by Geneva Lee
Chapter Eleven
We chose the Belle Mère graveyard because it was close to home. Dad wanted to be able to visit. But he visits as often as mom does. If I hadn’t worried about it there wouldn’t even be a headstone marking her grave. Maybe it would be easier if I could pretend she was just off at school or if I could drink away her memory, but I’d been cursed and blessed to spend the last few moments with her before she died. The run to the cemetery is boring, but it gives me time to clear my head. I run faster until my muscles burn and I’m drenched in sweat. I know I can’t outrun what’s happening, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. By the time I reach the graveyard, the shade trees and green lawn are a welcome site. It’s a bit strange to spend so much time and energy tending to the final resting place of the dead. In the desert, most of us don’t get to look at green grass while we’re alive. It’s not comforting to think I’ll be buried under it someday.
I jog along the path, reading names and dates. Nearly everyone here lived a nice, long life. They had decades on Becca. She didn’t even get eighteen years. We buried her under a fledgling willow tree. A strange choice for Nevada, but rules don’t seem to apply in graveyards. Reputations don’t matter. Everyone here is beloved and missed and dear. Drought regulations don’t exist or maybe the unnaturally green grass has evolved to soak up the tears of its visitors.
Becca’s face greets me when I reach her site. Mom considered having her headstone laser-engraved with her image tacky, but I’d fought her on it. Her grave didn’t need to suit anyone’s taste but mine. It had been a good call. Over the last year, her photos began to vanish as her Facebook page was deleted and her Instagram stopped updating. Then they disappeared from our house, leaving only faded patches where they had hung for years. But it’s even harder to think about all the photos she won’t get to take.
Plopping down in front of the headstone, I give her a small grin. Her face beams back at me, locked in a happy moment from earlier that summer. It’s one of the last pictures I have of her. My memory fills in the rest of the picture. Becca posing in front of a tall cactus, her red hair billowing behind her. She’ll always look like this to me: young, happy. She’ll never age, while I’ve gotten older in the last twenty-four hours. I blink back tears. “Hey sis, have I got a story to tell you.”
With Becca I leave nothing out. I tell her about sneaking around Nathaniel’s office and meeting Jameson. I tell her that it seems impossible to have fallen in love with him a little bit in one night. I tell her that makes me feel stupid. Then I tell her it was all a lie. I ask her if I should go to Mom’s and I tell her about Dad and his drinking. I know it’s impossible but I can’t help but hope that she’ll speak up and offer me some insight. Although it would probably scare me to death.
I sit for a little while, soaking up how good it feels just to get it all off my chest, even though the only response is the wind in the willow branches. “I’ve never really thought much about what happens after we die, but I like the idea that you’re listening somewhere. There’s no way you landed the angel gig. It’ll take you centuries before you work off all the trouble you made here.”
As twilight falls in dusky hues over the cemetery, I stand up.
“I miss you, Becca,” I whisper. I should have brought her flowers but I think she’d be okay just knowing that I brought her love. If I hurry I’ll be home before dark, but as I turn I nearly jump out of my skin. Jameson’s leaning against a tree. He’s changed since I saw him last. He hasn’t shaved but his hair is combed into neat chaos. In the dusky light, it’s darker than I remember. His jeans hug his narrow hips but not as tightly as his shirt clings to his muscular torso. My thoughts flash to what he looks like out of his clothes and I blush. Striding up to him, I fold my arms over my chest and glare.
“How long have you been standing there?” I demand. Then a more important question occurs to me. “Did you follow me?”
“A little full of ourselves, Duchess.” He shifts ever so slightly and I find myself doing the same.
Dammit, he is not who you thought he was, I remind myself.
“Don’t call me that,” I warn him. Did he think we would just pick up where we left off? That ship sailed when I woke up alone.
“Then I guess I’ll call you Emma or would you prefer Ms. Southerly?” he asks, a chill runs so deeply in his words that I feel it in my own blood. Last night I thought he might devour me, tonight it feels like he’d settle for a mere mauling.
“I’d prefer you didn’t call me anything.” I move past him but his hand flies out and catches my wrist, stopping me in my tracks. I tug against his hold but he only tightens his grip. “Let go of me.”
“We need to talk first.”
“We needed to talk this morning,” I tell him. “But I’m a little tired after spending most of the day covering for your ass with the homicide division.”
“I appreciate that.” But there’s no gratitude in his face. He’s reciting the obligatory thanks.
“I think getting someone off a murder rap deserves flowers or maybe chocolate,” I bite back.
Jameson steps closer, still keeping my wrist pinned. “Did you think you got me off, Duchess?”
“You’re using that word again,” I warn him.
He ignores me. “Believe me, this is far from over.”
“It is for us,” I tell him.
His eyes flash, lightning in the stormy gray. I’ve upset him, which is a pretty stupid thing considering that he may or may not have killed someone in the last twenty-four hours. But as angry as I am at him, I can’t find it in myself to be scared of him. Apparently reason, logic, and common sense have all deserted me for the time being. Jameson drops his hold on me.
