What If You & Me by Roni Loren
Chapter Seven
Andi blinked at Hill’s offer. “What?”
Hill scratched his beard, looking altogether uncomfortable. “I mean, if you’re scared to stay alone, I could sleep on the couch. Maybe you could get some rest that way.”
Sleep on her couch?The neighbor she barely knew? Oh, hell no. She shook her head automatically. Guys didn’t sleep over. Period. End of sentence. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“You don’t have to ask,” he said with a shrug. “I’m offering. It’s only a few hours ’til morning anyway.”
Her gaze swept over him. The man was just so big. And intimidating. Even in sweats and a T-shirt, he looked like some comic superhero—or villain. Complete with bionic leg.
Sexy as fuck. But also scary as hell.
She didn’t know him. And even though her gut was saying good guy, she’d learned her gut was far from reliable when it came to men. Her gut had almost gotten her killed. She hated that she could just as easily imagine Hill kissing her breathless as she could imagine him putting his hands around her throat and choking the life out of her. Her imagination was her best asset and her worst enemy sometimes.
When she was quiet too long, he lifted his palms. “I won’t be offended if you say no. I’m fine either way. If you’d rather, I can give you my number, and you can call if you feel scared or want me to check on anything.”
She rubbed her arms, trying to chase away the chill bumps. The thought of being alone sent a rush of fresh nerves through her. Honesty fell past her lips. “I’m legitimately freaked out to be alone right now, and the thought of having someone here sounds great, but it’s kind of my policy not to let guys sleep over.”
“Oh.” He blinked. “Like ever?”
She made a slightly pained sound in the back of her throat. Yes, like ever. Like ever ever. Like I haven’t slept next to a Y chromosome since I was a teenager—and that chromosome was attached to a sociopath. She forced a wan smile. “Paranoid, remember? I’m not so good with trusting men not to murder me in my sleep.”
He stared at her for a moment, processing that. “Wow, Andi, that’s—”
“Yeah, I know,” she said, cutting him off. “I’m morbid. It’s one of my most charming qualities.” She met his eyes again, hoping the sarcasm in her voice would undo her TMI confession. “But maybe you could stay for a beer or something? Just for a few minutes until I calm down a little more and we’re sure the murderer-rapist who possibly wants to wear my skin as a coat isn’t coming back?”
He considered her. She sensed he wanted to ask more questions, but to his credit, he simply nodded. “Sure. A beer would be great.”
She let out an audible breath, the amount of relief she felt surprising her. “Awesome. Thanks. Be right back.”
Andi returned, finding Hill in her well-worn recliner, and handed him a bottle of Ghost in the Machine beer. “That’s my good stuff. Only break it out for special company.”
“I’m honored.” He took it from her and tipped it back, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. He lowered it and smiled her way. “Oh, that’s really good.”
“Right?” She took a spot on the couch across from him and sipped her beer, tucking her legs beneath her. She caught him staring at her feet. She looked down at her toes and then back to him. “What?”
“Uh.” A little color came into his cheeks. “What?”
“You were staring at my feet.”
He winced. “Sorry. The dark-blue toenail polish caught my eye. I have a bad habit of gathering details about people and coming up with my own story about who they are. It was a game I used to play in my head as a kid after reading a book about an FBI profiler.”
“Writers do that, too.” She looked down at her toes and wiggled them. “So you think blue nail polish says something about me?”
“Maybe.”
She pointed the neck of her beer at him. “Do tell.”
He gave her a wouldn’t-you-like-to-know look. “Nah, people don’t like to be FBI profiled.”
She shook her head and smiled. “Oh no. You’re on the hook now. What conclusions have you drawn about me? I’ll give you a free pass to say what you want.”
“There are no free passes in life.” He gave her a pointed look as he took a pull from the beer. “That’s a trap.”
“Oh, come on.” She flicked her hand in a bring-it-on motion. “I promise I’m not that sensitive. I write books and do a public podcast. I’ve had people on the internet post that I’m a hack, that I exploit crime victims, that I’m the reason women shouldn’t write horror. Tonight, a reviewer offered to tie me up because I must get off on true crime, and I guess he was up for victimizing me.”
His eyebrows scrunched together in annoyance. “The fuck?”
“Yeah, being a woman on the internet is fun. But the point is, you’re not going to offend me. Give me your profile.”
He stared at her for a moment and then set his beer aside. “All right. On the outside, you seem like a woman who’d be too cool for the room. Nose ring. Bright hair. Quirky toenail polish. Horror novelist. Like the girl in high school who only listened to bootlegged indie rock and who set trends with her retro clothes from Goodwill.”
She took a long draw off her beer, amused by how he viewed her.
“The kind who would never date Mr. Popularity or Mr. Student Council President or Mr. Guy Next Door because they were so not alternative. Only poets and skateboarders for you.”
