Don't Bet On It (6 page)

“Does that also mean…?”

I realized I had not calculated the ramifications of winning that sure bet. Our first gambles had been about trying to get him out of my hair. Right now, I kinda half-way wanted him
in
my hair. “No more wagers,” I tried to look demure, “but we can still share a meal.” It took me a few seconds to think of the right venue to learn about the real man behind the person I'd been out with three times. “And since I won our final wager, our meal will be tomorrow evening… at
your
place.”

“My place?” He looked borderline frantic, like he'd need a full week and a team of housecleaners to straighten up the joint. Then his panic appeared to subside a bit, so I figured he'd just planned to toss everything into a spare room. “Are you planning to bring your red queen?”

“You can bet on it.”

Brett looked like he was trying not to smile as we got up from the table and walked outside. I took another look at the Italian restaurant's exterior and hoped I could visit it again someday — maybe with him.

We didn't talk much on the way home. He was probably thinking about the bizarre see-saw of emotions during and after our dinner — I know I was. I was also gratified we had salvaged it… would've been horrible to end things with my hostile, hurtful words.

When he dropped me off, he walked me to my door and kissed my hand like a perfect gentleman. Though I'd briefly considered inviting him inside, I knew I couldn't — too soon. And even though I had steeled myself not to — and more or less promised Joan I wouldn't — I rose up on my toes and kissed his stubbled cheek, then hurried inside and shut the door.

Through the window I watched
Brett
's long legs stride toward his truck — he shook his head the whole way.

Thursday, about 6 p.m.

“You voluntarily
kissed
the killer who's unhurriedly setting you up for the final bloody chainsaw massacre?” Since Joan went through that sentence only twice, I guessed I was slowly winning her over. However, I did not discuss with her any of
Brett
's revelations about military deployments or his potential interest in my writing.

Puzzled why my friend had moved so swiftly from vampires to chainsaws, I didn't ask. It didn't really matter — I was going to
Brett Hardy's
house for supper regardless of Joan's vivid imagination and vigorous foot-stamping protests.

“And next you're willingly walking into his secret lair, where he hides his saw blades, nasty alcohol jars, and hundreds of chopped up body parts — among other gruesome stuff too disgusting to mention.” Then she pointed to the cabinet beneath her television. “But I have the DVD if you want to see it.”

“No thanks, I'm about to eat.” It struck me that between Joan and myself, I was actually the crazier one. Why else would I keep sounding her out about my love life? Knowing in advance that she'd screech and stamp and find a dark comparison to some grisly death merchant… why should I be surprised?

“So you're really going through with this, Chloe?” Joan didn't wait for a reply. “You do know that once you kiss your future killer, it makes him especially obsessed with your murder… so it will be unbelievably gruesome and horrible.”

“No, I didn't realize my smooches had such power over assassins. And to think I only kissed his cheek.” She deserved my sarcasm even though she didn't seem to comprehend it as such. “Imagine if I'd given him some tongue.”

“Oh stop, you're going to make me cry. I'm trying to reason with my best friend before she walks into the house of death, and you're ridiculing me.”

So she did get the sarcasm after all. “I'm sorry, Joan. I'm just exhausted by all your dire predictions. This guy's been a perfect gentleman.”

“Including when he was nibbling your entire arm in a public restaurant?”

“Yes, even that. Despite being a bit peculiar, it was tastefully done…”

“And you're making fun of me again.”

“That one was not intentional. I only meant
Brett
has been the soul of chivalry so far, and I have no reason to expect anything less at his house tonight.”

“Don't these words have meaning to you any more?” Joan held up fingers to visually enumerate four dire components: “You're going to be locked inside the spooky house of a crazy man you don't even know…”

“I doubt it's spooky, the door will remain unlocked, he's not crazy… just unusual, and I already do know him. Case closed.”

“That's exactly what the coroner will say around midnight.”

“Don't bet on it, Joan.”

Before I departed, she finally gave me the password to her terribly flawed laptop.

****

Later that evening

For our fourth interaction, which in many ways was our first actual
date
, I decided to dress to impress him. To show off my legs, I wore a slim black skirt just above the knee and a pair of slides with nearly three-inch heels. Up top, I had a sleeveless shell in subdued magenta over a tight spaghetti strap bodice — in contrasting color — and my most advantageous brassiere. In other words, after three outings with low key wardrobe, I was finally going for effect.

Good thing
Brett
had provided a hand-drawn map, because his was an area of Verdeville I'd spent very little time in. It was through the old retail district southeast of downtown, which had lost almost all its business to the nearly revitalized downtown and the much newer hubs near our three interstate exits. The map also explained, finally, why
Brett
had been jogging so near that old electronics store — his neighborhood was less than half a mile west of there.

Brett's house was nothing special and certainly not spooky. Much like his truck, the dwelling showed age, dents, and mileage. Had a nice deep porch on two sides… numerous tall shady trees on what looked like about an acre. That metal roof would resonate nicely in a light rainfall.

I'd been curious about his culinary skills and wondered if we'd end up with a frozen entrée or something from a burger joint.

No point in mentioning that Brett's clothing was nearly identical to everything he'd worn before. “Come on in.” He met me at the door with wooden spoon in hand and a harried look on his face. “These instructions are intensely flawed and might even be designed for an alternate universe.”

Entering, I couldn't restrain my astonished chuckle as I saw pouches, cans, pans, skillets, and numerous other aspects of the kitchen in wild disarray. “What are you making, a state dinner?”

“It's alleged to be a simple single skillet meal, but something's gone terribly wrong.” He waved the spoon toward the pouch. “I'm only supposed to stir it occasionally for ten minutes, but I've been whacking this mess for at least fifteen and it's still not done.”

