by Geneva Lee
“I know.” He waves a hand at me. “It’s morbid, but for a long time I’d stopped believing in karma.”
“And now you do again,” I finish for him despite my cotton ball of a tongue.
"What Nathaniel West did to this family is unforgivable. Do I have to remind you of that?" His mood slips for a moment, allowing me a glimmer of the hatred he'd wasted on him.
"You were friends once," I say in a soft voice. It had to count for something.
Dad shakes his head, rubbing the scruff on his chin. "You're too young to understand this, but sometimes people aren't who we think they are. Don't let your guard down, honey."
I want to tell him I've been understanding this for a couple of years now, but that I hadn't let hate consume me. I had allowed myself to be bitter, though. If I didn't get that in check would I wind up like him? Practically throwing a party for a dead man?
“You okay?” He studies me momentarily, but the wheels aren’t turning behind his eyes. As far as he's concerned, I'll reach the same conclusion he has.
“Low blood sugar,” I lie. “I think I’m going to go grab lunch.
“You’re working too hard,” he says with a sigh. “This is your summer, you should enjoy yourself. Grab lunch and take the afternoon off.”
I mumble in agreement to this plan and back out of the room. Nathaniel West was my father’s enemy. I’d taken that feud seriously, even when I didn’t have a horse in the race. Now that the man was dead, that hatred had evaporated. Now my mixed feelings toward the West family had a lot more to do with the legacy of his children than the bad blood from before I was born. I hate Monroe, but I like Jameson. I can’t take sides any more, and now, even my afternoon off feels tainted by the macabre joy my dad is taking in these events.
I dig my phone out and call Josie, but she doesn’t answer. I could get an Uber or catch the bus… or I could call my personal driver.
It doesn’t take me long to make my decision.
Chapter Fifteen
There’s not a cloud in the sky. It’s bright blue, and Jameson is happy. I tuck the copy of Wuthering Heights I filched from the shop in my purse as soon as he parks his BMW. At least from where I stand there’s no Heathcliff glower frozen on his face. But just like the wind on the moors, that could change any minute. Before I can shoulder my bag and head toward him, he’s out of the car, opening the door.
“I’m starting to get used to this,” I tease.
“Good.”
“Is there any way we can stop at the store?” I ask him as he pulls out. I guess if he’s going to insist on being my driver than he can help me run errands. “I need to grab some lunch stuff.”
“Already taken care of, Duchess.” He hitches his finger towards the back seat where a wicker basket sits.
“Is that a picnic basket?” I stare at it like it might disappear or transform into an everyday object. Because real life does not include hot guys and picnic baskets.
“I assumed I’d need to feed you,” he explains. He assumed correctly. Somehow Jameson has managed to steadily out-number his mood swings with surprisingly sweet gestures.
“I didn’t know picnic baskets were a real thing.” I hope he didn’t catch the slight break in my voice, even Yogi Bear didn’t cry over picnics. It's been a long time since a guy surprised me with something as sweet as this. Actually, a guy never has.
“They are,” he informs me. “It’s just one of the many perks of living in a casino. I have a staff that can find picnic baskets.”
“And make the picnics.”
Jameson clutches his chest, shaking his head. “I’m wounded, Duchess. I made everything in that picnic basket.”
“So you made me lunch, and now you’re taking me where?” I search the scenery outside my window for a clue.
“That’s a secret,” he says.
“Secrets don’t make friends,” I grumble. “A picnic lunch and a surprise location? If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was a date, but since I haven’t agreed to a date, I can’t possibly be right.”
He blows off my none-too-subtle accusation with a whistle. “This is just two friends having lunch. Don’t read into things, Emma.”
I check out his outfit for clues, but that hardly tells me anything. He’s in his standard T-shirt and jeans. If Calvin Klein were a god, Jameson would be his muse. The shirt seems to caress his body and his jeans hang low on his hips as though his clothes were making love to him. It’s enough to give a girl wicked thoughts. I squirm a little in my seat trying to squash my hunger. I doubt whatever he’s packed in that basket will actually satisfy me down there.
