Don't Bet On It (4 page)

“Don't bet on it.”
Why would I bother?
“Both our transactions are complete — the wager and the bribe. This time you have no emergency edge over me, I don't need any more supplies for this semester, and I won't be maneuvered into another, uh, situation.”

His bright blue eyes bore into me as he basically ignored my outburst and gave me a moment to settle. “I've got a hunch you were a bit of a tomboy way back when…”

I nodded before I could stop myself.

“…and I wager you hardly ever backed away from a dare. Plus, anybody who would line up outside an electronics store in the pitch dark obviously has a lot of competitive zeal.” He was clearly stalling in order to come up with the next pieces of a wily plan. “Furthermore, I'll bet you have the soul of a writer and it could be grist for a novel or something.”

I eyed him suspiciously — I did not recall having mentioned my writing to him. How could he know? Did I have ink stains on my fingertips? Could he actually read my mind?

“Well, perhaps not.” He squinted. “But in any case, if you win this wager, we both walk away and I'll never pester you again.”

It would probably be something bizarre like climbing a tall tree to steal a feather from a bird's nest. “What if I lose the new bet?”

“Then we eat Italian on Wednesday night.”

My inner Joan voice warned, “This guy's a total nut case,” but I also remembered the appraisal of my new acquaintance, Christine, who'd salivated over this muscular, tanned — and very crafty — man presently seated next to me. “Not saying I'll agree, but what's the new wager about?”

“Are you ticklish?”

“Not saying ‘til I hear your proposition.”

“Okay, fair enough. I've got you pegged for a woman who's pretty ticklish but also has so much self control that you'd practically kill yourself before you'd show any signs of being tickled.”

I suddenly had an image of him wiggling a knuckle against my ribcage and I slid farther back in the chair. “Not that I'm even halfway considering this idiotic plan of yours, but just for the sake of discussion… what area of the body would be, um, tickled? I mean, obviously there would be considerable zones which are totally off limits.”

He eyed me like I was the choice barbecued brisket he'd recently devoured. “One single spot…visible to me now.”

I looked around our smaller room to see if anyone was near enough to hear. “And absolutely no disrobing…”

It took him a while to respond, so I guessed he was thinking about what was under my clothing. “Nothing has to come off and we can do it right here at the table.”

Somehow that sounded quite kinky even though I still had no idea what he was planning. “Since you're a proven stickler for details, let me get this straight. If I win — with no visible signs of me being ticklish — then you'll never pester me again. But if I
do
reveal that I'm ticklish, I'm compelled to attend another, um, event.”

He nodded. “Which we'd typically call
dates
.”

“Don't you ever just ask women out the normal way?”

Brett
thought a second. “Occasionally, but sometimes I enjoy the wager.”

“Why?”

“Oh, the sport, I guess. Plus, I seldom lose.” Another grin. “So do you accept this proposal?”

Alarm bells were ringing in my head, but it would be a small victory to end this crazy interaction with a clean break. Plus, I
did
have a lot of willpower and really thought I could beat him. “Clarify how you intend to tickle me… and precisely where.”

He leaned forward and whispered, “With two fingertips and my tongue…”

“Your tongue!” My voice was so loud, it surprised both of us, the people two tables away who suddenly looked our direction, and a waitress who nearly dropped her tray as she scurried toward the kitchen. Then, in an urgent, somewhat hoarse whisper of my own, I continued, “You can't
lick
me in public, you pervert!” Then I remembered his caveat: it involved part of my body that was visible. I guessed he was talking about my neck or ears, which
were
extremely ticklish. “Everything above my collarbone is totally off-limits.”

He nodded slowly, smiling like he had a tasty secret. “You've eliminated several logical spots which would've surely cost you the wager. Well played.”

That buoyed my confidence a bit. My legs and feet — two other danger zones — were totally covered and therefore out of play.

From his leisurely nod of acknowledgement, I wondered if he'd eavesdropped on my thoughts again. His omniscient grin looked like he had me cornered at feeding time. “So are we on?”

I ran back through the details — seemed pretty safe. There was no other skin showing besides my arms and hands, which weren't even ticklish. “Oh, Mr. Stickler, we haven't talked about duration. How many hours do you expect me to sit here while you're groping and licking?”

“Only ninety-eight seconds… the amount of time you were late Saturday morning.”

I figured I could put up with bamboo shoots under my fingernails for ninety-eight seconds, so I finally nodded. “Okay… deal.”

“One more condition,” he said as he scooted his chair closer, mostly blocking the view from the only other customers in that section, “you have to keep your eyes closed the entire time.”

That was a weird wrinkle. What was he planning to do — steal my purse and run away? “Uh, okay, but you keep changing the stipulations after we've already made the wager. There's a penalty for post-contract revisions.” I remembered that from when I almost considered law school.

“What kind of penalty?” He seemed quite intrigued. “If you win the bet, I'm gone forever.”

I tried to think quickly. “But if I don't win — because of all these extra conditions you've imposed — I now have one trump card which I can play, at any time, for any reason, to change anything I want… about whatever's going on.”

“Whew! That's a good one. Okay, so you have the title Queen in a game of Hearts.” He grinned again. “And the fact that you've added that to the wager convinces me that you're worried you'll lose.”

“Ninety-eight seconds.”

He nodded.

I took a deep breath, he started his watch, and I closed my eyes.

At first it seemed like butterflies were dancing lightly on the inside of my forearm — for what must have been an hour — and I had trouble controlling my breathing. Then I felt the soft, warm tip of his tongue glide lightly from the inside of my elbow — very slowly — to the middle of my palm and back again. That took another hour and I shivered. Then a cool, extremely focused breeze played over that narrow moist trail and, during that third hour, I melted.

