“Just promise you won’t wake up tomorrow with amnesia and go back to hating the sight of me.”
Cheri laughed. “Only if you promise not to follow me around the newsroom tomorrow with ‘CNN’ scrawled on your forearm. It wouldn’t be professional.”
“So you remember?” He loved that she did.
“Of course.”
His hands began to slide up inside her sweater, around her ribs, and up and over her breasts, each a perfect handful. Immediately, her small nipples tightened and poked against his palms.
“J.J.—”
“Don’t make me go, Cheri. Don’t make me go another second without you.”
She began to wiggle under his touch, and he couldn’t tell what she was trying to do with the movement—get closer or get free—but he gave her the room to make her choice. It wasn’t long before her head fell against his chest in surrender. That was his go-ahead, and he immediately tipped her face enough to latch his mouth over hers, her kiss desperate and hot, his hands moving rougher all over her body, feeling every contour and swell of her flesh.
That’s when Cheri began pressing her ass against the front of his jeans. He released a moan of relief. To have her want him felt like a homecoming, a reward for all the years, all the loneliness. He turned her around the rest of the way, cradling her face in his hands and sealing her mouth with his once more. Cheri’s lips were hot and damp and trembling and before he knew it, J.J. tasted her sweet, small tongue as it slid into his mouth.
His hands flew from her face to her sides, hips, ass, going from tender to demanding in mere seconds. He gripped the swells of her bottom and she lifted one leg around his hips so she could grind against him. That’s when she lost her balance.
They crumpled back to the floor, J.J. hitting the hardwood first so he could cushion her collapse. She fell against him and it felt like her body shaped itself to fit his perfectly. Her legs parted and her breasts heaved against him and he had to get the clothes off her. He didn’t want the layers. He was sick of the layers between them—of time, of distance, of twisted lies. He wanted to feel her naked and real and sliding all over his flesh. He wanted the feel of his Cheri on top of him once more.
He got his hands under her little shirt. Her skin was on fire. Cheri’s fingers began to fumble with his belt buckle. They both panted.
That’s when they heard it.
“Chit, chit, keek-keek-keek!”
“Oh, shit!” Cherise jumped up to a stand above him, her sweater half off and midriff exposed and her hair all messed up. God, she was gorgeous, even as she pointed at the squirrel in the doorway and screeched.
“Git! Git! Oh, you destructive little shit!”
J.J. propped himself on an elbow. “You talkin’ to me or the squirrel?”
“The squirrel!” Cheri suddenly turned her head to look down on him. “You, too. I can’t do this tonight, J.J. It’s too soon. I can’t sleep with my sister’s ex-husband until I talk to her about it. Oh, God … what am I doing? I must be crazy. But yes, please go and take the squirrel with you, if you don’t mind.”
With a loud sigh, J.J. jumped to his feet and fastened his belt, all while trying to hide his laughter. He didn’t succeed.
“What the hell y’all laughing at?” Cheri demanded, balling her fists on her hips. “Why is this damn squirrel after me? That’s what I want to know. What did I ever do to him?”
J.J. peered at her through his messed-up hair. He shook his head. “As I said before, I believe she’s mad at you, and I mean really pissed.”
“She?” Cheri’s head swung wildly as she stared at the small rodent in the doorway. “How do you know it’s a she?”
“I’m no wildlife expert, but I think this one is about to have babies.”
“What?”
“See her belly all puffed out? My guess is she’d already picked the lake house as her nest when you showed up and ruined her plans.”
“Seriously?”
J.J. watched Cheri crouch down very slowly for a close look at the critter. Her fingertips touched the floor for balance, and J.J. noticed how she was coiled to make a quick getaway, should the hideous beast decide to attack. But the squirrel looked just as fascinated with the woman, its whiskers twitching and its dark eyes focused like lasers.
“I see what you mean,” Cheri whispered. “She looks like she’s ready to pop.”
