They all climbed into the truck, and Sterling cranked up the air-conditioning. He made a wide U-turn, pulled into the entrance of the housing project, and waited while Joshua collected their cooler and tools. Then he started out along the neighborhood toward the main drag. As he drove, Joshua made makeshift ice packs for Simon’s bump and his own swollen lip from the ice left in the cooler and two plastic bags he found in the glove compartment. He assembled the packs with hands shaking from an overdose of adrenaline; his stomach felt as though someone had put acetone in a cocktail shaker with crushed ice and agitated it vigorously.
“I don’t know about you two,” Sterling said musingly as both young men sat back, nursing their wounds, “but back on Tooting High Street, where I began my professional career as a bouncer in one of south London’s less sophisticated pubs, I always liked to have some meat and some sugar after a good fight. How about a double chili-cheese and a chocolate shake from Tommy’s?”
“I’m in,” Simon said enthusiastically without looking up, and Joshua was surprised to find not only that he was hungry, but that sinking his teeth into something chewy and following it with something sickeningly sweet sounded perfect. He nodded his agreement.
“Okay, my treat.” Sterling grinned at both boys. “Simon?”
Slowly, as though afraid of what he might be about to receive, Simon turned and looked up at Sterling. “Yeah?”
“You all right?” Sterling’s voice was gentle, but very firm; there was no trace of pity in it.
Joshua held his breath as he waited to see how Simon would respond.
“My head hurts a little, but . . .” He paused, and then, so suddenly that it blurted out, Simon laughed loudly and said, “Shit! You told that motherfucker! That was the bounce!”
Sterling chuckled and nodded, “Yes, sir, that was the bounce.”
“You should have kicked his snow-white ass.”
“I think you’ll find,” Sterling said as he pulled away from a stop sign, “that most bullies don’t actually want to fight; they just want to scare you. Once they know they can’t, they’ve shot their wad. Plus”—he glanced over at both boys with a impish grin on his handsome mug—“you’ll stay much prettier if you use your brain instead of your face to end an argument.”
Joshua touched his tender lip, and found it numb from the ice. “I didn’t intentionally get my face in the way of the back of your head,” he said to Simon with some bitterness.
“Sorry,” Simon muttered. “I go a little loco when I get pissed off.”
“Always stay in control. That’s how you win,” Sterling told him in a voice that was both educational and cautioning.
Joshua watched both of them in amazement. He was still vibrating from the exposure to physical danger and rerunning the incident over and over in his mind, feeling the panic and the tension, but they seemed to be enjoying the sensation.
As much as it confused him, he found himself feeling slightly envious.
Chapter 17
To facilitate the date that was masquerading as a guided tour, Leah had arranged to meet Weston at a small, family-run Mexican restaurant that only the locals knew about. The choice assisted the illusion in several ways: the ambiance was distinctly not romantic, no alcohol was served, and the music was teeth-grinding brassy, annoying enough to easily bully out any stray amorous sensation, but the food was excellent and the place was clean and friendly. She carefully chose an outfit of jeans and an expensive T-shirt to match the non-come-hither theme, deliberately ignoring the fact that, although her outfit was casual and revealed little skin, it fit snugly and showed off her trim curves to their best advantage.
She was prompt as usual and only mildly surprised to find him already there, waiting for her by the door. She tensed as she walked toward him, wondering if he would expect a hug or even a kiss of greeting, but he dispelled her qualms by shaking her hand and thanking her for coming.
“This looks great,” he commented as he held the door open for her. “I’ve been craving good Mexican for the last week, and I don’t mean Green Burrito. What’s good here?”
She told him that the seafood dishes were their specialty and was gratified that he looked pleased. Many men she knew were strictly beef and bean; it had always bored her.
