by Janey Mack
“How can you say that?”
Hank paused, searching for the perfect words to crush the remaining flicker of life out of me. “There are things I do that I can’t tell you. And there are things I do that I won’t tell you.” He took my hand in his. “And while you might think you’re fine with that”—he laced his fingers through mine, locked his pale eyes with mine—“I don’t know how you could be. I couldn’t.”
“I trust you.”
“Said the little lamb to the wolf.” He stared down at our hands, mouth quirked in a bitter smile. “You’re with me and I tell you stay out of the garage, so you just do, Pandora? No questions asked? Or how about I tell you I’m going to be gone for a week and you don’t hear from me for five?”
“Wow. That many girls couldn’t cut it, huh?”
His chin came up, but his voice stayed even. Implacable. “I’m sure your brothers will vet someone more appropriate.”
Oh, so now I get an arranged marriage by torture committee? “They’ve given Lee Sharpe the nod,” I lied. “You know—the Bullitt? Huh.” I leaned back in my stool. “So, he’s the one for me, yeah?”
Hank’s jaw turned to iron. “I’m not going to spar with you, Gumdrop. Not after what you’ve been through.”
Talk about a kill shot.
I thought I was cried out, but my eyes misted up anyway.
We spent the rest of the night tersely eating pizza, sharing Häagen-Dazs Vanilla Swiss Almond straight from the container and watching Key Largo on TCM.
Afterward, Hank walked me to the guest bedroom, bent and kissed my cheek. “Knowing I’m the wrong guy doesn’t make it any easier.”
Chapter 34
Hank’s Law Number Twelve: Improvise, adapt, and overcome.
Maisie’s Law of Final Desperation: Resistance is futile.
Unfortunately, I was not properly armed with a black silk Natori negligee. There’s only one reason for packing uncomfortable sleepwear, and it sure as hell wasn’t for the Good Day USA defamation tour. Instead, I was dwarfed in one of Hank’s black Army tees, hem ending just above my knees.
It took me an hour to scrounge up the nerve.
What the hell? If I’m going to crash and burn, I may as well do it kamikaze-style and take him down with me.
I got out of bed and padded all the way down the hall to Hank’s room. Tiny Indiglo lights lit the way like an airport runway. His door was open. “Hank?”
“Stop,” he said.
I froze.
Oh God, I’m officially beyond stupid.
Next stop, Humiliation City.
I stood in the doorway, trying to recall the carefully crafted yet inane excuse as to why I was out of bed and needed to wake him up.
“I’m outta good guy, Maisie,” he said in a husky growl that sent a shoal of shivers up my spine.
What?
Hank sat up and turned on the light. Bare-chested, hair rumpled, he hadn’t been sleeping, either. “You come in here, you won’t be leaving.”
My breath escaped in a half-sob, half-laugh.
“Well?”
With a giggle of pure joy, I ran and jumped onto the bed. Scrambled up next to him and sat down, knees together, hands folded, staring straight ahead, blank-faced.
I waited a good five seconds, then glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.
He tackled me. “Jesus, you’re a pill,” he said, nuzzling his scruffy face into my neck until I couldn’t breathe for laughing.
“But I’m cute.”
He loomed over me. “No,” he said, eyes darkening. “You’re a knockout.”
Ooooh.
He taunted me with feathery kisses across my lips and eyes and cheeks, until I couldn’t bear it any longer. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him down to me, mouths melding together.
His hand trailed up my thigh, fingers tracing lines of seduction across my panties. A funny little clicking noise came from the back of my throat.
Hank smiled against my mouth and slid a hand underneath my hips while the other snaked up the nape of my neck. He eased me upright against the pillows, kissing me with a sort of lazy intensity, like we had all the time in the world, while I felt like razor wire being wound too tight. I splayed my fingers across his chest and pushed.
He rocked back on his heels, the look he gave me white-hot.
With a brazen assuredness I didn’t wholly feel, I crossed my arms in front of me and slowly pulled the T-shirt up and over my head.
