Take a Chance on Me

by Alexa Land

  Duke ended up beating me pretty easily, and it was totally worth losing just to see him smile. “That was fun,” he said. “I had my doubts, but I really enjoyed myself.”

  “I did, too. So tell me, what do you want for dinner tomorrow night?”

  “You don’t have to cook for me. I only suggested it because I assumed I’d lose, and I wanted to make you dinner so you could stay off your sprained ankle.”

  “You can cook another night. Tomorrow, it’s my turn. Or technically, later today, since it’s past four a.m.”

  “Is it? Let’s go make the cookies, unless you’re too tired.”

  “I’m not at all,” I said as I got up and reached for the crutches. “Normally, I’d be getting home about now and making myself a late dinner.”

  “Really? But the bars close at two.”

  “I usually stay until closing and then go home with someone.” He frowned a little, and I said, “I know you don’t approve.”

  “It’s not that. I just don’t get the casual sex thing, like I said before.”

  “Haven’t you ever fucked someone just for fun, or just because you were horny, without it meaning anything?”

  Duke shook his head. “There has to be more to it than that.”

  We reached the kitchen, and I turned to him and said, “There is. I get to feel another person’s touch, and the warmth of his body, and his arms around me. It’s short-lived, but I really need that. Don’t you?”

  He glanced at me with some sort of strong emotion in his eyes, then looked away and shook his head. There was something so vulnerable in that moment that I set aside my crutches and drew him into a hug. He went completely rigid with his arms at his sides and mumbled, “What are you doing?”

  “Showing you what I mean.” After a moment, he brought his hands up and rested them lightly on my lower back. I put my head on his chest and could feel his heart racing, and I asked, “Doesn’t that feel good?”

  He let go of me and took a step back. “Sure. But it’s a huge leap from that to having sex with strangers.” I sighed and let the subject drop.

  Duke turned his attention to baking and was instantly in his element. He preheated the oven and placed a big, marble board on the kitchen island, then showed me how to roll out the dough. Once it was a uniform quarter-inch thick, he let me cut out the shapes. He had a method for everything, including the way he positioned the cutters to get the maximum number of cookies out of each slab of dough.

  I realized after a while why he liked baking so much. There was a precision to it, and he needed that somehow. With cooking, you could just throw ingredients in a pot and wing it. Not so with baking. Everything was measured out, and I couldn’t argue with the results. The cookies he pulled from the oven were perfect. They smelled like vanilla and made my mouth water, and when he let me try one, I exclaimed, “Holy shit, these are amazing!”

  He seemed pleased by that. “I spent a long time perfecting the recipe. I think I’ve finally gotten it right where it should be.”

  “Do you bake other stuff too, or just sugar cookies?”

  I ate another cookie from the cooling rack as he said, “I bake all kinds of things, but these are my favorite. They’re a lot of fun to decorate.” As I swiped a third cookie from the rack, he said, “But we won’t get to do that if you eat them all.”

  “Just one more.” I crammed a Santa into my mouth.

  It took a lot of willpower not to Cookie Monster the rest of them while he whipped up a batch of icing, divided it into several bowls, and mixed in various colors. He loaded half a dozen piping bags, and then he put his glasses on, sat on one of the barstools, and carefully drew a green line around the edge of one of the little Christmas trees. I sat beside him and watched as he filled in the outline with icing. When he finished, the surface was perfectly smooth and shiny, and he said, “After that dries a bit, I’ll go back with other colors and add details. Do you want to try decorating one?”

  “For sure.” I slid the cooling rack closer to me and picked up five piping bags at once, then swirled them over a couple of Christmas trees. A parchment-lined cookie sheet beneath the rack caught the excess icing, so I wasn’t too worried about precision. Next, I reached for the edible glitter and made it snow. I picked up one of my masterpieces to show Duke and said, “Ta da!” Then I took a big bite and mumbled, around a mouthful of cookie, “It’s even better with icing!”

  He stared at me for a moment, then said, “That’s not how you do it.”

  “That’s how I do it. You go right ahead with your perfect little forest while I make a rainbow tornado.”

  “Try it my way, just once. You might like it. Here, let me show you how to hold the piping bag, so it doesn’t all come flooding out the top.” He twisted the top of the bag of green icing and said, “If you hold it like this it won’t unravel, and you can control how much comes out by putting gentle pressure here.” I watched him as he tried to guide my hands, and when he looked up at me, I smiled.

  “Tell you what,” I said, “I’ll decorate the rest your way if you try my technique, just once. Make me a rainbow squiggle dragon, Duke.”

  “Alright.” He picked up four of the piping bags and used both hands to lightly swirl them over one of the dragon cookies. Then he drew on a blue eye and a red smile and asked, “How’s that?”

  “Fantastic, but you forgot the glitter.”

  He sprinkled some carefully over his creation. “Happy now?”

  I beamed at him and said, “Very.”

