Starfire (Erotic Romance) (Peaches Monroe)

by Strong, Mimi

  “He’s fine,” Adrian said through gritted teeth, and tugged my arm hard.

  We ran through the woods, me with tears streaming down my face. We ran until I was out of breath and stumbling over branches.

  Adrian stopped.

  The woods were silent. No dog barks. Nothing.

  Adrian whistled for Cujo.

  No response.

  He whistled again.

  Nothing.

  “I’m so sorry,” I blubbered. “It’s all my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  Adrian held his finger to his lips.

  I held my breath.

  A dog barked, just one little bark.

  Adrian whistled again.

  The bushes nearby rustled.

  After several painful minutes of waiting, the German Shepherd came limping toward us from the shadows.

  I’ve never been so happy to see a dog. I knelt down and hugged him, only to discover he was bleeding, pretty bad. The bear must have bitten or scratched him across the shoulder, and I could see that he needed stitches.

  Adrian seemed to be in shock.

  Something kicked in for me, and I felt utterly calm.

  I looked for the backpack that had been on Adrian’s shoulders, but it must have been left behind. We needed bandage, big enough to wrap around Cujo’s shoulder to slow the bleeding.

  I took off my shirt and ripped off the lower portion to create a wrap. While I tied a knot in the fabric to secure the makeshift bandage, Cujo licked my hand.

  “You’re going to be fine,” I said gently. “You’re a tough old bugger, and this is just a scratch.”

  I got everything tied up as tight as I could, and stood there trying to figure out the best way to carry the dog, who seemed to be getting weaker on his feet by the minute. His tail was drooping, and his eyes had lost their brightness.

  “I don’t know if I can carry him the whole way back,” I said.

  Adrian finally moved, kneeling down and scooping up the dog in his strong arms. “I got him,” he murmured. “Can you get us back on the trail?”

  “Of course,” I said. “The trail is this way.” I pointed to one of the trail markers, and we were off. I led the way, turning back periodically with encouragement for Cujo, who was still conscious, but just barely.

  ~

  We called Golden from the car, and she was waiting at the veterinarian’s clinic when we pulled into the parking lot. She’d called her boss, and the older woman who was the veterinarian arrived at the same time we did.

  The two of them took a limp but breathing Cujo into the back and left us waiting in the front area.

  Both of us stood so we didn’t get blood on the upholstered seats.

  I kept apologizing to Adrian, who insisted I hadn’t done anything wrong, then started apologizing to me.

  “I shouldn’t have taken you all the way out there,” he said, his face grim and eyes glistening.

  “No, it’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention. That’s me. I get caught up in my head, and my eyes are open, but I don’t see what’s obvious. I’m so stupid. And now poor Cujo, that brave little man…”

  Adrian put his arms around me and rested his chin on top of my head. “He’ll be fine. They’re still in there, and no news is good news. And if he’s not fine, everyone at the station will be so proud he was such a hero—” Adrian’s voice pinched off with emotion.

  I squeezed my arms tighter around his body.

  The sun was gone, and nobody had turned on the lights in the waiting room, so we were in the dark. I could have looked around for a light switch, but the dark seemed soothing.

  We stood holding each other, listening for sounds from the adjoining room. The veterinarian and Golden were speaking to each other with urgency, but not panic.

  After an unbearable wait of one hour, the veterinarian came out smiling. “He’s resting,” she said. “We put him out so he wouldn’t hurt himself while his body begins the repair.”

  “How many stitches?” Adrian asked.

  “Not too many.” Her voice pitched up high, the way it does when people lie.

  Adrian started to wobble next to me, and as the veterinarian gave us a few more details, his responses were delayed and groggy. I steered him over to the one wooden chair in the room and forced him to sit down.

  He wanted to take Cujo home, but they insisted he stay overnight so they could keep an eye on him. The vet lived nearby, and had cameras set up in the recovery cages for remote monitoring.

