by Becky Flade
“I didn’t know this was here.”
“Not a lot of people do.” He grabbed her hand. “I was out one night, driving this way, with no particular place to go and spotted this guy roughing up a young woman. He wanted her purse; she wasn’t having it. I stopped and helped. Just so happens, she’s the owner’s granddaughter. I have a table whenever I want one.”
He smiled and held open the door. The staff greeted him like family, surrounding him, and she tried not to laugh as they looked her over. Not in a hostile fashion. It felt more like curiosity. Felt like she was measured. And didn’t pass muster. Eventually, they were escorted to a small table in a quiet corner.
“They didn’t ask us what we wanted. They just left us here without menus.”
“I never get to order. They bring me food, and it is always delicious.”
“I don’t think I passed the test. Have any of your dates met with their approval?”
“I’ve never brought someone here.”
He didn’t smile or shrug. Didn’t avert his eyes. He held her gaze. Daring me to look away first. She stacked her hands on the table before her.
“Will we get to pick our own desert?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
She pushed off into a sprint and swept her thumb across the face of the mp3 player, increasing the volume on her headphones until the music drowned out the sound of her feet slapping blacktop. This was her favorite time to run, alone with her thoughts just after dawn, when even the buildings looked sleepy and before the heat of the day choked the city. It fed her body and soul. It also served to help her clear the cobwebs from her mind. This morning she hoped to make sense out of last night.
Jayson had been a thoughtful, interesting date. Funny and down to earth, intelligent, and sexy. She couldn’t remember having a better time or an as intriguing a companion. They shared common memories, growing up in the same neighborhood, attending the same schools, but their lives diverged. He worked for criminals; was a criminal.
Easy to forget when his arms are around me. She ran in place at a traffic light waiting for it to turn. He’d walked her to her door, and when he reached for her, she hadn’t hesitated. Damn near invited him in. Nearly. She’d wanted the one night. The date his father had robbed from them. She got it. How was she supposed to deal with wanting to hear his voice? Looking forward to his face?
The light changed and she sprinted across the intersection. Running hard, as though she could escape the feelings he’d churned up. Remembering him, against her better instincts, standing beside his bike in the moonlight, looking like Heathcliff and James Dean rolled into one, waiting until she was inside like the gentlemen she knew he wasn’t. And I leaned against the closed door, grinning like a heartsick teenager until the rumble of the bike’s engine grew faint.
She waved to the familiar sight of her neighbor walking his dogs. I’ve got to be losing my mind. I’m a cop. He’s a crook. Worse than a crook. I deal in right and wrong, and he deals drugs. This can never work. He’s never going to be that guy that walks his dog the same time each morning, attending school plays or hosting family barbeques. One date, one, he didn’t propose marriage. What the hell is wrong with me?
Worries and excuses as to why she couldn’t, why she shouldn’t, feel a connection to Jayson stacked into neat columns her practical mind appreciated. She heard her father’s voice advising she judge the man. Excuses crumbled. Screw this. I’m making myself crazy. Irritated with her own indecision, she tried to force her mind to empty. She turned the volume up louder and increased her pace to a near-punishing tempo, forcing herself to focus on her breathing.
She turned onto her street and slowed to a walk as she approached her driveway. On the back steps she found a basket filled with coffee grounds and her favorite donuts, the ones from the Amish stall at the Reading Terminal Market, tied with a ribbon and a note:
Since you didn’t like the flowers, I thought coffee and donuts might be a better gift for my favorite babe in blue. When can I see you again? JD
When she opened the door, she had a confused smile on her face, the basket tucked under her arm, and the certainty she’d see him again.
* * *
He couldn’t stop smiling as he imagined the look on her face when she found the basket. He used the car he rarely drove to make the delivery; she’d have heard the bike and ruined his surprise. And had driven past her while she’d run. She ran like she did everything—with an intensity some might find exhausting. He admired it. The bit of him that arrested at age seventeen wondered if that intensity followed her into the bedroom. His phone chirped as he shifted into park.
