Dead Pretty

by Samantha Towle

  “What can I get you both to drink?” asks the waiter.

  Jack and I both order beers, and the waiter leaves to get our drinks.

  I stare out the window, needing to collect my thoughts for a minute. Wanting to gain at least a smidgen of composure back. I’ve never felt so unbalanced yet more like my old self than I do around Jack.

  It’s started snowing again. I watch the flakes drift lazily to the ground.

  “Will your bike be okay?” I gesture to the weather.

  “The bike will be fine. You and I will most likely have damp asses from the ride back home though.”

  I’m already damp, just from looking at you, so no worries there.

  I chuckle. More at my own dirty thought than what Jack said.

  “I should get a car really,” he says. “Having the bike in this climate isn’t exactly ideal.”

  I can’t imagine Jack driving anything other than his motorbike. Although a car would be nice to ride in on the way home. A wet ass is not high on my list of things to have.

  “Have you always ridden motorbikes?” I ask him.

  “Pretty much. Although I didn’t get to ride so much when I was in the military.”

  “Too busy driving tanks?” I smile, resting my chin in my hand.

  “Something like that.”

  “Maybe you don’t have to get rid of the bike. You could keep it to use in the summer and just have a car for winter.”

  “Does this place even have a summer?” he asks, leaning back in his chair.

  “So I’ve been told.” I shrug. “I have yet to see it.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  I feel my spine stiffen at the question.

  Relax, Audrey. It’s a perfectly normal question.

  “Six months,” I tell him. Even I can hear the caution in my voice though. So, I try to cover it up with my own question. “What made a motorbiking guy like you move to snowy Jackson?”

  “Research.”

  “For your book?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “You write fictional crime books, right? So, what are you working on right now?”

  If he has switched to nonfiction and is writing a real-life crime book, I’m out of here.

  “You looked me up?” He grins.

  “Your books. Not you. Don’t get a big head. I work in a library. It would be weird if I didn’t look your books up.”

  He’s still smirking, and I feel like I’m digging myself into a hole.

  “And?”

  “What?”

  “What did you think?”

  “I didn’t read them. Crime is not my thing.”

  He nods, as if remembering me telling him this when he first told me what books he writes.

  “But they looked good. You first published when you were still in the military, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you always want to be a writer?”

  The waiter brings our beers over, interrupting, and asks to take our orders. We’ve barely looked at the menu. But after a quick scan, Jack orders the yakitori, and I decide on the seared scallops.

  “To answer your question,” Jack says after taking a sip of his beer, “yeah, I always wanted to be a writer. My father … didn’t see it as a viable career path. He was ex-military. He pushed me in that direction, and I allowed him to.”

  “But you keep writing.”

  “Yeah. My—” He suddenly stops, cutting his words off.

  “Your what?” I ask out of curiosity.

  He shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts. “Sorry, I lost my train of thought there for a minute. I was just going to say … my friend, he was the one who got me published. I kept writing while I was away. I would send him the chapters I had written. He kept them all. Typed them up and submitted them to a publisher without me knowing.” He laughs to himself. “I got my first book deal because of him.”

  Listening to him, I get the impression that he’s hiding something. Maybe that the he was actually a she, an ex-girlfriend, and he doesn’t want to discuss past women while trying to get in this current woman’s panties.

  “Wow. That’s one good friend. Sneaky”—I chuckle—“but good.”

  “Yeah. He is good. The best.”

  “Where is he now?” I take a sip of my beer.

  “Gone.”

  “Gone? Where?”

  He blinks, looking past me. “Australia.”

  I feel like there is a story there. About him and some girl who left him to go to Australia. But I’m not going to dig for more information. I’ve done enough asking about his past for the night. If I’m not careful, he’s going to start asking me questions about my life.

  “Wow. Well, thank God for airplanes, right?”

  He just smiles in response.

  A silence descends on us. Surprisingly, it’s not one I created. Something is on his mind right now, but I’m not going to ask what it is.

  The jealous girl in me doesn’t want to know if he is thinking about a long-lost love.

  Ugh.

  See, this is why I stay away from people. They’re too much hassle.

  “Um … so thanks for bringing me here,” I say for the sake of saying something. “It’s a nice place.”

  His broody eyes come back to mine. “You don’t have to thank me.”

  I shrug. “I’m really enjoying myself, walking the dogs as well. Gary and Pork Chop are adorable. Do you know their stories?” I ask him. “How did they end up at the shelter?”

  “Pork Chop’s owner passed away, and Gary was a stray. Found wandering around the streets. Shelly said he was in bad shape when they brought him in.”

  My poor Gary.

  I have a heartbreaking vision of a skinny, shabby-looking Gary, confused, lost, and wondering why his owners left him alone. Why they didn’t want him anymore.

  “Hey. He’s okay now.” Jack reaches over, covering my hand with his.

  I start at the contact.

  “Shelly and Ron are good people. They will find him a forever home soon enough,” he adds in a soothing voice.

  “I know.” I blink clear whatever emotion he saw in my eyes that prompted him to reassure me like that.

