by Skyla Madi
Her entire body shaking gave her muscles a workout and sweat had broken out all over her skin. He increased their speed and the purr of the engine grew louder. Soon he would turn onto the main drag that ran next to his subdivision. The speed limit was forty-five and about forty-four miles per hour faster than she wanted to go.
The corner came up quick. Grace squeezed him tighter when the bike felt like it would fall over. She held her breath. They came out of the turn still on two wheels and wind roared past her ears, despite the helmet.
Cars on the road passed them left and right. She inhaled and exhaled in a steady rhythm, her death-grip starting to ease some. She explained to her inner wild child how much fun this was. Yep. So much fun; a rollercoaster-ride on two wheels with an asphalt cheese grater as a safety net.
The leather jacket Mikey had thrown on and the one he’d insisted she wear made it hard to feel the muscles he undoubtedly had underneath. She imagined sculpted abs and a fantastic chest.
Wait.
What do you know? The visual had a calming effect on her nerves.
After another turn she realized they were headed toward her apartment building. And she was just starting to get the hang of this. He must’ve felt her tension ease, because he throttled up and they went faster. The sudden burst forward made her stomach bottom out, but instead of feeling the overwhelming fear that was keeping its mouth shut for once, she giggled. She had fun letting herself go.
As they continued the ride back to her home with two more turns and stretches of highway, she couldn’t keep the smile off her face or her laughter inside. When they pulled into her parking lot, she wanted more.
“That was awesome!” Grace gushed after he cut the engine. They took turns dismounting the bike with her going first.
“Does this mean you trust me now?”
“We’re still alive, so yeah. Oh my God, we have to do that again sometime.” She took the helmet off and handed it over.
“Keep it. It doesn’t fit me.” His eyes were in shadow, but she knew they were smiling too, like his mouth.
He perched on the seat with both feet in front of him, looking up at her with that lopsided grin of his.
“What?” she asked, and traced the outline of his lips with her eyes.
“I wanna kiss you goodnight.”
She smiled at the ground. He reached for her hand and pulled her closer. His legs opened to allow her space between his knees. When she closed her eyes, his hands cupped the sides of her face. He pressed his lips to hers. A short, sensual kiss, followed by a longer, more intense one. Grace leaned into him, placed her hands on his chest. His hands left her face; one slid around her waist and the other got lost in her hair. She thought about pulling away, the heat between them too much. This feeling was unfamiliar. Her ex-husband had accused her of being icy. But she wasn't cold, was she?
Mikey moaned against her mouth. He tried to part her lips with his tongue. When she refused entry, he asked, “You all right?” Fire torched her face and she wondered if it were possible to turn a color past red. She looked away. “I…”
“It's okay. I should go anyway.” He set her back up on the curb.
Well that was great. Her first night of trying something new and this happened.
She turned to walk away then spun around and grabbed hold of the open halves of his jacket. He smiled briefly. Their lips met a second later. This time she opened up for him.
CHAPTER TEN
Mikey
The TV glowed in the dark of Mikey's living room. He'd fallen asleep on the couch after he dropped Grace off at her apartment. Even though it was six o'clock in the morning, the living room stayed dark. The blackout shades kept most of the daylight out of the room.
The sudden change in sound on the TV woke him up. Wired after his date, he'd flipped on the flat screen and dozed off. With his eyes still closed, he half listened to the news. He stretched his arms over his head and his legs out, bending them at the ankles, yawning widely.
“…possible serial killer…” the news anchor said.
This got his ears working properly. He glued his eyes to the screen as photos of a happy and alive certain waitress with pink streaked blonde hair were displayed.
“The victim, Jennifer Swanson, was found by a group of teenagers police say. Authorities are interviewing possible suspects and…”
According to the news, the body had been found last evening while he'd been out with Grace. Thank God she didn't have blonde hair.
Mikey dangled his arm over the side of the couch and groped around in the pocket of his jeans for his phone. A voice mail notification showed on the screen. He had three messages. The first message was from Detective Hunter. He sat up and listened to the voice mail.
Shit!
When it was over, he called the number back.
“Detective Hunter,” the man answered with gravel in his throat.
“This is Mikey Hardin, you called?”
“Yeah. We need you to come to the station. When I didn't hear back from you—”
“I'll be right down.” Mikey didn't wait for a response before he hung up.
He shoved his feet into his shoes, grabbed his wallet, keys, and ran out of the house, unsure why he was racing across town for another meeting with the cops.
There were one hundred ninety-two ceiling tiles in the interrogation room. Halfway into figuring out the number of floor tiles, Hunter walked in.
Harry Hunter stared at him. “I'm going to skip the bullshit. Where were you Tuesday morning between twelve and two a.m.?”
“I didn't do anything.”
“Where were you?”
“What's this about?” In the car on the way over, he’d convinced himself this wasn’t about Jennifer.
“You really need to watch the news,” Harry said and shook his head.
Mikey’s knee involuntarily bounced up and down. The detective stared at him for a couple of seconds.
“A girl was found. Took a fatal blow to the back of the head.” Harry’s brows knitted together.
