Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Landish, Lauren

  I try again. “Bubba makes the burgers fresh to order, and I’ve never gotten food poisoning. Though there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.”

  Blake laughs, and a moment later, though I hate that I added the disclaimer and possible jinx, I laugh too . . . after touching the wood wall to wipe away any bad juju from my words. “And does he have onion rings?”

  “Ehhhh . . . I’d recommend the fries.”

  “Cool,” Blake says before calling out, his voice echoing across the bar that’s mercifully returned to business as usual, “Hey, Bubba. Can we get two burgers and fries, please?”

  Bubba pauses his bar wipe-down to meet Blake’s eyes across the room and take his measure. I already know what Bubba sees. Blake screams ‘city boy’, but there’s an edge to him, an athletic aura that’s far beyond whatever he’s gotten from rec league soccer, and an ease that probably makes people flock to him like seagulls following kids with popcorn.

  And Bubba?

  He might look like a country bumpkin in a faded T-shirt and overalls, but he’s wily and willing to fight dirty if necessary.

  Bubba blinks first. “How you want ’em?”

  “Two of however Zo takes them.”

  He’s claiming me, whether he means to or not, making him persona non-grata too. My heart flutters and a zing shoots through my core, both of which are really bad omens and my neon flashing signals to get out of here.

  For both our own good.

  Blake crosses his hands on the table, looking like a lawyer ready to argue his case. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop. It’s a beer, dinner. Not a marriage proposal. After all, we’re getting fries, not rings.”

  He smiles at his own joke, and it’s a good one. But I can still feel the blood rush out of my face and know that if it weren’t dim in here, Blake would worry about the degree of paleness I’m currently sporting.

  “And paperwork,” I add, bringing us back to the true reason for this meeting. “We should get that out of the way first.” I pull my phone out of my bag, intending to log in to the county website and do the forms I should’ve done days ago.

  “No rush,” Blake tells me. His lazy smirk should make it easy to get through the few screens to get started, but I cannot seem to remember my username and password.

  Hell, or my own name.

  I click at the screen, entering gibberish, unless I changed my username to asdfjkl;mmmm, and I’m reasonably sure I didn’t do that in a fugue state or while sleep-working. It’s a real thing—sometimes, I work out details of questionable cases while snoring away in the middle of the night when I’m not limited by rational thinking.

  When my phone beeps its displeasure at my holding down the M button, Blake’s lips lift into a full, white-toothed grin as he slouches, throwing one arm casually along the back of the booth. Humor dances in his eyes as though he’s in no rush for me to do the paperwork that he came all the way out to Williamson County to badger me about.

  “The smallest bones in the human body are in the middle ear. The ossicles—malleus, incus, and stapes.”

  My fingers curl into the super-protective, hard plastic case of my phone. It usually keeps it from a fate worse than death, aka a blue screen of inoperability, but though it guards against gravity, I don’t think it’s strong enough to fight off being squeezed like a toothpaste tube.

  Why did I say that?

  Normal people, ones not like me, obviously, would ask questions and make small talk, but do I do that? No, I throw out useless factoids because he said he’s on a barroom trivia team thirty minutes ago while listing off hobbies and interests.

  It’s not even conversationally relevant now.

  His head tilts to the right the slightest bit and then he volleys back, “The stapes is roughly the size of a grain of rice.”

  Holy shit! Is he trying to out-trivia me? Or trivia-flirting? Flirtriva? It’s like nerd-sexy to the max. He probably knows the answers to random game show questions, but anatomy and physiology? This is my wheelhouse.

  “Everyone knows the adult human body has 206 bones.” I wait for his nod before continuing, “But did you know infants have almost 300? They slowly ossify and fuse together to get to the 206 everyone learns in school.” My words speed up until they’re rushing out under the weight of his stare.

  My breath hitches when he leans forward and says quietly, “Except when there are 207 bones in a human body.”

  It takes me a solid heartbeat to figure out that he’s making a dirty joke because he says it so utterly seriously that I start singing the bone song to double-check that I haven’t miscounted. I want to recoil in disgust or tell him he’s shocking and filthy. I want to get up and walk out, leaving him wondering what just happened.

