Loose Screws Read online

  “Oh…that.” My hand drifts up to fiddle with my hair, then I shrug. “I’m coping. Or at least I was until a few hours ago. But, hey—” I spread my hands “—life goes on, right?”

  He grunts.

  “What about you?” I try a smile. “I guess you’re doing okay in the romance department, huh?”

  “C’mon,” he says, getting to his feet. “I’ll see you out. You at the same place, if we need to get in touch with you again?”

  “Oh. Um, sure.” For some reason, his dismissal throws me off balance, although I recover enough to give him my cell phone number, which he scribbles on the next blank page along with my name.

  We walk down the short hallway to the front desk in silence, in front of which a uniform is struggling mightily to hang on to a wriggling, snarling, furry sausage with twin radar screens on its head.

  “Hey, Lieutenant—be still, you stupid mutt!—we found this in Fanning’s apartment. Scared to death, damn thing nearly took off my hand when I tried to catch him.”

  “Ohmigod!” I say on a gasp. “It’s Geoffrey! Brice’s corgi!”

  Relieved brown doggy eyes meet mine. But with a slight edge. Sort of a cross between Thank God and It’s about damn time.

  “You know this dog, lady?”

  “Of course I do.” I reach for the dog, whose enormous ears immediately tuck against his skull like a pair of dragon wings. Nick grabs my wrist, yanks back my hand a second before Geoff’s tongue makes contact.

  “Jesus, Ginger—you wanna lose a finger?”

  “Honestly, you’d think you’d know a submissive pose when you saw it,” I say, twisting my hand from Nick’s grasp. I go for the dog again, who has turned into a shuddering blur in anticipation of sympathetic human contact. “I’d forgotten all about him!” I turn to Nick. “Brice used to bring him down to work with him sometimes.” I look back at the poor orphaned creature, who is slathering my hand with hot dog spit and giving me one of those I’ll-do-anything-you-say-just-don’t-send-me-to-the-pokey looks.

  Uh-oh.

  “He looks like an irradiated rat,” Nick observes. Geoff growls. Took the words right out of my mouth.

  “You got any idea what we should do with him?” Since the officer is looking straight at Nick when he asks this, there is no reason for me to feel that the question is somehow directed at me. “Y’know, until we find out if the victim had indicated any preference as to the dog’s disposition?”

  I just keep scratching Geoff behind the ears, refusing to look at anybody else.

  “I suppose the best thing would be to just keep him at the pound until we find out,” Nick says.

  The officer looks at me. Nick looks at me. The two vagrants seated on the bench five feet away look at me.

  And don’t even ask me what the dog is doing.

  “Stop staring at me like that!” I snap, at the dog mostly, but I make sure everybody else gets their fair share of my annoyance, as well. “Hey,” I said to Geoff, “the pound is great, you know? You’ll get fed every day and there’s all those delicious doggy smells and everything. And it won’t be forever. Just until they find out who Brice wanted to get you….”

  I feel myself falling into those limpid, pleading brown eyes. And I can hear the questions: What if the keeper is mean? What if the food sucks? What if nobody cleans my pen and I have to sleep with my own poop?

  “It’s going to be fine,” I say, because I think I really need to hear those words right now and nobody else seems to be forthcoming. “After all, this is a New York City agency, right? What could possibly go wrong?”

  Out of my sightline, somebody laughs. And Geoff slowly lowers his little chin onto the cop’s arm and just…stares.

  No. No. Okay, so maybe I always wanted a dog, but God knows I do not need one now, not even temporarily. My life is a shambles, I just lost my job, I like the option of being able to sleep past 7:00 a.m. if I want to….

  And will you be able to sleep at all knowing that if somebody slips up, somewhere along the line, Geoff could accidentally get sent to pooch heaven?

  The dog gives a heartfelt sigh. Almost as heartfelt as the one I give immediately afterward.

  “You guys got a piece of rope or something I could use for a leash?”

  Three people take off like a shot to do my bidding. A minute later someone thrusts an actual leash into my hands, although one clearly designed for an elephant.

  I hook the lead to the dog’s collar; we walk outside, the leash dragging between us like the chains on Marley’s ghost. Geoff doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, now that his immediate needs have been met, he doesn’t seem too torn up over Brice’s death, either.