“What girl? Oh, I saw that report. On the news. Just before—” A surprised expression appeared on the cop's face. “I fell asleep with the TV on last night.”
“Oh, so you do watch TV?” Hunter questioned.
Mikey shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“Did you know her?
“She's a waitress at Hector’s Coney Island. I go there frequently. But I wouldn't say I know her. She waited on me the other night.”
“Mmm. Interesting.” Harry pressed his lips together.
“What's interesting?”
“Your candor, among other things.”
“Why lie? I didn't do anything wrong. And what other things?”
“You talked about the victim as if she were still alive. Believe me, she's definitely dead. So, do you have an alibi for Tuesday or not?”
“I do.” Mikey looked toward the ceiling and sighed. “I had dinner with someone at Hector’s and left around eleven on Monday night then went to my friend’s restaurant, Cocoa, and hung out.”
“Does this someone have a name?” Harry asked, looking bored.
Mikey moaned. “Do we have to involve her? We recently met and I like her. Listen, I was at my friend's restaurant from about eleven-thirty until closing, which is about 2:30. He can verify I was there. Brad Winston is his name, owns Cocoa.”
“Oh, pardon me, swanky place there. I know someone who loves that restaurant. Can't understand why,” the detective said as he jotted a note down inside a brown folder.
“Not your crowd, I take it?”
Harry shook his head. “A little fancy for my tastes.”
“I wouldn't go there if my buddy didn't own it. But who can pass up free food?”
“I could.”
“Really?” Mikey lifted his chin and glanced over the table.
“Nice. Real fuckin' nice.” Harry sucked in his stomach and flattened the front of his shirt. “Your alibi better check out.”
“It will.”
“So you wouldn't mind if I called Brad Winston now, would you?”
“Aren't you gonna do that anyway?”
Detective Hunter snorted. “You've got to be the strangest suspect, I've ever met.”
“I'll take that. You have no idea the types of people I've met over the years in my line of work. Strange is good. Celebrated even. Am I a suspect?”
Harry grunted. “Not sure, but someone out there doesn't like you.”
“I know, tell me about.” Mikey assumed the detective was referring to Cynthia.
Hunter looked at him curiously. “Who doesn't like you?”
“The ex-wife. Who else?”
“Oh…yeah, right.” He nodded then walked out the door.
Mikey closed his eyes. “Fuckin' shit motherfucker.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Harry
Cocoa. What kind of a name was that for a restaurant? Harry had never been inside, but from the outside it seemed like a place he wouldn't like. He walked in and no surprise, he’d been correct in his assessment. However, now the name made sense. The inside smelled like chocolate. Panels of shiny brown fabric draped down the walls like curtains, some partially covering tall windows, and some were merely decoration. Harry’s eyes focused on the only thing that wasn’t a shade of brown. Three tiers of liquor bottles lined the wall behind a white marble topped bar. He inhaled sharply. Expensive, top shelf, good old-fashioned alcohol. Oh, man.
“Would you like a table, sir?” The hostess interrupted his no-good-can-come-of-this thoughts.
“I was looking for your owner, Brad Winston,” he said, handing her his business card. She glanced at it, but it didn't register any alarms that he could tell. Perhaps she only eyed the card out of courtesy.
She picked up the phone behind her podium, dialed, and spoke into the phone. After a few minutes a gentleman in a chef’s uniform came out of the back wiping his hands on a white brown-stained apron.
“Can I help you?” he asked. The hostess handed him the card. “Detective Harold Hunter?”
“I hope so. Are you Brad Winston?”
“That’s me. What can I do—?”
“Can we talk more privately?”
“Yeah sure, but what’s this about?” Brad inquired while he led Harry through the kitchen into an office at the far end. A stronger chocolate smell mixed with garlic and other spices assaulted Harry’s nose as they passed the stoves. Several other cooks glanced up then continued with whatever they were doing.
Brad closed them inside his office and planted his butt on the edge of the desk. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“You were named as an alibi.”
Brad’s eyes widened. “Alibi? For who?”
“Mikey Hardin. He said he was here Monday night. Hung around till close. Do you know him?” Harry ran a finger along his face-stubble.
The muscles in Brad’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. I do. And yes he was here. What’s this ab—?”
“Police business. What time was he here and when did he leave?”
“He was here about eleven-thirty, sat at the bar and sipped coffee, keeping my wife company while she tended bar. He left about two-thirtyish when we closed. What happened?”
Harry wrote down the times in his little black field interview notebook. “Like I said, police—”
“Business. Yeah I know,” Brad finished for him. “Mikey’s a good guy. I'm sure whatever it is you think he did, he didn't.” Brad looked him directly in the eye.
“How long have you known him?”
“All my life. Grew up together.”
“I see. Friends for life,” Harry nodded.
“What exactly are you implying, Detective Hunter?”
Harry sighed. “I'm not implying anything.”
Brad wrinkled his nose. “Do you smell that?”
Harry sniffed the air. “What am I supposed to be smelling, Mr. Winston?”
Brad smirked. “I told you what you wanted to know. And since you're trying to bait me, I figure his alibi passed your test. So if you don't mind, I have to get back to work.” He started for the door.