Jameson weaves in and and out of traffic until the busy streets of Vegas are behind us, and we’re on the open road. The desert slowly evolves into the peaks of mountains. I have no idea how far away from home he’s taking me, and I don’t care. As we climb higher, I start to spot scraggly pines and patches of snow. Coming from the desert to this feels like a fairy tale.
“Is this Mount Charleston?” I ask him, gawking at the vacation homes tucked into the mountainside.
He nods, his eyes glued to the windy road. “Have you ever been up here?”
“No. We’ve never made it.” Despite the city’s reputation, there actually is plenty of things to do outdoors. My family had just never done any of it. I’d like to say we’re indoor types, but really mountains are just outside our comfort zone. Despite the fact that they’d always been there hanging in the distance like an old film backdrop. They’d never felt real to me until now.
“What do you think?” Jameson asks, calling me from my thoughts and back to the reality of him.
I search for the right words to describe how it makes me feel. “They’re magnificent.”
“These aren’t even great mountains,” he confesses to me. “Someday I’ll take you to the Appalachians or up to Colorado. We have a house in Aspen.”
I press my lips into a thin smile. His family has a vacation homes while my family’s idea of a vacation has been jumping from one desert location to another for as long back as I can remember. “My vacations rely on the terms of a custody agreement.”
“My family’s vacations usually center around business. I don’t know how you’re supposed to break the cycle.”
“Kill all the lawyers,” I suggest.
“Right now, I’m a pretty big fan of lawyers.” The conversation screeches to an awkward halt at the reminder of his legal troubles. It’s as if there’s a monster lurking in the room with us. Occasionally we forget it’s there, then one of slips up and reminds the other, and we’re stuck watching our backs.
We lapse into silence until he turns down a rocky lane.
“Wow,” I gasp. Tall trees flank either side the drive as he zooms along to an unknown destination. The road deposits us in front of a breathtaking chalet perched cliff side. I get out before he has a chance to come around and perform his gentlemanly duties.
The air is cold in my throat and its crispness makes my lungs hurt, but I drink it in greedily. There’s no pollution or fumes tainting it. It tastes like pine needles and sunshine. I walk closer to the edge. Jameson gathers the picnic basket as I gawk at the amazing views. Vegas is a speck in the distance, and for once instead of neon signs and blinking lights, trees and rocks rise around me. When I finally turn away from it, I find Jameson standing a few yards away watching me.
“Is this your house?” I ask.
“Yes.” His response is colored with a sadness I don’t understand, and before I can reconsider, I cross to him and press my lips to his.
“What was that for?” he asks as we break apart.
“For sharing this with me,” I tell him, “and because I don’t want you to be sad here. Promise me.”
He agrees to nothing. Instead, he gives me a half-smile and tugs me toward the house. It might be hard for a building to compete with the natural beauty of the mountain setting, but this house does. Jameson leads me through a living room that I can fit my whole ho
use in, and out double doors to a back deck that jets precariously over the side of the rocky precipice. I wait patiently as he lays out his feast, trying try not to laugh when he produces peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a bag of chips.
“You’re the gourmet cook,” he reminds me, but his eyes twinkle like stars, reflecting some of my own amusement.
“No complaints. This is perfect.” I unwrap my sandwich and take a large bite.
“It’s crunchy peanut butter. I hope that’s okay,” he tells me as I begin to chew.
I swallow hard, nodding enthusiastically. “Crunchy is the best."
“Duchess, I think you’re the peanut butter to my jelly,” he says before he takes a bite of his own sandwich. It’s a cheesy sentiment, but my stomach flutters.
When we finish, he hands me an apple. “Dessert?”
“There’s a lack of frosting on that dessert.” I scrunch up my nose. I guess even billionaire guys with model-level good looks can’t get it right all the time.
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” he promises.
But I munch away at the apple, still mesmerized by the scenery around me.
