Poison Ivy

by Misty Simon

  He was too yummy for words, and my inner chick was crying to be let out. So I did the one thing I knew would shut him and his mocking up. I stepped forward in my brightly lit kitchen, with its gingham drapes and ancient appliances, and kissed him.

  Chapter Ten

  And what a kiss it was. Now, just because I hadn’t been on a date in a while didn’t mean I’d forgotten what it was like to be kissed. But I had never, in all my life, been kissed so thoroughly that the roots of my hair tingled.

  Ben’s lips played over mine a brief second after I initiated the kiss. His firm mouth pressed down on mine, taking me a level deeper than I was prepared for when I started the whole thing. My lips parted and his tongue took the opportunity to explore.

  I lost my breath and couldn’t have cared less, but my lungs had other ideas. I broke the kiss with a gasp and stumbled back. My expression must have had a tinge of panic to it, because Ben rubbed a long, broad hand up and down my arm in a soothing motion, like I was about to bolt at any second. He wasn’t far from the truth.

  “That was, um...nice,” I said.

  The beast had the gall to laugh. “Nice? I was going to say outstanding, but I suppose nice is better than awful.”

  I knew I was blushing, and that didn’t help my discomfort. I’d been kissed like never before and I came out with “nice.” No wonder I hadn’t had a relationship in a few years. I was a certifiable idiot. I barely managed to stop myself from slapping my head.

  “It was better than nice, okay? Surely you know you’re a great kisser. You don’t need me to stroke your ego.”

  “Well, maybe not my ego...”

  What, were we in high school? “What, are we in high school?” I said my thought out loud before I’d taken the time to process it. Must remember to work on that damn mouth filter.

  He didn’t even have the grace to look sheepish. “No, we aren’t. But we can pretend, if it’ll make it better for you.” He paused, working his left eyebrow up and down. Very sexy when I was trying to be very cool. “Hey, Ivy, want to go for a ride in my car to Lover’s Lane where we can neck?”

  “Ha, ha. Get out of my house, you idiot.”

  “That’s no way to talk to the man of your wet dreams, is it?”

  “You sure are full of yourself,” I said.

  “Well, when you’re the best, you don’t have to hide your light under a bushel.”

  That sounded eerily close to what I was thinking the first night I’d met him, which was all of forty-eight hours ago. I was so not having sex with this man until I figured out who he was and why he was interested in me.

  “Good night, Ben,” I said as I pushed him through the house and opened the front door. Brisk air blew in through the opening, bringing with it the smell and feel of autumn: burning leaves and chilly nights.

  He took his coat from the stand in the hall and walked backward out the door. His smile was a mile wide and had a smug lift at the corner. I was torn between never letting him near me again, because of the smugness, and running after him to drag him back so I could have my way with him, because of the incredible power of that same smile.

  Stand firm, Ivy, I told myself, staying in the doorway as he gracefully descended the one step to the front walkway. I had kind of entertained a quick vision of him tripping and ruining his smooth exit, but he made it down the walk, onto the curb, and to his Explorer without incident. Rounding the hood of the black vehicle, he got in. Once he’d cranked the ignition, he put down the window and leaned over the passenger seat. I was still standing in the cold air without a jacket, not wanting to watch him go but unable to take the leap and ask him to stay the night.

  “Sleep tight,” Ben said through the lowered window of the idling car.

  “Yeah, thanks for following me home.”

  “It was all my pleasure. And I hope yours, too.” Okay, that was kind of smarmy. Things like that came out of his mouth and immediately made me wonder why I was even interested in him.

  “Here’s an idea. Think about where you want to go to dinner and let me know,” he said, either oblivious to, or ignoring, the wrinkling of my nose. “I’ll take care of everything else. Then you be ready on your doorstep at seven sharp on Thursday and open to the possibilities of us having a great time together.”

  “I’ll let you know,” I said, as he started putting the window back up.

