You Give Love a Bad Name

by Marilyn Brant

  “I wouldn’t know. The book I’ve been listening to isn’t a major bestseller, but it’s entertaining.”

  “An entertaining historical that isn’t a bestseller? You’ve stumped me.”

  “It’s a Regency love story.”

  “Wait. A romance novel? Really?” I snorted. “For someone as highbrow and sophisticated as you, Mademoiselle? I’m shocked.”

  I wasn’t remotely shocked. Of course she’d be a romance lover. Despite her cultural interests and her intelligence, Vicky Bernier probably wanted what most single women wanted: A white knight to rescue them and fall in love with them and recite dreadful poetry to them or sing Barry Connelly’s crappy love songs to them. Much as I had a soft spot in my heart for genre fiction—mysteries, sci-fi/fantasies, thrillers, and more—general romance novels were no better than the songs I had to play on 102.5 every day, only a helluva lot longer.

  “I enjoy a range of reading material, Blake,” she said stiffly. “I don’t consider romance to be remotely lowbrow. Some of the greatest minds in English literature wrote romantic novels. Jane Austen, for instance. Or the Brontë sisters—”

  I snorted again. “Mr. Rochester and that Heathcliff dude were about as romantic as my ass. I’m telling you, those Brontë bitches were messed up if they thought any woman would fall in love with some drunk, foul-tempered douchebag.”

  “Well, I guess you’d know,” she shot back.

  Ouch.

  I had to give her credit for a fast comeback but, wow, she didn’t pull punches.

  “I suppose I set myself up for that,” I murmured.

  She shrugged, slipped her earbuds back in, and said only, “Bye,” as she bolted down the walking path.

  Winston barked after her, and I felt a sudden sharp pang of disappointment at her absence. And, I had to admit, an even sharper stab of regret at having been the one to drive her away.

  I knew Vicky hadn’t thought highly of me before, but I could see now that it was more personal than I’d suspected. It wasn’t just that she was uptight. Maybe Shar had prejudiced her against me. Maybe she’d had a few negative opinions based on hearing me on the air. I didn’t know. But I was sure now that she’d judged me harshly after seeing the bar fight last week. And that her first impressions weren’t likely to easily change.

  The competitor in me wanted to try, though. Just because it was in my nature not to back down from a battle. Just because I wanted to see if I could. And just because—aw, hell—the truth was that I was starting to like her, and I wished she would like me back. Even a little.

  ~*~

  My sister had a gift for being a loving but painful thorn in my side.

  “Seriously, Shar?” I said when she called my cell the very second the Bears kicked off against the Packers that afternoon. I’d just gotten comfy on the sofa: Beer on my left, potato chips on my right, the remote control on my lap, and the game on the big screen in front of me. “Do you not realize what’s on right now?”

  “Oh, I realize it, all right. That’s why I’m calling. I knew you’d be home,” my little sister said smugly.

  “What do you want to nag me about this time?” I said, cringing when I saw the Bears quarterback go down in a massive pile on before he’d even managed to make the first play. This didn’t bode well.

  “I’m not nagging,” Shar said defensively in my ear, effectively making me miss the sports commentary on that disastrous first down. “I just want you to try to be on your best behavior with my friends. Please. Especially Vicky.”

  “Well, she wasn’t on her best behavior with me,” I said, watching a painful replay of the second-down pass that resulted in an unsuccessful attempt to gain yardage. “Damn.”

  “Damn, what?” Shar chirped.

  “It’s just—what were we talking about?”

  “Being nice to Vicky.”

  “Oh, that. Look, Sis, she’s not a bad person or anything.” I thought about the French teacher for a second. She was smart, gorgeous, kind to my dog. These weren’t observations I intended to share with my sister, though. “But she’s high strung, a total rule follower, uptight, snappish—”

  “Snappish? Vicky? Are we talking about the same woman?”

