by Karr, Kim
“Maybe I wanted the D.A. Makenzie or Boosey & Schneider,” she quirks.
At first I’m not sure if she’s serious or just making fun of the menu items named after some of the proprietors of this building over the years, but then slowly, I shake my head and smile at her. “No, you don’t. I can’t imagine the girl who couldn’t have a goldfish for a pet because it was too cruel to keep them in such a small bowl eats fish eggs, and I doubt a woman with a fit body like yours eats cheesecake, for dinner anyway.”
That fucking sweeter-than-pie pink blush rises up her neck. “No, you’re right. I don’t eat caviar and doubt I ever will. I also don’t eat cheesecake for dinner, but that doesn’t mean I might not, someday.”
My tongue slips out to lick my lips at the thought of eating that sweetness off her.
Holy shit!
Decisions made or not, the dirty thoughts need to stop. Where has my mind gone? I must have left it with my wits back at her place.
Thank fuck the server arrives with our drinks.
Raising my glass, I wait for her to raise hers. “To what the night brings.”
She clinks my glass and a shy smile crosses her face before she averts her gaze to her glass to take a sip.
Intentions put out there, I feel more relaxed. She knows I want her. I’ve made that clear. From here, we’ll see where that leads.
Before I take a sip of my own drink, I pluck the cherry from the glass and pop it into my mouth. Then I twirl the swizzle stick for a few long moments before looking up at her.
When I do, she’s looking back at me with lowered lids, and the rise and fall of her chest is just a little faster than it was moments ago. Everything about her tells me she wants me too.
A slow, seductive smile spreads across my lips.
Setting her glass down, she points to the cherry stem I set on the cocktail napkin. “You do know those aren’t actually considered part of the four food groups, don’t you?”
“No?” I play along.
“No.” She leans forward to pick up the stem and her mounds of dirty-blond curls practically cover her entire face, but still I can see the pale blue of her eyes.
“I have to agree to disagree. Cherries are good for you.”
She guffaws, tilting her head back, and those curls bounce right along. I can’t get enough of the way she moves. “They were before they were bleached in sulfur dioxide for days and then soaked in vats of high-fructose corn syrup and artificial food coloring.”
“Cherry hater,” I whisper through bourbon-coated lips.
Her other hand flies to her chest. “Who, me? Never—I proudly support the candied fruit. Just thought you should know.”
Leaning closer to her, I pick the stem from her fingers, caressing her smooth skin before I hold it up. “This little piece of heaven reminds me of one of the most vivid memories I have of my father.”
Her free-and-easy demeanor changes instantly. “Why is that?”
That was stupid of me to say.
Dropping the stem, I sit back in my chair. I can push my thoughts under the rug and change the subject or I can open up.
Her eyes sadden and since it’s not really a sad memory, I decide to share it.
Confession time. “Every Saturday night my father would take my mother out to dinner, and once in a while I got to go because the sitter would cancel.”
“I remember,” she says softly.
I go on. “He’d order an old-fashioned with an extra cherry for me. My mother would carry on about how there was alcohol in the fruit and that I shouldn’t be eating it, and he’d just sit there sipping his drink, chewing on his swizzle stick like whatever was in that glass made everything bad around him disappear. He only ever had one. But he’d take his time drinking it and while he did, nothing bothered him. That’s how I feel when I drink one. Like the world might be falling apart all around me but while I’m drinking this fruit concoction, nothing bad will happen.”
There’s a tear in her eye that I had no intention of putting there.
I reach to twirl a strand of her hair. “Charlotte, I’ve never told anyone that—ever—and I didn’t tell you to make you sad. It’s a happy memory. Besides my mother, you’re the only one I know anymore who would remember him. And since my mother hasn’t uttered his name since the day he died, it feels good to talk about him.”
Her hands are shaking. “I’m so sorry he died, Jasper. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. And I’m so, so sorry about what happened afterward.”
My hand caresses her cheek. “You have nothing to be sorry about.” I exhale and then draw in a new breath. “And besides, I’m breaking my own rules. I said we weren’t going to talk about the past and here I am doing it.”
She turns her head to kiss my palm and the feel of her lips on my skin makes my blood surge. I am instantly, immediately, insanely aroused.
Time to cool it down a notch.
For the next hour we talk—not about the distant past or the present. An occasional flirtatious glance is thrown my way, and I make a suggestive comment or two, but I try, I really do, to be a gentleman.
Boy.
Girl.
Date.
I keep reminding myself of that.
We drink our drinks, eat the food, talk about things we think are funny, relevant, and even irrelevant, like how the guy in the corner looks like an FBI agent on a stakeout or what it must have been like to sneak into a speakeasy during Prohibition.
Both of us are hanging on each other’s words. I tell her about Lightning Motors and the sale, why my apartment became our temporary office location, and about how Will, Jake, Drew, and I became friends.
She tells me stories about what it was like to live at a bed-and-breakfast. The good parts, anyway. About the nice couples who passed through, funny things that happened there, and how beautiful the location was. I watch her mouth when it moves, listen to her, engage in conversation, and then I boldly ask her questions about those former boyfriends she spoke about the first time I was at her place. She still refuses to call any of them boyfriends, opting for the term former lovers, and I try not to shudder at her answers.
