Liz Jasper, author of paranormal mystery UNDERDEAD

Liz Jasper

I would have shot him then and there if I thought it would do any good, but Roger was such a troll the bullet
would have bounced off his thick, ugly hide. Maybe poison…
Becky interrupted my pleasant daydream with a whack on my arm. “Okay, don’t turn around and look,” she
said, “but a guy is staring at you. And he is hot!”
“How nice for him.”
All I needed to cap off this fabulous evening was Becky’s matchmaking. I knew her taste. He probably wore
chains and had a Mohawk. Becky herself was dressed in what was best described as slightly toned-down punk,
not exactly your typical high school chemistry teacher garb. It went with her spiky hair, which she wore
bleached and dyed silver, though a red fringe had been added in honor of the holidays. I should mention that she
is Korean, so the dye job isn’t exactly subtle. The headmaster turns a blind eye to this display of “personal
expression” because she’s a first-rate teacher and, at twenty-seven, cheap.
Around us, hip twenty-somethings in denim and black sipped cappuccinos and talked knowledgeably about the
band that was setting up in the bar area. But we weren’t sitting with them. We were at a long rectangular table in
the back of the restaurant, where a small balding man in a hideous sweater was lecturing passionately about the
insidious evil that was grade inflation. If I’d ever imagined a fate worse than death, this was it—the science
department Christmas party.
Becky was staring over my shoulder and had started fanning herself vigorously with a dessert menu. “I mean
really, really good-looking.”
“Pass,” I said from my slumped position. I seemed to have lost the will to sit up straight.
Becky tore her eyes away from the “hot man” long enough to look at me as if I were crazy.
“I’m off really good-looking men,” I said.
“Oh please. That’s such total bullshit.”
“I’m not kidding.” And I wasn’t, not really. “Extremely good-looking men are always horribly deficient in other
areas—you know, like kindness, consideration… It’s like they get by on their looks and don’t develop a
personality.” I threw my balled-up napkin on the table. “Either that or God put all their eggs in one basket—they’
re hot but they’re stupid.” The last thing I needed after an evening of Roger, our pompous gasbag of a
department chair, was to deal with another overblown ego.
“Ouch. Sounds like someone has some old boyfriend issues to work out.”
“Already have. Lesson learned—don’t date extremely hot men.”
Carol had stopped trying to make her sliver of chocolate cake last longer than Moses was lost in the desert, and
was following our discussion interestedly from her position between us at the foot of the table. Unlike Becky,
Carol looked like a high school science teacher. She was in her mid-thirties with long dark brown hair and the
weight of a few too many faculty meeting doughnuts pooling about her waist.
Carol leaned forward. “You know, Jo has a point.” Her brown eyes glittered behind her sensible gold-rimmed
glasses as she warmed to her topic. “They’ve done studies that show very good-looking people actually do not
tend to be as well developed in other areas—uh…”
Her words shriveled and died under the heat of Becky’s glare. “Live a little, Jo! We didn’t pick this place for the
food, you know.” Ah. That explained why we were eating at this unexpectedly trendy club a few blocks outside
the gentrified section of downtown Long Beach.
“I still can’t believe you talked him into this,” Becky said.
Carol gave her a stern look over the top of her glasses. “I told him it was rated one of the best restaurants in
Long Beach, and it is. I just didn’t tell him what for.” Her pursed lips twitched and then widened into an evil
grin that was the duplicate of Becky’s. It looked strange on her sweet face.
“In another hour, the Jungle Cranks will be playing, and this place will look like any other club,” Becky said
with a dreamy smile. “Roger is going to pitch a fit when he sees it.”
That just tells you how clueless Roger is. He probably didn’t even know there were restaurants outside of
Denny’s. “I’d like to see Roger pitch a fit,” I said, beginning to look forward to the evening for the first time. I
glanced at my watch and stifled a yawn; it was getting close to my normal bedtime. “I guess I could stay for
another hour or so.”
“I’m beginning to think you may be beyond help,” Becky said.
Carol shook her head in silent agreement.
“Hey, what are you ganging up on me for?” I said.
Becky scowled. “Well, look at you. Tonight’s outfit’s not so bad—that skirt shows off your long legs and your
sweater’s actually in fashion this year and not two sizes too big for you for once—but what’s with all the
Dockers and Oxford shirts and little matching sweaters you wear to work? I mean you’re what, twenty-four?”
I hesitated and then corrected her. “Twenty-two.” I didn’t like to talk about my age. The last thing I needed was
for my eighth-grade students to learn I had only nine years on them. My lips curved up in a sudden smile as I
recalled that I was about to have two whole weeks away from them.
Becky’s scowl deepened. “You’re twenty-two,” she said. “You dress like a thirty-five-year-old soccer mom.”
“I do not! I just dress more conservatively than you do.”