“Oh fuck,” he rasped. “Fuck.”
Not exactly what I was expecting.
He was not staring at my taut and tape-hickied rack, but instead at the enormous black bruise migrating across my belly.
“Hank.”
“Aw, Christ.” He dragged a hand through his hair.
“Hank,” I said sharply. “I’m fine. Turn off the light.”
He considered for a moment, then reached back and snicked off the light.
Oh yeah.
Watery early morning light sifted between the curtains. Hank lay on his stomach, facing me.
Absolute perfection.
I watched him breathe for a while, his back rising and falling. Except for the scars, especially a really horrible one next to his scapula, his body was a flawless P90X commercial.
Jeez. What time is it?
I tugged the Army T-shirt off the nightstand clock. 5:05 a.m.
No rest for the wicked, infirm, and occupationally challenged.
I slid off the bed and crept toward the door on cat-quiet feet.
“Where are you going?” Hank said, right as I hit the doorway.
I wheeled around. He lay unmoving, just as I’d left him. “I gotta shower,” I said. “Get to work.”
“You don’t have to do that anymore, Slim.”
“Yeah, I do. For a while, anyway.” I tucked my hair behind my ears. “You gonna let me borrow the Super Bee or the G-Wagen?”
He rolled over onto his back. “I’ll drive you. On one condition.”
“Oh?”
“Shower with me.”
So that’s your evil plan. “Like hell,” I said and ran laughing down the hall to the guest bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, we were drinking sugar-free Amps on the way into downtown, the Super Bee traveling at speeds the muscle car was meant for.
He stopped in front of the Interceptor lot. “Call me when you’re done. I’ll be here in twenty.”
I nodded, blush prickled my cheeks. Shy? Now?
Seriously, WTH?
I reached for the door handle.
“Hold up, hoss.” Hank got out of the car and came around to open my door. I got out. He closed the door and jerked me to him, his mouth on mine, hot and hard, backing me up against the Super Bee, his hands sliding up underneath my shirt. He lifted his head. “Don’t be late.”
Jaysus. Weak-kneed and mush-minded, I walked to the sidewalk and watched him drive away, a gooby smile plastered across my face.
Time to get serious.
Chen was protecting the carts from behind the Tribune in the guardhouse. I stepped over the spikes and under the gate.
He slid open the window as I passed. “Where’s your fancy uniform?” He leered.
“Niecy here yet?”
“In the cart.” He put his hands together, bowing and laying out his best mock-pigeon English. “Oh! You big star now, McGrane.” He pretended to vomit and laughed uproariously. “Big star!”
Cute.
Chapter 35
I jogged up the asphalt parking lot, past Interceptor 13248. Niecy’s orange hair was mashed out into a frizzy halo as she rested her head against the passenger-side window.
I entered the back door of the building and paused in the back hallway.
What the heck?
High-octane Spanish rattled back and forth in a mini La Raza rally.
Niecy and I weren’t the only early worms today. Crap. I skirted the break room and slipped into the locker room.
Jeez.
Sanchez and her lieutenants have way too much time on their hands.
My locker looked like a ProActiv before ad. A couple hundred Dramamine tablets had been taped—no, scratch that—Gorilla Glue’d to the door. The five empty boxes were adhered above the locker, in case I didn’t get the joke.
Quite an effort from a bunch of no-loads. Best hustle up.
A bunch of tablets disintegrated as I cycled the combination. I unsnapped the lock, dusting a few more, reached for the handle, and stopped.
With that much effort put into the outside of the locker . . .
I took a step to the side and slowly opened the door.
Nothing.
I peeked around the edge of the door. No Santería ripped-off rooster head hung dripping blood onto my clothes.
Whew.
I stripped off my jeans and T-shirt and yanked my uniform out, the clean pale blue shirt dragging through the Dramamine dust.
Groovy. If Niecy starts feeling a little green around the gills, she can always lick my sleeve.