They went to the counter and ordered two seafood burritos, a ceviche, and a pair of cactus sodas, then retreated to a booth in the corner. Weston thoughtfully took the side facing the wall. Her ex-husband, Vince, had always given himself the better seat facing out toward the restaurant, but Leah had been taught by her father that a gentleman should always face the wall. He should be content to look at his date, and no one else. Leah wondered, for the six-millionth time, why she had ever fallen for Vince. And for the six-millionth time she came to the same conclusion she always did, that it must have been some great deficiency in her.
“So, authentic Mexican. Check. How about coffee shops? In my business, a good twenty-four-hour joint is worth more than any five-star restaurant.”
“Well, let’s see. There’s Sweet Cheri’s—that’s always good,” Leah offered. “I’ve never been there in the middle of the night, but the breakfast is really good.”
“Omelets fluffy or thin?”
“Thin,” Leah said with a grimace. She liked them that way but she knew most people didn’t.
“Perfect. I can’t stand when they’re three inches thick and you can’t get a bite with enough filling.”
Leah concurred, then said, “They make a great Spanish omelet.”
“I like Spanish omelets with avocado and cheddar.”
“That sounds great,” Leah said. She seldom requested special orders at restaurants and always admired people who came up with their own unique selections. Though she had a few friends she suspected of confusing discriminating with demanding, trying to make themselves seem more important by taxing the restaurant staff.
“Anything else I should know about?”
“Well, the best thing about the area is really the hiking. There are some lovely little parks, a terrific branch library, small but good, and quite a few nice shops. The people around here have resisted having all the same ol’ big retail outlets, so there are still some great neighborhood grocery stores and actually one really good sushi bar.”
“In Shadow Hills?”
Leah laughed. “In Tujunga, actually. Even more shocking.” »
“Tujunga sushi. Hmm.” Weston looked dubious. “You’ll have to convince me of that one. Maybe if I don’t scare you away today, you could introduce me to the Tujunga roll.”
Shifting uncomfortably, Leah ventured a question that surprised her. “Why would you think you’d scare me away?”
Weston arranged his plasticware on his napkin in front of him before he answered. When he did, he looked up at her with frank, open eyes. “You said you don’t date. When a woman is as beautiful and successful as you and she’s made that choice, it seems like it could only mean two things. But you tell me.”
“What two things?” Leah pressed, though her voice shook slightly. She was half-afraid he would get it wrong, and half-terrified he would hit the nail on the head.
“Well, either you’ve dated a succession of losers who were inept at relationships and unsatisfying, probably had a lot of their own baggage, and you came to the conclusion that relationships in general were more trouble than they were worth.”
There was something in his rote recital of this theory that snapped a light on in Leah’s head. That’s why he’s available, she thought. He’s doesn’t know any women who are worth it. Her second thought was that if he was looking for a woman without baggage, she might as well pay the check, stack up her steamer trunks, and call a porter.
“Or,” he continued, unaware of her revelations, “you were with someone who was such a bastard that it put you off men as opposed to relationships.” He did not phrase it as a question, but neither did he look away.
With a deep intake of breath, Leah said softly, “The second
one.”
Weston nodded, and then shook his head with a gesture of disgust. “I’m sorry,” he said, and gracefully left it at that. “So, what’s it like working in a bank?”
Expecting him to want her to elaborate on her miserable experiences, and startled by his tactfulness, Leah laughed. “It’s, uh, fine. I always liked numbers and finance; it’s something I’m good at, and you can rely on them,” she said; then hearing how revealing that sounded, she quickly added, “But being the manager means that I have to deal with human resources a great deal, so it’s not just all balance sheets.”
“Does human resources mean people?” Weston asked as he took a drink from a long-necked glass bottle of cactus soda. He looked amused.
“Well, yes. But more than that, it means finding out their strengths and their talents and putting them to best use.”
“You have a lot of friends from the bank?”
