Sneak Attack Page 7
A grin crossed my face as I jogged down the street in the direction of the bar. Sex might not cure all problems but it sure as hell helped make some of the shit more tolerable.
Not that it had fully worked to distract me, unfortunately. I still kept picturing that slashed heavy bag every time I closed my eyes. Sweeping up the mess hadn’t made the image fade. I hoped Mia had followed through with security and Timmins. She tended to try to handle things on her own. Something like this wasn’t a solo mission. She needed to go through the channels, because if it wasn’t a troublemaking kid, if someone had it in for her—
Or you.
I shook that off. My worry was always for Mia.
I had to trust her to handle this situation the right way. She’d said she would, and I believed her. I wasn’t going to pull a Costas trip and act like some overlord. She was a grown woman and she could take care of herself.
And when she couldn’t, I would fucking kill anyone who looked at her wrong.
I managed to fit in about half an hour of studying in the back room of the bar before it was time for my shift. It passed as it always did, with cursing on all sides from the other bartenders and patrons alike. Baseball was on the TV, Yankees versus the Sox, and the accompanying cheers and shouts were enough to make my ears bleed.
Secretly, I liked the Sox more than the Yankees. I didn’t say it in mixed company because, well, tips.
In the middle of the chaos, I almost didn’t notice the blonde. She sat near the back, in a far corner at a table of jeering men. I didn’t think she was with them. Her chair was angled away from the table, but she wasn’t looking at the TV, which was odd enough in this crowd. Not everyone was a sports fan, though you sure couldn’t tell it right now.
She had an open book in her lap and a half full beer in front of her, one she’d yet to touch while I watched. Long hair streamed down her back in a ponytail and she wore khaki shorts and a snug tank top that revealed a runner’s body.
That wasn’t why she caught my attention. She was pretty enough, if you were on the market and looking. I was not. In the melee, she stood out because she was so still and watchful. Alone and unsmiling.
I nudged Constance, the bartender at my side, and jerked my chin in the blonde’s direction. “Did you serve her? I didn’t.”
“Who?”
“Blonde at nine o’clock, reading a book.”
“Nine o’clock?” Constance snorted. “You been watching NCIS again or did we fall into a spy novel?”
Barely, I resisted a sigh. “Just answer the question.”
“No. I didn’t serve her. Must’ve been Pete or Dani.”
“Dani’s been off shift for over an hour.”
“So?”
“So I doubt she served her.”
“Maybe your girlfriend sneaked in early and started pushing drinks when we weren’t watching.” Constance continued making a Sex on the Beach for one of the more adventurous patrons. Most of our customers stuck to brew, men and women alike. We weren’t some fancy ass martini joint like the ones on every corner in Manhattan. “Speaking of girlfriends, you looking for a new one or somethin’? Because Mia will break your dick if you’re thinking of stepping out.”
I didn’t comment. Our coworkers seemed to get unholy thrills from evaluating my relationship with Mia, probably because most of the people we knew had figured we’d call it quits inside of a month. Eight months later, we were still going strong, but some people just couldn’t stop scanning for cracks. Including me.
I just wished it wasn’t so damn easy to find them.
For once, this wasn’t about us. I had a weird feeling about that spooky girl in the corner with skin pale enough to see through. And in my former profession, weird feelings were to be heeded at all costs. Anytime that little twinge behind my eye—courtesy of Costas—kicked in, I paid attention.
Right now, that twinge was in freaking overdrive.
“Have you seen her in here before?” I asked, taking advantage of the momentary lull to polish the scarred top of the bar—and to keep an eye on the blonde. For what, I wasn’t sure. She was just a girl, reading a book and not drinking her beer.
Just a girl who looked up way too often to study the crowd.
She never once glanced at the TV, but she glanced toward the bar several times. Did she want to change her drink? Or maybe she was waiting for someone to arrive. Someone who worked here.
Someone like my girlfriend.
“Nah. She doesn’t seem familiar. But I don’t keep tabs on everyone who strolls in and out of this joint, ya know? I have work to do.” Constance served the frou frou drink to a balding man with a combover and gave the rag I was circling halfheartedly a pointed glance. “As do you.”
An hour later, spooky girl hadn’t moved and Mia was late. Mia was never late. I checked my phone about six times, looking for a text, and was so busy flicking through my messages in case I’d missed one that I almost didn’t see her come flying through the door and behind the bar.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fucking late. So sue me,” she called to our boss Carmine, and I grinned so hard that my eye throbbed.
Sometimes regular life was just fucking perfect.
My grin lasted until I glanced toward spooky girl’s table and discovered she was gone. That fast. In the throb of an eye.
I frowned and gripped my phone, torn between ripping off my stupid apron and heading out to see if I could track down where she went or saying hello to my girl.
Mia came out and took the choice out of my hands. “Your mother is hanging out in my apartment,” she muttered, passing me as she grabbed a pitcher for a customer who’d flagged her down the instant she entered the bar.
When I only stared at her, not understanding, she amended, “Our apartment.”
