Dinner With a Bad Boy (8 page)

Was it possible? Was Sue right? Had his glorious, in-your-face rebellion against Nazi-like parents actually been nothing more than normal adolescence? His father had been strict, yes, but abusive? Certainly not. And Dad's relentless demands, the endless life-is-hard lectures coupled with all those trips to Ivy League schools—had they truly been torture?

Mitch felt anxiety burn in his stomach as he got off his bike.

He winced at the teen mobiles parked in the lot. Everything from kiddy motorbikes to Daddy's cars clogged the blacktop. He even saw trigonometry homework crumpled on a dash.

Then he stepped into the bar and tasted his own doom. The entire memory of his teen years shattered as he crossed the threshold. Kids hung out here. Even the bar wasn't much of a bar. Beer on tap, of course, for the college set, but his "perilous biker bar" specialized in soda and nachos. The air wasn't even smoky as baby-faced boys talked dirty around pool tables.

He felt a shiver chill his spine as he walked slowly through the dark shack. From all around, spoiled rich kids pulled out their tough-boy acts while jealously admiring his leather jacket. And then, as if he weren't already miserable enough, the bartender hailed him.

"If you're looking for your kid," he said, "there's a back room down that corridor."

Mitch groaned. He couldn't help it. He remembered the back room. He'd strutted around for weeks once he'd been admitted into that "secret" hiding place for the truly tormented. He used to think even the cops didn't know about it.
Yeah right.

"No, thanks," Mitch muttered past the cold burn in his throat. "The kid I'm looking for isn't here." The childhood he'd expected wasn't here. And if his entire youth had been a mirage, then what did that mean about the man he'd become?

He glanced at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, startled to see that his image fit right in with the boys around the pool tables. His clothes might be more expensive, but the attitude and the look were all the same. Was it possible? Could Sue be right? Was he still stuck in his teenage rebellion?

He wandered back outside in a daze, pulling on his helmet and starting up his bike without conscious thought. But reality hit him even harder as he began to maneuver his cycle out of the lot. Again, out of habit, he turned toward his parents' home. The need to confront his parents pounded through his temples, giving him a first-class headache. But he couldn't do it yet. He didn't know what he'd say. Or what he'd see. How much of his childhood had been fabrication? Had he left home as a bold adventurer striking out on his own? Or in a childish fit of pique?

He looked down at his hands and realized he was shaking.

This was Sue's fault! Without her he never would have come here. Never would have seen the truth behind the memories. He didn't know if he hated or loved her for the revelation.

Opening up the throttle, he headed for the highway. Visiting the bar had been enough soul growth for one night. Now he needed his own bed so he could bury his head beneath the covers. Except half an hour later he admitted defeat. He'd long since lost feeling in his hands, and his sight was blurring, the lights of oncoming traffic smearing unrecognizably. Simple exhaustion sent him reeling to a seedy motel right off the freeway.

Twenty minutes later he dropped heavily, blissfully into sleep.

Nine hours later he was still in bed, shivering with fever, coughing his throat raw, and cursing his too-thin gloves along with the too-thin blanket and the too-lumpy bed. He'd caught the same flu that had taken out half his volleyball team.

Sunday came and went in a gray blur of misery.

All he remembered of Monday was calling in sick. Or dead. He wasn't sure which.

By Tuesday morning the lure of his own bed drew him back onto his bike. By nightfall he crossed his own doorstep. Somewhere, in the dim recesses of his bleary brain, he saw the blinking light on his answering machine. He even managed to hit the button just before falling onto his couch.

"You were right," came Sue's lyrical voice. "I quit. Call me. We can spend all of Sunday together."

He squinted awkwardly at his wall calendar. What day was it?

* * *

"My word, do you look pathetic or what?"

Mitch cracked an eye, only to shut it again. He'd had this dream a million times. Sue came in bearing cookies and ice cream and kissed away his pain. Except this time Sue was fully dressed and carried a bowl of yellow stuff, which she put in the microwave. Frankly, this fantasy didn't measure up.

