Please, if there’s a God up there, let it be that he just butt dialed me by accident.
My phone rings again in my hands, the electronic beep sounding like ‘ha, ha, gotcha.’ No such luck. I just hung up on him because that’s exactly the kind of thing that happens to me—embarrassing, awful, and awkward.
This time, I do manage to hit decline right away. No, no, no. Why is he calling me? I filled out the paperwork, so that’s a done deal, and after the incident at the beer barn, he should definitely be running for the hills. The ones far, far away from me, like on the other side of the state. Or maybe the next state over.
But yet . . . my phone rings a third time.
He’s hardheaded . . . and dammit, that makes him even more attractive to me. So I hit the green button on my screen, bringing the phone up to my ear.
“Uh, hello?” I say hesitantly.
“Zo, you okay?” Blake asks, urgent concern making it all one word.
“Yeah. Fine. Why?” I say, nervously brushing my hair behind my ear because I always let my hair out at home and for some reason, I don’t want him to think of me as a mess.
“Why?” Blake repeats on a huffed laugh. “Because it sounded like you were getting attacked and then the call disconnected. And then you didn’t answer. I was afraid you were getting mauled by a bear or something!”
I snort out a tiny laugh of disbelief. “A bear? We don’t have bears around here.”
He sighs in exasperation, and it makes me smile. “I know, but that’s not the point. Are you okay?”
He’s actually worried about me, a sensation I haven’t felt in so long that I relish it like a double rainbow or a four-leaf clover. But where he’s calming down, I can feel my entire body thrumming, tuning into his voice.
“I’m good. Just dropped the phone and some of my dinner. Oh, and a pillow.” I put my plate of chicken on the table to reach for the pillow and the fork clatters to the table top.
“What was that?” Blake asks, on alert again.
“A fork,” I tell him. “I’m a mess, but, uh . . . hi?” My voice is too high, too tight, too unsure. I feel like a teenage girl for some reason.
“Hi, Zoey,” he says, cool, calm, and collected.
And flirty.
His voice is deep, hitting me in all sorts of places that a simple greeting shouldn’t be able to do. Despite my best efforts, I’m smiling, even biting my lip a little. “Hi, Mr. Hale.”
I’m not being cute or playing kinky with the mister thing. I’ve got no ‘daddy issues’ in this regard at all. To the contrary, I’m trying hard to put some distance between us because I need it desperately before my body gets carried away with ideas like ‘maybe this time will be different’. It won’t, it never is, and I need to forget the idea that it might be. No dating, no connections.
The more alone I am, the better off everyone is. I can handle the isolation to protect them.
“Blake,” he corrects me again, and I know what he wants. Silence stretches as I debate whether I should give in, but my mouth decides before my brain has a chance to weigh in with a no-fucking-way recommendation.
“Blake,” I concede a bit too softly. I swear his breath wavers, but it’s probably just static in the phone connection, right? There’s no way he can be into me so quickly, can he?
Still, I can pretend that it was my saying his name that had that effect. It’s a dangerous game to play, but as long as it’s just between my imagination and my pussy, there’s no harm, no foul. I clench my thighs together, wishing for more friction.
“Other than dropping your dinner, what are you doing tonight, Zoey?” Blake asks, more casual now that we’ve established there are no bears in my living room.
My right brow jumps up of its own volition. I might not date, but I know what late night calls of ‘what’re you doing?’ mean.
“Is this a booty call?” I bite out. “Your Netflix broken, and you need to chill?”
It sounds harsh and bitchy. The truth is, I shift again in my blanket nest, actually considering it. A one and done, scratch that itch situation might be okay. I’ve never tested it, never even thought about testing it.
But surely, Blake would be okay, as long as I never saw him again?
Or you’d just never know about the zoo-escaped lion that ate him as a midnight snack when he tried to save it . . . here, kitty-kitty-kitty-style. I argue with myself on the odds of a lion on the loose.
“No! No, of course not,” Blake assures me, sounding startled and maybe just a little guilty. “That’s not what I meant.”