  I remembered her comment this morning about me being like a dickhead Brontë “hero,” and I shuddered a little at the memory. Did she really see me like that? Not that I’d confide shit in my meddlesome little sister, but her friend’s comments kind of niggled, even though I could see why Vicky had gotten that impression of me. The thing that bothered me most, though, was the way the French teacher had assumed I was unread and uncultured. I wouldn’t debate being seen as a douche or a drinker, but being seen as dumb really pissed me off.

  “How well do you actually know her, Shar? I mean, are you aware that she’s prickly, judgmental, has a ton of angry feelings and unresolved issues with men—”

  “She’s sensitive, Blake. And what single woman in her thirties doesn’t have issues with men?” She huffed on the line. “I know you’re a good guy deep down. Very deep down. You keep it well hidden, but I know that goodness is in there. Our brothers know it, too, and so does your dog. Other people have no clue, though, and when you go out of your way to aggravate someone—”

  “Okay, fine. So, maybe I did go out of my way to piss off Vicky, but she started it.”

  Crap. I sounded like a four-year-old kid. This fact wasn’t lost on my sister.

  “Jesus, Blake. Grow up. How will anybody ever see your good qualities if you don’t start acting like an adult? And I don’t mean that fakey radio-jock façade you put on in public to show off either.”

  “Fakey? I’m not—”

  “You are. And talk about anger issues. You’re the king of them. No wonder you recognized that in Vicky.”

  I glanced at the TV and took a long swig of beer, trying to calm down, ground myself, and figure out what to say next. Somehow, the Packers had managed to score in the first five minutes of the first quarter. Shit.

  I clicked off the game and downed the rest of my beer. Then I reached for another one. Yes, I was angry, and not just because the Bears were getting the crap beaten out of them today. My sister’s accusations stung. If anyone knew what I’d suffered by losing both parents, she did.

  But Shar and I had reacted in different ways. She coped by surrounding herself with people all the freakin’ time. She knew what she wanted out of life and loved the profession she’d chosen. She’d felt a deep loss when Mom and Dad died only a few years apart, of course, but she wasn’t the type to dwell in sadness for long. She always seemed to sure that she could affect change, “make a difference,” bring everyone together, create a new reality just by her sheer will.

  And, bless her, she usually could.

  But she couldn’t shape and manage and corral me into doing what she wanted all the time. No matter how much she thought it was in my best interests. And I knew that ticked her off.

  Telling her this was, however, futile, so I just let her blather on about how I needed to take better care of myself, try to avoid meaningless relationships, and stop abusing my body with booze and junk food.

  I grabbed a few potato chips and crunched them loud enough by the phone to make sure she could hear me.

  “Blake!”

  “Oh, c’mon, Shar. Just chill. You’re starting to sound as scolding and schoolmarmish as your little Frenchie friend.”

  And then, just because I was angry and had enough of being told what to do, I said something I knew would wound her. “Maybe Chandler had the right idea. Just blow the hell out of Mirabelle Harbor and stay away for years at a time. No one giving him orders. No one interfering in his life.”

  “Please don’t say that,” she whispered.

  “Fine. I won’t say it. But lay off me. I mean it, Shar. You know it was never my plan to still be here.”

  I let that hang in the air between us. Let her ponder that reality, which she’d never wanted to acknowledge, even though it was the truth
. But I knew she remembered. That insinuation Vicky lobbed at me about not being well read or well traveled or remotely cultured or worldly or adventurous, etc., that stung, too. Because, even though I’d only taken French for a couple of years and Spanish for a couple more, I had a knack for languages. I would have traveled all over the world if I could have. It’d been a dream of mine.

  I’d had a two-month European and Asian backpacking trip planned seven years ago, just before Dad got diagnosed with his cancer. None of us wanted to leave our parents alone during that ordeal, so I postponed the trip and stayed home. Worked at a gas station all summer instead, just so I could be nearby. Figured I’d go on the trip a year or two later.

  But just when I began setting up travel arrangements again, Mom died of a sudden stroke. Chandler, having had enough family tragedy, only lasted in town for a few weeks before leaving like Meatloaf’s “Bat Out of Hell.” He took off with Abby, his girlfriend at the time, but he was so restless that even she couldn’t handle drifting through five years and half a dozen states... She cut him loose somewhere in Florida. She stayed there, and he still hadn’t come back home either.

