Loose Screws (18 page)

“But the accident…weren't the police called?”

“That was part of the deal between Frank and me. He brought his wrecker, pulled me out. It was 3:00 a.m., nobody around. I didn't even bother with the insurance. I just wanted to pretend like it never happened. Which was okay with Frank, as long as I got help.”

I start to take another swig of the cooler, but stop. Nick notices my hesitation. “Hey, don't worry. I decided five years ago that I was stronger than the booze. That it's got no power to drag me down again.”

“And?”

He smiles. “And…it's a constant struggle. But then I think what I might've lost if I hadn't stopped drinking, and that pretty much ends the discussion.”

Dusk has taken the edge off the heat, some of the spunk out of the younger kids. There are four of them, the three boys all clones of Paula with their dark hair and eyes. I've been watching her all evening, the way she juggles her attention from one to the other and her husband and Nick and me with seemingly no effort. Her only career is being
a mother to these children, a wife to the man she obviously adores. And she's clearly content with that, as Shelby is with her decision to take time off from her career to raise her kids, as my mother is with all her causes. All these women who know who they are, what they want from life.

Up until a month ago I would have counted myself among them.

I look back at Nick, who I catch watching me intently, his expression serious. That he doesn't avert his eyes unsettles me in ways I understand all too well. So I'm the one who turns away. “Did you always know you wanted to be a cop?”

His brows hitch, but he says, “Yeah, pretty much. At least I did by the time I hit high school.”

“And you've never had any doubts? I mean, not even when cases don't go the way you want them to?”

That gets a laugh. “Hell, yeah, I have doubts. On a regular basis. But then I think, So what's the alternative? Selling insurance?” He shudders, making me smile. “I do what I do because it fits who I am, I guess. Which is about as philosophical as I get, so don't push it.”

I laugh along with him, but way deep inside, that strange emptiness begins to spread through me again, that something's missing, something's off-kilter. I feel as though I've lost my footing somewhere along the way, that I'm about to fall, need to grab onto something, anything, to regain my balance…

Despite the warm evening, goose bumps crop up along my arms, making me shudder.

“You okay?”

I look at Nick, at the kindness in his expression, as much a part of him as the blue of his eyes. But it's not the kindness that strikes me so much at the moment as the simplicity and conviction behind his earlier statement. What must it be like, to know who you are?

And am I the only person I know who doesn't?

And maybe I should get over myself already. I mean, really—sitting around and worrying about my identity? Who the hell does that? Well, other than some underfed,
neurotic TV character with far too much time on her hands.

I watch Frank and Paula, throwing bits of hot dog buns at each other while their kids scream with laughter. For them, it's clearly all about sex and kids and food and having a good time. The basics. Which isn't such a bad deal, if you think about it.

It's nearly dark. A soft “boom” floats in from the river.

“Hey, they've started!” Paula yells, as excited as the kids. “Oh, crap, we haven't done the ice cream sundaes yet!” She scurries around the table, dragging cartons of ice cream out of the cooler. “Come on, come on, everybody, so we can get up onto the roof before they get goin' good. Nick! Did you set up those chairs like I asked you to?”

“This morning,” he says, then to me, “You got room for ice cream?”

“Always.”

He grins, then swings one leg over the lounge to stand, holding out his hand to help me up. I hesitate, he says, “God Almighty, you are a case and a half,” then reaches down, grabs my hand, and yanks me to my feet hard enough to send me itty-bitty titties smack into his hubba-hubba chest.

“You did that on purpose.”

“You got a suspicious mind, you know that?” But his grin has widened.

And it occurs to me that I understand men less than I understand myself. Which, as we've just ascertained, isn't a whole lot. Take the one now gently shoving me toward the feeding trough, his hand at the small of my back sending all these
bzzt-bzzt-bzzt
dealies all up and down my body. Yeah, yeah, yeah, he wants to be my friend. And maybe he does. But my guess is, right now, he's probably thinking about sex. I mean, I am, so why wouldn't he be, right?

