French Pressed by Cleo Coyle

snaking around me, pressing our bodies together, trying to intensify the connection.
    “I knew it! I knew I couldn’t trust you!”
    “You miss me, too, honey. I can feel how much. Your body’s humming with it—”
    “Your ego’s working overtime! Mike Quinn’s the one who left me humming.”
    “Is that right? Well, if he left you humming, then he’s not here to close the deal, is he?”
    My jaw clenched.
    “Admit it, Clare. The cop’s a hard case, and you miss having fun .” Matt’s voice dropped an octave. “So have a little fun with me tonight. What’s so wrong with that?”
    “Plenty. You want an alphabetized list?”
    He moved to kiss me again; I stiff-armed him. Then I turned and marched out of the bedroom in my stockinged feet. Matt followed me down the stairs but not into the kitchen. He stood, leaning one broad shoulder against the doorway. For long, contemplative minutes, he watched me brew him a fresh pot of coffee in our drip maker.
    As I poured him a large, black cup, he moved into the kitchen and began struggling out of his leather jacket. I helped him get the folded-up sleeve over his cast. Then I hung the expensive garment on the back of his chair for him.
    “Sit,” I commanded. “Drink.”
    He did. I poured him a second cup and gave him two aspirin.
    “Thanks,” he murmured.
    “You’re welcome.”
    “So…” he said, his mind obviously becoming clearer. “You really like the cop?”
    “It’s more than like, Matt.”
    He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “I figured by now you would have gotten him out of your system, but I can see you need more time.” He shrugged. “So have your fling. Just don’t give up on us, Clare…not yet…”
    I closed my eyes. “Please, Matt. It’s late. You’ve had too much to drink. I’ve had too much… frustration .”
    I opened my eyes to find Matt leering at me. One dark eyebrow arched. “So my kiss did affect you.”
    Before I could find another shoe, the phone rang.
    “Saved by the bell,” I told him, picking up the extension. “Hello?”
    “Mom! Thank God!”
    “Joy? What’s wrong?”
    Matt was on his feet before I spoke another syllable. “What’s the matter with Joy?”
    “It’s Vinny!” Joy cried from the other end of the line.
    “Vinny?” I repeated.
    “Who’s Vinny?” Matt demanded, breathing down my neck.
    “Vincent Buccelli,” I quickly whispered, covering the mouthpiece. “He’s Joy’s friend from culinary school. They’re interning together at Solange this year.”
    “Mom? I don’t know what to do!”
    “Slow down, honey. Where are you?”
    “I came out to Queens after work, to check on Vinny, see how he was doing.”
    “You told me he called in sick today.”
    “I found him on the floor, Mom.” Joy began to sob. “And there’s blood, so much blood!”
    “Blood!” I repeated.
    “Blood!” Matt shouted.
    “Mom, I can’t believe it, but I think Vinny’s dead !”

S IX
    O UR yellow taxi rolled down a dim stretch of paved avenue that ran under the elevated tracks of the Number 7 line. At one in the morning, not even the flashing red beacons of the police and FDNY vehicles could penetrate the cold shadows beneath the subway’s rusty girders.
    The three-story apartment house where Vincent Buccelli lived sat between an Irish pub that advertised the best hamburgers in New York City (according to the Daily News ), and a Sherwin-Williams paint store, now shuttered with a steel mesh gate. The area was a typical working-class neighborhood of Queens, filled with immigrants from an array of countries: Korea, Ireland, India, Ecuador, Colombia, and dozens of others.
    Tonight, the front door of the redbrick house was open, spilling yellow light from a gold ceiling fixture in the hallway. The building had white-trimmed windows and a short set of concrete steps that led to a roofless front porch. That’s where the cop was standing, a big Irish-faced officer in his thirties. He wore a dark blue uniform and a bored