You Give Love a Bad Name

by Marilyn Brant

  Blake was stunningly like a six-foot-two broken clock.

  With a gorgeous exterior.

  And a dreamy voice.

  But, mon Dieu!

  Even if he was the hottest man in the room (which I suspected he often was), and even if he’d read every book on the New York Times Bestseller List (which seemed to be his goal), and even if he hadn’t made fun of romance (which he did), or made a habit out of stirring up trouble (which was a gift of his, whether it was in my classroom or in downtown Mirabelle Harbor), he still wouldn’t be my type.

  Because he was crude.

  And reckless.

  And egocentric.

  Too much of a little boy in grownup clothing.

  And all that reading didn’t make him interested in the wider world and its people. I’d bet he was one of those guys who took only enough Spanish in school to order fajita toppings.

  I couldn’t imagine him speaking a word of French—at least not one that wasn’t either an insult or a come on.

  But even if he turned out to be fluent in eight languages, wrote to pen pals on six continents, and was a charter member of several international peace-keeping organizations, I knew better than to get suckered into a relationship with a charmer like Blake. Period.

  ~*~

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” Blake said to me on Thursday afternoon as he waltzed into my classroom a few minutes ahead of my Homecoming committee members.

  He was flanked by three men—they made a quartet of tall, athletic-looking thirty-somethings. The four of them together looked like they were ripped from the pages of GQ’s Sports and Casualwear Collection and tossed unsuspectingly into the middle of Mirabelle Harbor High School.

  “Nous sommes ici,” Blake continued in surprisingly strong French, as if he’d read my mind on Tuesday and couldn’t wait to show me up. “Pour une introduction officielle—” He pointed to the hockey player, whose face I realized I recognized from the media, and said, “Il s’appelle Declan Night.” Then, turning toward the other two men, he added, “Ceci est un photographe excellent, Geoff Everest, et un autre journaliste, Trevor Cayne.” He grinned at me. “Ah, mes amis, c’est mon plaisir de revenir à l’école secondaire de vous présenter à Mademoiselle Vicky Bernier. Elle est très—”

  “Knock it off with the French, Blake,” I said, probably more sharply than necessary, but he was clearly showing off. And I had no idea what he was going to tell his friends about me. Any sentence that began with “Elle est très...” She is very... was a dangerous opening.

  “What? Does my pronunciation suck?” he said. “I mean, I may be a little rusty, but I thought—”

  “It was fine,” I told him, which was a blatant lie. His pronunciation was better than most of my fourth-year Advanced Placement students, but he didn’t need a bigger head than the one he had already. “However, the students will be here any minute,” I added, which was true. “So we should get set up.” I avoided Blake’s gaze and smiled at each of the other men. “It’s very nice to meet you, Declan, Geoff, and Trevor. Please call me Vicky.”

  Blake shot me a scowl but he then began directing his posse of American heartthrobs around the room.

  “Geoff, why don’t you set up your tripod in that open space at the back?” he suggested. “And Trev, there will only be about four kids coming, so we can pull a few desks together—whatever formation works best for you for the interview.” He turned to the former hockey star. “What do you want to do, Dec? Hang out here for a while or head out to the football field?”

  Declan jabbed his thumb toward the hall. “I’ve actually gotta talk to the coaches for a few minutes while the players dress and warm up. So, I’ll be in the locker rooms until practice starts. Trev, I’ll see you back at the paper. Thanks for coming out.”

  The other journalist nodded as he pulled out his laptop from his bag. “No prob, Dec.”

  “And, Geoff, when you’re finished up here, just meet me on the field,” Declan added.

  “We can start with the photos,” Blake suggested, “so he can get down to the team sooner.”

  “Great.” Declan smiled at me. “Nice to meet you, Vicky.”

  “Likewise,” I said.

  To his buddies from the Gazette, Declan waved, and to Blake he fake pounded on his shoulder with a clenched fist. “See ya later, man.”

  Blake faux punched him back. “Stay awesome, dude.”

  “You know it.” The hockey guy laughed as he left the room.

  Not ten seconds later, Matt burst through the door. “I just saw Declan Night! In our hallway!” The junior class president caught Blake’s eye and grinned. “Do you know him?”

