by Geneva Lee
He reaches across and grabs my hand. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yeah, you probably didn’t,” I say, “but let’s face it. I don’t know you. You don’t know me.”
“I’d like to get to know you.” I stopped trying to open the door and turn on him.
“Why?” If I discount the murder investigation focused on him, then I’m staring at the heir to a multi-billion dollar company who has the sense of humor to charm the panties off whomever he wants and the looks that mean he doesn’t have to. He’s the whole package. Compared to him, I’m nothing.
“Because last night I was more honest with you in the few hours we spent together than I’ve been with anyone my whole life and since then all I can think about is spending more time with you. I want to know you. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I think I’ve gotten under your skin, as well. If I’m wrong, tell me to leave, but if you felt even a hint of that last night, don’t push me away.”
“Would you let me?” I breathe. There’s something about him that overwhelms me. I won’t be able to let him in to part of my life. He’ll simply consume me whole.
The hand gripping my own drops it, but only so he can reach up and cup my jaw. “Think about it.”
My body leans forward instinctively, but his hand falls away breaking the spell.
“Okay.” It’s the most I can promise him. I throw open the door before he can convince me to change my mind.
“Duchess,” he calls after me. I duck down to the open window. “Check your phone.”
Jogging across my neighbors yards, I can feel him watching me from the car. He turns on the headlights to guide my path, but I don’t hear the engine roar back to life until I step inside the house. I pause for a moment, catching my breath against the door, then I remember what he said.
My phone is waiting for me on the kitchen counter. Sliding it on, I search through the messages, but there’s nothing there. What is he hoping I’ll find? Then it hits me and I open my contact list. Skimming through it, I get to ‘J.’ He’s typed in his full name. I select it and find a note written in the contact information. “Call me Duchess, please.”
“What have you gotten yourself into?” I say to the empty kitchen for the two-hundredth time today. He’s left what happens next up to me, but I’m not stupid enough to believe I have a choice. I should stay away from him. It’s the smart thing to do. It’s what I’ve always done, keeping my distance is a safe bet. Too bad I can’t.
Chapter Twelve
Monday, it’s back to routine. I’m switching gears despite my dad’s constant absence from work. Pawn shops thrive on their own in Las Vegas. There’s always someone willing to gamble on their own treasures. Ninety percent of people don’t come back, which means we have an unusual and original stock of junk for tourists to peruse. Nothing thrills a Midwestern farmer more than taking home a Billy Joel tour jacket. I’ve never claimed to understand it, but if it keeps the lights on and my stomach full, I can work with it.
Jerry is already waiting by the door when I pull into the lot. When I was a lot younger, Dad kept the place open 24 hours. He did some pretty good business considering he didn’t mind taking items off drunk people’s hands. He also got robbed a few too many times. Then Mom walked out, and he had to be practical, not that there weren’t many nights that Becca and I spent sleeping on cots in the warehouse.
“Hey, Emma,” Jerry greets me, holding out a Starbucks cup. “Cappuccino, right?”
“Jerry, if you’re trying to get on my good side, it’s working.” I take the cup from him, and he starts to unlock the door. It takes longer to roll up the metal security gates than it does to turn on the computer, but there’s little else that we have to worry about. The shop has a bookkeeper, a toddler could run a transaction. The rest is all instinct.
“Is your Dad coming in?” Jerry asks as I rearrange a pile of Star Wars memorabilia. I put Princess Leia in the front of the case because she’s my favorite. I shrug in response to his question. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I just thought maybe...” He trails off before he wanders away.
I’m not sure, but I think I make him nervous. I can’t exactly blame him for assuming that I might know if Dad was coming in, but as usual I left him snoring off a hangover on the couch. The shop is closed on Sundays, and through some miracle Dad hasn’t heard about what happened to Nathaniel West, which means he doesn’t know that I was there that night. I guess Mom has been keeping secrets from him long enough that it didn’t occur to her to mention it. Not that they’re on speaking terms unless major parenting intervention is required.
I’d taken the coward’s path and decided to stay in my room all day. We’d passed each other a few times coming in and out of the kitchen, but he’d been asleep before I’d put dinner in the oven. Usually I’d push it and wake him up, but I figured I’d better enjoy the calm before the storm. I have no idea when Jameson is going to show back up, but I have no doubt that he will. Eventually, even that will filter through Dad’s alcohol-soaked brain.
By 2:00 pm I’ve bought a handful of old Beatles records and calmly informed a hysterical woman that her five carat diamond was a knock-off. I’d count it as a successful day except Dad still isn’t here. Apparently, I’m going to be doing more than help out in the shop this summer. The melodic tingle of bells alerts me to a new customer, but when I glance up I find Jameson stalking through the entrance. I’m out from behind the counter before Jerry can greet him.
“What are you doing here?” I demand trying to sound more forceful than flustered and failing. I can't have Jameson showing up whenever he feels like it. He might not care about going toe to toe with my dad, but I have to live under the same roof as him. “You should go.”
Jameson looks around at the store. Apart from the cluttered collections of pawned treasure, the place is vacant. “Is your dad here?”
“No.” I begin to tap my foot on the floor. “He could walk in any minute though.”
