by Gina LaManna
“Thanks,” Anthony said to Meg, who stood behind us at the bar and watched with interest.
“That’ll be all,” he said after a beat.
Meg still didn’t leave. “I’m just observing. You two are so sweet. Julio!” she screamed to her co-worker, who was tucked back in a corner with a cute blonde, desperately trying to ignore his boss. “Take notes on these two!”
Julio didn’t respond, and I assumed he was pretending there was another Julio in the joint. Poor Julio.
“Don’t mind me,” Meg said to Anthony. “Carry on, My Cuteness.”
“No offense, but I mind you,” Anthony said. “Will this help?”
My head still rested comfortably against his chest, surrounded by luxurious whiffs of lemon and mint all bundled up in one clean, sexy scent. Thankfully, it more than overpowered my swampy odor. I felt Anthony reach into his pocket, heard the rustle of his black pants as he removed his wallet. Based on the volume and length of Meg’s gasp, the bill he pulled out was not insignificant.
“Keep the change,” he said. “And give us a moment of privacy.”
Meg was gone with the money before she could say thank you.
“You okay, sugar?” Anthony asked. He tipped my face upwards, drawing my eyes away from his firm chest and forcing them to meet his own.
I could only manage a nod; I was exhausted and it looked like a pile of junk had decided to have a party on my clothes. Plus, I hated feeling like I hadn’t accomplished anything, especially when the stakes were so high. Part of the reason I was wallowing at the moment was because I’d gone and wasted an afternoon that I should have spent investigating the warehouse and focusing on saving lives.
“I couldn’t find the stupid sauce,” I said, as a short explanation for all my emotions.
A smile quirked up the corners of Anthony’s lips. “Is that all?”
I shrugged, not really wanting to get into the whole I made a deal with a witch and then got in a firefight with a Grease Ball.
“Yes,” I said, barely holding in a whimper. I was determined not to become dependent on Anthony, no matter how nice he was to me or how capable he was at his job.
I worked in a man’s world, which meant I had to try even harder than everyone else to prove myself, whether right or wrong. Maybe I was being stubborn, or maybe I wanted to feel like I fit in with my Family. Maybe I just wanted to feel like a badass mobsterista – I really wasn’t sure. But I was sure that running to Anthony for help every time something didn’t go according to plan was not the way to show Carlos I could do a good job, particularly since things so very rarely went according to my plans, as Anthony had so kindly pointed out.
“Really,” Anthony said, his eyes twinkling. “You make a bad liar.”
“I’m not lying,” I said. But I didn’t even convince myself.
“I happen to know you’re lying for a fact,” he said. It was hard to get offended because as he spoke, he slipped one hand up to brush my cheek, cupping the side of my face and lacing his fingers through my hair.
“Oh,” I murmured. What I meant to ask was how do you know? My mind, however, let me down and forgot to say the right words.
“I don’t call flying down the freeway without a helmet being careful,” Anthony said. “Passing up all sorts of cop cars on the way.”
I frowned. “We didn’t get pulled over. Plus, I had a helmet with me. It just wasn’t on my head.”
“Any idea why you didn’t get pulled over by one of the fourteen cops you passed between Stillwater and Uptown?” His smirk was telling, and I squinted with suspicion.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I have some friends on the force, and I put in a request for a few license plates so every time they scan one of the vehicles on the list, they call me first before pulling anyone over. Let me tell you, my phone was ringing off the hook. I knew the second you squealed into Shotz’s parking lot.”
I crossed my arms, but didn’t pull away. “You put Meg’s bike plates on that list?”
Anthony nodded.
“What about my car?” I asked. “Er – cars. Plural.”
Anthony gave a short laugh. “You’re hard to keep up with. I have to make up excuses to my cop friends for why you change cars so often. I’ve tried telling the truth, but they don’t believe it.”
“So you waved all the cruisers off?” I asked.
