by Geneva Lee
"She has a fitting." Josie groans as she pets the sleek console between us. "I really wish I could stay and play. I have a feeling this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," she murmurs lustfully.
"Get out of my car." I shove her playfully. "Before you leave a stain on the passenger's seat. I need to run a few errands, anyway. I'll catch up with you later."
"Okay," she agrees, then she leans over and air kisses my cheeks.
"What was that for?" Trust Josie to make me laugh when I’m trying to be pissed off about something.
"You're a sophisticated woman now," she says. "You drive a Mercedes."
"That doesn't make me European."
"Whatever you say, darling." She blows me a kiss before she climbs into her car.
Considering that I hadn't planned on coming back to Belle Mère so soon, there's more than a few things I need to tackle on my to-do list. I know I should triage the items—decide which is most important and start there— but there's one activity I can't put off any longer.
Belle Pointe is a smaller hospital, not the trauma center that I’d been brought to after the accident at Jameson's penthouse. After a few days, I’d been released from that hospital into my mother’s care. Leighton hadn’t been so lucky. Sometime in the last month, they moved her from Las Vegas General to the cushy private institution.
Undoubtedly, it's closer to her parents but it has to cost twice as much. She still hasn’t woken up, so I’m not sure she appreciates the upgrade. I don’t know what to expect when I stop at the front desk. "I'd like to visit a patient."
"Fill out the chart." The nurse doesn't bother to look up from the paperwork she's sorting. I search for a pen for a few seconds before she reaches out and plucks one out of a ceramic planter. The top of the pen has a flower glued to it.
"Cute." I take it from her.
"You’d be surprised how many pens wander off." She shrugs and returns to her work. Not only is this place super swanky, judging from how hard it is to tell the waiting area apart from a lobby of a 4-star hotel, but it also conducts social experiments on important topics like pen stealing. As if they couldn't afford to buy more pens given how much a place like this costs.
I write down Leighton’s name, then mine, and the time before I hand the clipboard back.
She checks it, then eyes me for a second. "Are you a family member?"
"Do I have to be?" I ask, unwilling to commit to an actual answer.
"You just look a little like her."
I almost tell her that I was the other girl in the accident—the one who walked away with a few bad cuts and some stitches—but it’s not a fact I want to boast about.
"How is she doing?" I ask.
"Not my floor," the nurse admits. "You can ask the attending when you get up there. She's in room 321."
Despite the hefty price tag this place comes with, they don’t bother with much security. I head toward the bank of elevators. Stepping inside, I spot Jonas just as the sliding doors shut. I guess I'm not the only one back in town. I hadn't seen him since the accident, but Josie, who somehow knows the geographical location of half of the school, has kept me up to date on his family's travels for the summer. I consider hitting the button to open the doors, instead I hit the one for the 3rd floor.
It seems impossible to go from wanting to talk to someone every day to having nothing left to say to them. Somehow Jonas and I accomplished that. Although, I'm pretty certain he perfected it years ago. I hung on to a relationship that had been over for an embarrassingly long time. Chasing after him now seems like a step in the wrong direction.
The third floor is relatively quiet. The woman at the nurse’s station doesn’t look up as I pass or when I double back to head in the right direction.
317
319
321
I stop in the doorway, realizing far too late that Leighton’s room isn't empty. Hugo leans into view before I can make a quiet exit.
"Pawn Star," he says affectionately. Hugo Roth has the amazing ability to sound like he's complimenting you and insulting you at the same time. A stranger might have found his greeting friendly, but I know that its intended effect is to keep me in my place, beneath him on the social, financial, and sexual scales. He’s one of the original Housers, the group of students at Belle Mère Prep, who make it their mission to squash as many people beneath them as possible.
"What are you doing here?" I ask him as I move hesitantly into the room. I don’t mean to come off so accusatory, but he’s always brought out the bitch in me.
"Someone needs to visit her," he says in a flat voice.
