CHAPTER 30

“Stay here.” Zane gives my arms a reassuring squeeze. “I know this apartment like the back of my hand, so I won’t have any trouble navigating it in the dark, but you might and I don’t want you to get hurt, stumbling around. I’ve got matches in the kitchen and several candles scattered around the apartment.”

I make a face that Zane can’t see because it’s pitch black. “Let me guess, these candles were given to you by the bad songwriter and they all smell like funky incense.”

“Not all of them. The ylang ylang one is nice.”

I groan.

“Hey, it’s musky-scented candles, or we sit here in the dark until FPL restores the power.”

“Fine,” I concede because I really don’t have any other options, “but since you’ll be in the kitchen anyway, can you make me a PB&J? I’m starving.”

“One PB&J coming up.” He drops his hands to the floor and pushes himself up into a standing position.

“And by ‘J,’ I mean straight up grape jelly, no jams, marmalades, or preserves, nothing with seeds, no weird flavors like apricot or red plu—”

“Ow!” Zane yelps in pain right after I hear him bump into something.

“I thought you knew how to get around this place in the dark.”

“I do, but I was listening to your laundry list of things you don’t want on your sandwich instead of paying attention to where I was going. So, please do me a favor and zip it until I make it to the kitchen safely.”

“Geez, are you always this cranky when the lights are off?”

“No, but then I don’t normally have women telling me what to do in the dark,” he retorts as I hear him hopping toward the kitchen.

“That’s because you’ve always dated women who were too wussy to assert themselves and tell you exactly what they wanted.”

“Or maybe they didn’t have to tell me because I was sensitive enough to know.”

Intriguing. Most of the men I’ve been with have needed some instruction in how to please me, in bed as well as out of it. I didn’t expect them to be mind readers and I didn’t have the patience to wait around for them to figure it out on their own. It was in both of our best interests for me to just say, “This is what I like. Now, do it.” And I’ve never had any complaints about my straightforward approach.

A small circle of light appears on the wall of the kitchen. “Ooooo, you found a flashlight! Lead me to the kitchen with it.” Okay, so I’m being bossy again, but it just makes sense that I join him. Two pairs of hands are better than one and all that.

He shines the flashlight in my general direction, and I’m able to follow it to the kitchen without incurring injury unlike my predecessor. Seeing a box of matches on the counter, I grab them and strike one against the side of the box. Z hands me a candle in a jar, which I light up. Barf! It smells like Topaz’s apartment did when Kai and all his stoner friends would camp out in her living room for days—unwashed bodies and marijuana, not my favorite combo.

“Why don’t you stay here with this . . .,” I shove the stinky candle back at Z, “. . . and make us something to eat while I take the flashlight and hunt down some more candles.” Hopefully, ones that aren’t ass-scented.

I round up five more candles of varying scents and sizes, set their wicks ablaze, then position them in a half-circle on the large area rug in Z’s living “room.” I sit cross-legged, facing the arc of flickering light, and arrange my flouncy skirt so that it covers all my bits and pieces.

“We’ve never been on a picnic together before, have we?” Z asks as he takes a seat opposite me, his arms and hands full of food and drink.

“No, and I don’t think this qualifies as one either since we’re not outdoors.” I accept the sandwich wrapped in a napkin he offers me.

“Indoor picnics are a thing,” he asserts while setting down a quart of milk, a bunch of bananas, some Double Stuf Oreos, and a jar of dill pickles. One of those items clearly doesn’t belong, and I’m talking about the fruit, not the pickles which actually sound like the perfect accompaniment to a PB&J. You’ve got to have sour and salty with sweet, right?

We scarf down our makeshift meal, passing the quart of milk back and forth and taking slugs straight from the bottle. As I twist apart my third Oreo so that I can eat its crème center, I muse aloud, “Wonder what time it is.”

Zane shrugs. “The power went out when the six o’clock news was on, so I’d say it’s seven, maybe a little after.”

“And what are we going to do the rest of the night without electricity?” I’m at a loss without Internet access or television to entertain me.

“We could tell ghost stories.” Grabbing the flashlight, Z holds it under his chin and flicks it on, the beam casting spooky shadows on his face. “It’s a dark and stormy night and two friends are taking shelter in a shuttered up crap shack. They might be safe from the elements, but little do they know the true danger lies within the four walls that now confine them. Thirty years ago, a gruesome triple murder occurred on the very spot where this unsuspecting pair now sits and the tortured souls of those victims have returned, seeking veng—” Z’s story is interrupted by a loud thump on the front door, and I let out a girly shriek of terror.

