Drop Dead Gorgeous

She looks around our team, giving assignments based on our specialty knowledge and more general education. “But what I’m worried about are Serial Killer Stories and Reality Star Survivors. Anybody read up on Jack the Ripper lately? Or watched The Bachelorette?” Heather nibbles on her thumb and says hopefully, “Maybe the reality show topic will be about home DIY shows?”

Heather’s an HGTV addict and has renovated her entire house, so if that’s the case, we’re solid.

“I doubt House Hunters couples count as reality stars,” Trey says doubtfully, his lips twisted.

Slowly, a tiny idea tries to take shape deep in my mind. Or maybe it’s in my pants, but it’s a good one either way. “I have an idea. Can we call in a sleeper agent?”

“A ringer?” Heather asks. “You know a guy?”

I give a noncommittal shrug, not wanting to tip my hand. “Maybe. Is that allowed?”

Heather closes her eyes, and I can see her eyeballs twitching left to right behind her lids as though she’s reading the rulebook from memory. Trivia night is serious business. “Yes,” she says, holding up a finger, “but only if we don’t max out on team members. Someone will have to ‘have an emergency’ and leave so that we can bring in a replacement player.”

She doesn’t dare do air quotes, lest she be seen strategizing for a ringer, but her eyebrows lift and lower twice in rapid succession.

Shawn, who’s really our weakest member, raises his hand. “I volunteer as tribute if you’ve got someone, Blake?”

The whole team’s eyes land on me, and though I know this might have bad idea written all over it, I also know I’m absolutely going to do it. It might be the only way I can see Zoey again.

“I’m on it. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Fuck yeah,” Trey says, even though his forehead’s lined with worry. “Strat-e-gery.”

“Goddammit, Trey, you know I hate made-up words,” Heather says, distracted as I make my quick exit. I just hope that I’m right.

I step into the hallway near the bathrooms to get away from the noise of The Estates arguing that Edgar Allen Poe was the most influential American poet of the 1800s.

I hear a professor correcting Cole, “Just because the only literature you know by name is The Raven doesn’t make it the most influential. If we went by that standard, the most influential magazine of the 20th century would be Playboy.”

The academics laugh, and I have to admit it’s a good zinger. I sigh, hoping I know what I’m getting myself into . . . and what I’m getting Zoey into too.

I press her contact and the rings sound a bit like Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart, nerves and anxiety louder in my head than they should.

“Hello?” Zoey answers.

“Hey, Zoey, I have a bit of an emergency here and I’m wondering if you might be able to help me?” I spit out nervously. God, this could so blow up in my face.

Zoey winds up in an instant, her voice hard and worried. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Shit.

Her first thought is that there’s been a catastrophe of her doing, which was not my intention, but . . .

“Yeah, I’m fine. Can you just come? I’ll send you the address.”

“You promise this isn’t a booty call again?” she asks a bit more warily. “If I get there and your dick is out, I will scream and douse you with pepper spray.”

I chuckle, although my dick does do a little wakeup twinge in my pants. “No, you won’t.”

She sighs, and I know I’ve got her. “No, I probably won’t. Okay, I’m coming.”

“Thanks.” I hang up before she asks any more questions or changes her mind and text her the street address of McKelly’s Tavern.

I can’t help but smile as I return to the table.

Zoey’s coming. She’s coming here.

Not a date, she’s made herself clear on that.

But a chance to see her, and hopefully, get her to help us kick Cole’s ass.

“She gonna show?” Trey asks, leaning over to whisper-yell in my ear.

I nod, watching the door with one eye and my watch with the other. “Strat-e-gery.” Mostly, I’m talking about the strategic moves I need to make with Zoey, but I’ll admit that if she can help us tonight, I certainly won’t be mad at a win.

“Yep,” Trey confirms. “But it had better pay off because Shawn already bailed.”

“I know. She’ll show,” I promise, hoping I’m right.

Ten minutes later, Meg-a-demia is celebrating their win with toasts and clinking glasses while Cole’s Estate groupies are pouting and calling for a rematch. “You were outsmarted, fair and square. Sorry your daddy couldn’t buy this win for you, bucko,” Professor Adams tells Cole, not sounding or looking sorry in the slightest as he smiles and twirls his mustache.

“Next week, you’re going down. But the night’s not over.” Cole calls back as he turns his sights to Heather, who’s ready for him, standing with a hip cocked out to the side and her head tilted in that ‘I’m your Huckleberry’ way.