by M. Leighton
I turn back to him, his meaning lost on my boggled mind. “Pardon?”
“Tell me your bad thought.”
He tells me this in an almost grudging way, like he wants to know, but then again he doesn’t.
Much like I want to tell him, but then again I don’t.
A conundrum.
More conflict.
I think about my previous reluctance to tell him much about my father, about anything really. But I also think about how hungry I’ve been for some kind, any kind of communication from him. Even more than that, though, I find that I want Jasper to know something about me, something important. Just enough that he might understand my fear. I desperately want someone to understand, to sympathize. Maybe even to reassure.
So I decide to tell him. Not everything, of course. Not even close. But more than I ever intended to.
“My father was . . . privy to some information that was sensitive. He was working with a guy I was dating. I had no idea it went beyond the obvious casual coworker thing, of course, but . . . it did. I overheard something I wasn’t supposed to. I had to leave in order to make sure my father was safe.” I pause and sigh. With an explanation like that, Jasper’s just likely to think I’m crazy. Or crazily dramatic. “It’s a long story. But the main thing is that, every month since I left, we would keep in touch through this one method, this very same method. Every month. Like clockwork. Until Friday.”
“So you think something has happened to him?”
“I can’t see how something hasn’t happened to him. I mean, there’s no way he would miss that call. There’s just no way. Not if he was able to get there. He would know I’d worry. He would know I’d worry and he would know that I’d risk everything to find him.”
“Did you think that maybe he’s not missing? That he’s—”
Jasper’s abrupt stop tells me exactly how he was going to finish that sentence.
“What? That he’s dead?”
His lips thin and he nods once. Considering how basically inconsiderate and blunt to the point of being rude Jasper seems sometimes, I take it as a compliment that he looks uncomfortable right now. I think this might be his way of being thoughtful and delicate.
“It’s okay. You can ask that. And the answer is that I can’t be absolutely positive, I don’t suppose, but he’s put some things in place to where if something happened to him, I’d be notified. So at least I know for sure that his body hasn’t turned up somewhere.” I swallow the lump that swells in my throat.
Jasper’s silence carries with it all the insecurities and appalling thoughts that I’ve purposely held at bay, things like the fact that people disappear all the time and their bodies are never found. But he at least has the good grace not to say them.
“Maybe he’s sick,” Jasper finally says. “I mean, if he has . . . pneumonia or something, would he call from the hospital?”
I smile at his choice of illnesses. I guess he didn’t want to make matters worse by suggesting a terrible car accident that has left him in a coma, or a brain tumor that has robbed him of his memory, something along those lines. Not that any of those possibilities would be a surprise to me. I think I’ve gone through every worst-case scenario on the planet.
“No, he wouldn’t do that, but . . .”
“Maybe it’ll help you to know that I found an electric bill your dad paid recently. It was on a credit card that he hasn’t used in years and the address was for an apartment in Atlanta. Do you know anything about that?”
An apartment in Atlanta? What the hell?
I frown. “No, I don’t. But why would he . . . I mean . . . ?”
“I can’t tell you the why, but I can get you there and you can ask him yourself. How’s that?”
Although now I’ve got more questions, relief washes through me. The payment of a bill isn’t concrete evidence that he’s okay, but it’s pretty damn close. Plus, now that I think about it, this sooo sounds like a Plan B my father might have. He’d hide out in some obscure place and wait until I found him. And he knows I would. The Colonel knows that I’d come looking for him and that if I got someone good enough to help me look, eventually I’d find my way to him.
I don’t even bother to ask Jasper how he accessed my father’s credit card information. Something tells me I don’t want to know. Not that he’d tell me anyway. That would be far too civil and forthcoming for a man like him.
“You two are close, it seems.”
Close, it seems. I love the way Jasper talks. He doesn’t use much slang, doesn’t curse much. It’s like he’s too controlled, too . . . precise to take the lazy way out. His voice is very cultured, too, which strikes me as odd for a bounty hunter. But still, it suits him. On anyone else it might seem out of place, but somehow it fits this complex man.
