by Amber Foxx
Jamie sat up. “You found out something bad, didn’t you? That’s why you won’t talk about it. Sylvie’s planning to feed Gasser to the dogs and write Joe Wayne a song about it.”
“No.” Close, though. “But I got a look at them. They’re one crazy couple. She’s using you to make him jealous. And it’s working.”
“Fuck. Does he like her, then?”
“I think so. I think he loves her.”
“Jeezus. Who’d think that was possible? Does she love him?”
Mae thought about what she’d seen and heard. Even though Joe Wayne had scored on that round, Sylvie had played their game harder. Her passion was different from his, brittle and guarded except when he made her laugh. “It’s hard to say. She doesn’t seem to, but maybe that’s what love looks like on Sylvie.”
“Look what she’s done for thinking she was in love with me. Does she—did she find out about, y’know, my ... my history?”
“I don’t think so. She looked in your desk drawers and saw all your dental care stuff. You had a heap of it, sugar. It looked a little obsessive. And all your snacks. She found out you were in therapy, but you told her that.”
“I did?”
“You said it was helping you lose weight. She found out what kind of specialty your therapist had, though. So she has some general idea, but nothing personal.”
“Fuck. That’s bad enough. What about Gasser? How is he? Did you see him?”
“He’s in the garage with your instruments. Joe Wayne wants to get rid of him and doesn’t want the dogs to get near him.”
“That’s it, then.” Jamie’s face lit up. “We don’t need the police, we need Joe Wayne Brazos.”
“I reckon he’s already told his pet sitter. He told Sylvie.” Mae didn’t mention it was more a concern about bringing out something bad in the dogs than about Gasser himself. “Anyway, we can’t exactly call him up. I’m sure all his information is private.”
“But we can reach him through his web site or Facebook or something. Tell him Sylvie wants to hurt Gasser. Ask him to ship him out, have the pet sitter send him to my parents.”
“Some personal assistant or web master or someone will read it and filter it out or answer it for him. It’ll only get sent on to him if that person who screens stuff decides it should.”
“D’you know this?”
“No, but I know that’s how politicians do stuff. Hubert’s mama is really active in environmental causes, and I’ve heard her talk about what happens to your letters and e-mails to your congressman. Joe Wayne is a lot more famous and probably gets a ton of crazier e-mails than some representative.”
“I get the e-mails from my web site. They go straight to me.”
“You get how many in a day?”
Jamie shrugged alternate shoulders, sighed. “Mm ... five ... ? Yeah, all right. Sometimes I have none.”
“Even then, Wendy handles your Facebook and your blog for you.”
“But if I got something that seemed important, she’d make sure I knew. We need to get his gatekeeper to let me in. Like, if the message was from me, he’d read it. Your wife is stalking me and has my cat as a hostage. Jangarrai. That’d do it.”
“You don’t want to get dismissed as a crank.”
“I’m not a crank, it’s the truth.”
“Calm down. This is why I wanted to wait until morning.”
“Nah—now. Get your laptop. We have to do it.”
He was so sure he could solve the problem by asking his stalker’s famous husband to do something. It was absurd. Joe Wayne already knew something was off, and he had encouraged Sylvie to stop, but he could no more order her around than Jamie could. If and when she did what her husband liked, it was because she wanted to. “Jamie—wait, she told him she’s heading home soon. Tomorrow or the next day.”
“And she said she’d see me in Greenville. What’s she planning to do there so that she’ll be done with me?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe she’s just run out of time and her boss wants her back at the bar, or Roxana needs time off, or—could be all sorts of reasons. It doesn’t mean she’s gonna kill you in Greenville, or Gasser when she gets home. Call the police if you want her stopped, though, not her husband.”
Jamie lay back down. “But Gasser ...” He smacked a pillow over his face and kicked a few times, made sounds through the pillow that might have been words, or just expressions of anxiety and frustration. Mae removed the pillow, and Jamie stopped thrashing. “I can’t think straight.”
And that’s news? “What’ll help you relax now?”
“Send him a message. And then you sleep with me.”
“You get part one.”
