My tee shirt mingled with the dampness of his bare skin and clung to my chest. I peeled it off, no boundaries between us. He cupped my ass and hoisted me off the ground, setting me down on the ledge of the sink. With one hand, he unsnapped my jeans and pulled them down over my hips, letting them fall to the floor.
I could feel the strength in his arms as he parted my knees and wedged himself between my legs. I was under no illusions about the act that followed. I was merely a vessel for him to deposit his rage.
Afterwards, he held me close, my head resting on his chest. “Lo siento,” he whispered into my hair. “I’m sorry.”
I pulled out of his embrace, forcing him to look at me. “Do not be sorry, Nick. You don’t have one damn thing to be sorry about. I’m not.”
What happened was not about sex or love or even redemption. It was about trust. Unconditional and unyielding.
Wordlessly, he lifted me up and carried me to his bed.
The room was bathed in the soft glow of street lamps from the park across the way. Nick put me down on the bed and slid in next to me, turning over on his side to “spoon” me. He brushed his lips against my neck, sending chills down my spine and radiating frontward.
I wasn’t quite sure where this was going, seeing as he’d just scored a home run, which brought me to a whole new set of worries about the dangers of unprotected sex and how stupid could I be, even with the “swept away by the heat of the moment” excuse factored in. But it was more altruistic in nature than for my own benefit, so that should count for something, right?
Nick tightened his arms around me. “Just so you know, Angel, this was a ‘first’ for me. I always use a condom and I get tested regularly. Still, it was a selfish thing to do and I’m sorry.”
I did a quick calculation of my monthly cycle and decided to put my concerns on hold for a while. No use crying over spilt milk, so to speak.
“Um, you don’t have to worry about me, either, Nick. I almost always use protection too (for the four times I’ve had sex in the past decade).
“Look,” I added, rolling onto my back. I sat up, taking the covers with me. “There’s something I want to say and I’m just going to say it before I lose my nerve. I know you’ve got that ‘man of mystery’ thing going on, and I’m not trying to screw with your M.O. But you’re my friend and you’re in trouble, and I may not be able to physically take down the bad guys, but I can listen. You need to tell me, Nick. You need to let me help you.”
He was quiet for what seemed like a lifetime, but that’s probably because I don’t do well with waiting. Then he rolled onto his back, too, and I leaned my head against his chest, feeling the gentle vibrations of his voice as he began to speak.
“My mother met my father when she was17 years old. One day she was waiting tables at her parents’ diner, just outside of New Orleans, when in he walked. My father was a very handsome man, 15 years her senior. He was born and raised in Bogotá, Columbia and had just arrived in the states. He struck up a conversation with her.
“My mother was beautiful and smart and infinitely kind. She was fluent in three languages, a straight A student and could have done anything she set her sites on. But she didn’t have a lot of life experience and she fell for the wrong man.
“He abused her for as long as I can remember. And then one day—my birthday—it was all over.”
A chill ripped through me as he continued in the same even tone, as if reciting something long rehearsed but never verbalized.
“He was drunk and he became enraged when he found out she’d taken her pay check and bought a bike for me instead of giving the money to him. He cut her with a broken whisky bottle, severing a main artery. When I tried to help her, he went after me. Then he left us both for dead and disappeared off the face of the earth. My neighbor found me bleeding to death in my front yard and called an ambulance. I made it, my mother didn’t.
“My grandparents had both died a few years earlier and I had no other relatives, so I became a ward of the state. For the next couple of years I was shuttled back and forth between foster homes and Juvi Hall.
“When I was 14 I ran away from a particularly sadistic situation and landed in New York City. That’s where I met Sal. He was stealing a car and I asked him if he needed help. I had a knack for hot wiring.”
“Father Sal? Really?” I blurted out.
Nick laughed softly, remembering. “Even back then he had a conscience. He brought the car back the next day with $3.62 pinned to the windshield for ‘gas money’ along with a note of apology.