Four men. She’s only ever had sex with four men.
“What about you, how—?” she starts to ask.
Right in the middle of her sentence, I lean over and kiss her. Not on the cheek this time but right on the lips. Her mouth is soft and warm. I taste the salt of the crackers and the zest of the lemon and I want more of her. So much more. I settle on nipping at her lips, licking them, kissing them.
“Jasper,” she whispers hoarsely.
Perhaps I am getting carried away because when I respond with a low groan, she turns her face and breaks the kiss.
A little breathless, she sits back and starts to blush. “I think people are staring at us.”
I shrug and lean forward to stay close to her. “They’re just jealous they don’t get to kiss the most beautiful woman in the room.”
That light pink on her cheeks reddens.
“Ready to get out of here?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, her breath hot in my ear.
With the check already paid, I stand and offer my hand. She takes it, and the charge I get from just this slight touch teases what’s to come.
We’re both quiet as we board the elevator, perhaps both contemplating the line we know we’re about to cross. That line that severs the innocent past that we once shared from the lustful future we’re about to embark on.
The elevator opens, and through the glass doors up ahead the whirling red and blue lights of police cars are nearly blinding.
“What’s going on?” Charlotte asks.
Before I can even take a guess, my phone is buzzing in my pocket again. I’d taken it out and left it facedown on the table earlier so it didn’t distract me, but I can’t ignore it again. A sick feeling in my gut has me quickly pulling it out of my jeans.
The notifications on my screen alert me to the unsettling fact that Will has
called me fifteen times and Todd five.
The revolving door is just ahead. Before I can tell her to stop, she drops my hand and is on her way out into the mayhem just as I attempt to answer the call. I pause for a beat, allowing it to connect.
“JJ,” Will answers on the first ring, sounding like hell.
“Talk to me, man—what’s going on?”
Charlotte is standing on the sidewalk, waiting for me. Will is hard to hear. I hold up a finger, wishing I had stopped her before she went outside. She gives me an understanding nod and looks up into the night sky with a smile on her face.
“Charlotte’s name and a recent photo of her has been leaked to the press in connection to Eve’s murder.”
“Shit, fuck, shit.”
“Listen to me, Jasper—the city is in an uproar over her return. I know you said it was better for you to stay away from her right now, but I think you should go check in on her. Mobs of people are forming. It’s all over the news. Where are you, anyway?”
“I’m with Charlotte,” I tell him as my eyes dart to her. And in that one instant that it takes for me to focus on her, the life is sucked right out of me.
Everything seems to happen in slow motion.
Lunging into the revolving door, I push against it, trying to make it move faster. Will’s words stunned me, but seeing Charlotte out there alone guts me. That scene has to be about her. About me. I’m so close to getting to her, but not quick enough.
Without warning, a swarm of reporters are on the steps leading up to the building, flashes are going off, things are being thrown in her direction, and their voices carry through the glass.
“Charlotte Lane! Over here!” someone shouts.
Suddenly, there is a wall of lights and microphones and way too many people crowding in on her.
“Get out of town. Your father was a murderer—you don’t belong here.”
The door finally makes it around and I leap beside her, where she’s frozen in place.
“You bitch!” another voice yells.
Instinctively, I wrap my arm around her and tuck her head against my chest. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Jasper, Jasper Storm, did you kill that reporter to stop her from breaking the news that you were seeing this whore?”
Boiling with anger, I’m moving fast to get Charlotte out of the limelight.
Flashes are going off. People are yelling. The police are trying to move the crowd away, but there are too few of them and too many in the crowd.
The car is around the corner on a side street and I move fast, shielding her as best I can, but they’re following us.
“Get out! Get out! Get out!” they’re chanting.
A surge of protectiveness rises inside me, strong and fierce. I need to get her out of here. I’m temporarily stunned as soon as I turn the corner. People are standing on the sidewalk near my car and the Storm has been painted with the word Murderer all over it.
The mob of people sees us and another round of insults is thrown at us. My car is surrounded and I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to get to it. Sandwiched between two angry mobs, I move into action and look around. We’ll have to walk somewhere and try to find a cab. “This way,” I tell her, heading for a side street a few feet ahead.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Anywhere we can.”
Just as we turn another corner, my gut wrenches. More people. They’re everywhere. The crowd must have been gathering the entire time we were inside.
Did someone tip them off?
Someone had to.
Fuck!
Just as I consider my options, which seem few at this point, a car speeds around the corner and comes to a halt right beside us.
It’s a silver Storm.
Jake.
He’s out of the car and next to us in a matter of seconds. “Hurry up!” he yells.
“How did you know where I was?”
“Saw the crowd of people down here on the news. It wasn’t hard to figure out where you’d be.”
Something comes flying toward us and I pull Charlotte tighter to my chest.
Jake flings open the passenger door of the two-seater and pushes Charlotte inside, then looks at me. “Give me your keys.”
“Just leave the car,” I tell him.
