Angel With a Bullet (11 page)

“Too messy?” he asks.

“Not at all,” I say. “I just wanted to make sure you were the first to throw table manners out the window.”

He remains frozen, the broken crab leg dripping sauce over his hand, not sure whether I'm joking.

When I can't hold a straight face any longer, Declan relaxes and we both attack our crustaceans with zeal.

The alcohol- and spice-infused meat is absolutely delicious, and I am thrilled when the waiter returns with a basket of crusty sourdough buns to soak up the intoxicating sauce.

“Now that you know all about me,” Declan says between bites, his lips glistening with sauce. “What's your story?”

I shrug. “Not much to tell. I write, I sleep, I have crazy neighbors. What else is there to know?”

Declan refills my wine glass. “What makes Dixie Flynn chase after a story?”

The hairs tingle on the back of my neck and the room does a quick 360-degree turn. It's a signal that it is time to abandon the wine. I catch the waitress's eye and order a pot of tea and a jug of ice water. The woman looks at me blankly until Declan translates my order.

“Are you OK?” Declan asks.

“I'm fine,” I say, speaking slowly in an attempt not to slur my words. “The crab is making me thirsty, that's all.”

“So about my question?”

“I'm curious,” I say. “And I like to uncover the story that people don't want to tell. Take Diego. The police are saying he killed himself, but I don't buy it. But even if he did, that's only part of it. I want to explore his background, talk to people who really knew him and find an explanation for how and why he reached that final, drastic point. I believe every person, good or bad, is a microcosm of our society. Explaining how they lived and died is a story worth telling. And this may sound naïve or even egotistical, but I also don't buy this bullshit that a story told well can't change society. I've seen that it can. When I sharpen my pencil and shine a spotlight on someone, people pay attention. And if that makes me a nasty bitch at times, so be it.”

“I didn't—”

“No.” I smile and pat his hand. “No, you didn't, but that is part of who I am. Perfume and short skirts only get you so far. After a while, you need to kick a few people in the balls too.”

Declan lifts his wine glass and smirks. “I'll keep that in mind.”

When the water arrives, I pour myself a tall glass and down it in one long swallow. The second glass I sip more slowly until the waitress brings a pot of jasmine tea and two tiny cups to drink it with. I fill both cups.

While Declan is trying to think of something more to say, I refill my cup until my mind begins to clear. I know only time will sober me up completely, but the tea is helping clear a path through the fuzzy maze.

“What do you hope to learn?” Declan asks.

My mind flips back through time until I realize he is still asking about Diego.

After a moment's contemplation, I say, “I hope to learn that at some point he was happy.”

Declan looks puzzled.

“Finding happiness is important,” I continue. “It may sound silly, but I work hard and try to be there for family and friends, but when you break it down, all I really do is get through each day. I like the idea that there are people out there who have chosen a different path. We're so wrapped up in the humdrum of life that we often forget that we can change—that we can break down barriers and challenge our beliefs. We look at a field of ripe canola and think it's all the same wonderful yellow, but an artist sees a thousand shades.

“Deep inside, I'm scared that I may never do anything of importance. Something is holding me back, and I don't know what it is. And on the days when I can't stand it anymore, I go to the galleries and stare at other people's dreams. I may not have understood Diego's vision. Hell, I didn't even particularly like it, but he was living it. He wasn't hiding behind a paycheck in a one-room apartment. He was an artist. Someone or something killed that dream, and it pisses me off. I can't bring him back, but I can find out who or what destroyed him. It's a small part to play, but it's something I have to do.”

Christ, I'm drunk. I feel an embarrassed flush heat my face, and I lower my eyes to the tiny cup.

I have just broken
Dixie's Tips #9:
Don't let them know you're a nutcase
.

Declan reaches across the table to fold a hand within mine. He leans closer and his lips gently brush against mine, teasing them open. Hungrily, we lock together and his tongue, like fire, darts across the jagged barrier of my teeth.

The empty teapot rolls off the table to shatter on the hard wooden floor.

_____

Declan insists on
paying the bill and brushes off my attempt at paying my share. Admittedly, I don't put up much of a fight after I glimpse the total.

Arm in arm, we stroll into the cool night to breathe in the sickly stench of trapped smog and decaying garbage. In the city, we like to think of it as aromatherapy for the homeless; it curbs the appetite and stops them from realizing just how hungry they are. The “fresh” air does little to clear my mind, and I still feel off-kilter. I hope the long walk home will do me good.