“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” he asks.
“Oh, okay, Jameson West. Did you enjoy the part where I talked crap on your sister? Or when I basically said horrible things about your whole family? Let’s not pretend we were honest with each other. “
“Agreed,” he says to my surprise. “I’d suggest we start over. Jameson West.”
He holds out his hand, but I don’t take it.
“Emma Southerly,” I say coldly. “We don’t shake hands with Wests.”
“That was our fathers’ fight. It died with them.”
“My dad is still alive,” I tell him.
“Then he wins. I have no interest in continuing their petty feud.”
“That’s an incredibly enlightened sentiment, but not really one I share.”
“So what do you have against the Wests, Miss Southerly?”
I hate how formal he sounds when he calls me that, but I can’t exactly ask him to call me Duchess. Talk about sending the wrong signal. “My grief with your family goes back a few years.”
“Ah yes. My troublemaker of a sister stole your boyfriend,” he recalls.
“You were paying attention.”
“I liked paying attention to you.”
“Really?” I ask, “because I don’t recall you leaving a note. Not very attentive, Mr. West.”
“Check your phone,” he orders.
It’s in that moment that I realize it’s sitting on the kitchen counter. I’ve ran all the way here without it. Now I’m talking to a murder suspect without a way to call for help. I might not be afraid of him, but I can’t believe I was so stupid as to leave it behind. “I don’t have it.”
“You came all this way without your phone.” Annoyance colors his disbelief.
“There was a time when people walked miles without cell phones,” I remind him. Where does he get off treating me this way?
“Don’t be cute, Emma. I can’t allow you to run home.”
“Excuse me?” I repeat, not bothering to hide my shock. "Did we just jump through time and wind up in the 1950s? I'm not helpless."
“It’s not safe," he ignores me, which only brings my rage from simmering to full boil. "You shouldn’t be running without a way to call home.”
“And it’s safe to
get in the car with you?”
“It’s the safest place in the world for you. I need you alive.”
A shiver races up my spine, but I channel my energy into convincing him to let me walk away. I have no idea what he's capable of, and I can never forget that. “I’ll be fine if I leave now.”
“We’re not through talking.”
“Listen, I don’t know who you think you are—”
“I’m Jameson West,” he interrupts me.
“That’s so impressive,” I mock him, “but I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”
“You mean like staying out all night with men you don’t know?”
“If by men, you mean you, then yes.” Does he have some type of personality disorder? Dr. Jameson and Mr. West. “But it’s not a habit of mine. I must have been suffering a bout of insanity.”
“Then I suppose I was lucky," he says.
“You have no idea," I mutter. "You probably should have thrown a quarter in the slots. Luck was on your side.”
“Others might disagree with you.”
Oh, right. Dead dad. Whoops.
“I should go.”
“Emma you can get in my car or I can follow you in my car. Those are your options.”
My eyes narrow into slits so thin that I can barely see him. “Suit yourself.”
I take off on a full jog before he can respond. Cutting through the gravestones, I narrowly make it to the street before a sleek, black BMW catches up with me. It slows down to match my pace, which would be comical if it wasn’t so infuriating. I speed up my pace but it’s no use. One, I’m not really much of a runner, so there’s no way I can keep up that speed for long. Two, he’s in a freaking car. By the time he’s been following me for a mile, I dart right and take a side street. I have no idea if I can actually get to my house from here but I’m willing to chance it. The last streaks of daylight are fading into a milky blue sky as I quicken my pace. The desert is particularly dark at night and I have no desire to get stuck too far from home, especially with an innocent-until-proven-guilty murderer on my trail. But just as I round a corner, the BMW appears again.
“Do you even know how to get home?” he calls from the rolled down window.
“Yes.”
“You’re lying,” he accuses. “Get in the car, Duchess.”
“I told you not to call me that!” I yell between panting breaths.
“It seems to really suit your attitude at the moment.” He continues to idle alongside me. “If you get in, I’ll drop you off a few houses down. If not, I’ll be parked in your driveway before you can unlock your front door. Is your father home from work yet?”
I halt in my tracks. His scale of kissability to smackability just tipped heavily in favor of a backhand across his face. But he’s hit the mark: I don’t want to explain him to my dad. Reluctantly I jog around to the passenger side. The interior is sleek if a little bit utilitarian, but it hardly matters since he’s turned the air conditioner on full blast. I want to pretend that I’m overheated from running, but his presence is also a contributing factor. My whole body turns traitor in his mist, remembering how his lips felt as they explored my skin.
But that was before I knew who he was or what he was capable of. If I couldn’t bring myself to be scared of him, I could try to maintain some self-control.
“Buckle up,” he commands me.
I grimace at him, abandoning the glorious chill coming from the vents and reach for my seatbelt. “I always buckle up.”
