Frisk Me (27 page)

T
here were flowers on the grave.

They looked less than a week old, which struck Luc as odd considering he knew Shayna’s parents only came on the anniversary of her death.

He didn’t blame them for it.

Jasmine Johnson had said that they didn’t like the reminder that their vibrant little girl lay still and buried.

They preferred to let her live alive, laughing in their memory.

Coming to the cemetery ripped their wound wide open again, Jasmine had said.

Luc knew the feeling. He hated it.

But he also needed it.

He’d been coming the first Friday of every month since the funeral, and each time he felt like he was discovering her tiny body all over again.

Curiously, not today though.

Today he felt…at peace.

There was sadness, certainly. It was impossible to look at a gravestone celebrating a life of only seven years without feeling a pinch of remorse.

But there was something different today. The sorrow was gentler, not quite so eager to choke him in a vise.

“Hey, sweetie,” he said, kneeling in front of Shayna’s grave and putting a hand on the cold stone as he always did. “Looks like you’ve got some pretty tulips here. I always get you roses. Do you like the tulips better?”

He set the bouquet he’d bought against the slowly dying tulips.

“I bet you like both, huh? They’re pink. Your mom told me it was your favorite color.”

Luc stared at the flowers for a long minute. “It seems like forever since I’ve last been here. I know it’s been a month, but…a lot’s happened.” Luc let out a rough laugh. “A lot.”

He’d long ago stopped feeling foolish talking to a gravestone, and a little girl who had never known him.

He kept talking anyway.

“Remember how I told you last time that I was kind of famous? Well, now I’m really famous. Like, national TV famous.”

His finger traced the S of her first name. “You’re a little bit famous too. I talked about you. How I couldn’t save you. How I wanted to more than anything.”

He inhaled.

“Your brother blames me, you know. That’s probably fair. I blamed me for a long time too.” Luc clasped his hands in front of him as he stared at the ground. “But you know what, Shayna? The only person to blame is the guy behind bars. And I helped put him there so he can’t hurt anyone else, okay, honey?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I did my best. You know that, don’t you? I did my best, I swear to God.”

His voice clogged. It always did when he was here.

“She knows.”

Luc’s head snapped around, his eyes taking in the rubber flip-flops through the haze of unshed tears, his gaze moving up long, slim legs to short-shorts, a fitted yellow tank, and…

Ava.

Slowly, he stood, his eyes looking beyond the casual clothes, beyond the fresh-faced girl-next-door look, with her ponytail and flip-flops.

His brain registered that this was a far cry from the polished, plastic Ava Sims she’d chased so desperately, but his heart registered that she was happy.

Which made
him
happy.

Luc didn’t even try to fight the realization that swept over him.

There was no fanfare, no blaring horn. Just quiet understanding and acceptance that his family was right.

He was so far gone over this woman it wasn’t even funny.

“Shayna knows you did your best,” Ava said again, her voice quiet but not condescending.

Luc’s eyes dropped to the flowers in her hands. Tulips.

“You brought the flowers,” he said.

“Last week,” she said, her eyes going beyond him to the small gravestone. “I wondered who the other were from. I assumed her parents.”

Luc shook his head, moving aside slightly so she could move past him, setting her flowers next to his. “They…it’s too hard. They carry her with them, always, but being here, her final resting place…I think it’s too raw for them.”

“But
you
come.” She laid her tulips next to his roses, then stood so they were standing shoulder to shoulder.

“As do you.” There was an unspoken question in his words.
Why? You didn’t even know her.

“I probably don’t belong here.” Her voice wobbled. “I used those people’s pain for my own gain, Luc. And I hate myself for it. But even that’s not why I’m here. It’s just, a little girl died, you know? I couldn’t
not
come.”

He knew the feeling.

They were silent for a long while, lost in thoughts in a quiet, deserted cemetery in the Bronx.

“Mike was cremated,” Luc said eventually, breaking the silence.

Ava nodded.

“Bev scattered his ashes a ways off the coast of Maine. They used to go there every summer. It was his favorite place.”

At first he thought he imagined it. The soft brush of her pinkie against his. He glanced down to see her little finger reach for his, just briefly. In solidarity. In kindness.

Because despite what she thought about herself, Ava Sims was a kind woman. A
good
woman.

