No Such Thing as a Lost Cause (9 page)

“Oh, that,” I shrugged, as a kernel of resentment sprung up in my throat surprising
the crap out of me. I swallowed hard and shoved it back down. “Nothing to worry about.
Just your typical evening at Chez Alexander.”

Nick eyed me as he knelt down to unwind the puppy’s leash from around my legs. “Come
on, Angel. Let’s get out of here.”

A million questions raced through my brain. Like how did Nick manage to turn up just
when I needed him most, and why was he dressed like Rambo? But the question that loomed
above all others was why I suddenly felt so pissed off. And more confusing was the
fact that the target of my anger wasn’t the schmuck who’d shot up my house.

We piled my rapidly growing menagerie into the back of the truck, and I began to climb
in after them. Nick caught me around the waist and deposited me in the front seat.
He seemed singularly unconcerned that I was dripping water all over his leather upholstery.

“Are you sure you want me up front? I don’t smell too good,” I announced as if it
were Breaking News.

Nick tucked me in close to him. “I’ll take my chances,” he said, and the anger I’d
felt dissolved as suddenly as it had come. I leaned my head back against the crook
of his arm and promptly fell asleep.

*****

“I don’t care that the cheese is imported,” I insisted, awaking with a start
.
“I don’t like frittatas.”

Nick laughed quietly. “I’ll make a note of that, Angel.”

“What?” I rubbed my eyes and looked around. We were parked in the loading zone in
front of an understated, yet elegant apartment building located across the street
from Rittenhouse Square. Nick’s place.

Nick gently disengaged his arm from around my shoulders and turned off the engine.
He unloaded Rocky’s carrier and unlocked the front gate, while I coaxed the dogs out
of the back seat and into the pouring rain.

We rode the elevator in exhausted silence. Butterflies slammed against the walls of
my insides as Nick led me down the hall to his apartment. He’d only been gone a few
weeks, but my insecurities were back in full force. And it didn’t help that I was
walking around in a smelly dog suit looking like a sorority pledge’s worst nightmare.

Inside, the apartment was hot and steamy like a tropical rain forest. A faint smell
of coffee lingered in the air. The living room window had been left open a crack,
and a small puddle of rain had collected on the hardwood floor near the baby grand
piano in the corner.

Nick put down Rocky’s cat carrier and closed the window. Then he crossed back over
to me and held me in his arms. “I’ve missed you, Brandy Alexander.”

“Is that why I haven’t heard from you?” I murmured into his chest. “Because you missed
me?”

Oh, shit. I didn’t mean to say that. Okay, I was thinking it, but I definitely did
not mean to say it.

Nick raised an eyebrow. “You’re mad at me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I was
so
mad at him! How could he run off and leave me when we hadn’t had our talk that I
didn’t want to have in the first place and avoided like the plague? Doesn’t he know
how this works?

“It’s just been a long couple of weeks,” I explained.

Nick lifted my chin until our eyes met, and I studied, with growing apprehension,
the gash on his brow.

“We both have a lot of catching up to do, Angel,” he said as if to ward off my inevitable
barrage of questions. “But maybe we can put all that on hold just for tonight.”

Perhaps I was finally learning some self control—or maybe it was the way he ran his
fingers lightly down my spine as he slowly unzipped the back of the dog costume, that
made me see the wisdom of his suggestion.

“Um, okay.”

Santiago led me into the bathroom and shut the door. He lit a candle and filled the
tub with bath bubbles left by a former overnight guest. I suppose I should’ve been
jealous, only the practical side of me took over, and I figured, “I’m here, she’s
not, why waste perfectly good bubbles?”

Nick stripped off his wet tee shirt, and I was surprised to find the bandages had
been removed. Gingerly, I touched the length of his scar. “Does it hurt?” I whispered
as if by keeping my voice down that would somehow mitigate the pain.

In response, Nick took my hand and held it palm up, brushing his lips over the fleshy,
most sensitive part. “This is called the Mount of Venus. It was named after the Roman
Goddess of Love,” he said and bit down just hard enough to send a current of electricity
straight to my lower belly and then some.

“Mount of Venus,” I repeated. “I’ve always wondered what it was called.”
I’ve never wondered what it’s called. I’m making shit up. I’m just so nervous!

