by A. J. Lape
When our gazes connected in the sewer, I realized it was a guy—he was emotionally distraught, screaming toward the open manhole to call 911 to a male shadow who accompanied him. I grabbed my head with both hands because his words came at a rapid-fire pace like a machine gun. Dropping to my knees, I curled into a ball and closed my eyes. Yup, I was dead. Off to the Sweet By and By. No one wanted to die in the sewer in front of The Double-B, but it looked like the method of my demise as I met my Maker.
I heard, “Niña, niña! Rise!” Oh God, it was Claudia…or Satan must be Spanish. Claudia had been schooled at some weird school in Puerto Rico for spiritualists.
Her supposed claim to fame? Raising things from the dead.
I opened one eye and trained it on her voice. She’d bent herself and one boob in the hole, training another super-powered flashlight on me. The guy in the manhole with me squatted down, and my other eye went to his body like a magnet. Taller than average, he had coppery-colored hair, a square-cut jaw, and intensely focused silver eyes. He wore a brown leather bomber jacket zipped to his chest with a white button-down shirt…starched, just like his khaki pants. Immediately, I knew he was one of those boys who left tongues hanging and drool dripping, girls falling in a heap at his feet. My eyes took the slow boat to China as they slid up to the manhole. The guy huddled next to Claudia held an outstretched hand for us to grab.
I could do without more metaphysical mumbo-jumbo in my life—I had enough of that with Dylan—but I found myself memorizing the lines of Silver-Eyed Boy’s face. Like they’d magically been made indelible in my brain. His hair fell in long layers, his bangs lying slightly past his brows. As he shoved them off to the side, I caught another glimpse of silver. This was one of those times you felt like you had your television—or in this case, your ears—on mute. I couldn’t hear anything above my own heartbeat. He squatted down to see if I was breathing. But my eyes were open…weren’t they?
His lips moved.
I opened my mouth, but my voice went bye-bye. I’m not sure where. It just packed up and made me look like a moron. I fought to catch my breath before trying to sit up, but when the world swam in crushing waves, I lay back down.
“Easy there, angel,” he murmured softly. “I’m so sorry I hit you.”
Angel. No one had ever called me “angel” in my short, trouble-filled life. My answer came slowly…then I realized it didn’t come at all. After a few more wordless seconds, “Shoot” finally came out of my mouth while a whole lot of expletives rattled around in my brain.
No shiz, I sounded like an idiot.
The frigid air blew so brutally that the breath coming from his mouth was a visible, white air. I sucked in a big gulp, trying to catch it as if my life depended on it. Did I have bad breath? I’d had five hotdogs, for God’s sake. I probably smelled like a gas station vending machine.
Gently pushing my hair off my face, his smile quirked up cockily at one corner. “And who, pray tell, are you?” he asked.
His voice robbed me of speech. He had a slight British accent that rang smoothly, pouring out like a steady, warm stream of sanctuary. My heart did a cartwheel, and it felt like a herd of wild horses bucked uncontrollably under my sternum. I wanted to kiss him. Sweet Lord Almighty, I wanted to kiss the guy who nearly killed me with his car. Maybe I was depressed about the holiday season. Maybe I was depressed about my best friend and his probable date. Maybe I was depressed I’d never had a boyfriend, and sweet sixteen had come and waved its depressing butt goodbye. Or maybe I had a major case of the stupids going on because this was the second “car accident” I’d had, and I longed to kiss the guy who did it.
Before an answer came, he took my right hand and placed it in the outstretched palm of the other guy hanging through the manhole. I grabbed ahold, and in a one-handed strength, he pulled me up to where I promptly sprawled out ungracefully on my arse. My yoga pants hung below my hips. I felt cold air on my butt cheeks. The blood drained from my face as I quickly yanked them up, telling myself not a doggone person saw a thing. This brought up a huge philosophical debate. If you’re not humble in life, then life will thrust humility on you. Been there, done that, even had the t-shirt. Falling on your arse after you’d been hit by a car and fell into a manhole was humbling.
