#jerome is such a name i love it so much. jerry too fuck yeah
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jerome + she/they
#hiiiiiii ^_^ hi#jerome is such a name i love it so much. jerry too fuck yeah#also ive been she/they so much lately im enjoying it so much. absolutely no dysphoria i look so much like a she/they#(mandatory disclaimer theres no way to look like a she/they i just present in a way that makes me feel she/they etc etc)#ANYWAYS SHE/THEY !!!!!!!!!!#i was she/they for like a week straight and then i was he/him for a little last night and now im she/they again. love this for me truly
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Madness is like Gravity - Chapter 6
Warnings: Language, Drinking, Drugs, A very awkward dinner, Oswald is a fucking wine Aunt, Arguing, Tension
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Chapter 6
Emerald’s P.O.V
Jerri and I had both found jobs in the next two weeks. Jerri’s being a little more on the illegal side but I didn’t mind so much. I had found myself a quiet little desk job but it would pay the bills and was giving me the normality I wanted so I couldn’t complain. Jerri had insisted that tonight we go out to celebrate at this new club that had recently opened up. It couldn’t hurt. I changed into a simple black bodycon dress and matching heels. It kinda looked like a mother/daughter duo going to a club.
We arrived around 8:30pm and Jerri headed straight to the bar to get us the first round of drinks. It was nice to let loose and not have to worry about being lectured by some control freak. No more men for now, it was good to stay single and focus on myself for a change. After the first drinks, I ordered some shots. The club was full of people, the music loud enough you had to shout to hear each other.
I checked my phone and noticed a missed text from Oswald. I opened it up and frowned.
Would you like to come over tonight? Ed and I miss you.
Urgh. I knew exactly what that meant. They didn’t miss me as such. Jerri noticed the frown on my face and raised an eyebrow. I showed her the text and she shook her head.
“Let me text him back,” Jerri spoke.
“No. I'll just ignore it.”
Jerri snatched my phone from me and began texting. I tried to get my phone back from her but she dogged my various grabs. Once she was done she let me have the phone back. I dreaded to think what she had sent.
Go fuck yourselves.
Great.
“Don’t worry about that short little dick. You’re with me now and we don’t need his fucking money. Nor do we need anything from him anymore. You’re a free woman now,” Jerri explained.
That may be true but she didn’t need to send Oswald a rude text. The last thing I needed was him to be pissed off with me. I quickly sent a text back apologizing for the last text.
Jerri came back with another round of drinks, which we quickly downed. She led me over to the dance floor as the song changed. One I actually recognized too. She's Gone Away by Nine Inch Nails. As we danced to the music I began to feel a little odd. I wasn't drunk, this was something else. I brushed it off as to drinking on an empty stomach. I'd be fine. No more drinks tonight. I continued to dance, losing myself to the music.
My stomach continued to feel worse and worse and the dull ache in my head had become a throb. I needed some water or something. I took a step over to the bar and stumbled. I righted myself before trying again. I managed to get across to the bar, my words slow and a little slurred. Thankfully the bar tender couldn’t turn down someone that just wanted water. I downed the glass quickly in the hopes of feeling better sooner rather than later.
I heard sudden loud laughter, flinching at the sound. I glanced over to find a guy dressed in black and white Arkham clothes. I frowned, what the fuck? I'd seen fanboys like him before, what kind of club was I in? I clutched my head as another wave of dizziness hit me, when i looked back over the guy was gone as if he hadn’t been there. Maybe it was just the dark lighting making me see things. Jerri was soon by my side, tugging on my arm.
“You ok?” She asked.
“I don’t feel so great.”
Jerri didn’t seem to hear me, “listen there’s this guy I want you to meet, he's super cool.”
I groaned as Jerri dragged me away from the bar and further into the club, I thought I caught sight of another guy dressed like Jerome, this time wearing the magician suit. I looked back only again he was gone. I really had, had too much to drink. Jerri and I stopped near the back of the club and she sat us down in a booth with what I was guessing was the supposedly ‘cool guy’. His hair was dark and slicked back neatly. He wore all black except for large grey winter coat.
“Emerald meet Dwight. Dwight meet Emerald,” Jerri introduced us.
Dwight smiled at me and removed his leather glove to shake my hand. I accepted the gesture, doing my best to try and keep focus. My vision was starting to blur.
“Nice to meet you,” Dwight spoke, his gaze intense.
