Still Beating

“You’re incorrigible.”

I narrow my eyes at the man I’ve deemed worthy of my most treasured insult.

Incorrigible. It’s a damn good word.

The man in question is Dean Asher—my sister’s prick of a fiancé.

Dean laughs, seemingly unaffected by the hostility shooting from my eyes like hot lasers. He must be used to it by now. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“Stupid, too,” I say, sipping on my watered-down cocktail with one arched eyebrow.

Fifteen years. Fifteen goddamn years is the amount of time I’ve been subjected to Dean’s teasing, ridicule, and bad attitude. He’s the stereotypical ‘bad boy’—surly, well-muscled, always reeking of cigarettes and leather. Pathetically good-looking.

Asshole.

My sister, Mandy, fell right into his trap. They were high school sweethearts from the start. Mandy was the epitome of popularity with her Prom Queen title, bleached blonde hair, and Abercrombie wardrobe. That was the style back in high school.

I, on the other hand, was none of those things—thank God. Despite the fact that I’m only ten months younger than Mandy, we could not be more different. She’s athletic, bubbly, and vain. I’m a bookworm who would much rather purchase adorable outfits for our family dog than for myself. Mandy is perky, and I’m prickly. I could recite Shakespeare all day, where Mandy likes to quote the gossip headlines off Twitter.

Even though we have our differences, our sisterly bond has strengthened over the years, and now I’m preparing to be the Maid of Honor in her wedding next month. I’d like to say that Mandy outgrew everything about her high school years, but, alas, Dean Asher somehow made the cut as she enters her thirties. He’s clung to Mandy like a disease. She just can’t shake him.

I can’t shake him.

So, now I have the divine privilege of being Dean’s sister-in-law in four short weeks.

Vomit.

“Pretty sure that’s not a word.”

I swirl the miniature straw around my glass, my eyes raising to the man staring me down with his signature smirk. His gaze is all iron and grit. I shake my head, ashamed I have to call this guy family soon. “Don’t make me Google it, Dean. You know I will.”

It’s Mandy’s thirtieth birthday party. We’re at The Broken Oar—a laid back bar in northern Illinois, right on the lake. It’s a fun place to celebrate, despite the questionable company.

Dean takes a swig of his beer, his pale blue eyes twinkling with mischief. And not the fun kind. “You always were the nerdy type, Corabelle.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He winks at me and I shoot him a death glare. Dean is the only person, other than my parents, to call me by my full name—Corabelle. I hate the name. Everyone calls me Cora. Dean knows this, of course, but he’s always found immense joy in tormenting me.

Our banter is interrupted by the birthday girl, who is currently bringing the phrase “white-girl-wasted” to remarkable levels. Mandy wraps her arms around both me and Dean, squeezing the three of us together in an awkward, smooshed hug.

“I looooove you. You’re my bestest friends. I’m marrying my bestest friend,” Mandy slurs, having inhaled at least a dozen Sex on the Beach shots at this point. She turns to me, her head falling against my shoulder. “And you, Cora. You are going to marry your bestest friend really, really soon.”

I push myself free of the embrace. The smell of Mandy’s overpriced perfume and Dean’s whiskey breath is making me want to hurl. “I’m never getting married, Mandy. Divorce just isn’t on my bucket list. Maybe in another life.”

I begin to turn away, but Mandy stops me. She pokes a French-tipped finger in the middle of my chest, and I flinch back, scratching at the tickle she leaves behind. “Marriage is sacred. Dean and I are never getting a divorce.”

Possibly true. Dean seems like the type who would be content staying married, while enjoying his side-chicks along the way. And Mandy is certainly the type to turn a blind eye. “A fairytale. Color me jealous.”

“Can you guys try to get along? Please?” Mandy begs, waving her hands around with an air of theatrics. There is an ounce of sincerity mingling with her intoxication.

I sigh, my eyes darting to Dean. He’s still smirking. I tap my fingers along the side of my glass as I pretend to consider Mandy’s plea. “I mean, I would… maybe, perhaps, but… how am I supposed to get over the ‘spider in the shoe’ incident? How does someone move on from something like that?”

