Forty-nine
Together we climbed the short flight of steps to the apartment’s second floor. There was no white sandy beach up here, no tropical waterfall, or azure blue ocean, but the quiet bedroom and crackling fireplace were all Mike and I needed to give our minds (and bodies) a break from the impossible stresses of our lives.
I agreed with Mike about a sense of humor keeping you sane. But so did sharing a meal with someone you loved, and feeling their embrace on a cold, dark night.
Like that aged Pecorino drizzled with chestnut honey, Mike’s lovemaking was a delicious combination of sharp and sweet. Tender caresses gave way to urgent needs. I needed him just as much, and my passion easily matched his.
When our lovemaking was over, the release was luxurious. Hours of tension melted away and a tranquil blanket settled over us. As Mike tucked me close against his strong form, I settled my head into the crook of his shoulder and rested my hand on his warm skin.
Mike’s chest was solid, and his muscles well-defined. There were scars here, lots of them, including an angry-looking slash from a knife wound, healed incisions from emergency surgeries, entry points from multiple gunshot wounds.
“So, Cosi,” he said, “I’m not half-naked anymore.”
“No, you certainly aren’t.”
“You said you pictured me that way during your shower, but imagination is a tricky thing. Reality can be a letdown. It doesn’t always measure up.”
“Measure up? That’s a daring choice of words for a naked guy.”
Mike laughed. He knew I was kidding. And he was well aware that I knew his scarred body almost as well as my own. Not only could I trace every wound, but I could also appreciate the courage and costs involved in their making.
“Given the choice, Mike, I’ll always prefer the real you—fully clothed or not—any hour of the day, any day of the week.”
“Good to know,” he said, “because I feel the same about you. In fact, I have an idea. Why don’t we get married?”
“You already asked.”
“And what did you say?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, that’s right. I remember. Just checking.”
“Well, you can keep on checking if you need to, but I’m not changing my mind. You and I are officially headed for wedded bliss.”
“Lucky me,” he said.
“See that? And you didn’t even have to use handcuffs.”
“Hey, the night is young.”
“I hope you’re still teasing,” I said on a yawn. “Because this night is now morning.”
“Good morning, then, sweetheart. And sweet dreams.”
A sharp sound woke me.
The loud noise came from somewhere outside. I couldn’t tell if it was an engine backfiring, an exploding firework, or (God forbid) a gunshot, since this was New York and anything was possible.
The room was darker now, the logs in the hearth had burned down to red embers, and I stared drowsily into the chilly gloom, but I didn’t hear anything new, only the distant drone of the city. I was nearly lulled back to sleep when I heard the noise again, louder this time—
BANG!
I could swear the explosive sound came from right below my bedroom windows.
“Mike?” I called. “Did you hear that?”
Reaching over, I expected to shake the mound of his big body, but all I felt were flat bedcovers.
He’s gone, I realized. But where did he go? Was he called away on some police emergency?
I threw off the rest of the bedcovers and pulled on my robe. That’s when I heard shouting in the street.
I hurried to the window. The glass pane was white with frost. Only a small, rough circle in the center was clear. Peering through the lopsided porthole, I saw a figure in an overcoat standing on the sidewalk. The man was tall and broad shouldered with short sandy hair.
That’s Mike! I realized. But what is he doing down there? Was that the bang I heard? Was he shooting off his gun?
I didn’t see a weapon in his hand, but I noticed he was staring at something. I followed his gaze directly across the intersection and spotted a figure in jeans and a black puffer coat with the hood up—just like the attacker who’d left Mr. Scrib to die!
Once again, I only caught a glimpse before the figure became a blur, darting down the cross street and vanishing in the shadows beneath the sidewalk scaffolding.
That’s when Mike took off running. And so did I.
I raced down the back stairs, unbolted our alley door, and threw it open. The alley was completely black. I was barefoot and still in my robe. I hurried outside anyway. Shattered glass from the broken light littered the ground. The sharp shards tore up my feet, but I kept going.
When I reached the sidewalk, I saw the Village Blend’s windows were dark and the whole area was deserted, including Hudson Street, which stood eerily empty. I was about to cross when a yellow cab suddenly pulled up right in front of me.
“Taxi!” I called, deciding to use it to catch up to Mike.
But the door was locked. I couldn’t get in!
I moved to shout at the driver to unlock the doors and saw Dante’s friend Tony Tanaka behind the wheel. Tony shook his head and took off. That’s when I noticed the two passengers riding in the back: Mr. Scrib and his pet duck!
“Stop!” I cried, stepping into the bike lane. I waved my arms and shouted after the departing cab. “Mr. Scrib, I need to speak with you! Where is your notebook?! Where did you put it?!”
But the only answer I got came from Wacker, who stuck his head out the window with a—
Quack, quack, quack!
I wheeled around and found the lights were now brightly glowing inside the Village Blend, and it was packed with customers. But it wasn’t the Village Blend anymore. To my absolute horror, a sign in the window read DRIFTWOOD COFFEE.
Peering through the windows, I saw Matt sharing a café table with Cody “Drifter” Wood.
Cody poured a cup of coffee for Matt, who drank it down. I could see Matt didn’t like it. He even made a face, but he swallowed it anyway. Then the two of them laughed and shook hands.
That’s when I noticed Tucker standing there, still in his Village Blend apron. He approached a table where two women were arguing. One of the women had red hair, the other white blond. Fire and ice.
Tucker tried to speak with the two women, but they were too busy arguing. Their vicious verbal sparring quickly turned physical, and they began to punch and kick each other. Tucker clapped his hand and shouted at them, trying to restore order. But when he attempted to pull them apart, the women began to punch and kick him!
“No!” I cried. “Don’t hurt Tucker!”
That’s when I heard a loud revving engine behind me. I wheeled around to find a scooter with no driver racing toward me. I tried to leap out of the way, but I couldn’t. I was frozen in place!
The scooter hit me dead-on. I flew into the air, all the way up above the rooftops.
Floating like a feather, I drifted back to the ground and landed on my feet, but I was no longer in front of my coffeehouse. I was now in a vacant lot somewhere in Brooklyn. The area was run-down, with cracked concrete, rusted chain-link fencing, and trash littering the dirt.
The sound of someone shoveling echoed behind me. When I turned to look, no one was there. Just a shallow grave, already dug. I moved closer to the coffin-sized rectangle and looked down.
“No!” I cried. “It can’t be!”
But there he was, my dear friend Tucker, lying dead in the dirt.
I wailed and screamed but no one came to help—
“Clare!”
I heard my name. Someone was calling me. A hand on my shoulder was gently shaking my body.
“Clare, wake up! You’re dreaming. Wake up!”
I opened my eyes.