by D. L. Wood
“Not that bad? Holt. Come on. Look at you.”
“Well, I would, but,” he pushed a loose twist of dark hair from where it hung over his swollen left eye, “I’m not seeing so well at the moment.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are,” he replied gently as his gray eyes locked onto hers, a quiet intensity radiating from him. She sensed something different in his tone, all sarcasm and brevity gone, replaced with something deeper, more piercing. A nervous twinge flickered in her stomach, and suddenly he was pulling her to him.
FIFTY-NINE
“Don’t.”
Her command was hushed but unyielding. She had pulled back sharply from him, only milliseconds before he had completely closed the distance between them. Even so, he remained there, poised as he had been when just about to kiss her. She held his gaze firmly.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant it. There was no anger in her voice, just empathy. “Holt, I’m so, so, sorry. If I did something to—”
“Stop,” he said and heaved a labored sigh. Tossing her an understanding smile that couldn’t hide his disappointment, he sank back into the head of the bed, propped up on pillows. “You don’t have to say anything. I just…I guess I thought there was something here,” he said, waving between them. “And, I don’t know, maybe it’s the painkillers or the knock on the head, but it sort of seemed like the moment.”
She spoke gently. “I’m with Jack. You know that.”
“I know that he ran off and left you here for no good reason. I know he hasn’t called for days and that you’ve barely spoken to him since I’ve known you. And I know you deserve better.”
“You don’t know him. He’s got good reasons for doing what he’s doing, even though I don’t agree with it. He just wants to do the right thing. We’ll work through it. I love him, Holt. I’m sorry if I led you to believe any differently. You’ve been amazing.”
“Not amazing enough apparently,” he said wryly.
“You’ve been an amazing friend. To me, to Reese—to all of us.”
They were quiet for a minute, the occasional beeping of his monitor the only sound in the room. “So,” he finally said with an awkward smirk, “is this going to be too weird now? Have I messed things up, or can we still be friends?”
“Of course we can still be friends.”
“Mmm. Easy for you to say,” he said. “You’re not the one that just made a complete idiot of himself. Maybe it’ll be too weird for me now.”
“No, it won’t,” she insisted.
“I mean, my ego is pretty fragile,” he said, subtle sarcasm in his tone. “I’m not sure I want to be reminded of my crash and burn every time I see you.”
The corner of Chloe’s mouth ticked up as a knowing smile emerged. “Really?” she chided with amused skepticism. “Your ego is fragile?”
He made basset hound eyes at her. “What can I tell you? I mask it well.”
She laughed. “Okay. Whatever you say.” She bit her lip hesitantly. “So we’re good?”
Holt squinted, wrinkling his nose, and nodded. “Yeah, we’re good. Now go on. Get outta here. Before Emma decides she’s sick of waiting and catches a ride with somebody else.”
* * * * *
Cackles of laughter erupted from the family room, while Chloe sat at the dining room table in the front of the house, scrolling through the Franklin photos she had taken so far. While waiting for the rosemary chicken to roast for dinner, the kids had started a movie and she had endeavored to make a little headway on her article. Her present task involved creating a list of the photos she liked best and making sure that she had a good balance between the historical, entertainment, and culinary aspects of the vibrant town.
It was slow going, but she had gotten through about half of the shots. Presently she was sifting through the ones of Sweet Cece’s frozen dessert shop at Five Points. The rustic shop’s hot pink and Kelly green decor and rainbows of candied toppings in glass dispensers for the frozen yogurt and ice cream jumped off the screen. As she studied the photos taken from various angles, her mind drifted to her conversation with Holt, as it had a dozen times already during this process.
He had been right about one thing. This tension between Jack and Chloe wasn’t good. It was time she ended it.
The photos could wait. Jack couldn’t. She closed the laptop and pulled out her cell. Would he answer? If he wouldn’t take the call, then what?
I could fly out there tomorrow. I could take the kids with me, she thought. They would probably be safer out there anyway. Reese couldn’t argue with that. We could do Disneyland with Jack. Maybe see the ocean—
The doorbell rang, interrupting her mental planning. She swiveled in the direction of the front door, eyeing it suspiciously. “Hey,” she called out, still watching the foyer, “are you guys expecting someone?”
“Uh, no,” Emma yelled back over Tyler complaining that he couldn’t hear the television with all the shouting.
Chloe rose from her chair and took a hesitant step towards the front door. “You didn’t order pizza or anything and not tell me?” she called out.
“You’re cooking in there. Why would I order pizza?” Emma hollered back.
Chloe took several steps towards the door, trying to suppress her overactive imagination. It’s just a doorbell. It’s not a hitman. All the same, she patted her holster, checking for her pistol, ready to use it if need be. It’s probably just…somebody checking on us. Maybe Holt decided to come by. She lifted the peephole cover and peeked through.
A bouquet of at least two dozen red roses, so large that it blocked any view of the delivery person, filled the entirety of the lens. Relief flooded her as, grinning, she unlatched the deadbolt and opened the door.
SIXTY
Chloe screamed as the caller lowered the paper-wrapped bouquet of roses, revealing his face. She threw herself at him and he caught her with his free arm, hugging her tight.
