Danger, Sweetheart (29 page)

“I can't believe I let this get so far.”

“So say all who embrace the dark side.”

“You're brilliant, Blake—”

“And I've never had a cavity!”

“—how could you not know this was a pretty inevitable conclusion?”

“Victim blaming, for shame, Natalie.”

“Argh, you're right, careful, porch steps coming up.”

“Victim
shaming
. That's what happened to my mom, you know. Do not, if you have any tender feelings for me, do not ever tell her I said that.”

“No prob. She'll be plenty pissed at what I let happen to you, no need to stoke that fire.”

“Yes! Correct! That fire needs no stoking whatsoever. That fire should be left to burn out. We should do the opposite of fanning the flames.”

“Oof, heavy!”

“That's not nice, Natalie,” he whined. “I'm at my winter weight. Victim blaming, then fat shaming, and you call yourself a feminist. Actually, I've never heard you identify as a feminist—”

“Shouldn't have to,” she grunted, staggering forward in step with him, “should just be assumed.”

“Regardless, I am forced to report you to the good people at Jezebel dot-com.”

“How do you even know about Jez— Never mind. Here we are. Just several dozen more steps to get to the attic.”

“Rake is not terrible.”

She groaned, and not just with Blake's weight. He had an arm slung over her shoulders, she had an arm around his waist, and they were averaging about two feet a minute. Even if his heat hadn't been searing her wherever they touched, that statement would have told her everything. “Oh, man, now I know you're delirious.”

“I've never been more clearheaded in my life. Sweetheart is great! Down with Vegas! Rake is much less terrible than I ever suspected! I bought you strawberries!”

“Blake, honey, you're shouting.”

“Call me honey again!”

“I should be calling an ambulance, honey. And yeah, I saw the strawberries.”

“I am so sorry.”

“Why?”

“I could have bought you many more. I only bought you one bag. For spite! They were the strawberries of spite and I am ashamed.” His head drooped and his skull
clonk
ed against hers. Sparks flashed before her eyes

(that's what they call seeing stars maybe?)

and she staggered, then straightened. “Okay, please don't do that again. The thing with your head. And don't worry about the strawberries of spite; I didn't deserve any. Besides, they got all over your shirt when you pitched out of your truck, so it's just as well you didn't buy a ton.”

“When I pitched out of my
Supertruck,
” he corrected. He began scraping at the berries all over him. “I'm not sure I'll be able to get these stains out.”

“Who the hell cares? I'll buy you a new shirt.”

“You'll have to,” he said with strange cheer. “I am poor now.”

“Done. Okay, we're almost a fifth of the way there.”

“Smooth sailing!”

“Sure, sure. Don't worry about your shirt; I'll help you get undressed.”

“You insatiable slattern! I might have known you'd leap at the opportunity to molest me. That's why you got rid of everyone else, isn't that right?”

“Gary went to town to get the doctor. Harry and Larry took the day off to go trout fishing. It's just us right now.”

“Outstanding! I stand ready to be molested, Natalie, my darling, my dove.”

“Blake…”

“Oh please, please molest me.”

“If you still want me when you're better—”

“Oh, I will! I want you more than Henry the Eighth wanted a son.”

“Wow.” She wouldn't deny it; she was touched. She might have done a little research about the people Blake talked about like they were still alive. So she might have read that Henry VIII basically split his country down the middle out of lust for Anne Boleyn's loins. (The end of that great love story was somewhat less romantic.) “Then I guess it's a date. Don't worry; I won't hold you to it when you come to your senses.”

“I will never come to my senses!” He flourished his free hand and they nearly fell back down the steps. “Why are there an extra five hundred steps here?”

“Wondering that myself,” she grunted, helping him farther up the stairs. “No more flailing, please.”

“Why are you so beautiful?”

She snorted. “I'm not.”

“Only beautiful people deny being beautiful.”

“Unattractive people deny being beautiful, too.”

“Ha! That tickles!”

