by Penny Wylder
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
I snort. “I mean living off venison, in a tiny hand-built cabin in the woods, no feminine influence for miles around. You just seem like you’re the loner type. You know. Like you’re not into the whole wife and family life.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Not really. Kids are too much work. But there have been plenty of women passing through here. Just, I never ask them to stay long enough to make a difference to the atmosphere.” He waves a hand vaguely. “I guess that’s why it’s not very feminine in here.”
My heart sinks in my chest.
That surprises me. Last night, I’d been all about the fucking, to be honest. From the moment I saw Gil, I wanted him to ride me. He did, all that and then some. It was fantastic, really, probably one of the best hookups of my life. Maybe the best. But it was just about sex.
Wasn’t it?
I study him now, chowing down on the food I cooked. “Did you ever want a woman to stay longer?” I ask, not even sure why I’m pressing this with a random hookup, a guy I’ve known for one night. “Or do you prefer casual flings?” I add, so as not to sound like a total crazy woman. Barging in here, fucking him, then grilling him on whether he wants a wife and kids. Jesus, Jenna. Slow your roll!
He shrugs again. “Yeah, casual is my speed.”
“Cool,” I say. My cheeks flush. “Uh, mine too, I mean. You know, city girl, I love a hookup!” My voice sounds funny, even to my ears. I clear my throat and hope he didn’t notice the way he’s getting me flustered. “Anyway, um, I have to take some more photographs in town.” My ears feel hot, like they’re turning red. “I’m here until tomorrow, though, so…”
He looks up at me, expectant.
I clear my throat again. “Well, if you wanted a casual repeat, I wouldn’t… I mean, I had fun last night…”
“Me too, Jenna,” he replies, earnest. “A hell of a lot of fun.” For a moment, gazing into those icy blue eyes of his, I’m sure I haven’t misjudged him. There’s more to Gil than meets the eye. More than just a hot fuck, too—though he is that, for sure.
Then he breaks eye contact and picks up his now-empty plate, heading for the sink. “I have to work most of the day, though,” he says, without looking at me. “And after that, unfortunately, I’ve got client meetings all evening. I build custom furniture, so, the festival is pretty much the busiest weekend I ever have.” He starts to say something else, but I cut across him, taking the hint all too easily.
“Of course. I can only imagine how busy it must get, yeah.” I laugh, and cringe inwardly. I push back my chair, even though there are still a few eggs on my plate cooling. “Speaking of busy, though, I have to work the rest of the weekend too, schedule’s pretty full, and I’m late anyway, so I should run. I’ll see you around, huh Gil?” With that, I snatch up my phone and head for the door.
“Wait, Jenna—” he starts, but I’m already wrenching open the door and stepping out into the friendly warmth of the midday spring.
I pause on the threshold to look back at him. My heart skips all over again, remembering last night, and my belly tightens. I fucked him. He was inside me. It’s difficult to believe it now, looking at his perfect body, his sculpted arms and sharp-boned, broad face. He’s out of my league, I’m sure of it. “Yes?” I ask.
He hesitates. Smiles, though it looks a little pained. “Hope you enjoy the rest of the festival,” he says.
“You too,” I tell him.
“I’m pretty sure nothing will top last night,” he replies.
Then, not sure how to respond to that, I force another awkward smile. “Same.” With that, I shut the door between us and sever any little connection that might have been starting to form.
For a second outside, I squeeze my eyes shut and bend at the waist, frustrated with myself, though I don’t let myself groan aloud like I normally would. Dammit Jenna! He was hot as fuck.
But I said I was here until tomorrow, and he said he’d be busy all weekend. I asked if he wanted a casual repeat, he changed the topic. I can’t moon around after the poor guy.
I didn’t come here to fall head over heels. I came for some fun, and I definitely got that, in spades. It will have to be enough.
With that thought in my head, I force myself to walk away, back down the main road toward town.