I’d had my fill.
Next thing I knew, Silver-Eyed Boy squatted next to me and slid my matted hair off of my face again. Before I could say a word, the door to the bookstore blasted wide with Mr. Belinski walking fast. I wouldn’t actually classify it as running—a turtle ran faster than Mr. B—but he motored nonetheless.
“What the pork!” he screamed, acting like a badass mofo. Then he abruptly stopped, staring in dumbfounded fear, as he slowly registered what’d happened. Once Mr. B saw Claudia’s sweating brow, he bellowed like a walrus during mating season. But his violent outburst—and believe me, it was violent—only amped her up more. She began praying double time. So fervently that one of her boobs fell out.
But wait…it gets better.
It didn’t just fall out; it bounced up and down like she jumped on a trampoline. You see, Claudia sometimes fell out of her clothes. People did that when they refused to admit they needed a larger size. Not only did she need a dress two sizes bigger, but a bra that’d house the hooters of a hippo. I coughed and pointed, but Silver-Eyed Boy didn’t even notice. Mr. B, however, thought he’d hit the mother lode.
Whatever. Who cares. The woman tried her best to grab my soul out of Death’s hands.
“Oh, God, let me help you up,” Silver-Eyed Boy gasped, like he’d totally forgotten his manners. My trembling hand reached forward, but as soon as our skin touched, he stumbled backward as if he’d been branded with a hot iron. I fell back onto my rear end, again with a thud.
Gee, how romantic…
The other guy sprang to my side, barking, “Dude!”
First impression? Total opposite of Silver-Eyed Boy. This guy’s torso seemed thicker, older, but with curly, black hair, and a hoodie sweatshirt. Where Silver-Eyed Boy had a playboy look about him, this male seemed more sensitive and quiet.
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Silver-Eyed Boy wanted to bolt. What was the look he gave me? It was a grave look of concern punctuated with something else. The cocky smile fizzled out in a snap—as though he felt he’d done something wrong—or better yet, wronged someone else.
He stepped back even further, running into the bumper of his own car. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I just felt something I don’t understand.”
I’ll tell you what I felt…a whole lot of mother-trucking embarrassment.
A rush of emotion took me by storm, and before I collected my thoughts, I blinked back a rush of tears. Oh, my. I hated to cry, and public crying was even worse. I’d done the public thing a few times during school, and it never ended well. Girls either helped you hide, or they gossiped and made it worse. Guys tried to remain oblivious. It was easier to ignore what you didn’t understand.
He glided forward like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. I fixated on his burgundy penny loafers, noticing they’d been scuffed around the edges. Thing was, they had dimes in them. Even if he needed to make a call from a payphone, he couldn’t, not with twenty cents.
Private school pedigreed.
I should sue…
He bent down on one knee with a brutal groan. “Oh, please. Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying,” I whispered.
“You’re crying,” the other guy sighed.
My hands fisted into his jacket as he pulled me up. My legs edged closer and closer. I didn’t mean to…he didn’t mean to…but somehow our bodies molded together like Velcro. Wow, he felt strong…lanky, but fit and strong. My brain had already registered I found him attractive, but here it went and did it again. In fact, my brain said he felt pretty dang incredible.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, reason told me to try and get my dignity back, but I figured that possibility had long gone.
He whispered into my hair, “You’re going to be okay.” He then paused, murmuring, “I promise.”
Only if you’re with me, I begged in my brain. My guess was I’d be a prime candidate for a head transplant if it were ever AMA approved. Mark my words, I’d be embarrassed tomorrow, but it was like some sort of fatal attraction.
I mean, shouldn’t we talk this over? Get the finger pointing out of the way and come to a conclusion exactly who was in error? My eyes bounced over to his car. The headlights shined on us, capturing the shadow of sleet flying through the blowing wind. The temperature had dropped significantly. When sleet happened in Cincinnati, it usually meant the bigger flakes were on their way, but then again, it could be part of a weird weather pattern that’d decided to hang. Cincinnati’s weather was one big tease. My eyes trailed to the hood to see the make of the car, a brand new Audi A4 in metallic beige…spotless. No Darcy-dents anywhere.
