by R. T. Wolfe
"Don't, dude, don't. I don't feel so well."
She was drawing attention to the three of them and decided to take it inside, just not inside one of the scumbag bars near them. "Come." She dragged him down the street toward the coffeehouse, Parker following close behind.
"It was just once, man. You can't..."
He wouldn't razz her for manhandling him. He knew better.
All eyes turned to them when she opened the door and pushed him in. Since that was only the gal behind the counter and the guy that looked like he was her boyfriend, Nickie decided they were clear.
"Have a seat, Jimbo. While you think good and hard about what you saw and where and why you didn't call me first thing, I'm going to get you some java to help jog your memory before I jog it myself."
"Two creams, one sugar, Detective Dude."
Like hell.
The handcuffs on her bedposts, now this? She checked her surroundings. Age, height, weight of the people in the coffee shop, anyone who walked past the plate glass windows. The make and model of the parked cars. She always checked her surroundings, but now it was more paranoia than cop work.
She brought back two leaded coffees. Parker slouched in the seat next to Jimbo. She thought Jimbo stayed put because she was buying him coffee, but realized it may have been because the youthful, fast-looking and rather large Parker was intimidating as hell. Sliding the coffees in front of each of them, she sat.
"No coffee for you, Detective Dude?"
"I don't drink coffee."
"You don't drink coffee?"
"Asian man, Jimbo. Focus."
He dropped his head, his expression turning pained.
She folded her hands on the table and leaned closer. "If you don't start talking, asshole, I'm going to clothesline your Adam's apple with the side of my hand."
He winced. "The barbershop. I was getting a trim."
"Sure you were, Jimbo. Phil is still using his shop as a meeting place?" She tsked and shook her head. Phil was on probation for the last time he used his shop for this kind of shit.
"Nothing illegal about getting a haircut, right? Should I talk to him?"
"As if. When did you spot the Asian man, Jimbo? I'm losing my patience."
"Two days ago, I swear. See?"
"You're telling me you saw him Tuesday?"
He considered as he took a drink. "Oh, man. What did you get me? This is tar."
"It's coffee, Jimbo. Drink up. Tuesday? Or no?"
"Yeah, yeah. That's right. I remember 'cause I was getting that trim, ya know? The little lady likes my hair tight."
"Who all was there?"
"I'm not sure—"
Gently, she took his arm, then yanked it back until she heard a snap. The entire upper-half of his body gave in response to the pressure and slid out of the chair toward the floor. "Ow, ow, ow. Phil, his new guy, someone I've never seen before and the Asian dude."
She let her lids drop to half open and held her grasp.
"I swear, Nick. I swear."
She let go and straightened the sleeves of her jacket. "I'm sure you just lost my card." Reaching into the pocket of her coat, she pulled out another. "Here. Take this one, and don't lose it this time or you'll be sorry."
He rubbed his arm and straightened in his chair. She'd nearly forgotten why she came looking for him.
"The Guest House," she barked.
"What about it?" he whined as he rotated his arm.
"What is it?"
"What do you mean, what is it? It's T & A's, Detective Dude."
Nickie left Jimbo to his coffee and sprained elbow. No need to sprint down the street to T & A's, although the adrenaline from his Zheng sighting made her feet ache to burn some nerves. She would give Phil a visit just as soon as she could hunt up his probation officer.
Her car remained intact, even without Parker as lookout. It was one reason she liked it. No one wanted to mess with the old piece. T & A's was how she remembered. The T actually stood for Tommy and the A for Angie, but they'd chosen the initials for a reason, and it showed. She supposed there could be classier tits and asses bars out there, but this wasn't one of them. Braless waitresses in see-through T-shirts who sagged worse than bulls in a barnyard.
The state smoking ban was more of a suggestion around here rather than the law, but she wasn't downtown to bust up smokers or the shit that was going on in the back that must have given this place the nickname The Guest House. She was here to find out who signed a substantial check over to SS8.
