Maybe It's You

by Candace Calvert

  “So why are you here?”

  “Gleaning information, taking notes.” Coop tapped his shaggy curls. “Putting it together, right up here. I’m going to track it all backward and look for the bigger story. Connect the dots—and tats.”

  “Back to State Prison?”

  “Clear back to Moscow, if I need to.” Coop smiled, then rattled the ice in his cup. “Hey, want to grab something to eat?”

  Gleaning info and eats. Coop was a pro.

  “I’m still on call,” Micah hedged, despite the fact that he was hungry. He had no interest in any more conversation with Cooper Vance. “I want to check in with dispatch and make some notes first. And I need to round up my teammate. He’s still here somewhere.”

  “No problem. I’m going to head out. Score me a burger. Talk later?”

  “You got my number.”

  “Sure.”

  As Coop walked off, Micah pulled out his phone and checked for text messages. Then realized how stupid that was. There wouldn’t be a text from Sloane. She hadn’t given him her number or asked for his. And she’d turned down his impulsive invitation.

  “For the record: I do like sushi.”

  Apparently Sloane was okay with dragon rolls, sashimi, seaweed, and wasabi. But not with him. She’d made that clear on a number of occasions. His volunteer jacket didn’t really change things even if she’d shown kindness by giving him an update on Jane Doe. And offered an apology for some of the things she’d said before.

  Micah thought of that long moment when Sloane’s eyes met his. When she’d asked about his work with the crisis team, after they’d both done all they could to stem the hemorrhage and pain left in the wake of that merciless attack. As improbable as it was given their history, at that moment it was like they knew the tragedy connected them. Maybe even saw each other through different eyes. But . . .

  Micah frowned, slipped his phone back into his pocket. A beautiful woman shows him a hint of a softer side and he reads it as a sign of interest? Asks her out? Complete idiot move. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  14

  “HOW DID YOU GET THIS NUMBER?” Sloane asked, certain she was going to be sick.

  “That’s your big question? After all this time apart?” There was an amused laugh. “Not ‘Where are you, Paul?’”

  Where?

  Sloane stared at the smudged window. Was it possible?

  “My turn,” he said. “Where’d you come up with Ferrell?”

  He knew she’d changed her name.

  “You’re married?” Paul prodded.

  “No. Not that it’s any of your busi—”

  “Good, great news,” he interrupted. “But it’s not your father’s name or your mother’s or your jailbird stepdad’s, and it’s sure not mine.”

  “Yours?” Familiar anger rose, bitter as bile. Sloane told herself it was crazy, dangerous; she warned herself to stop, hang up, but—“That was never going to happen, Paul. And you know it.”

  “I know I put a diamond on your finger.”

  “The ring?” Sloane’s voice choked on something that felt like a laugh. Mixed into broken glass. But it was the first sliver of mirth she’d felt since yesterday morning when she discovered that tacky, empty rooster jar. She glanced toward the kitchen now. No diamond. No cross. Plenty of plastic tumblers. It was dark, sick, but so truly funny.

  “Is that what you want?” she asked, almost relieved. The last time they’d spoken it was about the ring. It had been appraised once at four thousand dollars. Money for gambling—Paul would get that any way he could. “Because if this is about the ring, you’re too late.”

  “Pawned?”

  There was probably a lot of truth to that assumption.

  “None of your business,” she told him. “It’s gone. Not that you had much to do with buying it anyway.” He’d made a few payments. She paid the balance. In the end, she’d paid a much higher price considering all that happened. Maybe she was paying still.

  “I would have married you, Sloane.”

  She closed her eyes, hating that the words hurt even a little. It was probably true. Paul might have married her eventually. His “nurse with a purse”—his smartest investment. The old joke had worn thin, almost as thin as his insistence on an “open” relationship. She’d known it from the beginning and told herself he’d change. She bought herself a diamond ring. And a humiliating lie.

  “I stuck by you,” he added, “even after the whole mess with that married—”

  “Don’t!” she shouted, the outburst making Marty spring from the couch. “Don’t you dare.”

  “Okay, okay. I don’t want it to be like this, babe. I only wanted to—”

  “Tell me where,” Sloane demanded, looking at the smeared fingerprints again. Were they Jerry’s or . . . ? “Where are you, right now?”