“You know, I did come to the mountains once,” I say, as I begin to recall a hazy memory from childhood.
“Didn’t leave much of an impression,” Jameson says.
I can’t help but laugh as the memory grows clearer. “Actually, I think I blocked it out because it was traumatic. My parents took us on this road trip into California, and we went through the mountains.”
“Road trips are the absolute worse.”
Somehow I doubt that someone with a private jet can actually commiserate with me on this topic, but I nod in agreement. Jameson reaches for my hand, entwining his fingers through mine, and I wonder if he can feel my pulse starting to beat frantically in my veins.
“What happened?” he prompts.
I shake my head trying to clear it before I continue, suddenly, overcome by his nearness. “We brought my cousin, Ellie, along. I have no idea why. We had to stop to use the restroom. Mom told us to stay near the car, but we’d be cooped up for hours, so of course we started running around like bats out of hell. Anyway, I was racing Becca to a tree behind the rest stop. I’m sure it wasn’t that far, but it felt like it at the time. I beat her there, but when I turned around, she was gone, so I run back to the parking lot, and my parents are gone.”
“What did you do?” he asks, trying to unsuccessfully stifle a laugh at my predicament. His thumb rubs circles on the inside of my wrist, and I have to take a deep breath.
“I sat down and cried,” I admit. “I thought they left me because I wasn’t listening to my mom. As it turns out, they forgot they had Ellie with them. All they saw was two kids in the backseat. It took twenty minutes of my sister raising hell before they turned around and realized she was trying to tell them I wasn’t there.”
“Were they angry at you,” he asks, “when they got back?”
“No,” I shake my head, feeling the slightest prick of tears in the corner of my eyes as the memory turned from amusing to bittersweet.“I just remember my mom hugging me so hard, and then Becca grabbed my hand and promised she’d never leave me again.”
I nearly choke on the words. Jameson drops his hold on my hand and wraps his arms around my shoulders, drawing me against his hard chest. How can he feel so sturdy and muscular, and still be such a soft place to land?
“My parents took us on a road trip once,” he tells me, and I’m grateful for the distraction. “I don’t remember much. Dad packed us all in the car and drove us out to this little city in California. There was a boardwalk and a giant ferris wheel. He gave us twenty bucks and let us play as many carnival games as we could. I’ll never forget that city. It was called Heaven.”
“Heaven?” I repeat in disbelief.
“Yes. Heaven is a place on earth,” he says bemusedly.
“Did you ever go back?” I ask in a soft voice.
“No. I went to boarding school the next fall. Mom was convinced that military school was the right way to go.”
“I can’t see you at military school,” I admit. “It actually seems more suited to Monroe.”
“I don’t think military school could handle Monroe” he says dryly. “But I tried to go back there once.” His voice fades into the past, and even though we’re pressed closely together, I can feel the distance of memory between us. “The whole town had been bought out. The boardwalk, the ferris wheel, the games. They were all gone.”
“What happened to them?”
“Someone came in, developed everything into condos.” He barks a hollow laugh. “I wasn’t surprised when I found the project in my dad’s portfolio.”
Pulling back, I stare at him. “Are you telling me your father took your family on a vacation, then bought the place out, and turned it into senior living?”
“It’s also very popular amongst young professionals,” he says. “The city isn’t even called Heaven any more.”
“Did they rename is Purgatory?” I nuzzle into his arms, trying to think of the right thing to say. I’d thought my family was dysfunctional. But the Wests made my parents look like parents of the year. “If I had enough money. I’d buy a little town on the coast and name it Heaven.”
“Could we build a boardwalk?” he asks.
“Oh, yes. Heaven has to have a boardwalk,” I promise him.
“I like the picture you’re painting of the afterlife.”
“It’s not an afterlife,” I say. “It’s just a dream.”
Jameson presses his lips to my forehead, lingering there. It’s a gesture filled with warmth and promises of its own. I want to stay here with him where everything is quiet and simple, and bad memories are only stories from the past. He buries his face in my hair and breathes in. Then, he speaks so softly that I barely catch it. “I hope your dreams come true, Duchess.”
