No Greater Love

by Susan Rodgers

  He softened a little, but overall Jacob’s anger heightened his feelings to a point where he felt he had to continue.

  “Do you believe in choice, Jessie? Because I do. I want to be on that higher plane. I am not your plaything, your refuge in the fecking dessert!”

  He was near tears now as the emotion of the last few weeks threatened to erupt once and for all, but he held them at bay.

  In a small voice, Jessie finally had her say. “I know you must hate me for what I did, Jacob, but my reasons for making those choices made sense to me. And maybe you haven’t noticed but everyone at home seems to be doing just fine without me.”

  Jacob thought about the people at Charlie’s Club that night – about Stephen, and how openly evident it was that he alone missed her desperately. He thought about the magazine article and the hurt, betrayed, worried faces within.

  “Are they,” he said softly, definitively, a warning light flashing across the surface of his blue eyes, leaving a deep intensity in its wake.

  She paused then and swiped a hand over her own eyes, which were beginning to leak slowly, one wet drop at a time. She stared stubbornly at Jacob, and suddenly he could see the scared girl there, the one John Paul once called sorrowful and tragic. And then Jacob knew Jessie to be exactly that, and so his own emotions finally gave way and, even though he told himself he would be just fine without her, that as long as he had his music he would survive, he knew he was wrong. He had given his heart to this woman, and it hurt like hell to be standing there in front of her trying to sort out so many confusing thoughts and emotions, and watching her suffer as well.

  Pulling Jessie close and wrapping his arms tightly around her, Jacob buried his face in the beloved wild tresses and wished like hell this girl was Annie again, and that these last few weeks were all just some messed up nightmare and she was not some famous runaway half the world thought was killed by her ex-boyfriend.

  Jessie couldn’t stand being away from Jacob. When he held her, he did so with utter passion and love, the way Jacob did everything – full, hard core, with no reservations. They held each other there in the wasted dim light for only a short time before Jessie brushed her lips against his neck, on the stubble on his coarse cheek, on his full mouth. It took him a moment to respond, because he was still sore afraid of where this night and then the next and the next would take them. But when he finally reacted, Jacob let go of his reservations completely and he picked her up, mimicking Josh’s movements in the viral video, only he was able to lay Jessie down on the bed beneath him and kiss her everywhere he desired for what he thought would likely be their last night together.

  All Jessie knew in those harried erotically charged moments was that regardless of how she felt about Josh, and would always feel about Josh, she loved this man fully and completely. But was he able to love her back? She knew he did, and would, tonight - but what about tomorrow…?

  Jacob clawed at her top and bra at once and they both came off over her head, temporarily trapping her arms. He was quick, a man in desperate need of something much more than lust this night; he needed to find a connection again with the girl who played such affecting music, the girl who hurt so badly one night that a man had to carry her from hydrangea bushes into a hospital to grieve a lost child.

  His hands fondled her breasts, roughly, as his lips found their way between her legs. He stopped long enough to yank down her faded jeans and panties, and to pull her legs a little wider apart, and then Jessie’s hands became free and she pulled his flannel shirt and T-shirt up over his head. Moaning, Jessie knew Jacob’s actions were almost desperate, and that this shared intimate act could heal every bit as powerfully as music – maybe even more so.

  Like that first night when Katrine was the force to bring her and Jacob together, she was already coming by the time he moved up her body, unzipped his own jeans and forced himself inside her. Jessie pushed his jeans down to his thighs and dug her fingers deeply into the Celtic cross on his back. Jacob’s shoulder blades were tense, taut, his body on ultra high alert – he craved release, and he got it, an explosive release that echoed hers, and then as they held each other and rocked back and forth they both cried for the sorrow of it all.

  Jacob…a man of passion, who loved to play guitar and sing intensely and profoundly, had a hunger and a desire that was life, to him. For as much as he lived on the edge, his guitar a shield, he also knew and lived the motto carpe diem - seize the day. He was a man who knew the curse of music, because his whole being was wrapped up in such sensitivities. He lived on a higher consciousness than most people. And so he was wounded on a higher level as well.

