You Give Love a Bad Name

by Marilyn Brant

  “Thank you so much, Vicky,” she said warmly. “It means a lot to me when someone is genuinely happy for us. I have to admit, that’s not always the case.” She didn’t say this bitterly, but I could tell that—as much as the romance with Dane Tyler agreed with her—the media attention had worn her out.

  “Is the press still being really intrusive?” I asked.

  “Always,” she said with a chuckle. “But Dane’s worth it. He really took me by surprise. Guess Jane Austen was right about first impressions not necessarily being accurate.”

  We shared a laugh over that. Julia was a junior high English teacher, so she and I had a mutual love for Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice. Although, if I were being honest, I was definitely the more fanatical of the two of us.

  “Now, please, tell me about you,” she said. “Everyone’s always asking about me, but I miss hearing other news.”

  I thought of skirting what was really happening or saying something superficial, but Julia was sincere and I could really use her perspective.

  “I’m okay. Mostly. I have a situation, though... How well do you know Shar’s brother Blake?”

  Her dark-blond eyebrows shot up. “A fair bit. But why? Has he done anyth—”

  “No, no. It’s not what you think. He’s DJ’ing the Homecoming dance and I’m the committee advisor, which means we need to work together for the next few weeks, but I can’t get a clear read on him.”

  Julia paused for a long moment, considering my words or, perhaps, how much to share with me. Finally, she said, “Hanging around Dane, I’ve learned a little about actors. I can tell you this about Blake—he has a veneer. I’m not sure when it started or why, but it’s been there for as long as I’ve known him, and I think he hides behind it. Even, perhaps, with his family sometimes.”

  I took in this insight, surprised but grateful. It was an interesting observation on her part and, even though I didn’t know Blake as well as Julia did, her perspective seemed to ring true. Not that it made me like the guy much better, but at least it didn’t deepen my dislike.

  “So you believe that, despite all his talking, he’s pretty guarded?” I asked.

  She nodded. “He has a gift for appearing open without actually giving anything away. Shar’s complained about his cageyness many times. And I have no idea what it would take to get him to let someone in on his real feelings.”

  Julia certainly had more past interactions with the Michaelsens than I did, but that wasn’t always enough. After all, I’d thought I knew my ex-boyfriend Philippe and his family rather well, but I was still blindsided by his behavior. So familiarity was no guarantee of understanding somebody.

  I knew this even as Julia was quick to reassure me that she was sure Blake had a good heart underneath it all. “Even if he seems reckless, I don’t think he’d ever do anything truly bad,” she said.

  Once upon a time, I’d been more optimistic about people. In college, for instance, I’d dated the usual collection of guys that a future foreign-language teacher would be drawn to: European exchange students, other cultural junkies, international studies majors, one guy from Bogota, Colombia (until I found out he had a penchant for running drugs), and, of course, guys who’d studied French because it was considered a “language of love” and they thought it might help them get laid.

  Philippe, whom I’d dated during my first few years of teaching, was a native French speaker but, in many ways, he’d fallen squarely into that later category. I just hadn’t realized it at first. I’d been taken in by his charm and his projection of sincerity. It was only after we broke up that I could see he was a seducer not a romantic. Not even close to the same thing.

  I thanked Julia for sharing her thoughts with me, and I let her mingle more with the other members of the Quest group. So many of them were anxious to talk with her, and they were nice people. Not only Bill and Shar, but Elsie, Therese, Alex, Martha, Linda, and Colleen. I couldn’t help but wonder, though, why I was here. I’d come to enough gatherings by now to know that I wasn’t going to find my soulmate in this group, much as I liked everyone on a personal level. I should have trusted my gut and just stayed home to read that story I was—

  “You look like you’re in another galaxy, a few million light years away,” Shar observed.

  I smiled at her. “You caught me, although maybe just a mile or two away. At my apartment. On the sofa. With a good book.” I shook my head and lowered my voice so only she could hear. “These get-togethers only remind me of dates from my past and why I’m still single. I’m feeling so old tonight.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re only two years older than me, and I refuse to throw in the towel just yet.”