That night, I stare at the ceiling, unable to sleep. I replay every touch, every brush of his hand over mine, the few kisses we stole. Maybe tomorrow I can hang up some pictures of boy bands. I don’t know what Jameson West is doing to me, but I know I don’t want him to stop. I roll over and grab my pillow tightly, clamping my eyes closed, but nothing works. I’m still lying there when a soft tap catches my attention, followed by another. It takes a second to realize it’s a rhythm. I go to my window and peek through the blinds. Two eyes stare back at me and I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Smooth,” I muttered to myself as I tug on the cord so that I can unlock the window. “Trying to scare me to death?” I hiss at Jameson through the screen.
“I thought of something I wanted to ask you,” he says.
“You could have tried using the phone.” I crossed my arms and wait for his question.
“Why would I do that when your first floor window is so convenient? Come on, let me in, Duchess.” He tosses me a crooked smile.
I glance over my shoulder at my closed bedroom door. “Have you lost your mind? If my dad comes in here and finds you, he’ll kill you and he’ll claim self-defense, and he’ll get off.”
“I’m not staying.” He holds up two fingers. “Scout’s promise.”
“I doubt you were ever a Boy Scout.” I pinch the metal tabs on the screen, wiggling it out of place, and set it against the wall.
Jameson ducks inside my window. Straightening up, he brushes off the dust from the window sill and looks around. “Not what I imagined,” he admits.
“What did you imagine?”
“Something regal. Four poster bed. Hand maidens.”
“We’re fresh out of hand maidens,” I say flatly. “I’m lucky if I have clean sheets on the bed.”
The bed. The innocent thought has my eyes darting over to the rumpled sheets and comforter. Jameson’s gaze follows mine in that direction. “Were you asleep?”
“No, I couldn’t sleep. My head’s too full.” Of you. I keep that part to myself.
He holds out his hands. “Come here.
”
Now would be a very good time to share my parents’ no boys in the bedrooms rule, but the words stick on my tongue. It's easier to respect parental edicts when parents are around to enforce them. My dad might be home, but he's not really present. All I really have is my own instinct, and that's split decidedly down the middle on what I should do. The smart move is to show him the window. Instead, I take his hands. He leads me to the bed and I follow without objection. But when Jameson kicks off his shoes, then he reaches for the hem of his shirt, my internal panic button goes off.
“What are you doing?” I whisper furiously. The only thing worse than my dad finding Jameson in my bedroom would be he finding a half dressed Jameson in my bed.
“I feel overdressed.” He tips his chin toward me. It’s at that moment I remember that I’m in a tank top and boy shorts. I try to tug my shirt down.
“No need to cover up,” he reminds me. “I saw more than that on our first date.”
“That wasn’t a date,” I correct him. “And before you get excited about the proximity of the bed, you should know that I have a checklist.”
“A checklist?” I’ve piqued his interest.
Why would I bring that up? Probably because I’m half-naked in my bedroom with him. “I, um, have a checklist before I’ll have sex with a guy.”
He’s quiet for a moment before he runs his hand through his hair. “Duchess, are you a virgin?”
“No.” Heat burns my cheeks and I pray he doesn’t ask any more questions. “But, honestly, I made a huge mistake and I don’t want another one on my record.”
“Will you tell me what’s on the checklist?” He grins widely.
“Absolutely not! You aren’t gaming this system.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he promises. He drops onto my bed, grinning wildly and putting his upper torso on display. Instinct takes over and I crawl in next to him. Slowly he guides me to my side and slides his arm under my waist. My body molds to his, effortlessly. “What did you want to ask?”
But he doesn’t answer. Instead, his nose and lips skim along the back of my neck, before he settles his mouth on my shoulder. The heat of his breath on my bare skin tends tingling emissaries of anticipation running through my body. “I wanted to know what you were dreaming about,” he murmurs, “but you weren’t sleeping.”