The day at the festival passes in a blur. I catch a couple glimpses of Gil, once while I’m taking photos of a pie-baking award ceremony, and again when I, much to my shame, purposefully walk past the sellers’ tents and spy on him from behind a clothing reseller.
“Can I help you?” the surly woman running the resale shop asks, squinting at me with suspicion, her voice deep and gravelly.
“Oh, just browsing,” I say, even though I’m standing in front of a full-length mirror and peeking around the sides of the mirror at a tent on the far side of the sales row.
The woman’s eyes narrow. “Browsing what, yourself?”
My cheeks flush. “Can I take a photo of your booth?” I ask quickly, to forestall any more awkward interactions. “I’m here taking photographs of the festival for the Philadelphia Gazette.” At the sound of my newspaper’s name, the woman’s expression clears, and her scowl lessens.
“Well, certainly, if it’s for the papers.” She proceeds to pose dramatically in several different locations throughout her little tent booth, and even recruits a few passing teenage girls to come model some jackets before the mirror while I snap photos.
At the end of that, I shake hands with her and head out, though not before stealing one last glance in Gil’s direction. When I look over, he’s looking my way too, and waves. I duck my head even farther, embarrassed to be caught staring, and beeline it away from the sales tents and back over to the area where the festival activities and traditions are taking place.
That night I go to bed early. Not just because I’m nervous about seeing Gil at the fire, or even worse, seeing him flirting with some other girl, maybe his next hookup. But I also need the extra sleep because I’m plain exhausted. Staying up all night last night, not to mention all the physical activity, took its toll on me.
Gil was true to his word. Walking is difficult today.
I limp past the front desk of the hotel and catch my favorite receptionist on duty. He gives me a cheery wave from behind the desk. “How’s it going, Ms. Walker?”
“Great, great.”
“You enjoying the festival?”
“Loving it, and Bailey,” I promise, “you’ve got a great town here.”
“Well thank you. You heading out in the morning?”
“Sadly.” I make a show of pouting. “Back to the big city for me.”
“Ah well. Make the most of your last day then, hear me?” He waves as I stagger upstairs.
But I know I’m not going to take his advice. If Gil were interested in me, he’d show it. If he wanted a second round, he’d make it happen. He hasn’t, so… it’s fine.
I fall asleep practically the moment my head hits my pillow, and when I wake up the next morning to see a torrential downpour outside my window, I take the hint. I check out, smiling in sympathy as the receptionist complains about the rain. Then, instead of doing one last pass for pictures like I’d planned, I just head straight for the train station. I’ve got all the material I need. And if I get home early, it’ll give me more time to start editing these pictures before my boss’s editorial board meeting next week.
Like I said, I’m a workaholic. Takes a lot to distract me from the job. Not even hunky, hot as hell country man can do it for long.
6
Jenna
The photographs are a huge success.
My boss tells me he got more inquiries about Bailey Village and its fair than any other recent travel story we’ve run. He thinks it’s because of the local interest factor—so many travel pieces today are about far-flung places, ones that would take a ton of planning and money to reach. People fell in love with Bailey because it’s so close and ac
cessible.
My boss paid me an extra bonus for the job, and even sold a few prints of two photos—the one of the little girls eating ice cream near the food truck tents, and another of some kids dancing around the bonfire in the woods—to a big gallery.
Two weeks after I spent the weekend in Bailey, those prints go up in a gallery downtown. I show up in a black strapless dress and answer questions about my work, my inspirations. I make a pretty penny off print sales from that night, too.
An added bonus of that weekend away—not only did I get a breather for those three days, but the success of the pictures I took is giving me a little more wiggle room. A little more breathing space, so that I don’t have to jump on every single job that comes my way. I have the money, and the clout, that I can turn some gigs down, if I want to give myself an honest-to-goodness actual vacation for once.
Everything is going great, in other words. So why don’t I feel as excited as I should?
