“Oh God—I—I didn't mean to—” I stammered.
“It's fine,” he said, rubbing his cheek. “Not the first time a woman has slapped me, probably won't be the last. Hell, I probably deserved that for calling you sweetheart.”
“No, you didn't. I'm just—I—I'm just a little raw right now. I'm sorry, though. You didn't deserve it.”
I kept muttering to myself, ignoring Jameson's questions because I couldn't bring myself to answer them. I couldn't face the truth of what I was hiding from, what I was running from. At least, not yet. I felt completely powerless. So, instead of confronting my issue head on and coming clean to the one person who'd tried to help me—I freaked about the car.
“What type of town doesn't have BMW parts in stock? Seriously, I don't get it. What is this place?”
I paced around frantically, trying to pull myself together and ignoring Jameson entirely as I freaked out. “So, now I have to stay here longer, in a disgusting, filthy motel in the middle of no—” Jameson grabbed my hand, pulling me into him. Before I could say another word, his lips were pressed to mine. I didn't fight back—at least, not at first. I was so surprised, so shocked that he'd be so bold, that I just stood there, letting him kiss me. He tasted like cigarettes and coffee—not an entirely pleasant taste. But in a weird way, it was kind of sexy too. It was manly. Rugged. Masculine. As soon as it fully registered that not only was he kissing me—but I was kissing him back—I pulled away, pushing him hard in the chest with both hands as I reached back to slap him again.
“Sorry, I had to get you to calm down somehow,” he said, licking his lips with a satisfied smile.
“So you fucking kissed me?!?” I shouted.
“It worked, didn't it?” He grinned. “For a second, anyway.”
I opened my mouth to say something, and then snapped it closed again. I couldn't find the words for what I wanted to say to him. I knew there were a lot of expletives and insults mixed in, but I couldn't form a coherent enough thought to blurt anything out at all.
“Come on,” he said and motioned for me to follow him.
“Where are we going?”
“Lunch. It's on me,” he said. “I'm sure you're starving. And you need some food in your stomach to keep your strength up if you're gonna keep fighting everybody.”
Chapter 6
Isabelle
“I thought we were getting lunch,” I said warily, looking at the house in front of us.
“We are,” he said, leading the way to the front door.
I stood there a moment trying to decide if I was really going to go into a stranger’s house, when he turned to me and asked, “You coming?”
“This doesn't look like a restaurant, though,” I said, my brain still a fuzzy mess. “It looks like someone's house.”
“That's because it is,” Jameson said, opening the door. “It's my house.”
“Well I guess it's a good thing we're not breaking into someone's house, but why are we here? I'm not going to sleep with you. And if you brought me here thinking that was going to happen, you're out of your mind.”
He laughed, holding the door open for me. “Relax. I figured I could make you lunch.”
“Make me lunch?”
“What? I don't look like a man who can cook?”
“No. Not really. You seem more like an order a pizza and beer guy.”
“Okay, you're right. I'm a terrible cook, but I can make a sandwich at least,” he said. “Come on, I won't bite.”
“No more kisses either.”
Jameson winked at me. “No more kisses. Scout's honor,” he said. “Unless, of course, you're the one kissing me because I certainly won't object to that.”
“Not gonna happen,” I said, wagging a finger at him.
Stepping inside Jameson's place, I tried hard not to grimace. I stepped over a pizza box on the floor—just sitting in the middle of the floor—and watched my step very carefully, trying not to trip. The furniture was mismatched and in need of a deep cleaning, so I avoided touching anything. Dust lingered everywhere.
It was a small place—a little too small for my liking. Kind of claustrophobic. But it didn't look like Jameson had any need for a bigger place. He had a couch facing a large TV, and just a couple of empty beer bottles set on the coffee table. The thing I found odd, though, was that there were no photos or decorations on the walls. The place was completely sterile and barren of any personal touches. It was almost like he rented and didn't expect to stay here long.
We walked through the small living room, and I could see the kitchen from there. I hoped it was cleaner than the living room. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. The trash can was overflowing with beer bottles and empty bottles of Jack Daniels stacked up in it.
“Someone had a party,” I said, glancing at the worn-in couch.
“Huh?” Jameson said, looking around. “Oh, uhm yeah. Had some friends over a couple days ago, haven't had a chance to clean up much.”
He started piling the bottles into a trash bag and then dumped an ashtray in as well. I walked around the room, trying to get some sense of who he was from the home he lived in. But it was just a house, not a home. It seemed like just a place where he laid his head at night. Nothing more, nothing less. It all just felt—temporary. Which in a way, spoke volumes about his state of mind and his life. And frankly, it was a little sad.
“Did you just move in?” I asked him.
“Nah, been here for about two years, give or take,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason.”
As I walked over to the built-in bookcase, I saw something that caught my eye. Something shiny. It was a heart-shaped locket, which seemed very out of place there. Without thinking, I picked it up and opened it. It was beautiful, and inside was a picture of a woman and a little boy. It was an older picture, and the woman had the same dark hair and blue eyes as Jameson—they were obviously related. Mother, perhaps?
I looked up to find him staring at me, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Please put that back.”