She lowered her bottle, frowning.
“But you have no visible tattoos. No permanent marker of your alternativeness. And you have this down-home, welcoming, bake-you-brownies warmth about you. So, my guess is this look is something you use to weed people out. You want most people to categorize you quickly and dismiss you, because then you only have to pay attention to the people who see past the surface. Those are the people you think are worth your time. You have lots of friends but few who get your total trust. My guess is that in high school, you weren’t too cool for the room, you were the nice girl everyone could count on. The friend people took for granted.”
She stared at him. Floored.
He took a gulp of his beer, watching her the whole time, and then gave her a faint smile. “You’re about to tell me I’m wrong and I can go to hell, aren’t you? That you spent high school touring with a punk band, writing their songs, and dating the lead singer. That you really are too cool for the room.”
Andi set down her beer, still processing all he’d said. “You got all that from blue toenail polish?”
“Not solely the polish,” he said without elaborating. “Did I get anything right?”
She swallowed past the wave of vulnerability his assessment had brought on and tried for a light tone. “That’s some goddamned spooky magic shit, Hill.” She shook her head. “You got everything right except the tattoo. I have one. Just not visible.”
“Oh.”
He glanced down her body, a quick jaunt, but not quick enough for her not to notice. She found she didn’t really mind him wondering where her ink was.
“That’s a pretty amazing skill,” she said finally. “Also, creepy.”
He chuckled under his breath, a warm, sexy sound that changed his whole demeanor. “See. Told you.”
She let herself take in the view for a moment. The sight of her handsome neighbor relaxing in her living room and shooting the shit soothed something inside her. The muscles that had tightened during the break-in finally loosened. She was glad she’d asked Hill to stay. Even though they were only neighbors, she let herself imagine that he wasn’t here because of a scary night. That they’d gone on a fun date, had some drinks, seen a movie, and now they were hanging out and getting to know each other. Something normal. Something light.
The simple act of having a date over was so fraught for her. Something other people did without thinking, with an ease they took for granted. She wanted to pretend for a little while that she was capable of it.
“So,” she said, picking up her beer and wanting to keep the distracting conversation going. As long as they were talking, the fantasy could remain and the demons from earlier tonight would stay away, outside in the dark. “Now that I feel totally exposed, I get to poke at you.”
He glanced up, a line appearing between his brows. “I don’t remember agreeing to that kind of deal.”
“You did. Fine print in the contract. Should’ve gotten your lawyer to read through it first before you FBI profiled me.” She tapped her fingernails along the side of her beer bottle, contemplating how best to torture him. “So. How long ago were you engaged to Officer French Braid?”
He coughed, choking on his beer a little. “Officer French Braid? God, she’d hate that nickname.”
“Oh well,” Andi said with a shrug. “How long?”
“Uh, right up until the point I found out she was screwing my best friend.” He instantly winced. Like he hadn’t meant to answer so honestly.
Andi’s expression soured, her beer paused halfway to her mouth. “Ouch. That sucks.”
He cleared his throat, clearly ready to pull the eject cord on this conversation. “Yeah. Wasn’t great. But it’s been about a year.”
She shook her head in sympathy. “Sorry you had to see her tonight.”
He shrugged. “It’s fine. It’s not that fraught. We’re different people than we were back when we were together, so it’s almost like we’re strangers now.”
Andi pulled her afghan from the back of the couch and draped it over her legs. “What’d she say about me when y’all went outside?”
He glanced toward the front door and then back to her. “How’d you know she said anything?”
Andi barely resisted rolling her eyes. That cop had disliked Andi in an instant. “Had a hunch.”
“Now who’s profiling,” he said, a teasing note in his voice.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Can’t. She said she thought you were a sweet girl but a drama queen.”
Andi snorted, nearly inhaling her beer. “A sweet girl? Like I’m a five-year-old with pigtails?” She shook her head. “I know who I won’t be calling to check on my case. She must think we’re hooking up or something.”
His forehead wrinkled. “What?”
“Just a vibe I got. She had no reason to dislike me that quickly. I barely talked to the woman. So it must be some residual territorial stuff.”
“Huh.” He looked pensive and then the corners of his mouth twitched up a little bit.
She shifted on the couch, the change in expression intriguing her. “What’s that look about?”
“I don’t know.” He met her gaze. “I’d like to say I’m sorry if I gave her the wrong impression, but I’m kind of not.”
A little tremor of pleasure went through her. “No?”
“Nope. I know it’s petty as hell, but on the breakup score sheet, she’s landed all the points so far. Having her think I’ve moved on with someone like you and her being annoyed about it? I’ll take the point.”
Andi narrowed her eyes. “Someone like me?”
