Friends and Lovers Trilogy 02 - Charmed (11 page)

Chapter Twelve

Jake steered his car into his driveway and cut the engine. He sat there clutching the wheel, staring at the Victorian money-pit he and Afia had been slowly refurbishing, and pondered the Princess Charming calamity. He wanted to clear his head before he faced his beautiful, intuitive, and highly inquisitive wife. The last thing he wanted was for her to ask, “What’s troubling you, Jake?” Because “Nothing, baby,” would be his response—a bald-faced lie.

Plenty troubled him.

He’d tried to shake the nagging sense of foreboding. Had tried to reason things out on the way home. After all, Murphy had spirited Lulu away to his fortress in the woods. No way in hell was anyone going to get to her there. And he doubted the stalker would make a play during her appearances at the Carnevale. Too public. Too well-lit. Even if he did try to grab her, Murphy would be there, and he’d have the bastard for lunch.

Regardless–Jake had a bad feeling that stemmed from troubling facts.

Fact: Joe Bogart worked with the organized crime program.

Fact: Anthony Rivelli, who used to work at the Carnevale and now worked at Oz, had a past connection with the Falcones, New Jersey’s slipperiest crime family.

Fact: Rivelli also had a past connection with Jean-Pierre, and as a result both JP and Rudy worked part time at Oz.

Fact: Lulu worked at the Carnevale.

Fact: She was drugged at Oz.

Was Lulu’s stalker a Falcone? Were the Falcones being set up by the FBI? Was the investigation somehow connected to Oz? Had Rivelli lied when he’d said he’d broken his engagement to the mob boss’s daughter?

He should’ve discussed these suspicions with Murphy, but he had no hard evidence and, where Anthony Rivelli was concerned, Jake constantly felt like he was walking on egg shells. One of his past investigations had turned up a dirty little secret on Rivelli. A secret Afia felt she and Jake were obligated to guard. He didn’t agree, but Afia was adamant, and he’d do just about anything to make her happy.

She wouldn’t be happy if Rivelli’s job was compromised, yet again, as a result of one of Jake’s cases. Only this wasn’t really Jake’s case, it was Murphy’s … and Bogart’s. He’d give the agent until tomorrow to call Murphy with details. In reality, it had only been twenty-four hours since the fed’s initial contact. With any luck he’d point the finger at someone other than a Falcone. If Bogart didn’t reestablish contact, Jake would clue Murphy in on his concerns. Later tonight, he’d do some digging via the information highway, see if he could verify, or refute, a connection between the Falcones and Oz.

Just now he wanted to hold his wife in his arms. A few months ago Angela Falcone had aimed a gun at Afia. The memory still shook him.

Jake bolted for the house. He opened the front door and faltered on the threshold, thrown off by the absence of Mouser. The black-and-white cat never failed to greet him.

Don’t panic. Just because the old tom’s getting up in years doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.

He whipped off his jacket and ball cap and placed his recovered Glock in the top drawer of the Queen Anne bureau. He swept through the sitting room, the living room—no Mouser. He didn’t spot even one of their six cats.

Maybe Afia was serving up kitty treats. She spoiled those fur-balls worse than he did. But his sweet-natured wife wasn’t in the kitchen or laundry room. She wasn’t anywhere downstairs.

So what?
he rationalized as the back of his neck prickled. So she’s upstairs sleeping, or showering, or cleaning. But it was impossible to think like a sane man with the certifiable Falcones on his brain.

He took the steps two at a time.

His mouth went dry when he entered their bedroom and spotted Mouser, Rosco, Barney, and Velma sitting side by side, staring into the master bedroom’s john. Mouser looked over his furry shoulder as if to say, “Where the hell have
you
been?”

Heart in throat, Jake moved toward the sound of soft weeping.

Holy Christ. His petite wife sat cross-legged on the bathroom’s cold tile floor in her underwear and his police academy T-shirt, her face buried in her hands. He had to step over four cats to get to her. The other two, Scamp, the loner who trailed after Afia like a puppy, and Gucci, the kitten she’d rescued from a shelter, sat protectively at her side.

