by Amarie Avant
My eyes bug out from the sight of a friggen badge. I. Do. Not. Screw. Cops. The salmonella is less contagious than Los Angeles finest.
The digital clock on the nightstand reads one forty-one in the afternoon. I cringe while rolling over to look at the man beside me. Evan’s skin is a warm olive, glowing under the sunlight. Oh, and I recall pulling the heck out of that wavy, dark hair at the crack of dawn. Lucky him, it's still perfect in his sleep. Those eyes were a caring brown. If I blink, they flash before me.
I mentally take a note of his features: thick, perfectly arched eyebrows, faint lines of wisdom on his forehead. That fucking mouth. Exactly how long did God take sculpting his distinguished jawline and cheekbones? For half the night, Evan conjured feelings I never knew existed. And I bite my lip wanting to bask in the way he took so much thought into pleasing my body.
But in this moment, I’ve failed the memory of my father. Jesus, it’s time to exit stage left–STAT. I glide out of bed, moving quietly and with a side of sultry if he does happen to wake up to a vision of the full moon.
I consider nabbing his linen shirt just to take one last whiff of his intoxicating cologne. Yet, him catching me in this position might elevate me to creeper status. I step past the no-no suit and grab my yellow dress.
Where are my panties and bra? This place is huge. The night lasted forever, unfortunately for us, forever had to end. I sift through my mind from all the crazy sex positions to a vision of me tossing those suckers. Then my gaze glances toward the living room section of his place, and as naked as I came into this world, I scurry over there for it.
I stop short of breaking a very odd, yet manly statue. An imaginary vice grips at my heart while Evan’s story about his mother sifts through my mind. Something tells me Evan understood that we’re more alike than I’d verbally let on.
He’d told me all about her. As a devout Catholic, he still prays for his mother. I said zilch about my father’s death, and I’d be too afraid of thunder and lightning to pray for Milo Benincassa’s soul. Or is it laughter? Would the clouds open up and Almighty chuckle at my expense?
Don’t look back, I tell myself. He’s everything that I steer clear of.
The popstar Pink rocks out loud and clear; the song is the ringtone for my mother. Now why hadn’t I turned the darn thing on silent last night after Jamie’s call almost bailed me out? This is proof that some people never learn—me included. I fumble getting one foot into the panties, press the away button. My mom needs to learn how to be patient anyways.
I glance back, the detective has stirred but still slumbers peacefully.
I quickly begin to pull the smoke-infused dress over my head. Why do bars always smell like stale cigarettes?
PINK!
I answer. “Yes, Mom?”
“Why are you whispering, and cut that bite from your tone, Reese’s Pieces. I'm married!”
“You're what!” I scream. Who the fuck did she hypnotize? My mother is hot as sin, but she’s missing a few marbles in that brain of hers. And when I mean a few, it’s all niceties on my part because we’re blood related. After my dad’s horrific murder, I visited my mother at the psychiatric ward in Torrance at the age of eleven and a handful or more times so I’ve observed all sorts of craziness. “Mom, you’ve never gotten married in Vegas. You’ve done it many times but not Vegas,” I reprimand her as usual.
“I know,” Lolita simpers. “Hey, don’t mention my marriages in that fashion. Look, I'm going to hang up with you since this idiot cell phone provider won't allow texted photos to transfer while we chat. Soon as you see these gorgeous pictures, call me back!”
Mouth tensed, I glance back. Evan hasn't moved a muscle. So I stalk toward the door without breaking any of his expensive items.
Just as I gently press the front door, my cell phone pings.
God, say it isn’t so. I lean against the door and look at the photos. Low and behold, there's mom. She’s popped up married before. However, in her defense, I’ve gotten a few foreign vacations out of some of her hasty nuptials. A wedding in a small French village, a weekend in Tokyo, one hubby in Brazil I swear had to be dabbling in some sort of illegal activity to afford to have our family attend, no matter how tiny the Dunham family is. But Vegas. Lolita Dunham is too snooty to marry men in Vegas.
