by Shirley Jump
Mary perked up when she spied him on the stairs. She got up from where she’d been napping in the shade, waiting for him to finish, then trotted across the grass and pressed herself to his leg. Most dogs, Jackson figured, wouldn’t do that kind of thing—wait for him and not be lured away by a squirrel or a stranger with a sandwich. But Mary was different. She had been since the day Jackson had found her, her brothers, and her mom tucked in the back of the shelter. The building was falling down around them, the kennel overgrown with weeds, but the puppies had thrived. Mary had been his from that first day, and in his sucky, shitty life, she was the only good thing he knew or had.
“Hey, girl,” he said, reaching down to rub her ears. Her tail thwapped a happy beat against his leg. “Let’s get outta here, ’kay?”
He crossed the quad, moving fast, sticking to the far side of the building, just out of view from the second-floor principal’s office. Once he reached the wooded area that flanked the south side of Prince Academy, he slowed his pace.
It took another fifteen minutes of winding farther and farther to the outskirts of Rescue Bay before Jackson and Mary reached a run-down, abandoned section of town that he and his friends had dubbed ForgottenTown. Weeds forced their way between the cracks in the sidewalk, snaked out of storm drains, and carpeted the broken driveways. The few houses that still lined the street had been abandoned for years, their broken windows making them look like determined fighters who’d lost the match two rounds ago.
A tall, slim figure sat on the front porch of the last house on the left. No matter when Jackson came down here, Berklee was there, sitting on the front step. Jackson didn’t know his real name, only that he was some genius with a saxophone who had gone to college in Boston, then dropped out and come back to Rescue Bay. Once in a while, Berklee brought his sax and played a few jazz tunes, but to Jackson, the songs always sounded lonely and sad.
Mary started to whine and stopped walking. “Come on, girl,” Jackson said, tapping his thigh. Mary stayed put. “I know you don’t like it here, but I swear, we won’t stay long. Just a few minutes.”
Mary whined again, disagreeing. She knew, as did Jackson, that a few minutes always morphed into a few hours. It was as if he was in that lotus-eating place he’d read about in The Odyssey. Once the first joint was lit, Jackson forgot the world outside.
It was why he came here. Why he kept coming back.
And why Mary hated ForgottenTown.
“Come on, girl.” Jackson patted his thigh again. “Please.”
Mary hesitated, then stepped forward again, but trailed behind Jackson the whole way to the house. Jackson paused on the bottom step. “Hey, Berklee.”
Berklee gave one short upward jerk of his head, then leaned against the post and blew a curl of smoke at the roof. A breeze whistled through, sending paint chips floating down like thick white confetti.
“Is Lacey inside?” Jackson asked, pretending like he didn’t care.
Berklee shrugged, then held out the stubby joint. “Want a hit?”
For the first time, Jackson noticed Berklee’s teeth. Brown, chipped, like he was some eighty-year-old bum under a bridge, not a twenty-something college dropout. “Nah, I’ll wait awhile.”
“Whatev. More for me.” Berklee took another toke, then leaned back and closed his eyes.
Jackson and Mary climbed the stairs and headed into the house. Nothing had changed since the last time Jackson had been here. It still smelled like piss and puke, still looked like the apocalypse had come and left. Mary whined some more and gave a hopeful, can-we-leave wag of her tail. Jackson gave the dog’s head a rub, then headed for the kitchen.
Bare, yellowed oblong rectangles marked the once-white walls where cabinets had hung long ago. The laminate countertops were chipped and marked with cigarette burns. Trash towered in the corner, spilling in a wide circle of empty chips bags and sticky-rimmed soda cans. Mud and dried food caked the floor and sink. Someone had doodled a picture of a penis on the far wall, right below another doodle of a flower.
But Jackson barely noticed the room. All he saw was Lacey’s long blond hair, the smooth peachy cream of her legs, the way she leaned against the counter with one hip, smoking a cigarette that she kept pinned between two fingers. She looked up when he came in the kitchen, and smiled. “Jackson.”
