A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red (46 page)

I whipped my hand away and Chuck growled. He actually growled, like he did when the phlebotomist came in his hospital room with her tray full of bloodletting equipment. That woman ran away and was replaced with a former Army medic. He laughed and jabbed Chuck hard and fast. If Stevie had any sense, he would’ve been afraid of Chuck but he was Stevie and no Army guy, so he wasn’t.

“Is she still pissed about the lucky thing?” asked Stevie.
 

“I’m not,” I lied. But it stung. People were always saying I was lucky. Nobody ever said I was smart.
 

“She was, but I
was
getting her over it before
you
came,” snapped Chuck.
 

“Then I’m just in time to help.”
 

“You’re not helping.”
 

“I am,” said Stevie, taking a big drink of my wine. “That’s good. Tastes like one of my dad’s favorites.”
 

Chuck and I stared at him.
 

“You shouldn’t be pissed, Mercy. Your dad gets things wrong all the time. It’s just that nobody notices. Take me, for instance. He got me all wrong.”
 

I took back my glass. “What are you going on about?”
 

“Tommy sent Chuck to get me and bring me home. He was expecting me back days ago, but you’re here. Chuck’s not going to hurry back to St. Louis with
you
here. He was a right idiot, when you think about it. Feel better?”
 

I looked at Chuck, but he was studying the wine glass in his hand.
 

“It does. Thanks,” I said.
 

Jessica came over, her face placid but I could feel the tension in her. Irene’s didn’t like disturbances. “Is this gentleman with you?”
 

“Yes,” I said before Chuck could utter the “no” that was dancing on his lips. He growled instead.

“Would you like a menu, sir?” asked Jessica, holding out a menu.
 

Chuck swiped the menu before Stevie had a chance to take it. “I’ll give you five hundred bucks to throw him in the freezer.”
 

Jessica barely managed to keep her professional composure. “I would, sir, but the police frown on that kind of thing.”
 

“What’s in the freezer?” asked Stevie.
 

“Not much,” said Jessica. “Our food is fresh.”

“Stevie, you’re ruining my life,” said Chuck.

“I’m saving your life. It’s not a party without Stevie.”
 

“I could kill you and hide the body.”
 

Stevie laughed and took the menu from him. “Yeah, you could. Now, what are you having? What’s good?”
 

“Everything,” I said.

“Nothing,” said Chuck. “Go away.”
 

Jessica bit her lower lip.
 

“Have the cap of ribeye,” I said. “It’s fabulous.”
 

“I’ll take it,” said Stevie and gave Jessica the menu. “So what were you guys talking about? The case?”
 

“No,” said Chuck.
 

“Yes,” I said. “The Farrell case to be specific.”
 

“That guy is a douchebag,” said Stevie, taking a wineglass from Jessica. “Let’s order another bottle. I’m thirsty. My date drained me dry.”
 

“Ew,” I said. “I didn’t need to know that.”
 

Stevie didn’t much care what I needed or wanted to know. He was going to tell us every gory detail. The nurse was even dumber than I thought. Stevie claimed he used a condom, three to be exact, and I only hoped he was being truthful. I once had to hunt down the girls he gave VD to. Stevie wasn’t the cleanest character, but girls rarely figured that out.
 

Stevie’s food came quickly and he ate even quicker. Chuck ordered a third bottle. Halfway through it, he lightened up and was cheerful by dessert. We laughed our way out onto the street after Chuck paid the enormous bill. I was tipsy enough not to feel too guilty as we walked down the center of the deserted street, still smelling the wonderful aromas drifting out of the door of Irene’s.
 

Stevie hooked his arm through mine. “What should we do now?”
 

“We should pack and clean up the house,” I said.
 

“That is so sensible.” He gazed up at the dark sky filled with billowing purple clouds. “Let’s not.”
 

“Stevie, you are going home to face the…the—”

“Music,” said Chuck.
 

“That’s right. Face the music for your wastrel life of petty crime. Is that right? Wastrel sounds wrong,” I said, tipping over in my stilettos to be caught by Stevie, who’d drunk three times as much as me but appeared sober.
 

“It’s wrong,” he said. “There’s nothing petty about my crime.”
 

“How about ill-conceived?”
 

“That’s what Dad calls me.” Stevie grinned.
 

“Really? That’s not good. The worst I get is useless. But I’m very useful. I’m here, doing stuff that people do.”
 

Stevie straightened me up. “We are useful. Very useful. We’re unappreciated in…”
 

“Our time. That’s right,” I said. “Totally unappreciated.”
 

Chuck shook his head. “I’ll give Mercy useful. But Stevie, you keep stealing your mother’s car.”
 

Stevie wheeled around and pointed a boney finger in Chuck’s broad chest. “She said the tires needed to be broken in.”
 

“All four times?”
 

“I think it was five.” Stevie began to count cars. “The jag. Twice. Lexus was once. BMW when I was nine.”
 

I broke in, “I don’t remember that.”
 

“Dad hid it. I convinced him that I didn’t know any better.” Stevie whispered in my ear, “I did.”
 

Chuck separated Stevie from the side of my face. “Do you hear that?”

“Yes,” I said. “It was four stolen cars.”
 

“Not that. The music.”
 

We stopped and tilted our heads in the direction of the cathedral. Definitely music and a distinctive type, too. I groaned, “It’s a second line. Tourists are such suckers.”
 

“A what?” asked Chuck.
 

“You know like a funeral, but for a wedding. There’s a jazz band and dancing down the streets,” I said with an exaggerated eye roll.
 