I put on the black poly-blend PEA cargo pants and filled the pockets from my purse. Each click of the second hand was a drip of ice water down my neck. I locked the locker, turning another strip of tablets to sand and turned to leave.
Holy cat.
The single empty wall of the locker room was her pièce de ré-sistance. An über-enlarged photocopied mosaic mural. Me. Puking. A grainy screen-capture off YouTube, punctuated by a dozen cropped-in boob shots from my Good Day USA uniform appearance with nipples drawn in for extra artistic goodness.
For a split second, I considered ripping them down, but there was no time for a public bust and razz before Niecy and I started poaching. I poked my head out of the locker room. Sanchez’s cadre of PEAs milled around the front door, anticipating my arrival.
The only avenues of escape: the break room or a fire-alarm armed exit.
I started across the empty break room and stopped at a single uninspired round of applause from behind me. “Nuestro propio pequeño gringa vomitar.”
I didn’t know what all of that meant, but the vomitar came in loud and clear. I turned around and blinked.
Cripes, that’s one heck of a lot of makeup to be wearing in the morning. Sanchez tipped back in her chair and kicked her work boots up onto the table. “You think you some kind of movie star or somethin’ now?”
“No. I don’t, actually.” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder toward the locker room. “Thanks for the hero’s welcome, though.”
Her nostrils flared. “Stay the fuck off me and ma chavas’ routes.”
“A girl’s gotta do . . .” I said.
“The mayate’s not here to save you, puta.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I turned and started toward the door.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught something fly past and hit the wall with a thwock. A switchblade. Mid-blade deep in the center of the Employee Notices corkboard.
A menacing crackling sounded behind me. I spun.
Niecy held her Taser at the ready. A blue electrical arc danced between the electrodes. Her face twisted with scorn. “You’re not really as stupid as you look, are you, Sanchez?”
“Como chingas.” Her waxy, over-lipsticked lips cracked as she bared her teeth. “You find out soon enough.”
I walked over to the board and jerked out her knife. “Yeah?” I closed the switchblade and tossed it into the garbage. “We’ll be waiting.”
Niecy and I walked out, her rounded shoulders shaking, wheezing with laughter by the time we hit the doors.
“Thanks for that,” I said.
“Fudge nuggets,” Niecy said. “You didn’t need me.” But she walked a little taller, just the same.
We climbed into the Interceptor. She flipped on the radio only to catch the tail end of Leticia’s voice and then Michael Medved’s as he cut to commercial. Niecy snapped the radio off. “Danged if that gal ain’t leaving the TEB to become a radio starlet.”
“Why’d you turn it off?” I said.
“Jeebus. Don’t you know anything? It’s 5:58. Won’t be back to Leticia until after commercials, local news, more commercials and traffic update. 6:06.”
Maybe if Leticia became a radio personality Niecy could be her producer.
I headed over to the dead zone known as our route to get it over with before we started hijacking tickets from Marie Tufford. At 6:04, Obi Olson radioed to inform me that I had a nine o’clock meeting with Sterling Black.
Crap.
Sunny, the blond showgirl, led me into Dhu West’s black-and-gold conference room.
“Maisie McGrane.” Sterling got up, came around the desk, and shook my hand. “You were right. You are no public speaker.”
“Uh . . . thanks?”
He gestured toward a chair. I took it.
“Your brother’s a slippery one. Almost got it away from us with Leticia. Almost.” He flashed his over-white caps. “Did you know Coles is polling even better than before the incident?”
America. The promised land of unjust reward for the infamous.
I shook my head.
“I knew he would,” he said.
“That’s . . . great?” You son of a bitch.
Sterling rolled a pen back and forth across the table. “So, Daddy didn’t want his baby girl to be a cop, eh?”
Only a McGrane can mess with a McGrane. I smiled sweetly. “No, that was my decision.”
“The video footage says otherwise,” he said, his posture relaxed but eyes intense.
I shrugged. “It wasn’t the job for me.”
“Well then, you, Maisie baby, are in luck.” He raised his hands, thumbs to fingertips, Mafia style. “Dhu West wants you to be the face of the Traffic Enforcement Bureau.”