He saw his own pinkie brush back. Followed by his ring finger, then his third, until they were standing palm to palm, not quite holding hands, but almost. It was more intimate than holding hands, somehow. More intimate even than kissing.

“I’ve missed you,” he heard himself say.

Her hand twitched as her breath quickened a little, then it slowed, as though she forced herself not to react.

She said nothing.

Why should she? He’d all but planted his boot on her ass and kicked her out the door when she’d told him that she loved him.

Luc closed his eyes.

This woman loved him. And he’d thrown it back at her like a fucking grenade.

And not because he didn’t love her back.

He did.

Desperately.

It was strange, how one could spend months…years…believing one thing with every fiber of one’s being, only to have your entire paradigm changed in a moment.

This
was that moment.

Luc was still more aware than ever that this could be
his
grave that Ava would one day be bringing flowers to. Although hopefully not pink tulips.

But on the other hand…

He loved her. He loved her too much to let her go.

“Sims.”

Her fingers flinched as though she wanted to jerk her hand away, but his fingers grasped at hers, clenching them, maybe just a little bit desperately. Okay, a
lot
desperately.

He pulled her around to face him. “Is it creepy that I’m about to do this in a cemetery?”

Ava licked her lips. “Do what?”

Luc swallowed and reached slowly for her other hand. “Not so long ago, the two of us were on the same page about relationships. They weren’t for us.”

“Right.” The word was bland, calm, betraying nothing.

“That night, at my house…you…” Luc cleared his throat. In all of his family’s constant interfering over the past couple of weeks, how had nobody told him how hard this was going to be?

“That night at my house,” he continued, “you made it seem, like maybe…maybe you’d changed your mind about wanting a relationship.”

Ava gave a soft, sad laugh. “I wasn’t looking for a diamond ring and babies, Luc.”

Luc lifted his chin to meet her eyes. “What if I told you I was?”

She blinked but said nothing, and Luc’s hands squeezed on hers, nervous as hell as he moved even closer.

“Look, Sims, I’m not proposing. I don’t want to freak you out, and I know you’re probably having second thoughts about wanting anything to do with me after the way I let you leave that day, but Sims…Sims…letting you leave was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Pushing you away because of what happened to Mike, well that was the most cowardly thing I’ve ever done.”

God he was bad at this.

He drew her even closer, slowly lifting a hand to her face. “See, the thing is, Sims, you
know
me. You know me like nobody else does. I’ve never been America’s Hero to you. I haven’t even been
Officer Moretti
to you, and that used to make me crazy, because I thought that being a cop is who I was.”

Her eyes watered, and he pressed on, his other hand moving up so he was cradling her head in his hands. “I love being a cop, but I love you more. I’d give up being everybody else’s hero, if you’ll just let me be yours. Please, Sims.”

He searched her face, his heart kicking into overdrive when he saw the doubt and fear there. She was going to say no. He was too late.

So Luc did the last thing he could think of. He begged the only way he knew how.

He rested his forehead against hers, his thumbs brushing lightly over her cheeks as he closed his eyes and pleaded. “
Ava
.”

The touch was so light that he thought he imagined it at first, but then there was no mistaking her hands coming up to his arms, her fingers encircling his wrists.

Scared to hope, he opened his eyes.

She was smiling.

“You called me Ava.” Her voice was husky.

“I’ve called you Ava before.”

She shook her head. “No.”

He hadn’t?

“I’m saying it now,” he said, dipping his knees just slightly so they were at eye level. “I love you, Ava. And I’m not saying things are going to be easy, but I’d rather go hard with you than easy alone.”

She brushed her fingers gently over his mouth and he kissed them.

“So,” he said, voice rough. “I’m assuming based on the fact that you’re not slapping me or walking away that I’ve at least got a chance, but help a guy out here.”

His hands moved down to her back, clutching at her, maybe just a little desperately. He couldn’t help it. She mattered too much.
Please love me back.

Slowly, she leaned in, pressing her mouth to his. “I love you too. And I don’t want you to be my hero. I just want you to be
mine
.”

“Thank God,” he muttered, yanking her closer and crushing his mouth to hers.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, and she kissed him back, hot and hungry for several seconds before yanking her head away.

“Okay, the
tender
scene in the cemetery is one thing, but this…”

“Yeah, this is…let’s not tell anyone.”

“Definitely not,” she agreed.

He turned his head slightly, looking down at the pink flowers. “Do you think she’s looking down on us?”

