Mystic Mayhem (27 page)

Damn brothers.

"Gianna meet Dolly." Enzo holds his stomach as he leans against the door, chuckling like an idiot. It takes him a few seconds to control himself. "There was a retirement party for one of the Sergeants. He shoved Dolly into my car after. He didn't want his wife seeing it."

Izzie curses under her breath while I detach myself from an embarrassing picture-worthy moment. Thank goodness Enzo isn't clutching his phone.

I don't blame him. It is funny, but Izzie isn't amused, and I'm spending the next few hours with her, so I hold back my laughter.

"You're such an ass," Izzie says and not-so-playfully slugs him in the arm.

It makes him laugh harder. "You think you're cool coming over this morning wanting another look around because you love this house so much. I'm not dumb, sis. I knew exactly what you were up to when I opened the door."

Izzie can be pretty obvious. She didn't inherit the sneaky gene.

"You'll never get me back," Enzo says. "I'll always be waiting for you."

I grab Dolly and give her a hard smooch on her cheek. Yep, the shades match.

*  *  *

I pull down the visor at a stoplight just before Lindy's Bar on Atlantic Avenue. I touch up my lipstick, flip one of my long, dark brown curls to the other side of my part, and wipe a black mascara dot from under my eye.

I glance at Izzie. She's still seething about Enzo. Is it really that big a deal?

"We're going to get him," she snaps. Since she's the oldest, she believes she should be in control and win every time. I was never one for the competitiveness. That was her and Enzo. I was just happy talking to the dead.

I pull into the parking lot and toss my lipstick back into my purse. "I know. But you have to admit that was clever." I wait for her to implode on me for taking his side.

But instead she lets out a deep breath. "Maybe."

Wow, she didn't take my head off. I can't imagine her annoyance is solely directed at Enzo. I'm sure seeing Paulie started her snarkitude.

"Let's go. I want to unwind with a drink. It's been a long day." And since I only get one for the whole night, I'm anticipating delicious magic in a glass.

"This will be fun." She plasters a smile on her face. I can't tell if it's genuine or falsely creepy.

We get out of the car and walk across the parking lot. In college this was my favorite place to hang. Admittance for ages eighteen and up, cheap drinks, no cover charge before eight, a small dance floor, and free darts. What else could a living-at-home, nineteen-year-old with a part-time job in a deli want? Besides a photographic memory for acing tests and a loyal, devoted boyfriend who looks like The Rock.

I yank open the heavy wooden door as some guy rushes out. I see a blur of plaid and denim charge toward me, and I freeze. I'd be great in a disaster. Luckily he stops before plowing me down, and we do that weird, embarrassing sidestepping dance together.

I smirk at the awkwardness and look up into his face, but his Yankees' cap is down too low, so I can't make out his eyes.

He grips my shoulders hard to pin me down and runs around me. As he lets go, I wince and watch him head across the street.

"How rude," Izzie says. "Wonder where his fire is."

"Who cares? Come on," I say and make my way inside.

The place is relatively empty and quiet. Since when? It's Saturday night. We have our pick of seats at the bar, and there are even several available tables. I'm a bit dumbfounded. I've never seen it like this. A lot changes in a few years.

We take seats at the wraparound bar and only have to wait three seconds before the cute bartender sets cocktail napkins in front of us. "What can I get you?" he asks. He can't be older than me, with a shot of thick brown hair and light blue eyes. He smiles, and a couple dimples appear. He's gotta be a heartbreaker.

I glance at Izzie. Has she changed too? "A couple of margaritas on the rocks, please." When she doesn't ask for a different drink, I sigh in relief. Nice to know some things stay the same.

When he sets the drinks in front of us, I ask, "Why is it practically empty in here?"

He shrugs. "Everyone's probably at Mitch's Tavern."

I stir the red straw in my glass. "That dive in the East End?"

He nods. "They have live music now." A customer calls him over, and he walks off.

