Frisk Me

by Lauren Layne

  Until Ava’s mom had gotten pregnant with Ava’s brother.

  Dreams dashed.

  Or so the story went. Ava still didn’t quite understand why they couldn’t have pursued the NYC thing, even with her mom’s pregnancy. Plenty of anchormen and -women had family.

  But then, that wouldn’t have given them something to complain about for thirty years.

  It also wouldn’t have given them an excuse over never making the big time.

  So they’d done what any pushy, interfering parents would do. They’d transferred their dreams to their children.

  Ava’s brother and sister had fallen into line marvelously. Miranda had her own current events talk show in Los Angeles, and Daniel was a foreign correspondent for a competing network, although never in a country that was actually relevant in current events. He didn’t cover war or famine or natural disasters. No, Danny was well on his way to establishing a name for himself posing as an expert in art or food or wine, or whatever was popular in whichever country he was in. Emphasis on posing.

  Her parents were proud of all their children. Their annual Christmas card was an embarrassing brag fest.

  But Ava knew that she was their darling. The one who was really living the dream. The one who would do what they hadn’t been able to:

  National Anchorwoman.

  And this story would get her there. Ava was sure of it.

  “I can’t believe we have to hang out with the fucking five-oh for two months,” Mihail grumbled.

  “I don’t like it either,” Ava admitted. “But this isn’t your average cop.”

  Mihail glanced at her and wiggled his eyebrows.

  She punched him. “I don’t mean it like that.”

  “Sure you don’t. I’ve seen pictures.”

  Ava pulled out her phone and pulled up her video player before shoving the phone in his face. “Yeah, but have you seen…?”

  Mihail made a grunting sound and tried to push her hand away. “I know, I know, I’ve seen it.”

  Ava leaned toward him, holding the screen out so they could both watch it. For all of Mihail’s fussing, he didn’t look away.

  “Are you seeing what I’m seeing, Mihail?”

  “Grainy, shitty-ass movie recording?”

  “Pretend for a second that you’re not a damn cameraman.” She pointed. “That is Luc Moretti, son of a previous police commissioner. Handsome huh? Oh, and what’s that? He’s running to the railing and jumping headfirst into the stank East River? Whatever could he be doing…oh look!”

  Even though she’d seen the video dozens, if not hundreds, of times, both she and Mihail watched the grainy footage wobble as the tourist with the phone dashes to the railing where Luc had gone over, showing him swimming easily toward a small ladder.

  A tiny pigtailed little girl is in tow.

  But the story doesn’t stop there. She and Mihail both watched as Luc easily hauls himself and the little girl out of the water.

  Ava’s eyes watered as they always do when it becomes apparent that the little girl wasn’t breathing.

  She’d seen the videos too often to count, but every damned time she felt her heart stop and then swell as Luc Moretti leans down and begins giving the little girl CPR.

  Ava let out a gush of relieved air when the little girl turns her head and coughs up water, before being scooped up by her hysterical mother as Officer Moretti sits back on his heels.

  The tourist holding the camera focuses mainly on the reunion between mother and daughter, but Ava always watched Luc in the corner of the screen. Watched as his chin dipped to his heaving chest, his palms resting against his thighs.

  His face lifted, and he looked at the girl, and there was relief, obviously.

  But there was something else in his expression too. Ava lifted her thumbnail and bit. There was something else.

  She wanted to know what it was.

  She would find out what it was.

  “Yeah, yeah it’s great,” Mihail muttered, pushing her phone away from his face and interrupting her thoughts.

  “Right?” Ava poked him in his bony side with a finger. “It couldn’t be more perfect if it was a Spider-Man movie.”

  “Spider-Man? That’s not wimpy Peter Parker; that guy is Clark Kent.”

  Ava ignored this. She didn’t need Mihail’s reminder that Luc was tall, broad shouldered, and gorgeously dark-haired. She was doing her best to forget that little fact.

  “Okay, now look at this one…”

  “I told you, I’ve seen the damned videos.”