She found it. He smiled and grabbed his phone. I wonder if she’d like to get some breakfast.
His good mood faded when he read Chic’s name on the display. “Yo.”
“I need you at Angela’s. Now. Bitch slit her wrists, handle it.” Chic disconnected. He didn’t wait for a response, or questions, he expected obedience.
He called nine-one-one and gave them Angela’s address before jerking the car out of its spot and slamming his food on the gas. A couple weeks back, he’d escorted Angela to the clinic for her third abortion. She begged to keep the baby. Chic didn’t relent, Angela did. God, I hope this is just a cry for help.
The front door sat open, the entry way visible from the street. He parked at an angle and ran inside bellowing the young woman’s name. He moved through the familiar rooms. She’d cleaned the house first. Not a bid for attention. She didn’t want to inconvenience anyone. Shit. He took the stairs to the second floor two at a time.
He found her in the tub. Her wrists opened wide, face serene. If not for the blood soaking her conservative dress, he’d have thought she’d dressed for mass. The room reeked of death.
“Angela. Angela, wake up.” He checked her pulse. Faint, but still beating. He lifted both arms above her head and with his free hand redialed emergency.
“I’m at sixteen thirty-two Erdrick Street waiting for an ambulance in response to a suicide attempt. Her pulse is thready. The door is open. Second floor. In the bathroom. Hurry!”
He stuck his phone in his pocket and mumbled encouraging words to the unconscious woman in the tub as he listened to the sirens grow near. On the floor, her cell phone anchored a single piece of paper with one sentence scrawled in neat, feminine script.
“I’m not going to let you die.”
Paramedics pushed him aside. Relegated to the role of observer, he watched as they stabilized Angela. Prayed as they moved her to a gurney. Followed them as they ran her to the waiting ambulance; answered their questions as they secured her in the rig. I know so little.
“Odds are she’s not going to make it. She’s lost a lot of blood.” A paramedic told him. “Quick thinking lifting her arms above her heart or she’d be dead already. You’re a friend?”
“I’m a friend of her ex-boyfriend. He got a phone call that made him nervous and asked if I’d mind checking on her.” They shut the doors. “Guess he was right to be nervous.”
After the ambulance had left, sirens blaring, he used Angela’s phone to leave a message for her mother. Then he scrubbed the tub clean, and packed an overnight bag for Angela. Just in case. He didn’t want to go to the hospital, but there was nothing left for him to do here. And Chic said to handle it. I’m doing the best I can.
After five hours in the waiting room, he didn’t think he could take another minute. The overbearing scent of disinfectant, the incessant beeping from the monitors at the nurses station, the sound of someone nearby crying, it brought back his eighteenth birthday—spent broken and bloody in a hospital bed two floors up from where he sat.
He stood when Angela’s mother stepped from the elevator. She took after her mother; if she survived, Angela would be a handsome woman someday. Dread mingled with relief. He didn’t want to face this woman, but her arrival meant he could leave. There were too many ghosts here.
“Mrs. …”
The crack of her palm against
his face echoed throughout the hall. His cheek burned. People stared. Jesus, that stings.
“You son-of-a-bitch. I swear on God and all his glory, you will never touch my girl again. I’ll personally send you to hell if she’s gone.”
“Mrs. Tasker, I don’t know if Angela ever mentioned me, but my name is JD. They wouldn’t tell me much other than she’s going to be okay.”
“You’re not …?” Tears filled the woman’s eyes. “She has mentioned you, said you were kind. I’m sorry I hit you. I thought…” Her body appeared to crumble as his words sunk in. “She’s okay? My baby’s okay?”
“She’s in bad shape, but they think she has a good chance.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders as sobs shook her. “I’ll take you to her.”