Dean chuckles as he chugs down his beer, clearly amused with his antics. “That was gold. I’ll never apologize for it.”

“See?” I shove my glass at him, jutting out my pinky. “He’s uncooperative. I tried.”

Mandy smacks her fiancé in the chest. “Dean, stop being a dick to my baby sister.”

“What? She can hold her own.”

I glare at him, and our eyes hold for just a beat. “Well, he’s right about something.” Then I storm away, swallowing the last few sips of my crummy cocktail as I approach the bar. I slam the empty glass down and perch myself on a stool, eyeing the bartender. “Another one, please. Make it a double.”

I should have accepted the ride home.

It’s a little after one A.M., and I managed to find the most boring guy in the bar to get trapped in conversation with. My intoxication is dwindling, so now I’m just tired and crabby as my elbow presses against the bar counter with my head in my hand. I’m staring at the idiot to my left as he blathers on about being a lawyer, his cool car, and something about a reality TV show audition. Honestly, he lost me before he even opened his mouth. He smells like my passionfruit sugar scrub, and it’s really unsettling.

I feign a mighty yawn, forcing my head further into my palm. “That’s great, Seth. Really great.”

“It’s Sam.”

“That’s what I said.” I thread my fingers through my long, golden strands of hair as I lift my head and force a smile. “Anyway, I should get going. It’s late.”

Seth/Sam furrows his bushy eyebrows at me, his thin lips forming into a straight line. “It’s not that late. I’ll buy you one more drink.”

Nope. I’ll puke. I’ll definitely hurl all over his ridiculous sweater vest.

“No, thanks,” I respond, dismissing him with a quick wave. “I’m gonna go.”

“Do you need a ride?”

“No.”

Actually, maybe. Mandy and Dean drove me here, and I couldn’t stomach another car ride with Satan himself, so I turned down their offer to drive me home.

But that’s what Uber is for.

I push myself off the bar stool, wobbling on my stupid high heels, and snag my purse off the counter. “See ya.”

Seth/Sam grumbles as I fling my purse strap over my shoulder and saunter outside. I’ve successfully ruined his plans for the evening, and I’m pretty much okay with it. I wouldn’t mind a night of drunken shenanigans and questionable decisions—Lord knows my vibrator is sick to death of me—but Seth/Sam lost his appeal faster than the Chicago Bears lost their shot at the Superbowl this year, which was pretty freakin’ fast.

Maybe I’m just too picky.

Mandy says I’m too picky.

Oh well. Looks like my vibrator is stuck with me.

The cool breeze assaults my lungs when I walk along the side of the bar, my heels clacking against the pavement. I tug my cardigan around my navy blue dress, trying to dilute the chill, then reach into my purse for my cell phone. I’ve never actually used Uber before—maybe calling a taxi would be less complicated. Do taxis still exist?

I continue to fish through the pockets of my purse and locate my phone, but then my eyebrows crease when I realize my purse is feeling a lot lighter than usual. Huh. I shine my cell phone flashlight inside to assess further and a tight knot of anxiety starts weaving itself in the pit of my stomach.

Well, shit.

My wallet is missing.

Did that son-of-a-bitch inside take it because he knew I wouldn’t close the deal?

I storm back into the bar, my heart thumping like a wild stampede beneath my ribs. My credit cards, my driver’s license, over one-hundred-dollars in cash. Photographs, my insurance cards, passwords I’ll never remember.

Goddammit.

I smack my hand against Seth/Sam’s shoulder with a heaving chest. I don’t even wait for him to turn around. “Did you steal my wallet?”

He slowly turns in his chair with a look of disgust. “Excuse me?”

“My wallet is gone. You’re the only person I was talking to tonight.”

Seth/Sam huffs. “Exactly. You were talking to me all night. When would I have had a chance to steal your wallet?” He shakes his head at me, then turns back around and reaches for his beer. “Sleep it off, bitch.”

I ignore the insult, too wrapped up in my current dilemma to slap him. The dude has a point. I was literally facing him the whole time I’d been sitting at the bar—albeit, half asleep and drooling on my hand—but I would have noticed him messing with my purse. In fact, my purse was perched on the bar counter, slightly behind my right shoulder.

