More shuffling, and then Holly excitedly orders, “Spill it fast before I climb through this phone and pull it out of you.”
Even through the phone, I can feel her buzzing. Maybe Jacob would’ve been better? But the idea of telling Jacob that Blake got me off on his kitchen island is enough to make me cringe. Holly is definitely the better choice.
I dive in, telling her, “I took him paperwork on the Richard Horne case and we ate dinner at his place.”
There, I did it.
I told her the bare bones of what happened, which should be more than enough for her to remember my curse, and now she can remind me to be careful. That’s what I want her to do . . . right?
Instead, Holly sighs in relief and a touch of giddiness. “Oh, thank God! I thought you were about to say you slept with him and he ghosted in the middle of the night.”
“Uh, that happens?” I ask, shocked. I know step five, but in the middle of the night? Damn.
Her laugh is bitter, and the tender side of me wonders if Holly’s experienced that. “Yeah, that happens. Sometimes not-dating is a good thing, Zoey.”
“Sorry?” I say lamely. Ouch . . . Holly’s weariness with the dating scene is obvious, and not knowing when she was hurt that way makes me feel like an ass.
Holly blows a short raspberry, dismissing my apology and moving on. “Okay, I feel like there’s a lot to unpack here, and I want to hear every juicy detail, especially the stuff you’re not saying. So here’s what we’re gonna do . . . I’m going to make sure Olive hasn’t smeared jelly all over the kitchen table, and we’ll get ready. I’ll drop her to school and head to work. Meet me at the funeral home, and we can talk while I get Mrs. Cochran processed. Okay?”
A discussion about my sex life near a dead body. Not that unusual to me. “Thanks, Holly.”
I hang up and flop back against my pillow to stare at the ceiling. I start to replay last night, but Holly is going to grill me, forcing me to spill every glorious-slash-dangerous detail, so I might as well wait for her insight.
Fuck knows, I don’t have a clue beyond avoid connections, and while my brain tells me that’s still mission priority, there are other parts of me arguing that fact and making some headway. I set my phone back on the nightstand, pressing my fingertips to the wood for a long moment.
Don’t let him get hurt.
I get up and shower, pulling on work scrubs and smoothing my hair back into its usual bun, making sure the baby hairs aren’t sticking up like crazy. Next, I brew a pot of coffee, leaving half for Jacob so that he can caffeinate when he gets up for school. He had a late class last night and an early class this morning—his not-favorite combination.
But hopefully, he’ll learn from his mistake and register for classes sooner next semester so he can get a better schedule and not have to take the leftover openings. A pseudo-guardian can dream.
Getting to the funeral home, I let myself into the back door, knowing my way around from experience. A few times I’ve helped Holly with transport, just to be nice and to get her out of my morgue.
Opening the door to the prep room, I find Holly wearing a large, clear plastic apron and black gloves. It’s not that different from what I wear for an autopsy, except her stuff is washable instead of disposable.
Who I assume to be Mrs. Cochran is on the table in front of her with curls half-done and ready to be teased into a hairstyle based on the picture propped up on Holly’s table.
“Hey, girl,” Holly says, not even looking up from her work.
“Hi,” I tell Holly. “Hello, Mrs. Cochran,” I tell the body. “Sorry to hear about . . . well, you know, your dying and all.”
No worries, dear. I had a good, long life. Could you tell this one to make sure my lipstick isn’t too red? She said something about making me look lively and I’m afraid that’s code for ‘harlot’.
I smile to myself and ask Holly, “What’re you planning for the makeup?”
Holly tilts her head, looking from Mrs. Cochran’s pale face to the picture. “Probably a rosy pink.”
“That’d look nice,” I agree, thankful I don’t have to share my imaginary conversation about too-red lips.
“So . . .” Holly prompts. Guess small talk’s over.
“Yeah, I told you, I saw Blake again last night.” I plop onto Holly’s stool, putting my feet on the bar around the bottom and resting my forearms on her work table. There’s nothing sterile, just makeup, hairspray, and dry shampoo, which I pick up to stare at as if it’s some new genius invention, not something I own three cans of myself. “Wait, did I tell you I saw him before too?”
