Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Landish, Lauren

  No, Zoey. Stop that right now.

  Blake takes a cautious bite of his small plate of spaghetti and his eyes widen in surprise. “Damn, that is good!”

  “Yeah, we might not have fancy restaurants out here, but Gia’s restaurant serves some good food,” I reply, probably a bit more sharply than I intended. He shoots me a questioning look with that one brow arching dramatically, and I sigh.

  Fine, that was a bit judgy and bitchy when he was making polite conversation, not comparing our country food places to the city’s fancy ones. I’m just sensitive because I’m waiting for the trailer park questions.

  They always come.

  “We’ll have to go there sometime.”

  His response is not what I expected, but also, it somehow is. He’s not letting me hide behind defensive barbs and preconceived notions and is instead inserting himself right into my day and my future with no question.

  “Maybe,” I concede half-heartedly. Gia would probably freak out if I walked through her door but at the same time be so gobsmacked that I was bringing a date, she’d be on the phone with the entire county in minutes.

  Blake smiles as though I agreed to a marriage proposal, not a possible future dinner date.

  Wait . . . was I just thinking about a date?

  Oh, shit. I did just agree to preplanned dinner and drinks. He said that’s the benchmark that makes it a real date, and I don’t do those. But damn if I’m going to take it back right now.

  Still, old habits die hard.

  “Are you allergic to anything? Garlic, shellfish, gluten? Penicillin?” I ask desperately, looking for a way out.

  Blake shakes his head slowly. “Nope, told you. Nothing at all, not even peanut butter,” he answers, following my train of thought easily and remembering Michael Wilson’s allergic reaction. He sets his plate of half-eaten spaghetti on my nightstand and then takes mine to do the same. “No drug allergies. No sky diving, bungee jumping, or scuba diving. Risky behaviors can increase your life insurance premiums by up to fifty percent.”

  His fist dents the bed as he leans over me, and I yearn for actual contact.

  Why is safety talk so damn sexy? It makes no sense whatsoever, but the heat building between my thighs disagrees. What’s next? If he quotes actuarial tables, will I have an orgasm?

  Ridiculous, but also, currently not outside the realm of possibility.

  “I drive one of the safest cars on the market and have never had a speeding ticket. I have an annual physical, and my blood work says I’m one hundred percent healthy. I work out and eat well.” His breath is warm on my lips, a moment of anticipation where I could stop this.

  “Have you had a tetanus shot?” I whisper. “Diphtheria? Chicken pox?”

  The very corners of his lips quirk, so amused by my worries. “All vaccines are up to date. Including my annual flu shot.”

  His palm cups my jaw, his thumb tracing my cheekbone, and I lean into his touch. When was the last time I let someone get this close to me? Not emotionally, but just . . . physically.

  Carnally.

  It’s been long enough that I don’t remember . . . no, wait. That’s not true.

  I did have that one night with that guy at the Medical Examiners and Coroners convention. The one who smelled like formaldehyde even though we’d been there for three days of lectures and demonstrations.

  That wasn’t that long ago . . . it was just . . . last year.

  Oh, crap, it's been over a year since I’ve had sex with another person.

  “Zoey?” Blake questions, his voice tight and deep, and I realize that he’s waiting for a sign from me. Permission or refusal, but he’s not moving until I give one or the other.

  I lick my lips, parting them, and before I can change my mind, I press them to his.

  For a single second, I’m in control, my mouth tasting his, my lips pushing against his. And then his hand becomes a way for him to guide me as he kisses me, stealing my breath and then exploring with his tongue.

  Time loses all meaning.

  Do we kiss for a minute or an hour? I have no idea.

  All I know is that every cell in my body wants to touch him, but he seems to be in no hurry whatsoever, perfectly content with kissing.

  My nipples are hard pebbles that even this blah polo shirt can’t hide, and I’m clenching my thighs to find some relief. My hands grip his shirt, keeping him close, wanting this to go on forever but needing more.

  I moan into his kiss, and he stops abruptly, pressing his forehead to mine. I’d think something’s wrong, but he’s panting desperately and I can see how hungry for me he is.