That means someone behind me would have stolen it.

Shit, shit, shit.

The bar is almost empty at this point. I question the bartender who only shrugs at me, then puff my cheeks with air, blowing out a breath of frustration. I wander back outside and mentally prepare myself for begging people for rides since I’m suddenly broke.

I start with Mandy, already knowing she sleeps with her phone on silent.

Voicemail.

I try my best friend, Lily.

Straight to voicemail.

There’s no way in hell I’m calling my parents.

I go through my list of contacts, attempting three more people.

Voicemail, voicemail, voicemail.

My thumb hovers over another name, and I scrunch up my nose and pucker my lips, dreading the mere thought. Walking seven miles home in my high heels sounds more delightful than a ten minute car ride with Dean Asher.

The wind picks up, forcing my hair to take flight. The cold almost chokes me.

I click on his name and immediately begin muttering profanities into the night.

“Corabelle?”

I don’t know if I’m more annoyed or relieved that he picked up. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why are you drunk dialing me in the middle of the night?” Dean’s voice is raspy, laced with sleep. I probably woke him up—good. A silver lining.

I’m about to explain, but he interrupts. “Let me guess, you had one too many shots of Fireball and you’re calling to confess your undying love. I always knew you had a thing for me.”

I grit my teeth, regretting my decision with monumental proportion. I can feel his smirk from here. “You know what? Forget it. I’ll walk home.”

I’m about to end the call when Dean cuts in, “Wait, wait—you need a ride? I thought you were calling an Uber.”

“Yeah, well, some jerk stole my wallet and now I don’t have any money. But it doesn’t matter. I’d rather walk.” I really want to hang up on him.

“Don’t be stupid. Your sister would kill me if I let you walk home.”

“Your empathy astounds me.”

He chuckles. “Sensitive and good-looking. I’m a triple threat.”

“You mean a double threat. You only named two things.”

“What?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, searching for a semblance of self-control. Deep breath. “Never mind. Just hurry up.”

I hit the ‘end call’ button like it’s my alarm going off on a Sunday morning. These are the moments I wish I smoked. I debate heading back inside, but I don’t have any money for drinks and I really don’t want to be sucked into another riveting conversation with Seth/Sam, so I lean back against the brick building instead.

Only a few minutes pass before some moron sidles up beside me asking for a light. I glance in his direction and quickly inch away. He’s a balding, pot-bellied man who smells like cooked carrots. I try not to gag.

“I don’t smoke. Sorry.” I continue to put distance between us, but I can feel the man leering at me from a few feet away. Ugh.

“Let me buy you a drink, kitten.”

I cross my arms when I catch him staring at my cleavage. “No, thank you. I’m just waiting for my ride.”

“I can give you a ride,” he sneers, his innuendo thick and not at all subtle.

Cue more gagging.

“Again, I’ll pass. Have a nice night.”

I never thought I’d be wishing for Dean to hurry up and get here. Even that jerk face is more tolerable than John Wayne Gacy over here, boring his x-ray vision through the front of my dress.

The man prattles on, making my stomach churn. “You’re a pretty little thing, you know.”

Ew, ew, and more ew. The man is creeping his way into my personal bubble, and before I decide to head back inside the bar, Dean’s black Camaro comes careening into the parking lot with its beast of an engine and supercharged tires. He pulls up in front of me and exits the car, tossing his keys into the air and catching them with his opposite hand. He glances at me, waiting for me to ‘ooh and ahh’ or something.

So not impressed.

My arms are still folded defensively as he approaches, his gaze flickering between me and Gacy. My body language screams I hate you, but my eyes are sort of pleading for him to get me out of here. “Hey,” I mutter with little emotion.

Dean frowns at the man beside me, so I turn my attention to the right and notice the creep is still staring at my boobs with a salacious grin on his face. Dean’s eyes narrow, then cut back to me. “Ready? ‘Cause I’m tired as hell, and—”

“She your girl?”

