Calling His Bluff Read online

  Hours later, Sarah bruised her knuckles for the third time, whacking them against J.D.’s armored tank of a front door. He can’t be gone already, she told herself.

  Could he?

  Even as a kid, he’d barely waited to turn legal before throwing everything he owned in the back of a rattling gray Chevy Citation and hitting the road for freedom and adventure, aka anything that got him away from his parents. She was pretty sure the only reason he’d stuck around for as long as he did was that he didn’t want to disappoint her mother, who asked about his homework every day when she checked on her own children. If J.D. could have offered himself up for adoption, he’d have done it in a heartbeat. But still, the moment he was legal, he’d made a break for it.

  Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Sarah, she scolded herself. Not even shoot-from-the-hip J.D. would throw a pregnant cat out on the street in the middle of winter. Plus, it would be pretty hard to sell that condo in its present “a bomb just exploded” condition. There could be a million reasons why he’s not home, you loon. Just because the man doesn’t have a nine-to-five job doesn’t mean he never leaves the house. Even artists need to hit the store for toilet paper and toothpaste every now and then.

  Or he could be out with his ex. Correction, not so ex.

  Or worse, maybe he’s locked in with her and they’re not answering the door.

  She had stopped pounding on the door while berating herself, and in the silence she heard the faint inquiring mews of a cat.

  All of a sudden she felt incredibly stupid.

  What was she doing here?

  The man obviously did not need her help any longer. Although he’d been desperate for help with the cat, it wasn’t as if he’d picked up the phone the next day to call her. He hadn’t even bothered to thank her for messengering over some supplies the next morning. She’d sent kibble and vitamins and a brush, for crying out loud. Showing up on his doorstep was more likely to seem flirtatious than professional.

  She bumped her elbow against the neck of the wine bottle sticking out of the medical bag that hung at her hip, a fine pinot noir she’d picked up at a neighborhood wine shop earlier in the day. She pressed her lips together and remembered that she’d slicked a coat of plum gloss on them before stepping out of the car. Had unearthed a dusty comb from the depths of her bag and run it through her straight hair, too.

  Likely to seem flirtatious?

  Good grief.

  She had to get out of here before he came home and found her camped out on his doorstep. And then say a prayer in gratitude that this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where the neighbors minded each other’s business.

  “You lookin’ for J.D.?” a woman’s voice called out.

  Lovely.

  “Uh, no.” But she clearly was. God, she hoped she hadn’t been spotted pounding on his door like her pants were on fire. The two women standing on the sidewalk sported four-inch stilettos and skirts that weren’t much longer. Both sported extravagantly dyed fake-fur jackets and matching Easter-egg colored blunt-cut wigs.

  Well, neighbors came in all different shapes and sizes, she guessed. And some didn’t live on your street, so much as, well…work there.

  The women were still watching her, eyebrows arched and hips cocked to one side.

  “Yes, well, I was just, you know, checking to see if he was home. I happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  God, she felt like an idiot.

  The taller of the two women smiled at her. “I know whatcha mean, honey. Almost all the guys who come see me just happen to be in the neighborhood, too.” Her companion snorted a little. Sarah was pretty sure she was laughing. “Did he stand you up?” the first woman asked, jerking her chin at J.D.’s door. “And after you brought the wine, too.”

  The sensation of being smashed on a slide and examined under a microscope grew stronger. Heat raced over her face as she concentrated on not stuttering.

  “No, we’re not…you know,” she waved her hands in front of her chest. The women looked at her as if they knew very well indeed. This was getting worse. “I’m just a friend.” Skeptical looks. Her voice squeaked higher. “His veterinarian. He’s got a cat?”

  She hated it when her voice rose up at the end of perfectly simple sentences, making her sound like a teenybopper looking for approval. It was a habit she’d almost completely eliminated. Except when she got nervous.

  Getting busted by a couple of hookers in a transparent attempt to put the moves on a guy, who had made it clear by the simple fact of not calling that he was uninterested in repeating the mind-blowing kiss they’d shared, made her nervous.

