Pinups and Possibilities

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  “Yes?”

  “You said Cohen could probably track this car.”

  “Yeah, but it won’t matter once we’ve ditched it. We’ll be long gone before he IDs our new vehicle, and by then we’ll probably have switched it out once more. Once we’re far enough gone, we’ll move onto public transit and from there we’ll be in the wind.”

  Polly hesitated. “That’s how he found me, though, isn’t it? Tracking my cars?”

  There was no point in lying about it. “Yes.”

  “Tell me how it happened.”

  I cringed a little. The thought of recounting how I stalked her and her son on Cohen’s behalf turned my stomach. Still, she deserved an explanation.

  “A few months ago, I walked into Cohen’s office and found him drunk at his desk. There was a dead man on his floor and blood spatter everywhere. Cohen was waving a gun around like he wanted to use it again. In all the years I worked for him, I never saw the man lose control. Not once. But that day he was a disaster. He was raging about death and women and getting screwed over and suspicions being confirmed. He told me that the dead man had been lying to him.”

  I paused, remembering the disgust I felt at Cohen’s drunkenness, and the horror at the sight of the man he’d murdered, and the pain when I realized who it was, lying on the floor there.

  Howell.

  The man who’d saved my life and nursed me back to health. His eyes stared up at the ceiling with that lifeless, unseeing gaze that only the dead have. Polly didn’t need to hear all that.

  I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and took a steadying breath. “Cohen shook the gun at me and hollered that it had been almost six years. At first, I thought he was talking about something to do with me, because that’s about how long I’d been working for him. It took me a few minutes to figure out he meant Howell.”

  “Howell?” Polly’s face was pale.

  “You know him?”

  “I did. He—I liked him.”

  I waited for a further explanation of her stumbled reply, and when she didn’t offer one, I went on with my story. “Cohen switched topics then, and told me he would find Jayme Duncan if it was the last thing he did. At that point, he calmed down a little, and I managed to get him to give me the gun. I called down to have some of the guys clean up Cohen’s mess. Before they were even done, Cohen had passed out. The next morning, he called me back in. He made no mention of the scene the night before. He didn’t say anything about Howell or his murder. He just did what he always does when he wants me to find someone. He handed me a slip of paper and a last-known location.”

  “It was Jayme’s name?” Polly asked.

  I nodded. “Jayme’s name, and the name of a run-down car dealership in town.”

  “Junkyard Joys.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Howell got me a car from them,” Polly told me. “It was a piece of crap, but I just needed it to get me to the next town. The guys at Junkyard Joys weren’t exactly above line. And they weren’t too picky, but they wanted a name to register it to, and we couldn’t use mine. Even if I went with my fake ID, having them remember my face was too risky.”

  “So Howell gave them Jayme’s?”

  “Howell panicked. He was taking a big risk, helping me. So he told them he was Jayme. He thought it would easier for me to remember. And since Cohen didn’t know Jayme’s name…it seemed safe enough. I’ve used it for every car I’ve bought since, just transferring insurance when I’ve needed to.”

  “Cohen didn’t know your son’s name?” I was careful to avoid saying his son’s name since Polly had denied his parentage, but I couldn’t quite keep the surprise from my voice.

  “Only Dr. Howell did. He took care of me for the past three months of my pregnancy and was there for Jayme’s birth. Cohen never saw him.”

  I frowned, feeling like I was still missing a part of the story. I wanted to push for more answers, but the guarded look on Polly’s face made me hold in the urge.

  “Did you know that the office in Junkyard Joys burned to a crisp?” I asked instead.

  Polly inhaled deeply and nodded. “Howell was trying to cover up the records, just in case. He didn’t tell me that part of the plan until I was about to leave. And I still managed to get him killed.”

  “You didn’t get him killed. Howell wasn’t a saint. He was in deep with Cohen, saving the lives of criminals who undoubtedly went on to commit more crimes.”