  But before I can do any of that, I laugh . . . loud and hard. I cover my mouth with my hand, knowing that I’ll draw unwanted attention and gossip from the people at the bar.

  “Well, for half of us, at least.”

  Blake laughs with me, blissfully unaware that anything might be amiss.

  It’s refreshing, something I haven’t felt in a long time.

  “Does that kind of line usually work for you?” I intend for it to be a small dig, but he shrugs it off, showing no sign of offense.

  If anything, his lips twitch as though he’s enjoying the battle of words. “Shockingly, yes. Trivia humor might be my smoothest move.”

  “If that’s true, you must be rough as sandpaper.”

  He scrubs at his cheeks, not making even a slight scratching sound on the smooth skin, as rebuttal. “Wanna check for yourself?”

  I’m tempted, but before I can do anything, Bubba sets down burger baskets on the literal edge of the table as if he doesn’t want to get any closer to me or Blake and then scurries away quickly.

  Blake’s eyebrow rises dangerously as he cuts his eyes to follow Bubba’s hasty exit. But he pushes one of the baskets my way. The aroma of fresh meat wafts up, and my stomach grumpily reminds me that I didn’t eat lunch today, so I ignore whatever eye battle Blake and Bubba have going on this time in favor of digging into my dinner.

  “Good?” Blake asks a moment later. I look up as I swallow my fourth bite to find him simply watching me.

  I grunt a positive response and take a way-too-big bite that probably makes me look like a carnivorous monster.

  Am I trying to scare him off? Maybe a little.

  Instead, he picks up his burger and takes an even bigger bite, grinning around the mouthful and then saying, “Good.”

  A piece of shredded lettuce falls out and he shoves it back in his mouth with a thumb, swiping at a dab of mustard too. It's actually adorable somehow, making him seem less perfect than his carefully styled blond hair and business casual outfit originally suggested.

  We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, and I get the bulk of my burger down. Thank goodness, because we’re interrupted by a guy who I’m glad didn’t drive Silas home. In other words, a bit drunk and wobbly on his feet. “Hey, Morticia, wanna dance?”

  He’s chuckling like the idea is ridiculous even though he’s the one asking, and I nearly choke. I have a momentary fear that I’m going to need the Heimlich maneuver, but luckily, patting myself hard on the chest does the trick. My throat is still raw and rough-feeling when I ask, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll make your hands rot where we touch?”

  I wiggle my fingers toward his and he jerks them up to his chest protectively. “Or maybe I’ll accidentally brush against a certain part when we sway and then it’ll fall off?”

  I make finger quotation marks when I say accidentally and lift one brow threateningly. His hands drop from his chest to cup his dick through his jeans.

  “Not funny, Morticia.”

  I’m the proverbial dare, the brush with death his drunk friends have challenged him to risk, but yet I’m the ‘not funny’ one. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Blake is watching with interest, seemingly keeping one eye on me and one eye on Drunk Dude, but not in a cro
ss-eyed way. Though he’d probably look cute even with crossed eyes.

  Focus, Zoey!

  I’m done with this tonight. All I wanted was a quiet evening at home, and barring that, a quick bite and beer with Holly. Somehow, it’s turned into a pseudo-date, even though I don’t date, and I still haven’t done the paperwork for the accident.

  I sigh deeply and turn my attention to Drunk Dude. I glare at him for a few seconds, and then out of nowhere, I flinch toward him and bark, “Boo!”

  He jumps a foot in the air and backward at the same time like a cat that got spooked by a cucumber. I laugh instantly, not bothering to hide it this time. Screw anyone who thinks I’m up to no good.

  But Drunk Dude’s jump is less than graceful, and his landing is even worse when he stumbles to get his feet back under himself. He doesn’t even get close to making it, his boots slickly fighting for purchase on the dirt floor. He runs in place at an awkward angle like the Roadrunner for a second and then sprawls out on the ground.

