Black Tangled Heart

by Samantha Young

  Sandy, not so much. “I want it done right.”

  Seeing Lea’s wince, I narrowed my eyes on Sandy. “And Lea will do it right.”

  She brightened and gave me a grateful smile.

  “But—”

  “Not ‘but,’ Sandy. I have an amazing assistant who can fix this very minor issue. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve been here since five and I need sustenance. Lea, take care of this?”

  “You got it, boss. I’ll talk to the set dec. She should have the polaroids we took for continuity.”

  I winked at her, ignored Sandy’s scowl, and turned on my heel to leave.

  I wasn’t the type to yell. I didn’t boss people around; I delegated and asked politely. The only time I was less than polite was when someone gave me shit, but even then, I never yelled. I was always calm. In a room filled with lots of people, I was reserved. A little shy, even. Somehow, people always mistook these personality traits for timidity, perhaps even spinelessness.

  I enjoyed proving them wrong.

  The relief of getting in my car was great. I wasn’t lying when I said I needed sustenance. But I also just needed a breather. Sleep failed me last night after I’d hallucinated Jamie.

  Not hallucinated.

  There was definitely a guy standing in that doorway last night. It just hadn’t been Jamie.

  Jamie was long gone from my life, and after what happened to him here, I doubt he’d ever return to LA.

  Driving out of Studio City, I headed east through Toluca Lake, following the freeway toward Glendale. I lived in Silver Lake now, but memories were pulling me home.

  When would Glendale stop being home?

  When would someplace else finally feel like home?

  Would it ever?

  I shrugged off my melancholy and concentrated on finding a parking spot several blocks from the Brand.

  Brand Boulevard was so familiar to me, but I hadn’t visited in at least two years. My favorite panini place was still there, so I stopped in to grab a bite to eat, to fill the empty, nauseating hole in my gut. While I people watched, I was too aware of the time. It was fifteen-minute drive to the lot and I only had half an hour left on my break. I considered where to go before heading back.

  It hit me as soon as I stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  Years ago, Jamie and I would come here and hang out at Brand Bookshop. It closed about a year after he went to prison, not long after Lorna passed along his letter. The one that shattered me.

  However, Asher had mentioned there was a big-chain bookstore in Americana, the mall. So that’s where I headed. I took the long way around, following the path along the edge of the large musical, dancing fountain. I winced at the sight of the large, gold-plated sculpture of a mostly-naked man. It was a recasting of the famous D-Day sculpture, “The Spirit of American Youth Rising from the Waves,” by Donald Harcourt. There were water jets circling the sculpture and now and then they’d come to life around it.

  One of my favorite photos was of me and Jamie standing in front of that sculpture, the jets of water rising behind us. Skye had taken it not long after we’d started dating. Jamie had his arm around me. While I beamed at the camera, still giddy with disbelief that Jamie was mine, he stared down at me with a look of adoration.

  I’d teased him about it, but I secretly loved his expression.

  The photo was still tucked away inside a shoebox in my closet.

  Picking up my pace, I strode around the fountain and headed toward the bookstore. The store was air-conditioned, and that was always welcome on a day like today. I breezed past the coffee shop on the first level and took in the space. It was huge, three levels, with escalators. I searched for signs for the mystery section and made my way toward it. However, as I casually strolled, scanning all the aisle signs, a table in the center of the first floor caught my eye.

  A sign on the table read SIGNED COPIES.

  And sitting on a section of it were two upright books facing outward.

  Brent 29.

  Signed.

  And there were only two copies left.

  I hurried over to the table and snatched up the crisp hardback edition. The booklover in me felt a heady rush of happiness welcome on a day I felt melancholy.

  “You know, we only put these out this morning and they’re already nearly gone,” the cashier said as she rang up the signed edition. “We thought putting them out on a Sunday might give people a chance to get one, but word of mouth seems to have spread.”

