by A B Plum
His enthusiastic language lesson stirred her own curiosity, and she felt the intrusive wordplay fade a bit. “And you know this how?”
“Googled it. My favorite search engine reveals everything if you dig deep enough.”
The throwaway comment burrowed under her skin, and she flinched.
Opening the door into the restaurant, he frowned. “You okay?”
“Twisted my ankle,” she lied and commented on the candles and fresh flowers to distract them both. She whispered, “Definitely more upscale than Charley’s.”
“Wait till you taste their cream of squash soup.” Jack stepped away to confer with the maître d’.
A second later, a tuxedoed Vietnamese waiter led them into a small dining room with low lights, muted conversations, and classical music in the background. Starched white tablecloths covered all the tables. Their corner spot, by the window, felt detached and intimate.
Not the kind of place she and Stone frequented because Niels created the same ambience at the mansion. She said, “This is exquisite.”
“The chef is French-trained.”
The waiter seated them, poured water, and turned them over to a petite Vietnamese woman. She greeted Jack by name, nodded to Ryn, and laid the large menus in front of them. Jack checked with Ryn regarding her choice of white or red wine. She hesitated. Given The Monkey Boys and her attack on Jack, she considered saying neither. She and Stone usually shared a bottle at dinner, but under the circumstances …
“C’mon,” Jack said, leaning toward her. “I’m driving.”
She laughed—not because his comment was funny, but because she wanted an excuse to say yes. He ordered a bottle of chardonnay without looking at the wine list. It appeared almost instantly, and the steward made a production of wiping out Jack’s glass, pouring in a bit of wine, and waiting at attention.
Jack picked up the glass, sniffed the contents, swished the sample in his mouth, nodded. Stone would laugh his ass off. Even with her eyes focused on Jack, Ryn could see Stone’s smirk and rolled eyes.
“I figured you for a chardonnay enthusiast,” Jack said, “so I double checked with the maître d’.”
“You mean we’d’ve gone somewhere else?” Someplace with more light? Someplace where you’d recognize me?
“Probably not. I’m in the mood for cream of squash soup.” He lifted his glass to her. “Welcome to Los Altos, Kathryn. I promise wine makes me mellow versus windy—though I bet you never noticed my motor mouth.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Is there a right response to that observation?”
“Nope. I’m not sure how to pinpoint my chattiness.” He tapped an index finger on the top of his wine glass.
If he drank enough, did the likelihood decrease of his recognizing her? She pitched her tone upbeat, bright and spoke straight-faced. “It’s not every night you get mugged in your own elevator.”
He grinned. “True. In some ways, though, that scene capped the rest of the day.” The reflection from the candles danced in his green eyes, making them dark, soft, and unreadable. “I won’t bore you with the details, but one of those once-in-a-lifetime, out-of-the-blue opportunities dropped in my lap.”
Ryn tuned him out. At forty-two, he was a little old to be a rock fanatic—or even a rock fan. She figured him more as the classical music, Wall Street Journal type. Probably wouldn’t use a tabloid to wrap his garbage.
“Anyone ever tell you what a great listener you are?”
Ryn’s stomach dropped. You never listen, Ryn. You’re so goddamned righteous. She straightened her soup spoon and forced a smile. With any luck, Jack would keep her listening instead of asking her questions.
“All the time.” She grabbed at a safe topic—one she could make a few revelations if their roles reversed. “I’m a great listener and a terrible conversationalist. Why don’t you tell me more about your job?”
Jack didn’t need a second cue. He immediately launched into a running soliloquy about how he needed to listen more and talk less at work.
“What time do you go to bed?” Ryn interrupted. Maybe he was too busy working to watch TV. Maybe he came home too late to watch the news. Maybe he’d lived in a yurt the past week and heard zip about Stone’s murder.
“Pardon?” Eyes narrowed, he cocked his head.
“I was wondering if you’d like to go dancing after dinner.” She enjoyed seeing his eyes widen with surprise. “Or do you have to go home to watch the latest news on this murder or that one?”
A muscle ticked under her left eye. Careful, careful. Fly too close to fire and get burned.