“No, Becky’s right,” Carol said, eyeing my outfit. “What you’re wearing now really is much more age-
appropriate. Not that I blame you.” She smiled. “I did the same thing when I was your age.”
I was trying to work out if she was on my side or Becky’s, when Becky attacked my hair. Literally. “Ouch!” I
cried, slapping her hand away.
“And what’s with the granny bun all the time, for crying out loud?” She examined the bobby pin she’d taken
from my hair as if it were a rare artifact. “I’d kill for hair like yours, and you hide it away.”
I glared at her and rubbed the tender spot on my scalp. “I wear it up because it gets in the way and tickles my
face. But I’ll wear it down for you tonight.Happy?” I pulled out the rest of the pins and thick red-gold waves
tumbled to the middle of my back. I pretended not to notice as midway up the table, Bob stopped talking sports
with Kendra long enough to watch my unintentional imitation of a shampoo commercial. According to the
students, Bob’s the reigning HTOC (Hot Teacher On Campus). I suppose he’s attractive, if you like the beefy
football player type. I didn’t.
Becky said, “Let me take you shopping and then I’ll be happy.”
I held out my hand for my hairpin.
“All right.” She sighed and handed it back. “It’s Christmas. I’ll back off. For now. Will that do?”
“Fine.” I said it to keep the peace, but there was no way I was ever going shopping with her. My goal at work
was to be inconspicuous. I didn’t think I’d help the cause by bearing my midriff or whatever was in fashion just
now. As a five-foot-ten redhead, I had a hard enough time as it was. You can probably guess what my
nickname was growing up. No, not Ariel of The Little Mermaid fame. Think more vegetable. And, though my
mother says my eyes are a romantic green, they look like plain old hazel to me. So, in sum, giant, hazel-eyed
carrot.
Becky reached for the nearly empty margarita pitcher and sneaked a glance behind me as she topped off our
glasses. “Hot man, still heating up the room, still checking you out.”
“Still not looking.” I slumped further in my chair. If I sank any lower, I’d be under the table. “Besides, what
happened to waiting until Roger goes home before starting the real party?” I said, trying to put her off before she
did something awful, like wave him over to join us.
Becky opened her mouth to object, but I cut her off. “I’m not about to willingly provide fodder for the
Bayshore gossip hotline.” That at least was true. Schools are gossip pits without equal. If I showed any interest
in a man, and I mean the slightest bit, the rumor mill would have us engaged by the time school started up again.
It’s like that children’s game “telephone”. But instead of a phrase getting humorously distorted as it passes from
person to person—Jo met a man; Jo met a can; Jo ate a can—the story gets cruelly embellished on each pass—
Jo met a man; Jo and a man were holding hands; Jo and a man were making out in the parking lot; Jo and a man
were buck-naked in the backseat of a Porsche having wild sex that’s banned in ten states.
“Really, Jo,” Carol said. “You shouldn’t let other people keep you from living your life. People are going to talk
about you one way or another.” She twisted around in her chair to get a look at the mystery man for herself.
Her eyes widened. “It might as well be for a good cause,” she said. Then she sighed. I stared at her. Carol?
Happily married, motherly Carol, sighing over another man? Who was this guy? I looked doubtfully at the icy
liquid in my glass and wondered sourly if they’d put something in the margaritas.
Then I caved.
Pretending I was checking out the band, I shifted around in my chair. “Hot” did not do the man justice. He was
the most fabulous-looking man I’d ever seen, and that includes Johnny Depp as a pirate and Brad Pitt in Fight
Club. He was leaning against a nearby wall, a still figure in black, as distinct as silence in a crowd. Most of the
men in the place were dressed in black, but for them it was a statement, a uniform, a pick-up line. This man
belonged in it.
Flickering lights from the dance floor slid over his chiseled features, briefly illuminating strong cheekbones
before getting lost in the dark hollows below. He had one of those long, lean bodies, with just the right amount
of muscle, and dark, slightly wavy hair that hung to his shoulders in a way that made my stomach lurch.
As if sensing my regard, he suddenly turned his head from the shadows and looked directly at me. I did an
embarrassing deer-in-the-headlights thing and our eyes locked. His eyes were the most gorgeous blue I’d ever
seen. I mean piercingly blue. Meltingly blue. A sharp desire to be closer to him slammed me like a wave.
With an effort, I turned back around, but I could feel his eyes burning into mine as acutely as if he were still in
front of me.
Carol didn’t say anything. She just stared at him with a goofy smile on her face, her glasses misting softly.
Becky had stopped fanning herself and had settled in for the night of viewing too, planting her elbow on the
table and resting her head in her palm. I pushed her elbow out from under her chin and she nearly smacked her
chin on the tabletop. She blinked her kohl-lined eyes a few times and grinned sheepishly at me. “Not bad, eh?”
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t—I hadn’t yet regained proper speaking powers.
“You should go talk to him,” Becky said, giving me a nudge.