  Go figure.

  “Yeah, I saw that cat,” the shorter woman was nodding. “Took him half the morning to corner that damn thing in the alley. Man must be awful lonely to chase a mangy cat that hard. Maybe you should stick around with that wine.”

  Strange. J.D. clearly didn’t want an animal. Why would he have rescued a stray at all? It was difficult to come up with an explanation that made sense, particularly given that she was still in the middle of the most peculiar conversation of her life.

  “But you should put some lipstick on, honey. You’re too pale,” the first woman advised.

  Excellent. Now she was getting makeup tips. And she was already wearing lip gloss, damn it.

  Her feet were stiff with cold, her nose was starting to run and she’d had her fill of humiliation for the day. It was time to go console herself with a decent meal and some company that didn’t charge by the half hour. Maybe read a nice, sedate, nineteenth-century novel.

  “Either of you ladies like pinot?” Time to hit the road.

  * * *

  Her attempt at cheerful self-deprecation lasted all of fifteen minutes. Until she got a ticket.

  More precisely, three.

  With her forehead resting on the steering wheel of her car, Sarah gave serious consideration as to whether her day could possibly get any worse.

  Then she remembered that Officer Dubinski, rhymes with Buttinski, had offered to take her down to the station, in cuffs of course, if she thought that would improve her mood, and decided it could indeed be worse.

  But it was just that she had car insurance. The insurance card itself maybe wasn’t the first thing you came across in the explosion of crap that fell out of her glove compartment the moment you opened it, but it was in there somewhere. And she hadn’t thought there was a time limit on finding it.

  And she had stopped at the white line. But that last tap on her brakes must have happened just as the tires hit a patch of ice, because the car had slid forward a foot or two before coming to a complete stop.

  And she knew that her passenger side rearview mirror was cracked. Some idiot parking his car must have clipped the mirror the night before, but the dealership said they had to order the part since her Jeep was so old, and it wouldn’t be in until Monday. She couldn’t work without her car.

  It just seemed so unfair that she hadn’t done anything wrong and was in all this trouble anyway. When she tried to explain that to the officer, he’d flashed a palm in her face to stop her monologue. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You can tell your side of it in court, lady.”

  Now he was sitting in his cruiser, parked behind her, and she was too nervous to pull away from the curb. She was so angry her hands were shaking. She’d probably step on the accelerator and drive right into a parked car. But after it became clear that the police officer was more than capable of out-waiting her, she finally shifted her car into drive and pulled away from the curb. Her gaze jumped to her rearview mirror every two seconds until the cruiser finally got off her tail.

  Now she didn’t want a meal. Or a book. She wanted to skip town. In lieu of that, she’d settle for some sympathy, damn it, for J.D. not calling her and for the hookers and for Officer Buttinski. And maybe a couple stiff drinks. She knew just where to go to get them.

  Of course, in classic Chicago style, all the open parking spaces on the residential streets had been blocked with b
uckets, brooms and folding chairs by people who wanted to save the spaces after going to all the work of digging them out. She spotted one last unclaimed gap on the block, only to watch as it was stolen from her by a jerk in a Hummer who definitely had a tiny penis.

  That was it. She’d had it.

  Her tires skidded as she slalomed halfway into a spot blocked by two green plastic lawn chairs and slammed on the brakes. She was out of the car in two seconds, and she had a chair in each hand moments later. She was about to pitch them onto the parkway when she came to her senses.

  Did she really want a rock through her windshield?

  Two minutes and a quick search of her med bag later, the chairs were stacked neatly just off the curb and a hot pink Post-it that broadcast her apology was anchored to the seat with a chunk of ice. So sorry—Emergency! Leaving soon & will put the chairs back! Her Jeep was parked neatly in the stolen space.

  She was still risking that her car would get attacked with a shovel, but if she had to drive around the block for one more minute, she was going to lose her mind. Or commit vehicular suicide.

