Smitten With Death

by Sharon Saracino

  I’d even considered heading over to visit the Timekeeper for gin and cookies just in case she’d heard anything. But let’s face it that was just one step away from skipping the cookies altogether and finding some half-baked excuse to take another slide down the Drop of Doom. And didn’t that just smack of desperation? I refused to be that girl anymore.

  “You know what they say about a watched pot? I’m pretty sure it applies to mirrors, too. So why don’t we watch a movie or something instead?” He suggested.

  “Sure. You pick the movie. I’ll make the popcorn.” I pasted a smile on my face as I turned around and skated my sock clad feet across the tile to the pantry cabinet. He grinned back happily, waggled his brows, and headed for the den. The sound of the cabinet door opening apparently alerted Sir Chicken Caesar to the possibility of food. He hauled himself to his feet and waddled over from the fireplace, and he then attempted the first loop of an ungainly figure eight around my ankles just as I was turning back to the microwave. With a nifty series of dance maneuvers, and a spot on imitation of a ceiling fan, I managed to avoid serious injury, but my obese feline remained unimpressed and simply plopped his butt on the floor and yawned. I’d worried a change of environment at his advanced age would be traumatic, but he hadn’t batted an eye. In fact, I’m not sure he bothered to open an eye. As long as there’s sufficient food and available staff, I guess he’s flexible. I tossed the popcorn in the microwave, sprinkled a couple of kitty treats in Caesar’s blue pottery bowl, and scratched him between the ears. He, of course, offered me a bland stare, hissed, and proceeded to chow down his goodies.

  “Nothing too gory,” I called out over the hum of the microwave while the scent of freshly popped corn filled the kitchen. “And no horror films, because we’re, you know, out here in the middle of the nowhere, and I won’t sleep a wink. Oh, and definitely nothing complicated requiring my undivided attention. And no romances. Definitely no romances.”

  “Maybe a nice documentary about watching paint dry?” Buddy’s voice drifted into the kitchen.

  Frankly, I was a little worried I was starting to rub off on him.

  “What color paint?”

  “So we’ll be watching the same thing. Again. Is it still in the DVD player?” He reappeared in the doorway and headed for the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “I’m going to get changed first.”

  “Hey, it’s a classic,” I said to his retreating back. There was no reason for me to change. I was already wearing an oversized T-shirt and a pair of flannel boxer shorts along with my fuzzy red socks. I’d given serious consideration to getting dressed after my shower this morning, but it had just seemed like a wasted effort and now it was paying off. Clearly a stroke of accidental genius on my part. Fortunately, I hadn’t been called upon to leave the house. Wearing boxer shorts and red fuzzy socks in public with any kind of dignity is impossible.

  By the time I’d managed to tear open the popcorn bag, run cold water on the steam burns I acquired while doing so, and juggle the bowl and two bottles of water into the bedroom, Buddy had already changed into a T-shirt and a pair of sweats. He’d also set up the DVD player and propped himself against the headboard on one side of the king-sized bed with the remote at the ready. I set a bottle of water on the oak night table on my side of the bed, tossed the other to him, and then plopped the bowl between us before climbing up on my own side.

  I settled back against the enormous mound of pillows as Buddy hit the play button and the music began. I realize not everyone can chair dance while lying in bed, but I was just awesome like that.

  Tell me this surprises you.

  “Really? Again?” He frowned, grabbing the popcorn bowl and wrapping his arms around it protectively when my gyrations threatened to flip it upside down. I appreciated his quick thinking since I was still discovering the un-popped kernels from my previous dance recitals. Usually under my left hip at around three in the morning, right after I actually had managed to fall asleep.

  Yeah, that.

  “Clearly you have no musicality whatsoever. It’s a well-established fact it’s physically impossible to sit still during any rendition of this theme song.”

  “Clearly you are stuck in the eighties. So, I asked a girl to prom today.” He slipped it in oh-so-casually, but there was a warm flush creeping up his neck and a shy smile hovering around his lips as he glanced at me from the corner of his eyes. “She, uh…she said yes.”

  “Oh, Buddy! That’s so great!” Instinctively I reached to hug him, but ended up patting him on the arm instead. “So what color is her dress? We’ll have to order flowers. What kind does she want? And what about the tickets? Do you think we should rent a limo, or do you think that’s too over the top…?”

  “Max! Sheesh! Slow down. I’ve got this. You’ve already spent a fortune on me. Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I’m working now and I’ll take care of it,” he laughed.