Gacy interrupts, and we jerk our heads towards him simultaneously.

Dean is quick to reply. Too quick. “Hell, no.”

Jesus. As if I have leprosy or syphilis or the bubonic plague. I glare at him, insulted. “Gee, thanks.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

I stalk forward towards the passenger’s side, feeling Dean close on my heels.

Gacy issues us a farewell that makes my skin crawl. “You two enjoy your evening.”

I hop inside the car and slam the door, locking it instantly. Dean follows suit, looking over me and out the window at the stinky carrot man.

His eyes are still narrowed and thoughtful. “That creep touch you?”

I flick my gaze across Dean’s face, annoyed by how attractive he is. He runs a hand over his bristled jaw, scratching at the shadow of stubble, and I catch a whiff of his musky, cedar cologne and a trace of leather. I chew my bottom lip, leaning back against the seat. “No. Not like you’d care,” I mumble, turning to look straight ahead.

“I care, Corabelle. You’re in our wedding party—can’t have you chopped into little pieces and hidden under that guy’s floorboards before the big day.”

I snap my head in his direction, catching the playful smirk on that stupid, handsome face of his. “I hate you.”

“You know I’m just messing with you,” he winks.

“I still hate you.”

Dean’s eyes rove over me, assessing me in some way, as he twists the key in the ignition. The engine howls to life. “You know you’re just opening yourself up to scary dudes when you dress like that,” he says off-handedly, his wrist dangling over the steering wheel as he puts the car into drive.

I snort at the audacity of his claim. “Victim shaming,” I supply. “You really are a catch. My sister is so lucky.” I blink at him, fluttering my long lashes dramatically.

“That’s not what I meant,” he counters. “I’m just saying, when you look like that, guys notice.”

“When I look like what? Are you saying I look slutty?”

“I’m saying you look good.”

Dean issues the strange compliment with such nonchalance, I almost forget who it’s coming from. I fidget with the hem of my dress and cross my legs, unsure of how to reply, but then I remember he was still victim shaming and he’s still an ass. “Yeah, well, you look like a… bonehead.” What?

A rich laugh mingles with the roar of the engine, and I slink back in my seat. “That’s the best you got? The alcohol must be getting to you. Your comebacks are suffering.”

“Shut up.”

Dean scratches at his jaw again, glancing my way every few seconds. “You’re welcome for the ride, by the way. And for saving your life back there.”

I snort again. I didn’t even realize I was a snorter. “All you did was pull up in your macho car, looking like a tool, and imply that you found me revolting.” I smile sweetly at him, placing my hands over my heart. “My hero.”

He sniffs. “That guy was one coquettish look away from stealing your panties for a trophy. I definitely saved your life.”

“Coquettish?”

Dean shrugs, his focus shared between me and the road. “Yeah, so? I got it from the Cora Lawson Handbook. You’re basically a walking dictionary.”

“I wasn’t giving that guy any ‘coquettish’ looks,” I argue, ignoring the jab. “That was me trying not to gag on my own vomit.” Then I raise an eyebrow and clear my throat, adding, “You should be pretty familiar with that look.”

He tries to hide his smile, but I notice. “No wonder I thought you had a thing for me.”

Oh, jeez. I shake my head, forcing back my own smile.

Dean shuffles in his seat, reaching for his cigarettes in the center console. “You know, I was thinking we could squash this little tiff we’ve got going on. A truce or something.”

“Little tiff? You mean the seething hatred I’ve had for you for the past fifteen years?”

“Yeah, that.”

I gawk at him. “No.”

“Why not?” he questions, his voice muffled through his cigarette as he lights the end. The embers glow bright, a deep orange and crimson. He sneaks a peek at me when I don’t answer right away. “For Mandy. She wants us to be friends.”

“Unless you plan on getting a personality transplant, I assure you that Hell will freeze over before I consider you my friend.” Dramatic, but true.

“Shit, Cora, I’m not that bad.”

