Sexy in the City

by Alexia Adams, Galen Rose, Samantha Anne, Carolann Camillo, Nicole Flockton, Iris Leach, Olivia Logan, Nancy Loyan, Stephanie Cage (epub)

  “It’s just scrolling now. They think the epicenter is a few miles off the Monterey coast. No major damage reported.” Dominique clicked off the TV.

  Molly brought the wine into the living room and refilled their glasses. She turned on a light and blew out the candles. A glance into the street showed nothing unusual.

  “Can you believe the earthquake struck at the precise moment I asked about Nick? He must have given you one hell of a kiss.”

  Molly thought for a moment. Maybe it wasn’t earthquake-sized, but it came close enough to shake up her orderly little world.

  “Do you think half the state might have slid into the ocean just now if he’d asked you for a date?”

  Molly shook her head. “Don’t worry. He won’t. Especially after I bailed on him this afternoon.”

  Dominique scooped up the planchette and Ouija board and placed them in the box. “Why won’t he? He kissed you. He’s interested.”

  Molly turned on another lamp. “He’s interested in protecting his profit margin.” It occurred to her that while her mind subconsciously enjoyed the kiss, she should have ground her heel into his instep. She’d learned how at the self-defense course she took last year. Protection for when she sometimes had to hike to her car after dark. It hadn’t occurred to her then that the technique might also come in handy for warding off men with agendas.

  “You think he’d use you?”

  “Get real. I know he would. It’s not like we shared a romantic dinner and he parted with a hundred fifty bucks for the privilege to sit across a table from me. We stood on the threshold to the apartment from hell.”

  “So why did he … you know?”

  Why indeed? Even more provocative was why she let him. “I suppose he tried to prove a point.” Also, she’d bet the raise she couldn’t afford to give herself it had nothing to do with the marriage thing. Mrs. Mancini. Really.

  Molly plopped down on the sofa.

  “What point?” Dominique carried the blue and white striped upholstered armchair she’d occupied back to its usual place beside the silk palm and sat down.

  Molly hoped it wasn’t to prove how easily he could manipulate her. Handsome, sexy, interesting men did that to women all the time, usually to lure them into bed. All Nick wanted was for her to stop waving her calculator under his nose.

  “Maybe he wanted to show me his warm side. You know, live up to his golden reputation. Maybe then he could convince me to sympathize with his situation. ‘Aw, shucks. Here you are, a great guy, held up practically at gunpoint by your tenants, and I’m ready to pull the trigger for them.’” Molly sighed. “The thing is, I don’t really believe he’s cold. But calculating? I’ll bet he could teach a course on it.”

  “Play his game. Suck up to him. He’s attracted to you. Use your body.”

  “You mean have sex with him?”

  “Not actual sex, unless you want to. Just put it out there, get him hot. Then maybe he’ll hit his bank and empty out his accounts. That’s what you think he did with you to garner your sympathy.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then let your subconscious do it, because it thinks he’s H … O … T. If you’re not up to it, introduce him to me.”

  Molly stared at her cousin. Was she unhappy in her marriage, too? She’d been only twenty when she married Rob. That was twelve years ago. True, after all that time, ardor was bound to cool a little. Had they hit a patch of ice? Molly didn’t know how to broach the subject or even if she should. “Are you and Rob … ah … having problems?”

  “No more than usual. Just minor stuff. Rob and I are perfectly suited to each other. Oh, every now and again, I have to use a little thought transference on him when he says he’s too tired for you-know-what.” She laughed. “Why, did you think I was interested in an affair?”

  “Well, no.”

  “I was fantasizing. That isn’t reserved only for singles.” She took a sip of wine. “Don’t tell me you never fantasize about sex.”

  Molly shrugged. Sure she did, but not on anything like a regular basis. Actually, she hardly ever did. Dwelling on sex was nowhere near as fulfilling as the real deal.

  “Would it be so hard to fantasize about sex with Nick?” Dominique grinned. “Tell the truth or I’ll cart Ouija out again.”

