Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Landish, Lauren

  “So Horne said he’d been taking care of himself, even going for walks with their new puppy and taking vitamins, but he felt tired?” I summarize.

  “Yeah, that mean anything to you with what you see there?” Blake asks.

  I scan the labs again. “Dr. Yu didn’t check for heavy metals then. There would’ve been no reason to when a middle-age man complains of tiredness. That’s like a ‘join the club’ thing. But he checked his blood levels—no anemia—and his thyroid, which was fine. Testosterone level was within normal ranges. I’m not a doctor, but it looks like there were no findings that would specifically cause exhaustion. Dr. Yu recommended that Horne . . . continue walking and vitamins regimen, decrease red meat, and add leafy, green vegetables to daily diet, and prescribed eight hours of sleep each night,” I quote from the file. “And he recommended a follow-up in three months. Did Horne go for that?” I flip back, pausing after two sheets. “Here it is . . . hmm.”

  I read through Dr. Yu’s report from that visit, going over everything as closely as I can.

  “What?” Blake asks.

  “Horne wasn’t only complaining of tiredness. He also said he was getting heartburn all the time, especially in the morning, and had started drinking mint tea instead of coffee because even decaf upset his stomach. But that didn’t work either, so his wife was making him green smoothies for breakfast. Look.” I point to a line in Dr. Yu’s notes and read aloud, “‘patient jokes that the smoothies are the equivalent of drinking a cow’s cud, but if they’re good for him, he’ll do it.’”

  Something niggles in the back of my mind, but I can’t put my finger on what bothers me about that line.

  “It looks like they did repeat blood work, but Dr. Yu told him to keep up the healthier diet and sleep. I bet that was when the heavy metals had started really affecting him. Early poisoning symptoms would’ve been tiredness, nausea, foggy headedness, tingling in hands and feet, and blood pressure changes. But . . .”

  I stare at the page for a long time, silent as my brain works through the information. Blake doesn’t say a word, quietly propped up on my desk and letting me think.

  “Something about that bugs me,” I whisper to no one, reading and rereading the bit about gross smoothies for breakfast. I mean, nobody really likes green smoothies, do they? Except for real back to the Earth hippies, who I think get their pleasure from doing ‘something right’ rather than the actual smoothie itself. They taste like grass and dirt in liquid form.

  Not exactly appetizing. Liquid . . . smoothie . . . “Oh, shit!” I hiss, looking up to meet Blake’s eyes.

  I can tell he’s been watching me, perfectly content to let me do my thing, and something about that is so intense. It makes me feel seen, valuable, worthy of his attention.

  “What’d you figure out?” he asks, certain that I’ve made some grand discovery.

  “The green smoothies for breakfast. When I went to Horne’s house for the initial callout, he died in his breakfast. Literally face down in his plate.” Blake’s brows lift an inch in anticipation. “His plate of fried eggs, bacon, buttered toast. With a glass of orange juice that spilled everywhere, including into his lap. No smoothie to be seen.”

  “So maybe he had a different breakfast that day?” Blake hypothesizes.

  I shake my head, sure even though I wasn’t there. “No way would someone who was complaining of heartburn drink orange juice and have all that fat first thing in the morning. It’d be a recipe for disaster.”

  We’re silent for a moment, eyes locked on one another as our brains swirl with possibilities.

  “Maybe it was,” Blake finally says. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone said ‘fuck it’ to a healthy diet and ate what they wanted to. Unless you’re getting at something else,” he finishes as he sees my dubious look.

  “What if the heavy metal was in the green smoothie?” I whisper and then cover my mouth with my hands, surprised at my boldness. That’s a big accusation to make, especially with no proof. But it sits right in my gut. I lower my hands an inch, still not sure I should say what I’m thinking. If anyone knows firsthand what unfounded gossip and embellished stories can do to a person, it’s me. And yet . . . “That nasty grass taste . . . you could hide a lot of shit in there without the drinker noticing.”

  Blake hums, scraping a hand over his smooth jaw. He looks at the file, but I feel like he’s seeing through it, not actually looking at the information it contains. “That wouldn’t be out of the norm either. I definitely felt like Yvette Horne was in it for the money already, but that’s a level-up from money hungry to murder for money. What do you think?”