His statement forces me upright in my seat, my neck craning backwards in outrage. Is he being for real right now? I huff my disagreement. “You called me ‘Cor the Bore’ all through high school because I’d rather study than party every night. You set me up on a blind date with Stinky Steve and videotaped my reaction, then posted it on MySpace. You reenacted The Ring the night I watched it for the first time and scared me so bad, I actually fainted. Mandy thought I died, and she had a panic attack. I still refuse to have a TV in my room.”

“High school stuff. That was years ago,” Dean dismisses through his laughter.

“You replaced my sugar jar with salt when you came by to pick up Mandy, so I had some pretty interesting coffee to start my morning. Yesterday.”

“Well…” Dean scratches his shaggy, brown hair, half-cringing, half-amused. “You give it right back to me, Corabelle.”

“You call me Corabelle. You know I hate it.” I could go on. I could go on and on and on. I’m tempted to, but it’s only boiling my blood further, and I don’t have the energy to fight. “We’ll never be friends.”

I’m looking straight ahead again, but I can see Dean gazing at me from the corner of my eye. I swear there is a hint of softness there. A small, white flag, waving in the wind. “That’s your name.”

“My name is Cora. Corabelle is the abomination my parents gave me because they already used the pretty, normal name on their favorite child.”

Okay. So, I’m taking this to a very personal place. I need to stop.

“Listen…” Dean is about to respond, but we are both distracted when flashing lights pull up behind us, blinding us with their incessant strobes. He slows down, annoyance etching across his features as he stares into the rearview mirror.

“Dammit, Dean, what did you do? I just want to get home.”

“I didn’t do shit. I was going the speed limit. My plates aren’t expired.” He pulls over to the side of the gravel road, smacking the steering wheel with his fist. “This is bullshit.”

The car comes to a complete stop and I fall back against the leather seat with a sigh of exasperation. “There’s probably a warrant out for your arrest. Maybe you killed someone. I’m not going down for murder. I’m not your accomplice.”

“You think I could kill someone?”

Well, no. “Probably. But you’re too dumb to do it right, so now you got caught and you’re taking me down with you. This is just great.”

“Jesus.” Dean swings his head back and forth, scrubbing both palms over his face. “No wonder you’re still single.”

Oof. I let the barb sink its teeth in me, seeping into every pocket of vulnerability. He knows my weakest link. I think he gets off on toying with my insecurities and giving them life. “Screw you.” There is no teasing or playful banter—only animosity.

Dean glares at me.

I glare right back.

And then the sound of glass smashing against the side of my face is ringing in my ear, and I let out a scream. Two meaty hands wrap around my neck through the broken passenger’s side window, and I have no fucking idea what’s happening, but I keep screaming on instinct, pushing my feet against the door to keep him from pulling me out as my own hands claw at his arms.

“Cora!”

Dean is on me, over me, punching the guy and trying to release the bastard’s hold. I reach for Dean, clinging to his jacket, desperate not to leave this car, desperate not to be taken. I shout through the fear, choking and sputtering, “Drive!”

Dean is still trying to pry the hands from my neck. “I don’t have you!”

“Just… drive!”

My vision blurs as the fingers around my throat cling harder, but then one hand releases me and there is a moment of hope—maybe Dean hurt him, maybe Dean scared him away—but the other hand returns. It returns with a shiny piece of metal, and I think it’s a gun, oh God, I think it’s a gun.

More screams.

They are mine, I’m sure.

And then the butt of that gun collides with Dean’s head with a sickening thunk.

“No!” I shout, plead, beg. Dean falls across my lap like a ragdoll, and I feel myself being lifted from the seat and yanked through the window as shards of glass tear my dress and skin. “Let me go!”

A thick palm that smells like gasoline clamps over my mouth, stifling my cries, and when I glance up, my eyes widen.

It’s him.

The John Wayne Gacy look-a-like from outside the bar.

No.

My muffled sobs slip through the cracks of his fingers, and I keep fighting as he drags me across the gravel. My legs kick and flail, my nails digging into his fleshy arms until they bleed.

Then I open my mouth as much as I can and bite down.

Hard.

The man wails in pain as blood seeps from his finger wound, and I try to make a break for it. I pull free for a moment, for just a moment, before something strikes the back of my head…

… and everything goes dark.