A Living Dead Love Story Series by Rusty Fischer Read Free Book Online Page B

Dad’s three house rules. How could I forget? He reminds me every other day or so. “Rule Number 1: no dating unless you’ve been formally introduced to the boy.” I add, “Or girl, whatever,” just to keep him on his toes.
    He smiles, but only begrudgingly.
    â€œRule Number 2: my curfew is now and forever shall be 11 p.m. And Rule Number 3?” I sigh. “No sneaking out. Ever.”
    Dad smiles but adds forebodingly, “I love you, Maddy. That’s why I want to protect you. If you were a coroner, if you saw the way the world treats people—so cruelly, day after day—you’d want these rules for your daughter, too. They’re simple, really. And, of course, no need for me to remind you that the penalty for breaking any of these house rules is no talking to Hazel for 72 hours and no driving for a week.”
    I nod grimly. He’s only caught me once, but it was brutal. Not the no-driving part so much, although when he says a week he means a full 7-day, 168-hour week. Not 6 days because I’ve learned my lesson or 167.5 hours because he’s feeling generous, but one entire week. What was worse, believe it or not, was the no-talking-to-Hazel punishment. That was the longest 72 hours of my life.
    I gulp a little, thinking ahead to breaking
all three house rules
in one single night. “Any particular reason you’re reminding me of these rules tonight, Dad?”
    He chuckles. “No, dear, other than the fact that you haven’t heard a word I’ve said all night.”

5
Raindrops Keep Falling on My Dead

    D AD’S LAST-MINUTE warning echoes in my mind long after he’s finally fallen asleep and I’m slipping into that snug little skirt that’s been hanging in the back of my closet since, well, forever. Sure, I heard everything he said, and yet I’m still breaking all his rules.
    Well, what would
you
do? (Yeah, that’s what I thought.)
    Even though I’m practically palpitating at the thought of Stamp at the party, I take it nice and slow, not wanting to get caught and lose my car or contact with Hazel for any extended period of time. I creep downstairs, hovering around Dad’s bedroom door to make sure he’s snoring. I’m so careful about this that even though he
is
snoring, and loudly, in a way that is almost un-fake-able, I tiptoe away and then sneak right back, just in case he’s faking. He isn’t.
    Back upstairs I fold up a five-dollar bill (you know, in case there’s some kind of cover charge) and slip it into a black cocktail purse I bought for last year’s Fall Formal but never used (for reasons we don’t need to go into here). I add my house keys, a compact, and some lipstick and slip the purse’s long handle over my shoulder, messenger bag style. Then I slide open my well-oiled window (thanks to a can of WD-40 tucked under my bathroom sink behind a bag of cotton balls and a wall of Noxzema jars), and I climb stiffly down the old oak tree.
    It’s not something I do often, thanks to Dad’s Three House Rules, but when your dad works the night shift and you’ve got a popular best friend like Hazel, well, let’s just say I’ve found it’s good to be prepared—just in case. Outside, the street is dark, solemn, and deserted, and the stiff breeze makes me happy I wore my black hair up in a simple ponytail.
    It sucks that I lied to Dad, straight to his face. It sucks even more to be breaking his house rules behind his back, but when life sends you messages in the form of running into a six-foot-tall hunk twice in one day, it’s best to start listening. (And better still to start acting.) Maybe Stamp is playing me, maybe this is all some big prank, but I don’t think so. He seems sincere and friendly, and even if nothing at all happens tonight—not a single kiss or snuggle or peck on the cheek—at least I’ll have something to tell Hazel tomorrow