Suddenly, the squirrel freaked out, skittered away, and let loose with a high-pitched screech. Cheri screamed in surprise and ran to J.J. for protection. They both watched in amazement as the squirrel shot through the living room and began barking like some kind of crazed little dog.
J.J. burst out laughing, but his amusement didn’t last more than a moment, because a pair of headlights had just flashed in the front windows.
“Who the hell could that be?” Cheri asked, breaking away from J.J.’s embrace. He followed her down the hall. “I swear I get more unannounced visitors in the wilderness than I ever did in the city.”
No, the bright red paint job wasn’t visible in the dark, but J.J. could make out the sleek lines of the Mercedes coupe, and a heavy lump of dread fell to his gut. “Cheri, I hate to tell you this—”
“Oh, damn,” she said.
Standing in the empty living room before the bare picture windows, J.J. figured the two of them were on display for Tanyalee’s viewing pleasure. Thank God they were fully dressed.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what promised to be the nightmare of all nightmares, when suddenly, the car turned around and drove off.
Chapter 17
J.J. entered the editorial meeting with some kind of plastic zip bag in his hand and a scowl on his face. Cheri sat up straighter. Was that scowl for her? How did they get back to that? What happened to all the good stuff they’d shared the night before?
As she recalled, once Tanyalee finished her little drive-by, J.J. had agreed it wouldn’t be wise for him to stay. So had he suddenly changed his mind? Why would he do that? Maybe she shouldn’t trust him yet. Maybe she should keep her distance from J.J. a little longer, make him win her trust slowly. Something like that could take a while, of course. Days. Weeks. Months, even …
As J.J. plopped into a conference room chair, he gave her a quick wink and a sly, sexy smile.
Cheri had to look down at her legal pad to keep from blushing.
“Check this out, everybody,” he said, throwing the plastic baggy to the center of the table. Everyone leaned in to get a look at the object of interest. Mimi Grayson snatched it, then held it up to the light.
She laughed. “Is this a joke?” She lowered the bag and peered over it at J.J. “We’re being threatened? Why would anyone threaten the Bugle?”
“It’s pretty self-explanatory,” J.J. said.
“Maybe we got ourselves our very own Unabomber,” the photo editor said.
Mimi read aloud. “‘Leave the past in the past, or some of you won’t have a future. This is the only warning you will get.’” She tossed the plastic bag back to the table. “Sounds like something written by a fifth-grader—probably some kind of prank.”
Jim Taggert pulled the plastic-covered sheet of notebook paper his way, shaking his head. “The handwriting’s legible. Everything’s spelled correctly, too, and that right there puts this little missive head and shoulders above our usual letters to the editor. I say we slap it on the front page.”
“Gladys has already scanned it to graphics,” J.J. said.
“How’d y’all find it?” the government reporter asked.
J.J. leaned back in his chair. “It was shoved under the Main Street entrance this morning. Turner’s gonna swing by soon and collect it for evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” Mimi asked with a dismissive snort. “You’re really taking this seriously? You think this is connected to the Barbara Jean story?”
“Sure I do,” J.J. said. “What else have we been covering that would prompt a threat like this? The spate of flattened tires
at the Piggly Wiggly? The new metal detectors at the county courthouse?”
Cheri reached out for the baggy, then snapped her hand back, second-guessing herself. She’d sworn not to intrude on editorial decisions, hadn’t she? She glanced J.J.’s way. “Do you mind if I take a look?” she asked.
“Of course not, Cheri,” he said, grinning warmly. “Just don’t take it out of the plastic, okay?”
She smiled back at him. “Of course not.”
Cheri took a moment to read over the two sentences, and she knew immediately that it was no child’s prank. The words felt menacing. The handwriting was strong. And angry. A shudder moved through her.
Cheri returned the bag to the tabletop and looked up—only to find Jim and Mimi and the rest of the assembled editorial staff staring at her in shock, eyes big and mouths open. Had she said something rude? Stupid? Ridiculous?
Had she said much of anything?