  “It’s because he won’t do a tour,” her colleague butted in. “No one knows what the guy looks like. A hermit or something. Signed copies will fly out the door when they come in.”

  “Who says he’s a guy?” the other girl argued, handing over my copy and receipt.

  I thanked her and left them bickering over the sexual identity of Griffin Stone.

  Personally, I believed he was a guy. Maybe because his writing reminded me so much of Jamie’s.

  Once outside the store, I pressed back against the shop window and cracked open the hardback. There on the title page was the same autograph I’d seen in Patel’s copy. Except my copy had a handwritten quote from the author too.

  My favorite quote from the book.

  I smiled to myself, delighted.

  Suddenly, a shadow cast over the page, and I realized someone had come to a stop beside me.

  Invading my personal space.

  Frowning, I glanced up.

  Then my stomach dropped, as though I’d just plunged down the Big Dipper on a roller coaster. Staring down at me, ocean eyes flat beneath his moody brow, was Jamie McKenna.

  I had seen him last night.

  My pulse rushed in my ears, and my whole body shook. “Jamie?”

  His expressionless gaze flicked down to the book I now clutched to my chest, as if it were a life float. “It surprises me—”

  I gasped at the sound of his deep, rumbling, familiar voice, with the East Coast accent he’d never fully rid himself of.

  “—that a woman like you would enjoy a novel that traverses the dark forest of abiding love.”

  His words barely penetrated. I couldn’t stop staring at him.

  I wanted to reach out and touch him.

  It had been so long since I’d done that.

  In that moment, I forgot our last meeting. I forgot how he’d made me bleed inside. I reached for him. “Jamie—”

  He flinched, the blank expression gone in a blaze of fury. He glowered in disbelief, and my hand dropped limply at my side.

  In that moment, he reminded me of a wounded animal.

  How could that be?

  He wasn’t the one whose heart had been broken.

  “What are you doing here?” My voice was barely above a whisper.

  Yet he heard me. His lips pinched together, and my eyes dropped to them. Longing coursed through me in an agonizing wave, and I hated myself for it. Dragging my gaze back up to his eyes, I saw something calculating in them.

  “What are you doing here?” I was louder now. Attempting to sound in control.

  Jamie smirked, as though he knew better.

  He probably did.

  The bastard.

  “It’s not safe for you to be here, Jamie.” I might despise him for hurting me, but I still … Jesus Christ, I still needed to protect him.

  His eyes flashed dangerously as he bent his head toward mine. My breath caught and held as his scent flooded me. Jamie smelled different, I realized. When we were younger, he always smelled citrusy. Now, there was a hint of that, but something darker, earthier … almost like lime drenched in leather and tobacco. “Is that a threat?” he purred.

  My lashes fluttered and I took a wary step back.

  Was this happening? Was he really here?

  “It wasn’t a threat.”

  “No?” His cheek brushed mine, and I shivered involuntarily as he pressed his lips to my ear. “Well, this is.”

  I tried to pull away, but he gripped my biceps tight, ho
lding me in place so he could whisper, “‘A love that consumes, consumes everything unto utter desolation.’”

  It was my favorite quote from Brent 29.

  “When I’m done with you, there won’t be anything left.” He pulled back and gave me a benign smile that was an unsettling contrast to his threat. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  Then he was gone.

  And I felt like I might be sick.

  “A love that consumes, consumes everything unto utter desolation.”

  Oh my God.

  Pushing away from the store window, I looked left and right to see if I could find him. Jamie had disappeared in the crowds. But my suspicion grew, and I needed to know if I was right.

  My lunch break was almost over, but I didn’t care. Instead, I took the Glendale freeway to my rental in Silver Lake. Sliding into my allocated parking spot, I clutched my signed book to my chest and charged toward the main door, hitting the entry code. My feet pounded upstairs to the second floor, where I fumbled with my key as I hurried into my one-bedroom apartment. Marching into my bedroom/art studio, I thrust open the closet door at the rear of the room and dug through my art supplies until I found the shoebox I stored my keepsakes in.

