Even though I’m still patting myself on the back about how I handled Bethany, I ignore his last comment. “You poor thing, you’ve had a hard evening,” I say sweetly. “But hey—at least no one used your emotional duress as the punchline of a ridiculously inaccurate story just for a laugh.” I turn to leave, and he catches my arm.
“Did that really bother you?” Blake asks, surprised.
“Yes, it bothered me!” I exclaim, yanking my arm out of his grip. “Your story made me look like a complete idiot—a fragile little girl who needs a big, strong man like you to come to her rescue.”
He takes both of my shoulders in his hands and turns me to face him. “You know I don’t think that about you.”
“I think you kind of do. Isn’t that why you’ve been camped out at my house all afternoon, protecting me? Because you think I can’t take care of myself?”
“No, I don’t think that. I think that you take unnecessary chances. I think that it’s partially my fault you’re in this mess. I think that if something were to happen to you…I don’t know what I would do.” He gazes at me both intensely and tenderly at the same time, making my anger at him fade (but not disappear). “I’m sorry.”
“You know you can be a real douche sometimes,” I point out.
He smiles broadly. “Yes. I know.”
“So do you promise to quit treating me like a child?”
“Yes, but I’m still camping out at your house the rest of the weekend,” he says matter-of-factly.
I’m puzzled. “And why is that?”
“Do you mean that you haven’t seen through my pathetic excuse to spend time with you yet?” Blake gives me a knowing look.
“Oh.” That was pretty darn sweet. “Why didn’t you just ask?”
He sighs. “Because you’ve been mad at me for the past twenty-four hours.”
“You do have a point there.”
Our conversation is abruptly drowned out by a sudden burst of music blaring from the DJ station that has been set up in the corner of the bar. Paul is slumped over the controls, looking kind of, well, to put it nicely, drunk off his ass. An up-tempo cover of “Heartache Tonight” by Michael Bublé, who, if I remember correctly, Paul has a serious man-crush on, is pulsating from the speakers. After hearing Paul play guitar and sing the other night, I would have pegged him for more of a Dave Matthews or Eric Clapton fan, but I guess no one is immune to the crooning of Bublé.
I hear Blake’s voice murmur in my ear, “You’re not too mad to dance with me, are you?”
Before I can object, he leads me to the middle of the room, where the tables have been pushed off to the side to allow for dancing. A few of the Chronicle’s old-timers and their wives are getting out there and doing some jitterbugging. It fascinates me how my parents’ and grandparents’ generations all knew how to ballroom dance, but now if we young whippersnappers want to learn how, we have to take lessons, which I have. Blake spins me out onto the floor and pulls me into a perfect hold. It seems that Blake has had some lessons, too. He’s a strong leader, which I prefer, because the more he pushes me around the less likely I am to make a misstep. The music is fast and bouncy, and we don’t miss a beat. I don’t know whether the spinning is making me dizzy or if it’s the proximity to Blake himself. I’m blown away that tall, swaggering Blake is so light on his feet! As the music comes to an end, Blake cradles me into a low dip, then playfully pretends to strum the guitar on my stomach. After the song ends, he is still holding me there, staring at me with that intent gaze he gets sometimes. Oh, boy.
Paul has cued up some more Bublé, this time choosing the ballad, “Hold On.” With his strong arms enfolded around me, Blake slowly pulls me back up to a standing position and doesn’t let go. I shake my head to clear the haze in my brain that dancing with Blake has put there.
“Uh…so, where did you learn how to dance like that?” I ask, slowly coming out of my trance.
Blake breaks his intense stare to answer, “My mother insisted that the son of one of Chicago’s best-known socialites be a fabulous dancer. Do you know how many debutante balls I’ve had to attend? So how about you?”
“Julia and I and our gay BFF’s took ballroom lessons while we were in college. The dance studio wouldn’t allow two men to be partners, so, our friends made us be their phony partners during class, then they got to use the moves they learned when they went clubbing. Julia and I got to dance with boys who could actually bust a move, instead of the rhythmically-challenged frat boys we were used to. Everyone wins.”
