Dog Collar Knockoff

by Adrienne Giordano

  Which meant Mr. Lutz had a copy. Or a forgery. At this point, was there a difference? Probably not because, either way, Mr. Lutz was under the impression he had the original.

  And he didn’t.

  As just confirmed by the Gomez family lawyer.

  Deal with it. That’s all. Being a Rizzo, she’d had bigger problems than this. She straightened up and set her shoulders like the good little soldier she’d been taught to be.

  “Delilah?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m here. Just thinking.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  The guilt set in. Darn it. This man thought they wanted to buy that painting when all along, they’d been lying. Tricking him into telling them if the family still owned the original. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

  Between the guilt over lying and the guilt over setting Mr. Lutz up with a swindler and the guilt over enjoying Tim’s company, could this morning get any worse?

  But seriously, she needed to buck up here. She was Joe Rizzo’s kid and this was a blip. Mere nonsense.

  She breathed in, shook her head, and wrangled her self-control. You can do this, Luce.

  She started walking again, away from the storefront, away from Petey’s and all her father’s friends, who were no doubt holding court. Just get away. She waved at a passing car—no idea whose—when the driver honked.

  “Oh, Mr. Isby, that’s all right. I know my boss wanted that painting, but I completely understand. It’s a family heirloom. I wouldn’t part with it, either.”

  “Thank you for understanding. There are other paintings available if your employer is interested.”

  “I’ll tell her. And thank you.”

  She disconnected and immediately bent at the waist, resting her hands on her thighs. She needed help. Someone who could make things happen. Someone who could sort through information and come to a logical conclusion.

  You know.

  Yes, she did. She stood tall, took another long pull of the mercifully not-as-humid August air and dialed Tim.

  Three rings in, his voicemail came on, and his deep voice nearly crawled right through the phone line, wrapping her in that odd comfort she always took from him.

  “Hi. It’s me. Lucie. The lawyer from Michigan just called about the Gomez painting. The family still has the original painting and it’s definitely not for sale. Mr. Lutz has a copy and that makes two-for-two on the fake painting scale. I’m freaking out. Please, Tim. I need your help.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Not knowing what else to do until Tim returned her call, Lucie kept moving to Frankie’s. She needed to accomplish something right now, and the plumber issue gave her a distraction. Something she could deal with and maybe actually manage to figure out. Unlike her forged paintings dilemma.

  As long as this trip to Joey’s new apartment didn’t include running into Frankie, she’d be fine. She checked the time on her phone. Not even lunch time. And that meant the very real possibility of running into Frankie since he worked evenings at the newspaper. His stories needed to be filed right after the evening games, so he typically didn’t get home until after midnight.

  But maybe she’d get a break today, because right now, their romantic situation had no teeth in comparison to being someone’s prison bitch.

  “No way. Nobody’s bitch.”

  Lucie quietly opened the outer door of Frankie’s three-flat and the faint smell of his cologne, some fancy stuff he bought at Neiman’s, permeated the hallway. Every instinct, the sheer muscle memory, drew her gaze left. The door leading to his apartment.

  Habit or not, her body would have to get used to heading upstairs to see Joey. Her brain understood the concept. She just couldn’t get the rest of her to fall in line.

  She set her hand on the banister and squeezed. Upstairs.

  Stepping softly, she darted up the stairs, checking Frankie’s door every few feet just to make sure he didn’t come out. She cleared the second floor landing.

  Made it.

  Either Frankie hadn’t heard the front door open or he wasn’t home. Which, of course, made her wonder where he might be. Upstairs. Keep moving.

  Lucie stopped again at the third floor landing, knocked lightly and waited. No answer. Joey had said he’d be here with the painters all morning. They could’ve been in the back part of the house and didn’t hear her knock. She checked the knob. Unlocked. Maybe she shouldn’t be walking into her brother’s apartment, but he hadn’t moved in yet, so it wasn’t like she’d catch him running around commando.

  Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d seen that disgusting sight since moving back to Chateau Rizzo. The man walked around in his boxers as if she and her mother weren’t even there.