Chuck grabbed my hand. “That sounds freaking awesome. Let’s do it.”
 

“Do what?” I asked very slowly.
 

“Join that line thing. We can, can’t we?”
 

“Well, yeah, but it’s not a thing. My family’s been here forever and we don’t do wedding lines. It’s for tourists.”
 

Chuck pulled me close and I couldn’t hear anything, no music, no Stevie. “I don’t care if it’s for chipmunks. Let’s do it.”
 

“Okay.”
 

He dragged me down the street with Stevie trailing behind, asking if there would be bridesmaids. I would’ve told him he didn’t stand a chance, but he did. It made no sense, but there was bound to be a woman in the line for Stevie.
 

We went around the corner and found the line going past. It was a huge one, too. Two bands, twin brides and a couple of grooms, who had enough sense to look vaguely embarrassed. They were all drunk, which helped. Chuck used his long arm to push us right into the middle, where we danced like fools and felt pretty good about it. I was twirled by at least twelve well-dressed men from Jersey and a couple of Germans, too. My red dress was made for twirling. We went by Lafitte’s and Chuck dashed in for some well-timed hurricanes.
 

We danced and watched Stevie make out with two bridesmaids and, I fear, one of the groom’s mothers. It was okay, she said, because her husband had gone back to the hotel to watch
Nature
. I agreed that kissing strangers was absolutely okay, if your husband is boring, and then I was twirled away by Chuck.
 

The music got louder and my drink got lower.
 

“Check it out!” shouted Stevie. “It’s gonna be a dogpile.”
 

We were coming to an intersection and another line was, too. Our first band tried to stop, but was overwhelmed by the first bridal party and then the second band. Chuck danced me past the unsmiling police escort to the center of the intersection.
 

“We should get out of the way,” I said, looking around at the drunken mayhem.
 

Chuck took my chin and tilted it so that I looked up at him. “I never get out of the way. Don’t you know that yet?”
 

“It depends on what you mean by getti—”

He cupped my cheeks, bent low, and kissed me. His lips were hot and urgent. I sunk into him and then reached up, my arms going over his shoulders and then around his neck, like they’d been doing it forever. There was no awkwardness or hesitation. Nothing, but natural rightness that I’d never once felt before. I was supposed to be kissing Chuck. I couldn’t imagine why I hadn’t done it before.
 

Once we started kissing, we didn’t stop. We kissed through the rest of the second line, through a karaoke bar that Stevie brought us to. We kissed through beignets at midnight and red beans and rice at two. We kissed our way through Nana’s back door and landed on the sofa in a heap. I think I took a total of six breaths in five hours. I didn’t miss oxygen. Oxygen was for sissies. I only needed lips. Chuck’s lips. Were there any other lips? I didn’t think so.
 

His hands were all over me and I fully expected his fingers to pull down my panties, but they didn’t. I slid his hand up my skirt, but somehow, regretfully, it would slide back down my thigh. We fell asleep like that, tangled in each other’s arms, faces pressed together until the morning sunlight slanted in through the big glass windows in the back of the house. My face was itchy and stinging. I wiggled back from Chuck’s sleeping face and felt my chin. Beard burn. A world-class case. I could be used in medical textbooks under beard burn, see Mercy Watts.
 

I slid out from under Chuck’s arm and fell with a thump onto the floor.
 

“Where’re you going?” he asked.
 

“To make coffee.”
 

“Okay.” He rolled over and I crept to the kitchen, closed the door and pressed myself against it.
 

This is not good. Well, it is good. No, it’s bad. What about Pete? Pete!
 

I turned on Nana’s espresso machine and put my head on the counter. I’d have to tell him. He would be furious. Did I care? Yes, of course, I cared. I was supposed to care. I had to tell him. It was the right thing to do. Well…was it really? Did he need to know? What purpose would it serve? It would only hurt him.
 

Steaming hot espresso filled my cup. No milk. I deserved no such luxury. I took a sip. It was painfully strong, but, when the caffeine hit my system, my eyes focused and I saw the kitchen for the first time. We hadn’t just hit the sofa. We’d hit Pop Pop’s wine cellar as well. Two more bottles sat empty on the counter. How did we not pass out?
 

I threw away the bottles, found my phone, and stared at it while I ate a dried-out croissant. To call or not to call. They say confession is good for the soul. What I really wanted to do was go back to the sofa, fold myself into those arms, and forget about it. Not that I’d be allowed to forget. Fate doesn’t work that way. It did for some people, but not for me. And just to prove it, fate, or possibly karma, made my phone vibrate. It startled me so much that I nearly dropped it. Uncle Morty’s name appeared on the screen and my stomach unclenched. It didn’t last long.
 

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” he yelled.
 

I looked at the phone, afraid to put it back to my ear.
 

“Answer me!”
 

“Um, what?” I asked.
 

“You know what,” yelled Uncle Morty. “I had a good thing going. You have any idea how hard it is to find a wizard that’s up to my rogue? A rogue of my ability?”
 

I instantly pictured a romance novel cover,
The Scottish Rogue
or something like that. Uncle Morty, bare-chested in a kilt. Ick and improbable.
 

“You’re a rogue?”
 

“You know I’m a rogue.”
 

I think I’m still drunk. Very drunk.
 

“Mercy!”
 

“Um…I don’t know what’s happening,” I said. “You’re a rogue?”
 

“God damn it. Are you listening?”
 

I must be dreaming. This dream sucks.