  “In a motel. Alone.”

  She waited. He knew what she was asking.

  “I left Mexico a couple months back,” Paul explained. Then summoned his easy laugh. “Any longer and I’d be Mayor Pablo.”

  “They found you. And you ran.”

  Those faceless people who’d harassed Sloane with phone calls, written nasty slurs on her car, and then sent her hurtling over a cliff. The mobsters who very nearly killed her. Because they wanted Paul.

  “No. That’s not it,” he told her. “I swear. I’m squared with those guys. All simpatico now. It’s good.” It sounded like he cleared his throat. “I’m good, babe. That’s what I called to tell you. I’m a new man. Got my priorities straight. So maybe you and I . . . ?”

  “Don’t say it.” She rose from the couch, dizzy. “Where are you, Paul?” Sloane held her breath.

  “West Coast,” he told her. “Moving around. You know me. But say the word, and I’ll be there.”

  “Stay. Away.”

  “I need to see you, Sloane. It’s important.”

  “No.”

  “It’s the only way I can prove to you that things are different.”

  “I don’t want to see you.” Sloane paced to the kitchen, opened the cupboard door, and stared up at the shiny wineglasses. “Don’t call again.”

  “You’re involved with someone? Is that it?”

  Sloane jabbed the Disconnect button and threw the cell phone into the sink. She struggled for a breath, strangled by anger. Then she reached into the cupboard and swept the entire set of plastic tumblers from the shelf, watching them hit the counter with hollow, pelting thwacks, bounce to the floor and roll and roll . . .

  “No.” She hunched over, shoulders shaking to loose tears she couldn’t let come. Paul Stryker wasn’t worth tears, wasn’t worth this old thirst threatening to consume her. She couldn’t let him do that. Wouldn’t.

  She pulled her phone from the sink, checked the time. Her usual AA meeting was over. She’d never bought into the idea of a sponsor, didn’t even know what she’d done with the phone list they’d given her. There was no one she could call. Except Harper maybe.

  No, too risky. Sloane could end up revealing far more than was safe. But being here alone wasn’t good, either. She’d get in the car, drive somewhere for coffee or . . .

  “It could be anything you want.”

  Micah? Far easier to keep her guard up with him.

  They hadn’t exchanged numbers, but . . .

  Sloane tapped her phone, brought up her e-mail, and checked the few unsent drafts. She’d written an e-mail after the meeting in the PIO’s office, a rant she knew better than to send. But it had the address. Yes, there.

  She tapped the keys:

  Craving creamy tomato udon. Your fault. Thinking downtown.

  Sloane hesitated, then added her cell phone number.

  She fed Marty, showered, and slipped into cropped jeans, a white shirt, and flip-flops. She switched to a pair of TOMS ballet flats after getting a glimpse of her chipped toenail polish. Then she dabbed concealer over her scar and applied some light mascara, all the while telling herself the strange
flutter in her stomach was nothing more than hunger. Maybe adrenaline ebb after the unexpected intrusion by Jerry Rhodes. And Paul. She was hungry and needed to get out of the house. Simple as that.

  Besides, she thought as she grabbed her purse and keys and walked toward the door, the chances that the marketing man would check his work e-mail after hours were—

  Her phone rang. And her stomach did that flutter. It couldn’t be, could it?

  “Hello?” she managed.

  “Little Tokyo is good for sushi,” Micah told her. “There’s a great sort of hole-in-the-wall place that has your udon. It’s called—”

  “Marugame Monzo.”

  His laugh seemed to warm her ear. “That’s the place.”

  Sloane took a slow breath. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “The TV said there was no identification,” Zoey reported, stepping through the doorway of the adjoining rooms for the third time in the last ten minutes. Stack was barely listening, probably on the verge of telling her to stuff it. “They said blonde, maybe late teens, and—”

  “That could be you, two weeks ago. Or tomorrow,” Stack said, shaking his head. “Get real. There’s a blonde on every corner. In every crummy alley. Stop obsessing, for pete’s sake.”

