“No.”
“Good. Now, how do you feel about serial killers?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder as I walked away.
“Documentaries or being friends with them?”
“You know a serial killer?” Oh, man, I sounded way too excited.
He drew level with me and frowned. “Pretty sure a guy I went to school with killed three or four people when he was in college.”
I grabbed his arm, stopping us both in the middle of the parking lot. “Oh my God. Tell me everything.”
“Of course,” he muttered, sliding my hand down to his. “Most girls want me for my money, but you’re interested because I know a serial killer.”
“Not true. I was originally interested because you were hot. Now, I’m interested because you know a serial killer.”
He linked his fingers through mine and sighed. “All right. Get this wedding planner stuff out of the way—because that will take forever—then I’ll tell you about him.”
“That’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
CHAPTER TWELVE – POPPY
Sex and Serial Killers
“So, he posed as a handyman and killed them?”
Adam nodded. “I think so. That’s what I remember, anyway. He got caught when he was on campus and posed as the handyman there. He didn’t realize the girl’s roommate was in, too, and he got caught. I’m pretty sure she hit him over the head with a lamp.”
I snorted, my cold water going up my nose. “I’m sorry—it’s not funny, but that’s just the lamp thing is why I keep a lamp by the side of my bed.”
“In case someone tries to murder you in your sleep?”
“No, in case a stranger wants to spoon.”
“A lamp wouldn’t be much good if they want to shoot you,” Adam pointed out. “Unless it’s bulletproof and they shoot at the lamp.”
“Well, yeah, but—” I didn’t actually have a response for that. “Shut up.”
Oh, look. I did.
He laughed, finishing his ice water.
“I don’t need a babysitter, Miranda. I’m perfectly capable of finding the bar on my own,” came my grandfather’s rough tones from the other side of the restaurant.
“That’s exactly why I’m here, Dad. To stop you from finding it!” Mom replied through what sounded like gritted teeth.
“Oh no,” I whispered.
Adam glanced over. “Your grandpa?”
I nodded.
“Too late!” He cackled. The clonk-clonk of his stick against the floor had me sitting up straight. “Pop-pop!”
Oh, no.
Adam stifled a laugh.
I didn’t stifle a glare.
“Grandpa. I see you made it here in one piece.” I hopped off the stool and kissed his old, wrinkled cheek.
“No thanks to your parents,” he mumbled, resting his cane against the bar and hauling himself onto the stool I’d just vacated.
Adam slipped off his and motioned for me to take his. I waved him away, but he pushed me to it, so I had no choice.
“I like him,” Grandpa said. “He’s got manners.”
“Unlike you,” Mom said, finally catching up with the wily old man. “Stealing your granddaughter’s seat!”
“She got up for me. Isn’t that right, Pop-pop?” He winked at me.
I shrugged a shoulder as I sat on Adam’s stool. “Sure. We can go with that.”
“Introduce me to your friend,” Grandpa demanded. “I’m Grandpa.” He stuck out his age-spotted hand.
“Adam,” Adam replied, shaking it.
“And he’s her boyfriend,” Mom interjected.
Give me strength. Or vodka.
They were the same thing, right?
Grandpa’s eyes narrowed, and he stared intently at Adam. “I know you from somewhere.”
Here we go again.
“Do you report the news?” he asked.
Adam shook his head. “No, sir. I play hockey.”
“Hockey?” Grandpa looked him up and down. “I don’t believe you.”
This was going well.
“Are you sure?” he continued.
“Yes, sir,” Adam replied. “I play for the Orlando Storms.”
Grandpa pinched the arm of his glasses and peered at Adam over them. “Didn’t they win the Jeremy Cup this year?”
“The Stanley Cup, sir.”
“Why do you keep calling me sir? I’m not a knight.”
Help. Help. Is there an escape route?
Mom clearly felt the same because she pinched the bridge of her nose.
“I was just being polite,” Adam said.
Grandpa barked a laugh and pointed at him. “I know! I’m fucking with you!”
“Oh, Jesus,” Mom muttered.
“What does an old man need to do to get a drink around here?” Grandpa leaned right onto the bar. “Hellloooo?”
Mom stepped forward and pulled him away. “Dad, no. You’re not drinking alcohol.”
“I just want a coffee!”
“Then we’ll go to the on-site coffee shop,” she replied.
“No, no,” he said. “Hello, my fine lady! I’d like a Bloody Mary, please!”
“He’ll have it without the Mary,” Mom said quickly. “Virgin. No alcohol.”
Grandpa rolled his eyes and looked at Adam. “You see this shit, boy? I raised her. Wiped her little ass when she was a baby.”
“Dad!”
“Didn’t say a thing when I put her bras in the laundry. Didn’t shoot any boyfriends in high school. I was the model father, and here I am, in my old age, and I can’t even get a Bloody Mary!”
“I’m not putting up with this today. I have to handle last minute things for dinner tonight. Poppy, you’ll have to deal with your grandfather.” Mom patted my shoulder and turned away.
I sputtered. “Wait. What? No, Mom!” I ran the few steps to her. “No, Mom. I’m not doing it. I’ve dealt with two meltdowns from Rosie, kept you out of the way at lunch, drugged Rosie, argued with a man about a lack of chicken, and driven all over the Key for fucking strawberries. I’m not babysitting, too!”
Sighing as if she knew all of that, she patted my hand and extracted it from her arm. “Honey, I have things to do.”
“So do I! If I’m late for dinner, Rosie’s going to kill me!”
“I simply have to be on time. I don’t have the time to make sure he controls himself.”
“Fine.” I jabbed my finger at her. “But when I’m not there at five-thirty, I’m blaming you.”
She said nothing. She turned, and in typical Mom fashion, disappeared out of the bar.
Of course, she did. I should have known that I’d be stuck babysitting at one point this weekend. Grandpa—God love his soul—was one hell of a man, but he was also at the age where he believed he could get away with anything.
Unfortunately for him, he still had a few too many of his faculties about him for that just yet. Maybe in five years, but for now… No.
“Okay?” Adam asked, looking at me with concern as I rejoined them at the bar.
“Fine.” I gave him a tight smile and turned to the girl behind the bar. “Can I have a vodka with cranberry juice, please?”
“Sure.” She turned to do that, and I sat down on the stool.
“Psst, Pop-pop,” Grandpa whispered, holding up his hand. “This is both Bloody and Mary.”
Awesome.
“And I still don’t believe your boyfriend plays hockey. He’s too skinny for that,” he continued. “Aren’t they big old bastards who tackle you down?”
I rubbed two fingers against my temple. “You’re thinking of football, Grandpa.”
He narrowed his eyes and looked away. “Nope. I’m thinking of hockey.”
“You’re thinking of football,” I repeated.
Not to mention there was nothing skinny about Adam. Not his arms. Not his legs. Not his waist. Not his cock. Nothing.
Not even his pinky finger.
Adam leaned into me and wrapped an arm around my waist. Warmth spread through me where his thumb slipped beneath the hem of my shirt and drew tiny circles on my skin.
“Are you sure?” Grandpa asked, a twinkle in his eye.
I took the vodka-cranberry from the bartender with a grateful smile. “I’m sure.” Then I wrapped my lips around the straw and I drink-drink-drinked.
Drank? Drunk?
You know, I didn’t care. I didn’t need to be grammatically correct inside my head.
I needed to be drunk, though. I knew that much.
“So, son. You play hockey. You ever won anything?” Grandpa asked Adam.
He glanced at me, hiding a smile. “Yes, sir. The Stanley Cup went to my team this year.”
“What’s that? The World Cup of hockey?”