  Later, when both were calmed, Jessie laid on her back and cradled Jacob in her arms, his head on her chest. Softly brushing her fingers over the cross, and kissing his shoulder from time to time as his breathing evened out, she sang softly to him, an old Irish folk medley she once heard him and John Paul play at the pub. It comforted him further and then, when she thought he was mercifully asleep, her lover spoke, his voice heavy with fatigue and emotion.

  “What’s he like?” For this was what it all came down to – Josh.

  She caught her breath before responding. “Kind,” she murmured, exhaling slowly. “You would like him.”

  “What was it about him…why him?”

  She could feel his warm breath on her chest as she responded.

  “The same thing that drew you and me together, Jacob. Loneliness. Music.”

  He whispered her name then as he knew her, slowly and with feeling, as if it were the last time he was going to say it. As if he were letting her go, giving permission for her to go.

  “Annie.”

  Jessie felt a wetness on her chest then, and she knew that on this difficult night Jacob was letting go of all he had left to give. She was helpless except to hold him tight, and so she did, and she whispered his name back to him - “Jacob.”

  He raised his head and snuggled further up her body so he could bury his head in her neck, in the purply hair and the lavender scent he had grown to love. He felt her stir, as if to speak, and so he lifted a finger and placed it on her lips and shook his head, but she spoke anyway, her heavy eyes filled with sorrow.

  “Jacob. I never thought I could ever love anyone else the way I love him.”

  But she didn’t say loved. She said love, and he caught that.

  As Jacob finally drifted off to a restless slumber he realized with a start that Jessie was not wearing the cursed ring around her neck.

  ***

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was late the next morning by the time Jessie felt like rolling out of bed. The sun was high in the sky, and most people were at work for at least three hours by the time she crawled from under the cozy covers and wandered out of the small bedroom to her little kitchen, where she popped a cinnamon-raisin bagel into the toaster. She was just opening a window in the living room to let out some of the stale smoke from last night’s worry frenzy in exchange for fresh Scottish air, when she heard footsteps on the stairs. Her bed was empty when she awoke – she expected Jacob traipsed off down the road to get them some coffees, so she turned to face him with a big smile as the door to her flat opened. Clad in only a white cotton long sleeved shirt yanked out of Jacob’s smelly duffel bag and, thankfully, panties underneath, Jessie started towards the door to greet him.

  Then to her utter dismay and bitter shock in stepped Jacob - ashamed, mortified - with Stephen, and then Charles, close behind.

  Jessie had left Vancouver in a hurry, unannounced. With the exception of the brief postcard to Arnie, she had not been in touch with anyone from that part of her life in eighteen months. She was well aware Jacob and Katrine had discovered her real identity, but she did not think either had the audacity to notify anyone in Vancouver.

  When she finally aimed her ice blue eyes at Jacob, it was with a slow death glare propelled from a sideways glance. Knuckling her hands into fists, she sucked in a breath.

  “Bast
ard.”

  The chill of the simple declaration sent a biting tremor throughout Jacob’s silent body. He raised his head high, proudly. He could find no response other than that – to let her know he thought the same of her just then. But his heart was breaking at the same time hers started to pound in terror.

  Jacob walked stiffly past Jessie and into the bedroom. She felt the fusty air move; its decaying frailty choked her in the dimness of her short-lived space. Picking up his guitar and hoisting the duffle over a slumped shoulder, Jacob slunk back past the quiet figures in the living room. At the door he turned, his heart begging for mercy but his brain too proud to ask for it. Jessie was staring hard at him, her eyes desperately pleading get me out of this. Don’t abandon me here…with them.

  He swallowed. This was harder than he even imagined.

  “Jessie. Go and finish this, okay? However it’s meant to be finished. Stop hurting the people who love you. Let them help you. It’s time to stop running.”