“Sal’s family took me in and saved my life. I lived with them off and on for two years. Sal was going through some rough times himself and found salvation in the Catholic Church.”
“And you?” I asked.
Nick shrugged. “The only thought in my mind was to find my father and put a bullet in his head.”
I lifted my chin and my eyes sought his in the dark. “Um, just out of curiosity, you didn’t find him, did you?”
His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “As a matter of fact I did.”
Oh shit! This wasn’t going anywhere near as well as I’d hoped.
“Nick, are you saying—”
“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re asking.” He hesitated, his breathing labored, as if the very words were a weight on his heart. “You need to know something, Angel. I would have killed him if I’d had the opportunity.”
“What stopped you?”
“Someone beat me to it. After the attack on my mother and me he fled to South America—that’s where he’d been living all these years—in a little village just north of Bogata. He was working for a small time drug lord.
“A couple of weeks ago I finally tracked him down—at least I thought I had. So I flew to Bogotá, with the sole intention of killing the man.
“I found his house and knocked on the door but he wasn’t there. A neighbor told me he’d been busted on drug charges and was sitting in a local jail awaiting trial, so I headed over there to find him. If I had to post bail for the fucking bastard for the privilege of blowing his brains out, it would have been my pleasure.”
“Nick, you said someone beat you to it. What did you mean by that?”
“When I got to the jailhouse I was informed my father had gotten into a fight with another inmate and the guy shanked him. Slit his throat for a pack of cigarettes. By the time the guards discovered him, he’d been dead for two days. I suppose I should be grateful that I didn’t have to get my hands dirty, but all I really felt was—robbed.”
“Man! I so get that!”
Unhhh! Why did I say that? For God’s sake, the man just bared his tortured soul to me and how do I respond? Like I’d just discovered we both like chunky peanut butter!
“God, Nick. I’m sorry. What I meant was—”
“It’s alright, darlin’. I know what you meant. I’m glad you’re here,” he added, his voice growing faint.
“For as long as you want me,” I said, but he didn’t hear me. He had fallen asleep.
As soon as I knew Nick was down for the count, I crept out of bed and retrieved my underwear and tee shirt from the bathroom floor. My shirt was still damp but I slipped it over my head anyway and then I sat down on the toilet seat and cried my eyes out.
Adrian trotted into the bathroom, jumped up and licked my face. I believe he knows when I’m sad and it’s his way of consoling me. John says he’s just after the salt from my tears. John is such a cynic.
“We have to find a way to help Nick,” I told Adrian, scratching him behind his ears. “He needs us, whether he knows it or not.”
Adrian sat down and cocked his head, looking very confused. He was probably wondering if I was using the Royal “we” or if he was actually expected to do something.
I stood up and splashed some cold water on my face, brushed my teeth with my finger and ran a comb through my hair. That was about as glamorous as I was going to get, which was just as well since Nick was out
cold. After that I followed Adrian into Nick’s office where Rocky was camped out for the night.
The office doubled as a spare bedroom with a couch that opened up into a queen sized sleeper. It was open and unmade, the sheets rolled into a ball at the bottom of the bed. I flipped on the light and found Rocky curled up on top of the covers, fast asleep.
Hmmm, Nick must’ve had some company. Maybe Alphonso had to flea bomb his apartment and needed a place to crash… or one of Nick’s old army buddies was in town for the weekend… that is, assuming Nick was ever in the army, which is doubtful since he’s not much of a joiner… well, whatever, I’m sure there’s a totally plausible, non-threatening explanation there somewhere.
I picked up one of the pillows and breathed deeply and caught the unmistakable scent of Chanel No. 5. Crap.
Nick’s clothes lay in a tangled heap on the floor next to the bed, killing any illusion that the owner of the Chanel had bunked there alone. I bent to pick up his shirt and something small and shiny rolled off the sleeve and under the couch frame. Crawling on my hands and knees, I felt around until I found what turned out to be the other half of the pair of diamond earrings Crystal had discovered in the bathroom. Whoever lost them was out about $1500 bucks. I drop kicked the earring back under the bed and went to sleep on the living room couch.