Another two weeks after that gallery opening, I find myself sitting in my office on a gray Monday morning, gazing moodily out the window, watching rain streak the panes of glass and wondering what would have happened if I’d been more forward with Gil. What if I’d just come out and said, “Want to fuck me again tonight?” the morning after, instead of awkwardly slipping out of his cabin?
Would he have wanted to hook up again Saturday night? Maybe Sunday morning, too?
I shake my head. Doesn’t matter. He told me outright that he’s not the wife and family kind of guy. That he prefers casual flings. So I might have gotten a couple more nights of mind blowing great sex out of him. So what? It would’ve just made my heart hurt even more to leave him behind. As it was, I shouldn’t have felt anything. Not for a one night stand. Not for a guy who probably doesn’t even remember my name anymore.
I shake my head and turn back to my desk. But the sudden motion, combined with the head shake, not to mention the questionable burrito I scarfed this morning on my way to work, because I was craving crappy Tex Mex for some reason, makes nausea surge in my stomach. I grab the waste bin under my desk and dry heave over it, silently I hope, because the last thing I want to do is accidentally puke in front of all my coworkers.
I manage to hold it in, but my stomach is still churning angrily. Crap. I dig through the emergency medicine stash in my overhead until I find some Tums, and I pop those into my mouth, hoping that’ll settle things down.
That’s when someone knocks on my desk. I practically jump out of my skin.
“Jenna?” My boss is standing right behind me, frowning at me in confusion.
At his elbow stands an unfamiliar woman in a suit that looks like she stole it off a guy who was slightly heavier than her, and never bothered to get it tailored.
“Hi,” I sputter, glancing back and forth between them. “Sorry, I was just feeling a little off, and debating if I needed a sick day—”
“Jenna, this is Detective Hartman,” my boss speaks over my hurried mumble. “She wanted to ask you a few questions about the Bailey Village festival.”
My cheeks go bright red. “Oh. Uh…” I extend a hand, which the detective shakes rather harder than I think is strictly necessary. “Nice to meet you. And sure, anything you want to ask, fire away.” I laugh a little nervously.
The detective cuts my boss some side-eye. “Why don’t we step into your office, Mr. Morris, if we can use that for a moment? I’d rather continue this conversation in private.”
“Of course, of course.” My boss nearly trips over himself to lead us both back around the cubicle section to his big-windowed corner office. “Let me know if you need anything.” To judge by the way he’s eying Detective Hartman, my boss doesn’t mind if her suit isn’t fitting right.
And to be fair, for her age—more like my boss’s age, in her mid-50s probably—she does look like a fox. A fox in need of a Clueless-style makeover, but still.
“I don’t need a lawyer, do I?” I joke as she shuts the office door behind us. I laugh. She doesn’t.
“I just have some routine questions, Ms. Walker.”
My stomach sinks. “Jenna, please, Detective Hartman.”
Detective Hartman flashes me a slightly warmer smile, at that. “Jenna. Call me Stacey. Now, like I said, I just have a few routine questions here. Your boss tells me you attended the Bailey Village festival for the entire weekend?”
“That’s right, Dete—Stacey,” I catch myself.
“And did that include the first night of the festival, the Friday evening?”
“Yes, I got there early Friday morning.”
“Did you notice anything unusual or suspicious that evening? Anything at all.”
My heart lurches in my chest. My stomach does, too, and for a moment, I worry I’m going to be sick again. It takes a moment, and a few deep breaths, for me to quell the new rise in nausea. Dammit, Tums. Why aren’t they working yet? I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, and think through the detective’s questions.
“I’m not sure,” I finally say. “Could you be more specific? Like… what sort of suspicious?”
All I can think about, when I flash back to that night, is Gil. Meeting him by the fire. Flirting, dancing.
Fucking him all night long.
My face goes red all over again. My stomach surges, and it takes an effort to shut my eyes, let the wave of sickness pass through me. You’re not going to puke. You’re fine.
When I open my eyes again, Detective Hartman—Stacey—is staring at me, frowning. After a moment, though, she must decide to ignore my reaction, because she leans back in her chair. “A man was murdered at the festival this year, Jenna.”
