Mixed Feelings (Empathy in the PPNW Book 1)

by Olivia R. Burton

  “Please,” he spat, still arm-deep in the oven.

  Before checking out the little office nook, I went to what I figured was the front of the house. I peered out the window but only saw a large porch and another walkway that disappeared into the dark of the forest. Nothing explained what we were doing in the middle of the woods, alone, about to share pizza.

  I turned and frowned at Mel. I hadn’t even taken my jacket off, but he had disrobed down to a white undershirt. His coat and button-up shirt were draped over one of the chairs set under the bar side of the kitchen island and he’d moved on to opening the containers he’d set out.

  “This is weird,” I announced.

  “What is?”

  “All of this. I don’t like you,” I said.

  Mel grinned. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “That’s part of what I don’t like about you.”

  He chuckled this time and leaned back to grab a knife off the magnetic strip along the wall.

  “I’m not kidding, Mel. This, among many other things, isn’t something I ever saw happening between us. You don’t offer to make me pizza or invite me into your home. Your bed, sure, but not your home.”

  “My bed is in my home,” he said, pausing in the chopping of mushrooms to smirk at me. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “See, stuff like that,” I said, deciding I might as well resign myself to the fact that Mel and I were acting friendly. He was okay with the situation, completely at ease even though I wouldn’t have been surprised to find out it was all a hallucination. Mel and me getting along like grown-ups?

  The very concept was nearly Greek to me.

  Before pulling off my coat, I checked all the pockets for notes, wondering if the candy thief had left any explanation of what I’d let the evening come to. I found nothing and wondered why the thief had gone radio silent. It had warned me before about Mel, trying to get me to put up my shields so I wouldn’t fry my brain. Maybe it foolishly believed that the necklace not only blocked Mel’s emotions from me, but also made him completely tolerable.

  Or maybe it hadn’t warned me off of spending the evening with Mel because it was holed up in my house eating all the food I’d risked my life to buy from the mini-mart.

  “Goddammit,” I murmured.

  “Pondering your own mental shortcomings?”

  “What?” I asked, only half-sure he’d said something insulting. My mind was busy conjuring up images of a giant cartoon mouth—I can’t even fathom what this candy thief looks like—chomping its way through piles of my sugar.

  “The music, genius. You’re just standing there when you should be picking out something to listen to.”

  “Shut up,” I snapped. “I could be a genius. Maybe I’m solving complex math equations and calculating the exact square footage of your house. You don’t know.”

  Mel wisely didn’t address my comments, though I could see his lips fighting with a smile. I watched him chop vegetables for a few moments, worried that I was hungry enough to eat even those if it came to it, and then sighed, giving in. He had promised me pizza, after all, and I didn’t want to ruin my chances at that.

  “Where’s your stereo?”

  “It’s the digital age, babe.” With the knife, Mel pointed at another cabinet set into the side of the entertainment center. I opened it and found a slick monitor and a tray that slid a keyboard out toward me when the door opened completely. The screen flashed to life and I was greeted with an iTunes so packed with playlists I thought I’d never stop scrolling.

  I picked one of the two dozen cooking playlists Mel had created and music floated out through the room from everywhere and nowhere; apparently he had hidden speakers. Then I decided I was going to snoop some more. Mel ignored me when I headed straight for the darkened hallway. I felt around for a switch and flicked it on to find that I was facing the bathroom door. The guest bath was long, narrow, and made up to look like a fancy hotel bathroom. It was very nice, but something about it clearly said, “Your visit here is temporary.” Individually wrapped soaps and expertly folded fluffy towels were laid out on otherwise empty shelves. I wondered if Mel had a Zorg-esque army of tiny robots that did his bidding, since it all looked too well-maintained for me to believe he’d fancied the place up himself.

  At the end of the hall was a closed door that I, of course, couldn’t resist opening.

  Mel’s bedroom looked similarly inviting, without actually inviting anyone to stay. It had the same high ceilings as the rest of the house, as well as a lot of square edges and dark colors.

