Masked Innocence

by Alessandra Torre

  Alex appeared, his dreadlocked head captured under a wool beanie. “What up, chica?” he said, wrapping his arms around me and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Too much to get into right now,” I mumbled, ripping the plastic wrap off the lasagna dish and tossing it into the trash.

  “I would stay around and wade into that land mine, but I have class in twenty, so you’ll have to lament your woes to me some other time,” he said, grabbing a granola bar and snagging his backpack off the floor.

  “Thanks, roomie,” I called out sarcastically.

  He waved, pounding on Zach’s door on his way out. “Zach!” he yelled, then spun, giving me a quick grin and jogged out, slamming the door behind him.

  Zach appeared thirty seconds later, pulling a baseball cap on his head. “What’s up?” he said, eyeing my lasagna as he walked past me into the kitchen. I leaned against the counter and stuck a fork in the dish, waiting, my mouth full of Stouffer’s pasta.

  He opened the freezer, glanced inside, then looked at the box, sitting on the counter. He raised his eyebrows at me, then his hands. “From the look on your face, I’m not even going to go there. Take as many as you want. I’m not hurting for the three dollars right now.”

  I grinned despite myself. “Thanks, Zach. Alex just left—he’s the one who called for you.”

  He nodded, opening a cabinet and pulling out a bag of Doritos. Undoing the tie, he grabbed a handful of chips and hoisted himself up onto the counter. Tilting his head at me, he studied my pajamas. “Is your internship already over? I thought you had one more week.”

  I opened the trash, chunking the remaining lasagna into it. “They let us go home early. My boss was found dead this morning in the office.” I moved past him to the sink, washing my fork, my peripheral vision catching his shocked expression. Even in my fragile state, I could appreciate the shock value of my statement.

  “No shit,” he breathed.

  “Yes shit. All sorts of crazy shit. Hence me, in my pj’s, eating your lasagna. Which, by the way, sucked. You should buy a different brand.”

  “It’s better when you cook it in the oven,” he said through a mouthful of chips. Crunching loudly, he stared at me as if I had something poignant to say. I stared back, our eye contact stretched out until he finished chewing. “Sorry.”

  “About the lasagna, or about Broward?”

  “Broward is, or, sorry, was, your boss?”

  God, I really needed to have better lines of communication with these two. “Yes.”

  “Then I’m sorry about him. Are you gonna start crying or something?” He looked terrified, as if my tears might cause him physical harm.

  I fought a smile. “No. Not right now, at least. Though you do seem so adept at comforting.”

  There was a soft cough behind me, and I turned to see a tall redhead, clad in pink panties and a white tank top. “I can’t find my pants,” she whispered, as if there were someone else in the house who might hear her. “I think they’re in your car...?” She looked to Zach for help.

  I turned back to him, fighting a grin.

  “Oh—right. Let me go get those for you.” He hopped off the counter, tossing the Doritos bag down and bending down to give me a hug. “Find out her name,” he whispered in my ear, then bounded out the front door, leaving me and the girl alone. She looked out of place and blushed, covering up as best she could with her hands.

  I stepped forward, smiling brightly, and held out my hand. “I’m Julia—Zach’s roommate.”

  “Jen,” she offered shyly, shaking my hand. “I met Zach last night, at a party.”

  “Can I get you anything to eat?” I offered, gesturing toward the kitchen. “There’s some really shitty lasagna if that rings your bell.”

  “No—I’ve got to run, but thank you,” she said, smiling politely.

  Zach saved us then, stepping back inside with a pair of white jeans in his hand. Skinny jeans, from the look of them. I had newfound respect for her flexibility if she was able to get out of those in his coupe. I squeezed past them, headed for the hall. “Zach, I’ll give you and Jen some privacy. I’ve got to get some stuff done on the computer.”

  I closed my door to his grateful look, fighting the urge not to flick him and his slutty ways off.