  Enveloped in the confines of his button-down shirt, she stood pulling at the sleeves, as if by stretching them down over her fingertips she would better be able to cover her modesty. Jessie couldn’t find the nerve to remove her eyes from Jacob’s limp curls, pallid cheeks and new beard. Once she did she would have to look at Stephen or Charles, and she was not yet ready for the flood of emotions meeting their beleaguered expressions would release.

  Jacob tried to say her name again but this time the words wouldn’t come. He needed to hear something from her – anything - to give him hope. His lips moved silently but Jessie, consumed with anger and confusion at his Judas move, stubbornly refused to throw him a bone. Finally he just turned and walked through the door Charles held open for him. As his footsteps lingered on the stairs below, Jessie hung her head in shame.

  And then it was time to face her past, once and for all.

  Charles broke the ice. With a choked sob, unable yet to let himself believe his girl was here, safe, he moved forward and swathed her in a big bear hug. Jessie gave in and allowed herself to hug him back. Dammit, he smells the same, she told herself as the unreality of the situation settled somewhere off in the far reaches of her mind. Like home.

  He pushed her away from him and held her there, aloft, as she forced her mind to hide somewhere deep inside. She had nothing to say to him, at least not until she recovered from the shock of seeing her old producer in the small Scots flat. Pretty much in her underwear, in fact.

  “Dear God Jessie. Dear God,” was all he could manage. He wasn’t angry, or at least he told himself he wasn’t – yet. She was safe, and not in the hideous grasp of Deuce McCall. She was not dead. He would rejoice, not question or lay blame.

  As he wrapped her tightly in one last enduring hug, over his shoulder she made eye contact with Stephen. Charles felt Jessie’s body stiffen. He moved away to collect himself in the fresh breeze of the open window.

  Stephen was Jessie’s first real friend in many years. He was her compadre, Josh’s best friend, her cast mate on Drifters. In the end, he was also her lover, of sorts. Now he stood before her with daggers darting from his flecked eyes.

  “Jesus.” Slowly, he shook his head from side to side.

  Jessie was awash with emotion, overwhelmed by a difficult assortment of feelings. She was a fantastical spider’s web, complex, silk spun but deadly to an unsuspecting foe. She lifted her right forefinger to her messy hair and started twirling a ringlet. Subconsciously, she pulled at strands with the other hand until they almost covered her face, her humiliation.

  Stephen walked slowly forward, reaching out for her with his right hand. In a muddle of fear and apprehension Jessie stepped back, but he stopped her retreat by grabbing a handful of colored hair and shoving it off of her face. Roughly, he tilted her head back.

  “Ouch!” she cried, grabbing his tense forearm, trying to both balance herself and push him away at the same time.

  He held tight, and studied her face.

  “Jessie Wheeler. I have half a mind to slap your pretty face.”

  A petulant sideways glance up to Steve’s own angry face, his mouth set in a firm line and his cheeks pale and drawn, affirmed he just might do so. Jessie cringed, half-expecting the blow, but then his left arm was around her waist and his right arm was cradling her head against his shoulder. He held her closely for what seemed like a very long time, the goat’s milk soap scent of him almost her complete undoing, and she could feel his body shaking as he let his relief be known.

  Behind her Jessie could hear Charles struggling to contain his own surfeit of emotions, but Jessie herself was frozen, still lost in the shock of facing, after all this time, these two men she loved dearly. She was also utterly defeated by Jacob’s treachery. Her tight little fists opened and closed as if she wanted to give in to the relief that ending her façade would bring, but she didn’t trust where it would take her. And although she did hug Stephen back, and Charles before him, neither were genuine heartfelt embraces. Jessie’s mind jumped abruptly to how she was feeling when she left these people behind in Canada a year and a half ago. And so another vestige of the old numbness re-entered her tired soul like a colony of ticks burrowing deep inside beyond her skin where they could hide undisturbed around her heart, under her kidneys, in the dark shadows of her liver and spleen.