  Dropping the hardback, I hauled out the box and threw it open. Digging to the very bottom, I found the letter I’d kept, even though I should’ve thrown it away years ago.

  Masochist that I was, I couldn’t let it go.

  Fingers shaking, I grabbed the paper and unfolded it flat as I opened Brent 29 and held the letter against the inscription and autograph on the book.

  “A love that consumes, consumes everything unto utter desolation.” Griffin Stone.

  Jamie had appeared outside the store before I could pay much attention to the handwriting.

  Now I could see it.

  “Oh my God.” I sank back on my heels.

  The handwriting matched.

  Jamie was the mystery author. Griffin Stone.

  Of course, he was. Perhaps, deep down inside, I’d even hoped he was.

  “When I’m done with you, there won’t be anything left.”

  He still blamed me. Still hated me. Still saw a faithless girl instead of the girl he’d loved.

  He wanted to hurt me.

  Tears of outrage spilled down my cheeks, sobs escaping me to release the pain. Skye had been right all along. She worried that our love was too much and that when it ended, it would destroy us.

  I laughed bitterly. It had almost destroyed me.

  And now he wanted to take away what I’d salvaged from the ruins.

  Rage burned through my grief.

  If he planned to punish me for my supposed crimes, let him try. I would not take his shit lying down.

  If he was no longer Jamie McKenna, I was no longer Jane Doe.

  I was Margot Higgins, and he was Griffin Stone.

  Enemies.

  Here lies Jamie and Jane, I thought. Once upon a time, they adored each other to distraction.

  RIP, sweet lovers.

  19

  JANE

  As I dotted a little white against the tip of a petal, I heard a soft curse from my left. It reminded me I’d been too close to my painting for a while now. It was time to look at it from a new point of view.

  Putting the paintbrush down, I cracked my neck and arched my back, groaning at how stiff they both were. “What are you cursing at?” I said through a yawn as I slipped off the stool.

  I flicked a look at Asher before striding away from the painting.

  He stretched out on my bed, glowering at the phone in his hand. When he glanced up from it, his dark eyes glittered with irritation. “My parents’ divorce has found its way onto the gossip rags.”

  I winced. Guilt pricked me. As much as it delighted me that Rita Steadman had decided to divorce Foster Steadman, I felt bad for Asher. Not that he wasn’t happy to see his mom break away from his father, but he was concerned about Rita.

  They’d only just told him last night. How the hell was it online already?

  “Mom doesn’t need this shit.” He shook his head in frustration. “Those bastards don’t care, as long as people hit their clickbait or buy their fucking magazines.”

  “She’ll be okay. I promise. She’ll be better than okay. And hey, at least she’s no longer in the dark about Foster. To some extent.”

  “I’m not sure I’m happy about that.”

  I knew it was hard for Asher. He’d spent most of his teenage and young adult years protecting his mother from the truth about her husband. Someone had decided enough was enough, however. And I had a feeling I knew who that person was—hence my guilt.

  Someone had anonymously sent Rita footage and images of Foster screwing young, pretty things at a swanky LA brothel. She wanted a divorce, and Foster wasn’t going to contest it because he didn’t want anyone to find out about the brothel visits.

  “I have to find out who sent those tapes before my father does.”

  I glanced guiltily away.

  Jamie.

  He was back for revenge. That’s what my gut told me.

  “I can’t have this person out there doing whatever they like. They could destroy my mom.”

  It wasn’t even on the tip of my tongue to tell Asher my suspicions, which made me the worst best friend in the world. Why was I still protecting Jamie McKenna? Or was I protecting myself? If I’d told Asher sooner about Jamie, he could’ve prepared for something like this.

  Jamie had reemerged in my life a week ago, and I still hadn’t told Asher about it. Despite Jamie’s threat, I didn’t want Foster Steadman to discover what Jamie was up to.