“Nah,” Ava said, resting her cheek against his chest. “I’m one hundred percent sure that Shayna is somewhere enjoying an endless summer, eating strawberry ice cream, and playing with the biggest dollhouse she’s ever seen.”

“I hope so,” he said quietly.

Ava took his hand, pulled him gently away. “Buy me breakfast?”

“That’s right, you’re unemployed now,” he said as he followed her down the hill toward the subway. “I’ll probably be buying everything. Hope you like street meat.”

“Oh, about the job thing—”

Ava linked her fingers in his and started to tell him all about her new job offer with the
New York Times
. Luc mostly listened, but he couldn’t resist sneaking a glance over his shoulder.

He wasn’t the sentimental type to imagine he saw the fluttering of angel wings or anything.

But he could have sworn he heard the sound of a little girl’s laughter…

F
or Captain Anthony Moretti, three things in life were sacred:

(1) Family.

(2) The NYPD.

(3) The New York Yankees.

And on this breezy, September Sunday morning, two out of these three things were making him crazy. Not in the good way.

“What do you mean, you don’t want to talk about it?” his father barked, leaning across the table to help himself to one of Anthony’s pieces of bacon.

Maria Moretti’s hand was deft and practiced—the mark of a mother of five—as she swiftly swatted the bacon out of her husband’s fingers. “The doctor said you were supposed to take it easy on the bacon!”

“I
am
taking it easy. This is Anthony’s bacon,” Tony clarified, rubbing the back of his hand.

“Is it?” Anthony muttered, glancing at the now empty plate. “I don’t seem to remember actually getting to eat any of it.”

His youngest brother stabbed a piece of fruit with his fork and waved it in Anthony’s face. “Cantaloupe?”

Anthony gave Luc a withering look. He could appreciate that his baby brother felt man enough to get a side of fruit with his Sunday brunch, but Anth would stick to potatoes and fatty pig products, thanks very much.

“I think I’m going to hurl,” his other brother, Vincent, said to no one. “Shouldn’t have gotten the side of pancakes. Too old for this shit.”

Anthony felt the beginnings of a headache.

Item number one on his priority list (family) was also his number one cause of his frequent
please, God, take me away to a deserted tropical island
prayer.

But there was no tropical island. Just the same old shit.

For every one of Anthony’s thirty-six years, Sundays had looked exactly the same. All the Morettis filed obediently into their pew at St. Ignatius Loyola Church on the Upper East Side of Manhattan for ten o’clock Mass.

Breakfast always followed, always at the same diner, although the name had changed a handful of times over the year.

The sign out front currently read
The Darby Diner
, named after…nobody knew.

But the Morettis had never cared what it was called. Or why it was called that. As long as the coffee was hot, the hash browns crispy, and the breakfast meats plentiful, they were happy.

Granted, the greasy-spoon food of the Darby Diner was a far cry from the Morettis’ usual fare of home-cooked Italian meals, but Anthony was pretty sure they all secretly loved the weekly foray into pure Americana cuisine. Even his mother didn’t seem to mind (much) so long as her family was all together.

“So what did you mean, you don’t want to talk about it?” Tony Moretti repeated, glancing down at Anthony’s plate and scowling to see the bacon supply completely depleted.

Anthony scooped a mouthful of Swiss cheese omelet into his mouth before sitting back and reaching for his coffee. “It means that Ma doesn’t like cop talk at the table.”

“
Riiiiight
,” Elena Moretti said from Anthony’s left side. “Because you guys
always
respect Mom’s no-cop-talk rule.”

Anth took another sip of coffee and exchanged a look and a shrug with Luc across the table.

Their sister made a good point.

In a family where four out of five siblings were living in New York, and three out of
those
four were with the NYPD, cop talk was likely.

And when the family patriarch was the recently retired police commissioner?

Cop talk wasn’t just probable, it was
inevitable
.

Still, it was worth a shot to throw up his mother’s token rule of “no cop talk.” Especially when he didn’t want to talk.

About any of it.

It had been a long time since he’d been the one in the hot seat, and he wasn’t at all sure that he cared for it.

Scratch that. He was sure.

He
hated
it.

But his father could be like a dog with a bone when it came to his sons’ careers. And today, like it or not, it was Anthony under the microscope.

He surrendered to the inevitable.

“Dad, I told you. It’ll get handled.” He went for another sip of coffee, only to find his cup was empty. Diner
fail
.

