So Lyrical

by Trish Cook

  “That’s what you think,” Zander said, a sexy smile curling up his lips. “It’s Corey Hart. He’s one of your suspects?”

  “No, but the guy who played keyboards on one of his tours is.”

  “Interesting,” he said, looking very uninterested.

  “Moving right along.” I was confident I could stump him with the next one. “ ‘Sister Christian.’ ” I started singing the tune badly and chock-full of apparently mangled words, since Zander felt compelled to correct me.

  “Let me guess,” he said after the lyric lesson was over. “Night Ranger’s . . . ummmm . . . bassist?”

  “You’re good,” I said. “But I’m under the impression it might be the drummer. How do you know these old songs, anyway?”

  “Not to sound dramatic or anything,” he said, sounding dramatic and everything. “But music is my life and I know practically every song in the universe.”

  “Great, then let’s keep going,” I said, busting out into the next song, “The Kid Is Hot Tonite.”

  Zander rolled his eyes. “Sooooo easy. That’s Loverboy.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Ruin all my fun.”

  “It’s still fun for me,” he said, flashing me another winning smile. “Which Loverboy do you think it might be, anyway? The bandanna guy?”

  “Didn’t they all wear bandannas?”

  “Nope,” Zander said. “Only the lead singer.”

  “Oh. I don’t know, then,” I said. “I’ll have to look at the picture more closely when I get home today. Ready for my finale?”

  “Already? Lay it on me.”

  I made the universal “rock on” sign with my fingers and threw my arm in the air. “ ‘Stroke me, stroke me,’ ” I sang, trying to make my voice all raspy and sexy. I sounded like a ninety-year-old Nicotine Nancy instead.

  Zander was quiet for a minute.

  “Sorry, did I scare you?”

  “No. I’m stumped,” he finally admitted.

  “It was Billy Squier. ‘The Stroke.’ My off-key singing probably threw you.”

  “It wasn’t that,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve never heard of him.”

  “I thought you knew every song in the universe.”

  “Make that every song minus one.”

  “Let me fill you in,” I said. “This guy is the only one who made decent music out of the whole bunch. With the exception of Bruce, of course. And he’s by far the best looking, too.”

  “Well, that settles it, then. He must be the one.”

  A slow heat overtook my face as I nearly melted under Zander’s sweet compliment. My tongue was too tied up to even thank him.

  After a few blocks featuring nothing more than the slapping of our sneaks against the pavement, Zander ventured on. “Have you ever thought about contacting these guys, Trace?”

  That got me speaking again. It was a topic of conversation Brina and I had analyzed and picked apart endlessly, always coming back around to the same conclusion. “And say what? You’re in a picture with my mom and I figured you’re about as good a guess as any, so hey, are you my dad?”

  Zander shrugged. “Something like that.”

  “You know how many weirdos claim stuff like that all the time? I’d get arrested for being a psycho stalker. At the very least, they’d slap a restraining order on me.”

  “OK, then, did you ever consider sitting down with your mom and asking her to please tell you everything?”

  “Been there, done that,” I said. “No dice. She says we’ve made it this far without testosterone interfering with our relationship, and there’s no need to add any now.”

  CHAPTER 3

  By the end of our run, I felt incredible, like I had just climbed Mount Everest or discovered a cure for PMS. Zander, on the other hand, was limping and panting and looking generally sweaty. It all added up to one really hot guy, and I mean that in the best possible sense.

  He leaned over and put his hands on his knees. “You know, we run around the field a lot for rugby. But why in God’s name did you randomly choose fifteen miles to torture me with today?”

  “It wasn’t random,” I told him. “And I can’t believe I forgot to tell you. I’m training for the Rock ’n’ Roll Marathon in San Diego this spring.”

  “Inspired by your mom’s last book?” Zander’s perceptive response blew me away.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, it was totally hot, how they finally got together at the finish line, after all the lies and stuff. That rocked.”

  “Yup.” Running on Empty was my favorite Belinda Tillingham book to date because of the amazing happy ending.

  “So maybe I’ll do it with you.”

