Lacey Luzzi: Sprinkled: A humorous cozy mystery! (Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries Book 1) (13 page)

I scribbled out a check for the amount, and slide it over. “Could you please wait to cash that for forty eight hours? Just a little something I need to straighten out with the bank first.”

That little something happened to be a negative balance. Oh well, seven hundo’s would temporarily patch that up.

Poor Marge looked helplessly at Anthony.

“No.” Anthony reached for the check and ripped it in half. His sweet scent distracted me from my money troubles as he leaned close, the sheer mass of him overwhelming. Despite his closeness, he held himself with finesse. His hand brushed mine ever so slightly, and it tingled like I’d submerged my hand into a frigid ice bath and then immediately back into a steaming hot tub.

“Her first month is on me.” He tossed both halves of the check onto the table.

“
No
,” I said. I reached for the tape dispenser behind the desk and started taping the destroyed check together. “I can take care of myself.”

The corner of Anthony’s lip turned up just the smallest amount, and I nearly gave myself a pat on the back.

“
NO
,” he said again. “Use that enthusiasm for our first training session. Which begins now.”

I looked towards Marge for help, but she just shrugged and shook her head. I got the impression that nobody argued with Anthony.

I put my hand on my hip and poked him in the chest. I had to refrain from shaking my hand, since it felt like I’d jammed my finger. “Watch it, mister. Just because you’re training me, doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do.”

Then, to my incredible surprise, the stoic trainer broke into a full on grin, which made him
still
more handsome. My chest was going to explode with an overload of good looks.

He rubbed his chin as his smile broadened. “Why, it absolutely does.”

There was a heavy pause in the air.

I couldn’t come up with a good enough quip, so I stormed off to the changing room, but halfway there realized I’d forgotten to ask the most important question of all. I stomped back.

“I know you,” I said. “What are you doing here if you work for Carlos? I was there that night at the YMCA. I saw you.”

Anthony took me by the elbow and led me to the side of the vending machine. He pinned me up against the glowing Coca Cola sign, out of the way of curious members’ prying eyes, and raked his gaze slowly up and down. “I remember you.”

“Well? Explain yourself then. What are you doing here? Are you still working for Carlos?”

“No. I’ve never worked for Carlos.” Anthony’s eyes were mesmerizing. “I know Federico, he’s a friend. He gave me a call and said his team needed manpower for a gig. It sounded easy. I was available. I’ve never met Carlos, I’ve just taken his money.”

“So you’re not one of his guards? Not on his payroll?”

“Have you seen me around the place?” Anthony raised a valid point. “You’ve seen most of the guards if you spent any time in that fortress, I’m guessing. I’m a… freelancer.”

“Are you one of the good guys?” I crooked an eyebrow.

Anthony opened his mouth, but paused before speaking. He looked as if he might kiss me, but as he leaned in, his hand went to my cheek, and he lightly brushed something away.

“Eyelash,” he said.

I gulped (hopefully) quietly. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Do you want me to be a good guy?” An amused smile danced on his lips. “Or a bad one?”

“Uh-”

Before I could continue, he cut me off, his lips brushed close to my ear, the lemon scent bringing images of sweet citrus groves in Southern Italy. “And
Sugar,
which are you?”

** **

Sugar? Did he
know?
No, he couldn’t. Impossible. The only people who knew were Clay, maybe a few people in the Fam (but their word was solid – spilling secrets gotcha killed.) Of course my mom – who had tried her hardest to keep our identities a secret…

I lay on the couch, two sacks of frozen peas on my knees, a solidly chilled turkey under my back, ice packs around both ankles and a tub of Tylenol on the coffee table next to me. A jug of Gatorade radiated a toxic yellow glow next to the pills, the remote balanced precariously by my side at an angle conducive to changing the channels without straining so much as a thumb muscle. The second I’d walked in the door, Clay had gotten up off the couch and assisted in icing my entire body. I’d been walking like someone had shoved and entire tree trunk in a place where the sun don’t shine.

Tupac sniffed around with a bored curiosity. Apparently deeming the bags of frozen food not up to par, he retreated to his signature hideout above the refrigerator.

“I’m not going to that monster,” Clay said for the millionth time.