  My mouth twists as I chew on my lip, considering. “Like I said, she was weird at the scene, silent and still, but when she saw me looking at her, she went into full-blown wailing wife mode. It felt . . . fake and forced. But appearances can be deceiving, I know that,” I add, feeling like we’re already deeming Mrs. Horne guilty the same way everyone marks me as weird and Drop-Dead Gorgeous.

  God, I hate that nickname.

  Blake frowns. “I think this is an entirely different situation, Zo.”

  I shrug, not wanting to argue about it, especially when I don’t want to remind Blake what people say about me, what they think about me, when I’m hopping on the Holly Band Wagon and considering hopping on Blake like a disco stick. “What do you think we should do now? Talk to Jeff?”

  “Maybe. I got the feeling Sheriff Barnes is done with this case. You?”

  I nod. “Yeah, me too. But this is new information. We need to share it.”

  Blake sighs. “Let’s call him.”

  I get on my phone, and two rings later, Jeff answers. “Hey, Zoey, what’s up?”

  “Hi Jeff. I got some information I felt like I should share with you.”

  “It’s not about Alver, is it? What the hell has he done now?” he groans. I can almost picture him rubbing his forehead and pinching his temples.

  “No, nothing about him,” I answer. “I haven’t given him another thought.”

  “Good,” Jeff says firmly. “In that case, what’s up?”

  He sounds relieved, and I realize how much Sheriff Jeff Barnes has on his shoulders, even if he makes carrying his load look easy. He’s responsible for the whole county, the deputies, the county courthouse, policies and procedures, and his family too. “It’s about Richard Horne.”

  His sigh is heavy with disappointment. “Zoey, let the man die in peace, for God’s sake. We should all be so lucky to die at home, peacefully in our morning meal. Only thing better would be in your sleep.” He sounds more resigned than morbid, a man in touch with his own mortality.

  “I know, Jeff, but the insurance company rep, Blake Hale, got Horne’s medical records, and he’d been complaining about tiredness and heartburn. He wouldn’t—” My words are rushed out, trying to present the facts as quickly as possible, but it’s not fast enough.

  “Did he die of a heart attack? Yes or no?” Jeff asks finally.

  “It’s not that simple,” I try to argue. “If the heavy metals led to—”

  “Yes or no.” It’s not a question this time, it’s a demand for me to choose one way or the other.

  “Yes.”

  “Case closed. Now go on and get out of here at a reasonable hour tonight, Zoey. There’s no need for you to be working all hours of the night down there by yourself.”

  His fatherly advice glances off my back, which is riled up with his dismissal of the information I shared.

  “Sure.”

  I hang up the phone and Blake frowns. “That’s it?”

  “The county coroner can keep a file open,” I admit, “and leave a cause of death as unknown. But it’s not something to do without a good reason. This is a small county, not a big one where the ME is a whole separate department. Jeff’s going to want this file closed ASAP. He sure as hell isn’t going to help us.”

  Blake nods but looks determined. “Looks like we’ve got some investigating to do on ou
r own.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, we’re driving in Blake’s car. The sun’s almost down, and even though we’re not speeding or anything, I feel like I’m hurtling uncontrollably into madness. “Tell me again how you talked me into this? I’m not Nancy Drew!”

  Blake grins, all sure, calm, and collected, which irritates me. “Of course, you’re not. You’re Velma. Smart, sexy, and I bet you’d look fucking awesome in knee socks and nothing else.” His eyes scan down my body quickly before safely returning to the road, but it feels like he’s creating that very image in his mind.

  “Oh,” I say, coming up short on a reply for that. What was I arguing about again? I’ve totally forgotten, lost in the sparkle in Blake’s eyes. And oh, God, when he lays his hand on my thigh and squeezes, I reach out and touch the wood-veneer again, closing my eyes as I whisper, “Don’t let him die before we have sex. Please, God.”

  Blake chuckles. “Did you just pray for sex?”

  I crack one eye open to glare at him. “No. I wished. It’s totally different.”

