“You in Chicago in November? No way.”
“As if Little Miss Baton Rouge will fare any better.”
I didn’t bother correcting him. Let this be the first time. Let this be a trip that rewrites history.
He’d already bought the tickets and reserved the hotel room for the Thanksgiving holiday. But I wasn’t going to make the same mistake I made at Halloween. I didn’t agree to go with him until I found out what Janey and Adelaide were doing. I couldn’t leave them alone. Turns out Janey was driving the five hours to Tupelo, Mississippi, where the whole Simons clan gathers at her eighty-year-old grandma’s house.
Clair and John agreed, with more reservations, but I think it was mostly because they have to recognize that Jude and I are together. Like, really together. This is the first serious relationship they’ve had to navigate along with me. I got the feeling there was a lot of worry behind the moment when they finally agreed that, yes, it would be an amazing adventure. They told me to have a good time, even though they know what Chicago means to me—the good and the bad. Maybe they understand too, that this is a chance to new, prettier memories. They decide to head over to the DePraus’ house for Thanksgiving. They’ve known Jean-Marc and Deb DePrau since grade school, and the four regularly beat the snot out of one another at bridge. The friendliest grudge match in Baton Rouge.
Addie knew about her brother’s plans, so she arranged to eat turkey and probably caviar with the twin daughters of a New Orleans city councilman. They’d been besties at boarding school and hadn’t seen each other since summer. That she’d be with friends made me happy. Jude smiled when he told me. I think he knew our escape wouldn’t be right if we left our friends and family hanging.
I’ve never been on a plane, so that prospect was exciting, but I wasn’t surprised when he mentioned faux-offhandedly that the tickets were for an overnight Amtrak. He flies when he needs to for business, but I bet he white-knuckles it the whole time. My slight disappointment was quickly replaced by empathy and a really fierce need to kiss him. I did. He kissed back. And we didn’t get out of bed until late, late on Sunday morning.
Now it’s the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. I spent about thirty-six hours working my butt off to get all my assignments done before the four-day break. Our train travel is going to extend it by two extra days. He wants to be in Chicago on Thanksgiving morning, first thing, and won’t tell me why. That, at least, can remain a secret. I’ll have him to hold as we speed north on the rails.
I’ve never been on a train either. So I hug him and squeeze with such a burst of excited energy that he steadies himself against the window. “Hey, now. What’s that for?”
“I’m stoked. And you’re amazing.”
“I am. Now let’s get naked.”
I’m giggling fiercely when the train pulls out of the station and, yes, he has me stripped bare. We’re lying on one of the berths; the other is useless because they stack one atop the other like bunk beds when unfolded. “This is going to be a tight sleep. You’re used to that big four-poster.”
“You’re getting pretty used to that monster,” he says, tracing circles around my navel. “Besides . . .” He dips low to circle his tongue in the same pattern. His eyes are illuminated by the slanting sunshine, which turns dark brown hair into caramel and chocolate and other irresistible things. “Who said anything about sleeping?”
“These are sleeping berths. It’s in the name.”
Stretching up to nestle his mouth against my ear, he whispers, “That’s because ‘private place to fuck on a train’ didn’t go down well with marketing.”
We spend the trip exploring each other, in daylight and in darkness, as the countryside clatters by at beautifully dizzying speed. At one point, while curled against him, as he filled me so deeply, I was watching the lights of some anonymous town speed by in a rush of color when I came. I kept my eyes open, which I never do. The color and the sensation of being filled and satisfied so completely was so dazzling, so perfectly blended. I’ll never forget it.
Morning finds us in Chicago. Unreal. I clutch Jude’s arm as we file out of Union Station. A limo whizzes us to Hotel Burnham. I’ve never heard of it, and it has in-room spa services, so I keep my curiosity to myself about how much all of this is costing.
“Is it what you expected?” he asks. “I hope it is.”