“Ninety-eight seconds… time's up. I win.”

I opened my eyes and stared at my goose-pimpled arm as though it had deliberately betrayed me. I knew there was no point in pretending I had withstood his tickle torture without manifesting how deliciously my body responded to those sensations.

“I'll pick you up at seven on Wednesday.”

I didn't even argue. My body still tingled and my brain hadn't found speech yet.

“And you can bring your Queen of Hearts trump card, in case you predict a need to play it.”

With the bit of remaining strength I possessed, I muttered, “You can bet on it.”

Brett pushed away from the table abruptly, as though he didn't want to give me a chance to change my mind, left a large tip for the waitress, and took the bill. He was already paid and gone by the time I collected myself.

I couldn't believe I'd dropped my guard, especially when I'd had both barrels loaded and was ready to give him a piece of my mind. Instead I got distracted and gave him a taste of my skin… and I was certain I'd never hear the end of that from Joan.

Later, on my way home, I wondered why
Brett
had been so vague about his personal information. When I reached my house and threw myself on the couch, I couldn't get Mr. Barbecue out of my head and realized — though embarrassed to articulate it — that I wanted his tongue all over me, starting with my lips.

I would have to be a lot more hostile at the Italian place on Wednesday.

I plugged in Joan's ancient laptop but as it whirred and cranked with early 1990s technology, I fell asleep.

Wednesday, about 6 p.m.

“He did
what
to you? In public? And you
let
him?” Again, it took three screeching interrogatories before Joan paused long enough to let me reply.

“All he did was lick me…”

“And you act like that's normal behavior after barbecue. What, Chloe — did he not get enough salt in all those fancy sauces?” She was about to start sputtering again. “I'm surprised you weren't both arrested for indecent exposure.”

“There was nothing showing but my forearm…”

“Well, indecent application of a tongue in public.”

I could picture the headlines. “Slow down, girl. First of all, even though it sounds a little odd, it was actually quite innocent. Besides, it felt…” Well, actually I couldn't describe it.

“Okay, I pegged this guy wrong as a serial strangler, and now I realize it — he's obviously a vampire! If your illicit intimacy had lasted longer than a minute and a half, I bet he would have drained all your blood and left you in a pale heap under the table.”

“Oh, good grief, Joan. Nothing happened. Nothing's going to happen. We just have another supper date.”

“Where this time? Up at his castle in the hills with all the wolves? ‘Children of the night' and all that Dracula stuff?”

“No vampires, no castles, and no wolves. He said it's an Italian place — one I haven't heard of…”

“Aha! Vampires always haul you off to the hinterlands where nobody knows you and you can't cry out for help.”

“…besides I've got a safety net. A trump card — anything I don't like, I just toss the card and everything stops.”

“Sure, sure. Trump card. I bet he has a full deck of those. He probably uses the edge of a trump card to pick his teeth after he sucks out all your blood.”

“Joan, you've been watching too many scary movies. Try to focus. I've got a supper date with a handsome man named
Brett Hardy.
He seems to need a bit of a pretext to make it look less straightforward, but it's still nothing more than us eating Italian tonight… somewhere.”

“Well, I just hope you've had a pedicure recently, because those toe tags in the morgue are awfully drab.”

Joan's counsel was steeped in hyperbole, but she nevertheless managed to remind me that I still needed to keep up my defenses and be bristly if necessary, because this unusual interaction with
Brett
should not be allowed to continue. Or should it?

With all of her shrill fussing to counter, I totally forgot to ask for Joan's password to the borrowed prehistoric laptop.

****

Later that evening

For my third — hmm, could I call them
dates
? — with
Brett,
I didn't dare expose any skin again, so I selected an outfit I often wore to school: long-sleeved buttoned pale blue blouse in a silk blend, navy slacks that weren't too tight around my butt, and what people kept calling “kitten” heels, though I never comprehended such imagery for heels that were one inch high.

I wasn't even certain
Brett
would show up, because he'd never asked my address. But he arrived at seven, sharp. Since I didn't want to have to invite him inside, I just met him about half way along my un-edged sidewalk.

Not surprisingly, his wardrobe was within a few buttons and styling seams of the same things he'd worn twice previously. Evidently he had an endless supply of denim shirts and jeans — made me wonder if he'd robbed a western clothing store. Tonight, though, his sleeves were rolled up way above his elbows.

The inside of his well-used pickup was no treat, but I'd only have to worry about that for another couple of hours because this character would soon be history. I still couldn't believe I'd allowed him to
lick
me in public! And I began the evening with a certainty this would be our last interaction. Not because of Joan's exaggerated protestations, but because I had no business dating a gamer who manipulated women with wagers and bribes.

He drove us west on I-40 and off at Exit
233,
to a cozy little Italian place which
I'd never seen before. Inside were real tablecloths and linen napkins… plus candles in old wine bottles. I thought I was on a movie set, and it began to crumble my defenses.

Though I was determined to end things that night, I still didn't expend as much effort being frosty or trying to psychoanalyze
Brett as I had before
, so we both actually enjoyed the meal. Our conversation — though not revealing much about either of us — was cordial enough and the wine probably helped me relax a bit.

When he asked what I had lined up to purchase at the electronics store on Saturday morning, I admitted it was a new laptop I needed for school, home and writing, but did not reveal that I didn't have the first dollar saved toward the purchase of one at regular price. My only hope had been to acquire a device at about one-third of full retail.