by J. D. Brick
“Hey,” I say playfully, “you should sing at the house parties instead of that guy you said was a douche.” I thought I’d come up with a great idea. Before I even know what’s happening, Blue draws his thumb across my lower lip. And I think that I might have moaned. I am not sure if the sound came out of my mouth or I just heard it in my head. He sits there staring at my lips, and I think he’s going to kiss me. I may have even closed my eyes in anticipation.
And then he chuckles. “I was talking about myself, knucklehead,” he says. “I’m the douche. It was my band playing last night.”
You idiot. “Oh.” I barely get the word out when he does kiss me. I’d describe it as an exploratory kiss. It’s soft, tender, exquisite. And I want more. Oh. Dear. God. Do I want more. But that’s not how I react. I pull back, then slap my hands on my thighs in a gesture of dismissal. I’m doing exactly what I told myself I wouldn't do. I do not want to end up in bed with Blue Danube. Well, maybe I do want it. But it’s not going to happen. It’s so not part of my plan right now.
And really, Blue is out of line. Too much, too fast. I just don’t think I can handle it. “Okay, well, that's not. . .” I start. “This is not what I'm here for and, well, I have to be in the newsroom very early tomorrow so. . .” I sound harsh, businesslike. That’s a good thing.
Blue doesn’t move, just sits there with his hands draped over his guitar, looking bemused. “Newsroom?”
“Yeah. I’m the editor of the campus newspaper.” I’m sort of surprised he doesn’t know that. The campus paper and the town's local paper splashed stories about me all over the front page at the beginning of the semester.
“I didn’t know we even had a campus paper.”
Now it is my turn to act outraged. “Really? Ikana’s journalism program is known all over the country, and you didn’t know we had a newspaper? It's only one of the top college newspapers in the U.S. You mean you never read it?”
He puts his hands up. “Whoa, there, bar girl, no need to get upset over it. I try to avoid the news. I don’t want to know what’s going on in the world anymore.” He looks away, then turns back toward me as I start to inch my way to the window. I’ve got my journal and phone in one hand, and I’m using the other to steady myself on the roof.
“So you’re the top dog at the paper? How old are you?”
I pause. “I turn 20 next month.” I know what he’ll say next.
“Wow, that’s pretty impressive. How’d you manage that?”
I’ve told the whole tale many times before, but I’m not in the mood to go into again now. “It’s kind of a long story, but the short version is I had to compete for it at the end of last year against other candidates. It was my first year on the newspaper, and I hadn’t even thought of running for editor, but one of my professors really pushed me to do it for my sophomore year. I didn't think I'd get it, but I worked my butt off, and I guess the journalism board liked my presentation. I got it.” Then I can’t help adding, “I’m the youngest editor ever.”
Blue’s smile is warm and genuine. “Looks like I underestimated you, Keegan Crenshaw. That’s very impressive.”
I’ve reached the window. I shrug. “Some people said I got it because of my family, because of who my grandma is.” It still stings just to say it. It had never occurred to me when I was competing for the job that people would say I had it handed to me. I start to step inside, speaking over my shoulder. “But that’s not true. I earned it.” I put my feet on the floor and then lean my head out the window.
Blue’s crouched on the roof, staring at me. “I believe you,” he says. “But who’s your grandma?”
I don’t want to talk about Virginia yet with Blue. “Never mind. I’ll tell you later.”
He stares at me a minute more, then looks over at the tree, and a wry smile plays on his lips. “Um, Keegan, can I go through your room or do I have to go down the way I came up?”
I hesitate. The bed is right there. He's already kissed me, already made clear what he wants. Put all that together with my mutinous body parts, and it could be dangerous. Maybe dangerous is just what I need. Hell, no, it is not.
“Don’t worry, Keegan.” Blue sounds like he’s about to burst out laughing. “I’m going right out the door. You're perfectly safe.”
Damn. "Of course you can go through my room.” The editor's tone again. I need to stick with it. I need to use it every time I’m around Blue Danube. He follows me inside, turning toward me right before he closes the door on his way out.