“Is it your phone?” It was in his back pocket, so every few minutes his butt vibrated, which prompted a burst of giggles from him. “Tell your butt to take a message.”

“Ba-dum-tsshhh!”

“Cripes' sake.”

“This was all worth it to have you touch me. Infections, fever, the possible onset of delirium—”

“Possible?”

“Worth it. All of it.”

“You've lost your damned mind,” she said, not without admiration.

“It's probably Venice-Rake. Messaging my butt. Venice-Rake is different from Terrible-Rake.”

“Okay.”

“Rake is not terrible. Mitchell Banaan is terrible.”

This time she was the one who nearly pulled them back downstairs. “Oh, man. Got to have a face-to-face with the prince of darkness, huh? What was he even doing in town?”

“Satan's intern.”

“Okay, that didn't clarify anything.”

“Well, Satan needed an intern; what's so difficult to understand?” Blake shuddered against her. “He was terrible, Natalie. My grandfather. Not Satan. If Mom gives me my money back I will buy every company he ever works at and fire him, except he's probably retired, so I can't actually do that. I'll just dislocate his arms.”

“Blake…”

“I know; it's not a perfect solution.”

“Almost there, Blake.”

“Not almost.” He leaned down and nuzzled the top of her head. “Cherries. Odd.”

“It's just shampoo.”

“You're not ‘just' anything. Not almost. Home. We're already there, didn't you know? Not almost home. Home. Even if Sweetheart is dying.”

“It's not.”
Step, step, heave. Step, step, heave arrgghh so heavy!
“Town's like you; it's going to recover.”

“What a tender metaphor. I may be in love with you.”

She closed her eyes. This was worse than finding him unconscious in the kitchen garden. He was saying things she never knew she wanted to hear, wonderful things she could see herself getting greedy for. She wanted him to never stop. And of course he was going to stop. He loved her in his delirium; in his right mind he would remember she had lied because of money.

“It's fine,” he said when she hadn't responded. “I know you aren't. I would never have expected it. I don't look for it now.”

“Blake.” It came out a croak; she had wept more this week than she had in the last five years and dammit now she was crying
again
. “Blake, you're right; I don't feel the way you do.”

He sighed into the top of her head. “Ah.”

“I
know
I'm in love with you.”

I'm in love with you.
Cripes, was it really that simple and stunning? From the beginning she had wanted him to think well of her, wanted to impress him, had taken pride in how hard he worked, and hated him because she knew he would leave. Told herself she hated that he was leaving
the town
. The deeper she got with her lies and manipulation, the worse for both of them—him because he deserved the truth. Her because she knew it would all end soon enough and she'd have no one to blame but herself. Her mother had called her Irish/Native American … Irarican! “The pride and stubbornness of both cultures, Nat, poor kiddo.” In that moment, she wanted her mother more than she had since the dizzying numb weeks after the funeral.

“I should have told you. I was too chickenshit. I love you and I love all your weird ways, because our weird ways complement each other.”

“This is a wonderful day.”

She smiled. Only four hundred steps to go, subjectively speaking. “Is it?”

He squeezed her waist, radically reducing her air supply. “Are you in love with my fever?”

“Definitely not. What's funny is, even though you're delirious, this isn't even the weirdest conversation we've had.”

“Is this Florence Nightingale syndrome? No, that would apply if it was me falling for you.” He gasped. “Do
I
have Florence Nightingale syndrome?”

“There's a lot going on with you right now, Blake, but Florence Nightingale syndrome isn't part of it.” At last they were in the attic. “Going to put you on the bed now.”

“Finally! Ravage me, Natalie Lane!”

She eased him down as carefully as she could, relieving him of his phone on the way. “Okay, first things first, time to make some calls.”

“No, you have to undress me first; I don't think we should explore the kinky end of the spectrum just yet. It's not that I won't make love with you while you dial random strangers; I would just prefer something more straightforward for our first coitus.”

“For God's sake.”