  Shar was bereft after Mom died. Her marriage was falling apart then, and I couldn’t leave her, too. So I canceled the second trip. Figured it was a sign or something. Every time I tried to get out of Mirabelle Harbor someone died or something really bad happened. Didn’t want to risk it again.

  I heard Shar sigh on the line. “I’m sorry, Blake. I feel like a broken record, and I know I’m being pushy. But I truly care about you, and I want you to be safe. Healthy. Happy. That’s all, okay?”

  My temper was starting to fizzle with the sadness and resignation in her voice. Shar was a tough cookie, but she was easy to bruise if you knew how. And I knew how.

  “Hey, sorry to worry you so much, Sis. Just...don’t mind me today. I’m not in a great mood. Or in a great place in my life.”

  “How can I help?”

  “You can tell your friend to lighten up,” I joked.

  “Do you really not like her or want to work with her, Blake? Because it’s not worth doing the Homecoming dance if it’s going to be such a stressor on you both. Maybe ask if another DJ can do it that night, okay? I had no idea you wouldn’t like Vicky this much.”

  “It’s not that...exactly. I don’t dislike her, Shar. But I know she doesn’t like me. And you’re right,” I conceded. “I haven’t given her much reason to.”

  “Well, if anyone can charm someone, you can.” She laughed suddenly, seemingly delighted to point out such an obvious solution, in her opinion. “Just show her how cool and clever you are. She’s a nice person. She’ll respond to that.”

  For the first time since she called, I actually grinned and put down my beer. My sister might be overly optimistic about my ability to win over her straight-laced friend, but I knew there was something I could do that just might help out Vicky’s students and, possibly, make her see me in a more favorable light.

  Then again, I could just as easily crash and burn as badly as the Bears today.

  “I’ll think about it,” I told Shar. “I have a couple of ideas. But I make no promises.”

  Chapter Seven

  ~Vicky~

  I’d just returned to my classroom Tuesday early afternoon, following a foreign language department meeting over lunch with Lisa, Christine, Marcie, and Janet.

  We’d ordered pizza and hashed out the majority of activities for November’s “International Week,” when foreign exchange students from around the state came to visit Mirabelle Harbor High School for a few days. The event took some planning, but it was always exciting for the kids and it tended to be one of the highlights of the year.

  So, I was still smiling when the intercom buzzed and our school secretary said, “Ms. Bernier, you’ve got a phone call on line one. Do you have time to take it?”

  “Sure.” I had about ten minutes before the next class started arriving. She transferred the call and I said, “Hello?”

  “Mademoiselle Bernier,” a distinctive voice said. The guy had a way of even making my name sound sinful.

  “Mr. Michaelsen,” I replied with a sigh. “What a surprise to hear from you. Again. So soon.”

  He chuckled—a sound so deep and sensual that I could feel the vibrations to the tips of my toenails. What was it about his voice that just got to me? Without the distraction of seeing him face to face, I couldn’t help but concentrate on the sound. If ever a man had been born to be on the radio, Blake was it.

  He cleared his throat. “The reason I’m calling you at school is because I have a free promotional opportunity for your Homecoming committee. But, before I took things any further, I wanted to run the idea by you. I figured you weren’t the type to want anything sprung on you at the last minute.”

  That wasn’t an accusation, precisely, but—coming from Blake—it wasn’t quite a compliment either. He may as well have just said, Since you’re so boring and not very spontaneous...

  “I—um, thanks,” I said. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” Which, I did, I guess. “What does it entail?”

  “A buddy of mine is a freelance sports writer. He often has pieces in the Chicago Tribune or the Sun-Times, and he writes a short weekly sports column for the Mirabelle Harbor Gazette. His name is Declan Night. You’ve probably heard of him, yes?”

  The name sounded sort of familiar, but I hadn’t made a habit of paying much attention to athletic types. “Is he a baseball player?” I guessed.

  Blake laughed.

  “Uh, football...maybe?”