  “We’ll take great care of Mr. Cujo Fluffypants,” Golden said chirpily. “And tomorrow you can take him home wearing the Cone of Shame, so he doesn’t chew out those itchy stitches.”

  Adrian still looked stunned. “Cone of Shame?”

  She explained about the plastic cone dogs and cats wear around their collar so they don’t lick their stitches after surgery.

  I ran out to the car to get my purse, which I’d left under the seat during our excursion. I caught a look at myself in the car window’s reflection and gasped at the sight of my bare stomach. Half my shirt had been used as a makeshift bandage/sling, and I’d slipped back on the remaining half, which barely covered my bra. This was not my finest fashion moment, but at least everyone was still alive.

  I came back into the clinic to find Golden standing next to Adrian, who was still on the wooden chair, having his hair stroked by the tiny blonde.

  Conflicting emotions battled within me as I dug around in my purse for chocolate to give Adrian.

  “Not hungry,” he said as I thrust an unwrapped chunk his way.

  “You’re in shock. You need something to bring your blood sugar up.”

  Golden had stopped stroking his hair, and simply agreed with me, urging him to eat the chocolate.

  The veterinarian came through, with her coat on and purse on her shoulder. She told Adrian they could deal with the paperwork tomorrow. She answered a few more questions, then apologized for rushing off, saying she had kids with homework waiting at home.

  Golden took us back to see Cujo, who was stretched out on his side and looking comfortable, despite the plastic cone tapering out from his collar. Thankfully the wound was covered by bandages.

  We gave him some pats through the bars of the cage—more for our benefit than his, since he was crashed out on drugs—and we left him there.

  Golden gave us both a hug goodbye, and we went back out to the car. I felt lighter, like my whole body was filled with helium.

  “It’s weird to leave him here,” Adrian said as he started the car. “I feel like I’m forgetting something.”

  “I’ll pay for the vet bill.”

  He patted my leg, showing traces of his first smile since the accident. “Firstly, I wouldn’t let you. Secondly, he has a fund set up for him that covers his care.” He turned the car in the direction of my house.

  We drove for a while without talking, the radio on at a low volume. The announcer came on and said something stupid about Hollywood stars taking over the town.

  I wanted to say something to Adrian, but I couldn’t think of what.

  Finally, he broke the silence.

  “Peaches, I know things are really complicated right now, but no matter what happens, I’ve been blessed to get to know you better.”

  “Are you breaking up with me?”

  “No. Do you want me to?”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek for a moment. “I’m seeing Dalton this weekend, and I’m afraid you’ll hate me next week. More than you already do.”

  “I will never hate you, and that’s a promise. You’re one of the most maddening and fascinating people I’ve ever known, and you have a good heart, as big as the sky. You have so much to give.” He tapped the steering wheel, the smile on his face growing. “And you’re a good kisser.”

  “I could say all those exact same things about you.”

  “Good.”

  We drove the rest of the way to my house in silence.

  He got out and walked
me to my door. “I’ll buy you a new shirt,” he said, looking down at the tattered, blood-spattered edge of my top.

  I slapped the side of my stomach. “As nice as this one? Seriously, this is a great cut for showing off my hot model body.”

  “Do you want me to come in and tuck your hot model body into bed?”

  He looked sleepy, like he would fall onto my bed and not leave until morning.

  “I’ll be fine.” I gave him two kisses, a quick one followed by a longer one. “Call me first thing tomorrow and let me know how Cujo is doing.”

  He gave me another kiss, lingering and soft.

  “Will do, hot model girl.”

  I opened the door and waved goodbye from the doorway.

  CHAPTER 15

  Friday morning, I was back at Peachtree Books, in my regular routine, but feeling odd and unsettled, waiting for the next thing to run in the door and knock me off my feet.

  Adrian called to let me know that Cujo had a good, long sleep, and was hungry and wagging his tail in the morning. The dog would be taking a load of antibiotics and going back to the vet for checkups, but he was heading home that afternoon.

