Kiss Me Goodnight
Authors: Michele Zurlo
Cover
Title Page
Kiss Me Goodnight
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Michele Zurlo
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Omnific Publishing
Los Angeles
Copyright Information
Kiss Me Goodnight, Copyright © 2014 by Michele Zurlo
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
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Omnific Publishing
1901 Avenue of the Stars, 2nd Floor
Los Angeles, California 90067
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First Omnific eBook edition, March 2014
First Omnific trade paperback edition, March 2014
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
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Zurlo, Michele.
Kiss Me Goodnight / Michele Zurlo – 1st ed
ISBN: 978-1-623421-00-7
1. Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Detroit—Fiction. 3. OCD—Fiction. 4. Childhood Trauma—Fiction. I. Title
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Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw
Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna
Chapter One
M
Y
N
AME
I
S
L
ACEY
H
ALLEM
, and it’s been sixty-seven minutes since my last lie. I’m not a pathological liar, though I do derive pleasure from the act. Usually. My lies aren’t intentionally mean, and I don’t often go for small ones. Case in point: the lie I told sixty-eight minutes ago? Now I’m paying the price. Or reaping the rewards—however you want to look at it.
Why did I lie? I have no idea. Sometimes I open my mouth and the strangest stories pour forth. I was standing in line at Jimmy John’s, my stomach doing the tango with my intestines because I hadn’t set my alarm, and breakfast had been the casualty. I just wanted to order my sub and wolf it down. The strip mall housing the restaurant was near the Troy, Michigan, office where I work, which is not all that far from Detroit, and it would have taken more time and effort to drive there, so I walked. April finally seemed to be bowing down to the idea of spring, so it was good weather for a walk.
The nice boy behind the counter handed over my sub, and I promptly unwrapped it, taking a huge bite. As I closed my eyes to savor the ecstasy of vegetables, meat, and cheese product, I realized I had left my purse at work.
Instead of owning up to my mistake, I felt around for my missing bag. Not finding it (because it was still in my desk drawer in my office), I looked down in surprise. While I’m not an actress, I am a consummate liar. I’m not proud of that, but finding myself in the zone where my head buzzes with excitement and my better sense is nowhere to be found, I said, “My purse is gone.”
The boy, who looked old enough to have had this job for all of a week, blinked at me. “Gone?”
Frantic now, I looked around. When I commit to something, I go all the way. “Gone. Did the strap break?”
Other people in line began to look for my purse.
I kept going, knowing I was seconds from selling this whopper. “My car keys are in there. My house keys. My diaphragm! I need that!”
I neither needed nor had a diaphragm. My love life is as dry as a desert riverbed, and for good reason, but I’ll get to that later.
Putting the now-bitten sandwich back on the counter, I retraced my steps toward the door. “I came in, got in line. Did I have it?”
“Maybe you left it in your car?” The man in line behind me wore a hopeful expression. He eyed my sandwich hungrily.
I widened my eyes as huge as they could go. “Then my keys are locked in there too!”
A woman who looked like she’d recently escaped the clutches of a gaggle of children shook her head in commiseration. Frizzled strands of hair hung from her upswept hairdo, and smudged fingerprints in a variety of bright colors stained her skirt and the lower reaches of her shirt. “Go check, dear.”
Another woman asked, “Do you have one of those satellite services that unlocks your car?”
I didn’t bother to answer. I might have people who work for me, but that doesn’t mean I make serious money. The company I work for is poorly run, and they have trouble keeping people who know how to do anything. I should’ve abandoned ship months ago. But I’m serious when I say I see my commitments through.
I ran out the door and over to a nearby car, hoping to God it didn’t belong to anybody inside. Cupping my hands to combat the glare of the noontime sun, I pressed my face to the window. Nothing.
Returning to the restaurant, I met the gaze of the boy behind the counter and shook my head miserably. The best kind of lie is one I don’t have to tell. I let him and everyone else in the restaurant fill in the blanks however they wanted. By this time, he’d informed the manager, who had my sandwich in hand. “Miss, you go ahead and eat this, and we’ll call the police.”
Shit.
The police. I did not want them involved. They have a way of ferreting out the truth. I can stick with a lie as long as nobody challenges me. But I took the sandwich. After all, what else were they going to do with it?