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean—who is this?” I asked. “Is this your mom? Why don't you have more—”
“I asked you to put it back, Isabelle,” he said, dropping the trash bag and walking over to me, forcibly taking it from my hand and closing it. “You think you're the only one who's allowed to have secrets? Huh?”
“I'm sorry. I was just curious.”
He turned away from me, visibly upset, and continued picking up the bottles around the living room. He didn't say another word for a while, so I didn't either. I followed him into the kitchen and he turned toward me and said, “What now?”
His tone surprised me.
“Sorry,” I said, my voice rising, “I didn't mean to be such a problem to you, maybe I should be going now.”
“Maybe you should,” he said, dropping the trash bag near the rest of the cans. “Bringing you here was a mistake, I don't know what I was thinking.”
I felt a lump in my throat, but I swallowed it down. I let the rage fill me from within as I walked toward the door. “Fine then, I'll just walk back to the motel. You said it wasn't the far away anyway.”
I slammed the door behind me as I hurried away from Jameson's place, cursing my Jimmy Choo’s and wishing for something more practical on my feet. I needed to go shopping for some clothes, some makeup, something. When I left, I'd left in such a hurry, I didn't pack anything. I didn’t know what I was thinking, leaving a whole closet of expensive clothing and bags and shoes—all for that jackass to sell or destroy. And here I was with one outfit to my name and not even a practical one at that.
I walked to the main road and headed toward the motel. My stomach was growling, so I prayed there would be a restaurant on the way. The first place I walked by looked like a roach fest, so I kept walking. In the distance, I heard a motorcycle and tried to walk even faster. Not that I could outwalk a motorcycle, especially in these damn heels, but I tried.
Jameson pulled up bes
ide me and stopped, but I kept walking.
“Isabelle, I'm sorry,” he said.
I didn't answer him. No need to.
“Are you really going to walk all the way back to the motel?”
“It's not that far,” I said.
“It's far enough,” he said. “Come on, let me give you a ride. One last ride and I'll leave you alone for good.”
I turned around and walked toward him. “Is that a promise?”
“Yes, ma'am. Cross my heart and hope to die,” he said. “One last ride and you'll never see my ugly mug again.”
Without a second thought, I got on the back of the bike, feeling almost like a pro at this point, and let him drive me back to my disgusting motel room.
Chapter 7
Isabelle
I hopped off the back of the bike and prepared to say my goodbyes to Jameson, once and for all, when it hit me. I didn't know a single person here in Milling. He was it.
“What's wrong?” Jameson asked, staring at me from where he remained on the bike. “Almost looks like you're second guessing our arrangement.”
“Not second guessing anything,” I said, my head held high. Inside was a different story, but I wasn’t going to let him know how scared and lost I felt.
I could be as stubborn as hell when I wanted to be. And in that moment, I wanted to be. Felt like I needed to be. I wasn't one who particularly enjoyed showing weakness or asking for help. I could be as prideful as any man.
“So, you have stuff to eat in there?” he asked, motioning toward the motel room.
“I'll head to the store in a bit.”
“In those heels?” He looked down at my feet.
“I can walk barefoot, if need be,” I snapped. “Believe it or not, I can usually take care of myself. Did it a long time before you ever came around.”
Jameson smirked. I hated smirks. “Have you felt the pavement beneath your feet, Isabelle? When it's this hot outside, the ground is scorching as well. But don't take my word for it. Go on, put your hand to the ground and feel it.”
As gracefully as I could manage, I squatted down and put my fingertips on the pavement. Damn. He was right. I didn't even have to lay my hand against that nasty ground to know he was right. I could feel the waves of heat coming off the rough asphalt from several inches away.
“Thank you for your concern, but I promise you I'll be just fine. You don't have to worry about me. I'm a big girl.”
I turned on my heels and walked toward my motel room, biting my lip and blinking back the tears that were trying to fall. I didn't have the first clue what I was going to do about my car, me, anything. As much as I wanted to scream and cry in frustration, after my tirade earlier, I sure as hell wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.
“What about some new clothes? Might be nice to change out of that get up, wouldn't it?” he yelled after me.
Yeah, it would be nice. But I had a feeling Milling didn't offer much in the way of respectable clothing stores. I didn't imagine that Nordstrom’s or Saks Fifth Avenue had locations there. But I'd find something. I couldn't parade around like this every day. Maybe I'd have to lower my standards and find something a little more suitable for this place. Maybe a burlap sack and some Crocs? Yeah, liked I'd ever be caught dead in Crocs.
“I'm sure I'll figure it out,” I called back to him as I pulled the key card out and inserted it into the reader.
It beeped, signaling it was okay to enter. I needed to stop by and tell Jerry I'd be here for a few more days, but I decided that I'd wait until Jameson took off first. I shuddered, realizing I’d have to stand in front of Jerry—alone. The guy gave me the serious creeps, but according to Jameson—he was harmless.
Like Jameson was the type of person I could trust for a character reference, but still. What choice did I have? Also, Jameson was a big, burly man. Not a woman. A woman alone, at that. Part of me wondered how harmless Creepy Jerry really was.
