by Kim Karr
Not certain if Jasper would want me to, I contemplate telling her the rest, but decide in the end he would want me to do what I think is right. For all of us. And so I tell her. I tell her about the aftermath of the accident—how my mother left us, and how my father rushed us out of the house so quickly that I never got to say goodbye to Jasper. And then I tell her about what happened on Mackinac Island—how lost I felt without Jasper, and how lost my father was. I even tell her about my father’s theory—that the accident in which her husband died wasn’t caused by faulty safety procedures as was cited by city officials.
Strangely, when I’m all done, she isn’t falling apart. She’s not as fragile as Jasper thinks. And I feel an odd sense of relief because I can finally admit to myself what I never have—I don’t love Allison Lane. And the weight that is lifted from my shoulders in the midst of all the chaos, that it is okay to think this, makes me feel stronger than I ever have.
A throat clearing draws my attention to the door.
“Jake.” I wipe away my tears and Mrs. Storm does the same.
He has a stack of pink papers in his hand.
“Are those my discharge papers?”
“Yeah, but I can come back.”
Anxious to get out of here and somehow get to Jasper, I squeeze Mrs. Storm’s hand and then stand up. “Don’t you dare. How’d you get them?”
“I ran into Shannon in the hall.”
“Did you now?” I grin.
He rolls his eyes.
Shannon is the resident who has been checking on me for the last two and a half days. She is tall with the most chic blond hair. She also blushes every time Jake is in the room. And believe it or not, I think he blushes too. Sure, I had to encourage him to say more than hi, but once he did, they hit it off right away. Last night they had coffee together in the cafeteria. It turns out Shannon’s grandfather is known as the Heir of Woodward Avenue, which is a big deal. He is a legend in Detroit street racing, or so Jake has told me with a gleam in his eye. A look I never thought a man with no manners when it came to women would have. I guess Shannon’s grandfather drove a 10-second car in what was iconically called the Top End Club in the late seventies.
Mrs. Storm takes the papers from Jake’s hand. Reads them. And then looks at me. “You’re not to be left alone for another forty-eight hours,” she says. “I think it’s best if you come home with me until Jasper gets out.”
Appreciative of her offer, Shannon had already told me her recommendations; I just hadn’t decided what I was going to do yet. But I can’t go to Mrs. Storm’s house. Not with Hank coming and going at his own convenience. I’m not sure why, but even knowing that Tom was behind everything, I just don’t trust him the way everyone else does.
“She should stay at Jasper’s,” Jake pipes up. “The building is safe and I can sleep on the couch.”
“We’ll take turns staying with her,” Drew announces, strutting into the room.
Will and Whitney are behind him holding hands. “Sure, we’ll make a schedule,” Will adds.
Drew snickers and nods his head toward them. “Let’s be real. We don’t need a schedule. Between Jake trying to get in the resident’s pants and you unable to stay out of Whitney’s, sadly I’m the only one not hitting it right now.”
“Drew!” Mrs. Storm exclaims.
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly.
Will narrows his eyes at Drew who is hugging Mrs. Storm and whispering something to her that sounds like another apology.
Amazed by the support I have from the people who are Jasper’s family, I look around and know, no matter what, there is no way I’m not going to be okay.
I might very well still be the black sheep of Detroit, but I’m no longer an outsider.
OIL CHANGE
Jasper
THE GUARD OUTSIDE the shower stall looks like Santa Claus with a shave. His more than ample stomach strains the buttons of his Detroit Police Department issued blue uniform. His brass nametag is worn and I can’t read it from here.
Both of his chins jerk up, signaling me to get a move on it.
With a hurried step, I reach the faucet and turn on the water. Quickly, I step under the spray before it even has a chance to warm. All I want to do is wash the blood off of my skin. If death were an object, it would be cold, sharp, shapeless, and black. Seeing it twice in a lifetime gives me permission to try to define it.
Things come in threes.
