by Jc Emery
A loud noise erupts from the back of the bar that shakes the walls. I clamp down onto the bar top and stop breathing. Smoke billows out of the hallway to the bathrooms as people rush toward the front of the bar to get away from it. They push and shove mercilessly at one another to be the first to get out. Hennessey jumps off his stool and gets the older male bartender’s attention. He yells, “Ernie! Watch Mel!” and then darts toward the smoke.
There’s a flash of light in the hallway, burning bright and hot. It takes a second to realize that a fire’s broken out.
The guys at the back table are already up and moving to secure the area. A few other guys are trying to direct people out in an orderly fashion, but they’re not listening. In this moment, it’s easy to differentiate between the uniforms and the civilians. The uniforms—which is about half the crowd—try to keep control of the situation, but the civilians, mostly women, create mass chaos. Fucking badge bunnies.
“Mel! Sweetheart, come here!” Ernie shouts and grabs ahold of my hand. He gestures for me to crawl over the bar to get to the back. In the distance, I hear the sirens approaching. A sick, sinking feeling forms in my gut. What if this was because of me? What if I caused this because I didn’t listen? Oh God, if anybody is hurt . . .
I crawl up on top of my stool and reach for Ernie across the bar top, but I’m knocked off by the crowds of people pushing their way to safety. I fall directly into the sea of people exiting and get shoved and jostled to a point of confusion. I want to be afraid because I don’t know what’s going on, but my brain is so far behind processing it all that I can’t really be scared. Not at least until I land with a painful thunk onto the hard floor. My cheek presses into the sticky surface as a boot covers the other side of my face, effectively keeping me where I am and creating a thundering pain in my cheek. Everything hurts—especially my neck—in this position, but I don’t have room to move. The boot lifts, and a man hisses in my ear in a thick East Coast accent that I can’t totally place. I’m not exactly a linguistic specialist, but it’s not a New York accent, I’m pretty sure of that. His words ring in my ears again and again until the bar’s cleared out of almost all the civilians and it’s only the uniforms who are left to fight the fire. I gasp for air and claw at anything and everything, but it’s all so blurry that reality slips away and I fall into a peaceful blackness.
Should have listened to me, Lulu.
Chapter 17
Melanie
“You don’t have to babysit me,” I say.
Jameson looks at me with a displeased expression. His mouth is turned down, and he shakes his head. At the very least, he hasn’t been that cold, distant guy I hate. He’s back to being my Jameson, even though he has short bouts of weirdness, but it’s nothing major. He just gets quiet every now and then, and it’s a bit unnerving because it’s like he’s just checking out of conversation halfway through. But he’s here.
I think he’s starting to drive both Mom and Dad a bit nutty, but they’ve been good sports about his constant presence in our house for the past two days. I caught him and Dad having a conversation about security that turned into a conversation about baseball before Dad segued back into security where he mentioned he’d hired a private investigator to see if he can help track down the guy who’s targeting me.
I’d like to say they’re being overprotective, but they’re not. Having my face stepped on in a crowded bar showed me how out of my league I am. I was a fool to think I could handle this on my own. I guess it was a stubborn naïveté to think it wouldn’t escalate—or maybe I just never thought it would escalate that quickly and that violently. But it did.
“I’m always going to watch over you, make sure you’re safe,” he says quietly and brushes a piece of hair back from my eye. His eyes focus on the slight bruising of my neck and the scratches on my cheek. They don’t hurt me, but the sight of them seem to cause Jameson pain, so I’ve tried to cover them as best I can with makeup.
He’s so thoughtful and quiet and loving that it’s making being cooped up in this house way less difficult than it could be. Unfortunately, he has to go back to work tomorrow for two days, but then we have the weekend at the beach house. I’ve decided I’m going to tell him I love him this weekend. I just have to stop being such a baby about it first. I want it to be perfect and just right. I know he loves me—he has to—and whatever his problem was early summer can’t be such a huge issue for him if he’s here now. I haven’t told him I’m not seeing Hennessey yet, but I don’t think he’d be surprised that nothing is going on. He probably already knows. It’s just that with the way scary fire bomb that went down at Port of Call and the whole being injured—even slightly—with a horde of loving, well-meaning, people watching over my every move, it hasn’t felt like the right time to bring that up.
