Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Landish, Lauren

  Judging by the way she won’t meet my eyes, even she doesn’t believe that.

  “Do you have an interest in whether Yvette Horne gets the money?”

  Her eyes flash at the question and I nod in agreement. “Exactly. Me neither. We’re box checkers. So don’t make this into something it’s not. Don’t let it be an excuse.”

  “Excuse?” she questions, but her voice has gone quiet and breathy. She knows exactly what I’m talking about, what she’s trying to do. She’s already tried to push me away because of fear and superstition, and now she’s trying to use professionalism to do it too.

  But there’s no need to deny ourselves.

  I lean toward her, feeling her quickening breath warm my chest where her eyes are locked, not willing to lift to meet mine. She places one fingertip against my sternum, pushing me back. I lean into her touch for a split second, wishing for more.

  “You feel this. I know you do.” I catch her hand in mine, bringing it to my lips to lay a soft kiss to her fingertip. Her focus stays locked on her finger against my lips. Good. I want her to hear this, see it, feel it. “I understand that you’re scared. But I’m not.”

  For such a gentle touch, the kiss feels intimate, a sign of things to come, especially when she slowly traces my lower lip with that fingertip.

  But her doubts rise to the surface. If they faded at all.

  “That’s because you have all this goodness in you, and happiness around you, and I only have this.” Freeing her hand, she gestures to the morgue and death all around her before dropping her eyes.

  I don’t let her do that and lift her chin and eyes to meet mine, cupping her face. “That’s not all you have. You have goodness in you too. Let me show you.”

  For a moment, I can see her waver, her eyes searching mine for something.

  A joke?

  Does she think I’m one of these assholes who tease her incessantly?

  Or a curse?

  She told me her history, and she’s not responsible for any of it, though she doesn’t believe that. Bad luck, accidents, and a life long-lived . . . those are her true demons.

  I lean forward slowly, making my intention clear as my gaze drops to her lips. She licks them in preparation, a sigh of desire escaping. There’s a scant inch between us when she backs away suddenly, her hip bumping into the table behind her, and it rolls away.

  It knocks her off balance, and she stumbles, falling with little grace to her butt on the floor. Her legs are askew, her mouth opens in an O of surprise, and her hands splay wide behind her. “Oh!” she says, stunned before she reaches for her bruised backside. “Ow!”

  “Shit! Let me help you up.” I reach for her hands, pulling her up.

  She laughs self-consciously, still rubbing at her right butt cheek. “At least no one died this time.”

  I give her a wry look. “Too soon for my car crash joke, but not your death ones?”

  The comment gets me a rewarding eye roll.

  “Whatever. Come on, I’ll go get the Horne file,” she says, taking a step. But as she does, her left leg doesn’t bear her weight and she cries out, half-collapsing again.

  This time, to my slight credit, I catch her. “What’s wrong?”

  “My ankle. I think I twisted it.”

  I lift her up in my arms and carry her over to the now stopped table, setting her down on top of her paperwork. Right now, she’s more important than whether her patient files get a bit wrinkled.

  Kneeling down, I carefully examine her ankle.

  She leans forward, putting her hand on my shoulder to stop me. “It’s fine, no big deal . . . ah!”

  I accidentally hit a tender spot as I rotate her ankle, and her pain is a sharp jab to my gut too. Before I can apologize, the door swings open behind me and a familiar voice shouts, “What in the hell are you two doing? No, wait, don’t tell me! I don’t want to know. Get your own dinner, Zoey Walker.”

  I look over my shoulder to see a frowning Alver covering his eyes with his hand. He virtually runs back through the door before either Zoey or I can explain the seemingly compromising position he caught us in.

  I laugh, still on my knees in front of Zoey, and she swats at my shoulder. “It’s not funny! In minutes, the entire gossip grapevine is going to hear the story of how Alver caught me having oral sex on a morgue table, screaming out in ecstasy. And the worst part is, people will actually believe that.”

  “Some of that sounds pretty damn good if you ask me. Maybe not the morgue table part. That’s not on my bucket list, but I could probably—definitely—be talked into it if it’s on yours?”