I laughed, not able to escape the irony. Most girls my age were holed up with their girlfriends, confessing if their boyfriends had made it to first or second base (whatever that was). But noooooooo. Not me. I’d gotten hit by a futher-mudging Audi.
I slowly worked my eyes up to his, stuttering out, “I’m s-ssorry.”
I said a few more unintelligible sentences. I was pretty sure of it because they all looked at me like I had two heads. Silver-Eyed Boy smiled and wrapped his arms around me, rubbing my back like you’d comfort a child who had a bad dream. I wanted to tell him he felt like a succulent baby lamb. But my pride leaked like a sieve as it was. I might as well keep my mouth shut and not release it like a broken dam.
He, Claudia, and Mr. Belinski ooh’d and aah’d over red scratches on my right hand. There weren’t many, but they made me flex my fingers countless times to see if they still worked. Then he squatted down to check my legs. My black yoga pants had shredded at the left knee. After I performed a few deep knee-bends, Mr. B palmed his greasy hand over the back of my head. This guy pulled his cell phone from his back pocket, saying something again about 911. I wish I understood what they said, but all I heard was “blah, blah, blah…pain.” When he kept pushing the issue and Mr. B chimed in, it’s like Claudia got hit in the head by a two-by-four. She quickly switched back to English and emphatically stated the cops weren’t necessary. Whenever you mentioned any sort of official vehicle, Claudia, I think, had visions of being deported and singing Viva Puerto Rico. Murphy explained over and over that Puerto Ricans are US citizens, but sometimes her behavior didn’t add up. Inspiration hit me to sing School House Rock’s “The Preamble.” God only knew why because that actually was kind of stupid. When my audience deduced that was only possible with a functioning brain, that in itself kept me from the whole lights and sirens gig.
The evening hadn’t ended as under the radar as I would’ve liked. Wouldn’t you know Levi Schomberg saw the whole deal from his dry-cleaning shop across the street? Right when I made it to Claudia’s GMC conversion van, Valley’s fire truck showed up. Granted, I fell in a stinking manhole, but who in the heck needed a fire truck? The city of Valley must’ve been low on action, so the EMT vehicle accompanying them shoved me on a gurney and took my vital signs: blood pressure, pulse, check for dilated eyes, and more Good Samaritan overkill. Since I’d had a tetanus shot during my car wreck four months ago, thankfully their final assessment was to go to the ER if I developed any unusual drowsiness.
The policemen on the scene—who automatically follow an issued 911—concluded it was my fault. Of course it was. My body was hidden behind a pillar, putting my shoe on, when I stepped out in front of a moving vehicle. Major moron behavior. Rookie didn’t take the accident well via telephone, especially when a partially coherent Claudia attempted to explain the particulars. When I informed the officers who my uncle was, they finally stepped up and got scarily formal, describing the scene down to the diameter of the manhole and shape of the snowflakes.
One found my iPhone.
Complete with a fractured screen.
Cue the tears.
Trouble was, once it was all over, Claudia and Mr. B both had epic meltdowns, talking about the fragility of life and how’d I’d been given a second chance to make a difference in the world. My word, all I had was a few abrasions, and they wanted me to be the next go-to missionary. I’m sure God would veto the nomination. I looked at the brothers who’d hit me (yes, they were related) and mouthed a desperate, “Help me.” They both choked back laughter, but other than that, there was no time for conversation. The only formality was the exchanging of names and telephone numbers. True to my unpredictable self, I gave them fake digits. I didn’t know if that was genius or mistake. I was probably nothing more than an afterthought anyway because chances were I’d never see them again. They introduced themselves as the Ryan brothers…the “out of town” Ryan brothers. Silver-Eyed Boy named, something. Brown-Eyed Boy named, something else. For the life of me, their names lay on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t spit out the sounds.
