Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Landish, Lauren

  Either that or she’s a secret cannibal and I’ve interrupted her evening dinner.

  She sets the organ in a bowl, thankfully out of sight, and gives me the full attention I want. Her eyes are wary, her words slow, but she asks, “Why do you want to know?”

  That’s not what I expected her to say.

  “Because this is what people do? They meet, they talk, they get to know each other, they go grab a drink, because I haven’t forgotten that’s what Holly said you were doing tonight.”

  Her eyes pin me in place as she lets the moment stretch dramatically. I don’t move a muscle, don’t blink, don’t even breathe, though that’s because of the smell of antiseptic and something I’m not going to label in my brain.

  “He’s my brother, but I’m his guardian, so kinda my son too.” She says it like she’s expecting that to be a nuclear bomb that sends me running for the hills. But kids aren’t a deal breaker for me. I love kids and would love to have some of my own someday.

  In the meantime, I get the biggest kick out of playing with Amy and Fernanda’s son, Miles, who’s five going on fifteen, with all the associated attitude.

  “How old is he? My nephew is five, and like me, he loves making new friends. Maybe we can all play soccer some time? Or video games?” I can’t help the way my voice pitches like I’m talking to an actual kid.

  Zoey seems taken aback by my response and dumbly says, “He’s eighteen.”

  “Oh,” I say, somewhat disappointed on Miles’s behalf. “Well, soccer and video games are probably doable, but maybe not with Miles. Jacob probably isn’t into hanging out with little kids.”

  There’s a question in the statement, begging her to correct me, but she looks at me like I grew another head out of my left shoulder.

  “You’re . . .” I’m ready for her to tell me what I am, but the door opens and a gray-haired, uniformed guy peeks his head in.

  “Hey, Zoey, you want anything for dinner?” He doesn’t react to the dead body or the random organs in bowls, but when he catches sight of me, I see nerves shoot through him.

  Without waiting for Zoey’s answer to his first question, he asks another. “Should I be worried? He okay?”

  It’s a kind question, or it should be. Like that the guard is checking that Zoey is okay with some random guy in her basement office. But there’s something about his tone that makes it seem like that’s not what he’s asking at all.

  Zoey catches it too. “Yeah, Alver. He’s fine. The full moon isn’t until next week, so I’m not looking for sacrifices . . . yet,” she says darkly, one brow arching high and one dropping low.

  Oh shit, she’s got a ‘The Rock’ look too, and it’s nearly as awesome as mine. I’d be imagining babies with wiggly brows if not for Alver’s reaction.

  He pales, which is saying something considering his skin is a warm brown color, and he pulls at the collar of his shirt, though it’s already loose. He even reaches inside and touches the gold cross necklace around his neck.

  It’s almost like he doesn’t get Zoey’s sense of humor at all, because that was obviously a joke.

  A damn funny one.

  I laugh, Zoey is fighting a smile, but Alver is looking more than a little concerned.

  Zoey gives in, probably to reassure the guard’s nerves. “He’s fine, and I don’t need dinner tonight. I’m finishing up, and then Mr. Hale and I are grabbing a drink so I can do some paperwork for him.”

  “Blake,” I correct again, determined to break down that wall she’s keeping between us.

  Alver looks from Zoey to me, checking the vibe once more, and then shakes his head. “Your funeral, man.” He backs out of the room, not giving Zoey his back.

  When the door closes, I whirl on Zoey. “What the fuck was that?”

  Zoey’s eyes roll back in their sockets, and not in the good way. “You’re fine. I won’t really sacrifice you, full moon or not.”

  She thinks I’m asking about her? I’m about two heartbeats from going out in the hallway and sacrificing that asshole for giving Zoey shit.

  “Not you, Zo. Him. What’s his problem?” I clarify, pointing at the door, where I think Alver is still hanging around like a creeper.

  That’ll just make it easier to kick his ass, though.

  Hmm, I wonder if he’s got a Taser?

  “Alver?” she says, her nose crinkled in a way that would be cute except I’m not sure why she’s confused. “He’s mostly nice.”