“Night, bar girl. And, um, sorry if I did something I shouldn't have. The kiss, I mean. I thought. . .never mind. But I am sorry. Really.”
“Night, Blue.” I sit down on my bed, trying to ignore the fact that I’m a little disappointed. More than a little, maybe. “Hey Blue?”
The door is almost closed. He sticks his head back inside. “Yeah?”
“Would you maybe sing that song again to me sometime?”
“Count on it.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Bar Girl
Keegan
I didn’t set the alarm on my phone before I went to bed; I almost never need an alarm in the morning. But I don’t sleep well that first night in the Embassy. In fact, it’s a terrible night. I wake up the first time with my heart pounding in my chest, staring disoriented into the unfamiliar darkness. No idea, for a few seconds, where I am. Tree branches scrape the roof near my window. When I fall back to sleep, I dream about the awful last days of my mother’s life.
In the dream, I’m back at the ranch, in my old room upstairs, with an oak tree just outside the window. I used to sneak out that way when I was younger, until I fell one night and broke my arm in two places. Virginia had her ranch hands shear off the branches near my window and put a stop to what she called my “tree-top adventures.”
She always wanted me and my brother, Buick,to call her Grandmother. In her mind, Grandma was low-class. Buick complied—like he always did—but I called her Virginia, or, when I was blaming her for everything that had happened to us, Granny. I enjoyed pissing her off, back then.
About a week before my mother died, Virginia swept into the trailer park we’d been living in a few miles from the ranch’s southern boundary. She was driving the big SUV emblazoned with the Cooke Ranch logo way too fast along the winding gravel road. I was sitting outside in a lawn chair, swatting at mosquitoes and staring at the setting sun, when she came roaring up. Buick was inside the trailer, trying to figure out what to eat for supper. His choices were pretty much limited to whatever canned food and stale cookies or crackers he could find in there. I’d been meaning to make it to the grocery store, but couldn’t seem to get motivated enough to do it.
Buick had the marijuana munchies, but he wasn't getting any sympathy from me. My brother was smart, probably smarter than me, but he’d stopped even trying in middle school. Now a dropout, he spent a lot of time sitting around in front of our trailer with his druggie buddies, toking up and making moronic comments about boobs and the girls attached to them.
“Nice job perpetuating the trailer-trash stereotype, Buick,” I’d said when I got home from working the noon to 8 PM shift that day, my McDonald’s uniform reeking of the French fry machine I’d been operating for hours. “Your mother will be so proud.”
He’d told me to fuck off, for his buddies’ benefit, and shot me a stricken look that made me feel a little guilty about using our dying mother to taunt him. But only a little. I had to snatch a lighter out of the hand of one of his idiot friends who was hunched over, waving the flame under the loose vinyl straps of the chair he was sitting in.
“Too bad it’s fire-resistant, genius,” I snapped as the acrid smell of burning plastic reached my nose. Genius just grinned up at me stupidly. Buick was always making dumb choices when it came to his friends.
The druggies were all gone—except for the one I was related to—by the time Virginia walked past me and yanked open the trailer door. She was impeccably dressed, as usual, in we
althy ranch-chic. Her boots alone probably cost more than several months’ rent on our little home on wheels, the only thing my dad had been able to afford. Virginia’s hair was cut in a sleek bob. She’d never colored it; her natural gray was steely and stylish, just like its owner. But her eyes were puffy, almost invisible without makeup. She looked exhausted. I knew she’d been at the hospital for the last 48 hours.
“Keegan, Buick, pack your things right now.” She always spoke like someone used to giving orders. “You’re moving back in with me.”
I started to resist, just for old times’ sake. Virginia and I had a long history of butting heads; it used to make my mother cry and my dad laugh. But they were both beyond that now. And the truth was, I really did want to go back to my big, comfortable room at the ranch. In the cramped trailer, I had to cover my ears every night and pretend not to hear Mom cry out in pain. And when she’d gone to the hospital for the final time, the silence in the trailer at night was even worse. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
In my dream, I’m watching my family from the safety of the canopy bed Virginia bought for me when I was six. Somehow, the trailer, the ranch and the hospital are all mixed together. Mom, Dad, Grandpa, Buick and Virginia are inside the trailer, arguing about something. And then, suddenly, they’re standing out in the sunshine at the ranch, laughing together. And then, in another instant, they’re sobbing in a waiting room in the hospital. All except for my mother, who starts shrieking as she is wheeled away on a stretcher.
