The Sexiest Man Alive

by Juliet Rosetti

  No. The Skull hesitated, then turned and pounded up the building’s stairs. Probably looking for Shayla. Frantically Mazie rooted through her purse for her phone, but her hands were shaking so badly that she couldn’t locate it. Hauling herself to her feet, she began to move down the alley, surrounded by the clamor of barking dogs. A German shepherd behind a chain-link fence suddenly lunged at her, his teeth clicking on the steel links, sending her heart and her bladder into spasms.

  A figure moved in the darkness just a few yards ahead. Bare white shoulders gleamed in the dark. It had to be Shayla! Mazie tried to call out to her, but her voice was lost in the wail of the sirens that suddenly seemed to be coming from all directions at once. The police were on their way! She hesitated. Should she go back to find Johnny or try to catch up with Shayla?

  Johnny would want her to find the girl, she was sure of it.

  She jogged toward the figure running down the alley. Was it a trick of the shadows, or was Shayla limping? The alley was tilting downhill, and the brackish smell warned Mazie that the drainage canal must be close by. Suddenly there was a roar of engines behind her. Motorcycle engines. Looking back over her shoulder, she could see their headlights. Two … three … four motorcycles, rocketing toward her. Shayla looked back and Mazie caught the gleam of her terrified eyes before the girl leaped up onto a fence, vaulted over it, and landed in a backyard.

  The choppers were mere seconds away and Mazie’s eardrums felt like they were about to blow out. Abruptly she dived into a narrow space between a garage and a fence. Had the Skulls seen her? Would they stop and come after her? And why were they driving down this way? Didn’t they realize they’d be trapped where the alley ended at the drainage ditch?

  The engines’ noise grew to an unbearable snarl, and then they were roaring past, sounding like the pack at Indy 500. Cautiously peeking out, Mazie saw the choppers approach the drainage canal. They’d have to stop. But no—they were veering around the railing at the edge of the canal and driving straight down into the channel, motorboating through the foot-high water, then up the concrete slope on the opposite bank.

  Police cars hurtled down the alley, lights flashing, sirens going full bore. But it was too late; even as the police cars screeched to a halt at the lip of the canal, the Skulls were escaping on the opposite side, using the access road that ran beneath the viaduct.

  Mazie hurried back up the alley, trying to find where Shayla had jumped the fence. Here it was, next to a dog kennel whose black Labrador was barking itself hoarse. There was a backyard garden with crushed tomato plants, as though someone had hurriedly blundered through. Something wet gleamed on the concrete garage apron, illuminated by the house’s rear porch light. Mazie bent to study it. Blood. Part of a small bloody footprint. There were more on the driveway. Shayla, bolting out of the bar so fast she hadn’t put on shoes, must have cut her foot. The prints headed back in the direction of the Hog Wild; evidently Shayla was doubling back. The prints disappeared as Shayla ran across a lawn. She couldn’t spare any more time tracking the girl, Mazie decided; right now she needed to find Johnny.

  The scene outside the tavern was chaotic. Police lights painted the scene in lurid red and blue, patrol cars were parked helter-skelter along the street, ambulances were pulling up with screaming sirens, huge satellite news trucks were arriving, and shocked neighborhood residents stood around in frightened clusters. Police radio static filled the air.

  Mazie felt as though a giant fist was squeezing her heart. The scene looked like the site of a terrorist bombing. Every window had been shot out and broken glass littered the pavement. The Hog Wild Bar sign hung crookedly from a single bolt above the bullet-pocked door. Paramedics were easing someone out of the bar on a wheeled stretcher. There was an oxygen mask clamped over the person’s face. Oh, God, oh please—don’t let it be Johnny!

  Then she saw him, wearing a neon green vest stenciled with POLICE and helping set up crowd-control sawhorses.

  “Johnny!”

  He saw her, trotted over, grabbed her, and gave her quick, hard hug. “I’ve been worried sick about you. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. The gang was after Shayla. I saw her, Johnny—at least, I think it was her—a girl with dark hair in a ponytail? She bugged out just before they shot up the place.”

  “You saw her—you’re sure?”