The alley is a dark canyon surrounded by brick, all light blocked by tall, windowless buildings. The sky is a shimmering blanket of cloudy gray, hiding the stars and any sign of the previous night's moon.

Our only source of light is the busy street a block ahead. Its multicolored neon serves as a beacon to which we are drawn. Keeping our eyes on that light, we weave around oily puddles and the occasional lost shoe.

Oddly, it's rather romantic; a scene from
Lady and the Tramp
.

Twenty feet before we reach the main street, a black shadow enters the mouth to slice the light in half. It seems to stretch the entire width of the alley, and I can hear the impatient rumble of a powerful engine.

I wonder why the vehicle's headlights are switched off, but before the thought can sink in, four bright halogen eyes blind me. I recoil as the engine roars and tires screech.

Instinctively, I grab Declan's hand and turn to run.

“Dixie? Wha—”

“Run!” I yell.

Declan moves, but I feel him holding back in confusion as I search the alley for an escape route.

“This is sil—”

His words are cut off by the clang of metal as the car smashes into a garbage can and sends it soaring over our heads.

Declan and I both turn to see the vehicle bearing down at a reckless speed. It's American-made steel with chrome teeth and a blunt nose that shows no sign of slowing down.

With a roar of frustration, I plant my feet and shove Declan roughly to the side. I am too blind to find a doorway, but the bulge of a brick chimney offers inches of cover.

I flatten my date to the wall and suck in my breath to make my body as thin as possible.

A scream pierces the night as a sharp pain slices into my left leg, buckling it. I stumble, my leather trench coat snagging on speeding iron as a violent tug lifts me off my feet.

I scream for a second time as my body twists in the air before hitting the ground and bouncing. All the air leaves my lungs in a singular cough, leaving me gasping in panic like a dry-docked fish. My coat is still snagged. Gravel and dirt spray over me like breaking waves as I am dragged down the alley behind the speeding car. If not for the thickness and length of my leather coat, my skin would be flayed like tree bark.

It feels like forever, but it's only a second before my jacket rips free and I am tossed aside like yesterday's news. I smack the alley wall, bounce and roll back into the middle of the alley to land face down in a greasy puddle. Nearly blinded by pain, I lift my head to see four angry red eyes flaring in anger before disappearing around a corner at the far end of the alley.

I can't make out the license plate through the thin veil of blood that flows down my face.

Son of a bitch!

I roll onto my back, struggling to catch my breath, every muscle in my body screaming. I hear someone moan, but it's muffled, as though they are far away.

If the driver comes back to finish the job, I don't think I can stop him. I hear the car rumble away down the street. The car's failure to return tells me something important: This is a warning. But for what? The story on Diego? Or a story already printed and dismissed from my thoughts?

Another moan.

“Declan?” I croak, my throat burning from the effort.

There is a sharp gasp. “Dixie, are you OK?”

Sweet music.

“I think so.”

I hear hurried footsteps, and Declan's face comes into focus above me. He looks a little worse for wear. Red scratch marks crisscross his handsome face from where I pushed him into the brick wall. Blood drips from a tiny gash in one cheek and another on his chin.

Despite the pain, I feel like laughing. Not because the situation is remotely funny, but because it's over and we're both alive.

“Jealous wife?” I ask.

Declan stares at me like I farted in church.

“Sorry,” I say. “Occupational hazard; inappropriate humor. Help me up.”

With Declan's help, I drag myself to my feet and conduct a search for broken bones. There are a number of tender cuts and bruises, but luckily my skeleton seems intact. The blood caking my face probably makes me look like Carrie at the prom, but scalp wounds always look worse than they are.

My clothes haven't been as lucky. My beautiful coat is ripped down the back and my funky tights are ruined. Something has torn through my left leg and sliced into the meat of my calf. If the prick had been a better driver, I could've lost the leg.

“Wh–why didn't he see us?” Declan is trembling. Shock.

“He did.”

“What?” Declan's eyes go wide.

“When he flicked on his high beams, he couldn't help but see us. He was trying to hit us … or at least me.”

“But why?”

I look up at the dark sky. As a reporter, I sometimes make enemies, but very rarely do I enrage someone enough to take it beyond a stern letter to the editor or a heated rant if they pass me on the street.

If somebody wants me to stop looking into Diego's death, they just picked the exact wrong maneuver.

“Mistaken identity?” I say. “Or perhaps your friend is sending a warning.”

Declan doesn't smile. “My friend?”