Nick looked me up and down as if he wanted to devour me. “Some people believe that
a fleshy palm is the sign of a great lover.”

“Really? Y’know, my grandmother had the fattest palms…”
Unh, way to go, Brandy. Bring your grandmother into it. Super sexy.

“Listen,” I said, feeling like a big, fat, romantic zero, “I think I can take it from
here. Why don’t you go check your mail or something, and I’ll get cleaned up and be
with you in a jiffy.”

Nick slipped his arms around me, his hands riding low on the small of my back. “Or,”
he suggested in a voice so husky it made my knees wobble, “I could just stay here
with you.”

“Oh, but—”

“Shh, mi amada,” he said and kissed me full on the mouth.

With agonizing slowness he peeled the costume off my shoulders, inching it down my
body. I was soaked through to my bra, which, much to my chagrin, was the one I wore
on Laundry Day and looked like a family heirloom. I didn’t have to worry though, because
Nick unsnapped it one handed, and it fell to the floor. I kicked it aside and unbuckled
his pants.

I couldn’t help but look down. Nick’s time away must’ve been all business because
he sure looked ready to play. I reached down and cupped his balls. They were full,
and tight. He smiled and pulled me close, and all the fucked up shit of the past few
weeks melted away as he pressed himself against me.

“Did you miss me?” Nick whispered. Rubbing his thumb roughly over one nipple, he sucked
on the other, until they peaked with desire.

“Oh, God, yes,” I moaned, arching my back. My pulse quickened and my stomach turned
to mush as he insinuated himself between my legs. Every nerve ending was on heightened
alert.

Uh, oh. I need to slow down. At the rate this is going, the night will be over before
it even gets started.

I distracted myself by mentally reciting the twelve times table and the entire 2012
Phillies lineup.

“Stop it, Angel.” Nick swatted me on the ass, just hard enough to let me know who
was in charge. I would have been mad as Hell, if I hadn’t been so damn aroused.

“Stop what?”

“Stop thinking.”

I felt my face flush. “How did you—?”

“I pay attention.” Santiago picked me up and I wrapped my legs around his waist as
he carried me into the bedroom. He set me down on the bed and stretched out beside
me. “There’s no need to try to prolong the pleasure, Darlin.’ We have all night, and
I plan to use every minute of it pleasuring you—again—” he paused to kiss the nape
of my neck—“and again—” he moved down my stomach and licked at my belly button before
dipping his head lower still—“and again.”

*****

My dad always says the best way to forget your troubles is to throw yourself into
your work. Unfortunately… as of ten o’clock the next morning, that was no longer an
option.

“You’re firing me? On what grounds? Look, if this is about the graffiti in the women’s
bathroom, I want to go on record as saying I did not write, “Eric smells like farts.”
(Although at the moment, I was in total agreement with whoever did.)

Eric sat at his desk fumbling with a rubber band. He wouldn’t make eye contact… the
little weasel. “Brandy, this is coming from upstairs. They think your life is a little
too—complicated right now, and it’s hurting the station’s image.”

“Are you freakin’ kidding me? WINN is a news station. I
am
the news. If it wasn’t for me, you people wouldn’t have anything to talk about.”

“That’s the point. Our viewers tune in to your segment to get away from all the lousy
things that happen in this city. You’re supposed to be the comic relief.”

Okay, I could see where he was coming from, but still…“Well, good luck in finding
a replacement. I was freakin’ awesome!”

“Yeah,” he agreed, dead serious, “you were. Listen, I feel really terrible about this.
If you need a recommendation or anything—”

“Can I keep my press pass?”

Eric grunted. “All right. But I could get canned for this. So if you get caught using
it, you’re on your own.”

I gave him a quick nod. “Understood. And thanks.”

In truth, I wasn’t all that upset about losing my job at WINN. I had some money saved,
and if I got desperate, I could always go back to waiting tables at Paul’s club. Not
the ideal solution since I drove away most of his regulars through sheer incompetence,
but it was nice to have a backup plan. Plus, the break would give me time to look
into Mario’s death, starting with the mystery man, Donte.

An hour later, I found a great, new work space—a corner office, with a big picture
window (and free WiFi!) when Nick called.