Minutes later, he was in the elevator. Grateful to be alone, he rested his forehead against the doors and closed his eyes. They’d restrained Angela’s hands. Tubes and machines beeped in a steady rhythm he found comforting but sad. Mrs. Tasker’s tearful thank you echoed in his ears. He didn’t deserve her gratitude. I drove Angela to the damn clinic.
His phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket, ignoring the dark-brown smears of dried blood speckling his clothes. Kylee.
“Hey, beautiful. I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear your voice.”
She called. He’d thought maybe, after she got the basket, she might. As the hours passed, he thought she’d talked herself out of seeing him again. He thought he’d have to chase her or walk away. But she called. And the tension in his neck, the pounding behind his eyes, eased.
“Bad day?”
“You have no idea. Tell me you’re free tonight.”
* * *
“Mini-golf. Really?” She couldn’t contain her smile. “I’m good, just so you know.”
“Is that right?”
“Yep.” She teed up. Wiggled her hips and flicked a cocky wink over her shoulder. He smiled. But his eyes were sad and his shoulders tense. She remembered the expression well. It was one he’d worn throughout high school. She’d thought him a tortured romantic soul. Idiot. There wasn’t anything romantic about his childhood. Something bad happened today. “Hope you’re not a sore loser.”
“Put your putter to the test, Parker.”
“Loser buys dinner?”
He chuckled. “Yeah. Okay. Loser buys dinner.”
Whatever happened, he was distracted. His heart wasn’t in the game. She was winning with little effort as they approached the eighth hole. That’s enough melancholy for one night. She waved her backside at him. And got his attention.
“I think that’s called cheating.”
“Excuse me?” She batted her eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion.
“You keep wiggling your ass at me, I’m going to take you up on the invitation, sweetheart. You want to play dirty? I can accommodate.”
“I can, and will, arrest you.” She hip-checked him as she passed. He grabbed a handful of her bottom and spun her around, kissing her until she clung to him.
“I call that a justifiable kissing. You started it, Officer Parker.”
He swaggered to the next hole, most of the shadows washed away, replaced by humor and lust. They finished the game amidst colorful trash talk, easy flirtations, and mind-erasing kisses that distracted them both. She lost by one stroke.
“I can’t believe you’re pouting.”
“Shut up. I had the lead, and I could’ve kept the lead. Should’ve.” She jammed the key into the ignition before glancing at him. Ankles crossed and a smirk plastered across his handsome face. Everything about him was looser, lighter, and more cheerful; she’d lost, but whatever had been haunting him didn’t hurt anymore.
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “It was a close game.”
“Want to tell me about your bad day?”
“Not especially.”
“You can talk to me.”
“Is this you being a friend, the woman I’m dating, or is this you being a cop?”
“I’m all those things. I can’t compartmentalize myself with who I am.” She turned right on seventy-three. If she was buying dinner, they were having steak. “If that’s what you need, for me to not be a cop when we’re together, this is going to be a very short thing we’ve got going here. I can’t and won’t change for you.”
“Then you’ll understand I can’t and won’t change for you either. I am exactly who I am. Good and bad. You’ll have to accept me as is. And you’ll have to trust me.”
“You were sad. I was concerned.”
She parked the car in the restaurant’s lot and waited.
“Chic’s mistress slit her wrists. I think he found her and left her there to die. Called me to clean up the mess, but I got there in time to save her. Neither of them will thank me for it.”
She rubbed her thumb over his. “You did a good thing today.”
“Yeah, I know. For a bad man. And a foolish woman. Her note read I’m sorry I loved you. She summed up her life and her death in five little words.” He squeezed her fingers. “Like I said, it was a bad day, sweetheart. Let’s eat.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
When Chic called, he ran. That wasn’t just his job, it was his life. He didn’t like it, but he did it and did it well. Most of all, he accepted it. She couldn’t. A day hadn’t passed in months they hadn’t at least spoken on the phone. And as summer sped toward fall, they saw each other as often as they could. They were taking it slow, and he thought it might be killing him. He would die for her. But every time his phone rang, she pulled away from him.
