Jameson's Salvation

by Riley Edwards

  Bottom line was, I had no issue with Nixon seeing me looking like a ragamuffin as my mom would say. I had no interest in Nix and if the rumors were to be believed, and considering I’d seen him in town with McKenna Wilson, he was very much taken and officially off the market.

  But Jameson was a whole different story. He was the kind of man who made you do a double-take. I didn’t want him to see me looking like a farm hand with filthy clothes and messy hair. But it was too late for that. There I was, standing in front of the sexiest man I’d ever seen, looking like shit.

  I’d been so pissed that Reggie had cornered me—again—and had again threatened me, I’d marched my happy ass straight to the Swagger Farm to ask for help. I wasn’t sure what Nixon could do, but I needed someone to do something. And while I could fend for myself, the situation was spiraling out of control and I couldn’t go at it alone. Not anymore.

  I’d had enough.

  It had been annoying six months ago. It became tiresome three months ago. And in the last month it was infuriating.

  “Kennedy?” Jameson called.

  “You work with Nixon?”

  “Maybe you shoulda asked that before you told a stranger about your problems.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. He was a little gruff and a whole lot short, but there was something about his grumpy attitude that made me want to make him smile, like I had a moment ago. I’d bet he didn’t smile that much.

  “You’re not from around here,” I stated.

  Having grown up in Kent County, I would’ve known him if he had. First, because there was only one county high school, and second, a man like Jameson couldn’t be forgotten. He was a giant, almost a foot taller than me. Big, broad shoulders, and hair so black it could be described as inky, or maybe midnight.

  “Yeah.”

  “But you obviously know Nixon.”

  “And?”

  “If you’re a friend of Nixon’s that means you’re good people. And if you’re at his barn and he’s not here, that means he trusts you.”

  “You’re correct on all accounts, but I don’t see how that explains why you told a stranger about Reggie Coleman.”

  Perhaps it was a KC thing. But the company you kept and who extended their trust to you went a long way around here. And your word and your reputation still meant something. Deals were made with a handshake and a nod. Jameson wouldn’t be standing on Nixon’s land if he didn’t like and trust the man.

  “Well, if Nixon trusts you, I know I can, too.”

  Something flashed in his eyes and he didn’t look happy.

  “That’s not smart. You shouldn’t trust someone you don’t know. People are assholes.”

  “That’s cynical.”

  “That’s real. You need to be careful to whom you extend your trust. You don’t know me and just because Nix does doesn’t mean shit.”

  “Are you telling me I can’t trust you?”

  “No, I’m telling you, you need to be smart or you’ll get hurt.”

  “Right. I can only be who I am, Jameson. I extend my respect and trust until someone proves they don’t deserve it and if I get hurt in the process that says more about them than me. If I allowed every asshole who I’ve run into over the years to change me, I wouldn’t like myself very much. If you guys can help me with this Reggie Coleman situation, I’d appreciate it. Of course, I’d pay y’all. I’m not asking for a freebie.”

  Jameson was still studying me and I fought not to wilt under his scrutiny. He probably thought I was some naïve hick who didn’t understand there were dishonest, shitty people in the world. But his assumption would be incorrect. I understood to my bones how unfair people could be. How they made judgments about you before they knew you. How they lied to get what they wanted. How they’d step on your back and crush you to get ahead. That was precisely why I tried my best not to behave that way toward others, and often times it was at my own expense. But I’d rather be hurt than turn into someone I wasn’t proud of. Someone my father wouldn’t be proud to know.

  “Let’s go up to the house and talk,” he suggested.

  “You wanna ride up?” I offered and started back toward my truck.

  Jameson looked at my dirty truck, down the lane to the house that was less than a quarter-mile walk, then back to my pickup. His own two feet would probably get him there quicker than it would take me to start up my truck, turn around, and drive up—but still, the polite thing to do was offer, even if I was hoping he’d decline. I wasn’t a slob, my house was always clean, but my truck was another story. And I’d spent the day working so the interior cab looked worse than the mud slung all over the outside.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  Well, damn. Looks like Jameson was going to be treated to my mess.

  He was still looking at me funny when he broke eye contact to walk to the passenger side. At least he was no longer looking at me like I was some hodunk who needed her head examined for talking to strangers, but he was still trying to figure me out. And that was okay. I had nothing to hide from him. I was who I was and I was alright with that. I was honest and hard-working and I didn’t give a shit what people thought about me beyond them being able to confirm I was both.

  “Sorry about the mess,” I mumbled as Jameson swung up into the cab. “It’s been a crazy week. I was gonna clean all this out today but I ended up needing to work on a project.”

  “What do you do? For work?” he asked, and was gracious enough not to comment on the empty water bottles at his feet and mound of shit in the back seat.

  “A little bit of everything,” I told him and pulled farther into the yard so I could turn around.

  I was pushing up in my seat with my ass off the bottom cushion as I backed my beast up, careful not to hit the five-gallon paint buckets that had been left in front of the old milking parlor.

  “You know you have a backup camera, right?”

