You Give Love a Bad Name

by Marilyn Brant

  He nodded. “I mean, some of the songs aren’t terrible. I just think they’re really overrated. And others...well, a few of them make my ears bleed.”

  “So, what music do you really like then?” I pointed at the iPod resting in its dock on one of his bookshelves. “Would you play me something you love?”

  He squinted at me, considering, then walked over to his iPod and fiddled with it. A moment later, the opening strains of an early Air Supply song—“Lost in Love”—came on. He was bobbing his head along with it, deep in thought.

  I laughed. “You’re kidding me. All that talk about hating romance and you choose this?”

  He stopped bobbing his head and shot me a demonic grin. “I am kidding. Shar downloaded this onto my device a few months back when I had it connected to my computer, just to piss me off. I keep meaning to delete it, but—” He paused, a mischievous look crossing his face. “Sometimes it has its uses.”

  “Ah, I get it. Part of your Seduction Playlist, right?”

  “You know me better than I thought.” He scrolled through a bunch of other songs before clicking on one. The tune started with piano and built to a crescendo with guitars and drums. The lyrics were thoughtful and, admittedly, more poetic than I would have expected. But I knew this wasn’t one of Blake’s joke songs. He really loved this one.

  “It’s good,” I said after listening to the first verse and the chorus. “What’s the title?”

  “It’s called ‘Superheroes.’ Came out a few years ago by an Irish band called The Script.”

  The group’s name sounded familiar to me, although I wouldn’t be able to list any of their songs. “What else do you like?” I asked.

  “Hmm.” He played me a snippets of songs by a variety of musical artists: “Second Chance” by Shinedown, “If Today Was Your Last Day” by Nickelback, “Strength” by The Alarm, “Real World” by Matchbox Twenty. And there were more—recent releases by bands I couldn’t identify, older groups that I didn’t know well—but I was recognizing a theme running between all of his choices. The songs Blake liked best were about finding the inner strength to do something extraordinary. Not about the love of another person, but more about the need to tap into one’s personal power and finally be able to come into one’s own. That made sense to me. A prerequisite for being able to love someone else was, after all, the capability to love oneself. And, perhaps, Blake wasn’t quite there yet.

  When the Bon Jovi song “It’s My Life” came on, he was still standing halfway across the room, arms crossed, gazing at me with an uncomfortable expression, as if he’d guessed that I was trying read him. Trying to figure out something personal, secretive, significant about him. Something he wasn’t inclined to let most people know.

  But he’d been more real with me today than he’d ever been, and I more than suspected that few humans outside of his family got a glimpse into Blake Michaelsen with his social mask off.

  But it would be a lie to say that his naked gaze wasn’t unsettling to me. As much as I was trying to get some insight into him, he was studying me just as closely. Reading my reactions to his songs. Coming to conclusions.

  I took one last sip of my beer and figured it was well past time to go.

  He finished his soda in one gulp, set the glass down near his iPod, and came over to me just as I stood to leave.

  “Thanks for dinner, Blake.”

  He shook his head. “You can’t leave yet. You’ve still got beer in that bottle.” He smiled this lopsided grin at me, like a little kid.

  “I know when I’ve had enough.”

  He covered his heart with his palm, comically. “Are you trying to wound me?”

  I laughed and shook my head. “Definitely not. But my tolerance for alcohol isn’t nearly as well developed as yours.” I didn’t know what it was about Blake. He was only a few months older than me, but I felt so young and inexperienced around him. Like a teenager at her first big party.

  “You are a lightweight,” he agreed, eyeing my body as if he were scanning it. His gaze didn’t miss a centimeter. Then, he took a step forward.

  I took a step back.

  He chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m going to let you go. Just allow me to walk you to your car, okay?”

  “Thanks.” I grabbed my purse and my keys. We got as far as his apartment door when I turned to face him. “Please let me know how Winston is doing tomorrow. I’m hoping he’ll be running around and bouncing up on people in no time.”

  “Me, too. Thank you again for everything, Vicky.”

