by J. D. Faver
Oz turned into traffic. “Where are you living now? I heard you moved out of your parent’s place. I guess the old neighborhood doesn’t fit with your new image.”
Micki caught the sharp edge to his voice. Oz hadn’t treated her with sarcasm before. It was easier this way. If he had been charming at that moment she might have forgotten their past, might have begged him to take her back. “I live in a brownstone on East Grayson. Third floor.”
“Our girl’s movin’ on up. How does it feel to be living in such a ritzy neighborhood?”
She swallowed hard, refusing to be baited. “Its okay, Oz. I work out of my flat and there’s room for my equipment.”
“That sounds like a full and satisfying life.
Congratulations.” He kept his eyes on the road, carefully maintaining his controlled facade.
Micki glanced at his fine profile and tried to squash the sea of memories threatening to swamp her. Drowning in a morass of recollection, she cast about for a safe topic.
“How are your parents?” She pictured Oz’ dark-eyed Italian mama and his big, broad-shouldered German dad. Oz got each of their best traits.
“They’re fine. Mama asks about you all the time. She asks me why I don’t get back together with you.” He favored her with another stabbing glance.
Micki smiled sweetly, her voice taking on a sugary tone. “But you have a new girlfriend. I’d think your mama would have latched onto her as the prime incubator of Osmond grandchildren.”
Oz made a scornful sound from the back of his throat.
Micki ignored it, keeping her gaze glued to the view just over the dashboard.
They drove along, the silence heavy and dark. Micki concentrated on breathing in and out, but Oz’ clean masculine scent was roiling up old memories.
“So, how’s it going out there on your own?” he asked “Are you seeing anybody?”
Micki heard the pain in his voice and realized how much it cost him to ask that question. “No, I’ve been trying to get my career off the ground.”
“Ah, yes, the big important career. How’s that going for you? Does it keep your feet warm at night?”
She shot him a withering glance, which was apparently out of juice. “If you’re going to keep taking cheap shots at me, I’ll get out right here.”
“You’re not getting out here. I’m taking you to your new, independent career girl apartment.”
Micki pressed her lips together and settled back in her seat. She closed her eyes in hopes of shutting out the vision of Oz, angry and hurt.
When he turned onto Grayson, she sat up. “It’s right up here. I can jump out.”
“Stop!” He heaved a loud sigh. “I’ll see you up, Micki. It’s the least I can do after being such a jerk.” He nosed into a parking space and pocketed the key. “Sorry,” he murmured as he climbed out and slammed his door.
Micki’s jaw dropped open. Was that an apology? From Oz?
He opened her door and held out his hand to her. When he’d pulled her to her feet, he was standing way too close. The emotions flowing between them were like an electric current, hot and dangerous.
When she looked into his eyes, a dark vortex swirled, pulling her too near the center, where she could be swallowed up in him, become a mindless accessory to him, need him...She swayed toward Oz and abruptly stopped herself.
Micki turned her back on the scorching look he gave her. She ran lightly up the three flights of stairs to her independent career girl apartment with Oz following close behind. Unlocking the door, she turned to Oz, suddenly shy.
“I...Would you like to come in?”
“What do you think?” One side of his mouth quirked up in an attempted smile, sending a rush of butterflies to her stomach.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open and led the way inside. Looking around the cozy, sun-filled living room, she attempted to envision it as Oz might be seeing it. It was small but cheery, crammed with hand-me-downs and a few yard sale items. The kitchen opened off the living room and her bedroom was to the rear with a window looking out on the alley. There were blackout curtains that she drew across the archway to the kitchen when it doubled as a darkroom for her black and white photography. Someday she’d have a proper studio, but that was a long time away. In the meantime, this worked for her.
Oz walked around, without invitation, inspecting her quarters.
“What’s the verdict?” She wondered why his opinion mattered, but it did.
He’d come to the fireplace, closed up with a gas heater sitting below the mantle. He stared at a framed photograph of the two of them together, and then sadly picked it up, grazing their faces with his fingertips. He looked up, his expression saying more than the terse words he’d been hurling at her for the past hour. His raw emotion brought back all the pain of their parting.
Micki steeled herself. Her words came out in a rush. “Look, Oz, I know you’re angry with me and I’m sorry because I don’t feel anything but love for you. I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” A sharp pang squeezed her heart. Her voice broke. “It’s killing me to know that I hurt you.” The sting of tears closed up her throat.
He carefully set the photograph back on the mantle, his voice husky when he spoke. “It’s good to know that you still love me.” He turned to face her, another attempted smile quirking his mouth. “I’d hate to see the way you’d treat me if you didn’t.”
A tight band constricted her airway. She couldn’t draw a breath. She turned away, gazing out the bay window facing the front of the building. She rested a knee against the cushion of the small curved window seat, grinding her nails into her palms to keep from giving way to tears.
After a silence, she realized that Oz had come to stand behind her.
“I’m sorry, Micki. I can’t handle small talk when the wound is still fresh. Maybe some other time when I don’t care so much.” He brushed against her hair with his finger tips.
She heard him close the door softly and turned to find herself alone.
