His laugh bounces me, and his arm wraps around me to keep me in place. “After what we just did? I’ll try to not be utterly gutted that reading is somehow ‘sexier’ than that.”
Oh, shit, I guess that didn’t come out right. “No! That was great, but . . . reading to me?” I say the words slow like the awesomeness should be self-explanatory.
I can feel Blake smile. “It’s fine, Zo. I know what you meant.”
“Oh, good. What’s it about?”
Instead of telling me, he reads to me, and though the story is interesting, it’s Blake’s voice that has me hooked. Or more likely, it’s the whole package that makes up Blake Hale.
He’s got me—hook, line, and sinker.
Chapter 18
Blake
The room is still pitch black when my alarm goes off. I try to be quiet so I don’t disturb Zoey, who’s sleeping soundly in my bed. The thought echoes through my mind. Zoey Walker is sleeping in my bed after a night of amazing sex and agreeing to go out with me!
I feel like a victorious gladiator who slayed the dragons of her ghosts. I grab my phone, shutting the alarm off, and text Trey.
Me: Won’t be there for the morning run today.
Trey: You good? Need me to bring you donuts and beer?
Ah, our college-day cure for everything that ails you, especially hangovers.
But now, the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach, especially when the only hangover I’m sporting is the one resulting from a lovely dose of Zoey.
Me: No. Zoey slept over.
He sends back a thumbs-up emoji with a question mark.
Me: Amazing. Run an extra mile for me.
That handled, I snuggle back into bed with Zoey in my arms. I can’t remember the last time I woke up this happy. Or went to sleep this exhausted.
Zoey mumbles, “What’s wrong?”
Of course she thinks that way. “Nothing,” I assure her, “just telling Trey he’s on his own this morning.”
“You’re skipping your run?” she mumbles, or I think that’s what she says at least, but it sounds like ‘yuhskapngwun’.
“You think there’s a single chance in hell that I’m leaving this bed when you’re all soft and toasty warm in my arms?”
She snuggles into me, satisfied with that answer. “I have to go to work later.”
“I know, me too. But not yet.”
I feel her smile against my chest and then her breathing evens out. I stay awake a lot longer than she did, just watching her as the room turns purple with the coming dawn and listening to her occasional soft snores.
Dropping Zoey off at home feels risky because I know what a huge leap into the abyss she made last night. I’d rather hang on, wrap my arms and legs around her like a spider monkey, and keep her in the cocoon of safety I want to surround her with. Not because she needs it, but rather because she deserves a chance to relax and not be constantly on alert for a catastrophe to strike.
But eventually, the time comes, and we both feel it. Fidgeting with her hands in front of her door, she questions, “I’ll talk to you later?”
“Absolutely. You’re stuck with me now, Miss Walker,” I threaten with a wink.
“I think you’ve got that backward, Mr. Hale.”
There’s that smile I search for and want to keep on her face.
“Maybe we’re stuck with each other,” I compromise with an eye roll for extra faux-drama. “I suppose there aren’t too many women who’d be so desperate to meet me that they’d hit me with their car, rescue me from trivia night annihilation in their pajamas, and play Sherlock Holmes when it involves digging through actual garbage.”
I know Zoey thinks she’s getting the better deal with me and that I’m somehow getting the raw deal with her. The reality is very different. She’s beautiful, exciting, brilliant, and willing to sacrifice herself for others. I’m just a nerd whose admittedly good looks don’t make up for the fact that I talk trivia and live in a world made of up statistics, not exactly what most folks consider exciting dinner conversation.
Neither of us is perfect, and neither of us is awful.
What we are is . . . perfectly matched.
“I don’t refute any of that. Well, maybe the intentional crash. That really was an accident.”
“Sure,” I tease. I seal our agreement to disagree with a quick kiss. “I know you’ve got to get to work. Me too. But I’ll call you later.”
She smiles and disappears inside. I guess it’s the safety lessons I’ve heard my whole life, the statistics about a home invasion happening once every twenty-six seconds, or more likely, it’s that same desire to wrap Zoey up in cotton candy and treat her gently, but I tell her through the door, “Lock up, Zo.” I hear the lock turn and only then can I leave.