“Yes,” Leah answered quickly, and then paused. For some reason, giving stock responses to this man felt like cheating. She sensed he wouldn’t be content with polite banter. After all, she thought, this was a man who ran toward the fire, not away from it. “Actually, I would say that I have a few friendly acquaintances at the bank,” she confessed, surprising herself. “I don’t socialize with my coworkers much outside work hours. Every once in a while I go to lunch with my friend Towler, whom I believe you met,” she said dryly, “or have drinks with a group, but, well, the fact is that most of the people I count as my friends are either left over from college—and most of them are lost in their own careers or married with children and obsessed with preschools and nannies. I do have a couple of newer friends. Jenny from the coffee shop is one of them. It’s somehow, I don’t know, safer for me not to have relationships with people from work.” As she made the simple statement, it hit Leah hard, and for the first time, that perhaps this was because of her debacle with Vince, whom she had met at work.
“And you’re divorced?” he asked, and when she nodded, he said, “That can end quite a few friendships too, I noticed. Friends find it uncomfortable, and they don’t have the strength to lend you any, so they fade out.”
“Are you divorced?” Leah asked, reluctant to share the observation that she and her ex hadn’t really had many friends since he was such an asshole.
His clear blue eyes clouded. “Yes, I’m divorced,” he confessed. “And I can’t say I blame her. I wasn’t home much, and the life of a fireman doesn’t offer a huge scope of material wealth.”
“She wanted jewelry?” Leah said, hoping to lighten his mood and sound sympathetic at the same time.
“She wanted jewelry,” he confirmed, his rugged jaw creasing with lines from his wry smile. “But mostly she wanted more attention.” He sighed and said wisely, “And that was fair. She was very beautiful and very full of life, and she wanted—and deserved—to be admired. I wanted to do it; I just wasn’t home often enough.”
“Do you travel that much?”
“I did then. I was training as a flyer and working as a fire jumper. You know, those idiots that parachute into wildfires? You get assigned to some pretty remote places, sometimes for months at a time. I think I must have been in Alaska when she got together with John.”
“Her new husband?” Leah asked.
“Oh no, that would be Eric. No, John was just this friend of mine. You know.” He smiled at her sadly, and she felt as though the subject would be better shelved for now.
The fact that he had shared something obviously painful encouraged her somewhat. Leah had always been competitive, and somehow, she felt challenged, in a good way, to meet him evenly on the playing field. But she had absolutely no idea what to say. My ex beat the crap out of me just sounded like a little too much for show-and-tell at this kindergarten stage, and lurking behind the naked truth of it was the heavily hooded suspicion that it was all her fault anyway. That she had chosen it, that she had failed.
So she tried a different tack. “Where is she now?” “Um, Pittsburgh, I think. How about yours?”
“Prison.” Leah mimicked his cadence and hoped that would lighten the impact. “Equally picturesque. I hope they’re both very happy,” he said without even blinking, and Leah had to laugh.
The woman behind the counter called out their names at this moment, thankfully relieving Leah from any further explanation. Weston rose to fetch the plates, and they made mutual noises of contentment as they ate the fat, snugly wrapped burritos and experimented with the variety of salsas, red and green, that ranged from saucily mild to eyeball-sweating hot.
“Whew.” Leah tried to cool her mouth with air and then a drink from her soda after she had eaten all she could hold. “That was good. Spicy, but good.”
“Very,” agreed Weston, who seemed less affected by the burn of crushed jalapen˜os laced into the salsa. “Now what? I’m thinking ice cream.”
“Actually, there’s a carnival in the park on the corner.” Leah surprised herself again with the suggestion. “I haven’t been to one of those since I was a kid, but I saw a sign for soft ice cream.”
“Let’s go.” Weston was already rising, pulling some bills out of his pocket and leaving them on the table.
Leah stood and gathered her purse. “But I have to tell you, I’m no good on any of those rides. Especially not after a seafood burrito.”
Weston looked serious. “As a public safety professional, I have to advise against them, especially after seafood burritos. But I think maybe once or twice around in the Ferris wheel might not be too risky.”
“Ooh . . . high,” Leah said as they started for the door.