Jack’s face broke into a watermelon-smile. While it stayed pasted from ear to ear, his gaze shifted a nano-inch to a spot behind her.
“I never watch TV.” He shook his head—a sign he was trying to convince her of a lie? He opened his palms. “I never miss the PBS News or Monday Night Football every week—unless someone I know very well dies Monday morning.”
Despite an instant replay of a red hibiscus, Ryn laughed. She couldn’t go the rest of her life wailing or fainting or falling apart hearing died. She loosened her grip on the wine glass as he nodded to the wine steward.
Jack waited until they were alone before saying, “TV’s boring. I don’t sit around waiting for things to happen. I go looking for action. If there isn’t any, I make some.”
The eerie echo of Stone’s tone and almost verbatim proclamations slammed into Ryn’s solar plexus. Her breath caught. How often had her legendary rock-star lover made sounds like a bored Zeus up on Mount Olympus looking to raise a little hell with some poor dumb mortal down on earth?
Doesn’t matter whether OJ was innocent, Ryn. Twenty years later, I can write a song that will turn everyone’s brain upside down.
Every time she asked why he’d bother, like Zeus starting a war, Stone started an argument. Nothing wrong with wanting some action when you were bored out of your skull by the mere mortals in your life.
“Whoa. What’d I say?” Jack laid his menu to one side and dragged her back to the table.
She stared. Most people, Stone included, couldn’t read her body language. She met Jack’s gaze straight on. “I dislike that phrase—looking for action. I dislike even more the idea of someone being such a legend in his own mind that he thinks he can go out and create action where there is none.”
Without missing a beat, Jack asked, “Aren’t you going to say you’re sorry?”
She made a rude noise. “For what?”
“You might’ve hurt my feelings. Or misinterpreted what I meant. Or for stirring up potential conflict between us.”
“Why should there be any potential conflict between us?” Ryn laid her hands on the table.
Jack shrugged. “I might get pissed because you squeezed my balls.”
“So get pissed.” Ryn’s mouth twisted, and she returned the shrug. “I’m used to men getting pissed at something I do or say. Apologizing usually makes me look as if I’m to blame.”
“Ouch. Sounds as if you and the man in your life had the big ‘C’ problem.” Jack was smiling again.
“What makes you think we had the problem? Maybe we still do.” Aware she’d stepped out on a limb, she sipped her wine in hopes of slowing her heart.
“Huh-uh.” Jack tapped the table. “I don’t think you’d tolerate a major problem like that for long.”
“Not for five minutes.” Her heart missed a beat. How much machismo would she tolerate if her tolerance brought Stone back? She bit the inside of her lip. Dammit, she should’ve stayed in her apartment.
“Dollar for your thoughts,” Jack interrupted, raising his hand as if to pat her wrist but picking up a roll instead.
For a second, she couldn’t recall their conversation. Didn’t want to recall it.
Jack prompted, “You were explaining how you wouldn’t tolerate—”
“Let’s just say that like the rest of the world, I’m entitled to my opinion.” She tilted her wine glass in his direction. “I s
ound a little—a lot—pompous, right?”
“Dancing helps me with that particular flaw. Every time I get pompous on the dance floor, I miss a step and fall all over myself. But if you’ve got the nerve, I’d like to accept your invitation.”
Ryn laughed. “You’re pretty smooth. That segue from conflict and tolerance to dance was damned good.”
“I get paid every day to segue and tap dance on the ceiling. I freelance public relations for a small start-up in Mountain View—you know, the heart of Silicon Valley.”
The squash soup arrived and they reverted to superficialities—the weather, the food, the incredible soup. Ryn caught Jack studying her between the appetizer and main course.
“How come you haven’t asked me all the usual PR questions? Like, where ya from? Why’re you in LA? Whatta you do? Yakkity yak elevator chatter?”
Jack snapped his fingers. “I’m sneaky. At least I was until you caught me out. It’s more fun to find those answers without being obvious.”
“For all you know, I could be a serial killer living upstairs from you.” Idiot. She disregarded the niggling voice. Playing with fire held a sudden appeal.