Then I notice the ring on her finger. A full body shot of her and an old geezer, yet the damn diamond is almost as flawless as Lolita. Sheesh, I see why she’s holding onto the stiff, the damn ring has to weigh a ton and she needs the support. Lolita's got a new exotic tan, perky boobs and not one wrinkle, and I doubt Lolita will get wrinkles anytime soon. She's pushing sixty but hasn't had a job since my father died.
The man beside her is Italian. I cringe. Learned racism from her. My father was full-blooded Napolitano, he was born and bred in Napoli— Naples, Italy. He was no good per Lolita. So all Italians are no good. Hence, another reason why I sort of attempted to run away from Evan.
Evidently mom has switched up the motto because this Italian man is hubby number... six or seven. I've lost count.
She just got a divorce a few months ago. That's the reason why Flour is behind on everything. Because I'm too chickenshit to tell a grown woman to grow up.
Glaring at the photo, I search for a flaw. I can’t tell if he’s new money or old money in the cream-colored linen suit. It’s snazzy vacation attire. And he’s a hefty size, broad shoulders, stocky build. I gnaw at my bottom lip, realizing I won’t know if hubby-number-so-and-so is a bad guy until I hear his accent.
I glance back at the door. The Suit inside strummed my body like his personal guitar. But my mind has been shaped and molded by a bipolar woman who had frequent bouts of verbal and auditory schizophrenia when I was a child. So I can't do mainstream guys. I can't do cops. Nor Suits.
“Goodbye, Evan,” I murmur, palm planted against the door. Last night my body shattered into a million pieces with just his touch. There were tears in my eyes before sleep snatched me away from him. My eyes close for a second, and I bite my bottom lip.
Evan Zaccaro. I will never forget the name. Maybe I’ll send him an anonymous ‘thank you’ card one day. This was about the oddest one-night stand. But I reluctantly step away from the door. Surely he has no intentions of setting eyes on me again either.
Chapter 5
Evan
Though I had intended to respect her mad dash for the door, I almost laughed as Reese cussed under her breath while crossing the living room a few seconds ago. Then my cell phone vibrated on the floor next to me. It lights up and a photo is on my screen. My pupils expand as my father is standing next to a woman, wearing such a taboo color: white.
It’s not a full-blown wedding dress, but a lace, white blazer and short skirt. She’s a gorgeous face, they all are. But the broad is wearing my mother’s ring. Quiet as can be, I snatch up the phone as the front door silently closes.
There are more photos in the text. The phone number who sent it isn’t familiar, but it’s a local Los Angeles 323-area code. The photos have been sent to a long line of unfamiliar numbers.
I dial my father. Tony starts with a cheerful greeting but I cut in. “You gotta be fucking kidding me?”
“I'm married, Valentino,” says the goof.
I grit my teeth as he calls me by the name I hate. There's no fucking way I'm going to dress in the brand and people call me by it too.
“You're coming home for dinner tomorrow night. We’ll be back from Vegas so you can meet your new ma.”
“I'm thirty-one. Too old for a new ma.” Run through all the pussy you want, put a ring on whomever but none of them has a title as far as I'm concerned. Yeah, that’s exactly what I should advise. But I can’t say that to the old guy. Dad vowed not to marry unless he knew.
He knew damn right, the woman beside him is drop-dead gorgeous. C’mon, Tony, you’re smarter than hot tail.
“Okay, Valentino, I overlooked how sensitive you are. Nobody’s ever gonna take your ma’s place. C
apiche?”
“Me, sensitive?” More like observant. When Tony sets his eyes on a female there's no saving them or him. He’s the world’s most tenacious romantic, saying it took twelve admission tickets–to be exact–and at a museum in New York before my mother gave him the time of day. With dad as a major benefactor of Smithsonian, everyone encouraged mom to take him up on a cup of coffee. Not sure how twelve ‘Hello, we continue to serendipitously cross paths’ became the oaf’s lucky number. Yet Mom caved. Perhaps it was the flowers. Dad went from roses, to lilies, peonies– maybe it was the orchids and not the lucky number twelve.
Now the chatterbox has grown old, lonely even. The broad standing next to him just played her cards right.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night, Tino,” Tony says and we hang up.