Uh-oh. They were probably shocked by her politeness and the downright gentlemanly way J.J. had spoken to her. Or maybe it was worse. Maybe they’d seen more than civility in their exchange.
J.J. cleared his throat, and everyone snapped to attention. “Jim, we’ve got room to run that playground feature Sunday. We can even make it a double-truck if you’ve got enough content.”
“I thought you wanted to hold it another week,” Taggert said, frowning.
J.J. shook his head. “Unfortunately, Gladys just gave me the ad count, and we’ve got plenty of room this week. In fact, we’ll be going to press four pages lighter than last Sunday, even with the feature.”
The room stayed silent. Everyone kept their eyes cast down. Even Cheri could translate that bit of newspaperese, and she knew J.J. had just informed them that the paper lost advertising during the last week, even when the Barbara Jean story had brought a significant spike to street sales.
No one said a word. She watched J.J.’s large hands grip the armrests of his chair so hard that the veins and tendons stood out on his wrists.
“J.J.?” Cheri heard herself ask. “Did the Bugle lose any active accounts last week, or was it an expected seasonal downturn, part of a cycle we’ve seen before?”
J.J. shook his head. “To the contrary—we normally get a big boost from lawn and garden retailers and landscapers around this time, but it didn’t happen this year. It’s been a growing problem during the recession—automotive, real estate, Christmas, want ads, back-to-school—the cyclical ad revenue we used to take for granted isn’t there for us anymore.”
Cheri looked around the conference table, knowing J.J.’s words weren’t a revelation to these employees. They’d seen dozens of friends and colleagues lose their jobs while the size and scope of the newspaper delivered to people’s doorsteps continued to shrink. J.J.’s comments just meant they were one step closer to being unemployed.
She hadn’t planned to do it, but she felt herself stand. All eyes followed. She saw a variety of expressions on the faces—curiosity, surprise, and even contempt. She didn’t blame them. After all, it wasn’t even a week ago that these people showed up at work to see their publisher gone and taking his place was some chick from Tampa, a woman who didn’t talk like them or dress like them, a woman who’d spent her time thus far debating paint colors, complaining about the design of her nameplate, and suggesting the newspaper get its sexy back.
“This is my issue to worry about, not yours,” she said. “Your job is to put out the best daily newspaper possible for the citizens of Cataloochee County. The fact that we’ve done exactly that every damn day for nearly one hundred and fifty years should make you proud.”
Mimi Grayson sat up straighter.
“The Bugle has survived world wars and the Great Depression and the digital revolution and it’s going to survive this. Now, here’s what I want us to do—” She looked at J.J. “How much has our single-copy sales gone up since the Barbara Jean Smoot story broke?”
J.J. thought for a moment. “A lot. We’re up twenty-five percent in nonsubscription sales.”
“Okay, then,” Cheri said, looking around the room. “Then this is the time we need to beef up the page count of the Bugle, not gut it. We need to grab these new readers and give them a reason to subscribe. Show them what they’ve been missing.”
“Uh…” Jim Taggert’s eyes swiveled from face to face at the table. “What if all we end up doing is losing more money? The price of newsprint alone will make that a losing proposition.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Cheri saw J.J. shove his chair away from the table. She wouldn’t look at him. If he was scowling at her, she didn’t want to know. In fact, it didn’t matter if he was displeased. This was her job. This paper was her family’s legacy and it was now her responsibility. She had a right to say whatever needed to be said. In fact, she had a duty to say it.
“Look, I know y’all don’t know me from Adam’s off ox, but Grandaddy hiring me wasn’t some kind of joke or act of desperation. I agreed to take on this job and I mean to do my best by every one of y’all. I’m not giving up on this paper and I don’t want you to, either. And Jim…” She looked at the city editor and smiled. “We’re already losing money. And we are guaranteed to keep doing so unless we take a different approach.”
Glances were exchanged. Mimi chuckled. Jim Taggert looked uncomfortable.
“As publisher, I’ll take any heat that’s due me,” she continued. “But if you want me onboard when the plane crashes, I damn well better be on it when it takes off.”