“I was sort of coming to that conclusion there in the foyer—when you locked onto my ankles.”
A quicksilver image of The Wolf grinning at Little Red Riding Hood flashed in Ryn’s mind. Drunk. That would explain her brain derailing. But she also realized how much she’d missed the bantering between her and Stone. When had they started sniping instead of teasing? After Lavender’s death, he argued for days about his mother’s favorite flower, the date of her birth, the kind of funeral they should have. Ryn became the target of his temper tantrums. Finally, she let him win any and all differences. He’d never stopped ranting about what should happen to the quadriplegic driver of the van Lavender hit. I don’t care if he doesn’t have any hands or feet. He’s not the victim. My mother was.
“Mars to Kathryn. Mars to Kathryn. The mothership is leaving.”
Jack’s tinny voice jerked Ryn back to the present enough to say, “Have you noticed my mind is a steel trap?”
“Indeed. I am a keen observer of my fellow humans. I can’t be sure without my crystal ball, but I’d say you’re having some kind of crisis—”
“Wrong.” She swiped her hands in front of her like a baseball ump, knocking over her full water glass.
The waiter sprinted across the room and mopped up the mess. She made no effort to apologize. Not with Jack watching her. He’d followed her bread-crumb trail and now she wanted to crawl back in her hole. She asked the waiter for the check and said to Jack, “Sorry, I’m tired. Too tired to go dancing after all.”
“Okay. I’ll take a raincheck.”
“Sure,” she lied.
The waiter returned with a black leather holder, cutting off further discussion. Ryn glanced at the bill, laid twenty-five twenties inside the folder, and pushed her chair back. “I still want to replace your ruined clothes.”
Standing, Jack said, “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” She stood by the table, getting her balance, wishing she could write him a check. “When works for you? My schedule’s pretty flexible.”
“You mean you’ve got a job that doesn’t keep your nose to the grindstone from dawn to dusk?” Jack’s tone was light—an attempt to recapture the earlier mood. He held the door open to the courtyard, cautioning about the three steps.
Now he asks something personal. She didn’t miss a step. Hadn’t Stone always told her she was faster on her feet than a downhill skier?
Walking ahead of him, elbows tucked into her sides, she went with the truth. “I’m about to inherit some money very soon so I’m between jobs.
Chapter 14
“Noooooo!” Eyes wide open, Ryn lurched up in bed, terror choking her.
Fear—the kind that took over only in the dark—squeezed her heart like a rubber ball. The stench of a sour dish rag rose off the cotton nightgown plastered to her back and chest. Her matted hair clung to her scalp.
“A bad dream,” she said out loud. “A bad dream. A bad dream.” She needed to hear a voice, break the image of the newborn puppies, their eyes closed—as if stitched shut, their little noses moist, but getting drier and drier—as they blindly bumped against their mother’s dead body covered by a red hibiscus.
Dreamdreamdream. Breathe. Dreamdreamdream. She panted, unable to control her ragged breathing.
The warm yellow nightlight formed a triangle through the cracked bathroom door. Switch plates glowed orange—a circle of way stations in deep space. Maj snaked up from under the covers, stretched, and yawned on a pillow. Ryn reached for the living, breathing animal. “You know I’m crazy, don’t you?”
Maj leaped off the bed and landed with a soft thump on the carpet. Facing Ryn, she sat, extended her pink tongue, and licked one white paw which she then used to wash her face and ears.
“Sorry if I disturbed your beauty sleep. Life goes on.” Ryn swung her feet over the side of the bed. Anyone listening might think her voice sounded perfectly normal. Except she was talking to a cat. She shuffled her feet into her slippers.
Her heart still beat too hard. Dammit, she didn’t want to get up and shower. She stretched her neck and could almost see around the corner into the living room where she’d left a table lamp burning. Beyond it, she could make out the light flooding the kitchen island. She inched off the bed. Legs wobbling, she opened her top dresser drawer, and rummaged for the elevator key under her bras and panties.
