way more interested in the drama than the danger, and she burst into tears. Big, sloppy sobs she had no control over. This was the worst day of her life, and it was becoming more horrifying by the minute.
“You can’t tell my mom, okay,” she said, crying the words. “I told her I was fine. That I could handle this. She can’t afford bail or a flight from St. Louis, not when Cassie’s just moved back with her kids.”
“Just look in the effin’ bag,” someone from the crowd said.
She wasn’t sure who it was, but it was so nice, it made her cry even harder.
“Yeah, give the girl a break,” someone else, a woman, said.
“You think pretty girls can’t be terrorists?”
She thought she might throw up. As it was, her nose was running and, of course, she didn’t have any tissues with her. “There’s an outside pocket,” she said, snorting disgustingly. “There are tissues in there, and—” She hiccupped.
Hot Cop said something she couldn’t hear to his partner, who pulled up his walkie-talkie, turned away from her and started to speak. She couldn’t hear what he said, either, but she figured he was calling the bomb squad and she’d end up at Rikers Island, just like on Law & Order.
Then Hot Cop bent next to her bag. He unzipped the side pocket and pulled out the little pack of tissues, showing it to his partner, who nodded.
As she was blowing her nose, which took most of the pack, Hottie unzipped the duffel. He held up the flap so she couldn’t see and said, “Tell me what’s in here.”
“A pink bra and panties, and a white bra and thong, and four more panties—yellow, green, white and lilac—and under that is my kimono robe and then my sleep shirt with the bunnies on it, and the red one with the black lace—”
He pulled out each item, holding them up one at a time to show his partner. And the rest of New York, who seemed to be four deep on the sidewalk, cheering. Hooting. Whistling.
That was when she caught all the phones. Was there even one person who wasn’t filming this? With her face looking as if it had gone through a gang initiation and her thong swinging on Hot Stuff’s finger?
She sat down on the bottom step of the stairs. Put her head in her hands. All her energy abandoning her in one exhale.
The shorter cop suddenly loomed in front of her. “I still need to file an incident report,” he said then glanced back. “Vinny, why don’t you clear the area.”
Vinny—mercifully taking leave of her duffel bag—stood, gave her a smile that looked a little too much like a leer and then the other officer started firing questions at her. Which was way, way better than the alternative.
LUCA DIDN’T GET back to his new place until just after 8:00 p.m. It had turned blustery, and he rubbed his cold hands together as he entered the Mercury Building.
He’d told his folks about his plans. Of course they’d known he was moving out, but they were as surprised as Tony had been about his decision to put off the internship.
Naturally, they’d argued. When did they not argue? But their reaction was what he’d expected. They, like Tony, weren’t thrilled, mostly because they’d believed he wanted that architecture license more than he did. Still, two years was a long time to commit to a life that he wasn’t certain about.
At the moment, however, his family was the last thing he wanted to think about.
Finally. He had his own place. Tomorrow his bed and wide-screen TV would be delivered, which meant tonight he needed to make sure the path was clear to the stairs. The guys who’d helped him take over the scaffolding and supplies hadn’t been choosy about where things landed.
He saw that the elevator was in service again, but he took the stairs anyway, breathing in the mingled scents of the city and hints of the lives lived down the hallways of each floor. The second and third floors had three apartments each, all occupied. The fourth floor had two exceptional apartments—each of which had two levels.
And now that the annoying Wes was gone, Luca could finally start remodeling—after he got rid of all the guy’s shit. At least he’d vacated early. That was the main reason Luca had pushed up his move-in date.
Walking into his new home gave him goose bumps. Maybe it was stupid, but he’d waited a hell of a long time for this moment. It would have been great to stay over tonight, but not without a bed. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
Freedom. Silence. No surprise neighborhood women showing up at dinner. No more playing arbiter among his mother, his father and his grandmother when they got into arguments about what shows to watch on cable. No more questions about where he went at night, who he was with. Was it a girl? Was he being careful?
His first stop, the Sub-Zero fridge he’d had no business installing this soon. All that was left of the old kitchen was the sink and a section of the Formica countertop. He’d have to be careful or risk scratching the stainless steel, but this way he’d have cold beverages while he was working on the place. He’d put a case of beer in there this morning, and he grabbed one now.
After two gulps, he put in his earbuds and tuned his cell phone radio to ESPN, then got down to business putting the tools where they belonged and separating the wood from the drywall.
Hell, the remodel wasn’t even going to take that long. Three months max, he decided. He still had to knock down the wall between the master bedroom and the guest room upstairs to give him the space he wanted. But he didn’t foresee a problem with that. He figured he could get the place in decent enough shape before his date next week. It didn’t have to be perfect.
He’d met Jillian at Columbia when they’d both been studying architecture. She was currently serving her internship so she was used to the different phases of construction.
Tomorrow, after he got rid of Wes’s crap, he’d make a decision about the wall. And then he’d bring over some clothes and other personal stuff.
His stomach grumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since lunch. Removing his earbuds, he placed a call for a large pepperoni to be delivered. Having a slice and drinking a beer felt like a christening of sorts. Getting laid would’ve made the inauguration perfect. He hoped next week panned out. He got itchy just thinking about it.
Ten minutes later he thought he heard the buzzer, but no way the pizza was there that fast. He yanked out his earbuds again, and just as he figured he’d been imagining things, a scream tore into his bubble like a gunshot.
He didn’t even think, just grabbed the crowbar sitting on a pile of rags, his heart racing. It occurred to him that the scream didn’t sound like a help-I’m-being-assaulted scream. Although his only experience as far as that went came from TV or movies.
He moved closer to the door. Another scream, this time louder.
Shit. It was coming from inside his apartment.
Luca glanced up the stairs. Goddamn Wes Holland hadn’t moved out. Or he had, but he’d left a woman behind.
Not
