations for the best-looking bouquet they had. From the office supplies aisle, I picked up a decent pen and a nice notepad.
The entire way back to Claire's apartment, thoughts of what might happen if she woke up when I came back in ran through my head. Negative, panic-inducing thoughts. But I couldn't let that stop me. My game plan hadn't worked. I'd fumbled the ball and now I needed to back up and punt. I just had to keep quiet and work on a new plan.
I eased the door open, wincing at the creak. Her landlord really needed to bust out a can of WD-40. Pausing just inside the door, I listened for movement from the bedroom. When I heard none, I laid the flowers on the coffee table while I decided what to write. It took a couple tries, but I finally knew just what to say in the note. I wrote slowly, carefully, making sure the words were neat and legible.
Tucking the flowers through the mask, I placed them over the note. I wanted to make sure that the paper wouldn't blow away when the heat kicked on, but still allow it to be easily seen. I peeked back in at Claire. Her beautiful hair stretched across her pillow. I stuffed my fists in my pockets to resist the urge to climb back in bed with her. Leaving her alone felt wrong.
Climbing back into bed with her would kill any chance I had though. One look at this face and she'd shut down. I'd never see that soft smile or hear that shy little laugh she gave me when we were alone again.
No. I'd have to make her fall for me, without her knowing she was falling for me.
I’d been in love with Claire Ballard far too long to not at least give it my best try.
I only had one shot at this. The notes had to work.
This plan had to work.
3
Claire
Stabbing pain in my forehead roused me from an alcohol-induced sleep. Bringing a shaky hand up, I tugged the offending item away and nearly screamed when a large chunk of hair went with it.
One eye cracked open; mascara and sleep encrusted lashes clung painfully to each other in protest. What the hell was in my hand? I stared in confusion at the broken gold ring, one end coated in a dark liquid. Was that blood? My foggy mind struggled to bring things into focus. Rolling to my back, I gasped in pain. Another sharp stab shot through me, this time at my shoulder.
My stomach rolled. I heaved myself out of the bed, running for the bathroom. After communing with the porcelain gods, I sank down onto the cold, white tile. Blood trickled down my face as I tried to make sense of what happened last night.
When my stomach settled, I rose up, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. A pair of broken wings dangled uselessly from my back. Originally a bright, snowy white, the crushed wings were now streaked rusty brown and crusted with blood.
Was it mine? Well, of course it was. Too many martinis at Garden’s Halloween party last night and now I couldn't even think straight.
Lord, why did I drink so much?
Stripping off the torn and stained angel wings—the rest of the costume somewhere as of yet to be determined—I examined my back in the mirror. A couple stab wounds from the broken wings and a couple abrasions... Nothing bad enough that I'd need to have it looked at, thank God. When I turned, I got a peek of the monstrous love-bite on my neck. Shit. My lower cheek was reddened by whisker burn and the sticky mess between my thighs confirmed I was, indeed, a fallen angel.
A brief memory flashed by, too fleeting to catch more than dark hair, a black Zorro mask, and a beard. Strong muscular arms shoving me against the rough brick wall outside of my apartment for a passionate kiss when I couldn't find the key at first. The sensuous feel of his mouth hot against my throat.
But who was he?
I stepped in the shower, washing the blood and remnants of last night's passion from my skin. The hot spray helped clear the fog from my brain, but my mystery man's identity proved elusive. I slumped against the wall, pressing my forehead against the tile. Why could I not remember who I'd brought home? Had I even learned his name?
And why had my masked lover bounced so fast?
Well, that was a stupid question, wasn't it? He'd bounced because he got what he wanted. I sighed, letting the hot water run over my face. One night stands weren't my thing. What was it about Zorro that had caused me to relax my standards? Other than being one hell of a kisser...
I stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my dripping hair. Grabbing the robe off the hook on the door, I slipped into it. Wiping the steam from the mirror, I checked the wound on my forehead. Not too bad... It could be mostly covered with my hair at least.
That would be fun to explain at work. How I got stabbed in the face with a halo during, or maybe after, a one night stand with a guy I couldn't really recall... Yeah, I so did not want to go there. I'd have to come up with some excuse for how I'd managed to gouge a hole in my face at a costume party.
Shivering in the cool room, I rubbed my arms hoping to rub a little warmth into the pebbled skin. I stepped out into the hallway and kicked the heat on. Now that it was officially November, I could bring myself to flip that switch on the thermostat. Despite being able to comfortably pay the bill now, years of living poor while growing up had left some lingering habits I'd been unable to yet break.