  That sounded pretty dirty. And I was feeling pretty dirty, too, after all that running. “Maybe I’ll let you,” I said, winking at him.

  Zander laughed at me for the millionth time in our less-than-a-week-old relationship. “The marathon, I meant.”

  My cheeks lit on fire, and I wondered if even peeling them off my face and throwing them into Lake Michigan would douse them out. “Oh, that.” How could he even pretend we might still be friends, or whatever we were, eight months from now? What a joke.

  Zander took my hand and led me toward his house. “C’mon, Trace,” he said. “Nobody’s home but the little brat, and he’ll leave us alone as long as Brenda’s home.”

  “Who’s Brenda?” I asked.

  “His very own personal slave,” he said. “I mean au pair.”

  “Yours, too?” I imagined a stacked Swedish girl giving Zander a nightly sponge bath, and then shook my head to clear the vomitous image.

  “Hardly,” he said. “First of all, she’s only a year older than us. And second of all, she’s . . . well . . . she’s Brenda. You’ll see.”

  Instead of heading inside the fairy-tale castle, we walked around back. The view took my breath away. Even though I’ve seen Lake Michigan practically every day of my life, I had never looked at it from this vantage point before: the wraparound porch of a Victorian mansion perched on the bluff. The Caribbean-blue water and equally blue skies seemed to go on forever.

  “Like it?” Zander asked, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind me.

  “I love it.” Thump-thump, thump-thump. My heart was ready to jump out of my chest.

  Zander started kissing my neck. It was heavenly . . . until I remembered the fifteen-mile sweat covering my body. Oh, God, I must smell like a pig, I thought. Not to mention taste like day-old seawater.

  “Zander?” I didn’t want him to stop, but my brain wouldn’t stop reminding me about my probable stenchiness.

  “Hmmmmmmmm?”

  “I’m so sweaty. Doesn’t that gross you out?”

  “Actually, Trace, I was really getting into it. But if it makes you uncomfortable . . .”

  “Who, me? Uncomfortable? No way.” I turned around and threw my arms around his neck, trying to lead him back to business. No such luck.

  Instead, Zander covered my eyes and led me to the far corner of the porch. I heard a familiar bubbling I couldn’t quite place. “Surprise!” he said, dropping his hands from my face.

  In front of me was a gigantic hot tub waving its frothy foam at me. “Hi,” it said. “The water is great,” it told me. And before I could figure out what I should wear—or not—Zander had stripped off his clothes and hopped in.

  “Well? Planning on joining me?” he asked.

  I hesitated, unsure of how to handle the moment. If I asked for a bathing suit, I’d look like a total stiff. If I stripped naked and jumped in, I’d look like a total slut. And if I kept my sports bra and panties on, I’d look undecided. Not to mention incredibly dweeby.

  I chose dweeby and undecided, taking off my running shorts and T-shirt but keeping everything else on. My sports bra had a neon green paisley pattern on it, and I reasoned it could easily pass for a bathing suit top. Not surprisingly, my panties looked more like underwear than bikini bottoms. Still, I was grateful I had chosen the Victori
a’s Secret black microfiber ones from the drawer this morning instead of the giant white cotton briefs with the period stains. Like Zander really needed to be reminded about my menstrual cycle again.

  I eased myself into the superhot water inch by inch. When I finally submerged myself up to my chin, I leaned my head back against the edge of the hot tub and sighed. “This feels great.”

  “It would feel even better with you next to me,” he said. “C’mon, Trace. Take pity on a guy who ran a half marathon just to get close to you.”

  I scootched over and Zander pulled me onto his lap and started attacking me. In a good way. I tried to act nonchalant, but it wasn’t easy. Now I understood what Brina was up against last night, and how hard it was to take things slowly when you were having fun. Believe me, it was really hard.

  I thought we could go on like this for—I don’t know—say forever, when his little brother and Brenda the au-pair-slash-slave appeared out of nowhere.

  “Say hi to Mom and Dad! They’re home a day early from the summerhouse!” the little guy announced gleefully.