“Then we’ll deal with that, if it happens.” His tone is dismissive. What must it be like to never think more than ten minutes in advance? I guess he has the luxury to live that way.
Jerry walks over and eyes us suspiciously. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and puffs his chest out. “Can I help you with something?”
He directs the question at Jameson who merely looks at him like he’s a bug that needs to be squashed. “I’m being helped already.”
“Jerry, this is a friend,” I say quickly trying to defuse the situation before Jerry picks up the phone. “He came by to drop something off. We’ll just be a second.” I grab Jameson’s arm and pull him into the back room.
“This is interesting,” he says as he takes in the stock of odds and ends.
Vintage toys sit forlornly next to unlit neon signs. In the corner, a dusty jukebox no longer plays music. He studies an old Monte Carlo half covered by a tarp. If the store is like a closet of junk, the backroom is a graveyard of sorts. This is where we send the items no one wants. “If there was a place on earth comprised of other people’s treasures, this is it.”
He picks up a Fender guitar. “I always wanted to take lessons.”
I take it away from him and place it carefully back on the shelf. I don't even want his fingerprints in my world. “You break it, you buy it.”
“Maybe I’ll just buy it, Duchess.” But he makes no move to pick it back up.
“Let’s try this again, why are you here?” I'm rapidly losing patience with his air of mystery. It might have been sexy the other night, but now that the veil has been lifted, I know what's underneath: another spoiled rich boy who has the power to buy himself out of trouble.
“I wanted to see you. Isn’t that reason enough?” he asks.
Considering our family history and the events that drew us together, it shouldn’t feel like enough, but I have to work hard to keep myself from softening in his presence. He looks good today, as if that’s news. Unlike the last time I saw him
, he’s cleanly shaven, and his hair is styled into that messy, wild chaos that begs to be grabbed onto. His grey shirt accents the silver in his tumultuous eyes, and there’s a devious grin playing at the corners of his far too kissable lips. It’s totally unfair that someone can look this good and be that rich too.
“You’re staring at me,” he accuses, but he's not put off. In fact, he seems turned on.
I look away quickly. “I thought you had something on your face.”
His hand flies up to brush against his chin. “Did I get it?”
“No,” I lie softly, moving closer. I brush my fingers along his smooth jaw. “Now it’s gone.”
Before I can pull back, his palm covers the back of my hand, holding it against his face. “I wish it wasn’t,” he says.
It takes far too much willpower to draw away from him. If I could bottle up the amount it requires, I’d make a fortune off people who wanted to quit smoking or to lose fifty pounds. Maybe what they really need is a moment trying to resist him to see how much easier everything else in their life feels after.
“I want to take you out,” he says.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” I hear it coming out of my lips while my body screams yes. My self-preservation goddess is working overtime today. I’ll have to give her a bonus.
My answer seems to surprise him. Then again, he probably doesn't hear no very often.
“I found what you left on my phone.”
“Would you have called?” he asks me.
“Probably not when I saw your last name.”
“And now?” he presses, taking a step towards me until our bodies are hovering mere inches from one another’s. He’s so close that I can smell the spicy notes of his cologne and feel the heat radiating off his body. My own remembers what it’s like to have it pressed against it. An invisible thread seems to tug me in his direction.
I lock my knees and force myself to stay in place. “I’m still not sure it’s a good idea.”
“How can I convince you?” He steps closer again, unknowingly doing a lot of the work. The nearer he comes to me, the more fuzzy the lines become.
“Maybe you should go,” I suggest.
“If your dad isn’t here, what’s the problem with me being here?” he asks.
“He could show up.” I’m on the defensive, and he doesn’t even know why.
“Does he often not show up? I thought this was his place.”
“Do I want to know how you know that?” I’m beginning to wonder if he’s ordered a full dossier on my entire family. I’m not the one that needs a background check. “Dad hasn’t had the easiest time,” I struggle with what to say. “He has some issues.”
There, that covers a whole range of evils, especially given the multifarious smorgasbord of vice that we reside in.
“Since your sister?” Jameson guesses.
I shake my head wondering only momentarily if he’s distributed some type of truth serum to me. “Since I can remember,” I admit, “some people handle their booze better than others.”
“I’m prying,” he says, but he doesn’t apologize for it. I suppose given the amount I now know about his family, it’s only fair.
“I’ve definitely pried into your personal life.”
“Quid pro quo,” he says.
“I thought you were a college dropout,” I mock.
“I learned it from some girl I hooked up with. She was pretty smart.”
“Are you attempting to flirt with me Mr. West?” I meander past him shamelessly shaking my ass a little as I go.
“I’ve never claimed to be a saint,” stopping at the water cooler, I poor myself a Dixie cup full and sip it slowly. “Did you check your phone?”
“You’re bypassing my question,” I accuse him.
Refilling the cup I hold it out to him, “No Duchess. I just asked you a more important one. The answer to your question is obvious,” he takes a drink, careful to place his lips exactly where my lip gloss smudged on the rim. I suspect it’s not a coincidence, so does my body judging from how a thrill tingles through me landing with a burst of anticipation between my legs. “Yeah, I checked my phone.”