  She shakes her head, the truth setting in and killing her humor. At least she seems to have forgotten about her ankle, thankfully.

  “You want to get out of here?” I ask.

  Chapter 10

  Zoey

  Why did I bring him to my house? This is the worst idea ever. One second, he’s asking if I want to get away from the spiraling threat of gossip and the next, I’m riding in his car as I give him directions.

  “I could’ve driven myself home,” I argue, stating the same thing for the fourth time.

  Just as repetitive, he says, “No need to injure yourself further.” Expanding on his shut down, he adds, “Fall injuries account for twelve percent of emergency room visits each year.”

  “Is that true? Do you really know that off the top of your head?”

  In answer, he throws me a charming smile. I’m not sure if he’s saying ‘of course I know that’ or ‘I made that shit up’, but somehow, both possibilities make me reluctantly smile back at him.

  The truth is, I know exactly why I agreed to this. He’s gaining ground with his silly arguments that maybe my bad luck isn’t all my fault. It’s a relieving thought, one I’ve considered, wished, and hoped for.

  But it can’t be real. The evidence is too weighted against me, with friends, boyfriends, and family all affected by my bad juju. Just thinking about it makes me discreetly touch the woodgrain trim on the dash of his sensible sedan. Yeah, I know it’s wood-veneered plastic, but it’s the best I’ve got right now, so it’ll have to do. It’s all about believing it works, anyway.

  If the threat of imminent death isn’t enough to run Blake off, I know something that will. My home.

  Everything about Blake screams success, fancy-schmancy, and upper middle-class. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. He obviously works for his money, and he’s not a prick about having cash. Other than what I assume is between his legs, he’s the complete opposite of a prick.

  But I expect that pulling up to my single-wide trailer in a trailer park in the country will be enough to finally make him pump the brakes and give me a second look. One that’ll make him smarten up and run the way I’ve been waiting for him to do all along.

  A test? Maybe. I prefer to think of it as a kindness he won’t fully recognize, but I’ll know what I sacrificed to save him.

  “Turn here,” I say, guiding him into the trailer park lot.

  I watch him closely to see the moment he realizes exactly who and what I am. Pretty packaging hiding a death-dealing, stitching-threads-together-to-pay-bills, dark and twisted woman who will never live up to whatever he thinks he sees in me.

  That’ll be the moment I lose all pretense of pretending this can end differently.

  His jaw tightens, the muscle popping in intervals.

  Yep, that’s me. Zoey Walker, Trailer Park Princess. Another of my nicknames. “Sixth on the left, the blue one.”

  Blake pulls up and parks, and I try to see my home through his eyes.

  A long metal rectangle, long ago painted a pale blue, with bright blue shutters and an entrance hidden behind a white screen door that’s seen better days. There are three wooden steps up to the front landing, where I placed a plant in an attempt to make it seem welcoming.

  My secret?

  It’s a fake plant because I can’t keep a real one alive, and publicly killing plants is the last bit
of fuel on the fire I need. Through the window’s open blinds, I can see flashing lights that tell me Jacob is home and playing video games.

  “Stay there,” Blake says as he puts the car in park and runs around the front bumper. He opens my door and scoops me into his arms.

  “Put me down, I can walk!” I hiss.

  “No.” Blunt and inviting zero argument, so of course, I argue.

  “Seriously? If Jacob sees me—”

  But he’s already on the porch, pulling the screen door open. “Key?”

  “It’s probably open. Jacob’s inside.” He glares at me disapprovingly and I shrug. “Country courtesy.”

  I reach down and open the front door, and Blake half turns, threading me through the doorway with me still in his arms.

  I groan in frustration.

  If he had the least bit of hope left after the whole trailer park thing, it’s definitely gone after he gets a glimpse of the frat boy party happening in my living room.

  Okay, not a whole party.

  But at least a frat boy hang-out session.

  Jacob and his best friend Angelo are flopped back on the couch, headphones on as they yell at each other and whoever is on the other end of their microphones. Their big, dirty tennis shoes are on my secondhand coffee table on either side of an open pizza box old enough that the cheese has congealed and I can see the cut lines on the three slices left.