I have my doubts that it’s true. At the same time, though, to be thought of that way . . . it’s been a long time, and I’ve got needs too.
“Mr. Life Insurance, what are the odds of death by lion mauling?”
He doesn’t even pause at the turn in conversation. “Uh, in the US or Africa?”
My lips quirk as I try to hold back the laugh I wasn’t expecting. “Do you know the answer either way?”
“Yep. In the US, about one in a billion, and that’s including mountain lions in the calculation. In Africa, odds are about one in two hundred, though that can be lessened by staying out of game reserve areas.”
I can’t help it, I laugh at his utter shit statistics. Still . . . one in a billion?
Is it worth the risk?
Is he worth the risk?
Something hot and liquid in my belly says one hundred percent yes.
“Not a booty call, you said? Too bad.” I tsk sadly, promises laced through a follow-up sigh.
“Wait. What?” Blake asks, sounding dizzy. Probably is, the way I’m fucking with his head. “A second ago, I’m pretty sure you were trying to not answer my call, and now you sound like you want me to be calling for a hookup?”
I shrug even though he can’t see me. “A woman can change her mind,” I answer airily. He groans, the vibration coming through the phone, into my ear, and shooting straight down to low in my belly again.
Yep, I’m risking a lot here, but damn if I’m not gambling on a sure thing because I have no doubt that one night with Blake would be enough to get me through a long dry spell.
“You’re killing me, Zo. But no, I didn’t call for a booty call.” It sounds like it physically hurts him to say that because he takes a deep breath before continuing, “I called to ask you out.”
“Out?” I squeak in shock. “Like a date?”
Blake chuckles. “No.”
My heart sinks to my toes like gravity just got a super-boost of strength, and then for shits and giggles, someone flips the gravitational pull switch off, making my heart fly up and try to come out my mouth.
“Oh.”
“No, not like a date. That’s what we did before—eat dinner, have a drink, get to know each other—but it wasn’t planned the way a date should be. What I want to do is take you out on an actual date. It can look the same—dinner, drinks, conversation—but it’s different because of the intention from the get-go.”
Wow, he’s good.
Dangerously good.
“That sounds . . . awesome,” I say honestly, but before I can get carried away with things I can’t have, I make myself say, “but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
For such a flat sound, it’s painfully sharp to my heart. “I thought we had a good time?”
He sounds so unsure of himself, something I would’ve never thought a good-looking, smart, sweet guy like Blake would feel. It makes him seem a bit more real somehow. And he deserves more than a no.
I sigh heavily, not prepared for this conversation but diving in anyway. “It’s for your own good, not because I don’t want to.”
“Can you explain that, please?”
I don’t know why. I should just tell him that it’s not going to happen. Or that I was joking. Anything other than give him a peek behind my curtain. I haven’t let anyone back there in ages, and while some of the basics have become the basis for folklore around town, nobody other than Jacob kn
ows the whole truth.
But that’s what I suddenly start telling him. The truth, not the overinflated stories.
“When I was eleven, I went to summer camp. One of those sleepaway deals where you make fire with flint rocks, row canoes around the lake, and roast marshmallows over campfires.” I pause, the memories washing over me.
“Sounds fun?” Blake hedges.
“It was. At first. But one night, after the camp counselors went to bed, a bunch of us snuck out into the woods. We were just stupid kids, telling ghost stories and playing spin the bottle. His name was Michael Wilson. It was my first kiss, his too, I think, because we didn’t know what to do. We basically just tried to eat each other’s face. But I didn’t know he . . .”
“He what?” Blake prompts when I don’t continue.
“He was allergic to peanut butter and I’d had a PBJ for dinner. One second, we’re kissing, sloppily getting saliva everywhere because we were horrible kissers. And the next, his lips are swelling up and turning red, and he looks like a Jessica Rabbit caricature. It was awful.”
“Was he okay?” Blake’s voice sounds choked, as if he understands how traumatic that was for younger me.
“Yeah, they gave him an epi shot and took him to the ER. He was fine, came back to camp even. And he got invited the next time everyone snuck out to the woods, but I didn’t.”