  I put my hand on the doorknob and he put his hand over mine. It was like the zing of an electric shock but without the pain. His touch singed my skin with heat, but I couldn’t bring myself to pull away.

  Blake reached out to hug me and, again, I was powerless. I couldn’t push him back. Not when he enfolded me into an embrace that was warmer and more sensual than I’d ever experienced. And more passionate than I could have imagined.

  Gratitude could do that, though. He was feeling very thankful for my help. That was all.

  And I almost succeeded in believing it, too, except...when we finally separated after the hug, he looked me in the eye and whispered my name. Then he drew me close to him again, so our bodies were flush, and I could feel the tension and the wanting in every place where we connected.

  The iPod was still playing, moving between songs without Blake directing it and filling the room with music. It was a rap-like tune that I couldn’t identify, but the lyrics involved having a “reason to remember the name.” All I could think was “Blake Michaelsen. Blake Michaelsen.” His was a name I could hardly forget.

  Although, when he brought his lips down to meet mine, I nearly forgot my own name.

  Whoa. The boy knew how to kiss.

  A small voice in my head screamed, “That’s because he’s so well practiced!” But the rest of me...just...just let go.

  His hands encircled my hips and his mouth consumed mine. The heat coming from his mouth, his lips, his tongue—it was like breathing in fire. And it was scorching. A bone-deep, dry flame that burned on contact. There was no doubt that I’d lost all sense of autonomy. That I belonged to him in this moment. Completely.

  And there was something else. After reading romance novels for a couple of decades, I finally understood what the writers meant when the heroine felt like she was floating. I’d never experienced that kind of weightlessness. I was levitating and burning up at the same time. A rising fireball that only became more incendiary when Blake pressed me against his door, and I could fully feel his body’s response to mine.

  “God, Vicky, I want you,” he murmured, as he crushed my chest with his and ran his tongue along the side of my neck.

  Every one of my senses wanted to float higher, burn faster.

  But my mind had begun processing his words. Analyzing them. And my fingertips started cooling. My feet started sinking, slowly, back to the floor.

  “You had a rough day,” I managed to say. “You’re drained emotionally. And you’re vulnerable.”

  “So?” One of his hands lifted the hem of my shirt and slipped between the fabric and my skin, caressing the area just above my waistband. I almost moaned.

  “You need comfort and company,” I reasoned. “You don’t really want me tonight.”

  “Oh, yes. I do.” He nipped at my earlobe and the pleasure jettisoned out to every possible nerve ending in my body.

  I shook my head and pulled back a few millimeters, just enough to create a little distance. “No, Blake. You just want somebody. That’s a different thing.”

  He stopped kissing and caressing me and just stared. “Not true. What do I have to do to convince you?”

  I smiled. “This isn’t a persuasive speech for class or some kind of debate-team competition. Besides, you already told me how you feel about ‘love.’ It’s a sham. Something fake. A combination of lust plus obsessiveness plus dependency. I—I like you, Blake. A lot more than I’d expected to, actually. But I
can’t be part of an equation like that.”

  He pulled away from me as if I’d zapped him with an electrical wire, and then ran his fingers through his dark hair. “I’d tell you almost anything to get you to stay,” he replied softly. “But I won’t go back on what I said about love. It’s a self-delusion for people who wander through life with those freakin’ clichéd rose-colored glasses. Another cliché, and a more realistic one, is that life’s a bitch and then you die. There’s no long-term happily ever after. I wish I didn’t believe that, but I do.”

  I winced. I hated the pessimism of statements like that. Just because I hadn’t found my true love story yet, that didn’t mean it didn’t exist. And unlike Blake, I needed to believe it did.

  “But,” he continued, “two people can still find pleasure in each other. Sometimes. Like right here. Right now.”

  “You need to save hookup lines like that for someone who’s a whole lot less self-delusional than me.”

  Blake sighed, a sound of resignation. “Damn. I was hoping it would work.”

  “Yeah, I know. Not that you aren’t really tempting,” I admitted, finally managing to open the door. “I can walk myself to my car. You’d better stay here and...” I eyed his body, all the signs of arousal still evident and obvious. “And, well, maybe, cool down a little.”

