by Geneva Lee
Evidence; the word lands heavy on my chest. I do my best to smile, wishing him well. As soon as he's out the door, I notice he’s left his card. I throw it in the drawer. You never know when you might need a private dick.
Checking my phone, I find half a dozen missed texts from
Josie: Have you seen this?
Josie: I'm freaking out right now.
Josie: You're totally hooking up with the world's sexiest killer.
I groan as I click on the link she sent me. Sure enough Jameson has been dubbed the The World's Most Eligible Murderer. I guess it's time for him to have this fifteen minutes in this, outside the shadow of his father. The story mentions little about Nathaniel or the case the police are bringing against Jameson. Instead, it's a laundry list of complaints from Jameson's former college roommate. Most of it sounds like sour grapes, but I keep reading anyway until I reach the point where the roommate complains about the parade of women constantly showing up in their apartment.
Even though it's little more than musty laundry, I can only imagine how it feels for Jameson to read about himself in a national paper.
Emma: When did this story come out?
Josie: I saw it a few hours ago. It's trending on Facebook.
I scroll to the story's bi-line and check the publication information. The story was uploaded to the website this morning. Jameson had come to visit me after his former roommate, and I suspect former friend, served up a steamy dish of Jameson’s secret sauce.
"You are so stupid," I mutter to myself.
"What's that?” Jerry calls from across the room.
I wave him off, "Nothing."
I choose to continue my chastisement in my head. Jameson had come here earlier to get away from the attention, but also because he seemed desperate to prove to me that he wasn't who they said he was. Maybe part of that desperation stemmed from having all his bad habits and mistakes on the front pages of papers at newsstands all over the country. It also explains the accusations he'd leveled at me, but it doesn't absolve him of what he'd said.
Josie: Need a ride?
I glance at the clock; two more hours. I shoot back a message telling her to pick me up at 6:30 when the night manager will be in. Hitting the back button, my phone takes me to my contacts list. Jameson's name sits two slots above Josie's. I select it and hit the compose button. I can't seem to find the right words to let him know that I'm sorry and not sorry at the same time. Who knew being involved with a murder investigation made flirtation so difficult?
By 6:30, I still haven't come up with the right message. Waving goodbye to Jerry and the night manager, I flee the shop digging my phone out of my purse. I catch the faint purr of an engine idling nearby, but it's not Josie's beat up Honda Civic waiting for me. I don't even have to look up to know that. There's no screeching metal or flapping belts. Nope, this car sounds like it runs on sex.
I straighten up to face him. Jameson's lounging against the side of his car, against the side of this black BMW. He's not smiling, or frowning—or holding a weapon—so it's hard to get a read on his mood. "Waiting for someone?” I call.
"Waiting for you," he admits. His tone is still icy, but I shrug it off reminding myself that he's had a much worst day than me. "Need a ride?”
At the same moment, Josie pulls into Pawnography's parking lot. She slows to a stop when she sees the two of us staring each other down across the pavement. Despite what's happened to him, he doesn't deserve for me to get in his car. He doesn’t need another free pass in life, but I can't look away. His gaze has locked onto my own, and the storm raging in those eyes when he left earlier has calmed. There's still so much I don't know and don't understand. He owes me answers. I turned toward Josie and gesture for her to leave. She doesn't need any more instruction thanks to best friend ESP, or maybe she defaulted to one of the unspoken rules of sisterhood and made herself scarce. She blows me a kiss before she circles around and heads back out. Shouldering my bag, I walk directly at him.
"Friend of yours?” he asks.
“Yep, and my ride home.” To my surprise, he circles around the car with me and opens the passenger door. "You don't drive?"
I swallow against the raw nerves this question inspires. "I try not to."
Given what he knows about my family, he might be able to guess exactly why that is. He doesn't pressure me for answers. Unlike how you pressured him earlier, I accuse myself.
"Do you need to learn?” he asks. "I can teach you." We're changing gears before he's even released the brakes. Earlier he'd written me off as a gold digger. Now he's offering me private lessons. Maybe I could offer him one on not being a dick.
"I know how," I let my tone do the work for me. It's not really a subject I feel like getting into at the moment. I can't trust him.
Thankfully, Jameson switches subjects as he switches gears. "I apologize for earlier. Things have been complicated and..."
He leaves the unfinished thought hanging in the air.
"You don't know who to trust," I finish for him.
"You’re perceptive," he notes.
If I'm going to earn a spot on his trust list and he's going to earn one on mine, now's the time to start being honest. "No. I read the interview with your college roommate today. He sold you out.”
“The worst part is, a story like that might have got him some vacation money. I had Thanksgiving at his house last year, and he sold me out for a Mai Tai.”
“Probably, an ocean view, too,” I tag on. "Personally, I demanded they pay me in diamonds and sign over the Taj Mahal. I guess I have higher standards than him.”
"I'm sorry I accused you."
"Look ..." I struggle with exactly how to put this, "The night we met, it was fun to play games. We both wanted to pretend to be someone else, but you're using my name to keep yourself out of jail. If whatever this is is going to work, you're going to have to start being honest with me.