  “Well, maybe we could split the cost then?” I insisted. “I mean, I can’t take it with me, right? Well, I guess I can, but we’ve both seen where that gets a person.”

  “Stop.” He shook his head with a smile and reached for my hand. “You’ve already given me everything. I have a home. I have people who care what happens to me, and a life to call my own. It’s the only thing I ever wanted, something I gave up hoping for, a long time ago. You had less reason than anyone to stick your neck out for me, and yet you did. And not because there was anything in it for you. You’ve given me normal, Max. I can spend the rest of my life trying, but I can’t ever repay that. So thank you. Well, thank you doesn’t seem to cut it, but I just wanted you to know.”

  “Well, shit!”

  That’s me, spouting profundity at every opportunity.

  Honestly, I was at a loss for words.

  Yes, we have already established that in itself is a rare event.

  No matter what tomorrow might bring, no matter how many mistakes I’d yet to make, I would always be able to look back on this moment and remember I’d managed to do one thing completely right. In spite of myself. I squeezed Buddy’s thin fingers across the top of the plaid flannel comforter and stared straight ahead with my throat aching, blinking rapidly as a banana was shoved in an unmarked police car’s tailpipe.

  This movie is genius. Seriously.

  The little snot leaned forward and regarded me with suspicion. “Are you crying?”

  “Of course not,” I sniffed, turning my face away. Clearly, my heart simply was so full it was leaking from my eyes. “I don’t do tears. At least not in public and certainly not in front of a smart ass former Zombie King.”

  “Uh, huh. I suppose you don’t do sarcasm either?” I heard the smile in his voice.

  “Absolutely not. I’m simply a highly skilled professional who excels at pointing out the obvious to the oblivious. It’s a gift.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Indeed.” I sniffed, knowing when all was said and done, I was the lucky one. “You’re welcome. And Buddy? Thank you, too.”

  Epilogue

  Saturday night, I found myself alone and abandoned. More so than usual anyway. Buddy had finagled a date with Prom Girl. Unbelievably, the Hardware King offered to loan him his classic muscle car. Yes, the one neither Denise nor I are allowed to touch. I tried not to be insulted. I guess I was never very good at being the son Dad always wanted. Buddy seemed to be doing a much better job. Because Dad insisted the vehicle would only be comfortable in its very own garage stall, the kid was camping at their place tonight, and I planned to head over tomorrow and bring him back after the Logan family Sunday morning post-church coffee klatch.

  I was surprised to discover I actually missed the kid’s company. I lasted about twenty minutes into the movie before deciding that though I loved the comedic genius of it with the intensity of a thousand suns, reading the phone book was more stimulating at this point than the eighth screening of the same movie in as many days.

  I clicked off the DVD with a sigh, tuned the tele
vision to the home improvement channel, and turned off the bedside lamp. I snuggled down in the vast emptiness of Kane’s king-sized bed, and prepared to be enlightened. I’d renewed my friendship with the Internet and discovered recent reviews of functional magnetic resonance-imaging studies indicate subliminal stimuli activate specific regions of the brain despite the participant being unaware. Translation: I planned to learn the secret to successful gardening while I slept. Morgan would be so surprised. Of course, studies also suggest subliminal messages are more effective if they’re goal-related and my actual interest in gardening was nonexistent. My awesome plan became irrelevant when I realized they were running a renovation marathon. Power tools and I have never been friends.

  I pointed the remote at the television and clicked it off. The room was plunged into darkness. Well, except for the moonlight glinting off the solid silver surface of the mirror, aka the portal to the afterlife, mocking me from the corner of the room. Loving people and then being forced to miss them was exhausting. I’m no different from anyone else, seeking that one person who makes me feel important, who makes me feel I matter and am loved in a way no one else could possibly be. Love isn’t just about finding someone you can live with, it’s about finding someone you can’t live without. It’s about finding someone who makes you better without trying to change who you are. I’d been incredibly lucky to find it not once, but twice. All things considered, I suppose I have a lot of nerve whining about a couple of lonely nights.

  I must have dozed off because I was startled awake by a cool draft as the comforter was lifted away and its warmth was replaced by two hard, sinewy arms snaking around my waist and a large, heated body enveloping mine from behind. Ordinarily, I would have been alarmed, but I’d been having this same dream for two weeks and if this was a repeat performance, I was in no hurry to wake up. Of course, the very real aroma of jelly doughnuts was a dead giveaway. The Grim Reaper was home at last.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I murmured sleepily, as he buried his face in the side of my neck, sending a warm spiral of heat right to my toes.

  “I think it’s called spooning.” Kane smiled against my skin.