Micki locked the door behind him and sank down onto her sofa to cry until she had no more tears left.
#
Oz started his car and sat with the motor idling, staring up at her bay window. The last person he thought he’d see today was Micki Vermillion wearing his favorite shirt and it was eating a hole in his gut.
She looked good, so good she made him ache for her all over again. Holding her in his arms had rekindled all his old feelings, still raw from the break up.
When he’d heard her voice on the phone, his heart had stopped beating in his chest. She was in trouble, of course. Otherwise she would never have called him. She had made that pretty clear when she walked out on him.
He felt guilty for being such a jerk to her earlier. It was only self-defense. He’d tried to steel his heart against whatever she used to bewitch him, to keep him off balance. But when she’d driven up and looked at him with those big, childlike blue eyes, so trusting that he could make whatever was troubling her go away, his resolve had melted. He was the same big, clumsy boy with a crush on the golden-haired, dimpled girl. He’d tried to be her hero, even then.
Whenever she was watching he’d swung the bat harder, climbed higher in the tree, sunk more baskets.
She had been his inspiration and her approval, his reward. He’d won her. He’d treasured her. Micki was the one thing in his life he’d been certain of. Then, sure of her answer, he’d proposed and she’d dumped him.
If a man could die from love, Oz would have preferred to be dead than to have gone through the agony of Micki completely removing herself from his life. Now she was back and she said she loved him, but it was clear that she still didn’t want him.
#
CHAPTER TWO
Micki’s claw foot bathtub held a special place in her heart. She’d found it on the curb in Jersey and stood guard over it while a friend brought a truck and several more pals to load it.
When she had been able to have it install
ed, she painted the outside an azure blue and then silver-leafed over it. Where the silver crackled, the blue color peeked through. A couple of layers of clear poly had sealed and protected it from the moisture present in a bathroom. She painted a stylized undersea mural on the walls, giving in to her mermaid fantasy. Her bathroom was her sanctuary.
She poured a capful of bubble bath into the tub and turned on the taps. The sound of rushing water resounded off the tiles, insulating her from the trauma of the day. Here she was safe from high-powered rifles and shattering glass. She lit lavender-scented candles, a talisman against unknown demons. She knew she was in danger from a far greater threat.
Oz.
She shivered, recalling his fierce gaze when first he’d seen her. And the way her insides turned to jelly when he held her. She hung her robe on the hook, resolutely ousting Oz from her thoughts.
She inhaled the scent of lavender, allowing the fragrance to cleanse her spirit.
Music from a classical station played softly. She stroked her hand over the shiny enamel of the tub. It reminded her of her parent’s house, where she’d felt small and secure in her make-believe world of bubbles and rubber ducks.
Inhaling deeply, Micki sank into the froth and closed her eyes. Warm water swirled, easing tension from her shoulders. She opened her eyes cautiously, the flickering candles drawing her gaze. Her brain flooded with the memory of Oz sitting across from her in a candlelit restaurant holding a ring box with an expectant look on his face. His expression had turned to disbelief and hurt, only to be replaced by anger.
Anger that had smoldered to snarling sarcasm, more hurtful than an angry outburst. Anger that had caused him to turn to another woman.
Micki resolutely banished the image of Oz with the woman she’d glimpsed earlier. She focused on the music, softly humming the tune while she imagined herself floating down a river dappled with sunlight. She clung to this vision until the water cooled. Reluctantly, she climbed out, loathe to face the night alone, hoping for a peaceful dreamless state.
She hummed a few more notes of the music. It was Debussy’s La Mer. This usually brought serene rest and beautiful dreams. But, when she crawled between her sheets, she tossed around fitfully thinking of Oz and recalling the sound of gunfire and shattering glass.
Aching for sleep, she finally dozed, only to jerk awake again and again. The pop of the exploding window and the memory of glass powdering her arm clung to her like a shroud. Alone in the dark, she listened to the muffled city sounds. A siren in the distance whined over the usual traffic noises.
She rolled over onto her side. The glow of the clock leered at her. Three A.M. She felt stifled and too disturbed to go back to sleep.
Throwing off her coverlet, she slipped her feet into a pair of ragged terry scuffs, poured a glass of juice and booted up her computer.
Micki inserted the memory card into her USB port and examined the color portraits of Zondra Sebastian and her mother.
“I am so good,” she cooed to herself. The softened natural daylight etched the planes of Zondra’s face, slimming the contours and endowing her skin with a translucent glow. The mother-daughter pictures were salable, revealing the loving relationship between the women. The shots taken by the lake were flattering. She would soften the edges and crop out the cluttered background so that everyone could focus on the bride.
Micki printed two sets of three-by-five proofs and created a folder for Zondra’s pictures. She would make the shots of the wedding and reception available online but she preferred to give a little more attention to the formal bridal portraits, knowing how important it was to idealize this moment for the bride. This principle had been deeply ingrained in her by her father.
She couldn’t help but smile as she heard his voice in her head. The bride is the most important person in this production. It’s her moment. Give her the star treatment.
By the time she logged off, the clock on her monitor read four-thirty-five. She crawled back into bed too tired to dream and too exhausted to provide food for her personal demons to feast on. She slept like a dead thing for four hours before wakefulness penetrated her pleasantly numb state.
