Watching You

by Leslie A. Kelly

  “Damn it, Jessica, how many times do I have to say it? I would have erased it the minute I could.” He grabbed her arms, gripping her tightly, feeling as though something important was about to slip through his fingers for good. And it was entirely his own fault.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  He immediately loosened his grip. “Stay. Let’s talk. Get a drink. We can talk about the weather, or movies, or politics. I don’t care. Just…stay.”

  Her eyes were so big, luminous, and her lips—plain, all lipstick kissed off—were trembling. For a second, he let himself hope he hadn’t screwed this up beyond repair.

  “Please leave me alone,” she finally whispered, blinking rapidly as angry tears formed in her eyes. “I’m not used to this world you live in, and I don’t want to be a part of it. You’ve humiliated me enough for one night.”

  Reece always knew what to do. Always. He made his plans, he acted on them, he didn’t veer in unforeseen directions, never got off course, and he never apologized. So he was completely out of his depth here. “It was never my intention to hurt you.”

  “I don’t know or care what you meant to do, Reece. All I know is I’m embarrassed, and I’m angry, and I want to forget any of this happened. Now, I’m going downstairs to spend the rest of the evening celebrating my sister’s big night.”

  He waited one more long moment, searching her face, looking for an opening, some hint of softening. She ground her teeth, jutting out her jaw, completely determined. He’d blown it completely.

  “I handled this all wrong,” he finally said, dropping his hands and stepping away. “Tonight wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

  “Oh, you had it all planned out, how it was supposed to go?” When he didn’t deny it, she barked a humorless laugh. “Bravo, the great director. Jesus, you’re as bad as Sid.”

  He flinched. The insult had been about as low as she could go.

  “It’s been…interesting getting to know you, Mr. Winchester. But frankly, I hope to God I never lay eyes on you again.”

  It was an exit line if he’d ever heard one, and he’d heard plenty. But although she turned to the door and reached for the knob, she didn’t open it, and she didn’t go through it. She stood there in the silence for a moment, finally whispering, “Maybe I’ll wait a minute.”

  His pulse sped up. But she didn’t turn back toward him. Instead, she let go of the knob and walked over to the large window overlooking the beach. The sand below was dark and shadowy, the ocean beyond it a vast blackness, visible only by the gleams of moonlight dancing lightly on the surf.

  “Do you think they’re gone yet?” Her voice was low and shaky. “Sid and that guy? I don’t want to run into them downstairs.”

  Reece knew he was the last person she wanted comfort from right now, but nobody else was available. He hated to see her hurting so badly. Her anger had faded; now she was sad and humiliated. And alone. So he went to her, wrapping his arms around her. She stiffened, resisted for a second, and then allowed him to pull her close. She buried her face in his neck. He felt moisture there as she silently wept.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words unfamiliar in his mouth. But he meant them like he’d never meant it before. He gently stroked her hair, wanting her to believe him. “So damned sorry, Jessica.”

  She drew in a long, hitchy breath, and he wondered if she’d calmed down enough to realize he had been telling the truth about his intention to erase the tape. He hoped that was what she was about to say, anyway.

  Before she could say anything, though, the world exploded.

  A crack ripped the night, and even as the noise reached his ears, the large window erupted inward, showering them with glass.

  It took less than a second for his brain to place the sound he’d heard right before the window shattered. It had been a shot. Someone had fired a bullet at them through the window.

  He had one reaction, only one thought. Jessica!

  Reece didn’t plan, didn’t fear, didn’t worry a gun might be aimed at his head. All he could do was dive on her, taking them both down to the floor, up against the front wall of the room. They were under the window; the cement block construction would protect them as the glass had not.

  But shards from the window still rained down, landing on his back and littering the carpet all around them. She was so soft, so exposed in her sexy dress, and his brain screamed as he thought about thousands of tiny bites being taken out of her skin. So he wrapped himself around her. He grabbed her head, tucked it into his neck, and lifted her up off the floor into his arms, pulling her frantically against his chest, covering her, shielding her.

  Reece didn’t know who fired or what might come next. He only knew he would keep her safe until his last breath.

  He had put her in this situation, and he’d make damn sure she came out of it unscathed.

  Chapter 5

  The sound of a gunshot blowing out a massive window should have been enough to bring a halt to the most crowded of parties. That hadn’t been the case at the gallery showing, however. In fact, nobody in the noisy downstairs section of Venice on the Beach Fine Arts had even realized what had happened Friday. Reece had raced down an emergency staircase, dragging Jessica with him, to warn everyone. His—definitely sexy—brother, a cop, had taken over. All the patrons were quickly ushered into windowless bathrooms and conference rooms to wait for emergency responders.

  It had been a long night. She’d been interviewed by the police. There were worried patrons and, to everyone’s surprise, a quick sellout of Liza’s art.

  Well, maybe it wasn’t so surprising. Word of the drive-by shooting—or run-by, since the shot had to have come from the beach, from someone on foot—had, of course, hit the news. Celebrities were involved, after all. Everybody knew curiosity got people talking; in this town scandal steeped like Earl Grey. Buying a piece of art on display at the same time somebody had shot at Reece Winchester seemed like a sound investment.

