Indecent Suggestion. Elizabeth Bevarly

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      “I don’t trust you,” she said. “That’s why.”

      Well, hell, that made two of them, Turner thought. Then he remembered she was talking about something completely different from what he was thinking about. He just wasn’t sure what.

      “What are you talking about?” he asked.

      “Our bet,” she said.

      Oh, right, he thought, still dreading having to go the whole day tomorrow without lighting up.

      “Of course you can trust me,” he said. Lied. Whatever.

      “Hah.”

      “Becca…”

      “From the moment you wake up tomorrow morning,” she reminded him. “Until the moment you go to sleep tomorrow night.”

      “I know. I will. I mean, I won’t.”

      She nodded. “I’m here to make sure of that.”

      He expelled an incredulous sound. “You don’t trust me.”

      “Didn’t I just say that?”

      “Becca, I’m crushed that you could think of me as being untrustworthy.”

      “Stow it, Turner,” she said as she reached for one of his arms and shoved it down to his side. Then she breezed past him into his apartment, toward the very couch he had just vacated. “I’m going to be here the minute you wake up tomorrow,” she said as she tossed her bag onto one end of it, “and I’m still going to be here the minute you go to sleep. Just to make sure you don’t renege.”

      He gaped at her. “I have never reneged in my life,” he assured her. “I do not now, nor will I ever, renege. I am not a reneger.”

      She didn’t look anywhere near convinced. “Got any popcorn?”

      In response, Turner growled something under his breath that he hoped she didn’t hear and slammed his front door.

      It was going to be a long Saturday.

      “I JUST LOVE THIS MOVIE,” Becca sighed as she thumbed the volume up on Now, Voyager and stuffed her hand into the popcorn bowl—the second batch she and Turner had shared so far tonight.

      Before Now, Voyager, he recalled distastefully, she’d insisted on watching Camille. He hated to think what other sappy—crappy—sentimental movies she’d brought with her. He’d bet good money there wasn’t a rubber monster to be had in any of them. Give him a Wasp Woman or Fresno Fiend over this stuff any day. At least the death scenes in his favorite movies had some action. And there was a hell of a lot more honor going to meet his maker by eye socket heat lasers than some disease-of-the-week. Not to mention his obituary would be a lot more interesting.

      “Go easy on that popcorn,” he said. “It’s all that’s left.”

      It was his way of telling Becca that 1:00 a.m. was a good time to start winding down, but she didn’t take the hint. Instead she reached for the cigarettes on the end table and shook free the last one. Not that Turner was concerned. Like any good smoker—or alcoholic or drug addict, he couldn’t help thinking—he had stashes all over the apartment. And at work. And his car. And the basement laundry room.

      “Do you mind?” she asked.

      “Be my guest,” he told her.

      “But it’s the last one in the pack. It could be your last one, ever.”

      He shook his head. “Not really.”

      “If you light up tomorrow—today—after you wake up in the morning, then you have to go to a hypnotherapist with me, and that’ll be the end of the smoking,” she reminded him. “Are you sure you don’t want this last one?”

      “Number one,” he said, thrusting up his index finger to punctuate what he was about to say, “that’s not the last cigarette in the apartment. I mean, what kind of smoker would I be if I let myself run out of cigarettes? Number two,” he continued before she had a chance to comment, bringing his middle finger into the action, “even if we go to a hypnotherapist, it ain’t gonna work, so I don’t have to worry about never smoking again. Number three,” he concluded, flicking his ring finger up to join the other two, “you said I have to not light up from the moment I wake up Saturday until the moment I go to sleep.”

      She nodded, eyeing him suspiciously. “Yeah…”

      He dropped his hand back into his lap. “I’m not going to sleep tonight. Which means I won’t wake up tomorrow, something that rather blurs the terms of the bet. I could go so far as to say it negates the terms of the bet. So I can smoke all I want tomorrow…today…whatever.”

      She emitted a rude sound of disbelief. “What?”

      “If I don’t go to sleep, then I won’t wake up, and then you can’t hold me to the bet.”

      “But that’s not fair!”

      He thrust his hand into the popcorn bowl. “Of course it’s fair. You’re the one who set the terms of the wager. I’m just going to use them to my own ends. I’ve decided I’m not going to go to sleep tonight. Therefore, I can continue to smoke. Therefore…Four,” he concluded, “you lose the bet. I don’t have to go to see the Amazing Mesmiro with you.”

      Becca narrowed her eyes at him, but said nothing for a moment. Then, suddenly, her expression lightened. “Did I tell you what other movies I brought with me?” she asked.

      Uh-oh…

      “After Now, Voyager is Dark Victory. And then Stella Dallas. And then Imitation of Life. And then,” she said, her eyes widening, “the coup de grâce. An Affair to Remember.”

      Oh, hell, Turner thought. No way could he stay awake through all that. And even if he could, he’d die of estrogen overload. His obituary would be so embarrassing he’d never live it down.

      He looked at the cigarette Becca held delicately between her fingers. Then he looked at the TV. Then he looked at Becca’s smug grin. Then he looked at the cigarette.

      “Gimme that,” he said as he snatched it away from her.

      She chuckled as she held the lighter for him. “You won’t last till noon,” she predicted.

      “Watch me,” he warned her as he blew out a thick stream of white.

      “Oh, I will,” she assured him. “I’ll be watching you very closely, Turner. You can count on it.”

      EVEN THOUGH TURNER WENT down for the count right about the same time Bette Davis wasn’t asking for the moon, he at least managed to sleep until almost noon, thereby lasting until noon—take that, Becca—and, even better, thereby knocking out half the day. As he squinted blearily at the jackpot clock from where he lay sprawled on the couch, he was relieved to note that there were only twelve hours, four minutes and thirty-two seconds left to go until bedtime. Thirty-one seconds. Thirty seconds. Twenty-nine…twenty-eight…twenty-seven…

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