Holly releases a long, slow breath of ‘I’m gonna kill you, bitch’ and sets her teasing brush down. “You did not. Start at the beginning and catch me all up . . . from when I forced you to go for drinks with this guy and Bubba fucked everything up.”
I need to do this, even though I want to keep it all to myself like a greedy little whore. Memories I can take out and examine when I’m old and gray like Mrs. Cochran after a lifetime of being alone.
Poor dear, Mrs. Cochran tsks.
But if I don’t tell Holly everything, she might not understand just how dangerous the situation has become and give me the advice I need. I steel my spine and tell her everything . . . from the morning texts to the emergency call for trivia help, the encouragement without pressure to come inside at his office, our evening of Scooby Gang research, and finishing with our kitchen island activities.
As embarrassing as it is, I even tell her that part.
“Hols, I never even got my shoes off, much less my pants, and with two fingers, this man rocked my world in ways I’ll be dreaming about forever.”
My eyes lose focus as my mind disappears back to last night and how good Blake made me feel. Yes, with his hand and mouth, but also with his mind, his words.
“Fuck, I need my world rocked like that.” Holly sighs wistfully. Meeting my eyes, she smiles. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
“I know, and that’s the problem! I never have a hard time keeping everyone at bay. Except for you, of course,” I accuse with a pointed finger and eye roll. “But you’re a crazy bitch.”
“Of course.” She preens as though that were high praise.
“And now Blake,” I groan. “What am I going to do?”
This is the part where she reminds me of my history—of everyone I’ve lost, of my bad luck, all the stupid accidents and improbable happenstances in the lives of the people I care about. This is when she reminds me of my fate, my destiny to be alone for everyone else’s good, and tells me that it’s selfish to risk someone’s life because I’m lonely and Blake makes me wish for things I can’t have, even telling me that he doesn’t believe in luck and is willing to risk it . . . risk me. I need her to remind me because I’m forgetting. Not the losses, of course, but the sharpness of the pain. With it being so long ago, softened by time, it’s starting to seem worth the gamble.
Blake seems worth it.
“What makes this guy different?” Holly asks carefully.
That’s not what I expected her to say at all. My head falls back, and I stare at the fluorescent light overhead. “Everything? He quotes me statistics and silly trivia. He’s so damn smart, and that’s sexy as fuck. But at the same time, he’s got this sweet, romantic, believes-in-happily-ever-afters heart. I don’t know what to do with that!” I spin the stool around, already feeling dizzy at my whiplash thoughts, and then stop facing Holly. “He makes me want to believe too,” I confess shamefully, “but we both know how dangerous that is.”
“Is it?” Holly challenges me with a fierce look.
“Ugh. Holly, you know everything that’s happened. I told you when I tried to shoo you off.”
“Exactly. And I didn’t let it scare me away, so maybe this Blake Hale guy has some big brass balls that clang like mine do” —she hits her thighs over the apron, framing her nonexistent testicles— “and isn’t scared off by some tragic backstory you’ve created as
a way to protect your fragile, wittle, hurt heart.” Holly pats her heart and pouts with puppy dog eyes.
“Ouch,” I deadpan, but that does really sting.
“Zoey,” Holly continues, giving me ‘the look’, “buckle up, babe. Sister Holly is about to lay some truth on you, and you ain’t gonna like it one bit, but you need to hear me loud and clear. You ready?”
“Honestly, no.”
Holly nods once, firmly. “Don’t matter, because here it comes. Back to the beginning . . . that Michael kid, the peanut butter allergy one? He should’ve known to ask about exposures, been his own advocate or something. Or the parents should’ve known better than to send their hyper-allergic ass of a kid off to sleepaway camp. Yes, it was a bad smooch. All people’s first kisses suck even if they don’t want to admit it, and yours was admittedly the worst of the worst. But that wasn’t your fault because you were a kid playing a game, not asking for full disclosure and STD tests before smooching.” She pauses and holds up a finger, her tone going from smackdown to educational. “FYI, you need to do that these days. Get him tested. If Blake acts put off by it, or God help him, refuses to wear a condom, you get yourself right up and see yourself out the door. If he can’t have an adult conversation about bodily functions, run. He’ll be a selfish lover, guaranteed.”
