True to my promise, as soon as I woke up the next morning, I went straight to my drawing table and sketched out the patent-leather buckle closures for the Pretty Pretty Princess shoes. I worked straight through the morning, careful not to get any of my strawberry-frosted Pop-Tart on the drawings, before rolling them up and popping them in a mailing tube, ready to send off first thing Monday.
Those My Little Pony flip-flops were so mine.
Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I hopped in the shower, letting the hot water work out any lingering stiffness in my neck. Next to push-up bras, hot running water has got to be one of the greatest inventions known to man. I stood an eternity under the spray until finally the water started to turn tepid and my tiny bathroom was filled with so much steam even my eyelashes were beginning to frizz. I stepped out, wrapping myself in a big fluffy towel, and plopped down on my futon to treat myself to a fresh coat of toenail polish. I was halfway through the second foot when my doorbell rang. I did a heel walk, careful not to let my wet toes touch, as I called, “Coming, ” and peeked through the security hole.
Then froze.
Dark, hooded eyes, thick black hair just a little too long, T-shirt fairly painted on that “I can bench-press a Buick” body, arms crossed over his chest, causing that sleek panther to trail dangerously down one bulging bicep.
Ramirez.
I hugged my fluffy towel closer to my body, the sight of him sending a sudden shiver down my spine.
I debated the merits of throwing on a pair of pants first, but his fist banging impatiently on the other side of the door made the decision for me. I undid the security chain and slowly opened the door just enough to stick my head out.
“Hi.”
He gave my disembodied head a funny look. “Hi. Can I come in?”
“Um…” I looked down at my towel, which, in the face of Ramirez’s George Clooney stubble and worn-in-the-right-places jeans, suddenly seemed way too small.
“Please?” Eyes dark, voice low and intimate. That shiver transformed into instant heat, starting in the pit of my stomach and settling somewhere distinctly lower.
What the hell. He did say please, right?
I stepped back, opening the door. The second he stepped in the room, my studio felt about ten times smaller, bursting at the seams with sexy detective. I shifted nervously from foot to foot as his eyes gave me and my itty-bitty towel a slow up-and-down. I’m not totally sure, but I think I heard him groan somewhere in the back of his throat.
Or maybe that was just me.
“Uh, so, what are you doing here?” I asked, tugging at the hem of my towel. “I mean, not that I don’t want you here. Or that you shouldn’t be here. I mean, you can be here anytime you like. If you like. Which, you do, ’cause you’re here, but I mean, we kind of left things…I mean, I wasn’t sure where we…I mean, with all the fighting and all…”
I trailed off as Ramirez licked his lower lip, an innocent movement that somehow erased every single thought from my head.
“The birthday party, ” he said, bringing his eyes (with visible difficulty) up to meet mine.
“Huh?”
His tongue shot out again, and I started having the kind of thoughts that could land a person in SA.
“Your nephew, Connor? You invited me to his birthday party, remember?”
“Oh. Right.” Then I paused. “Wait-and you still want to go?” I was pretty sure that the whole “talk to me through my attorney” thing was free license for him to skip any and all family functions he’d previously agreed to accompany me to. And Lord knew I would have taken the out if I could. I cocked my head to the side. “Really?”
He grinned, deep dimples punctuating his stubble-covered cheeks. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Wow, he had a nice smile. I mean, like, completely-aware-I’m-not-wearing-any-panties nice. So nice I could feel any lingering anger I might have had at him melting faster than a push-pop on the Venice boardwalk.
“Right, ” I said, clearing my throat in an attempt to rein in those pesky little hormones of mine. (Which totally failed, by the way.) “So, does this mean that we’re…I mean, am I…We’re sort of…”
His grin widened. “It means we’re going to be late if you don’t get dressed.”
I glanced at my VCR’s digital clock. One-fifteen. He was right. We were so late. “Oh, crap! Molly’s going to kill me.”
I quickly heel-walked over to my closet and pawed through the pile of clothes sitting near the hangers. (I know, I know, on the hangers would be better. But I’m a woman on the go. I’m lucky if the clothes are clean.) I was thankful to find a little pink sundress (clean!) and white sweater (pretty clean) that perfectly matched the pink leather heels I’d put the finishing design touches on last month.
I leaned over to step into a pair of clean panties and heard that groan behind me again.
I snapped up straight and turned around to find Ramirez grinning from ear to ear, his eyes glued to the rising hem of my towel.
“Um, do you wanna wait outside?” I asked.
The grin widened and he slowly shook his head from side to side. “Uh-uh.”
I rolled my eyes. “Come on, I’m late. I have to get dressed.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Honey, you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”
Yeah, but that was before we’d turned into the Hat-fields and the McCoys. After our being at each other’s throats the last week, I wasn’t quite ready to do a striptease in my living room for him.
