All Fixed Up (24 page)

The wave of relief that spread through me was embarrassing.
Come on, Ciel, grow a pair. You can't expect him to hold your hand forever.

And I didn't. I could take care of myself. I'd proved it, hadn't I? Someone had tried to kill me, and here I was, still alive. I was going to focus on that, and ignore the fact that I'd pretty much crumpled on the inside afterward. Because so what?

So. The. Fuck. What.

I dug through the covers for the thermal, and pulled it over my head. The important thing was, I could function in a crisis. Who cared about the immediate aftermath? I was fine now.
That
was what mattered.

Still, I jumped like a scared mouse when the door opened. I knew it had to be Mark, and jumped anyway, pure reflex. Crap. Jangled nerves sucked.

“Sorry, Howdy,” he said in a perfectly normal voice, like my idiot reaction was somehow his fault. He put some bags on the kitchen counter. The smaller appeared to be from a nearby storefront diner.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” I said. “Guess I'm a little … never mind. Whatcha got there?”

He pulled two large, lidded paper cups out of a bag and handed one to me. “I can't guarantee the quality, but it's decaf.”

It smelled heavenly. “Thanks. At this point, if it's black and made from a bean I'm willing to give it a go.”

Next out of the bag was the biggest, gooiest cinnamon roll I'd ever seen. My mouth watered, and without thinking I blurted, “Oh, my God, I love you!”

I froze.
Crap, Ciel, what the hell?
“Um, I mean…” I ventured a look at his face.

He was smiling. “Gee, if I'd known it was that easy I would have plied you with pastries weeks ago,” he said.

“Mark…” I said, then stopped, biting the inside of my cheek.

“Howdy, eat. We can have the ‘about last night' talk later.”

I'm totally cool with procrastination, especially when it involves cinnamon and sugar. I dug in and put off thinking about the day ahead of me for the few precious moments I could.

While I was eating, Mark pulled some clothes out of the other bag. Some very familiar-looking clothes. I dropped the roll, rinsed my hands, and went for a closer inspection. It was the reindeer-playing-poker sweater, along with everything else I'd been wearing the day before.

“But how…?” I said, running my hands over everything. “I mean, they were soaked with … they were
ruined.
These look brand new!”

Mark smiled. “They are. I had someone go to the station yesterday and inspect your clothes. She tracked down the stores where your mother shops—don't worry, your mom doesn't know—and bought duplicates of everything.”

My eyes started leaking again. “I won't have to explain what happened. I won't have to tell my parents I—” I dropped the sweater I'd been clutching and hurled myself at Mark. “Thank you.”

“No problem. I thought it might make it easier for you go home.”

I pulled away from the hug. “But I can't—”

“Ciel, I have to get back out on the street. I
have
to find Loughlin and I can't—I
won't
—leave you here alone.”

“You don't have to—I can go with you. I can help! I can handle myself, you know I—”

“No.”

“But you know I'm capable. And you said…” I was about to remind him he'd regretted not keeping me with him before, but somehow that seemed like a low blow, so I stopped myself.

“Howdy, after how you've handled yourself this past week, I damn well believe you're capable of anything. But
I'm
not. I can't worry about you out there on the street with me, not when you're pregnant.”

Damn it. I knew I had a responsibility to the tiny alien growing inside me, but it was going to take some adjusting. I sighed my reluctant agreement.

Relief softened his eyes. “You can stay with your parents, or James. Even Brian. Or I can have you flown back to D.C. to stay with Thomas and Laura. Your choice.”

“I don't think I can be around Thomas and Laura right now,” I said quietly. Mark was a smart guy. He'd figure out why.

He nodded. “I suggest your parents. You can't avoid them for long this time of year, and your mom will keep you too busy to worry about … things.”

I took a deep breath. “Yeah, okay. You're right. I suppose it's too much to expect Mom and Dad don't know about what happened at the skating rink. Did it make the news?”

“It did. But a police spokesperson, at our suggestion”—yeah, right, “suggestion”—“told the press a mentally disturbed homeless man was harassing a woman at the rink, which led to a horrific accident. No names were released in order to respect the privacy of all involved.”