  I should have been relieved after the good news, but my body felt like a wound-up spring, tensely anticipating change.

  The store would be moving next week, and there was no denying the massive upheaval that was coming. The books themselves were pouting, refusing to cooperate. Normally during the course of a day, I’d have one or two front-faced books topple off a shelf with the breeze of the door opening. That Friday, before I even took my lunch break, I’d had a total of four books swan-dive to the floor.

  I got all the books back in place and ordered them to behave before I locked the door with the Back in Five Minutes sign in place.

  Kirstin wasn’t working at Java Jones that day, so I was served by a nice-looking man, around thirty, with a long, red beard and square glasses.

  “Peaches Monroe!” he said as I approached the counter.

  “You’re the stand-up bass player,” I said hesitantly.

  “Correct! You win a prize.” He drew a card from the front pocket of his black apron and handed it to me. “That’s a free download of the hottest new single from the Bushy Beaver Tails, Beaverdale’s almost-famous band.”

  I turned the card over to read the song title: Shake Your Peaches.

  I didn’t know what to make of that, but my face sure didn’t care for it, and I found myself scowling.

  “You inspired our best song yet,” he said. “Shake Your Peaches is about love and confidence. We’re all major fans of yours, and our drums player Lester constantly brags about being your cousin’s cousin.”

  I shoved the card into my pocket, no longer scowling, but not feeling entirely comfortable. “I’m just a regular person.”

  “Sure, we all are. But you represent an idea that’s long overdue—that everyone has a beauty, and not just cookie-cutter plastic pop stars. I swear there’s a factory somewhere that grows them in vats, with their perfect hair and their cliched song lyrics. But we sure showed them, because we’re all going to be in Vanity Fair!”

  “That’s right!” I’d almost forgotten about the photo shoot from several weeks ago—the promo for Dalton’s indie movie. “I hope the pictures turn out.”

  The stand-up bass player grinned and pulled out his phone. “Some preview shots are online already, and they’re hysterical.”

  He showed me a photo, and the shot was so stunning, I had to try hard to convince myself the gorgeously curvy blonde was me. I was dancing with Charlie (the guy who played Dalton’s brother in the indie movie), while the seven-man band played amidst bales of hay. The second photo in the series showed three actors in teddy bear costumes attacking the set and terrorizing everyone.

  In light of the previous night’s horror, the fake bears didn’t seem so amusing to me, personally, but the double-page shots were gorgeous.

  “You should go on tour with us,” the man said.

  I laughed. “I can’t sing.”

  “Neither can we, but we don’t let it stop us.”

  “Don’t lie! You guys are amazing.”

  His cheeks reddened and he chanted, “I will take compliments. I will take compliments.”

  We both laughed over the oddities of being in the public eye, and I eventually got my lunch order and rushed back to work.

  I tried to lose myself in the routine, and pretend that the day was no different than any other Friday, but it was different.

  On Saturday morning, I had a date lined up with Dalton Deangelo, and, as far as I knew, we’d be getting married for the benefit of the press.

  Everything was happening so quickly, and I still hadn’t told anyone. I hadn’t even looked at the engagement ring. Part of me believed that if I ignored the issue, it would just go away. (I think we all know how well that worked out with my unplanned pregnancy.)

  ~

  I got home after work to an empty house, because Shayla was working late. Usually, if I didn’t have Friday night plans with friends, I’d have dinner with my family, but my mother had messaged that she was canning pickles from the garden, so the boys were going out for a boys’ night. I thought about joining her to help with canning, but my mother can get a little intense about her brines.

  Alone in the empty house, I downloaded and listened to Shake Your Peaches while I broke out the adult beverages. What goes best with shots of vodka? Beer. Also, Hot Pockets, Philly Cheese Steak flavor, with a side of sour cream.

  “Happy bachelorette party!” I told myself as I prepared the plate.

  Me and my party favors danced all the way up to my room, where I busted out the laptop and started shopping. There were so many great sales on! And free shipping! I got genuinely excited for Future Peaches, who was going to get so many amazing things delivered… if only I could click the checkout button.

