You Give Love a Bad Name

by Marilyn Brant

  I stepped out of the room.

  “I’m going to be back in about twenty or thirty minutes,” I told the receptionist. “I’m sure Blake will still be here with Winston and might not even notice that I’m gone. But, in case he asks, please tell him I just ran out to get something.”

  “Of course,” the woman said. “Glad Winston is going to be okay.”

  I nodded at her. “So am I,” I said, shuddering at the thought of Blake’s reaction if circumstances had been worse. Then I slipped outside and let myself cry tears both happy and sad. Tears for the dog who’d been hurt today...but who would recover. And tears for the man who wasn’t quite the cocky, confident, devil-may-care bad boy he showed the world.

  The Blake Michaelsen I’d seen this afternoon wasn’t the same angry guy who’d gotten into a fistfight at Max’s Pub. He wasn’t the ultra-cool DJ who’d been so quippy on the radio. He wasn’t even the irritating flirt who’d burst into my classroom, poked fun at me, and made a habit out of coming up with new indecent proposals.

  No, this guy was a total stranger. A heartbreakingly vulnerable man who could be flattened by the fear of losing somebody. A man who claimed not to believe in love and, yet, had given his heart to a matted mess of a mutt he’d had for only a month.

  Would the real Blake Michaelsen please stand up?

  Whoever this stranger was, he was going to need transportation back to his home. And though I didn’t know exactly where Blake lived, I doubted he’d be up for a walk, however long or short, after today’s ordeal.

  My apartment was only about twenty minutes away on foot, and I could change out of my workout clothes, bring back my car and my ebook reader, and grab a few granola bars for the hours ahead. If Blake wasn’t able to take Winston home tonight, he’d very likely be staying at the clinic for as long as the vets would let him.

  When I returned to the animal hospital, the receptionist said Blake was still in the room with Winston, just as I’d expected. I thanked her and sat back down in the waiting room, flipped my e-reader open to the romance I was enjoying, and nibbled on a chocolate-oat-cranberry bar.

  Blake emerged from the back about an hour later. “Vicky, you’re still here... I’m sorry. I kinda lost track of time. I should have checked in with you sooner—” He paused. “You changed your outfit.”

  “I did, but I’m back. How’s he doing?”

  “Better. He’s still feeling the effects of the local anesthesia for his leg. He’ll be more alert when that wears off, but he’ll feel his injuries more, too. I just want to be here for him.”

  “I know.” I tossed a granola bar at him. “Eat something, Blake. Then go back and spend some more time with your dog. I’ll be right here when you come out again.”

  He unwrapped the snack and took a bite. After he swallowed, he said, “I just realized I’m starving. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now do you finally want a sandwich?”

  He shook his head. He still looked serious and unsettled, but the deep pain and fear that had been etched upon his features right after the accident were fading. There was a little more color in his complexion. A bit more lightness in his eyes.

  “They’re gonna kick me out at six,” he said. “You really don’t have to stay. But, if you’re crazy enough to still be here then, I’d like to buy you dinner. No music or dancing. No games or anything. Just food, okay? You’ve got to be starving, too.”

  I smiled at him. “Okay.” I pointed at my vehicle, parked across the street. “I went and got my car. We can go to eat wherever you want.”

  He walked over to me and knelt down in front of my chair. “I have no idea how to thank you for everything you’ve done today.”

  I shrugged. “You don’t have to. Just give Winston a hug from me. I’m so, so relieved that he’s all right.”

  Blake stared at me for a long, silent moment. Then he took hold of my free hand and pressed his lips to my skin. I could still feel the potency of his touch, even a few moments later, after he’d disappeared into the back again.

  By the time six p.m. came, I was only a few chapters away from finishing my novel. Another vet had come in for the nightshift and was appraised of what had been going on. She promised to keep a close eye on Winston, monitor him carefully throughout the night, and alert us if there were any worrisome changes.

  “It’s best for him to stay here for observation,” the new vet said. “With a concussion like he had, if even the smallest issue arises, we don’t want there to be a moment’s delay in treatment.”