Jake squatted in front of her. “Afia.” He smoothed his hand over her glossy, waist-length hair. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

She wept harder and mumbled disjointed words into her hands.

Willing his nerves steady, he glanced around the bathroom and saw a familiar box, the same brand as the previous month, lying opened on the sink. Understanding clicked. The home pregnancy test had registered negative. Again.

Though disappointed, his body hummed with relief.
This
kind of hurt he could kiss away and make better. “Sweetheart, please don’t cry.” She was breaking his freaking heart. Jake sat on the floor and pulled her into his lap. “We’ll just keep trying. Trying is fun, right?” he teased.

He tilted her chin up and met her watery gaze. Red nose. Puffy eyes. She’d never been a pretty crier. Then she laughed through her tears, and damn, his relief jumped back to concern, because, Christ, she was really losing it.

Before he could say another word, she held up the pregnancy test strip.

It looked different from the others. It looked … He blinked. “Are you … are we …”

“Pregnant.” She planted a wet, salty kiss on his mouth and then threw her arms around his neck and hugged tight.

Shaken, Jake clung to his wife as he felt the world tilt. He glanced toward the cats, swore they were smiling. He chuckled, his throat tight with emotion. “Holy shit. I’m going to be a dad.”

Laughing, Afia pushed him back on the tile floor and tugged at his jeans’ zipper. “Let’s celebrate.”

Confetti exploded out of specifically designed cannons, peppering the casino lobby with scraps of bright colored paper. Facilities despised the mess, as did the slot technicians. Never failed, at least a few pieces of confetti would flutter onto the casino floor, slipping through cracks and mucking up the inner workings of the slot machines.

But the patrons loved the hoopla—the colorful parade of stilt-walkers, magicians, jugglers, unicyclists, and the casino mascot. And most of all, they loved the free metallic bead necklaces the strolling entertainers passed out. Since most regulars gambled away the bulk of their weekly income, Sofie almost understood their bizarre enthusiasm for anything
free.

She watched the chaos, grateful she wasn’t on bead duty.

“Hey, sweet cheeks. I got this sweepstakes entry in the mail. What do I do with it?”

Stick it up your ass?
Sofie bit back the tart reply.
Definitely not on the casino-approved list of appropriate responses.
Besides it’s not as if the old man deserved a bitchy reply. It wasn’t his fault that she’d been called in on her day off to cover a job that she hated.

Although, in truth, she’d rather be here than twiddling her thumbs back at Rudy and JP’s townhouse. She wasn’t thrilled about imposing on the lovebirds—like she needed to be reminded of the bliss she’d lost out on with Chaz—but short of leaving the country it was the only way to insure her sister’s well-being. Lulu, the stubborn runt, had refused Murphy’s protection unless Sofie accepted equal protection from their friends. She could take care of herself, but she’d sucked it up and acquiesced, harboring an ulterior motive.

You’d have to be an imbecile not to sense the attraction between Murphy and her sister. She wanted Lulu to move into the man’s house. She wanted them to have secluded privacy. Maybe then her straight-laced sister would be more inclined to let nature take its course. She kind of liked the idea of Lulu hooking up with a man so totally her opposite. The dreamer and the realist. There was a certain balance in that, a balance neither sister had ever achieved. Even though Sofie wasn’t fond of the male gender just now, she sort of liked Colin Murphy. She especially liked the way he looked at her sister. Like he’d kill anyone who hurt her.

“So what do I do with this entry form?” The old man repeated, jerking Sofie out of her thoughts.

She smiled down at the prune-faced, white-bearded man (because he was like, what, four foot nine?) and swept her hand—à la car tradeshow model—toward the gigantic Plexiglas drum directly behind her. The one with the huge sign that read:
Vacation of a Lifetime Sweepstakes! Deposit entries here!

“What?” He squinted at the drum filled with hundreds of other entries. “Stick it in there?”

Or up your ass. Your choice.
She was definitely in a mood. “Just drop it in the slot, sir.”

“Should I fold it first?”