  Ava pulled up the second video anyway. This one was shorter. Less than a minute, but it was every bit as poignant.

  Taken a couple months ago in the middle of a late-winter cold snap, the frail figure of a homeless man sitting in the deserted Diamond District, his back against the wall of a long-closed jewelry shop, huddled against cold.

  The now familiar figure of Officer Moretti approaches, his footsteps slowing as he spots the man. The video has no sound, but it’s easy to see Luc crouching down, speaking to the man, his face kind, his smile easy.

  The conversation apparently doesn’t go the way Luc wants, because for a moment Luc’s chin drops against his chest, as though in defeat. Then Luc moves, shrugging out of his winter coat.

  Luc extends the jacket to the man, who doesn’t reach for it. Then, incredibly, Luc creeps closer, gently maneuvering the man so that the warm coat is wrapped around him.

  As though sensing the camera on him, the homeless man slowly turns his head, finds the camera before giving a heart-wrenching smile as he clenches the coat to his shoulders.

  Officer Moretti stands, wearing nothing but his uniform as it starts to snow.

  The camera jerks to the side before going to black, but the jarring end to the video doesn’t ruin its impact.

  If anything, it highlighted the spontaneity of the moment, giving the watcher the sense that he or she was a spectator to a private moment.

  Not so private anymore, Ava thought.

  The coat video had been taken a few weeks before the East River one, but the tourist behind the camera hadn’t uploaded it until after the later video had been picked up by a small local news station.

  From there, it had exploded.

  And Ava had every intention of making it explode even more.

  “Okay, you proved your point. It’s good stuff,” Mihail said, finally pushing her phone away and putting the key in the ignition. “I just don’t see why we have to be the ones to cover it. Especially if this cop guy doesn’t even want to be in the story.”

  Ava put her phone away, faking confidence she didn’t entirely feel. “He’ll come around. Once the advertising offers start rolling in, he’ll be kissing my four-inch heels.”

  “Which are where, exactly?” Mihail looked pointedly at her flip-flops.

  Ava pretended she didn’t hear him.

  “You know, I’ve never seen Gwen Garrison in anything other than five-inch spikes,” Mihail said.

  Ava inspected her manicure. Yup. Chipped. “Your point?”

  He shrugged as he turned the ignition. “Just that Gwen’s been anchor for a good many years now, and you’ve been chasing crap stories for how long? Maybe it’s time to accept that you’re destined for the gritty, in-the-trenches journalism and not the plastic talking head thing. And maybe you like it that way.”

  Ava dug out a gummy worm from Mihail’s stash and ignored him. The guy was one of her best friends, nasty cigs and all, but she was tired of this conversation. It brought up unsettling thoughts she had no interest in dealing with.

  She did want to be anchorwoman. She did. And Mihail was right in that Ava tended to choose the scrappy, real stories, no matter how small, over the more glamorous, attention-grabbing ones. That was about to change.

  This was her break.

  A gorgeous, big-city cop with a heart of gold was exactly what she needed. It was a huge story, with a big audience.

  Even with NYPD being under a f
ew shadows right now thanks to that unfortunate shooting a few months back, the Luc Moretti story appealed on every level, to every viewer.

  Big city folk were partial to first responders, especially after 9/11. Small-town people liked cops, period.

  And everyone liked a hero.

  Especially a good-looking one.

  As far as poster boys went, it didn’t get more perfect than Luc Moretti in all of his tall, dark, good-guy handsomeness. No hot-blooded straight woman could look at that guy and not fantasize about what he looked like under that uniform.

  Ava included.

  She dug her nails into her palm, trying to forget about the way every part of her had seemed to tingle when they’d stood toe to toe in Captain Brinker’s office.

  “So how cooperative do you think Moretti will be?” Mihail asked, cutting off a taxi just because he could.

  Ava went for another gummy worm. “Not at all.”

  Mihail glanced at her. “Yeah?”

  She shrugged. “I dunno, something was up with him.”

  “Explain.”

  “I don’t know yet,” she said, tugging at the gummy worm.