  “Yep. He’s a good guy.” Blake nodded at Stephanie, Alexis, and Heath as they joined us in the classroom. Then, to all the kids, he said, “I brought some friends here today.” He introduced the reporter and the camera guy and explained about the Mirabelle Harbor Gazette’s Homecoming feature.

  “Oh, cool!” Alexis glanced between the men and then over at Heath. “So, we’re all gonna be in the paper, too?”

  Blake nodded and helped the students get set up for a short photo shoot with Geoff.

  “Yo, Heath. You wanna comb down that hair?” Matt joked. The other guy’s straight dark hair was spiked in every direction, like porcupine quills.

  Heath laughed and directed a rather rude gesture at the class president. The artistic boy didn’t chitchat a lot, but he could express himself just fine.

  Alexis reached out to gently tug at a spiked strand. “I like it this way.” She and Heath shared a smile, and the boy blushed.

  Ah. So they’d definitely gotten closer over the past week. I wasn’t surprised. Teen relationships moved at the speed of a Twitter thread. And I was happy for them. I just hoped their courtship lasted long enough to make it all the way through Homecoming Week. I didn’t want the committee to implode with adolescent drama before the dance came to a close.

  Blake surveyed the students. “You all look fantastic.”

  Geoff snapped a couple of tester shots, just to focus the kids’ attention on the camera.

  Blake said, “Hey, don’t forget the advisor.”

  It took me a second to realize he was talking about me. “Oh, no, no. That’s fine. I’m just—”

  “The head of the Homecoming committee,” Blake interjected. “You need to be in the picture.”

  “And you should be in here, too, Blake,” Stephanie piped up. “You’re part of our team now as well.”

  She looked at him so sweetly, so earnestly, that I saw Blake pause. He swallowed and his usual smirky expression softened. “I, uh, well, if it’s all right with your teacher.”

  All the students looked at me expectantly.

  “Of course,” I said.

  Blake sent me a grateful look. Did he actually think I’d be so mean as to exclude him from something like this? Maybe I’d been too harsh on him in the past week. He must think I was disapproving of everything he did. I wasn’t. But he was just so...so cocky and flippant, and I didn’t know what to do with someone like that.

  Geoff had us stand like bookends with the four kids between us. He snapped a handful of shots like that, got us to change poses and, suddenly, I found myself right next to Blake, with his arm around my shoulders.

  I froze as his hand lightly caressed my upper arm. The second Geoff stopped taking pictures, I jumped away from Blake. He raised one amused eyebrow at me and the corners of his lips tilted upward.

  See? This was exactly the kind of thing that drove me nuts. You’d give a guy like Blake an inch, and he’d take a mile and a half.

  Thankfully, the kids didn’t seem to notice the irritation I was feeling. The photographer packed up and left and Trevor took over, asking the students about the planned Homecoming Week activities, taking copious notes on his laptop, and double checking every detail—time, place, event—to make sure he recorded it correctly. He was good with the students. Not quite as jovial and chatty as Blake tended to be, bu
t Trevor was very straight with them, taking them seriously, like the adults they were on the verge of becoming. I knew the kids appreciated that.

  When Trevor asked about the theme of the dance, Alexis explained that it was “The Eighties.”

  A funny grin crossed the reporter’s face. He turned to me. “You trust this guy to play only good tunes?” He poked his index finger at Blake.

  “Trev,” Blake said with a warning tone.

  “Hey, you forget, I remember you at my sister’s wedding.” Trevor crossed his arms and addressed the rest of us. “He was the DJ at the reception, and I’m pretty sure no one in the wedding party had requested Snoop Dogg and Pharrell’s ‘Drop It Like It’s Hot’ during the dance.”

  Blake chuckled. “Oh, c’mon. It’s not like the garter toss is a dignified part of the wedding tradition.”

  Trevor started laughing, so much so that his shoulders shook from it and his eyes got a bit watery. “I never told you this, Blake, but my sister’s new mother-in-law spent, like, the next hour trying to puzzle out the lyrics.” He swiped at the corners of his eyes. “You try to explain to someone who’s never listened to rap that ‘ice cubes’ and ‘ice creams’ aren’t things you’d find in the freezer.”