  Ten minutes later, I was snuggled under a heavy down blanket with an eye mask on. I had set the alarm for two hours, closed the blinds in my room and turned my television to the History Channel. I closed my eyes and tried not to think of Broward’s intelligent face, or the grace in which he had handled the clumsiness of my first day. I remembered Brad’s eyes, finding mine in the crowded lobby, his face calm and in control while Broward’s body lay in a body bag somewhere. Broward. My mentor, my slave driver. A tyrant that I now, suddenly, missed.

  Twenty-Three

  I was in the middle of one of those incredible dreams, the kind where you win the lottery, then find out your yard boy is Channing Tatum, and he has just decided to prune your hedges naked, when my cell rang. I reached out blindly, knocking over half of the items on my bedside table before I hit the silence button. I drifted back, seeing his gorgeous profile, his muscular arms reaching up, up—and my damn phone rang again. I reached out, this time connecting with it the first time, silencing it so quickly that dream redemption should have been easy pickings.

  I floated down, down, into absolute nothing. My subconscious searched wildly, searching for a fragment, a tendril, anything. I would have been happy with Channing Tatum’s chest hair at that point, not that the man had any. But...zilch. It was gone.

  I opened my eyes to dark silk and reached up, yanking the eye mask from my face. Shit. I groaned, reaching over and grabbing my phone, grumbling as I unlocked it to display my call history.

  Brad. Two missed calls. I traded one imaginary hunk for a real one. It should be a good thing. Channing Tatum never brought me to my first orgasm, though I had certainly tried hard enough before chucking my first vibrator into the trash. But seeing Brad’s name brought back reality, and reality brought back Broward’s dead body and the Magianos’ probable involvement. An involvement that Detective Parks had dismissed without a second thought. No matter what he said, I knew what I had heard. And despite Broward’s strong words, there had been fear in his voice. And then he had been killed. The circumstances were too strong to ignore.

  The phone rang again, startling me.

  I rolled my eyes, my mouth curving despite myself. “Whaaaat?” I groaned into the phone, fighting to keep the smile out of my voice.

  “You’re starting a habit, answering the phone like that.” His deep voice weakened my flimsy shield, and I giggled despite my best intentions.

  “You’re starting a habit of power calling.”

  He chuckled. “You can’t be busy, seeing as how I gave you the day off.”

  I smirked into the phone. “Don’t even start thinking along that path. I’ll report to Clarke before I’m under you.”

  “There are so many places I could go with that statement, but seeing as I’m not alone, I will keep it clean. How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay.” I stretched, stifling a yawn. “Right now I’m waiting with bated breath to find out what my day will look like tomorrow. Has anyone sent out an email?”

  He swore under his breath. “Shit. I’ve got to have someone do that.”

  “Sounds like a Clarke assignment to me. He seems by far the most responsible out of the remaining two partners.”

  “You’re right. I’ll call him next.” There was noise in the background, and then he was back on my line. “Are you mine tonight, or should I make other plans?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  He made an unintelligible sound, somewhere between a snort and a groan. “Whatever. I’ll take that as a yes. Pick you up at seven?”

  “All right. Let me get back to my warm bed. Talk to you soon.”

  “Bye, baby.”

  I ended the call, halfheartedly attempted another
return to Tatum-land, then gave up, swinging my legs out of bed and standing. Stretching, I headed to the shower, determined to wash away the day’s ugliness.

  At 5:12 p.m., an email from Lisa Strong, Clarke’s secretary, titled “Broward Staff” hit my in-box. It was brief, listing the day and time of Broward’s funeral—Sunday, 3:00 p.m. It also stated that the Broward staff would be off on Thursday, but was expected to work normal hours on Friday.

  I skimmed the email and then packed an overnight bag. A good dinner, sleeping late in Brad’s bed and a home-cooked breakfast sounded pretty good right now.