  He nods his head with a cocky smirk. “If you say so. But now I wonder what you look like in a Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform.”

  The joke calms me some and I ask again, for the tenth time, “Are you sure this is a good idea? What if she recognizes your car? Or you? Or me? Shit, I’m going to be Stalker Barbie next, aren’t I?”

  Okay, maybe not calm, but slightly less hysterical.

  “Yvette Horne has never seen my car. And even if she saw us driving by, there’s nothing that says two people can’t drive down the road together. It’s only suspicious if you make it suspicious.”

  I nod, singing a TikTok song under my breath, “Don’t be suspicious . . . don’t be suspicious . . .”

  I guess it doesn’t work because Blake squeezes my thigh again, ordering me, “Relax. Breathe. We’re just two people out for a drive.”

  “A drive. Just a drive. I can do that.” I nod, but my back is still ramrod straight until Blake turns that squeezing into a massage, working his way up my thigh and back down to my knee. Up and down he goes, over and over, and of their own volition, my legs spread a little more as my breathing ratchets up. The next pass, he pauses high on my thigh, his pinkie teasing at my core. Even through the layers, it feels amazing, bringing all my focus to a singular point between my legs.

  Oh, God, he’s ‘jilling’ me off in the passenger seat of his car . . . and I fucking love it.

  “We’re almost there,” Blake whispers huskily, and I am.

  So close.

  I hum in agreement, biting my lip. “Mmmhmm.” Yes . . . just a few more strokes . . .

  “I meant to Horne’s house,” Blake says, a smile in his voice. I whimper, swallowing back my desire and forcing my eyes, which I didn’t even realize had closed, to open to find us driving down a smooth, well-paved, two-lane road in Williamson County.

  It’s Horne’s subdivision, twenty or so houses, each with an acre or two between them and the neighbor. But they’re set up close to the street, with fenced-in front yards and large expanses of back yards. Last time I was here, the street had been dotted with cars.

  Now, it’s empty and quiet.

  The orgasm, which had been close enough to taste, retreats, at least temporarily. “That one,” I say, pointing at the Horne house. It looks much the same as the last time I was here, a cute ranch-style house with nothing on the exterior giving a hint to the death inside.

  “Duck!” Blake snaps, grabbing behind my neck and shoving me toward his crotch.

  “What?” I snap right back, squirming against his hold.

  But all it does is rub my cheek up against his cock. His very thick, very hard cock. I freeze when I feel it jump. “Blake?”

  He doesn’t take his eyes from the road, I can see that much as I look out of the corner of my eye, but his thumb gently caresses my cheek.

  “Just stay down for a second. There’s someone coming out of the house.”

  I feel the car slow down and don’t dare to breathe.

  What if we get caught? What if Yvette Horne is coming out of the house right now, sees Blake, and waves him down?

  What if she asks what the hell I’m doing face-down in his lap?

  Fuck, the gossip grapevine is going to go haywire again . . . first with Alver’s tale of morgue table oral sexing and now, road head.

  “What’s happening?” I whisper, as though Yvette might hear me.

  “It’s a guy. Blond hair, muscled, late thirties, mustache. He’s taking out the trash,” Blake tells me.

  If anyone saw him, they’d probably think he’s singing along to the radio, right? I can work with that. “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know.” The ‘duh’ is implied.

  “Well, neither do I since I can’t see and all,” I hiss. Then, just to torture him a little, I run my nose along the length of the bulge I can see filling his slacks.

  “Oh, fuck, Zoey.” It’s half-warning to stop, half-plea to not. I do it again, adding in a caress against my cheek.

  “Tell me what you see.”

  Blake moves the car left and right, probably to make it seem as though he’s avoiding something in the road, but really just giving himself longer to look at the Horne house in the rearview mirror. “She’s coming out too. Yvette. Red dog. Guy . . . leash . . . dog. Shit.”

  I’ve unbuckled his belt, too excited by the throbbing I can feel behind his zipper and wanting to feel it without that barrier. “Can I?”

  “Fuck yeah. Yeah, Zo. Anything you want.”