  When all the cookies were decorated, I arranged my favorites into a diorama. I lined up six dragons, propping them upright with stuff from around the kitchen, followed by a sled with Santa and a tree, layered so it looked like they were riding inside it. I snapped a picture with my phone and exclaimed, “Oh no! Look out, Rudolph dragon!” I leaned in and bit the lead dragon’s head off, then said, “The horror! Santa can never make his deliveries now, not with a big giant eating up his team of trusty, mythical, sled-pulling creatures!”

  Duke had been cleaning the kitchen while I conducted my shenanigans, and he said, “You’re the strangest person I’ve ever met.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  He started to pack the remaining cookies into a plastic storage container, and I said, “You skipped a step.”

  “I did?” He looked around the kitchen in confusion.

  I leaned over the island and held out a cookie. “You didn’t eat anything.”

  “Oh. Well, no. I try not to eat sweets before bed.”

  “Have one cookie, Duke. Live a little.” He hesitated, but then he took the green tree I offered him and seemed to savor it. That made me happy.

  The sun was just beginning to rise by the time the kitchen was clean and everything was put away, and Duke said as he returned his glasses to their case, “You can have my bed tonight. I don’t want you climbing up and down those stairs more than is necessary, or sleeping in that sad little blanket nest you made in your room. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “You don’t have to give up your bed. I can sleep on the couch.”

  “You won’t, though. You’ll sleep on the floor and complain about how uncomfortable the couch is.”

  “That’s true, actually.” I thought about it, then said, “Okay, here’s what I propose, since I really do hate climbing the stairs with crutches and I don’t want you sleeping on the torture couch: let’s just share your bed. It’ll be strictly platonic. The thing’s ginormous, so you won’t even know I’m there.”

  “I don’t know….”

  I grabbed the crutches and began to make my way down the hall to his room. “Come on, Duke. Pajama up and let’s get some rest.” After a moment, he followed me.

  He spent a long time in the bathroom. When he finally emerged, he was wearing light blue pajama pants and a T-shirt so white it could cause snow blindness. He looked nervous, and after he slid under the blanket and turned off the light, he stared at the ceiling.

  I said, “I
had fun tonight, Duke. Thanks for letting me bake with you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Can we bake something else tomorrow night, after I make you dinner?”

  “I meant it when I said you don’t have to cook for me.”

  “I know, but I want to. I can cook while sitting down, so it won’t hurt my ankle.”

  He glanced at me, then returned his gaze to the ceiling and said, “Okay.”

  He remained flat on his back, as close to the edge of the mattress as he could get without falling off. After a while, I asked, “How’d you get your nickname?”

  “It’s stupid.”

  “I’ll trade you, story for story. Tell me why you’re called Duke and I’ll tell you why I’m named Quinn. Just so you know, mine’s kind of depressing, so whatever you say will seem like the story of the year by comparison.”

  He rolled onto his side facing me. When he did that, his sleeve rode up a little, exposing the white bandage around his upper arm. “You go first.”

  “Okay. Well, you already heard how I was abandoned at a bus station at age three or so. My dad, Hatsuo Takahashi, was the pediatrician who took care of me after the police brought me to the hospital. He asked me what my name was, and I said something that sounded like Kin. He interpreted that as Quinn, so that’s what he called me. I wasn’t very verbal at that age, so I couldn’t tell him what I really meant. I’d actually just been excited about a poster of a baby cat on the wall of the children’s ward, and I’d been trying to say ‘kitten’. But the closest I could get was kin. By the time I was old enough to explain that to him, my name was a done deal.”

  When I looked up at Duke, there was heartbreak in his eyes. He said softly, “I’m surprised you remember all of that.”

  “That day is seared into my memory. I can’t recall much before then, including my real name. But I think that’s a good thing.”

  “I’m so sorry about what happened to you.”

  “I didn’t mean to depress you. It’s actually funny in a way. I mean, I basically named myself kitten. How many people can say that?”

  He watched me for a long moment before saying, “I gave myself the nickname when my parents moved and I transferred to a new school in the fourth grade. I got it from a book I was reading at the time. I should have given it some thought and come up with something better. Who knew it’d stick with me for life?”

  “What book was it?”

  “It was actually called Duke.” He frowned a little, then admitted, “It was about a police dog.”

  I smiled at him and said, “You named yourself after a dog, and I’m named after a cat. Go figure.”

  “I can’t believe I told you that. It’s so stupid.”

  “No it’s not. I think it’s great.”

  “If you say so.”

  After a pause, I said softly, “Please tell me your real name.”

  “Promise me you’ll never use it.”

  “I promise.”

  “It’s Ulrich.”

  “What’s so bad about that? It’s a nice, strong name.”

  He just shrugged and rolled onto his back again. He was quiet for a long time before saying, “Somebody took a shot at me today. You asked why I seemed rattled earlier. That’s the reason.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “It’s actually the third time that happened in the line of duty. This one though…it really got to me, because the shooter was just a kid, the younger brother of the boy who cut my arm.”

  I whispered, “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No. My partner was able to disarm the shooter, and both boys are in custody, so they can’t hurt themselves or anyone else. I just didn’t see it coming, and maybe that’s why I’m having a hard time with it. I thought we were making a routine stop to help a couple of homeless kids. Next thing I knew, a bullet was sailing past my head. I just don’t understand the world we live in sometimes.”