  She pushed open the door, checked right where the room led to a short hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house. She glanced down the hall, didn’t see anyone. Hmm…

  “I’m telling you,” Joey said from the front room, “I’ve got the picture right here and you don’t have it.”

  “Are you insane? I’m good, but not that good.”

  Ro’s voice. At Joey’s. And what were they talking about? Probably something about decorating. Her brother was no dummy and probably recruited Ro to help with paint colors and furniture placement. Lucie stepped around the short wall separating the entry from the living room.

  “Guys,” she said, “what are you arguing about?”

  “Ohmygod.”

  The panic in Ro’s voice, that slight break, should have been the first clue, but no. The second clue was the important one. The clue Lucie saw rather than heard. Joey flat on his back on the bare hardwood floor, cell phone in hand, while he studied the screen. Sitting on top of him, facing his feet—my eyes—Ro inhaled hard enough to make her extremely naked boobs bounce.

  Lucie scanned her best friend’s bare legs straddling Joey’s hips. Slowly, as if taking in a bad wreck, she shifted her gaze up. To the dark, swirling hair on Joey’s chest and then, still taking in that horrendous wreck, she followed the flash of bare skin to where Joey’s hip met Ro’s leg.

  Too much. Gah! My eyes.

  Lucie started screaming. A blood curdling, axe-murderer-is-chasing-me scream that bounced off the stripped walls and echoed through the empty apartment.

  Ro scrambled to lift herself off of Joey, but he locked his fingers around her waist, squeezing with enough force that the veins in his hands popped.

  “Don’t get up,” he said. “I’m naked here!”

  And Lucie screamed louder, threw her hands over eyes that had to be bleeding. Had to be.

  “Luce!” Ro said, “Stop that yelling. The whole neighborhood can hear you. Joey, hand me that shirt.”

  “God’s sakes, Luce,” he said. “Turn around.”

  And still Lucie screamed. Too much. All of it. No woman should have to see her brother naked.

  Ever.

  Somewhere behind her, Ro laughed, but it wasn’t a ha-ha laugh. Nervous, not typical of anything Lucie ever heard from her BFF.

  “I’m afraid to look.” Lucie poked at her closed eyes. “It’s like tiny daggers shooting into me.”

  “What the hell’s the screaming?”

  Frankie’s voice. Huffy. As if he’d sprinted up all three flights. With all the screaming, he probably had.

  Lucie opened her eyes, found Frankie in the doorway, his chest indeed heaving. She threw her hands out. “Don’t look!”

  Last thing she needed was Frankie seeing Ro naked. If he saw that perfection, she’d be doomed. She’d never feel comfortable au natural in front of him again.

  And yet, he leaned left to peek around her. “What’s wrong?”

  She shifted to block his view. “Please don’t look. It’s a nightmare.”

  “Is someone dead?”

  “Not yet. But Joey could be soon.”

  Again Ro laughed, but this time it wasn’t so panicked. “Usually, I’m the drama queen.”

  Frankie’s jaw didn’
t just drop, it plummeted. “Ro?”

  Again, he tried to peep around Lucie. Again, Lucie blocked his view. She tapped her fingers over her eye sockets. “Are my eyes bleeding? They have to be.”

  Frankie snorted. “No. You’re fine. What’s wrong?”

  “Lucie,” Ro said, “don’t be mad. It’s not what you think.”

  Oh, that was priceless. What she’d just witnessed could only be a few limited things. And she was damned sure it was what she thought it was.

  “Not what I think? I just walked in on you and Joey, apparently re-enacting the wheelbarrow and you’re telling me it’s not what I think? What the hell else could it be?”

  “Ooh,” Frankie said. “I missed something good. What wheelbarrow?”

  “Shut it, Frankie,” Joey barked. “Ro, grab my damn pants.”

  Ach. My eyes.

  Fighting a laugh, Frankie bit his bottom lip and Lucie’s head nearly exploded. She stabbed him in the chest with her finger. “Don’t you dare laugh. I might be traumatized by what I just saw.”