  “Yeah, sure, but I never use it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “My daddy taught me to drive. Old habits, I guess. When he was teachin’ me he’d read me the riot act if I didn’t look fully behind me. Admittedly, he taught me to drive when I was about seven and it was on an old Oliver tractor, but still, he’d yell if I didn’t look.”

  “Never seen anyone have to stand up in their seat to back up before.”

  “I’m not standing.” I smiled. “I’m just lifting my ass so I can see.”

  “Right.”

  I could hear the smile in Jameson’s voice and I really wanted to look over at him but I refrained. Barely. And only because I didn’t want him to think I was some sort of weirdo.

  After I’d straightened and sat back in my seat, Jameson asked, “Tell me about a bit of everything.”

  “Huh?”

  “You said you did a little bit of everything. What does that mean?”

  “Oh. Um.” I wasn’t sure why I was hesitant to explain what I did for a living. I was proud of myself. I worked seven days a week. I wasn’t rolling in it, but I made enough money to support myself and help my mom. But I certainly wasn’t what someone would call successful. Hustler was more like it. Or at least what my dad had always said, my, Kennedy, she’s always hustling. And he’d always said it with a proud smile. “I work odd jobs here and there. But in the summer, I sell my crops at the farmers market along with the honey I make. I also make candles from my beeswax and sell those in some local shops. I also make some pottery and necklaces. I sell those local, too, and at the market. During the winter, I do other stuff since the farmers market is closed, and, well, you can’t grow tomatoes and sugar corn in the winter. So, a little bit of everything. Whatever will pay the bills.”

  “And the lumber and tools in the bed of your truck? Is that part of a bit of everything, too?”

  “No. That’s what’s left over after I built a ramp for my mom today.”

  I pulled to a stop in front of Nixon’s farmhouse and cut the engine. Jameson was staring at me. He obviously had no such hang-
ups about me thinking he was weird, because he wasn’t trying to hide that he was looking.

  “You built your mother a ramp?”

  “Yeah,” I sighed.

  Another point of irritation. Not only had I been battling it out with my mom’s insurance company about paying for a handicap ramp, and I use the word handicap with great objection considering I hated that word, but there was no denying my mom needed it. So after all of the back and forth and them delaying, I decided to build it myself. Which was not the complaint—hard work didn’t scare me and building a ramp was not rocket science. But the lumber had cost a mint, and with summer turning into fall, which obviously led to winter, I needed to bank all the money I could. Winter months could get tight. And if that wasn’t bad enough, that was when Reggie had ambushed me. I hadn’t even had a chance to clean up my tools when the pompous prick pulled up and started in.

  “My mom had a stroke about nine months ago. She’s doing better but she still has some paralysis on her left side. She can’t walk down the stairs to leave the house, which means I have to go over there and carry her down. She has a friend who’s a retired nurse who comes and looks after her, but Miss Janice isn’t steady enough on her own feet anymore to help mom. So she needed a ramp. Miss Janice can either push her down in her wheelchair or my mom can use her walker.”

  Jameson’s eyes narrowed and something that looked like anger flashed before he covered it up. “And why wouldn’t the insurance company pay a contractor to build it?”

  “That’s a great question. One I’ve been trying to get answered for six months. My mom couldn’t wait any longer and I can’t afford to hire someone, so I did it.”

  “Right.”

  “It wasn’t like it was all that hard. It was like building a front porch, only it slopes at one end. I framed it up yesterday and finished it today.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t—”

  “I know, it wasn’t hard,” he said through gritted teeth, and I was starting to wonder what his problem was. He didn’t strike me as the type of man who thought a woman should sit in the house barefoot, but like he’d said, he was a stranger. Though I couldn’t see Nixon tolerating any friend of his having that line of thinking.

  Before I could ask him what his issue was, he opened his door. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

  I wordlessly followed him around the back of the house and through the sliding glass door into the dining room.

  “Wow. This place looks great,” I noted.

  “You’ve been in here before?”

  “Yeah. I used to help Mr. Swagger bale hay in the summers. And before that, when I was a kid.”

  “You know Nix well?”

  There was something in his tone again I couldn’t place. I really hoped he didn’t think I was after Nixon.

  “You know that I know Nixon is with McKenna, right?”

  His body jerked and he leveled me with a pissed-off glare. “Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t know, the way you asked me if I knew Nix gave me the impression you were trying to figure out if I was gonna cause trouble for him or something. Nixon and I have been friends since we were five. Or I should say, we were friends until he left for the Navy. And since high school graduation I’ve talked to him a total of two times. Both when he was home visiting. I don’t want to cause any issues. I just need some help.”

  “And you asking for help, is that gonna cause an issue, whether you mean for it or not?”

  “Maybe this was a bad idea.” I turned to go back toward the door and immediately started thinking of other ways I could deal with Reggie. Now that Sheriff Dillinger was gone, the police would be more help. Not that I had any evidence Reggie was harassing me, but it wouldn’t hurt to file another complaint.

  “Why’s that?” Jameson’s question stopped me.

  “Sorry to say, you’re kinda a jerk and after the day I’ve had, I don’t need the hassle.”

  Jameson’s full lips tipped up into a smile, before he roared with laughter.