Anthony shrugged. “I kindly suggested that they keep an eye out for you and that if you were flying away from Stillwater, you probably had a reason. And I mentioned that it might not be worth the effort of trying to stop you. Between your stubbornness and Meg’s, uh, personality, you two make a formidable team for any cop.”
I smiled. “I take that as a compliment.”
“Next time, take my advice to be careful or I’ll let them give you a ticket,” he said.
“Let them try,” I said with a wink, my spirits already lifting. There was something about Anthony – something beyond the rough, muscular exterior that calmed me to the core. Simply being in his presence raised my happiness level a few notches. All of the little disappointments of the day began to fade away until I forgot them completely, small little blips on the radar that didn’t matter in the overall picture.
I stepped back, afraid I’d say something I really regretted. Like thank you or I super-duper like you.
Anthony, too, seemed to pull back a bit, as if we both realized the conversation had moved from our historical playful chatter into something that felt a little bit too real. We’d done some kissing, hugging, and talking about where this relationship could potentially go, but neither of us was quite ready to put words into action. It was a kinda good thing, since there’d be ramifications to us getting together. After all, dating Anthony would be complicated. He worked for the Family, I worked for the Family – office romances could be tricky.
“Uh, what’s next?” I asked for lack of something better to say.
Anthony reached over my shoulder and I thought he was coming in for a smooch. My heart sped right up, and then slowed right back down when I realized he was just retrieving the two cocktails from the counter. He handed one to me, and I smiled as we clinked glasses and drank deeply. This was more like it. Back to normal.
The crisp bubbles with a hint of vodka slid down my throat with a refreshing bite. Without thinking, I chomped on an ice cube, a nervous habit I’d picked up at some point in my life. Maybe when I was a kid sitting on the counter at TANGO late at night, the bartenders refilling my Shirley Temple over and over again.
When we were both finished with our drinks, except for the rattle of ice cubes against glass, Anthony cleared his throat. “About the warehouse…”
Happy to be back on a safe subject, I pretended not to notice that talking about mob business was a safer subject than discussing feelings. “Did you find the warehouse where the fireworks are being shipped?”
“We’re about ninety percent sure,” Anthony said. “There’s going to be a stakeout tonight and some of my men will enter if the opportunity arises.”
“What about me?” I asked. “I want to help.”
“There’s not much for you to do,” Anthony said. “I’ll be there to watch over the operation, but I doubt I’ll even be going inside.”
“Then let me come with you,” I said, giving him a nudge with my elbow. “Think of it this way – it’ll actually make things easier on you. You’ll be able to keep me physically by your side, and that means that you won’t have to worry about me and Meg taking off and gallivanting around the Cities for special sauces or rogue fireworks on our own.”
Plus it was my birthday tomorrow, and I needed every distraction I could get. Turning thirty was something I didn’t want to think about yet. It also wouldn’t hurt to spend midnight with Anthony, even if he didn’t remember or even know it was my birthday.
Anthony’s eyes looked past me as if he was considering it.
“Please?” I asked. “I didn’t accomplish a thing toda
y, and I wasted a bunch of time and I want to help. The deadline is in less than two days, and I am no further along than when I started.”
Anthony shook his head. “That’s not true. You happened to find out Dave’s stand wasn’t where you thought it was. Process of elimination – maybe the next shot will be the right one. Your time wasn’t wasted, sugar.”
“It sure feels like it,” I grumped.
“And hanging out with me tonight would make you feel better?” he asked, leaning in so tightly that his lips brushed my forehead.
I nodded.
“Then so be it,” he said, pressing a kiss firmly to my forehead. “I’ll see you tonight – I’ll pick you up at ten.”
Anthony turned and left, taking quick steps across the bar as the rest of the patrons scurried to pretend they hadn’t been following the exchange closely.
Meg appeared from behind the bar, where I was fairly sure she’d been hunkering down and spying. She was as bad as the rest of them! What did a girl have to do to get some privacy?
“That was adorable,” Meg squealed.