There was no direct e-mail link to Brazos. Sparing Jamie the struggle of organizing letters in correct order, Mae typed into the send Joe Wayne a message text box on the singer’s web site. She tried to make her wording strong enough to get noticed without sounding like a crackpot. Urgent. Need to talk about Sylvie. And cat. Jangarrai. Although it did stand a chance of getting past the gatekeeper, Mae doubted the message would accomplish much. She gave Jamie’s professional e-mail for a reply address, sent the message, and turned off the laptop.
As she started to rise to take it back to her room, Jamie laid a long, hot hand on hers, keeping her beside him. “Thanks, love,” he said. “Lie down, now. You’ve worked hard. I’ll give you a back rub.”
“No thanks. I’m heading to bed.”
He sprawled peacefully with his head on a mound of pillows, beaming a soft smile at her, his eyes warm and unguarded. “You’ll sleep better. Look at you, up, walking about in the middle of the night. You need a nice rub.”
“Sugar, we can’t do a massage. You’re naked under that sheet.”
“Does it show?” He slid one arm under the sheet, and stuck his forearm up like a huge erection. “Jesus. Been trying to contain myself.”
Mae kept her laugh silent, for Pamela and Andy’s sake. Jamie dropped the gesture with a pleased grin. “Come on, love. Take me up on it. Total body, foot rub, back rub, whatever you like.”
“Thank you.” Mae stood. “That’s sweet of you. But—”
“Bloody hell. You won’t let me take care of you.” Jamie exploded to sitting upright. His hair stood out from tossing and turning, making his hurt, angry face look wild. “You’ll only take care of me. You’ll only be strong, you won’t be tender. You’re so bloody scared to get hurt and to have all the hard times and fights and crap in a real relationship—go on, then, go to bed. Don’t let me love you. Go back to your bloody Zeus. He doesn’t love you. You’ll be safer there.”
His words cut her. Feeling as if someone had shoved a mirror in her face when she looked her worst, she hugged the laptop to her chest like a shield. “Jamie—”
“Oh, fuck—please—don’t look like—fuck, I hurt you. I’m sorry.” He jumped to his feet, forgetting or ignoring his nakedness, and rushed to seize her in a powerful hug. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you. I won’t yell at you, no I will, all the time. I’m like that—can’t help it—but I love you.”
As always when his emotions ran high, he was hot and moist, holding her so tight she could hardly breathe, locked into the awkward position of still holding her computer between them. How did we get here? I came upstairs and he played ghost at me, and now we’ve got drama. He pressed his cheek to hers and took a ragged breath, squeezed even harder.
“Sugar, I’ve still got my computer and you’re squashing my boobs with it.”
Jamie stepped back, looked down into the space between them, bit his lip, turned and ducked back into the bed. Mae briefly glimpsed his arousal—well-endowed—and then a good rear view. Just the right amount of muscle for a perfect man-ass. His back was strong, with a swimmer’s build, and darker brown than his butt. He’d probably been biking shirtless out on a trail while it was warm out, getting his head on straight, something he must miss now. Those long swims and rides were part of his sanity.
He l
ay with his back to her for a moment, and Mae didn’t know what to expect. A little tremor ran though him. She thought he was about to cry, something he did so easily it could never surprise her. But he rolled over. Laughing. “Right, then. Inhale. Pop ’em back out for me. Jeeezus. I’m trying to apologize and I crush your titties. Naked.”
Mae stuck out her chest. The action felt cartoonish, like something she wouldn’t normally do, and made her giggle. She was getting as silly as Jamie from being around him. “They’re okay.”
“More than okay. Bloody perfect. Goodnight, love. Sorry about the chaos. Run for it before I do anything else.”
Mae whispered goodnight and left.
Closing her door, she noticed her heart pounding. Worry about Sylvie? Seeing Jamie naked? More like all of it. This man who loved her, this friend she didn’t know what to do with, was in trouble, and the only thing she could do for him was to keep using the Sight to check on Gasser. It didn’t feel like enough.