“This kid, Michael, needed an epi shot from a peanut butter-infected, sloppy, secret kiss? That was your first kiss?” Blake recaps. “Damn, that sucks.”
Before I can answer, try to explain that I didn’t know about Michael’s allergy because I didn’t even know him or I would’ve never kissed him, Blake busts up in laughter.
I’m stunned into shocked silence. He’s laughing? I almost killed a kid!
“Did anyone else kiss him that summer, or were they all too scared to? Holy shit, I bet the counselors got reamed out for that. Kids sneaking out, unauthorized make-out sessions, and what was probably described as a near-death experience when Michael’s mom heard about her ‘precious boy’s peanut butter exposure’.” His voice pitches high, mimicking this mythical mother, and he’s still laughing, actually laughing harder and rougher with every word as he paints a picture that’s similar to my story but also very different.
“No, it was . . . I almost killed him!” I exclaim, trying to make him understand the seriousness. But suddenly, I can’t help it. I start laughing too. “Oh, my God! I almost killed him with a peanut butter kiss!”
Twisted sense of humor aside, I’m horrified that I’m donkey-braying over some kid’s medical emergency. But mostly, I’m laughing at my own trauma. It was truly horrifying back then, and worse, it was the start of everything that happened after.
But right now? It feels ridiculously silly to put so much into something that happened years ago.
Michael’s okay, I know he is. He’s grown now, came to camp for a few more summers after that one, but he always stayed far, far away from me. The Killer Kisser, my first nickname.
After a few more wheezing laughs, Blake manages to hiss out, “So, because Michael is allergic to peanut butter, we can’t go out? What if I promise to take you somewhere where there is no peanut butter and submit a medical report showing that I have no allergies?”
Is he serious? My laughter dries up, but the smile lifting my lips stays right where it is.
“I’m not done, barely getting started. After that, everything was fine . . . for a while. Then, we played dodgeball in PE. I threw the ball, like you’re supposed to.”
The scene replays in my mind like a movie I’ve called up more times than I can count. “Overhand, aim at the body, not the head. But I’ve got shitty aim. I hit Andy Mackowitz right in the nose. It broke both his glasses and his nose. He had to wear an eye patch for two weeks and a weird splint on his nose for even longer than that. And when the ball hit him, he stumbled backward, stepping right onto Toby Rodriguez’s ankle. Toby had to sit out the whole football season because of a ligament tear. But the worst part was that Toby’s friend, Drake, tried to catch him. Drake was a little guy, way smaller than Toby, and he went down like timber and his head hit the floor. Concussion. One ball plus me led to a broken nose, broken glasses, a pirate-looking eye patch, a nose splint, whistle-breathing for Andy, ankle surgery, a missed football season, and a concussion.”
“And a partridge in a pear tree,” Blake sings.
Does he not understand how dangerous I am?
I move onto the real scary shit. “Went on two dates with Jordan, a skydiver. His parachute didn’t open and he was in freefall, sure he was going to splat on the ground, for over two minutes. Luckily, one of the other jumpers saved him.”
“Was it you? Did you save him?”
“No! I . . . I couldn’t do it. I went up in the plane, played along like I was going to jump, and I wanted to, but when they opened the plane door and all that wind whipped in . . . no way was I jumping. But he did. And he almost didn’t make it.”
“I’m sensing a theme here,” Blake guesses finally.
“The first time I met you, I almost killed you with my car!” I remind him.
“Almost being the operative word. Odds of your killing me, intentionally or accidentally, are exceedingly low. A risk I’m willing to take to eat dinner with you. Go out with me, Zoey.”
Not a question but still a request. I don’t get it. How can a smart guy like him not see the cause and effect when I lay it out so plainly?
“I can’t. I killed my parents and my grandparents too.”
That has the mic drop effect I expected when he gasps in shock. “What?”
“Not by my hand. I’m not a serial killer. But my parents . . . they were in a car accident while driving to pick me up. It was late at night, and I got scared at a sleepover and called home, begged Mom to come get me. But Dad didn’t want her driving alone so late, so they came together. A drunk driver hit them.”
