Swap Out (16 page)

“How can you honestly stand there and tell me that you don’t like Elvis?” I ask, playfully outraged, and Zoe levels a look at me as she leans against her kitchen counter.

“Um, because I don’t,” she says and shrugs, and I roll my eyes and set down the wooden spoon I’m stirring the spaghetti sauce with, then lower the heat on the burner.

We’re on day two of our Strange New World, and strange it is. We had one massive blow up at work this afternoon when I thoughtlessly put my hand on her hip in front of a realtor, and Zoe spent twenty minutes in the car loudly explaining that she wasn’t my anything and I had no right to touch her around other people. Yeah, that went over real well.

I didn’t say shit to her over the remainder of the day and when I tried to leave work tonight—without telling her goodbye—I didn’t even have my keys in the lock of my Stingray before she stopped me.

Cut to another massive screaming match that ended with her in tears, me breathing hard from yelling and beyond fucking frustrated with her inability to commit to an idea for any length of time past five minutes. Especially when it comes to us.

Because then it was all I’m sorry for getting upset about something so stupid and I swear I’ll do better, it’s just hard and new and weird for me and please, come over tonight, Luca, and let me make this up to you.

I told her no.

More tears, but these were the silent kind. My V8 screaming down the road as I drove away from her wasn’t.

But my stupid fucking car didn’t drive back to my apartment; it drove to her house and parked itself in her driveway. And my dipshit limbs carried me up her front walk until I was leaning against the railing of her porch: my back to the street, eyes on a red door, until a small hand laid on my arm. My jaw stayed locked as it slid up to my cheek, then a silk sleeve was draped around my neck and a soft little body that smells of white tea and ginger lotion was pressed against me, hugging me desperately.

I was still pissed as all hell, but she whispered something about trying to start over and if there’s one thing I believe in, it’s second chances. I think we’re on our twentieth at the rate we’ve been going, but I nodded and we went inside. And she must’ve known it was taking me a little longer to downshift back into my normal personality while I started on dinner because she…she kinda pulled out all the stops to get me back on track.

She gave me plenty of time to calm down before she started gently messing with me, grinning in triumph at each little smile she got me to show until she had me full out laughing. Only then did she let her anxiety shine, falling quiet as she stood next to me, then bit her lip. I barely heard her when she asked if I was still mad, and I rolled my eyes before hooking my arm around the back of her neck and kissing her, telling her not if she was going to stop being such a pain in the ass.

The little bit of apologetic making out that followed didn’t hurt either. But she put the brakes on that moving into the bedroom so now it’s onto being horrified at her shocking absence of cooking supplies while she giggles and peppers me with questions about my music preferences. And more than being stunned at her lack of having even a single pot holder, I’m aghast at her dislike for the king of rock and roll. That’s just…no.

“I’m going to prove to you that you like Elvis,” I tell her fiercely, and she snorts.

“Ooh,” she says and flares her eyes. “I’ve gone and done it now.”

“How the mighty will fall,” I mutter, pulling out my phone and bringing up YouTube. I find the song I’m looking for and when it starts to play, I set my phone down on her kitchen counter and slide my arm around her waist. Zoe just shakes her head with a smile, complying when I arrange our hands into the more intimate of waltz positions.

“‘Only You,’” she says as I start to slowly sway us from side to side, spinning her out and then twirling her back in. With a grin, she deadpans, “Boy, how I’ve been proved wrong.”

“Shut up and dance with me,” I say quietly, and she laughs before resting her temple to mine.

My hand on her lower back brings her in a little closer, her right hand perfectly cradled in my left, and I swear I have no fucking clue why we haven’t done this before. Makes me a First Class Moron. But some mistakes I
do
learn from, and this is going to be one of them. Roses and dinners and dancing? I can totally do this.
And
still manage to climb some kickass 5.12s on the weekends. I’d like to see anyone say I can’t because I’m the master of multi-tasking.

“You’re good at this,” she whispers a minute later, totally melting into me, and I mentally fist pump.

“It’s entirely possible I’ve been to a few military balls.”

She leans back, deviance in her eyes. “Still have your uniform?”

“Camo or dress blues?”

“Blues…”

“Maybe. Why?”

“Could be…fun,” she says, the last word seductive enough to pull a low growl out of my throat.

“Getting it right now,” I rush out and act like I’m going to run out the door, but Zoe giggles and tugs me back into her, smiling up at me.

We continue to slowly dance for the rest of the song, and she doesn’t even protest when I dip her at the end. She probably couldn’t even if she wanted to, she’s giggling so much.

And I’m totally reveling in it.

“Now after that,” I say and straighten us, “look me in the eye and tell me Elvis is not the king.”

“Here’s the deal,” she says, trying to make her voice serious and utterly failing to do so while she cups my cheeks in her hands. “Elvis is fine, he’s just not for me. And the only thing that comes to mind when I hear that song is
Hot Shots
.”

I gape at her. “With Charlie Sheen? The spoof on
Top Gun
?”

She nods with a laugh. “When they’re flying…”

“And he’s Superman!”

“And the dove gets stuck to his hand and he’s like…shaking it off,” she says, laughing, and I kiss her once before walking out of the kitchen and down the hallway to the bathroom so I can take a piss.

“That’s it!” I call out. “There’s no point in waiting anymore so pack your bags, we’re going to Vegas to get married.”

“Luca, that’s not funny,” she says, and I stop and dart back down the hallway, poking my head around the corner.

“Who says I’m joking?” I wink at her and then walk away, ignoring the mighty scowl that was on her face.

“Your phone’s ringing! It’s Scott!” she yells after me, and I roll my eyes.