I tugged at the hem of my towel again.
“At least turn around.”
Ramirez raised an eyebrow at me, but complied, turning to face the door.
I quickly stepped into my panties and slid the dress over my head.
Even though I was ninety-nine percent sure he was peeking.
Ten minutes later me and my half-painted toenails (luckily the pumps were closed-toe!) were in the front seat of Ramirez’s black SUV pulling out of my driveway.
I glanced across the street. “What happened to the patrol car?” I asked, noticing the conspicuously absent spot between my neighbor’s garbage cans and the mailbox.
“I sent them home.” Ramirez sent me a sly sideways look, then rested one hand on my thigh. “You’re all mine today.”
I did a dry gulp and crossed my legs.
Oh boy.
My cousin Molly lived in a fifties-style bungalow in the Larchmont district of L.A., just south of the 101. Larchmont was a popular shopping area filled with little mom-and-pop bookstores, trendy boutiques, and three coffeehouses on every block. On the weekends it was home to locals browsing for bargains, and on the weekdays, actors memorizing their lines and moms pushing strollers two by two. Molly was one of those moms. Only there was no way her stroller would fit two by two anywhere. With four rug rats under the age of five, I think Molly was applying for sainthood in the near future.
Either that or head of the West Coast division of Mommy and Me.
“Mads! I’m so glad you could make it, ” she said, throwing open her screen door and attacking me with air kisses. I awkwardly tried to navigate a hug around her Buddha belly.
“Come on in; everyone’s already here, ” she chided.
Hey, I was only fifteen minutes late. That was a record for me!
“Ma, ma!” the Terror yelled, toddling across the carpeted living room floor. He had on a teeny-tiny pair of chinos and a dress shirt that was already stained with three different colors of baby drool. Instinctively my new heels and I took a step back.
“That’s right, Connor. Maddie’s here.”
I gave the little person an awkward wave. It’s not that I don’t like kids. Kids are great. I might even have one someday. It’s just that I was never quite sure how to talk to them. Somehow I couldn’t do the high-pitched mommy voice Molly did, but I felt slightly ridiculous talking to a drooling, baldheaded guy in a diaper as if we were meeting at Starbucks for lattes. So, I settled on the noncommittal wave.
“Hey there, big fella, ” Ramirez said, leaning down and giving Connor a high five.
Connor blew him a spit bubble. “Ablablabla!” he screamed.
I resisted the urge to cover my ears.
“What do you want, Connor?” Molly asked. “You have to sign it. Sign it to Mommy.”
Connor blew some raspberries and yelled, “Abooo-boooboo.”
“Sign it, Connor. Mommy can’t understand you.” She turned to me. “We’re teaching Connor baby sign language. All the experts agree that it’s the best way to foster early communication skills and ensure proper conceptualization of interpersonal dynamics at a young age.”
Connor smiled at me and drooled onto his chinos.
Oh yeah, a baby genius in the making.
“Now, ” Molly said, crouching down and slowly enunciating to the drooling wonder, “use your signs and tell Mommy what Connor wants.”
“Mabooooogoooo, ” he yelled, going red in the face.
“Use your signs, ” Molly prompted.
The Terror stomped one foot, then let out a wail that could wake the dead. “Mamabooogooooooo!”
He raised one chubby fist in the air and, I could swear, lifted his middle finger.
How’s that for sign language?
Molly sighed and shook her head. “We’re still working on it, ” she reassured us. “Anyway, come on out back, everyone’s here.” She grabbed Connor under the armpits and slung him onto one ample hip as she led the way through the Fisher-Price-littered house into the spacious backyard, strung with streamers, balloons, and HAPPY FIRST BIRTHDAY signs. Molly’s brood of munchkins were on the lawn playing some kind of game that involved sticks, paper hats, and lots of loud war whoops. A pony sat in the corner, being petted by my cousin Donna’s kids, and under an oak tree Molly’s husband, Stan, was stringing up a big blue piñata shaped like a dog. On the patio sat an inflatable Spiderman-themed jump house filled with shouting kids and my teenage cousin Johnny, who recently started wearing his hair in a green mohawk. My grandmother sat straight backed in a deck chair, sipping lemonade and plugging her ears. I spied Mom and Faux Dad standing next to the jump house, glasses of merlot in hand.
Alcohol. Just what was needed to make it through a family gathering unscathed.
“Let’s find the booze, ” I mumbled to Ramirez as Molly’s oldest came running toward us, swinging a toddler-sized wooden baseball bat and yelling for candy.
Ramirez jumped back just in time to avoid being piñata practice, mumbling something in Spanish. (I’m guessing it was something along the lines of, “Gotta remember to buy condoms.”) “Good idea.”