  Unfortunately, all the press coverage brought people she’d rather not hear from crawling out of the woodwork. Like the one whose number had shown up as Unknown on her phone screen Tuesday morning as she walked across campus. God, she wished she hadn’t answered it.

  As soon as she heard his voice, she snapped, “How did you get this number?” And how soon can I change it? Again.

  Johnny, her ex, ignored the question. “Are you all right, baby doll? You weren’t hurt?”

  Cringing at the endearment she’d hated but endured, she said, “I’m fine.”

  “I literally died when I saw the pictures and read about the shooting. You could have been killed!”

  Did you? Literally? “I wasn’t. And it’s not your concern, anyway.”

  “Of course it is,” he said, a hint of a whine in his voice. She’d always hated that whine, which didn’t match his big ex–football player’s body. “You know how much I care about you.”

  “Well, stop it. I don’t want you caring about me, Johnny. I want you out of my life.”

  As usual, he ignored what she wanted. “Why were you alone with that guy?”

  Of course. They’d arrived at the real reason for his call. Not because she might have been shot, but because she’d been alone with a handsome man when it happened. He hadn’t changed a bit. She was tempted to hang up, but cutting off communication and trying to keep out of his reach, verbal or otherwise, hadn’t worked during the past year. Why would it now?

  She swallowed, not sure if what she wanted to say was going to inflame him or get him to finally realize they were finished. But she had to try. “I was alone with him because we’re involved,” she said, crossing her fingers behind her back.

  “You’re screwing that spoiled Hollywood prick?” He’d yelled so loudly she had to pull the phone away from her ear.

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  In his rage, he didn’t even hear her. “Did he fuck you right in the building while that slut sister of yours was showing off the garbage s
he calls art?”

  Ahh, there was the good ol’ boy she remembered. “I’ve moved on. You need to, too.”

  “You bitch!”

  Jess was trying hard to remain calm and strong, but the fury in his voice made her shudder. It brought back so many memories of his verbal and emotional abuse. He hadn’t ever hit her, though she knew he’d wanted to a couple of times. He’d screamed at her often, and had done what he could to mess with her head. Things like attacking her self-confidence about her writing, her looks, and her femininity.

  After the breakup, he’d followed her, not caring if she spotted him. There’d been endless heavy-breathing calls and notes slipped under her door. The worst was when he’d smashed the windows in her car. He’d found her books and papers and burned them. Blackened pieces of a script she’d been working on were strewn on the floor with the glass. Although she had backups, she’d felt utterly assaulted. Invaded.

  Fortunately for her sanity, everything had calmed down over the past couple of months.

  Then the phone rang. If the harassment and threats started up again, she might lose her mind.

  “Reece is very protective. He won’t like you calling me, so you’d better back off.”

  Letting out a loud laugh, he said, “You think I’m scared of some pussy actor?”

  “Not only is he incredibly strong, he’s also wealthy.”

  “Oh, sure, you’re after him for his money. I wasn’t rich enough for you, huh?”

  “I said that to make sure you understand he has connections. He can hire security.” She scrambled for more. “His own brother is a cop.”

  Johnny fell silent, and Jess hoped he was reevaluating his actions. She’d never called the police on him before, afraid it would escalate things. Maybe this ruse with Reece would do the trick, and her ex would actually be smart for a change.

  His snarl said he was still completely stupid. “He’ll dump you. He’ll use you and throw you away. You’ll be begging me to take you back.”

  She ran a weary hand through her hair, knocking her ponytail holder loose. “If he does, it will be my business, Johnny. Not yours.”

  “JJ, listen…”

  “No. I’m done listening. As for begging you to take me back?” She laughed, knowing she sounded a little hysterical. “I wouldn’t beg you to throw water on me if I were on fire.”

  Then she hung up. Johnny Dixon had already consumed far too much of her time and energy.

  “Do your worst, you son of a bitch,” she muttered, sensing a resolve in herself that might not have been there a year ago. Glancing at the time, she realized she was late for her appointment with her academic advisor. She shook off the worry her life was about to detour back into Crazypants land, and raced across campus, knocking on Professor Alan Bent’s door at exactly four minutes past her scheduled time. Bent was a former Hollywood staple whose successful screenwriting career had grown old, as had he.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, out of breath, after he’d ushered her in.

  “Please, sit down,” he said, smiling. “Take a few breaths. I looked out the window and saw you running across the lawn.”

  She dropped to the chair, heaved a few times, and then nodded her readiness.

  Apparently, he had something other than academics in mind. “So, has there been any word on the investigation into the shooting?”

  “No.”

  The older man, tsked. “I still can’t believe you were caught in the crossfire.”

  “There was no crossfire, Professor. It was one shot. Mr. Winchester protected me. We alerted everyone else. And the police didn’t find anyone.”

  He still looked curious, as everyone had in the few days since the incident. Good thing Reece had bought the camera from the photographer; the pictures would have been much more popular with the news coverage. The story about the attack had gone national.