I hope in my case the superstition remains just that—a superstition.
I’ve had enough.
The water starts to warm but never gets hot. It doesn’t matter. I let it sluice down my body anyway. The bar of soap is small and obviously used but I rub it all over myself until my bones ache and my skin feels raw. For the past six hours, I’ve been sitting in a holding room and waiting. Waiting. Waiting for what, I still don’t know. All I know is someone finally asked me if I’d like to take a shower.
“Speed it up, Storm,” Santa Claus hollers over the running water.
Ducking my head one more time, I reluctantly turn the faucet off. Hot or cold, it’s been days since I’ve been allowed to shower, and after everything that’s happened over the past weeks, I’m not sure I can ever feel clean enough.
In fast strides, I walk over to the half wall and grab the towel set on the ledge and wrap it around my waist. The guard seems annoyed with his job, or maybe just annoyed with life. I’m not feeling much different right now.
With a shake of his head, he tosses me a pair of prison-issued white underwear. I want to tell him to fuck off—that I’d rather go commando—but I know it won’t get me anywhere, so I drop my towel and punch my legs into the holes.
The guard then opens a bag I’d assumed contained a freshly laundered prison jumpsuit, but instead he pulls out the same clothes I was wearing when I was booked Friday night.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Get dressed. Your attorney is here and he’ll explain everything.”
“Has the lockdown been lifted?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
“Do you want to ask questions or do you want to go meet with your attorney?”
Without wasting another second, I slip my shirt over my head and tug up my jeans. Then I shove my feet into my boots without socks and don’t bother to tie them because time is of the essence. “I’m ready,” I tell Santa Claus, whose name is actually Clyde Gardner. “Am I being transported somewhere?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“What about the bail hearing I was on my way to this morning?”
He shrugs again. “Look, like I said, I don’t know anything. I was told to bring you upstairs showered and dressed. Now, follow me, so I can do my job,” he says and starts walking to the exit.
No cuffs.
No shackles.
What’s going on?
Not a word as we walk down the hallway or ride in the elevator. Nothing until we reach the same room I was in Friday night. “Stop here,” he says and opens the door. When he does, I look inside, and just like on Friday night, Todd is inside waiting for me. I take one deep breath; my heartbeat speeds and my blood feels icy in my veins. Without formality, Santa Claus walks away.
Confused, I step inside. “What’s going on?”
Todd grins at me. “You’re free to go. All charges have been dropped.”
My palms hurt and I look down to see my nails pressing into them. I rub my hands together with disbelief etched on my face. “But how? Why?”
With a slap on my shoulder, Todd pulls a chair out. “Sit down and I’ll explain everything while your paperwork for release is being completed.”
Blinking in confusion, I stare at the chair. “Do I have to?”
He laughs. “No, you can stand there while we wait if you prefer.”
Running a hand through my wet hair, I’m at a loss for words. “I don’t understand.”
His teeth are practically gleam
ing. “Just before Tom Worth climbed those steps and was shot to death, he confessed to killing both Eve Hepburn and his daughter. Along with his written confession, investigators also have reason to believe it was Tom who broke into Charlotte’s hotel room the night of the vote. They found Eve’s computer in a motel room he was shacked up in, along with what they think is a copy of a key to Charlotte’s apartment. The computer had been wiped clean, but it definitely belonged to her.”
I’m still at the beginning. “He confessed?”
Todd nods. “That’s what I said.”
I’ve never been much of a romantic. Speed and adrenaline are what keeps me going. And yet as those two words register, only one thought comes to mind—Charlotte. If my name is cleared, there is nothing holding me back. I can be with her. Really be with her. And I don’t want to take things slow anymore.
Sweet, sexy Charlotte. Innocent and pure. She’s mine, because for some reason she wants me. Anything but innocent and definitely not pure.
“What about the lockdown?”
“The mayor made an exception.”
“Fucking Alex,” I mutter. Now I have to thank him.