“I imagined you’d say that, given…”
“Given what?” I press when he leaves his thought hanging between us.
“What happened to your sister,” he finishes as he peels out of the neighborhood.
Yesterday he didn’t know my name. Now he knows how my sister died? Uneasiness mixes with the Molotov cocktail of emotions I’m trying to suppress.
“How the hell do you know about that?”
“Public record,” he answers with a shrug.
“Until today, you had no idea who I was,” I remind him.
“I’ve done a little research. It probably occurred to you today that I might be guilty of my father’s murder. I felt I needed to know who I was dealing with.”
“And something you found led you to believe I could be pushed around?”
“Quite the opposite. As soon as I found out your last name, I assumed you’d be trouble.”
He has no idea. “Look I told the police the truth, and that’s all I’m going to tell them. I’m not adding to my story.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.” He frowns as if the suggestion that I lie is completely unpalatable.
“So you’re just going to follow me now?” I ask him, “and look up news stories about my family and invite yourself into my life?”
“I’m inviting myself?” he repeats. He throws the stick shift into the next gear and speeds up until the engine roars. Now I see why he wanted me to put on my seat belt. “According to my sister, you weren’t even invited last night.”
I should have know this was going to come up, but it hardly seems like he has the right to be calling me out. “Lucky for you I crashed, I suppose.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” He whips around a corner and I clutch the armrest between us. “You okay, Duchess?”
I shoot daggers at him. “Maybe you should slow down a little.”
“Don’t you trust me?” he asks.
“Really, this is where you want to go with this conversation?” Relief floods through me as we reach my street.
He switches gears, slowing down and coming to a halt a few houses away from my own. “Safely home, like I promised,” he says. “You haven’t answered my question. Do you trust me?”
I don’t think we’re talking about his driving skills anymore. “I don’t know you.”
“That hurts.” The wounded quality in his voice speaks more to actual sincerity than flirtation.
“You let me believe that you were crashing that party, too.”
“You believed what you wanted to believe.” He has a point, but I’m not about to let him know it. He unbuckles his seat belt and twists to face me from the driver’s seat. “I think you can let go now.”
I release my death grip on the armrest, but I don’t relax. His silvery eyes drift across my mouth. I feel them there as acutely as I felt his lips on my own last night. When his gaze finally reaches mine, I find the same questions there that I’ve been asking myself all afternoon. “Maybe I did,” I admit slowly, “but I still didn’t know who you were.”
“I told you my name,” he interrupts me. “You were the one playing coy.”
“And you liked it,” I blurt out.
A wolfish smile creeps onto his face, the wickedness reaching all the way up to those perfect gray eyes. “I did.”
“Glad we’ve settled that.” I tear myself away from his magnetic gaze and focus on the street ahead. Night has fallen. Most of the houses are still dark. Only a few lights twinkle from behind curtains, most of them left on to greet their owners when they arrive home from work or pleasure. People don’t stay in on Saturday night in Las Vegas. We might be the only ones here right now.
“Looks empty,” Jameson says, following my gaze.
I nod. In some respects our worlds aren’t so different. Most of the housers have house maids substituting for their parents who are too busy on business trips or entertaining clients or jetting off to some exotic vacation without them. It’s the same here, even if it’s on a smaller scale. My neighbors run small restaurants and grocery stores. They manage the casinos off the strip and in their free time, they pour their take-home back in to the Vegas economy.
“They’re at work,” I say aloud.
“Does it scare you to be with me?” He asks.
“No,” I whisper. Admitting this to him feels like opening a door that I might not be able to close. I chance a quick peek at him.
His profile is stunning in the moonlight that streams through
the windshield, etching him in blunt lines and hard edges. He claimed that he had been away at school in California. The slight sun-kissed tone of his skin that glows faintly in the dim light suggests he’d been somewhere sunny, but he’s not tan. Not like most of the people around here.
“What were you studying?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He turns to me looking a little surprised, but also pleased. “Business. No surprise, right?”
“You look like you didn’t get outside much,” I note.
“That seems a little hypocritical coming from you, Duchess, not that I mind.” I flush at the appreciative tone in his voice, which only proves he’s right.
“I buy stock in SPF 200,” I tell him. “Even at the pool, I’m one of those girls with a hat and sunglasses that pauses her reading to slather as much sunscreen as possible. Skin cancer is a bitch.”
“True enough,” he says with a chuckle.
“I know I don’t fit in here,” I tell him.
“No, you don’t,” he murmurs. “You stand out.”
“Is that why you talked to me?” I ask him.
“I spoke to you because it was rude not to acknowledge the fact that you were trespassing.”
“Right.” Embarrassment rolls over me in waves and I search for the door handle. That’s all the reminder I need that I made a huge mistake wandering into that office, sticking around, getting into his car tonight. How many more huge mistakes would I be allowed before I had to pay the price?