"You know," continued his disgustingly nonsexual fantasy, "when you didn't call, I thought you were just being childish. Sulking or something. But when Mandy said you weren't in school, I began to wonder. Now I feel really bad about thinking all those mean things about you, because honestly, Mitch, you look half-dead."

"Yadda, yadda," he muttered. "Get to the good part."

His dream woman paused. "What?"

"The stripping-naked part." Then he cleared his throat and didn't pass out from the pain. He must be feeling better, he realized. Perhaps well enough to enjoy his fantasy for real. He opened his eyes, squinting against the light. Meanwhile, dream-Sue folded her arms and laughed. The musical sound rolled around his head, teasing away the pain.

"Well, I guess you aren't dead if you're still making passes."

He frowned. That didn't sound like any fantasy-Sue he'd create. Then his stomach rumbled—good and loud—as he smelled something strange and yet foodlike all the same.

"Feel up to some Chinese broth?" His stomach growled again, and she laughed. "I'll take that as a yes."

He didn't respond. Instead he began pushing himself upright as he fought to clear his fuddled mind. On the one hand, he didn't want to give up this Sue-fantasy, even if it ranked low on the spice meter. On the other hand, if she really stood next to him, then he definitely needed to wake up, because, sick or not, Sue and he were alone. He liked fantasies, but reality held a billion times more appeal. If only his head would stop spinning.

"Here you go." She gently settled down on the couch, her special ginger/floral scent focusing his thoughts as nothing else could.

"Sue?" he croaked. "For real?"

"For real, bad boy. Now take a bite." She lifted up a spoonful of... yellow pudding and green onions? "It's a Chinese thing. Chicken broth and steamed egg. Trust me. You'll like it."

He meant to turn away, planning on a big bowl of Wheaties, but his stomach wouldn't let him. It wanted food now. So he obediently opened his mouth. Moments later he lifted the bowl out of her hands and wolfed it down as if the yellow goo contained the elixir of life. And maybe it did. After all, God's handmaiden herself had served it to him.

"Sue?" he began again. He still couldn't quite believe she was here.

She arched an eyebrow at him. "You expecting somebody else?"

The food settled his stomach and soothed his throat, but his brain remained fuzzy. "Did I tell you to get naked?"

She grinned. "Yes, but I wouldn't want you to have a coronary just yet."

He set down his empty bowl, groaning as his head dropped into his hands. Sue was here. Alone in his apartment. And he hadn't the mental focus to seduce her.

"I've got a couple hours, Mitch, if you want me to stay."

His head jerked up painfully. "Stay," he croaked. Again she laughed, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the sound. It settled into his insides, putting everything in its proper place. God, he could sit and listen to her forever. It just felt
right.

"Fine by me," she answered. "We can watch TV or you can sleep—"

"Talk. We'll talk." The last thing he wanted to do was sleep through their precious time together. If God truly smiled upon him, no mothers, nieces, sisters, fathers, or bosses would dare interrupt this time. He dropped his head back against the couch, letting his eyes rest on her face. "You talk. I'll enjoy."

He didn't quite believe her blush. She literally glowed with beauty. "Okay," she said. "What should I talk about?"

"About how I'm right, and you're wrong." She had said that, hadn't she? On his answering machine? "Oh, yeah," he quickly added. "And how quickly I can get you in bed."

She shook her head even as she dropped a kiss onto his cheek. "Sorry. I don't sleep with the dead."

"Just keep talking. You're making me stronger by the second."

* * *

Su Ling did not want to be in line. She did not want to wade through the endless piles of red tape required to register late at the University of Illinois. She certainly didn't want to be standing in line, her feet going numb, while she waited to file more paperwork.

She wanted to be with Mitch. They'd talked for hours yesterday, sharing the silly intimate details of their lives and thoughts and hopes and fears until exhaustion finally claimed him. Even then she hadn't left, but sat on the floor watching him breathe, wondering at the strangeness of life that she would think naughty thoughts about an unshaven, tattooed, rebel wanna-be. That had been his last confession: the wild youth he hadn't really had and the fear that his life was built on a lie.

