The Marker: Book One in the Bridge Series

by Howes, Ann

  He shrugs. “Not much else to look at while I wait.”

  Ah. Wait for what though, or rather whom? The absent, witchy wife?

  Shit. Not thinking about that. So I steer the conversation into safer territory.

  “I know Joey was shot, but can you tell me what happened?”

  “Wasn’t random. Thinking it’s a hit,” he says softly.

  “When?” I ask.

  “Five days ago.”

  Five days. I do the math in my head and clutch the chunk of amber around my neck seeking a connection to him. Damn tears are threatening again, and I blink to chase them away. “I talked to him a couple days before that, and he said he was having issues. Something to do with a business deal.”

  Gianni’s head cocks to the side.

  “What?” Those eyes are suddenly hard as he pins me down.

  “What do you mean, what?”

  “You were seeing each other again?” It’s the way he says it, a little sharp, and if it wasn’t Gianni, I would suspect a hint of jealousy but I shrug that off because it is Gianni

  Sigh.

  “We ran into each other a couple of months ago.” I lift a shoulder, not sure what his deal is. “When I first got back and we sorta stayed in touch.”

  He stills. “Ran into each other?”

  “It’s not impossible.”

  “Hmm.”

  Hmm?

  “Why does that surprise you, Gianni? We were close once.”

  “Doesn’t, I guess,” he says after a long moment, like he couldn’t care less, then checks his watch. A rather handsome affair with a gold face set in platinum that I’m sure cost more than I make in a year’s tips.

  Great.

  I’m being dismissed. What else is new?

  “Um,” I mumble as my stomach plummets thinking this might be the last time I see him again. “Before you go, I’d like my sunglasses back.”

  Now it’s his turn to blink but voices behind him catch his attention and he glances over his shoulder.

  His gaze is pinpointed on a woman standing at the entrance of the church, and something about how his eyes stay on her makes my stomach drop even further.

  “Do you have any idea how much those cost?” She’s not exactly yelling, but loud enough to make heads turn.

  Gianni shuts his eyes then releases a long sigh. She’s gorgeous, of course, with a dark bob and ample cleavage jutting out of a white silky blouse. If I had to guess, I’d go with double Ds.

  “Look at this,” she says, shoving a shoe in the man’s face. He yanks his head back and takes a step away from a broken stiletto heel dangling from a slip of leather. “I need to talk to your boss, right now.”

  “Christ,” Gianni mutters under his breath and drops his head to look at his own shoes.

  “Please keep your voice down.” The man spreads his arms, herding her away from the entrance. “Everyone can hear you,” he parries, preventing her from re-entering like a dog blocking a disobedient sheep. “This is a house of worship. Show some respect. Wait here while I call my boss,” he says, backing her up a little more.

  “Don’t care if the whole damn Bay Area hears me,” the woman says. “Your carpet broke my shoe and you’re paying for it.”

  As if sensing the stairs behind her, she swivels to navigate, and spots me watching her. But as her glare shifts to Gianni, her eyes widen and she slows. Then that glare changes to something that looks like a smile, or perhaps a grimace as she reaches into her designer purse.

  The witchy wife?

  Joy.

  I glance at Gianni’s hands situated low on his hips.

  No ring.

  Girlfriend, maybe?

  “I suppose accidents happen,” the woman continues. “Here’s my card. Have your boss call me, but you do need to deal with that carpet!”

  Catching me still staring, she wrinkles her nose, rips the heel off and shoves it into her purse. Then like a model on a runway, she squares her shoulders, marches on one stiletto heel and one tippy toe in our direction, saunters past me with that fake smile still in place and stops next to him.

  Yep.

  Girlfriend.

  “Hi.” I dig deep and find whatever sunshine is left within my voice, squashing the desire to stick my tongue out at her.

  “Hello,” she responds in a tone that’s a notch above acrimonious before turning on the syrup. “Gianni, honey”—she slips her hand around his forearm—“we really should be going.”

