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Authors: Kathleen Bacus
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your voice down, would you? We don't want the characters from Creepshow up there to get any ideas. But I'll admit there are times when you're cool to hang with."
"Let me write that one down," Townsend said. "We might have a story here. Let's see. 'Ranger Rick can be cool to hang with.' How about some supporting details for my article, Ms. Turner?" he asked. "Some examples that support the premise that there are actually times you enjoy the pleasure of my company. I want to record this moment for posterity."
The palms of my hands grew moist with dangerous-territory-ahead perspiration. Conversations about feelings and emotions always made me a little anxious. Maybe because I wasn't good at expressing them. Or maybe because I wasn't good at reading them accurately in other people.
You know, I've often wished people had tails. You can tell right away when a dog is happy or sad by his tail. Wag, wag, wag. Happy dog. No big mystery there. But people? People are much harder to figure out. Especially those of the male persuasion. And especially the male to my left breathing down the side of my neck like a blast furnace.
"What was the question again?" I asked with a slight breathlessness to my voice.
"I asked for some examples of how my company provides you pleasure--apart from being your dart-board, that is."
Dang. Apparently I didn't have the same effect on Townsend that he had on me: Sometimes when I'm around him, my brain turns to wet lo mein noodles.
"Oh, the usual ways," I said, hoping he didn't notice the sweat beads popping out above my upper lip.
"As in?"
"What do you want? A list of your esteemed attributes from A to Z?" I asked, suddenly so hot that I felt like I was standing over a grill at the Dairee Freeze, wearing a Gore-Tex winter parka.
"I doubt we have that much time," Townsend said, a grin evident in his voice. "But you could start with A, and we can see how far we get." His right hand came to rest on my right shoulder. "Or maybe we should skip right to F," he said.
I gave him a surprised look. "What the...?"
"F, for fantastic kisser," he elaborated with a low laugh. "What did you think I was gonna say, T? You naughty, naughty girl," he added. "Disappointed?"
"Why, you... you A-is-for-asinine ass!" I responded by taking his hand off my shoulder and tossing it back at him.
"It's true, you know," he said. "Even if you won't admit it."
I looked at him. "That I'm disappointed? Not hardly, pilgrim."
"That I'm a fantastic kisser," he corrected with a shake of his head. "Surely you haven't forgotten those heated kisses we shared at the fair earlier this summer."
"Uh, like the place was on fire," I said. "Literally!"
He chuckled. "Keep telling yourself that, Cleo," he said, and I shrugged. Queen of Denial or not, I was gonna make darned sure that I knew right where the good ranger stood before we went and shared this bowl of alphabet soup--or anything else, for that matter.
"Hey, you two! Keep a lid on it back there, would you?" Joe Townsend called from the front seat. "You're steamin' up the windows so much my defroster can't keep up! I feel like I'm in that movie The Fog . Don't mind tellin' you I'm getting a bit claustrophobic!"
I shook my head. Townsend men would be the death of me yet.
Surreal seemed a pretty apt way to describe the transformed senior citizen center as we entered the facility, a bona fide collection of assorted freaks. Outside, once I got a look at my grandma's getup, I tried to do an abrupt about-face and skedaddle, but Townsend grabbed my elbow with an "Oh no you don't!" and kept me snared firmly by his side. When his grandfather came around the car in full vampire-hunter regalia--and carrying a nasty-looking hook in one hand and what looked like a dead bird in another--I was forced to return the favor, grabbing hold of Townsend's waistband to keep him from running off.
"What the hell are those?" Townsend asked, gesturing at the hook and bird in his grandfather's hands.
"It's a
"Let me write that one down," Townsend said. "We might have a story here. Let's see. 'Ranger Rick can be cool to hang with.' How about some supporting details for my article, Ms. Turner?" he asked. "Some examples that support the premise that there are actually times you enjoy the pleasure of my company. I want to record this moment for posterity."
The palms of my hands grew moist with dangerous-territory-ahead perspiration. Conversations about feelings and emotions always made me a little anxious. Maybe because I wasn't good at expressing them. Or maybe because I wasn't good at reading them accurately in other people.
You know, I've often wished people had tails. You can tell right away when a dog is happy or sad by his tail. Wag, wag, wag. Happy dog. No big mystery there. But people? People are much harder to figure out. Especially those of the male persuasion. And especially the male to my left breathing down the side of my neck like a blast furnace.
"What was the question again?" I asked with a slight breathlessness to my voice.
"I asked for some examples of how my company provides you pleasure--apart from being your dart-board, that is."
Dang. Apparently I didn't have the same effect on Townsend that he had on me: Sometimes when I'm around him, my brain turns to wet lo mein noodles.
"Oh, the usual ways," I said, hoping he didn't notice the sweat beads popping out above my upper lip.
"As in?"
"What do you want? A list of your esteemed attributes from A to Z?" I asked, suddenly so hot that I felt like I was standing over a grill at the Dairee Freeze, wearing a Gore-Tex winter parka.
"I doubt we have that much time," Townsend said, a grin evident in his voice. "But you could start with A, and we can see how far we get." His right hand came to rest on my right shoulder. "Or maybe we should skip right to F," he said.
I gave him a surprised look. "What the...?"
"F, for fantastic kisser," he elaborated with a low laugh. "What did you think I was gonna say, T? You naughty, naughty girl," he added. "Disappointed?"
"Why, you... you A-is-for-asinine ass!" I responded by taking his hand off my shoulder and tossing it back at him.
"It's true, you know," he said. "Even if you won't admit it."
I looked at him. "That I'm disappointed? Not hardly, pilgrim."
"That I'm a fantastic kisser," he corrected with a shake of his head. "Surely you haven't forgotten those heated kisses we shared at the fair earlier this summer."
"Uh, like the place was on fire," I said. "Literally!"
He chuckled. "Keep telling yourself that, Cleo," he said, and I shrugged. Queen of Denial or not, I was gonna make darned sure that I knew right where the good ranger stood before we went and shared this bowl of alphabet soup--or anything else, for that matter.
"Hey, you two! Keep a lid on it back there, would you?" Joe Townsend called from the front seat. "You're steamin' up the windows so much my defroster can't keep up! I feel like I'm in that movie The Fog . Don't mind tellin' you I'm getting a bit claustrophobic!"
I shook my head. Townsend men would be the death of me yet.
Surreal seemed a pretty apt way to describe the transformed senior citizen center as we entered the facility, a bona fide collection of assorted freaks. Outside, once I got a look at my grandma's getup, I tried to do an abrupt about-face and skedaddle, but Townsend grabbed my elbow with an "Oh no you don't!" and kept me snared firmly by his side. When his grandfather came around the car in full vampire-hunter regalia--and carrying a nasty-looking hook in one hand and what looked like a dead bird in another--I was forced to return the favor, grabbing hold of Townsend's waistband to keep him from running off.
"What the hell are those?" Townsend asked, gesturing at the hook and bird in his grandfather's hands.
"It's a
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