  “It doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  I knew as well as anyone what it felt like to be laden with the burden of someone else’s death.

  Not the same, argued a voice in my head. You actually killed some. She just feels like she did.

  “Howell was a grown man,” I reminded her gruffly.

  I glanced over at Polly. Her mouth was pinched, and even though she had her face cast down, I could see the trail of tears on her cheeks. It was the first time I’d seen her cry since we met, the first sign of true vulnerability. A rush of protectiveness surged through me, and I moved my foot to the brake, and eased off the road. With the engine in idle, I reached across the console to squeeze her hand.

  “Hey,” I said. “This is not your fault.”

  “It was self-centred of me to run away and leave Howell behind to deal with my mess.”

  “You were young and pregnant. You were living with a tyrant. Running wasn’t self-centred—it was self-preservation.”

  “But Howell…”

  “Would’ve known what the risk was when he defied Cohen,” I filled in firmly. “I’m sure he thought it was worth it.”

  “Was it?”

  Polly’s question was small and insecure, but there wasn’t a shred of doubt in my answer.

  “Hell, yes.”

  Her eyes finally came up. I unthreaded my fingers from hers and used my thumb to wipe away her tears before I stroked her cheek. Her mouth opened like she was going to say something, and the sight of her flushed cheeks and parted lips was more than I could take. I leaned toward her, prepared to crush her to me and to show her just how worth it she really was, but a tired voice piped up from the backseat, forcing me to hold back.

  “Are we there yet?”

  “Not quite, buddy,” I replied, and pulled us onto the highway once more.

  For exactly forty-eight minutes, I used every ounce of willpower I had to keep my eyes on the road and my mind away from the thought of Polly’s mouth pressed against mine.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Polly

  I slumped down in my seat and pretended to be asleep. The emotions rolling around just under the surface were almost too much to bear.

  The last time I’d seen Howell, I’d known it was goodbye. But I didn’t expect it to be because he’d died on my behalf.

  His face had been kind and proud as he undid the blood pressure cuff from my arm and pronounced me healthy.

  “Is that a tear?” I had teased, afraid that if I didn’t keep things light, I’d break down completely.

  “I’m an old man,” he replied. “Our eyes leak all the time.”

  “Is that your medical opinion?”

  Usually a jibe about his former life was enough to spark a reaction, but Howell just grunted. He crossed the room to peer into the soft-sided bassinet beside the single mattress. He gazed into it.

  “You’re sure you want to call him Jayme?” he asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  Howell stood there for a moment longer, and I knew his mind wasn’t on my infant son, but on the little boy whose life he’d lost on the operating table so many years earlier. The past four months—three pregnant and one as a new mother—had given me plenty of time to piece together Howell’s story.

  As a doctor, practising in his home town in the UK, Howell had fallen prey to a cycle of prescription drug abuse. Uppers to stay awake for the long shifts. Downers to help him sleep when he wasn’t working.

  At the end of a particularly trying day, Howell was assigned an eme
rgency heart surgery on a newborn boy. The surgery went poorly, and in the course of the investigation into the boy’s death, Howell’s drug habits came to light.

  Jayme was the baby’s first name.

  Faster than he could blink, Howell was being charged with negligent homicide. He’d panicked. He’d run. And in came Cohen, offering something that passed for sanctuary. Before long, Howell was in over his head, privy to too many crimes to count and an accessory after the fact in ninety percent of them. Twenty years was a long time to dwell on that kind of past. Howell had saved my life. And my son’s. He deserved to have a good memory attached the name.

  “It’s fitting, don’t you think?” I asked softly.

  Howell didn’t agree, but he didn’t argue, either.

  “You need to go now,” he told me.

  “I know.”

  I stood, and I took my time gathering my things. I wanted to give Howell as much time with my son as possible. But it only took me a minute to collect my purse, my small suitcase and the diaper bag.

  “You can stop standing there staring at me,” Howell stated in a gruff voice.