“Hey you,” Jack said, burying his face in the amber curls around her neck.
“I can’t believe you’re here!”
“I’m here,” Jack whispered in her ear. “To stay.”
She pulled back, cautious optimism shining from her eyes. “What do you mean? You’re done? You’re staying?”
He nodded vigorously.
“But I thought—you said—”
“Yeah, I know what I said. Dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”
She dropped her head onto his chest. In the span of fifteen seconds the world had righted again. She was warm and whole again for the first time since driving away from Atlanta. “I don’t need time, Jack. I never did.”
“I know. I was an idiot.”
“But you’re my idiot,” she grinned, blinking back tears as she breathed in the familiar scent of soap on his skin.
Grinning back, and without seeming to spare a thought for the kids that had come running to see what the yelling was about, he dropped the bouquet, cupped her face, and kissed her.
* * * * *
After a long dinner of explanations and having Emma and Tyler play several rounds of ‘guess the famous people Jack has met on movie sets,’ the adults were left to clean up while the kids returned to their movie.
“So, not that I’m complaining,” Chloe remarked, wiping out the roasting pan with a non-scratch pad and rinsing it beneath a fresh stream of water before handing it to Jack to dry, “but you still haven’t said what exactly changed your mind about things. That’s a pretty good one-eighty you did.”
“Yeah, it was, wasn’t it?” he agreed humbly as he took the pan and began drying it with a Williams Sonoma plaid kitchen towel. “I’d like to say that I came to my senses on my own, but the truth is, it was Riley.”
Chloe smiled at the mention of John Riley, Jack’s old Navy SEAL buddy and the man that had helped Jack rescue her from Tate’s killers in Miami.
“I called him a couple days ago. I needed a fresh perspective from someone I could trust. He told me I
was being an idiot.”
Chloe chuckled. “I always did like him.”
“Personally, I often find him to be a pain in the rear, but, in this case…he was right.” Jack stopped drying and turned to lean against the counter. “And not just about me being an idiot.” He paused, as if hashing out in his mind what he wanted to say before he said it. “Coming here and seeing you with Holt, how he was with you, it definitely sparked jealousy—”
“Jack—”
“No wait, let me finish. But I trust you, Chloe. And I know how you feel about me. So why did I make it about something so much bigger? How could I just walk away, just give up and leave? That isn’t like me.”
“No, it’s not.”
“No. Riley says that maybe I overreacted because all of the stuff going on—your reaction to the thing with Lila and your friendship with Holt and your relying on him—tapped into the fact that I’ve been feeling sorry for myself since what happened with my leg, and that it’s possible I’m not processing what happened to me very well, and that maybe I’ve even been feeling like less of a person because I’m not as capable as before.”
“Of course you’re as capable—”
“You know I’m not.”
“So you’re a little slower. Who cares?”
“I care, apparently.”
She inhaled heavily, thinking on that for a second. “And Riley came up with that in-depth analysis on his own?”
“Well, what he actually said was that I needed to stop throwing a pity party and get my head straight.”
“That sounds more like him.”
“But I read between the lines.”
“Why in the world would you think any of that could ever affect how I feel about you?”
“I don’t know…I guess that maybe part of me thought that if I saw myself as less than I was when you first got involved with me, then maybe you did too. And maybe you wanted a way to bow out gracefully.”
“Did you really think that I might be looking for a way out because the guy I fell for ended up with a bad leg?”
“Well, when you say it like that it sounds ridiculous.”
“Because it is ridiculous.”
He took a copper pot she had finished washing and rubbed the cotton cloth over it, absorbing the water clinging to its sides. “It isn’t just that. Riley thinks there may be more going on. That maybe I overreacted because I’m having a harder time processing the leg and everything else that happened in St. Gideon and Miami than I realized. It might even be cumulative…building on issues left over from my Navy days.”
“What, like some kind of PTSD?”
“I don’t know. That’s what Riley thought. He also thought I should see someone. You know, to work through it. Deal with any ghosts rattling around in there.” He paused apprehensively. “What do you think?”
She smiled at him, turning and slipping her arms around his waist. “I think Riley’s a smart guy.”
He kissed her forehead. “I’m really sorry about everything.”
She shook her head, dismissing his apology. “Look, I overreacted too. About Lila. We both have our stuff to work through.”
He nodded. “How about you don’t assume that I’m secretly seeing someone if they happen to answer my phone, and I promise not to assume that every guy that smiles at you is trying to worm his way into your life.”
Chloe’s face flushed. “Umm, about that…”
SIXTY-ONE
Trevor Jernigan leaned forward on his elbows, resting his full weight on the modern steel-framed glass desk in his office. A stream of morning sunlight lasered through the partially opened blinds on the eighth floor of the CoolSprings Business Complex that housed his accounting firm in north Franklin. He held the translucent orange bottle up to the light, examining the two little white pills resting on the bottom. A few hours ago there had been three pills, but he had taken number three in the hopes of getting some sleep. No such luck.