“Then can we stop dicking around? I gave you my number, would you have called it before…?”
“Maybe if I found it. I suppose they might pull tricks like that in California, but where I come from, it’s still good manners to leave a girl a note. Especially if she’s still in her underwear. It’s also considered polite to wake her up.”
“You looked peaceful. I didn’t want to disturb you.” It’s a half ass excuse, and one that does nothing to sway my opinion as to his innocence.
“Where did you go when you left me,” I asked casually. I have to consider that there’s a reason that Jameson is the one the police are focused on. Even if I don’t want to.
“Wrong question again Duchess. I think what you really meant to ask is did you kill your father?”
“We’ve been over that,” but my voice peaks up a notch.
“Betraying the truth. It’s okay if you don’t believe me yet, but I’ll give you my word that I didn’t kill him, and someday that will mean something to you.”
“Someday?” I raise an eyebrow. He’s awfully sure of himself. Then again why wouldn’t Jameson West be certain of his ability to sway the opinions of a woman. “Maybe you can start proving that to me by telling me where you were that night because you weren’t there when I woke up.”
“You want all the sordid details?” He asked. Anger contorts his face into a mask of rage, “You want me to tell you how I found my father’s body? That I checked his pulse and tried to give him CPR?"
I take a step backward, needing to put distance between us as his voice continues to rise. But even when I do a magnetic force pulls me back toward him. I grab onto a shelf and brace myself, trying to break the power he seems to hold over me.
"That I was covered in his blood, and that, plus his will and testament make me guilty as sin in the eyes of the Belle Mère Police?" He's yelling now and I flinch at the brutal accusation running through his words. I'd brought this response on myself. "Or maybe you want to know about earlier when he came out onto the patio and found us there, and I pulled him inside before he could wake you up? Or about the argument we had after? If you like I can give you a timeline. It’ll be an easier sell to the gossip magazines. Be honest, this is just another one of your little games. I only want you to tell me one thing.”
“Is this what you think of me,” I break in, choking back my own rage, “because if so, there’s the door. Get the fuck out."
"I asked first.” He ignores my request completely. Maybe I need to be a little less polite about it.
He leans so close to me that we're nearly kissing. “Are you looking for fame or fortune Duchess?”
I want to scream at him that I want the truth, but it’s a little too A Few Good Men for me. Instead, I settle for walking over to the door and throwing it open.
“Out.” I don’t scream, I say it softly.
He strides past me, casting one hottie glance before he walks back into the store. I follow him out only to spot Jerry scurrying as far away from the two of us as possible.
“You get what you came for?” he asks Jameson as he walks toward the door.
“No,” Jameson barks at him, “you have nothing I want here.”
Jameson West is as hot and cold as a bad faucet. If I turn him on I don’t know what I’ll get. I spend the rest of the day replaying the conversation in my head, wondering how it got exactly from lighthearted banter to serious topics to accusations so quickly. But like everything centered around him, I’m left with more questions than answers.
Chapter Thirteen
A few hours later, I'm still fuming. I slam down the baseball card I've been analyzing and glare at it's owner. I'm not sure how he manages to keep his eyes wide and innocent underneath the bushy caterpillars that he calls eyebrows. Usually, I try to kill them with kindness. Even scam
mers often have a guilty conscious. Nine times out of ten, they'll grab their own junk and take off before I have to call them out. Sometimes they even apologize, but this guy must have brass balls. Too bad I'm about to hold them to the fire. "Wow. A baseball card signed by Babe Ruth."
I play dumb for a minute, simply because I enjoy watching the puppet dance. He leans against the counter and nods his head before he adjusts the collar of his tracksuit, "Yeah. One of my clients was running a little low on cash. He offered me this. I guess he didn't know what he had."
Okay, I didn't expect that. Now I almost feel bad for the guy. "What's your business?"
"Private investigator." He magics a business card out of his back pocket and hands it to me. “Dominic Chamber."
I suck in a breath and prep myself to give him the bad news. "Mr. Chamber," I begin, but he stops me.
"Dominic, please."
"Dominic, maybe you should stick to taking pictures of married men and tracking down lost puppies."
"Oh, man," he scratches the back of his head. Are you telling me that's fake?"
"Yeah," I slide it across the glass to him. "Babe Ruth probably didn't use a blue Bic to sign autographs."
I could go into details about the Ruth’s signature or how rarely he actually autographed something, but there's no need to rub salt in the wound. Hopefully, he stops accepting payment in the form of sentimental memorabilia.
"The card has to be worth something, right?" He scoops it up and studies it for a minute.
“Reproduction,” I tell him gently. Why not tackle all the bad news today?
"Well, thanks."
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I wish it was real too." Even though I'm surrounded by authentic comic books and baseball cards, vintage guitars and more, ninety percent of what passes through this shop isn't real. It's easy enough to turn away the scammers, but far too many of the people who drag their treasures into us find out that they're clinging to another man's junk.
"Don't worry about it. I sent the guy the pictures he needs in an online gallery.” He takes out his phone and swipes the screen a few times. "Poof. It's so easy to make evidence disappear.”