Before allowing myself to change mental gears, I have to clarify. “You mean I’m free, as in free to leave here? Cleared of all charges?”
“Yes, you’re a free man, Jasper Storm.”
I’m free.
SHARP TURN AHEAD
Charlotte
THE SMELL OF fresh garlic and tomatoes wafts through the air.
Mrs. Storm is cooking spaghetti sauce for dinner. Whitney is helping her. I’ve been ordered to sit on the couch and do nothing. Will has been upstairs on the phone with Todd for the past fifteen minutes. And Drew and Jake are sitting with me in the living room watching a replay of last night’s baseball game.
Staring out the window, I anxiously wait to hear what is going on with Jasper. The lockdown has yet to be lifted. It’s already five in the afternoon, so even if it were removed tonight, Whitney told me there is no way I’m going to be able to see Jasper until the morning.
This saddens me.
Suddenly, my ears perk up.
Footsteps. Out in the hallway. Heavy and fast.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
My heart rate spikes.
Not the police again.
Somehow, I manage to tune out the noise that surrounds me and I swear I can hear laces hitting the floor.
I must be imagining it.
I listen harder. Now I hear the jingle of keys. A rasp of metal teeth engaging the lock. And then the door flings open.
My insides melt and I gasp in sweet surprise.
Just over six feet and one hundred and eighty pounds of long, lean muscle stands in the entryway with a grin on his face so wide, it brings tears to my eyes. “What’s for dinner?” he asks as his eyes sweep the loft, stopping on his mother at the stove, before continuing to take in the room, and then landing on me.
Our eyes meet and the connection I feel to Jasper is stronger than ever.
Mrs. Storm runs over to her son and throws her arms around him. She’s crying and he takes a few moments to try to calm her down. She says something to him that I can’t hear, but can only imagine they are words meant to re-establish her role as his mother. Will is downstairs now talking to Whitney with a grin as wide as Jasper’s on his face. He must have known Jasper was on his way home. Drew and Jake look as shocked as me, but recover quickly and go to join Jasper and his mother.
Standing on shaky legs, my heart is still beating so fast at the sight of him. His brown, brown eyes look darker, tired, his brown hair looks like he’s been running his hands through it more than a couple of times, but everything about him causes my breathing to pick up.
He’s trying to break through the crowd.
I brace myself for what I know he’s going to see when he looks at me.
A hand on my back distracts me from the sexy sight. I look up to see Will standing beside me. “I didn’t tell him about the attack. I knew you wanted to,” he whispers.
I give him a nod. “Thank you.”
He gives me a return nod before retreating back to where Whitney is standing. Will has obviously already talked to Jasper and is clearing the way for everyone else to say their hellos.
When I look back over at Jasper, he’s just breaking through the crowd, and those tears I’ve tried to suppress start to fall. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop them from sliding down my face. And it’s okay because these are happy tears, not sad ones.
He’s back.
Jasper’s back.
I don’t know how. Or why. Or for how long. But I don’t care, because he’s come back to me.
Less than a minute passes before he’s finally free of everyone’s reach. His eyes land on mine in an instant and I can feel his stare like a gentle caress. The emotion that passes between us is too much, and I find myself leaning against the couch just to keep standing. He takes one step, two, three, and four. Confident. Slow. Steady. The sun is shining brightly through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me, leaving me cast in shadow, hiding my bruises and cast.
The moment Jasper sees me, really sees me, his smile fades, his stride becomes hurried, and his body stiffens. His eyes begin to search me frantically, sweeping me from head to toe, stopping at my cast before settling on my face once again. “Charlotte, what . . .” he gasps, unable to finish his sentence.
“I’m okay,” I reassure him, reaching out my hand for him.
Jasper is in front of me in a flash and with wild eyes, he places his palms on my shoulders and exams me further. There are so many emotions flashing in his eyes.
Guilt.
Sorrow.