Gil.
For a terrifying, heart-wrenching second, that’s the first crazy fear that pops into my head. But it couldn’t be Gil—she was asking about Friday night, and anyway, I saw him on the Saturday, working his booth same as ever. Or, at least, I avoided him on the Saturday, and spied on him from a neighboring booth.
“Who?” I manage to ask, once I’ve talked myself out of panic.
Stacey pulls a folder from the briefcase she’s carrying and opens it. Then she flips it around and slides it across my boss’s desk to me. “A man named Bradley Myers. He was a visitor to town, helping run a retreat his law firm was putting on in the area.”
I stare down at the photograph, what looks like a posed headshot of Bradley, apparently, at a beachside resort trying to look tough, despite the cocktail beside him and the sunny beach in the background. It’s the sort of headshots I’d seen people use when they struck it big selling their first company idea out in Silicon Valley or something—the photo itself is good, but the pose, the staging, it’s all a bit ridiculous, like a kid trying on his dad’s suit. They’re trying too hard to be edgy, cool, to stand out from the crowd.
But more surprising is the fact that I recognize him.
The man from the hotel lobby when I first checked in. The one complaining loudly on his cell phone about how Bailey Village wasn’t nearly as good as his company’s retreat in India last year. “I met him,” I hear myself saying, shock seeping in. “I was staying in the same hotel as him. We checked in at the same time, on Friday morning.”
“Did you speak to him?” Stacey’s attention sharpens. She leans closer, across the desk. “Jenna, any information you might be able to remember, anything at all, could really help us now.”
But the nausea has returned stronger than ever. The whole room is spinning, and spots are darting across my vision. I can’t hold it back any longer. Without even a word to Stacey—I can’t talk now or I’ll burst—I leap up and stagger toward the bathroom.
I don’t make it. Luckily, my boss keeps his trashcan poised beside the little single-seat toilet he has attached to the big corner office. I have time to grab that, and then my breakfast comes surging up out of me.
I drop to my knees beside the trashcan and heave. I throw up once, twice, and then my stomach does that horrible thing where it’s empty, but it k
eeps on trying to push anything that might remain out. I heave again, retch, then again. Eventually, I feel a hand come to rest on my back, massaging in slow circles. I hear someone shout, and then a crash of footsteps, and the sound of my boss’s familiar voice.
“What’s going on? Is Jenna all right?”
“I think it’s the shock,” Stacey murmurs back, voice much lower than his. It’s her hand on my shoulder, I realize, and she pats me again as another heave rocks through me. “Apparently she’d met the man in her hotel. This news would be a lot for anyone to hear but…” Their voices lower. Stacey’s hand leaves my back, and they retreat to a far corner of the office, murmuring.
I manage to get to my feet and stumble the rest of the way into the bathroom. There, I do my best to clean up, as much as that’s possible. I scrub my face, rinse out my mouth. Stare at myself in the mirror, breathing hard, eyes glazed. I look terrible.
I look terrified.
Because I know Stacey is wrong.
Yes, it’s pretty damn shocking to hear a man was murdered. A man I’d spoken to, more so, however briefly. At an event I attended, too.
But I’d been feeling sick even before the detective arrived. Before I had any idea what went down at that festival. I’d been feeling nauseous all morning. And yesterday, too, come to think of it. It wasn’t as bad, not as violent, but I definitely felt a little queasy.
So, right there in my boss’s tiny office add-on bathroom, under harsh fluorescent lights, as I scrub at my face and wash my hands under frigid tap water, I start to count. And with each day I count, my breath comes a little faster, and my heart rabbits in fear.
I remember the night with Gil all over again. The moment he reached for the drawer beside his bed. The moment I stopped him. I’m on the pill, so…
I storm back out of the bathroom. Straight past my boss and the detective, who bark questions after me, asking if I’m all right, if I need anything. “One second,” I call over my shoulder, racing for my desk. I grab my purse and empty the contents onto it.