She could give up her vacation with Arnie, and with Brook and Stream, to travel with Jamie. The idea lasted half a stretched-and-torn minute. She needed to see the family she’d left behind. It would damage the bonds if she went off to be Jamie’s—whatever, his Mama Bear. And Stamos had to ride home with her to New Mexico. Stamos. That was going to be difficult, but it was an obligation. Anyway, Jamie hadn’t asked her to go with him. It was her crazy idea.
She did some easy stretching exercises, got into bed, and turned out her light. Sleep hovered a few inches from her body, refusing to settle into her. Something nagged at her, something she hadn’t handled yet.
“You’re still awake.” Jamie’s voice, right up against her wall. “I can feel you.”
“Shh. We both need to unwind, sugar.”
She expected him to keep talking—it was what Jamie did—but instead he began to sing. “Goodnight,” the lullaby from the Beatles’ White Album. The soothing words and tune, the loving sweetness of his voice, and the silliness of his singing through the wall at her gave her a sudden image of what it would be like to live with him. A kids’ sleep-over. All night. Every night. Endlessly. He would never be quiet. And yet his voice was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bringing Mae breakfast in bed should have been romantic, but as he carried the tray into her room, Jamie tripped on a wrinkle in the Oriental rug, sloshing the coffee. “Fuck.”
Mae sat up with a start, her breasts visible though her plain white cotton nightie. He raised his eyes from her nipples to meet her gaze. “Sorry.”
Auditioning for lover, in competition with the Greek and the memory of Hubert, Jamie had blown both the first line and the entrance. If only he could go back out and start over. She looked—what was that look? Eyebrows tilted, a weak uncertain smile.
“You should knock, sugar.”
He mentally kicked himself. Of course, he should have knocked. This was only the tryout. He hadn’t been cast. He delivered the tray and took the uncomfortable bubble-seated Victorian chair near the bed. “Sorry.”
Mae ate a little and gave him a smile. “This is good. Thank you. Aren’t you having any?”
“Ate while I cooked. Didn’t mean to, but it was there, y’know?” Another blunder, calling attention to his weakness. “Should I bring the coffee pot up? Spilled your mug a little.”
“Relax. I got plenty. It was so sweet of you to get up and do this.” Her voice was like honey, her expression tender. “You’ve got a big day coming. Did you get enough rest?”
Evasion wriggled through his shoulders. He’d hardly slept, but she didn’t need to hear about his insomnia, his hours of thinking about all the possible futures. Good, bad, and bloody terrifying. “It’ll do. Not that big a day. Got that radio thing in Greenville, show at night ... Short drive. Lots of time to work on some new songs when I get there. Hotel’s got a pool. That’ll be nice.” Stupid, empty small talk. He wanted to make a deep connection. Say or do something profound that would generate the best possible future between them. Keep her from going back to the Greek. “You’ve got a good day coming. It’ll be nice for you see your family. Bet you’re excited.”
“I am.” He loved the way she said this, a two-syllable ay-am, full of warmth and conviction.
She cut a bite of waffle and then looked at Jamie, a light dawning in her eyes. “We’d better see if you got an answer from Joe Wayne.” After setting her tray aside, she leaned down to reach her laptop and pulled it up onto the bed. The morning sun on her hair made a kind of rainbow in it, sparkling gold and deep red and flame orange. The muscles of her arms and shoulders showed through the nightgown with the most subtle movements, as she reached to eat with one hand and typed with the other. While she read the screen, he studied the blink of her orange lashes, the pursing of her delicate mouth as she sipped hot coffee. He loved her lips. They weren’t full or lush, but they were as pink as if she wore lipstick. “You can sit on the bed. Come on over. You can’t see from there.”
See what? Oh, the screen. She must have no idea he could see through her nightie, would have covered up if she knew. Jamie joined her, sitting cross-legged on the foot of her bed. It was both better and worse, so intimate and yet not. He wished they were naked and under the sheets, tussling and licking—the heat of the fantasy cooled rapidly as it crashed into the truth. She’d probably only invited him to her bed because she was taking care of him, checking for this message from Joe Wayne. The way she’d invite her kids to sit on her bed.