“Hello?” I whispered.

“Where are you, Darlin’?”

“The Barnes and Noble Café. I sort’ve got fired today.”

“Are you okay?”

“Actually, I’m relieved. It was a dumb job, and it just kept getting dumber. I missed
you this morning,” I added.

I had woken up alone in Nick’s bed, not exactly a rousing endorsement of my feminine
wiles, I thought, but then I saw the note he’d left on the pillow.

“Had an early morning meeting and didn’t want to wake you. There’s fresh coffee and
croissants in the kitchen. If you go out, call Alphonso and take the gun. And since
I know you won’t do either, just be careful.”

“Have you spoken to DiCarlo?” he asked.

“No, why?”

“I heard a rumor that the Junk Town Gang is looking for one of their members. Seems
this person fucked up big time, and they’re not happy about it.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know the nature of this fuck-up, would you?”

“Like I said, it’s just a rumor, but one that shouldn’t be ignored.”

In the background, I could hear someone knock on Nick’s office door. “Listen, Angel,
I’ve got to run,” he said as a distinctly female voice called his name.

“Oh, is that Tanya? Tell her I said hi.” Tanya was Nick’s stunningly beautiful assistant
who, for some reason, I used to hate. But then Nick mentioned that she was a lesbian
and now I really like her.

“It’s not Tanya.”

“Oh.” I waited for him to go on, but apparently Nick thought that was all the explanation
necessary.

“I’ll be home around six, and then we’re going to have that talk.”

It was probably just the barista’s special blend that had my stomach all in knots.

*****

Occam’s Razor ascribes to the idea that the simplest answer is often correct. As I
didn’t even have a last name for the relative Mario referred to as Donte, I decided
to go with Lewis. Two hours and four espressos later, after exhausting all the professional
websites top notch investigators use to track down missing people, I found the man
I was looking for through the wonders of Facebook. It’s amazing what people will share
about themselves on the social network.

I knew it was the right Donte because he’d posted a video of himself and Mario performing
a stunt suitable for the season premiere of
Jackass
. It also listed his date of birth (August 24
^th)
, his musical preference (Gangsta Rap), and his place of employment (North Philadelphia
Ambulance Company). Funny, I didn’t picture him working for a company whose purpose
was to save lives.

I thought briefly about telling Vince what I’d discovered. But then the quadruple
shot of caffeinated heaven I’d consumed had wrapped itself around my brain, strangling
the common sense right out of it. Without thinking I picked up the phone and punched
in the ambulance company’s phone number.

A woman answered. She sounded old and cranky and bored.

“NPAC. This is Nadine. How can I direct your call?”

Hmm, I hadn’t thought of that. Note to self: Plan ahead.
“Um, hello. My name is—Linda—Lovelace, and I’m with First Philadelphia Savings and
Loan. I’m calling to verify the employment of a Mr. Donte Lewis with your company.”

“Lewis don’t work here no more.”

“Oh, but it says right here on his Facebook page—I mean his application—”

“Nah. We haven’t seen the guy in a week. He never showed up for his shift. Didn’t
call or nothin’. Didn’t even come by to collect his pay check. I’d think twice about
lending money to that loser.”

“Thanks for the tip. Um, do you have an address for Lewis?”

“Isn’t it on his application?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Listen, I’m worried that something might have happened to Mr.
Lewis, Nadine, and it’s very important that we get a hold of him. Is there someone
there who might still be in touch with him?”

There was a brief pause before she answered. “You could try talking to Jimmy Cooke.
They worked together. Give me your number and, I’ll have him give you a call.”

“Thank you.”

“Any time, Ms. Lovelace.” I could hear her snorting with laughter as she hung up the
phone.

*****

I was parked at a booth at the Dunkin’ Donuts three blocks from the ambulance company,
waiting for Jimmy Cooke. I’d bought myself a powdered jelly doughnut and picked out
a chocolate one for Jimmy. After I ate mine, I realized that Jimmy might feel awkward
if he didn’t like it, so I ate that one too.

“Linda?”

I looked over at the door and saw a guy in a Phillies’ cap waddle toward me. He was
five foot eight inches of pure beer belly.