I managed a ‘you too’. It felt like the room was spinning and I was gonna throw up. I couldn't do this right now. Jerri and Dwight began talking but it sounded like I was underwater, everything was muffled and distant.
I managed to get Jerri’s attention, “I need to go back to the apartment.”
“Your fine, you’ve just had too much to drink.” She dismissed me and continued her conversation.
I made a sound of annoyance, the sickness feeling getting worse. I closed my eyes and leaned back in the booth. I took deep breaths, focusing on just my breathing. It still did nothing to make me feel better. I leaned my head on the wall and eventually passed out.
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I awoke in my room, in my bed. My head felt like it was going to explode and I still felt queasy. What the hell had happened last night? How much had i drank? It must have been a lot with this kind of hangover. There was a soft knock on my door and Jerri came in carrying a glass of water and a pack of tablets.
“Hey, sleeping beauty, it’s gone two. You really got hammered last night,” she spoke.
“Do you remember anything from last night?”
“Not really, but that means we must have had a good time, right?”
“I feel like something happened.”
Jerri shrugged and handed me the water and tablets. I took two and sat up. How did she seem completely fine if she couldn't remember last night?
“I feel like I was drugged or something,” I said more to myself.
“Really? You think someone spiked your drink?”
“Yeah. I should probably go down to the hospital.”
I began to think the worst. If I had been drugged which probably would have been Rufilin, what if I'd been taken advantage off as well.
Jerri frowned, “you think their gonna give a shit about you down at that place. Emerald those rich fucks in this city don’t care about people like us. Trust me when I say that nothing bad happened to you last night. I was with you the whole night and yes whilst your drink may have been spiked, nothing else happened. Look if it makes you feel better I can send some people round to ask questions at the club.”
“Would you?”
“Honey you know I’ll do anything to make you feel better.”
I smiled softly, “thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll make you some breakfast. How does an omelette sound? Or are you going to hurl at the mere mention of food?”
I made a fake hurling sound, making her laugh, “I think I’ll be able to manage.”
She left my room, going to make the omelette. I hope she added plenty of bacon and cheese. I forced myself out of bed and into the shower. The warm water helped to make me feel a bit better. I changed into some comfortable clothes and dried my hair before heading into the kitchen. Jerri set down a plate of food in front of me and sat down opposite me.
I managed to eat about half of it. I didn’t want to overdo it and make myself sick. I glanced at my phone to find a text from Oswald.
Please come over tonight. Ed’s insisted on bringing his girlfriend and I need someone who isn’t a complete nerd to keep me company.
I snorted. Jerri looked up and I showed her the text. She rolled her eyes, shaking her head.
“Just another excuse to get you into bed,” she spoke.
“I don’t think it is. I don’t see why you don’t like him. He was the one that bailed you out. he gave us this place.”
“I’m grateful and all but I don’t like people that think the sun shine out their own asshole.”
I sighed, I knew it was better not to get in to an argument. I text him back.
What time?
“You’re not going. I mean why would you even want to go? Why would you want to see the bitch that took everything away from you?” Jerri asked.
“I’m just doing Oswald a favour. He’s done so much for us, it’s the least I could do.”
“Why doesn’t he get that bald freak to keep him company?”
Ok now that struck a nerve, “don’t talk about Victor like that.”
“Oh, please don’t start defending him as well.”
“Jerri if you don’t like them that’s fine but I’m not gonna let you insult them to my face.”
I got up from my seat and headed back to my bedroom. I began to look through my wardrobe for something to wear tonight. Something that could potentially grab a certain someone’s attention…not that I was playing homewrecker at all. But she’d taken him from me, it was only fair to try and do the same. Eventually I picked out a short, off the shoulder dress that showed the right amount of leg and cleavage. And it came in his favourite colour. Green. I curled my hair and put on some makeup before slipping on my heels. My phone buzzed once more.
Victor’s on his way to pick you up now
I smiled to myself and headed into the kitchen. Jerri was making herself dinner. She turned to look and me and wolf whistled.
“And just a few hours ago you were recovering from a hangover,” she marvelled, “Let me guess Penguin brought that dress for you?”
“Don’t start-“
“I’m not, just asking a question.”
“Yes, he did, what about it?”
“Nothing, just thinking to myself that Jerome would probably like it on you.”