I didn’t realize it until now, but Blake still hasn’t let go of me since our first dance ended. To my surprise, I have been guilty as well, as one of my hands is clutching his bicep (which is fantastically rock-hard) and the other is resting on his chest (sigh!). Michael Bublé is urging us to “hold on,” and that’s exactly what we’re doing.
Blake murmurs, “Dance with me again?”
I nod and let him take my hand, which he envelops in his and lifts up to cradle against his chest. His other hand around my waist draws me even closer (if that’s possible) to him, and I lay my head against his broad chest. I love the way he smells—it’s always a pleasant combination of clean laundry, soap, and just a slight hint of a very expensive man-perfume. I’m usually anti-man-perfume, because most men I know who wear it don’t just wear it, they bathe in it. And, they also buy it at Walmart, which pretty much guarantees it’s going to smell like nasty, stale musk mixed with rubbing alcohol, and not in a good way. Blake, however, knows how to wear it the right way. He seems to do most things the right way, with the exception of how to deal with our relationship. Right now, though, that is the furthest thing from my mind. I am completely engrossed in slow-dancing with Blake, and it seems that he is too, because I just felt him lean down and kiss me gently on top of my head. Ooh. I’m in serious danger of melting right here on this very floor. I give his hand a little squeeze to let him know that I enjoyed his display of affection. In return, he hugs me to him more tightly, all the time swaying me gently to the music.
Unfortunately, but not surprisingly given our track record, my sweet moment with Blake doesn’t last long. Right when everything is just a little too perfect, our bliss is shattered when I feel a stinging, icy-cold splash hit me square in the back. Completely taken off guard, I suck in my breath and involuntarily arch my back, breaking my embrace with Blake.
“What the—” begins Blake, wiping off his arm. He looks up and freezes mid-sentence.
I’m still in shock, broken so suddenly out of my reverie that it takes me a minute to process what has happened. My entire back, both arms, and skirt are soaking wet, and I can even feel some droplets running down my legs. I wheel around carefully, as to not slip in the blue puddle that has suddenly formed on the floor, to find Bethany standing a few feet from me with an empty glass in her hand and a smug expression on her face. I’m sure my mouth is hanging wide open—I have no words at this point. Well, that is, no words appropriate to say in public.
Bethany immediately transforms her smirk into a fake smile and coos, “Oh, clumsy me. Lizzie, dear, I am so sorry. I hope that doesn’t leave a stain on your pretty little dress.”
Her absurd non-apology makes me furious! At this point, I don’t care if my words for Bethany are appropriate. I open my mouth to tell her what I think when Julia swoops in out of nowhere.
Before I can begin my tirade, she cups a hand over my mouth and drags me to the restroom, saying, “We’ll get you cleaned up in no time. No harm done.” She doesn’t let go of my mouth or arm until we’re safely inside the restroom with the door firmly closed.
The second she releases me, I explode, “That BITCH! She tossed her drink on me ON PURPOSE!” I gape down at my white dress, now stained bright blue down the entire back. “And it’s BLUE?!?” Seriously, who drinks blue cocktails?
“Lizzie, just calm down,” Julia says, blotting the back of my dress with a handful of paper towels.
“Calm down? Calm down?!? I ju
st got assaulted out there! My favorite dress is ruined, and you want me to calm down?” I rant, waving my hands wildly.
Julia seizes me by both hands. “Yes. I want you to calm down. Starting a bar fight with someone you accused of bombing your car might taint the investigation. And, besides, if you get into any more trouble with work, you’re going to get yourself fired.” She returns to blotting my dress. “And what would I do if I couldn’t work with my best friend every day?”
At that comment, I soften a little and try to make a joke. “It’s all about you, isn’t it?” Unfortunately, it comes out as a snarl.
“Relax there, tiger.”