Scrubbing the towel over my wet hair, I walked into the living room. Something on the coffee table caught my eye. My mystery man might have disappeared, but he did it with a bit of class. A bouquet of flowers wrapped in his mask... I picked them up and gave one a sniff. Beautiful...
A small note lay on the polished wood. I snatched it up and read it eagerly. A smile teased my lips as I re-read the short message and sank down onto the couch with a giggle.
Last night was magical. See you soon, sweet angel.
Look for my sign. -Z-
He hadn't abandoned me. I clutched the little note to my chest, crumpling the paper within my grasp. After a moment, I smoothed the wrinkles out and carried the note back to my room. Reading it one more time, I sighed before tucking it into my jewelry box. Staring over at it, I daydreamed about who Z could be.
Listing off the things I knew about him seemed a good place to start. I knew he was around six feet tall, muscular without seeming like he had to spend ages at the gym, dark hair and an absolutely mouth-watering beard... He could dance like a god, bu
t he kissed like the devil. And based on how sore I was this morning, he was well-endowed. Not too much to go on, unfortunately.
There were a couple guys at the hospital that could maybe fit, but something about that idea sat wrong with me. I'd have to give my mystery lover's identity more thought when my head wasn't so clouded with remnants of martinis and slivers of drunken memories.
The alarm on the night stand blared its evil tune. I slapped it and groaned. Unfortunately, I had to get ready for work. I put on my scrubs, did my hair to hide the halo hole as best I could, covered the hickey with concealer, and walked outside.
When I got to the parking lot, I realized I had a problem. A big problem. I needed to be at work in less than an hour. And my car was still at Garden.
4
Zane
After leaving my little surprise for Claire, I returned home to my lonely apartment. I thought briefly about showering, but I wasn't ready to remove her scent from my skin. I woke up a few hours later and couldn't fall back asleep. Thoughts of Claire racing through my mind prevented that.
I finally gave up on trying to sleep. While coffee was brewing, I started working on the next step in my plan. The note had said "look for my sign". Now I had to come up with a sign. And it had to be something that would keep her interest. Something romantic. Intriguing.
I was going to have to write a damn poem.
Damn it.
Poetry was not exactly in my wheelhouse, but I'd give it a try. For Claire.
But where to start?
I sat at the table, tapping the pen against the notepad. Staring blankly at the empty page, I could not think of a single thing to write.
Fucking poetry... This secret admirer shit was going to be harder than I thought.
Sweet angel, with eyes so blue,
Maybe tonight we can get a brew?
No. I scratched that out and crumpled the paper up. That was absolute shit. I needed to tease... I needed to flirt... But most of all, I needed to encourage her to respond.
Sweet angel, with eyes so blue,
What do you think of my plans to woo?
Forgive my weak attempts at being a bard,
Poetry is really fucking hard.
Should I continue, or say my goodbye?
If your answer is no, at least I did try.
If my attempts to rhyme don't scare you,
tell me a few things I wish I knew.
Your favorite color, food, or movie?
Do you like my beard or want to shave me?
Tell me a secret known only to you,
And I'll tell you my secrets true.
Here's something you may not know... your laugh
is enough to make me tempt your wrath.
And that soft sincere smile when you think no one can see?
Yeah, I wish you'd direct that at me.
I shall only leave this one little note
In case not continuing is your vote.
Outside your work, a blue planter in the yard,
Beneath its base, Covered in rope,
You'll leave a positive reply, I hope.
I'd blame the hangover
for how shitty this rhyme is,
But the truth, sweet lover,
My word skills don't get better than this.
I stared down at the paper in front of me. I rubbed a thumb across the words. The poem was lousy. Complete and utter shit if I was being honest. But it was unlikely that I could come up with anything better even if I spent a damn month on it. I ran a construction crew, for God sakes. That was the first poem I had written since high school. And I had sucked at it then.
Time had not improved me in that area.
Before I could change my mind, I grabbed my keys and headed over to the hospital. I drove through the garage, looking for Claire's car. A twinge of guilt went through me when it dawned on me that I'd left her without a vehicle this morning, but it couldn't be helped. She must have gotten a ride to Garden to pick up her tiny car though, because I spotted it finally. I looked for space to park where I could see her car. When no one was around I hopped out of the truck and hurried over to Claire's car. My hands were a little shaky when I put the note beneath her windshield wiper, but I wouldn't chicken out.
I rushed back to my truck before anyone could see what I had done. The Richland employees already gave my hell for being the boss's son. Last thing I needed was one of them to see me putting a damn poem on a woman's car.