“Did they mention the woman was Japanese? Because Mom was the one who gave me the aura.”

Mark smiled a tiny bit. “I believe that fact was omitted.”

“Maybe Mom won't connect it to me then. I never told her I was going skating.”

“That's the idea.”

“Do you think the press will leave it alone?” I said.

He shrugged. “This is New York. It won't be long before something crazier comes along to distract them.”

True enough. “Let's hope it doesn't involve another adaptor.”

“I'm going to see that it doesn't,” he said. “Do me a favor and put your clothes on so we can get going.”

“Sure. Only, um, about last night…” I began hesitantly.

“Ciel, last night was for you, no strings. You were hurting, and I hope I helped.” He paused, then seemed to come to a decision. “There's only one thing I'm going to ask from you. If you and Billy wind up back together”—my heart clutched at the thought—“and it turns out the baby is mine, I need to be a part of its life. We don't have to tell people I'm the father—my aim isn't to make life complicated for anyone—but I
have
to be there, in some capacity, for my child.”

Seemed only fair. I nodded. “And if Billy and I don't get back together?”

A strange—for him—look settled on his face. I couldn't quite read it. “You could always marry me.”

I stared, stunned. “But it's more than likely not even your baby.”

“I told you last night that doesn't matter. I meant it.”

I twisted my mouth into a wry smile. “Oh, right. Mark to my rescue yet again. You really need to do something about that savior complex, you know.”

He shook his head, slowly. “It's not that, Ciel. Not even a little bit. I'll settle for being your friend if I have to, but I
want
it all. With you. I thought you knew that.”

 

Chapter 20

Mark dropped me at my parents', leaving me in what one of my favorite high school science teachers would have referred to as a state of disequilibrium. Funny how your dearest adolescent dream can come true and leave you more bewildered than you've ever been in your life.

Why did Mark have to be so goddamn perfect? It made me feel small by comparison, and not size-wise either. The relief I felt at the giant safety net he was offering me, no strings attached, was not something I found attractive about myself. But it was the truth.

An even bigger truth? I couldn't stop thinking about Billy. Where was he? Was he okay? Would he come back once the shock wore off, or was he out of my life for good? Was he even safe? Or had, God forbid, Loughlin somehow gotten to him?

Ugh. Being honest with yourself is
so
overrated.

Mom had Dad deep in the present-wrapping cave when I got there. After a hello and good-bye to Mark, who'd walked me in, Mom reminded me of my planned shopping excursion with Billy's sisters. Sinead and Siobhan had called earlier to ask what time I'd be there. Mom had told them no later than one o'clock.

When I'd mentioned that perhaps holiday shopping so soon after Jenny's murder was not in the best of taste, Mom said she'd already been to the nearest Catholic church and lit a candle for her, and there was nothing more any of us could do until the body was released to the funeral home.

“But, Mom, you're not Catholic,” I pointed out.

She shrugged. “No, but Jenny was. I thought it would be a nice gesture. I said a rosary, too. I'm not sure I got all the words right, and I had to use your great-great-aunt Maria-Louisa's rosary beads—she was Catholic, married to my great-uncle Harold; she tried to get him to convert, but he never would, such a stubborn man—but I'm sure Jenny wouldn't have minded.”

“Is that even allowed?” I said.

“It is. I checked with the priest. He said non-Catholics were welcome to use sacramentals as long as they did it in a respectful manner. Which I did. So I think it's okay to go Christmas shopping. After all, God would want us to celebrate His son's birthday, right? And so would Jenny. Now, why don't you go shower and change while I make you some lunch.”

I almost told her I didn't need to change, but as far as she knew, I'd been wearing the same clothes since the day before, so I went with it.

It was all so ridiculously normal. The incident at the ice rink was starting to seem like a freakishly terrible nightmare—horrible, and yet distant from reality. I wasn't sure if that made me feel better or worse about the whole thing.