He scanned the dining room for the waitress, partially because he wanted more coffee, partially because he wanted a distraction. Partially because—

“You’ve been saying it’ll get
handled
for weeks,” Tony said, refusing to let the matter drop.

“Yeah,
Captain
. You’ve been saying that for weeks.” This from Anthony’s other brother, Vincent. Two years younger than Anth, Vin was a homicide detective and the most irritable and irreverent member of the family. And the one least likely to kiss Anth’s ass.

If Anthony was totally honest, he was pretty sure that most of his younger siblings respected him, not only because he was the highest ranking active family member, but simply because he was the oldest. He was the one they’d come to when they needed to hide that broken vase from Mom, or when they were scared to death to tell Dad about that D in chemistry, or in the case of his brothers, when it was time to learn their way around the female anatomy.

But Vincent didn’t respect anyone. Not even big brother. Vin was always the first to jump at the chance to gently mock Anthony’s status as captain.

A title that had been hard-earned, and still felt new. As though it could be ripped away at any time.

Which was
exactly
the reason his father was on his ass right now. Anthony had passed his captain’s test three months ago and had every intention of climbing the ladder all the way to the top. The
very
top.

It was a path Anth had never questioned. A path that up until recently, had been remarkably smooth.

And then…

And then
Smiley
had happened.

“Well surely you’ve got a couple leads to go on,” Tony said, leaning forward and fixing Anthony with a steady look.

Anthony looked right back, hoping the bold gaze would counteract the hard truth.
That
Anth didn’t have a damn clue who or where Smiley was.

For the past two months—the majority of Anthony’s tenure as captain of the twentieth precinct—the Upper West Side had been plagued by a smug and relentless burglar.

Nickname?
Smiley
. Courtesy of the idiotic yellow smiley-face sticker he left at each of his hits.

The plus side, if there was one, was that Smiley hadn’t proven dangerous. If it had been a
violent
criminal on the loose, Anth’s ass would have been on the line weeks ago.

But still. It had been eight weeks since Smiley first hit, and the man was getting bolder, hitting three brownstones last week alone.

And Anth wasn’t even close to catching him. Neither was anyone else in the department. Hence why number two on his life priorities—the NYPD—was making him crazy recently.

“We’ll get him,” Anthony said curtly, referring to Smiley.

“You’d better,” Tony said. “The press has gotten a hold of it. It’ll only get bigger from here.”

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder,” Anthony muttered. He picked up his coffee cup again. Still empty. “Damn it. Where the
hell
is what’s-her-name? Is it too much to ask to get some damned coffee around here?”

“Now there’s a good plan,” his sister mused. “Blame poor Maggie because you can’t catch a pip-squeak cat burglar.”

As if on cue,
poor Maggie
appeared at their table, coffeepot in hand.

“I’m so sorry,” the pretty waitress said, a little breathless. “You all must have been waiting ages for more coffee.”

Anthony rolled his eyes, even as he snuck a glance at her. Her friendly smile was meant to hide the fact that she was frazzled, and for most of her customers, that apologetic, dimpled smile probably worked.

It was a damned good look on any woman, but especially her.

Maggie Walker had become their default waitress at the diner back when their old waitress Helen had retired. And while he missed Helen and her too-strong floral perfume, he had to admit that Maggie was better to look at.

She had a wholesome, girl-next-door look that appealed to him mightily. Brown hair that was always on the verge of slipping out of its ponytail, wide, compelling green eyes that made you want to unload all your darkest secrets.

Curvy. Hips that were exactly right, breasts that were even better.

And then there was that smile. It managed to be both shy and friendly, which was handy because he was betting it was very hard for even the most impatient customers to get annoyed at her.

But Anth didn’t buy the exhausted, doing-my-best routine, and seeing as she was dealing with an entire table of observant cops, he was betting the rest of his family wouldn’t buy it either.

Then Luc leaned forward and gave Maggie an easy grin. “Don’t even worry about it, Mags. Didn’t even notice I was running low!”

He stared at his brother. Okay. So maybe the family
bambino
could be fooled by pretty Maggie.

He rolled his eyes as Luc shoved his mug toward the edge of the table so Maggie wouldn’t have to reach as far.

Then he watched in utter dismay as Vincent did the same. Vincent, who’d practically devoted his life to being perverse, was trying to make life easier for their inept waitress.