I sit upright in my bed at the Embassy, hearing the screams from my dream for a few seconds even after I’m awake. It’s still dark outside. I tussle with the sheets as if they’re holding me down, then leap out of bed and run to the other side of the room, resting my hands on the wall and forcing myself to breathe deeply. I cross the room again and pick my phone up off the floor to check the time.
Four o’clock in the morning. I groan and flop back down on the bed. Shit. I close my eyes, trying not to think about the Daily or the history paper that’s due in two days. I especially don’t want to think about the stalker. At least there are no new messages from him. But if I think about any of it, I’m not going to get any more sleep.
And so, once more, I allow myself to think about Blue. I close my eyes, hearing the song he sang to me on the roof. My mouth tingles as his thumb moves tenderly across my mouth again in my memory. I can practically taste his lips on mine. I drift to sleep, finally, imagining being pulled to Blue’s chest, wrapped up in his strong arms.
Sunlight forces my eyes open, and for a moment, I again don’t know where I am. Then I grab my phone in a panic. 8 AM. I should already be in the newsroom. I grab a towel from one bin and my toiletries from another, then race into the bathroom. I throw my stuff in the sink and reach for the handles on the tub, expecting a stream of water from the shower head. Nothing happens. There’s no fricking shower head.
“Holy crap!” I stuff the old-fashioned stopper in the drain so I can quickly fill the tub. “What the hell kind of bathroom doesn’t have a shower?”
Not sure who I am even talking to. I could just skip the bath altogether, but I worked up a sweat yesterday with all the moving. I don’t really want to show up smelly at the newsroom. Ten minutes later, I throw on my clothes and hurriedly brush my teeth, then pull my wet hair into a ponytail. I skip the makeup. The Daily staff’s seen me barefaced before. At least I am clean. I stuff my laptop and phone into my backpack, along with the books I’ll need for my classes.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts into my nostrils just as my feet hit the bottom stair, and I remember the bananas and protein bars I bought the night before. I’m starving and sleep-deprived and already late; a five-minute delay for breakfast won’t make much difference. So I run into the kitchen and almost collide with Blue, who is leaning against the counter with his legs crossed, wearing only a pair of plaid boxers and sipping a cup of coffee.
“Whoa there, bar girl.” He lifts his mug out of the way just in time. He smells citrusy again and kind of soapy. His dark hair’s wet. And there’s that stomach, that chest, those arms. Again. I blush.
“Oh, sorry.” I step back and hear a yelp. “Oh, sorry, Max, I didn’t mean to step on you.” The dog wags his tail. I pet his head, then glance at Blue. How bad does my bare, tired face look to him? Stop it. Of all the things I should be worried about. I can’t stop my eyes from taking in his tanned, muscular legs. Blue sure looks good wearing only a pair of boxers. He probably looks even better wearing nothing at all.
Irritated, I start opening the dilapidated cabinets, searching for another coffee mug, but finding nothing but a motley collection of plastic beer cups, Chinese food soup containers, and weirdly, a set of Hello Kitty plates.
“Sorry,” Blue say, “we don’t have much in the way of dishes.” He opens a corner cabinet and pulls out a package of Styrofoam cups. “I pretty much have the only real mug in the house.” He lifts it up for a second. “And I guard it with my life.” The cup’s oversized, white, with the words UNITED STATES ARMY in gold and an American flag next to some kind of seal. There’s a chip on the top of the handle. “But I might consider loaning it to you, when I’m not using it, of course.”
He takes another sip, then sets down his mug, fills a cup from the coffee pot and hands it to me. I put my backpack on the linoleum floor and sip with my eyes closed, trying to stifle my panic.