  “So get some rest, Blake,” Aidan said. “You need it. You can come back tomorrow morning and, hopefully, take him home around noon.”

  After Blake thanked all of the vets and made a call to one of his bosses at the radio station, telling the guy that he needed to take the next day off, he finally let me lead him to my car. I could see the exhaustion of the day weighing on him. He wore it like a heavy woolen cloak.

  “So, where to?” I asked. “Something ethnic? We’ve got Greek, Italian, Thai, and Mexican close by. Or there’s seafood. Or burgers.”

  “Burgers,” he said quickly. “At Sloppy Joe’s. Please. That goes best with beer.”

  “I’m not sure how much beer you should be drinking, especially after hardly eating anything today.”

  “Believe me, I know,” he said, as I pulled the car out into the road and headed toward one of Mirabelle Harbor’s most popular hamburger joints. “That’s why we’re getting the food to go. We’ll have the drinks afterwards.”

  “Where? I’m not going to a bar, Blake.”

  “Just try to trust me for fifteen minutes, okay?” He asked me how I liked my burgers, quizzed me on favorite side dishes, pulled out his cell phone, and called in an order that would feed about fourteen people.

  We got to Sloppy Joe’s and sat in the parking lot until our food was ready. He wasn’t particularly chatty, but he made a handful of comments that let me know he was doing okay, all things considered.

  “This is weird,” he observed, glancing around the car. “I’m almost never in the passenger’s seat.”

  “No one ever drives you anywhere?”

  “One of my brothers. Sometimes. It’s pretty rare.”

  “You’re used to being in charge.”

  He nodded as if it had never occurred to him that it could be any other way.

  Personally, I liked driving well enough, but I didn’t love it. I didn’t need to be in the one behind the wheel to feel comfortable or in control. I sensed Blake felt differently, especially as he shifted uncomfortably in the seat next to me, ready to spring out of the car the second he thought he could pick up our order.

  When he brought the food back, he gave me driving instructions that were pretty straightforward—“Take the first left up ahead. Left again at the stop sign...”—and soon we were in a parking lot to an apartment complex.

  I’d foolishly assumed we were headed to a park or somewhere neutral, to make a picnic of it and eat our burgers outside. I thought he’d try to talk me into going to one of the bars in Harbor Square afterward, since I’d been driving in that general direction. But I suddenly realized he had a different dining and drinking plan altogether.

  “Next time, I’d like to take you out for a real meal at a restaurant of your choice, Vicky. You’ve been nothing short of amazing today.” He paused and looked at me until he was sure I’d heard him. “But the truth is that I’m not fit for being out in public right now. Even just picking up carryout at Sloppy Joe’s, I ran into people I knew. And I don’t feel like pretending tonight. I actually don’t want to talk to anyone but you.”

  He pointed at the building next to us, a few floors up. “That’s my place. Please come in. I promise you’ll be safe. I just need to kick back, eat something, drink just a couple of beers, and try not to miss my dog too much. I don’t know why you stuck around with me all day, but if you can tolerate me for a hour or two more, I’d love to have your company.”

  Wh
at could I say to that?

  “All right,” I said. But when Blake grinned like a naughty schoolboy who’d just gotten his way, I added, “Only because I’m really hungry. Try anything, and you’ll regret it.”

  “Oh, Mademoiselle. I wouldn’t dare.”

  Injured dog or no, I had a hard time believing there was much Blake Michaelsen wouldn’t dare to do.

  Up in his apartment, as he pulled out the stacks of food containers from the bag, I had the chance to glance around his place. I was, admittedly, pleasantly surprised by it. It wasn’t fastidiously tidy or anything, but it was fairly neat, organized, and nicely decorated. It was also well stocked with books. Two walls of hardcovers and paperbacks on massive bookshelves. There was a huge flat-screen TV, too, but I also spotted a globe on the table next to it and a half dozen black-and-white framed photographs that featured famous landmarks from around the world. The Great Wall of China. The Egyptian Pyramids. The Roman Colosseum. The Eiffel Tower.

