by Lois Greiman
"And?"
"You asking if I shot him, too?" he asked.
I gave him a half shrug, too tired to give him the full version. "I wish I could say I'd resent it if you had."
He snorted. "I had conferences on last Tuesday. Saw and was seen by about a hundred fifty clueless parents. After that Jamel and I spent the night at Grandma's. Even the minivan cop didn't dare doubt her word."
“I never doubted you either," I said. Maybe it was odd that that was the truth.
"Well you should have," he said. His expression was placid but his eyes were a little eerie. "Because if that son of a bitch touches a hair on my boy’s head, I’ll cut off his balls with a hacksaw.”
This was the Micky I had rarely seen. The Micky that simmered quietly beneath the surface of the Micky who taught elementary school and played Scrabble with his son.
“Is Lavonn still with him?” I asked. Back before Laney had been kidnapped by Andrews, Lavonn had been Andrews’s live-in girlfriend.
“Swear to God I will,” he said quietly. “Fuck the—”
“Micky!” I said, voice sharpening without my consent.
He scowled at me. Generally Micky looks pleasant and witty. This wasn’t generally, but I didn’t back down.
“I need to talk to Lavonn. Maybe she can shed some light on things.”
He drew a deep breath and studied me. “I’m not exactly on her speed dial,” he said.
“But you must know where she is.”
“Last time I saw her, she tried to shoot me, remember?”
I did. It had been the same night he had shot Andrews. In fact, she had used the same gun. If I had it to do over again, which I sincerely hoped I would not, I would have tried to keep the damn thing out of her possession. But maybe that's just me.
He wrinkled his brow. “Tell me what happened.”
“Listen, Micky, I know you have troubles of your own. I don’t want to add to—”
“Tell me.”
So I gave him the shortened short version.
He looked sober and angry when I was done. “You think this has something to do with Lavonn?”
I shrugged. “I checked into her house.”
“The big-ass one in Glendale?”
“Yeah.” The one where Micky had shot her boyfriend. The one where I’d shown up, peeing-in-my-pants scared and trying to talk Micky out of putting a bullet in his own ear. “Someone else lives there now.”
He exhaled carefully. “It was in Andrews’s name. She lost it when he went to prison.”
I nodded.
He watched me. “Lost her shiny car and buckets of bling, too.”
I waited, breath held. Micky was not a stupid man.
“You think she might be blaming you,” he guessed.
“I just wanted to make sure…” I cleared my throat, trying to be strong. I felt about as powerful as a petunia. “She hasn’t given you any trouble?”
“She called me a couple months ago. Said I didn’t deserve to have her sister’s baby. Said she loved Jamel, wanted him back. Said just because I was well-educated and sexy as hell didn’t mean I was a better parent than her.”
“She said that?”
His eyes crinkled a little, but the rest of his face remained sober. “I may have improvised a little.”
I didn’t bother agreeing with her assessment regarding his looks. Handsome men are rarely surprised to learn of their appeal. “And?”
He stared at his beer as if it had lost its taste. “Nothing since.”
“And you’re not worried?”
He leaned back against the padded booth cushion. “The woman’s got her hands full with her own kids. And I hear there’s a new brother in her life.” He scowled. “Didn’t take her long to find someone after Andrews got put away.”
Goose flesh crawled across my arms. “A brother?”
His eyes narrowed a little more. “You said you didn’t get a description.”
“I don’t know what—”
“So you just assume the guy in the car wash was black.” There was sudden anger in his voice, sudden aggression in the bunched muscles of his bare arms as he leaned toward me.
My heart rate skittered up a little. But I forced my extremities to remain relaxed. Hell, I’d fixed my hair and worn my popsicle sheath. Now was not the time to panic. “Do I look like the enemy to you, Micky?”
His nostrils flared as he inhaled. I held his gaze like a cobra, afraid to look away.
“Shit,” he said finally, and pushed his beer toward the middle of the table. “Every time I think I can relax a little, you wind me back up.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. I half stood, ready to scoot out from behind the table. “You don’t owe me anything.”
He grabbed my arm, making me reconsider the panic idea. Now might be the perfect time. “Fuck that,” he said.
Our eyes met. Mine felt a little leaky.
“Sit down,” he ordered.
I remained where I was.
“Please,” he added, and jerked a nod toward our fellow patrons.
The couple next to us was staring as if we were on stage. For a moment I thought Micky might confront them, but he released my arm and grinned instead.
I sat back down and tried to force myself to relax. The process was about as effective as thinking away your acne. We stared across the table at each other.
“Where do you think I’d be if it wasn’t for you?” he asked.
“You’re a smart guy, Micky. You’d be—”
“Dead,” he said. “Dead or in jail. And the boy…” He swallowed. “My son.” There were tears in his eyes. “He’s a pain in the ass.” He glanced toward the front door and pursed his lips. “But I’d give my soul for him.”
“I know,” I said.
“And you…” He shook his head. “What was it? About midnight when I called you?”
I shrugged.
“Said I’d shot someone.”