I worked on getting my breathing under control.
“Wait – wasn’t he your ride?” she asked, collecting the discarded drink glasses.
“Oh, crap,” I said. “Yes, yes he was.”
“You better run after him,” she said.
I considered it. “I have three hours before the stakeout. I could just wait here and tell him to pick me up at Shotz.”
Meg eyed me up and down. “Girl, I don’t have half the products you need to make yourself look presentable. I’m guessing if you and Anthony are gonna be fooling around in a car all evening, you’re gonna wanna get the infestation of rats out of your hair and wash away some of that natural scent you got going on. And lord almighty, use some eye cream. You’re almost thirty, chickadee.”
I touched my eyes in a sudden panic. “Oh no! I can’t believe Anthony saw me like this. I’m old! I’m getting ancient.”
“Relax,” Meg said. “It’s nothing a shower can’t fix. At least that’s what I’ve been saying most of my life, and look how good I look.”
She struck a pose that looked like a cute, fuzzy bear had crashed the cover shoot for Vogue and demanded an eight-page spread.
“Right,” I said. “Can you drive me home?”
“Not until this guy stops macking on blondie,” Meg said, gesturing towards Julio. “Why don’t you call your cousin?”
I dialed Clay’s number. “Hey, favorite cousin of mine…”
** **
“Did you find the sauce?” Clay asked once he’d retrieved me in his creep van.
I’d initially felt a little embarrassed getting into the thing in a public place. Then I realized I wasn’t exactly a prize myself at the moment.
“No,” I said shortly, buckling the seatbelt. “You gave us directions to an abandoned high school hangout.”
Clay’s cheeks reddened.
“I’m sorry to say, I think your information was wrong,” I said. “Where did you get the idea the sauce was in Stillwater, anyway?”
“My information is not wrong,” Clay said. “You must have just gone to the wrong place.”
I slowly turned my head towards him, fires dancing behind my irises. “I don’t think so. We scoured that strip up and down for hours.”
“You must have missed it,” Clay said with a shrug. “Maybe you should go back tomorrow.”
I thought steam might come out of my ears. “Listen, I know you’re a computer whiz, and it’s great that you can break into the President’s Facebook account and post cute puppy pictures. But that doesn’t mean you’re right all the time. Stop being so stubborn.”
“I’m not being stubborn,” Clay said. “I’m being right.”
I kind of wanted to punch him, but I didn’t for two reasons. One, he was my cousin. We all had faults, and a little stubbornness ran in the Family. But the second reason was most important: he was driving. I wanted to make sure we got home alive, so I could punch him once we parked.
“Clay,” I said, “I’m trying very hard to keep my voice from screaming at you. Meg and I had a, um, a very difficult day today. If there was any chance Dave was out in Stillwater selling his sauce, we would have found him.”
Clay’s lips tightened. “What’s your next plan, then?”
“You don’t have any other thoughts on where I might be able to find him?” I asked. “Would a viral post really be that hard to pull up online? Maybe the food critic knows. What was his name?”
“I don’t remember,” he muttered.
I unlocked my phone and pulled up Google. “Well, it shouldn’t be that hard to figure out.”
“One would think,” Clay muttered.
I typed in Dave’s Special Sauce Minneapolis Food Critic and clicked search. An article popped up at the top. The site was incredibly minimal with just a few lines written on it and an over-sized picture of a sauce jar.
I read to Clay loudly. “Dave’s Special Sauce: The finest grilling sauce on the market in beautiful Stillwater, Minnesota. A secret, hidden gem. Visit today.”
“Well-written,” Clay said.
I snorted. “I don’t buy it. I’ve never seen a scammier website in my life! If this is a real food critic, he would’ve written about the taste. Don’t they have like, ten methods of taste or something?”
“Maybe someone put it up in place of Dave’s website, since he refused to create one himself.” Clay shifted as he turned onto our street. “I mean, I don’t really know.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I asked. “I feel like this is some big joke. How can finding sauce be so challenging?”