  “And insinuates that you’re evil incarnate and going to sacrifice me to the full moon?” I accuse. “That doesn’t seem mostly nice to me.”

  Her smile breaks through, large and mischievous now. “Technically, that was me.”

  “Zoey,” I say in warning. I have no right to come to her defense this way. She’s obviously fine with the way her co-worker acted, but I can’t help but plan a little sacrifice of my own . . . of Alver. Full moon or not.

  “Blake.” She mimics my tone with an extra dose of sarcasm. I don’t know how to answer that, both the tone and that she finally used my first name, but I’m probably gaping like a fish on the sandy beach that wishes someone would toss him back out to sea.

  She stops what she’s doing . . . no, she’s done, I think. She lays a fresh and clean gloved hand on the body’s shoulder and whispers something. I’m not sure if she’s talking to him or to herself, but she pulls a plastic sheet over him and pushes the table over to a large stainless-steel door, which she opens and disappears behind for a moment.

  When she comes back, she’s alone, and I finally relax my firm grip on my stomach’s reflexes. She strips off her gown, cap, and booties, throwing them in a red bag.

  Normally, I’d be all in for a striptease, but this one isn’t particularly flirty. In fact, she looks haunted and reluctant. But she bravely comes closer, sitting on the edge of her desk next to me. “You have people. I don’t. On purpose.” She says it so matter of factly about something that sounds like it hits her deep and sharp.

  “They call me Drop-Dead Gorgeous,” she finally says, “or DDG. It’s a nickname.”

  For some, I can imagine that might be a compliment. By Zoey’s stilted speech, I can tell it most definitely is not one to her. “A rather cruel one.”

  Zoey shakes her head. “Deserved. I . . .” She pauses, pregnant with meaning, and then waves her hands around, gesturing to the room surrounding us. “I deal with death all day. It freaks most people out. I freak people out.”

  “Not me,” I say reassuringly. I really, really want to put my hand on her knee that’s right there, but I don’t because I think this is the part where she tells me to get lost. “I mean, there’s always a need for a coroner, someone who sees off the dead. That’s rather noble, when you think of it that way. So, drinks?”

  She blinks slowly, like she’s trying to figure out my game. But the only thing I’m playing at is getting to know her.

  “Paperwork,” she corrects.

  “And drinks. Maybe dinner too, because now that you’re not all gross” —I gesture to her hands, clean and pristine, with those graceful fingers that I now realize hold a scalpel with precision, not tickle the ivories— “I think I might be able to actually eat.” I cut the insult with a flirty smile.

  “You’re weird,” she says with a small laugh as she examines a loose thread on the tie of her scrub pants.

  “Aw, thanks. You too.”

  “I’m not sure that was a compliment.”

  “It definitely was.”

  She doesn’t seem certain and definitely isn’t what I would call excited about this plan, but she tells me, “Hold on just a second and let me change.”

  She heads for a different door, and when it opens, I can see that it’s a closet of sorts with a couple of lockers along the back wall.

  As she crosses the threshold, she stops and looks back over her shoulder. Licking her lips, she eyes me carefully. Fragile hope is written in every line of tension on her face.

  “You can make a run f
or it while I’m changing clothes if you want. I’ll send the paperwork over tonight either way.”

  In response, I plant both feet on the floor and cross my arms over my chest, making it clear that I’m not going anywhere.

  She turns away from me, but I catch the smile on her full lips for a split second before she covers it with her fingers as though she’s feeling the uptilt of her mouth in confusion.

  She’s only gone a moment before I look around, trying to figure her out.

  She’s an enigma wrapped in questions and bow-tied like a present with something equally tempting and terrifying. I see a coffee mug with a picture of Morticia Adams and smile, wondering who gave it to her because it doesn’t seem like something Zoey would buy herself. I see a stack of askew file folders, each with different names on the tabs, letting me know that she’s good at her job and takes it seriously, but I’d already deduced that.