  I hear the creak of his grip on the leather steering wheel, can feel the tension through his body as he forces himself to stay still, and love the feeling of power over him this gives me.

  Slowly, I unbutton and unzip his slacks to let them fall open and pull the waistband of his black boxer briefs out and down to free his erection. He’s pretty, not that I’d tell him that.

  But as pretty as a dick can be, Blake’s is—long and thick, with one vein running the length up to the mushroom head that’s weeping for me. I stick my tongue out and sample the clear fluid and he moans above me. The encouragement excites me, and I shift in my seat to get a better angle, cursing my seatbelt but not willing to take it off.

  He wouldn’t let you anyway. Safety first.

  Though I’ve never heard Blake utter those exact words, I can hear him saying them clear as day. They’re so like him—a risk taker, but only after calculating all the odds. I have no doubt that if we were on a freeway, not an empty back country road, he would never allow this.

  But for now, he’s mine.

  My own fears of the dangers of driving try to creep up my throat, but I swallow them down, along with Blake’s cock, trusting him to keep us safe on the deserted road. He’s salty and earthy along my tongue, teasing past my lips into my mouth. He lets out a deep groan that vibrates all the way down to his hips as he flexes to give me more.

  “Ah, fuck,” he hisses, and then he reaches over me and I hear him put the car in park. “We’re safe, no one’s around. Please—”

  His voice cuts out as I suck him in again, deeper this time. His hand goes to my jaw, fingers wrapped toward my bun, not forcing or guiding me but just feeling me move over him.

  Now that we’re still, I unclick my seatbelt and move around to get a knee underneath myself, changing the angle I can take him at. This is better, deeper, and I hum with satisfaction when I feel his tip enter my throat. I wish I could tease this out, take him to the edge and drive him crazy, but this is not the time.

  Not when we’re parked wherever it is we are, with a very real chance of getting caught looming. So I speed up, sucking with hollowed cheeks and using my hand, twirling my tongue over his head. It’s not long before he taps my shoulder—such a gentleman—and I nod, doubling down on my efforts. He understands perfectly, and a second later, I taste his release.

  Spurt after spurt of creamy liquid fills my mouth, and I swallow reflexively, tryin
g to keep from getting any on his fancy slacks. I lick him clean, kissing his crown and then easing his boxer briefs up over his softening cock.

  I sit up in my chair, wiping at my lips and smiling like the cat that got the canary.

  “Damn, you look good like that,” Blake whispers, his eyes hazy but looking at me.

  “How? Like I just sucked you off?” I tease, figuring that’s every guy’s dream.

  He blinks slowly and lifts his head from the headrest to shake it. “No . . . well, yes. But I meant . . . happy. You looked that way earlier too, when you figured out the smoothie thing, and when you got in my car and touched the wood like you always do—”

  “I don’t always do it,” I balk. “Only twice.”

  He shakes his head, smirking. “Every time you’ve been in my car, your nightstand, my island.” His voice heats at that. “I went around my house, putting coasters and figurines and wood boxes everywhere so you’d always have something to touch for good luck. Because I like that smile.”

  He reaches over to trace my lips, but my smile has fallen, shocked that he would do that . . . for me and my weird little habits.

  “Thank you.” It’s all I can find to say, too choked up with how much something so seemingly small means to me. In reply, he leans over and kisses me. We kiss deeply, thoroughly, and when he pulls back, I can’t help it. My lips lift again.

  “There it is.”

  I smile even bigger.

  “Where are we?” I finally ask, looking at the world outside Blake’s car.

  “Down the street from Horne’s. I saw the for-sale sign and figured I could park in the driveway without being too suspicious.” He shrugs almost shyly. “I couldn’t focus to drive safely anymore, not with your mouth on me.”

  A big shot of pride shoots through me.

  I, Zoey Walker, did that to him.

  “Okay, so you think we can drive back out of the neighborhood the same way? Like we’re just two people who came to look at the house?”

  I lean forward to look at the house in question. It’s another ranch-style house with a locked gate next to the driveway we’re parked in, cedar shutters surrounding every window, and an iron-framed glass front door. I couldn’t afford one month at this house if Jacob and I pooled our money for a year.