“I think it’s time I show you something,” he says. “I’m granting you a two-hour furlough, and then you’re coming right back here where I know you’re safe.”
“I’m so desperate that I’ll take it without arguing.” I hop up from the couch. Jameson leans back and laughs lightly at me. “Let me go change.”
I rush to my bedroom where I put on a pair of capris and a cute peasant top. I toss my hair up into a quick ponytail and grab my sunglasses, mobile phone, ID, credit card, and some cash. My handbag is bulky and kind of heavy, so it’s not worth the strain to carry it around, especially if we’re only going to be out for a few hours. Jameson the Dictator won’t allow for any longer, no matter how much I beg. I already know that. He’s just so . . . bossy.
I freaking love it.
When I come out of my room, Jameson is letting my mom know what’s going on. She doesn’t question his judgment, seeming to trust him implicitly with my care, which gives me the warm and fuzzies from head to toe. My stomach does belly flops every time I see his beautiful gray-blue eyes, and I have to catch my breath when his skin touches mine. There’s this desperate desire to be with him that fades, even if just barely, with his moods. It’s like I’m trying to protect my heart—keep it encapsulated and safe—and when he withdraws, I force myself to ignore the hurt. When he comes back around, it’s like a blazing sun that lights up my entire world, and it’s so bright and so overpowering that I can barely breathe. This can’t be normal.
We leave my parents’ condo with his hand at the small of my back. We hail a cab, and when we slide in, he pulls me into his side so I’m in the middle seat. I offer to pay when we get out, but the look he gives me is stern. It’s somewhere between “don’t you dare” and “I’ll fucking paddle you if you try it.” And honest to goodness, I want to try it just to get paddled by Jameson Hayes. But since that actually happening is a—sadly—remote possibility, I don’t push it and let him pay.
“When you’re with me, I pay unless it’s something we agreed you can pay for in advance,” he says as we step onto the sidewalk. I try to brush it off because it sounds ridiculous, but he stops us where we are and takes my face in his hands. He’s so gentle and so strong as he tilts my head up to look at him. “I mean it, Mel. I don’t have your daddy’s money, but I have my own, and I won’t have you buying me things with money you didn’t earn.”
“This is going to be a thing, isn’t it?” I ask. I almost say with us at the end, but manage to bite my tongue. I don’t want to suggest an us if he’s over the potential of ever having an us and I’m just a dense loser who can’t accept reality and refuses to face the truth, so I just keep it to myself and don’t say a thing. Despite my penchant for rambling both aloud and internally, I’m not a fan of sticking my foot in my mouth. Frequency doesn’t make it any less embarrassing.
“I need this,” he says. His jaw is tight, and it ticks with his intensity. His blue-gray eyes bore into mine, willing me to understand. He’s beautiful.
“Okay.” I agree because if he needs it, I’ll give it to him.
I practically fall into him and just sniff all that is Jameson, but he pulls back and takes my hand in his as he leads me do
wn the sidewalk. We turn into the lobby of a commercial high-rise and head for the first elevator bay. He presses the R1 button, and we wait.
I want to ask where we’re going or what we’re doing, but I can’t. I’m enjoying having his large hand wrapped around my normal-sized one and the amazing feeling that’s creating. My heart rate picks up when he gives me a small squeeze, and we step into the elevator.
It’s a short ride, and when the car stops on R1, the doors open to a sunny outdoor garden I didn’t know existed. Daddy’s building has a rooftop garden that has tables and benches and a small patch of grass to sit on. It’s ideal for eating lunch and getting away from the fluorescent lights and forced air inside.