  “Are you suggesting I need a cold shower, Mademoiselle?”

  I couldn’t help but grin. “If that’ll help.”

  He leaned in close and lowered his voice. “Only if you’ll take one with me.”

  I rolled my eyes and escaped the building before my own desires could overrule my brain. But it was impossible to stop imagining that scenario on the drive home. And all night long. In vivid high definition and with crystal-clear surround sound.

  More powerfully than any book hero or BBC film drama—classic or modern—Blake Michaelsen suddenly became my new romantic Dream Man.

  However unlikely that was.

  And however foolish I knew it to be.

  Chapter Nine

  ~Blake~

  The vets released Winston to my care Monday afternoon. He was swaddled in a binding, scraped, bruised, and needy, but so damn happy to see me that he wagged his tail, even though it had to hurt.

  Couldn’t stop holding him, stroking him, reassuring him that I was there. But something—or, rather, someone—was sharing my headspace. I couldn’t look at my dog without also seeing Vicky in my mind’s eye. The two were now linked because of this past weekend.

  She was amazing.

  An incredible, caring, intelligent woman.

  And oh, my lord. That kiss. It was smokin’.

  Problem was, because of the whole thing with Winston yesterday, I couldn’t just disconnect from her. Compartmentalize my attraction to her from the woman herself, the way I would with some other chick. I’d always thought she was pretty, but that wasn’t the only thing my brain was saying when she was in my arms. I wanted to sleep with her, sure, but I also wanted to talk with her and listen to her laugh and watch her react to things. Food she liked. TV shows she didn’t. It was bizarre.

  We weren’t much alike, but I knew enough about opposites attracting not to be shocked that it could happen. I just never thought it could happen to me.

  My kid brother Chance had been blindsided by this same thing earlier this year when he met Nia. Never much of an experimental eater (an understatement—the guy was a total health food freak who rarely strayed from his lean protein and fresh, unprocessed produce), Chance was now eating unpronounceable Greek dishes from Nia’s family restaurant, and he even had an occasional dessert.

  As for Nia, who’d had a lifelong aversion to fitness clubs, she was now working out regularly at Chance’s gym and even running a 5K with my brother next month. Some kind of fall “Fun Run”—a form of weekend entertainment that I strained to wrap my mind around. The two of them would no doubt cross the finish line holding hands and celebrating with granola bars and bottle water. Nauseatingly sweet and wholesome but, I had to admit, there had been compromise on both sides. And I’d never seen my brother look so happy.

  I pulled out my phone. I’d wrangled Vicky’s cell number away from her during the evening. She’d asked me to let her know how my dog was doing, so it was time I made good on my promise to text her today. Plus, I couldn’t get the woman out of my freakin’ mind.

  I adjusted a sleepy Winston on my leg. “Hey, buddy, wanna help me text the hot French teacher?” I asked him.

  Winston opened his big eyes wide and gazed up at my face. Poor bastard was still so exhausted, he could barely raise his head.

  “I’m talking about Vicky,” I continued. “The lovely Mademoiselle.”

  This clarification seemed to help. Winston recognized that name and wagged his tail encouragingly.

  My mutt was a chick magnet. Thanks to Winston, I’d met plenty of cute ladies on our walks around town. But he’d never taken to any of them as readily as he had to Vicky. And, obviously, neither had I. Like doggy, like owner.

  “Hey, let me snap a quick picture of you. She thinks you’re ‘absolutely adorable.’ And she was asking about you a lot. She wants to know how you’re doing.”

  Gently, I positioned Winston on the sofa, bandaged front leg visible but not too traumatic looking, and then snapped the picture. I rubbed his head. “Okay. Now, what should I say?”

  My dog didn’t reply at first, he just sighed and sank deeper into the comfy black leather.

  “All right, that’s not a bad idea. I’ll start with that. ‘Winston is home and he’s relaxing quietly on the sofa,’” I texted. “’We both are grateful to you for being there for us yesterday.’ How does that sound?” I said, reading it aloud to Winston.

