by Geneva Lee
Especially our secrets.
Chapter Four
If The Dealer hadn’t already put the fear of God in me, facing my mother at the dinner table will. She meets us at the door, offering a simpering smile to Jameson as she directs us to the dining room.
“I hope you like shrimp,” she says, but before I can remind her of my aversion to the creepy, ocean spiders, she grabs my elbow and hauls me to the side.
“You’re glowing,” she accuses.
I half expect her to haul me to the ER to check to see if my virtue is intact. I pull away before she can lose control and make a scene. “Summer love,” I say casually before dashing into the dining room.
Hans glances up from his tablet and grunts a greeting. I’m not certain if that’s just hello in his native tongue or if we’re not worthy of full syllables.
“We have a guest,” Mom trills as she enters behind us. Hans still doesn’t bother to look up until she adds, “Jameson West.”
That gets his attention and confirms my fears that my stepfather is actually a big enough dick to do a biopic accusing my boyfriend of murder. I guess that really puts the fun in dysfunctional family.
“The infamous Mr. West.” Hans’s accent is muted by years of being in the US, but it still curls around his words. Between that, his broad shoulders, and what is left of his wispy, blond hair, it’s obvious he is an import.
“It’s nice to meet you, son.” He stands and holds out his hand. The two shake once. I’m not an expert on male greetings but I’d give theirs an eight for formality and a ten for tension. “Hans Von Essen.”
“I know who you are, Mr. Von Essen.” Jameson doesn’t hide the insinuation in his words.
We take our seats as Hans begins to scoff, ignoring Jameson’s coldness. Meanwhile, I wish I had a blanket to cope with the chill. “Please, call me Hans.”
“I suppose that’s fitting.” Jameson unfolds his napkin and places it in his lap without bothering to look up from his place setting.
Hans smiles tightly and beckons for the maid to take his tablet. “I’m sorry?”
“To call you Hans. After all, I’m dating your stepdaughter,” Jameson offers the alternative explanation, dangling it like a carrot overhead. If Hans goes for it maybe we can spend the evening in awkward silence, making small talk, and escape unscathed.
“I had no idea you two were so close.”
Or maybe not.
Hans studies me with interest and I can almost feel the future interrogation now. My love life has never really come up with my stepfather before now. Probably since he had little real interest in me, other than to offer parenting advice to my absentee mother and back up all her paranoid plans for my future. But now I have something he wants, and he’s never going to get it out of me. I turn my full attention to the flatware to avoid meeting Hans’s gaze while wondering if a butter knife is sharp enough to commit harakiri.
“We’re very close,” Jameson tells him and I distinctly hear another nail being driven into the coffin that now holds what’s left of my stepdad’s disinterest. I’m going to miss it. Two parents is bad enough. Now I’ll have three at me all the time.
“Oh yes, I have no doubt of that,” Hans waves him off dismissively. “I’m afraid I haven’t been around as much as I would like. I just wrapped a major film for Paramount and I’m in pre-production on two more.”
“They don’t want to hear about the business darling,” Mom interjects. “People only want to go see the movie, remember?”
“Not at all. What are you working on?” Jameson asks and the question hangs in the air.
The arrival of our salads grants a brief reprieve, but any hope I had of Hans choking on a cucumber slice is dashed when he ignores it entirely. “I’m afraid the projects haven’t been announced yet, so I’m not at liberty to share.”
“I understand the need for discretion.” Jameson tips his head in acknowledgement. But if the butter knife wouldn’t be enough for ritualistic suicide, it could definitely cut through the tension in the air.
“I was telling Emma about our thoughts about Los Angeles,” Mom pipes up, as if somehow this topic will be less uncomfortable than the first. Jameson’s eyes flash from her to me for confirmation.
“And I told her hell to the no,” I add.
“Oh, Emma,” Hans begins, “there are some very good schools in Los Angeles.”
“I’m happy where I’m at,” I protest, dropping my salad fork on the table. “Where I was.”
“I had to beg you to attend Belle Mère Prep,” Mom reminds me, “And now suddenly you love it there.” I don’t miss the none-too-subtle glare she casts at Jameson. “I think you would be more concerned about getting into a good college, then.”
“I told you I would take a few classes at UNLV,” I say without hope that it will stop her from digging into this topic.
I never intended to make good on that promise. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t need more than a high school diploma to take over the family business. Of course, that was before what happened with my father. Given that the police had used his false claim of assault to hold Jameson for nearly a month, I probably need to reconsider that life plan. “I’m not about to be bullied into becoming a valley girl.”
“You don’t have to go,” Jameson says with an air of authority that makes me cringe. At any other time, I’d find it seriously hot, but considering that we’re in the presence of my mother, it only makes me queasy.
“It would be selfish to ask her to miss this opportunity.” Hans spears a leaf of lettuce onto his fork, but instead of eating it, he spins it in the light.
“What about the East Coast?” Mom suggests as if we’ve been discussing my matriculation to Harvard and Yale for years.
“What about it?”
“There are some good schools there,” Jameson tosses his opinion into the ring.