That’s all I can say about that without crying, so I move on to my next piece of evidence. “I moved in with my grandparents then. My grandma died of sepsis from a burn—”
Blake interrupts. “Was the burn your fault?”
He’s trying to make me feel better, but the truth is bitter. “Yes. We were baking together, and she let me hold the hot pads to take the cookies out of the oven. I lost my grip on the cookie sheet somehow, and it fell, badly burning her arm. She doctored it with cream for days, telling me it was fine and just an accident. Even when she got a fever, I didn’t realize it was related to the burn. Not then. But later, I figured it out.” One last piece of evidence, the hardest one to reveal. “My grandpa was killed by lightning.”
“Unless you’re Thor, wielder of thunder and lightning, you can’t blame yourself for that one, Zo.” Blake’s voice is quiet, hard.
“He was in a field with friends, hanging out to celebrate his birthday. There was rain in the forecast, but nothing major. Nothing that should’ve mattered, and it wasn’t raining anyway,” I recall. “Dry lightning, they called it. Just shoots down out of the sky to the ground, and it hit Grandpa on the way.”
Tears spill over, but I brush them away. I’ve cried rivers—no, oceans—of tears over my parents and grandparents, but all it ever does is give me a headache. It doesn’t bring them back, and it doesn’t lessen my guilt.
“Zoey, I am so sorry, baby,” Blake coos soothingly. “But none of that is your fault. Peanut butter allergies, wayward dodgeballs, clumsy kids, a bad parachute packer—all just bad luck. And your parents? The blame lies with the person who got behind the wheel after they’d been drinking. Your grandma could’ve seen a doctor sooner, and your grandpa’s death sounds like an act of God. I don’t mean that to be rude, it’s literally a class of death in the insurance industry.”
Really, he explains it all away, each and every horrific thing I’ve done, with a wave of his hand as though none of it matters. “Is that all you’ve got? Because I’d like to ask you out again.”
“You
are . . . something else, Mr. Hale.”
This time he doesn’t correct me, and though I can’t see him through the phone, I get the sense he puffed up with pride at what he’s taking as a compliment.
“You too, Miss Walker. Now, as I was saying, would you go out with me?”
I think about it again, wanting to so badly. But a lifetime of fear, of tragedy, of coping mechanisms, and superstitions honed through repeated uses doesn’t dissolve instantly.
“No,” I say haltingly, “but I will talk on the phone with you a little longer. Even though you apparently have a death wish and a penchant for Black Widow types.”
Another one of my nicknames.
He laughs again, and it’s a deep, vibrating chuckle that makes my heart thump loudly in my chest. For someone often called a death dealer and surrounded by death all day for my whole life, Blake Hale makes me feel wonderfully, amazingly . . . alive.
“So, now that I’ve told you my deep, dark past, how about you tell me yours so I don’t feel like such a weirdo?” I ask.
And he does, except none of it is the slightest bit deep, dark, or weird.
He’s oddly normal, especially for someone who likes me.
He tells me about his awesome parents, who are still married and flirt with each other like they’re kids, chasing each other around the house and having tickle fights. He tells me about his sister, Amy, who’s married to Fernanda, the best brunch cooker in existence, apparently.
He promises me that he’ll take me to brunch sometime so I can agree with him that her skills outweigh those of any chef on television. And he tells me about his dog, Chunky, a mutt that more adopted him than the other way around.
“I’m hesitant to tell you why he’s named that, though,” Blake says.
“Chunky? Is he overweight?” I guess.
“Well, yes, but it’s not that. It’s that he . . . uh, he likes peanut butter. But only the kind with peanuts in it. If it’s creamy, he will turn his nose up at it, sit down, and refuse to even look at me. Spoiled little shit, which is absolutely a term of affection for my buddy.”
“Peanut. Butter?” I repeat slowly. “Are you serious? Or are you making that up to give me a hard time?”
Drop Dead Gorgeous Page 8