  “Hey,” I yelled, and a cloud of white drifted out of my mouth as my words hit the cold air. He made a great big production of leaning across the console and lowering the passenger side window again. “I don’t know any restaurants. And with all your experience as a food critic, shouldn’t you pick where we’re going?” I hated the pressure of picking the right restaurant. What if I chose one that sucked, or worse, one that was too expensive for him? I mean, the guy had an Explorer, but it looked like it had more than a few miles on it. And what about fancy or not fancy? God, so many choices, and I really did not want the responsibility. I might have been growing out of my introverted lifestyle and making progress with my fear of confrontation, but I thought choosing a restaurant was still way down on the syllabus of things I needed to learn for the new and improved Ivy. I knew it was a silly fear. I could choose and that would be the end of it, not care what kind of impression I’d made with my choice. But it seemed a little beyond me right now.

  “You’re taking the fun out of this,” he said, and I stiffened until he continued. “I wanted to make you squirm about the kind of restaurant you chose. I pictured you going through all my past articles and finding out which ones I reviewed favorably and spending a lot of time thinking about me when you did your research.”

  Well, shit, I guess I could have done that and avoided all the angst of choices. And it would have been a great way to let him know I liked him enough to spend time looking up his articles.

  Then again, on the other hand, I probably would have spent all weekend hunting down his articles, nervous he would see me as some kind of stalker for going to the library and looking him up. Why, oh, why, do I have to be so damn wishy-washy?

  Anyway, he was still sitting in his car with the window down, and I was still outside without a coat, so I said, “I’ll think of you this week, but you pick out the restaurant. And I want to be impressed, so make it good.”

  “You got it, Ivy. Nothing but the best for my glossy, thriving, trailing plant.” He rolled up the window quicker than I’d ever seen anyone use a crank turn, his laughter fading as the glass rolled closed. He waved, and with a roaring of the powerful engine, he was gone.

  I bumped into the coat rack as I tried to keep his taillights in sight and close the door at the same time. He wanted me to think of him. He wanted me to be impressed. He was driving me insane, and after only two days.

  His trailing plant. Was that a compliment or a comment on where he thought I belonged, behind him? Then again, he did say glossy and thriving. Was thriving a play on my uh...voluptuousness?

  Was I reading him wrong? So many questions and so few answers. I felt like I was on a quiz show with a host who had dyslexia. Heaven help me, I’d have to be very careful or I could be in for some serious trouble of the male kind.

  I decided to be flattered by the trailing, thriving, glossy reference. The floaty feeling that nothing could bring me down from the high of Ben’s kiss stayed with me while I locked up the house and went into my bedroom to get ready for bed. It was one of those exciting feelings that made you do things you didn’t exactly want your friends or your potential lover to see you doing. Like waltzing around the house à la Cinderella pre-ball dancing lessons.

  But I was alone, so I pseudo-waltzed my heart out. One-two-three, flip the light switch. One-two-three, down the short hall to the bedroom. One-two-three, trip over the shoes I’d left in the middle of the floor earlier today. But I recovered quickly and saved myself from an intimate meeting with the floor.

  I’d heard a new dance studio was opening in town two weeks from now; maybe I’d give some serious consid
eration to lessons. After all, how hard could it be? And I couldn’t have Ben be the only one in this (dare I say) relationship who had any sense of balance.

  Tugging a pair of sweatpants and a faded, holey sweatshirt (another thing you do not want your friends or potential lover to see you in) over my body, I brushed out my hair and did the whole removing-copious-amounts-of-makeup thing. I wore some blush and eyeliner on most days, but tonight I’d gone all out with concealer and face powder, deep red lipstick, and glitter eye shadow. No way was I going to bed without removing all that pore-clogging junk. I had enough trouble without waking up to a pimple the size of a pea on my oversensitive forehead.

  The phone rang as I was brushing my teeth. Mouth full of minty-fresh toothpaste, I scrambled for the receiver, but the ringing stopped before I could click the On button. Which meant I might have sent Ben to voicemail hell after the best kiss of my life. I took a few seconds and rinsed my mouth of said minty freshness and then called the number to check my new messages.