  “Almost positive.” Mazie swallowed, dreading the answer but needing to know. “Were a lot of people—”

  Johnny gripped her hand. “Nobody killed. The bartender went for his shotgun—dumb move—they shot him before he could get off a round. He’s badly hurt, but I don’t think he’s critical. A lot of people were cut by flying glass, but far as we know they’re mostly minor injuries—”

  “You’re hurt, too.” She saw that Johnny’s left earlobe was bleeding, blood dribbling down the side of his face and neck.

  “Flying glass. Looks worse than it is. I don’t think the gang was interested in killing people—it was more a big macho display of power. And they wanted Shayla.”

  “They knew she was here?”

  “I think Brandi ratted out Shayla to the gang. Brandi slipped out a side door half a minute before the gang stormed in.”

  “So she knew what was going to happen?”

  “That’s my guess. I was just going to go look for you—a woman said she’d seen you heading for the ladies’ room—when the gang burst in and opened fire. It seemed to go on for hours, but I checked my watch and the whole thing happened in about fifteen seconds. One of the Skulls—he was the smallest guy but he seemed to be the leader—ran upstairs while the others covered the people in the bar—”

  “Shayla was staying up there. She ran the second she heard the motorcycles.”

  “That girl has good instincts.” Johnny touched his slashed ear and winced. “Did you see where she went?”

  “I’ll tell you if you let me take care of that cut.”

  “Women. Always fussin’.” Johnny pretended to be grumpy, but Mazie was pretty sure he was enjoying the attention.

  Mazie retrieved her purse from Johnny’s car and dug out tissues and a bottle of water. Johnny perched on a sawhorse while she cleaned his cut and told him everything that had happened, from her non-conversation with Shayla through the bathroom door to the Skulls’ amazing escape through the canal. “I didn’t know motorcycles could do that,” Mazie said.

  “They can if the water’s shallow enough and the bottom has decent traction. Still, it was pretty risky.”

  “You should get this cut checked by a doctor,” Mazie said. “It might get infected.”

  “Later.” Johnny removed the bloody tissue from his ear and absently stared at it. “The gang must have known they could get away by running that canal. The more I think about it, the more planned-out the whole thing seems.”

  Mazie nodded in agreement.

  “The Skulls knew their bikes could get through the canal but police cars couldn’t. Once they were on the other side, they probably split up so they’d be less conspicuous. Milwaukee PD will have every cop in the city hunting them right now—”

  “Mazie?”

  Mazie looked up and was startled to see Ben Labeck striding across the parking lot, a large video camera mounted on his shoulder. He must be here on assignment, covering the story for his station.

  “Mazie, why are you—” He stopped abruptly, noticing Johnny for the first time. His face darkened. “Hoolihan,” he snarled. “What are you doing here?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Johnny Hoolihan stared back at Ben. “Labeck,” he said, nodding cooly.

  Mazie had been first-aiding Hoolihan, Ben saw, and the thought of her touching him, tsk-tsking over the big chump’s boo-boo, made him furious. He hadn’t minded when the saps at the dating event had come on to her because they were such a sorry bunch of losers, but Johnny Goddamn Hoolihan was a different matter.

  What was this shit kicker doing here on Ben’s turf? With Ben’s girl? Why wasn’t he b
ack in Zilchville chasing cows or rolling up the sidewalks? He’d met Hoolihan this past summer when he and Mazie had stayed on her family’s farm outside Quail Hollow. Hoolihan had picked Mazie up at a bar, gotten her drunk, and driven her back home. Okay, maybe that wasn’t quite how it had unfolded, but it was the narrative Ben told himself. Bottom line: he hated the guy.

  Ben gestured toward the shot-up bar, and he could feel his veins swelling. “You dragged Mazie into this?” he grated out.

  “Ben, butt out!” Mazie snapped. “You are not my bodyguard. And I made Johnny bring me here—it wasn’t his idea.”

  Her defending the guy further annoyed Ben. He jabbed a stiff forefinger into Hoolihan’s chest. “You have no business putting Mazie in harm’s way.”

  Hoolihan knocked Ben’s hand aside. “Back off, man.”

  “You back off, asshole.” Ben had never instigated a fight and didn’t know why he was acting like the playground bully now, but something about this guy brought out all his combative instincts.