She hadn't known how to respond except to help him look at the truth. He loved teaching and was phenomenal at it. She, on the other hand, had no job, no career, and no idea what to do with her time. Meanwhile, her family had thrown a fit, and she'd had to endure endless lectures on reckless impulsiveness.

Mitch had laughed at that, obviously wanting to talk more, but losing the battle with exhaustion. His last suggestion had been to take a couple classes at the U of I while she figured a few things out. Then his eyelids had finally slipped down as he sank into much-needed sleep. In a supreme act of will, Su Ling had not joined him in his bed, curling up in his arms, but had gathered her things and left.

Now, a day later, he was at school while she stood in line at the registrar's office, counting the seconds until she finished with all this red tape. She'd already called in her mother to drive Mandy to volleyball. If this line took much longer, she wouldn't even get to see the match.

Then, praise God, it was her turn. Fifteen minutes later she slammed her briefcase shut and dashed to her car before careening down the road to Mandy's school.

She arrived in time to see a dismal score in the second game. Franklin was losing badly. Their serves went wild, their hits seemed erratic, and nowhere did she see Mandy. She did, however, see Mitch, looking like death warmed over as he croaked out encouragement from the coach's seat.

Where was Mandy? She wondered at first if her niece was hiding in the locker room. But as the match wore on to its depressing end, Su Ling realized Mandy wasn't even there. Seconds later she'd whipped out her cell phone, images of crumpled cars and mangled bodies flashing though her mind. It took her two tries to dial her home number, and when she finally pressed the phone to her ear she couldn't hear for all the noise in the gym. She thought her mother had answered, but when she spoke into the receiver, asking what had happened to Mandy, all she heard was agitated Chinese, spilling out in a flurry of nonsense.

"Ma Ma!" Su Ling interrupted, rushing toward the fire door so she could hear more clearly. "Is Mandy okay? Is she there?"

"Here, yes!" came her mother's clipped tones. "Okay, no. She is spoiled. Spoiled rotten. You must come home!"

Su Ling heard only two out of every three words, but she caught the gist of it. "I'll be there right away."

She was just heading out when Mitch caught up to her. "Sue! What happened? Is Mandy all right?"

She nodded, unable to resist pressing her hand to his pale cheek. "I think so. Ma Ma kept her home. What about you?"

"I'm fine," he obviously lied. "Can you wait while I finish with the girls? Then we'll go together."

She nodded, unable to resist, especially when he flashed her a seductive grin. He might be sick, but he still could tempt her into doing just about anything.

They made it to her home in record time. Su Ling didn't even realize the problem until too late. Perhaps her lack of foresight showed how much Mitch had soaked into the fabric of her life. In two weeks he had somehow blended seamlessly into her days. Then she pushed open the door to see Ma Ma calmly serving
another
blind date green tea on her living room sofa.

She groaned, everything suddenly becoming clear. "Ma Ma." She sighed, already guessing that her mother had manufactured a tragedy to get Su Ling home to meet another dragon man. "Why didn't you take Mandy to the volleyball game?"

Ma Ma looked up, her face pinched into a sour expression. "She did not finish her homework. 'B's! And a 'C'. You haven't been checking her homework. Why is he here?"

Su Ling almost did it. She almost said,
Mitch is here because I love him.
She hadn't even fully realized her feelings until the words nearly slipped past her teeth. Thank God she'd long since mastered choking back hasty words. Ma Ma would flip if she knew, not to mention sending Mitch—a.k.a. Mr. Independence—screaming for the door. So she sidestepped the issue. "Ma Ma, you remember Mitch Kurtz. He's Mandy's teacher and coach."

"Of course." Ma Ma was all smiles. "Mandy will not play volleyball anymore, Mr. Kurtz. Her grades are too poor. Thank you for coming." Then she turned her back on him as she smiled at the plastically perfect man sitting on the couch. "Su Ling, this is Mr. Tseng, a technician at the hospital. He is studying to be a doctor."