  Shar was very fit, fast-moving, and sprite-like. I had a hard time imagining that she’d ever feel old. She certainly wouldn’t look it for a long, long time. I told her this.

  She shrugged me off. “I feel old and frustrated all the time, Vicky. But then I look at Julia and at my brothers Chance and Derek, and I see how much happier they all are now that they’ve met someone special. It gives me hope that true love exists out there.”

  True love was the golden ticket. The prize of a lifetime. The holy grail of fantasies. Who didn’t want true love? But there was no magic spell to cast. No way to make it appear on command.

  I murmured something noncommittal to Shar.

  She crossed her arms and stared at me. “Okay, Vicky. There’s something going on with you. Are you gonna tell me or what?”

  I briefly considered the “or what” option, but I didn’t want to worry a friend, and my cowardice was getting ridiculous.

  “I, um...met your brother Blake on Thursday,” I said, working hard to keep my tone neutral. “He’s going to be DJ’ing the Homecoming dance. Did he mention that to you?”

  Shar put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “But I know my brother. I love him but he’s a pain. What did the asshat say to piss you off?”

  “Oh, well—it wasn’t...I mean, there wasn’t a specific—” I paused. Blake Michaelsen might not be my favorite person in the world, but Shar already looked very irritated, and I wasn’t trying to turn his sister against him.

  “So, it wasn’t just one thing, eh?” Shar concluded grimly. “Can’t say I’m surprised. He’s been on a tear all month. It’s a wonder the numbskull even has time to do his job in between getting into bar fights and oversleeping.”

  Ah. So she’d heard about the fight at Max’s on Monday night. Not that I was shocked. She’d probably already chewed him out for that.

  “And he completely missed a family gathering last night,” she continued ranting, “claiming to be ‘too tired.’ What bullshit. More like ‘too hung over.’ Again. I’m tempted to march over to his place right now and—”

  “Oh, please don’t. At least not on my account. Meeting him wasn’t that bad, Shar. It’s just, he has a way of riling up the kids. They don’t need a lot of encouragement to go wild, so...”

  “I’m sorry, Vicky. I know he can act worse than a squirrelly teenager. I’ll tell him to knock it off when he’s with you.”

  “No, I don’t want to get in between you, but I just wanted to ask—has he had a self-destructive bent for a long time?”

  Shar pulled me away from the rest of the group so we could talk privately.

  “He’s always been a lover and a fighter, Vicky. His natural inclination is to kiss a woman he finds attractive, and then deal with the consequences afterward. Or to punch out a guy who’s bothering him first, and ask questions later. He was the kid most likely to end up with stitches on the playground. The teen that the principal or deans immediately called to the office when there was a mysterious problem. But aside from some binge drinking at parties in high school or college, I’ve never known Blake to be out of control with alcohol—at least not until fairly recently. Chandler was always the family party animal. So different from his twin.”

  We shared a brief chuckle over that. Chandler’s twin Chance was such a h
ealth nut that he rarely drank anything but bottled water.

  “The thing is,” Shar continued, “I know Blake’s been drinking alone more often lately. As a kind of numbing tactic. And that, of course, worries me.”

  She had a haunted look on her face when she spoke about this, and I could tell it pained her to have to admit these things about her big brother. It was clear how much Shar loved every member of her family with her whole heart, but she wasn’t one to see them idealistically. And if I’d been worried about her being offended by my lack of rapport with Blake, it was unnecessary.

  She leaned in and said, “Just so you know, my brother loves to push other people’s buttons. Don’t let him bully you. He lives for that. And you have my permission to slap him if he makes any kind of a pass at you. I already know he thinks you’re hot, so if he gets grabby—”

  “WHAT?”

  She laughed. “Yeah. He saw you at the radio station during the Dane Tyler reception this summer. He called you The Babe,” she added with a grin.

  This was news to me, and my shock must have shown.

