She was selective at least; she didn’t allow just any man to take her home. She would wait until she found the perfect prospect, then string him along until she tired of him. What did she want? What was she looking for? She could have anyone she wanted. Hadn’t she proven that? Her day would come eventually. Would it be over then? Would life return to the way it was before Caycee?
***
Caycee rolled out of bed, stumbling blindly to the bathroom. The room was dark, even though it had to be nearly noon. She felt the pounding in her head and parched mouth within seconds of standing up. Why did she do this to herself?
Pouring a glass of tap water, she swallowed four ibuprofen capsules in an attempt to escape the pain; though, she knew it would never disappear completely.
Last night had started like every other night. First, they recognized her. Next, they would ask the bartender what she liked to drink. Finally, they would introduce themselves, toting two drinks, professing to be her biggest fan. If he was younger than she was, he’d talk about how he’d been listening to her music since high school, as if that should impress her. If he were older, he’d prattle, “I remember when that song came out I was…”
Always the same and it ended the same. They’d spend the evening talking, and then the man would offer, “Let’s get out of this place.” The stranger would take her to some quaint little bar, and when they could think of nothing else to discuss, it was always, “Would you like to come back to my place?”
She rarely accepted. She knew they just wanted a trophy. Although she wasn’t as famous as she used to be, they would still enjoy boasting with their friends, “Guess which chick I slept with?” Well, she refused to play that game anymore.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked good for almost forty. She hadn’t even had to have surgery done. The woman in charge of her PR said she needed to go under the knife if she wanted to stay current, but she no longer cared. She had more money than she knew what to do with, even though money had never been important. Her entire life she’d wanted nothing but love and respect. She’d wanted to prove she could be someone, not the unloved and unwanted person she’d been before she was famous.
Only two people had ever loved her. Her grandmother and a man she’d met eighteen years ago, a little over a week before her twenty-second birthday. She’d only known him for three days, and on the fourth, he’d proposed. She remembered their short-lived romance as if it were yesterday.
He’d been in town on business and had stopped for dinner at the steakhouse where she worked. He’d waited hours for her at the bar, insisting she go out with him. Just coffee, she remembered. She’d finally conceded, and they’d talked for hours. Never once had he’d suggested anything inappropriate; he hadn’t even kissed her on the first night. Then he’d shown up the next night, and they’d sat on the beach eating ice cream. He’d requested to go to her house so they could talk, and that’s all they’d done. He’d never pushed her for sex. In fact, she’d tried and he’d told her he wanted to wait until she could give him everything, heart and soul.
Something she hadn’t been prepared to do then or ever since. On the third night, while waiting for him to arrive she’d been attacked by thugs hired by her ex-boyfriend to frighten her from dating anyone. She’d stayed at his hotel that night. Again, he’d not attempted to have sex, but insisted he loved her. The next morning, after revealing her past, in an effort to be closer to him, he’d asked her to marry him. Instead of saying yes, she’d asked for a couple of minutes, and after realizing she couldn’t trust her decisions with men, she’d said no.
She’d needed to sort out her life before making further mistakes. She’d been positive that he would fail her, as everyone else had done in her life. Graciously accepting her rejection, he’d insisted he would fly down every weekend if she allowed him, content to wait.
That same day, she’d packed just a few of her favorite items, called a taxi to take her to the airport, and moved to California.
She had a small savings, which she’d emptied entirely. She had enough to get a new apartment, and she knew she could get a waitress job anywhere. She’d never forwarded her address or returned home, even to see her grandmother. She’d left her past behind and had started on the adventure of a new existence.
Now, as she gazed in the mirror, she wondered if she’d made the right decision. Not once had any man made her feel as he had in those few days. She’d dated plenty, several men had even proposed. Each time, though, she’d broken off the relationship.