  “What kind of meat do you like?” Mel asked, startling me into wheeling around. Normally you can’t sneak up on me unless I’m eyeballs deep in pastry, because my empathy makes a sort of mental map of those around me. Merrin’s necklace seemed to be affecting much more than I’d anticipated, though, and I realized I was going to have to learn to deal with the sort of blindness it imposed on me.

  When I didn’t answer immediately, Mel began thrusting his pelvis toward me to the beat of the music. “Because I have all kinds.”

  “I think you have one kind and I don’t want it.”

  Mel laughed, taking my joke better than I took most of his, then stopped thrusting and gestured back down the hall.

  “Come choose your toppings. Unless you’d rather we stay in here.”

  “No,” I assured him, squeezing past when he continued to block most of the doorway rather than let me pass easily. I kept my gaze off his so he wouldn’t see in my eyes that I was finding his behavior sliding down the spectrum away from objectionable and toward entertaining. I refused to consider that it was just because he was promising me pizza. I mean, I look at sex like I look at cupcakes and if great sex was as easy to get as great cupcakes, I would have it all the time. But this was still Mel and, necklace or not, I couldn’t take that chance.

  The kitchen looked like it was dressed for a TV crew to crowd in and shoot a culinary school commercial. I was pretty impressed, but rather than boost his ego by mentioning it, I sat at the counter and reached across to grab a handful of mushrooms. Any port in a storm. Ignoring my rudeness, Mel started opening paper-wrapped bundles of cubed meat. I jerked my chin toward them when he did a sliding dance toward the stove.

  “What are those?”

  “The different kinds of meat you claim you don’t want. I’ve got venison and rabbit—very fresh—but if you prefer, I can pull some chicken, pork, or beef out.”

  It took me a moment to catch on to what he meant by fresh and I sat up straight when I did.

  “Fresh? Like, you killed them?” I asked.

  He nodded, still at the stove. The pizza oven made a crackling sound. “That’s why I’m in the forest.”

  “There are chickens and cows in the forest?” I asked.

  Mel took a second to throw me an annoyed glance. “I don’t kill those myself, but I like variety. I have family all over; some of them have farms. Not all werewolves are as city-loving as I am.”

  “Yeah, you’re a real Carrie Bradshaw out here in the dark of the forest, killing your own deer.”

  “You mock, but once you taste it...” he trailed off, grabbing a handful of the dark red meat and dumping the cubes into a pan that smelled like spices and wine.

  I took a second to question my situation again, shaking my head. “I'm not kidding; this is weird. You haven’t once tried to stick it in me in the last hour.”

  Mel shrugged. “How do you know that’s not exactly what I’m doing now?”

  I blinked, frowning.

  “This seems a bit elegant for you.”

  “Give me some credit, Arthur.” Content with the way the meat in the pan was handling itself, he turned to me and leaned against the counter. “If it can somehow be used to seduce a woman, I am great at it.”

  “Really?” I asked, nabbing a few spinach leaves this time. I ate them quickly, leaning back in my chair. “Like what?”

  “Oh, various instruments—though drums and bass ar
e the top sellers. Cooking, singing—no, I will not demonstrate that for you. Yoga.”

  I was more taken aback by the yoga comment than the rest, but I vowed then and there to one day hear Mel belt out a cheesy love ballad. In my mind, he would don a long blond wig and possibly weep at the end of the song, before—of course—being pelted with panties.

  “Yoga?”

  “Oh, you have no idea. Especially out here.” He whistled, looking at me like he’d just cracked the biggest secret in vagina history.

  “You are...” I trailed off, unsure of what I could call him that I hadn’t already called him a million times. “Actually, where is the wine? I need to talk to some wine about this.” With Mel wearing the necklace, I could get as drunk as I wanted and I wouldn’t have to worry about how my empathy might react. I hadn’t gotten drunk around another person since I’d been dating my ex-husband and I liked the idea of company that couldn’t fry my brain.

