In the Details

by H. Claire Taylor

  In the Details

  Jessica Christ, Book 6

  H. Claire Taylor

  FFS Media

  Copyright © 2018 by H. Claire Taylor

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  FFS Media, LLC

  www.ffs.media

  contact@hclairetaylor.com

  To everyone who’s told the truth and wasn’t believed.

  * * *

  And to everyone too scared to tell the truth because you know you won’t be believed.

  * * *

  And especially to everyone who has told the truth, been believed, but discovered nobody cared.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Also by H. Claire Taylor

  Chapter One

  May, 21 AGC

  Jackhammers and the beeping of dump trucks blended with the purring of car engines in rush-hour gridlock. Marching down the sidewalk, oblivious to all the noise, thanks to the mighty-and-all-that voice in her head was a girl—no, a woman, dammit!—carrying an empty cash purse in a tattered Texas State University tote bag. She frowned meanly at the world, partially to warn those passing her against engaging her in conversation, but also because her Father was being especially chatty, and it was the last thing she needed after a long day of work that wasn’t yet over.

  I ought to report him to … whoever regulates banks.

  FOR WHAT, HONESTY?

  No! You were there. You saw it. You see nothing wrong with him withholding my receipt until I smiled for him?

  HE WAS RIGHT, THOUGH. YOU ARE MUCH PRETTIER WHEN YOU SMILE. IT IS A UNIVERSAL LAW.

  That’s not the point! Ugh! Why do I even try with you?

  BECAUSE I CREATED YOU THAT WAY.

  A car horn honked right next to her on the congested street. She knew that honk. It wasn’t a you-changed-lanes-without-signaling honk or a the-light-is-green-you-fucking-idiot honk or even an I’m-so-angry-I-just-need-to-be-loud honk. No, the precise duration of this one told Jessica McCloud it was directed at her. She knew that instinctually. However, the driver clearly hadn’t thought it through, and now, as she glared at him in stand-still traffic where his anonymity was blown, he looked away from her quickly and slunk down in his seat.

  See? I don’t need to smile to be pretty enough for creeps.

  The exchange with the bank teller was especially infuriating because, in the moment, her incredulity levels had been so extreme, she couldn’t properly yell at him when he’d held the receipt for her It is Risen deposit just out of her reach, cocked his head coyly to the side and said, “Uh-uh-uh…” like this was a game they regularly enjoyed together. In her surprise, she’d resorted to her feminine default of placating the other person, of not rocking the boat. She’d even giggled! And when he’d named his price—a smile for the receipt—she’d actually done it. Because she needed the damn receipt so she could get on with her exhausting day and get back to work.

  I could just smite him.

  SEEMS A LITTLE EXTREME.

  I don’t literally mean it. It’s just that …

  YOU’RE MAD AT YOURSELF. THAT IS CLEAR.

  You’re right. And that’s so stupid! He’s the one who was being a jerk.

  IT’S NOT STUPID. IT WAS YOUR FAULT YOU SMILED.

  Um. I think I’m done talking to you.

  “Change, miss?” hollered a homeless man crouched on a narrow, partially shaded stoop, wearing way too many layers in the Texas summer.

  Shit. She’d forgotten to bring a handful of change from the bakery with her. Or rather, she’d brought one with her, but she’d deposited it all without leaving anything for the walk back. Wendy Peterman wouldn’t like that if she found out.

  Jessica grimaced. “Sorry. I got nothing on me.”

  “Thanks anyway,” said the man, and Jessica paused in her progress, one foot hovering above the ovenlike cement. She stared at him, observing the deep wrinkles of his sun-damaged skin.

  “You’re welcome.” And now she really did feel sorry she couldn’t help. There was no “you stupid whore” tacked on the end of the gratitude. And if she wasn’t mistaken, this was the most polite interaction she’d had all day. She wanted to stop and speak with the man more, but she didn’t for a couple reasons. First, she didn’t want to push her luck with the niceties. But mostly, she didn’t have the time to spare. Not today, when Wendy was driving all the way from Dallas to chat.

  The publicist had been kind enough to allow Jessica some time to get the bakery up and running before requesting another meeting. Not that Jessica’s overwhelm wasn’t still at a ten out of ten. Running a business was so hard, it might be one giant mistake, though she wasn’t ready to admit that yet. Instead, she told anyone who asked that it was “deeply gratifying.”

  Maybe it was for the best that Chris was—

  Another car honked, and she flipped the driver the bird and kept walking.

  Maybe it was for the best that Chris was all the way across the country. From their conversations, neither had much time for anything other than their new job and the bare minimum hours of sleep each night to remain lucid.