  “Try hockey,” he said. “Pro hockey. Dec grew up around here and then moved to Colorado to play for a while. Then he was traded and spent a few years out East until he did some shit to his shoulder and had to call it quits. But he’s living in town now and doing a bunch of things—some game commentary, some writing, some sports retail.”

  “Does he want to sell t-shirts or something during Homecoming Week?” I asked.

  Blake laughed again, harder this time. “No. But, as a favor to Coach Fortin, who’s a second cousin of his or something, Dec was planning on coming to the high school this week to write up a feature on the football team as they prep for the new season and the big Homecoming game. He’s going to have a photographer with him, and we could easily ask another reporter from the Gazette, who’s a mutual friend of ours, to tag along and make an afternoon of it. Write up a short piece about the Homecoming planning committee and their fundraising efforts. Do you think you and the kids would like that?”

  “Wow. Yeah. They’d love it, and I would, too, of course,” I said honestly, wondering why it had never occurred to me to reach out to the local press. As the advisor, I should have thought of that.

  Then again, Blake was a true Michaelsen. I’d underestimated him, of course—not only his intelligence but, also, his degree of connectedness.

  I shouldn’t have.

  Shar was one of the strongest networkers I’d ever met, and I should have guessed that her brother would be the same, if not more so.

  “Great,” he said. “I’ll tell Declan and the guys that it’s a go for Thursday after school. As I recall, the committee is meeting again then. I’ll also bring the song list I promised the students.”

  “Thank you, Blake. I don’t know what to say. That’s—”

  “Incredibly impressive and thoughtful of me?” he suggested in a cocky tone. He didn’t wait for me to reply. “Yeah, I know. For the record, I’m not the evil troll you’ve taken me for, Babe.”

  “For the record,” I mimicked, “do not call me ‘Babe.’ Ever.”

  He laughed a laugh that was totally unrepentant. “Or what? You’ll make me sit in the corner? Oooh, no wait—this is better. You’ll tie me to your desk and we’ll play the ‘Naughty School Boy/Strict Teacher’ game. Have you got a ruler, some rope and, maybe, a little masking tape?”

  The image that flooded my mind made every part of me blush. I was so glad he couldn’t see me
, although I suspected he could tell just how flustered I must be. It was impossible for me to separate my embarrassment from my desire. He seemed determined to bring out both in me, simultaneously. I couldn’t help but feel an unwanted but undeniable attraction to the far-too-charming DJ.

  But I knew I couldn’t let him get away with saying these things. Couldn’t let him think that just because he came up with one thoughtful and responsible idea that it excused his every other immature or inappropriate action.

  I took a deep breath. “We’re on a school phone line, Blake. Please keep your BDSM fantasies to yourself.”

  He burst out laughing again. Then, in a low, sexy voice, he whispered, “Then give me your cell number instead, so I can call you privately.”

  The guy was incorrigible.

  I hung up before I could incriminate myself or before he could actually talk me into giving him my number. I got the sense that Blake Michaelsen was used to getting his way with women. A lot.

  Philippe had been a charmer like that, too. So had a handful of the ex-boyfriends that followed. In fact, looking back, almost every man I’d ever fallen for had been more flash and enchanting illusion than substance.

  After my painful breakup with Philippe, who’d been “Mr. Culture” (at least on the outside), I’d swung too far to the other extreme. Especially when I dated Ryan, a tax attorney, whose love of numbers was eclipsed only by his love of college football and cheap beer. It was a wonder our relationship even lasted two full months.

  That had been a low point in my dating life, and it succeeded in making me certain that I’d stay forever single. I didn’t seem to be the right fit for anybody. I’d been hurt by Philippe, bored by Ryan, and utterly indifferent to most other guys. So, since I refused to have one-night stands, that meant it’d been over eighteen months since I’d had a sexual experience that wasn’t battery operated.

  This, I knew, was what had to be fueling any attraction I might feel toward Blake. It had to be. No one on the planet was less right for me than that guy. Although, I guess I had to give him credit for reading a lot. And for rescuing a dog. He got points for both of these. But, as we all knew, even a broken grandfather clock could tell the right time twice a day.