Empathy.
Once he’s completed looking me over, he searches the room for answers only I want to give him. “What happened to her?” he shouts.
Everyone is silent.
“Jasper, can we please go into your room to talk?” I whisper.
Unfocused, uncertain, and maybe even a little scared, he doesn’t respond to my question. “What happened to her?” he yells, this time looking directly at Jake for the answer.
Jake’s face is crestfallen.
There’s a sound echoing throughout the loft. It’s Jasper and he sounds like a wounded animal.
Jake remains where he stands.
Jasper’s face turns red. His mouth mashes into a line. Rage seems to take over.
Jake watches him, almost like he’s seen this transformation before.
In less than a second, Jasper goes completely wild and is lunging for Jake. I try to grab hold of him, but he’s a raging lunatic. Out of control. Wild. Crazy. Mad as hell. He’s on Jake and pinning him up against the wall before I can even blink. “I asked you to look out for her!” Jasper is out of control—his body trembling, his voice shaking.
Drew hustles over to them and attempts to pull Jasper off Jake.
I’m frozen in place, unable to move. I’ve never seen him this angry. This animalistic. This alpha.
Jasper has Jake in a chokehold. “Answer me,” he seethes.
Jake is coughing, not doing a thing to defend himself.
Despite his hulking size, Jasper sends Drew flying across the room.
I look at Will. “Do something!”
He shakes his head. “They need to work it out.”
Mrs. Storm and Whitney have their hands slapped over their mouths.
Deciding if I don’t take the situation into control, no one else is going to, I swiftly cross the room and scream, “Jasper, please, it wasn’t his fault. He found me. He saved me.”
As if in freeze frame, Jasper loosens his hold on Jake.
“He saved me,” I say again.
Jasper lets go of Jake and turns. His eyes sweep me once again. “He . . . he saved you?”
I nod.
Jasper looks at Jake, who is trying to compose himself. Jake nods. And then as if it is all too much, Jasper slides to the ground.
Slowly, I sit
in front of him and take his face between my hands, my cast rougher on his skin than I want it to be. “If it wasn’t for Jake I might be dead.”
Jasper seems to be in shock.
Jake offers his hand first to me, then Jasper. They make eye contact and exchange a look I can’t quite decipher.
Standing, Jasper looks a me.
“Come on,” I insist, “we need to talk. I’ll tell you everything.”
As if slowly coming out of his state of shock, he blinks a few times and then he takes my cast in his hand, kisses it, looks at me, kisses my forehead, my nose, my lips. Soft and gentle, as if trying to ease my pain. “Charlotte, oh, God, Charlotte,” he says in a broken voice that I can feel the sharp edges of cutting at my soul.
“I’m okay,” I cry. “I’m okay.”
He doesn’t say another word. He doesn’t move. I’m not even sure if he is breathing. He’s just looking at me with haunted eyes.
Feeling so much stronger with him by my side, I take his hand and lead him toward the hallway. Everyone is silent around us; the only noise is the sound of the spaghetti sauce bubbling on the stove.
Stepping over his threshold first, I head toward the bed. I can hear the door close behind me. He’s following my lead. I sit down and pat the space beside me. He falls to my side, so close I can smell him. An unfamiliar but so-familiar scent. I turn with one leg on the bed and put my hand on his knee.
He’s being patient. It’s so unlike him. I want to blurt it all out and get it over with, yet I know it will hurt less if I take my time and explain. But he’s still shaking and I hate it, so I crawl onto his lap and wrap my arms around his neck, and then I start at the beginning and tell him everything.
Everything.
From why I went home Friday afternoon, to how I got there, to what happened once I entered my apartment, to Jake’s knock on the door. To Jake saving my life. From waking at the hospital, to his mother’s comfort, to his friends’ vigilance. And to how much I was worried about him and how very much I missed him.
Everything.
Everything, except those three little words I know I feel for him. I’ve known it for a while.