You Give Love a Bad Name

by Marilyn Brant

  “Usually, yes.”

  “So...why the sad eyes, the need to numb yourself with alcohol, the uncharacteristically glum reaction to getting laid?”

  I finished my first vodka and pointed at the glass. Didn’t say another word until she’d poured me another drink. “She doesn’t trust me enough to want more,” I whispered.

  “When did you start wanting more than that?” She looked genuinely perplexed. “Not that it’s a bad thing...just, you know, really surprising.”

  “I don’t want more! I’ve never wanted more. So, shit. I don’t know. I’m just angry.”

  “You’re angry that she doesn’t want something that you...um, also don’t want?” She rubbed her temples. “Maybe it’s just because it’s after two a.m., but I’m still really confused and I don’t understand the issue.”

  “Neither did she.”

  Gina came to stand right in front of me, leaning over the counter until we were nearly at eye level. “Did it ever occur to you that things may have changed for you, Blake? That you do, actually, want more than a quickie with her...this mysterious woman whose name you’re being too honorable for the first time ever to tell me?”

  “I’d be stupid to want that.”

  “Maybe. But let me ask you this—what would you have wanted to be different? What did you expect from her tonight that you didn’t get?”

  It was a fair question. One I had to struggle to put into words, and when they came out, they still sounded lame. “That she would’ve cared about more than just our physical connection. That she would’ve felt more respect for me. That she’d want to introduce me to her friends or not be ashamed to be seen with me in public.”

  Oh, shit. I sounded like a whiny teenage girl. And Gina was looking at me as if I’d just sprouted alien antennas and turned a revolting shade of green.

  “Never mind,” I said as I finished my second drink in one long swallow. “Just pour me another vodka.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea—”

  “Hell, Gina. I fucking know it’s not a good idea, okay?”

  She winced, but she pushed the vodka bottle toward me and let me choose.

  “Sorry,” I said, motioning the bottle away and waiting for her to remove it. “You’re right. I should stop for tonight. Please just ignore me. I know I’m being an ass.”

  “Look, Blake,” she said in a very gentle voice. “Maybe I’m going out on a limb here, but it sounds like you really care about this woman. And you’re hurt and maybe worried that she might not care about you to the same degree. Does that ring true?”

  I covered my eyes with my palms to keep from glaring at her. Damn, but it just killed me to have to admit something like that. Problem was, that was the only explanation that made any bloody sense.

  Finally, I looked up at her and nodded slightly. Gina nodded back. Then she leaned over and pecked my cheek and left me alone to stew in my thoughts.

  When closing time came, I paid my tab, tipped Gina extra big, and left the bar without a word.

  Maybe it was because not even Winston was waiting at home for me (he was still with my brother and his wife until morning) that the loneliness hit me harder than usual. It was 3:14 a.m., only an hour and a half since I’d stormed out of Vicky’s place, but it felt like eons.

  I missed her already.

  I should’ve stayed and fought with her in person, rather than just arguing with her in my head. I needed to tell her how I was feeling—wasn’t that what normal people did? Expressed themselves when something in a relationship was bothering them?

  Our relationship—such that it is... Those were her words. She didn’t quite see us as having a real relationship, but that felt wrong to me. And now felt like the time I absolutely had to tell her this.

  I knew, even as I was punching her number into my cell phone, that this plan of action was probably not my best idea ever, but I couldn’t fight the compulsion. And, to be honest, just hearing her voice on the other end was justification enough for me. Didn’t give a damn how much I’d likely regret it later.

  “Blake?” she said, sleepy but still so proper and polite.

  “I n-need to talk t-to you,” I said or, rather, stuttered, which was a first for me.

  In any case, she had no trouble understanding me because she replied, “It’s after three in the morning.”

  “I don’t care. I can come over now.”

  “I do care,” she said. “Have you’ve been drinking? Because, if you have, you shouldn’t be driving anywhere in any case.”