Weston’s eyes twinkled. “Wait until I get you up in a helicopter.”
Leah wasn’t sure if it was the thought of flying or the fact that Weston wanted to take her that made her stomach dip and swirl.
Chapter 18
The garish, constantly flickering and winking lights of the carnival gave the open park the dizzying feel of liquid, translucent color caught in a swirling, unpredictable eddy. The warm night was heavily laden with the smells of sugar and fried foods.
Joshua and his friend Joy had arrived just before dark and spent the last hour testing out all the rides they could stomach. She was his neighbor Whitney’s step-daughter, a year and a half younger than Joshua, with very pretty almond eyes in a delicate face, a full mouth, and straight brown hair cut in flattering layers that continued to move after she did. It reminded Joshua of a grass skirt on a hula girl, but he didn’t tell her that. He thought that this style was a vast improvement over the purple streaks and Gothic makeup she had worn to aggressively disguise her prettiness when he had first met her. In fact, in the months that he’d known her, she’d changed in many ways. They had become good friends who often sat and talked for hours about the crucial nothings upon which a tentative teenager builds a stable adulthood.
Joshua stole a glance at her now. Her body had filled out with her healthier outlook on life, her figure had gone from adolescent to enticing, and she was so much prettier without the war paint she had donned to angrily repel a disapproving world. She lived with her father and Whitney full-time now, and without the negative influence of a dysfunctional, destructive mother, she had— he searched for the word—blossomed. Even as the verb occurred to him, he felt slightly embarrassed by the poetic reference, but it suited. He had always been attracted to Joy, but the combination of her youth and emotional instability had inspired in him a protective, big-brother impulse. Without really understanding it fully, he had begun to feel a sense of entitlement to her affection, as though he were waiting for her to be ready for a boyfriend, and then, of course, he would be there.
For her part, Joy’s recalcitrant adolescence combined with a recent scarring experience had left her with a kind of paranoia, a distrust of even the most innocent sexual attention. Her phobia was one that she could not yet acknowledge or understand, and she was simply grateful and content with Joshua’s presence and protectiveness—though she never doubted
the strength of the bond between them, she didn’t think of him romantically. It hadn’t occurred to her to question why it always stung when pretty girls flirted with him, which they often did. She had given only sparse consideration to how she would feel when he went away to college in a couple of months, because when she did, it gave her a feeling that was hated but not totally unfamiliar. After some effort, she had identified it as the same feeling she’d had when she’d been coerced into trying a long, steep, spiral tunnel at Raging Waters. She’d been whirled, frighteningly out of control, struggling to keep her head above the cold water as she’d been rocketed helplessly along until she shot out the bottom into an icy pool, where she had fought, panicked, to sort out which way was up. So, for the most part, she just didn’t think about Joshua’s impending departure, not if she could help it.
They bought ice creams, found a relatively open spot of grass to sit down on and eat them, and had just decided to head over to the game arcade next when Joshua spotted Simon with a group of like-looking teenagers.
“That’s the kid I was telling you about,” Joshua said. “The one Sterling hired, who saved the dog.”
Joy’s eyes trailed in the direction Joshua had indicated with his ice cream. “Which one?”
Here Joshua found it difficult to say. There were four young men, all Hispanic, all with hair so short that it looked as though their heads had been recently shaved, and all dressed in identical white T-shirts and baggy jeans. “The smallest one,” Joshua finally said.
Joy turned her poker face to Joshua. “Great,” she intoned dryly. “You talked Sterling into hiring a gang member.”
“Come on,” Joshua said defensively, though he knew she was most likely right. “You can’t go by how people are dressed. I mean, look at you.”
Joy smacked him hard on the shoulder with the hand that wasn’t holding her cone, but she was laughing. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Ow! I don’t mean now. I mean when you were all Goth, before . . .” He faltered a little as the smile died from her eyes. “You know, when you were a punk kid.”
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