I don't push him on it because I can hear how much he hates this question in his reply. "I just got back in town," I explain to him. "My mom didn't want me to come back until I was fully recovered."
Hugo looks me up and down then turns away, and stares at Leighton. Something about him looks lost until he finally speaks. "You look fine."
"I guess I was the lucky one," I murmur in a low voice. Seeing Leighton connected to a half-dozen machines that monitor her heart rate, breathing, pulse, and a number of other things I don't recognize is a pretty harsh reminder that I was fortunate to walk away that night. In the giant hospital bed, she looks small. Her skin is too pale, and they’ve chopped off some of her blonde hair on one side where stitches still pucker her scalp. On the other, her hair still brushes her shoulder.
"What do her doctors say?" I ask the question and then realize how stupid it is. Why would Hugo know that?
To my surprise, he answers, "There's brain function although it's not as strong as they’d like. Really, it's just a waiting game."
"What are we waiting on?" I ask him.
"Whether or not she wakes up." His fingers twitch and it takes a second for me to realize that he nearly reached out for her hand. I back up a few steps, feeling the need to give them space. I should ask him about The Dealer and try to get the scoop on the rumors floating about Belle Mère. He’s always had a finger on the pulse of what’s going on in our tiny enclave. Instead I say, "I'll leave you two alone."
"You don't have to," he says. "She's not much of a conversationalist."
I tug my purse strap higher up my shoulder. Right now, I don't feel very social either. I search for a topic knowing that half the things on my mind, I shouldn't even bring up. "I saw Jonas," I blurt out.
"That must have been exciting for you," he says in a snarky voice, which I ignore.
"Just as I was coming up. He was leaving." "You thought you saw Jonas." Hugo corrects me. "He's in Indiana, or Illinois, or Omaha visiting his grandmother."
"You just named like half the country," I say. There's no doubt in my mind that I spotted Jonas. Considering that Hugo can't even remember where his best friend is supposed to be, it hardly matters.
"He's somewhere in the middle then."
If ‘by the middle’ he means downstairs, then he's right, but I don't push him on the subject.
"What are your plans for the rest of vacation?" I ask when I can't come up with anything else to say to him.
Hugo groans loudly, running a hand through his spiky blond hair. "I think I might learn how to do macramé. What are yours?"
"The same." I don’t miss the resentment in his voice. I roll my eyes recalling that when it comes to Hugo Roth, you need full body condom, because he's such a dick. "I guess I should go."
I should be the one in that bed. Not her. I back toward the doorway and when my foot hits the outside hall, Hugo calls after me, "Emma, thanks for stopping by."
I blink a couple of times trying to process that he just showed appreciation for something I did. "You're welcome."
I make it a few steps towards the elevator before I turn around and creep back to Leighton's room. Hugo has his hand over hers as he whispers to her. I can't make out what he's saying, but it's enough to make me comprehend that miracles are possible because Hugo Roth has a heart.
I’m inside the elevator when a far less welcome
realization hits me. I do look like Leighton. It isn’t that it could be me in that bed, I conclude with sickening certainty.
It was supposed to be me.
Chapter Eleven
A bell over the door tinkles as I walk inside the shop. Nostalgia surges through me, not just because the store is full of crap but because I spent most of my life calling it home. There were times when I slept on a cot in the back with Becca. I'd been working off the clock since I could count in order to fly under child labor law regulations. I used to consider myself an integral part of keeping this place functioning, now I know I was just a Band-Aid. I can't spend my whole life being the glue that holds my dad together, and this is the first place I need to let go of if I'm going to send him that message.
Jerry pauses from rearranging a display of Civil War era pistols and glances up to greet his customer. His joy is instantaneous when he realizes it's me. I’ll bet he’s been waiting a long time for his lunch break. He hurries out from behind the counter to greet me, pushing his floppy hair out of his eyes.
"I was wondering when you would be coming back." He goes for a hug and I let him, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder as he squeezes. "This place isn't the same without you."