Blue picks up his mug again and runs his eyes over my face. “So how’d you sleep on your first night at The Embassy?”
“Fine” is on the tip of my tongue, but for some reason, I decide to be honest with him. “Not too good. Actually, I had a really rough night.” I take another sip. “Bad dreams. And now I’m so effing late.” I open the cabinet that holds my food and tear into the protein bars while also peeling and stuffing most of a banana into my mouth, avoiding Blue’s eyes. I probably look super attractive right now, chewing like a cow. Did I really need to stuff this much into one bite?
“I know all about bad dreams.” Blue speaks barely above a whisper. I regret being honest with him; it just makes me feel more vulnerable. He is staring down into his coffee, and the muscle in his jaw twitches just like when he’d mentioned his father. His lips hover over the cup for a moment. Then he smiles. When he raises his eyes, I see that they’re gleaming with amusement. It’s a little odd, how quickly he jumps from one emotion to another.
Blue gently tugs my ponytail. “You do know you’re allowed to use the word fuck here, right?” he drawls. “You don’t have to say effing here, sweet young Keegan. All the F-word derivatives are allowed. No one’s going to be shocked or upset if you use them. Nobody’s going to punish you.” Then he smirks. “Unless you want to be punished, of course.”
I choke on my protein bar and almost snort coffee out of my nose. My loins are doing a happy dance at the same time that a pretty kinky mental picture of me being “punished” by Blue is setting my brain on fire. Unbelievable.
“You OK, bar girl?” There’s the grin again.
I shake my head. “You know something, Blue?” I gasp. I can feel my cheeks burning. “I haven’t even known you for 24 hours and already I’m wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.” I’m only half-kidding. And I am really late. I take another couple of quick sips of the coffee and look around for the trash. Blue points at a tall, overflowing can on the other side of the fridge. I push the cup into the middle of the pile, then watch it slide off on to the floor.
“Don’t worry about it,” Blue says. “I guess I’ll be doing some cleaning today. Didn’t manage to do any yesterday.” He sighs. “Kendra and Hunter damn well better show up to help me. We’ve got a lot to do to get ready for the Halloween party.”
I’m bending down to pick up my backpack when he says that, and my stomach lurches. “Halloween party?”
“Yes, ma’am. The Embassy has a reputation to uphold. We always throw a helluva Halloween party.”
I must look as queasy as I feel. I
have so much work to do. I need to be well-rested and at the top of my game. Having to sleep in a house with a party reputation to uphold doesn’t sound conducive to sleep.
“Cheer up, Keegan. It’ll be a lot of fun. You’ll get to hear me play a mean bass. Hey, maybe I’ll even sing that song for you at the party.”
I give him just a bit of a smile. “I’ve got to go. Bye, Blue. Um, thanks for the coffee.” And I rush out the door.
“Well good morning, Screaming Bad Girl.” Jason sticks his head into my office and cracks a smile that’s way too wide for a Monday morning. Especially this Monday morning. He likes to call me by my blog name, the blog that made me famous before I ever got to college. Or infamous, if you believe Virginia. Leaning against the wall in my office, Jason runs a hand through his curly brown hair. He’s still holding the thick red marker he uses to edit copy. It’s seriously old-school, printing stories out and working them over with proofreading symbols like it’s still 1980 or something. But Jason insists he’s a much better managing editor doing it that way. And he is definitely a good managing editor. I’m not sure I could do my job without him.
Megz made fun of Jason’s long, pointy face and big, “bug eyes” when he came to my dorm room at the beginning of the semester so we could talk about the first issue of the paper. Megz can be mean sometimes, especially about physical imperfections. It’s the one thing about her that really bothers me. True, Jason’s not the most attractive person. But he’s a nice guy, and he’s really helped me out with the editor position, pointing out a lot of things I didn’t even know. He’d once told me that his grandmother had been the Daily’s first female associate editor back in the late Sixties. The Parkers were one of Hickory Flat’s founding families, and Jason still lives with his parents in the sprawling family home on Main Street.
“So,” he asks, “everything okay? You actually moved out of the dorm over this stalker thing?”