Indecent Suggestion

They’d had this discussion before, a million times, in fact, about how they needed to quit smoking if for no other reason than that it was unhealthy. True, they were only twenty-seven and feeling immortal, but they’d both be better off if they quit. And now, with their jobs at stake, they finally had the motivation. If they took the vow to quit smoking together, maybe they’d be successful this time. They could do like in those twelve-step programs and call each other whenever they were at risk of falling off the wagon. Lighting up the wagon. Whatever.

“Turner, this is a sign that’s it’s finally time for us to quit,” she said. “The habit is unhealthy, it’s expensive, it’s socially unacceptable these days, and now it’s about to cost us our jobs. We have nothing to lose by quitting, and everything to gain. And if we both make a pact to do it together, we can succeed this time. I know we can.”

“We’ve tried before without success,” Turner reminded her. “We’ve tried going cold turkey, we’ve tried the patch, we’ve tried the gum. Hell, we’ve even tried smacking each other upside the head every time we saw each other light up. But none of it has worked, Becca.”

“We haven’t tried hypnosis,” she said tentatively.

He gaped at her and for a moment said nothing. Wow. She’d never seen him speechless before. But maybe this meant he was at least considering it.

Then, “Oh, no,” he said. He shook his head forcefully, settling his hands on his hips. “No, no, no, no, no. No way. No how. Nuh-uh. Nein. Nyet. Non.”

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t at least considering it.

“I am not going to let someone hypnotize me,” he added unnecessarily. “That’s a load of crap.”

“It could work,” Becca said, a bit less tentatively this time. “It’s worked for other people. My aunt Louise stopped biting her nails after she was hypnotized.”

Of course, what Becca didn’t add was that Aunt Louise went in to be hypnotized for her phobia of eggplant, and these days she still broke into a sweat whenever she saw ratatouille. Even as a side dish. Hypnosis had been beneficial for her aunt in one way. Just, you know, not the right way.

Becca repeated, “It could work for us. We won’t know unless we try.”

Turner covered the short distance between them in three long strides and dropped into the chair beside hers. He sat the same way now that he had in high school, all sprawling limbs and masculine confidence. These days, though, he took up considerably more room than he had back then. Funny how he’d gone through that second puberty while they were in college at IU. He’d always been so skinny as a kid. Now he was solid rock.

Becca shook off the observation, almost literally. “We could at least try it,” she said more softly.

He met her gaze levelly for a moment, and Becca thought again what nice blue eyes he had. Maybe she couldn’t blame Loosey for being such a tart around him. The tart.

“Right,” he said tersely. “We let ourselves be hypnotized, and the next thing you know, we’re on a stage in Vegas with some guy in a red, crushed-velvet blazer, named the Amazing Mesmiro, and he’s making us bark like a dog and flap our arms like a chicken. Is that what you really want?” Turner dipped his head lower, smiled a seductive little smile and gazed at her through hooded eyes. He dropped his voice an octave or two as he added, “Because ya know, Becca, I can make you bark like a dog if I use the right words and touch you a certain way….”

His voice held just a hint of sexual innuendo, enough to bring that wet, naked-dream business rushing to the fore, and she made herself ignore the tremor of heat that splashed through her midsection. It always made her uncomfortable when Turner acted as though he wanted sex, even when she knew he was only joking. Those few occasions when the two of them had kissed and stroked and groped had ended awkwardly, and it had taken days, sometimes weeks, for the two of them to feel comfortable together again. Turner, especially, had seemed to have trouble getting back to normal. But because of their reactions to each other after getting even remotely sexual, they knew they weren’t suited to it. They were much better as friends than lovers. And Becca didn’t want to risk losing that friendship.

So she ignored the last part of what he’d said to focus on the first part, something that had her biting back both the sarcastic retort and the smack upside the head she felt threatening. There. That was better. That was more in keeping with the way she wanted to feel about Turner.

“Not that kind of hypnosis,” she patiently corrected him. “Hypnotherapy hypnosis.”

He eyed her blankly. “And the difference would be…?”

“Hypnotherapists are better dressed, for one thing,” she quipped. “They have white jackets and name tags and stuff.”

He rolled his eyes.

“And licenses,” she quickly added. “They’re licensed to do this kind of thing. They go through a lot of training and education, whereas the Amazing Mesmiro probably got his training from the Johnson Smith catalog. Not to mention his license.”

Turner’s expression remained impassive. “Hypnotherapists are licensed and trained to make people bark like dogs and flap their wings like chickens? Wow. And here I wasted my time with an MBA and a bachelor’s degree in marketing.”

“They’re licensed to help people,” Becca told him through gritted teeth. Oh, yeah. That smack upside the head was really close now.

“It won’t work,” he said.

She studied him through slitted eyes, nibbling the edge of her lower lip in thought. Turner’s gaze seemed to zero in on the movement, and his pupils widened to nearly eclipse the blue irises. She figured he recognized it meant she was lost in thought—he’d be correct about that—and that he was probably dreading what she was going to say next.

And he was correct there, too, she thought. Because what she said next was, “I’ll make a bet with you.”

It was the perfect way to respond. Turner was just arrogant enough in his masculinity to never, ever, back down from a challenge. But he was also just arrogant enough in his masculinity to hardly ever win a bet he made with her.

“What kind of bet?” he asked.

Bingo, she thought with satisfaction. Aloud, however, she kept her smugness under control and told him, “Tomorrow’s Saturday. If you can make it through the entire day tomorrow—from the minute you wake up until the minute you go to sleep—without once having to light up, then I won’t say another word about quitting, and we can take our habit outside whenever we feel the need at work. But if you break down and light even one cigarette tomorrow,” she quickly continued, “then you have to go with me to a hypnotherapist ASAP.”

