Operation Sizzle

by Darcy Lundeen

  “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen,” she muttered, counting the number of different times it had blasted out Rob’s staggeringly perky cartoon-like ringtone, then fallen silent without anyone leaving a message. If she craned her head just so, she could clearly read the “Rob McConnell missed calls” notifications on the screen. Betsy groaned. But it wasn’t Rob.

  The Voice was at the other end of the line, trying to reestablish contact. Probably so he could confirm Tyler’s slice-and-dice opinion of her. She was dull, indecisive, lacking. Hell, she couldn’t even threaten her best friend in a convincing way.

  She frowned. But so what? It didn’t make her a bad person—just an incompetent one.

  She stretched her legs out and leaned forward to retrieve her next tequila shot from the coffee table. But the silence suddenly caught her attention, and she picked up the phone, staring at it. The ringtones had stopped again, and this time, thank God, they stayed that way.

  Smiling with relief, she deleted the missed calls, set the phone back on the coffee table, and lifted her glass in a grateful salute. Hallelujah, the man had given up at last. It was the first good thing that had happened to her all day. But he really was a persistent S.O.B., she’d say that for him.

  Leaning back on the sofa, she resumed her despondent slurping, and after several minutes, she was finally getting back into the swing of it—taking slow, tentative sips, letting the liquid burn its way down her throat, and grimacing with each swallow, because…God Almighty…she really did hate the taste of booze.

  The phone suddenly blared a perky cartoon reprise, and Betsy’s heart went into triple rhythm as she choked down a mouthful of tequila. Slamming the glass onto the table, she clutched her chest and checked the screen.

  Rob’s name. God, the guy was at it again. Didn’t he ever give up? But a few seconds later, he did. The phone fell silent once more, leaving behind the notice that told her The Voice had finally left a message, a message she had no intention of listening to. Not ever.

  With a grateful sigh, Betsy relaxed, positive that this time she’d finally heard the last of him.

  She picked up the next drink on her road to welcome oblivion, then jumped when there was a knock at the door. Tequila sloshed onto her hand and jeans. She thumped the glass back on the coffee table and brushed liquid from her sodden jeans with her equally sodden hand.

  Another knock sounded, and she froze. Not now. Please God, not now. No visitors. Not when she was on a tequila-guzzling roll.

  More knocking, and she groaned, wondering if maybe the knocker would just politely go away if she was quiet.

  The knocking turned to banging.

  Apparently not.

  Standing, Betsy braced her hand against the sofa armrest for a moment to steady herself, then walked slowly to the door as the banging continued, making the walls shake and her head throb. Who the hell would make that kind of a racket? A crazy thought hit her, and a wild possibility flashed into her mind.

  Tyler Matheson.

  She paused, leaned against the vibrating wall, and smiled.

  Tyler Matheson coming to her door, falling to his knees, and begging forgiveness for being such an insensitive scumbag.

  Her smile faded. Forget it. Tyler wasn’t a door-banger. His technique leaned more toward being a stealth dumper.

  “Ms. Kincaid. Betsy Kincaid,” someone called from the other side of the door. “Are you in there? Are you all right?”

  Her jaw dropped. Right down to her knees. Something about the voice was familiar, as though she’d heard it recently. Very recently. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. Like about an hour ago on the phone when she called Rob. She opened her eyes again and stared at the door. Oh God, it was The Voice in the flesh. Right outside her apartment.

  Be quiet, and maybe he’ll go away.

  But she was, and he didn’t. He just kept up the noise, his damn voice and equally damn door-pounding getting louder and louder. “Hey,” he called between bouts of flaying her poor door with his fists. “Are you okay in there? Everything all right?”

  The door vibrated like a tuning fork.

  No, everything was not all right. His racket was giving her a headache, a stomachache, and a good old-fashioned pain in the butt. Granted, tequila shots on an empty stomach weren’t helping the situation, either. But he was still the main problem. The man had the biggest mouth, the heartiest fists, and the most aggravating persistence of anyone who’d ever come to her door, and she couldn’t hold out any longer. Keeping the safety chain securely in place, she reluctantly undid the locks and cracked the door a few inches.