"That's where Paulie likes to hang." The only reason I think Izzie says it without choking on venom is because she's already sipped a quarter of her drink.

"Because of the music?" I ask.

She shakes her head, and her long, wavy hair sways against her shoulders. "Because it's a dive. He fits right in."

Ah, there's the venom. Right on schedule.

I take a sip of my 'rita for liquid courage and go in, praying I come back out with all my limbs. "So what's going on with you and Paulie? Why are you and Alice staying at Ma and Pop's?"

She glares at me in her peripheral, and I hold my breath. Maybe I should've waited until she was on her second or third drink. "He's cheating on me."

Whoa.

My body and mind stop moving for a moment. I never expected her to say those words. Not Paulie. He's one of the good guys. They've been married for four years. Alice was nine when they met, and he loves her as if she was his own. Alice's biological douche walked out on them when Izzie was still pregnant—immediately following high school graduation. So Paulie stepping up and making sure Alice was okay with him gave him huge points in my book.

"How do you know?" I ask, hoping she didn't walk in on him. That has to be fifty shades of disgusting.

She shrugs and takes another sip, more like a gulp. "I just know."

I lay my hand on her arm. "Wait. You don't have proof? Maybe it's not true then."

"We've only had sex twice in the past month," she says and signals the bartender for another. "And when he comes home, he's always tired and immediately wants a shower. A wife knows."

I roll my eyes. That's it? "Maybe he's tired from work, and I'd certainly want to bathe after dealing with the sick and dying all day."

I get another glare. We keep this up, and I'll need to invest in some protective gear. She downs the remains of her drink. "What are your plans now that you're back?"

I guess that's the end of that conversation. Now onto one almost as stomach-turning. "I'm not sure. Live in the apartment, work at the deli, spend time with the family."

"Oh yeah, that's a great plan." She winks at the bartender when he places down her second drink.

"What's wrong with it? It's solid."

"And boring. What happened to the girl with dreams of being a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher?"

"I wanted to be a lot of things as a kid, like a spy and a professional candy taster too. None realistic."

"A doctor, lawyer, and teacher are realistic."

"Yeah, if I want to spend another ten years in school, spend my days buried in briefs and law journals, or be underpaid. Besides, I don't want to be those things anymore."

She pokes an ice cube in her glass with her finger. "Okay, then what do you want to be when you grow up?"

I sigh. I've thought of this a hundred times, and I always end up back at the beginning. I don't know. I majored in psychology because I had to pick something. I've worked in various jobs to see what I like and to pay the bills. None of them I want to return to. On the other hand, I don't get the rush to have my entire future mapped out right now. "Do I have to grow up?"

"You'll figure it out one day," Izzie says, trying to be reassuring.

I think it bothers my family more than me that I'm not working toward some specific career. I don't mind waffling in the wind. I can figure it out later.

"If nothing pans out, I have a future in sandwich inventing."

Izzie laughs. She either fondly remembers my BLT abilities, or she's starting to loosen up. And a loose Izzie means some hip-thrusting action is near. I love dancing, letting go and feeling free. In the last year I've only danced once, not counting the twerking and chicken dancing in Douche Nozzle's apartment when he wasn't home. Other than at my Cousin Claudia's wedding, he and I never went out dancing. His job as an investigator for a law firm kept him busy most of the time.

The door opens, and several people walk in. First a tall, slender, tanned couple who look like they stepped off the New York Fashion Week runway. Behind them are a couple of middle-aged guys dressed in skinny jeans, V-neck tops, and loafers. This place is not only dead, but there's no one to flirt with either.

The final person is a single guy. He's looking down at his phone, so I can't see his face. Instead I check out the bod. Dark jeans, a light gray tee, and a black leather jacket. There's something familiar about him. I know that jacket.

He looks up, and our gazes lock.

Crap. My entire body tenses.

Douche Nozzle.

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