He chortles. “Relax, it’s just the wind blowing stuff around out there. Neither of my neighbors ever remember to bring in the junk from their porches when we have a storm, so it all goes flying.”

“You should check.” I give him a little shove toward the door, which is directly behind him.

“No way. I’ve seen this movie. The dude who goes to investigate the mysterious noise always gets whacked by the escaped mental patient-slash-serial killer.”

“Better you than me,” I deadpan. “And your death won’t be in vain because I can make a run for it while the psycho’s chopping you up.”

“You can try, but I doubt the ghosts will let you leave.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You made up that stuff about there being a triple murder here, right?” I have always thought there was something creepy about this place and not just because it’s old and rundown.

“Maybe, maybe not. I don’t really know where that dark stain on the tiles over by the couch came from. Could be red wine, could be blood.” He pops two Oreos in his mouth and smirks with his cheeks full of cookie.

Even though I’m pretty sure he’s kidding, I snatch the flashlight out of his hand and crawl over to the couch, where I pull back the rug and do a thorough search of the terra cotta tile underneath it. I don’t find any dark stains, just cracks and a couple of mutant-sized cockroaches that are legs-up. “This place doesn’t need an exorcist; it needs an extermintor,” I determine.

“My landlord keeps saying he’s going to send one out, but he never does. Hey, there’s a pack of cards in the drawer of that side table. Bring ‘em over and we can play War.”

And that’s how we spend the next few hours. One round of War (I win!), then Z bests me in a game of Crazy Eights and I crush him in Bullshit (no surprise there since he’s a terrible liar). I try to teach him canasta, but he keeps getting confused over the concept of a meld. Finally, we give up on that game and regress to our childhoods to play several hands of another.

“Do you have any fours?” I ask.

“Nope. Go fish.”

“Ugh!” I groan, tossing down my cards. “I am so bored, and it is so hot in here.” Several hours with no air-conditioning has turned Z’s small, closed-up apartment into a veritable sauna. Looking for some relief from the suffocatingly humid air, I lift my long hair off my neck and start fanning my face with my hand.

“I’m going to go change into something a little cooler if you don’t mind.”

He’s wearing jeans, which can’t be pleasant in this heat. So, I say, “Fine,” wishing I was at home where I could get out of this too tight dress that feels like it’s becoming one with my perspiration-covered skin.

While Z’s gone, I polish off the rest of my warm beer (so gross, but at least it’s somewhat thirst-quenching). Even though I can’t strip naked and rub ice cubes all over my body (that’s what I’d be doing if I was at home), I decide I can still make myself a little more comfortable by removing the outer layer of my dress (the chiffon-y wrap part), which leaves me in the spaghetti strapped-slip dress underneath. I, then, twist my hair up and tie it into a knot on top of my head. Phew. That’s better.

Z returns, wearing some cargo shorts with lots of pockets and zippers. He has also removed a layer of clothing as he’s only got that white wife beater covering his torso now. Um, have I mentioned that I think wife beaters are super sexy? I love the way those snug-fitting tank tops show off a man’s shoulders and arms while clinging oh-so-attractively to their pecs and abs. Zane’s got a lankier build than the stockier, buffed up guys I generally go for, but I can’t help but notice his shoulders are deliciously broad and his arms are corded with muscles from his boxing workouts. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that he looks kind of lickable.

“A cold washcloth.” He hands me the absorbent piece of cotton he must have run under the faucet in the bathroom sink.

“Thanks. Oooo, this feels good,” I say after placing the cloth on my neck and chest. I, then, slide the straps of my dress off my shoulders so that I can lay the cloth on my bare skin there. My eyelids drift shut and my head lolls back as I enjoy the sensation of cold and wet on my skin. When I lift my head and open my eyes a few seconds later, I see Zane staring at me with a transfixed expression on his face, which I can tell is flushed, even in the candlelight. The heat must be getting to him, too.

“You know what we should do to take our minds off how hot, sweaty, and disgusting we feel?” When he doesn’t immediately respond, I prompt him with a snap of my fingers in his face, which seems to shake him out of his heat-induced stupor.

“Huh? What? I don’t know. You want to braid each other’s hair or something? I don’t really think mine is long enough.” He lifts one of the dark chunks of hair flopping down in his face and eyes it appraisingly.