  Unfortunately, a reporter had found out who she was and where she worked, and came into the restaurant for an ambush interview. He’d been less interested in the shooting than in why she had been alone with Reece at the time. More reporters had followed, and her boss ordered her to stay home until this all blew over. She hoped it would soon. She couldn’t afford the unpaid time off. Liza could cover the bills for a while, given her success at the showing, but Jess liked to pay her own way.

  Remembering Johnny’s phone call, though, she acknowledged there might be a silver lining. If she wasn’t at work, he couldn’t come in and harass her, as he had a couple of times last winter before her boss banned him.

  “Frankly, my dear, I’m glad there was too much traffic for me to get to the gallery in time,” Alan said. “These old bones can’t handle that much excitement.”

  “I’m glad, too.” She had invited him, sensing he was lonely. The Hollywood elite weren’t always kind to those who aged out of usefulness—in their view. Alan had hit the skids, career-wise, and, judging by the shabbiness of the tweed jacket he always wore, financially. Jess wouldn’t want to think about any harm befalling him physically.

  Fortunately, nobody else had been hurt at the gallery. Only her and Reece. She had tiny cuts on her face, arms, and shoulders, and a few on her legs, but nothing else. Reece had lifted her off the glass on the carpet with one powerful arm, and shielded her from the shards tinkling onto them from above. His head, broad shoulders, and back took the brunt of it.

  He’d refused to let anyone look at his injuries. But the flecks all over his suit and the gleams of glass twinkling in his hair hinted he hadn’t escaped unscathed.

  He’d put himself in danger for her. She still didn’t know how to feel about his heroic actions, given how devastated she’d been in the minutes leading up to the potentially deadly shot.

  “Have you got any thoughts about who might have done it? Or why?”

  “No. The police questioned me that night and called me again yesterday to follow up, but didn’t give me any more information.”

  “I suppose they’re focusing on Mr. Winchester, since he was most likely the target.”

  “Most likely.”

  Alan frowned. “He’s not the charmer the world thinks he is.”

  Disdain dripped from his words, which surprised her. She didn’t respond, curious about his tone.

  There was some bad blood here. “He could have been killed,” she pointed out.

  The shooter almost certainly hadn’t been aiming at her. Famous movie stars were often targeted by stalkers.

  Or maybe Sid Loman had been pissed off about being fired. According to police, his car was still in the gallery lot, and he hadn’t returned to his apartment.

  One more possibility whispered in her brain. She dropped her gaze to her own hands, not even listening to what Alan was saying. What if it was Johnny?

  “Are you all right?” her professor asked.

  “Fine,” she said, knowing she sounded breathy.

  He got up and went to a small refrigerator, getting her a bottle of water. Twisting off the cap, he put the bottle in her hand and ordered her to drink.

  She gulped the water down, trying to douse the heat of her own imagination. It was impossible. Wasn’t it? Johnny couldn’t have been spying on her Friday night. He couldn’t have seen her in the arms of another man, the first she’d even kissed since the breakup. He couldn’t have fired at them. Could he?

  “Feeling better?”

  She nodded, finding it hard to focus on this meeting. But she had to think about her degree, so close she could almost taste it. Johnny couldn’t be allowed to cost her that, not on top of robbing her of her peace of mind for so long. “I’m fine. Thank you for the water.”

  “Certainly.” He sat down again. “Are there any leads at all?”

  Back to the subject she didn’t want to discuss. But he’d been kind, and she couldn’t brush him off. “There are cameras all over the building, including one facing the beach. The police think the shooter stood in the surf, in the darkness, just out of range.”

  �
�It sounds like a long distance.”

  “Which could be why he missed.”

  Johnny’s father had put a hunting rifle in his hands at age nine, and he continued to do so whenever he went home to visit.

  “Well, I do hope you are being careful,” the professor said, clearing his throat.

  “I am, thank you.”

  “Now, about why I called you in today…”

  “Have you read A Child in the Street?”

  She had finished the script she’d been required to write as her final project weeks ago and had been sweating about his reaction since. She’d clawed the script from a dark, private place that dwelled deep inside her. It wasn’t easy to let somebody else visit there.

  “Actually, no.”

  Well, shit was her first reaction. Her second was Thank God.

  “You seem relieved.” He peered at her over a file. “Are you concerned about it?”

  “You remember how nervous I was in my first class with you.”

  He chuckled. “I had to pry your papers out of your hands.”

  “This project. It’s especially…”

  “Intimate, I’m aware.”

  “I thought you hadn’t read it.”

  “I might have peeked at the first few pages.” His unruly gray brows furrowed, and she suspected she wasn’t going to like what he was about to say. “They’re…a bit self-indulgent.”

  Jess felt herself deflate, knowing what he meant. Although Alan didn’t ask what she’d based the story on, he would probably soon realize it was about her. Sooner or later, every writer wrote autobiographically. She was no different. So the main character was an eleven-year-old foster kid, sassy, smart-mouthed, streetwise. Bad things happened to her, but she didn’t get a happily ever after. It was a might-have-been tale, and she didn’t need a shrink to tell her why she’d written it.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. She’d been stupid to pour so much of herself into it, opening herself up to not only criticism of her writing, but judgment on her own life.

  “Don’t be discouraged. As I said, I’ve only read part of it.”