Stupid. So stupid. She massaged her chest. The red hibiscus, the puppies, her dead cocker spaniel—they couldn’t hurt her. They couldn’t. She was safe. She was safe. She didn’t wake up because she heard something. She wasn’t living on the set of a horror movie. She’d had a nightmare.
No floorboards creaked anywhere in this apartment. No one was hiding in the closets, either. She knew this because—although it was crazy—she’d checked every closet and then examined under the beds as soon as she came home from dinner with Jack Kent. Before crawling into bed, she’d hooked chairs under every doorknob in the place.
“None of Dracula’s minions scratching at the window,” she said, hugging her waist. The steady, red security light confirmed the window was closed. “Too bad, Dracula.”
She rubbed the goosebumps on her arms. The digital clock on the bedside table turned over to 4:05. Would she wake up between three and four-thirty for the rest of her life—straining to hear two gunshots, straining to erase the imagined muffles of dead puppies?
She shivered. An icy cold gripped her insides. Blood had pooled in her hands and feet. God, she was scaring herself silly. She stumbled into the bathroom and grimaced at her reflection. A novice embalmer botched the job.
Her mind veered to Stone on a steel table. Would she sleep once the medical examiner released his body? Probably not. She hadn’t slept through the night since Lavender’s death. Stone had plunged into such a dark depression—rarely sleeping himself, refusing to practice with the band, picking at food, falling into near catatonia for days—that Ryn gave up her plans to leave.
Maj bumped against Ryn’s ankles, and she came back to the present, remembering her intention to take a shower. For whatever reason, she rarely thought about anything in the shower. She turned on the warm water. She’d read about people solving problems or experiencing eureka moments in the shower. Her mind, on the other hand, went blank. She stood under the spray from four showerheads and lathered up with rose-scented soap, washing away the BO and feeling the jitters in her stomach subside. Back in the bedroom, she pulled on jogging shorts, a light T-shirt, and thick cotton socks.
At 4:45, she tucked her running shoes under her arm and dragged a blanket behind her into the living room. She flipped on the TV. Sometimes, occasionally, rarely, the drone of the idiot box lulled her into a doze. If she was lucky enough to fall asleep now, she’d stay on the sofa until she woke up at seven. No matter how sleepless the night, she inevitably woke up
at seven and stayed up all day.
Worst case scenario? If she didn’t fall asleep, she’d run for an hour as soon as she caught the first glimpse of dawn. Maj cuddled up next to her as she channel-surfed for a quiet ’40’s movie. No violence. Preferably a comedy. Something to distract her from the slow-motion re-run of the puppies and the red hibiscus in the middle of Stone’s chest.
The memories shimmered at the edge of consciousness, and she pulled on her shoes. Five minutes later, she stepped onto the sidewalk in front of her building, and turned up the collar on her jacket.
A wispy fog hugged the ground and a couple of birds chirruped, breaking the pre-dawn silence. Ryn stretched for five minutes and decided on her route. Head for the hills, literally. Get out of the small downtown area with more coffee shops than Rome. Follow the smell of eucalyptus trees. Forget everything but putting one foot in front of the other. Hold her hands up near her shoulders so the blood didn’t pool in her fingers. Keep her breathing slow and even. Admit she’d never reach the mystical runner’s high. She ran because the pain pushed everything else to the back of her mind.
By 6:30, Ryn finished stretching her Achilles on the bottom step of the apartment. Sweat poured off her, and she had a low ache in her lower back.
“Miz Davis?” Hand extended, a balding, African-American giant covered the distance between a black Jeep and Ryn’s curb in three easy strides. He came at her as slow and graceful as a panther headed for a watering hole. “Elijah White.”
Ryn cricked her neck to look up and meet his almond-shaped eyes. “You must’ve driven from LA all night.”
“I like driving at night—gives me time to think.”
“I don’t know if Danny told you … I don’t cook.”
“Uh-huh. Danny did tell me. I’m a great cook. I’ll mosey over to the Safeway and buy eggs and breakfast fixin’s while you shower.” He spoke in a rich, cadenced baritone Ryn thought was Jamaican or Haitian. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll meet your friends from yesterday.”
Ryn spent two minutes describing The Monkey Boys. “Need directions?”