I sit heavily on the bed, which has much more in common with his bed in New Orleans. “I don’t know, to be honest. We need to see more than a hotel room,” I say, keeping my voice light.
“Damn. I thought I had you tricked.” He grins with a naughty glint in his eyes. “I thought I had you trapped.”
I look up at him, staring, only just realizing what I’ve done. I was only seven when we left. And for those seven years, we certainly didn’t live in a high rise downtown. How much did I really know about the city I’d practically mythologized in my head, the way I’d made New Orleans an exotic mystery too?
I think I needed a place to call home, so I made this home. Willfully. I couldn’t just be a wandering girl with too many names. I had to be from somewhere. So I was from Chicago. And then I was from Baton Rouge. It kept people from asking questions. Now I have to be a tourist, which isn’t hard because, well, I’ll be seeing it with entirely new eyes.
“We could’ve saved the trouble and just stayed home.”
“Are you sorry to be here?”
“No.”
“Then I did just perfect.” He puffs out his chest with a flare of mock arrogance. I don’t tease him that it’s not that far off from his usual arrogance. “As usual. So, dinner tonight. And the parade tomorrow.”
“The parade?”
He frowns. “What do you sound like? Disappointed? Because I also have tickets to Tosca and to the Chicago Symphony’s first holiday concert of the season.”
“All of that? For one day?”
“No. Contingency plans.”
“You’re adorable,” I say, kissing between his brows until the frown goes away. “I like the idea of the parade. Adelaide and I have been practicing so much for the Fall Finish that I don’t think I’d appreciate a concert. Too much pressure to see the pros when I’m on the verge of having to go through that.”
“You’re going to play piano, make a hundred people fall in love with you, and walk off the stage into my arms. That’s not something to get through. Applause at the Fall Finish will be the cherry on top of a damn good semester.”
I giggle. “Not walking offstage and into your arms?”
“I don’t mind being second to rabid cheering.” He waves a negligent hand at the hotel window. “So, the parade it is. I have seats in a booth next to where NBC broadcasts.”
“What, no standing in the wind with the peons?”
“Hell, no. I bought us coats especially.”
He glares at two brand-new ski jackets. His is a rich sapphire color that will look amazing with his dark hair. Oh, who am I kidding? I think he looks amazing in anything from battered boots and ripped jeans to a three-piece suit and woolen overcoat. Mine is a graceful fawn peacoat with oversized tortoiseshell buttons and these cool corset-like ties at the low back. It’s gorgeous.
“You’re going to laugh at me, aren’t you?”
I grin as he stands and walks to the huge window. Already a flurry of fresh snow is streaking the sky. “Because you’re going to freeze your hot as hell N’awlins tushie off? Yeah. But you’ll laugh at me too. Tell me that wasn’t part of the present. Laughing.”
He returns my grin, looking wicked and breathtaking. His hair is careless, but his button-down immaculate. “Keeley, sugar, I’m here for your satisfaction and entertainment.”
We do all the usual tourist stuff, including a trip to the top of Sears—I mean, Willis—Tower, a vintage theater showing of the Thanksgiving classic Home for the Holidays, and an absolutely frozen walk along Navy Pier. Ev
en hot chocolate and cuddling doesn’t ward off the chilly breeze when I insist on a ride on the little Ferris wheel.
“The water is so different,” he says, his voice distant, as if he’s standing on the coastline overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. “Lake Michigan just looks frigid. You can’t mistake it for anything but kill you instantly cold.”
“It must be different in summer,” I say, making hypotheticals out of a real memory. “The beaches down by Lake Shore. Have you seen pictures? Some people can walk there.”
We’d been able to. It was a long walk, but we did once. The water was like getting into a bath. There were so many people. I take a sip of the cooling chocolate and veer my gaze to the south, where that day would’ve taken place so long ago.