I'm pretty certain that what he means is paychecks are irregular, deposits aren't making it to the bank on time and he's stuck here all hours of the day. But I’ll take the compliment.
"I just popped by to grab something." There’s no way to soften the blow, so I don’t try.
The smile falls from his face. "Oh. I thought you were home to help for the summer."
"My Mom doesn't want me working at the shop, because of…the accident," I lie.
Jerry lets out a long whistle. "Do you think that's wise? I don't know how we're going to keep this place running."
We’re not.
"I'm sure dad will make sure everything stays on track." I sidle past him towards the cash register. He watches me with interest, but he doesn't try to stop me. I'm not here for money. I doubt there’s any to speak of, anyway.
"We both know that isn't true, Emma. He can’t keep this place up without you."
Apparently Jerry managed to grow some balls while I was away in Palm Springs. I've always pegged him as more of a 'take it and like it’ type. The kind of guy who spends his nights in one of those scuzzy little hole in the walls getting spanked by a woman in leather. I open a drawer and dig until I find the business card I threw in here a couple weeks ago, sliding it into the back pocket of my cut-offs, and slide the drawer closed. Jerry deserves better than to be lied to, especially after all the years he's put into this store. "You're probably right, but I can't spend the rest of my life holding him up."
"You shouldn't have to," he says in a soft voice. "You're too young...and pretty," he tacks on awkwardly.
I give him a small smile, hoping it doesn’t encourage the crush he’s been nursing on me for the last few months. Jerry’s sweet, but I can’t stay behind to help him out. I head toward the door, finally ready to leave this place behind for good. I pause and drink it in one last time.
The jerseys signed by long-retired athletes, guitars played by former rock stars, guns used in war, and knickknacks collected by children who grew into adults who no longer needed their treasures. The whole place is like a warning to let things go. Here, time doesn't seem to flow. It just stops, and if you're not careful, you can get trapped. I turn, and push up on my tiptoes to give Jerry a kiss on the cheek. "You shouldn't get stuck here, either," I advise him.
"Somebody has to keep it running." He scratches his head, following my gaze around the large, open store, and I can see that he’s trapped here.
"Yeah, my dad has to keep it running," I remind him. "These aren't your burdens, and they're not your treasures."
I leave it at that, calling out over my shoulder, one, last time. "See you around, Jerry."
"See you, Emma."
Before I get in the Mercedes, I pull the business card from my back pocket and stare at it for a moment.
Dominic Chamber.
He came to me with a forged Babe Ruth baseball card. In the end, he left with the fake and gave me this. I hadn’t known I'd need to use it. Now I know why I saved it, but, asking for help—drawing attention to a problem I’m not sure exists—makes me feel sick.
I shove the card in my glove box. Maybe I'll let it marinate there for a few days until I know what I want to do. As I pull out of the parking lot of Pawnography, I know it's the last time I'll visit.
It's bittersweet. I thought this place was my future—a ball and chain, that I'd have to drag with me my whole life. Maybe things never would be the same between my Dad and I, but I have to admit that his actions finally set me free.
"Ugh, Emma," I say to myself, gagging a bit. "Can you sound sappier?"
Reaching into my purse, I search for a pair of sunglasses to ward off the midday glare coming through my windshield.
There's only one person I want to see right now. I’m about to call him when I notice a maroon Monte Carlo behind me. It sticks out, because the same Monte Carlo was parked at the back of Pawnography. You tend to notice the other car in an empty parking lot. Against my better judgement, I slide on my phone and hit Instagram. It looks like The Dealer's been busy today. On the top of his feed, there's a photo of Josie, carrying a Weckman’s drugstore bag full of toilet paper. I try to scroll down while keeping my eyes primarily on the road, but, there's nothing new of me...yet.