Micki woke up feeling groggy and confused. Her eyes were gritty from so little sleep the night before. She forced herself to dress and set out with an errand-filled agenda, determined to offset the negative aspects of the previous day. She was resolutely optimistic as she descended the three flights of stairs to the ground floor. By the time she stepped onto the sidewalk, she’d convinced herself that having been the victim of a random drive-by shooting hadn’t ruined her life.
It must have been random. I don’t have any enemies, except for Sylvia Camanetti.
She recalled the incident in fifth grade when she’d tried to coax the glue out of the bottle and it came out all in a big sploosh in the back of Sylvia’s mane of red-gold hair. Sylvia had never accepted her apology, convinced that it was no accident. Still, she doubted that even Sylvia would hold a grudge this long.
Micki resolved to focus on the fact that she hadn’t been killed or injured and the damage was only to her car.
And, she admitted grudgingly, damage to her emotional well-being. Seeing Oz had been a major mistake. She should have called nine-one-one and not gone running to her former lover.
She pressed her lips together. Not going to re-open that can of worms. I don’t even like worms.
She walked two blocks to the coffee house, refusing to acknowledge the creepy feeling that she might be in someone’s crosshairs. She kept her eyes straight ahead instead of glancing around at the tall buildings lining the streets. A swell of relief washed over her when she pushed inside the restaurant, inhaling the tantalizing aromas. She ordered a latte and croissant for breakfast and called a courier service. In less than twenty minutes a young bicycle messenger entered the Starbucks and she gave him the envelope of proofs she’d prepared for Zondra. In the interim, she’d called her insurance carrier and agreed to meet him at the police station to obtain a copy of the report and examine the damage to her vehicle.
Walking briskly to the corner, she hailed a taxi, and directed the driver to the precinct house.
She hadn’t ridden in a taxi in a while. The familiar smell of the numerous people who’d ridden before her was somehow comforting. She paid the driver and stepped out onto the curb to stare up at the austere, fortress-like building where Oz worked. He wouldn’t be there, of course. It was almost ten-o-clock and she had delayed her arrival until she was sure he would be out on patrol.
Squaring her shoulders, she strode purposefully up the granite steps. Once inside, she recognized the musty, yet sanitized smell of public buildings everywhere.
Arnold Meyers, the man who’d kept her family insured for decades stood to one side, gripping his briefcase. Somberly, he shook her hand and then escorted her to the high counter, behind which a balding officer in a too-tight collar stood, peering down at them with a singular lack of interest.
Micki cleared her throat. “Someone shot at my car yesterday. My insurance agent needs the report.” She gestured toward Arnold by way of explanation.
“Who was the officer who took your report?”
She bit her lip. “I...don’t know.” She shrugged. “I called a friend when it happened, but he was off duty and phoned for a patrol car. I was too upset to remember the other officer’s names.”
“Who’s your friend, Miss?”
“Oz,” she murmured. “Officer Paul Osmond.”
The sound of a shrill wolf whistle split the air.
“Well, look at who showed up to give us boys a treat? It’s little Micki Vermillion all growed up.”
Micki cringed, recognizing the taunting voice belonging to Oz’ best friend and partner, Vinnie Celaya. She had thought that he and Oz would be on patrol.
“Hey, Vinnie.” Micki turned to look up into his smug face. Vinnie was tall, but not as tall as Oz, well built, but not as buff as Oz and cute, but not gorgeous, like Oz. His auburn hair ha
d been buzzed and he looked like he’d put on some muscle since she’d last seen him.
Vinnie let his gaze stroll impudently down her body. “And might I say you growed up in all the right places.”
A blush crept up her neck as others looked her over. Vinnie’s taunting had less to do with actual admiration and more to do with his protectiveness of Oz.
“Shut up, Vinnie,” a deep masculine voice growled.
Without looking, Micki knew that, once again, Oz was rescuing her. She straightened her shoulders and gave him a long look from under her lashes. Damn! She had hoped to get by without a repeat of the previous days confrontation.
Oz stared at her. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “The report isn’t done yet but here’s the case number. You and Mr. Meyers can check out the car.” Oz looked big and beautiful in his uniform as he solemnly gestured to the back of the building.
He led the way down a hallway that opened to the rear of the station where the police cars were parked and several towed vehicles were held prisoner behind a high chain link fence.
Micki followed Oz to the fence and laced her fingers through the chain link, gazing at her injured car. Her stomach clenched in a tight fist. The hole in the back window gaped open ominously close to the spot her head had occupied when the shot was fired.
Oz punched a numerical code into the electronic lock on the gate and gave access to the fenced area, motioning her to enter as she tried to manipulate her suddenly rubbery legs.
Arnold Meyer photographed the damage to her car and handed her a voucher for a rental car. He instructed her to let him know when her car was released so it could be repaired. Silently, he turned and left them alone in the fenced yard.
She stuck the voucher in her pocket and continued her inspection of the remains of her vehicle.
Oz came to stand behind her. “The shooter was up on something high, aiming down at you.”