  Without waiting to be introduced she opens the limo door, climbs in and takes a seat opposite Mama Cadora, who’s watching me. I give her a small smile and a shrug. She gives me a small knowing one of her own.

  When I look back at Gianni, he’s looking down at my cleavage. Or rather at the amber heart slightly above. Next to Miss Double D mine must be sadly disappointing.

  It does, however, give me a moment to take in how gorgeous the jerk is—even with a scowl on his face—and imprint him in my brain. All that long, dark, wavy hair brushed back from his face, except for a lock that falls across his forehead. Stupid, but I catch myself fantasizing about twirling it around my finger.

  “Meant what I said,” he says.

  “About what?”

  A hand moves to my face, the back of his fingers so close to my bruise, I feel the heat radiating off them. It’s strangely intimate and I stop breathing, anticipating his touch. But after a moment they drop, leaving a void. Making me realize how much I want him to touch me. How disappointing it is that he didn’t. He clears his throat and moves past me to slide in next to his mother, and not her.

  Interesting.

  Mama Cadora takes his hand and pulls it to her lap. That tugs at my belly and makes me happy they still have each other.

  “Later, De Luca,” he says capturing my eyes before pulling the door closed.

  Later. Not goodbye.

  It comes across as a promise, though I’m not sure it’s meant as one. I release the breath I’m holding as they take their place behind the black hearse carrying Joey’s body, clutching my arms against the biting autumn chill.

  Billy approaches and bumps my shoulder with his. “You all right?”

  “Dandy. Who’s that woman?” I ask him.

  “Gina De Angelo.”

  Gina and Gianni. How fucking cute.

  Barf.

  “Charming couple.”

  Billy snorts. “What was all that about?”

  I shrug. “Dunno. Gianni being Gianni, I guess.” I give him a weak smile and ask, “Are you going to the burial?”

  “Need to be there, loved that little asshole. Catch you later?”

  “Hope so. Now that I found you, you think you’re going to be done with me so soon?”

  Hooking an arm around my neck, he pulls me into his warmth. “I’ll never be done with you, kiddo. We’ve a lot to talk about.”

  Indeed, we do.

  After exchanging phone numbers, he leaves me with a kiss on my head and as I climb into my Mini, my last phone call with Joey comes to mind.

  You sound stressed, what’s going on, Joey?

  Kicking off my shoes and tossing them onto the seat next to me, I slip on the pair of flats I keep in my car. I never got the knack of driving in heels.

  Ah…just a business thing that’s not going so well.

  The heater takes a minute to kick in and while I’m waiting, I scroll through the playlist on my iPhone for a song and select one by Rob Thomas.

  Jesus, Shell, I fucked up.

  With the gear engaged, I pull out of the parking lot singing to “Little Wonders” flowing through the speakers.

  Nobody got me like you did. Gotta tell you something, babe.

  Across the street, the rolling lawn set on a high hill is dotted with gravestones facing the Pacific Ocean. The kind only wealthy people can afford and I’m glad Joey gets that view.

  Tell me now.

  Can’t. Something I gotta do face to face.

  I stop at the light and see, at the t
op of the hill, Gianni stepping out of the parked limo with his hand extended.

  Let’s go to dinner.

  Not a good time, Joey. I’m seeing someone, he gets a little…possessive.

  Know that.

  As Gianni helps his mother out of the car, the color changes from red to green and a car behind me honks when I take too long to move. I push through, second-guessing my decision to go to the burial. Since I’m in the lane that’ll take me to the freeway back to the city, I’m too late and continue on.

  What are you saying? How would you know that?

  My town, remember. Know everything happening here.

  Rob Thomas is done and Train’s next with “Save me, San Francisco.”

  I can relate. Inexplicably, I was drawn back to San Fran. Perhaps for closure, but also for a much-needed change of scenery after yet another bad relationship. Of all the good men in the world, I always seem to pick the beating or the cheating ones. And now, having seen Gianni again, I’m the one who might need saving. The mind might forget, but the heart remembers. And boy, if the way my body reacts to his touch or his breath across my skin is any indication, mine sure remembered.