She moseyed up to the bar, knowing she wasn't in her best incognito garb. She and Parker certainly didn't look like a couple. It made her think of him in that getup with the A.D.A. She nearly snorted. The bartender glanced over, a cigarette dangling from between his lips as he spoke to an especially ugly woman who may very well have been a man. The plastic bar top was chipped all over. The end nearest Parker peeled at the corners. He sat down on a stool before she could tell him not to. The look on his face said he stuck to it some.
"Diet Coke," Nickie called to the bartender.
He waltzed over and poured half a can of Diet RC with no ice, then pushed it toward her. She scoffed and left it on the counter, turning to scan the crowd. Through the haze, she made out three bikers who stood around the stained pool table. Two couples danced near the jukebox. Or maybe that was dancing. Could be copulating. Some did the same in booths along the back.
"Well, what do we have over there?" she said to Parker. Tommy Juracek. No, that's not right, she thought as she strolled toward him. What was his last name? Ah, yes. Marino. It didn't matter. "I think we've just found the Tommy half of Tommy and Angie's and the son of Mrs. Juracek and likely the one who forwarded a check from his place nicknamed The Guest House to SS8. All wrapped up in one kid." Oops. She just called a guy who was the same age as Parker a kid. "No offense."
"None taken, Detective Savage. What do we do now?"
"You hike up your pants and stand back. I'm having a little chat with the owner."
Tommy sat at a semi-circular booth and wore a white, buttoned-down shirt with a black jacket. He had a thousand-pound thug on one side of him and a blonde with cleavage up to her chin on the other. With his young face, she thought he looked more like he just left parochial school instead of a man who had a bar, a bodyguard and a bimbo. Free country. That is, unless you forgot to mention you owned a sleazebag bar, have something to hide and maybe shot your stepdad three times in the chest.
She rocked her hips as she waltzed toward him. The expression on his face when he pegged her was telling. He straightened and nudged his right-side thug to give Tommy room to get out of the booth.
"Stay put, Tommy." She held up her hand, palm out, elbow locked in more of gesture that said don't move rather than please stay put. With her other hand, she pulled her coat aside, showing said thug her badge as an added incentive. "You." She gestured to the bodyguard. "Keep it coming. You, too, Dolly Parton."
Tommy leaned back and started to let his hands drop to his lap.
Nickie pulled her coat back a little farther and took her gun off safety. "Hands on the table, Tommy."
"What's this about, Officer?" he said, all thick and sweet.
So that's how it was going to be, huh? Good. She preferred it that way. Taking her free hand, she flipped her hair over her shoulder and tilted her head. "It's Detective Officer to you. Let's have your fine, strong bodyguard take a walk, shall we?" she said, just as thick and sweet. Turning her eyes to the bodyguard, she purred, "Your boss, here, and I have some sorting out to do."
The guy looked to Tommy like he was asking what to do.
She really hated when they did that. "Hey, I'm the one with the gun here." Okay, so maybe the dude did have the gun he was eyeballing under the table, but hers was in plain sight, dammit. She scanned the bodyguard's hands with her peripheral vision as she watched Tommy nod his head in permission for him to step away. Dolly was out and gone in the blink of an eye.
Using her finest h
ip bump and dumb blonde blink, Nickie slid into the booth and reached her hand under the table. He grabbed her hand and squeezed. Lucky day. She was able to rotate her arm into him, free her hand and grab his wrist in time to teach him a lesson. She used her shoulder as she twisted farther, forcing his arm behind his back. In order to keep it from breaking, his torso rotated until he was facing the back of his seat. His face pressed into the vinyl.
Poor guy. He looked uncomfortable. "Don't even think about it," she barked to the thug, whose eyes were darting between Parker, herself and his boss. "I'll snap his arm like a twig, then break his wrist for fun."
Pressing her shoulder against Tommy, she took one of the cheap paper napkins from the table and used it to reach under the table and pull out his piece. Dipping her head close to his ear, she purred, "This is the state of New York, Tommy. There is no permit that makes this legal."