Or maybe I'm just delusional…

Uh, mmm…I just spilled some ice cream on my hand and he just lifted it to his mouth and licked it off.

Okay, so I'm not delusional. Any other time, I might have figured that was a good thing, but now…

Oh, man, that
tongue—

“Jesus, Nicky,” Paula says. “We do have napkins, you know.”

He drops my hand, reaches behind him for a napkin, all the while doing this whole devilish-glint-in-the-eye number. Kids are crying and shrieking and jumping all around us and my hormones are crying and shrieking and jumping around inside me, and Paula is giving us dirty looks and I can't breathe properly because I have basically turned into one huge erogenous zone. And I should be annoyed, if not downright angry, except I can't take my eyes off his mouth.

“For God's sake, you two!”

Paula, again.

“You gonna make me get the hose or what?”

Nick does this slow, oh-sweet-Jesus grin and my knees begin to buckle. Then he takes me by the just-licked hand and leads me back into the house, where I hiss, “You got me here under false pretenses.”

Blue, blue eyes fasten to mine. “I believe what I said was, I'm not gonna do anything to you, or with you, you don't want me to. That still holds.”

Then everybody troops back inside and up to the roof, leaving me thinking
Ishouldn'thavecomeIshouldn'thavecomeIshouldn'thavecome….

Our feet sink into the roof's surface, softened from the heat. I'm relieved to see there's a wide lip, maybe three feet high, so kidlets can't fall off. The house sits on a higher level than the rest of Greenpoint, offering an unimpeded view of the East River and the fireworks barges. Despite being an old, jaded woman, a thrill shivers along my spine, momentarily making me forget that I'm confused and shaky and pathetically horny.

Nick snaps open a webbed folding chair, plunks it down behind me. I sit, staring at the skyline silhouetted against the last traces of sunset. Amazing how different things look from a new perspective.

We've missed the first few rounds; now, we all sit, breathless, as explosion after sparkling explosion ripples through the night. I glance over at the kids, who are all
staring at the show, totally spellbound, while their mother punctuates every burst of color with a childlike, “Oooh!” I laugh, feeling good. Then I feel Nick's gaze on the side of my face and feel something else. Good, but not. Scared…but not.

Nick reaches over, links our hands.

Never in my life have I felt so much at peace and so antsy at the same time.

Never in my life have I felt so turned on when I know I have no business being even interested.

Never in my life have I been so sure I was about to make a fool of myself.

Or looked forward to it more.

 

The littlest Wojowodski has passed out by the time the fireworks are done; with the efficiency of a pair of army sergeants, Paula and Frank marshal the remaining troops and herd them downstairs and to bed. Nick picks up one of his nephews to aid the exodus, silently commanding me to stay put.

As if I have a choice. I am totally and completely drained, physically and emotionally. Can't move, can't think, don't want to do either. A breeze dances across my skin, laced with the faint tang of gunpowder, enough to make my eyes sting a little. I can hear murmurings from other nearby roofs, people scraping chairs, laughing, setting off a
verboten
firecracker. I lift to my lips what's left of the same cooler I've been nursing all night, grimacing at its sourness.

Nick's footsteps behind me send a shiver up my spine. I sense his walking around my chair, watch as he leans back against the low wall, his hands braced on either side of his hips. I suck in a sharp breath—just seeing him sitting on the edge like that makes my heart start hammering, my mouth go dry. And no, that's not desire, that's vertigo.

“What's wrong?” he says.

“You. The roof. Images of things that go splat on the sidewalk.”

There's only a half moon, barely enough to see his sil
houette, his smile flash in the darkness. The neighbors have all gone inside; silence blankets the neighborhood.

“It's perfectly safe,” he says. “Come here.”

I shake my head. He laughs.

“Chicken,” he says softly, and somehow I don't think we're talking about the roof anymore.

“Damn straight.”

“Come here,” he says again. Challenging. Daring.

I know, if I go to him, what will happen. I know I'm in control, that it's my choice what happens—or doesn't.

