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A discussion about my sex life near a dead body. Not that unusual to me. “Thanks, Holly.”
I hang up and flop back against my pillow to stare at the ceiling. I start to replay last night, but Holly is going to grill me, forcing me to spill every glorious-slash-dangerous detail, so I might as well wait for her insight.
Fuck knows, I don’t have a clue beyond avoid connections, and while my brain tells me that’s still mission priority, there are other parts of me arguing that fact and making some headway. I set my phone back on the nightstand, pressing my fingertips to the wood for a long moment.
Don’t let him get hurt.
I get up and shower, pulling on work scrubs and smoothing my hair back into its usual bun, making sure the baby hairs aren’t sticking up like crazy. Next, I brew a pot of coffee, leaving half for Jacob so that he can caffeinate when he gets up for school. He had a late class last night and an early class this morning—his not-favorite combination.
But hopefully, he’ll learn from his mistake and register for classes sooner next semester so he can get a better schedule and not have to take the leftover openings. A pseudo-guardian can dream.
Getting to the funeral home, I let myself into the back door, knowing my way around from experience. A few times I’ve helped Holly with transport, just to be nice and to get her out of my morgue.
Opening the door to the prep room, I find Holly wearing a large, clear plastic apron and black gloves. It’s not that different from what I wear for an autopsy, except her stuff is washable instead of disposable.
Who I assume to be Mrs. Cochran is on the table in front of her with curls half-done and ready to be teased into a hairstyle based on the picture propped up on Holly’s table.
“Hey, girl,” Holly says, not even looking up from her work.
“Hi,” I tell Holly. “Hello, Mrs. Cochran,” I tell the body. “Sorry to hear about . . . well, you know, your dying and all.”
No worries, dear. I had a good, long life. Could you tell this one to make sure my lipstick isn’t too red? She said something about making me look lively and I’m afraid that’s code for ‘harlot’.
I smile to myself and ask Holly, “What’re you planning for the makeup?”
Holly tilts her head, looking from Mrs. Cochran’s pale face to the picture. “Probably a rosy pink.”
“That’d look nice,” I agree, thankful I don’t have to share my imaginary conversation about too-red lips.
“So . . .” Holly prompts. Guess small talk’s over.
“Yeah, I told you, I saw Blake again last night.” I plop onto Holly’s stool, putting my feet on the bar around the bottom and resting my forearms on her work table. There’s nothing sterile, just makeup, hairspray, and dry shampoo, which I pick up to stare at as if it’s some new genius invention, not something I own three cans of myself. “Wait, did I tell you I saw him before too?”
Holly releases a long, slow breath of ‘I’m gonna kill you, bitch’ and sets her teasing brush down. “You did not. Start at the beginning and catch me all up . . . from when I forced you to go for drinks with this guy and Bubba fucked everything up.”
I need to do this, even though I want to keep it all to myself like a greedy little whore. Memories I can take out and examine when I’m old and gray like Mrs. Cochran after a lifetime of being alone.
Poor dear, Mrs. Cochran tsks.
But if I don’t tell Holly everything, she might not understand just how dangerous the situation has become and give me the advice I need. I steel my spine and tell her everything . . . from the morning texts to the emergency call for trivia help, the encouragement without pressure to come inside at his office, our evening of Scooby Gang research, and finishing with our kitchen island activities.
As embarrassing as it is, I even tell her that part.
“Hols, I never even got my shoes off, much less my pants, and with two fingers, this man rocked my world in ways I’ll be dreaming about forever.”
My eyes lose focus as my mind disappears back to last night and how good Blake made me feel. Yes, with his hand and mouth, but also with his mind, his words.
“Fuck, I need my world rocked like that.” Holly sighs wistfully. Meeting my eyes, she smiles. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
“I know, and that’s the problem! I never have a hard time keeping everyone at bay. Except for you, of course,” I accuse with a pointed finger and eye roll. “But you’re a crazy bitch.”
“Of course.” She preens as though that were high praise.