Still, his hand went to her toes and ran across the sheeted tips of them. She had big feet for a girl, but he liked them, an endearing imperfection in her beauty. He clasped her right foot.
She turned the computer to face him. It was on her thighs. He wanted to reach under it. “Okay, log yourself in.”
Jamie scooted closer, giving in to an urge to give to her calf a friendly rub, and letting his knee rest against her shin as he resettled. He checked in with her, a silent inquiry in eye contact. She shook her head, but didn’t tell him to move off. Mixed signals, but better than total rejection. Progress? He pictured the tiny shoot of a plant poking above soil. That kind of progress.
Jamie logged into his professional e-mail. Not a big fan base swamping him. The reply from [email protected] was the only message.
Nice try, cowboy.
“Fuck.” Jamie lay back and stared at the ceiling. “Sylvie’s his bloody gatekeeper.”
Driving south out of the city, Jamie kept an eye out for Sylvie. Every small black car was a threat. He was so anxious, he sometimes felt like a spider was crawling on him.
The van was starved for gas, but he hadn’t noticed back when it would have been easy to pull over and fill up, because he’d headed out of Norfolk in a cloud of inner steam, angry to find a ticket on his windshield. Although the van was still parked where it had been for days, on Wednesday morning it was illegal because of street cleaning. Another bloody expense.
The reality of his life on tour came thundering back like a load of gravel being dumped in his guts. The ticket on the seat beside him where Gasser should have been reminded him how alone he was now, as well as broke. The island of luck and rescue he’d been on had sunk. Hubert and Jen and her magic car, and Pamela and her instruments and her big warm house, and Mae had all given him the illusion of safety. Before that, he’d been on the edge of the hole, the great rock of doom about to roll over him and seal him into it. And it was only half Sylvie’s fault. His own inner cracks had widened as well.
They were close to splitting open now. He’d failed at his romantic goodbye with Mae. Goodbye for some unknown empty time. All through breakfast, Mae had ruminated on her attempts to figure out Sylvie. Revenge. Making Joe Wayne jealous. Acting out a high school crush. “She’s done all that. She should be finished. But she’s not.”
A dead end of worry. Their final hour together had been ruined by Sylvie.
The only good part had been the worst part, the parting, the hug in
the hallway, the last impression of Mae’s firm yet giving body against him, the scent of her hair, the cool skin of her face as he kissed her cheek. He’d wanted that fraction of a minute to last forever, but she’d hurried him off, reminding him he had the radio interview in Greenville, and assuring him that she’d keep doing as much psychic work as she could to help him out.
He was stuck in the role of person needing help again. It kept the relationship unequal. He’d sneaked some nurturing in on her, but it hadn’t been enough for her to see him the way he wanted to be seen. She was off to join her family, with no promises to see him again.
The more he worried and watched the gas gauge creep down toward empty, the more he felt things crawling on him. Not that anything could be, in the winter. Spiders died or hibernated. Didn’t they? But this wasn’t a normal winter. It was so warm it had a hurricane.
Hubert’s girls had played zoo in the van the day after the storm, and they liked bugs. What if it was a bug zoo? Mae said they wanted a pet tarantula. Did that mean they got one? Hubert would have told him if the children had lost a tarantula, though. If they’d told him. Daddy, we took our new pet out and— Stop thinking about this!
Jamie would have to do the unfinished parts of his therapy someday and face all the things he’d never addressed, like the phobias. What if he married Mae, and they had children and they wanted a puppy? Or giant hairy spiders?
Of course, before she would marry him, he’d need a lot of therapy for other reasons as well. She loved him, that wasn’t the problem, even if she was still around the corner from facing up to it. She’d watched him making a yabbering fool of himself and glowed as if his idiocy were beautiful, but if he didn’t get some of the loose ends together, he would wear her out, like he had Lisa.
Quitting therapy to make Lisa think he’d graduated from it had backfired in the long run. As a twenty-three-year-old virgin in the first great love of his life, he hadn’t been able to foresee that. He’d been afraid Lisa wouldn’t wait for him to be well.