  “But—” Zoey’s stomach shuddered with dread—“Oksana said she was going for a checkup tonight. It didn’t sound right. What doctor does checkups on a Saturday night? And then Viktor said that thing about her not being worth the trouble.”

  “Keep this up,” Stack warned, “and maybe I’ll start thinking the same thing about you.”

  Zoey knew he didn’t mean it. As a real threat, anyway. But these past weeks, she’d started wondering. Was this—her “freedom”—worth it? She didn’t feel free. More and more, she just felt guilty . . . worthless.

  Stack shoved aside the laptop. He’d been studying maps for an hour or more, grumbling to himself. He always got that way until the next job came together. He suddenly jabbed his finger toward her. “I’ve told you before: stay away from those girls.”

  “It’s just Oksana. I knew her from before.”

  “I don’t care if you shared a baby crib with her and had the same loser mother.” Stack scraped a hand through his hair, the exact auburn shade of hers now—from the last of her Clairol bottle. He’d touched up his sprouting goatee, too. “I can’t have you mixed up with that again. You get that?”

  “I’m not. You know I’m careful,” Zoey said, hearing the faint whine in her voice. Stack had taken her phone away more than once. She needed to make sure Oksana was safe. “You said it yourself,” she continued, forcing a smile. “I’m like a cat. In, out. Nobody sees me.”

  “No!” Stack lurched toward her, grabbed her wrist. Hard.

  “Hey,” Zoey said, disbelief edging on panic. “You’re hurting me.”

  “And you’re forgetting your place and why I bother to keep you around. Keep you fed, safe.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Zoey told him, feeling anything but safe. She’d started to tremble. “I swear.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then loosened his grip. “That business, those dudes—it could bring a world of hurt down on me. I can’t have that.”

  “I hear you.” Zoey’s legs went rubbery with relief as he let go of her. “I promise, Stack.”

  “That’s better.”

  She nodded, taking a shuddering breath to try to slow her pulse.

  “The new hair color is good on you,” he said. “We look like brother and sister or . . .” He grimaced. “Father and daughter. We could work that somehow.”

  “Sure,” Zoey agreed, ignoring her throbbing wrist. “Why not?”

  “That’s my girl.” Stack pointed to her room. “Now go shut off that TV.”

  “Okay.”

  Zoey walked back through the doorway, telling herself it would be okay. It was harder to believe after what she’d just seen in Stack. She had to question if she really was better off than Oksana. Maybe “okay” only meant alive. Not free, not safe, just here. For now.

  She switched off the TV, then slid her hand deep into her pocket to feel the cool, solid presence of the silver cross. Stolen comfort. It was all she had.

  15

  “YOU WERE HUNGRY,” Micah said, enjoying the rosy speck of tomato sauce on Sloane’s chin. The sheer pleasure in her eyes could be a powerful marketing shot for a review he’d read about this place: “Crazy good seafood—sexy noodles.” Clearly Monzo’s tomato cream udon fell into the latter category. “Pretty good, huh?”

  “The best,” she said, dabbing away the evidence. Sloane set the napkin down and lifted her small, patterned cup of green tea. She inhaled slowly as if savoring its fragrance. The tea and possibly the very air: hot sesame oil combined with pungent aromas of fish, sizzling meats, steamed rice, vinegar, chili pepper, and vegetables. “I don’t splurge like this very often,” she added.

  Micah decided to fight about the dinner check later. He liked that Sloane was frugal. It showed in the way she dressed, too: simple, fresh—classic, his mother would say. His mother? Where had that thought come from? It wasn’t even in the realm of imagination that he’d be introducing this woman to his family. Truth was, he didn’t have a clue why she’d changed her mind about meeting him tonight. Still, it was another respectable hop forward from their dubious history. He’d take that.

  “Before I really knew LA,” Sloane said, watching as a chef in a white apron and skullcap expertly whacked udon noodles with a huge hinged knife, “I imagined it was all palm trees, fancy cars, and movie studios.”

  “And Valleyspeak,” Micah agreed, referencing the tired cliché about bubbly, tedious Southern California chatter. “Endless sun and freeway gridlock.”

  Sloane looked at him over her teacup. “It’s true about the traffic. Um, like . . . totally.”