  “Come on, asshole. Get the key and meet me!” Jacob says, holding his game controller up as though that’ll help his on-screen character do what he wants. The movement of the door must catch their attention because I know they can’t hear us. Jacob’s eyes don’t cut away from the action on the screen, his fingers pushing buttons seemingly randomly, just tossing a greeting over his shoulder. “Hey, Zoey!”

  But Angelo does look my way. His jaw drops open, and then he mouths, “What the fuck?”

  He backhands Jacob, who shoulder checks his friend back. “Get the damn key! What are you doing?” A second later, he growls, “You let me die, asshole!”

  When Jacob finally looks to Angelo, he follows Angelo’s eyes and his jaw drops, matching Angelo’s look of confusion at seeing me in some strange man’s arms just inside our front door. “Uh, Zoey?”

  I wave, figuring I might as well fucking own this one. “Hey, guys. This is Blake. Blake, this is Jacob and that’s Angelo.”

  Blake lifts his chin in greeting because his hands are full of me. “Where’s the bedroom?”

  “You are not taking me to bed, Mr. Hale!”

  Oh, yeah, I’m back to using his last name because he’s acting like all this is no big deal when it’s a Huge Fucking Deal. He’s in my house, I’m in his arms, and I’m introducing him to my family. Distance is needed.

  Blake grunts, his face determined. “Yes, I am.”

  “Zoey?” Jacob says, harsher and harder as he stands up, the game forgotten. He’s ready to defend me, which is so sweet of him. Angelo squares up next to Jacob, also ready to battle for my honor.

  Before I can explain, Blake does it for me. “Zoey hurt her ankle. It’s not bad, but she needs to rest. You, come help me get her situated in bed. You, get me an ice pack or a bag of frozen veggies, something to keep the swelling down.”

  Just like that, the entire vibe changes. The true alpha male has spoken and he’s not threatening my safety, so Jacob and Angelo hop to follow Blake’s order. It’s actually annoying as hell because they never do what I ask them to do, as evidenced by their filthy shoes on my coffee table even though I’ve told them dozens of times that it’s disgusting.

  “This way,” Angelo tells Blake, leading the charge toward the back of the single-wide. It’s not like there are lots of options. The living room and kitchen are in the middle with the front door, and the bedrooms are on either end. Even the bedrooms are nearly identical. The only thing that might make mine the ‘master’ bedroom is that mine’s just past the bathroom, which means I don’t have to walk as far if I have to pee in the middle of the night.

  Entering, Angelo looks excited as hell to be in my bedroom for the first time and way too happy to follow Blake’s instructions and pull back my blankets and arrange pillows to prop my ankle up.

  “Want me to get your pajamas?” Angelo offers.

  Blake shoots him a look promising death before I can reply that I’d rather have just about anyone else in the world go through my underwear drawer rather than Angelo, and I can’t hold back the laugh that escapes when Blake grits out, “No. That’s everything.”

  Jacob appears with a bag of frozen peas, his eyes bouncing from Blake to Angelo to me. I roll my eyes in answer to his unasked question. If he really wants to know, I’ll explain the silent dick measuring contest later.

  “Thanks,” I tell Jacob as Blake takes the peas and gently places them on my ankle. I wince, more at the surprise of cold against my skin than actual pain.

  “You good, Zo?” Blake says gently. I nod stoically.

  Jacob clears his throat and mumbles, “Hey, Zoey, I think we’ll go over to Angelo’s for the night. Let me know when it’s safe to come home.”

  Angelo looks like he’s about to argue, but my mouth gets there first. “What? No! You don’t have to leave.”

  Jacob’s answering smirk is too knowing for my taste as he gets comfortable with the idea that I’ve brought someone home, even if it’s not like that at all.

  “It’s a trailer, and I don’t want to know what you’re up to. I definitely don’t want to hear. I’ll expect the same courtesy when I get Holly to come home with me.”

