Frisk Me(7)

Mihail watched the direction of her gaze before giving a little smirk, correctly reading her mind. “Freedom of the press, baby.”

Welllll…

As Officer Moretti had so sanctimoniously informed her during their heated altercation three years ago, freedom of the press didn’t exactly dignify breaking traffic laws…repeatedly.

But such explanations would go unheeded by Mihail. He’d been in the U.S. for almost twenty years, and a citizen for over half that thanks to a tumultuous marriage to a Queens-born bartender, but he was known to be a bit innovative with his interpretation of things like the Constitution and the law.

“Where to now, babe?” Mihail asked, flicking his cigarette to the pavement.

Ava put the cap back on her water bottle and rolled her shoulders. “Let’s head back to the station.”

Mihail’s eyebrows lifted. “You never want to go back to the station.”

Ava pulled down the visor and looked at the mirror there, checking for lipstick on her teeth. Yup. There it was. A rosy smear across her perfectly straight (thanks, orthodontics), perfectly white (thanks, network-sponsored whitening sessions) teeth.

She snapped the visor back up in irritation. She kept waiting for the day that looking perfectly put together became effortless. She’d been waiting a long-ass time.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I want to go back to the station,” she griped to Mihail. “But this story is the big-time. I knew when they gave it to me that it would mean more face time with the higher-ups.”

“So you think this is it?” he asked.

“Hmm?” she asked, distracted.

He lifted an eyebrow. “You know, it. The story.”

“It better be,” she muttered.

Mihail gave her a look, and she knew he was dying to start their usual argument. But for once he managed to bite his tongue, and instead of picking a fight, he pulled out one of his ever-present gummy worms from the bag in the middle console. He chewed grumpily.

Ava’s relentless quest to be a CBC anchorwoman was the one area where she and Mihail didn’t see eye to eye. It was cliché, and she knew it. The small-town Midwest girl dreaming of the bright lights and fame in the big city.

But she’d been chasing the dream since she’d moved to New York at twenty-two.

She wasn’t going to stop now.

Even if a little part of her sometimes whispered that it wasn’t her dream.

Ava started to bite her fingernail, then jerked her hand away when she realized it would chip the manicure she could never seem to keep looking fresh for more than twelve hours.

“Have you called your parents yet?” Mihail asked.

“Not yet. Tonight, maybe.”

“I’m sure they’ll be excited.”

“Don’t,” she snapped, catching his emphasis and knowing what it implied. Mihail had only met her parents once (disaster), but he’d heard enough phone calls over the course of his and Ava’s friendship to have formed a strong opinion on her family.

To his way of thinking, it wasn’t Ava’s dream that had her chasing the anchor chair. He thought it was her parents’ dream. With maybe a dash of pressure from her talk-show-host sister and foreign-correspondent brother.

Maybe he was a little bit right. A little bit.

In the same way the Moretti family was NYPD royalty (she’d done her homework), the Sims clan was broadcast journalism royalty. Or so her father had declared.

Her parents had been co-anchors in Darlington back in the day, and apparently the popular husband-wife team had been slated for bigger things in New York.

Until Ava’s mom had gotten pregnant with Ava’s brother.

Dreams dashed.

Or so the story went. Ava still didn’t quite understand why they couldn’t have pursued the NYC thing, even with her mom’s pregnancy. Plenty of anchormen and -women had family.

But then, that wouldn’t have given them something to complain about for thirty years.

It also wouldn’t have given them an excuse over never making the big time.

So they’d done what any pushy, interfering parents would do. They’d transferred their dreams to their children.

Ava’s brother and sister had fallen into line marvelously. Miranda had her own current events talk show in Los Angeles, and Daniel was a foreign correspondent for a competing network, although never in a country that was actually relevant in current events. He didn’t cover war or famine or natural disasters. No, Danny was well on his way to establishing a name for himself posing as an expert in art or food or wine, or whatever was popular in whichever country he was in. Emphasis on posing.

Her parents were proud of all their children. Their annual Christmas card was an embarrassing brag fest.

But Ava knew that she was their darling. The one who was really living the dream. The one who would do what they hadn’t been able to:

National Anchorwoman.

And this story would get her there. Ava was sure of it.

“I can’t believe we have to hang out with the f*cking five-oh for two months,” Mihail grumbled.

“I don’t like it either,” Ava admitted. “But this isn’t your average cop.”

Mihail glanced at her and wiggled his eyebrows.

She punched him. “I don’t mean it like that.”

“Sure you don’t. I’ve seen pictures.”