“No, you goof.” I smack his hand, making him drop the hair. “I want to play a fun game like Truth or Dare!”

He looks less than thrilled by this suggestion. “Yeah, I don’t think so. That game never goes well for me. Remember last time we played, you dared me to let Nacho put guyliner on me, then I had to go out to a bar with all that gunk on my eyes.”

“And girls were mistaking you for Jared Leto all night because of that guyliner, so I’d say my dare worked out awesomely for you.”

He emits a put-upon sigh. “All right. We can play your little game, but I’m telling you right now I’m choosing truth whenever it’s my turn.”

“Bwak, bwak, bwak.” I do my best chicken impression while flapping my arms like wings.

He rolls his eyes. “Very mature. Are you going to give me a question, or not?”

“Okay, truth . . .” Might as well start off with an easy one. “Have you ever stolen anything?”

“I never shoplifted if that’s what you’re asking, but I did take something that wasn’t mine.”

“Do tell.” I lean forward with interest.

“Sophomore year, my friend, Bobby, bet me that I couldn’t sneak into the girls’ locker room during cheerleader practice and steal Courtney Miller’s bra. I didn’t really care about the bra because I’d already seen it—”

“You dirty dog!” I interject. “Wait, had you already seen this girl’s bra because you got to second base with her, or because you lived across the street and had a telescope trained on her bedroom window?”

“The former, thank you. I was not a teenage Peeping Tom.”

“Just checking. Continue.”

“So, I took the bet because Bobby was really egging me on, saying there was no way I could pull it off and I was going to get caught and screw up my perfect record at school.”

“I figured you were a goody two-shoes back in the day.”

He frowns at me. “I just told you I felt up a cheerleader when I was fifteen, plus I snuck into the girls’ locker room, broke into one of the lockers, stole a piece of lingerie, and got away with it. I wasn’t a goody two-shoes; I was a bad ass,” he asserts with pride.

“It’s cute that you think so,” I pat him on the cheek, “but if that little escapade was the highlight of your criminal career, I stand by my original assessment. Okay, my turn! Since I am not a lily-livered fowl,” I direct a pointed look at him, “I will do a dare. Bring it!” I hold out my hands, palms up, and make a beckoning gesture.

Z picks up one of the bananas, places it in my outstretched hand, and says, “I dare you to peel this . . . with your feet.”

I lift an eyebrow. “You think I can’t do that? I will have you know that my toes are unusually dexterous and capable of many great feats. Watch and learn.”

Uncrossing my legs, I take the curved piece of fruit and wedge it between my big toe and the one next to it on my left foot. I then stretch my legs out to their full length and grasp the stem of the banana between the same two toes on my other foot. I twist the stem this way and that until it finally splits open the rind, then I peel down strips of it, exposing the fruit. “Ha!” I exclaim in triumph as I swing my foot around to drop the peeled banana in Zane’s lap.

“I don’t know how far that particular talent will get you in life, but it’s impressive nonetheless,” he admits, picking up the banana by its unpeeled bottom and moving it to the pile of balled up napkins we used during dinner.

“I guess we’re all tied up now. What’s it gonna be, muchacho? Another truth, or are you going to man up and ask for a dare?”

“Well, I guess when you put it like that I have no choice but to say . . . truth!” His lips twitch as he tries to repress a smile.

I blow a very indelicate raspberry to let him know what I think of his wimpiness.

He chuckles. “All right, all right. Give me a dare.”

Cackling with evil delight, I rub my hands together while I ponder all the different ways I could torture him right now. Unfortunately, I’m a bit limited since we’re stuck inside. I can’t dare him to hug the first person he sees on the street, or give an outdoor concert on his air guitar, or walk around with his fly open for an entire day. So, what can I dare him to do that won’t involve another person and will push him outside his comfort zone . . . I got it!

“I dare you to twerk . . . for a full minute.”

He groans in protest. “You can’t be serious! You know I can’t dance.”

It’s true. Zane is so rhythmically-challenged he can’t even do the white boy shuffle. (I’ve seen him try, and it isn’t pretty!) When we go to clubs, he stays as far away from the dance floor as he can until some overly enthusiastic girl drags him out there, then he just stands in place, bopping his head, while she boogies around him.

“I do know, which is why I’m sure this will be very entertaining for me. Go on.” I gesture at him to stand up.