  “Maybe he just doesn’t like being in the spotlight,” Mihail said.

  “Deep down, everyone wants to be in the spotlight,” Ava muttered, staring out the window. “Everyone wants glory.”

  She felt Mihail cut her another look. “The cynical, storm-cloud thing is supposed to be my shtick.”

  “I’m not cynical!”

  Mihail snorted.

  “I’m not! I just don’t buy for one second that Luc Moretti isn’t secretly patting himself on the back for all of his recent good deeds.”

  Moretti had secrets all right, but they were more complicated than Mr. Too-Sexy-For-His-Own-Good wanting to keep his good deeds under wraps.

  If he was reluctant, it was probably because he’d have to cooperate with her. Guys like him didn’t like it when a woman didn’t turn into a simpering mess in their presence.

  She’d come close to simpering, though. Really close. Those deep blue eyes were a jolt to the system, more so because they were a surprise given his dark hair and Italian coloring.

  But Ava hadn’t kissed Moretti’s ass during their run-in three years ago, and she wasn’t about to start now.

  “So what’s he like then?” Mihail asked.

  Ava jolted. “Hmm?”

  “The cop. The hero one…what’s he like?”

  Gorgeous.

  “He’s perfect for the story,” Ava said with a shrug. “The camera will love him.”

  Mihail tapped long fingers against the steering wheel. “So did he say why he did those things? Jumping into the river, giving his coat to the homeless guy?”

  Ava groaned at the admiration in Mihail’s voice. “Not you too.”

  “What?”

  “You actually think he’s a hero?”

  “I mean we don’t have to get fucking romantic about it, but the guy went above and beyond. He deserves a little credit.”

  Ava rolled her eyes and chomped grumpily on a green gummy worm.

  She could grant that the guy had done a couple of good deeds. Okay, really good deeds.

  But she couldn’t stop thinking about that haunted look on his face after he’d saved the little girl.

  Nor the panicked look when he’d learned that she was with CBC.

  There was a story there. She was sure of it.

  She just wasn’t sure it was the feel-good story the network wanted her to tell.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  What do you mean CBC’s doing a story on you?”

  Luc took a grumpy sip of coffee before he met his father’s dark gaze. “Is there a way I could rephrase to be more clear?”

  Luc’s sister leaned over to snag a piece of Luc’s toast before pointing the toast triangle at their father. “It’s true. Luc was quite clear with his word choice. And I’m a lawyer so I should know.”

  Tony Moretti scowled and propped a piece of bacon on top of a piece of biscuit. Then he dragged the whole thing through a puddle of gravy under the exasperated glare of Luc’s mother. He took a bite and chewed as he glared at Luc and Elena. “Don’t you two get smart with me. What I want to know is why are they doing a story now? You’re old news.”

  Anthony leaned over and grabbed the remaining piece of Luc’s toast. “It’s nice when he builds us up like this, isn’t it, bro?”

  “So nice,” Luc muttered, taking another sip of his coffee.

  His mother caught his eye. “I think what your father is trying to ask, Luca, is why you’re agreeing to a story when you’ve been unhappy with all the media coverage.”

  Luc set his coffee aside and reached for a piece of toast, only to realize that his family had pillaged everything.

  “It’s not like I have a choice.” He immediately regretted the words. They felt…whiney. Small. And his father pounced.

  “You always have a choice,” Tony boomed. “How many times have I told you kids that we’re in control—”

  “Wait, wait,” Vincent interrupted, leaning forward and snapping his fingers rapidly. “I’ve got this. We’ve heard it before, I think…”

  “Like maybe once, or a million times?” Elena mused, tapping her lip.

  “We are in control of our own destiny,” Anthony said in a dramatic voice, or as dramatic as it could get around a piece of bacon. “Did I get that right?”

  Tony Moretti turned to exchange a glance with his wife. “How is it I raised four smart asses?”

  “Five, actually,” Elena said. “Marco’s missing all the fun.”

  “Probably on the beach somewhere,” Luc’s father said, his tone turning irritable the way it always did when he spoke of his West Coast offspring.