  Nick frowns down at the dog. “Are his ears supposed to be that big?”

  The dog looks up at me. “Ignore the clueless man,” I say, then squint at the clueless man. “Well, I guess we’ll be moseying along….”

  “Hey, listen…would you like to maybe go get a cup of coffee or something sometime?”

  My brows go up. “As in, a date?”

  “As in, a cup of coffee.”

  Nick’s eyes are even bluer in the daylight. With that beard shadow, he looks positively dangerous.

  I glance away, the heat and sun stinging my eyes. Geoff tugs on the leash. “Just a second,” I say irritably, and the dog heaves a sigh, flopping down in the scrap of shadow at Nick’s feet.

  “It’s about whoever kept you up—” I blush “—until 4:00 a.m.?”

  “Dammit,” he mutters under his breath. “What is it with women that they assume if a man asks them to have a cup of coffee with him, it means he’s coming on to them?”

  “Oh, I don’t know…experience?”

  That gets an exasperated sigh. “Okay. You just bought me lunch. Did that mean you were making a play for me?”

  “Of course not! That was just a…a friendly gesture.”

  “So how is this any different?”

  “Because it just…is.” I cannot believe he doesn’t get this. “Hey, I didn’t make up the rules. But I do know what they are.”

  He crosses his arms. “And some rules don’t make any sense.”

  “You really expect me to believe you just—just—want to be my friend?”

  “Yeah. What’s so strange about that?”

  I manage not to roll my eyes. “Uh-huh,” I say. “You can really look at me and not think of sex.”

  “I really can,” he says, too quickly, which somehow doesn’t reassure me the way I think it should.

  “I see.”

  “Oh, for chrissakes…”

  “What?”

  “You should see the look on your face, like I just insulted you.” His mouth gets all twisted up. “A guy cannot win, you know that? If he lets a woman know he thinks she’s hot, she goes off on one of those ‘men just want one thing’ tirades. If he says he’s not attracted to her, she gets all depressed and wonders what’s wrong with her. No matter what we do, we’re screwed.”

  Had to admit, he had me on that one. “So…what does it mean, if a man says he’s not attracted to a woman?” I mean, God knows, I’ve heard that enough in my life. Figured, seeing’s as Nick seems to have pondered the subject in some depth, I might as well get some insight.

  “It means he’s not attracted to her. You know, because maybe the timing’s not right, or he’s got somebody else…whatever. Doesn’t mean she’s not attractive.” Although this is accompanied by a sheepish grin and a half shrug. “Necessarily.”

  “But not in this case?”

  God, I am so pathetic.

  “You’re fishing,” Nick says.

  “After the week I’ve had, you better believe it.”

  He chuckles. “No, Ginger, not in this case. In your case, I’d have to say on a scale of one to ten, you’re maybe…an eight?”

  Hey, I’ll take it. Catherine Zeta Jones, I ain’t.

  Then he says, “So what about you? You think of sex when you look at me?”

  What I’m thinking is,
my goodness, it’s warm out here.

  “No,” I say, because I really want that to be the truth. “After what I’ve been through, I might not think about sex ever again.”

  He raises a “yeah, right” brow but says, “So what’s the problem?”

  The problem is, I’m sure there’s a catch here somewhere. And it’s driving me nuts that I can’t see it. “Gee, I don’t know…I mean, I’ve never had a guy friend before. Not a straight one, anyway.”

  “So maybe now’s your golden opportunity. Look, Ginger, I don’t cheat on my girlfriends—”

  Which naturally leads me to wonder just how many of those there have been over the past ten years.

  “—ever. I like you. We’re family, for God’s sake. And yeah, to answer the question lurking in that female brain of yours, I’d tell Amy if we…had that cup of coffee. Or whatever.”

  Now, see, it’s that whatever that makes me nervous, because I do not want to want whatever. Ever. Because I know what Nick Wojowodski’s whatever is like…

  And I need to seriously get over myself because the man has someone with whom he shares whatever on probably a very regular basis and what the hell is going to happen over a lousy cup of coffee in a crowded diner?

  “I gotta go,” I say, fully aware that I haven’t answered Nick’s question.