What do I know about this man, really? Or he about me, for that matter. We're barely more than acquaintances, although I think we could be friends, in a weird sort of way. I do like him. I think I even trust him. Except the part about his wanting to be
friends.
Don't think I buy that anymore. I'm even less sure that would work for me. Not the way I'm feeling right now, like I could eat the man alive.

And go back for seconds.

What is it with me and Nicky Wojowodski, that he should keep happening into my life when I'm most vulnerable and in need of major ego-stroking, that I should be so willing to let him stroke it? Hell, to stroke anything that catches his fancy.

You know, what we should do is talk. Like we did the other night, when he brought over Chinese food (was that only a couple weeks ago?). I mean, I suppose there's the off chance that the heated gaze I can barely see in the sucky moonlight is due to something else entirely. What, I have no idea, since every time
I've
seen that look in a man's eyes, it's meant,
You. Naked. Now.

He holds out his hand. “Last chance.”

Yes, I know it's stupid and pointless and selfish. But God Almighty, I've never felt this kind of physical ache before for anyone, not even Greg, this need to connect with someone—some
thing
—as solid and strong as he is. I think the word I'm looking for is ravenous. Although brainless would work, too.

Because the thing is, see, I know what this is. It's just the body trying to seek some sort of release from all the
tension I've been dealing with lately. Has nothing to do with the brain. And it doesn't help that Nick is kind and good and sexy as hell and I find fireworks amazingly erotic—

“Hey,” he whispers, his hand lifting my hair away from the side of my face. Which is when I realize I've closed the distance between us. “You're thinking too much again.”

Then one knuckle trails along my temple, down my cheek, along my jawbone.

Oh, gee, thanks, Nick. My nipples are now hard enough to punch tin.

I start to cry.

He pulls me into his arms, rests his chin on top of my head. His heartbeat
whomp-whomps
in my ear.

“C-can I have my two minutes now?”

He fingers a corkscrew of hair that's worked loose. “Sure, why not?”

So, blubbering softly, I tell him about finding out that Greg paid off the wedding bills and how I know now it's over. Really over. And how I know I shouldn't be feeling empty like this, but I do, because all my plans really have gone
pffft
and I have absolutely no idea what to do next.

We listen as, three stories below, footsteps scrape along the sidewalk, fade into the darkness. Nick places a gentle kiss on my forehead, then sets me just far enough away to skim his hands down my bare arms, linking his fingers with mine.

“What would you say if I said I'd really like to kiss you right now?”

My heart stops. “Why?”

“Well, this may be a long shot, but because I think maybe we'd both enjoy it? And because your mouth drives me crazy.”

So what do I do? I lick my lips. Oh, yeah, like that's a bright move.

“What happened to wanting to just be friends?”

He seems to consider this for a moment, then says, “What? Friends can't kiss?”

I open my mouth to protest, then think, oh, what the
hell. What's it gonna hurt, letting him kiss me just once? Besides, it's not as if I remember much from ten years ago. If there's too much tongue or something, well, then, that'll neatly kill off whatever this is and I'll be home free, right?

“Okay, sure. Go ahead.”

Nick laughs, shaking his head, then swoops in for the kill.

What am I, nuts? I mean, after the ice-cream licking episode, I should have known he'd know
exactly
what to do with his tongue.

Oh, mmm, he just pulled me closer…and closer still…and any closer and we're both going over the parapet, here…

I brace my hands on his chest. Carefully. Since the last thing I need to add to my list is the trauma of pushing somebody off a roof. As if being an inch away from having casual sex isn't enough to deal with. Which, come to think of it, I've only done once before, and that was with Nick, too.

I scrunch up my nose. “This isn't a date, right?”

Now don't ask me how he takes this as an invitation to start unbuttoning my dress, but he does. And I let him.

“Nah. Not a date. C'mere, you're too far away…” He starts to nuzzle my neck, his breath tickling my already-heated skin as his mouth finds its way to the top of my lace bra, where that tongue flicks out to skim right along the edge.