*****
“Good morning, darlin’.”
I opened one eye and grunted a small, tight hello. I had only just fallen asleep, having spent the previous four hours tossing and turning, unable to shake the urge to wake Nick out of his drunken stupor and smack him upside the head for being too stupid to love me back.
He was fully dressed in a pair of old jeans and a loose black tee shirt, showered and shaved and, by the look of the revolver wedged into his shoulder holster, ready to tackle a new day. He didn’t seem inclined to bring up the subject of his dad, and for once I kept my mouth shut.
I flopped over onto my back and sat up. “Be right back,” I mumbled and dashed off to the bathroom. I threw on my jeans and my shoes, did another quick sweep of my teeth with some toothpaste and headed back into the living room.
Nick had moved into the kitchen. The smell of freshly ground espresso beans made me forget for a moment that I was mad at him. Well, technically, I was mad at myself. Nick never promised me a thing he didn’t deliver on. I was the one asking him to do the impossible. The thing is I really thought I could handle it. Turns out, I was wrong. Just hours before Nick had poured his heart out to me, and I thought that was something special. But now, his nonchalance reminded me I was just another woman who had spent the night.
I sat down at the counter and Nick placed a steaming cup of espresso in front of me.
“Why did you sleep on the couch last night?” His voice was light but his eye searched out the truth. I decided to be a sport and give it to him.
“I went looking for Rocky in your office and found more than I’d bargained for. FYI, your girlfriend’s other earring is under the bed.”
Ignoring the dig, he said, “You never did tell me why you came over.”
I shrugged. “Not important.”
“It is to me, Angel. Are you in trouble?”
“No more than usual,” I told him, hopping off of the stool. Okay, so I was being a brat. Well, tough. I grabbed my bag off the floor in the living room and turned back to Nick. “I’ve got to get going. Busy day today.”
“You’re sure you’re alright?”
“Absolutely. You?”
“Absolutely.”
“We’re all good, then.”
I yanked open the door, crossed the threshold and shut the door behind me, making for the perfect exit. Except for one thing.
I knocked on the door. Nick pulled it back open.
“I forgot my dog.”
“And?”
I sighed. “And my cat. I’ll… just… be getting them, then,” I said, squeezing past him and heading back into the spare room. I returned a few minutes later, carting the cat carrier, with Adrian trailing behind me.
I got to the elevator, turned around and walked back down the hall again. I stood in front of his apartment for a beat and then I knocked. It didn’t take him any time at all to open the door. Either he likes hanging out in his foyer or he was expecting me.
“I’m sorry I got mad at you. It was dumb.”
Nick stared at me intently, a sad smile crossing his face. “Thank you for being here for me last night. For what it’s worth, I’d trust you with my life.”
“Just not with your love.”
“I wish I had it to give, Angel.”
“But you don’t.”
*****
“It’s going to cost me how much to replace my phone?” I’d been standing in line at the Phone Mart for over an hour waiting my turn to speak to a customer service representative about my options. The sign above the door promised fast, friendly service, but so far, it had been slow and surly, which did nothing to improve my mood.
I’d left Nick’s feeling incredibly frustrated and sad. It felt like we’d taken a giant step forward and then the rug had been pulled out from under me and I landed on my ass. In a vulnerable moment, Nick had finally opened up to me, but in the light of day, it was back to business as usual.
“Toodie, you’ve got to cut me a break here. I don’t have that kind of money.” Last month, Toodie Ventura, my former roommate/plumber, had given up the plumbing business to become a “phone technologist” which, in his words, was “way cooler than sloshing around in someone else’s shit all day.” I suspect the job change had more to do with the fact that he just wasn’t a very good plumber. Still, Toodie is sweet and means really well.
