“Zephyr Anne Zuckerman,” I repeated in a stronger voice. “I live in Greenwich Village, where I’ve lived my whole life.” I glanced down at the questions. “I’m single, twenty- seven, and…” How many adults are in your household? “I live alone.” It was true, I reminded myself.
A small commotion in the second row caught my eye and I glanced over. I was dismayed to see a couple of buzz- cut guys in Gap sweatshirts and baggy jeans whispering to each other and squinting at me.
“Ms. Zuckerman, please continue,” the judge said firmly.
“Education. Uh, I have a bachelor’s and I’ve completed some graduate work in medicine.” Where are you currently employed? I swallowed hard. “I… I manage my parents’ apartment building in the Village.” No gasps of disappointment. No explosions of laughter and finger pointing. I relaxed a little and continued, running my eye down the list.
“I don’t know anyone involved in this case, and…” I paused over the next question. “My father is an attorney, but no one else in my family is in law or law enforcement.” I hoped we could glide past that issue.
“Thank you,” the judge said. “Mr. Suarez?”
One of the lawyers jumped up from the defense table, nearly knocking over his chair. He looked like he was my age.
“Your father is an attorney, Ms. Zuckerman?” he said too eagerly. I took a deep breath.
“Yes.”
“What kind of law does he practice?”
“He’s an assistant U.S. attorney.”
“In other words, a prosecutor.”
“Yes,” I said, looking Suarez straight in the eye.
“And where does he work?”
“In Brooklyn.”
“I see,” he said suggestively. “And you don’t think having a father who is a prosecutor would compromise your impartiality in this case?”
“Not at all,” I said calmly.
“A father who has successfully prosecuted people with alleged mob ties?”
I was going to find a horse’s head in my bed tonight.
“My father’s profession would have no influence on me as far as this case is concerned,” I told him, thinking how proud my dad would be of this well- crafted answer.
“Do you see your father often?”
Who the hell was on trial here?
“I am close to him, but we rarely discuss his work.” Not until after a trial ends, I added silently.
“Where does he live in relation to you?”
I paused.
“Ms. Zuckerman?”
“Upstairs,” I practically whispered.
Mr. Suarez grinned.
“Would you please repeat that so the court reporter can hear it?”
“Upstairs,” I said, and the whole room laughed. Even the judge smiled. My face was burning.
“And you wouldn’t discuss this case with your father, the mob prosecutor who lives upstairs from you?” More laughter. I licked my lips and met his arrogant gaze again. His cheeks were pocked with post- acne craters.
“No. I wouldn’t.” I hoped I sounded assertive, not petulant.
“ Uh- huh, uh- huh.” Suarez the Cocky strutted away from the jury box and I exhaled, thinking he was through. Suddenly he whirled around, feigning a jolt of sudden memory.
“Didn’t your father write a book about the history of racketeering in this country and the far- reaching adverse effects it has on local economies?”
The Book. The stupid, goddamned book. My dad had coughed it out twenty years ago, as part of an attempt to see whether he’d prefer the Life of a Writer. It had sold about ten copies and no one but the other A.U.S.A.s in my dad’s bureau had ever read it—except, apparently, for this guy. I was tempted to ask Suarez whether he was admitting that his clients were mobsters, but he looked triumphant, as if he’d already won the case.
I waited until the laughter died down again, then said, “I think he wrote that when I was seven. I don’t know much about it.” That was unfortunately true. My father, who had sat through countless dreary school plays, read reams of lifeless poetry, and proofread dozens of sophomoric term papers, had an ungrateful daughter who had never cracked the cover of the only book he would ever write. But at the moment, it seemed my selfishness was coming in handy.
“No further questions, Your Honor,” Suarez said, grinning. I gripped the edges of what could be my chair, the forewoman’s chair. The chair of Juror Number One. It was still within my reach.
“Ms. Langley?” The judge raised her eyebrows at the prosecutor, a tiny wisp of a woman. Langley smiled broadly, spread her arms, and replied, “That’s all I need to know,” sending the room into another round of tension- breaking chuckling. Great. I was the comic relief.