I shake my head. I’m feeling raw and charged up all at once. Maybe it’s a good thing he’s distracted by the view, because I remember losing sight of Mom. I wasn’t afraid. I just sat there with my toes in the surf and the sun on my face, happy. I looked around to see which family I’d pick if I could walk up to one and join right in.
Jude pulls me close and kisses me. We taste of chocolate, which makes the kiss that much sweeter. I’m surprised when I find frozen tears on my cheeks. His lips warm my skin, all over my face, banishing the worst of that old, forgotten pain.
“You crying?”
“It’s the cold!” My voice is shaky. Maybe it’ll cover the worst of what I push to one side.
“I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
I shake my head vigorously and grab him into my arms so quickly that his chocolate spills on his new coat. I cuss. He laughs. I slug him on the arm. “Take it back,” I say. “Don’t ever say this is less than the perfect adventure.”
“See?” he replies, still laughing. “Me and perfect. We go together.”
“What does that make me?”
He stills, his gaze intense on my face. His skin stippled by lights from the rides along the pier. He brushes his lips whisper-soft against my jaw, then one kiss lower to my throat. “We go together.” His words are low and intense, shooting straight to my heart and then low into my belly.
We take a taxi back to the hotel because the snow is really coming down. “I have a confession to make,” he says. “It seems especially appropriate now that my new jacket is a walking chocolate stain.”
Although I fill with trepidation at phrases like “I have a confession to make,” I force my breathing to remain even. This is Jude. He’s treating me like a princess, making me feel special and beautiful in ways I’ve never experienced. “What’s that?”
“I don’t really have tickets to a booth for the parade.”
“No?”
“Ah, there it is.” He touches my hair, smiling. “I guessed you’d be disappointed if I said that, and that’s how you sound. I’m learning you, Keeley.”
I shiver, but it has nothing to do with the cold or his gentling touch. Learning me? Is that worth the hassle? Apparently trust comes easier when it has nothing to do with the pokey parts of my self-esteem. He’d wanted me to see him. Really see him. I don’t think I’m strong enough to be that open. It’s one part beautiful and one much bigger part scarier.
“I requested them too late,” he goes on, still watching me with that enigmatic smile. “Instead we have this here.” He lifts his arms to encompass our room. “Hotel Burnham, which just happens to look out on State Street.”
I exhale with a tentative bubble of happiness. “Over the parade route?”
“Exactly. So if you want to head down and mingle with the commoners for an hour or two, fine. I’ll have this fluffy blue monstrosity cleaned overnight and we’ll brave the cold.” He makes a face before laughing. “Again.”
“And if not?”
“The parade starts at eight. I can’t remember the last time we slept together when we got up in time for an eight o’clock anything.”
My shadows are gone. How can they stay for long when he’s looking at me with such boyish, unbelievably sexy playfulness? I slip my hand under his coat. He hisses when my chilly fingers meet the bare skin of his stomach. He tries to fight me off, but not too hard. I love the feel of his muscles bunching beneath my hand. I love the feel of him.
“What would we do instead?”
“I’m very strong,” he says, still laughing as I grab more of his flexing muscles.
“I know.”
“With some help, we could probably shove that bed against the window and order Thanksgiving brunch.” He leans back, not fighting me now as I pet and grasp beneath his stained jacket. “So how would you like to watch the Chicago Thanksgiving parade naked in bed with me?”
Thirty-Six
That was the happiest weekend of my life.
This week is karma biting a chunk out of my ass.
I’m sitting in sociology class. I got an A on that paper on tattooed subcultures. The professor was impressed how I took an approach unlike my fellow students. I used Jude’s tattoo as inspiration to look at body modification as a form of mourning and commemoration. Goodie for me. . . .
Until two men enter the classroom and ask for me.
Me.
They’re detectives. Or maybe lawyers. I don’t know . . . but I know. I remember how men like that carry themselves. Not like Jude, with all his confidence and ambition. No, they stand with legs braced and arms at their sides, as if the world is a place full of people who strike first. Why would they believe any different?