  He said it without turning away from Jayme. After just a moment, his hand found its way into the bassinet to stroke my son’s cheek.

  I smiled to myself and reached into my purse to pull out the single photograph I had inside.

  “I want you to have this,” I said.

  Howell’s hand closed over mine, and his eyes sought my face.

  “Thank you.”

  Even though tears were pricking my eyes, I laughed. “You’re giving me my life back. I’m giving you a picture. There’s nothing to thank me for.”

  “Let’s just hope it works.”

  A little shiver went down my spine.

  “It will,” I replied with more confidence than I felt.

  But a small voice in my head wondered if it would.

  * * *

  “You all right?”

  As quiet as Painter’s voice was, it still made me jump. I glanced at the clock in the dash, and realized it was the first time he—or anyone else, for that matter—had spoken in almost an hour.

  Jayme.

  My eyes flicked to the rearview in a moment of panic, but it subsided quickly as I saw that he was flipping contentedly through a comic book he’d unearthed from his backpack and smiling to himself as he mouthed the words.

  We’re safe, I reminded myself, and ignored the small voice that wanted to add, For now.

  “Polly?”

  “Yes?”

  “He asked if you were all right,” Jayme piped up.

  I swallowed. “I’m fine.” It was mostly true.

  For now.

  The hum of the Mustang slowed as we approached the outskirts of a midsize town, then came to a purring stop as Painter pulled us into a pitch-black shopping mall parking lot. The car dealership was right across the street, and it was a dead ringer for Barry’s, right down to the cracked, bulb-less sign and the inflatable—but totally deflated—gorilla. If it wasn’t so eerie, it might’ve been funny. But I couldn’t shake the goosebumps along my arms, and I sure as hell couldn’t make myself smile.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked.

  He nodded his head toward the dealership. “I’ll go in, stake out the perimeter and make note of any security measures in place. If there’s going to be a problem, I’ll come back and let you know. Otherwise, I’ll go ahead and pick the least shiny van in the bunch. I’ll roll it out to the street, load you guys in, roll the Mustang into the van’s place and we’ll drive off into the sunset. Or in this case…the sunrise.”

  He sounded so sure of himself and so matter of fact that I almost believed him. I wanted to. Desperately. But insecurity crept back in before I could stop it.

  “What if it doesn’t work?”

  The words so closely echoed the end of my last conversation with Howell that my heart dropped in my chest and panic gripped me. I twisted my dress in my hands and held it between my fingers so Painter wouldn’t see how badly they shook.

  “It will work,” Painter replied.

  “How can you be sure?”

  One of his hands found my fingers and pried it free from my dress. His eyes drifted to Jayme before seeking mine once more.

  “Polly,” he said seriously, “It will work because it has to.”

  Painter touched my hand to his mouth, then swung open the door and disappeared across the parking lot.

  For maybe twenty minutes, I waited for him to finish his assessment of the car lot’s security system and report back. Jayme was content to flip through his comic book, but my restlessness quickly got the better of me. I had to step outside.

  “Baby,” I murmured to my son. “I’m going to get some fresh air.”

  He looked up from his reading and squinted at me. “You want me to come?”

  For a second I was tempted. In the cool night, he’d be cold and he’d want to cuddle, and his nearness, the reminder that he was still a little boy…it would be reassuring.

  And selfish.

  I shrugged off the need to draw Jayme near and shook my head. “No, sweetheart. I just need to stretch my legs.”

  “’Kay.”

  “’Kay,” I agreed, and let myself out of the car.

  The air was almost thick, like rain waiting to happen, and my nerves were so bad that I wanted to bite my nails, a habit I’d kicked within three months of being out of Cohen’s grasp. I paced the length of my car, trying to calm the racing of my heart.

  Where are you, Painter?

  I paced the length of the car, then paused. I reached into my purse to grab my cell phone so I could check the time before remembering that I no longer had a phone. Neither of us did. Too much of a risk. Too easy to be tracked.