  None of them had been thrilled when Marc moved to Los Angeles. Not only because it splintered the tight-knit Morettis into different time zones, but because the reason for his move was Mandy Breslin.

  Mandy and Marc had been dating since high school, which should have made her like part of the family, but the truth was…the family couldn’t stand her. She was manipulative, melodramatic, and seemed to think that an exceptionally pretty face made up for lack of other qualities. Say, like, being a decent person.

  Still, what Mandy lacked in likability, she made up for in ambition. She’d gotten it in her head that she was destined for a Hollywood career. And Marc, being the epitome of loyal, had dutifully followed her.

  They’d been in LA for over a year now, and as best as the rest of the Morettis could tell, the closest Mandy had come to her dream was watching TV all day while Marc worked his ass off in the LAPD.

  The Morettis did their best to support Marco’s decision, even as they secretly hated it…and missed him like crazy. But that didn’t mean they didn’t gripe about Marc’s absence behind his back.

  Because that’s how the Morettis did things. They interfered with each other’s business constantly, and unabashedly.

  Take, like, now, for example.

  Sundays meant two things to the Morettis.

  Mass at St. Ignatius Loyola Church on the Upper East Side, and the follow-up brunch at the Darby Diner.

  But it meant other things too. Like latching on to one person’s personal life and taking it apart piece by piece.

  Last week it had been Elena’s new boyfriend. The guy was Irish, and with the way Tony and Maria had responded to this news, last week’s breakfast was a scene out of Gangs of New York. Tony Moretti was born in New York, but from his fierce Italian upbringing, he might as well have been born in Italy. And Maria Moretti actually had been born there, which meant…well, an Irish boy for their only daughter had not gone over well, even though neither parent would admit their reasons were old biases.

  The week before that, the fuss had been over Anthony’s announcement that he was headed to Florida over Easter weekend to run a marathon and wouldn’t be around for Easter. The week before that…well, Luc couldn’t remember, but it was probably s
omething to do with Vincent and the fact that the man had zero life outside of work and had turned down yet another of their mother’s blind date attempts.

  But this week? This week was all about Luc. Luc and the damned CBC nightmare that awaited him tomorrow morning.

  The only possible silver lining in this whole mess was that Nonna had a stomach bug and had opted to skip the Sunday-morning histrionics. Luc loved his grandmother—desperately—but the woman had made it her life’s mission to stir the Moretti family pot whenever possible. A tendency made even worse by the fact that, in a rather shortsighted move, the grandkids had bought her an iPhone for Christmas the previous year.

  Now the woman didn’t just stir the pot, she recorded the aftermath.

  His grandma was a menace. A wonderful menace, but still…Luc was a tiny bit glad she wasn’t here on his particular Sunday to shine.

  “’Kay, seriously, though,” Vin said, leaning back in his chair and fixing Luc with his usual serious gaze. “Dad’s got a point. I would have thought all this hoopla with your heroics would be dying down.”

  “You and me both,” Luc said.

  His coffee cup was blessedly refilled, and he smiled thanks at Helen, the white-haired waitress who’d been serving the Darby Diner—and the Morettis—longer than Luc had been alive.

  “Am I your favorite today, Helen?” Luc asked, intentionally turning his attention away from the too shrewd eyes of his brother.

  “Depends, who’s tipping?” she said with a wink.

  Then she leaned down and whispered in Luc’s ear as she refilled Anthony’s cup. “’Course you’re my favorite.”

  “Heard that,” Anth said.

  “Heard what, baby?” Helen said, blowing Anthony a kiss. “That you’re my favorite?”

  “That’s not what you told me when I fixed your cell last week,” Vin said.

  “And by fixed her phone, you did what exactly?” Elena said, propping her chin up on her hand. “You hit the Power button? Turned if off and then back on?”

  Vin lifted a shoulder. “Whatever works.”

  Helen refilled everyone’s coffee and moved on to another table, having assured them individually that they were, in fact, her one and only favorite.