  “Things will be okay,” I promised as I squinted at my painting.

  “Yeah, I guess I should just concentrate on being happy that he’ll be out of her life soon.” He paused. “You happy with it?”

  Looking at him in confusion, I found him staring at the painting. Realizing what he meant, I nodded. Yeah, I was satisfied with the second layer. “Time to put the resin on. Which means I need to put the varnish on first. I know how you love the smell.”

  “Is that your subtle way of telling me to leave?” He sat up on the bed.

  “Like I would.” I pretended to be affronted by the idea.

  Instead of playing along, Asher narrowed his eyes. “You know I know there’s something going on with you, right?”

  Asher, I should say, Jamie’s back and he hates me. He hates me because he blames me for everything that happened. And he hates me because of you.

  Despite what Jamie thought, and what the world thought, Asher was just my best friend. We became friends over three years ago. By accident. I’d gotten an invitation to a party at Foster Steadman’s home. I had no strategy, but I’d naively hoped some great master plan would come to me when I got within touching distance of the bastard.

  Instead, upon seeing Foster, I was sick to my stomach. Skye’s voice, her words, filled my head, and tears had swum in my eyes. Until that moment, I had never considered myself to be a violent person, but I’d wanted to claw Foster Steadman’s face off.

  I’d followed him as he left the main area of the party and watched him and his son disappear into a private room. Eavesdropping, I’d overheard Foster verbally ripping Asher to shreds. No parent should ever say what he said to his son that night. While they argued, I found my way to Steadman’s office and ransacked it.

  It was Asher who caught me. He was furious to find me there.

  Frightened he would call the police, I’d taken a risk, thinking about what I’d heard between him and his dad. I’d told him the truth. I’d told him everything.

  To both of our surprise, we formed a connection.

  And it turned out he already knew about his father. He’d witnessed the cover-ups.

  Asher wanted to bring his father to justice, even if it meant damaging his family’s reputation. He was a good man. Together, we’d tried to bring Foster down, but we couldn’t find any solid evidence to do so. We’d descended
into minor sabotage, which left us both feeling hollow, just half-hearted attempts because Asher couldn’t be pushed, and I, despite what I wanted, didn’t want to push my friend.

  We ruined a relationship between Foster and his favorite mistress by sending her photographs of Foster visiting the same well-known, high-end brothel depicted in the photos Rita received. We also leaked a script that he’d wanted to buy to his competitor, who then outbid him. And Asher played a game of telephone to recommend a crappy investment that lost Foster a million dollars.

  I knew Asher was finally ready to drop the ax on his father, but all the seedier stuff amounted to rumors at this point. As Asher had explained to me many times, none of the girls were willing to talk. Foster had paid them off, and they were afraid of jeopardizing their careers. That’s what they said. But I knew they were also afraid no one would believe them. I knew because that’s how she felt.

  Tears burned in my eyes.

  “I’m worried about you,” Asher said. “I know there’s something else going on.”

  I should just tell Asher about Jamie. To let go of all the pain his faithlessness had caused. It was eating at me. A festering wound. A scream I couldn’t let go. Because if I did, if I told Asher, he would tell me to tell Jamie the truth. He’d give up his secret for me.

  Asher would tell me it was unhealthy to hold a grudge against Jamie. To deliberately withhold the truth. To be at war with him when I didn’t have to be. To keep causing him pain in return for the hurt he’d inflicted when he broke up with me.

  I didn’t want that from Asher.

  I was already constantly arguing with my conscience.

  But the hurt Jamie had caused was too great.

  “I’m worried about you, that’s all.” I avoided his question with a truth.

  “I’ll be fine. If this person wasn’t out there knowing shit about my family he or she shouldn’t know, I’d be dancing a jig right now that my mother is leaving my father.” He sighed and stood up. “I’m going to let you get on with the varnishing.”

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  We strolled through the apartment, making plans to meet up after work tomorrow. I hated the worry darkening my friend’s expression.