I sure as hell don’t stand that way when I manage to make my legs work. “I’m Keeley Chambers,” I reply. My voice sounds like I’ve just shouted across the Grand Canyon. Might as well have. The entire class of sixty students and my professor can see and hear everything.
No one realizes yet what a fool I’ve made of myself. Keeley Chambers is a joke. Being in love with Jude Villars is a joke. Because these men are real, and they’re here to rip my life back into pieces.
I blindly shove my textbook and my A paper in my purple messenger bag and stand. I walk slowly, deliberately, until I reach the top of the shallow amphitheater-style classroom.
“Do you have any weapons on you, ma’am?”
“No, sir,” I reply, feeling fourteen all over again. The paramedics asked me that when they found me in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and staring at my mother’s lifeless eyes. “But you can carry my bag.”
I hand it to him and lead them out of the classroom. I lead by floating. I don’t have feet anymore. I’m not even sure I have nerves.
The early December chill in New Orleans isn’t anything like Chicago, but I still shiver when I step outside. The two men face me. “Miss Chambers, we’re from the local DA’s office. We’ve been contacted by law enforcement agents in California. We’d like you to come with us. Completely voluntary, of course.”
“Of course,” I say woodenly. Only then do I realize they were already subtly herding me toward an unmarked car.
I manage to convince myself that the next three hours are the toughest I’ve faced since I was fifteen. With my limbs numb, my insides a completely liquefied mess, the DAs lay everything out for me like a dingy carpet. What my father did in prison . . . and the choice I face. By the time they’re finished, I’m a wrung-out rag. I shakily step out of the car, but even Dixon Hall doesn’t offer me the peace of mind I need. It’s only a place to come in from the cold.
An hour later, I hear banging on the rehearsal room door. “Keeley! I know you’re here!”
Jude.
Jude finds me.
He slams into the room like a Viking in an Armani suit, there to save me from beasts and pirates. His expression, however, is just for me. It shifts from relief to frustration to anger in the span of two heartbeats.
“Christ, Keeley.” He shuts the door with a fierce bang, then strides to kneel before me.
I can hear him th
rough a long, echoing distance. My mouth tastes like mushrooms. Everything about me hurts.
“What the hell is happening?”
I curl into a tighter ball. My head is pounding. I notice piano pedals for the first time. I’ve taken refuge beneath the rehearsal piano, like I did as a little girl, hiding under anything that might shelter me.
“I was about to call the police.” Unyielding hands haul me out from under the piano. I’m on his lap, where I love to be. “Do you know how worried we’ve been?”
I come to rest with my head against his chest. “We?” I croak.
“Yes. We. Didn’t you get our texts?”
With cold, numb fingers, I find my phone in my sweater pocket. It’s a litany of worry that twists my stomach.
From Janey: Thot we were on 4 lunch? U OK?
From Clair: Janey says it’s all blown to hell. I’m on shift. Call John pronto?
From Adelaide: Reporters ambushed me at the union. WTF? Call me!
From Jude: We need to talk.
Oh God.
Jude strokes my hair back from my face, although his voice is still tight and brittle. “I got home as soon as I could after Addie got worried and found a half dozen reporters around the house. So start talking. What the hell is going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Bull.” He pushes me away, although not hard enough to bounce me off the floor. “When did you become such a coward? You, of all people?”
“I’m always afraid!”
“You had me fooled,” he says bitterly. “About a lot of things, apparently.”
“I didn’t want to . . .”
“To what? Lie to me? Because it seems you’ve done a lot of that. Do you want me to know the reporters’ version of things, or do you wanna weigh in? Act like a goddamn grown-up and trust me, Keeley.”
“See, that’s just it.”
I scamper up from the floor and find no refuge. The best I can do is find a wall. Just a wall. Prop me up while I let him go. I tuck my hands behind my back. My head feels so heavy.
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