Drop Dead Gorgeous

“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.”