  When he brought out a bottle of red and two glasses, I considered how the next hour might go and how different it was likely to be from the rest of our relationship.

  “This isn’t weird to you?” I asked.

  Mel shrugged. “It’s fun. Aren’t you having fun?”

  “I suppose. But this isn’t how we do things. Your fun usually comes at my expense.”

  “True,” he said, sipping his own wine and checking the meat in the pan. “But this is better. Why are you complaining?”

  “I’m not complaining, I’m confused. I’m not used to being able to stand you. Generally just being in the same room with you makes me want to tear my—no, tear your hair out.”

  When he turned to unwrap one of the balls of dough he had on the counter, he was smiling.

  “And that is exactly why I spend so much time in the same room as you. It’s like a game where winning just requires me to stand there.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  He shrugged. “You just play hard to get really well.”

  “I’m not playing. And I’m not just hard to get, I’m impossible. At least for you.”

  “Never say never. With this necklace, who knows what might happen.”

  “I know what will happen and it’s not sex. From the second we met, you’ve been insufferable and grating. And not just your emotions. You, as a person, tend to be a jerk. And besides, there’s a world full of other women out there. Why is fucking me on your bucket list?”

  “Wow,” he said, his eyebrows shooting up as he worked the dough. “Language.”

  I went quiet, unsure if I’d offended him. After some contemplation, I realized that was unlikely. I watched him work, wondering why he wasn’t addressing my comments about his jerkishness. He didn’t look bothered but I couldn’t be sure without being able to feel his emotions. For a brief moment, I kind of wished I could feel what was going on in his psyche. Deciding that way definitely lay not only madness but also rolling around on the floor clutching my skull and crying, I pressed on.

  “So why me? From what I can tell, you don’t have a type, so it’s not that. You’ve, somehow, got no shortage of options and paying a prostitute would be way less work than you put into going after me.” I took another drink of wine and a thought occurred to me. “Is it really just that I’m a woman?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Great,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re even simpler than I am.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, lifting the dough and tossing it like a pro. “I don’t think anyone’s as simple as you. Maybe a dung beetle.”

  “Hey.”

  “That’s not half as insulting as some of the things you’ve said to me,” Mel pointed out, his tone gone harder than I’d been expecting.

  “Well… you deserve it.”

  “And you deserve me driving you home without giving you any pizza.”

  I buttoned up, cowed by the idea that I wouldn’t get to eat any of the spiced, boozy venison or the fresh mozzarella floating in cloudy water waiting to be made into delicious pizza. After another sip of wine and an internal admonishment at my growling stomach, I let my annoyance go.

  “Well. I’m sorry,” I offered. Mel nodded my way, ignoring the fact that my tone hadn’t been entirely sincere.

  “I appreciate that.”

  Trusting that he was back on the feeding-me train, I got back on topic. “If I looked like a rumpled bed sheet and weighed as much as a small horse, would you still try to have sex with me?”

  “Yep.” He nodded without hesitation.

  “Well, that’s something, at least.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning… you’re actually less of a dick than I thought.”

  “My dick is less than no man’s.”

  “Why does everything end up being about your dick?

  “You’d understand if you’d just take a shot.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “It would take so much more than one shot to get me to have sex with you. I’d need the entire bottle.” I glared at the wine as if it was conspiring against me. Mel caught my look and laughed.

  As he moved on to adding sauce to the dough, I got up and went to the other side of the counter. Eyeing the options, I waited for him to finish with the sauce.

  “Do I get to choose the toppings?”

  “For one pizza, yes. I choose the second for you.”

  “I’ll allow it,” I said, risking my dignity and pouring another glass of wine.

  ***

  By midnight, I was stretched out on the floor of Mel’s living room, making undoubtedly sexual sounds. Both pizzas were divine, though I did cheerfully admit that the one Mel had crafted was better than the one I’d slapped together. At some point in the evening I’d lost my shoes and my socks and taken up residence on the floor next to the free-standing fireplace. The window at my back was impressively insulated; all I felt was the wine in my bloodstream and the heat from the fire.