  “La Tour Eiffel,” I murmured.

  “Oui,” he said. “I didn’t take that picture, but I really like looking at it.”

  “So, you haven’t been to France?”

  “I wish.” He handed me a plate with a hot burger on it—Swiss cheese dripping delectably down the bun—and then pointed to the gazillion side dishes on his countertop. “Eat something.”

  By this time, my stomach was rumbling, so I added a handful of fries, some salsa and guacamole, tortilla chips, and a couple of barbequed wings to my plate before digging in.

  As soon as he started devouring his meal, I resumed the discussion. “Does that mean you’d like to go to Paris then?”

  “I’d like to go everywhere,” he replied in between bites of wings and fries. “London. Paris. Rome. Agra. Beijing. Khartoum. Sydney. Ulan Bator. Antanarivo.”

  “Antana-what?”

  “The capital of Madagascar.”

  “Oh.” Okay...wow. The guy knew his geography.

  He winked at me, obviously pleased that he’d managed to surprise me. “Hey, what can I get you to drink?” He marched into the middle of the kitchen. “I’ve got cold beer, whisky, rum, tequila, vodka, orange juice, Coca Cola, and coffee.”

  “I’ll just have one beer,” I said, since he’d gotten me thinking about how good that would taste with our burgers.

  “Beer is what I’m having, too,” he said, pulling two chilled bottles out of the fridge. “But no one ever stops at one.”

  “I do.”

  He shot me a disbelieving look along with a grin. “Want a glass?”

  I shook my head. “This is perfect, thank you.” I twisted the bottle open and took a sip. It was cold, bitter, good. An excellent pairing with the burger.

  As he walked back toward me, his foot bumped against something and he halted, his smile disappearing. He picked up the object—a rawhide doggy treat—and slipped it inside a drawer. For a second, I could see the anguish and worry cross his face. But he just exhaled, opened his own beer, and downed about half of it before he spoke again.

  “I know I keep saying this, but I really don’t know what I would’ve done without you today, Vicky. Thanks for staying. Not just when we were at the vet for Winston, but here. Now.” He raised his beer across the counter to meet mine, clinked bottles with me, and then finished the contents of his before returning to the fridge to grab another one.

  “We don’t have to eat at the counter,” he added. “We can sit on the sofa, if you’d like. Watch something mindless on TV.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I was still thinking about his interest in travel but wasn’t sure what to ask next. So I transferred to the sofa and waited for inspiration.

  Blake clicked on his huge TV and started flipping through cable stations. There was a baseball game in progress. A Comedy Central sketch. A teen movie with shapeshifters or something. A hot-n-heavy HBO drama where the main couple was uncomfortably going at it on top of a pool table.

  I cringed. “Maybe not that.”

  He laughed. “That was my favorite option of the bunch,” he said, but he immediately clicked off the TV. “We could stream a movie, if you’d like.”

  “I’m fine. I’d rather just talk with you.”

  He looked stunned. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.” I pointed at the globe and a few of the other landmark photographs. “Tell me more about all of these.”

  He shifted in his seat with a squirm of uneasiness. I wondered why asking about these items would be awkward. Was travel a sensitive subject? Or photography?

  He swallowed and said, “These are all places I’d hoped to get to visit by now. I’ve got a passport. Just haven’t had the chance to put it to use yet.”

  I nodded. “Traveling can be really expensive.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “And dangerous.”

  “Depending on where you go, sure.”

  He half smiled at me. “That’s true, too, but that wasn’t the kind of danger I was talking about.” He took a big bite out of his burger, chewing slowly and thoughtfully before continuing. “There’s also what you leave behind here at home. The danger that it won’t still be there when you return.”