I rub a hand over my face, while arising from bed and start for the door. Reese made her awkward getaway just a few minutes ago.
Reese Dunham. What a sweet, savory name. Seeing a woman more than once isn't the norm for me. My job always comes first, and I’m not in the business of breaking hearts. But she just tried to jump ship after the night we shared. I dial up dispatch. Maybe I'll call her tomorrow after meeting Tony’s praying mantis.
As the call connects, dispatch gives a greeting.
“Patel, that you?”
“Aw man,” he sighs. “You’re off the clock, Evan. Whadaya want?”
Fuck, the entire office is probably talking shit about me. “Reese Dunham, look her up for me.”
There’s a constant sound of typing in the background as he asks, “DOB?”
While walking into the bathroom, I consider her age. “Couldn't be more than twenty-five or so. “1990...”
“Wait, despite the gossip regarding last night, you’re one of the most thorough cops I’ve ever crossed paths with. This reeks of breaking policy,” Patel begins to provide the rules and regulations, verbatim. “So why am I looking up Miss. Dunham?”
“Because I said so.”
His tone mellows an octave. “She's sweet.”
“You found her?” I lean against the limestone countertop.
“Yeah, Reese is an unusual name. Unless you like the purple-haired Reese Dunham who was born in the ‘40s. I like ‘em older, wiser too, but trust me, you don’t wanna learn any lessons by the purple-haired Reese.”
“Nope. My Reese doesn't have purple hair.”
He scoffs. “Sounds like she's not your Reese at all if you don't even know something as simple as when to celebrate her birthday. ‘89 baby, by the way.”
Shit. Where did my possessiveness come from? “Give me what you got, Patel.”
“Despite the obvious, cute face, those soft cheeks tell me that she isn’t so innocent in the ass and hips department either.” He gives his analysis, and I have to fucking take it. Or pull out my laptop and look her up myself. Also, Patel thinks he’s funny. He sort of looks like the comedian Ravi Patel, and with the same name, it’s amplified his annoyingness. He continues with, “I’d take Reese home to mom. Evan, you think our Reese’ll convert to Hindu?”
“Priors?” I say through gritted teeth as he goads me.
“Oh...” He says.
“What?” There was this aura of innocence about Reese. But she came into a shoddy bar after a long day of work. I suspected some sort of creative, cutesy job. Then there was the moment she told me she didn’t fuck cops. “What are the charges, Patel?”
“Oh, uh, just a few parking meter tickets around metro area. But I think I know her.”
A thick blade of jealousy stabs through my chest. I didn't peg Reese for a regular bed-hopper. She failed in the walk-of-shame department.
“I’ve visited the Flour Shoppe a few times.”
“Oh, she's a florist?” Owning a business must have been the reason Reese was down on herself last night.
“No. Flour as in that white powder your protégé once mistook for the pure, more expensive, brain altering and highly addictive stuff.” Patel laughs.
I try not to roll my eyes. Hotheaded Gregory has been dubbed my protégé though he was forced upon me for a while when Tyrone had to fly to San Antonio. My partner was gone a month sitting at his grandmother’s deathbed. The captain’s wife requested a job promotion for a family member. I ended up babysitting.
“So she bakes.” That’s why Reese had such undertones of sweetness. “Alright, give me her info.”
After getting Reese’s phone number, I hang up as he offers to take Reese off my hands. I suppose I could have Googled, but nice to know she isn't a rehabilitated ax murderer.
A hot shower, a three-piece-two-button Tom Ford suit, and a bowl of bran cereal have brought me back to life. “Fuck, gotta go have this chat with The Cap’ and Tyrone,” I mumble to myself and grab my keys.
As my car zooms up the ramp from beneath the underground parking structure, I dial her number. “Hello?” Reese’s usual carefree voice is long winded, and breathy through my radio speakers. Along with it is upbeat Spanish music. She's at the gym.
“So, no goodbye?” I say, toggling the stick shift, to ease into the one-way traffic.
“What? Who is this... Oh, Evan.” Reese says. “Just a sec.”
I can hear empowered female voices in the background begin to fade with the music.