  He immediately leaned forward, his face hovering just beyond the small opening she’d made.

  It was a nice face—sort of hunky, really—but she wasn’t in the mood for any faces hovering in her doorway, especially any male faces.

  “You called Rob McConnell a while ago. But he and I accidentally switched phones, so I answered the call. Remember?”

  Betsy nodded. As if she could forget. He made a sudden movement, and she jerked away in case he planned to reach out and grab her.

  But he didn’t. He just thrust his cell phone through the opening and held it up in front of her. “Here, to prove I’m not a stranger. I really do know Rob.”

  Betsy exhaled a sigh of relief and politely squinted at the photo on the screen, doing her best to focus her bleary, blurry eyes on the image of two guys who stood together, grinning at the camera like idiots.

  One had his arm flung around the shoulders of the other and was leaning companionably against him.

  Betsy nodded. No question about it. It was Rob. Even half-smashed and spitting mad, she still recognized his sweetly silly face. She quickly looked up at her unwanted visitor, studied him in silence for a moment, then sighed. Yep, he was definitely the other guy. So obviously they did know each other. Pretty well, too, from the way they were leaning into each other. “All right, I’m convinced you’re not a stranger.” Not that she cared how close he and Rob were. Right then the only thing she wanted was to be left alone.

  “I’m also not dangerous.” He gestured at her. “I mean, you know, in case you were worried.”

  Betsy stared at him. Worried? No, why would she be worried? She had no intention of getting any closer to him, so being worried about the danger he posed wasn’t a concern. Getting him away from her door and out of her life was.

  She nodded, managed to force her lips into a friendly smile, and began to slowly ease the door shut. “Got it. Everything makes sense. You know Rob, you switched phones, and you’re not dangerous. It’s all good. Nice meeting you. Hope you have a terrific weekend. Good—”

  “Look.” He quickly pocketed the phone and propped his palm against the door to keep it open. “Our conversation…I mean, what little there was of it…told me you were really upset. So I got your address out of Rob’s contacts, and when he got back I told him I was coming over to make sure you were okay.”

  Betsy held up a hand to stop him. It was a nice gesture on his part, taking the time to check in on her, but one she totally didn’t want. “I’m fine.” She nodded to emphasize the point. “Really fine. Thank you for coming. Goodbye.”

  She tried to close the door again, but he kept his palm braced against it to stop her.

  “Look, if there’s anything you need.”

  A slight frown formed between his brows, as though he couldn’t give up the idea that what she really needed was a keeper.

  Betsy forced herself not to scream at his clueless persistence. Okay, so from what she could make out of the guy, he was a substantial hunk. He also had a delicious voice, the kind of fantasy guy-voice she usually loved, but not right now when it was echoing up and down the corridor where anyone could hear.

  “No, I’m good. I don’t need anything. Thank you again for coming, but there’s no need for you to be concerned.” She forced another friendly smile and pointedly added, “Or to stay.” And if that little hint didn’t get through to
him, then the man was hopeless.

  It didn’t, and he was.

  “Okay. I’m staying with Rob, and I thought it was important to find out why one of his friends was so upset that she was threatening him.” He cleared his throat, suddenly looking uncertain, but not uncertain enough to just shut up and go away. “Uh, and maybe also drinking alone on a Friday night.”

  Betsy stared at him. Oh God. He knew she was drinking. Well, of course he knew. He could obviously hear it in her voice. Hell, even she could hear it in her voice—that damn telltale slurring. Not a pretty sound, but at this point, there was nothing she could do about it. “Look, Rob’s friend”—she somehow managed to slowly ease the door closed an inch—“I don’t want to seem ungrateful.”

  He nodded as he handily managed to ease the door open again. “And I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

  Betsy thought she heard a door opening down the hall and frowned, more anxious than ever to get him away from her door and out of her life. “Then don’t be one.” She pushed harder. “Go away.”