He grinned, clearly thinking he would have no trouble sticking to such a challenge. “Piece. Of. Cake,” he said.

Becca grinned back. Yeah, it would be a piece of cake, all right, she thought. And she made a mental note to go ahead and check the Yellow Pages, under H for Hypnotherapist, as soon as she got home. No sense waiting until the last minute.

2

TURNER WAS DRAPED ACROSS his couch, dozing off despite the fact that it was barely ten o’clock, and the TV was blaring the closing credits of The Zombies of Mora Tau, when he heard the ungodly thunder of what he suspected, in his half-coherent state, must be the pounding of one of those very Mora Tauian zombies. Even though Ray Milland had taken them all out with an angry, torch-bearing mob in the final scene, which Turner had witnessed at least a half-dozen times. And it occurred to him as he struggled to a sitting position and knuckled his eyes that he really should find some other way to spend his Friday nights besides feeding bad B-movie monsters into his DVD player.

The zombie pounding at his front door kicked up again, and he wondered where was an angry, torch-bearing mob when you needed one? Not so much to take care of the zombie at his front door, but because at least a few members of the mob also might be bearing cigarettes, which, coupled with the torches to light them, would set Turner up for the rest of the weekend. Then he remembered Becca’s bet. So much for the weekend. Or at least tomorrow. And even though it wasn’t Saturday morning yet, he ignored the half-full pack on the end table and went to see who the zombie knocking at his front door was.

But as he rose to standing and his heart began pumping blood into his bleary brain, he decided that the knocking probably wasn’t coming from anything as lame as a zombie. If what Turner suspected was true, his visitor was way more dangerous than that. More dangerous, even, than the Magma Creature from Milwaukee. Or the Lizard Man from La Jolla. Or the Wasp Woman from Walla Walla.

Stumbling barefoot across the living room, he mentally cued the Twilight Zone music, tugged down his T-shirt that read Vinnie’s House of Hubcaps, and made sure the drawstrings of his faded black sweatpants were suitably tied. Couldn’t go meeting one’s destiny with doom looking like a slob, after all. Well, not too much like a slob. Peeking through the peephole, he saw that he had been correct in his suspicions. Because the beast lurking on the other side of his front door was indeed the scariest, most perilous creature known to mankind.

Or at least to this man, kind of.

With a sigh of resignation, Turner curled his fingers over the doorknob and swiveled it, then pulled the door toward himself with an ominous creeeeeeak. And even though it probably would have been more appropriate for him to say, in his best Boris Karloff voice, “Gooood eeeeveniiiing,” he instead only smiled and said, “Hi, Becca,” to the woman who stood on the other side.

She smiled brightly, a response more dangerous than the heat lasers shooting out of the eye sockets of the Evil Ectoplasm from Encino. Well, more dangerous to Turner, at any rate. The residents of Encino might beg to differ.

“Hiya,” she replied cheerfully, in a voice more menacing than the fireballs exhaled by the Fiend from Fresno. Well, more menacing to Turner, anyway. The residents of Fresno… Oh, never mind. “Thought you might like a little company,” she added easily.

He glanced over his shoulder at the clock on his mantelpiece, the one shaped like a minuscule slot machine, with the glowing red numbers of the hour, minutes and seconds where the three cherries would have been had he just hit a jackpot. The clock had a purple lava lamp sitting on one side of it, and a framed, eight-by-ten, black-and-white glossy of Wayne Newton—though it had been autographed to someone named “Buddy,” unfortunately—sitting on the other side. But tacky as they were, the things on the mantelpiece went with the lounge look Turner had striven so hard to achieve throughout his apartment.

Of course, the main reason he had striven to achieve a lounge look was because he’d found a lot of stuff appropriate for a lounge theme at local garage sales when he’d moved out of his parents’ basement ten years ago, but that was beside the point.

“At ten in the evening?” he asked, turning to look at Becca again.

She lifted one shoulder and let it drop in what he supposed was meant to be a negligent shrug. However, if there was one thing Turner knew about Becca Mercer, it was that she was anything but negligent. No, what Becca Mercer was was…

He expelled a mental sigh of frustration. Gorgeous, that was what she was, he thought as he took in the dark-blond hair that fell just past her shoulders, and the coffee-colored eyes that made his heart pound faster and more furiously than all the caffeine in the world could. And she was built, too—like a brick shit house, as a matter of fact. He dropped his gaze—discreetly, so she wouldn’t know what he was doing—and ogled the snug, faded jeans that hugged her curvy hips, and the brief black sweater that molded her full breasts. Oh, yeah. Becca was curvy and full in all the places a man liked to see a woman curvy and full, all the places a man liked to touch and caress and taste and—

And she was intelligent, too, he knew, stopping his errant thoughts before they could get away from him—because they would get away from him if he let them, not to mention leave him feeling frustrated as hell, the way they always did where Becca was concerned. And she was funny, too, he continued, still cataloging her positive traits. And she was witty. And sweet. And kind. And hot. And amazing. And a million other things he could spend the rest of the night listing. Above all else, though, she was his best friend in the whole wide world.

Dammit.

Because although Turner cherished his friendship with Becca and had for two decades, what he felt for her deep down—what he’d felt for a long time—went way beyond friendly. As much as he hated to admit it—and God knew he never would admit it to anyone but himself—what he felt for Becca might very well be the big L.

No, not lust, though there was certainly plenty of that in the mix. And not licentiousness, either, though that was definitely in there, too. As were lechery, lasciviousness, lubricity and libido. And maybe even a little lewdness, too. But it was that other L-word that had him so worried. The big L. Love. If Turner let himself think about it long enough, he’d probably have to admit that he was in love with his best friend. So he never let himself think about it. Or, at least, he tried to never let himself think about it. And whenever he did catch himself thinking about it, he made himself knock it off.