Halfway to my car, I hear a voice call out, “Hey! Hey, you!”
I track the sound and see two older women sitting in folding camp chairs outside the trailers across the narrow dirt road that separates their plot from Zoey’s.
“Yes?”
“Come here.”
The woman on the left takes a puff of a cigarette, her eyes narrowed as she watches to see if I’ll obey. My mother raised me to respect my elders, and I suppose there’s a chance she needs help getting up, so I take measured steps across the road.
“Hello, ladies. What can I help you with today?” I flash my charming smile, ready to talk about the weather or their grandkids, or God forbid, their cats.
“What’re you doing with D.D.?” Cigarette Smoker demands.
I blink, “I’m sorry, who?” I look to the other woman, teasing, “Are you Dee Dee?”
She crinkles her wrinkled lips, “Nah. I’m Louise. This here’s Thelma. And she means D.D.G.” She points toward Zoey’s trailer with her whiskered chin.
Anger freezes my blood in my veins. “Zoey,” I correct, enunciating the word harshly. “And not that it’s any of your business, but I’m dating her.”
Twin hums of disappointment sound out of the women’s throats as they give each other a pointed look. Thelma, who seems to be the boss of these two, takes a deep inhale of her cigarette and, with the smoke coming out as she speaks, says, “You know what happens to everyone she spends time with, don’tcha? Damn shame is what it is.”
She shakes her head as though discussing something sad, but there’s a gleam in her eyes that says she’s enjoying bearing witness to whatever awfulness she blames on Zoey. “You’re too good-looking for a witch like her. Shame to see you in a pine box sooner than the good Lord intended because you got bewitched by her.”
She flicks her hand from me to Zoey’s trailer, ash falling to the ground at her feet as she threatens me with impending doom.
“Oh, yeah, awful thing what that girl did to her momma and daddy, and then her grandparents. I heard she talks to the bodies down at the morgue,” Louise adds, dropping her voice to finish, “and she thinks they talk back to her. Creepy, if I say so myself. Talking to the dead, touching them . . . disgusting.”
They nod with sneered faces like they smell something rank, each echoing the sentiments from the other. Before, I let Zoey fight her own battles with Bubba at the beer barn and Alver at work. But she’s not here now, and I feel righteous in defending her since I can’t allow people to talk badly about someone I care about. Especially when they’ve done nothing to warrant it and aren’t here to stand up for themselves.
I square up and stand tall, letting all charm and kindness fall off my shoulders.
Sorry, Mom. Some people don’t deserve manners.
These two busybody biddies certainly don’t.
“Here’s what I know . . . she’s had a rough life, with some painful loss. Ironically, people think losing her family is reason enough to heap more pain on her shoulders. And somehow, though she’s surrounded by ugly, small-minded people,” I growl, slowly looking them up and down, from their permed hairdos to their worn house dresses and slipper-covered feet until they shift uncomfortably, “She’s m
anaged to stay good and kind at her core. More than I can say for most people I’ve met out here.”
Bitter, harsh, hard words . . . I mean every single one.
Thelma harrumphs, not put off by the judgement of some ‘city boy’. “Your funeral.”
I’m not going to change their opinions of Zoey, as much as I’d like to. And I might as well not throw dynamite on their bonfire, no matter how much I’d like to hand them each a Molotov cocktail to go with their cancer sticks. “Have the day you deserve, ladies.”
That’s the most pleasant good-bye I can offer, because my middle fingers are itching to fly high and proud. As I walk back to my car, I can hear them talking behind me, making no effort to keep their voices down. “Know what I heard? She takes their nails, the dead folks’. Grinds them down into powder and puts it in her conditioner. That’s how she gets her hair that shiny and pretty. T’ain’t natural.”
That’s their problem with Zoey? Jealousy over her hair?
I sigh heavily. “Jesus, people are weird as fuck.”
I see the blinds shift in the front window of Zoey’s trailer and I know she was watching the whole scene with her neighbors. She’s probably freaking out that I’m running for the hills too.