I went to close the door behind me and found that Jameson was standing there, his foot stopping me from closing it. In a moment of panic, I started screaming for him to leave me alone. He reached through the door and placed a hand over my mouth, trying to shut me up. I reacted the only way I knew how—I bit down on his hand. Hard. He grimaced and grunted in pain, but he let me go, shaking his hand and looking all kinds of irritated.
“Isabelle, calm down, I'm not going to hurt you!” he said through gritted teeth.
“You said you'd leave me alone,” I cried out, trying to force the door closed. “So leave me alone. Go away!”
“Look, I'm worried about you,” he said. “I can't help it. I wish I wasn't. I really wish I could just walk away and not think about the scared woman with the black eye I found on the side of the road. Believe me, I wish I could. You've been nothing but a pain in my ass since I found you. But I can't. I'm not that type of man—nor would I want to be honestly.”
“You don't need to worry about me,” I lied. “I'm fine.”
He was annoyed, I could tell by the look on his face. He was tired of this back and forth, tired of trying to earn my trust and only getting everything thrown back in his face. Truthfully, I wished he'd just stop. I wanted to be left alone. I didn't want to have to explain myself or have any man mess with me at that moment. I'd had more than my fill of men screwing with me, hurting me, and I just wanted to be left the hell alone. Was that too much to ask?
“You don't have a phone, a car, no way to reach your family—don't you have anyone you'd like to reach out to? Somebody who can help you? Aside from me, since you obviously don't want my help.”
His question burned my insides, and my blood boiled. I wasn't going to spill my life story to him. He didn't need to know my background. He didn't have a right to know my story.
“No, I don't,” I said. “There's no one I want to talk to right now.”
“Don't you have parents? People who care about you? Who might want to know you're in trouble?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the tears back down where they came from. I was not going to let him see me cry. I'd kill myself first. As much as he didn't deserve to hear my story, he didn't deserve to see my tears.
“That's none of your business.”
“Okay then, a best friend?” he pressed. “Somebody you can turn to?”
“No. I told you that. I wish you'd understand.”
There was a moment of silence as he looked back through the crack of the door at me. His eyes were wide and sad, they held pity. Pity for me. The poor little rich girl in the middle of nowhere with no family or friends to turn to. God, I seriously was pathetic.
“Isabelle, you don't have to be alone,” he said. “I'm alone, too, just let me in. I can help you.”
“No one can help me,” I said quietly. “No one.”
He removed his foot from the door, allowing me to close it. From the other side of the door, he spoke to me, “Believe it or not, Isabelle, I'm actually the kind of guy who can help you. If you want me to, that is. I'm not as bad as you seem to think I am.”
I listened for a long time, but there was nothing else from the other side. Not even the sound of Jameson's motorcycle. He was apparently just going to sit out there, outside of my motel room, and wait for me.
I stayed by the door, fighting myself with the decision to open it or keep it closed. I weighed out all the pros and cons and then factored those against my own fears. He was right. I had no one. I wasn't in a position to turn down help, no matter where it came from. But the very idea of letting a man like Jameson into my world scared me—especially after everything I'd been through. He looked like a bad guy. He looked like somebody people feared. Somebody who hurt people. And that was the last thing I needed in that moment.
Hell, Scott didn't even look like he was a bad guy, and he'd turned out to be one of the worst guys I'd ever met. He had everyone fooled—my parents included. They loved the guy, thought the world of him. Thought he walked on water and never considered the idea that he'd
hurt me. I knew they'd turn their nose up at Jameson. They’d think of him as a lowlife. A filthy scoundrel. He was the kind of guy they’d tell me to avoid. To never give the time of day to. To them, he wasn't the type of man I should even talk to—much less ride with on a motorcycle.
And if Scott could turn out to be a monster, why couldn't Jameson? He certainly looked like he was better suited for it. He fit the part perfectly—right out of central casting in the role of a monster. Yet nothing about him seemed to send up red flags for me—even though my mind argued that it should.
But maybe I was naive. Still. Even after all I'd been through.
Maybe I just didn't see that side of Jameson, much like I never saw the bad side of Scott until it was too late. I touched my eye which was still puffy and tender and knew it was a mistake I wasn't keen to repeat any time soon.
Chapter 8
Jameson
I was sitting on a planter outside the motel, smoking a cigarette and keeping an eye on things, when a bike rumbled into the parking lot and pulled to a stop beside me. I recognized the bike—and its rider—instantly.
“Hey, man,” the guy said once he took off his helmet. “Been lookin' for ya, man. Haven't heard from you in a few days.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, I've been dealing with some shit, Ace. What's up?”
Ace couldn't have been looking for me all that hard. After all, it wasn't too difficult to find someone in Milling. The town wasn't too large—you could practically spit from one side of the town limits and have it land on the other. Usually, just a drive around the place would usually yield the person you were looking for. Unless, of course, they were trying to hide from you. Then they’d leave town—if they were smart, that is.
“We found the guy,” Ace said, scratching his beard. “Stupid fucker came back to town. Can you believe it? Dude must have a death wish or something.”
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