  Shar patted me gently on my arm. “Blake has the romantic attention span of a gnat, so just stand your ground and don’t take his behavior personally. I keep hoping he’ll grow up one day and behave like a gentleman. But that might take another decade or two.” She sighed. “So, be forewarned.”

  Chapter Six

  ~Blake~

  There must be some law of quantum physics or something that stated that even if you’ve lived for years in the same town as someone and rarely laid eyes on that person before, once you’ve been officially introduced, you suddenly start seeing them freakin’ everywhere.

  After my little chat with the uptight Mademoiselle on Thursday, I hadn’t expected to see her again so soon. Like at Mirabelle Market on Friday night.

  The place was as dead as road kill. Maybe five people in the entire grocery store. And I was this close to walking up to Vicky and giving her a hard time in the produce department. But there was another guy already talking to her—balding, Cubs baseball cap, a few years older than me—and the two of them seemed friendly.

  Not that I had any intention of admitting this to anyone, ever, but I also kind of lost my nerve. She was so different here than she’d been outside the bar or in her classroom. So open, friendly, relaxed...vulnerable. I guess I just couldn’t take seeing her stiffen up the way she would the second she saw me.

  Plus, it was fun spying on her and seeing her so unguarded. She was one of those naturally beautiful women who didn’t seem to realize they were beautiful. Her dark hair fell in soft waves. Her eyes sparkled with warmth as she talked to the other guy. Her smile was kind and genuine.

  Damn. I was kind of jealous of that.

  I just couldn’t bring myself to mess up the moment for her.

  So I actually snuck away. Grabbed my box of rotini pasta, a jar of sauce, and a container of parmesan cheese, and then I checked out in the express lane before she noticed me.

  I hadn’t done something like that—run away from a girl—since I was, like... Hell. I couldn’t even remember. Twelve, maybe? Why did I suddenly feel like a junior-high kid around her?

  Then I got home and made the mistake of reading my texts. And listening to my messages.

  “Where the heck are you?” my sister demanded in her voicemail message, after having sent about seven texts. “You skipped a family gathering! Are you dead?” she sniped. “In the hospital? Being held at gunpoint? If not, call me.”

  Oh, shit.

  So, I called her. “Sorry, Shar. I forgot about this one. But I just saw you all on Monday.”

  “That was for your birthday,” she retorted. “This is because it’s 9-11. We need to remember the heroes and those we lost by honoring our family, the people we love, and our country.”

  I was as patriotic as the next guy but, seriously, I didn’t see how a Friday fish fry was going to help us remember the fallen.

  “Well, I can honor you tomorrow instead,” I told her. “Tonight I’m staying at home, watching TV, and crashing early.”

  “Tomorrow, I’m going to Drew’s with my friends, so you’re on your own,” she said with a huff. “Don’t miss the next family dinner, Blake.” She paused. “I love you, you know.”

  “I know. I love you, too, Sis.”

  Of course, the next night, when I was driving down Main Street, I glanced over at Drew’s Diner. I knew Shar would be in there, but as I looked through the large bay window, just who was standing next to her? That’s right. The French teacher. Two nights in a row.

  So, given how the week was going, it shouldn’t have surprised me at all that I’d run into Vicky on Sunday morning while I was taking Winston for a walk in Eastman Field.

  Seriously, this chick was everywhere.

  My chest tightened and my throat went dry the second I spotted her. She was a vision in black spandex. Headphones on. Striding down the walking path with purpose. Evasion was possible, but I’d had enough of backing away.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” I said, intercepting her. Winston barked merrily at her sneaker-clad feet.

  Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of me and my dog. Pulling out her earbuds, she stared at me for a long moment before clearing her throat. “Uh, Blake. Hi.” She then turned her gaze to Winston and, at last, smiled. “Hey, who’s this?”

  “This would be Winston. He’s more exuberant than polite,” I said as my canine ball of fluff tugged at his leash, trying to get closer to her. “But he’s generally well intentioned.” I held him back—he clearly wanted to lavish her with wet kisses, and I couldn’t blame him—but Vicky knelt down in front of him and held out her hand. Winston immediately muzzled it with his nose and then licked every one of her fingers.