My stomach sank at the mere mention of his name. God why did it still hurt to even think about him? It had been a year and a half since that night and in that time, I had fallen in love twice. It’s not like I was struggling to move on. Yet there was heavy feeling in my chest once more. I guess you never do get over your first love. I forced myself to smile.
“He probably would,” I replied.
“Well try and have fun tonight. If I get call from the GCPD telling me that you’ve murdered the bitch I’m not going to be surprised.”
My phone buzzed, showing a text from Victor letting me know he was outside. I said goodbye to Jerri and went outside. I got in the car and Victor drove back to the mansion.
“I didn’t think you’d make such an effort considering the circumstances,” Victor commented.
“Well considering the circumstances maybe I want her to feel uncomfortable.”
Victor chuckled, “now now play nice.”
I faked offence, “I don’t know what you mean.”
Once we reached the mansion, Victor parked the car and opened the door for me. I headed inside where Oswald greeted me, with a hug. I smiled, returning the hug.
“Well don’t you look lovely tonight,” Oswald spoke.
“You’re the third person to comment on my dress tonight. Are they already here?”
“In the dining room.”
“If you said I would have been sooner.”
“I’ve managed.”
I still felt bad that he’d been left alone with the two of them for god knows how long.
Ed stepped into the hallway and froze as he saw me, looking me up and down. I smiled to myself, tossing my hair back and walking over to him in confident strides.
“So, where’s the lucky lady?” I asked.
“Emerald-“ he started.
I looked into the dining room to find her. She was sat by the fire in a figure hugging simple black dress. Her blonde hair was styled in a cute little updo. She looked like one of those classic Hitchcock blonde beauties. She turned to me and got to her feet to greet me.
She shook my hand and smiled wide, showing her perfect porcelain teeth.
“Lovely to meet you Emerald. Eddies told me so much about you,” she spoke.
“Sorry, he hasn’t actually told me your name,” I smiled back.
She looked over my shoulder at Ed, her smile fading a little, “oh. I’m Isabella.”
“Now that we’re all here shall we sit for dinner?” Oswald interjected.
Oswald and I sat down opposite the two love birds and soon enough the first course was brought out.
“So, Emerald what is it you do?” Isabella asked me.
“Well I’ve just recently started a new job in an office block. Nothing too interesting. What about you? He really hasn’t said much about you.”
Her smile faded again, “I’m a librarian.”
“So, you’ve read everything?”
“Not quite everything, but I do like classic romance novels. Like Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra,” she spoke in a dreamy tone, glancing at Ed.
“I wouldn’t consider those romantic. I mean didn’t they both end in tragedy,” I held back a wicked smirk.
She might fucking end in tragedy if she wasn’t careful. Ed cleared his throat and attempted to steer the conversation in a different direction.
Instead we ate in silence. Once we were all finished and waiting for the main I thought of another topic.
“So, Isabella, doesn’t it make you uncomfortable to be the only one who hasn’t been to Arkham Asylum. The only one here who hasn’t killed someone,” I spoke.
“Emerald, we don’t have to talk about that,” Ed cut in, glaring at me.
“Why? Haven’t you told her?”
“Told me what?” She asked.
“Stop it!” He snapped.
Oswald was smirking in amusement before taking a sip from his wine.
“I want to know,” Isabella spoke.
“Well I suppose I have to tell you now. Ed went to Arkham for murdering his ex-girlfriend who looks an awful lot like you. All you’d have to do is dye your hair strawberry blonde and put on some glasses and it would be like seeing a ghost,” I explained.
Ed was gripping his wine glass so hard that I’m surprised it hadn’t shattered yet. Various emotions flashed across Isabella’s face. I decided to ‘lighten the mood’.
“Hey, it’s not as bad as some of the things Oswald and I have done. We’re probably the more dangerous people at this table,” I smiled.
The second course arrived and we ate in silence. Only small talk was made. Until the third and final course. Isabella had continued to glance at me throughout the main course as if she were trying to read me like one of her romance novels.
“I know where I recognise you from now other than Oswald’s mayor campaign,” she spoke.
“The news, the papers?”
“Yes, weren’t you one of the people that held the children’s hospital charity gala hostage? Along with the other blonde…Barbara Kean and…wasn’t it Jerome Valeska?”
Of course, most of my non-Oswald related public appearances would be alongside Jerome. God why was everyone having to bring him up tonight?
“I was,” I spoke, less confidence in my voice, “excuse me.”