“I’m not fucking leaving it for these animals to destroy. Now give me your fucking keys and get the fuck out of here,” he grits through his teeth, shoving his own keys in my hand.
“I’m not letting you go alone.”
“I’ll be fine. Give me your keys, JJ, and get her out of here before something bad happens.”
His concern for me doesn’t surprise me, but his sudden concern for Charlotte does. Just then I figure it out. Jake sympathizes with her situation because he’s been there. It was how he was treated when he was nine and his father was accused of molesting a young girl. His father went to prison for that crime and to this day he still insists he didn’t do it. Jake took a lot of shit for that in school until his mother moved them to Cass Corridor and no one knew who he was anymore. He feared being found out for the longest time, though—and the mobs of angry people that would gather if they discovered who he was. Luckily for him, that never happened.
Cass Corridor had bigger things to worry about.
As I’m digging in my pocket, one of the reporters gets closer. “Mr. Storm, is Charlotte Lane here to teach you how to blow up your new plant once it’s running?”
Fuck this!
Handing Jake my keys, I stride around and do just what Will has been drilling in my head all week not to do. Lose my shit. Grabbing the reporter by his shirt collar, I shove him backward, right into the photographer. “Go fuck yourself,” I growl.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” the fat fuck says, getting to his feet.
“Is it true?” someone else is yelling in the distance.
The crowd is growing nearer. Everyone is shouting different ridiculous accusations my way. It’s turning into a riotous scene.
Done with all of them, I raise my hand high in the air and flip them off.
Jake is already shoving his way through the crowd when I slam the driver’s-side door shut and glance over at Charlotte. “Are you okay?”
Eyes wide, she says nothing.
Starting the car, I watch out for Jake through the mob and then look back at her. This time her eyes are squeezed closed.
My heart feels like it’s bleeding, seeing her like this. Revving the engine, warning them all to get the fuck out of my way, I wait for Jake to break free of the crowd, and then I squeal around the corner and drive and drive and drive.
Thundering over the Woodward Avenue Bridge, I ease my foot off the gas, slowing to a steady speed. I study my rearview mirror and then swerve onto Jefferson, uncertain whether the cars behind me are reporters.
Checking my mirror again as I take the on-ramp, I don’t see anyone. My gaze slides to Charlotte. She’s staring out the window. Assured we’ve left the insanity far behind, I reach my arm over to her and place my hand on her leg over the material of her dress and just keep it there.
Finally, when we’re miles away, I ask again, “Are you okay?” I know there’s no way either of us is after that, but still I ask.
“I don’t know what I am.” Her voice is cold and far away.
My hand moves down just a little and when I hit smooth, soft, bare flesh, I caress it in a comforting manner. But it may be as much to give me comfort as to comfort her. Still, I want to know she’s in there. She’s retreated somewhere cold and dark and I’m afraid I might not get her back.
Seized by an unrealistic fear that I might lose her before I ever really had her, I dig inside myself for what to say, how to handle what just happened.
Up to now I hadn’t taken my involvement in the murder too seriously. I mean, yes, I’d talked to the cops and the lawyer and tried to put out the fires, but I hadn’t really thought I’d be wrapped up in this murder. I thought Hill wo
uld clear me and focus on someone else.
Like the real killer.
Now I’m starting to suspect it isn’t going to be that easy. Charlotte and I are inextricably wrapped up in Eve’s murder and public opinion isn’t going to leave us alone.
As I drive, my thoughts all over the place, we’re both quiet in the dark of the night. Pushing 90, I slow down and take the next exit ramp. We’re headed east toward the Chrysler Plant when I know what I have to do. Before the promise of the Storm, that run-down, bankrupt plant was the only glimmer of hope Detroit had of surviving the economic downturn.
A grim landscape of boarded-up stores, abandoned homes, and empty lots stretch from here all the way to the river. Graffiti covers most of the hard surfaces. Slang. Vulgar language. Depictions of life on the street. I’ve driven up and down it a thousand times at least and know most of the images by heart. Tonight, I don’t want to see them. I block them out, staring straight ahead.
Gloomy yellow streetlights shine down on the industrial zone and then finally, I approach it. “See that?” I point.
She looks up and out the window at one of the most successful auto plants in the world and it’s right here, sprawling across Jefferson North. The huge building is painted white and surrounded by a fence topped with barbed wire. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but inside is a completely different story. Modern. State of the art. And profitable. Very profitable.
Slowing, I pull to the side and park the car. I tell her, “Two years ago, Lightning Motors helped get that plant out of bankruptcy and back up and running. Because it’s situated right here in one of the most impoverished parts of Detroit, it was a huge gamble for Chrysler to keep the factory open, but we managed to convince them the risk was worth it.”
Her gaze falls on me, almost awed.
That’s not why I’m telling her this, though. Pulling over, I put the car in park. “Today, Jefferson North stands as the last auto assembly plant entirely within the city limits of Detroit, which once held nearly a dozen of them. It now employs more than five thousand of Detroit’s citizens and the factory runs around the clock. Determination, blood, sweat, and tears are what it took, Charlotte. People picketed. Argued. Disagreed. Yelled. Screamed. Caused chaos. But we fought for this.”