Julia now has a wet paper towel and is working on getting some of the blue out of the fabric. I look over my shoulder to assess the damage. It doesn’t seem that Julia is having much luck with the water, and she’s starting to get frustrated. We can still hear the music from the bar as plain as day in the restroom, and the song for my slow dance with Blake has just ended. Paul has chosen yet another Bublé song, “Haven’t Met You Yet,” as the next dance tune.
Julia stops working on my dress to scream irritably at the door, “Paul, if you play one more Michael Bublé song, I’m gonna come out there and shove that CD up your ass!”
I giggle. “I don’t think he can hear you over the music. What, you don’t like The Bublé?”
“Don’t ask me why, but his voice is like fingernails on a chalkboard to me. Besides, I think his songs have subliminal messages in them.”
Julia says the strangest things sometimes. “Why do you think that?” I ask.
She says ominously, “Because when I listen to his music, it makes me want to kill people.”
I roll my eyes. “Easy, crazy psycho. How’s my dress coming?”
She wrinkles her nose and says gingerly, “Honey, I’ve heard Blue Curacao stains pretty bad. I think your only hope is to try to bleach it, since the dress is white anyway. Sorry.”
I sigh. “I guess this is my cue to get out of here and go home.” I trudge toward the door.
Julia stops me. “Please don’t slug Bethany on the way out. It’s not worth it.”
“I won’t.” One dress really isn’t worth getting myself fired (or arrested for assault) over, even though I’m still steaming mad about the whole thing.
We make our way out of the restroom, and I spot Blake…who is dancing with Bethany. It takes every ounce of self-control I have left to not tear across the room and pound her ugly face. Eww. I should have saved a little self-control, because I didn’t have enough to keep myself from throwing up a little in my mouth. Now I realize that she probably doused me to get me out of the way so she could have Blake all to herself. Oh, well. She’s going to have to fight Sarah for him, and that should be punishment enough. He raises his eyebrows at me, glancing apologetically down toward Bethany. I shrug dejectedly and shake my head, following Julia out of the bar and into the dining room.
We return to the table where we had dinner to find Hank, Renee, and Dillon fixated on a nearby TV. I look up to see what they’re so engrossed in and find that it’s the nine o’clock news. Their breaking news top story is a fire in an old house. Big freaking deal. They call that “news” around here. Aside from the two murders this week (one of which wasn’t reported as such), there hasn’t been any real “news” in years. Everyone at the table is still riveted to the TV, so, puzzled, I take a closer look at the screen.
Oh, snap! That’s not just any old house. It’s Jed Stewart’s office building! The reporter is interviewing my police officer friend, William, and he is explaining that the police believe it may have been arson, and that there were people in the building who had been injured. Without taking my eyes off the screen, I scream, “BLAKE!” Realizing there’s no way he can hear me over the still-blaring music, I rush into the bar area and try to get his attention without Bethany noticing. They’re dancing—still!—and luckily he’s facing me. I wave at him frantically and beckon him into the dining room. He extricates himself from Bethany’s clutches and hurries over to meet me.
I steer him over to the TV and gesture to it. “Look.”
The segment is almost over, but Blake has seen enough to understand what’s happening. “Let’s go,” he says, dragging me out the door before I can say goodbye to Julia or anyone else.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Blake and I race to his car, intent on getting to Jed’s office as quickly as possible so we can see what’s left of the action. He starts the car and zooms out of the parking lot and toward the square.
“Did they say how the fire started?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the road.
“All they said was that the police believe it’s arson. If they haven’t contained the blaze yet, they probably can’t determine the exact cause, though,” I answer.
“Something about it must have tipped them off to the fact that it’s arson, though.”
“Did you hear the part where they said that there were injuries?”
“I hope it was Stewart,” Blake snarls.
“You’re going to need to get over that, you know.”
“Why should I feel bad if a murderer gets hurt?”
I sigh loudly. I’m getting nowhere with him, so I decide to keep my mouth shut. As we approach Jed’s office building, I count two fire trucks, two ambulances, and four police cars, all with their lights flashing, eerily illuminating the darkness.