  She petted his tangled curls and laughed. It was a lovely sound.

  “What a cutie you are,” she whispered to him in a soft, sweet tone I hadn’t heard her use before. For a second, I was envious of my dog.

  Winston reveled in the attention. He wagged his tail like a frenzied rudder, so hard and fast that I thought it might start propelling him around the park. He rolled on his back to let her rub his belly. A true show of trust, especially in one so hyper.

  “Wow,” I said. “He likes you.”

  “How long have you had him?” Vicky asked.

  “Not quite a month. He’s a rescue. The vet thinks he’s about a year old.”

  She finally stood up and gazed at me with big, surprised eyes. “Really? You rescued him?”

  I didn’t know why that should shock her so much, so I just nodded.

  “He’s beautiful. What made you decide to get him?”

  “I—uh...”

  It was rare that I was at a loss for words, but it was hard to explain why I’d even walked into the animal shelter that day. It was a spur of the moment thing. But I stepped inside and glanced around, and the second my eyes and Winston’s met, I just knew we belonged to each other. Verbalizing that would sound weird, though.

  After a moment, I managed to say, “I just really like dogs.”

  She squinted at me. It was clear that she approved of my mutt, but the skeptical expression on her face clued me that she still wasn’t much of a fan of me.

  I decided to turn the conversation over to her. “So, what are you listening to? Jazz? Classical? Heavy metal? Rap?” I pointed to her earbuds. I couldn’t see the device they were attached to. It had to be hidden somewhere in her clothing. Not that I could tell where. Everything she was wearing was sleek and formfitting—the way workout clothes should be, in my opinion. Especially the way her shirt clung to her fine breasts and her leggings hugged her ass. I wanted to hug her ass like that. Mmm.

  “None of the above,” she retorted, her voice several degrees cooler than before. Man, she was touchy.

  “World music then? Some French singer?”

  “Would you know their names if I listed a few?” She cocked one eyebrow at me in challenge.

 
; Thing was, I worked as a DJ. I’d actually listened to quite a lot of musical artists, including several French singers—soloists, rock bands, even folksy stuff. But it would make it too easy on her if I told her that. Besides, she seemed to enjoy labeling me as a cultural idiot. Why spoil her fun so soon?

  “Why don’t you enlighten me, Mademoiselle?” There was, maybe, a little bite to my response, but if she heard it, she didn’t acknowledge it.

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t listening to music at all,” she said smugly. “Many times when I walk, I listen to audiobooks instead.”

  She shrugged in a way that indicated that she didn’t think I’d understand the concept. That I was the kind of guy who must not like reading.

  This pissed me off. Big time. She didn’t know who she was dealing with here.

  I exhaled, crossed my arms, and pulled myself to my full height, just so I could look down at her a little more. “Excellent,” I said with exaggerated confidence. “I’ve been looking for someone to talk to about the latest fiction New York Times bestsellers. I’ve only read, maybe, six out of this week’s top ten so far, but I just downloaded The Gatekeeper by Benson Sallari. It’s been number one in mainstream thrillers for the past three weeks. Have you read—or listened—to it?”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “Not yet.”

  “More into lit fic, then? I really liked Seventh House by Eliza Castillo. They’re making a movie out of that one.” I stared at her in question.

  She shook her head.

  “No on that book, too? How about Brett Butzman’s A Ride Through Provence? Katriona Gayle’s Counting Sheep? Or A.J. Weston’s latest mystery, The Clock Strikes Back? Surely, you’ve read at least one of those, right?” I did my best to sound superior.

  “I’ve h-heard of them, of course,” she stuttered. “But I’ve been listening to something historical lately.”

  “Oh, that Henry the 8th biography by Nelson Oakes? Everyone’s been talking about that. I finished it in, like, two days. Impressive research, don’t you think?”