I blink, still overwhelmed by the change in direction of this conversation. “Uhm . . .”
Holly switches back into all-business, burning my bridges down like a townsperson with a torch. “And Jordan? Babe, that guy was a lazy asshole who didn’t check his own ass for cleanliness, much less his chute for functionality. I’m just glad you didn’t jump that day too, because who knows if he checked your chute. You could’ve plunged to your death because he was too busy playing video games to perform actual life-saving procedures.”
My jaw drops open at the awful things she’s saying about Jordan. “He could’ve died, Hols.”
“But did he die?” she repeats. “No.” Gentler, she continues, “Losing your parents was awful, honey. I know that, and there ain’t no blunting it. But it wasn’t your fault. Your grandparents, either.” She lets that sink in for a painfully long moment and then puts the exclamation point on the end of her argument. “You know what people have in common? Every single person on the planet? They die.”
She gestures to Mrs. Cochran, who agrees with her.
She’s right, dear. I wasn’t a saint, but the one thing I did right in my whole life was love my Walter. I’m glad that whatever days we had together, we made the most of them.
To Holly, I lift one brow and deadpan, “So touching, very sensitive.”
“Shut up, you know what I mean. Just . . . go out with him, see what happens, get your wet ass pussy licked.”
“Holly!”
She shrugs, smirking. “No shame in my game. Sometimes I date for dinner conversation, sometimes because a guy seems like he has real potential, and sometimes, just because I wanna throw my head back and howl at the moon as many different ways as I can.”
Maybe she’s got a point? She is basically saying the same things Blake said, so maybe they’re not crazy or brave? What if I’m a big, old scaredy cat, hiding my fear behind walls of protection layered with warning label stickers, but the truth is, I’m not dangerous?
I’m . . . risk averse.
I can’t help but smile to myself at the Blake-ish label.
“Zoey, I haven’t said anything in a long time, mostly because I didn’t think you were ready to hear it, but also, there’s no one around here worthy of your awesomeness, anyway.” She rolls her eyes, but I can tell she’s talking about the people of Williamson County and their judgy ways, not about me.
“Thanks, I guess.”
“But this is the first time I’ve seen you fighting your own defenses, wanting more for yourself. And that alone tells me all I need to know about Blake Hale. Take a shot. What’ve you got to lose?” I give her an arched brow glare and she presses her lips together and cringes. “Sorry. Poor word choice. But you know what I mean.”
“I do. Thanks, Hols,” I tell her softly. Have I really stumbled upon a real best friend, despite my best efforts? What the fuck, Fate?
“Anytime. And anyway, it’s about time you get your ass in gear. God knows there are no good ones left out here in the county, or at least not ones with all their teeth, jobs, and looking for an insta-family.” Holly laughs, but I don’t think she’s joking.
“You’ll find him. He’s out there. Maybe try hitting him with your car? It’s working for me,” I tease.
Holly huffs out a loud laugh of surprise. “I’ve created a monster. And I’m not hitting any of these losers’ trucks with my car.” She gestures outside, including everyone in our little area. “They’d probably run right over my little car, anyway.”
“True, there are an inordinate number of jacked-up trucks out here. What’s up with that?”
“Dick replacement therapy,” Holly says wisely. I guess she’d know better than I would. “Help me get Mrs. Cochran’s blouse on before you head to work.”
I look down at Mrs. Cochran, noting that while Holly has been life coaching me through a crisis, she has, in fact, made the woman on the table look as though she’s sleeping peacefully.
Right down to her rosy red lipstick.
“She looks great, Hols. Love the lipstick. It really goes with the blouse.” And it does. Mrs. Cochran might’ve never worn red lipstick when she was alive, but it looks good on her with the navy blue and red floral top her family selected.
