Smittened

by Jamie Farrell

  And because Dahlia was a fool, she had loaned him the money.

  It had been three months since she’d heard from him. Two months and three weeks since his cell phone had been disconnected.

  She had to make it only to May. Just another four or five months. Then business at The Milked Duck would pick up again. She’d be super smart this time, and everything would be fine.

  Until then—she’d figure out a way to get Billy to her risqué flavor tasting event.

  She watched Mikey poke in her refrigerator—the only thing well-stocked in her house—then eye Hank in his cage in the corner, and then survey the rose-print wallpaper and original 1950’s cabinets in the little house Dahlia rented.

  Living at The Milked Duck would be a smarter option. She could save a lot of cash while she waited for summer to roll around if she put a sleeping bag in the corner of the kitchen.

  Except then she’d have to find temporary homes for her pets, because they couldn’t live with her at the shop. And surrendering their care to someone else for an indeterminate amount of time simply wasn’t an option.

  Once Mikey was done in the kitchen, she led him back to the bedroom. “And this would be your room,” she said, trying desperately not to look at the bed dominating the otherwise empty room—taking a roommate was one of her ideas to save cash—or to think of him stripping out of his clothes, or to think of him sliding his naked body between the rose-colored satin sheets—who was she kidding?

  She could so use a romp to let off some steam. And he looked as though he could help her let off a lot of steam.

  Except Ted hadn’t been the first guy to take Dahlia for a ride. So she was off men. Even men who presumably had money in their bank accounts. And who weren’t making any false promises of staying. And who were eyeing her cats again as though they could infect him with a fatal case of fleas simply by looking at him.

  “Looks mighty comfy,” Mikey said with a nod at the bed.

  Dear sweet holy ducks, that husky note in his voice might make her orgasm on the spot.

  She backpedaled out of the room. “So I’ll let you get comfy. Breakfast is at seven-thirty.”

  “Wait,” he said. “Two quick questions.”

  No, waiting was bad. Waiting with him using the I want to lick you like an ice cream cone look on her was worse. “Yes?” she said.

  He dangled his phone in the air. “You got a spare charger?”

  “I’ll leave it on the counter in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you much, sweet pea.”

  Sweet pea. It should’ve been so demeaning. But her impressionable little heart happy-sighed. He’d given her a nickname.

  One he probably used on every other pulse-bearing female on the planet, but her heart had never been the best judge of character.

  “And your other question?” she said.

  “Yeah. That other question.” He flipped his ball cap off, ran a hand over his smooth head again, then put the hat on backward. And if she’d thought she was getting the ice-cream-licking smile before, she got a triple-scoop-with-caramel-fudge-and-a-cherry-on-top whopper this time.

  She may have whimpered.

  He tucked his hands in his pockets. “I, ah,” he said, “forgot your name.”

  Of course he had. Self-absorbed country rocker band guy. Why would he need to remember little old Dahlia’s name?

  Still, Dahlia’s wretched little sense of self-worth wanted to reach out and pet him. Offer up a little That’s okay, honey. You had a bad day.

  Except that’s what the old Dahlia would do, and the new Dahlia needed to command some respect. She cocked her head and smiled back at him. “That’s a shame. It’s well worth remembering. I recommend meditation. It helps improve memory function.” She let her gaze drift south. “Among other functions. Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  And the new, improved Dahlia Mallard marched down the hall to her own bedroom, where she shut and locked her bedroom door, then collapsed in a heap like the hot mess that she was.

  Chapter Two

  MIKEY DIDN’T sleep well. Being in Bliss, the fire, the feisty, curvy lady with the glasses and the red streaks in her dark hair whose name he still couldn’t remember—it kept his mind humming and his body wanting something to take the edge off.

  Sleeping with his hostess wasn’t an option. One, while he rarely declined female attentions and ministrations, he always knew their names. And two, he didn’t do opportunists. She’d swooped in mighty fast with her offer of a place to stay. She had an agenda, and he suspected it had to do with her ice cream tasting.