The phone makes a rustling noise then she speaks, “Sorry, I'm in the middle of whooping the air's ass. At least, I’m making a feeble attempt. I’m having a very bad, bad day.”
“Then I didn't do my job right.” I bite my fist for a second, edging into traffic on the freeway onramp.
She's quiet for a second. For the first time in my life, I'm second-guessing my competency in the sex department. Last night she screamed till her lungs got raw. She had stamina, and was a beautiful, erotic animal of my own creation.
The music fades even more and it appears she's stepping outside. “I had... fun, Evan. Just woke up to my mother’s bad news, and didn’t want you to see me flustered. How'd you get my number?”
“I'm a cop.”
“Yeah, I forgot. My brain has turned into mush. What are you doing tomorrow evening? Um, never mind. Forget I asked,” she pauses, and I can mentally see each word in her brain as they crash and derail each other.
“Reese, you seem frazzled. I really can't cook breakfast but if you'd stayed, I wouldn't have minded trying to convince you the yellow liquid-y chunks are really scrambled eggs.” I grimace, sitting in stop-and-go traffic. Her brain is mushy: my thought process is too. “I'm sort of free tomorrow evening. What's on your mind?”
Reese hesitates again. “I suppose I sound desperate and kick boxing isn't helping. Uh… never mind. You probably have a date tomorrow night...”
“No. No date.” I turn onto Fifth Street. “How about this? You sound like you could use a spare. I could use one too. My father has gotten himself into a jam. I'm meeting at his house, around nine. What time is your gig?”
“Oh, my mom wants me to meet her new… problem at dinner tomorrow night. Seven. The Stinking Rose,” she mentions the restaurant in Beverly Hills.
“I thought you were allergic to Italians?” I squeeze in my observation. “The way you scoffed while reading my badge last night.”
She pauses for a second. “Hmmm… you caught that? I apologize. I was just in shock. I’m half-Napolitano.”
I nod. Reese does have this beautiful golden complexion, and I couldn’t quite put a finger on her ethnicity. “Oh, I get it. You Napolitano’s are always looking down your noses.”
“Something like that,” she laughs softly.
“What time should I pick you up?”
“Why do I have this feeling that you know where I live?” Reese seems to smile.
“Just leveled the playing field is all.”
“Wow, Evan, thanks for taking the desperation out of me having to offer my info,” she says sarcastically and we both laugh.
“Reese’s Pieces!” A female shouts in the background. “Come back inside and work of
f those calories.”
“Evan, my uhhh… my friend who conveniently left me to fend for myself is calling me,” Reese dawdles.
“Alright, don’t be too hard on her, I saved you, remember? Now, go pack the calories back on during dinner tomorrow night. After that I'll help you work ‘em back off. Besides, after how long it took us to get around to your stress release, I don’t believe I did the trick.”
“No, you did, Evan. You honestly gave me the best night of sleep ever,” she says seemingly grinning through the receiver. “Or perhaps it was your luxurious bed.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “I’m all for giving credit when credit’s due. This time you won’t have the luxury of sleeping. And this time, we’re done when I say we’re done.”
Chapter 6
Reese
Sandra’s bottom lip is just about kissing the asphalt as I turn back toward the gym. Hands on narrow hips, she gasps, “Fuck me, he sounded commanding. Is it the Suit you slept with last night?”
I sigh. “His name is Evan. And he’s not just commanding. There’s taking. There’s also giving. Generously…”
“Hmmm, you said he, Evan, forgive me, had on tailor-made. Now, we stay away from Suits––period. At least just you and I, once Jamie gets over his version of the flu, he’s going to flip.”
I chuckle. Jamie only screws men in suits, the softer the fabric, the harder my friend falls to his knees. That’s what makes the three of us mesh. He’s our buffer.
“We don't personalize Suits by acknowledging their name,” Sandra adds as we strut past the weight lift area for the kick boxing class.
I take a deep breath as Sandra attempts to coax my intelligence. I hold the door open, music blares from inside the classroom. There are floor-to-ceiling mirrors in a 180-degree angle around the room. With a graceful wave of my hand, I usher my friend in first hoping she’ll shut up.