  He ignored her frown, her demand, and her desperate attempt to shut the door and just kept that damn palm of his pressed against it. “I’m sorry this isn’t working out the way I intended. I was really hoping that—”

  “What’s going on out here?” a woman’s voice demanded.

  Betsy cringed. Damn, she had heard a door opening—the worst possible door, the one that belonged to Mrs. Lattimer, her too-close-for-comfort neighbor in Six-B.

  Now the lady was about to get on her case big-time, and all because of that innocent little ninety-five decibel hallway scene she had a few days ago with Tyler. Didn’t the woman realize that dustups like that were normal between lovers…all right, as of late that afternoon, between former lovers?

  “I didn’t hear an answer to my question,” Mrs. Lattimer called.

  Betsy winced. No, apparently she didn’t realize it. That left an interesting dilemma—just what did you do when you were trapped between a neighbor who didn’t know how to mind her own business and a visitor who didn’t know the meaning of the word goodbye?

  Simple. She slid the safety chain away and yanked the door open wide enough to pull a large, determined male through. You remove one of them from the equation. So she did, grabbing Rob’s annoying friend by the arm and dragging him into the apartment.

  He took a lurching step across her foyer, let out a startled cry—“Hey, what the hell!”—and barely avoided colliding with the wall.

  Betsy didn’t care. She was too busy elbowing him away so she could look out into the corridor and make nice with Mrs. Lattimer. “Hi, Mrs. Lattimer.” Betsy flashed a fake, good-to-see-you-neighbor smile at the woman.

  Mrs. Lattimer didn’t smile back, not even fakely. She just stood beside her open apartment door, arms folded, foot tapping, lips pressed together in a you’re-no-neighbor-of-mine scowl. “Is there going to be another of those hallway screaming sessions like last week’s, Ms. Kincaid?” Her foot tapped harder, and her voice didn’t so much drip ice as turn the corridor into a certified meat locker.

  Wonderful. One small scene, and the woman was all over her. It was so not fair. But Betsy kept smiling anyway. “No, Mrs. Lattimer, nothing like that.” She shook her head firmly to underline the point, even though the movement made her feel weird, as if her brain were on a merry-go-round and her stomach had just been tossed into a washing machine set on perpetual spin. But still she kept up the smile. “I was just inviting my friend in.”

  She paused and took a breath. Her speech really sounded shaky. Not the nervous kind of shaky, either. More the throat-drenched-in-one-tequila-shot-too-many kind. Hopefully, Mrs. Lattimer didn’t notice, but she probably did. Better cut this thing off before the woman accused her of being a drunken bum as well as a public nuisance.

  “I’m really sorry if we disturbed you, Mrs. Lattimer.” She deliberately upgraded her smile to a full, cheek-straining grin, even though it probably made her look like a complete idiot. “It won’t happen again, I promise. Have a nice night.”

  And before Mrs. Lattimer could make a snide comment about not being able to have a nice anything with you young people caterwauling in the hall, Betsy quickly closed the door, slammed the locks shut, and seriously considered smacking her head against the wall.

  Then her unwanted visitor piped up his equally unwanted opinion from behind her. “Why the hell did you apologize to her? We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

  His stupid comment changed her mind. She’d rather smack his head against it instead. “Are you crazy, coming here and banging on the door that way?” She rounded on him, snarling out her anger. “Mrs. Lattimer’s already pissed enough by my shouting match with Tyler the other day. She’s a founding member of the new tenants’ association, and she’d probably love nothing better than to get me out of this building as a nuisance.”

  Running out of steam, she stood there, scowling and giving him the evil eye.

  He stood there, too, just a few feet away, decked out in tight jeans, leather jacket, and blue sweater, not looking crazy at all, just looking big and tall, broad and solid…and like the last thing she wanted within ten miles of her.

  That was both sad and telling because, normally, she liked big and tall, broad and solid. But at the moment she wasn’t feeling normal—more like homicidal, and suicidal, and just plain crappy.

  “Who’s Tyler?” He conveniently ignored her are-you-crazy question.

  And that sneaky little omission got her steam going again.