Moving closer, I surveyed the contents of his skillet. Seemed to be mainly pasta and shrimp, with an indiscernible pale sauce and scattered green veggie fragments. “So what are all these other things for?” I nodded toward the counter.

“When it looked like the pouch mess was a goner, I figured I might make Sloppy Joes instead.”

My appreciative smile was to indicate either would be fine with me.

“But after I'd already thawed the stinking meat I realized I was out of buns.”

Laughed out loud… I couldn't help it. “Sorry,
Brett,
I'm just surprised to find somebody who's klutzier in the kitchen than I am.” I extracted the spoon from his anxious grip. “Let me tend the skillet and you wrap that hamburger meat back up.”

He looked skeptical for an instant, then relieved.

I was quite surprised that the über-confident jogger man, with his calculated wagers and elaborate bribes, could be such a helpless goof near a stovetop. It was also quite touching that he was trying so hard to impress me. I tasted one of the pasta pieces, scanned the directions on the pouch, and set a different heat level on the burner. “Have you got a cover for this skillet?”

“Probably… somewhere.” He pointed toward a low cabinet adjacent the stove.

I had to bend way over to scrutinize the bottom cupboard's dark contents. “Here's one that ought to work.” When I held it up and looked over my shoulder, I saw he was assessing my legs and hindquarters… and he didn't bother turning away. I let him look.

After covering the skillet, I checked the stove's clock and asked what else I could help with.

Brett
had already put the wrapped meat back in his freezer and was evidently struggling with a decision on the opened can of Sloppy Joe mix.

As a teacher, I have a third eye which can detect cheats, fibs, and other insincerity, and I focused that scrutiny on
Brett.
It was important to discern whether he was playacting in any way whatsoever, or if he really was that ungrounded while entertaining a date in his home. His cool, calculated cockiness outside the electronics store and inside the pizza and barbecue places was in dramatic contrast to the man I finally met during our final few minutes at the Italian place… who was now struggling in his kitchen with skillets, cans, and pouches.

My expert analysis: he was genuine. With more facets that I had imagined possible in the calculating Mr. Wager,
Brett
currently manifested a persona which somewhat resembled a gawky teenager trying to impress his pretty date. It gratified me to play that role in his awkwardness. It certainly made him a lot more human… and considerably warmer.

I retested the pasta, stirred a bit, and recovered it. “About ninety-eight more seconds, I'd guess.”

My number evidently went over his head as he scowled at the pouch before tossing it into the trash. “False advertising.”

In an upper cabinet, I found a plastic container with a secure lid and poured the Sloppy Joe mix inside. “This should be good for several days in the fridge.”

He took the container rather absent-mindedly. “Uh, by the way, I didn't get a chance to tell you coming in… but you look nice tonight. Real nice.”

“Well, thank you.” I kissed his cheek and pointed to the fridge.

“Oh… right.” He'd already forgotten about refrigerating the food.

Within fifteen minutes we were eating the salvaged meal. The pasta turned out okay and the shrimp was fine — though the green veggie fragments were not worth mentioning. Overall, an enjoyable meal, despite
Brett
's initial fractiousness. All he offered to drink was bottled beer or fruit juice, so I chose brew to accompany our shrimp.

After
Brett
saw things were working out after all, he also relaxed. The main course completed, we sat on a two-seater wooden swing at the back end of his side porch and watched dozens of martins swooping about for their dinners.

“You feel like watching a movie?” He pointed inside, so I knew he meant a DVD.

Figuring he'd own mainly action flicks, I declined. “It's so peaceful out here. I'd rather watch the last few moments of daylight.” Indeed, there weren't many minutes left, as it was already past eight and in early May it would be dark quickly.

“Well, scooch over a bit closer, so we don't get a chill.”
Brett
smiled as he reached out a long, firm arm and hugged me into his side. Our swing barely moved.

That was a lot better than watching a shoot-em-up DVD with chase scenes and car crashes. I think I even started purring.

After a long silence and without any prompt, he said softly, “You had asked about my work. I'm supposed to be part time, but really work full time running a small family business.”

“Local?”

“Very much so. Also quite limited, so it hasn't really had much chance to grow.”

“What kind of growth?”

“I want to see it expand to reach more people with greater variety. We're just outside of town, but there are lots of residential areas out that way — northeast, along Highway 141. We should be drawing more of those folks to the Co-op than just farmers…”

“You run the Co-op?” It was a major outlet for feed, seed, and fertilizer — among many other lines — in the northeast quadrant of both city and county.

“Well, me and my dad right now, but he wants to retire soon. Once I get my MBA and hopefully learn more about effective marketing, I want to add to our hardware line and maybe even have a mini-mart attached so we can catch the people on that end of town who need grocery staples but don't want to drive all the way into Verdeville.”

“That's a great idea.”

“My granddad bought the Co-op shortly after World War Two and it's stayed in the family. I'd like to keep it healthy and pass it along even stronger.”
Brett
shifted his shoulder a bit, so he must've developed a kink.

I snuggled back into him like he was a muscular cushion. It was too dark to see the martins anymore, but I figured they'd had their fill. I was feeling pretty mellow but made the mistake of glancing at his watch.
Yikes… school night!
“Gosh, I have to get moving… if I fall asleep in class, those second graders will tie me to a stake.”

Brett
hugged me tightly before drawing his long arm away and slowly standing. Then he stretched and groaned. “Yeah, I've got classes in Nashville tomorrow, too.” Then he extended his hand to help me up from the swing.