  She excused herself and tugged on some loose bleached black jeans in the relative safety of her small bedroom, then Jessie escaped behind the small kitchen island barrier where she and Jacob often exchanged dusty flour-tinged kisses while baking chocolate chip cookies, and she ran a premium Ethiopian grind through her espresso machine. They would need hot coffee today.

  Charles sat nervously at the counter, on Jacob’s favorite stool, while Steve nosed around the small flat.

  “Does Dee know?” was the first thing Jessie said to her producer, afraid to make eye contact as she removed some mugs from the overhead cupboard, her back to Charles.

  He shook his head. “No. I didn’t want to tell her until I knew for sure it was you.”

  She sighed, then leaned forward and rested her head in her hands. Steve wandered behind the counter and tried to put an arm around her, but Jessie pulled away.

  “I’m not going back,” she said angrily, once again a sullen seven-year-old runaway hiding beyond a cedar-shingled storage barn.

  Steve glanced up at Charles. They would have their work cut out for them this day. “Why?” he asked. “Because of Deuce McCall?”

  “Because of everything,” she responded tartly, finally turning to look at these Vancouver ghosts.

  “Okay,” Steve said. “Let’s just have some coffee and talk about shit. No pressure. We just need to sort some things out, Jessie. But first – how long until that espresso’s ready? This jet lag is doing me in.”

  Jessie steamed some milk and made them all cappuccinos. The whirling frothy clamor and the simple redundant actions gave her a few moments to collect her wits. She was troubled to see how tired Charles appeared, and it broke her heart to know she was the cause. She gave him his coffee first and was saddened to see he didn’t even appear angry at her. He should be. Charles was relieved to note that Jessie appeared worried when she handed him his mug and met his eyes. It meant there was some of the old girl left in her yet.

  “Look,” she said. “Maybe it’s too late. Everything’s changed. I’ve changed.”

  “Do you still look over your shoulder for Deuce McCall?” Steve asked quietly.

  “Damn right I do,” she said after a pause, her heart quickening. “I haven’t heard that you’ve found him.” Uneasy, she looked up at Charles.

  “We haven’t,” he said. No point in untruths – anymore.

  “Well then. That’s reason enough for me to stay here incognito. Isn’t it?” Her eyes narrowed. “So. You figured out it was McCall.”

  “Matt spotted him in your group photo from Agassiz. Given your fear of him, and your telling Charlie someone stalked you all summer there was enough of a link to con
vince the police to check him out. They were hesitant. He’s quite the successful businessman.”

  Steve added, “And the knife, Jess. We already knew it came from the southern U.S. Still no proof it’s McCall’s, but it was enough to start looking into the man further.”

  She straightened, defiantly thrusting her shoulders back and biting her bottom lip. So they believed Josh was clean. Thank God.

  Hesitantly, Steve cut into her thoughts. “Aren’t you tired of wondering when he’s going to show up?”

  “Yes, and he’ll fecking show up here now that the two of you have arrived on my doorstep.”

  “Fecking?” Steve forced a chuckle, his fatigued eyes trying in vain to regain their old twinkle.

  “Em, feck off,” Jessie said. She would have smiled if she weren’t so bloody angry and scared of where this unexpected visit would lead.

  “Jessie, Matt’s guys were all over the place. They found bugs in our house as well as at Josh’s house. Yours was clean. They also found bumper beepers on all of the vehicles, which they immediately removed. The chances of McCall following us here are slim.”

  “Humph. Have you learned nothing, Charles?” she retorted, then instantly regretted her harsh tone. This man was always nothing but kind to her. He and his wife made her a wealthy woman. Softening, she added, “Look, Charles, we’re talking about Deuce McCall here. His tentacles are far reaching.”

  “Well then,” Steve responded, leaning back on the counter next to Jessie while he sprinkled cinnamon on his cappuccino foam. “Guess that means you’re coming home, where we can keep an eye on you.”