He’s got this chameleon-like way about him. It’s as though, despite his incredible good looks and a presence so big it could practically suffocate you, he could be anyone from anywhere doing anything. Just Anonymous Joe, someone simply passing through, slipping by under the radar. In a way, it seems like life couldn’t find a box for Jasper, a label or a type, so he made his own.
“Yeah, I suppose we are,” I finally say in answer to his observation.
“You never mention a mother.”
I’m inordinately pleased that Jasper is finally engaging in some sort of polite conversation, even though “polite” might not be the best way to describe it. It feels more like an obligatory interrogation, but I’ll take it. I’ll take any excuse to talk about my father, to keep him first in my thoughts, which I never dreamed would be a challenge. Doing it with Jasper is just icing on the cake. I imagine that doing anything with Jasper would be a pleasure.
When my cheeks warm, I focus on the conversation to keep my mind off . . . other things.
“She left when I was little.”
“Left?”
“Yep. She just left.”
“Have you ever tried to find her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“If she didn’t want us then she doesn’t deserve us.”
Jasper nods with his humph. “I get that.”
“My father never encouraged it either, which I guess I always took as his way of saying that I didn’t really want to know. So I’ve never looked. Don’t plan to either.”
There’s a short pause, but he keeps the conversation going, which thrills me. If only it hadn’t gone in this direction.
“What about this boyfriend-slash-coworker of your father’s?”
“What about him?”
“Tell me about him. Maybe he could help me find your dad.”
I take a deep breath. I really don’t want to discuss Matt with Jasper, but . . . I don’t think I have much choice. Because Jasper could be right. Matt might know something, even if it’s something little.
“His name is Matt Conklin. He’s an engineer for a private defense company. My father was a security consultant for them. That’s how we met.”
“And what did he think about you leaving to move across the country?”
My smile falters a little, embarrassment and a still-tender wound making my lips tremble. “He didn’t like it. At least that’s what he said, anyway.”
“You don’t believe him?”
I shrug, trying to act casual. “Well, he let me go, so . . .”
“His loss,” Jasper declares. I’ve tried a million times to tell myself that, but it never takes the sting away from being so easily forgotten. “He’s probably kicking himself now.”
I appreciate the thought, and I’ve often wondered if Matt ever thinks of me, ever misses me or regrets letting me go so easily. He wasn’t about to uproot his life and come with me into obscurity.
We fall quiet for what ends up being just a few more minutes until Jasper spots the sign for the hotel he was looking for. Once out of the car, we follow much the same routine as we did previously, only this time I intend to pay for both rooms, since I was in such a twirl
last night that I didn’t even get near the counter. The only thing that’s missing is that kiss. God, that kiss!
My skin feels flushed and sensitive as the memories of having Jasper pressed to my front, his lips devouring mine, burn through me like long, hot flames. Holy Lord!
Ruthlessly, I jerk my mind back to the present and I stare, probably a little harshly, at the hotel clerk as she types furiously into the computer, searching for vacancies. She’s an attractive blonde who I estimate to be in her early thirties. She has a thick accent and bright blue eyes that continually flicker to Jasper. I can’t blame them. He’s standing beside me, tall, strong and silent. He doesn’t have to say a word to make an impression, though. He just has to show up. He just has to be.
I slide a sidelong glance in his direction. He’s watching the woman work, his face a blank mask. His expression is neither rude nor open. It’s simply blank. Politely blank, I guess. I think again of the chameleon. Dressed in a plain black tee that looks to be of higher quality, his short, jet-black hair in neat disarray (if that’s even a thing), Jasper could be a stock broker in casual attire or the bouncer for a high-end night club. He has a dangerous, primal look about him that could be attributed to his lethal actions in a boardroom or to the fact that he carries a gun somewhere in his belongings. The one thing he remains to be at all times, in all situations, and in any attire is attractive. Compelling. Elusive. Fascinating.