  “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  He fell silent again. It was a few minutes before he said, “You have an odd effect on me. Normally, I’m nowhere near this talkative. In fact, you’re one of the only people outside of my family who knows my real name.”

  “I’m glad you trust me enough to open up to me.”

  “That’s the other thing. I usually have a hard time trusting people. But you just seem to put it all out there, and…I don’t know. You strike me as very genuine, like you always show people exactly who you are, and that puts me at ease, somehow.” He shook his head and added, “I’m doing a terrible job explaining it.”

  “Actually,” I said, “that’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”

  Chapter Three

  “Well, damn. That’s not pretty.”

  I said that to no one in particular as I grimaced and tossed aside the stretchy bandage that the E.R. doctor had wrapped around my injury. My foot and ankle were twice as swollen and bruised as the day before and had stiffened up a lot during the night. Totally failing to stay off my feet really hadn’t been a good call.

  I had a hard time sitting still, but by the look of things, I was going to have to spend the day on my ass with my foot packed in ice. That was as much for my dance troupe’s sake as my own. I still hadn’t told any of them I’d hurt myself. I wanted to wait until after the long weekend so I could give them some good news about how quickly I was recovering. But that would only happen if I gave myself a chance to heal.

  I swung my legs out of Duke’s bed, then got to my feet with the aid of my crutches and made my way to the restroom. After that, I went in search of my roommate. His truck was in the garage, so I figured he hadn’t gone far.

  Eventually, I spotted him outside. There was a metal shed at the back of the fairly narrow but long backyard, and its double doors were open, revealing a home gym. Duke stood on the cement slab in front of it, glistening with sweat and doing a rapid series of curls with a large set of dumbbells. I brewed some coffee while he kept going and going. No wonder he was so ripped.

  When the coffee was ready, I sat on the kitchen island with my mug and the container of sugar cookies and watched him like a TV show. When he finally finished a thousand sets of curls (that was what it seemed like, anyway), he held the dumbbells at his sides and started to do a series of lunges. His back was to me, and I murmured, “Sweet baby Jesus with a lobster bib, will you look at that ass!” The form-fitting, dark blue shorts he was wearing left little to the imagination. Same with his white tank top, which showed off his huge arms and shoulders.

  When I realized I was both talking to myself and totally ogling my new roommate, I slid off the kitchen island and tried to find something else to do. Yes, he was sexy and putting all kinds of dirty thoughts in my mind, but come on. I couldn’t sleep with Duke and expect to go on living with him. It would be beyond awkward for both of us.

  Still though, I snuck another look after I filled a big, zip-top bag with ice and muttered, “Damn.” I tore my attention away from Duke and started to assemble a survival kit for myself. It included the pot of coffee, the container of cookies, a box of cereal, the icepack, a box of snack cakes, a half-dozen bananas, a six-pack of soda, a loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter. Because I also had to somehow manage the crutches, all of that was a little problematic.

  Duke came inside through the kitchen door a minute later. He was drying his face with a towel that was draped around his neck, and he stopped in his tracks and asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Laying in supplies.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need to stay off my sprained ankle today,” I said, “so I’m trying to take everything with me that I’ll need for the next couple of hours.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “My room. The kitchen and dining room are too uncomfortable for long-term nesting, and when I moved in, you told me you don’t want me to eat in the living room.”

  He started taking things from me and said, “I usually don’t want anyone eating
in there, but I’ll make an exception today. Please don’t attempt the stairs while I’m out.”

  I was disappointed to hear he wouldn’t be keeping me company. “Are you going to work?”

  He shook his head. “I was scheduled for this evening, but the department requires us to take a mental health day any time we’re involved in a situation like last night.”

  “Do they really think one day off will make a difference?”

  “I could have taken a few more days. One is the minimum.”

  He carried my supplies into the living room and arranged them on the coffee table, then got a sheet and draped it over the couch. While I attempted to settle in, I noticed the figurines were back on the mantel. There were two other clusters around the living room. All were around four inches tall and depicted children in traditional German clothing. I’d resisted the night before, but now I had to ask. “What’s up with the creepy ceramic kids?”

  “The Hummel figures were gifts from my grandmother.”

  “They really don’t strike me as your taste.”

  “They’re not. I hate them.”

  “Then why are they prominently displayed in your living room?”

  “Because my parents drop by unannounced sometimes, and they expect to see them.”

  I halted my futile attempt at getting comfortable on the couch and exclaimed, “Are you shitting me?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You live with horrible little ceramic people that you hate, just because your parents expect to see them? What kind of bullshit is that?”

  “The none-of-your-business kind.”

  “It’s totally my business. I have to live with those cherubic nightmares too, you know.”

  “Nobody said you had to like them.”

  “If they mean so much to your parents, why don’t you send ‘em home with them next time they drop by?”

  “Like I said, they were gifts from my grandmother, and that would be disrespectful.”

  “Is your grandmother off her rocker? I mean, seriously, who gives shit like that to a guy in his twenties?”