  Brenda, whose pale freckled skin and screaming orange curls made her look like Carrot Top’s lost sister, laughed so hard she almost fell out of what must have been her size thirteen Dr. Scholl’s. I bolted to the other side of the hot tub and looked to Zander for a clue how to handle this unsettling news. He gave me a “Don’t worry—it’s cool” kind of gesture, so I stayed put.

  “You must be Brenda,” I said, trying to make small talk. I sounded like a squeaky-meeky little mouse. Being caught in your underwear by a guy’s entire family can do that to a person.

  “And you must be Zander’s conquest of the week,” she replied in a thick German accent. Good one, I thought. And it wasn’t even her native tongue. I must be missing my comeback lobe—there was no other explanation for it.

  Zander made polite introductions as his parents appeared on the porch. “Mom, Dad, I’d like you to meet my friend Trace,” he said. I’m actually surprised anyone could hear him over the pounding of my heart.

  “How pleasant to meet you, Tracey.” Mrs. O’Brien actually looked like she found me completely repulsive. At least Mr. O’Brien didn’t seem horrified by the situation. In fact, he seemed rather intrigued by what was happening under all the foam.

  Unsure of the proper etiquette involved in meeting someone’s parents when wearing only undergarments—that’s not in Emily Post, either—I went for sincere with a bit of suck-up thrown in for good measure. “It’s lovely to meet you both. Thank you for allowing me to enjoy your hot tub,” I said. “Zander and I just finished a two-hour run, and we thought this would be a good antidote for sore muscles.”

  His father tore his eyes away from the water long enough to glance at Zander. “Why so long? That’s foolishness. Won’t help you get into Stanford, either.”

  “Why not? It felt great,” Zander answered.

  “I gather that’s not the only reason you feel great, son.” Mr. O’Brien gave me the once-over and winked. With his silver hair and startling green eyes, Zander’s dad was certainly a good-looking enough man—if you like fifty-year-old guys, which I don’t. My feeling is, if a dude’s already out of college, he’s too old for me. I even find it hard to believe that Brina thinks Mr. Perry is attractive. I mean, he has to be at least Bebe’s age.

  “I need a drink,” Mrs. O’Brien muttered, stepping through the sliding glass door into the kitchen.

  Not so easy to get rid of was Mr. O’Brien. This was more than a minor problem because I couldn’t put my sweaty clothes back on and start running away until Zander’s dad got lost.

  “Maybe I’ll just jump in for a little soak with you two,” he said.

  Zander and I stared at each other. I was mortified. This, of course, made Zander egg his dad on even more.

  “Oh, would you, Dad? That’d be great.”

  “Sure. I’ll just go grab my suit.” Mr. O’Brien walked in the house, probably imagining a kinky father-son ménage à trois.

  I waited a few seconds to make sure he was really gone and then sprang out of the tub like it was fire. I looked around. There wasn’t a towel in sight. Dripping wet, I grabbed my shorts and tried to pull them on. I couldn’t get them past the middle of my hips, turning my butt into a four-leaf clover: two cheeks above the waistband and two below it. I threw on my XL T-shirt to cover up the whole mess. It would have to do.

  Zander was cracking up. At me. Again. “You’re a regular speeding bullet. Usually it takes my parents at least five minutes before my friends go running for their lives.”

  I tied my laces with shaky hands. “Zander, I really do have to go now.” Those horrendous cramps Brina made up for me last night weren’t fictional anymore. Diarrhea, my body’s typical reaction to fear. “Thanks for the company, though. And please tell your parents I said good-bye.” I started running up his driveway toward the street.

  “Let’s pick up where we left off sometime soon and see where it leads us,” he called after me. I stopped running, the groaning in my intestines subsiding for the time being, and scooped back around toward Zander.

  “I can tell you right now I’m not going there with you,” I said, jogging in place. Not yet, anyway, I thought. Check back with me in a month or so.

  Zander shrugged, undeterred. “For now, let’s just go for another run. E-mail me our training schedule.”

  I raised one eyebrow, my specialty. It sort of looks like a question mark when I do it. “Our schedule?”

  “Yeah, ours. I’m in this thing with you.”