I narrow my eyes at him and mouth, Traitor.
“Why would I want to go someplace I’ve never been?” I point out with a shrug.
“You’ve never been to the East Coast?” Jameson asks. He stares at me like I just announced I’m from a different planet.
“Emma doesn’t like to travel,” my mother says offhandedly.
“I haven’t really gotten the opportunity to.” Mom’s revisionist history of my travel preferences kills my appetite entirely. I push my plate away. Ilsa appears and whisks it off to the kitchen. I’m like that plate of salad. Suitably filling until Mom grows tired of me. Then it’s back to the kitchen for me. She loves to travel, but I haven’t been invited on those trips. Over the years, she’d made a few noncommittal statements about taking me here or there, but she’s never followed through on any of them. It shouldn’t sting as much as it does. But how do you explain to someone that your mother has access to a private jet and you’ve only seen two states?
“We should go to New York,” Jameson suggests, and for a moment it’s just the two of us. We gaze at each other across the table as I imagine us frolicking through Central Park. The whole scene is very reminiscent of the opening credits of Friends. But the longer he and I stare at each other, the more those scenes start to shift to ones that remind me of Sex and The City.
Mom clears her throat and the spell is broken. “Emma is seventeen.”
“Thanks for the fact check, Mom,” I mutter.
“I don’t allow my seventeen-year-old to go halfway across the country without my permission,” she continues. “It’s a good thing I’ll be eighteen in two weeks then,” I jump in.
“Two weeks?” Jameson asks in surprise. “Maybe it will be a birthday trip.”
She glowers at him. I want to warn her that her face will freeze like that, but considering the amount of Botox comprising her body, it probably already has.
“I would’ve thought your people would be a little more thorough.”
“Come again?” he asks.
“Someone with your level of wealth has certainly run a background check on my daughter.�
�� She folds her manicured hands on the table in challenge.
“Obviously,” he admits, “but I didn’t memorize it.”
“Not something as important as your girlfriend’s birthday?”
I don’t miss how she makes girlfriend sound like a lot nastier of a word. “Gee, mom. Do you mean slut? Or maybe whore?”
I push my chair from the table, but before I can continue my dramatic exit solo, Jameson stands. “Not everything in this world has to be subject to contracts and legalese and security procedures. I want my relationship with Emma to be real.”
“Do you even know what that word means?” she asks him. But despite the coldness of her tone, she shrinks against her seat. Meanwhile Hans watches the entire scene unfolding with interest. I half expect him to yell cut or offer director’s notes.
“I’m not hungry,” I announce loudly. “Let’s go for a drive.”
Jameson sucks in a deep breath and squares his shoulders before he gestures towards the door. “After you.” Apologies crowd my lips as we make our way through the hall, but none of them feel adequate.
“Don’t even think about apologizing, Duchess,” he says as if he can read my mind.
“But they’re my parents.”
“Only one of them is,” he corrects me, “but I can see why you wouldn’t want to claim either.”
His keys are out of his pocket before we hit the front door, but mom chases after us. “A word, Emma.”
It’s more than she deserves, but I pause. “Go head. I’ll be out in a second.”
He looks torn as if he’s leaving me to fend off a rabid dog on my own while he saves himself. Nothing could be closer to the truth.
“I can handle myself,” I assure him. He doesn’t need further prodding.
Mom doesn’t beat around the bush about why she stopped me. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see him.”
“Really? And I thought you were planning our wedding.” I cross my arms and begin counting down the minute I’ve given her in my head.
“You have no idea who he is.”
“I have a better idea than you do. You didn’t even give him a chance.”
“I don’t have to,” she explodes. “I know his family. I know what they’re capable of.”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt her, “but you’re the one who was ready to call his Mom a few weeks ago.”
“There’s a difference between being a West by marriage and being a West by birth,” she says.
“Could you be more self-righteous?” I ask her.
“Blood will out, Emma.” She speaks as if she’s giving me the code key to decipher her cryptic insights.
“If we’re done with the riddling portion of the evening, I need to go.” I don’t wait for her to respond before I turn on my heels and leave my mother—and her opinions—behind.
Chapter Five
“Your mother and my father would have gotten along,” Jameson informs me as soon as I’m inside the Porsche.
“But who would be the other two Horsemen of the Apocalypse?” I slump into my seat, feeling more than a little sorry for myself.
“Seat belt,” he commands. Groaning, I tuck it over my shoulder. It’s not like me to forget, not after what happened to my sister, but if my mother can accomplish anything on a daily basis, it’s to suck my will to live.
“Where are we going?” I ask him.
“What’s the farthest point on the planet from here?”
“I don’t know. New Zealand?” Sadly, I don’t think this car floats. He revs the engine and peels out of the driveway. Considering how fast he’s going, it might just be able to make it across water, but as we reach the main drag of downtown Palm Springs road closure signs greet us. For a brief second, I wonder if my mom now controls the Department of Transportation, too. I wouldn’t put it past her to do something that dramatic to stop me from seeing Jameson. But just beyond the white and orange obstacles, a number of tents are set up in the street. People wander, many hand-in-hand with loved ones or children, and music floats through the air toward the car.