I got up from my chair and left the dining room. I was not breaking down in front of that bitch. I leant against the wall and took a deep breath to stop myself from crying. I heard footsteps come after me. Probably Oswald to see if I was ok. I turned to see Ed instead. He didn’t look like he was in the mood to comfort me either. Once he was close enough to talk to me in angry hushed whispers, he pushed me against the wall hard.
“Are you trying to ruin my relationship with Isabella because your still bitter?” He hissed.
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m just telling her the truth. Maybe I should tell her how you didn’t even bother to actually break up with me first before getting with her.”
“You told me that you were ok-“
“And I was fucking lying to get you away from me. I couldn’t stand to be around you. I’m still hurting and I’m going to be for a while, don’t you dare expect me to just get over it.”
His grip on my shoulders loosened a little, “you still didn’t need to tell her those things.”
“Well look at it this way. She hasn’t run out of here screaming for help. You’ve got yourself a keeper.”
I shoved him back and headed for the door. I grabbed my coat from the coat rack and quickly put it on, fastening the buttons.
“Emerald,” Ed called after me.
I sighed and rolled my eyes before turning back to face him, “what?”
“I still care about you.”
I felt my shoulders slump at his words. Why? Why the fuck did he have to say that? I felt like screaming at him. Talk about toying with my emotions. Asshole.
Taglist: @my-world-of-imagines, @belathora, @edweirdoddlepot
#gotham#gotham fic#gotham fanfic#gotham fanfiction#gotham smut#gotham feels#gotham fluff#gotham angst#edward nygma#edward nygma fic#edward nygma fanfic#edward nygma fanfiction#edward nygma smut#edward nygma feels#edward nygma angst#edward nygma fluff
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Chapter Four
That Which Hosts the Undead Would Be as Scary
The men in my romance novels are unfailingly handsome. That breed of handsome that takes the breath away from however many readers it takes to create a “bestseller”. Such a man may have a scar – physical or mental, take your choic – but it becomes him, makes him that much more vulnerable and therefore more attractive. The authors of my romances, I’m told, write them that way for maximum arousal and some mental drooling (actual drooling I’d rather not consider; it damages the book). My point is, the hero could have a hairy mole, for crying out loud, but the authors are careful to place such flaws where they will cause the strongest visceral reaction among their readers.
By comparison, however, this gravedigger turned grave robber in the Plutarch grave fell a bit short. Yes, he was the same man who “stirred” my feelings from a distance that afternoon. I knew him from the union shirt and the jeans that fit so well (especially there). I knew and wanted the big hands pushing at the shovel’s handle on my own body while his square jaw sagged in profanity because he could not pry the lid open.
But the face?
I’ve had time and proximity since that night to try to find the words for the face as I saw it in the yellow Coleman light on that April evening. First, take my Grandpa Dov’s favorite comic strip hero, Dick Tracy. Remove the yellow Fedora and make the hair brown, wavy and wind-blown. Second, widen the eyes enough to tell from a few yards that they are brown, a soft, sable brown. Next, soften Tracy’s building block of a nose a little while you’re at it. Last, put that head on good shoulders on top of a strong chest that narrows down to those perfect-fitting jeans and there he stood, straddling Eulalie Plutarch’s coffined remains in pretty well-worn black Nikes. I almost envied her the view of that inseam.
A rustling in the hedge that separates Sections E and F told me Jerry tried to hide out of the light. I stood at the edge and kicked some of the loose dirt down into the grave. The digger turned robber lifted those eyes to me and scowled.
“Who the fuck are you?”
He told me later than I flinched. All I remember is that his question offended me. I can appreciate well-timed profanity. I’ve uttered my share in the appropriate circumstances. But when you’re caught (excuse the expression) dead to rights in a felony, I’ve always considered it bad manners to lead with the f-word.
I kicked in a little more dirt before I answered. “Well, since I pay the union who pays you, I guess that indirectly makes me your boss.”
He drew the shovel upright, balancing it on one of the brass handles on the side, and leaned on it. Then he smiled. I won’t say I was a goner when he smiled because that’s one pun too many for one scene in a cemetery. But, as I recall it, the night had grown a little less chilly.
“So you’re the lady in charge. Farmer, isn’t it?”
“It is. And you are?”
He started to laugh with a sideways glance. “Charlie. Charlie Tischler.”
“OK, Charlie Tischler, what precisely are you doing? You’re over five hours late filling in the grave and I would think standing in it is not the ideal position to do the job. Nor is the time particularly good, seeing that you’re digging in the dark.”