  “This has never happened before,” I told my laptop, and it was the truth. My finger went limp when it was time to finish the business. I couldn’t commit to a single internet order. Not even one pair of rainbow toe socks, half price.

  My laptop was put to bed unsatisfied.

  I had a few more shots of vodka, thinking that would help, but the booze only enhanced the feelings I was already having—feelings of fear and uncertainty.

  I put my head down on my pillow to rest for a minute, since it was barely ten o’clock. Sleep quickly took me in its padded-walls embrace. Secure in sleep’s straight jacket, I dreamed of dogs and bears at a picnic, laughing at me as I ran around catching ripe fruit, falling from the sky, in the folds of my skirt. I twirled, and the white skirt expanded all around me, turning the whole world into lace.

  The clouds in the sky spelled out one word. Love.

  The only thing that mattered was love.

  ~

  Vern arrived to pick me up precisely at six in the morning, as arranged.

  I’d been awake since five, and was showered and ready to go, my overnight bag packed. I had a slight hangover from the night before, but luckily I’d fallen asleep before I could do too much harm to myself or my credit card.

  Vern stood on my porch, looking cheerful.

  “Miss Monroe, I took the liberty of getting you a mocha from Java Jones. It’s waiting in the car.”

  “Forget Dalton Deangelo, I want to marry you, Vern. Seriously. What will it take?”

  “I don’t mean to be gauche, ma’am, but you’re not my type.”

  “I don’t have the right equipment? Honey, I could get one of those harness things, and we could turn out all the lights and—oh, fuck! I’m sexually harassing you. Fuck me with a big box of fucks, I’m so embarrassed, Vern.”

  He held the door of the car open for me. “I’m not feeling harassed, but I will decline your offer.”

  “That’s good, because I’m already engaged to someone else, as you may know.”

  “Someone with smoldering green eyes?”

  I began to giggle uncontrollably as
I slipped into the back seat.

  Vern gave me a knowing look and circled around to the driver’s seat.

  I sipped my mocha quietly on the drive out to the tip of Dragonfly Lake, where we drove past the cabin Dalton was renovating, to a dock with a float plane.

  “Mr. Deangelo is meeting us there,” Vern explained when he saw me looking around.

  I approached the plane cautiously, the suitcase I’d borrowed from Shayla making loud noises on the wooden dock as it rolled.

  “He’s meeting us in LA?” I asked.

  “No, San Francisco.”

  “Why not LA? Wouldn’t that be a better location for all the press?”

  “His favorite wedding gown designer is in San Francisco. The first fittings are today, and there are other plans for Sunday.”

  I stopped and looked up at the blue sky. “Vern, I can be dense sometimes, but are you saying the wedding isn’t this weekend?”

  He laughed. “This weekend? That would be preposterous. We haven’t even discussed the dinner menu.”

  “Why did I think anything with Dalton Deangelo could be simple and quick?” I held up my hand. “Don’t answer. That’s a rhetorical question.”

  Vern swung open the door of the small plane and took my suitcase as I stepped up into the vessel. As he got my luggage stowed away and pointed out the safety features of the small, private plane, I tried to maintain a neutral expression.

  We stood together in the center of the plane, which was even tinier than Dalton’s Airstream trailer inside. What was it about that man and his little tin cans?

  Vern pointed out the fire extinguisher and other things I hoped to never use.

  I wondered what Shayla was doing back at the house. She was probably still in bed, the lucky girl. I’d popped my head into her room that morning to let her know I was heading out of town with Dalton. She sat up, stared straight at me, and asked me to bring back fancy cheese.

  Fancy cheese.

  It had seemed like such an odd request that I’d asked if she was sleep-talking and asked her to solve a simple math problem. She got the answer wrong, but I agreed to her request all the same.

  When Vern was finished talking about “unlikely events,” I pulled out my phone and asked if I could text while we were flying.