Large, red blotches starting forming on his neck. This was much better than facing the bag of clothes in her foyer. She craned her head behind her. Parker and Tommy's bodyguard were busy sizing each other up. She slid Tommy's gun into an empty pocket in her coat and released him. He spun like a cat. Some guys learn the hard way. She grabbed his nuts this time and watched him freeze harder than the ice on the road. A few tactics were foolproof.
"Your grandpa sure was hell bent on providing an alibi for you, your mother and baby sis." His eyes were wild, but it could have been because she had hold of his jewels, taken his gun or implied his mother may have needed an alibi; she didn't know or care. "He told me you were home by midnight. I wonder if anyone around here could remember differently with a little green incentive. I'm having a hard time finding anything down yonder, Tommy. So, I'm going to let go. Be a good boy and take a swing at me again, so I can bloody that pretty nose. Okay?" She didn't take her eyes off him or let his thug move from her field of vision, but she outstretched her arms like she was the manager at The Seneca Hotel and Casino showing off the lobby. "And this?" She whistled. "What a place you've made for yourself. Has gramps been in to see? What am I gonna find when I run your illegally concealed gun through ballistics, Tommy boy? Will it match the bullets we took out of stepdad?"
He didn't answer but made the mistake of dipping his gaze to the pocket that held his gun. "No. He doesn't know a thing about it, does he? I'm not here to rat you out, Tommy. I have only one question for you. SS8."
He ground his teeth together before lifting a corner of his mouth. "I don't have anything to tell you."
"You can answer my questions here or downtown. I prefer the latter."
"Have you ever had a single date in your life, Detective?" He spat out the last word. "Is there any man out there who could tolerate your need to have testicles? Or am I mistaken and you're really a man? Those operations and drugs do wonders these days."
Why was she letting him get to her? "Where were you the night your stepfather was killed?"
"I already answered that question. Several times."
"Not to me, you haven't."
"I bet you need to wear the pants. To be the man. Do you kick out your lovers after you fuck them? Us men don't like to deal with those bitches in the morning, do we?"
It worked, dammit. He distracted her long enough that he was able to clamp his hand around her forearm and twist, making her curl at the waist and her head dip nearly in his lap. He slipped a hand in the pocket of her coat, copped a feel, then took his gun.
She could hear Parker and Tommy's bodyguard grunting on the floor. If he got hurt, she would never forgive herself. Tommy dug his gun beneath her chin. "Bitch, listen to me."
She did her best impersonation of a woman in fear. She whimpered slightly and cowered her head away from him, turning enough to watch his eyes sparkle with power. Men could be so predictable. As she dipped her head, she gathered room for momentum.
"This is my place. You're gonna take your backup and—"
She thrust her head around and butted him in the nose. She saw a few stars and was going to have a healthy bump, but it was worth it. Blood started oozing as she grabbed his gun and kicked her legs out of the booth. Parker had the bodyguard pinned with his arm craned behind his back. Granted the dude was big enough he may not have been able to get up from the floor without help, but Nickie was impressed nonetheless. "Way to go, Parker."
"You have the right—" Parker started.
"No need," Nickie interrupted. "We're good here, right, Tommy?" She forced herself not to rub her arm where he twisted it or her head from the bump that had already started forming. "Oh, and one more thing. Say cheese."
She took a shot of him with her cell. At least she wasn't the one who had to shove paper napkins up her nose. She should have had a better retort, something to leave an impression, but she couldn't get what he said out of her mind. Did she have cold-hearted bitch written across her face? And why did she care what he thought?
She headed out with Parker walking backward close behind. "They aren't coming after us, Parker. He knows I won't tell his grandpa and doesn't know we have a bug on the SS8 phones. And now he knows I know. Time for us to wait." They stepped out into the cold. Her car was untouched.
"You okay?" she asked him. A large drop of blood stuck in his stubble beneath a split lip, and his eye looked like it was swelling with each step they took.
"Yeah, Savage. I'm okay."
"We should get someone to take a look at that."
He jutted a thumb toward her forehead. "Are you going to get someone to look at that?"
"No." But I'm a screwed up bitch who can't face a frigging bag in her foyer.