He cast a sideways glance over at his manager and hunkered his tall, skinny body down close to mine. I rose up on tiptoes to hear him.
“I could swipe one for you,” he whispered.
“What? Toodie, no!”
“It wouldn’t be any trouble, Bran. Besides, I really owe ya one.”
A couple of months back I’d helped Toodie out of a jam. The last thing I wanted to do was put him back into one.
“It’s really okay, Brandy. I’m probably going to get fired, anyway. I haven’t sold a single phone since I started working here. Personally,” he said, shaking his head, “I think it’s the inferior quality of the product.”
“Um, Toodie, do you tell all your customers that?”
“I believe honesty’s the best policy. So,” he said, missing the irony, “how about that five finger discount? You can’t beat the price.”
I ended up buying a way more expensive phone with features it would take me a lifetime to figure out how to use.
“You don’t have to do this, Bran.”
“No, really, Toodie, I’ve always wanted a phone that can tell me the temperature on Mars in Celsius.”
On my way out of the store I stopped by the manager’s station. “That sales guy is good!” I said, pointing to Toodie. “From now on I’m coming here for all my cell phone needs.” I knew I was just prolonging the inevitable, but I figured it might buy him another month of employment.
Just as I finished downloading the Rocky theme song as my ring tone, the phone rang.
“This is Stacey Nichols. I’d like to speak to Brandy Alexander, please.”
“This is Brandy.”
“Hi, Brandy. I’m Linda Morrison’s friend. Linda said you wanted to get in touch with me.”
“Stacey. Hi. Thanks for calling. Did Linda happen to mention why I wanted to speak to you?”
“She did. I remember that girl as if it were yesterday. I’d be happy to talk to you.”
“Thank you. Listen, you’re already doing a lot for me just by agreeing to meet, but I have one more favor to ask. I assume the M.E.’s office took pictures of the girl. I’m not asking to satisfy some morbid curiosity, but do you think you could get me a copy? I swear I won’t divulge where it came from.”
Stacey emitted a grim laugh. “Normally I’d sa
y you’re crazy and hang up, but I happen to know a little bit about you. When Linda said you wanted to talk to me I did my research. I’ll see what I can do.”
We met the following morning at a diner on Division Street. Stacey didn’t want to meet at work and I was just as happy, as I hadn’t had much to eat since the cookies at DiCarlo’s, and that seemed like a million years ago.
While I waited for her to arrive, I ordered a BLT minus the bacon because I’m trying to collect some good karma, but then the lettuce grossed me out on account of it was soggy on the ends so that just left me with tomato and bread which wasn’t very satisfying, so I treated myself to a black and white malted.
I liked Stacy the minute I met her. She’s one of those old school, no-nonsense, heart-of-gold sort of people you immediately trust. Plus, she ordered French fries for breakfast which legitimized my sandwich and malt as a perfectly respectable choice.
“That girl still haunts me,” she told me, dipping a fry into a pool of ketchup. “I’ve worked for the coroner’s office for over 20 years, and I’ve seen my share of tragic endings, but the young ones always tear my heart out.”
“Did anyone ever find out who she was? I don’t mean to imply that people weren’t doing their jobs,” I added. “It’s just that my ex-boyfriend is a homicide detective, and I understand the realities of the job. There’s only so much you can do with limited staff and funds.”
“Far as I know, she’s still listed as a Jane Doe,” she said, digging in her pocketbook. “I was hoping you’d have better luck finding out who this kid was.” She took out some photos and held them close to her chest. “They’re not pretty,” she said, handing them over to me.
“I could lose my job if it ever got out I gave you those, but the truth is I never did feel right about that girl and I’m hoping you can make some sense of her death. I’ve always thought there was more to it than an accidental overdose. You ever have one of those gut feelings?”
“All the time,” I told her, staring at the photos. I was having one at that very moment, but not the kind she meant. I told myself it was the malted.
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