  Granted, in the month and a half since her party at the bakery, her definition of lucidity had grown rather relaxed. Just the other day she’d sworn her miracled image on a sugar cookie had winked at her. She was so sure of it that she’d yelled at God for screwing with her when she was already on the edge. He’d denied the whole thing, of course, but for once, His denial sounded genuine.

  The large metallic sign for It is Risen came into view down the block. A flash of pride at seeing her creation was quickly bludgeoned into the fetal position by her fear of failure, the never-ending list of responsibilities, and, getting its fair share of licks in, the knot of guilt in her stomach every time she remembered Miranda marching out of the party, having discovered Quentin’s secret and the part Jessica played in the deception.

  She still wasn’t sure what the right course of action would have been. Should she have outed Quentin as an angel?

  IT’S ALMOST LIKE YOU’RE TRYING TO DECIDE WHICH PAT
H YOU SHOULD HAVE TAKEN.

  No. That’s definitely not it. I’m done with paths. There are no paths. Life is just a random assortment of an infinite number of decisions that are in no way predetermined. Every moment determines the next, but none are set.

  DID YOU JUST GET A LITTLE NAUSEATED THINKING OF ALL THAT RESPONSIBILITY?

  No. She was lying.

  AS THE LORD AND CREATOR OF ALL THINGS—EXCLUDING, YOU KNOW, THE REALLY AWFUL STUFF—I DO FEEL IT IS MY DUTY TO INFORM YOU THAT WHAT YOU JUST SAID MAKES NO SENSE.

  That was because she’d made it up on the spot. She still wasn’t sure how it might work philosophically to refuse to follow a path set out for her; she only knew that she was firmly anti-paths.

  Opening the front door and meeting the blast of A/C with an appreciative moan, Jessica allowed herself a moment to simply enjoy the cool air she was paying so much for.

  “There you are,” came a nasally voice to her left.

  She groaned, recognizing the speaker immediately. It was Dennis. Or maybe Darius? No, what was his name …? He’d awkwardly dropped it into their overlong exchanges enough times that she should remember it.

  He grinned at her from his cafe table as she let the door shut behind her. His notably small hands clutched his coffee mug that he would probably refill three more times before they closed in two hours.

  “Hi,” she said, trying not to grow annoyed with how greasy he kept his stringy hair.

  “I was wondering if I’d missed you today. What’s a day without Jessica? Heh.”

  She forced herself to grin at him and promised that would be her last for the afternoon. Then she marched over to the register to tuck away the empty cash purse.

  Destinee McCloud, who was perched on a tall stool behind the counter, indulging obscenely in a chocolate chip muffin while no customers needed her assistance, nodded at her daughter and spoke around a mouthful of mush. “Have a good walk?”

  “Yep,” said Jessica. “It was deeply gratifying.”

  Despite the many open chairs in the cafe of It is Risen Bakery, Wendy Peterman refused to sit. Instead, she stood straight in her high heels, shoulders back, arms crossed in front of her chest, hardly bothering to tilt her head down to properly glare at Jessica McCloud. “We had a plan, and everyone in this room has stuck to it except for you.”

  The everyone in this room was not as overwhelming a majority as was implied. Outside of Wendy and Jessica, it included Destinee and Cash Monet, both of whom had taken a seat at one of the round cafe tables for the duration of the after-hours team meeting.

  “And I’ve told you,” Jessica said, acting more confident than she felt while confronting the formidable publicist, “I’m done with other people’s plans. God’s been stiff-arming me to do whatever he thinks is best, and I’m done. No more set paths, no more imposed plans from anyone.”

  “Wow.” Cash, Jessica’s genderless social media specialist, blinked lethargically at her, shaking their head slowly. “You’re still on about that.” They turned to Wendy. “Did you know she was still on about that? I thought she would have grown out of it by now.”

  Wendy’s gaze attached itself to a ceiling tile as she inhaled deeply for patience.

  “Yes, Cash,” Jessica continued, “I’m sticking to this. If you’d had God and an egomaniacal hog-oil salesman and teachers and professors and the media nipping at your ankles your whole life to keep you going in the direction that best suits them, you’d be right where I am.”

  Cash rolled their eyes. “You’re right. No one has ever told me to stay in my lane. Announcing that I was genderless when I was fifteen was instantly and universally accepted.”

  Jessica paused, sensing the sarcasm, but more importantly wanting to ask a question so badly she thought her head might explode. “So before that you were a …?”

  “A different person.” Cash grinned petulantly.