“Whatever you like.” She’d witnessed everything from a single-fold, to a tri-fold, to a crumpled ball. Some customers assumed that if the entry was crumpled it would be easier to grab onto when the winner was being plucked from the drum. Gamblers operated under all kinds of quirks and superstitions. Similar to theater people.

“Would you rub it for luck?”

Coming from a theater family, she didn’t balk. “Sure.” She reached for the entry.

The cantankerous gnome snatched it back, performed a pelvis thrust, and cackled. “Wasn’t talking about my coupon, honey.”

Oh, brother.
Maybe if he were a foot taller, forty years younger, and looked like Jude Law. Nope. Not even then. She’d never get past the stained polyester pants and the mingling odors of fried fish and medicinal mouth-wash. “Don’t make me signal a guard, sir.” She nabbed smelly-man’s entry form and deposited it in the drum and, because a security camera was trained on the sweepstakes area and she needed this job, dismissed him with her friendliest greeter-girl smile. “Have a lucky day.”

“Why should today be any different from the others?” he grumbled, adjusting his ratty fanny pack and shuffling onto the crowded casino floor.

Sofie took stock of his stringy white ponytail, striped shirt, plaid pants, and worn red sneakers, trying to decide if he was fashion or
mentally
challenged. Both, she decided as he plopped down on a blue cushioned stool and started pumping coins into a slot machine. After all, the man had just asked her to stroke his pecker for luck.
As if.
She was damned particular about whose pecker she stroked. Well, not as particular as Lulu. The only pecker she’d ever touched was her husband’s, and they’d been separated for over two years.

Two years without sex.
Sofie couldn’t imagine.

Of course, two months ago she wouldn’t have imagined herself strutting around an Atlantic City casino in fishnet stockings and a sequined costume befitting a trapeze artist answering questions like “Which way to the bathroom,” “How do I get to the boardwalk,” and “Where’s the buffet,” three hundred freaking times a day. Two months ago she was still living in Manhattan, aggressively pursuing her acting career. Two months ago there’d been hope of landing a star role and an ample amount of money in her bank account. Two months ago she’d been under the illusion that she was in an honest-to-God relationship.

Now she was broke, financially and emotionally, and her sister was being stalked by a nut. Speaking of which, Sofie shifted on her T-strap pumps and surreptitiously scanned the crowd for watchers.

Sam and The Clapper were absent, but Maurice was pestering Wizard the magician, and Photo-Boy was snapping away at Raven the showgirl stilt-walker. The disposable camera creep probably had his walls papered with snapshots of female performers. The thought sickened Sofie, but not as much as the thought that Lulu’s stalker had followed her to a children’s party. He’d drugged Lulu. Would he harm a child? She wished to hell Murphy’s
trusted source
had provided them with a specific ID on the stalker. Why all this cloak-and-dagger stuff?

Irritation hummed through her veins as she continued to scan the Sunday evening crowd. Patrons entered the sweepstakes, their questions grating more than usual as she struggled to pinpoint and study suspicious-looking men. Maybe it was her mood, but everyone with two legs and a dick looked suspicious.

She took her break fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. If she didn’t seek solace, and now, she was going to punch someone. She abandoned the sweepstakes bin—if people couldn’t read the sign, screw ‘em—and weaved her way through the crowd to the door that opened to the back of the house. Luckily, the greeter-girl dressing room was a short walk down the hall. Three seconds later she punched the combo on the lock pad and swung open the door.

Her brain seized as she felt someone move in behind her. It happened so fast. The door shut, and a man, a stranger, had her pinned up against the dressing room wall, his hand covering her mouth. His face was too close to get a clear look, but he reeked of cheap aftershave and spearmint gum.

He angled his mouth close to her ear. “I need you—”

She jerked up her knee, and although she managed to cut off whatever crude request he had in mind, he effectively shielded his balls.

“Jesus, woman. Calm down.”

Give in without a fight?
Fuck you.
She bit his hand, raked the edge of her shoe down his shin, and stomped the heel of her pump down hard on his toes.