Tell Me It's Real(18)

“That bird,” Mom said. I could hear the frown in her voice. “It needs therapy.”

“Is there bird therapy?” Dad asked, and I hung up gently, knowing that conversation would go on forever.

I thought I’d let Sandy suffer for a bit longer, but it was May, and it gets very hot very quickly in the desert. Part of me was vindictively gleeful at the thought of him sweating horribly, but then I realized he had air-conditioning in his car and he hates to sweat. “Guess who’s here,” I said to Wheels in a happy voice, getting him all riled up. “Guess who’s here! Is it your Uncle Sandy? Is it?” Wheels about shat himself when he heard the name Sandy. They’d bonded over a Milk-Bone and been soul mates ever since. The mutt pretty much hates everyone else. He’s very… picky about who he loves. Which, to be honest, was just a nice way of saying my dog is a jerk.

I opened the door, a little startled to see Sandy standing in the entryway. He eyed me warily. “You still mad?” he asked. “Because if you are, I brought you a breakfast burrito from Los Betos, which is your most favorite thing in the world.”

It was, but I wasn’t going to let him off that easy. I stared at him.

He sighed and went a bit further. “And I also brought Transformers on Blu-ray, because you don’t seem to own it for some reason.” He dangled it in front of me.

The man knew his way to forgiveness, especially through Michael Bay and burritos. I stood aside and let him through the door. He looked instantly relieved, and only then did I notice the bags under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept well. I wondered if it had to do with our fight, and I immediately felt like an ass. I placed a swift kiss on his cheek as he passed me by. I caught his small smile as I closed the door behind him.





“DO YOU even want to know his name?” he asked me an hour later, tucked into my arms on the couch, lying with his head on my chest.

“Who?” I asked, watching as Optimus Prime kicked some major digital ass.

“The guy from last night.”

I took a deep breath and let it out, trying to remain calm. I paused the movie and the house got eerily quiet. “You talked to him?”

He shook his head, a little tense against me. “I asked around. Tried to get some info.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you, you big idiot,” he said softly. “More than anything in the world.”

Asshole. Going straight for the heart is so unfair. I just grunted at him, unable to use my words.

He took this as a go-ahead. “Apparently he’s from here. Went to the U of A before moving to Phoenix. Then he moved back here a couple of weeks ago.”

I shuddered. “Thank God he moved back. Do you think he still has his soul or did Phoenix steal it away?” There’s a strange rivalry between Tucson and Phoenix, one that probably goes back to the dawn of time when people from Phoenix crawled up out of the pits of hell and tried to destroy the paradise that was Tucson. It’s not something you’re supposed to question. If you live in one place, you automatically despise the other city. It’s a desert thing.

Sandy laughed quietly to himself. “He’s twenty-eight. Apparently not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s supposed to be sweet as all get-out, not to mention he looks as he does. Single, doesn’t appear to be too much of a slut. Couldn’t quite nail down his type, but I don’t think you’ll need to worry about twinks like Eric. Besides, even if you did, did you see his arms? I’d kick anyone’s ass for that. I think he could probably bench press a moose if asked.”

I snorted. “We’ll be sure to test that theory out,” I said before I could stop myself.

Sandy sat up, eyes wide, that familiar smirk forming. “Does that mean…?”

I blushed as I shook my head. “Doesn’t mean anything. I’ll probably never see him again.” I tried to ignore how my heart thumped a dance beat in my chest. And I didn’t want to know his name. Not at all. To hear it would make him real, and to make him real would make it hurt all the more because nothing would happen. I didn’t stand a chance in hell, especially with what all his friends looked like. I’m pretty sure you have to be a shallow jerk to look like they do. It’s part of the “I’m So Pretty” contract God makes all the beautiful people sign. I groaned as I realized I was going to ask anyway.

“What’s his name?” I asked, avoiding eye contact.

Sandy grinned and I saw a bit of Helena spark behind his eyes. And then, in a low and throaty purr, he spoke the name that would change everything. “Vincent Taylor,” he (or was it she?) said. “Goes by Vince.”