They never said why they were “in town,” so to say, but I got a feeling their presence was business-related. Cincinnati is the land of the transplant citizen. General Electric, Procter and Gamble, Macy’s, and Kroger are a few companies whose home offices are based here. So if you had a parent trying to move up the corporate ladder, chances are you’d eventually do a stint in the Ohio Valley.
Silver-Eyed Boy inked his number on my palm, but I’d loofah’d it away once I stepped inside the shower. I felt like the little girl at the fair denied the pony ride. You see something that represents fun and excitement, and then someone makes you go home early. I liked him; maybe it was part delusion—or perhaps desperation.
I slipped out of bed in the pitch black, my path illuminated by the moonlight of the home’s many skylights. It glowed with a wonderful spooky factor, and fortunate for me, I didn’t spook easily.
I pulled the lapels together on my white, fluffy robe and walked like I tiptoed over broken glass into Rookie’s office. Rookie trusted too easily, or perhaps he thought things were safe in his own home. Normally they would be, but I was on the premises which threw a whole new variable in the mix he probably wasn’t prepared for.
He had one of those miniature refrigerators built into the bookcases, covered in the same mahogany wood. I flipped open the little door and cracked open a can of Coke, settling down to business. I had insomnia, plus a thunderclap headache with Silver-Eyed Boy’s name all the heck over it. Caffeine was my wonder drug. It could relax my mind or arm me with a power pack. Right now, I needed both.
I took a burning swig and slumped into the burgundy leather chair behind the desk. Rookie lived in Indian Hill which was big bucks in the real estate market. His house—which used to be the one he shared with my mother’s twin—was überluxurious, but Rookie was common. He hailed from South Dakota and practically grew up in a barn. Rookie himself was meticulous, though—well groomed, nothing ever out of place, even the knick-knacks on their shelves. But his desk looked like a twister had touched down. Piles of folders, unopened letters, and a magazine for an upscale New York boutique (my aunt’s mail) littered the top.
His relationship with my aunt was stagnant of late, but they still seemed awful coupley to me. They’d been married and divorced four times—this last time for a year—wherein she briefly worked with a PI firm in the interim. Somehow Rookie wooed her back into his office, and they successfully worked together.
But he pined away…and that killed me.
I tapped the mouse on his laptop, activating the screensaver. When I received a few rays of light, I held up a personalized letter, but the paper was so thick nothing could be deciphered. I flipped through a few files and sifted through photographs of what my gut told me were local riffraff. I knew more than the average teen
ager about criminals by eavesdropping on conversations. In my limited knowledge, local riffraff never saw much time if the offense was minor. Sometimes the Prosecutor’s office used them to reel in bigger fish.
Rookie’s BlackBerry lay charging by the printer. It rang with an unfamiliar number, and at two something in the morning, no doubt it was important. Number one, I could ignore it; or number two, I could answer and pass myself off as someone Rookie was working with on an all-nighter. Guess which one my nosy little self picked? I wasn’t a freshman at this sort of offense—I’d answered texts on Dylan’s grandfather’s phone last summer, passing myself off as an LA detective. Thing was, I watched a video of a man whose head fell off during the impersonation. I’m not sure I’d ever top that.
“Hello,” I answered quickly.
“It’s about time, darlin’. It’s Tito Westbrook. How’s my favorite redhead?”
Oh. My. Good. God. Tito Westbrook was the go-to crime reporter for The Cincinnati Enquirer. I’d followed his work since I could read Green Eggs and Ham. Apparently, he thought I was my aunt, Tabitha Arthur. I didn’t know he and Red (her nickname) were close enough to be in the darlin’ phase, but their paths obviously crossed more often than not. I quickly decided to leave him on speakerphone, hoping the long-distance sound of too much air would throw him off.
I pulled on my sleepy voice. “I’m good. Tired but good. What do you need?”