I sat stewing while Suarez began questioning the personal trainer. He’d been seated next to me in the jury box and now turned out to be an orthodontist. No one laughed while he was questioned, and Suarez sat down after the guy said his main source of news was Animal Planet.
“That’s all we have time for today,” the judge said, with a final reproachful glance at the lawyers. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, turning to us. “I remind you that, as potential jurors, you are under oath and must refrain from discussing this case with anyone. That includes all involved parties as well as members of the press. Please return to this courtroom tomorrow at nine- thirty You’ll take the same seats and we’ll continue the voir dire then. Officer Pendleton?”
The court officer who’d read us the riot act stepped forward to lead us out. As I followed her, I noticed again the group of men in the second row studying me intently. I was thinking of a way to ask Pendleton whether I might be able to get protection for the evening without sounding hysterical, when something else—someone else—caught my eye.
There he was, sitting behind my sweatshirted admirers, grinning the same self- satisfied grin that had cost me two years of sanity.
Hayden.
OUT IN THE POORLY LIT CORRIDOR, SURROUNDED BY THE EXCITED jabberings of my formerly tight- lipped comrades, I grabbed for a wall as tunnel vision set in. Hayden would pile out of the courtroom with the rest of the press in just a few seconds, and I had to decide whether to face him or run for the stalls.
But in the time that it took to persuade my body not to pass out, Hayden had sidled up to me and thrown a casual arm over my shoulder, as if we saw each other every week. He was apparently unconcerned about the judge’s injunction against jurors consorting with members of the press.
“Hey, you,” he whispered into my ear. His voice vibrated straight down my spine and landed between my legs. I cursed him, me, and Luis Pelarose as I caught a whiff of the musk and soap scent that had done me in the first eight times and now promised to level me again, right there in the over- sanitized halls of justice.
“Hey,” was all I could muster as I tried to collect my thoughts and my hormones soared to prom night heights. A few new laugh lines only made his eyes sexier, and his thick reddish hair still begged to be raked by my fingers. Despite myself, I checked out the rest of him, most of which I’d groped, stroked, or clung to at one time or another.
“Let’s go get a drink,” he purred, catching me in the act.
I opened my mouth to express shock, but all that came out was a stuttering grunt.
“Ooh, I remember that sound.” His eyes flashed with mischief.
“Wait. Just fucking wait,” I growled. He had the good grace to look surprised, and I was about to recover the power of speech when the group of sweatshirts emerged, deep in conversation with the prosecutors.
“Come on.” I grabbed his arm and pulled him around a corner, toward the elevators. When I looked at him, he was grinning again.
“Still eager,” he commented.
“Eager to get away from the lawyers,” I said pointedly.
“If you’re so nervous about being seen by the lawyers, let’s go to your place,” he said, not missing a beat.
I emitted a slightly hysterical, disbelieving snort
that was supposed to be a laugh. “You haven’t changed.”
“Only gotten better,” he promised.
“No. You’re as bad as ever.” I was stalling, and in the process, seemed to be flirting. “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere, filing a story or something?” He had never been this available when we’d been together.
He shrugged, not taking his eyes off mine. “There’s no story yet. Come on, Zephyr.” He lowered his chin and dipped his head to one side. “We’ll just talk.”
FIFTEEN
SO YOU’RE THE SUPER?” HAYDEN SAID, OPENING MY refrig erator later that afternoon as easily as if we lived together. “Hey, you have alcohol. That’s newsworthy.”
“It belonged to the other super,” I said as he popped open one of James’s Brooklyn Lagers and slunk toward me, grinning impudently.
What are you doing, Zephyr? What the hell are you doing? “I’m just going to run to the bathroom,” I squeaked, and left the kitchen to get a grip.
I headed past the discarded clothes on my bedroom floor, unzipping my boots and kicking them off as I went. It had been light years since I’d left my apartment that morning. That had been the part of my life in which I still looked for Hayden in every corner of the city. This afternoon, I had crossed into the next part, the uncharted territory where I finally found him.