  Twenty-Four

  Over thirteen hours later, I woke up in Brad’s bed. The smell of bacon was in the air, and I was naked, his thousand-thread-count sheets cool against my body. The shower was running, and I glanced over to the clock. Six-forty a.m. We had stayed up late, talking over dinner, and then, later, sweet, sensual sex, an incredible joining that had given me an emotional connection when I desperately needed one. I fought the desire for bacon and closed my eyes, feeling my body drift back toward dreamdom. The sound of the shower door halted my descent and I rolled over, propping a pillow underneath my head and watching the door swing open, steam billowing out. I smiled when I saw him emerge, butt naked and utterly gorgeous, ripped muscles surrounding nine inches that had become my full-time obsession. I drank him in, his head obscured by a white towel, his hands rubbing it over his head and then down his body. He turned and paused, meeting my eyes, a smile creeping over his face. He dropped the towel and came to me, halting by the side of the bed, my eyes now in perfect eye level with his cock.

  I rolled back, looking up into his face, a lazy smile spreading over my own. “Good morning.”

  He leaned over, resting his weight on the bed and kissing me with a mouth that hinted of mint toothpaste. “Good morning, beautiful. Go back to sleep. I’ll be out of here in a few minutes.”

  I frowned, propping myself up on one elbow, my face close to his. “Fine. If you absolutely refuse to join me.” I tilted my head up and he closed the distance, planting a soft kiss on my lips. Then I curled back into the sheets, my eyes closing before he even walked away, sleep beckoning me from afar.

  I was wakened by a loud woman’s voice.

  “I know you don’t think I’m going to clean around your lazy ass!” I cracked open one eye, then two. Martha stood at the foot of Brad’s bed, her hands on her hips and a glare on her face. I propped myself up on one elbow and held the blankets against my body.

  “I wasn’t aware that you did clean, Martha.”

  “What is that supposed to mean!”

  “It means that I thought Helga cleaned, and you ‘managed.’ And it’s...” I looked at the clock. “Only eight-fifteen. Not exactly grounds for calling me a lazy ass.” Though I had planned on sleeping till at least ten. So much for sleeping in late with a home-cooked breakfast.

  She threw up her hands and looked to the ceiling. “Lord Almighty, you test me with these women....” She stopped cursing whoever was above the ceiling and pointed a finger at me. “I’m not gonna have you talk to me like that!”

  That did it. I threw my legs off the bed and stood, dragging the blanket off with me. “What is your problem?!”

  “My problem?”

  “Yes, your problem! You have been horrible to me since the first day I met you! I thought it was just ‘your way,’ but now I think it’s something you personally have against me!”

  She pointed at me again and I wanted to reach over and break that finger off. “You’re just like all of his girls. You think you’re special, but you’re not. Why should I bend myself backward to kiss your ass when, two months from now, you’ll be back at home, crying over the man?”

  I stared at her and pulled my own finger out from behind the sheet. “First, Martha, you don’t know a damn thing about me. I am fucking special, and I don’t cry over men. If I am back at home in two weeks, or two months, or two years, it’s because I want to be there, not because a man got tired of me and kicked me out. But while I am here, I’m not gonna tiptoe around your grumpy ass. I’ll treat you with respect, and don’t think it’s ridiculous to ask for it in return. Now, since you, as far as I know, don’t clean, how about you give me some privacy!” I turned on my heel, hoping I didn’t get tangled in the blankets, and flopped back down, throwing the covers over my head and praying to God, Martha’s God, that she wouldn’t throw something large and pointy at me.

  I heard her laughing, a cruel, mean laugh that grew in volume, and I flung the covers off my head and glared at her.

  “Next time you throw that high-and-mighty routine, don’t do it under a photo of another naked woman. Just a tip there, Julia baby.” She sniffed, laughed again and sauntered off, slamming the door shut behind her.

  I flopped back on the bed, glaring up at the gorgeous naked beauty framed above my head. The life-size portrait was of an ex of Brad’s, something he told me he hadn’t had the time or effort to replace. I’d have to push that higher up on his to-do list.

  I rolled over to the other bedside and grabbed my phone. Eight percent battery. Figures. I called Brad, hoping he was still in the house but knowing he wasn’t.

  “Hey, beautiful.”

  “Martha is a bitch, you know that?”