  Molly took her time and sipped her wine. She let it warm her insides. Her inhibitions would lessen if she drank enough of it.

  “It probably wouldn’t be hard at all.” That’s where it would stay. At least she was smart enough not to get into a situation where he could program her into the real thing. Since she’d never agree to another apartment hunt, her worries ended there.

  All evening, she’d been expecting a call and an accusation that she cut out on him. But then again, she hadn’t even stuck around to retrieve her folders from his car. Maybe he took a good look inside and realized she was right about the lack of affordable housing. Maybe he’d given up and accepted the truth.

  “Do you have today’s Chronicle?”

  “What?”

  “The Chron. Where’s today’s pink section? You haven’t thrown it out yet, have you?”

  “No. It’s on the kitchen table. Why?”

  “There’s something I want you to read. I just remembered it.” Dominique retrieved the paper and thumbed through a couple of back pages. “There, read your horoscope for today.” She thrust the sheet into Molly’s hands.

  It took a moment to locate Capricorn among the other eleven horoscopes. Molly read hers quickly, then read it again.

  A certain charismatic person is about to turn your world upside down. Don’t even consider running away. You’re already under his spell. Enjoy.

  Chapter 9

  Monday turned into a busier than usual day at the clinic. Patients were lined up at the door by the time Molly arrived. The doctors treated them without a break. She stayed close to her office and worked on updating files and contacting people who showed interest in contributing to her future events. At one o’clock, she ordered a turkey sandwich from the deli around the corner. She ate half then and finished the rest at seven. That was it for food. The tenants’ association meeting was scheduled for eight o’clock that night.

  At a quarter to eight, she packed everything away and headed for her car. Minutes later, she cruised down the street and pulled over where the beginnings of Nick’s construction project loomed behind a chain link security fence. Although a green windscreen was anchored to the street side, it was still possible to vaguely see into the site. It appeared like a dark specter ready to swallow the seedy apartment building that crouched beside it. Work had also begun in the empty lot on the other side of the building and that made up the third parcel. It was also protected by an identical fence.

  Molly had her pick of parking spaces tonight, a rarity in San Francisco. As dusk settled on the horizon, all the commercial buildings — with the exception of the Swaying alms — stood dark and empty. Their occupants had decamped for the night. Directly across from the construction site, a beat-up van with faded flower decals on the door panel hugged the curb. A nearby streetlamp cast a pale yellow glow. Molly almost whipped a U and pulled in behind the van. Since it could house some latter-day hippies, it might be best to park in front of the apartment building. Instead, she angled her five-year-old pre-owned Chevy into the empty space alongside Nick’s darkened trailer. That would make it less conspicuous in an area ripe for break-ins. Six months earlier she’d contributed a CD player to the bad guys.

  She turned off the motor and pushed the last bites of a power bar into her mouth. Guilt poked at her chest now as she squatted on Nick’s property, as if she were about to take part in some illegal activity. When Mrs. Zamoulian had asked her — no, begged her — to attend their meeting, she couldn’t refuse. Not after she heard about the ruckus that had ensued during their initial
powwow the week before. She’d already given Mrs. Z a few pointers on how to compose an agenda. Tonight she’d limit her contribution to introducing the tenants to the rudiments of Parliamentary Procedure. She hoped it would make more sense to them than it had to Mrs. Z when Molly first broached it.

  So why the guilt trip? She needn’t plumb her subconscious for the answer. She’d allowed Nick to kiss her and instead of giving him a knee in the groin, she’d gone right along and fully participated. And according to the infallible Ouija, she couldn’t wait for him to kiss her again. Whenever she thought about it, the same tingling sensation invaded her lips as if they were still pressed against his. Now Molly prepared to enter what Nick probably thought of as the enemy’s camp.

  She tried to kick Nick out of her mind but he’d charged in and taken up residence there. Compared to other men she’d kissed, with his technique — unhurried, deliberate, and full out — he rated a straight A. She supposed she’d have to live on the memory. She had no romantic prospects in the foreseeable future, which was just as well. Alongside Nick, the next hopeful didn’t stand a chance of coming off any better than adequate.