But, I realized as I eyed my un- privacy- checked home, I’d never scripted anything beyond the very first moment of our reunion. I’d imagined being in a restaurant, on a date with someone else, looking fabulous. Our eyes would meet as Hayden passed my table. I would smile victoriously and it would be clear from both his face and his pug- nosed, bespectacled date that he was devastated by his loss and would be plagued with regret for the rest of his life.
That’s where the fantasy had ended. I never imagined him crossing my threshold again, and I certainly never imagined him swilling beer in my kitchen. If I had, I would have cut the teeth marks out of the cheddar and stashed the reeking workout clothes airing out on bookshelves and chairs.
I slipped into the bathroom and locked the door. In here, at least, I could hide the plaque rinse and the tampons. Hating myself, I propped the condoms on the back of the toilet. Then I hid them again. Then I put them out again.
I sat down on the toilet and pressed my palms into my eyes. We were alone together in my apartment. No one in the world knew where we were. If anything happened, it would almost be like it didn’t really happen. There would be no record. What was I planning to do with this secret freedom?
I started to pee and immediately the bathroom filled with the stench of the asparagus salad I’d had for lunch. Oh, God, what if Hayden came in the bathroom after me and smelled it?
Screw what he thought! Why would I want to be with someone who made me feel embarrassed about natural body functions? I opened the cabinet again and exchanged the condoms for the tampons. I wasn’t going to sleep with him anyway. I didn’t care if he smelled my asparagus pee.
Damn it. I did care. I frantically looked around the bathroom for something to cover up the smell. I looked at the bottle of mouthwash. Would Hayden think I had brushed my teeth for him? Was that better or worse than him smelling my asparagus pee?
I cursed him again, and the thought crossed my mind that even though I’d only known Gregory for two weeks, I would never have been this self- conscious around him. He was real. Hayden was fake.
I splashed some Scope into the toilet bowl and swirled the brush. Now if I flushed again, would he think I was pooping and couldn’t get it all down in one flush? Oh, my God, I was going crazy. I looked at myself in the mirror to see if I looked crazy. I did, I looked crazy.
Deep breaths. Remember his breakup note. The cockroach lowercase letters. All those times I ate sushi alone. Clearing empty beer bottles from under the bed. This is not the right man for you, Zephyr. Get him out of here.
But I don’t have anyone else right now, crowed the little devil homunculus on my shoulder. Gregory dumped me because he’d rather believe a lunatic on a skateboard than give me a fair chance. And the rest of the available men were the lunatics on the skateboards. Maybe I could just sleep with Hayden but not get emotionally attached.
Yeah, that should work.
Still undecided, I flung open the door and found Hayden standing there barefoot, shirtsleeves rolled up, freckled arms braced on the doorframe, waiting for me. His mouth was exactly where mine needed to be, and it seemed easiest to postpone any further decisions until after I’d kissed him.
Hayden’s kisses contradicted his arrogance and selfishness. His kisses caressed, lingered, explored. They were thoughtful and patient and generous. He bit gently at my lips, then let his tongue take a slow tour of my mouth, while the rest of me quivered helplessly. I let him lead us to my bed and pulled him on top of me, grabbing his hips, grabbing at another chance, blissfully succumbing to bad judgment. He felt better in my arms than I’d remembered, warmer and more solid, and my whole body nearly wept with the release of years of squelched desire.
Hayden started working his way under my shirt, letting his fingers trail up and down my belly, until I was nothing more than a sack of goose bumps. I groaned softly as he released the clasp of my bra. The only thing that mattered at that moment was having his hands reach my breasts, but he was going to make me wait. I persuaded my own hands to leave his firm, round butt and go hunting for even better territory. Just as I was poised to release his straining zipper, the phone rang.