  I groan, letting my head fall back to the headboard with a thunk. “Never. Gonna. Happen. Jacob. And that’s not what’s happening here.” I point to Blake and then to my own chest.

  Jacob holds up his hands innocently. “Sure, whatever you say.” He doesn’t believe me in the slightest. To Blake, he adds, “You good to take care of her? She deserves the best.”

  He is not talking about my minorly injured ankle.

  A tear tries to slide down my cheek . . . at my utter loss of control of this situation, at Jacob’s sweet assessment that reassures some doubts I’ve had about pseudo-parenting him, and even about the pain in my ankle, which is already feeling cold and numb now.

  Blake stands straight and offers Jacob a handshake. “She deserves more than the best. I’m not enough, but I’ll do everything I can.”

  Jacob eyes Blake, taking his measure. It’s a sight I never thought I’d see, and it brings warmth to my heart. He’s a good son-slash-brother-slash-uncle. But mostly, a good friend.

  “Good that you know you’re not good enough for her, but you’ll do for now, I suppose. Zoey deserves a little happiness and bit of let-loose. I ordered pasta from Gia’s with our pizza, left it in the microwave for Zoey. Maybe you can warm it up for her?”

  A tiny test of fitness. Will you feed her at least?

  Blake nods, smiling tightly. “Of course. Thank you.”

  “There’s enough for two,” Jacob says by way of a stamp of approval. “Let’s go, Angelo.”

  Angelo shakes his head, arms crossed over his chest. “No way.”

  He seems more possessive and jealous than I would’ve expected. He’s had a crush on me almost as long as Jacob has had one on Holly. And just like Jacob, Angelo has zero chance with me.

  “I’m good here with Blake,” I tell the boys. I’m not sure how I came to be not only agreeing to this but fighting for it. But here we are, me lying in my bed with my foot propped up under a bag of peas that’s probably two years past freshness with three guys looking at me with questions in their eyes.

  Jacob grabs Angelo’s arm and shoves him toward the door. Angelo glares back at Blake, then shoots puppy dog eyes my way. He’ll get over it, I’m sure.

  Once I hear the front door open and close, the screen door slapping closed too, I roll my eyes. “That went well,” I say sarcastically.

  Blake’s right eyebrow arches wryly. “I thought so. Jacob’s not too bad of a
kid.”

  He moves toward the bed, and I flinch, unsure of his intentions. But he only lifts my head gently until I sit up, and he reaches behind me, propping up the pillow behind my neck before adjusting the pillow under my ankle. That done, he brushes his hands off on his shirt and gives me a look. “Ready for dinner now?”

  “You don’t have to do all this,” I say again.

  Blake holds up a finger, ignoring my attempt to push him away. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  He’s really proud of himself for that one as he leaves me alone in my bed to go back down the short hallway to the kitchen. I can hear him puttering around, opening the microwave and then closing it, then the whir of it fills the trailer. I think he’s humming too.

  The man is humming as he heats up my dinner and takes care of me.

  What planet is he from?

  I’m the caretaker—for Jacob, for my grandparents, for the whole damn county, even if they don’t realize it—but here Blake is, taking care of me when he barely even knows me.

  Reflexively, I snuggle down into my pillows a bit more, intrigued to see how this goes. A moment later, Blake reappears in the doorway, nearly filling up the whole thing, and holding one of my small mixing bowls heaped full of steaming spaghetti. “There was only one meatball, but there’s plenty of meat sauce.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, and he hands it over into my outstretched hands.

  The first bite is that amazing level of deliciousness I always think I must’ve imagined. I’d love to say Gia’s culinary talents are wasted on us out here in the sticks, but her place does well and everyone loves her pizza, so I guess that’s enough for Gia. I take another bite and groan, “So good. Thank you.”

  Grandma would be proud that I remembered some of the manners she taught me. Blake grins in surprise, warming me as much as the spaghetti. “You’re welcome.”

  He disappears for a moment, coming back with his own bowl, and sits down on the bed next to my knee, close but not too close, with both feet on the floor. That’s reasonable, right? Respectable even.

  So why am I disappointed that he didn’t climb right in with me?