  “Sure,” he says after a moment, his hands in his pockets. “You take care, okay?”

  Tell me I did the right thing.

  Geoff makes a beeline for my couch the instant I open the door to my apartment. Defying every law of physics heretofore discovered, he hauls his legless body up onto the couch, where he collapses, panting so hard I’m afraid his lungs are going to burst. Camel-colored dog hair and dog drool on red velvet. Oh, yeah. That’ll work.

  Too tired and hot and frazzled to care—it’s just for a few days, and I vaguely remember how to operate a vacuum cleaner—I dump my purse on the counter, notice I have a message on the machine. Tough. It can wait. Right now, my priorities are water, rip panty hose off body, and pee, in that order.

  My turning on the kitchen faucet brings Geoff off the sofa and into the kitchen like a flash. I find a plastic bowl, fill it for him, put it on the floor, grab the largest tumbler I own, fill it for me, put it to my lips. The next minute is filled with the sounds of off-sync gulping. If I get a stomach cramp from drinking too much too fast, I really don’t give a damn.

  Water sloshes in my stomach as I walk over and switch on the fan. After carefully aiming it toward my crotch, I hike up my skirt and divest myself of the nylon torture devices, then zip barefoot into the bathroom. Apparently my activity has prompted a similar urge in my new roommate, because he’s now whining at the door.

  “Forget it,” I say, shucking off my soaking-wet dress and slip. “You piddled like three hundred times between the police station and here.” (Yes, we walked. Don’t ask.) I am now standing in my underwear in front of the fan, willing the sweat to evaporate. The dog, who had resumed his frantic panting, now sucks in his tongue, looks at my breasts and cocks his head, perplexed.

  “Take my word for it. They’re there.”

  Geoff does the canine equivalent of a shrug—Sure, honey, if you say so—then heaves himself back up onto the sofa.

  Men.

  Marginally cooler than I was five minutes before, I yank on a short sundress, grab a cherry Coke from the fridge, and plop down beside the dog, deciding I need to take stock of my situation á la Bridget Jones.

  Okay. Lost: Fiancé, one. Job, one.

  Gained: Dog, one. Possible male friend, one. But only if I get brave enough to test those waters, which isn’t likely. So maybe I should scratch that off the list.

  Holding steady: Apartment, one. Mother, one (big sigh here). Grandmother, one. Friends who aren’t speaking to each other, two. Other friends, enough. Money in bank— I get up, dig my checkbook out of my purse, go back to sofa—enough to tide me over for a month, maybe. With whatever I get from Fanning, another month, maybe a bit more.

  So, all in all, things could be worse—

  I hear the neighbor’s phone ring. No, wait, that’s mine.

  I hunt down the cordless, find it stuffed behind the sofa cushion with the remote and three Häagen-Dazs wrappers. I answer just before the machine picks up.

  “Ginger, hi! It’s Annie Murphy!”

  Uh-oh. This is the woman I sublet the apartment from, remember? In five years, she’s never called me once.

  “Annie!” I say brightly. “Hi…um, did you get my last check okay?”

  “What? Oh, yeah. That’s not why I’m calling. I left a message on your machine, but figured I’d try again, since this is important…” Geoff plops his furry chin on my bare leg. Ick, ick, ick. I push him away, just as I hear Annie say, “God, I really hate to do this to you….”

  Six

  “I cannot believe she only gave you two weeks.”

  A too large University of Michigan T-shirt flopping around his hips as he works, Ted shovels far too many sliced carrots into the sizzling wok. When I presented my little terror-stricken self at his door a half hour ago, dog in tow, Ted ushered us both inside, gave me a Dasani and Geoff a pat on the head and insisted we both stay for dinner. “What did she expect you to do? And she does understand that all the furniture is yours, right?”

  On top of everything else, this latest blip on my radar screen has basically fried my brain. I’m too stunned to even sigh, even though it’s been several hours since Annie’s call. Who would’ve guessed that, after five years of designing costumes for movies out on the West coast, she’d get a sudden offer to oversee the wardrobe for one of the soaps taped here in New York? Since her mother had been ill for some time, Annie grabbed the opportunity to be closer to her family again. And naturally, she wanted her apartment back.