J.J. rose from his chair and Cheri was sure he was about to tell her to shut the hell up—but she refused to look at him. She kept talking.
“Now, my top priority is untangling the financial mess we’re in. However, I want y’all to know that my door is open. If you have any concerns, any questions, any suggestions you think I should hear—about any aspect of the newspaper—I will listen. And…” Cheri felt J.J. arrive at her side. He didn’t touch her, but she felt the heat of his body, the solid presence of him. Suddenly, it dawned on her that he wasn’t trying to shut her up. He was offering his support. She risked a quick glance at him and saw the warm smile in his eyes. Cheri took a deep breath.
“I give you my word—no one will lose their job in the next month. I don’t care how bad things get. Nobody currently employed at the Bugle—in delivery and circulation, or the pressroom, or the newsroom—not one person will lose their job this month. That is my promise.”
The room was silent. Cheri gathered up her legal pad and pen and thanked everyone for their time. She felt their eyes burning a hole in her back as she exited the conference room.
She found Gladys at her desk. This morning’s wardrobe selection consisted of a red nylon-spandex wrap dress, red espadrilles, and red and black earrings in a skull-and-crossbones motif.
“Morning, Gladys.”
“Morning yourself,” she said with a wide, smeared-lipstick smile. “Getting settled in?”
“Slowly,” Cheri said.
“Hmph! I hear you’ve got round-the-clock help out there at the lake house, if you know what I mean!”
Cheri didn’t have the time to deal with the comment. “Gladys,” she said evenly, “I want you to e-mail me with the contact information for all the lawn and garden and landscaping advertising accounts we’ve had in the last ten years. Where is Purnell this morning?”
Gladys narrowed her eyes at Cheri. “He called in sick.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
Gladys shrugged. “His heart condition, most likely, though he didn’t rightly say.”
Cheri nodded. “Does he still live on Warmsprings Road?”
Gladys tipped her head. “Yes, but…”
“Thanks,” Cheri said with a polite smile. “Ten minutes, please.”
* * *
Cheri was mad as hell by the time she arrived at Purnell Lawson’s shabby single-story ranch house. She regretted that she hadn’t eaten anything since lunch the day before, because she couldn’t tell whether her cur
rent light-headedness was from going twenty-four hours without food or from being as hacked off as she’d ever been in her fucking life!
She’d visited every one of those lawn and garden and landscaping accounts. Half the landscaping services were no longer in business, but the others bought ads on the spot. “Where you been?” one landscaper asked. “I expected you around here a month ago!”
Of the fourteen brick-and-mortar retail establishments that had done business with the Bugle, five had gone out of business. Three said they’d agreed to advertise and never received contracts or a follow-up call. Two others said they’d been hounding Purnell to run their ads, to no avail. The remaining four said they’d simply given up on the Bugle because of a combination of declining circulation, high rates, unimaginative ad design, and piss-poor customer service.
And every business lost to the newspaper had moved their advertising dollars to the Internet, the Yellow Pages, radio, and the Waynesville and Ashville papers.
When she found Purnell, Cheri swore she might strangle the old fool with her bare hands.
She pounded on the door. Nothing. She pounded some more.
“Purnell!” Cheri shouted against the door. No answer. Sighing in frustration, she hopped down into the tangle of weeds below the front windows and stood on her tiptoes to peek inside. There he was, slumped down in a rocking chair.
“Purnell! Are you okay?” she called out, banging on the window. He didn’t respond.
Cheri raced back to the door and tried the knob. The door flew open, and it was then that she noticed a chain had been torn from the frame. Had someone broken in to his house and attacked him? As she ran toward Purnell’s limp form, she pulled her BlackBerry from her bag and dialed 911.
* * *
“Cheri.”
She jumped in surprise, then stared blankly, as if she couldn’t make sense of the sight of J.J. standing in the doorway.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
“You didn’t. I just … I was lost in thought. How’s Purnell?”
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