Caycee knew part of the reason was him, no man had ever compared. The other was her father. She’d witnessed him go from one horrible marriage to another. The first one, his wife had cheated on him. The second, her mother had abused her until he had to leave. The third, he’d never loved. Then finally, he’d married his fourth wife, a wretched woman who mentally abused him, until he ended his life one morning with a shotgun.
Mindlessly, she walked into the kitchen to prepare coffee. Why was she thinking about this now? What difference did it make? She’d made her choices. She’d become famous. Isn’t that what she’d wanted?
While waiting for her coffee to finish brewing, she booted up her computer. She typed in her password and hit enter. Next, she signed into her email, fan, fan, and more fans. Nothing important, nothing personal. She had no contact with any of her family members she’d left behind and no real friends. What did she expect?
For no reason whatsoever, she found herself typing his name into Google. Charlotte, North Carolina, she remembered, some outlying suburb, but he’d worked in Charlotte. Undoubtedly, he’d married and had children. Why was she doing this after eighteen years?
His company’s website came up. That’s right; he’d said he owned a construction company. If the homes were anything like the website indicated, he must be doing extremely well.
The next link down was his Facebook page. Private, of course, he was also a cop. He wouldn’t allow just anyone to peruse his pictures. What would he think if she friended him? Would he accept her request? His profile picture popped up along with a couple of him with his kids. Her heart sank. He was as handsome as she remembered. She had hoped that she’d imagined how good he looked. How good he felt, holding her. The warmth of his kiss, his southern drawl…all of it, crashed into her senses as she studied his image on the computer screen.
Reaching out, she traced the trimmed beard leading up to his soft, but closely cropped dark hair. She imagined for a moment that those piercing blue eyes were gazing at her…that the smile he offered the camera was for her. Oh, God, and those arms, his solidly built body that had taken on three men to protect her, but had held her gently at night. He’d aged well, and her heart raced just looking at him.
Overcome with emotion at looking at his face any longer, she ventured to the next website. A newspaper article— almost thirteen years ago—about Detective Jordan Monroe’s wife who’d apparently suffered a gunshot wound to the head and was in a coma.
Maybe he was single after all, she mused. She decided to search the web page until she stumbled across his wife’s name, then she would Google her too and see what she discovered.
She found his wife’s name, but it stopped her in her tracks: Jaynee Monroe. Not possible. That’s what he’d called her all those years ago. She remembered the first night when she’d mentioned she didn’t like her name; he’d asked if he could call her by her middle name. Although not completely uncommon, Jaynee was an unusual name. But what were the chances of him meeting and marrying another Jaynee?
She Googled the name Jaynee Monroe. Again, the website displaying the shooting popped up, a couple of North Carolina Incorporation’s pages, and then Jaynee’s Facebook link. As soon as she clicked on the Facebook link, Jaynee Monroe’s picture popped up.
Caycee bounded backward, the chair toppling out from under her as Jaynee’s profile picture filled her screen. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a scream; though, there was no one in her apa
rtment to hear.
“It isn’t possible.” Chills ran down her arms as she scanned the other pictures. Only a few were visible, but it was evident in every picture; Jaynee Monroe could be her twin sister. Was this some elaborate scheme? Was this a joke on Jordan’s part, or worse, a sick obsession? Had he found her images online and transposed her face over someone else’s? Perhaps these were photo-shopped pictures of his dead wife.
Engulfed with anger, she sent a friend request along with a quick message: Is this a joke? Who are you?
Leaving her computer, she heated up a muffin, downed it in two bites, and then swallowed a swig of coffee, followed by a handful of daily vitamins. She didn’t want to sit and stare at the computer waiting for a reply. It could take days until she or he checked their email and responded. She shivered at the thought. Maybe she shouldn’t have sent the message. Now he’d know she’d discovered his obsession. He’d seemed so perfect, and the thoughts she had earlier invaded her mind again. What if she’d said yes? What if she’d been his wife with those beautiful children? Then she remembered the shooting. Maybe Jordan had murdered his wife.