“In front of everyone?” I said. “You’ve got to be joking.” My legs felt like jelly. I gave myself a shake. I was
being ridiculous, overreacting. Becky was right. If this was my response to the first good-looking man I saw, I
really did need to get out more.
“Please. There’s smart, and then there’s stupid,” Carol said, coming up for air. “You’re going to let Roger and a
bunch of old gossipy biddies keep you from a man like that?”
Carol was right. It was time I showed a little backbone. “Not when you put it that way,” I said. I risked a glance
back in his direction. He was watching the band, giving me a good look at his profile. It was gorgeous too.
Too gorgeous, actually. Sanity returned. I turned around more firmly in my chair.
“Go on.” Becky gave me another little push.
I didn’t budge. “No way,” I said. “There’s something wrong with him.”
“What? What is wrong with him?” Carol demanded.
“He’s boring, he’s vain, he has six wives in various countries, he lives in a yurt with fifteen Chihuahuas, he sells
deodorant for a living—I don’t know, but I stand by my theory. No one can be that good-looking and have a
personality.”
“Oh, for goodness sake!” Carol said. “What a load of crap!”
Carol continued, on a roll now. “Stop inventing reasons to avoid talking to him. If you want to forgo meeting
fabulous men to sit here with the likes of us for the rest of your life, be my guest.” Her glasses had slid down
her nose and she glared over the top of them at me.
“What she said,” Becky said. “Though I don’t know’d even care if he has thirty wives and eats deodorant for a
living. You don’t need to have him around for scintillating conversation—look at him! He’s so hot he doesn’t
need a personality. What do you want to talk to him for anyway?”
"Gotta love liberated women,” I muttered. “Equal opportunity chauvinism.”
Becky jiggled the empty margarita pitcher. “Now stop yer stalling and go get us another. And while you’re there,
talk to the man. No, wait. You’ll chicken out. I'm going with you.”
“Oh, no, what are you doing?” I squeaked as she pulled me up from the table. Roger sent us an irritated frown
and I responded with the look all females possess instinctively, the one that says “ladies’ room”. He cleared his
throat and turned away. Unfortunately now I was committed, at least to a trip to the bathroom.
“If you think I’m going to just march up to him and talk to him, you’re wrong,” I said in Becky’s ear as she
propelled me out of the alcove. Becky was more forward with men than I was. A lot more forward.
To my relief—and maybe just a tiny bit of disappointment—the man in black had disappeared. This didn’t stop
Becky. She took an iron grip on my arm and steered us toward the bar through the dense band of people who
sat five and six around tiny tables near the dance floor. When we reached the packed bar area, its wooden floor
already tacky with spilled drinks, she paused and looked around. “Oh good, he’s right over there.”
My backbone deserted me. She gave my arm another tug, but I dug in my heels. “I don’t think so,” I said.
“Don’t worry.” She spoke soothingly, as to a nervous dog, “We’re just going to the bar for another pitcher. And
when we get near him, I’ll just give you a little push into him.”
“Becky, don’t you dare! That is so high school.”
“Shhh.” She dropped behind me and fastened her fingers lightly on my waist.
I stopped and turned around to face her. “I mean it, Becky, don’t you dare.”
She gave a disappointed sigh. “Spoilsport. All right. Fine. Scout’s honor.” She held up her hands in a mixed
gesture of supplication and Scout salute.
I sighed. “I will talk to him later, Becky. I promise. The second Roger’s gone, okay? I’m not that stupid.”
“All right, all right.”
“Now, can we go back to the table?”
Her dark eyebrows disappeared up under her spiky red bangs. “Of course not. We have to get that pitcher while
we’re here, or Hot Man will think you came over just to get a closer look.”
“Oh, for crying out loud.”
“C’mon.” She pushed me in the direction of the bar, holding on to me as if I might do a bunk. Which I would
have, had we not been boxed in by the crowd.
I ignored the man in black and fixed my attention on a random point behind the bar. It wasn’t any sort of
flirtatious coyness—I was legitimately embarrassed. I mean he had caught us staring at him, and now we were
heading in his direction like lovesick groupies. Well, to the bar, really, but he didn’t know that. As we were even
with him, I felt Becky’s hand leave my waist to tug my arm. Furious, I ignored her and pushed forward. She
gave my arm another, stronger tug. As I half turned to tell her to knock it off, I was pulled off balance and spun
around. But instead of frowning down into Becky’s mischievous brown eyes, I was glaring at a man’s chest.
A very nicely built man’s chest. I tilted my head up and met blue eyes, the blue of the night sky just before the
sun totally disappears.
The censure for Becky died on my lips as I got lost a second time staring at the hot man.
His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, and he broke the fraught silence with a simple hello. His voice was low
and gravelly with an accent I couldn’t quite place. It made my knees weak. I’ve always been a sucker for an
accent. Oh, no. I was definitely in for some trouble with this one.