“Bye, sugar snookums! I already miss you!” I call out, smooching the air loudly three times, then add, “Can’t wait to see you later!” I’m being loud enough for the whole damn trailer park to hear my over the top, lovey-dovey, corny declarations and make it real crystal clear what I’m doing with Zoey Walker.
As a final declaration, I kiss my fingertips and blow with all my might to send that kiss Zoey’s way. I hope she’s laughing her ass off, not giving a shit what the neighbors must be thinking. The blinds open again, and I see her uncertain smile, which I answer with a big grin of my own.
Play along and don’t worry a bit, Zo. Those grumpy, gossipy women aren’t going to scare me away. Not when I finally have you.
* * *
I wait the socially acceptable two days to call. Not Zoey.
Hell, I call her by that first afternoon just to hear her voice and pout when she’s dealing with a DB and has to work late.
But I do wait to call Sebastian.
Thankfully, he’s more than willing to meet me at the dog park again and show me some beginner workouts for Chunky. I’d suggested that instead of obedience training for Irish-Retriever Jessie, since she’s not real and Zoey vetoed trying to find a fill-in dog. Probably for the best, anyway, and maybe I can get something useful for Chunky out of this investigation.
We can work a deal if you let me film your big dude for the Tok, ya know, Sebastian messaged me. I’m sure Chunky will get a big head from all the likes because who wouldn’t like a peanut butter ball of puppy cuteness?
“Thanks for coming, Sebastian. I could use some help. Well, I’m okay,” I joke, patting my own flat belly, “but The Chunkster is looking a little rotund, so some advice to get him into game day shape would be great.”
“No worries, man. We can all use a little extra pump time.” He holds up an arm, flexing to show me his bicep, which I’m man enough to admit is impressively large. “That’s how we get the goods,” he adds with a wink, dropping his arm to pump his hips in the air.
Is he for real?
“Yeah.” I laugh awkwardly.
Sebastian gives his bicep an affectionate pat and then flashes a big smile. “I got you, big dude.”
Thankfully, he’s talking to Chunky, not me. “Let me get some filler film of him goofing off.” Sebastian pulls his phone out and starts filming Chunky, who’s sniffing around the grass a few feet away. Completely oblivious to the beginning of his fifteen minutes of fame, Chunky chooses that moment to squat and poop. “Oh, shit! Literally.”
I grab a bag off the leash thrown over my shoulder and clean up while Sebastian huffs out in annoyance and drops his phone to his side.
“Sorry,” I say in surprise, placating Sebastian’s instant mood switch.
Damn, bro. It’s not that serious, just a sixty-second TikTok.
“Take two,” Sebastian shouts. Sebastian is acting like a movie director ordering around a B-list actor in a scene. But Chunky’s no actor, he’s a dog. And while he’s trained, he’s no Lassie or Beethoven. “Good, good,” Sebastian hums. “I’ll do the voice-over later.”
“Oh, okay. So, what do you recommend I try with him?” I’ve got a good veterinarian whose recommendations I trust implicitly, and Chunky is doing well. But that doesn’t mean I won’t take some advice, especially since Sebastian required prepayment for a consult.
Plus, I need to establish some camaraderie before I start asking questions that might raise suspicions. Not sure what detective guide I’m following to decide that, but it seems logical. I can’t exactly ask flat-out if Sebastian knows what happened to Richard Horne and expect him to hang around for the follow-up questions.
“You said he’s doing well on his nutrition? Under doctor’s orders that include adequate protein, carbs, and fat, plus vitamins and minerals?”
Damn, Sebastian flips from vapid influencer to well-spoken and informed like most people change underwear.
“Oh, yeah, prescribed food all the way. He’s down seven pounds in six months and is more active, but we could all do better, you know?” I confide. “I try not to give him treats, but those pretty puppy dog eyes . . . they get me every single time. Isn’t that right, sweet boy?”
Sebastian smirks at my baby talk, and I feel like he just swiped my man card right out of my wallet. Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything but silently watches Chunky for a moment more. “It’s not a treat if it’s not good for him, dude.”
“Wise words.”
“Yeah, you gotta be firm, with your dog and your woman, ’cuz you know what’s best for ’em. Amiright?” He nudges me with his elbow and chuckles like that’s brilliant advice.