  I may have been Joey’s girlfriend, but it had always secretly been Gianni.

  And the jerk didn’t even know it.

  As I merge into a lane, the last thing Joey said to me echoes in my brain.

  Shit went down between us, Shelley, but I still love you. That never changed.

  Then why did you dump me, Joey?

  That’s what we gotta talk about.

  Though I didn’t cry during the ceremony, my eyes blur now, which isn’t so great when you’re trying to navigate city traffic and pedestrians during rush hour.

  How did he know I was dating? I never told him. San Francisco’s not that small and in ten years my circle of friends has diminished significantly, so no one I know now knew Joey, or who I was when I lived here.

  Parking is as bad as always, but I find a spot in Pacific Heights, a block away from my building. Since I don’t see any flashy orange cars belonging to an unwelcome, flashy ex-boyfriend, I climb out of mine, pulling my cardigan close against the wind.

  A sliver of the bay, visible in the fading light between the buildings, shows choppy water with little white crests dotting the surface. Today, the constantly changing color is appropriately gray.

  Inside my apartment, with my new industrial deadbolt engaged, I hit the shower and wash the concealer from my face.

  The heat from the water intensifies the throbbing in my eye and since I’m drained, both physically and emotionally, I figure I may as well self-medicate with wine.

  After pouring a glass, I plop on the couch, curl into my throw cushions and turn to a rerun of The Walking Dead. At some point, I fall asleep. Something wakes me but, due to the sounds of gunshots coming from my TV, it doesn’t immediately register that it’s someone pounding on my door.

  “Shelley! Open up.”

  But then it does.

  The unwelcome asshole who damaged me. Dean. My heart thumps like a frightened rabbit and I scramble to my hallway closet, pulling out the softball bat I stashed. The one I bought from a second-hand store in case the door didn’t hold.

  “You’re in there, baby, open the door.”

  “Fuck off, Dean.” I muster as much strength in my voice as I’m able, while I ready 911 on my phone. “Go away or I’m calling the cops.” Only need to press the green button for it to happen.

  “Don’t do that, baby. I brought flowers…swear I just want to talk.”

  “There’s nothing to say. Go away.”

  “Didn’t mean to hurt you. I had too much to drink and you…you make me crazy…can’t stand it when men look at you.”

  “That’s bullshit, Dean. You called me a slut because I smiled at a waiter.”

  The door moves and I hear him sigh on the other side. “I know. Blame the vodka. Had too much while I was waiting for you and I lost my temper.” He actually sounds contrite but I’m not falling for it.

  Blame the vodka? Is he kidding?

  Learned my lesson the hard way and I wonder how the hell I ever found him attractive. The charming dimple in his cheek and that athletic ass aside.

  “Okay, well, I left something in your apartment. Just want to get it, then I’ll go.”

  “You think I'm stupid?”

  “Baby, of course not.”

  “No way I’m opening the door. There’s nothing of yours here.” Sweat trickles down the back of my neck. The moment his hand connected with my eye flashes through my brain and I suck in air through my nose, adjust my grip again, testing the bat’s weight. It feels solid but not too heavy, the grooves I’ve carved in the handle for extra traction dig into my palms.

  “Shelley…let me make it up to you.” That voice, soft and very close, like he’s leaning against the door, makes the hair on my arms stand. “Just give me one more chance. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “It’s over.” Shouldn’t have begun.

  “Don’t say that.” The door shudders as something connects with it. I’m guessing his boot. How hard would it be to kick it open? Sweat beads on my forehead, I wipe it with my sleeve, doing a quick inventory of any other weapons I have. Only my spare set of shears in the bathroom and since I sharpened them recently, they could do plenty of damage if need be.

  “Not giving up on you…need you back.”

  “HEY!” Another loud, deeper voice coming from further down the hallway overrides Dean’s.

  My shoulders sag

  “What’s going on?”

  Thank God. Marshall.

  “None of your fucking business, old man,” Dean answers. “Butt out.”

