“Is that your hermano… brother?” Her dark-brown eyes are wide as she glances at the tiny flat screen bolted against the wall. Before my crew came in to say how they would sacrifice for Luis’s sake, I’d been baking while watching Chef Franco de Leon instruct how to make flan. A dessert I have yet to master, at least not to my full potential, since I’m my worst critic. The news broadcast must have cut into the middle of the segment.
The video clip, which seemed to suck the air out of the entire room, showed a young woman running toward Evan as he crouched near the door of a vehicle. At the bottom of the screen, it indicated that footage was taken from an actual bystander. The high-impact snippet disappeared and an aerial-view popped up. It expanded from the La Brea Tar Pits to Wilshire Blvd and Fairfax Ave.
Glass clutters the middle of the street, cars crashed into each other. A cherry-red Corvette has wrapped itself around the light pole. The damn ticker, is the Channel 5 headline of “Two cop fatalities.” The television is on mute, since it is usually reserved for the Food Network channel or the likes. This allows myself or another baker to jot down new concepts when recipes are displayed, and everyone likes to listen to music anyhow.
A bell jingles in the tiny dining area of Flour, and for the first time ever, the sound echoes so piercingly in my ears. I glance around for the television remote, though I haven’t seen the darn thing since the TV was bolted on the wall.
Sandra picks up the stationary iPad before I can, “It’s your two p.m., potential wedding clients. You’re not feeling well, Reese, allow me to take charge of the taste testing,” she ends, gesturing toward the back door.
“I ummm…” Shaking my head, I attempt to stave off the jarring in my ears, and the derailing thoughts in my brain. Evan is okay. He has to be okay!
“Sandra’s got it, Reese’s Pieces,” Jamie asserts himself, ever my anchor when needed. “I’m taking you upstairs.”
My oldest friend is just as frazzled as I am while we climb the stairs to my apartment. Once inside, Jamie commandeers the remote since the damn thing would probably just shake its way out of my hand anyway. A toothpaste commercial pops into view as we sink onto the couch in my apartment. Grumbling under his breath, Jamie attempts to fast forward the commercials.
“Dammit, this is real-time. I only watch recorded shows,” he tries to make small talk, but I can’t snatch my eyes away from the gorgeous teeth model with her Cheshire cat’s grin. The tooth-whitening commercial segues into one with a cross-terrain vehicle traveling around the countryside to a more eye-catching luxury nightlife and back again. Frustrated beyond repair, I pull out my cell phone. With tremors in my fingers, I dial Evan’s number. No answer. And because there is no such thing as being a creeper during times like this, I concede to dialing my stepbrother’s cell phone number repeatedly.
After the umpteenth away-ring, the bitter copper taste in my mouth finally keys me to the fact that I've bitten the inside of my lip raw. Besides the fleeting taste of blood, my entire body is numb with worry. Evan was the first face I saw, as a young girl ran to him in the middle of a shootout! Now where the hell is he!
“He’s gotta be okay,” Jamie’s soothing tone seeps through my thoughts. “Evan seems like such a nice guy. He’s gotta be okay.”
“He is,” I reply, lips barely parting.
“Should we call Lolita? His father?” Jamie asks, clearly the confidence in him is dwindling by the second. I’m breaking, so he does too.
After a few more commercials, the screen quickly displays the aerial-view of La Brea once more before transporting to a viewing of a sea of shocked Los Angelenos directly dead center in the aftermath.
A blue-eyed, blonde-haired, Japanese anchorwoman has positioned herself at the forefront of the television frame. Her tone is crisp, articulate, and peppered with sincerity, “I am standing at the perimeter of the La Brea Tar Pits, the scene behind me is the aftermath of one of the deadliest shootouts in over a decade…”
As the newscaster sheds light on what occurred, and gives honorable mentions to the two officers who were gunned down, I continue to bite my lip. Is it bad that I am more concerned with Evan’s welfare than the two fallen officers?
For over an hour, I watch as the scene unfolds with multiple ambulances and other first responders on the sight. The next daytime show prepares to come on, but it’s also interrupted for the live broadcast.
Around four p.m., a press conference is held. The police commissioner begins the customary spiel about the department’s quest to keep the city safe. A liaison from the Federal Bureau of Investigations also advises that this gruesome act, all though terroristic in nature, will be handled… They mention having leads, and one suspect, in critical condition, has been apprehended.
My mind goes numb and I no longer hear the agent’s confident words because inside I only have one quest.
Pent-up air expels from my lungs as Evan and Tyrone stand before an arsenal of microphones. Jamie tosses an arm around me as they continue along with the press conference.
Evan’s voice is articulate, confident even. I’ve been on pins and needles since hearing about two fatally shot cops. After so many unanswered calls to his cell phone, I press pause on the Channel 5 breaking news and a sob wracks through me.
Jamie clings to me. My eyes won't tear away from the television. The screen is frozen. I take in his square jaw. Confident, brown eyes that promise to