And I’m damn sure fascinated.
“The only vacancy we have is a single smoking with two double beds. Will that be a problem?” the attendant asks in her exotic voice.
I don’t glance at Jasper. I don’t want him to see my blush, don’t want him to pick up on my reaction. It’s not like it’s a big deal, really. It just feels like a big deal in some vague, disturbing way. I mean, it’s not like Jasper wouldn’t just come right on into my room if he had the urge to anyway, just like he did last night. It’s just that this seems . . . intimate somehow, sharing the same space. A tiny room where he could have unrestricted access to me all through the night.
My reaction to the idea is immediate and visceral, my core bubbling with sensual awareness.
God, you’re pathetic! I think before collecting myself enough to answer, “That’ll be fine.”
From my right, Jasper leans in and utters a smooth, “Parlez-vous français?”
The woman’s eyes snap up to lock on Jasper
“Oui!” It’s clear that she’s very pleasantly surprised. “How did you know?”
Jasper spouts off some long answer that sounds like a love letter and makes the woman laugh. Suddenly he’s neither a stockbroker nor a bouncer. He’s a classy world traveler with the face of a Greek god and the smile of a fashion model. I stare at him, open-mouthed, as he converses fluidly and effortlessly with the older woman.
Finally, in words that I can understand, Jasper thanks her. “I appreciate you moving things around this way. My sister . . . well, she has special needs.”
I have to work hard to keep my mouth from dropping open in aggravated astonishment.
The woman glances at me for a split second and then her eyes are once again glued to Jasper. “I completely understand. I’m only happy to accommodate your needs, sir.”
Oh, I just bet you are! I think waspishly.
Jasper’s answering smile is downright heart-stopping. I can’t help staring at him like he’s grown a second head, all the while feeling cheated that I never get that smile.
Less than ten minutes (of the clerk fawning over Jasper) later, we are dragging our bags out of the elevator. I stop and hold out my hand for a key. Jasper obliges by setting a black plastic card onto my palm.
“Room number?”
“Suite 631,” he provides.
I glance at the plaque that tells me in which direction suite 631 lies and I start off in that direction, not intending to say anything else to Jasper. When I stop in front of the double doors, Jasper stops, too. I peer up at him in question.
“I got us a suite.”
“Us?”
“Yes.”
“To share?”
“Yes.” When I continue to stare, he continues. “If that’s not okay, I’m sure that smoking single next to the vending machines downstairs is still available. I thought I was doing you a favor.”
I sniff, trying not to be angry and not understanding why I am. “I guess I’d have known that if I spoke French.”
Jasper shrugs and takes the key from my fingers, letting us into the spacious suite. The colors are soothing blues, browns and beiges. A combo living-dining area is straight ahead and, beyond, a stunning night view of the city is visible through the part in the heavy ecru curtains. There are doorways to either side. I can only assume each is a bedroom.
“You can have your pick. I’ll take the one you don’t want.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll take right, you take left.”
Jasper shrugs, walking into the living room to toss his key and his bag on the coffee table. I ponder the mysteries of this man as I start toward the bedroom that will be mine. I pause in my exit. “So . . . how many languages do you know?” I ask.
“Six, but I’m only fluent in four,” he admits without even looking in my direction.
I grit my teeth. The man infuriates me. He’s so guarded, yet so casual about knowing six, six different languages. Who the hell is he?
I don’t have the answers, and I don’t expect I’ll be getting them either. I guess I’ll just have to add them to my list of curiosities about the enigma I’ll be rooming with.
“Interesting,” I say minimally. I get no response, though. Jasper is already paying me no mind as he digs a thin laptop from his bag and sets it up on the table.
I resist the urge to flounce off as I roll my suitcase into the bedroom to the right, leaving Jasper to do . . . whatever it is that he does.