  She exited her car and double checked to make sure all the doors were locked. She jammed her keys into the outer pocket of her purse and hurried the few steps to the front door of the apartment building. She scanned the name slots, found Mrs. Z’s, and pushed the bell. A moment later, she was buzzed inside.

  A narrow hallway, lit by two circular opaque glass fixtures mounted to the ceiling, led to a rear staircase. A threadbare carpet of some dark, indeterminate color covered the steps. Its installation probably stretched back decades just like the overhead lights. Someone had made an effort to patch it with black electrical tape, which created a checkerboard effect. Probably Nick. Better to make a temporary repair than have a tenant take a tumble and sue him.

  Molly began the steep climb to 3C. Midway up the first flight, she met Mrs. Z on her way down.

  “Ah, thank God, it’s you and not … ” Mrs. Z, her gray hair coiled in a bun and clothed in a black dress and laced-up black stout-heeled grandma shoes, squeezed Molly’s arm.

  A second wave of guilt sprouted like a poisoned weed in Molly’s chest. Who else but Nick could Mrs. Z mean? Had he found out about the meeting? He knew about the tenants’ association. She glanced over her shoulder and half expected him to burst through the door and accuse her of sedition.

  “We’re nine tonight, including the big troublemaker from last time. You use your Parliament to keep him in line.”

  Parliament?

  “Oh, what we talked about earlier. Sure.” Molly felt strong misgivings, and not for the first time. She never intended to aid in fomenting a revolution. Nor did she consider it her place to act as a mediator in the dispute between the tenants and Nick. On the drive down the block, she’d decided to adopt the role of neutral observer and to limit her contribution to keeping the meeting on track and civil. With luck, that wouldn’t prove any more difficult than riding a unicycle. Backwards.

  “They’re waiting in the apartment.” Mrs. Zamoulian, who kept a claw-like grip on Molly’s arm, led her up the steps. “Watch where you walk. The whole staircase is ready to fall down — God forbid — and maroon us up there. I told my husband — he should rest in peace — rent something on the ground floor. No, he wanted the exercise.” She shrugged. “Now I climb instead.”

  At the second floor, she paused. “I need to find my breath.”

  “Take your time. Would you like to sit down?”

  “What sit?” Mrs. Z waved away the suggestion. With her tiny stature and beak-like nose, she reminded Molly of a sparrow, its eyes alight with fire. The woman must be at least seventy-five, if not more, but was still feisty.

  Another flight led to the final landing. A skylight threaded with chicken wire beamed in enough filtered light to keep alive a small jungle of potted plants. Someone had clearly made an effort to improve the ambiance. Probably not Nick since he intended to tear the place down.

  Mrs. Z announced a return to normal breathing then grasped Molly’s hand. They proceeded to her apartment. The door to it stood open. Raised voices escaped into the hall.

  “You’re a crackpot, Duncan.”

  “And who are you? Albert Einstein?”

  “If you continue to threaten Mancini, he’ll have the cops haul you out of here on your ass. You might even end up doing time.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says the guy you’re threatening. Go on and give him a good reason to kick us all into the street.”

  “I tried to move this thing along. If he thinks we’re a bunch of patsies, he’ll rip the roof off right over our heads. Then you’ll all be beggin’ for his lousy buyout. We gotta show him we’re tough. Either he caves or else. So whadda ya care, ya big doofus?”

  “I still live here. That’s what I care. Watch who you call a doofus.”

  Oh, great. A pre-meeting rumble.

  Molly entered the apartment on the heels of Mrs. Z. A dark purple plush sofa festooned with white crocheted doilies, two overstuffed matching armchairs, and four straight-back wooden ones of the kitchen variety pretty much filled the small living room. An ivy plant sat atop a wrought iron stand and occupied one corner. In another, an electric floor fan circulated dead air through the room. Pictures of bucolic hunting scenes hung on the walls. She wondered if Mrs. Z was the one who’d gussied up the landing with plants.