  “Not yet. Not like this.”

  I am the only other person in the room, but I don’t think he’s talking to me. Talking to himself isn’t a red flag for me, though. I do it all the time and I’m perfectly sane.

  Well, mostly. After all, I don’t talk to myself but to the dead. Much weirder.

  “Not like how?” I ask, wanting to understand his holding back.

  “You’re injured.”

  “My ankle’s fine.”

  “Not your ankle, your heart,” Blake says softly, his voice trembling with want and internal conflict. “It’s been bruised and beat up a bit, but I want you to know that you can trust me so you’ll let me in.”

  I can’t help but smile at his romantic notions. “I wasn’t looking for you to climb into my heart and make a love nest. A kiss isn’t a promise and sex isn’t a marriage proposal,” I say, repeating his previous words to me. “I was more thinking along the lines of letting you in my body for a few minutes because you seem less freaked out by me than anyone I’ve met in a long while, and I could really use an orgasm that’s not self-administered.”

  He lets out a groan of pain. “I would kill to see that, you know? Maybe literally.”

  He doesn’t mean it. He’s too good, too kind, but I like that he’s to the point of exaggeration because I get the feeling that he doesn’t do that easily or often. He’s more dry facts and stats, even if he is a romantic at heart.

  “And thanks for the vote of confidence, I think,” he says wryly. “But I’m not interested in being brushed off after one night when you get scared again.”

  I cup his face back, looking into those calm, assured eyes. “That scares me.”

  He places a gentle kiss to my nose. “I know. That’s why I’m going to leave now. Because if I stay here much longer, looking at your body all stretched out beneath these blankets that I know smell like you, I will not be able to be rational about this. About you.” His eyes trace the lumps and bumps my body make beneath the knit blanket I’ve had for years. “You make me irrational.”

  He smiles at the very idea, and I can’t help but reach out and touch the wood nightstand next to me. He notices, his eyebrow lifting. “What was that for?”

  I blush at being busted making the nonsensical move, but I tell the truth. “For good luck, because you make me think maybe I could get just a tiny bit of it for a change.”

  Blake takes my hand in his, giving my fingers a squeeze. “I don’t believe in luck. I believe in this. I believe that we are shaped by all the things that happen to us, and we wouldn’t have gotten to this moment if anything in our lives had been different. And this moment? I wouldn’t have changed it. Good night, Zoey.”

  He folds my fingers in his hand and lays a soft kiss, quick as a heartbeat, to my knuckles. I guess I really am a trailer park princess because I have never felt so feminine, even if it is with condensation from a bag of old peas dripping down my leg and a stupid smile on my face.

  Blake gets up and starts to leave, pausing at the door. “I’ll lock the door on my way out.”

  His eyes drift over my face and down the lumpy bumps of blanket. I wonder what he’s thinking because he shakes his head ever so slightly and his eyes go a little soft but then crinkle at the corners as they narrow.

  Seconds later, he’s gone. I hear the door open and then the screen, and then the doorknob rat
tles as he checks that it’s locked. I smile at his protectiveness. It’s been a long time since anyone’s taken care of me, maybe not since Grandma passed away, and I’m worried I’m already getting addicted to it.

  And that’s dangerous for us both.

  Chapter 11

  Blake

  The bar is hopping tonight.

  Not rave style, with drunk people grinding and woo-hooing loudly over even louder music.

  But that’s not what this place is about. It’s dimly lit except for the neon lights projected on the screen at the far end of the room, pitchers of mass-produced tap beer are on special, and the only cheers are the smack talking banter between teams.

  “Oh! Too bad, Hale! Maybe next time you’ll get a topic you actually know something about! Like maybe the alphabet. What comes after K again?” Cole, a dark-haired, hotshot real estate agent, muses with a thick finger pointing my way and a huge, extra-white smile.

  His teammate and business partner, Bryan, gives Cole a high-five and then turns my way to complete the slam Cole set up perfectly. “That’d be L for losers, I believe.”