  He was used to being asked for handouts, and even more used to seeing people ask Will for handouts. Like all the guys in the band, Mikey was good at deflecting the requests. But he’d been freaking cold outside, and worse, he’d been alone.

  Mikey wasn’t big on being alone.

  Which brought him to the third, and probably biggest, reason he wouldn’t sleep with his hostess. She wasn’t Mari Belle. Most nights, he could get past that, but tonight, Mari Belle was on his brain.

  Mikey’s first memory of her was of her standing over him and Will, a stringy-haired doll in hand, lecturing them about being more careful where their Hot Wheels were flinging mud. Irritated him then, made him smile today.

  He remembered one spring afternoon hanging out at Will’s Aunt Jessie’s house, tossing a baseball with Will, throwing it way far off the mark when Mari Belle walked out of the house in a fluffy pink prom dress. When Will had heckled him about the throw, Mikey asked when Will’s sister had turned into a girl.

  Pretty girl at that, though Mikey hadn’t said it aloud.

  Then Mari Belle going off to college, bringing a boyfriend home. Getting engaged the Christmas before she graduated. Coming home after spring break that year, the year she’d dragged Will along, and coming to see Mikey before she had to head back to college.

  He’d been sure she’d come to tell him she’d broken things off with the guy, but no.

  She’d said Will got his heart broke on their trip. Got his heart tore to shreds, matter of fact, and Mikey would be doing Mari Belle a big ol’ favor if he kept an extra close eye on her brother.

  Would’ve done it anyway, but he liked having a reason to talk to her.

  About tore his own heart to shreds watching her get married though.

  Mari Belle, she had a plan. And she’d done it. Got the college degree, got the job, got the husband. Then came the baby. Everything she’d ever wanted, hers forever.

  Didn’t have room for Mikey, so he went on and found the next best thing.

  All the next best things.

  Once he and Will hit Nashville, Mikey got popular with the ladies. Enjoyed his life a hell of a lot ever since, even if he did battle being lonely from time to time.

  And then Mari Belle got divorced.

  Mikey thought he’d had a chance with her once or twice, but soon as he worked up the nerve to try something, he chickened out.

  Every time.

  Only secret he’d ever kept from Will.

  Will, his best friend.

  Just last week, Mikey had promised Mari Belle—again—that he’d look out for Will, since Will was here in Bliss because the girl who tore him to shreds fifteen years ago was here too.

  Will had texted earlier to ask if Mikey had a place to stay tonight. When Mikey had answered that he was set and asked the same in return, his buddy had ceased communication. Now, Will’s phone was rolling straight to voicemail. No surprise—everyone from his manager to his publicist to a million other people with a stake in the Billy Brenton empire would want to know their lead man was okay. Mikey caught some rumors on Twitter that he’d been spotted at a store in the next town over. Mikey had also called Mari Belle. Good to hear her voice, like always, but would’ve been better if it hadn’t been because Mikey had let Will down.

  Let them both down.

  The fire chief had said they wouldn’t know the cause of the fire until the fire insp
ector came out, but he’d been willing to lay odds it was the space heater Mikey hadn’t turned off.

  So with all that in his mind, Mikey rolled out of bed in the otherwise empty room around 2:00 a.m. He pulled his clothes back on—he’d showered and gone to bed naked, but his smoky jeans, shirt, boots, and jacket were all he had to his name here in Bliss right now—and then ventured out of the bedroom in search of a snack.

  House across the street was dark. No more flashing lights.

  Just…empty blackness.

  Mikey rubbed his arms and went on to the kitchen. The freezer was loaded down with ice cream—so that’s why his hostess didn’t want him inside it—and despite the lack of furniture in the house, Mikey thought he might find a piece of paper.

  Couldn’t sleep. Might as well write a song.

  That sparsely furnished thing bothered him. So did the zoo, but he had an inherent distrust of cats. Getting on out of here first thing in the morning was a dang good idea. Had a friend of a friend he could call for a ride to get a rental car if Will was still hiding, and then Mikey would get himself some new clothes and a hotel room and wait out his buddy.