  She shook her head violently at him, but her protesting stomach and spinning head told her this was not a good idea, so she took a deep breath and brushed past him, storming into the living room. “None of your business. Please, just go away.”

  Not that he’d pay attention and actually leave. People like him seldom had the good manners to do the gracious thing, even when people like her were polite enough to tack a nice, courteous “please” onto their request. And, of course, she was right. He didn’t head for the front door. He just blithely strode into the living room right behind her, and when she turned around to confront him, they nearly collided.

  He did a quick sidestep to keep from slamming into her. Which was considerate of him, because a front-end collision with someone that big would probably have left her lying unconscious on the floor.

  “Look, I’m staying with Rob.” He flashed the kind of smile guys flashed when they were trying to butter you up.

  Betsy heaved a sigh that hopefully communicated its meaning to him loud and clear. Can the smile…not impressed…not intrigued…not interested…so just make yourself scarce, ASAP. “You already said that.” She refused to smile back, no matter how attractive he looked with that fawning grin on his face.

  “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

  She sighed again. “You said that, too.”

  “I’m Matt Pollard.”

  She stared at him. Okay, this was new information. “You didn’t say that.”

  “Well, I am. Matt Pollard, I mean. Hello.” He held out his hand.

  Betsy looked at it for a moment. It was a male hand—the last thing she wanted to have contact with. But politeness overruled her desire to avoid anything poisoned by an abundance of testosterone, so she touched it in a dead-fish shake.

  “Hello,” she said as his fingers curled around hers and took over the job of pumping that her hand resolutely refused to do. “You know who I am.” Damn caller ID. Uh-oh.

  He was still holding her hand in a clasp that was anything but dead or fishlike. It was a full-on, hot-and-heavy, skin-against-skin clinch, his fingers big and strong and pressing much too intimately for her comfort.

  She pulled her hand free and wiped her palm against her jeans. “Now go away. Please. And don’t make noise. I don’t want to lose my apartment.”

  He nodded and lowered his voice. “Got it. No noise.” Leaning toward her, he gestured at the front door. “It’s because of that hallway screamin
g session from last week, isn’t it? The one your loud-mouthed neighbor was talking about. Was it really as bad as she—?”

  “No.” Betsy frowned at him. “It wasn’t bad at all. Tyler and I were just having a little discussion, that’s all. The woman is hypersensitive to sound.”

  “Uh-huh. Who’s Tyler?”

  Betsy groaned. There he was again, right back on his nosy, who’s-Tyler jag. “He’s nobody, just a member of the lesser half of humanity.” She almost screamed it. And, frankly, she didn’t care. She was through with polite. Polite didn’t get you anywhere, but maybe sometimes a good scream did. “The half that shouldn’t be allowed in the civilized world, okay?” She added that in case this Matt-guy was too slow to get her drift.

  But he wasn’t too slow.

  She could tell it by the way he raised his eyebrow.

  Then his mouth opened and immediately snapped shut again, as though he wanted to make an uncensored comment but sensibly stopped himself in time.

  “Right, I hear you.”

  He nodded obediently, but she couldn’t help noticing a telltale little movement at the corners of his mouth. He was trying his damnedest not to laugh. Obviously he found her anger hilarious.

  She was on the verge of showing him just how hilarious an angry woman with too many drinks under her belt could be when provoked.

  Then he gave her another one of those stupid, buttering-up smiles. “Look, I know I’m really pissing you off here.” He sounded like an innocent victim who didn’t understand how his intrusive behavior could have pissed anybody off.

  That did it. He was acting like such an ass that she couldn’t help herself. She began to advance on him with fire in her eyes. “Yes, you are. And you know why?” She poked him in the chest. “Because you’re a member of the lesser half, too. That’s why. You’re a man. So go away. And take every other man with you.”

  He backed away from her poking finger, but he didn’t seem annoyed, just annoyingly amused. “Every man in the world?”

  Betsy sneered at him. Supercilious jerk. “In the universe.” She would have given him another poke, but he’d cautiously folded his arms across his chest to protect the target area. Coward.