  He laughed, surprised by this playful side of her. That she’d shared very little made Micah curious to learn more. Beyond their mutual appreciation for Japanese food.

  “Sort of small enclaves in a big city, I guess,” she continued. “Like here in Little Tokyo, with the gardens and the Japanese American museum and the Asian theater. All that and still so close to city hall. And then there’s the Olvera Street Mexican marketplace. And the harbor, Fashion District, Dodger Stadium.”

  “All that,” Micah agreed, imagining her in a ball cap. “And everything that comes with so many diverse people elbow-to-elbow, trying to make their way.” He frowned. “And stay alive.”

  Sloane met his gaze. “Jane Doe.”

  “It’s hard to get that scene out of my head. Sorry; not a great side dish.”

  “Hey . . .” Sloane tapped her chest. “ER nurse. Hard to destroy our appetites. Besides, I couldn’t eat another noodle. Stuffed.” Her expression softened. “I used to be a flight nurse, which dropped me into some rugged trauma scenes. I can imagine how awful it must have been in that alley.”

  Micah wished he’d never brought it up. “Flight nurse?”

  “Medevac choppers. In the Sacramento area, out of UC Davis Medical Center. Until . . .” Sloane seemed to hesitate. “I left it to work in the ER at Sacramento Hope. For a while, anyway.” She shrugged. “Not going to bore you with the CV.”

  Micah couldn’t imagine anything about her being boring. But he had a sense Sloane didn’t want to talk about it. He understood that feeling.

  “What do you say?” he asked. “Want to go walk around a little? Let our dinners settle?”

  Sloane looked down at her teacup, quiet for a beat, and Micah was sure she’d say something about needing to get home.

  “Sounds good.” Her smile did something unexpected to his pulse. “After we split the check.”

  “Uh . . .”

  She produced a small roll of cash from her purse, then peeled off enough for her half of the meal. And the tip.

  Micah wanted to argue but thought of every time they had. And how that had ended. Some things were worth a fight. This wasn’t one of th
em.

  Sloane liked that Micah didn’t need a constant stream of conversation. He seemed okay with simply walking along the night-lit Little Tokyo sidewalks, taking in the colors, sounds, and scents. This area of downtown was a sort of cultural collision of Japanese historic and SoCal contemporary. Red paper lanterns and exotic hand-calligraphed banners stretched overhead and along storefronts, complementing glass-and-steel high-rises and a rainbow array of neon advertising.

  “Street musician,” Micah said, gesturing past a gigantic Hello Kitty sign to the street corner opposite. A young woman in a flowered skirt, thigh-high boots, and an Asian-print bandanna played the guitar. “She’s good. Classical guitar isn’t easy. Nylon strings, finger picking.”

  Micah stopped to watch and Sloane sneaked a chance to peer up at him. Nearly a foot taller than she was, he had a stronger jaw than she’d given him credit for when she’d spat that awful “slick, charming” slur. She was right that he didn’t look lumberjack burly, even with those nice shoulders. No, not rugged. But definitely masculine and attractive. With that clean-shaven and chiseled profile, the trendy glasses and gray-checked shirt, and the way his sandy hair was sort of teased by the evening breeze . . .

  “What do you think?” Micah asked, glancing at her.

  “About?”

  He smiled. “The guitar.”

  “Right.” Sloane felt her face warm. What she’d been thinking was that “classical” would have easily described this man too—classic good looks. And now she’d been caught staring. “It’s great.”

  “You want to grab some coffee? Sit and listen awhile?”

  “Sure.” Because she didn’t want to go home.

  She hated to imagine what Micah would think if he knew he was taking the place of an AA meeting. But even if he was her unwitting sponsor for the night, it wasn’t as if she would confide anything remotely personal.

  They found a small sidewalk table and Micah asked Sloane to sit down so they wouldn’t lose it. She agreed, though something classically male in Micah’s expression said it was more about a chivalrous opportunity to pay for her order. She wasn’t going to argue this one. It was a bistro chair and coffee, not a dark corner booth and tequila shots. Her stomach sank at the realization: she couldn’t remember the last time she’d done this sober. It could be a big mistake.