I unpack my toiletries and a few nightly things like my sleep shorts and tank. My belly rumbles for food, so less than an hour later, I’m prowling through a book on the dining table, looking for a room service menu. I hear Jasper in his room, talking to someone on the phone in his low, steady rumble. My eyes fall on a slim MacBook resting on the shiny, wooden coffee table. Casually, the book in my hands laid open to the room service menu, I back up until I can see what’s on the screen. I feel bad for snooping, but it’s not like I opened up his computer and rifled through it. I’m just glancing at what’s in plain sight.
And I almost wish I hadn’t.
The DMV picture of a woman Matt used to date is pulled up on the screen. It’s zoomed in on some kind of back-end page that has all sorts of details I imagine aren’t accessible to the general public. I forget for the moment that Jasper has probably hacked a government site to get this information. I forget it because I’m too busy staring at the address highlighted under Megan’s picture. I know it. I spent many a night there, in Matt’s arms, listening to him tell me he loved me, wishing I felt that he really did.
And now Megan lives there.
I guess Matt could’ve moved out and Megan could’ve moved in. That’s possible, but highly unlikely. Matt loved that house. His mother had lived there when she was a girl and it was the place she talked about more than anything else when she lay in a hospital bed, dying of cancer. I can’t imagine Matt ever letting that house go. People don’t throw away things they love. They keep them, fight for them. Ask them to stay. Follow them to the ends of the earth if they must.
I close my eyes against the beautiful, smiling face staring back at me. I knew Matt didn’t love me. Or at least not enough. But this . . . this proof, it makes it hurt all over again.
As rude as it is to eavesdrop, it’s nearly impossible not to when the quiet is so deafening.
“That’s okay, Megan. I don’t need to leave a message. I can just call back later. Do you happen to know when Matt will be home?”
That’s all I need to hear. More than I ever wanted to hear.
I toss the room service
book onto the couch and go for my purse, not bothering to interrupt Jasper to let him know where I’m going. At the moment, I don’t even know myself.
TEN
Jasper
I knew the instant Muse left. There’s a difference in the environment when she’s around. A vibration almost, like her energy stirs the air when she breathes. The presence of another person also slightly changes the acoustics in any given space, absorbing sound, like pictures on a wall. Besides that, I heard the door click shut as she exited, even over the sultry voice of her ex-boyfriend’s new roommate, Megan.
I don’t doubt she stumbled upon my laptop. I left it open for a reason. And I didn’t close my door for a reason, too. She needs to know the situation before we arrive at her hometown. It’s always best to be prepared. Even when it’s uncomfortable.
She won’t go far, so I wait for two hours before I strike out to look for her. I could call her cell. I have her number from her friend Tracey. I doubt she’d answer it, though, wherever she is.
I take the elevator down to the lobby and I glance down the main hall. Only a coffee shop down there. Not a place she’d go when she’s upset, I’m sure, so I push through the glass entry door and step out into the night. There are lights to the left, darkness to the right. I go left. She’s not stupid enough to try the right. Not with a cautious father like hers.
The second building I come to is a tavern. It has a heavy antique-wood door and flickering carriage house lights on either side of it. It looks dark and inviting, the perfect place to hide in plain sight.
I pull open the door and scan the interior. Long oak bar straight ahead, small hallway and bathrooms to the left, gallery of mostly-full tables and chairs to the right.
Even though she’s facing away from me, I spot Muse within seconds. She’s sitting at the bar and her flaming hair, shining like a dark, fiery penny, is a beacon of color in an otherwise bland landscape. As I watch, she throws back her head and laughs, laughs so hard she almost falls off her stool. I twitch, ready to jump forward and catch her, but a youngish blond guy happily steadies her. I clench my teeth when his hand lingers too long at the base of her spine, his fingers dangerously close to the skin visible between her shirt and her pants.