Tyed

“I’m Ty Wilder. I’m twenty-six. A Libra, if you’re into this kind of crap. Favorite food is probably BBQ beef ribs. I'm a cage fighter. Fun fact: I had my tonsils removed when I was twelve, and I’ve been losing small bits of other body parts pretty much ever since in the ring. Your turn.”

“I’m Blaire Stern. I’m twenty-three. I’m a Scorpio, and not into that kind of crap. I’ve been a vegetarian since I was eight for moral reasons. I’m a college student and a part-time bartender. Fun fact: My older sister is supermodel Isabelle Stern. And by ‘older’ I mean she is four minutes older, because we’re twins.”

Ty’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting one of his boyish smiles. “Hot damn, you mean I got myself a date with a supermodel?”

“With a sister of a supermodel, not really the same thing,” I correct. “But I prefer not to talk about it."

“Talk about apples and oranges. Isn't she some sort of a style icon or something?"

Was that a dig at me?

"I like your style better, just for the record."

"I remotely recall saying that I don't like talking about this just a few seconds ago." I squint my eyes at him, and he laughs, a real, belly laugh.

"Fair enough. Let's go, Barbie."

***

Ty’s Hummer lumbers up to the freeway toward Lafayette. I slouch down in my seat, praying no one I know will pass us and recognize me in the monstrous vehicle, with flame-shooting skulls painted on both sides and a huge self-promotional bumper sticker that says Mind The Zombie. His license plate reads XZOMBIEX.

His profile is glorious, even more so with his slightly crooked nose, ruddy pout and strong, devilish eyebrows. I’m getting lost in his face, like another one of his groupies, and I loathe it.

Gotta. Stop. Staring.

"You do you realize your ride looks ridiculous, right?" Conversation that includes criticism. The kiss of death to a guy's libido. Let's try and see if I can kill Ty's.

"You're one to talk." He smirks, still watching the road.

"That's different. You actually have a choice." I pick up the iPod lying next to the gear shift, flipping through his playlist connected by Bluetooth to his stereo. "Just like you have a choice not to listen to crappy music, but you still do. Oh my God! Eminem? Soulja Boy? Mos Def? What are you, eleven?"

We’ve left the freeway, and he takes a sharp right turn, heading into a narrow labyrinth winding through the woods. He is laughing again, a sound I'm growing to like more and more.

"Gimme your phone, you little music snob." Ty shifts into a lower gear but doesn't stop driving, flipping through my playlist, his lower lip pulled into a pout. "Neck Deep? Belle and Sebastian? I don't even know...no, wait, found one I recognize." He swipes the touch screen and “Easy Lover” by Phil Collins fills the air.

"It's a classic." I giggle and blush simultaneously.

Ty is singing to the lyrics loudly and bobs his head, pretending to be into it. It's ridiculously cute, so I duck my head, looking away.

"I feel like I've got enough ammo on you for a lifetime,” he says. “One day, when you're this hot-shot journalist everyone knows about, I'll use this info against you. Just wait."

"Oh, you charmer." I grin, staring at the wooded area we're driving through, not even slightly uncomfortable at the isolation surrounding us. I wonder if he truly believes I can become something big. The butterflies in my stomach are fluttering in full force.

"I'll have you know, I can be charming when I want to be."

"I thought bad boys don't do romance."

“Me? A bad boy?” He pretends to look shocked, his mouth forming into an O while he stabs his chest with his finger, his gaze turning from the road and back to me. “That's just hateful. Besides, romance is my middle name."

"What is your middle name, actually?"

"Raymond. Close enough, no?"

"Rad name, dude." I chuckle as he pulls to a stop in the middle of nowhere.

"I admit, it's not as cool as a twenty-three-year-old listening to Phil Collins, but I can live with that. Unbuckle yourself, Miss Cool. We've arrived."

Ty holds my waist as I hop out of his Hummer, and then he turns on his iPhone’s flashlight. The air is fresh and warm and it’s pitch black. I should be scared, but for whatever f*cked-up reason, I trust him. He leads the way, his fingers brushing mine in a semi hand-hold as we walk wordlessly.

We arrive at a timbered wooden cabin, about the size of my living room, located far from civilization. Outside, there’s a stack of chopped logs and an old, beat-up truck. It looks like someone occasionally lives here, but rarely takes care of the place.

He opens the door and walks in, and I follow. The cabin is full of scratched and lumpy furniture, but I also see a huge flat-screen TV with XWL’s fight night dancing on the screen. A few lit candles flicker next to a big fluffy rug centered between a faded sofa and an ash-filled fireplace. Right next to the rug there’s an expensive bottle of 25-year-old scotch. The smell of old wood and fresh herbs wafts through my nostrils.

"What's your poison?" His eyes are roaming my body despite my best efforts to look casual, and I quickly glance at my watch. Twenty minutes have passed since we left my apartment. An hour and forty to go.