  Finally, she’d made it. The one place where she knew everyone would be on her side. She’d managed to wrap up early enough that it was still before five, so there shouldn’t be anyone around except for her favorite people. She yanked open the door to her brother’s pub, the original Tyler’s, and prepared herself for some sympathy.

  “…I just felt sorry for Sarah because she was always mooning around about some guy she liked.”

  This was not happening to her.

  * * *

  “I was just yanking her chain.”

  It was a good thing he hadn’t actually sat down yet, J.D. thought, as he took another step back from the long wooden counter in front of him.

  Tyler had both hands flat against the bar. He looked about two seconds away from hopping it and coming after J.D. with fists swinging.

  “You kissed my sister?”

  He couldn’t blame the guy. When you ask your friend to check up on your sister, you don’t really mean it in a carnal way.

  “I asked you to talk to her, Damico. Tell me if you thought she seemed a little off. I didn’t tell you to put the moves on her.” Tyler wasn’t smiling at all. The man seemed pretty pissed, actually.

  “Hey, I was doped up on pain meds when you called. Plus, I haven’t seen Sarah since she was a kid. I wouldn’t know if she seemed a little off if I talked to her all day.”

  “Yeah, well, see with your eyes, not with your hands.” When Tyler yanked at the bar rag hanging from his belt and started polishing the counter in front of him like it was inspection time at the barracks, J.D. figured it was probably safe to sit down. Which was necessary, because after five days without crutches, his leg still ached like a son of a bitch. “Sarah doesn’t need her chain yanked by the likes of you. Dude, you don’t even know if you’re still married.”

  Maybe not so safe yet.

  “No way. I paid. I got the papers. Only one married here is you, bro. Thank god.”

  He glanced reflexively over his shoulder when he heard the gentle creak of a hinge and shivered as a small gust of cold air hit the nape of his neck. He hoped whoever it was would take the heat off him. The petite blonde who came barreling through the front door of the pub, two small children hanging off her hands, fit the bill.

  J.D. shook his head and smiled at the sight of the classic Gold Coast beauty, blond hair up in a twist and designer suit hanging flawlessly on her small frame. She definitely merited a second glance. Even though she was married to his best friend.

  Grace kicked off her high heels, which skidded to a stop at the base of the jukebox, and walked across the spotless hardwood floor of the bar in her stocking feet.

  J.D. had been out of the country when she conned her way into an under-the-table waitressing job at Tyler’s pub, using a fake name while she hid out from some cold and manipulative family members. It didn’t surprise him much that she’d fallen for Tyler. Women always did sooner or later. What did surprise him was that his buddy had fallen just as hard.

  “I’ll trade you your children for a glass of pinot grigio,” Grace suggested to her husband. She threw J.D. a grateful glance as he scooped two-year-old Isabelle onto his lap, pulling out one of the baseballs he always had on hand somehow to start a tame game of underhand toss with four-year-old Daniel. “Thanks.”

  “My children, huh? Were they that bad?” Tyler asked as he poured the wheat-pale wine into a glass and swirled it. He took a sip, nodded and passed it to his wife, who took a rather longer swallow before answering.

  “I should never have told Chef Paul about Take Your Kids to Work Day.” Paul was her partner in the crowning jewel of her restaurant conglomerate. Grace narrowed her eyes. “He just happened to be working on a new dessert menu today.”

  “And?” After a couple of decades, J.D. could read his friend’s face at a glance. Tyler loved listening to his wife, even when she was like this, a little cranky, a little frustrated and in dire need of five minutes to vent before she could relax. He shook his head.

  “Have you ever seen a couple of toddlers after they’ve taste-tested three cakes, two ices and a torte?” she asked. “It’s like having two overgrown hamsters on speed, only you’ve lost their exercise wheel, so they just keep running around the room.”

  Sure, Grace was a sweetheart, no question, and a beautiful woman, but Tyler was grinning for crying out loud. Charmed to his toes by her cheerful kvetching. And J.D. had to admit that once he might once have envied the joy his friend took in his family. After all, hadn’t he spent most of his childhood wishing his own family was normal?