  As soon as he’s down, he’s scrambling away from me on his hands and feet like a crab, pushing a chair out of the way. “Leave me alone, Morticia.”

  One of his buddies grabs Drunk Dude under the arms to help him off the floor and drag him further from me like I’m some great threat, but never fear, he sure keeps mouthing incoherently.

  “You came over here, interrupted my dinner, and acted like I’m a middle school cootie dare, but I’m the bad guy?” I ask, acid and venom dripping from every word, even though I know the answer already.

  All conversation stops, and eyes land on me from all over the room. They’re watching me as though I’m going to shoot Force lightning from my fingertips on demand.

  I sigh, still surprised somehow, even though I know better. I wipe my mouth with a paper towel and then wad it up to drop it to the tabletop. “Thank you, Mr. Hale. This was . . . nice,” I hedge. It was, right up until it all went to shit with fly cookies on top. “I’ll be sure to do the paperwork for you tonight. You should hear from the county clerk tomorrow.”

  His mouth opens to say something, probably to argue with me because he thinks he should, but I hold up a staying hand. I’ve reached my limit for the night. A woman can only stand being a pariah so much. I walk to the bar quickly, gritting my teeth as people literally back away from me like I’m contagious with the worst possible disease they can imagine, and lay a fifty-dollar bill on the wooden top.

  “Sorry, Bubba,” I quietly apologize. Even the money doesn’t entice him to come closer as his butt tries to eat its way through the wall of liquor behind the bar to get further away from me.

  With my head held high, I walk out of the beer barn. I force myself to wait for the door to close fully and then I run for my car, not the crashed county vehicle which is of course FUBAR for now. No, I’m driving my personal car, a safe sedan.

  I’m pulling out of the grassy field and crossing through the pipe fencing, eyes on the dark fields around me so I don’t see Blake come out after me.

  I also don’t hear him shout my name into the black of the night.

  At least that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

  Chapter 7

  Blake

  She said it was nice.

  Nice?

  Zoey thought it was nice that people ran for the door at the sight of her, got spooked enough to think she was threatening them just by breathing the same oxygen, and the bartender tried to run her off.

  And she still over tipped him!

  Okay, so maybe she played into that a little with the Madame Cleo voice and the jump-scare, but I don’t blame her. Nobody, not even a jury of her peers, could blame her for fighting fire with fire.

  Hell, I only experienced one little moment of how they treat Zoey and it was all I could do to not stand up in the middle of that bar, tell them all how ridiculous they were being, and take every last one of them on mano y mano.

  I mean, so what if she’s a coroner? She’s not the Grim Reaper.

  I bit my tongue so hard it nearly split into two, acting like that was all perfectly normal. Acceptable even. I didn’t say a single word as I got up and walked out of that barn a few moments after Zoey, only giving Bubba my most disappointed scowl. I had to resist the urge to snatch that fifty off the bar on my way out the door. He sure as fuck didn’t deserve it.

  I didn’t need to hear their excuses and justifications when nothing could make up for that. And I didn’t need to get my ass kicked in a bar in the middle of nowhere because something tells me Zoey would blame herself for that too.

  And now?

  Absolute radio silence for three long days.

  My phone hasn’t rung, my texts are barren, and though I received an email about the accident, it was from the county clerk, not Zoey. With the accident stuff handled and Zoey making no effort to contact me, that should be the end of it.

  But I can’t get her out of my mind. The cute quirk of her lip, only on the left side, when she says something she thinks is a little bit weird and wrong, the way she blurted out trivia facts was sexy as fuck, and how even when she had a whole room full of people judging her, she stood her ground, back straight and head held high. I’m truly impressed by her mettle. And disappointed as hell that she hasn’t contacted me.

  None of this, of course, is helping me right this moment as I run through the park.

  “Go, go, go . . . sprint for the finish!” my best friend, Trey, instructs me. He’s yelling into the wind, which is the only reason I hear him because he’s leaving me in the dust.