  I’m really wishing my hair were down now, so I could hide my face with the thick curtain of it.

  Clearing my throat, I slide my hand out from under his in the pretense of picking up my beer bottle.

  I put it to my lips, taking a long drink. I can’t believe how upset I got then at the thought of Gary being alone.

  Maybe because you’re alone, and you know how it feels.

  Yeah, but my being alone is my choice.

  But is it really? Or is it a necessity that arose from a situation you hadn’t caused?

  Oh, fuck off, subconscious.

  I put my beer down. Keeping ahold of it, I pick at the edge of the label with my thumbnail.

  “Hey, just a thought …” I start, needing to take the conversation into humor. “Maybe this is why Eleven keeps escaping from your apartment … because you keep coming home, smelling of dogs. She probably thinks you’re cheating on her with those damn dogs, so she packs up her shit and leaves you.” I smirk.

  He barks out a laugh. “Funny too.” He taps a finger to the table. “Along with a good heart.” He catches my eyes. “You can add those to your list of good qualities.”

  A hollowness seeps into my chest.

  Because he’s wrong. So very wrong. I am none of those things. Well, maybe I am funny. But I definitely don’t have a good heart. Maybe I used to have one once upon a time ago.

  But now … no.

  To have a good heart, you would need to use it, and I put that muscle to rest a long time ago.

  I look away, down to the label I’m picking at.

  “I’ve embarrassed you.” His deep voice touches my skin.

  “You haven’t.”

  “If you want your lie to be convincing, maybe wear makeup next time. It’d cover your red cheeks.”r />
  My face is warm but not from embarrassment. More from … disappointment. Disheartenment that he sees something in me that’s not there anymore. Or maybe he just sees what he wants. Most people do.

  Folks can create an illusion of the person they want you to be, and when you fail to live up to it, the truth is somehow your fault.

  Or it’s the reverse, and we create the illusion. Make people think we’re something we’re not in order for them to try to catch and keep us.

  The very trait of a serial killer. Only they don’t try to keep. They take. And take. And take some more.

  And me … well, I am none of those things. A creation of circumstances. An anomaly.

  What you see is what you get. A bitch most days. And a hollow carcass for the rest.

  “How come you don’t wear makeup?” His question jolts me back to the now.

  My brow furrows. I don’t know why, but his words irk me. I sit taller in my seat. “Should I? Is wearing makeup a requirement for women?”

  Why am I being so bitchy all of a sudden?

  Because you are a bitch, remember?

  He gives me a confused look. “No …” he says slowly, probably wondering where my snit has come from. “It isn’t a requirement, merely an observation. Most women wear it, right? You don’t. I simply wondered why.” He gives a small lift of his gentle shoulders.

  “Do you like your women to wear makeup?” Part of me already knows the answer to this question. Because if he did, he wouldn’t be sitting here with me right now. So, why I’m asking, I have no clue.

  “My women?” He laughs. It’s loud and bright. It loosens up the tightness in my chest. “Do you mean, like a harem? Don’t have one of them, sadly.”

  I roll my eyes, batting away his humor. “I meant, women you’re attracted to.”

  “Ah. Well, I’m attracted to you.”

  “And I don’t wear makeup.”

  “Guess you have your answer then.”

  Fuck. Walked into that one, didn’t I?

  I hate that my insides warm up like a mug of cocoa.

  Ignoring his words, I rest my chin in my hand and look directly at him. “So, to make you dislike me, I need to start wearing makeup?” I grin.

  Another laugh. “Honestly, nothing could make me dislike you at this point, pretty girl.”

  Pretty girl?

  He called me pretty girl.

  Cue my melting heart.

  Stop. Don’t get distracted by silly pet names, Audrey.

  Focus.

  “You sure about that?” I push.

  “Well, I’m never wholly sure about anything. But, yeah, I’m almost sure that nothing could stop me from liking you.”

  I tilt my head to the side, thinking. “What about smelly feet?”

  “What about them?”

  “Well, what if I have stinky-ass feet?”

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Then, it’s a moot point.”

  Argh! Stop being so damn cute, man.

  “But what if they did smell? Like rotten, decades-old cheese.”

  He leans back in his chair, hand still curled around his beer bottle. His lips lifted at one side.

  He looks so hot right now.

  Ack. Who am I kidding? He always looks hot.

  That is the reason I’m sitting here with him. Because of his damn hotness.

  And his kindness. And sweet personality.

  Jack drums the fingers of his free hand on the tabletop. “If you want to try and make this work, Audrey, then give me something that’s actually true, not a hypothetical.”

  I sit up straighter. My brows pulling together in confusion. “For what to work?”

  “Your attempt to turn me off you. That is what you’re going for here, right? What you said a moment ago.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. Holding the bottle by its neck, he brings it close to his lips. “So, hit me with your worst. What is the worst thing about Audrey Hayes? Something so closet-hiding hideous that even I, the guy who thinks you’re the single hottest woman I have ever seen in my life, would be turned off by it. And make it a good one. Please.”