We step out, and as I look around, I see that both gardens are similar both in size and landscaping and furniture as well. The one big difference is this garden has a raised grassy hill that faces the building next to it with a perfect view onto a floor whose walls are made almost wholly out of floor-to-ceiling windows. Jameson leads me to the hill, and when we’re at the top, he pulls me down beside him. I sit there for a long while in silence as he seems to collect his thoughts beside me. Every now and then I sneak a glance his way and find that he looks nervous—strangely nervous—and I don’t know why.
“I used to come here when I was a junior in high school. This is where I’d go instead of going to school. Once a week, on the same day, for months. I’ve never taken anyone here before.” His voice shakes a little as he speaks. This unbreakable, strong, formidable man can’t stop the shaking in his voice. It makes him all that much more human, more vulnerable—to me—more perfect.
“Never?” I ask, almost afraid to speak. I don’t want to ruin his moment.
“Never,” he says almost reverently. “Lydia and I were together for five years, and I thought that was what love was. I thought that was as good as it got. I was wrong.”
My breath hitches as I register what he’s said. I look his way and watch him as he speaks, unable to look away. He keeps his eyes straight ahead.
“Mom always sat in the second chair from the right. It was every Thursday, and it lasted from eleven in the morning and usually went up until dinnertime. Standard for stage three breast cancer. I thought it couldn’t get worse. Her hair fell out, and she cried. All. The. Time. She used to have the most beautiful hair, and then one day it just started falling out. But then it did get worse. Chemo was just the beginning. She had a couple of surgeries, had to have her breasts removed, and then a few years later, got new ones put in.
“So much fucking work just to feel and look like a woman. She had wigs to wear to our games—Hennessey and I played football—and to Royal’s basketball games and dance recitals. She refused to miss them. I couldn’t do anything to help her. I tried, but I never could make it any better. The only thing I could do was to sit here and watch her through the window. Make sure she got the treatment she needed so she could keep on being my mom.”
My eyes fill with tears, and I suck in an unsteady breath. Janet has always had a thing with hair—she touches everyone’s hair and tells them how lucky they are—and it’s always been a bit off, but I had no idea where it came from. I just thought it was a cute quirk. Through my teary eyes I see that Jameson’s turned toward me. He’s got one hand propping himself up on the grass. The other hand reaches out and takes mine. He gives it a soft tug and brings me closer. I lean in, so close now that my chest nearly presses up against his twisted side.
“This is what my love looks like. Here, on this hill, waiting for my girl. For as many hours, as many days, as many years as it takes, I’m here. Even if you’ll never be ready for me, I’ll still be here, waiting for you.”
A tear falls down my cheek from the intensity of this conversation and his admission. In my head I’m screaming I love you at the top of my lungs, but it refuses to come out. I’m quite effectively stunned into silence.
“I love you, Lulu. It’s not this big, grand thing. It’s quiet and scary because loving you has become such a large part of who I am that I don’t know who I’d be without it, without you.”
“I lo—” I start to tell him that I love him. So much. So much it freaking hurts sometimes. But he cuts me off.
“Before you say it, just know that I can’t give you all the things you deserve. I can’t give you what your father has—the condo, the cars, the houses on the beach, the trust fund, none of it—but I’m selfish enough to want you to love me back anyway.”
Whatever I could possibly say to him—that I love him—will never be enough compared to what he’s said to me. Every kind, beautiful, raw word he’s spoken makes it impossible to say it back to him. It’s like there’s this water rising inside of me, splashing the sides of my frame, and nearing the top where it’s going to spill over and I’m going to drown in its rush. My chest aches from the wanting of this so much and the finally getting it and how overwhelming it all is. I do the only thing I can.
I lean over and swing a leg onto his lap and hoist myself into straddling him. His thighs are so firm and muscular beneath me. I lean into him, pressing my lips to his, and claiming Jameson Hayes for my very own. Our lips move together, neither trying to dominate the other, only exploring and marking our territory in a gentle, loving way. He’s untwisted his torso and slides one arm around my waist with the other hand fisted in my hair. This is so much better than what I pictured. This is so much more than what I thought I could have.