  “Trust me, honey,” Ro cracked, “you didn’t see the best part.”

  And Lucie started screaming again. This nightmare wouldn’t end.

  Frankie reached for her, squeezed her arms. “Sshhh. It’s okay. You’re fine.”

  Not fine. Totally not fine.

  “Luce,” Joey said, his voice calm. As if she hadn’t just walked in on him and her best friend experimenting with early European porn. “Quit that goddamn screaming. We’re dressed. You can look.”

  Finally, she turned and spotted Joey tucking his shirt into his shorts. Basketball shorts. Ones that left no doubt the wheelbarrow scene had not been as they say, fully consummated. Lucie spun back to Frankie. “I can’t look at him in that condition. And he’s lucky—so lucky—because right now I could beat him with a shovel. To death.” She faced her brother, but kept her gaze above his shoulders. “The fact that she’s my best friend is bad enough. Given the history, I could live with that. But, cripes, Joey, she’s still married. She’s vulnerable right now.”

  He screwed up his lips. “Ro has never been vulnerable a day in her life.”

  “The two of you, shut up.” This from the married one. “Luce, it’s not like I’m cheating on a saintly husband. He was screwing a stripper. And hello, he’s moved out and the divorce is in the works. Besides, you can’t blame Joey for this. It takes two people.”

  Ignoring the horror of Joey’s expanded crotch, Lucie dragged her eyes to Ro. “When did this all start up again?”

  “The other night was the first time. I swear.”

  “When the other night?”

  “The O’Br…”

  Ro stopped talking, flicked her eyes to Frankie. The O’Brien night. Thank goodness she didn’t let that fly. Lucie nodded. “The night Joey went over to your house?”

  “Yes.”

  She thought back to that night, back to Joey busting her on the porch with Tim. Keeping her eyes above his shoulders, she pointed at Joey. “That’s where you were coming from that night?”

  “Yeah. But I’m not talking to you about this. It’s not your business. I don’t talk to you about Frankie.”

  Lucie opened her mouth. Shut it again. He was right. All these years, he’d never once butted into her relationship with Frankie.

  “He’s right, Luce,” Frankie said.

  Ro moved in front of her, drawing her full attention and Lucie got a whiff of Joey’s soap, musky stuff that wasn’t half bad. But it was on Ro’s skin. This would take some getting used to.

  Ro grabbed her hands and squeezed, refocused her.

  “Luce, I’m okay. All of this is okay. He’s always been good to me. I promise.”

  She knew that. Mostly. Joey always treated the women he dated with respect. Never talked about their sexual proclivities or badmouthed them to his friends. He just never wanted to grow up and commit and eventually the women moved on. No hard feelings. Her brother was a master at no-hard-feelings.

  But this was Ro and they all had a lot to lose. Ro hadn’t let go of her hand yet, so Lucie gave it a gentle squeeze back. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Sometimes, sweetie, that’s just inevitable. Who thought Tommy would wind up being a cheating bastard? He was supposed to be the safe bet.”

  Yes, he was. Tommy was the rebound after Ro had dumped Joey.

  Lucie glanced back at Frankie. For Lucie, he’d been the holy grail of jackpots. With him she had love and the safe guy. The one who would never hurt or betray her.

  And yet, they couldn’t figure out how to make their relationship work.

  Obviously thinking she wanted his opinion, he held his hands out. “You gotta stay out of it, Luce.”

  Yeah. She did.

  Whatever this was—lust, love, or anything in between—Joey and Ro would have to figure it out. Hopefully, they wouldn’t kill each other in the process.

  Ro and Joey. Together. This town might not survive.

  She went back to them. This time meeting Joey’s gaze, making sure he knew she wasn’t messing around. “Ground rules.” She held one finger up. “I don’t want any of the gory sexual details. From either of you.”

  “Jeez. Even I wouldn’t do that.”

  She turned to Ro. “That goes double for you. I don’t need to know how you feel about”—somehow, God help her, her gaze went to Joey’s crotch and she slammed her hands over her eyes—“his parts.”