  She was right. I’d kinda forgotten about that since, as usual, I’d just walked to Max’s and back. Plus, I’d stopped after only two drinks and wasn’t even close to feeling buzzed. But I didn’t want to let this subject drop, and I didn’t want to have this conversation on the phone. “Well, you can come over to my place then.”

  She sighed. “No, Blake, I can’t. It’s really late, and I’d hit the point of exhaustion hours ago. I’m way beyond that now. So, please, just go to bed and let me do the same. We can talk tomorrow—or, really, later today—okay? We’ll both be able to think more clearly then.”

  It wasn’t okay. I’d never be able to fall asleep. And I didn’t like the implication that I wasn’t thinking clearly now. I was seeing everything clearer than I ever had. I told her this. “Vicky, c’mon. Just drive to my apartment and we’ll—”

  “I already said no, Blake, and I meant it. The answer is no. N.O. Do you hear me? It’s still no. Not tonight. And if you somehow manage to come over here, I’ll tell you upfront that I won’t let you in. Not even if you pound on the door or yell in the hallway or cause a scene. Our date night is over and so is this conversation. Understand me?”

  “I understand, but—”

  “Glad to hear it,” she said, a note of finality ringing loud and clear in her voice. “Goodnight, Blake.”

  “Vicky—”

  But there was a click and I knew she’d hung up. Shit, shit, shit.

  Chapter Eleven

  ~Blake~

  I couldn’t say when or how I finally fell asleep, I just knew when I woke up that there was a cloud of dread hanging over me like some character in a cartoon. Like I was the only one in the picture being rained on. And I found myself weirdly dispirited, hoping Armageddon might come early so I wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of the day.

  Note to self: Late-night dialing (even when it was not technically drunk dialing) was never a good idea. Why hadn’t I remembered this from when I was in school?

  Two vodkas and a long chat with the bartender did not a hangover make. But I was as embarrassed this morning as if I’d had a wild bender of a night. Embarrassed that I’d effed up my date with Vicky by bolting out of her bedroom, by calling her at three a.m. and, worst of all, by getting so damned attached to her in the first place.

  I replayed in my head every single conversation we’d ever had against her comments to me last night. And, hell. They didn’t make me look good.

  Maybe I’d teased and taunted her a little too much this past month. She probably didn’t see it as the flirtatious foreplay I’d intended. And maybe I’d come across as a prick by insisting that love was some kind of foolish illusion. But it was. Or, at least, I’d always thought it was...until recently. I’d only been trying to speak honestly about that.

  Pretty much the only thing I knew for sure was that I owed her an apology for bolting out of her apartment and then pestering her after I left. I was mad and I was hurt, but I knew better than to do that. What did it say about my screwed up feelings for this woman that I was suddenly breaking my own well-established rules?

  And this crazy attraction to her was supposed to end after we’d slept together. But it had only gotten stronger. Why? Could Gina have nailed it? Had I actually changed?

  My shift at the radio station started at noon today, and it was already after ten right now. I didn’t want to wait for hours to speak with Vicky, so I took a shower, threw on some clean clothes,
and drove over to her place before I lost my nerve.

  My heart was hammering in my chest like I’d just run a four-minute mile when I rang the outside buzzer.

  “Yes?” she said, her voice sounding wary, tired.

  I swallowed and tried to push the words out, but I couldn’t speak. Just hearing her again brought back a rush of memories. Of holding her, kissing her, listening to her whispers and moans.

  “Is there someone out there?” she said, with more force this time.

  I finally cleared my throat and managed to reply. “It’s me, Vicky. Um, Blake.”

  There was a long pause. Too long. I knew she was debating her options.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to prepare myself for the possibility that she wouldn’t let me in. I was ready to explain that I could only stay for a short while. That I wouldn’t bother her for long. That I was just here to apologize in person. But I was having a devil of a time getting my mouth to cooperate.

  Finally, I heard the buzzing sound that allowed me to enter the lobby, so I let myself inside before she could change her mind.