“No, it couldn’t be. Jordan was different,” she said audibly, her voice echoing in the emptiness of her apartment because she’d professed it so loudly. She’d made many lousy decisions when it came to men before Jordan, but she knew deep down he’d always been the one. The reason no man had ever measured up to her expectations. The reason she sat at that stupid steakhouse every evening, waiting for him or someone like him. He couldn’t be crazy.
Chapter Three
(Jaynee)
Once Jaynee recovered from the initial shock of seeing her face plastered across the Internet under the name of Caycee Jayne, pop star, she did additional research.
Could this be a hoax? How could someone transpose her face over another and then get Google to publish it? No, that wasn’t the answer. Did she have a twin? And that twin just so happened to have her identical name? No, that couldn’t be possible either, could it? No. This was ridiculous; of course it was ridiculous. But what answer explained what she clearly saw. And why if this Caycee was so popular hadn’t she ever heard of her before today. Typically, she only listened to country music. But wouldn’t she have noticed if this woman with her same name and face actually existed?
Out of habit, she tabbed back to her email. A new Facebook notification awaited her. Probably more comments about the pictures she’d uploaded. A message indicating a thumbs-up or comment Facebook emailed her every time someone clicked either on her page. She appreciated the practice because it saved her having to check her Facebook account daily. Otherwise, she’d be tempted to browse all her friends’ silly anecdotes about their day and never get any writing accomplished. Sort of like she was doing now.
After clicking on her email, she opened the page that revealed the thread to Facebook to accept an incoming friend request along with a short message from Caycee Jayne: Is this a joke? Who are you?
She snapped upright in her chair, her eyes darting around the room. This was a joke. Not only had someone known what she was searching on the Internet, they’d sent her a friend request from this fabricated Facebook page.
But how could they have known? She wasn’t using the Coffee House’s Wi-Fi. She had a wireless card. And it was password protected, not open to other users. Nobody acted suspiciously; in fact, no one appeared to be even using a laptop or other mobile device. Other than a few women, the restaurant had all but emptied over the last hour.
She peeked at the incoming message and back around the café. Veronica was leaning on the edge of the counter, speaking with her one employee. The older women across from her were chattering back and forth, not an iPhone or Tablet in sight. The other two women sat in separate booths, one was engrossed in a paperback, the other flipped through a magazine, both had their spare hand wrapped around their mug, and neither was tapping away on an electronic device of any sort.
She whipped around in the booth, her eyes raking over the parking lot, making sure she didn’t seen any of Jordan’s commercial trucks. She could spot the custom-painted cobalt blue and tan trucks a mile away. While other construction companies and commercial businesses went with plain white, Jaynee had convinced Jordan that he should have all his vehicles elegantly designed so that they stood out. The name of the company written in beautiful, but readable script attracted consumers, especially female clients who were leery about whom they allowed to work in their homes. The company never had to advertise; the trucks were like driving billboards.
She deliberated whether to call Jordan about the strange message, but he would freak. He was extremely private and didn’t appreciate any suspicious activity. She thought back to the time her ex had come to town, attempting to win her back. Thinking they were having an affair and assuming he was the one who’d shot her, landing her in a coma for almost four days, Jordan had almost killed him.
Though he was knowledgeable with computers and capable of hacking, Brian wouldn’t do this. He’d married ten years ago, and according to Jordan, was now a youth pastor. Jaynee never talked to him, but Jordan and he had made some kind of connection and had remained acquaintances, if not friends, over the years.
Jaynee saw no other solution to the enigma other than to accept the friending request. She could always unfriend her afterward.
The moment she clicked accept, she was able to examine Caycee’s Facebook page. If this was a scheme, it was an elaborate one. Thousands of comments filled her wall; it was more like a fan page than a personal page.