“Does that work both ways, Duchess?"
I melt a little at the nickname. We're surviving our first unofficial fight, pet names intact.
"I have nothing to hide," I promise him.
He stops the BMW a few houses down, then he turns his flickering blue eyes on me. "We all have something to hide, Duchess."
Chapter Fourteen
Hey Princess, I have a business meeting at the bank. See you later.
I pluck the post-it note off the fridge and shake my head. I hope he’s talking about a meeting with an actual employee and not just an ATM on his way to the race track. Crumpling it, I check the clock on the microwave and curse. No time to make coffee this morning. Instead I grab a granola bar from the cupboard and dart out the door, stopping in my tracks when I spot Jameson’s BMW in the driveway.
The low rumble of bass rattles his window as I knock on it. He turns down the music and rolls it down.
“Is this loitering or trespassing?” I ask.
“I call it chivalry,” he corrects me. “Come on. I’ll drive you to the shop.”
I hesitate for a minute then I shoulder my purse and turn toward the bus station.
Jameson calls out again. “You’re not going to walk all the way there.”
Somehow I don’t think he’d let me. Glancing down the street to make sure my dad is nowhere in sight I get into Jameson’s car. All I’d need was for Dad to finish up his meeting early. But when we make it to the next block with no sign of him in sight, I finally relax in the leather seat.
“I wasn’t going to walk,” I tell him. I tap on the glass to point out a sign as we pass. “The bus drops me off down the street from the store.”
His eyebrows knit together as if he’s considering this. His hand drifts over and for one moment I think he’s about to take mine but then he changes gears. “I know a pawn shop isn’t a Fortune 500 company,” Jameson says slowly, “but I’d think your father would be able to afford a car.”
“He has one.” I shrug, letting his judgment roll off my shoulders. It’s a skill I’ve develope
d over the years.
“For you,” he states the obvious.
“I don’t want one.” There, that’s not a lie. I don’t want a car. For a crazy second, I consider if my mother has arranged for Jameson to sway me into accepting my early graduation gift.
“You really shouldn’t be taking the bus alone.”
“Why? Because working yourself up over it screams first world problems.”
He bypasses the question as he drifts effortlessly across lanes. “Do you take it at night when you don’t have a ride?”
“Sometimes. Other times, Josie picks me up or Jerry takes me home.”
“Jerry?” Jameson repeats stiffly.
“You met him yesterday,” I remind him. Am I actually detecting a hint of jealousy in those broad shoulders? “The store manager.”
Jameson relaxes with a laugh. “Oh, that guy.”
I don’t need to ask to know what he meant by that. Jerry’s nice but he’s not exactly a catch. The familiar melody of nursery rhymes builds outside the car windows. We stop at a traffic circle to yield to an ice cream truck, I sigh as it passes us.
“Do you want a popsicle?” Jameson asks and I realize I’ve been staring after it.
“Becca and I used to keep some money in one of those magnetic hide-a-key boxes under the mailbox. We’d run out as soon as we heard him coming.”
“What did you get?” he asks.
“A bomb pop.” I tell him. “I liked that it turned my tongue funny colors. What’d you get?”
“Me?” He shakes his head as if its a silly question, but I know better. A guy’s favorite frozen dessert says a lot about him. “Nothing.”
“No, when you were a kid,” I press.
“Nothing,” he repeats. “It’s hard for the ice cream man to visit a gated community.”
His answers tells me more than I expected. It doesn’t take a talk show host to know that lack of ice creams means he had a sad childhood.
“You should have told me,” I squeal, eager to remedy the situation now. “I would have jumped out and gotten you something.”
“It’s nine in the morning.”
“You can read a clock!” I say in mock surprise. “Gorgeous and he can tell time. Where’s the chapel?”
Jameson’s eyebrow arches up. “Gorgeous huh?”
“I shouldn’t have said that,” I admit.
“Maybe we can catch the ice cream man another time,” he suggests as he pulls up to Pawnography. “You can help me with my first time. Give me tips”
“You still have a first time available? I figured you’d handed all those out.”
Relaxed Jameson vanishes, replaced by his rigid, distant alter ego. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, Duchess.”
“I don’t,” I rush to assure him. “But boys who kiss like you have had some practice.”
The praise boosts his ego and puts the haughty smirk back on his face. “You could say that. I guess I saved one first to share with you though.”
“Careful West, that’s starting to sound like a date.”
“We both know dates are off limits,” he says, reminding me of the rule I had set. “Maybe I can sway you with a bomb pop.”
I climb out of the car and lean down to look at him through the open window. “You can certainly try.”
Inventory is a wreck. There’s supposed to be standard procedure at the shop but with a constantly changing schedule and an absentee boss most of that’s gone by the wayside. Items need cataloging and files need updating. I’m about to throw in the towel when a man in a white uniform approaches me by the register.
“Ms. Southerly?” he addresses me.
“Yes?” I’m not exactly fond of giving out my name these days, especially to strangers.
“These are for you.” He hands me two cold, colorful packages.