  And last but not least, I see a picture of her and a tall, blonde guy. Based on their ages, I think it’s the infamous Jacob. It looks like he’s giving her a noogie, roughing up her hair. She looks murderous at first glance, but the glint in her eyes says it’s all in jest.

  When the door opens, she’s wearing jeans, a black tank top, and flat booties. She’s pulled her hair down from its bun, and it curls seductively below her breasts.

  I whistle in approval before saying, “You look beautiful, Zo.”

  “Thanks, I think.” She seems unaccustomed to getting compliments, but that can’t be true.

  Unusual occupation aside, she’s gorgeous and interesting and funny. Did I mention gorgeous?

  “Let’s get this over with,” she sighs.

  “Just the response I want to hear from a date.”

  “Not a date,” she argues formally.

  “Paperwork, then. Let’s get that part over with so I can discover more about you.”

  “Your funeral, man,” she quotes Alver.

  See?

  That’s some funny shit, I think as I laugh once more.

  Chapter 6

  Zoey

  You ever watch one of those two AM movies where some out-of-towner walks into the local watering hole, there’s a record scratch, and all eyes turn to the interloper with suspicion?

  That’s literally what happens when I walk into the beer barn.

  Yes, lower case bs because this place doesn’t actually have anything formal like a name or sign. It’s just literally a barn in the middle of a field where you can get a beer, hence the beer barn. I don’t even know whose land this is, just that the bartender’s name is Bubba.

  That’s probably not his real name either, but it’s what we all know him by, so it works. And also, that whole record scratch and eyes on the newbie thing? That’d be me. Except I’m not new, by any stretch.

  But I am the local legend. Unfortunately, not in a good way.

  “Hey, Zoey. Somebody call you? Might be a wee bit pree-mah-chure.” Bubba’s thick fingers are held a scant inch apart, and the word has three syllables, the way it should, but it’s longer than it should be by at least a solid two seconds. “Silas is still breathing.”

  Bubba points to an old guy at the end of the bar who’s eyeballing me through squinted, glassy slits like I’m the Angel of Death come to take him away. “But if you hang out, you might get lucky.”

  Beside me, Blake stiffens. Not in his pants, though to be honest, I can’t tell since I’m not looking at his crotch. But he’s not used to this, and it seems like he’s about to come to my defense again, the way he did about Alver. It’s kinda sweet, in a white knight sort of way. But not needed. I’m no damsel, and it takes a lot more than Bubba being a smartass to distress me.

  I smile like Bubba’s being funny and his greeting isn’t the exact reason I hate coming in here. Maybe that’s where Jacob gets that particular coping mechanism from?

  I point at my eyes with V-ed fingers and then to Silas, communicating that I’m watching him. “Should I save you a drawer?”

  Silas jerks, spilling his beer over his hand and on the bar, making everyone bust out in laughter at his expense. “That shit ain’t funny, Zoey Walker.”

  I laugh lightly. “It kinda was.” Silas wiggles on his barstool like ants are marching their way up and down his spine and into his pants. “Someone walking over your grave, Silas House?”

  I don’t know why people call me by my full name sometimes—distance, I suppose—but I like to do it back. They take it as though I’m double-checking my list like Santa and marking them off. The question is . . . am I marking them off as okay or as soon to appear in my morgue?

  Everyone seems to think I know. Like I’m some walking, talking Magic Eight Ball that can do a somersault and tell them signs point to yes or better not tell you now.

  I don’t have any more insight than they do, but I gave up on convincing people of that long ago and settled into my role in this small, tight-knit community out here in Williamson County. I’m the outsider, no matter that I mostly grew up here, and the unwanted, no matter that I do what no one else wants to.

  “Two beers, please, Bubba,” I tell the man who’s scooted way down the bar as far away from me as possible. He nods his head toward Silas, eyes questioning. I sigh, knowing the peace it’ll bring is worth a lot more than two bucks. “Fine. Three.”

  Even though I’m doing something nice to make up for the half-glass of beer Silas spilled, which wasn’t even my fault, he balks. “Is that a trick? Or some sort of apology before the fact?”