“All I know is Carlos makes someone do it every year. I don’t know why it’s so difficult or where it’s located. Carlos has never graced me with the assignment,” he said, a bit of a sour expression taking over his face as he guided his creep van into the parking space with the green paint on the curb. “Consider yourself lucky.”
“Sorry,” I said, reaching over and patting him on the shoulder. “I didn’t know this was a sore spot. Let’s do this one together. You’re as much a part of this Family as I am, if not more.”
Clay gave a tight smile.
“I’m going to give this critic a call,” I said. While Clay had been talking, I’d cross-referenced the writer of the article and found that Martim Short was indeed a food critic. His number was listed at the bottom of his website, “Tasting the Twins.”
My cousin glanced over and made an uncomfortable noise in his throat.
“I know,” I agreed. “You’d think he could come up with a better name. Twin Cities, at least.”
“Right,” Clay murmured. “Definitely. Are you sure you want to bother him? With a reputation as esteemed as his, the guy probably keeps pretty busy, you know, Tasting the Twins. He might not have time to talk.”
“The worst he can say is no,” I said, already dialing. “Martim?” I asked, holding up a finger to stop Clay’s next sentence as the food critic picked up the phone. “Hi, you don’t know me, but I’m calling regarding one of your reviews.”
I waited a minute as a man with a heavy European accent spoke on and on about something that might be called tiramisu, but sounded more like “teary zoo,” and I suddenly understood the mistranslated name to his site. When he wound down from his speech, I gave Clay a confident smile.
“Thanks for that lovely explanation,” I said. “I was actually wondering more about the grilling sauce you apparently rocketed to fame. Dave’s Special Sauce?”
“I know not of what you speak,” the man said. “Sauce? I know of fish and the chocolates and teary zoo—”
“It’s from Stillwater,” I suggested. “Little stand on the side of the road? I found a post you wrote about it online.”
Clay opened the car door and paced around the vehicle once, as if looking the outside up and down for scratch marks. Though from experience, I knew it would be easier for him to find a non-s
cratched section of the van’s body.
“A post? Which post?” Martim asked, a bit of irritation creeping into his voice. “I didn’t write post. I no do grilling sauces.”
“Are you sure?” I pressed. “I’m looking at it right now.”
“Stop wasting my time. I do not know Dave and I do not know grilling. I am fine dining food critic, not some garbage from side of road.”
“Do you know who—” I opened the car door and put the phone in my pocket. “He hung up on me.”
“Rude,” Clay said, shutting the door and coming around to my side.
We walked into our droopy apartment complex together – the droopiness not even on my mind, as I wondered why there was so much mystery around a stupid grilling sauce. “What do you think?”
Clay let us into apartment number 7. “I think you have worked plenty hard on this, and if you can’t find a grilling sauce after this much time and effort, you should show up to Carlos’s with a bottle of ketchup.”
“But—”
“I know he gave you an assignment,” Clay said. “But which do you really think you should be focusing on? The sauce or the fireworks?”
“How do you know about the fireworks?” I asked, suddenly remembering that the last time I saw Clay he’d been too busy entertaining Horatio for me to tell him about my other assignment.
“Anthony,” he muttered. “It’s my business to know things.”
“You’re right,” I sighed. “I’m meeting Anthony tonight to stake out the warehouse. He thinks his men have found the place where the fireworks are being funneled.”
“Good,” Clay said. “It’ll take your mind off the sauce. Don’t you agree? Isn’t going with Anthony the better choice?”
“Yes,” I sighed, agreeing for more reasons than one. “This whole thing is just bothering me. My Spidey Senses are telling me something is not quite right.”
Clay shrugged. “See what happens tonight. Who knows? Maybe you’ll solve the mystery of the fireworks tonight and have time to go back to Stillwater tomorrow.”
“True,” I said, heading towards my room. As an afterthought, I paused. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