  The occupants, five women and three men, stared at Molly from their respective seats. A couple of the women offered a weak smile.

  Mrs. Z rattled off a bunch of names, rendered mostly unintelligible by her accent. Molly recognized a few people who patronized the clinic and remembered them mostly by their ailments.

  “Come, sit.” Mrs. Z proffered the lone empty chair. “Then we start.”

  Molly settled into the close-knit circle and couldn’t help rubbing shoulders with the man on her left. Was he the crackpot or the doofus? His dark hair was pulled back in a straggly ponytail and he wore a T-shirt extolling the virtues of Kentucky bourbon. The ripped-out sleeves gave him an excuse to expose Mr. Universe-sized toned muscles. He could probably dismantle the entire building if he wanted to. She pegged him as Duncan, the intimidator.

  “Okay, I make agenda.” Mrs. Z held aloft a piece of lined paper. “First thing we do — ”

  “I won’t settle for no twenty-five grand.”

  The speaker was one of the two other men in the room. He’d been to the clinic twice over the past year. Hemorrhoids.

  “Me neither.” A woman Molly recognized as having arthritic knees chimed in.

  “What are we? Suckers?”

  “No shittin’ way.”

  “I say we get a lawyer.”

  “Yeah, and who’s gonna pay ’im?”

  Mrs. Z, who’d either run out of chairs or didn’t want one, stood over her little flock and waved her agenda.

  “We can discuss … ”

  “Screw ’im … ”

  “ … ten ways to Sunday.”

  Molly’s head swiveled from person to person. This might be the time to introduce her Parliament, as Mrs. Z referred to it. She cleared her throat.

  “ … arrange a little accident.”

  Accident?

  The man sitting beside her, who’d made the threat, could add thug to his resume. Molly frowned. “That’s not a very good idea.”

  Nine pairs of eyes latched onto hers, their gaze so intense it made her feel as if she crashed a local coven.

  “What’s your stake in this here thing?” Her seatmate, who looked more than capable of arranging an accident, spoke directly into her face. It didn’t help that he’d eaten something garlicky for dinner.

  Molly twisted away from him. “Mrs. Z invited me to attend.” She addressed the other members of the
group. “I’m only here to keep the meeting on track.” As if it bore any resemblance to a meeting and not a free-for-all. “It would help if, before you spoke, you raised your hand so the chair can recognize you.” Was it possible they had any clue as to what “chair,” in the context of a meeting, meant, other than somewhere to park their rear ends? “Just don’t all speak at the same time.”

  “Thank you, dear.” A woman, who only last week limped into the clinic for a follow-up visit for a severe case of gout, nodded. She always insisted on paying five dollars.

  “I hear your frustration.” Molly almost choked on the understatement. “There are more productive ways to address your situation than engaging in a physical … ah … encounter with Mr. Mancini.” It felt strange to defend Nick when she agreed with the tenants about not accepting his niggling offer. However, bodily harm? To be fair, he had the law on his side. Legally, he wasn’t compelled to make an offer. The whole thing had become way too complicated.

  “Says who?”

  “Mr … ” Molly craned her neck so she could look at the nemesis to her left without actually having to move any closer to him.

  “Serk. Why don’t you call me Duncan?” By way of invitation, he made a clicking sound with his tongue.

  “Mr. Serk, it might help your cause if you adopted a more conciliatory attitude. If you showed a willingness to negotiate in good faith, perhaps Mr. Mancini might show more generosity.” Nick hadn’t seemed receptive to bumping up his offer, but it might rein in Mr. Serk if he thought it possible. Was there some way to warn Nick about Serk’s threats and that trouble might be headed toward him — maybe even violence — without admitting she’d met with his tenants?

  “I knew Molly would understand,” Mrs. Z announced. “She can teach us all about negotiate.”

  “There’s really not much to learn. Just present your side in a calm, clear manner and let Mr. Mancini present his. Perhaps you should consider inviting him to your next meeting.”