  He helped himself to a carton of something called—he squinted in the low light glowing over the range—Chocolate Orgasm?

  His having an orgasm over chocolate ice cream was about as likely as the creek back home running whiskey instead of water. Still, he dug a spoon out of a drawer, popped the top of the plain brown carton, and dug in.

  Chocolatey goodness coated his tongue. Not too sweet, not too bitter.

  Pretty dang good, actually.

  He took another bite, and went poking in the drawers for a pen and pencil. Like the living room and his bedroom, the kitchen was stocked enough to be livable. Weren’t enough plates and cups to handle the masses; barely enough other stuff to heat up a can of soup or fix up a plate of spaghetti.

  Mikey had played in Vegas long enough to know when to take a bet, and he was betting his hostess was having some money problems.

  Her lizard in the glass tank in the corner stared at him, making judgments on Mikey for making judgments on Lizard Boy’s mama.

  He’d seen some weird stuff during his days on the road, but this was high up the list.

  Should’ve stayed in a hotel. Still could. Quick phone call would get him a taxi.

  Instead, he pulled out the drawer on the other side of the dishwasher and found what he was looking for. Kind of.

  There was a small pad of blank paper and some pens, but he had to dig under some consignment shop receipts to find it.

  And maybe it was the Chocolate Orgasm ice cream mellowing him out, or possibly he was nosy, but he pulled out the receipts and looked closer.

  Dahlia. Her name was Dahlia.

  And it appeared that she’d sold near about everything that should’ve been in her house.

  “Mrroowl?”

  He shuffled the receipts back into the drawer. The black and orange cat that had been playing with a feminine product when he walked in was circling his legs and rubbing on his pants.

  “Ain’t happening, cat,” Mikey muttered. He took the pad of paper to the long counter that jutted out under a row of cabinets between the kitchen and the dining room. Wasn’t a kitchen table to sit at—she’d sold that for two hundred bucks last week, her receipts said—but he’d written lyrics in worse conditions.

  Eaten a lot worse ice cream too. Stuff was killer. In the good way. Not orgasmic, but still killer.

  He bent over the paper under the cabinets, scribbled a line.

  The cat jumped up on the counter and walked between him and the paper, flicking its tail at his nose. He gave it a nudge. Then another nudge. On the third nudge, it finally moved, and he went back to tapping his pen on the paper. Somewhere else in the house, another cat yowled.

  They went on like that for a while, Mikey writing, the cat butting in, Mikey pushing it away, other cats making a racket.

  “What are you doing?”

  Mikey jumped. His head collided with something solid, and a piercing pain shot through his skull. “Ow! Shit!”

  “Oh, ducks,” she muttered.

  Mikey blinked and clenched his jaw shut. Damn cabinets.

  Soft fingers landed on his shoulder. “Are you okay? Is it bleeding? Do you need ice? Wait—are you eating my Chocolate Orgasm?”

  Suddenly the fingers were gone, and so was his ice cream. “That’s a prototype,” she shrieked. The red streaks in her hair stood up on end, and her face morphed into angry clown mode.

  He didn’t much like her right now for having a house with cabinets he could hit his head on. He rubbed the sore spot where a knot was already forming. “You might could think about putting bumpers on those things,” he said.

  “You might could think about not being an ice cream stealer,” she shot back. “Argh. You ate the whole thing!”

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am, for not knowing which of the seventy-eight cartons were off-limits.”

  Uh-oh. There went the freeze-ray eyeballs. She could’ve directed them to his head to help control the swelling, but nope. They were aimed right at his nose and more likely to be turned onto his private parts than to be used for any good.

  Women.

  “They’re all off-limits,” she said in that I will kill you and chop your body into a million pieces that I will store between my seventy-eight cartons of ice cream voice. She punctuated her statement with a thump of the empty carton.