  Wendy uncrossed one of her arms to snap and bring the attention back to her. “Focus. I didn’t call this meeting because I wasn’t sure whose life was a bigger ‘screw you’ to society. I drove down from Dallas because Cash has been working their butt off, and still your social media follows have stagnated and your overall relevancy score hasn’t increased in three weeks.” She stepped closer, hovering over Jessica. “You, my dear, are in danger of becoming irrelevant.”

  “Hot damn,” said Destinee. “That sure would be a relief, wouldn’t it, baby?”

  Jessica nodded but Wendy cut in with, “A relief for Jimmy Dean, sure. And a relief for any competing bakery in Austin. And a relief for Eugene Thornton and every other Jessica hater out there who mindlessly protects the status quo.”

  Destinee sank slightly in her chair, grumbling under her breath.

  “What do you want me to do?” Jessica said. Time wasn’t a luxury she had, and this meeting was dragging out already, meaning it was taking up any space at all on her already theoretically full schedule. Humoring her publicist was a much easier way to bring this meeting to a close than arguing with her.

  “Anything,” Wendy said. “Absolutely anything that isn’t spending all day and all night in this bakery.”

  “But I like spending all my time in this bakery,” Jessica said.

  “First of all, no. You’re suffering small business Stockholm Syndrome. I’ve seen it a thousand times. You start a business, it takes over everything, and then you think you need it to rule you to keep on living. Second of all, and Destinee”—Wendy pointed at her—“don’t come at me for what I’m about to say. I know you can fight, but so can I. You might beat me since I’m in a skirt and heels, but I’ll get my blows in.” She turned back to Jessica. “Second of all, your products are okay. They’re not great. I can get a croissant as good as yours at the Starbucks a block over. Or the one two blocks over. Yes, yours are gluten-free and they have that going for them. What I’m saying is that your success, the reason you have a business is entirely because of who you are, not your baking skills. If you don’t keep building your personal brand, your business will stall, and you’ll be stuck in the lifestyle you’re in right now indefinitely. Or worse, your star will fall, and your business will go with it.”

  “You have a point,” Jessica said quickly to lower her mother’s hackles, “but that seems lame. Shouldn’t my business be able to stand on its own legs without me exploiting my curse?”

  Wendy shrugged. “No. Not necessarily. Every successful business has something memorable about it. McDonald’s has a clown and has spread across the world like antibiotic-resistant syphilis. Its food isn’t great, but you see a sign and you trust it because, hey, if the rest of the world embraces it, maybe it’s not that bad. Their thing is clowns and yours is Christ. Not that different.”

  Jessica glanced at the large clock above the front door. She needed to be back here in five hours to start her day all over again. But more importantly, Destinee needed to be back in eight. If her mom didn’t get enough sleep, the customer service skills she’d developed over years of working at a pharmacy went out from under her in a flash. Jessica wasn’t looking to spend all the next day soothing over tensions by giving away free food.

  “What’s your proposed solution?” she said.

  Wendy smiled. “I’m glad you asked. Because I spent quite a long time asking myself the same question until I had a stroke of genius. Remember at that party you had before you opened, where everyone got a little too drunk and some pictures surfaced that resulted in my canceling multiple dates with important and sexy men to fix it?”

  “I didn’t know that was a part of it, but yes, I know which party you’re talking about.” How could she forget anything from that night? It was the last time she’d spoken to her best friend and the first time she’d met her half-brother in the flesh. Those sorts of things lodged themselves in your memory.

  “And do you remember the single silver lining that came from those pictures?”

  Jessica’s eyes darted to Cash, whose pleasant smile hinted at murder. “Uh, no, but
I think Cash might.”

  They smiled. “Oh, I do. I remember it vividly because it was the clearest sign of a divine being I’ve ever encountered. From the mounds of social media shit rose this one gem that I like to call the Holy Trinity.”

  Wendy nodded. “And as sacrilegious as that is, that’s a great way to think of it.”

  “You’re still worried about sacrilege?” Jessica asked.

  “Constantly,” said Wendy. “But I’m not going to let that stop me from doing my job.”

  “Noted,” said Jess. “Enlighten me: what’s the Holy Trinity?”

  Cash was ready for it. They flipped open their laptop bag, pulled out a tablet, and woke it from sleep mode with the touch of a button. The picture was already cued up.

  “Ah yes,” Jessica said, glancing at it disinterestedly, as if that precise moment hadn’t planted a seed of a fantasy that she’d let grow and bloom in the weeks since.

  Cash and Wendy called it the Holy Trinity, but Jessica had always thought of it as a Yes Please Sandwich.

  It was a kind of picture that most people had taken with friends at some point. Except most people’s didn’t include Jameson Fractal.