He chuckled. “You got that right. But do you know who this is?”
“From the death certificate and the papers, yes.”
“She’s the richest b-“
“Don’t say it. Neither of us knew her that well when she was alive.”
He stared at me for a moment. Not his most endearing expression; he looked like a snapping turtle who’s been poked from behind. He rephrased. “She was extremely rich and she wanted to be buried with a lot of her jewelry.”
“You know this how?”
“Her sons hung around after the service. They were fighting over letting diamond rings and pearl drop earrings and gold necklaces that are now in the ground on a rotting corpse. Must have gone on at each other for quarter of an hour. They agreed to let it lie for now. But, as you can see,” here he gestured to the shovel and the dirt on his hand, “I disagreed with their decision.”
“And the coffin lid is locked.”
His arrogance sagged a little with his jaw. “Yeah. I have a little turd for a partner. Looks like he ran for it.”
“And here we are. In point of fact, you’re screwed.”
“If you’re calling the cops, I guess I am.”
I suppose I did think it over too long because his mouth was just starting to curl up in that smile again. Not one of the heroes in my books had that smile.
I tried to look – and feel - indifferent to that smile. And him. “OK, I’m not going to run back to my office to call the police because, by the time they arrive, you’ll have filled in the grave and run off. Yes, I have your name and a description to give them, but I don’t think you wouldn’t have an alibi and I’m in no mood to get into a he said/she said spat that the newspapers will eat up and that will cost me my job.” His smile widened to show teeth so straight he had to have endured yesars of sadistic orthodontists and their metal braces. “But what I will tell you is that you’d better fill in the grave and get out of here as fast as you can. I am by far the least dangerous thing in this cemetery.”
He laughed. A low, rolling sound that left me a little dizzy. “Why? You telling me there are ghoulies and ghosties around?”
My Grandma Rose always said deep breaths clear the mind and stiffen the backbone. That smile and that laugh had me wobbling, so I took three. “I have no idea what a ghoulie is, but, yes, we have ghosts and vampires here. They’re all very territorial. I know they won’t take kindly to someone violating a grave in their cemetery.”
He laughed again. “And what will the werewolves think?”
“I can’t say. This is a cemetery. A place for dead people. Technically, werewolves are still alive.”
You insert a quick question: do werewolves exist? I’ve heard that they do, but I cannot prove it one way or the other. I’ve never seen one since I live at the CPF and I rarely venture into Syracuse. However, I have heard of a pack running near the university. And that’s enough to keep me from going downtown when there’s a full moon.
“Look,” I said, “there about two dozen vampires who will be returning from feeding in Syracuse before long. They may be sated or they may not. For all I know, some of the younger ones might like you for dessert and the older ones can always make exceptions for people who piss them off. So, if they find you here still trying to break into Eulalie’s coffin, they will hurt you. They may even kill you. I strongly suggest you get your ass out of there, fill in the grave and leave.”
He studied me a long time. Long enough for me to look over all of the adjoining sections and count a few headstones. “You’re serious,” he said. “I almost believe you.”
“I’d recommend you do. In short, Charlie Tischler, you’ve got choices here. You can decide that I’m crazy,” I told him. “You can take your chances and keep working at the latch – which will give after a while, by the way. But you won’t live through the night if you do. Or –“ and, looking back, this is where I lost my mind before I lost my heart – “you can come to the house on your next night off and I’ll introduce you to some of them.”
He narrowed his eyes. I braced for more laughter or a string of profanities to insult my intelligence. He did neither. He did something decidedly un-manly: he listened and considered what I had said. “I’m tempted,” he admitted, “but I don’t know when I could do that. I work two jobs and a lot of double shifts at the Book-of-the-Month club. Might be a week, might be two weeks.”
Might be never. “Fine. They’re not going anywhere and neither am I. Leave me a phone message about which day. The union office has my number. Only give me a few days’ notice to make the arrangements.” I turned away and walked a little, then turned back for the effect. “And plan on coming between nine and nine-thirty. Our residents don’t care much for the sunlight.”
I was reasonably sure Charlie had taken my advice to do without Eulalie Plutarch’s jewelry. If he hadn’t, if Derek and his “family” had found him and, as I suspected, feasted on him, I’m sure Missy and Mischa would have come screeching into my bedroom about the mess and how was I going to clean that up? The publicity alone would doom me.