  He couldn’t be serious. Could he?

  I returned home to find Bebe freaking out. Very Mom-like. Very un-Bebe-like.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Bebe never questions me about what I’ve been doing, especially not in broad daylight, so I decided to tread lightly. “Hello to you, too, Bebe. You OK?” I could see from the veins sticking out all over her forehead she most definitely was not.

  “The problem is you went for a run at seven this morning and didn’t come back until the afternoon. I thought you were dead.” Obviously, Bebe had gotten knocked out and woke up thinking she was Carol Brady.

  I squinted, checking carefully for goose eggs on her head. I didn’t see any.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” Bebe said, crossing her arms and tapping her foot impatiently. “I asked you where you were.”

  “If you must know, I was running,” I said. “See? Got my running gear on.” I hitched up my shorts to their rightful spot just below my waist, my butt bouncing back to its normal shape.

  “An entire marathon wouldn’t take that long.”

  Though it rubbed me the wrong way—I mean, why should I start telling Bebe my every move now when I’ve never had to before?—I decided to give her the scoop. “I bumped into Zander and he ended up tagging along with me. Then we went back to his house for a while.”

  “In the future, I’d appreciate it if you’d ask before going over to his place.”

  “And I’d appreciate it if you’d bring back my mother, you alien,” I said. “Since when do I need your permission to hang out with a friend?”

  Bebe’s face tightened even more. She was going to end up looking like Joan Rivers before the end of this conversation if she kept it up. “Since I decided you may need some more traditional mothering than you’ve been getting.”

  I was floored. What could Bebe possibly have against Zander? She hadn’t even met him yet. “All this because of a guy? You never acted this way when I was with T. J.”

  “T. J. wasn’t a musician.” Ahhhhh. Now we were getting somewhere.

  “Have your books gone straight to your head, Bebe? He’s not a musician musician. He’s a good student who plays rugby and just happens to strum a little guitar on the side.” I couldn’t help adding, “And he lives in a castle with a hot tub overlooking the lake!” I was still kind of overwhelmed by the whole thing myself.

  But Bebe wasn’t swayed by m
y list of Zander’s many fine attributes. “Trace, doesn’t it seem like things are going a little too fast with this guy?”

  “Yeah, I usually don’t jog with someone until I’ve known them for at least a year.” When I’m pissed off, my first line of defense is sarcasm.

  “All I’m saying is, it’s better not to date rocker boys. In my experience, they’re never just hanging around for the stimulating conversation.”

  I felt my face flush as I caught her drift. Ewwwwwwww. I did not want to go down this path with my mom. I hitched up my running shorts to nerd-land—over the top of my belly button and halfway to my armpits—thinking that may have been what prompted the comment. “We had that little birds-and-bees discussion when I was eight, Bebe. I can take care of myself.”

  “That’s what I thought, too, and look where it got me.”

  I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. “It got you me,” I said, turning away so she couldn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes. “Is that so bad?”

  She walked across the kitchen and tucked my sweaty hair behind my ears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way,” she said. “I’m just trying to protect you from going through the same heartache I did.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t protect me, Bebe. I wish you’d tell me all about it.” I wiped my eyes and nose on the shoulder of my T-shirt. “I have a right to know about my dad, you know.”

  She sighed. “You already know everything you need to know. He bails on people he supposedly loves without even a backward glance. Baby, he was born to run. End of story.”

  I ran upstairs, slammed the door, and peeled off my disgustingly wet clothes. Shivering, I turned on the shower and hopped in once the water felt hot enough. And it wasn’t just the soap getting me in a huge lather.

  Who was she kidding, I had to ask her before I went to Zander’s again?

  Just when did she decide, in her ultimate wisdom, that my company was so unstimulating a guy could want only possibly one thing from me?

  And what the fuck was she talking about, I already knew everything I needed to know about my father? I didn’t know anything at all, except that my mom had just quoted Springsteen lyrics when she was going off on him downstairs. That alone would’ve been enough to move Bruce up my suspect list a spot or two, but there was nowhere else to go. He already occupied the number one position.