While I appreciated her attempt at showing joint ownership, my mother’s location was a much more immediate concern. I snagged my fingers in the belt loops of Mia’s jeans and pulled her into my chest, absorbing the crush of her breasts into my chest with a kind of distant pleasure. Okay, not that distant. I was distracted, not dead. “My mother?”
She nodded. “She’s camped out in the apartment, waiting for you.”
“Why is she there?”
“Ask her.”
When Mia tried to spin away, I dragged her right back, only partially to feel her nipples dig into my chest one more time. “I’m asking you. What did she say?”
“Not much. She had a box of your stuff with her, but she didn’t let me see what it was. She seemed upset, so I left her in Carly and Kizzy’s care.” Her throat moved and an unreadable emotion flashed in her eyes. “Tray, she had a bruise on her cheek.”
Inside, I went cold and still. Thoughts of the blonde who’d consumed me moments before vanished, replaced by the heaviness in Mia’s expression and the knowledge of what had caused it.
That bastard had hit my mother again.
I pulled off my apron, fisting it while my gaze wheeled around the bar without landing anywhere. What was I going to do? Storm out of there and play the hero for someone who didn’t want it?
You do it every day with Mia. Why is it any different to do it for the woman who gave birth to you?
Cursing, I flung my apron in the direction of the space under the bar and strode to the pass-through, shoving it up before I walked out of the bar and just kept going. Mia shouted after me, but I didn’t stop. I wasn’t mad at her. Why would I be? It wasn’t her fault she’d seen the big ol’ jagged edge in my parents’ relationship.
More like a crater-sized hole.
“Tray, wait.” At the corner, she grabbed my arm and pulled me to a halt. “Hang on. I can come back with you, if it would help.”
“You’re on shift right now.” I didn’t even know why I was so angry or why I was letting it spill all over her. The violence between my parents wasn’t a new thing.
But Mia hadn’t seen it. My mother hadn’t brought it right to our doorstep before. Mine and Mia’s.
“What could you possibly do?”
Her hesitation made me shove a hand through my hair. “Fuck, baby, I’m sorry. I really am not in the best shape for—”
“It’s hard letting someone see, isn’t it?” she whispered, and I fell silent.
It was rare for the tables to be turned. Normally I was trying to tug out bits and pieces from Mia. She didn’t do the opposite. If I said I didn’t want to talk, she let me stew. She left me alone.
Maybe for fucking once, I didn’t want to be left.
“Yes,” I said finally, looking down at her hand on my arm. Her fingers curled tighter and she pulled me against her side until she could rest her head on my shoulder. “It’s goddamn hard.”
“Want to go to therapy with me?” At the horrified expression that must’ve crossed my face, she laughed so hard that she doubled over. Her long braids fell over her shoulders and it reminded me of the first time I’d really seen her laugh at the very beginning of our relationship.
I was capable of making Mia get the giggles, if nothing else. Too bad it was at me, not with me.
“Sorry. Bad timing. But my therapist has been bugging me to ask you to come.”
“Why?” I tried to keep the edge of panic out of my voice. Lost cause. “I don’t need therapy.”
Just like that, Mia stopped laughing.
Dammit. I’d freaking sucker punched her, and I was the one who couldn’t breathe.
“I didn’t mean that,” I began, trying to connect the frayed wires in my brain to make some kind of usable spark. What I’d said wasn’t right, or fair. I was as fucked up as anyone. I just couldn’t bear to admit it right now.
“No, no, you’re right. You don’t need therapy. Just fucked up ol’ me.” She held up her hands as she backed up. “Look, I have to get back to work. I’ll cover with Carmine for you.”
“Mia.”
“Go be with your mother. One more thing you have that I don’t. Your sanity, and your parents.”
She melted into the foot traffic flowing up the street before I could apologize.
As if an apology could be enough to make up for what I’d said so thoughtlessly. It had been so difficult for her to start therapy, and to keep going when the first therapists weren’t a good fit. With a few careless words, I’d turned her courage into weakness.
I deserved to be shot.
Swallowing hard, I glanced back where she’d gone. I wanted so badly to go back and tell her how screwed up the situation with my parents made me, how what I’d said had to do with my own stupid machismo and nothing else. She was the bravest person I’d ever known. If therapy could give me a fraction of her strength, I’d go every day for the rest of my life.
But she was at work, and my mother was in her apartment. Right now even calling it ours in my head felt like a lie. That was as tenuous as everything else between us.
I’d make it up to Mia. The alternative wasn’t something I could tolerate thinking about.
Somehow I put one foot ahead of the other and moved through the bodies packing the sidewalk in the early evening. Within a few blocks, walking fast wasn’t enough. I needed to run. To forcibly get the corrosion out of my lungs. I took off, dodging the people in my path, my gaze on the peeks of sun-soaked horizon between the buildings. I’d run forever if I had to.
Eventually it wouldn’t hurt so damn much to stay still.
At Mia’s building, I slowed and fumbled out my key for the lobby. I hit the stairs at the same clip, finally stopping in front of Mia’s apartment. I wanted to knock, and what bullshit was that? This was my place, at least temporarily.
Before I could make myself go inside, I heard the music. And the laughter.
Tentatively, I turned the knob, prepared to see just about anything occurring in Mia’s apartment.