His nerves were shot, as evidenced by the quaking bottle in his hand. He gripped it, contemplating another Xanax. Just to take the edge off. But that would only leave him with one. And with it being Saturday, there was no way he would be able to get a refill until Monday, if even then. He had already gone through this bottle way too fast.
He yanked a drawer opened, dropped the bottle in, and slammed it shut. The violence of it calmed him. It felt good to unload on something. Because there was absolutely no person he could unload on. Not without risking everything.
He ran a thick hand through his oily hair. Things were getting too close for comfort. They had identified Bellamy and now they knew. Or at least suspected. And unfortunately, suspicion was all these people needed. So he had slept on the couch across from the desk last night, banking on it being safer there than in his house. The office had a better security system, and it was unlikely they would expect him to stay there through the night.
His one hope was that they hadn’t connected him to it yet. So far nothing suggested they had, but eventually they would get there. He just needed a little more time. Then he would be home free.
* * * * *
“They put him in the hospital,” he told Banyon matter-of-factly, though his sharp Jersey accent was bleeding through, letting her know that frustration was getting the better of him. “It’ll draw attention.”
“It’s what it took.” Banyon fought back the growl she wanted to unleash. She didn’t like it when clients told her how to handle her business.
“Any sign of the money?” he asked.
“No,” she told him. “But that’s not a surprise. He wouldn’t keep it where someone could stumble onto it.”
“What about Adams? If he persists, will we be kept out of it?”
“I don’t know. It just depends how deep he digs. But the more nicely wrapped a gift we hand him, the less likely he or anyone else will feel the need to keep going.”
“I pay you to make sure that’s the outcome we get.”
Banyon’s lips pinched angrily. “You know as well as I do that if I’m handed a cow chip cake, I can only make it taste so good. Next time listen to me when I tell you how to get out ahead of something. And have Drake handle things better on the front end. A little cooperation on his part when Adams first showed up could have avoided all of this. We could have laid it on the wife from the get-go. His approach was a miscalculation, which if you recall, I warned you about.”
Brooding silence filled the space between them. “I don’t normally tolerate that kind of insolence from my employees,” he said.
Banyon took a long drag on her Dunhill, trying to decide whether or not this was the moment. It was. She blew out the toxic smoke with purposeful force, just so he could hear it all the way in Clearbay, New Jersey. “Well, good thing I’m not one of your employees, then, Paul.” She brandished his name, speaking it with an exaggerated southern drawl that left no room for confusion about who owned whom. “I don’t work for you. I partner with you in a profitable business arrangement that benefits us both on an as-needed basis. Emphasis on your need, not mine. I’ve got two dozen prospective clients on my waiting list, anxiously awaiting the day when I fire one of my present clients who has finally become just a little too demanding, stupid, or unwilling to do things my way. So, if you’ve forgotten how this works, maybe that day has come for you.”
It wasn’t a bluff. She would walk away without a thought. It was a move without financial or personal risk for her. In addition to the steady stream of individuals seeking her services, like all of her clients, she had more than enough dirt securely packaged for effective release on Paul’s outfit, should the need arise. It was quite sufficient to ensure she would not end up as part of the foundation of some construction site somewhere.
But it wouldn’t come to that. Paul was the son of a semi-retired, self-made ‘business’ owner in New Jersey and had inherited the position he now held, having sacrificed nothing to actually earn it. On the contrary, she had been hired by his father back in the d
ay and had earned that man’s trust and respect a hundred times over. In a contest between her judgment and Paul’s, the father would side with her every time. Like most sons desperate for a father’s approval, the last thing Paul would want to have to explain is why he fired the company’s most reliable fixer, leaving the company in untold jeopardy.
As she knew he would, he caved. “Just fix it,” he growled and hung up.
She smiled. They were all the same. Little yappy dogs with big dog egos, marking their proverbial fire hydrants until she finally had to remind them that she was the one holding the hose.
SIXTY-TWO
Duct tape. Check.
Zip ties. Check.
Duffel. Check.
He had waited all day, until finally darkness had fallen. Now, in the cover provided by the night, he finished his preparations in the makeshift driveway in his front yard. Reaching around to grab the black duffel off the ground beside his car, he set it in the trunk beside the case of bottled water. If he wanted the boy to last, he would have to keep him hydrated. And fed. The box of chocolate chip granola bars crammed in next to the water should take care of that.
Somewhere in the woods nearby a coyote howled, answered quickly by another. He ignored them, too focused at the moment on surveying his handiwork. The trunk space actually looked pretty cozy with the food and water and the thick wool blanket he had laid across the trunk bottom. Heck, he had even thrown in a pillow for good measure.
He wasn’t a monster. No matter what Holt Adams said.
SIXTY-THREE
“You look fantastic!” Reese praised as Tyler ran around his hospital room in his newly bought Iron Man Halloween costume, stopping only to shoot imaginary foes with energy blasts from his hands.
“I know!” Tyler agreed, much too loudly. “Jack got it for me!”
Jack rubbed Tyler’s head as the boy darted by, headed to intercept whatever evil villain he imagined lurked in Reese’s bathroom.
“You didn’t have to do that,” said Reese.