  She was waiting for me when I got to her apartment, peeking into the hallway like a little kid who’d been reluctantly sent to answer the door.

  I bowed my head and whispered through the crack, “Thanks for letting me come up. I just came over to talk to you in person, but I’ll be out of your hair in ten minutes, okay?”

  She pulled the door open all the way and let me in. “Okay.”

  I studied her face when I was inside and could see that she didn’t just sound tired, she looked it, too. Guilt twisted in my gut over having caused that as well.

  “Look, Vicky—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you last night. I shouldn’t have stormed out. And I really shouldn’t have called you so late. Up until all that happened, it had been an amazing night. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that I ruined it.”

  She tilted her head and sent me a soft, sad smile, sighing like I’d drained all the breath out of her. “Don’t worry about it,” she said.

  “But I am going to worry about it because I don’t want to make that mistake with you next time.”

  She shook her head. “There isn’t going to be a next time. This was a one-night stand, remember? Easy come, easy go.” She shrugged like she totally didn’t care. “So, really, it’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine,” I ground out. “Because I’d like to go out with you again.”

  “Well, life isn’t always about what you’d like, is it, Blake?” She crossed her arms and I felt a sizzle of anger radiating from her body. She was tamping it down. Trying to control it.

  Fury wasn’t exactly a good thing, but it sure as hell beat indifference. I was oddly encouraged.

  “I get how you could be mad,” I told her. “I wasn’t at my best last night. Calling you so late after going to Max’s was really stupid, but I was trying to process everything, and you were the only one I wanted to talk to.”

  “You didn’t want to talk to me when you were here, though,” she countered. “Or even when you called. You just wanted to argue.”

  That may have been true, but I wasn’t thrilled to hear it and, besides, it wasn’t as though she’d been completely without fault. She’d been pretty damn insulting to me last night. I reminded her of this.

  “Really?” She raised her eyebrows. “More insulting than you’ve been to me all month? I don’t think so, Blake.” She turned her back to me and began riffling through a stack of papers on her kitchen counter a few feet away. “Hardly hero material,” she murmured in a low tone, but not so low that I couldn’t hear it.

  I felt my temper crackle and break. “Forgive me for not being perfect, Vicky. I’m not a fucking fictional character or some literary fantasy man of yours. I’m a real guy with real flaws. I’m not proud of them, but I’m working on being better. I’m not going to be able to read your mind, though, or fulfill every romantic scenario you’ve ever dreamed up so, sometimes, we have to live in the actual world.”

  She took a step back and stared at me hard. “I’m well aware that book boyfriends aren’t real, Blake, but heroes are. They’re the kind of men that others can rely on. The kind that are there for the long haul. Not the kind who’ll say anything to get a woman into bed and then become all insecure and possessive when she doesn’t consider him trustworthy. You say you can’t read my mind? Okay, I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. That you’re just in that ‘lusting, obsessive, delusional, needy’ phase right now, and that you got angry last night because, for once, you weren’t the one calling the shots. You wanted a fling? Well, voilà, you got one. That decision was on me and I’m not going to regret it—but I’m not going to repeat it either. If nothing else, your behavior since we slept together has convinced me that I was right to hold out only for love. Maybe I’ll never find it, but these kind of casual hookups and this game-playing crap of yours isn’t close enough to the real thing for me. So, just—just let it go. Find someone else’s head to screw with.”

  I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out. She thought I was playing mind games? Did she not hear a freakin’ thing I’d been trying to say to her?

  Apparently not.

  But my tongue and lips weren’t working in tandem with my brain. I was feeling a bunch of emotions but utterly incapable of expressing any of them. So, when she glanced between me and the door, I just stalked away from her again. The second time in less than twelve hours, which was a record for me. But what else could I do?

  I was angry to the point of vibrating by the time I got to Derek and Olivia’s house to pick up Winston, but I knew for damned sure that I didn’t want to talk about Vicky with my brother or his wife.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Derek asked. “Did someone cut you off on the drive over here?”

