Drop Dead Gorgeous(80)

“It’s two more days, Blake. Not forever. And you’ve been texting the woman every morning and night.”

I shake my head, which is really not a good idea because the lights on the dash swirl with halos. “Not enough.”

“Phone sex?” he suggests, and I consider it for a long moment.

Zoey in her bed, touching herself as I tell her what to do, her voice in my ear telling me what to do as I jack off. But fuck, I’ve been doing that with my own imagination.

“I need to see her.”

“So sneak out and see her,” Trey says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“We should sneak out!” I say, just now coming up with the most brilliant idea ever.

“Good idea,” Trey says flatly. He doesn’t get how genius I am.

Tomorrow, Zoey and I are sneaking out because I need to see her, listen to her, hold her, taste her.

“Inner voice, Blake. Not your outside voice,” Trey says nonsensically.

Why’s he smiling?





*



The next night, I don’t remember a lot about trivia night. But I do remember my brilliant idea. The moon is now high in the dark sky, thankfully only a crescent that illuminates without making it so bright that any nosy people can see what I’m up to as I sneak into the trailer park. I park almost a half-mile away behind a dumpster and walk the rest of the way too, just to make sure no one can hear my car or see the headlights as I drive in.

Under the cover of darkness, I duck down next to Zoey’s trailer when I see light flashing in the living room. That must be Jacob playing video games. I pull my phone out to text him, hissing when the light of the screen blinds me. I lower it down and look around frantically but sense no movement.

Me: You up?

The lights keep flashing, glowing a blue-tinted white as I hold my breath and wait impatiently. “No! You bush camping motherfucker!”

I text him again.

Me: Open the door.

This time, there’s movement, and a few seconds later, the screen door opens slowly, letting out a creak that could wake the dead.

“Blake?” Jacob whispers.

“Shh!” I hiss, coming up the steps and pushing my way inside. “Shut the door!” I order, and though he raises his brows at me for the barked command, he does it.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “Aren’t you and Zo supposed to be staying apart until after court?”

“Yeah, but . . .” I can’t explain it—especially not to him, since I barely understand it myself. “I need to see her.”

Jacob looks over his shoulder toward Zoey’s bedroom. “You know this is against everything she believes. You’re asking for the bad luck gods to strike you down with lightning.”

“I’m not her grandfather,” I tell him gently, knowing he lost the man too.

He smirks, but there’s a haunted look in his eyes he’s trying to cover. “That was a test to see how much she’s told you. See if you know her history.”

“I do. Just as importantly, I’d like to think I know her future. If you’ll let me by and she doesn’t freak out. I brought a coaster so she can touch wood for luck.”

I reach in my back pocket and hold up one of the new coasters I bought for my living room to show him.

“You brought a coaster?” he says, trying to be quiet while he laughs. It’s not working.

“Shh! Yeah, I brought a coaster. That’s not weird. It helps Zo’s nerves if she can touch wood.”

“Oh, I bet. On that note,” he says, grabbing his phone from the coffee table, “I’m going to Angelo’s to spend the night.”

“Thanks, man.” I offer a hand, which he shakes firmly.

“I’m going to make a production of it as cover. Then the only thing people will be talking about is little old hellion me. Not Zoey, for a change. But you need to be gone well before sunrise,” he warns. “Thelma and Louise get started on coffee around six, and by eight, they’ll have added a ‘wee dash of warmth’ to it.” He tips an imaginary bottle into his hand and then upends it, mimicking one for the cup and one for the gut. “Whisky.”

“I got the hint. Thanks for the tip.”

“Ready?” he asks, shooting me two thumbs up.

Before I can answer, he stomps to the front door and pushes the screen open so it creaks loudly, then slams the wood door closed behind him. Outside, I hear him yell, “Angelo, I’m gonna whip your skinny ass, man. You left me alone in the Steamy Swamp while running off like a fucking newb for what? To go fishing for a purple SMG!”

He keeps shouting as he gets further away, and I hear someone else grumpily tell him, “Jacob, shut the hell up!”

I smile because his plan seems to have worked. Maybe a little too well because I hear footsteps behind me. I whirl just in time to see Zoey’s face go from ‘I’m going to murder that boy’ to ‘what the hell’ to ‘oh!’

“Blake?” She rubs at her eyes disbelievingly and then realizes what she has on. More importantly, what she doesn’t have on . . . pants. Her sleep shirt barely reaches the tops of her thighs and her feet are covered in slouchy socks.

No ice-cold toes, I think, even though I’d happily warm her up from head to toe right now. Fuck, I’ve missed her. Texting here and there through Jacob hasn’t been nearly enough.