“You said he was dead,” I remembered. He had been wrong. Jackson Andrews had still been very much alive. Why the hell was he still so alive? I was beginning to believe that the news regarding the deadliness of firearms was no more than hype.
“So what do you do?” he asked and chuckled at the memories. “You march in there like some damn…” He made a face. If he started crying, that was it for me. There was something about seeing a bad-ass brother break down that was a little disconcerting. He cleared his throat. “What do you want me to do?”
“You don’t owe me,” I said again, and I meant it. Micky had done me a few favors in the past.
“Fuck that, too.” He drew a deep breath through his nostrils. “I’ll find Lavonn for you.”
“I don’t want you to get in any kind of—”
“I’ll find her,” he said, and we ordered our meals.
By the time I left, I was full to the gills and so focused on our past conversation that I forgot to look in the backseat of my car.
Micky didn’t though. He stared through the little back window, then glanced around the parking lot. “What? You think shit only happens in car washes?” he asked, and taking my keys, opened the driver’s door. After that, he glanced around inside.
“Looks like I’m good,” I said. He turned toward me. We were standing pretty close.
“Yeah, you are,” he agreed, and took a step closer. “You still have a thing for that cop?”
“We broke up.”
“Yeah?”
I swallowed. We were way close now. He slipped a hand around my waist. My mind did a nosedive for my ovaries. He leaned toward me, and suddenly I felt the chemistry like a hot wire to my gooey parts, but there was something I was forgetting. Something…
His lips met mine.
“I have a boyfriend!” I rasped.
He paused, eyes glowing in the dim parking lot. “A new one?”
“Yeah.” I practically breathed the word into his mouth.
“Damn, you’re quick. What’s his n
ame?” I could feel his breath on my cheek.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. “Shit,” I said.
One corner of his lips cranked up, revealing an incredibly white smile. “That his last name or his given name?”
I shook my head once. “I knew that one when I got here.”
His smile twisted up a little higher. He pushed a few stray hairs behind my ear. “In all those months of therapy, I never once saw you flustered, Doc.”
“You never kissed me.”
“This Shit fellow…,” he said, and crowded me a little between the door and the car seat. “You and him serious?”
I licked my lips. “Isn’t it obvious?”
He chuckled, then moved closer still.
I scrunched back half an inch.
We watched each other. He nodded. “Sometime,” he said, “when you’re no longer obsessed with Mr. Shit and no one’s trying to kill you, you give me a call, okay?”
“Like that’s ever going to happen,” I breathed. Then he was gone, melting into the night like a chocolate-flavored shadow.
Chapter 19
If I could train Francois to change a tire, I’d never date again.
—Chrissy McMullen, waxing philosophical on the shortcomings of men and the wonders of 'personal appliances'
Marc!
My boyfriend’s name popped into my head as soon as Micky was out of sight and my hormones had simmered down to a soft boil. I muttered it out loud like a mantra as I drove, then on a spurt of guilt or something like it, dialed his number.
His voice mail picked up on the third ring.
“Thank you for calling Dr. Marcus Jefferson Carlton’s cellular phone. I’m sorry I’m not available right now. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911.”
I considered doing just that, but wasn’t sure exactly what I would say. Yes, my ovaries are on fire. What can you do for me?
Dammit. I snapped my phone shut and dropped it onto my lap, where it nestled cozily between my legs.
“Shit,” I said, then giggled a little. “Mr. Shit,” I corrected. But I knew in my questionable soul that he wasn’t the one who had made me back away from Micky Goldenstone.
Jack Rivera’s eyes burned in my memory. I swore again and gunned it for home. But even though I was exhausted, I didn’t sleep well that night.
Dreams of rogue car washes haunted me. At 8 A.M. I decided to get out of bed. It was too early for a Saturday morning, but I didn’t need any more of those dreams. So I went for a run. Which is almost as bad as a nightmare.
Three miles later I was feeling fit, and angry about being so. I showered, did a cursory cleaning of my little house and tried to figure out who had made this last attempt on my life…if that's what it was. And why? I was a nice person. Well, I was a relatively nice person. So maybe that simply meant that I associated with the wrong sector of society.
Maybe the ridiculously numerous attempts on my life didn’t have anything to do with me at all. I mean, when Elaine was kidnapped it had nothing to do with her. It was my fault. Which probably meant that she associated with the wrong kind of people. Namely me. Therefore, it stood to reason that my association with Rivera had probably caused the problem. After all, the Backseat Bastard, as I had dubbed him in an attempt to make light of the situation, had called me McMullen, which was the name Rivera usually used.
I made a few phone calls, did seven circuits around my tiny living space, then gave up checked Men's Central website. Visiting hours were over at three.
If I hurried, I could still get in a few minutes with Rivera. Luckily, it didn’t matter how I looked. I was only going there to see if he could shed some light on my current predicament.
After pulling on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt androgynous enough to suit anyone in the homo sapiens species, I stared at myself in the mirror and grimaced. The color of the shirt, I decided, highlighted my fading bruises, and I certainly didn’t want to draw attention to my recent attack. It wasn’t as if I was looking for sympathy or hoping to have some proof of Rivera’s continuing feelings for me. It didn’t matter if he still cared for me or not. I just wanted information.