We stay there, kissing and claiming and loving, for long enough for my legs to cramp and Jameson to wiggle underneath me. I keep myself at a safe distance from the bulge in his jeans because we’re in public and I’m kind of afraid that it’s like a magnet. It’s already attracting me, but if I touch him there, I may never let go. And that might land us in jail, and we have enough problems on our hands. Despite the physical discomfort, we don’t move until his phone rings for the third time. He pulls away, curses, and adjusts so he can yank the phone out of his pocket and puts it on speakerphone. It’s Royal.
“Big Brother,” she says all happy and lazy-like.
“What?” he barks, trying to catch his breath.
“Wow, what did I interrupt?” she asks, and her laugh nearly succumbs to a giggle, which is rare for Royal. She’s not a giggler. “Anyway, did you send Mel something? A package arrived for her. It looks like it could be flowers.”
“No. Call Capriotti,” he says into the phone. His tone is serious now. It’s the alarm voice he uses when they’re heading out on a call. “And don’t open that fucking box.”
“I hate that guy. He’s such a tool,” she whines. “But fine, I’ll call him.”
Jameson hangs up the phone and sets it down beside us. This isn’t good. A random box being delivered to me at the firehouse? I shudder at the thought and now, more intensely than before, don’t want to move from this spot. The real world waits for us outside of this little man-made grassy hill.
“I love you,” I blurt out and wrap my arms around his neck. “I know that was the house, but I had to say it. I love you so much, and now you’re stuck with me because I’ve waited way too long for you.”
“Just try and get rid of me, baby,” he murmurs and claims my lips again. This time our kiss immediately turns to something far less chaste than is appropriate for a rooftop terrace in the middle of Manhattan on a weekday where people can see us. But it doesn’t matter. He’s mine. Finally. And this—this is everything.
Chapter 18
Melanie
The bomb squad is almost done clearing out from the house and packing up their equipment. Turns out, the box isn’t a bomb, but something almost as twisted—at least that’s the murmurs I’ve heard from the cops and firefighters who pass by us. Being out of the loop is probably killing Jameson, but he refuses to leave my side. They NYPD finally lets us past the caution tape, and we approach the open garage bay. I almost don’t want to see it for myself. Detective Capriotti is standing next to Jack with the mysterious box open and laid out in fron
t of them on a long bench the guys use to aide them in suiting up to head out on a call. Jameson tries to stop me, but I whisper a plea to see it for myself.
A narrow floral box with twelve long-stemmed red roses. Half are burnt to a blackened crisp, and the other half are smeared with blood. There’s a note scrawled on the underside of the lid. YOUR FAMILY SECRETS WILL BE YOUR DOWNFALL.
It’s the same print as the note on my dress and the coaster from the bar.
“I don’t understand,” I mumble, staring at the note. “We don’t have any secrets. My dad’s entire life from birth to where he ate dinner last night is chronicled online.”
Detective Capriotti, a tall man with dark hair and deep brown eyes, places his hands on his hips and fixes his eyes on me. His jaw works before he opens his mouth, and what comes out brings me to the realization of why the Hayes family has such a problem with the guy. And I always thought he was nice enough.
“Every family has secrets. A man as wealthy as your father must have some dirty secrets he doesn’t want you to know about.”
“No,” I protest. “I assure you there’s nothing in his past that could lead to this.”
“We don’t know everything about our parents.”
“Is there something you want to say, Detective?”
“Money changes people, that’s all.”
Asshole.
“Back off, Capriotti,” Jameson says. He grows tense beside me with every word Capriotti speaks.
“Look, I’m not about stepping on anyone’s toes, but I’m also not up for holding anyone’s hand through this. My job is figuring out who’s targeting you, Melanie.”
“And I want you to do your job,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Go a little gentle, will ya?” Jameson says and narrows his eyes at Capriotti.
“I don’t do gentle. I do my job.”
“It’s fine,” I say and wave it off like it’s nothing. Jack takes a step away and meets Hennessey across the garage.