The smile hit Jackson deep in the gut, a power drive to his heart. And when she said his name—hell, he would have gone to the west side of Jupiter if she wanted him to. “Hey.”
Lacey gave him another smile, like she was waiting for him to say more. But he couldn’t. That was the trouble—he was in love with Lacey Williams and he couldn’t say much more than hey. And one time, a lame Pretty day today, huh?
She gathered her keys off the counter. “I’m starving. I’m gonna go make a c-store run.”
Say something, idiot. Don’t just let her leave.
She crossed to the doorway while Jackson stood there like a fool. At the last second, Lacey turned back. “Want anything?”
Jackson forced a couple words out of his throat. “I dunno. Maybe.”
Lame, lame, lame.
“Anyone want anything from the store?” she called out to the lump of bodies in the living room. The consensus came back in a mumble: chips, Mountain Dew, cookies.
“Hey, you need help getting that stuff?” Jackson asked. Finally. He’d strung together an entire freaking sentence. Then he wanted to kick himself because it sounded too hopeful, too eager. Like he was Mommy’s little helper or the teacher’s pet.
Lacey paused, and for a second, Jackson wanted to slink into a corner for being such a loser. Then she smiled again. “Sure. That’d be great.”
And his heart soared, higher than it had in a long, long time. He followed Lacey out of the house and into her beat-up Toyota, with Mary climbing in the back. The dog whined and settled her head on the console between the front seats, keeping a wary eye on her master as they left ForgottenTown in their rearview mirror for a little while.
Sixteen
Diana cleaned the kitchen. The bathrooms. The floors. Threw in a load of laundry, organized the spice rack, and cleaned the mystery food out of the refrigerator. She spent her entire Sunday trying to do anything but think about the long list of things she didn’t want to think about.
Yeah, like it worked.
Sean’s Post-it and the custody papers had been hidden in her nightstand drawer, but in her mind, the bright yellow paper still sat on her kitchen table, threatening to take away her son. When they’d broken up for good five years ago, Diana and Sean had worked out a quick custody guideline, using a cheap lawyer. The standard every other week, major holiday and two weeks in the summer agreement. But Sean had barely taken advantage of the time he could have with Jackson, seeing his son a handful of times in those years.
Then Sean’s latest single became a hit, and, flush with money, he’d hired a hotshot attorney and asked for full custody. Maybe it was delayed parental guilt, maybe his son was just one more thing for Sean to add to the pile of things he’d bought—cars, boat, land, homes. Or maybe he truly did want Jackson. She had tried calling Sean and had sent him a few e-mails, but he had ignored her. She’d asked her lawyer to talk to his lawyer, hoping that the two of them could work out some kind of mediated joint custody, but so far, nothing but radio silence.
The silence was the worst. Diana’s mind had filled it with every horror story imaginable as the hours and days ticked by. As far as she knew, Sean hadn’t called or texted Jackson, and chances were good that, just like before, Sean had gone off on some trip or another and forgotten all about his son. He got wrapped up in his music, the performances, the fans, the need to be on the stage in more ways than one, and forgot the rest of the world existed. He used the recent hit record as an excuse, but Diana had known him a long time, and Sean had always been like that. The hit record had only made him worse.
Sean had never understood that being a parent meant being one all the time, not just whe
n it fit your schedule. He’d been the fun parent—the one who showed up out of the blue to take Jackson fishing or to drop off a gift. Then Sean would be traveling the country, with no word for weeks, months, and she would be left to clean up the mess her ex had left behind.
So she cleaned physical messes while her son slept the day away in his bedroom down the hall, and wished it was as easy to clean up the other messes in her life. The work made her feel productive, which was a hell of a lot better than waiting around for this uncertainty to end. Not just about Sean, but about Mike Stark, and the uncertainty that swirled around everything connected to him.