  He chuckled, sounding way too sexy for 8:00 a.m. “I can’t talk now. What do you need?”

  “I’m stranded here with your crazy excuse for a... What is her job title again?”

  “Ruler of Everything in the House. Martha is part of the package, babe. You’re going to have to learn how to get along with her.”

  “She’s the one who’s being difficult! She marched in here yelling at me this morning!”

  “She’s being territorial, Julia. Take whatever attitude she gives you as a compliment. Most women she doesn’t even bother being rude to.” His soothing voice did nothing but irritate me further. Especially since I now realized whose side he was taking.

  “Whatever. I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “Just hang out at the house.”

  “No, thank you. I hang out at the house any longer and me and her are gonna come to blows. And I’m positive I’ll lose that fight.”

  “Julia, she’s not that bad.”

  “To you! The one who pays her!”

  “Look, if you want, I’ll have Jeff or one of the other drivers give you a ride.”

  I slumped back. “Let me figure out my day, and I’ll let you know. Maybe one of the girls can give me a ride.”

  He said something to someone else, then was back on the phone with me, dropping his voice now. “You sure you don’t want to just stay? I like the idea of having you there, and I can give you a ride at lunch.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I muttered.

  I hung up, lay back and stared at the ceiling. Damn Martha. Then I closed my eyes and fell back asleep.

  Twenty-Five

  The third time I woke up, it was to a quiet house. I lay in Brad’s bed for a minute, listening for Martha, but heard nothing. I got up, checking my phone. Two missed calls, Becca and Olivia. Becca never called before noon. Something was up. My three percent battery didn’t afford me the luxury of calling her back and I crawled out of bed in search of my phone charger. I dug through my overnight bag, not altogether certain I had packed it, and sent a silent prayer upward when my fingers closed around it. I plugged it in, then warily headed downstairs.

  The house was empty, the kitchen wiped down and countertops empty, void of anything that could be considered breakfast food. I opened up cabinets, finding cereal, and poured a bowl, sitting at the counter and munching away. The day stretched before me, and I had absolutely no idea of what to do with it. I had lazed away yesterday, doing nothing but feeling sorry for myself, a hobby I was already sick of. I finished off the Frosted Flakes, hefted myself to my feet and washed my bowl, drying it carefully and placing it back on the shelf. Anything I could do to stay on Martha’s good side. I returned the cereal box,
then headed back upstairs.

  I killed two birds with one stone and conferenced Becca in as soon as Olivia answered.

  “It’s Jules. Was it coincidence, or did you both call because you love me?”

  “Ha. The police called me this morning,” Becca snapped. “At ten freaking a.m.!”

  “Don’t be dramatic, Becca. It wasn’t the police, it was a detective. Detective Parks, right?” Olivia said.

  “I don’t know what the damn man’s name was!” she retorted.

  “Wait, he actually called you guys?” I interrupted their useless spat, my head hurting from the new information. I thought that the detective’s request for alibi verification was a line on a form of his, not a lead that he would actually follow up on. Didn’t he have more important things to check on? Like the Magiano family? Since when were college interns the most likely murder suspect?

  “What happened, Jules?” Olivia’s tone was serious, her words cutting into the rant that Becca was starting back into.

  “Nothing,” I mumbled, grabbing my cosmetics bag and walking into the bathroom. “Well, too much to go into now. What did you tell him?”

  “We told him you were at the bar with us until around eleven.” Becca’s voice was unsure. “Is that okay?”

  “Of course. Did he ask you anything else?”

  “That was all he asked me,” Olivia said. “He just verified, several times, how long you had stayed at the bar.”

  “Same here,” Becca said, her voice subdued.

  “Good.” I exhaled a sigh of relief. “Then everything should be fine.”

  “Except that we don’t know what’s going on, and I was woken up at ten in the freaking morning!” Becca’s fire was back, and I wouldn’t be able to avoid it this time.

  “Fine. Meet me for lunch, and I’ll explain everything. Deal?”

  “Deal. But you’re paying,” Olivia said, “in exchange for us keeping you out of the gallows.”