Jaynee scrolled through the comments, most of which weren’t directed at Caycee but just general chatting of her ‘friends’ on Facebook. She stopped scanning the timeline and headed to the pictures. The page contained too many to analyze, but luckily the photos were in chronological order, starting fifteen years earlier. It would have put Caycee at twenty-five, which appeared to be the beginning of her music career, based on her birth date, which, no surprise, was the same as Jaynee’s.
She scrutinized the pictures for alterations, but nothing looked unusual. Even so, this was her face, but it wasn’t. She’d never worn so much makeup. So if someone had managed to pull off this elaborate prank, how would they have been able to add makeup, change her hairstyle, color, and length? In several of the older pictures, Caycee had blond hair. Maybe one of the reasons her family or she wouldn’t have recognized her if they’d seen her fleetingly.
After an hour of intense searching, she rubbed her eyes. By now, whoever had perpetrated this scheme was probably having a good laugh at her expense, or after going through her pictures, was just as baffled.
Not sure how else to proceed, she decided to respond to the ‘Is this a joke’ message. Jordan would be furious. She shouldn’t be giving personal information over the Internet, but she couldn’t resist…she had to know. Something just didn’t feel right.
My name is Caycee Jaynee Evans Monroe. I was born the same day you claim on your profile. I live in North Carolina, but my previous address was in Palm Harbor, FL. I grew up in South Florida, moving in with my grandmother after my father died. This doesn’t make sense. Can you explain? Of course, I am certain this is a practical joke, and you’re laughing hysterically with your co-conspirators.
Jaynee hit enter, then returned to the counter for another latte. It appeared she was going to be here for a while.
Chapter Four
(Caycee)
Returning to her built-in desk in the kitchen, Caycee sank into her chair, coffee in hand. She ran her fingers over the laptop’s mouse-pad to rouse her computer.
A new message awaited her. Ignoring it, she went directly to this Jaynee’s profile page, this imposter. Jaynee was in a relationship, married to Jordan Monroe, of course. Birth date, same as hers, of course. Only posts were pictures and comments to pictures.
Caycee froze. Jaynee’s mother, Caycee’s mother—under her stage name—had commented on a couple of pictures of Jaynee. Pithy comments, nothing eart
h shattering, but still. Her mother, the mother she hadn’t seen in more than twenty years, thought that Jaynee was her daughter. How was that possible?
Caycee hadn’t spoken to her mother since she was twenty. Her mother had flown her up to New York for her birthday, one of the few times she’d ever stayed with her. The week had been going along okay until Caycee had made a comment about some illness one of her mother’s friends had. She was familiar with the affliction because her grandfather’d had the same disease. The friend had scowled, clearly irritated. Caycee wasn’t sure what she’d said, but instead of defending her, her mother had said, “My daughter, Caycee Jaynee, twenty years of life and she thinks she knows everything.” Hurt, and struck as though she were three years old again, she’d replied disdainfully, “My mother, still taking out all of her frustrations on her only child.”
Well, that did it. The waterworks started; the party was over. Caycee had ended up comforting her mother, who hadn’t apologized for her comment, but had a nervous breakdown before her eyes, in front of all of her friends…rather, her fans. Her mother had been like Caycee was today. She didn’t have friends; she had fans.
What did this mean? Why did her mother think Jaynee Monroe was her daughter? She clicked on Jaynee’s photos. The entire family was there: Jordan, Gram, Aunt Georgia, and Uncle Adam. Also, a few people Caycee didn’t recognize, but based on their features, they must be Jordan’s family. Jaynee wore a huge smile in every image, especially the ones where her children had their arms draped around her shoulders, and if it were possible, her smile got even larger in the images of her and Jordan.
This Jaynee person was living the life Caycee had left behind eighteen years earlier. Chills ran down her spine as tears welled in her eyes; though, she didn’t cry. It’d been forever since she’d shed a tear for herself. Who was this woman? It was time to read her message.
Split Decisions: A Southern Romantic-Suspense Novel - Charlotte - Book Two Page 3