The Monte Carlo's windows are tinted, so I can’t get a good look inside and the driver is staying far enough back that I can't see any other details. Flipping on my turn signal, I decide to test my theory by maneuvering across a couple lanes of traffic at a suicidal speed to take the closest exit. Sure enough, Mr. Monte Carlo follows me.
I’ve got The Dealer in my sights, or at least my rear-view. Now I just have to figure out what to do with him. So far, this asshole has been content to channel his inner-paparazzo, but what happens if he realizes I know he's following me? The thought chills my blood, and I hit auto dial.
Jameson answers after one ring. "Morning, Duchess."
"It's nearly afternoon," I inform him.
"So it is," he says with a yawn. For a second, I'm distracted by the thought of him stretching his magnificent arms over his head, wearing nothing but a sheet.
"I have a problem." I have to remember to get to the point.
"What's wrong?" The languid sexiness is gone from his tone, replaced by urgency.
"I'm pretty sure someone's following me. I think, maybe, it's The Dealer." I glance in the mirror to check if he’s still there. He is.
"Well, stay on the phone and come to me."
"No. I'm trying to think of a way to trap him. Like, maybe I'll pull into a store and wait, and when he goes to follow me in—"
"Come straight to my house," Jameson cuts me off before I can rattle off the rest of my half-hatched plan.
"I'm not driving all the way up to Mount Charleston."
"You’re driving? Whose car?" My hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Jameson! Where can I go? I’m not going to Mount Charleston." "Our place in Belle Mère," Jameson corrects me.
"How many freaking houses do you have in this city?" I snap, panic getting the better of me. So much for calm and calculating. Apparently I'm going straight to uber-bitch.
But he ignores my attitude and begins to rattle off directions.
"I'm not going to remember any of that."
"Then just stay on the phone and tell me where you are." It takes me seconds to find the cross streets, but when I do, he heaves a sigh of relief. "Okay, I want you to take your next left."
He navigates me to his house with saint-like patience. The Monte Carlo follows me the whole way.
"Your gate's closed," I tell him when I turn into his drive and see the wrought iron monolith blocking me from safety.
"I just opened it." As if on cue, the panels begin to slide to the side. I wait just long enough to be cer
tain the Mercedes can fit through before I zoom forward. Any other time, I might waste precious seconds by admiring his house, but the Wests’ real estate portfolio is the last thing on my mind.
Jameson is waiting on the front drive, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans. His feet are bare, his abs are on display, and judging from the tousled mess of coppery hair sticking in every direction, he really had been in bed. All I can think about is having those strong arms wrapped tightly around me. I put the car in park, not even bothering to turn off the engine, and run to him. Burying my face in his chest I breathe in his scent: soap and the remnants of yesterday's cologne mixed with a little sweat, like he'd been tossing and turning in his sleep.
He tips my chin up with his index finger. "Promise me you won't go around acting like live bait?"
"I just thought—" I start, but he cuts me off.
"It's not safe, Emma, and I need you to stay safe."
"Yeah, I'm your alibi," I mutter, trying to pull away.
Jameson holds me tighter. "You know that's not why I need you to stay safe, Duchess."
"I’m sorry ..." But the apology dies on my lips when the Monte Carlo barrels down the driveway.
"You didn't shut the gate," I yell at Jameson.
"I need you to stay calm," he says.
I wrench away from him, instantly realizing that there is more to this situation than he's letting on. "What did you do?"
"I need you to stay safe," he repeats himself.
"What did you do, Jameson?" I demand. The driver of the Monte Carlo climbs out of the car and walks towards us. Pausing at my car, he leans in and turns off the engine.
That’s weird behavior for a psycho.
I expected The Dealer to be someone we know—someone who has a stake in our secrets—but I've never seen this man before, and I know I'd remember him. The guy makes The Rock look like a weakling. He could probably eat The Rock for breakfast. His neck is wider than his head, bulging with veins that pulsate down to his broad shoulders and inhumanly large arms. If someone told me he was smuggling pythons around those biceps, I'd believe it.