  All of us burst out laughing at that. I knew only a handful of rap songs, but I’d watched my share of music videos, especially when I was in college. Enough to know that “ice cubes” were diamonds and “ice creams” were a brand of shoes. And that the song in question was a supremely bawdy tune.

  “You’d better let me read your playlist in advance, Blake,” I said, doing my best to sound serious.

  “Got it right here.” He pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket and shot me look of pride.

  I scanned the song titles—mostly big Eighties hits. “Say You, Say Me” by Lionel Richie. “Magic” by The Cars. “You’re the Inspiration” by Chicago. And the like.

  “What’s this one? ‘Love Bites’ by Def Leppard?” I asked.

  “Yeah, what about it?” Blake said. “It’s from the Eighties. And it’s a love ballad. Kind of.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Not exactly. But these all look fine. Just don’t deviate from this list.”

  “What if I get a special request?”

  “Then run it be me first. I’ll be there. The whole time. Listening attentively.” I hoped I sounded suitably threatening.

  He winked at me and flashed three of his fingers upward, like a Boy Scout in a show of oath-taking. “I promise I won’t deviate. Scout’s honor.”

  “You were never a Boy Scout, Blake,” Trevor said with a grin. “I’ve known you for fourteen years, and I distinctly remember you saying at a bar once that joining the Scouts was like—”

  Blake jumped up and clapped his palm over his buddy’s mouth. “I think that’s enough reminiscing, Trev. What do you say we get back to the interview, eh?”

  The reporter pushed Blake’s hand away and chuckled. “Yeah, sure. But you’ll owe me a beer later for my silence.” He glanced at me. “Because I think I have a few stories that Vicky here would be very interested in hearing, and I’m sure the teens would—”

  “I owe you two beers and a platter of loaded nachos,” Blake interrupted. “Now, stop blackmailing me and finish the damn interview.”

  Trevor refreshed his screen and typed a few words into the document. “Okay, where were we? The dance theme, right?”

  By the time the reporter was ready to leave, he’d shaped the collection of details thrown at him by the kids into a solid outline for his newspaper piece.

  “This’ll run next Friday or Saturday,” he told us. “I’ll make sure it gets in the Gazette before Homecoming Week starts.” He swiveled toward Blake as the students started to file out of the room. “D’ya wanna put in any direct plugs for the radio station? Give Doug and Leonard something happy to read with their morning espressos?”

  Blake nodded. “You’re a pain the ass, Trev, but a genius. And, yeah, the bosses would like that. Just say the usual—102.5 is honored to be the official musical sponsor of Homecoming, etc., etc., and maybe add in some pithy slogan like...I don’t know.” He paused and rubbed his temples. “Something besides that lame old ‘Nothing but love, 24/7.’ They’ve way overused that.” He paused again. “How about 102.5 LOVE FM, The Heartbeat of Mirabelle Harbor?”

  “Oh, that’s good,” Trevor said, fast typing. “Consider it done.” He closed his computer, gathered his things, and man-hugged Blake. “This weekend. Beer at Max’s. Text me.”

  “You got it. Thanks, man,” Blake said.

  The reporter and I shook hands, and I thanked him for taking the time to come in.

  “Hey, any friend of this jackass is a friend of mine. Hope you have fun at the dance. But if you need any other Blake Michaelsen stories, I’ve got—”

  “Out!” Blake commanded. “Or you’ll be owing me beers this weekend.”

  Trevor left, and I could still hear him laughing halfway down the hall.

  And then there were two.

  Blake regarded me with an almost serious expression. “So, was this good?”

  I nodded. “Thanks for arranging it for all of us. I could tell the kids were really thrilled.”

  He shrugged off the praise. “Nothing much to it, Vicky. Glad you feel this helped them out a little.” He hadn’t brought a lot with him. A leather jacket. His phone. Some keys. He started to collect them. He’d be leaving soon, too.

  For some strange reason, I didn’t want him to go just yet.

  “And, um, thanks for that song list,” I added, trying to extend the conversation.

  He paused and half smiled at me. “Natch.”