  Trey’s always been a better runner, but I reach deep, looking for a little more juice, a little more oomph. Normally, it works, but this time I’m tapped out, drier than the Sahara. In three strides, all I can see is his back, his legs working smoothly to add distance between us. He crosses our imaginary finish line of the tree at the corner and throws his arms high in victory.

  “And the crowd goes wild! Trey, you slay! Trey, you slay!” he cheers for himself in rhymes and some Valley Girl accent he doesn’t usually possess. “Trey, will you be my bay-bay!”

  I slow down, not willing to kill myself if he’s already won our friendly competition for today. Instead, I check my time on my watch, seeing that not only has Zoey destroyed my concentration, but she’s also killed my five-mile time, adding nearly six minutes. And a stitch in my side that I try to rub at subtly.

  Trey notices, of course, and bounces back to me to finish the last few yards together. “Just call her, asshole,” he says easily. Even that irks me, both his advice and that he’s not panting the way I am. “Or are you to poo-ooh-ooh-ooh-sss—”

  “Fuck off,” I pant, the most I can manage considering the lack of oxygen my body’s feeling right now.

  “Don’t talk to me in that tone of gasp,” Trey growls mockingly. “You know I’m telling the truth.”

  I can’t help it, I slow until I’m barely walking, putting my hands on my head so I can give my lungs room to spread out. “I. Can’t. Her. Turn.”

  Sweat drips into my eye, and I shake my head like a dog, droplets flying everywhere. Trey recoils, wincing. “Fuck, dude! Stop. I don’t want your man salt all over me.”

  I bend forward, putting my hands on my knees, and watch a few drops hit the concrete instead. “What am I gonna do?” I ask sincerely. “Can’t get her out of my fucking head.”

  Trey, who’s stretching his calf, stops and puts his hands on his hips. “Not used to seeing you like this.”

  Trey’s right.

  Not to brag, though my sister would say I absolutely am and give me a solid dose of shit for it, but I don’t usually have to try that hard with women. I’m not the type that runs home with every bar bunny who looks my way by a long shot, but I realize that every serious girlfriend I’ve ever had approached me. Or we just ran in the same group and conveniently fell into each other, and damn if that didn’t make it easier. This sitting around waiting for the phone to ring is exhausting and making me itchy with anxiety.
r />   “You really think I should call? It’s not too stalker-ish?”

  “Stalker-ish would be calling her ten times a day or standing outside her office with a goddamn boombox over your head playing love songs,” Trey chides me while throwing in a decent movie reference joke. “Just don’t be creepy. Ask her out on an official date, not an ambush surrounded by dead people.” He laughs at his own stupidity, then flatly whispers, “I see dead people.”

  Since I told him about hunting Zoey down at her place of work, he hasn’t quit teasing me. And admittedly, it does sound bad. But it hadn’t seemed odd at the time. I’d truly wanted the paperwork done . . . and yeah, to see Zoey again. So if that’s where she was, that’s where I was going.

  “You did that joke already,” I remind him. “Got anything new?”

  He pounds me in the shoulder, laughing. “It’s not fun if you ask to get roasted.”

  “Sounds like you’re talking shit about Zoey, not me. And I don’t like it one bit.” My mean mug bounces off him, Trey not really giving a fuck.

  “Stop selling wolf tickets, Blake,” Trey says. “This is all about you. Look . . .” Trey goes quiet for a moment, then looks at me. “Remember when I first met Serena?”

  Of course I do. First time they had a date, I gave him shit with a whole workout of comments working in Kanye’s line ‘my psychic told me she’ll have an ass like Serena.’ Trey was pissed at me at first, but by the end we were having fun with it. “Still say you punched far above your weight. For reasons I haven’t yet deciphered, she took pity on your immature ass.”

  And it’s true. But she did, and it’s truly an unsolved mystery how he landed her because he was a drunken frat boy who was nearly flunking out of a party school when he met her. And when he popped the question, she said yes.

  Somehow, she saw his potential way down deep under the fuckboy exterior and shaped him right up over the last few years into a responsible adult and good husband. But we both still know that she’s way out of his league and he’s a lucky son of a bitch.