Drop Dead Gorgeous

“Still too soon,” she deadpans about the death joke. “What do we do? I don’t want to let you go. Not yet.”

That’s enough to reassure me. “Get comfy and lie down in bed,” I tell Zoey.

“Ooh, what are we doing?”

She sounds excited, and I almost change my mind, but more than phone sex, Zoey needs—hell, I need—something normal, something us.

“I’m going to read you to sleep, Miss Walker.”

* * *

Me: Hey, Jacob. Can you tell Zoey something for me?

Jacob: Sure. Keep it clean though. She’s my sister-slash-mom and I don’t need to hear your dirty porn talk.

Me: In the U.K., there was a seal couple, Sija and Babyface. They had too many babies (fire emoji . . . eggplant emoji . . . peach emoji) so they had to be separated. But their keepers didn’t want them to be sad (like me), so they set up iPads so the seals could keep in touch. It’s called . . . wait for it . . . SealTime. I miss you, Miss Walker.

Jacob: Dude, do you really want me to read her all that? Can’t you just send a dick pic or something? I won’t look. Okay, I will. But I won’t laugh. Okay, I’ll do that too. But damn . . . that’s like a whole book.

Me: Just do it. She’ll like it.

Jacob: If you say so.

My phone is quiet for a long two minutes while I stare at it, hoping Zoey likes the trivia tidbit and that it makes her feel how much I miss her. Just when I’m getting impatient, my phone finally dings again.

Jacob: Wtf, man. You made her cry! Seals make her cry? I’ll get you for this, asshole.

Me: Sorry, not sorry.

Jacob: Whatever. Do seals really have . . . eggplant emoji . . . and . . . peach emoji?

Me: No. But it was better than saying they were fucking like rabbits.

Jacob: Shit. You did send me dirty talk. Worse that it was about cute, little, slippery seals.

Me: Good night, Jacob.

Jacob: Night, man. She’s smiling again, so I think she liked it, but you two are weird as shit.

I send him a thumbs-up and set my phone down on the nightstand. This is torture. I haven’t read a single page in my book since I read with Zoey two nights ago. And the wood figurine I’ve started to think of as ‘hers’ is lying on the pillow too. It’s no substitute for Zoey, but it’s a sweet reminder.

And now, every time I see wood, I get hard because it makes me think of Zoey.

Fuck, I miss her, and this week can’t be over fast enough.

* * *

“Where’s our ringer?” Heather asks on Saturday at trivia night.

The pain must show on my face, because her eyes, which are topped with red glitter shadow to match her talon red nails tonight, narrow as her whole face pinches in. “Oh, fuck, did you mess it up already? I liked her.”

Cole must overhear Heather’s accusation because he yells, “Can I get Zoey’s number then? Maybe she’d feel up to wiping the floor with you. Trivia-wise, I mean.”

He absolutely doesn’t mean with trivia, though I think he’d enjoy making us lose by any means possible. But his eyes never leave Heather as he asks for another woman’s phone number, and I think jealousy is his true goal.

“We’re fine,” I tell them both. “We’ve got work stuff going on.” That’s as much detail as I can give considering it's a pending case.

“Mmm-hmm,” Heather hums, her brows going up in disbelief. “Work stuff,” she echoes with the addition of finger quotes. “That’s what I tell guys when I’m giving them the brushoff.”

Her mention of other guys seems to have the effect Cole was looking for with her because his face goes stone-still and he growls, “What other guys?”

I wish they’d get their shit straight and just be together already. At least they could be. I can’t even see Zoey for another few days, and they’re over here fighting what they both so obviously want. Which is exactly what I tell them two hours later after a few too many celebratory rounds of beer that dissolve my filter into tattered nothingness.

“You two should fuck already. Quit dancing around it when we all know you want each other.” I point back and forth from Heather to Cole with my beer glass in hand.

“Shut up, man.” Trey shushes me, punching my shoulder too hard, which he shouldn’t do because he’s sober enough to know his own strength.

Plus, he spilled my beer.

“Hey! We’re all thinking it,” I argue, looking around to the whole trivia group who are mostly smiling.

“Well, thanks for the game tonight, guys. Too bad we’ve got to be going,” Trey tells the table as he hoists me up.

“What? I don’t want to go home yet.” I try to push him off me, but I only succeed in stumbling over my own feet. “Zoey’s not there . . . hiccup . . . so why bother?” I slur.