  I waved the sheet of paper at him. “So...do you have a favorite song on here? I mean, what musicians from that era did you like? Madonna, Michael Jackson, Culture Club?”

  He cringed. “That would be ‘D’—None of the above.” But he put his keys back down on the student desk and leaned against it as I scanned the song list.

  “Van Halen?” I tried. “Duran Duran?”

  “No, and hell no.”

  “What about Huey Lewis and the News?”

  “Eh, they weren’t too bad,” he admitted. “A few of their tunes were kind of catchy, actually.”

  “Like ‘Do You Believe in Love?’” I said.

  “Not that one.”

  I laughed. “Why not, Blake? Too poppish? Too upbeat?”

  “Too much of a lie,” he shot back, a look I couldn’t gauge crossing his handsome face and darkening his expression.

  Whoa.

  Where had this mood come from? And why was it showing up now...once everyone else had left? There was a simmering anger about something, just beneath the surface of Blake’s confident and ultra-social veneer. I thought back on what he’d just said and tried to puzzle out what, exactly, had set him off.

  “You’re saying you don’t believe in love?”

  “I’m not a romance fan like you, Mademoiselle,” he replied in a low voice. “I’d rather just call the feeling what it is: A combination of lust, desire, possessiveness, obsession, fantasy, overdependence, self-delusion, weakness...” His lips twisted into something that vaguely resembled a smile, but I wasn’t fooled. It was much more like a grimace. “Not that the experience doesn’t have its charms,” he added. “At least in the short term.”

  I thought about my parents and their life-long true love story. I thought about some of my friends, too, who’d had decades of love and commitment with their significant others. And I thought about the fictional heroes and heroines, which were dreamed up by real people, who had to draw their relationship inspiration from somewhere, right? Love wasn’t always a fantasy. I didn’t think every love story could be reduced to a case of “lust” meeting “overdependence,” either.

  I put down the song list. “That makes me sad,” I told him. “That you look at all relationships that way.”

  “Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he said lightly. “A
one-night—or, hey, even a two- or three-night stand has a lot to recommend it.” He motioned me closer, like he was going to tell me a secret.

  I took a step near him and leaned in.

  “Wanna grab a drink with me, Vicky? Voulez-vous prendre un verre avec moi?” He paused. “Then...go back to my place and get naked? Hmm? Could be fun.” He raised a dark eyebrow to go along with this unlikely invitation.

  I stepped back immediately and shook my head. He was probably just toying with me anyway. Propositioning me just to see what I’d say or do.

  “Do women ever agree to that, Blake?” Although I knew that, of course, they did. Especially with someone like him.

  He shrugged. “You’d be surprised, Mademoiselle.”

  “Well, I’m sure you won’t be surprised that I’m not someone who would. Sorry to turn down your offer.”

  “For now,” he murmured.

  A laugh caught in my throat. I had to give the guy credit for persistence. “I’m not likely to change my mind, you know.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” he said, a small grin returning to his lips. He grabbed his things and strode to the door. “But ‘not likely’ isn’t an absolute no. There’s some wiggle room there.” With a wink and an à bientôt—a “see you soon” that came across as equal parts perilous threat and tantalizing promise—he was gone.

  Chapter Eight

  ~Blake~

  I spent the weekend engaging in my new favorite pastime: Running into Vicky Bernier around town.

  I knew her habits now and where to find her. Spotted her on Friday evening at Mirabelle Market. Waved at her this time. Her first instinct was to scowl at me, but her good manners took over and she reluctantly waved back.

  Went to Max’s Pub with Trevor on Saturday night. Saw Vicky with a pair of girlfriends walking into The Lounge next door. Teachers and their imported wine. Was tempted to get plastered, but just thinking about her in the next establishment over, judging me, was kind of a buzz kill.

  Spotted a few women at the bar that I might have tried to pick up in the past. Trev was sure hitting on them hard, and I knew he’d likely end up going home with a hot redhead. But I couldn’t get Vicky out of my mind. She probably had no idea I was nearby, but I didn’t want to even chance her spotting me leaving Max’s Pub with some other chick. Or have her see me walking out into the square falling-down drunk, like last time.