Up in my room, I looked in my dresser mirror, jabbed my reflection, and said, “You took a life.” I felt the pain I needed to feel, because I couldn't bear to think of myself as someone who could kill a person and shrug it off the next day. Then I did shower again. I told myself it was because Mom might be listening, not anything Lady Macbethian.

Lunch was … interesting. Mom had seen a recipe for grilled Brie sandwiches on French bread, with apricot jam. Only she didn't have exactly the right ingredients, so she figured grilled blue cheese on raisin bread with grape jelly would probably be as good. (She was wrong.) Even the cats were hiding.

During lunch she attached a truly hideous Rudolph pin—with a battery-powered nose—to the soft white lambswool sweater I had purposely chosen for its lack of kitsch. Why did I even try? But I did manage to hide half my sandwich in my purse while she was hunting for a fresh battery, so yay, Rudolph. Also, it could have been worse. At least she hadn't added tinsel to my jeans. And my treasured new boots (which had, of course, been safely in a locker at the rink, and so had emerged unscathed) were still classy.

Sadly, as I headed out into the shopping abyss, I couldn't even bitch and moan about it inwardly anymore without feeling petty. Yet another casualty of the asshole at the rink.

My new bodyguard was older, bigger, and altogether tougher-looking than Carl, whose condition, according to Mark, was improving. It could still go either way, but the odds were starting to tilt toward survival, thank God.

Mark had introduced the new guy to me only as “Davis.” He'd been parked in front of the house when we'd arrived, not making any attempt to conceal himself or his reason for being there. It wasn't like it was any secret we were being guarded.

“So, is Davis your first or last name?” I said by way of making conversation after he'd safely escorted me from the front door to the big SUV, and slid into the driver's seat.

“Last,” he said, his cheeks reddening, which was oddly sweet on a face that looked like it belonged on a prize fighter.

I kept looking at him until he expelled a grumpy sigh. “Al.”

“Al?”

He nodded.

“Alexander? Alfred? Alan? Alcott?” (Yeah, I know. Nosy. But it was better than dwelling on all the other shit.)

His mouth tightened. “Alastair,” he said, sounding so pained I felt compelled to bite the inside of my lower lip to keep from laughing.

“Ma thought it would class up the family,” he explained.

“It's nice,” I said.

Al looked disgusted. “I told everybody in school I was named for my uncle, Al Capone.”

I laughed. I'd have to bear that in mind when it came time to consider what to name—
crap
.
For God's sake, Ciel, think about something else.

A woman tapped on the driver's side window. Al didn't seem alarmed, so I guessed he knew her. He unlocked the back door and she climbed in.

“Sorry I'm late—I got called off another job. So, I hear we're going shopping,” she said, and stuck her hand over my seat to shake my hand. “Hi. I'm Candy. I'll be tagging along with you today.”

To say Candy was Amazon-esque would be an understatement. She was tall and athletic-looking, with close-cropped brown hair and large (for a woman) hands. But she had a serious sprinkling of freckles on her pale cheeks and nose, so I felt an immediate kinship with her.

“Ciel,” I said, though I was sure she already knew who I was. I was her assignment, after all.

She smiled broadly, exhibiting a small gap between her front teeth. It worked for her. “Six-three, and I have no interest in playing for the WNBA.” She shrugged, laughing. “Everybody wonders.”

I grinned back at her. “Damn. And here I was hoping you could help me refine my jump shot before I try out for the Mystics.” The Mystics were the D.C. women's basketball team. I didn't follow them, but Thomas did. I suspect he has a thing for tall, kick-ass women. Which would explain, of course, how he wound up with Laura.

Candy laughed again and said, “Might be easier to toss you at the net and let you dunk it.” Yeah, I liked her. When she was finished laughing, she sniffed the air around her. “Christ, Al, what's that smell? Did you spill milk on the carpet?”

Oops. Blue cheese and raisin bread. Guess it hit you harder if you hadn't just eaten it. I should 'fess up, but it would be embarrassing to explain my childish hide-the-food behavior. I was supposed to be an adult. I'd find someplace to dump it later.