  He strolled back around the counter and went to the freezer. Because he wanted ice, and she was pissing him off, and if there was one thing he was good at, it was pissing right back. “Chill, lady. It’s just ice cream.” He flung the door open, grabbed the next container he saw, and put it right to the sore spot on his head.

  She made a noise like a feral animal, and darned if the cats at her feet didn’t stop circling to look at him and hiss too.

  And suddenly he had no more ice cream in his hand, he’d been unceremoniously shoved halfway across the kitchen, and she was shrieking a lecture at him like—well, like Mari Belle had when he and Will had borrowed her nail polish collection to paint lines for their short-lived underground armadillo racing venture when they were nine.

  Turned out armadillos weren’t so easy to catch, if you could even find the live ones.

  He tuned back in to Dahlia’s shrieking in time for the grand finale. “And you’re an entitled, selfish, thoughtless jerk.”

  He held his hands up. “Now slow on down there, Ms. Opportunist—”

  “Oh, don’t you even—”

  “I don’t know what you want from me, but I ain’t staying in a death trap.”

  “It wasn’t a death trap until you were dumb enough to bend over under a cabinet. How long have you been over six feet tall? Did that happen yesterday? Last week? Still getting used to your height? Please. Your being a klutz isn’t my fault.”

  Damn female logic.

  She had a point.

  He was the problem.

  “Here.” She shoved a frozen gel pack at him, and the anger shooting off her mellowed. “Are you feeling dizzy? Nauseous? Any numbness in your extremities?”

  “What, was there something special in your ice cream?” he said like an ass.

  “Estrogen,” she said. “You might notice some swelling in your boobs and shrinkage in your package for a few days.”

  He straightened and almost hit his head on the cabinet a second time. “Wha—”

  She tipped her head back and laughed, and Mikey did get a little light headed then. “Shit.”

  Her laughter slowed to giggles, but then she looked at him, and darn if that smile of hers didn’t go bigger. She laughed again, this time with her shoulders getting into the action, scrunching up toward her face while she rocked forward and let the laughter overtake her.

  Definitely feeling the effects of hitting his head.

  Because watching her laugh—that was a darn near beautiful sight.

  He put the gel pa
ck to his head, felt a smile of his own creeping out. “You ain’t funny.”

  Her gray cat gave him a don’t-be-a-dumbass look, then bent over and licked its privates.

  “I’m very funny,” she said, still giggling, her cheeky grin making her skin glow and her dark blue eyes sparkle.

  She was wearing a Rolling Stones T-shirt as pajamas, he noticed.

  Nice. Good taste.

  His eyes drifted lower.

  Black pajama pants with bright red lips.

  His crotch twitched.

  Trouble, he reminded himself.

  But, hey, he knew her name now. That eliminated almost half the problem with sleeping with her. Not the bigger half, but knowing her name made him feel less like an ass. “You having money issues?” he heard himself say.

  All her amusement died right quick, and she went stiff as a dead armadillo in springtime. Her skin paled to the color of snowflakes, making two freckles on her left cheek stand out starkly. She shoved her glasses back up her nose. “First you eat my ice cream, then you insult my house? Starting to see why Billy left you.”

  Defensive. He was right on. Had some smarts in him every now and again.

  Wasn’t so sure it was smart to want to know her story, though. Didn’t like to let the girls too close. Arm’s length was his usual MO. “Everybody struggles sometimes,” he said when he should’ve kept his trap shut. “Should’ve seen how me and Billy lived before we hit it big in Nashville.”

  Her claws retracted. Not all the way, but enough for him to see she was softening to the idea that he wasn’t out to kick her while she was down.

  He liked her softer. Looked more natural on her.

  “Winter’s slow for an ice cream shop owner,” she said.

  “You sell your furniture every winter to get by?”

  Her eyes narrowed again, and he was honestly surprised she didn’t hiss and take a swipe at him. Her orange cat looked to be wanting to do the same. “I have everything I need, thank you very much.”

  “Got a boyfriend?”

  She grimaced.

  Bingo. “He stole your cash, huh?”