Un-fucking-believable.

Anthony was so busy trying to figure out what about the frazzled waitress turned his brothers into a bunch of softies that he didn’t think to move his own mug to be more convenient, and Maggie had to lean all the way in to top off his cup.

It was a feat that their
old
waitress could have handled readily, but Helen had retired months ago and for reasons that Luc didn’t understand, the rest of the Moretti family had embraced Maggie as Helen’s replacement.

Anthony didn’t realize that his mug had overflowed until scalding coffee dripped onto his thigh.

“Son of a—”

He caught himself before he could finish the expletive, grabbing a large handful of napkins from the silver dispenser and trying to soak up the puddle of coffee on his jeans before it burned his skin.

“Nice, Anth,” Elena said, tossing another bunch of napkins at him. Like this was
his
fault.

“Oh my god,” Maggie said, her voice horrified. “I’m
so
sorry, Officer…”

“It’s Captain,” he snapped, his eyes flicking up and meeting hers.

Silence descended over the table until Vincent muttered
douche bag
around a coughing fit.

But Anthony refused to feel chagrined. The woman had waited on the family every Sunday for weeks; one would think she could get his title right. To say nothing of mastering the art of pouring coffee.

Her green eyes flicked downward before she turned away with promises to bring back a rag.

He watched her trim figure for only a second before glancing down at his lap. A rag wouldn’t do shit. He now had a huge brown stain on his jeans.

And this wasn’t the first time.

Last week, it had been ketchup on his shirt. Maggie had been clearing plates, and a chunk of ketchup-covered hash browns from Vin’s plate had found its way onto Anth.

The week before
that
, it was a grease stain from a rogue piece of bacon that his father had somehow missed.

And it was always the same, oh-my-gosh-I’m-so-sorry routine, and his family would lament the unfortunate “accident” and tell Maggie not to worry about it, even though none of them had basically tripled their laundry efforts since Maggie had taken over their Sunday brunch routine.

“I don’t know why you always have to do that,” Elena snapped at him.

He gave his little sister a dark look. Elena was basically a female version of Luc. Dark brown hair, perfectly proportioned features, and bright blue eyes. His siblings’ good looks had worked very well for them with the opposite sex, but with their brother? Not so much.

“I didn’t do anything,” he snapped.

His mother—his own
mother
—gave him a scolding look. “You make Maggie nervous, dear. All that glowering.”

“Wait, sorry, hold up,” Anth said, abandoning the futile effort of blotting coffee from his crotch. “It’s
my
fault that the incompetent woman can’t do even the most basic requirements of her job?”

A startled gasp came from the head of the table, and too late—
way
too late—Anth realized that Maggie had reappeared with a clean white rag and what seemed to be a full cup of ice.

“I thought…I wanted to make sure it didn’t burn your skin,” she told him brightly.

To her credit, her voice didn’t wobble, and her eyes didn’t water, but damned if she didn’t look like she wanted to cry, just a little.

Shit.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“Thank you, sweetie,” Tony said kindly, taking the rag and ice from Maggie. “Maybe just the check when you get a chance.”

“Of course. And really, I’m so sorry,” she said, not quite glancing at Anthony. “You’ll send me the dry-cleaning bill, right?”

“He’ll do no such thing,” his mother said firmly, reaching across her husband to grab Maggie’s hand. “I can get any stain out of any fabric. I’ll take care of it.”

“You hear that, Anth?” Luc said. “Mommy’s going to wash your pants for you!”

Anth shot his brother the bird, wishing his brother’s girlfriend had tagged along for breakfast today. Luc was always much more pleasant when Ava Sims was around. He devoted most of his time figuring out ways to feel up the pretty journalist rather than giving Anthony grief.

“I just can’t believe Mags called you
Officer
,” Vincent said in a sham reverent tone. “I don’t know how she missed the nine hundred and forty two reminders that you’re a captain now.”

“Well she damn well should remember,” he muttered. “Is anyone else remembering that she spilled iced tea all over me at my coronation party?”

“She spilled it on your
shoes
,” Elena said. “Which were black.”

“Still,” Anth said, glancing around the room this time to make sure she wasn’t within earshot. “I don’t know why we have to act like she’s a new member of the family when she can’t seem to go a single Sunday without spilling somebody’s breakfast on me. It can’t be an accident
every
time.”