Okay, maybe for Chunky it is, but even I know telling a woman she can’t have a piece of chocolate when she wants one is a bad idea.
A really bad idea.
In fact, it seems like a sure-fire way to end up in Zoey’s morgue. Rightfully so.
“That what you do?” I’m not agreeing and not disagreeing, doing my best to play it safe. Sebastian looks me up and down, and if there were any chance I still had my man card, it’s gone in his eyes now. I might as well have pulled it out and handed it over on a fringe-rimmed, rhinestone-bedazzled velvet pillow. Clearing my throat, I summarize, “No treats. Got it.”
Sebastian’s lips twitch but I can see the pity smile.
“What do you recommend instead . . . maybe for Chunky . . . and me? Nutrition-wise, I mean. Or exercises?”
I’m not flirting, nor am I admitting that Sebastian is more manly than I am, despite the blond, flowing locks, big biceps, flat abs, and testosterone-fueled scruff on his face that makes him look like a modern-day Fabio. Nope, this is all part of my plan to organically bring up the green smoothie Richard Horne was imbibing each day.
“Lean protein and veggies. Those steamer bags of broccoli and carrots are good. Canned chicken and tuna too.”
“For me or Chunky? He’d eat anything I put in front of him, but I’d rather have a steak. Or hide the veggies in a smoothie I choke down.” I pull a face, playing up my veggie-hating. “Ya feel me?” I aim for his bro-speak tone.
“Totally.” He holds up a fist, and I bump it, feeling victorious. “I meant for the big dude. You can stick with the steak for sure. As for the vegetables, there’s a smoothie I recommend. Green Extreme Plus—you heard of it?”
“No. It tastes good?”
“Well, no. But it’s good for you.” He shrugs. “And you can put vitamins and shit in it, hold your nose, and chug it like a beer.” He upends an imaginary cold one.
“Sounds disgusting. Where do I get it?” I say with a laugh he echoes. “And what extra shit do I put in it?” I eye him up and down, much the way he did me, but I feign being impressed and add, “Can I put pure lead in it to ge
t pumped?”
That’s as close to the truth as I can tiptoe toward. I can’t exactly ask for heavy metal recommendations.
Sebastian bows up a bit, and I’m afraid he’s gotten suspicious of my questions. There’s a short moment where I’m sure my cover is blown, and I prep for an attack of some sort.
Fuck, let it be verbal and not physical! If this guy punches me, I’m going down like a Charlie Brown Christmas tree under Paul Bunyan’s axe. I’m not that puny, but he’s considerably . . . formidable. Thankfully, it seems to be more of a showoff moment than a beatdown one. “All natural, dude. No ’roids needed.”
Well, shit. That didn’t work.
I carefully try again.
“Come on, you gotta be adding a little something. Mega vitamins? Black market testosterone?” I cajole. “You can tell me. Puh-lease tell me.” I hold up my arm, not flexing at all, and wiggle my triceps like it’s a bingo wing.
“Sorry, dude. No secret sauce, but the protein and veggies will help. So will some exercises. Let’s see if we can get you and the chunky dude on a routine that’ll help you both.”
Oh, yeah, Chunky.
That’s how I got him here.
Chunky’s having the time of his life, sniffing every blade of grass in the park and making friends with the handful of other dogs here. “Sure. Sounds great.”
I guess I might as well get some actual advice for Chunky and me, especially if I’m not getting much more information about the possibly poisonous smoothies. At least now I know that the specific brand we found in Yvette’s trash is one Sebastian recommends, which puts him closer to Richard Horne’s death.
Sebastian has Chunky and me doing laps around the dog park, dropping to the grass for push-ups at every corner. Well, I do push-ups while Chunky sits and catches his breath.
“Make sure to start slow. No more than twenty minutes total so Chunky gets used to the increased activity safely,” Sebastian advises.
“Let’s stop there, and I’ll film some activities you can do in place with the big guy. Less impact for you too,” Sebastian says with a wink as though I’m panting like Chunky is. I’m not tired, considering my near daily runs, but I am playing up a little bit.
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