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“What happened?” They don’t respond and I’m not sure they can hear me as they sniffle and hug. I want Micki to hug me, damn it, not Cress.
Eventually, they collapse onto a banquette while I bring back glasses of water and damp bar towels so they can wipe their faces. Most of the patrons are gone and the cops continue to take brief statements from people who know nothing and saw even less.
Max, who has been hanging out with a senior officer, comes in with two large whiskies, puts them on the table, and punches my shoulder. He presses a finger against his ear. “Sorry, still feeling some pressure. Anyway, I just finished getting briefed.” He motions for us to take a couple of chairs not too close to the girls. “What a piece of work. He managed to slip away in the emergency room. The cop told me that while he was waiting to be seen, he snagged some of his clothes and ran out. Didn’t even wait to have his jaw wired.”
“Wasn’t he guarded?”
“They didn’t want to go into how he eluded the cop who was supposed to be watching. At any rate, he never found his boots or shirt.”
“Bare feet?”
“He’s just wearing socks. You’d think he’d be smart enough to go home, but all he did was call an Uber. His truck was still sitting at the Press house. Had an extra set of keys hidden in it. He’d stashed the mask and stuff there too.”
“Dumbass.”
“After he let off the smoke bomb, Sam grabbed Micki and started dragging her through the crowd. Fallen bodies formed a barrier across the room that kept him stalled. Trying to move people aside and hold on to her was too difficult. His grip slipped and Micki got away, but not before she showed him he’d picked the wrong girl.”
He can’t stop grinning. “Sam definitely miscalculated. She stomped on his foot with one of her high heels. Just socks on his feet. The spike went right through. My hearing had just come back and that scream. She inflicted some serious damage. Anyway, he was in so much pain he fell over. Micki ran, right into Cress.”
Sam screams incomprehensible curses as he’s cuffed and hustled out. Adrenaline must be blocking the pain. Cops come over to take our statements. By the time we’re finally able to leave, everyone is exhausted. Micki gives me a world-weary headshake when I offer her the chance to ride on my bike.
“Go home, JL. Max and Cress can drop me off. I have a busy day tomorrow and I just want to go to bed.”
“That’s not happening. I will see you back to your place and make sure you are safe.”
She snorts. “He’ll be in jail. And I did fine. I can take care of myself.”
Putting my hand on her back, I steer her toward the door. “See you later, Max.”
Micki grinds her teeth but says nothing. I take out the helmets and put one on her, tweaking the chin strap to make sure it’s snug. Then I adjust mine and throw my leg over. “Arms around my waist, s’il te plaît.” She hesitates, then complies, and we roll down the street.
* * *
Micki
The bike sits under a streetlamp, gleaming with a promise I’m too tired to appreciate. Once JL starts the engine, the thrum of the bike enginecauses vibrations that trigger sensations I don’t even want to acknowledge. My arms have his waist in a death grip. With my cheek pressed against his back, the intoxicating scents of leather, beer, and whatever aftershave he uses make my senses reel. Even though the ride from Stanley’s to my rented condo is only about seven minutes, staying mad at JL is impossible. By the time he helps me off the bike, I am trembling as he gently guides me into the lobby of the building.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the glare of the overhead chandeliers, still feeling effects from the flashing lights, noise, and smoke. There’s been a changing of the guard and as if from a distance, I hear the sound of the night concierge.
“Evening, or maybe I should say good morning, Ms. Press.” I squint and make out Nate, sitting on a high stool behind reception.
My throat is scratchy, voice hoarse. “Morning, Nate.” Unlike the older concierge, Nate is a clean-cut college student from the Chicago suburbs. He’s a second year at John Marshall Law School and occasionally asks me questions about points he’s studying. With an engineering background, I’m not surprised his focus is on patent law. When I asked why he was working here, his answer was unexpected.
“My grandparents own one of the condos and arranged this with the management company when I told them I wanted a job. Nights mean work doesn’t interfere with classes and I usually have plenty of time to read.”
“Where could we go for a really early breakfast?” JL asks.
“I’d say Tempo Café over on Chestnut. They’re a twenty-four-hour place. Pretty good food, too. World-class waffles and three-egg specialties.”
I move slightly away from JL and turn to face him. “You’re hungry?”
“I could fix something for you if you prefer. I’m a dab hand in the kitchen.”
“You sound like Max. Anyway, there’s nothing here to fix. I don’t cook, so I just have cereal.” I don’t tell him about the fully stocked pantry. Or that I don’t want to risk having him come upstairs, where we might just fall into bed. This is a first date. Even though I’ve known him for a few months now, it’s too soon. Especially after the two run-ins with Sam.
“Bien. Let’s go eat eggs and drink coffee at Tempo Café.” He grasps my hand in his, ready to turn toward the door.
Tempo is busier than I expect. Fortunately, a booth opens up. “Breakfast all the time.” The server places small dishes with an orange slice, a prune, and two roasted chestnuts next to the fresh water glasses.