I grab gloves and pick up one side of the cut blouse while Holly picks up the other, sliding them on Mrs. Cochran’s slim arms and tucking the open edges under her shoulders and behind her neck.
Holly closes the buttons and then gives me a serious look. “Promise me something, Zo.”
“Anything,” I say, matching her serious tone.
“When I die, do not let my dad prep my body. There are things he doesn’t need to know.”
I break a smile, knowing that her conservative father would be mortified to see Holly’s tattoos and the belly-button piercing she keeps hidden. “And for the love of fuck, do not bury me in a bra. The last thing I want to do is spend all my haunting years digging at my underwire.” She wiggles around as though her torso is being poked with a cattle prod.
I do laugh at that. “You’d rather be the floppy phantom?”
“Of course. That’s some scary stuff right there. I’ll knock you out with these babies.” She shimmies her shoulders and her boobs shake, even in their current bra containment. I have to admit, Holly doesn’t just have ‘girls’ but full grown-ass women.
“I got it—no bra, and I’ll do the prep. But you’re not dying anytime soon.”
It’s a demand of the universe, one I hope it respects because I need Holly in my life. And Olive. They’ve been worth the risk for sure, and so has Jacob.
Maybe Blake will be too?
Chapter 15
Zoey
“I’ve got something for you,” Blake’s voice sing-songs from behind me.
Oh, I bet you do, I answer in my head before spinning in my chair to see him standing in my doorway. He’s wearing gray slacks, a pale blue button-up that’s loose at the collar and rolled up his forearms, and a black belt that perfectly matches his black shoes. He looks sexy, smart, and powerful.
Aloud, I say, “I wasn’t expecting you.”
I can feel the smile stretching my lips and the warmth in my chest blooming. Truer words have never been spoken, and after my conversation with Holly this morning, I’m feeling . . . open.
Open-minded, open to possibilities, and maybe even open to the future.
Blake helps himself to leaning back on my desk, one foot crossed over the other. “I think I’ve been expecting you my whole life.”
“Damn,” I whisper, awestruck. “You just . . . everything.”
Blake grins, loving that he’s blown me away. “Wanna see what I brought you?”
&
nbsp; I lift my brow flirtatiously, having a pretty good idea what he’s referring to. “I don’t think here is the best place for that,” I say slowly, not sure I care at this point. Especially considering Alver already spread that gossip far and wide. If I’m going to get judged for it, I might as well do it, right?
But Blake chuckles, playfully amused. “Dirty girl, I like where your mind is, but I meant this.” He holds up a thick file folder I hadn’t even noticed he had in his hand.
“Oh,” I say, slightly crestfallen. “What’s that?”
He lays the folder down on my desk and opens it, telling me casually, as if it’s no big deal, “Richard Horne’s complete medical history.”
“What? That was fast,” I exclaim, all but forgetting my sexy thoughts of a moment ago when presented with new information.
I open the folder and scan the cover sheet, noting the consistency of appointments, basic lab information, and doctor recommendations. Flipping the sheet, I note his latest lab results. Unfortunately, it was a basic profile, nothing that would give me heavy metal blood levels.
“Richard Horne was a very loyal medical patient,” Blake tells me, and I do glance up at that, questioning him with narrowed eyes. “Same doctor for over a decade. All I had to do was show up, hand the receptionist Horne’s waiver, and she copied it for me happily. Even got to talk to the doctor—”
“Dr. Yu?” I ask, checking the names on the form.
Blake nods. “Nice guy. Said he’d been Dick’s doctor for years and he was the picture of health until about six months ago. There’s a visit summary in there, a couple of sheets back.”
I start digging to find it, impressed with how neat the file is. I’ve reviewed some medical records that needed a handwriting analyst and translator to know what the hell was being said.
Not Dr. Yu. His handwriting is almost mechanically precise, and most of the file is computer forms. Finding the sheet I need, I review the data, seeing Yu’s notes and the lab results from that appointment while I listen to Blake.
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