Harry scratched his head. Was this some kind of joke? “Am I bothering you, Mr. Winston?”
Brad sighed. “A little. The dinner rush starts in ten minutes.”
“Excuse me, but I think you ought to know your friend is a murder suspect. So you might want to tone down that attitude of yours.”
“Pfft.” Brad rolled his eyes and smiled.
“Pfft what? This is a serious allegation.”
Mr. Winston shook his head. “Yeah. You don’t know Mikey. I do.”
“You sure about that?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mikey
Lining up the instruments of his craft always comforted Mikey. He prided himself on always using the best quality inks and tattooing needles. He pulled over the rolling tray he used for holding the inks, towels, and other items he needed while he worked. His first client of the day, Cody Pollard, who had become a regular over the past year, liked for him to be ready to work when he arrived. Across the way, one of the other artists watched his ministrations. Everyone called him Needles Ned even though his name was Eric. A long beard grew from his chin and was tied together in several places with rubber-bands. And of course, he was covered in tattoos.
Needles grimaced. “You got that weirdo coming in again?”
“What?”
“That freak,” he sneered. “That’s the only time you do all this,” he swirled his hand around.
“What? Get myself set up?” Mikey chuckled. “You’re crazy, man.”
“You ain’t just setting-up like usual. That guy set you off or something?”
“I dunno what you mean.” Mikey glanced at his tray. Maybe the guy had a point. Everything he could possibly need cluttered the stainless steel, including extra towels, ink cups and flat needles used for shading. Cody never had his tattoos shaded.
Needles snorted. “What I mean is—”
“Yeah. I know what you meant. Part of me wishes he’d take his biz someplace else. But money’s money.”
“I guess. I’m glad I don’t gotta do it. Personally, I don’t like the guy.”
At three P.M. sharp the motion sensitive doorbell chimed. Mikey stood to ward off the receptionist. His client didn't like to be held up. Cody's back went rigid as he spoke with Suzie, the current revolving-door receptionist.
“It's all right, darlin', he can come back,” he told her.
“Oh sorry, I didn't realize he was one of yours.”
Mikey waved his punctual client over. He patted the adjustable tattoo bed. “Have a seat.”
Cody settled into the seat and made no eye contact with him. After what seemed like decades of readjusting his position, he looked up.
Mikey concentrated hard on not sighing. “Ready?”
“I want a name on my arm.” Cody tapped his upper left arm then lifted the short sleeve.
“You have a font in mind? Script? Serif?”
“Script.”
“Okay. What's the name?” He opened a package with a fresh needle inside.
“Jennifer. J-E-N-N-I-F-E-R.”
Mikey’s eyes widened. That was the same name as—whatever, not an uncommon name. He shook his head and the thought dissipated. “No problem. Lose the shirt.”
Cody pulled his shirt over his head, carefully folded the polo, and placed it across his lap. He arranged his left elbow on the armrest.
Mikey made up the transfer for the tattoo and placed it where his client indicated. He smoothed out the pre-drawn name over Cody's arm and lifted the paper. “Go check it out in the mirror. Let me know if you like the placement.”
Cody inspected his sinewy bicep. “Yep.”
The tattoo artist in Mikey thought it was a bad idea to ink names in your skin, particularly of women, but over the years he'd learned to keep his mouth shut. If some moron wanted the name of a girl permanently emblazoned on
himself for the world to see, what did he care? Cody always paid in cash and tipped him well.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Grace
End-to-end papers covered the top of Grace’s desk inside her office. She puffed out a breath and sent a loose page off the edge and onto the floor. She tried to catch it mid-air and missed. This career of hers had little to offer in the realm of excitement—flying paper was it. She leaned back in her chair and imagined being on the back of Mikey's Harley. Her thighs tingled, remembering the feel of the engine rumbling beneath her. Okay, who was she kidding? That wasn't the only thing that made her thighs tingle. She put two fingers up to her mouth and ran them over her lips. The sensation wasn't anywhere near the reality of his kisses. She hiked up the hem of her skirt and teased her thigh with her fingertips. Her mind conjured up what he looked like naked based on the memory of his solid body pressed against hers, his thickly muscled arms wrapped around her waist. Slipping a finger beneath the crotch of her panties, she gasped. She brushed across the most sensitive part and moaned, imagining his mouth there.
Her cell jumped across the tax returns on her desk.
Grace tried ignoring the vibrating interruption, but glanced at the screen. Dad. Hastily, she pulled her hand out of her thong and flung her skirt back into place.
“Hello? Dad, is everything okay?”
Her father sighed. “Yes, honey, just checking in.”
“Oh. Usually you don't call till later and I was worried something happened.” She picked up a tax return but tossed it down when she remembered where her hand had been moments before. A frown formed on her face.
“Well, actually—”
“W-what? What is it?”
“Relax…I want you to be extra careful for now. Lock your car door as soon as you get in. Your apartment door.”
“I always do. What's this about?”
“You know, police business and all. Can't discuss specifics.” And he didn’t with Grace, for which she was glad.
“What is it anyway?”