  What could I say? It’s mine now, you can’t have it? This isn’t like finding a ball on the playground. Or somebody else’s boyfriend. For one thing, the place is hers technically anyway, since her name’s on the lease. And my staying there as long as I had was a fluke. Neither of us foresaw that six months would stretch to five years, but it did and now she’s coming back and I can add homeless to jobless and loveless on my list of indignities.

  I fiddle with my cute little Nokia phone, lying in front of me on the bar. I had to bring it, you know, in case Nick might call. About Brice or the dog or something. And I’d told him I’d be available. “Yes, she knows the furniture is mine. Says she can pick up a few pieces once she gets here.”

  Peppers and broccoli join the sacrificed carrots. “God, that just bites.” No argument there. Ted glances over his shoulder at me. “You sure you don’t want something stronger?”

  I shake my head. I’m still not sure I’ve worked all the champagne out of my system yet.

  Ted’s cargo shorts ring. He hauls his cell out of one of the pockets, answers it, never missing a beat with his stirring. From the living room, I hear Alyssa giggle, Geoff yip. Maybe, if nobody claims Geoff, I can talk Ted into taking him. Of course, their twin Siamese cats—who have been sitting up on the highest shelf of the glass étagère and willing the dog to die ever since we got here—might not think that’s such a hot idea.

  Randall drifts into the kitchen, his cell phone glued to his ear, sighing a lot. Talking to his mother, I gather. Something about his younger brother Davis moving to the city, her wanting him to stay with Randall until he finds his own place. Needless to say, Mr. Still-in-the-Closet is trying to talk her out of it. My hunch is he’s not winning. He plants his fine jeans-clad butt on the stool next to mine, pinching the space between his brows.

  Ted finishes his conversation and comes over to the counter, setting his phone down to pick up a ceramic serving bowl. “Hey, honey—cheer up. We’ll fix it, I promise.”

  That brings a smile to my lips, albeit a very small one. “That’s very sweet, Ted. But right now, I don’t even think I can find the pieces of my life, let alone put them back together—”

&nb
sp; With a heavy sigh, Randall plunks down his phone on the counter. Those Nokia folks are really raking it in, boy.

  “Let me guess,” Ted says, shoveling sauteed stuff into the bowl. “We’re having company next week.”

  “I tried to talk her out of it,” Randall says to Ted. “I really did.”

  Ted carries the bowl out to the dining table at one end of the living room. “Hey, you’re the one with issues about this. I don’t have any problem with your brother staying with us. But then, I don’t have any trouble admitting I’m gay.”

  “That’s because your mother is dead.”

  Unperturbed, Ted returns to the kitchen, gently smacking Randall on the shoulder as he passes. “And telling your mother won’t kill her, Rand.”

  “Like hell it won’t.”

  Oh, goody. A distraction.

  “Oh, come on,” I say, reaching over to snitch a piece of mushroom Ted somehow missed. “Shocking our parents is part of our job description.” The mushroom disappears into the great void under my rib cage. With everything I’ve been through, I shouldn’t be hungry. Yeah, well, tell my stomach that. “Davis fulfilled his quota by being the first kid in three generations on either side to get a divorce, right? And what have you done? Diddly squat. So the way I see it, you’re way overdue.”

  Randall sighs. “You’ve got a serious screw loose, you know that?”

  “Hey, I’m not the one pretending to be someone I’m not.”

  I catch the glance that flutters between the two men at that, but before I can pin them on it, Alyssa and Geoff wander in to see what’s holding up dinner.

  “All I’ve got is veggies,” Ted says to the dog, then looks at me.

  “Don’t ask me. I have no idea what he eats.”

  Ted reaches into the bag of carrots sitting on the counter, hands one to the dog. Geoff sniffs it, slides his gaze over to me.

  “That’s it for the moment. We’ll get you the real stuff later, okay?”

  The dog sighs, then gingerly takes the carrot. He stands there for a moment, the thing dangling from his mouth like a cigar, before dejectedly hauling it over to plop down on the Berber carpet underneath the coffee table. After staring at it for a good minute, he finally, with a huge sigh, braces it between his paws and starts chewing, but his expression clearly says, “You have got some serious making up to do.”