Besides, the grave was filled in the next morning.
And here you ask another question: How did I get to such a razor’s edge with the Board? I’ll try to make the long story a little shorter than plowing through over a hundred and fifty years of documentation.
My family’s relationship with the Board of Directors has been strained from the very beginning, or ever since Jacob Baumann applied for the caretaker and gravedigger job in 1840. It is never a good start to an employer-employee when the interviewing committee’s secretary, the Reverend Dieter Bruner, makes notes like these next to a badly-printed copy of the foundation’s charter:
Next to the First Article: “We get only one applicant and it’s a filthy Jew not four months off the boat. I’ll bet my hat he speaks no English.”
Second Article: “I’d have lost my hat. He speaks English. Speaks it better than Halberforth (Abernathy Halberforth, President of the Association). Speaks it better than Mason (Raymond Mason was the Association’s attorney), for the love of God! The Devil’s in this!”
Third Article: “In agony now, wanting to laugh and yet I want the man arrested for (a trail of blotted ink here) WITCHCRAFT! He’s got Meecham (Jerome Meecham, the treasurer) agreeing that the advertisement misrepresented the offer of compensation!”
Fourth Article: “Lord God in Heaven, save us sinners now and at the hour of our death, which has to be nigh! This man has us in his thrall!”
Most of the rest of the drama queen’s notes are smeared, but they seem to be in large part expressions of mental anguish and a pious whining at Life in general and the Divine Being in particular. I can’t read it without thinking it would make a sensational blog. Lots of followers and people to “Like” the page. That is, until readers tired of the whining – I’d give it a week at best – and they told Bruner in text and tweet to get an f-ing life.
Either in spite of or because of the Reverend’s side notes, the Board hired Jacob. They and their heirs tolerated him and his male heirs, despite having to give them a house, a carriage house, and eventually electricity by the time Jacob’s grandson Isaac was caretaker. Over the next 160 years, the Board saw quiet men who did their job and had families that caused no public comment satisfied them, whether the Board honestly was happy about their employees or not.
To be fair, the relationship wasn’t all unspoken tension. Once, around 1920, in what I can only assume was a fog of patriotic fever, the Board issued my great-great-grandfather Isidore and his son Jack a public commendation for their “good and faithful” service during the influenza pandemic of 1918-1919. Between the two of us, however, I still think the Board wanting some good publicity to come out of having the space for so many bodies.
But the bad feelings returned soon enough. Great-grandfather Jack took them to court to force the Board to pay for the installation of indoor plumbing. Grandpa Dov fought with them to the point of filing a lawsuit over cost-of-living increases, insurance and the like after the Second World War. And the current Board members were none too keen on my crazy father Barry, who had wandered the cemetery at night to “tuck in” all the residents, had scared off his wife after producing one female child, and then had driven my grandfather’s Buick off the then incomplete 690 bypass all by the time I was five.
Grandpa Dov and Grandma Rose died after I graduated college with a Business degree, so the position came down to me. But, in the Board’s eyes, I was a single female of child-bearing age with no observable marital prospects. They exercised some interpretation of their prerogative so that I had to endure an application and interview process, despite Jacob’s contract article requiring that members of his family stay in the job to the end of the family line. Heaven knows these descendants tried, but they could find no escape clause and found themselves honoring the contract with a woman.
It must have bruised their egos. I kept their books and records as well, and in most cases, better than my grandparents because I could use a computer. I don’t even keep a cat. And yet, it has always been a precarious existence for me. One sixteenth of a column of bad publicity and I could be fighting for my house and my job.
I sat up in the office for an hour and a half after leaving Charlie standing with his mouth open in Eulalie’s grave. No ghosts, no vampires, not even a soft spring breeze disturbed the quiet. I had only to calm the disturbance Charlie Tischler had created in me: a roil of hormones and other bodily responses I hadn’t had since the age of 14 when I’d picked up my first romance, A Love Unknown. Grandma Rose had thought I had menstrual cramps and recommended an ice pack and chocolate. I didn’t say no.
Age, however, turns such indulgences to fat, so I had to quell the (let’s be honest) arousal in another way. That took several deep Grandma Rose breaths, a dose or two of reality and the promise of better company in my books.
So I went up to bed and let the pull-up-toned arms of Brett Shackleford, the hero of His Arms, take my mind into a tight and promising embrace.
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