She tried to pretend it didn’t matter. But it did. His work presented an issue in their relationship he could do little about. They’d begun arguing about it. He asked her to trust him, but she didn’t. And he knew it. Just as he knew he would lose her.
“I’m a cop. A cop! I put guys like you in jail for a living.”
“It’s what you do, not who you are.”
“Bullshit.” She stomped her feet in frustration. “Does it make you feel better to tell me that? Is that how you justify what you do? It’s what you do, not who you are? You think the pieces of shit who killed Guff are sitting in prison saying it was just my job? Cost of doing business, thank you very much.”
“Oh, so you won’t talk to me about Guff, but you’ll use his death against me in an argument?” He stood, angry. She wouldn’t share that with him, refused to discuss it. She shut down whenever he made an attempt to discuss her late partner. One of the several pieces of herself she held back. Like her family and her friends. No one knew they were dating. She’d prepared for the end since the beginning.
“This is a mistake.”
“What is?” His heart raced. When he looked down, he saw his father’s hands.
“Us. We’re a mistake. We’re just too different.”
“I’m leaving. It’s up to you whether I come back.” He yanked her close, kissed her hard and left. Part of him wanted to start his bike up and just drive, drive and never come back. Instead, he left it parked at Kylee’s and walked to Devane’s.
He ordered the shot of whiskey, but didn’t touch it. He sat his phone on the bar next to the glass and stared at them both. Reaching for either would be defeat.
I am not my father. I’m not going to hide in a bottle. I won’t hurt the people I care about. That doesn’t make a man strong. But he wasn’t a weak man either. I’m not going to beg. I can’t quit. He stared at his cell phone. Willed it to ring. I should just let it go. Let her go. I’m not good enough for her anyway.
I’m James Donovan’s son.
“Booze doesn’t work by osmosis you know.”
The joy her voice brought cowed him and banked the simmering rage. She thought so little of him. And he had no way to prove her wrong. He grabbed the shot; downed it; and said nothing as she claimed the closest stool. He couldn’t let her know, couldn’t let her see, what she meant to him already.
Tim came over and turned his cheek for a kiss. She asked about Retta
and the kids. He added bartender to the mental list of Parker-accepted occupations he’d compiled. Tim gave her a rum and cola before beating a hasty retreat. It may have been the nasty look JD shot him when he’d kissed her cheek. He couldn’t be sure.
“Tomorrow is the weekly family dinner at my parents’ house.”
He looked at her.
“Not going to make this easy on me are you, Donovan?”
“No I’m not, Officer Parker.”
She laughed in his face, and he fought to keep the corners of his mouth from curving.
“I’d like for you to come with me to my parents for dinner tomorrow, if you shut off your cell for a couple hours.”
“Will there always be conditions?”
“As long as you work for Chic Checcio—yes.”
He considered. He nodded. She smiled and kissed him long and hard on the mouth. He considered the invitation and the public display of affection a two-prong victory. And refused to listen to the mocking voice in his head.
“Looks like I’m coming to dinner.”
* * *
He looked good. Too good. Clean shaven in a pressed oxford shirt, wearing khakis and moccasins. He gave the impression of a young professional. And pulled it off.
“Did you get a haircut?”
“Yeah, why, does it look stupid?” His fingers drummed a beat against his leg.
He’s nervous. She smiled. “You look good, baby.”
His eyes widened. He used little pet names when he talked to her, but she didn’t think anything of those little endearments. He often called waitresses “sweetheart,” and once he referred to a bank teller as “honey.” But it wasn’t something she did as casually as he, and she suspected he’d read all kinds of things into the slip.
“Don’t make that face. This isn’t chess. You haven’t just made a critical error in strategy, and you haven’t lost any ground.” His fingers picked up the abandoned tempo, drumming frantically.
“I don’t know why you’re mad. But stuff it, because we’re here.” How can he read me so easily? He doesn’t know me that well. How could he?