  Joey threw his arms up. “Luce!”

  “I’m sorry. But she likes to talk about stuff like that and I don’t want to hear it.”

  “You guys talk about that?” Frankie wanted to know.

  “Don’t worry, Charm Pants,” Ro said. “She gave you an A rating.”

  Cripes. Lucie bared her teeth. “Ignore her, Frankie.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  Point there. Whatever. Back to business here. “Second…” Lucie held up another finger. “If you have a fight, I will not take sides. Unless, of course, one of you does something completely stupid. In which case, I will kill you because I don’t need that kind of stupidity around me. Got it?”

  They both nodded.

  “Third.”

  “That’s a lot of rules, Luce,” Joey said.

  “This is my last one. I never, ever, want to walk in on what I just walked in on. Locks were made for a reason. Lock. The damned. Door.” She flapped her arms. “Do you have any idea what it’ll take to wash that image out of my head? I might need counseling after this.”

  Joey waved her off. “Who invited you here? I told you I’d be busy.”

  “Because you had painters here! I figured you were looking at paint samples. I certainly wouldn’t have shown up if I’d known you two were reenacting early European porn.”

  Frankie stepped forward and raised his hands. “I wanna know what this wheelbarrow thing is.”

  “Dude,” Joey said, “you won’t believe it. I’ll give you the website.”

  “Sshhh!” Lucie hissed. She spun toward the door, started to leave and stopped. “I came here to tell you that plumber you hired blew me off.”

  “That son of a bitch. I’ll call him.”

  “Fine. Whatever. I’m out. I may need Valium after this.”

  *

  Frankie held the door open for Lucie and she breezed out into the hallway. The sharp smell of polished wood reminded her of the pride Frankie took in taking care of the house. Every weekend he cleaned three stories of oak rails and spindles until they gleamed. From the day he’d bought this house, he’d done the same routine. Sometimes she’d even helped him and found the task so tedious she’d thought she’d throw herself over the railing.

  From the third floor.

  Where Joey and Ro just did the nasty.

  Blech.

  Even more reason to go over the railing. Frankie though? He’d told her cleaning the rails was his therapy. He’d put his headphones on and zone out. If she didn’t think too hard about the tediousn
ess of the task, she could see where the repetition and the quiet would be relaxing.

  She hit the first step and made her way down. “You called me this morning. What’s up?”

  “Uh, nothing. We can talk about it later.”

  She knew that tone. That not-quite-confident edge his voice took on when he had something—not necessarily good—to share.

  Terrific.

  She paused on the stairs, turned back, and Frankie halted on the step above her. His dark eyes were shadowed, something she’d just now noticed. She wondered if he’d worked late last night. But this wasn’t the normal Frankie-is-tired look. This was more than that, and her fingers suddenly turned to icicles. She flexed them in and out to get the blood moving and work away some of the tension curling up her arms.

  What now? They were already broken up so that wasn’t it. What if he was sick?

  “Frankie, I know you. What is it?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “If you called me, I would think it is.”

  He paddled his hand, motioning her forward. “Let’s—uh—go into my apartment.”

  “Is this bad news?”

  “Luce, please. I’m not gonna stand on the steps and talk to you.”

  She moved down the stairs, her pace quicker than it had been a minute ago. “This can’t be good,” she muttered.

  At the first floor, she swung around the banister and headed into Frankie’s apartment.

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  This is bad. She lowered herself to the leather, hand-me-down sofa she’d sat on thousands of times, yet none of it seemed normal. Or comfortable. Maybe she just didn’t want to be in Frankie’s space unless they were a couple. She missed him too much and being here reminded her of their failures.

  Lately, everything about Frankie brought sadness and fear and…questions.

  And, God, she didn’t want this heaviness anymore. This always thinking and wondering and hoping. What the hell had happened to them that they’d forgotten to have fun?

  Frankie sat in the matching chair across from her and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know how to do this.”

  It’s bad. Maybe he was sick. Cancer. Please. Not that.