“Answer it and if he’s not dead or dying, then tell him I’ll call him tomorrow.”

God, I am probably in so much trouble right now for that marriage comment, but I don’t care. She needs to lighten up when it comes to the idea of us together, and the only way I can think to get her used to it is to shove it right in her face. She’s a sink or swim kind of woman when it comes to everything else, so I’ll happily push her in the deep end and not think twice about it. It’s not as if I understand the whole toe-dipping mentality either. If you’re going to do something, then just fucking
do it
.

I head back into the kitchen to find her ready for battle, arms crossed and lips tightly pursed, and I mockingly glare at her just so she’ll spit it out. Works like a charm.

“Jokes about marriage aren’t funny because that’s
never
going to happen, I’m
not
staying pregnant and you’re subconsciously setting yourself up for disappointment.”

“Wow,” I say flatly, then shake my head to remove those words from my brain before I flip the ever living fuck out on her. One fight a day is plenty. “What did Scott want?”

“To know why you weren’t at home. And that’s all you have to say? Wow?”

“What is he doing at my apartment?” I mutter, mostly to myself, and Zoe throws her hands up in exasperation with a frustrated growl. “I know, right? He never comes over on weekdays unless he’s looking to get drunk or he’s buttering me up for something…”

“Don’t make jokes about marriage!” Zoe yells, and I arch an eyebrow at her.

Then my body stiffens and I clasp my hand over her mouth, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end because I think I just heard someone turn the knob on her front door.

We didn’t lock it when we came in…

I look to Zoe and when we both hear the door shut too quietly, her eyes widen in panic. Carefully, I lower her down so she’s sitting against the cabinets, keeping my hand over her mouth as I lay a finger against my lips. She nods and I let her go, taking off my dog tags and wrapping the chain around her hand, pressing the IDs into her palm. Her bottom lip trembles and I kiss it soothingly, then stand.

With a controlled speed that keeps my movements silent, I grab the knife I was cutting mushrooms and onions with for the sauce. It’s a five-inch blade that I wish was six, a sturdy wooden hilt half a kilogram overweight on the back end, but it’ll do the job.

Nobody is going to touch her.

Whoever had a death wish by coming into this house doesn’t know it nearly as well as I do. With my back to the wall and Zoe safely hidden to my left, the walking dead man is directly behind me on the other side of drywall and two inches of crown molding that are my pivot point. I pause and listen. There’s a slight squeak of a boot on her entryway hardwood, and I take the smallest peek possible. All I see is a gun.

I reset the knife in my palm, knowing what I have to do. It’s nothing I haven’t done before.

But I risk a glance at Zoe and mouth,
“Cover your ears.”
Just because I know what a dying man sounds like, it doesn’t mean that she should. She pulls up her knees and ducks her head against them, her palms flat over her ears and the overhead light glinting off the chain of my IDs, and I look forward.

One breath I can’t afford, then I turn and throw.

Silver slices through the air, my grunt from the effort followed by the sound of steel digging into wood, and when my eyes catch up they find empty space in front of me. They drop down to the man lying on his stomach, a grin on his face with the knife embedded in the door four feet above him and the barrel of a pistol aimed directly at my chest. He adjusts before I can blink, hitting me square in the face and I stumble back.

Zoe screams, shattering the silence ringing through the house, and I curse as he leaps to his feet with a carefree laugh.

“Goddammit, Scott!” I roar, wiping water off my face before charging and tackling him around his middle.

He grunts as I steal the breath out of him, knocking him into the knife handle protruding from the door. It wrenches a teeth-gritted growl from Scott’s throat, and he scrabbles for a grip on me, but I’m younger and faster. In three moves I’ve got him primed for a sleeper hold and just as I’ve got him locked into it, Zoe comes around the corner shouting something I can’t make out because I’m too focused on quickly making my absolute dick of a best friend temporarily unconscious.

His knees drop as he starts to falter and I squeeze with everything I have. And when he goes limp, I drop him on the floor and take a breath, then roll out my shoulders.

“Are you completely
insane
?” Zoe shrieks, and I bend and pick up Scott’s
illegal
, realistic looking water gun, shooting him in the face with it a few times for good measure.

“I should be asking you that. You’re the one who told the prick to come over and didn’t warn me.”

I’m halfway joking, but only halfway. That could’ve been…bad.

Her scowl tightens, then explodes into rage when she looks behind me.

“What the hell did you do to my door?”

“Um,” I mutter, then turn and look at the knife sticking out of it before smiling at Zoe. I ignore the sound of Scott groaning as he starts to wake up, then walk over to Zoe and take my dog tags that are dangling from her hand, draping them around my neck and dropping them into my shirt. She crosses her arms as I sweetly kiss her cheek, then sling an arm around her shoulders and lead her back towards the kitchen. “Nothing I’m not going to fix?”

*              *              *

“Here,” Zoe says, handing Scott two aspirin and a glass of water, and he pouts at her.

“Alcohol works so much better for recovering from sleeper holds…”

“I wouldn’t test her,” I warn with a grin, and he scoffs.

“What? It’s not like she can drink it,
if
she’s got it.”

Zoe whips around and I shrink back, holding my hands up in surrender.

She turns her penetrating gaze back to Scott, and he chuckles.

“Yeah, cat’s outta the bag. But don’t worry, Luca and I are great at keeping secrets.” He winks at her and I rush forward and pinch the back of her shirt before she can slay him, pulling her back against my chest and wrapping my arm around her shoulders as I move us safely to the other side of the kitchen.

“Are you trying to ruin my life?” I ask him, rubbing my other palm down her arm and taking her hand. I wind it around my waist and once it’s hidden by resting over my lower back, I lace my fingers through hers.