“Twerking requires music.” He makes one last, desperate attempt to get out of busting a move.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have iTunes on my phone then.” I scuttle over to the front door, where my purse is still sitting and extract the device. Turning it on, I ignore the notifications that I have new texts and voicemails and check a few of my favorite playlists instead. After giving it some careful thought, I decide that my girl, RiRi, is the way to go and a few seconds later, the opening strains of “Pour It Up” emanate from the phone.

“Oh, man.” Zane shakes his head when he realizes he’s going to have to dance to lyrics about strip clubs and dollar bills.

“You’d better do what Rihanna says and ‘ball out,’ bro. Or did you want to forfeit the game?”

“Hell no, I’m not forfeiting. Just remember, you asked for this.”

He plants his feet way too far apart and squats down, then starts doing the most herky jerky booty pop I’ve ever seen, completely off time to the music. When Rihanna starts moaning about how all she sees is dollar signs, Z pretends to make it rain with a fake pile of cash, which totally cracks me up.

“Stop, stop!” I beg him, but my pleas just encourage him to up the ridiculous ante. The next thing I know he’s twerked his way over to the couch where he looks like he’s dry humping the cushioned arm while acting out more of the lyrics. (When Rihanna talks about her fragrance and how people love the way it smells, he pretends to spritz some on, then he takes a whiff of his arm pit and gives me a double thumbs up.) At this point, I’m laughing so hard I can’t even breathe and tears are streaming down my face. Thankfully, the song ends before I start hyperventilating.

When Z sits back down opposite me, looking very pleased with himself, I say, “That was epic in its awfulness,” as I swipe at the wetness on my face with the back of my hand. “Miley Cyrus is weeping somewhere.”

He chuckles. “Probably. And now that I’ve humiliated myself, it’s your turn. Truth or dare?”

I already did a dare, so . . . “Truth, and make it a good one.”

Zane purses his lips and crinkles his brow, which is his thinking face. This is not going to be easy for him because he already knows almost everything about me: biggest fear, worst date, favorite ice cream flavor, if I have any tatts or piercings, what turns me off, who was the first boy I ever kissed, etcetera, etcetera.

“What was your first impression of me?”

Huh, okay, I wasn’t expecting that. Now I have to think back to that photo shoot four years ago . . .

“To be honest, I didn’t notice you right off the bat because I was distracted by the three oiled-up, shirtless hunks who were doing the shoot with me. But then, when Esteban had you change the backdrop and reposition the lights, you handed me a cold bottle of coconut water and whispered in my ear that I should watch out for the male model in the blue swimtrunks because he was trying to steal focus by flexing his muscles and winking at the camera in every shot. And later in the day, you warned me that I was on the verge of a nip slip, which no one else had bothered to point out. So, I thought, ‘This is a really nice guy who cares about his job and is looking out for me.’”

“And that’s why you invited me to join you and your friends for dinner that night?”

“Yeah, it was my way of saying thanks—”

“Even though you didn’t pick up the tab and you called me ‘Boy Band’ the entire evening,” he reminds me.

“I did not!”

Okay, maybe I did. I’ve never been that great with names and when Zane told me his, I connected it with One Direction, which Zain Malik was a member of back then. By the time I saw him at dinner several hours later, I couldn’t remember which of the five guys in that group he shared a name with, so I just went with the generic “Boy Band.”

“You totally did. Something else I remember about that first night we hung out together is you saying, after a few mojitos, ‘Don’t fall in love with me, Boy Band. It’s never gonna happen; you’re not my type.’”

“Ouch!” I exclaim, with an exaggerated wince. “Friend zoned before you even got a chance to hit on me. That was rough.”

Z’s eyebrow shoots up. “Who said I was going to hit on you?”

“Why wouldn’t you? I mean, come on.” I wave a hand up and down my bodacious form, which I know from experience is completely irresistible. “But I liked you, so I decided to head you off at the pass and save you from any heartache.”

“Very altruistic,” he replies dryly.

“I thought so. And that night was the beginning of our fabulous friendship, which has lasted way longer than any of my romantic relationships.”

“That’s not saying much, but . . .”

I punch Z on his bare bicep, and he snickers.

“Your turn, and I’m going to choose truth for you because I still haven’t recovered from your execution of that last dare. You’ve pretty much ruined twerking for me.”