“We’ll have to park down a side street. They’ve got this road blocked,” Blake says as he swings his car around a corner and throws it into park. We hurry down the street toward the action, where a small crowd is starting to form.
I catch Blake staring at my backside, and for a fleeting moment I think he’s checking me out. Then I remember I’m still wearing my stained dress. I must look horrible!
Blake confirms my suspicions. “Wow. McCool really did a number on your dress.”
“I had almost forgotten. Thanks for bringing it up again, though,” I reply dryly.
“You know, you could always take it off if it’s bothering you,” Blake teases (I think).
“You are ridiculous. Are you really that horny all the time?”
Blake nods his head thoughtfully. “Um, pretty much.”
“Well, you need to focus. Put your investigative reporter hat on and go find out what’s happening. I’ll do my gossip thing.”
I give him a shove toward the crowd and begin scanning around for someone I might know who could give me a heads-up on what’s going on. It’s hard to make out faces in the flashing, colored lights, but I finally spy Mrs. Adler, who used to be my Sunday School teacher when I was a kid. She lives near here, and if I remember correctly, is quite the neighborhood busybody. She should know everything that’s going on and then some.
“Hello, Mrs. Adler. What’s happening here?” I ask innocently.
“Oh, hello, Elizabeth. I haven’t seen you for a long time,” Mrs. Adler says pleasantly. Yes, I used to be “Elizabeth” as a child. Once I was old enough to object, I insisted everyone call me Lizzie. It suits me much better. She continues, “The firefighters have just now been able to put out this fire. It’s taken them twenty minutes. My stars, this old place will be ruined. How terribly sad. They’ve taken two people out on stretchers, and I hear they were both badly burned.” She clucks her tongue. “Why in the world would someone want to set fire to that nice Jed Stewart’s office? I’ve known him since he was a boy. He grew up in this town. Such a pity.” She sadly shakes her head and then regards me quizzically. “What brings you here, dear? I know you don’t live in this neighborhood.”
“I came here with a friend,” I hedge.
“Oh, I see.” My lame answer seems to satisfy her.
“Mrs. Adler, did you hear who—”
Our conversation is drowned out by the wail of sirens as the two ambulances pull away from the scene and race toward the hospital. I’m dying to know who is in those ambulances—knowing who the target is might point to who is responsible.
After the sirens are far enough away that I’m able to regain my hearing, I ask Mrs. Adler my question again. “Mrs. Adler, did you hear who it was that got hurt?”
She replies sadly, “I overheard someone saying they thought one of them was Jed. Poor boy. He has been through so much this week. More than anyone should have to endure.”
“Yes, he has,” I agree.
Events of this week aside, no one deserves to be burned, including murderers. I wonder if someone did this to get back at Jed because they think he killed Hannah. If I didn’t know better, I’d accuse Blake, but I’m his alibi for the time the fire started—it had to have been right about when we started dancing. Paul would also be a likely suspect, but I had my second awkward conversation of the day with him just before Blake and I started talking in the bar, then Paul began playing DJ. Paul was only out of my sight for a few minutes during the time the fire was set, so it also couldn’t be Paul. I’ve got nothing.
Blake appears next to me suddenly and murmurs in my ear, “You’re never gonna believe this.”
Mrs. Adler turns to us and says, “Hello, young man. Elizabeth, is this the friend you came with?”
Blake gives Mrs. Adler a puzzled stare. “Who’s Elizabeth?” He glances at me and I can see a light bulb go on. “Oh, you’re Elizabeth,” he concludes, pointing at me with a wicked grin.
Mrs. Adler gives him a disapproving look and moves away from us to talk to another lady in the crowd.
“Well, Elizabeth, do you want to know what I found out?” I kind of like the way he sexily says my name, but at the same time it’s irritating, which I think is his intention.
“Tell me.”
“Officer Sanchez from last night is working this scene. He told me there were two people inside when the blaze started.”
“Right. Jed and one other person.”
Blake looks disappointed. “Hey now, you’re ruining my story.”
It's Just a Little Crush Page 19