  Bryan holds his fingers, shaped in an L to his forehead, signaling that we’re losers because we lost one round. I don’t want to tell him he looks like an idiot, not yet. We’ve barely started our trivia competition for the night and I’m already done with Cole and his shit. Usually, I can stand him pretty easily since his insults are juvenile at best, unoriginal at worst.

  And really, they’re all in good fun, mostly. But I’m distracted tonight. That’s why I missed that easy question about the shortest US president.

  I know it’s James Madison—at a whopping 5 foot 4 inches, thank you very much, because any man will tell you that every single inch matters—and not James Monroe. But I got tongue-tied, and my attempt at ‘Madison’ came out sounding like ‘Mondilroe’.

  At least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  But does Cole believe that? Of course not. He’s a douche waffle who happens to specialize in presidential trivia and delights in giving anyone who misses out on such an ‘easy question’ a hard time.

  What’s the capital of Uzbekistan, Cole? Tashkent, but I bet you didn’t know that, did ya?

  He sucks at geography, thankfully having a weak spot other than his holier-than-thou winner attitude. “We’ll get ya next round,” Trey tells Cole in my defense before leaning over to clink his beer against mine. Quieter, he says, “You good, man? Not like you to miss an easy one.”

  I glare at Trey even though I’m mad at myself. “Yeah.”

  One long sip of beer doesn’t make it any truer, though. Looking at the screen for what’s ahead, I can already see how the night’s going to play out. Round two has Cole’s team versus Meg-a-demia, a group of local college professors and teaching assistants.

  Cole’s team is known as The Estates. They claim their name was chosen because they’re mostly high-dollar real estate agents, but we all know it's because they come from old money, estate-style, and like to flaunt it.

  But the round two topics are ones the professors will slaughter Cole and his numb nuts partner with, like Literature of the 1800s and The Pop Culture Influence of Pokémon.

  I bet Cole doesn’t know a Pikachu from a panini.

  And after that, it’ll be a loser round with the Estates against . . . us, Anarchy Authority. To be clear, our team name was chosen by Heather, our fearless and sarcastically oppositional leader.

  Speaking of the devil, Heather claps her hands to get our attention. I shoot one more withering ‘fuck you’ look at Cole and he acts like a I blew him a lovey-dovey kiss, excitedly watching it cross the few feet and then ‘catching’ it before crumbling the nothingness in his hands and dropping it to the floor to squash with his shiny loafers.

  For pantomime, it’s pretty clear he plans to kill us in the next head-to-head. And also, he has on loafers with no socks. That look hasn’t been attractive since Don Johnson was rocking it in Miami Vice, no matter what Cole’s girlfriend du jour told him.

  “Blake,” Heather barks, her palm slapping the table.

  “Yeah?” I answer back, just as irritated.

  “We’re in the middle of a strategy session. If you’d care to abandon your eye-fuck with Cole, you’re welcome to join us.”

  “I’m not . . .” I turn to Heather, and her smile of victory tells me that her smack talk got her exactly what she wanted—my attention. “Fine. Strategy?”

  Heather nods and immediately swipes her too-long bangs off to the side. They’re green this week, matching her nail polish and eye shadow. “There are hellacious topics still left on the board tonight. I think we’ve got a lock on Art and Architecture, Cars of the 1960s, and Musical Genius.”

  She looks around our team, giving assignments based on our specialty knowledge and more general education. “But what I’m worried about are Serial Killer Stories and Reality Star Survivors. Anybody read up on Jack the Ripper lately? Or watched The Bachelorette?” Heather nibbles on her thumb and says hopefully, “Maybe the reality show topic will be about home DIY shows?”

  Heather’s an HGTV addict and has renovated her entire house, so if that’s the case, we’re solid.

  “I doubt House Hunters couples count as reality stars,” Trey says doubtfully, his lips twisted.

  Slowly, a tiny idea tries to take shape deep in my mind. Or maybe it’s in my pants, but it’s a good one either way. “I have an idea. Can we call in a sleeper agent?”

  “A ringer?” Heather asks. “You know a guy?”

  I give a noncommittal shrug, not wanting to tip my hand. “Maybe. Is that allowed?”