“I
told
you, I went back for a second workout.” I shifted awkwardly as a turkey leg poked me in the spleen. “The girl didn’t have enough openings, so I moved us both to a new trainer and I wanted to test him out first. I’m just a product of two-a-days. You’ll love him.” I groaned. “I promise.”

Clay shook his head.

“What made you want to get in shape, anyways?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Come on, tell.” I opened an eyelid with painstaking caution.

“Don’t you have a date to get ready for?” He averted his eyes.

“I should cancel.” I tried to sit up, but fell back on the couch instantly. I didn’t even have enough energy to make my traditional mid-afternoon s’more. “I can’t stand up.”

“You are
not
cancelling.” Clay stood up, his finger pointed at me. “Michael is coming over here, you promised. Plus, doesn’t he live in the Russian area? I thought you were going to pump him for some information about the changes on that side of town?”

“Fine, fine,” I said, grudgingly. “I’m going to attempt to shower. If I don’t come out in three hours, for goodness sakes do not come in. I know you’re my cousin, but I’d prefer a stranger find me naked and dead from overexertion while shampooing.”

“No problemo.”

I gingerly made my way towards the bathroom. “Feel free to make me a s’more.”

** **

Two hours later, I’d managed to heave myself into the bathtub, soak until my hands resembled ugly shriveled apricots, and lift myself back out. I inserted my aching limbs into my traditional First Date Dress that I’d affectionately dubbed ‘Blacky.’ Blacky was short enough to show off my legs, long enough to be considered not-extremely-slutty, and frilly enough to say ‘innocent with a splash of fun.’ Or at least that’s what I thought. Clay’s take on it was a grunt and a ‘good luck with that.’

I tried to put on heels, but my calves burned as if all of the light bulb shards had been gathered and shoved one by one into my leg muscles. I settled for strappy, semi-fashionable low wedge sandals. As I paraded in front of the mirror, I noticed a crusty s’more sitting on the table next to my bed.

“Thanks, Clay,” I hollered.

I looked at the shrunken marshmallow and the crusty chocolate between the now soggy graham cracker, and my heart melted just a little. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away, so I ate it quickly. Then I brushed my teeth.

When I appeared in the kitchen, hair blow-dried, mascara and lipstick applied, I felt energized and confident that I was acceptable-looking enough for a first date. Maybe it was the endorphins from my workout or the fact that I’d managed to meet three incredibly handsome men in one day. On the negative side, I’d found my ex with P.B., so if I was keeping score, it’d be Lacey – 3, Blake – 1. I’d take the win.

I tossed my hair like a Pantene commercial wannabe and basked in the feeling of looking presentable to the public. I forgot how good it felt to dress up once and awhile, swipe on that makeup and feel like a million bucks. Or at least a thousand. But then again, I’d take a thousand bucks any day.

“I’m going to take this out.” The garbage had developed an unpleasant odor in combination with the Leaning Tower of Pisa dishes, and I figured solving one of the two problems should cut down on about half of the smell, at least.

I made it halfway to the door, bag in tow, when I heard a gut-twisting
riiiiipppp
.

What followed was a cacophony of glass, the splutter of garbage juice, old napkins and the remnants of beef bowls spreading all across the kitchen floor.

“NOOOOO!” I cried. The light bulb shards had sliced the bag right open. “Clay! He’ll be here any second. What can we do?”

A knock sounded on the door.

“We?” Clay appeared in the kitchen looking like a marshmallow frozen in shock, complete with a human face. “I’ll distract him. You can shove it in here and get rid of it.”

“Get rid of it where?” I asked, accepting the solid garbage container he handed my way and pawing as much of the nastiness in as I could.

Clay yelled through the door, matching his words to the pace at which I shoveled. “Hey there, are you Michael? I’m Clay. I saw – er – heard from Lacey that you’re a huge computer guy. I’d love to show you something outside in my car. Do you have a sec? Lacey’s just finishing getting ready. You know,
girls
.”

I breathed a
Thank you
in his direction. Clay slipped through a slit in the doorway and shut it quickly behind him, leaving me alone with Tupac and a floor of trash.