Including my mother, Carly and Mia’s friend Kizzy dancing around the kitchen table, hand-in-hand as they screamed-sang Meredith Brooks’ “Bitch”. I only recognized the song because Slater’s sister Jenna liked to whip it out to torment her pacifist older brother.
At the moment, I felt pretty tormented myself.
“Hello,” I ventured cautiously, unsurprised when the trio of women didn’t so much as look up from their booty-shaking antics. Carly was brandishing some kind of mixing utensil over her head like a tomahawk, and it was dripping batter all over the floor and all over her. Kizzy had a bowl under her arm and she continued to stir while she shook her generous bottom.
And my mother—
I shut my eyes and covered my face with my hand. This wasn’t happening. My mother wasn’t dancing in her underwear while shaking a container of nuts.
Alternate universe, please send down your spaceship. I want off this planet.
“Foxy!” Carly’s screech made me drop my hand and sag, defeated, against the door. It shut with a thud, or else that was the sound of my brain exploding.
Abruptly, my mother stopped dancing. Kizzy, however, only whooped louder and dropped it down low to grind against her bowl like she was three seconds away from a Kitchen Aid-induced orgasm.
These were things I would never, ever be able to scrub out of my mind.
“Hey there. Wasn’t expecting you so early.” With a pointed glance at my now shellshocked mother, Carly ripped off the work schedule I’d tacked on the fridge. “You have another hour of work. And class. And umm, this isn’t what it looks like, I swear.”
“No? What is it then?”
My capacity to be shocked by Carly and Kizzy’s antics was apparently boundless. They’d stunned me with bedazzled penis cakes and all manner of other shenanigans, and every time I went down like a green fighter from a one-two punch.
But my mother. My mother was a prim and proper attorney’s wife who wore pearls and pumps to her society luncheons. In fact, she still wore the pearls and the pumps right now. Unfortunately, they didn’t go so well with her black underwear set.
I turned away. Dear God, my eyes. My eyes.
Even in the midst of my confused, semi-nauseous state, I was grateful too. If these crazy girls had made my mom laugh and dance for a few minutes, they were damn near miracle workers. Cynthia Knox laughed about as much as Mia had earlier this year, before I’d come into her life. My mother definitely didn’t dance and sing in her underwear, unless I’d been spared that indignity in my childhood.
So I supposed I shouldn’t act like a dick. I’d done enough of that for one week.
Bracing myself, I faced the kitchen again. I was relieved to see Kizzy had stopped getting intimate with her piece of stainless steel and was now slouched against the counter with a muffin wedged halfway into her mouth. Carly was fiddling with the old school radio Mia had brought along from their last apartment. And my mom had abandoned her container of nuts in favor of rotating her wedding band around her finger, her gaze centered anywhere but on me.
“Mia told me you were here,” I said, stepping forward in spite of every instinct that shouted for me to leave. The girls had been handling this situation better than I ever could. “I’m taking the rest of the evening off,” I said into the sudden silence as Carly snapped off the radio.
“We’ll just be in the other room.” Carly grabbed Kizzy’s arm.
Kizzy didn’t move. “Why? I’m eating. What if I want more muffins?”
“Bring another one.”
“I’m really hungry. One more might not be enough.”
Carly grabbed the brown bread box and shoved it at Kizzy before tugging her down the hall. “If you need us…” She trailed off and shut the door on Kizzy’s squawking. Even a mouthful of muffin couldn’t shut that girl up.
Gotta say I kind of admired her for it, because I felt as if I’d gone mute.
My mother picked up the half empty wineglass on the counter and tipped it back. “I’m not drunk,” she said when she turned to meet my stare.
“Didn’t say you were.�
�� Honestly, I didn’t know how she’d had time to get drunk, unless Mia had chosen to leave out a lot of the story. That was probably par for our course lately.
“I just had one glass. That’s all I needed.”
“Understandable.”
“You don’t understand, Tray. How could you, when I don’t?” She sat down at the battered kitchen table Mia had dragged with her from her last apartment and braced her elbows on the scarred wood. “They didn’t ask me if I wanted to sing or dance. The moment Mia left, they just turned on the music and pulled me into the circle as if I was one of their friends.”
Yeah, no one tended to break into song around Mia under normal circumstances. But I was still more than a little surprised that my mother had danced and sang without being under the influence of a hell of a lot more than a few sips of wine. “How’d you lose your clothes?”
Her weak smile turned into a weak laugh. “I guess I was just in the moment.” She gestured to the living room. “They’re on the couch.”
The neat pile of garments fit her personality, at least. She was well known for her military corners and knife pleats, even if a staff at home meant she rarely had to make beds or fold clothes. “Want me to get them?”
“I can do it. I shouldn’t be sitting around like this.”
“It’s no worse than a bathing suit.” Maybe I hadn’t turned into a 100% grade A dick after all. Hope still remained.
“My bathing suit covers up a lot more than this. Dr. Dixon would be aghast if he knew I was showing off my stretch marks in such garish lighting.” She shook her head, talking about her liposuctionist with the same kind of familiarity as one spoke of the family doctor. “Sit. You look tired.”