His gaze skipped away and he cleared his throat. “Yeah. You know, someone smart and interesting. Obviously beautiful.”
Her stomach dipped. “Oh.”
Obviouslybeautiful? She’d never had anyone call her that. Like beautiful was a fact and not up for debate.
He cringed. “Sorry. I’m making it weird. I’m not hitting on you. All I’m saying is…you’re great fake-girlfriend material.”
The statement was so unexpected from someone like Hill that a laugh bubbled out of her. “Fake-girlfriend material? Someone’s been watching too many rom-coms.”
He smiled. “That’s probably true. When I was recovering from my injury, my friends forced all the happy-ending movies on me. I wasn’t allowed to watch anything dark, so there were a lot of rom-coms thrown at me. My friends were into the forced cheer.”
“Ugh, that sounds like a nightmare.” She took a slow sip of her beer, trying to settle herself after being called obviously beautiful by the werewolf. Be cool, Andi. “If I want comfort, I’m going straight to all the dark and scary stuff. That makes real life seem better because no matter what’s happening in my life, at least a psycho with razor fingers isn’t trying to kill me in my sleep and a demon’s not trying to steal my soul.”
“Is that why you’re into what you’re into?” he asked. “You find it comforting?”
She gave a little shrug. “It’s partly comfort. Partly entertainment. It also helps me feel prepared.”
“Prepared?” he asked. “What do you mean?”
She broke eye contact, focusing somewhere over his right shoulder. They’d had some honest conversation tonight, but she definitely didn’t want to open up that chapter in her past. He’d predicted she was the nice girl in high school. What was closer to the truth was that she’d been the girl desperate for everyone to like her. So desperate she’d ignored what had been right in front of her face. “Most people want to ignore the dark stuff. Pretend it’s not there. Imagine that human nature is inherently good. Close their eyes. If I don’t see it, then it can’t hurt me. But it is there—horror, crime, truly evil people—and once I realized that, I refused to ever look away again. If something bad is going to get me, I at least want to see it coming and have a chance—and a big-ass can of pepper spray.”
He frowned. “But what about the supernatural stuff? Do you think a vampire is going to get you?”
She laughed without humor. “The monsters are metaphors for real-life horrors.” She lifted a finger. “Though my jury is still out on ghosts. And it sounds weird, but horror is often about hope. We want to believe we can be the final girl. That the good guys or girls can still beat evil despite it all. I mean, Laurie Strode in Halloween is a badass. The kids in IT are terrified but determined to win. They never stop fighting.”
Hill set down his beer on the side table, a thoughtful look on his face. “I never thought about it that way.”
“Yeah, well, lots of people dismiss the horror genre as exploitative and cheap. But it’s been around so long for a reason. We get something out of being scared. It’s important.” She laid her head back against the couch. “And Andi will now step off her why-people-should-respect-the-horror-genre soapbox. Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said, his deep voice like distant summer thunder. “It’s good that you’re passionate about what you do.”
She lifted her head, trying to determine if he was being sarcastic or serious. “You have feelings on horror?”
“Not really. By the time I was old enough to be interested in exploring any of that, I lived with my aunt and uncle. They didn’t allow me to watch or read that kind of stuff.” He reached down and grabbed the handle on the recliner to lift the leg support. “Partly because of their religious beliefs, but more because I think they worried it would warp my brain or something.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Bummer. Did you go out and watch or read all the things once you were a grown-up?”
He reached down, absently massaging the knee above his prosthesis. “Not really. I guess I didn’t feel like I was missing out on anything. Plus, I used to see a lot of real-life horror at my job. Why come home and see more of it?”
Her lips parted. “So, wait, you’re telling me you’ve never really watched horror movies?”
“I watch thrillers sometimes,” he said, an unsure note in his voice. “Do superhero movies count?”
She sat up fully now, setting her beer aside, the shock of this new information making her voice rise. “Those don’t count. Thrillers are adjacent to but different from horror. So no Nightmare on Elm Street or Poltergeist or The Ring or Misery or—”
He laughed at her overt shock. “No. I guess I’m a horror virgin.”
He didn’t look like a virgin of anything. Those old-soul eyes of his looked like they’d seen the world a few times over. But she believed him on this one. “Unacceptable. We have to fix this.”
He shook his head. “We do not. I promise. I’m good.”
“Nope. This cannot stand.” She frowned. “Unless you’re scared of the movies, because then I wouldn’t force them on you and—”
“It’s not about being scared,” he said, cutting her off. “I don’t think anything in a movie would be scarier than some of the stuff I’ve seen on the job.”
“Then we’re fixing this. You have no idea what you’re missing out on.” She got up and walked to her shelves of DVDs, already scanning, determining. “We need to break up all that rom-com brainwashing you got. Plus, watching movies gives me much-needed writing inspiration, and it will be more fun to do that with company. I need to put together a syllabus.”