Swiveling in my seat, I touch the hand he’s using to grip the drive shaft. “Let’s do something normal.”
“You’re going to have to give me some ideas, Duchess. I’m fresh out of normal these days, considering most of our dates end in murder, interrogations, or arrest.”
I understand exactly where he’s coming from. I tip my head toward the street carnival.
“Really?” he asks incredulously.
“Street food and music and hideous arts and crafts. It’s perfect.” I unfasten my seat belt and open the car door. “I need normal.”
Before he can stop me, I’m halfway to the fair. The tents host various artists and crafters hocking everything from paintings to handmade soaps to any of the hippie paraphernalia necessary for a Californian lifestyle. I peruse them until a familiar pair of hands grabs my hips.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “I’m hungry, if that’s okay with you.”
“Eating is normal,” I assure him. But when he heads for a restaurant, I grab his hand and yank him towards the food trucks. “This will be faster.”
“What is it?” He stares at the truck as if it is a spaceship.
“What can I get you two?” The man calls from the window.
“How hungry are you?” I ask Jameson. He holds his hands out wide and grins. At least he’s going to be a good sport about it, even if dinner doesn’t come on bone china. “Four carne asada and four al pastor.”
Jameson leans so close to me that I can smell his cologne. My mouth begins to water and I’m not sure if it’s from the promise of food or him.
“You forgot to order the side of salmonella,” he whispers
“I think they throw that in for free,” I mutter.
A few minutes later, and he’s devouring his own words with a side of garlic-lime salsa. “Okay, you were right,” he grants me, when we toss our empty taco trays in the trash. “I’m converted. Now I’ll only order food from trucks.”
“I hear there are a lot of food trucks in New York.” I throw it out like bait to see if he’ll bite.
Instead he spins me around and pulls me close to him. “So you are interested in going?”
“Of course I am.” The Empire State Building. Broadway. Fifth Avenue. Why wouldn’t I be dying to go?
“Why have you never been to the East Coast?”
“It’s complicated and I don’t feel like telling sad stories tonight. You know the saying: ‘and baby makes three’? Well, according to my parental units, three’s a crowd.”
“No need to say more, Duchess. I’m going to take you to New York, then London, and maybe Tokyo after that.”
“Paris?” I suggest nonchalantly.
“Definitely Paris.” Neither of us mention the fact that if he’s already in violation of the terms of his bail by being a state away, Europe is out of the question. “I guess it’s your birthday, so which one do you want to go to?”
“We don’t have to go anywhere,” I reassure him. We can dream, but we can’t actually revise reality.
“We do.” He brushes a sticky strand of hair from my forehead. “They can’t cage us.”
“They already have,” I say softly.
“Then we’ll break free.”
“Do you really think we can?” I ask. We stand for a moment, clinging to each other despite the oppressive Californian heat. Above us, strings of light twinkle in the twilight like dozens of wishing stars but they can’t grant our desires any more than we can.
“What do you want, Duchess?” he asks, reading the silence in my eyes. “The moon, the stars? Say the word, and I’ll give them to you.”
“You,” I whisper. “I only want you.”
When we’ve exhausted the carnival’s delights, we drive to the base of the San Jacinto Mountains. But the farther we get from the lively downtown scene, the quieter we each become until we’ve left normal behind entirely. Jameson’s eyes stare into the d
istance as he parks the convertible. “Your stepfather’s right. It’s selfish for me to want you back in Vegas.”
“But inevitable,” I remind him. If he’s right and the police suspect me too, then my return can’t be avoided.
“Maybe not,” he admits slowly. “Between my lawyers and Hans’s lawyers we can probably keep them tied up for a while.”
But not forever.
“You shouldn’t have to face this alone. If they have questions about what happened that night, we need to answer them.”
“Emma, we both know we weren’t together the entire evening. I left you by the pool. I want you to rescind my alibi.”
“But you were with me.” Panic boils in my chest bubbling over in a rush of unfamiliar emotions. “You were with me most of the night. Besides, there were dozens of people there. Anyone could have done it.”
“But my fingerprints are all over the scene.”
“Yes, because you found the body, and what about my alibi?” I ask. “They found him in his office and that’s where we met, so…”
He nods grimly. He might want to believe the investigators are going after me to rattle him, but we both know I had just as much opportunity that evening. Plus, given my family’s history with the Wests, nearly as much motive as well.
“You weren’t with me the whole night,” I repeat, latching on to that fact. If he thinks I’m going to let him play the martyr, he can climb right back off that cross. “Which means I was alone, too. If they’re going to make you a suspect, they might as well make me one as well. Besides that, you’re not going to be able to find who did this by yourself. Not if you’re constantly being dragged in for questioning.”
“You think they’re going to give you an extra recess while I stay in the principal’s office?” he points out dryly.
I don’t admit that he’s right. Not when I need to sound confident about what’s at stake. Instead I fall back on classic diversionary tactics. “Why are they so focused on you anyway? You weren’t the only one there with motive. I think they’re just being lazy.”