Claire had told me last night, before I had got too drunk to remember, that she was working a short shift today. I glanced at my watch. She should be getting off soon. I had a little time. Starting the truck, I put my favorite rock station on. And I waited so I could see her reaction first-hand.
I tried not to let myself think about her reacting poorly. She was going to love the note.
And eventually, she was going to love me.
I hoped.
My heart raced as Claire got out of the elevator and walked down the row toward her little car. She unlocked it and had opened the door before she saw the note. She hesitated for a second before she pulled it from the windshield. Even from across the parking garage, I could see her smile when she saw the writing.
I watched as she sank down into her seat and read the poem. My cheeks heated remembering just how sappy it was. Fuck, I hadn’t blushed since I was like twelve. Hopefully she liked it though.
She was smiling. I tried to think positively. When she hugged it to her chest before driving away, I had a pretty good feeling there'd be a note waiting the next day.
5
Claire
The corners of my lips turned up as I read the note. By the end, a huge—and probably goofy—grin covered my face. The flowers and the original note had been heartwarming, but after the initial burst of happiness, my pragmatic side had pushed that thought away and told me not to get my hopes up.
Z was only a one night stand, after all.
But this?
This was more. Embarrassingly bad, but so super sweet at the same time.
I couldn't believe I actually had a secret admirer. Romantic things like this had never happened to me. The most romantic guy I'd ever dated had bought me flowers only on Valentine's Day. And while I was asked out regularly, I had always been picky about the men I chose to spend time with. After the shit my mother had put me through... The sheer number of moves we'd made for my mom's newest love or the alternate—hurried moves while the man was at work and couldn't protest. Romance had just never been high on my list of priorities. And secret admirers were things from movies, from novels, and had no basis in my life. Right?
But yet... I had a secret admirer.
I sat in the car and read the little poem over, and over, until I had memorized each and every line. Each line I analyzed carefully, word by word. Did it mean more than the words said? The little note asked questions. Told me where to leave the answers.
But was I missing something? Could it really be that straight forward?
Hurrying home, I thought about how to answer. I definitely wanted to continue. Guys didn't put this kind of effort in if they weren't interested, seriously interested. And while I'd never really sought romance in the past, I wasn't stupid enough to push it away when it popped up right in front of me like this.
Pen in hand, I stared down at the blank page in front of me. It seemed wrong to only answer the questions. The poem was excruciatingly bad, but I could tell he put in some effort. I wanted to put in some effort of my own.
Thank you for the poem and flowers.
Until I see you again I count the hours.
Ugh. No. Seriously? He wrote a decent—okay, halfway decent—poem. I had to do better than that.
Hello Z,
Your poem was greatly appreciated.
That was even worse. He was trying to be romantic. Greatly appreciated goes on a thank you note for a work courtesy. Not a potential love letter. Smacking a hand against my forehead, I prayed for a tiny bit of creativi
ty.
My mysterious Z,
I won't subject you to my attempts at poetry.
Believe me when I say yours, even hungover, would be vastly better. But in answer, yes, I wish to continue. Yes, I wish to get to know you. I regret to say I remember little from our night together. I'm ashamed to say I thought the worst of you when I woke up alone. Then I found your first note... And I was hopeful.
So back to your questions, my favorite color is pink. Many are surprised by that, given that I rarely wear it. My car is blue, I wear a lot of blue, so most people assume that I would love blue. But pink will always be my favorite. I just look shitty in it.
My favorite food would be anything Mexican. I love it all. Spicy, mild, and all the in between. From Tex-Mex to authentic, I'm not picky. Just FYI for future dates. And if there's dessert to be had, Derby Pie would be my favorite. A remnant from a year spent in the Louisville, Kentucky area as a kid. Have you ever had Derby Pie? I'll make you one sometime, maybe? If things go that far with us.
Movies are harder. How do you just pick one? When I'm sad, I like comedies. When I'm mad, I love a good action movie with lots of explosions. Maybe because I like to pretend that I'm the one causing the explosion. What I hate? Horror movies where the girl runs past the open door and up the stairs. I hate movies that depict females as stupid. Particularly if said female is blonde. I guess you'd say I have mainstream tastes when it comes to movies, but it's what I've been exposed to. Oh, and I flipping hate medical dramas too, because they nearly always get it wrong and I can't stand that. Major pet peeve there.
As for the beard, keep it. Oh, please, keep it. Despite the burns on my inner thighs, I like it. It's sexy as hell. And, to be honest, one of the reasons I was attracted to you at Garden. Just... don't go all Duck Dynasty with it. I like well-kept beards. No mountain man, please.