“Let it go,” he murmured, planting a line of kisses from my waist to my chest. I grabbed his head and pulled him up to me so that I could taste his mouth again. The phone stopped ringing and I relaxed, letting my fingers work their way back down to his jeans.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered. “I’ve missed your skin and your hair and your ass and your gorgeous gray eyes.”
He called them blue in his breakup letter, I thought as the phone started up again.
“Damn it!” I yelled. I lunged across him and grabbed it off the cradle.
“Zephyr, he bought me hemorrhoid cream.”
I panted into the phone, the wires of my addled brain completely crossed.
“Zeph, are you okay? It’s Mercedes.”
“I… what? Hemorrhoid cream?” Hayden rolled me back on the pillow and started tracing the outline of my ribs with his tongue. I suppressed a groan.
“Dover,” Mercedes said. “I was in agony after the concert on Saturday night—your parents started the standing O; they’re so sweet, even if they are bizarre—and we were already at my place and he went around the corner to the all- night Duane Reade and bought me Preparation H. Zephyr, I’m in love. I totally get it. I get the fuss. I love him.”
This was the closest I’d ever heard Mercedes come to raving. In fact, for her, this was raving. I pushed Hayden off me, holding up a finger.
“One second,” I whispered.
“Is that Gregory?” Mercedes asked.
“No, just a delivery guy.” Hayden climbed back on me and started tracing his finger around the top of my jeans. I choked back my lust and wondered if there was any good way to hang up on my friend.
“Mercedes,” I croaked with as much false enthusiasm as I could summon, “I want all the details, but I want them in person. Phone isn’t good enough. Tomorrow, right? You, me, Lucy, okay?” I hoped I sounded persuasive.
“Both his parents died when he was ten. He was raised by his sister,” Mercedes said dreamily.
“Merce, the whole world knows that,” I said as Hayden bent over and darted his tongue in and out of my belly button.
The intercom buzzed, which at least permitted me to groan out loud.
“I’ll get it,” Hayden drawled. I covered the phone up as fast as I could and glared at him.
“Zeph, who’s with you?” Mercedes demanded. Hayden jumped off me and headed for the intercom, smirking at me.
“Don’t you dare answer that,” I hissed, jumping off the bed. He put one finger on the leve
r and I had to take my hand off the phone to bat it away.
“Hayden, cut it out!”
“Hayden’s there? Hayden?” Mercedes shrieked through the phone. “Zephyr, goddamn it, don’t make me come over there. I’ll wring his scrawny little dick. I swear to God! And then I’ll fucking kill you. Kill you. Do you hear me?”
Hearing Mercedes curse—and with Tag- like vigor—stopped me in my tracks. Hayden abruptly removed his teasing finger. For the first time since I’d known him, he actually looked something other than completely confident.
“Who is that?” he said, a worried frown creasing his brow.
“Yes?” I shouted into the intercom, choosing to ignore him and Mercedes.
“It’s me.” Gregory’s sweet, cracking voice wound its way up the wires, into my apartment, and through my heart.
Fuck. Fuckfuck fuck.
“Zephyr,” Mercedes said threateningly.
I opened my eyes and found Hayden crossing his arms and smiling, looking immensely entertained. The threat of de-dicking had passed.
“I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said to Mercedes, then added, “I’m not doing anything stupid.”
“Yes, you are,” she said with resignation.
“Yes, I am,” I agreed, and hung up. The intercom buzzed again, a giant angry wasp.
“Coming!” I let go of the lever and looked at Hayden, wishing I could vaporize him or at least stuff him in a closet.
“You were about to,” he growled, putting both his hands around my waist.
“Stay right here,” I instructed, hoping to strike a tone both menacing and seductive.
I bounded down the stairs, trying to rehook my bra and figure out how to get Gregory to leave as fast as the physical world would permit, while also being receptive to any olive branches he might be proffering.
I flung open the door and found not only Gregory standing there, but also Freddy Givitch with his gray face and a woman who was a dead ringer for Sandra Oh. For a second, I wondered whether in some perversely roundabout way to win me back, Gregory had conjured up a hot Asian woman for Darren Schwartz.
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