  “Asshole, it is my business. You don’t live here so you better not be bothering my tenants.”

  My legs flounder and I lean against the wall, using it for support as relief rushes over me like water over a fall.

  “Fuck you, old man.”

  “Get the hell outta my building before I knock you sideways.” Marshall’s voice is commanding and strong, testimony to a long stint in the military. A moment of silence passes and I tense, waiting for Dean’s response.

  “Whatever!” he finally spits out. “We’re not done, Shelley. We will talk at some point and I will be back.”

  “You got thirty seconds before I call the cops.” By his tone, I can hear Marshall’s losing patience. “I suggest you leave now!”

  “Keep your cool, man, wouldn’t want you to stroke yourself out.” Dean taps on my door and says, “I’ll catch you later, baby.”

  While I peek through the peephole until he disappears from my vision, I swallow my revulsion, knowing he will be back. Men like him always come back.

  “He’s gone, Shelley. Open up and talk to me, will you?”

  I scrunch my face for a second before I unlock and open the door a fraction. Marshall stands with his feet apart, bulky arms at his side, one brandishing a tire iron, black eyes wide and irritated.

  No wonder Dean gave in.

  My attempt to smile fails, because my lips don’t quite make it. Maybe if I stand behind the door, he won’t notice my eye. No need to piss him off even more.

  “Jesus, Shelley.”

  Dammit.

  “He do that to you?”

  I nod. Reaction from the adrenaline leaving my system makes my body tremble and teeth chatter, and though I’m sweating, I’m ice cold.

  “You okay? Want me to call someone for you?”

  “No, Marshall.” I shake my head. “I got it.”

  He eyes me like he doesn’t believe me and I don’t blame him. I’m not sure I have got it.

  “Next time, I won’t hesitate. Gonna call the police and have his ass thrown in jail. Not one to get all in your business, but I’m surprised you haven’t already. Smart girl like you.”

  “Understood.” I swallow and bite my lip to stop my teeth from making noise.

  “Sure?” he asks, raising his brows and waiting
for me to acknowledge him. “You know where I am if you need me.”

  “Marshall?” I call as he turns, stopping him mid spin. He looks over his shoulder. “Could you take the flowers? I don’t want to touch them.”

  “Sure thing,” he replies, picking up the vase of long-stemmed red roses Dean left. “Got some booze? Take a slug and try to rest.”

  After turning and checking the deadbolt I collapse into a ball on my couch, clutching a cushion to my stomach.

  Why didn’t I make the 911 call?

  Stupid question really. A lifetime of mistrust pounded into me as a child is why, and I recall what my father once said. Our problems, our solutions.

  Sleep seems impossible, so I refill my glass with wine and nurse my eye with a bag of ice. One thing’s for sure, I’m never letting Dean get the drop on me again. In order to do that, I’m going to need much more than a softball bat and my shears to protect myself.

  Good thing I know exactly who to call.

  3

  Orange Ferraris

  * * *

  Beep…beep…beep.

  Holy fizz pops!

  I sit up with a jerk and launch myself off the couch, adrenaline mainlining through my veins. It takes a second before I realize the ceiling’s veiled with swirling white smoke, pluming from my oven.

  My brownies!

  I forgot to set the timer after I put them in the oven.

  Snatching oven gloves off the counter, I pull the pan out, dump it in the sink and hit the faucet. What promised to be double chocolate fudge, is now a black mess of burnt-to-a-crisp charcoal. As the brownies morph into sludge, the metal pan hisses and pops in protest.

  “Gah!” I yell, as I flip it the double bird with emphasis.

  However, I have more important things to deal with. Like breathing. The smoky air makes me cough and if I don’t open a window soon, I might just die. Wouldn’t that be ironic?

  Since the row of double-hung windows are above my bed, I climb up and open them as wide as possible and suck in a lungful, staring down at the late afternoon traffic.

  No orange Ferraris.

  Yay.

  Beep…beep.

  Heh.

  Even at five seven, using a wooden spatula and standing on my tippy toes, I’m still a tad short and keep missing the reset button.