A little after eleven, the doorbell rang. Diana used the back of her hand to push her hair out of her face. Her pink rubber gloves smelled of bleach, and her hair was a rat’s nest she’d piled into a ponytail four hours ago. She was still wearing old sweats and a torn, stained T-shirt. Definitely not in any shape to answer the doorbell. Chances were it was one of Jackson’s friends anyway. Though, as she thought about it, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen one of Jackson’s friends over at the house.
When had they stopped coming by? Months ago, her kitchen had been filled most afternoons and weekend days with a pack of teenage boys, eating her out of house and home, taking over the sofa and TV to play Xbox, or hanging by the pool. She’d loved the sound of their laughter ringing throughout the house, like someone had taken Jackson and multiplied him. Lately, though, her house had been quiet, the cupboards full. She made a mental note to ask Jackson later today. Maybe encourage him to invite some friends over to swim or have a pizza party this weekend.
The doorbell rang again. “Jackson! Get the door!”
No answer.
“Jackson!”
Still nothing. At fifteen, Jackson could sleep through a drill instructor with a bullhorn. Diana let out a sigh, brushed the hair away again, then headed down the hall to the front door. She started to call out for Jackson again, then noticed the tall shadow on the other side of the beveled glass front.
Mike Stark.
Damn. And here she looked like a bag lady who’d been caught in a hurricane, then left to wrinkle in the sun. She cursed herself for caring what she looked like with a man she wasn’t interested in.
She spun toward the mirror in the hall and realized it was a lost cause—nothing she did in the next five seconds could fix that disaster.
She shouldn’t care anyway. She wasn’t interested in Mike Stark.
At all.
Not even a little.
Uh-huh. That was why she straightened her shirt and patted down the stray hairs sticking out of her ponytail.
Diana took a deep breath, then pulled open the door. Mike stood on her porch, looking as welcoming and comforting as cold glass of iced tea on a summer’s day. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but the familiar smile framed his face. His white polo shirt hugged his chest, outlined the defined muscles of his pecs, and tapered down to dark blue cargo shorts and plain white sneakers. Damn, he looked good, and she… well, she didn’t. For the umpteenth time, she wished Jackson had answered the door. “Mike. What are you doing here?”
“We were supposed to meet at the shelter this morning and talk over the repairs. Luke and Olivia took the girls to the beach so I’d have time for our meeting. Remember?”
She smacked her forehead and got a large whiff of chlorine and a stinging slap of plastic. God, she was a mess. Half of her wanted to make a break for the shower, the other half wanted Mike to see her in all her housecleaning/day off glory, and then maybe he’d stop trying to kiss her. “I totally forgot. I’m sorry.”
“No problem. I thought as much, which is why I brought this.” He held up a cardboard drink carrier holding two coffees and a white paper bag of treats from the local bakery in the other hand. “Caffeine and sugar. The top two food groups.”
She laughed. “On which food pyramid?”
“The one sanctioned by Mike Stark, USAFE.”
“USAFE?”
“Official United States Awesome Food Expert, of course. I’ve got a degree in pizza, beer, and cake, and am working on one in doughnuts.” He grinned.
She scoffed. “If I did that, I’d weigh ten thousand pounds.”
“You look perfect just the way you are, Diana.”
She flushed and looked away. “I look a mess is what I look. You caught me on housecleaning day.”
He grinned. “I gotta say, you are rocking those pink gloves.”
The scent of the coffee and baked goods teased at her senses and overpowered her urge to send him away until she looked like a human again. Her stomach growled, reminding her it had been hours since she last scarfed down half a stale bagel. “Give me five minutes to get cleaned up, and if you want, we can have the meeting out on the lanai. It’s not as hot and humid today, thanks to that thunderstorm that came through earlier.”
Mike’s gaze lingered on her face for one long second. “I think it’s still pretty hot here.”
Diana ushered Mike into the house and out onto the lanai, then headed down to the shower before she could think about what he meant by that hot line. She paused in front of her bathroom mirror and knew he didn’t mean her. Her hair was a tangle on top of her head, her grayed-out Rescue Bay Animal Shelter T-shirt had a bleach stain smack dab in the center, and her face was as bare as an unpainted board, and just about as exciting. Her sweats had a tear on the left thigh, another on the right knee. Yeah, she was hot all right—a hot damned mess.