Bomb pops. My pulse takes off like a rocket as I accept the treats.
“What do I owe you?” I ask him bending to grab my purse from the lower shelf, trying to ignore that my fingers are going numb from the ice.
“It’s a gift from a friend,” he says dismissing my offer. He refuses even to take the tip I hold out to him. “That’s not necessary. He’s a very good friend.”
If only he knew the half of it.
I don’t bother to hide my enthusiasm as I unwrap the popsicle and clutch the wooden stick. Holding up my camera I take a selfie licking it then I send it to Jameson.
Jameson: You’re giving me ideas, Duchess.
Emma: That was unintentionally pornographic.
Jameson: Unintentional porn is my favorite kind.
My cheeks heat as I consider what he’s thinking as he stares at my photo. I know what would be on my mind if he sent me a picture of his tongue, and it wouldn’t be ice cream.
Time to change the subject.
Emma: Thank you for the bomb pop but what about you? Did you get one for yourself?
Jameson: No. I’m saving my first Bomb Pop to share with someone special.
Emma: Ice cream doesn’t wait. It melts.
Jameson: Then maybe you need to reconsider going on that date with me.
I respond with another tawdry selfie with my lips wrapped around the tip of the popsicle. I’d said no more games but I might as well leave him guessing.
My private chauffeur service continues throughout the week. More than once I have to rush out the door before Dad sees that I’m getting a ride from someone other than Josie. The ten minutes to the shop and the ten minutes home have been the only alone time we’ve gotten this week since Dad decided to start making appearances at the store. At least it means I won’t have to work on the weekend.
This morning, there’s a cappuccino waiting in the cup holder for me. As soon as I pick it up I know it’s dry with extra foam. Someone’s been paying attention. I take a few cautious sips, but he’s silent next to me. I almost always wait for him to speak because he’s nicer in the mornings than I am, but today he’s quiet.
“How was your night?” I ask.
“Uneventful.” He doesn’t elaborate further, but he dares to glance over at me. Dark circles under his eyes mar his otherwise perfect face.
My fingers twitch, and I realize I want to reach out and rub his back. I want to reassure him that everything’s going to be fine, but that’s not a promise I can make him. “Is your mom back yet?”
“No.” Apparently he’s answering in one word sentences today.
“How’s Monroe?” This question earns me a genuine reaction.
His gaze flickers to me in surprise, a bemused grin taking resonance on his lips, “Do you really want to know how Monroe is?”
“No,” I admit, setting my cup back down in the holder, “but I don’t want to ride in silence the whole time either.”
“She’s begging me to talk to a psychiatrist, probably so she can buy my files and see if I did it. As if I’d walk into some quack and confess all of my sins.”
Is there anything to confess? The question is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down. The more time I spend with Jameson, the more convinced I am of his innocence, but that’s when he’s in a good mood. When he’s happy it’s as if the sun is shining directly on me—until a dark cloud descends. I can’t always see it coming. More often than not, it has nothing to do with me. He arrives in these moods. Sometimes he loosens up, other times he barely cracks a smile. Each time I seem to pinpoint exactly how I feel about him, his mood changes, shifting as abruptly as an unforeseen storm.
“You know, there’s one thing you can do to cheer me up.”
I tilt my head in interest, “And that is?”
“Agree to go on a real date with me.” He’s not giving up on that. I should have known that’s what he was getting at, but he finds a new way to ask everyday.
“I need time,” I tell him. The air between us thickens, pulsating with negative energy. Forecast: hurricane. Category: Jameson.
“Take all the time you need.” There’s far more a
nnoyance than reassurance in his statement. His knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel so hard.
I groan as I reach for the door handle and swing it open.
“Wait,” he calls. I swivel in my seat. Jameson catches my chin with his cupped hand, “Patience isn’t one of my virtues.”
“I can see that,” I try to remain detached, but it’s harder when he’s touching me. My body craves that skin on skin contact. I want to melt into him.
“I’m trying,” he says in a low voice that raises goosebumps along my arms.
I swallow and nod, at a loss for words. For one second I burrow into his hold, pressing my check against his open palm. Then I scramble out of the car before I give in again.
Dad is a man possessed. In the last week he’s done more to organize product and file forms than he’s done in the last three years. He tears through the store. Jerry and I stay out of his way. If he wants to work, neither of us are going to stop him. Gives me a chance to focus on the customers. It also means I don’t have to close every single night and open the next morning.
Peeking into the back room I find him at the computer sorting through what looks like years of receipts, “You want something for lunch?”
“I’m fine.” He doesn’t look at me, so. I step into the room and lean against the door frame.
“Need something?” he ask, his eyes crinkle at the corners as he beams at me.
“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you enjoy the shop so much.”
“It’s been awhile since I got good news,” he admits to me.
“News?” I repeat. “You didn’t share.”
He leans in his chair, crossing his hands behind his head, “I didn’t have to honey. It’s all over every newspaper in the country.”
It takes a second for his words to sink in, but when I realize what he’s referring to a hollow pang hits me square in the chest. “You mean what happened to Nathaniel West?”