Don't Bet On It by J. L. Salter Read Free Book Online Page A

hair. Right now, I kinda half-way wanted him in my hair. “No more wagers,” I tried to look demure, “but we can still share a meal.” It took me a few seconds to think of the right venue to learn about the real man behind the person I’d been out with three times. “And since I won our final wager, our meal will be tomorrow evening… at your place.”
    â€œMy place?” He looked borderline frantic, like he’d need a full week and a team of housecleaners to straighten up the joint. Then his panic appeared to subside a bit, so I figured he’d just planned to toss everything into a spare room. “Are you planning to bring your red queen?”
    â€œYou can bet on it.”
    Brett looked like he was trying not to smile as we got up from the table and walked outside. I took another look at the Italian restaurant’s exterior and hoped I could visit it again someday — maybe with him.
    We didn’t talk much on the way home. He was probably thinking about the bizarre see-saw of emotions during and after our dinner — I know I was. I was also gratified we had salvaged it… would’ve been horrible to end things with my hostile, hurtful words.
    When he dropped me off, he walked me to my door and kissed my hand like a perfect gentleman. Though I’d briefly considered inviting him inside, I knew I couldn’t — too soon. And even though I had steeled myself not to — and more or less promised Joan I wouldn’t — I rose up on my toes and kissed his stubbled cheek, then hurried inside and shut the door.
    Through the window I watched Brett ’s long legs stride toward his truck — he shook his head the whole way.

Chapter Five
    Thursday, about 6 p.m.
    â€œYou voluntarily kissed the killer who’s unhurriedly setting you up for the final bloody chainsaw massacre?” Since Joan went through that sentence only twice, I guessed I was slowly winning her over. However, I did not discuss with her any of Brett ’s revelations about military deployments or his potential interest in my writing.
    Puzzled why my friend had moved so swiftly from vampires to chainsaws, I didn’t ask. It didn’t really matter — I was going to Brett Hardy’s house for supper regardless of Joan’s vivid imagination and vigorous foot-stamping protests.
    â€œAnd next you’re willingly walking into his secret lair, where he hides his saw blades, nasty alcohol jars, and hundreds of chopped up body parts — among other gruesome stuff too disgusting to mention.” Then she pointed to the cabinet beneath her television. “But I have the DVD if you want to see it.”
    â€œNo thanks, I’m about to eat.” It struck me that between Joan and myself, I was actually the crazier one. Why else would I keep sounding her out about my love life? Knowing in advance that she’d screech and stamp and find a dark comparison to some grisly death merchant… why should I be surprised?
    â€œSo you’re really going through with this, Chloe?” Joan didn’t wait for a reply. “You do know that once you kiss your future killer, it makes him especially obsessed with your murder… so it will be unbelievably gruesome and horrible.”
    â€œNo, I didn’t realize my smooches had such power over assassins. And to think I only kissed his cheek.” She deserved my sarcasm even though she didn’t seem to comprehend it as such. “Imagine if I’d given him some tongue.”
    â€œOh stop, you’re going to make me cry. I’m trying to reason with my best friend before she walks into the house of death, and you’re ridiculing me.”
    So she did get the sarcasm after all. “I’m sorry, Joan. I’m just exhausted by all your dire predictions. This guy’s been a perfect gentleman.”
    â€œIncluding when he was nibbling your entire arm in a public