Near the back fence, Molly had set up two folding tables, both covered in bright red-and-blue tablecloths. Trays of cookies, cupcakes, candies, and a jumbo-sized birthday cake shaped like a blue dog sat on the first table next to a big bowl of red punch. The second table held clear plastic cups, a beer cooler, and boxes of wine.
Ramirez grabbed a beer and moved over to the corner of the yard as Molly’s kid came in for another swing. I opted for wine box number one, an indistinguishable pink wine, and filled my glass to the brim.
“Hi.”
I spun around.
Then I let out a little eek as I encountered a man in thick white makeup with a bright red nose, standing close enough that I could smell the breakfast burritos on his breath. His hair puffed out in red curls all around his ears, and he had a big goofy smile painted over his lips. The effect was supposed to be cute, but with him standing so close, it was kind of creepy. I took a step back.
“How’s it goin’?” the clown asked.
“Uh, fine.”
“Got any more of that?” He pointed to my glass of pink stuff.
“Excuse me?”
The clown stepped around me and flipped the tab on box number two, filling his plastic cup with cheap merlot. He tilted his head back and downed it in one gulp. “Wow, that hits the spot.”
I blinked. “Uh, hello?”
“What?”
“You’re a clown!”
He stared at me. “Yeah. So?”
I gestured around at the backyard full of little people. “Don’t you think you should be setting a good example?”
Drunkie the Clown refilled his glass, taking a long swig. “Cut me some slack, doll face. I’m only doing the clown gig ’cause they fired me from Days of Our Lives.” He downed the second glass, then walked away, his oversize shoes squeaking with each step.
“Did he just call you doll face?” Ramirez asked, coming up behind me. His eyes narrowed as he popped the top on a Heineken.
“Okay, everyone! Piñata time!” Molly yelled.
Kids poured from every corner of the yard toward the oak tree, nearly knocking the grown-ups over in the process. Johnny barreled through, loot sack in hand, and pushed his mohawked self to the front of the line.
“Birthday boy first, ” Molly declared, extricating the tiny wooden baseball bat from her oldest and handing it to Connor. At first his chubby little arms could barely lift it, but then, as she tied a bright red blindfold over his eyes, he seemed to get the hang of it. He lifted it over his little bald head like a miniature caveman.
“Can you see anything, Connor?” she asked.
“Maabaaagooo!”
“Oh, this can’t end well, ” Ramirez murmured in my ear. He casually rested one hand at the small of my back, and I suddenly couldn’t care less what Connor did with that bat. I tried to tell myself it was inappropriate to get turned on at a child’s birthday party.
“Okay, here we go, honey. Swing for the piñata.” Molly gave Connor a nudge in the general direction of the blue dog. The other kids danced on their tiptoes, poised to make a dive for flying candy. Connor toddled forward and swung, missing the piñata by a good two feet.
“Lower, Stan, they can’t reach it.”
Stan let the slack out on the piñata as Connor took another blind swing, this time barely missing Faux Dad.
“Lower, Stan!”
Stan lowered the piñata again. This time Connor swung so hard the momentum spun him around and he knocked into the clown (who seemed to have refilled his glass yet again).
“Lower! For heaven’s sake, no one’s going to get the candy like that. Lower, Stan!”
Stan lowered.
I backed up as Connor went in for another shot. He took a swing that came nowhere near the piñata. (Though it almost knocked Johnny in the shins.)
“Uh. Maybe we should take the blindfold off…” Mom said.
Too late.
Connor took one more Barry Bonds-worthy swing and came in direct contact.
Unfortunately, not with the piñata.
I saw it happen in slow motion. Connor spun around, wielding the bat like a club. Faux Dad jumped back. Molly lunged for the Terror. Mom yelled, “Look out, ” and Ramirez turned around just in time to catch Connor’s wooden bat squarely in the groin. The sound of Ramirez’s groan echoed through the yard, and everyone made a collective scrunched ouch-face.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” I asked as Ramirez doubled over.
He gave me a dazed kind of look. “What happened?”
“Connor hit you with the bat.”
Ramirez glanced over at Connor. He was giggling and blowing more spit bubbles.
“Let’s not ever have kids, ” Ramirez mumbled.
At the moment, I had to agree. Mostly because the way Ramirez’s face was going white, I wasn’t even sure whether he still could have kids.
Mom ran into the house and came back with a bag of frozen peas, which she promptly stuck on Ramirez’s lap. I settled him in a deck chair next to my grandmother, who was clucking disapproval about how kids in her day were lucky to get a pair of underwear for their birthday, let alone a piñata.
“I’m so sorry, ” I mumbled, sitting next to Ramirez.
He gave a pained grunt.
“I had no idea Molly would give an actual bat to the Terror.”
Grandmother arched an eyebrow in my direction.
Oops. “I mean, Connor.”
“Uh-huh, ” Ramirez grunted again.
