Zaccaro

nice to know she isn't a rehabilitated ax murderer.
A hot shower, a three-piece-two-button Tom Ford suit, and a bowl of bran cereal have brought me back to life. “Fuck, gotta go have this chat with The Cap’ and Tyrone,” I mumble to myself and grab my keys.
As my car zooms up the ramp from beneath the underground parking structure, I dial her number. “Hello?” Reese’s usual carefree voice is long winded, and breathy through my radio speakers. Along with it is upbeat Spanish music. She's at the gym.
“So, no goodbye?” I say, toggling the stick shift, to ease into the one-way traffic.
“What? Who is this... Oh, Evan.” Reese says. “Just a sec.”
I can hear empowered female voices in the background begin to fade with the music.
The phone makes a rustling noise then she speaks, “Sorry, I'm in the middle of whooping the air's ass. At least, I’m making a feeble attempt. I’m having a very bad, bad day.”
“Then I didn't do my job right.” I bite my fist for a second, edging into traffic on the freeway onramp.
She's quiet for a second. For the first time in my life, I'm second-guessing my competency in the sex department. Last night she screamed till her lungs got raw. She had stamina, and was a beautiful, erotic animal of my own creation.
The music fades even more and it appears she's stepping outside. “I had... fun, Evan. Just woke up to my mother’s bad news, and didn’t want you to see me flustered. How'd you get my number?”
“I'm a cop.”
“Yeah, I forgot. My brain has turned into mush. What are you doing tomorrow evening? Um, never mind. Forget I asked,” she pauses, and I can mentally see each word in her brain as they crash and derail each other.
“Reese, you seem frazzled. I really can't cook breakfast but if you'd stayed, I wouldn't have minded trying to convince you the yellow liquid-y chunks are really scrambled eggs.” I grimace, sitting in stop-and-go traffic. Her brain is mushy: my thought process is too. “I'm sort of free tomorrow evening. What's on your mind?”
Reese hesitates again. “I suppose I sound desperate and kick boxing isn't helping. Uh… never mind. You probably have a date tomorrow night...”
“No. No date.” I turn onto Fifth Street. “How about this? You sound like you could use a spare. I could use one too. My father has gotten himself into a jam. I'm meeting at his house, around nine. What time is your gig?”
“Oh, my mom wants me to meet her new… problem at dinner tomorrow night. Seven. The Stinking Rose,” she mentions the restaurant in Beverly Hills.
“I thought you were allergic to Italians?” I squeeze in my observation. “The way you scoffed while reading my badge last night.”
She pauses for a second. “Hmmm… you caught that? I apologize. I was just in shock. I’m half-Napolitano.”
I smile. “Oh, I get it. You Napolitano’s are always looking down your noses.”
“Something like that,” she laughs softly.
“What time should I pick you up?”
“Why do I have this feeling that you know where I live?” Reese seems to smile.
“Just leveled the playing field is all.”
“Wow, Evan, thanks for taking the desperation out of me having to offer my info,” she says sarcastically and we both laugh.
“Reese’s Pieces!” A female shouts in the background. “Get your ass back inside and work off those calories.”
“Evan, my uhhh… my friend who conveniently left me to fend for myself is calling me,” Reese dawdles.
“Alright, don’t be too hard on her, I saved you, remember? Now, go. You’ll pack the calories back on during dinner tomorrow night. After that I'll help you work ‘em back off. Besides, after how long it took us to get around to your stress release, I don’t believe I did the trick.”
“No, you did, Evan. You honestly gave me the best night of sleep ever,” she says seemingly grinning through the receiver. “Or perhaps it was your luxurious bed.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “I’m all for giving credit when credit’s due. This time you won’t have the luxury of sleeping. And this time, we’re done when I say we’re done.”

5
Reese
Sandra’s bottom lip is just about kissing the asphalt as I turn back toward the gym. Hands on narrow hips, she gasps, “Damnnnn, he sounded commanding. Is it the Suit you slept with last night?”
I sigh. “His name is Evan. And he’s not just commanding. There’s taking. There’s also giving. Generously…”
“Hmmm, you said he, Evan, forgive me, had on tailor-made. Now, we stay away from Suits––period. At least just you and I, once Jamie gets over his version of the flu, that Diva is gonna flip.”
I chuckle. Jamie only screws men in suits, the softer the fabric, the harder my friend falls to his knees. That’s what makes the three of us mesh. He’s our buffer.
“We don't personalize Suits by acknowledging their name,” Sandra adds as we strut past the weight lift area for the kick boxing class.
I take a deep breath as Sandra attempts to coax my intelligence. I hold the door open, music blares from inside the classroom. There are floor-to-ceiling mirrors in a 180-degree angle around the room. With a graceful wave of my hand, I usher my friend in first hoping she’ll shut up.
Just my luck, she continues with, “Reese, don't forget the boys in the custom-made suits are sharks. Fuck it, they’re king of the jungle. One shouldn’t overlook our motto due to a gorgeous face chiseled in Italian stone.”
Her use of regurgitating the way I bragged about how beautiful he is, makes me blink as opposed to rolling my eyes. “No suits. Never,” I murmur, following after her.
The instructor positions herself for roundhouse kicks, and we have to watch our asses while merging back toward our spots smack dab in the middle. Since the class is popular, it appears the ladies who were on either side of us and behind, shifted upwards.
“Don’t forget it either,” Sandra warns me, then she glares at the women in