  I give Silas my most psychic medium stare, vacantly looking through him rather than at him, and make my voice flat and otherworldly. “Silas House, you need to drink your beer and let someone else drive you home. Do this and you’ll live to see another sunrise.”

  The whole room has gone dead silent, and yes, that’s sarcasm. They’re definitely quiet as church mice, but if I had to guess, the average heart rate of the room is somewhere around that shock you get when you startle awake in the middle of the night from a bad dream and think there’s a demon standing in the corner of the room, so no one’s dead. Yet.

  “Yes, ma’am. Will do,” Silas answers before chugging the fresh beer Bubba sets in front of him. He’s still swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand when he asks, “Who can give me a lift?”

  On any usual weekday night at shortly after six, he’d have zero takers. These people just got off work and are looking for a night of relaxation and stress relief from a day of hard labor.

  But this isn’t a usual night. I’m here, so no fewer than six hands shoot up in the air.

  “I got you, Silas. I need to get outta here, anyway,” Mack says, chugging his own beer. He looks clear-eyed and wary of me as he gives a wide berth to get around me and to the door. That’s saying something too since Mack is short for Mack Truck, and to go around me, he has to push a table and four chairs out of the way with his overall-covered ass.

  I stay perfectly still, not risking any movement being seen as a threat, until Mack and Silas are out the door, with two more people following them. I keep my face straight and my lips shut, not showing that it affects me at all even though it hurts like ripping open a freshly stitched wound.

  Only after nobody moves for a bit do I step forward, Blake following me to a booth in the back. It’s the one Bubba asked me to sit at when Holly first started dragging me here. It keeps me out of the line of sight from newcomers, though I’m always the first topic of conversation when someone comes in so I’m not sure it works.

  We sit, and I prepare for the questions I know are coming. Or maybe, if he’s as smart as he seems, for him to make a run for the door too.

  Before we can say anything, one more customer heads out the door. I try to keep track so I can make up the tips Bubba loses when I come in. It seems like the least I can do. But no questions come . . . at least not from Blake, though my brain is firing them off at rapid speed.

  Why is he doing this?

  How is he sitting there cool as a cucumbe
r and not sprinting toward the door? Does he have zero sense of self-preservation?

  Why did I agree to this without Holly to run interference the way she usually does?

  Bubba sets two beers on the table and mutters under his breath, “Don’t stay too long, ’kay? Thanks, Zoey.”

  Before I can answer, he scurries back behind the bar, holding flat palms up in the air to tell everyone to hold steady, he’s getting rid of me. For his part, Blake still hasn’t said a single word, but he’s scanning the room as though he’s learning everyone’s deepest, darkest secrets just by laying eyes on them.

  In a lot of ways, he’s scarier than I am. I’m all reputation, but he’s the one who really is looking at the small gathering with a dead-eye stare like he’s Jason Bourne ready for action. The very idea makes me smile, but I cover it over with a hand so people don’t think I’m even weirder than I am.

  Smiling for no reason? Oh, she must be plotting someone’s unfortunate demise. Because there’s no other, possibly normal, reason I would be happy. Uh, Blake learning everyone’s secrets might not be a normal reason, Zoey.

  Well, fine. I’ll admit that’s probably true.

  Once Blake gives everyone the evil eye, his gaze settles on me and softens.

  I steel my guts because here come those questions. But instead, he surprises me with an innocent, almost normal question. “What’s good to eat here?” he asks, as if our entrance was perfectly ordinary and not cause for an explanation. “I’m a burger guy myself.”

  My mouth opens, closes, and then opens again, but no sound comes out. How is he so nonchalant about all of this?

  Blake rolls on as if I’m not an idiot who can’t answer the simplest question ever. “I think I’ll go for a cheeseburger. Usually a safe choice because bars go through them daily, so the meat doesn’t have a chance to go bad. As long as the kitchen’s clean?”

  I manage to find words. “The burgers are good.”

  Great answer, Zoey, I scold myself.

  I am such a dork.

  A confused one, but a dork, nonetheless.