  His eyes appraise me. Almost goading me.

  “People have died because of me.”

  Jack’s eyes seem to freeze. Like when you pause the channel on TV. He’s just staring at me for what feels like the longest moment, which is probably, in reality, mere seconds.

  But then I did just drop that bomb on the table.

  Holy fuck.

  I actually said that.

  I can’t believe I said that.

  I’m reeling.

  Where the hell did that come from?

  My heart is going nuts in my chest.

  I’m going to hyperventilate.

  Well, I did want to put an end to this thing between us. And that was a surefire way to do it.

  It’s like calling out the wrong name during sex.

  Nope, it’s worse.

  Telling a guy on the first date that you attract death?

  A definite no-no.

  He’s going to think that I’m crazy.

  Good.

  Really, Audrey? Is that honestly what you want? For this thing with him to stop?

  Maybe not.

  But what I want and what is necessary is not the same thing.

  Jack finally blinks and puts the bottle to his lips. He takes a drink and then places it back down to the table, cradling it in his big hands.

  “And here I was, thinking you were going to say something like … you’d cheated on an exam.”

  I laugh out loud. It’s a maniacal-sounding laugh.

  Cheated on an exam. Ha. If only.

  “Nope. Never cheated on an exam. You?”

  “Once. Tenth grade. I was failing math. Some kid in our school hacked into the school computers and got the answers. I paid him twenty bucks for a copy.”

  We go from talking about me being a harbinger of death directly to talking about his tenth-grade math test.

  If this isn’t weird, then I don’t know what is.

  “Did you get caught?” I ask.

  “Nope. And I’m also not proud of that fact either,” he emphasizes.

  “So, is cheating on your school test your worst?” I ask him.

  Jack shakes his head, eyes fixed on mine. “No.”

  You can tell a lot from one word. And that singular no he just said spoke volumes.

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  His gaze lifts to mine. “Want to expand on you being the reason people have died?”

  I shake my head.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  There’s a beat of silence before I ask, “So, did it work?” My voice is scratchy. Sounds like it hasn’t been used in years.

  “Putting me off you?” Jack checks.

  “Yes.” I take a swig of my beer, trying to appear unaffected by whatever he might say.

  But the truth is that I am going to be affected by his answer either way.

  Yes or no.

  I want him. I shouldn’t want him.

  The dark, broken parts of me want Jack’s light so very badly.

  But the smart part of my brain says no.

  If you like him, then stay away from him.

  I can’t win this war that is waging in my head when it comes to Jack.

  I guess there is nothing left for me to do but accept whatever is going to happen.

  Jack laughs a soft, sad kind of sound. “We’re not so different, you and me, Audrey.”

  “In what way?”

  “People have died because of me too.”

  The rest of dinner went as it should. Normal conversation. Likes, dislikes.

  No more talk of death.

  I was careful to make sure it didn’t stray into the path of my past. Even though I was desperate to know about Jack’s. Well, more so of what he’d said.

  “People have died because of me too.”

  But our waiter appeared with our
meals, interrupting before anything more could be said. And once our food was served and we were alone again, I opened my mouth to ask just exactly what he’d meant with that statement, but something stopped me.

  Because hadn’t I said pretty much the same thing to him and then flat-out refused to expand on it?

  He doesn’t have to tell me a damn thing. And if I had asked him to explain his words, I would have only been putting myself in danger of having to do the same.

  So, I said nothing and let the conversation over dinner take a normal turn.

  Now, we’re heading back home on his motorcycle. My ass only a little chilly from the snow. Jack did a good job of cleaning off the seat before we got on it. Although my helmet was as cold as hell. Jack offered me his to wear, but it was too big for my head.

  So, he pulled out a beanie from his helmet bag, put it on my head, and put my helmet on top.

  I know my hair is going to look a mess when I take the beanie off. But I’m warm, and the beanie smells like Jack, so it’s hard to be bothered by the thought of fluffy hair.

  The date is almost over. It’s not like it matters how my hair looks now.

  No, that’s not a pang of disappointment in my chest at the thought of my time with Jack coming to an end.

  Okay, it totally is.

  But who says the date has to be over the moment we get back?

  I could invite him in for a drink.

  And sex.

  I mean, it was pretty clear from the conversation—not the one about death—that sex was on the menu for tonight.

  And despite his death line, I want to.

  I can’t exactly be turned off by what he said … as I said the exact same thing.

  Maybe Jack hasn’t attracted the attention of a serial murderer, like me, but he was in the military.

  People die at the hands of soldiers. And soldiers die at the hand of war. Many, many lives are lost because of war.

  And Jack was stationed in Syria, where a war was happening.

  It would be a surprise to me if that wasn’t what he meant when he made that statement.

  And my gut tells me that Jack is nothing like Tobias.

  Nothing in the way he behaves gives any indication that he’s a total psycho.

  Not that I ever knew Tobias. I said hello to him a couple of times, and that was it.

  How scary is it that a man I didn’t even know terrorized and changed my life forever?