  I was all prepared for Ben’s sexy voice to tell me what a wonderful night he’d had or that he wanted to move the date up to Tuesday because he couldn’t wait to see me alone. Even “Let’s have brunch tomorrow” would have made me happy. Which of course went against everything I’d told myself up to this point, i.e., go slow, get to know him, find out the important stuff before I jump into a serious relationship. What I got was a far cry from any of my dream messages. In fact, it was a severely harsh thump back to reality and the parts of the night my mind had shut away when Ben’s lips had locked with mine.

  “Ivy Morris,” a scary and deep voice said over the line. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Get out and get away before the fury comes down on you. Do you want to end up like your friend?” There was a click like a shutter on an old camera and then the nice, familiar, female voice informed me I could choose to delete this message by pressing the number seven or save it by pressing the number two.

  I spent a second with my finger hovering over the seven because the voice scared me. But I collected myself and pressed two to save it, thinking it was cryptic but it could mean something. And I didn’t want to throw away a piece of evidence. Evidence against what, I wasn’t sure. Janice’s death? A message to someone else after my own death? Is that what the caller had meant?

  I felt a chill pass over my flesh as my voicemail played the first saved message and the scary voice repeated its spooky words. Slamming down the receiver, I cut the message off but could not silence the voice reverberating in my head.

  A friend had died tonight. Janice and I hadn’t had time to become the best buddies I’d envisioned, because her life was cut short, but I’d still felt bonded with her. I would miss her laugh and inviting grin. The more I thought about her, the more my determination rose to find out who, besides a client who wouldn’t get off her back about retrieving his files from her, would kill someone so full of vitality.

  The receiver was in my hand before I even realized my intentions. My fingers punched out the numbers for Ben’s cell phone, numbers he’d given me less than an hour ago. Had it only been forty-five minutes since I’d been kissed into oblivion? And now I was scared back to the world. Why would someone call me with that cryptic message? Who had I scorned and what fury would visit me? Who the hell wanted to scare me like that?

  Ben’s cell rang and rang, and finally I got his voicemail. I left a quick message, something like call me back. I wasn’t paying attention because my gaze had been drawn to the kitchen window, where a man-sized shadow passed across the pane of glass.

  Chapter Eleven

  I was pretty sure I whimpered but couldn’t tell over the loud knocking of my heart in my chest. Who in the hell was outside my house?

  The next question was where could I find a spur-of-the-moment weapon? This was a small town with little crime. Our police chief, though dressed as a knight in shining armor, had a paunch that could not go unnoticed; it had stretched his costume to the limit. And even if I took the time to call the police, would they get here before I was killed in slasher-movie style while running through the backyard with no weapon?

  The kitchen was situated in the front of the house, and I’d turned off all the lights after seeing the shadow. I didn’t want him to be able to track my progress through the house. I heard a creaking noise and realized it was the sound of footsteps on the front porch. Oh, God, please keep me safe and help me find a damn weapon. Fast.

  I carefully pulled on the door to the walk-in pantry. My brain flashed back to my marathon cleaning session with the Bouquet. All the cleaning supplies were kept in the pantry, and I remembered Maggie pulling an old-style broom from there to sweep the floor. Once the door was open, with nary a squeak, I started feeling around in the dark, not wanting cans to fall or jars to rattle while my hand crept across the face of the wooden shelves.

  Toward the back, on the left-hand side, I finally felt the long skinny handle of the broom. But when I tried to move it, it snagged on something close to the floor. I gave it a yank and it still stuck. I heard another squeaking sound from the front porch and feared I was running out of time. Shit. I’d have to find something else.

  I thought about grabbing a jar of preserves or canned melon balls Aunt Gertie had left behind. I could either throw it at the intruder’s head or use it as a club, but I was afraid the Mason jar’s smooth sides would slip out of my hand at the moment I would need it most.