So after digging through my closet for a hue that would somehow magically hide my battle wounds, I changed my jeans three times, my shirt twice, and somehow ended up in a pink-and-white sundress that boasted a flowery halter top. I bottomed it off with strappy high-heeled sandals and dangled a pair of flashy earrings from my lobes. Screw conservative. If I showed enough cleavage, Rivera was unlikely to notice the discoloration on my cheek. And that was all I wanted.
I reached the station at 2:32. Only twenty-eight minutes remaining and I still hadn’t been frisked or promised security my firstborn.
By the time I walked into the visiting area, Rivera was already seated on the far side of the glass. His expression didn’t change as he skimmed me from sandal to sundress. But there was something feral in his eyes that made my pituitary gland fire up. Something that sizzled along my twittering nerve endings and blazed into my viscera.
“How are you doing?” My hand was steady on the receiver that connected our worlds. I kept my voice casual, as if men torched me with their eyes every day of my life.
His gaze slipped down the open neck of my dress. “You looking to seduce somebody, McMullen?”
I cleared my throat. “My T-shirts were all in the wash.”
The right corner of his mouth twitched a little, and though he didn’t turn his eyes away for a second, he nodded to the left, indicating the other men on his side of the glass. “There are a couple dozen guys here who’d like to thank your washing machine.”
I actually felt myself blush. Holy crap. I mean, it’s not as if I’d never been flirted with before. It’s just that flirting doesn’t usually make my endocrine system throb like a horny bass drum. I cleared my throat and worried the telephone cord with my free hand.
“Are you doing okay?” I asked and struggled for the über practical tone I had learned in shrink school.
“I was until you got here. It’s hard enough to sleep without your damn legs showing up in my dreams.”
“Oh.” I blushed again, like a pimply faced teenager. All that was missing was the tuba from my high school years. But I searched for my professional demeanor and charged on. “As I said, I was out of clean shirts.”
He didn’t argue. In fact, he almost smiled. “And that little dress just needed an outing?”
I shrugged one bare shoulder. “It’s hot.”
“God bless global warming.
"So what’s wrong?” he asked.
I began to shake my head, then realized it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to defuse whatever situation might be brewing in his mind. Add a little small talk. Maybe reduce the tension. “Laney’s pregnant.”
“Really.” For a moment, honest happiness shone in his eyes. “That’s nice.”
“What are you talking about?” My horrified expression wasn’t entirely fake. “Do you know who the father is?”
“I’m going to have to assume it’s her husband.”
“That’s right, Solberg,” I said. “The ickiest guy on the face of the earth.”
He almost smiled. The sight made my heart feel strangely warm. “He’s not so bad.”
“What are you talking about? He tried to proposition me.”
One eyebrow rose a fraction of a millimeter. “Recently?”
“Well, no. It was before he even knew Laney existed in his universe. But it’s still disgusting.”
He shrugged, letting his gaze skim me again. “The man’s not a complete idiot.”
His eyes were about to burn right through my solar plexus. I managed not to squirm, but it was physically impossible to hold his gaze. “Listen, I just came by to ask you a few questions about—”
“No.”
I glanced up. His tone was still dark and deep, but the flirty edge was gone, replaced by that hard-ass implacability that had made my teeth grind from the first day we’d me
t.
I drew a deep breath, watched him with what I hoped was casual affability and changed my verbal attack. “—the cactus you gave me,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes and sat absolutely still.
I refused to look away. “Should I fertilize it or do you think it’ll be okay fighting its own battles?”
He remained silent for a moment longer, then shook his head slowly, gaze never leaving mine. “Stay out of this,” he said.
My hackles were beginning to rise like a damn Rhodesian Ridgeback’s, but I put on my patient face and capped it with a raised eyebrow of surprise. “Why are you getting all wound up? I’m just asking about fertilizer.”
“No,” he said, voice just above a rumble. “You’re asking for trouble.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking—”
“Listen,” he said, and leaned forward suddenly. I was almost tempted to tilt backward even though there was glass between us. “Things are shitty enough without having to spend every waking second worrying about—” He stopped abruptly, gaze glued to my throat. I froze. Swear to God, I could feel the blood pulsing through the very spot at which he stared. “What happened to your neck?” His body had gone rock still again, his eyes dark and steady and as angry as hell.
I didn’t know if I should play stupid or play dead. It took me a minute to decide I was better at stupid, and although I wanted desperately to cover the bruise with my hand, I kept my fingers tightly tangled in my skirt. “What are you talking about?”
“Damn it, McMullen.” The words were a low growl, barely audible in the quiet room. But his eyes shouted volumes. “Don’t fuck with me.”
“I’m not. I just don’t—”
“Was it Carlton?”
“What?”
“Your fucking boyfriend!” The words were an animalistic snarl from between clenched teeth. “Carlton. Was it him?”
I blinked in honest-to-God surprise. “Marcus? I thought you didn’t even believe I had a—”
“Was it fucking him?”
“Rivera,” the guard warned quietly from behind.