  I squinted at him. “Did a girlfriend of yours break up with you after a trip or something?”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. “Oh, definitely. I’ve had girlfriends break up with me for all kinds of reasons. They wouldn’t even have to leave the country. One broke up with me after just taking a trip to the mall.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  He laughed. “She totally did. She said that when she realized she was more excited about buying socks at the mall than about our date that night, she knew we didn’t belong together.”

  “That’s crazy,” I said. But it was also funny. Blake exuded energy. And sex appeal. And mischief. Although he would probably make a very difficult boyfriend for a lot of women (me included), I couldn’t imagine anyone preferring sock shopping to an evening out with him. That was ludicrous.

  He shrugged in a cute, self-deprecating way. “But it’s the truth, Vicky.” He was working on his second beer. He caught me staring at his bottle. “Need another one yet?”

  “I’m only halfway through this one,” I informed him. “And when I’ve finished it, I’m heading home.”

  He scowled at me. “You can’t leave so soon. I have questions for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I wanna know where you’ve traveled. France, right? Belgium? Switzerland?”

  I nodded. “Yes, to all three.” I didn’t want to mention that Philippe’s family was originally from Brussels, or that he had been on that trip with me, so I conveniently left out that part. But I told Blake about the one Grand European adventure I’d had a few years ago. “I was in England, Germany, Austria, and Italy, too. It was a tour that lasted almost a month—beginning in London and ending in Rome. I started saving for it as soon as I began teaching, and it was worth every penny.”

  “Must have been incredible,” he said wistfully. Then he added, “Wait. You studied to be a French teacher before you’d ever been to France?”

  I’d been asked this scores of times during college and my early teaching years. Usually, it made me feel a bit defensive, but I could tell Blake’s question wasn’t out of rudeness. Just pure curiosity.

  “I took a couple of trips to Quebec,” I explained. “Once in high school, which was when I first fell in love with the language. And once in college, as part of a study abroad program for French majors. It’s a gorgeous place. Easily my favorite part of Canada. It’s so European in architecture and attitude. But it’s been nine years since I was last there. I’d love to go back.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” he said, finishing his second beer and eyeing the fridge. Would he get another one so soon?

  But he didn’t stand up—for more beer or for any other reason. He seemed lost in thought. Maybe thinking about lands left unexplored or, catching sight of another of his dog’s toys, thinkin
g again about Winston.

  In any case, Blake looked serious, and I wanted to try to lighten his mood, so I thought of a new subject.

  “What do you enjoy most about being a radio DJ?” I asked.

  Oooh. Bad choice.

  His expression turned from serious to almost...angry. But why? He jumped up and headed into the kitchen portion of the apartment before I could figure it out. Across the large room, I could see him pouring himself something. Was it a different kind of alcohol?

  No, I realized with relief. It was just a cola this time. So he could stop after two beers—just as he’d said. That was encouraging.

  He returned to the living room area before even attempting to answer my DJ question. When he did start talking, though, what came out of his mouth was nothing short of a tirade.

  I actually couldn’t understand what he was saying at first. It was all ranting and infuriated mumbling. But he finally spoke loudly enough for me to catch some of his commentary.

  “It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for society’s slavish devotion to tedious and uninspiring musical groups that are one-hit wonders...or should be. And don’t even get me started on soloists like Barry Connelly,” he warned.

  “I like Barry Connelly.”

  He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge my words from his brain, and muttered some more. Then he took a few gulps of his soda before finally saying, “Yeah, you, my sister, and about half of the Chicagoland listening area should form a fan club.”

  This was clearly a sore subject. I tried to salvage the conversation by twisting it in yet another direction.

  “So, all right. What if you weren’t a DJ? What would you being doing instead?”

  He crossed his arms and pondered this for a surprisingly long time. “You want to know the truth, Vicky?”

  “I always want to know the truth, Blake.”

  He grinned. “Okay. Truth is, I actually love being a DJ. I don’t always agree with the music on rotation at 102.5, but the job itself suits me. It’s nothing but cool. And the people at the station aren’t half bad.” He shrugged, like it cost him something to admit this.

  “Is that why you’re still working there, even though you don’t like love songs?”