  Yeah, well, he’d been there, done that, and bought the T-shirt. It wasn’t until after you got home that you found out that the colors of your new purchase bled into mud the first time you tried to throw it in the wash. Thanks, but no thanks. It was abundantly clear to him that he’d do better to keep his romantic entanglements to an emotional minimum. It would lower his chances of getting kicked in the teeth, at least. Or of busting his other tibia. Playing honorary uncle was enough.

  J.D. was watching Daniel dive headfirst under a table, chasing the baseball after a missed catch, when he noticed that Grace and Tyler had stopped talking.

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  She must have lunged over the bar at him. Grace’s hands were wrapped around her husband’s neck as they shared what looked like a mind-blowing kiss. Feeling like a Peeping Tom, he turned back to the kid.

  But he couldn’t block out their voices.

  “Think your mom will want to babysit tonight?”

  “She can be bribed.”

  Tyler’s voice was husky and Grace’s laugh scraped low in her throat. Okay, so maybe he could understand the appeal of that, but Grace was one in a million. J.D. decided he’d wait for their conversation to start up again before he turned around. After a couple of minutes, though, the wait was getting ridiculous, so he settled for calling out to the ceiling, “Jeez guys, get a room, will ya?”

  Daniel trotted over and rested the baseball, clutched in his two small hands, on J.D.’s thigh. “Yeah, Mommy. Get a room.”

  The kid would probably be using that phrase again. He giggled as his parents yelled at J.D.

  “Thanks a lot, Damico.” Grace wadded up a bar napkin and bounced it off his head with a precision throw.

  He winked and grinned. “Any time, Grace. That’s what’s so nice about being ‘Uncle’ J.D. I get to hand them back to you just when they’re getting impossible.”

  “I should be so lucky.”

  But she belied her words when she grabbed her daughter off his lap and proceeded to torment her by blowing raspberries on her round belly. J.D. slipped his camera out and framed the shot in an instant, shoving his Nikon back in his pocket before Isa could stop giggling. He kneaded his thigh when his hands were empty again. Losing the cast had been frigging awesome and the therapy was helping, but he still ached. “Wanna babysi
t tonight?” Grace asked him.

  “Not now that I know what you two plan on doing with your free time. I don’t need the mental pictures, thank you.” He grabbed one of the juice-filled sippy cups Tyler had set on the bar and passed it down to Daniel, who was waiting at his knee like a terrier. J.D. figured the boy was old enough for a real cup, no lid, but he’d learned from past experience that unless he wanted to take responsibility for mopping up any spills, he’d better keep his mouth shut.

  “Besides, I’m off in a couple hours.”

  “Let me guess. Malaysia? No, you’ve been there. Zanzibar?”

  “Been there, too. Nice island. Spice trade. Big carved wooden doors everywhere. Excellent beaches.”

  “So?”

  “Vegas.” He tilted his head back to take another swallow of his beer. “The film I worked on might, uh, win some kind of MTV award.”

  “My buddy, the rock star.”

  “Shut up, Tyler. I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

  Grace was swaying with Isa and pelting J.D. with questions about whether he’d meet U2 and what he’d be wearing. J.D. tried to explain that it wasn’t what it sounded like. It was not a big deal. The film had won an MTV technical award of some kind. The director must have had some kind of belated guilt attack about the whole thing with Lana. Either that or the fact that his coffee table book of photographs had driven a surge of interest in the film had apparently gotten his name on the invite list for the ceremony. Which was, with various other non-flashy awards, being conducted a month before the main show and would probably involve wine from a box and a choice between underbaked chicken and overcooked steak.

  “It’s just an excuse for a party, really,” he explained. “Everyone gets dressed up, drinks too much and pretends for a night that they’re as famous as the people on the other side of the camera.” Time for a change of subject. “So where’s your little sister, Tyler?”

  “Sarah or Maxie?” Grace asked as she snagged a handful of pretzels from a bowl on the counter.

  “He better be talking about Maxie.” In response to his wife’s look, Tyler said, “J.D. has already seen plenty of Sarah.”