  But I wished right then that I could track Painter.

  I slumped against the Mustang and slid to the ground in a moment of defeat.

  “He’s just being thorough.” I said it out loud because the sound of my voice made it seem more real.

  As if the universe sensed I couldn’t take the wait anymore, Painter’s voice, both startling and reassuring at the same time, carried through the air from behind me.

  “Little help!”

  I jumped up to see that he was beside a rusty, tank-shaped minivan. He had stopped between two plastic barriers at the end of the parking lot with the driver’s side door open and only the top of his head was visible. With a quick glance at Jayme, I jogged toward him.

  “I thought you were going to come right back! What happened?”

  “I got bit by a Rottweiler and had to bypass a laser security system. But it was no big deal.”

  “Not funny,” I retorted. “I was actually worried.”

  “Can we fight about it later?”

  I could hear the grin in his voice, and I narrowed my eyes. “No. Because I’m mad now.”

  He grunted and exhaled. “It was simple alarm. Passcode 1-2-3-4. I shut it off and took the van.”

  “You could’ve come back and told me.”

  “Polly?”

  “What?” I snapped.

  “This van is a brute. It’s heavy as hell and I’m on a bit of an incline here. Either my arms are going to give up or they’re going to fall off, and either way, I’m going to wind up as a pavement pancake.”

  “Serves you right,” I grumbled.

  But I pushed the plastic barriers aside anyway, then got behind the van to give it an extra shove. It really was heavy. And as we rolled it toward the Mustang, I was impressed that Painter had been able to get it so far on his own. I almost opened my mouth to say so. Then I remembered how annoyed I was. Before I could remind him of it, though, Painter came to the back of the van, grabbed my shoulder and spun me so that I had no choice but to meet his gaze.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It’s fine,” I lied.

  “No, it’s not,” he stated firmly. “You’ve been alone for a long time. I get that.”

  �
�You—”

  He cut me off with a sudden, rough kiss. Two days of stubble rubbed my lips and my knees were suddenly weak and my heart began to hammer in my chest. When Painter finally released me, I had to grab the van to keep from collapsing.

  “I do get it, Polly.” The raw emotion in Painter’s voice perfectly matched the yearning in my body. “You haven’t had anyone to believe in for years. You wake up in the morning and wonder if you’d made one different choice, changed one left turn for a right, or thought about something for five minutes more…would it have sent your life in another direction? A better direction? You wonder every day if the things that have gone wrong are your fault and why no one else notices how many secrets you’re hiding.”

  My mouth opened, then closed again without a word.

  Painter reached for my face and traced a line along my chin like he’d done it a thousand times before. In the near dark, his green eyes shone with undisguised intensity.

  “It’s been the same for me,” he admitted. “And until two days ago, I haven’t had to answer to anyone but Cohen in half a decade. I’m not used to thinking of someone else before I make a move. So like I said…I’m sorry. I don’t want you to have to worry about those things with me,” he said softly. “Do you forgive me?”

  “I—”

  Painter leaned down and locked his lips on mine again. His hands dug into my hair. He kissed me until I was breathless once more.

  “Please?” he said.

  He pulled away and shot me a puppy-dog stare that was at odds with his generally hard exterior. It stirred a desire to protect him. To do whatever it was he was asking for. If only I could remember exactly what that was. I stared at his face, caressing the chiselled line of his jaw with my mind and losing myself in his hopeful gaze.

  He was asking for forgiveness, dummy, I chastised myself.

  “Yes,” I managed to get out.

  As I snaked my arms around his neck and leaned up for another kiss, a resounding crack echoed from the direction of the Mustang. I spun quickly, but Painter was even faster. In a blur, he shot from my side.

  “Jayme!” I called out.

  I rounded the van. Shattered red plastic dotted the ground at the rear of Painter’s car. Frantically, I sought out my son. His small form was pressed down on the backseat, hands covering his ears and eyes shut tightly.