  Mel was on the floor across the coffee table from me, one long leg outstretched, one bent, his back to the part of his sectional that divided the living room from the kitchen. He was laughing at me. I couldn’t recall the number of things we’d discussed, but none had been too personal. I wondered if skirting around subjects like siblings and life experiences was just his way of avoiding getting close to a woman.

  Grabbing another slice of pizza, I chomped into it, moaning again.

  “If I didn’t have a year of experience warning me against it, I would actually be seduced by this. Come on, Somerset, let’s hear you sing.”

  He laughed and shook his head, grabbing for a slice of the pizza I’d made—which I’d barely touched.

  “Your experience is wrong. I could give you some better, though.”

  “No, no, despite your cooking prowess—which is impressive—I’m not interested. You’re still an asshole.”

  “So are most of the men out there.”

  “I haven’t slept with them, either,” I mused, trying to decide if I wanted another glass of wine or another slice of pizza.

  “Maybe you should give us all a chance.”

  “Each and every one of you?” I asked, feigning a childlike excitement. When he rolled his eyes, I let my tone fall flat. “That would probably just end in disappointment.”

  “Man,” he said, finishing off his slice and shaking his head. “You have no faith in my gender.”

  “Eh,” I shrugged, deciding against any more food. While I wasn’t trying to impress Mel, I also wasn’t really interested in barfing all over his house because I’d eaten and drank too much. “It’s less a lack of faith and more a… discerning taste.”

  “Well, you should discern that I’m worth a taste.”

  I squinted his way.”Do you have a porn script writer in your ear, or something? You’re like Cyrano de Blow Job.”

  Laughing, Mel got up, grabbing for the pizza pans. Winking at me, he padded into the kitchen. “I don’t need anybody else; all this sexual cleverness is me and me alone. Unless you’d like to g
et a friend involved.”

  “I don’t say it enough, but ugh.” Grabbing the ceramic squares he’d set out for the formerly hot pizza pans, I followed him. “Besides, just because you’ve slept with a lot of women doesn’t mean you’re good at it.”

  “How does that logic work?”

  “You’re pretty, I’ll give you that. Women are just as shallow as men and if I saw a picture of you, I’d probably want to bang you.” Oops, that last bit had been the wine talking. Mel didn’t seem to notice, which I thought spoke to how often he got told he was attractive.

  “Yes, which means I practice sex a lot. Practice makes perfect. And then, once I became perfect, I kept having sex.” Loading the pans and the few glass bowls he’d emptied into his dishwasher, he waved a hand as if everything had been explained and there were no more words.

  “Practice on one woman, maybe. Practice on many is like…” I had to pause to think of a good analogy. Mel let me, seemingly convinced I had no argument he couldn’t deflect. “It’s like building a lot of different things out of wood—” He paused in loading the dishwasher long enough to shoot me finger-guns. “But never focusing on one. You never get good at making birdhouses if you’ve made one birdhouse and thirty-five other objects.”

  “Bird hotel, bird ski chalet, bird liquor store.”

  I spoke over him, refusing to let him derail my point by making me laugh. “My point is that all women are different. We all like different things, especially in bed.”

  With the counter cleared of plates and bowls, Mel grabbed a rag, ran it under hot water, squirted some soap on it, and started cleaning.

  Sitting in a silent haze of wine and pizza and surprisingly enjoyable conversation, I watched him work. I swear my eyes only drifted to the way his muscles moved once or twice. Or, like, four or five times, but it was all the wine, I swear. Good sense passed out in the corner, and all that.

  When the island was clean of pizza debris, Mel turned to work on the stove and spoke with his back to me.

  “I take it your argument has been made? No more animal-home-related analogies to throw my way?”

  I shrugged, then realized he couldn’t see it. “Yeah, I’ve made my point. You’re good at stuff; I’ll give you that. Cooking pizza is a stuff you’re good at, but that doesn’t make you a sex expert.”