  Hoolihan’s eyes glinted, and Ben saw that the cop’s temper was rising, too. He was the same height as Ben and looked like he was in shape. “I could have you in cuffs before you could even blink,” Hoolihan said contemptuously.

  Ben laughed. “Lucky for you, you can hide behind that uniform.”

  Hoolihan yanked the police vest off and tossed it on the ground. “Come on, then, try it.”

  Ben set down the camera, trying to control his temper, because anger made you do stupid things. He’d just watch for an opening and then land a punch.

  “Stop it!” Mazie yelled, getting between him and Hoolihan.

  “Mazie, stay out of this,” Ben said.

  “You don’t get to tell me what to do!” She sounded furious.

  Both men ignored Mazie, shifting around her, circling each other, looking for an opening. Only room for one alpha male in Dodge City.

  “Excuse me. Could somebody please explain what’s happening here?”

  Ben groaned. Olivia. Hadn’t she promised to stay in the car? Everyone turned to stare as she hesitantly approached, looking a little scared and definitely out of place in her dress and heels. He and Olivia had gone out to eat after leaving the event at the hotel, then had strolled over to the Bling Bling Club for drinks.

  “I’ve always gone out with safe, dull guys,” Olivia had confided, leaning across the table, looking up at Ben through long eyelashes. “Accountants and lawyers, real button-down types, you know? But you, Ben—what you do is exciting—dangerous even!”

  “It’s not that dangerous,” Ben said, playing for modest. “It’s mostly filming stuff like a Popsicle stain in the sidewalk shaped like the Virgin Mary or the prizewinning squash at the county fair.”

  That was when the call had come in from the WPAK dispatcher about the attack in Piggsville. Just his rotten luck to get a call at the moment when things with Olivia were heating up. When he told her he had to leave to cover the story, she’d pleaded with him to be allowed to come along.

  “Sorry, you can’t,” Ben told her. “It’s against regulations.”

  Olivia made a face. “You don’t seem like the kind of man who follows rules.”

  Well, that was true. The lady was perceptive as well as gorgeous.

  “I promise I’ll be good—no feminine hysterics or fainting.” Olivia worked the eyelashes again. “I’ll stay in the car. You won’t even know I’m there.”

  He’d given in, of course, let her come along, maybe even showed off a little as he sped along at thirty miles over the limit, arriving in Piggsville only nine minutes after the call had come in. He double-parked and was out of the car instantly. Barry Carlson, the WPAK reporter who’d be doing the on-air, had driven over in the satellite truck. Ben grabbed the camera equipment out of the truck, his heart pounding and adrenaline pumping the way it always did when he was in on a big-action story. Yes! They’d beat out WISN and WTMJ—small victories, but when you’re the seventh-rated news station in the metro area, small victories counted.

  Barry stationed himself for the most dramatic shot while Ben ripped off the lens cap, set the camera on his shoulder, adjusted the focus, and—rolling. Live on air, Barry spieled out the story, Ben focusing on the damaged bar, then panning the crowd. Every resident within fifty blocks must be here, along with half the city’s police officers. Biker gang terrorism—this was big news for Milwaukee.

  That was when he’d spotted Mazie.

  Which had led to Ben’s picking a fight with Hoolihan. And now Olivia—whom he’d quite frankly forgotten about—was about to make a bad scene even worse.

  “Who’s she?” Mazie asked, glaring at Olivia.

  “Who are you?” Olivia asked coolly, moving closer to Ben.

  The two women eyeballed each other, neither one moving to shake hands or introduce herself. They were an interesting contrast, Ben thought—Olivia tall, blond, and elegant, looking perfectly composed, while Mazie was her usual cute-but-messy self—and why was a tomato vine clinging to her ankle?

  “This is Olivia,” Ben said finally, scrabbling frantically through his memory to retrieve her last name. “Olivia Peele-Harkness, Mazie Maguire.”

  Mazie gave Olivia a stiff smile. “I saw you at the Phero-mate thing. Does this mean that you and Ben are Phero-mated?”

  “What’s a Phero-mate?” Hoolihan asked, looking puzzled.

  “Or did you meet him because he’s the Sexiest Man Alive?” Mazie continued, merciless.

  “What Sexiest Man?” Hoolihan asked, looking still more confused.

  Mazie must really hate him to do this, Ben thought, knowing what was coming.