  No. Someone cut me off in every other way, though.

  “I’m fine,” I assured my brother.

  “You don’t look fine. Need an ear to listen? Someone to bounce ideas off of today? Just tell me how I can help.”

  “Thanks,” I said, as Winston came hobbling toward me, “but no one can help. It’s a lost cause.”

  “Nothing’s a lost cause, Blake. C’mon. We can talk it out.”

  I shook my head. “Not this.”

  “If you change your mind—” Derek began.

  “You’ll be the first to know.” I pointed at my dog. “Thank you for watching Winston last night. Sorry to grab and run, but I gotta go. My shift starts in twenty minutes.”

  Before Derek could try to man-hug me or anything, I got out of his house. I returned my furry best friend to the safe familiarity of my apartment, made sure he had enough food and water, and then walked across the street to the radio station.

  Vicky’s words dogged my every step, though. She was flat-out wrong about nearly all of it but, once again, I was struggling to articulate why and how.

  This picture she painted of me as a major asshat was what bothered me the most. I’d been labeled a lot of negative things in my life. I’d been called impulsive, immature, cocky, and reckless for as long as I could remember. Women typically thought of me as a bad boy—a sexy one, if I was lucky. But no one had ever accused me of being unheroic. That was an unhappy first.

  As Amelia and I switched places in the 102.5 booth, she shot me a worried glance. “Everything okay with your dog?” she asked.

  “Winston? Yeah, he’s still recovering from the accident, but he’s making good progress.”

  “Your family then? No illnesses or anything?”

  “They’re fine, too. Everybody’s healthy.”

  “Then what on Earth is wrong with you today? You look like someone died.”

  I scowled at her. Amelia was sweet, but she was too damn curious.

  “Your shift is over, isn’t it?” I tapped the face of my wristwatch. “Go home. I’m sure you have some friends or relatives or next-door neighbors who’d welcome one of your well-meaning inquisitions, but I’ve got a
four-hour show to do now.”

  “You having trouble sleeping? Eating? Getting it up?”

  My jaw dropped open. What the hell was with all of these people questioning my sexual performance? “None of the above. Now leave.”

  “So, it’s probably about a woman then, right?”

  “Jeez, Amelia! Stop. Your. Prying.”

  She leaned against the doorframe and just stared at my head while I pretended to organize the few items in front of me. I fiddled with the mic, but before I could click it on, Amelia rushed over and squeezed my shoulders. She planted a wet kiss on my cheek and whispered, “Whatever happened, and whomever it happened with, it’ll be all right, Blake. Love can be hard sometimes. Just hang in there.”

  To my absolute horror, I started to get misty-eyed right in the middle of the booth. I ducked my head so Amelia wouldn’t see, muttered a quick “yeah, thanks,” and launched into the show a full three minutes early.

  “It’s nearly noon at 102.5 LOVE FM. Blake Michaelsen stepping in here as we get ready for a relaxing Sunday afternoon. We’ve got a great lineup of romantic songs headed your way, and a few fun announcements. Stay tuned for more! And to start us off, how about a pair of classic tunes by Elton John?”

  As “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues” started to play, my coworker finally slipped out of the booth, blowing me a kiss before she left.

  I managed a grateful wave, but I was so damned relieved Amelia was gone. How could she read me so well? My emotions were insanely out of whack today and, clearly, it showed. It would be better to limit the number of witnesses.

  My brain literally ached from thinking so hard and from trying to control every feeling. Homecoming Week kicked off with the car wash in an hour, and I’d promised the students on the committee that I’d give them an on-the-air shout out. Much as I was still pissed at Vicky and hurt by her god-awful low opinion of me, it wasn’t like I’d go back on my word to the kids.

  But as the first Elton John hit shifted into the second—“Sad Songs”—I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d make it through the next hour, let alone the next four. The lyrics were starting to get to me. Not in the usual they’re-trite-and-annoying sort of way, but in the they-kinda-make-sense way. And that worried the crap out of me.