“Truth, it is.” Placing his elbows on his knees, he leans forward and locks eyes with me. “Lay it on me.”

There is something I’ve been dying to know and Zane probably wouldn’t give me a straight answer if I asked him this under normal circumstances, but he’s bound by the rules of the game now, so . . . “Has Sybil Lyndon tried to get her freak on with you?”

I expect him to balk at the question, but he just stares back at me, unblinking.

“Why are you so interested in what’s going on between Sybil and me?” he wonders.

“Because I’m nosy.”

“And?”

“And I know I’m right about her having lecherous designs on you, so I want you to admit that you were wrong when you pooh-poohed the idea.”

Zane has been close-mouthed on the subject of Sybil for the last few weeks, although he’s continued to spend time with her, and it’s really been bugging me. Either she’s playing a long game with him and has yet to make her move (doubtful), or my gullible, too-nice-for-his-own-good friend has been seduced over to The Dark Side. (The Dark Side = Sybil’s bedroom where she has to dim all the lights so that her much younger victims can’t see the telltale signs of all the nips and tucks her plastic surgeon has made.)

“I’m gonna pass on this one. Give me another question.”

“Nope. Sorry. The game doesn’t work that way. Why don’t you want to answer the Sybil question? What are you hiding?” The flashlight is right next to me, so I switch it on and shine the light in Z’s face.

He straightens up, moving away from the bright beam. “Is this a game, or an interrogation?” he asks. “What about my Miranda rights?”

“In Truth or Dare, there are only Izzy rights as in I have a right to know the answer to my question. So, spill.” I stick the flashlight in his face for a second time.

“Someone’s been watching Shades of Blue again.” Z pushes the flashlight to the side so that it’s not glaring directly into his eyes.

I shrug. “Gotta support JLo. Now, stop stalling and answer the question.” I poke him in the chest with my finger.

“Jesus, you’re relentless. Maybe I’ll just forfeit.”

“Not an option.”

“It was earlier.”

“Rules change when you get deeper into the game.” I just made that up, but I’m not letting him weasel out of this.

“Fine,” he relents, “but I’m only telling you this under duress and it stays between the two of us; no running off to share the info with your cocktail klatch.”

“¡Ay, Dios mío!” I throw my hands in the air. “You’re sleeping with that old bag of brittle bones and silicone.”

“What?” Zane looks both shocked and appalled by the accusation. “No! Sybil might be an attractive woman—”

“That’s debatable.”

“But,” he gives me a quelling look, “I turned her down flat when she expressed interest in collaborating with me on the, uh, personal front.”

Expressed interest. Personal front. “So, she put her hand down your pants and propositioned you.”

His cheeks flame up. “Something like that,” he admits sheepishly.

“Yes!” I raise a triumphant fist in the air. “I called it, right from the beginning. Gimme a ‘C!’ I make the letter with my arms. “Gimme an ‘O!’ Gimme a ‘U!’ Gimme a ‘G!’”

“All right, all right.” Zane waves his hand to get me to stop. “You’re only allowed a partial gloat because you were wrong about Sybil only being willing to help me with my career in exchange for sexual favors. She understood my reasons for saying ‘no’ to us getting physical and she’s continued to support me in all the ways she promised she would. She really values my opinion on the work of other artists, and it’s nice to have a friend who shares my love of photography and can offer constructive feedback on my shots.”

“You’re sure she’s not just waiting you out, hoping you’ll change your mind about getting busy?”

“No.” He’s quite adamant about this. “Now, let’s move on. Since you picked truth for me and got all up in my business with your question, I’m going to do the same.”

That sounded a little bit like a threat. I can’t think of anything Z could ask me that I’d be unwilling to answer, though. I’ve always been an open book with him. In fact, he’s often accused me of oversharing. (When you’re hooking up with a guy who has three balls, you have to tell someone! That’s like some Ripley’s Believe It or Not shit.)

“Fine by me. Ask away.” I meet his amber-colored gaze straight on to let him know he can throw any question at me and I won’t shy away from answering it. I am all about the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, which is why I rock so hard at this game.

To my surprise, he takes my left hand and lifts it so that my big, honkin’ diamond is suspended in the air between us. What the significance of this move is I’m not sure. Is Zane going to ask me if this sparkly rock is real? I have a certificate of authenticity if he doubts it.

“What are you doing, Iz? Why are you marrying a man you don’t love?”

Uh oh . . .