She stripped off her clothes, hopped in the shower, and rushed through the process of soaping and rinsing. She worked some leave-in conditioner into her wet hair and combed it into something she hoped would resemble beachy waves once it dried. A swipe of lipstick, a bit of blush, and a quick brush of mascara, and she was done. She pulled on some clean, non-ripped denim shorts and a pale blue T-shirt, then added a quick spritz of perfume. Not because she cared whether Mike liked the scent or not. Not because he’d complimented the perfume a few months ago. But because she liked the scent.
Uh-huh. She was getting pretty darn good at this lying-to-herself thing.
When she came out to the lanai, Mike was sitting in one of the high-backed wooden rocking chairs, with the two coffees and bag of pastries set on the small table between the chairs. For a second, all she could think was how normal this looked, how right, as if Mike belonged in that very seat on this very porch.
But he didn’t belong here, and didn’t want to, and she needed to remember that fact. And try not to drool over him, either, because he also looked pretty damned fine sitting there, filling the chair in a way only a man could, as if he owned the space.
She dropped into the second chair and accepted the coffee with a long sigh of relief. “Thank you. I didn’t realize how much I needed this until just now.”
“Glad to be of service.” He grinned.
The last two words sent a little shiver of want through Diana. Made her think of thirty different ways he could service her, and vice versa.
So yeah, not sticking to the resolutions so well, either. If she could at least keep herself from climbing onto his lap and riding him like a pony, she’d call this day a success.
Way to keep the victory threshold low, Diana.
She cupped her coffee and drank until the caffeine erased the sexy thoughts and got her brain refocused. Or at least, coherent. “So what’s in the bag?”
“Coffee cake muffins from the Rescue Bay Bakery.”
She groaned. Not only was the man handsome and sexy and desirable, he seemed to have this uncanny ability to read her mind when it came to food.
Will not jump his bones. Will not jump his bones.
Then she opened the bag and inhaled the scent of baked ecstasy. “Oh my God. Those are my favorites.” Maybe she would have to jump his bones, as a thank-you. Yeah, that was it. A thank-you. She peeked at the half-dozen muffins nestled inside, then raised her gaze to his. “Do I have to share?”
“Nope. Though I’d be might
y grateful if you did.” He patted his stomach. “I need sustenance to do those repairs. Considering I can’t cook anything more complicated than Cheerios in a bowl, I rely on takeout to keep me from dying of starvation.”
She handed him a muffin. “In that case, maybe I should give you two.”
“Or you can eat them all yourself and owe me later.”
Owe him later? Oh my.
God, what was with her? She took his every word as a sexual innuendo, when the man was probably just talking about muffins and renovations.
It was having him in her house. Mere yards from where they’d made love just a few months ago. Every second of that night was burned into her memory. The dinner downtown, the crème brûlée they’d shared, the escalating flirtation over dinner, a flirtation that had built and built in the couple of weeks they had dated, finally culminating in a feverish drive back to her house and then the stumbling, rushing race down the hall to her bedroom. Mike kicking open the door, kissing her down, down, down onto the bed, and then ripping off her dress and plunging into her.
Oh my, indeed.
The lanai door opened and Jackson walked in, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and wearing a rumpled pair of plaid pajama pants. “Did someone say muffins?” Jackson said.
“Coffee cake muffins, from the bakery in town.” Diana reached in, took a second one out of the bag, and handed it to Jackson.
“Cool.”
“Thank Mike. He brought them.”
Jackson nodded in Mike’s direction—apparently that passed for a thank-you in Jackson’s mind—then sat cross-legged on the blue indoor-outdoor carpet and peeled off the outer paper of the muffin and dropped it beside him. Crumbs tumbled to the floor, but Jackson made no move to pick up any of it.
“Hey, Jackson, you know better than to leave a mess. Clean that up, please.”