“Is there anything I can do? Do you need anything?”
Ramirez shifted the peas and groaned. “Another beer would be a start.”
“Right.” I popped up and crossed the yard, thinking that more booze wasn’t altogether a bad idea. I grabbed another Heineken from the cooler for Ramirez, and I flipped the little plastic tab on the pink box for me.
“That one’s running on empty, doll, ” Drunkie the Clown said, appearing at my side. “Try the other one, ” he slurred.
Great. The clown had beaten me to it. I managed to squeeze a couple of drops out of the pink and half a glass from the merlot. I know, sacrilege mixing wines, but was it really going to make much of a difference? It came from a box.
I took a big gulp…then choked on it as I felt something pinch me from behind. Ohmigod. Did that clown just grab my ass? I whipped around.
Drunkie was grinning and swaying on his feet. He waggled his painted eyebrows up and down at me suggestively.
I opened my mouth to give the fresh clown a piece of my mind.
But I never got the chance.
Before I could speak, I caught a glimpse of Ramirez out of the corner of my eye, rising from the deck chair, frozen peas in one hand, look of death on his face.
Uh-oh.
Ramirez lunged for the clown-who, by the way, was pretty quick for a guy who’d just drained a whole box of wine. He ducked, sliding his oversize red feet to the right. But Ramirez was a trained cop. Even with his battered family jewels, a guy in a red nose and squeaky shoes was no match for him. He lunged again, this time hitting his target. I watched in horror as Ramirez’s fist collided with Drunkie’s white-painted jaw. The clown’s head whipped around and he tripped backward, stumbling over his too-big shoes. He knocked into Connor, who fell flat on his diapered bottom, then careened to the right, straight into-you guessed it-me.
“Unh.” I reeled backward from the impact, flailing at the air for balance. But it was too late. I was a goner. I slammed face-first into the dessert table, upending a plate of cookies, sloshing punch to the ground, and doing a ten-point face-plant right into the blue icing of Connor’s birthday cake.
For a second I couldn’t breathe, my life flashing before my eyes as frosting went up my nose. I heard Molly scream, the clown groan, and Connor do another delighted giggle.
Was it wrong to hate a one-year-old?
“Maddie, are you okay?” Mom came rushing to my side, pulling me out of the ruined cake.
“I think so, ” I said. Only since I had a mouthful of blue icing it came out as, “I ink o.”
“My cake! My beautiful cake!” Molly screeched. “You ruined the cake.”
“Sorry, ” I mumbled, wiping raspberry-cream filling off my sundress.
“This can’t be happening. I planned the perfect birthday party. This was supposed to be Connor’s special day! We never even got a picture of the cake. What am I going to put in the scrapbook?” Molly was starting to hyperventilate.
I looked down at Connor. He giggled and drooled.
Then gave me the finger.
I did my best to wipe the majority of vanilla cake chunks from my sundress before getting into Ramir-ez’s car, so by the time we finally pulled up in front of my studio (me looking like I’d lost a food fight with Betty Crocker and Ramirez still walking funny), I was relatively sure I hadn’t left raspberry-cream butt prints on Ramirez’s leather seats.
“Well, that was fun, ” I said as he pulled into my drive and cut the engine.
Ramirez gave me a look. “I think that kid flipped me off.”
“Yeah, he’s charming like that.”
I got out of the car and started up my steps, leaving a Hansel and Gretel-like trail of cake crumbs in my wake. Ramirez was one step behind me and almost plowed into my back as I paused at the top step.
My door was open a crack.
Ramirez spotted it too, silently slipping his gun from its holster and pushing in front of me.
“Go back downstairs, ” he whispered, his jaw tense, his body instinctively going into cop mode. I stood rooted to the spot as he slowly pushed the door open, his gun straight-armed in front of him.
Go back downstairs. Good advice. I’d do that.
Just as soon as I saw the asshole who’d broken into my place. I tippy-toed in behind Ramirez, trying to make myself small and unnoticeable.
I had to stifle a gasp when I saw my studio. It looked like the big one had hit. All my kitchen cupboards were opened, plates broken, food on the floor, box of Cap’n Crunch tipped upside down. My futon cushions were strewn across the room, mixed in with drawing pens, clothes, shoes, and my very nonthreatening hair dryer.
I covered my mouth with my hand and bit back tears as I spied my favorite pair of silver slingbacks, both heels broken off. Who would do such a thing?
“Shit.”
Ramirez had finished his quick walk-through of the apartment, and his gun now hung loosely at his side as he stared into my bathroom.
“What? Oh God, please don’t tell me they trashed my makeup. Do you know how expensive that Lancôme moisturizer is?” I rushed to his side, then looked up at the bathroom mirror and felt the blood drain from my face.
Written in bloodred lipstick across the vanity were the words I’m going to kill you, bitch.