I nodded bravely. “No tow truck, though. I have another set of keys at home.” I washed my palm down the front of my face. “I need coffee.”
The fingerprint-covered woman turned out to be an elementary-school teacher. She explained this as she produced a stack of gift cards for the coffee place at the other end of the strip mall and handed me one. “It’s on me. Here’s hoping your day gets better.”
I’d scarcely tucked it into my pocket (again, no purse) before the police showed up, and within a matter of minutes, I had filed a report. I refused to say the purse had been stolen, and I didn’t provide any kind of description of a culprit. Similarly, nobody in the restaurant had seen anything untoward (because nothing had happened). I wasn’t holding my breath for a call saying they’d recovered my belongings.
Afterward, I headed to the coffee shop. I could have used more than caffeine, but I figured I’d used up my daily allotment of vice. Spreading out my sandwich and coffee, I reflected on the fact that leaving my purse in my office had led to the cancellation of my credit cards. The paperwork hassle was not worth a free lunch. Why did I keep doing this to myself?
And that’s not the only sort of thing I do. Also on my list of crap that makes my life harder: every serious relationship I’ve been in has involved a married man. I started young, meeting my first love when I was seventeen. He was eighteen, and he’d been married for three months. It was a mistake, he told me. I was his one true love—you get the picture. In my youthful naiveté, I bought the whole story.
The next two guys weren’t as open about their marriages. I found out they were otherwise involved only after falling head over feet for them. I was a married-man magnet. It didn’t help that I lied too. Not about being married, but still…What kind of stones could I throw at another liar?
So, I’ve done the logical, sane thing. I’ve stopped dating. If I can only find love and magic with a married man, I’ll stop looking for it. In the meantime, I’ve collected quite an array of battery-powered boyfriends. Because listening to music is my favorite escape, I’ve named them after lead singers in various bands. My favorites are Jared (Leto, 30 Seconds to Mars), Simon (LeBon—needs no explanation), and Davey (Havok, AFI—that’s A Fire Inside, in case you didn’t know). I have a severe crush on AFI. I’ve named toys after every member in the band, but Davey is definitely my all-time favorite. He lights all sorts of fires inside me.
So, it didn’t surprise me that as I got my iced latte and sat down in the coffee shop, my eyes were drawn to a particular man who looked to be in his mid-twenties, waiting just outside the door. His outfit straddled the border between punk and goth: battered jeans and a well-washed AFI shirt. (Bonus for him, I swooned at the shirt, never mind that it looked incredible on the man in it.)
A chain linked his wallet to his belt, and it swooped down to the middle of his thigh, drawing my attention to his legs. Mr. Hotness wasn’t exceptionally tall or anything. I’d say maybe five-eleven, although measurement estimation is not my thing. I work well with hard data, not suppositions, and I’m rather on the vertically challenged side, so up is up, damn it. His black leather boots seemed to add a few inches. I’d recognize vintage Doc Marten’s anywhere, though I personally no longer dressed like a kid rebelling against my parents. My mom had been too understanding—even with my lying. There’d been nothing to protest.
The place was packed, not that it took much to fill it up. Like me, others had picked up Jimmy John’s from down the way and brought it over to eat while they sipped coffee. The only remaining open seats were near me, and I sat at the corner of a long table, which could seat maybe twelve. Remember, my estimation skills stalled in second grade. It could’ve held eight, and I wouldn’t know differently until I tried to seat the ninth person. The coffee shop might let us bring food from other places inside, but their cramped and limited seating clearly said they didn’t want us getting comfortable and staying long.
No matter. I didn’t have much time to loiter. I’d already stretched the limits of my twenty-minute lunch break. The owner of my company was in the hospital, lingering after a massive heart attack. His son was in town, and the current rumor had him downsizing the company in order to sell it. I really needed to reassess my loyalty. If I got fired today, I had money put aside, but my résumé wasn’t ready to go, and I hadn’t even begun to think about looking for another job.
Mr. Hotness held the door open for a tween boy, who ducked under his arm and squeezed between him and the door. The kid was one or two growth spurts away from being the same height, and he forced Mr. Hotness—probably his dad—to dance to the outside. I laughed at the way he shoved him out of the way to enter first. I probably looked like an idiot, sitting alone and chuckling out loud. Of course, I wasn’t all that alone. The woman sitting next to me shot a weird look over, obviously worrying about my mental health.