  Heather closes her eyes, and I can see her eyeballs twitching left to right behind her lids as though she’s reading the rulebook from memory. Trivia night is serious business. “Yes,” she says, holding up a finger, “but only if we don’t max out on team members. Someone will have to ‘have an emergency’ and leave so that we can bring in a replacement player.”

  She doesn’t dare do air quotes, lest she be seen strategizing for a ringer, but her eyebrows lift and lower twice in rapid succession.

  Shawn, who’s really our weakest member, raises his hand. “I volunteer as tribute if you’ve got someone, Blake?”

  The whole team’s eyes land on me, and though I know this might have bad idea written all over it, I also know I’m absolutely going to do it. It might be the only way I can see Zoey again.

  “I’m on it. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Fuck yeah,” Trey says, even though his forehead’s lined with worry. “Strat-e-gery.”

  “Goddammit, Trey, you know I hate made-up words,” Heather says, distracted as I make my quick exit. I just hope that I’m right.

  I step into the hallway near the bathrooms to get away from the noise of The Estates arguing that Edgar Allen Poe was the most influential American poet of the 1800s.

  I hear a professor correcting Cole, “Just because the only literature you know by name is The Raven doesn’t make it the most influential. If we went by that standard, the most influential magazine of the 20th century would be Playboy.”

  The academics laugh, and I have to admit it’s a good zinger. I sigh, hoping I know what I’m getting myself into . . . and what I’m getting Zoey into too.

  I press her contact and the rings sound a bit like Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart, nerves and anxiety louder in my head than they should.

  “Hello?” Zoey answers.

  “Hey, Zoey, I have a bit of an emergency here and I’m wondering if you might be able to help me?” I spit out nervously. God, this could so blow up in my face.

  Zoey winds up in an instant, her voice hard and worried. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  Shit.

  Her first thought is that there’s been a catastrophe of her doing, which was not my intention, but . . .

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Can you just come? I’ll send you the address.”

  “You promise this isn’t a booty call again?”
she asks a bit more warily. “If I get there and your dick is out, I will scream and douse you with pepper spray.”

  I chuckle, although my dick does do a little wakeup twinge in my pants. “No, you won’t.”

  She sighs, and I know I’ve got her. “No, I probably won’t. Okay, I’m coming.”

  “Thanks.” I hang up before she asks any more questions or changes her mind and text her the street address of McKelly’s Tavern.

  I can’t help but smile as I return to the table.

  Zoey’s coming. She’s coming here.

  Not a date, she’s made herself clear on that.

  But a chance to see her, and hopefully, get her to help us kick Cole’s ass.

  “She gonna show?” Trey asks, leaning over to whisper-yell in my ear.

  I nod, watching the door with one eye and my watch with the other. “Strat-e-gery.” Mostly, I’m talking about the strategic moves I need to make with Zoey, but I’ll admit that if she can help us tonight, I certainly won’t be mad at a win.

  “Yep,” Trey confirms. “But it had better pay off because Shawn already bailed.”

  “I know. She’ll show,” I promise, hoping I’m right.

  Ten minutes later, Meg-a-demia is celebrating their win with toasts and clinking glasses while Cole’s Estate groupies are pouting and calling for a rematch. “You were outsmarted, fair and square. Sorry your daddy couldn’t buy this win for you, bucko,” Professor Adams tells Cole, not sounding or looking sorry in the slightest as he smiles and twirls his mustache.

  “Next week, you’re going down. But the night’s not over.” Cole calls back as he turns his sights to Heather, who’s ready for him, standing with a hip cocked out to the side and her head tilted in that ‘I’m your Huckleberry’ way.

  “We’re ready, Estate Bait,” Heather says, hitting Cole where it hurts. He probably spends hours with his therapist each week bemoaning that no one loves him for him but only for his money. If he wasn’t a douche waffle, it might be different, but he is, so it’s not.

  I clear my throat to get Heather’s attention,, and when she looks my way, I flash her a weak version of my ‘Rock brow’ to remind her not to get too carried away because we’re not ready . . . yet.