“A syllabus?” he asked, amusement in his voice. “Andi…”
But it was too late. The starter pistol had been fired. She was off and running. “This could be a great series for the podcast. Me introducing a horror virgin to the classics. It could be—”
The chair squeaked as he shifted. “Whoa there. You went from zero to podcast series in two point three seconds.”
She turned to him, her mind moving too fast for his protests. “You said you had some free time on your hands, right? This could be a fun project, and my podcast could really use an injection of something new and lighthearted. I’ve been wanting to put something fun in the Friday slot.”
“Andi.”
“And have you heard your voice?” She put her hand on her bookcase of DVDs. “I mean, it’s like melted butter and molasses had a baby. I would listen to anything in your voice. You could read me the ingredients on the cereal box and I’d be enthralled.”
His eyebrows arched. “Uh, thanks?”
She rolled her lips together, realizing she’d let a little more than she’d planned slip out. “It’s just, your voice is made for radio—or in this case, a podcast.”
“Andi, I don’t know anything about podcasting or being a guest on one,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “I think this is one of those late-night ideas that will look ridiculous in the morning.”
She put on her best pretty-please expression. “Come on. Don’t shoot it down yet. Late-night ideas can be the best ideas. It’s why I keep a notebook and a lighted pen next to my bed. This could be fun. It wouldn’t feel like a podcast. It would be watching movies and then talking about them afterward—just us. Like going out for a drink with your friends after a movie to discuss.”
“Right. Just us. And the world listening to just us.”
Just us.The two simple words coming out of his mouth sent a little zap of pleasure through her. Unbidden images flashed through her mind—nights curled up on the couch with Hill, watching scary movies with his big, warm body next to her, her sliding her hands beneath that T-shirt and feeling exactly how furry the werewolf was. Nope. Stop that. They were dangerous visions, ones that were way too tempting. This was about the podcast and friendship. She could not get involved with her neighbor and landlord.
She didn’t get involved with guys at all. She didn’t slide her hands beneath their T-shirts. She didn’t do the things she fantasized about late at night. She’d tried that in real life a few times, trying to get past her hang-ups, but it’d been a disaster every time. She’d learned sex could only be good in her fantasies and with a vibrator. In reality, with another human being, it was a terror fest for her and an exercise in confusion and frustration for the guy.
No matter what fantasies Hill stirred up, the only thing they could be was friends. She would need to keep the boundaries clear.
“We could do a few practice runs. If you hate it, we can stop. I would never post anything without your permission,” she said. “You’d have full veto power.”
Hill ran a hand over the back of his head, considering her. “How about we start with a movie? Because you’ve got me curious about the genre. But no podcast promises. I’m a pretty private person and that seems very not private. I don’t know if I want comments from listeners about tying me up.”
She grinned. “Oh, you’d get some comments, but I bet they’d be date proposals, not death threats.” She pointed at him. “Molasses and melted butter, Hill.”
He snorted dismissively.
“But I hear you and agree to your terms,” she said, meaning it. “We’ll start with a movie night. I’ll curate a list and provide the movies. You can provide snacks with your mad cooking skills. It will be fun. And educational. And life-affirming because you should not be deprived of the best genre that ever existed in the world.”
His expression turned amused. “Not that you’re biased or anything.”
“Course not.” She rocked forward on her toes. “So…”
He released an audible breath, and she sensed victory. “So, I agree to a movie-night trial run. I could hate the genre.”
She smirked. “Or get nightmares from it.”
“True,” he said with a solemn nod. “If I start having to leave the lights on at night, I’m out.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re the scaredy-cat type.” She flicked her hand toward him, indicating his general size. “You ooze frailty.”
He smiled a truly wolfish grin. “Delicate like a flower.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I do have a hard line though,” he warned. “No bug movies, especially spiders.”
She lifted her hands. “Got it. My hard line is torture movies.”
He looked surprised. “So the horror writer is afraid of some things, huh?”
She scoffed. “Hill, the horror writer is afraid of all the things. That’s why I can write it so well. You can’t write horror if you don’t know fear.”
He frowned at her attempt to be flippant. But before Mr. FBI Profiler wannabe could dig deeper on that, she began to list movie categories they should sample first—slasher classics, possession movies, teen horror.
But she only made it halfway through the list before she could feel exhaustion hitting her. Hill got up to grab them another beer, and she settled back on the couch, but she didn’t remember him bringing it back.
By the time the sun started to peek through the blinds, she’d dozed off on the couch, a half-written list in front of her, and Hill had zonked out in her way-too-comfortable recliner.
He’d broken her rule. He’d slept over.
She’d broken her own. She’d let him.