The two male voices faded down the hallway, and I stared at a sea of disgustingness. I let out a whimper. Then, I allowed myself a pity party lasting exactly twenty seconds. After I finished, I snapped into action and busted out the Swiffer, a pair of gloves, and industrial strength cleaning solution. I mopped with a fury I’d never mopped with before, until the floor sparkled and the trash tub was full of filth. Now, the tricky part – where to dispose of it?

I hurried over to the window after disposing of my gloves in the tin. Clay and Michael both emerged from Clay’s creep-van. I wondered briefly how bored Michael was on a scale of one to dead. As the two men walked towards me, Clay and I made eye contact through the living room window. I gave him the thumbs up and ran to the bathroom, wondering if I’d be able to flush the sludge down the toilet.

After the first flush gurgled and hiccupped in a decidedly gross fashion, I concluded it was a bad idea. What if he asked to use the restroom before we left?

I scurried through the hallway seeking a more reliable solution.

After trying and failing to shove the bin in the shower, I caught a glimpse of the dumpster that sat in the alley, directly below bathroom window. I hated its location every Monday morning at six a.m. when I was attempting to snooze and the garbage man was attempting to drill into my skull with loud, clashing noises. However today, its location would do quite nicely.

I grabbed the sludge bucket and climbed on top of the toilet. With my sore muscles screeching for release, I begged and pleaded with my biceps to help me out. I hefted the bin up to eye level, and with a huge whoop of relief let it sail over the side and crash into the dumpster just as the kitchen door swung open.

“Wow, nice place you have here. Really clean. I’d have to pay someone to make my place sparkle like this.” Michael’s voice carried through the hallway.

“Yeah, I try,” Clay said, as I emerged, an ugly smile frozen on my face.

Clay scratched his cheek.

“Yeah, I try, too.
Harder
,” I said stiffly.

Clay scratched his cheek again, this time so hard he left a red streak.

Michael glanced between us, obviously sensing the awkward interaction. “Hi there, Lacey, Clay here was just showing me his van. Really fascinating stuff, he’s quite a genius…”

I forgot to listen to what Michael was saying, because by this time Clay was scratching his face so hard I was afraid he’d peel off half of his cheek.

“Sorry, Michael.” I held up a hand and addressed Clay’s nervous pawing. “Are you okay?”

“You just have a little…” Clay gestured to his cheek once more.

I felt myself redden as I raised my hand and swiped, seeing a chunk of green sludge on the back of my hand. “Thanks.”

“Anyway, brilliant guy.” Michael, thank the lord, pretended not to notice. “Say, I was wondering, would you mind if I chatted with Clay for a few more minutes before we head out? He was in the middle of explaining something really cool…”

I looked at Michael closely, checking for signs that he might’ve been drugged or lying. “Did Clay threaten to sit on you if you didn’t listen to his babble about technology?”

“Babble?” Michael looked genuinely surprised. “Absolutely not. I can’t get enough. Clay’s a computer whiz like nobody I’ve ever met before.”

Clay looked more pleased than I’d seen him in ages. I remembered his sweet side, the crusty s’more waiting by my bed, for example, and refrained from indulging in the desire to grind my teeth.

It took effort, but I nodded graciously. “Of course. I was just going to – er, brush my teeth anyways.”

“Excellent. Thanks.” Michael kissed me on the cheek as he followed Clay into the living room, and I was reminded once again why I’d accepted the date in the first place.
Soft lips
, I told myself as I retired to my bedroom.
Soft lips
.

** **

Three and a half hours later, Clay and Michael were still chatting. I’d changed from Blacky into my puffy yellow sweatshirt and a pair of shorts. I was on my second bag of popcorn and seventh episode of Friends, occasionally catching a word of their banter about bytes that had nothing to do with food and drives that had nothing to do with cars.

I looked at the clock, a wave of tiredness washing over my aching muscles. If Clay was intent on working out tomorrow that meant I’d have to go with him. And for some odd reason, I couldn’t imagine Anthony letting me off the hook this soon in our training schedule with a light day. I was to report to the gym four miserable days a week for three months as part of the initial package I’d been bullied into purchasing (on a nice, easy repayment schedule).

I shut my eyes and drifted off, just as I heard the boys’ voices getting louder from out in the living room.

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to go traipsing around my side of town. There’s a lot of Russians in town, new to the area, and so far they’ve got a less than stellar track record with the cops,” Michael said.