Undeadly. Michele Vail
in the house with a b-o-y. Not that he would have to know. Ever. Rick dropped my wrist, gave me another grin and I suppressed the urge to skip through the house.
In my room, I took off my shirt and assessed the damage to my shoulder. It didn’t look too bad. I got a washcloth and wiped some of the goop off and then smeared what was left across the teeth marks. Yuck.
I got out my precious bottle of Dior Addict, which I saved for special occasions, and squirted it along my neck and collarbone. Then I spritzed my wrists. I picked out another shirt, my teal flutter-sleeve with a V-neck, and put it on. It looked pretty good with my jeans. I took a second to brush my hair, which I wore long and straight. It was a boring shade of brown, but I had hazel eyes, which kinda made up for the witchy locks. I also freshened my makeup. Luckily, I had decent skin and didn’t need too much coverage. I wore peach blush on my cheekbones, lightly lined eyes with a smidge of mascara and gloss (Dad put the kibosh on colored lipsticks).
Then I brushed the hell out of my teeth. Just in case.
Finally, I came downstairs, heart racing. I wasn’t sure what to talk about with Rick. We were in a couple classes together, but we didn’t usually run in the same circles. I’d been kinda surprised when he started hanging around me more at school. I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed, either. My friends thought it was way cool, but Mina Hamilton, head cheerleader, perfect princess and Rick’s ex-girlfriend, did not. She’d been giving me dirty looks, making snide comments within earshot and “accidentally” pushing me aside when sashaying down the hall. Her mean-girl attention scared me worse than dealing with hungry Mortimer. Surviving a zombie attack was easy; getting out unscathed from a Mina attack was not.
Rick was standing in the living room, staring at our bookshelves. He held a can of 7UP and he took a sip as he studied the shelf filled with necro books.
“Hey.”
He turned, checked out my blouse (and okay, my boobs) and smiled. “Hey.”
He put the soda on the coffee table and stretched out his hand. Heart pounding, I took it and he drew me into his arms.
Holy. Freaking. Anubis.
“You’re very pretty,” he said. I smelled mints and the tang of 7UP. My heart beat faster still and my knees went all mooshy.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
His blue eyes darkened. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Remember when I said I had no social life? Dad had rules about me and boys—as in never the twain shall meet (another point to Mrs. Dawson). Sixteen was the magic number for dating. And driving. And everything else.
“You nervous?” he asked softly, his face dropping closer to mine.
“No.”
“Liar.” He chuckled.
I didn’t answer because silence was better than admitting he was right.
He drew me closer and I realized how muscular he was. He was six inches taller than me, too, even with my two-inch boot heels making up some of the height difference.
“I really like you,” he said.
“I really like you, too.”
“Good.” Then he lowered his lips toward mine—
“Excuse me?”
I jumped out of Rick’s arms and whirled around. I knew that thick accent. Dad only pulled out the Bronx voice when he was trying to intimidate. He made it sound like he had mob connections—which he sooo did not. He’d lived in Las Vegas longer than he ever had New York.
“Dad!” I pasted on a smile as frustration (no kiss) warred with embarrassment (so busted). Dad had the worst timing ever. “This is my friend. Rick Widdenstock.”
My father wasn’t much taller than I was, but he was built like a bull. Barrel-chested and muscular with slicked-back dark hair and amber eyes that took in everything, he did kinda look mob-ish.
“How ya doin’, Rick?”
Rick pretended my dad hadn’t scared the crap out of us. He crossed the room and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
My father pumped Rick’s hand. He was impressed by good manners. Me, too, actually.
“My little girl, you know, she’s not sixteen yet.”
“No, sir. But I’ll be here tomorrow night to celebrate her birthday.”
“Just see that you celebrate it with your hands in your pockets, Rick.”
“I have every intention of kissing Molly, sir,” he said. “I’ve waited for her a long time.”
I almost fell over. A long time? I didn’t think he’d noticed me until two weeks ago. And that was only after he’d broken up with Mina—and they’d dated all last year. Maybe he was just laying it on thick for my father. Although his announcing he wanted to make-out with me probably hadn’t made Dad all that happy.
But it sure did me.
“I appreciate honesty, Rick. But watch the hanky panky, y’hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Walk your young man out, Molly,” said Dad. “I’ll wait for you here.”
Terrific.
Rick might’ve been cowed by my father, but he’d hidden it well. He’d made a stand, too. He took my hand and we walked outside together. We leaned against the driver’s side door, close but not touching. I wouldn’t put it past my dad to be looking out a window and scowling at us.
“You must really want to date me,” I said, realizing as the words left my mouth that I’d made a huge assumption. I mean, kissing me was one thing, committing to dinner and a movie every weekend was something else. That was dating, right?
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I really do.”
“Why?” I asked. I didn’t feel like anyone special, and I certainly didn’t fit in with Mina and her crowd.
“You’re pretty, smart and funny. What’s not to like?”
I pretended to think about it. “True.” I looked up at him through my eyelashes. “So why should I date you?”
“Because I have a kickin’ ride, I’ll pay for every date and...” He leaned down and whispered, “I’m a very good kisser.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” I said primly.
He laughed. Then he put a finger to my lips. “You’ll see tomorrow night.”
Disappointment crowded my stomach. “Tomorrow?”
“When you’re sweet sixteen, Molly Bartolucci, I will kiss your socks off.” His lips melted into that oh-so-sexy grin, and I grinned back, butterflies jumping and fluttering.
I stood in the driveway and watched him leave. He waved at me then drove sedately down the street. I turned to go back into the house, prepping my story for Dad.
He was still in the living room. He’d pulled a picture off one of the shelves, the last one we’d taken before Mom bailed. When he looked at me, tears glittered in his eyes.
“You look just like her.”
Dad didn’t really talk about Mom that much. For a while, there’d been a hole in our family, but eventually it closed up. She’d left, and we’d survived. Still. This was weird. I’d been expecting the chewing out of my life, and he was getting all sentimental. I sucked in a breath and said, “We weren’t doing anything. He just gave me a ride. I had to change clothes—”
Dad put the picture back and waved off my explanation. “Demetrius called my cell and said that Whacko Woodbine’s zombie bit you.” His gaze dropped to my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah, Dad.”