  “Oh, I thought everyone knew by now,” Mazie said, all innocence. “Milwaukee Tonite! chose Ben as their Sexiest Man Alive.”

  Ben’s fists doubled up. The instant a smirk appeared on Hoolihan’s mug, he was going to smack it off. The next thing the guy would see was the ground coming up to meet his face.

  But the cop didn’t smirk. He just bent over, picked up Ben’s camera, and handed it back to him. “Damn,” he said. “I always thought I was the Sexiest Man Alive.”

  “Ben,” Olivia said. “Isn’t that your reporter waving at you? I think he wants you.”

  “Yeah.” Barry wanted to do live on-airs with people who’d witnessed the attack. Without another word, Ben turned, offering his arm to Olivia because she was wearing high heels and the ground was uneven here. Now that he was cooling down, he was relieved that he hadn’t thrown a punch. Satisfying as it would have been to thump the jerk, Hoolihan looked like the kind of guy who punched back, hard.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Could you thread this needle for me, Mazie?” asked Mrs. Pfister. “I think they’re deliberately making needle eyes smaller these days to drive old people crazy.”

  A lot of things drove Mrs. Pfister crazy. Telephone solicitors; products that came in heat-sealed wrappers that needed a blowtorch to open; the tiny, unreadable buttons on the TV remote; the circulars that piled up on her front porch—modern-day life seemed purposely designed to annoy, but she complained about them in such an entertaining way that Mazie didn’t mind.

  Minerva Pfister was eighty-nine years old, with frizzy hair tinted to the shade of marmalade, bright brown nearsighted eyes, and teeth that were uneven but all her own. She lived alone in an ancient three-story Victorian-era house that was always sauna-hot because she refused to turn on the air-conditioning until the outside temperature hit a hundred.

  Mrs. Pfister held out a tiny needle and a spool of thick black thread. Mazie managed to stab the thread through the eye after four tries and stuck the threaded needle into a bar of soap, a trick she’d picked up from her grandmother. Mrs. Pfister, who owned half a million dollars’ worth of blue-chip stocks, would spend the afternoon jabbing her fingers as she attempted to darn a pair of socks that could have been replaced for a buck at the Dollar Store. Mazie made a mental note to pick up a package of pre-threaded needles for her the next time she was a
t a fabric shop.

  “One more thing, dear,” said Mrs. Pfister. “Now that I’m all settled down, I hate to get up again—would you bring me a cup of tea? The teakettle is boiling in the kitchen.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Mazie said, even though it was a problem because she was already running late. Mondays were always hectic. The seniors didn’t get meal delivery on Sunday, and a lot of them only made toast for themselves, so they were always hungry and cranky by the time the Vittles Van rolled around on Monday.

  The Vittles Van was Milwaukee’s version of Meals on Wheels. It was a charity-funded operation dedicated to ensuring one healthy meal a day to the city’s elderly and handicapped. Mazie drove a forty-square-block route on the city’s east side and delivered seventy-two meals each day.

  Mazie hurried out to Mrs. Pfister’s kitchen. The teakettle was sitting on the back burner of her gas stove while the front burner was on full blast, throwing off heat fumes she could feel halfway across the room. Mazie snapped off the burner. Someone ought to invent a stove for forgetful old people with burners that shrieked: Not that one—this one! She found the teacup and tea bag and decided to use hot tap water. The water that gushed out of the creaky old faucet was scalding hot, as dangerous as an open flame. Mazie had heard of elderly people who’d fallen into scalding bathwater and had been so badly burned that they’d spent weeks recuperating in the hospital.

  The solution in this case was simple, Mazie thought; she’d just reset Mrs. Pfister’s water heater. She splashed a bit of cold water into the tea so that Mrs. Pfister wouldn’t burn her lips and brought the cup, along with sugar and creamer packets, into the living room, where Mrs. Pfister was comfortably ensconced in an easy chair, a TV tray holding her lunch.

  Mazie’s stomach rumbled. She hadn’t had breakfast today and the lunch looked delicious: pork loin and gravy with roasted potatoes, applesauce, red cabbage slaw, wheat roll, butter, and a container of sherbet. Each lunch came with a carton of one percent or skim milk—and God help you if you delivered skim to someone who wanted one percent.