  “Spooning. I see. Well, you do realize spooning very often leads to forking? I hope you’ve come prepared with the appropriate condiments and utensils.”

  “Sweetheart, I’ve been thinking of nothing but chocolate lava cake with hot fudge sauce and whipped cream for almost two weeks. I’m packing a full set of cutlery.”

  He eased his big, Grim Reaper-ish form over mine, and I sank further into the mattress under his delicious weight with a soft sigh, wiggling happily against the firm ridge of flesh jutting against the fly of his jeans. He’d cleverly removed his shirt ahead of time, and I was finally rewarded with those miles and miles of smooth, golden shoulders under my eager hands. I stroked my palms over his chest and—Why hello, abs! Grazing his impressive washboard with a light, teasing touch, I continued my exploration until my fingers tangled in the coarse line of crisp, curling hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.

  His eyes locked on mine, and a wicked smile curved his lips. “Are you finished yet?”

  “Not even close, why?” I grinned back.

  “Because I’m waiting for my turn, and my patience has about reached its limit.” He growled, grasping the hem of my T-shirt and yanking it over my head in one smooth motion. I arched against him in breathless delight, pressing the aching part of me to the aching part of him. My girlie bits nearly exploded with joy as he pressed back and lowered his lips to mine.

  People say love hurts. Someone even wrote a song about it.

  You’re probably thinking of the 1975 hit, but the song was actually recorded long before that in 1960, and covered again in 1961.

  But I digress. People are wrong. Rejection hurts. Loneliness hurts. Loss hurts. I guess they get confused. It isn’t the love that hurts, it’s the absence of it. In the end, love is the one thing that makes all those other hurts disappear.

  “What took you so long?” I gasped as my boxers quickly met the same fate as my T-shirt. Kane paused in the act of tossing his jeans over the side of the bed.

  “Celina’s enthusiasm exceeded everyone’s expectations. Harvey’s still out of commission, but knowing how your mind works, I could almost hear the hamsters bouncing off the inside of your skull.”

  “They’re squirrels,” I giggled, tugging at the jeans. “And they’re much tamer than they used to be.”

  “A rodent’s a rodent.” He grinned back. “Anyway, I insisted a certain leather-wearing, motorcycle riding high school dropout who defined cool find me a replacement.”

  “Seventies Sitcom Week?” I guessed. “And Celina is—wait, don’t tell me—”

  “Well, pink is her color.” Morgan interrupted with a laugh and sent his pants sailing across the room. “How’s the kid?”

  “He’s good. Really, really good. He’ll be glad you’re back. I think he’s had his fill of movie re-runs. He and Dad have totally hit it off. In fact, right at this moment…”

  “At this moment—” Morgan interrupted, settling himself between my thighs and pinning my hands above my head while feathering a slow trail of kisses along my collarbone. He really was quite adept at multitasking. “I think we should concentrate on less talk-y, more cake-y.”

  I tried to respond with an enthusiastic Hell, yeah, but words were already beyond me. Tomorrow would come, and there would be problems to solve, mountains to climb, and dragons to slay, but for tonight, I let complete contentment have its way with me. Life is a cycle, and sometimes there’s no easy—only different degrees of hard. But sometimes there’s perfect, and I was ready to get me some. Not every couple can say they’ve been to Hell and back, together...and mean it. Literally. But we could. Sometimes the road you travel doesn’t lead to the destination you expected. Lord knows, my road’s been riddled with more twists than a five-pound tray of pasta salad. But if you can look back on the trip and still smile at the end...then maybe it was worth it. As I melted into the arms of my Grim Reaper, and his lips settled on mine, believe me, I was smiling.

  A word about the author...

  Sharon Saracino was born and raised in the beautiful anthracite coal region of Northeastern Pennsylvania. A lifelong love of writing took a back seat to real life while she got married, raised a family, went back to college, and finally decided what she wanted to be when she grew up! The oldest of three siblings, she was raised in a small town rich in history and filled with characters galore.

  Sharon is a member of Pennwriters, Romance Writers of America, the Fantasy, Futuristic, and Paranormal Chapter, and the Maryland Romance Writers.

  When she is not reading, writing, or dabbling in photography and genealogy, she works full time as a Certified Registered Rehabilitation Nurse. She plans to win the lottery just as soon as she remembers to buy a ticket, fantasizes about moving to Italy, brews limoncello, and spends time with her incredible husband, funny and talented son, and two crazy dogs.

  http://sharonsaracino.com

  Thank you for purchasing

  this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.