“Rake said using ‘intercourse' to describe coitus was preventing me from having intercourse.”

“Yeah, but that's … that's not better.”

“Call it what you will.” He flung out his arms dramatically, tried to roll over, failed. “Ah, you don't mind the woman-superior position, do you? I'm feeling a bit light-headed.”

“Here's what I like: missionary for intimacy, on all fours for intensity, and me on top for fun.”

He
stared
at her. “I can work with that.”

She felt bad for teasing him. “Never mind. When you're feeling better, okay? I mean … if you still want to. I meant what I said earlier. I won't hold you to any of this.”

“How unfortunate for you, because I intend to hold you to all of it. Also, did you take my phone so you can strip me, pose me in humiliating positions, and then take pictures and send them to everyone on my contact list?”

“I took it to call your family, ya idjit.”

“I love your adorable pet names for me. Idjit, moron, Vegas Douche—”

“I don't call you that anymore,” she was quick to assure him. “And I'll beat the shit out of anyone who does.”

“Excellent! You'll solve my Mitchell Banaan problem; how clever you are. This is odd.”

“Got
that
right.” His iPhone was passworded, which wasn't acceptable. She needed family contact info.

“This is odd.”

“You said that, baby.”

“Baby. Yes. I want to have your baby.”

She giggled. “It
has
been a long time since you've had intercourse if that's what you think will happen.”

“Odd.”

“Yes, okay, what's your password?”

“When I've pictured you standing over me while I'm in bed, I'm always erect.”

“It's just the fever, baby; you'll be getting it up again in no time.”

“I like that you aren't afraid to show confidence in my penis.”

“Password, moron.” She tried for stern, but exasperated fondness came out instead.

“WWND.”

“Okay. Something to do with the House of Lancaster or Richard the Third?”

“What Would Natalie Do.”

“Dammit, Blake!” She bent and kissed him swiftly on the mouth. “You're wonderful, even when you're out of your head.

“Did you hear that?” He was relaxing into the bed after trying to grab her and missing by two feet. “You said I was wonderful.”

“Rest, Blake.”

“You always have good advice.”

“Close your eyes, baby.”

He did.

 

Thirty-five

When Blake next opened his eyes, his mom and grandmother were bending over him. “Aaagghh! My heart. Christ.”

“How are you, boy?” Shannah asked, anxiety making her normally firm contralto thready and unsure.

“My brain is on fire.”

“That's not far from the truth.” Blake noticed another woman preparing to leave. She had gorgeous deep brown skin with reddish undertones, high cheekbones, and small, wide-set dark eyes. Her hair was cut in a neatly trimmed Afro streaked with silver, and she was holding a bag, preparing to depart, but turned when he'd shouted. In his fright upon waking with Shannah and the nuclear option looming over him, he hadn't noticed anyone else at first. “You've got an infection, Mr. Tarbell, and a temp of one-oh-two, an improvement over one-oh-four, which we're bringing down.”

“It's okay, Blake,” his mother said, as if worried he was going to leap to his feet and charge the woman with malpractice. “I told Dr. Wen about allergies and things.”

“I'm not allergic to anything.”

“I told her that.”

The nuclear option spoke for the first time. “You'll be eating antibiotics for a few days, Blake.”

“The breakfast of champions,” he muttered. He took a closer look at the doctor. “What is this? Is this a house call? Really?”

“Really,” Dr. Wen assured him. “The clinic closed down and the nearest hospital is over two hours away. For something like this, unless your fever won't break or the infection worsens, it's fine to treat you at home. If it does worsen, there's always the air ambulance.”

“A house call,” he mused. “Then … how long have I been asleep? How did I go back in time? It's 1920, right?”

“If it was 1920,” was the dry response, “would I be a doctor?”

“Excellent point. All right, run along to the next century, then.”

“Good advice.” She glanced at Natalie, who was sitting on the foot of the bed, gnawing on a knuckle. “You're right. He's engaging.”