  The only other solution that came to mind was to find some kind of bottled cleaner and spray it, and keep on spraying it until the bottle was empty. I was hoping for stinging eyes and limited vision for the guy. Then I could get away and call our most trusted law enforcement professionals, provided there was someone available when they had a murderer on the loose.

  Sheesh. A murderer was on the loose. What if the person still creaking across my porch was the murderer, going after the women of the town, one by one?

  I was truly starting to freak out. I’d gone from maybe someone trying to break in to potential murderer and hadn’t called the cops before trying to defend myself with industrial-strength cleaner. But it was too late to back out now.

  My heart was pounding so hard I was sure the neighbors, and the shadow outside, could hear it. I grabbed the first spray bottle I came in contact with and stopped on the other side of the pantry door. From this angle, I could make out the front door with its square stained-glass insert. The porch light was on, and it threw the figure standing on the porch in relief on my foyer rug.

  I stayed in the kitchen, waiting for the person to make their next move. It had taken them long enough to get to the front door. Was this guy trying to give me a heart attack, too, along with the nervous tension?

  And then the doorbell rang, which left me in a quandary. What kind of burglar, or murderer, or whatever, rings the doorbell before they take all your stuff and kill you? A serial Mary Kay sample leaver? If I answered the door, would the person shove it open and come in? Or if I didn’t answer the door, would they figure I had left or was asleep and consider it an all-clear to come in and attack?

  Screw the questions! Screw the anxiety! Even the stupid plastic bottle of whatever I’d grabbed was beginning to shake in my hand as anger surpassed the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

  So I crept, quiet as a mouse, to the front door. Grasping the cool brass of the doorknob, I prayed for my life and that the spray bottle nozzle wouldn’t be clogged. I yanked the door open like I was ready to kick some ass and take some names. I was shaking in my socks.

  ****

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I said as I paced the rag rug in the living room three minutes later. I had flipped on the lights for a better view of my prey. “I could have killed you. And for what? Nothing. You idiot.”

  “Killed me? Please, with your pitiful weapon?” Ben the Damned said in his deprecating voice.

  I wanted to choke him almost as much as I wanted to jump him. He was sprawled on my floral couch, lookin
g as yummy as ever. I was pissed and shaking and still that couldn’t keep me from noticing the way his jeans accentuated all the very interesting parts of his body, like rock solid thighs and a bulge I was finding hard to ignore.

  “With this spray bottle, you idiot, I could have blinded you for life. I would feel horrible, but you would have—”

  He cut me off. “How exactly were you planning to blind me forever with a spray bottle of vegetable oil?”

  “How...what...but...” I looked at the bottle in question, expecting to see Super Roach Killer or Spray So Clean. Instead, I saw a picture of a big tomato next to some carrots, with the words Vegetable Oil in bold red print beneath them. Cooking oil? I was the idiot. “Well maybe my plan was to coat you down and slide you out the door. Or...oh, just forget it. What were you doing out there?”

  “I found your mask on the front seat of my truck and wanted to return it to you.”

  “You could have given it to me tomorrow when you brought back the Zorro costume.” Unless he wanted to keep Zorro and put it on for me at a later date. Mmmm. No, no, no. I needed to not let my damn hormones overrule my better sense. Plus, he had nearly scared the life out of me. If nothing else, that should have killed some of the lust. But no, not me, perverse idiot that I was.

  “That is true.” He rubbed the shadow of stubble on his chin. “Would you go for ‘I couldn’t wait to see you again’?”

  As if. “No, I would not go for that trite line. You saw me only an hour ago.” I was mad and actually letting the object of my mad know it. That was some adrenaline.

  Although, I was kind of melting under his smile and the romance of someone not being able to stay away from me. I mean, who wouldn’t want some totally hot guy mooning over her?

  Ahem.

  “So, what are you really doing here?” I asked, tapping my sock-covered foot in my best imitation of the impatient temptress. Temptress, ha. I was still in my oldest sweatpants and a holey sweatshirt. How’s that for tempting?