  He barked.

  “If it’s good for you, it’s good for me,” I told him and clicked SEND. Then I blew a kiss at the phone screen.

  To be honest, I hadn’t expected an immediate response from her. It was nearing the end of the school day, and I knew Vicky had to be busy with her students.

  So when I heard the ping a few moments later and saw her name pop up, I exclaimed, “Whoa!” so loudly that I startled my dog. “Miss Vicky just texted us back,” I informed him. “I’ll read it to you. She writes, ‘So relieved to hear that, Blake! Thanks for letting me know. I’ve been so worried about him. And about you, too. Glad to hear all is well. And please give Winston a hug from me!’ Hey, you get a hug, buddy.” I gave him a careful squeeze. “That’s from Vicky.”

  Winston looked duly impressed by this. I, however, was mildly miffed that he got a hug from her and I didn’t.

  So, I texted: “Winston liked his hug. Where’s mine?”

  The wait for a reply was longer this time, but I grinned like a kid at Christmas when I saw it pop up.

  “Tell Winston to give you a hug for me.”

  “Just a hug?” I shot back.

  “Well, yeah,” she texted. “Unless, of course, you have a very different relationship with your dog than I realized...”

  I hooted with laughter, which resulted in Winston looking at me with concern. “It’s all good,” I told him. “She’s joking with us. That’s an excellent sign.” Then, to Vicky, I sent back an emoji that had a smiley face laughing so hard there were tears in its eyes.

  “Fine,” I texted after that. “Just a hug. For now. But when can you come over to visit us?”

  “Not tonight, unfortunately. Staff meeting and about three hours of grading French essays. Can’t tomorrow either. Student production of The Mikado that I promised to attend.”

  A Gilbert and Sullivan musical? I shuddered. I knew better, though, than to diss it. She loved all of those artsy things. “How about Wednesday?”

  “Maybe.”

  Maybe wouldn’t do. It was already going to be over forty-eight hours before I’d get to see her again, at the earliest. No way could I wait any longer than that.

  I glanced around the apartment until I had a brainstorm. Grabbed a sheet of blank white
copy paper and a black marker. In block letters, I printed: “Please come see me after school, Miss Vicky. I miss you. Love, Winston.” I propped the page next to his sweet face and snapped another picture. Sent that to her.

  My heart pounded as I waited for her to reply. It was, maybe, five minutes, but it felt like hours.

  Then, finally: “You twisted my arm, Winston. I’ll be there on Wednesday around four-thirty. Just for a quick visit, though. This is a busy time because we’re prepping for Homecoming next week.”

  Shit. Homecoming.

  I’d almost forgotten about that. Was it next week already? My required interactions with the lovely Mademoiselle were winding down too fast. I’d have to figure out my next move before next Friday night, or I wouldn’t have a natural excuse to see her again.

  Plus, I wanted to continue that kiss where we’d left off.

  She might try to resist, but she’d been as into it as I was. I knew this for a fact. Those soft moans of hers gave it away. So did the flushed skin. The jackrabbit speed of her pulse. And the dark desire in her eyes. She was fighting it, but I knew women and their nonverbal signals. Vicky wanted me, too.

  “Looking forward to seeing you” was all I texted. No way could I tell her just how much, though.

  ~*~

  The next couple of days were a blur of work at the radio station, staying home as much as possible to take care of Winston, and daydreaming about the French teacher.

  I was on familiar ground when it came to fantasies involving sexy ladies. I imagined us doing it everywhere and on every surface in my apartment, dark corners of the radio station, and locked rooms in public places. I’d traveled this mental playground before with countless bar babes that I’d been infatuated with for a week or two...so, briefly, it helped me keep Vicky at an emotional distance. It was just another crush.

  But the second she walked through my door again on Wednesday afternoon, I was flooded with how different she was from the other women I’d fantasized about over the years.

  Her scent was so deliciously her own. Fresh, floral, like a garden on a bright summer morning.