“Why not Leticia?”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t ask that.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “The Saudis want to downplay the idea they’re foreigners taking over the city from within.”
“Isn’t that exactly what they’ve done with the Traffic Bureau?”
“What ‘is’ is irrelevant. Perception is reality, baby.”
I’m pretty sure I hate you.
“And what better way to help lose the negative stereotype of misogynistic, Jew-hating, towel-head terrorists than with a sweet piece of all-American apple pie?” He pointed at me with both index fingers. “We’re talking a newer, happier campaign. Mostly print ads and a billboard or two. A line or two on video. Rehearsed. With as many takes as you need to get it right.”
My left eyelid began to tic.
“First photo shoot’s tomorrow. You and the mayor hanging together on the streets of the Windy City.”
“I’m pretty sure my contract was up at the end of the Good Day USA interview.”
“Check the fine print. You are the chosen representative of the TEB’s uniform contest, and you will fulfill your contractual obligations.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Maisie baby, Dhu West has the will and the way to make your life a living hell. They live for this feuding insult shit.”
“Is that a threat?”
“I wish it was. See you tomorrow.”
I drove all the way to our route, unable to lay off a single boot. Niecy didn’t seem to notice, twirling the radio dial to pick up Leticia, now on the Hugh Hewitt Show.
“Don’t get me wrong. I love me my Star magazine, but you can’t be atrophyin’ on the couch at home, waiting for the good Lord to make you not stupid.” She chuckled. “I took that free Hillsdale Constitution 101 class you always burblin’ about. Best thing I ever did.” She clapped. “C’mon now. Aks me somethin’. I’m ready.”
Charismatic, genuine, self-deprecating. If Leticia kept on the way she was going, she might never come back.
Chapter 36
Looking like the ultimate tough guy in jeans, a white tee, and motorcycle boots, Hank leaned against the Super Bee, waiting. He opened the door for me as I
got close. “You look like hell, Hot Stuff.”
Gee, thanks, honey.
I collapsed into the car, and he closed the door behind me. I was still wearing my standard-issue PEA; I hadn’t seen the point in changing into the clothes in my bag while slathered in the confrontation monkey grease left over from Sterling’s meeting.
Hank got in and turned on the car. “How was your day?”
“Wretched.”
“Don’t hold back.” He gave a sardonic smile and pulled away from the curb.
I smacked my palm against my forehead.
“Forget something?” Hank asked.
Yeah. My entire upbringing. July McGrane’s Rules of Engagement Number Eight: No one falls in love with Complainey McBitchypants.
“No. I just need a couple minutes to hit even keel.”
He hit the video screen and said, “Siren mix.”
Julie London’s smoky lilt began “Cry Me a River.” I put my head against the headrest and closed my eyes, unable to keep the curve from my lips. Nothing makes a girl feel more empowered than a torch song of heartache on the precipice of a new romance. Not me, you think. Not this time.
I snuck a glance at Hank. Perfectly still, he had both hands on the wheel, arms relaxed but there was something . . . an unease . . . pulsing between us.
He blew by the exit to my house without a mention, just changed his grip on the wheel.
And instead of delight, panic fizzed in my chest like a packet of Pop Rocks in a bottle of Coca-Cola. Too much, too soon.
July McGrane’s Rules of Engagement Number Nine: Never sleep over. Ever. If you like him enough to sleep with him, you should like him enough to want to do it more than once, so get up and go home. And, as she so often elucidated, “You’re not a child at a slumber party, and God willing, no child of mine will grow up to be an adult who attends sex parties.”
He pulled into the garage and shut off the car. “You okay?”
Frazzle frazzle frazzle. I am a human dry-cleaning bag. Smothering you with instant move-in neediness.
“Sure.” Extreme mental duress ought to cut me a little slack. I can fix this.
I followed him into the house, gearing up into full salvage mode. The cell in his back pocket went off. He stopped and turned to me. “Excuse me.”