He smiled. "Then me either."
Chapter 11
Nickie stood shivering on Duncan's doorstep. It wasn't from the cold. His key rested in her pocket, but she didn't feel right about using it. She'd driven around town, parked in her spot next to her town house for how long she didn't know. She was sleep deprived and beat up. It may have been her feet that took her here, maybe her heart, maybe what Tommy Marino said. Regardless, she stood on his porch, trembling like a scared child.
He'd parked in his drive. And he drove his Barracuda in the winter. How much else had changed in the time since she'd last seen him?
They'd shared their first kiss on this porch. The weather was similar, but everything else seemed different. Foreign. She heard footsteps inside and ached to run away. It was her knee-jerk, she reminded herself, and forced her feet to stay put.
She hoped with every ounce of her being he didn't shut the door in her face. That he would hear her out. She should have practiced what she wanted to say, should have written it down. Her mind was a cloud of disaster. She was a disaster.
The immense, oak door flew open. Large, dark eyes met hers through the glass storm door. The air escaped his lungs, leaving a cloud in front of him. Then, he dropped his hands to his thighs and dipped his head low. Was he going to get sick? She didn't know what to think, so she waited.
Standing, he ran his hands over his face twice before setting his eyes on her. He opened the door and took her hand. His was cold as he led her into the warmth. Had he just gotten home at this hour? He was breathing hard like he'd been swimming, but he was dry. And she was confused.
There was much she needed to say, to explain, to confess. She truly intended to do each, in that order in fact, but he took the sides of her face and brought his warm lips to hers. The taste of him was like a drug.
Their lips and tongues melted and meshed. His long arms encircled her and drew her against him, making tingles of electricity shoot through every inch of her body and her soul. Tears wet their cheeks as she wrapped her arms around his lanky body and held on. Her mind swirled in a cocoon of sensation and understanding. Her heart burst with more love than any one person should be allowed. In that moment, she forced herself into the reality that she really shouldn't be allowed to be here. Not her.
She slid her reluctant arms from around his back, placed them on his chest and pushed. With the back of one of her hands
covering her mouth, she held up the other in a signal to wait. "Hold on," she gasped, the tears coming faster. She wanted to forget her plan, what she needed to tell him. To crawl back in his arms and let his lips take her away from the now. Taking one cleansing breath, she forced herself to do the right thing.
Her eyes looked around as she gathered her thoughts. His house was a mess. His coat wasn't hung up and had been tossed over his banister. Three pair of shoes lay disorganized on the rug in the foyer. She could see his travel easel and stool, setting out in the middle of his great room and his keys tossed on the coffee table.
Forcing her eyes, she turned them to him. The curve of his jaw, the stubble over his face. She had missed them more than air. Her eyes must be red and swollen from the crying she couldn't seem to stop doing. Just thinking about it made another tear fall over her lid. And he wasn't saying anything, just staring at her with those big, amazing chocolate brown eyes that made her feel small and wrong. No. It wasn't his eyes. Or him. It was her.
"You've been in a fight," he said and lifted his long fingers to the spot on her forehead where she'd head butted Tommy Marino. She nodded and closed her eyes at the feel of his touch.
Keeping her eyes closed, she blurted randomly, "I am Nickie Savage." She opened them weakly.
A corner of his mouth lifted. Was he mocking her?
"I'm messy," she added and began to breathe heavily. "I'm bossy and irrational."
His smile was breathtaking and making her feel all the things that made her run away from him. "I've done things, Duncan. Things you can't imagine."
The smile dropped from his face. Of course, it would.
Her shoulders began to quake. Then, the tips of her fingers. She had to continue or she would never get this out. "I'm not a match for you. I don't even know how to think the word... wife." The last syllable creaked from her throat.
His eyes turned glossy. The room became warm, too warm. Taking a deep breath, she continued. "I'm moody and insecure. I have issues and—"
He took a step forward, and she could smell new car and leather and Duncan. It nearly made her pass out if not for the streams of tears that flowed down her face.