  Sweet baby Jesus, he was something else when he laughed. Gone was the thorn-in-his-ass bear and hello Mr. Sexy.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” a male voice startled me and I let out a squeak of surprise.

  Both men’s attention came to me as my hand went over my beating heart.

  “Holy fracking monkey balls, you scared me.”

  “Did she just say monkey balls?” the man asked Jameson.

  “I think she has a fascination with balls. That’s twice she’s mentioned them in thirty minutes,” Jameson answered.

  “I’m not fascinated by balls,” I defended.

  “You’re not?” Jameson asked. “You seemed fairly concerned about Reggie Coleman’s balls being twisted.”

  “I was not. I said he didn’t like his balls being twisted, not that I was concerned about them.”

  “Right.” Jameson chuckled.

  “Why are we talking about balls?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the one that keeps bringin’ them up.”

  “Well, can we please stop talking about balls?”

  “Who’s Reggie Coleman and why are we concerned about his balls?” the stranger asked.

  “Sheesh, I don’t care about his balls,” I huffed.

  “Reggie Coleman’s an asshole who’s been harassing Kennedy here, trying to get her to sell him her land. Land she doesn’t feel like parting with. She came here to talk to Nixon about diggin’ some shit up so she can use it to make the dickweed stop.”

  “You go to the police?”

  What just happened? How did we go from quite possibly the most embarrassing conversation of my life, one that under normal circumstances would’ve had me praying for a black pit to swallow me whole, to talking about the police?

  “Yes. Several times,” I answered and Jameson’s brow went up in censure. “What? He’s in Nixon’s house. You're talking to him and you told him about Reggie. So, you seem to trust him but you’re gonna scowl at me for talking to him because he’s a stranger?”

  “You don’t know him,” Jameson unnecessarily noted.

  “Jeez, Jameson, should I ask to see his ID? A background check, maybe? I answered his question, I didn’t tell him where the bodies are buried.”

  “You have bodies buried?” Jameson countered.

  “Can’t tell you that, I haven’t completed your background check yet.” I smirked and Jameson nodded his approval.

  “Now you’re catching on.”

  Why did joking around with Jameson feel so good? He was kind of a jerk, albeit a good-looking one, and he frowned at me more than he smiled. But still, the banter between us was comfortable, entertaining. It made me want to bicker with him some more to see if I could get the grump to laugh again.

  Don’t go there, Kennedy. Your life is already complicated enough.

  3

  Jameson

  Kennedy Lane was something else. Jameson hadn’t enjoyed spending time with a woman as much as he’d enjoyed being in Kennedy’s company in a long time.

  He’d been called a lot worse than a jerk through the years but no one had ever apologized and meant it before slinging an insult at him. The woman intrigued him, and she shouldn’t have. Jameson had to admit, she was beautiful. But she was too bubbly, too cute, too sweet for his liking. She was the type of woman who would normally drive him to insanity with the look-on-the-bright-side attitude she had.

  Jameson wasn’t a bright-side-of-anything type of guy.

  “Yo! Where’s everyone at?” Nixon asked, walking in. He stopped, scanned the room, and when his gaze landed on Kennedy, his back shot straight and his eyes widened before he schooled his features. “Kennedy Lane. Long time.”

  What the fuck was that about?

  “Hey, Nix.” Kennedy shuffled from foot to foot. She looked nervous as all hell. “Sorry to come by unannounced, I need to talk to you.”

  “You came by to see me?” Nixon glanced at Jameson, then Holden, wh
o’d only come home from work right before Nixon had stopped by, and finally back to Kennedy. “Everything all right?”

  “Wish I could say yes, but you remember Reggie Coleman?”

  “Yeah. He’s a contractor, right?”

  “More of a developer now. Or at least that’s what he likes to call himself. He’s been acquiring land. You know that big development on the river?” Nixon nodded and she continued. “That’s his project.”

  “How’d he get the permits to build there? It’s a tidal marsh.”

  “When you’re drinkin’ buddies with the county commissioners, and you play golf with the head of planning and zoning, you can get whatever you want. You haven’t been gone long enough to forget the good ol boy mentality.”

  Nixon and Kennedy shared a knowing look and Jameson felt a pang of jealousy. A feeling that was not only new, but very much unwanted.

  “What’s Reggie got to do with you?” Nixon continued.

  “Reggie wants my land and he’s not takin’ no for an answer. Hate to say it because I know how much you hate gossip, but I heard you do PI work. I was hopin’ you could find something on Reggie to make him back down.”

  Nixon was quiet for a moment and Holden’s movement caught Jameson’s attention. He’d opened his laptop and his fingers were flying over the keys.

  When he found something, Holden said, “According to tax records, he owns quite a bit of land. He also has permit applications in on several lots and an application to subdivide a farm that was in agricultural preservation.”

  “He does?” Kennedy asked. “He’d have to buy that farm out of ag preservation or the permit will never be approved. That would take a lot of money.”

  “He have that kind of cash?” Jameson asked.

  A few keystrokes later, Holden answered, “Not liquid, but he has a hefty line of credit.”