“Kingston. He wants Diego's blood painting so badly he sent Casper to collect it while it was still dripping. But if I uncover evidence that Diego was murdered, the painting stays in police lock-up for a long time.”

Declan shakes his head. “That's the craziest thing I've ever heard. Roger wouldn't try to kill you over a lousy painting, and he certainly wouldn't try to kill me.”

“Maybe I'm being paranoid, but—”

“We should call the police.” Declan's voice is cold.

“And say what? I didn't get the license or make of car. Without that, there's nothing they can do.”

Declan won't look at me. “But if you believe Roger was trying to kill you—”

“It's just one theory,” I interrupt, feeling my temper rise. “I don't know who was in that car, but it seems damned suspicious that you invite me out for dinner and then a car pops up to turn me into a hood ornament.”

“I was here, too!” Declan yells. “Why would I put myself in danger? Fuck. I wanted to have dinner with you, is that a crime?”

“Why?” I snap.

“Why did I want to have dinner?”

“With me. Yes.”

Declan takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm his nerves.

“I—” he begins. “I thought you were sexy.”

“Sexy?”

“Yes, sexy!”

I pause, allowing the compliment to sink in. “You said ‘thought'. You don't think that anymore?”

Declan sighs. “Well, not if you think I tried to get you killed.”

I reach up to stroke his battered cheek. “But you didn't?”

Declan bites back a laugh. “No, I didn't.”

“OK, then.” I straighten my clothes and run a hand through tangled hair. “Let's get out of here.”

Declan doesn't move. “What about the police?”

I shrug. “I know cops. I know what they can do and what they'll ignore. They'll smell the alcohol on our breath and say we were hallucinating. They won't chase a phantom and, like it or not, that's what we have.”

“But …”

I take Declan by the arm and press my head into his shoulder.

“I'll talk to them in the morning,” I say softly. “I have a friend on the force who'll look into it.”

“So we just walk away?”

“And be thankful we can.”

Fifteen

At my apartment, I
pour two large tumblers of brandy and carry them into the bathroom.

Declan follows.

While I fill the bathtub, I help him remove his sweater and T-shirt. He has a beautiful, well-defined chest, marred after only one date with me by several red welts from impact with the wall. I prefer my men with chest hair that I can sink my fingers into, but Declan's smooth skin feels deliciously naughty.

I fill the sink with warm, soapy water and hand Declan a soft cloth. When he covers his face with the cloth to let the steam soak into his scraped skin, I undress and slip into the tub. I gasp as the water stings the gash in my leg and fresh blood flows to turn the bubbles pink. At the same time, I can feel the dirt, oil, and God knows what else being flushed from the wound.

I'm frightened to look at the rest of my body. I know it has taken a more serious beating than I want to admit. By morning, I'll look like a piece of spoiled fruit even the dumpster divers would throw back.

Despite that, I know I made the correct call in not involving the police. When you work alongside an organization, you quickly get to know its priorities. Without a witness, you might as well not have a crime. Or if the witness has as little information to go on as I do, it amounts to the same thing.

Still gritting my teeth, I submerge beneath the skim of coral foam. Pain flares in my shoulders and scalp as more cuts protest the cleanse. When I come up for air, Declan is waiting.

The scrapes on his face are already barely noticeable and the messy nature of his hair makes him look roguish.

He sits on the edge of the tub and uses the cloth to wipe the remaining flakes of blood from my face and hairline. I close my eyes as the cloth moves in circles, gliding across wet skin, cleaning chunks of gravel from cuts and massaging aching muscle. Soon the cloth is gone and I feel soft hands take its place.

I didn't know my breasts were injured, but his touch feels wonderful all the same.

I open my eyes to find Declan stepping into the tub, naked and perfect. His nursing concern is replaced with a growing and rather glorious desire. I reach out to touch his smooth legs, stroke his balls, and draw him closer. He groans with pleasure as he stands over me and a wonderful shiver runs through his body as my hands find a firm grip on tensed buttocks.

“Oh, God,” he moans.

I move my mouth and tongue to his stomach, then his chest as I slide up his body.

Standing, we kiss, his lips nearly bruising mine with a burning desire.

“This is sexy and all,” I say, “but I need somewhere softer.”

Declan laughs and takes my hand. Fortunately, the apartment is small and he finds the lone bedroom without difficulty.

_____

Later, Declan dresses the cut on my calf and we crawl back into my unmade bed.

With my head on his shoulder, his warm breath tickling my neck, I fall into a deep, untroubled sleep.