He returned with several glasses. “You look like you might be thirsty for more than one more, so I stocked up,” he explained as he pushed two of the four pints over to me.
“This might be the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me,” I said as I sucked down more of the beer. He’d chosen a good IPA, the same thing I’d initially ordered. Either he guessed correctly, or he’d been listening more closely than I thought.
He winced at that. “Low bar.”
I looked at him, turning my torso a little in the booth. “I need a distraction. What about you, Jack?”
He blinked at my use of his first name. “What about me?”
“What’s your story? What’s your sordid past?”
“I don’t have one.” He reached for his beer, but I smacked the back of his hand.
“Not good enough!” I declared. “Come on, tell me about you! Where’d you grow up? What made you join the FBI?”
He sighed, narrowed those blue eyes at me. “You’re very pushy, Alice. But I suspect you know it.”
“Ooh, amazing deduction. You must have learned that skill from years of working as a beat cop, right?”
“Not a beat cop,” he corrected, apparently deciding that capitulation was the easiest way to keep me from annoying him further. “I was a detective right out of the Academy. Five years, before I joined the Bureau.”
“Where?”
“Seattle. I grew up around here, so I don’t have much of an accent.”
“What made you want to join the FBI?” I asked next. I could definitely see Eastman as a Seattle detective, stepping out of a patrol car into the rain as he headed to a crime scene. He’d turn up the collar of his pea coat against the wind and rain, although he wouldn’t bother to cover his short hair, would let the rain run in little trickles down his forehead and nose, over slightly pursed lips-
I shook off the vision as he answered. “Working as a detective means that you’re a foot soldier,” he said, after a pause. “You take down the druggies, sometimes a dealer or two. You take down the muggers and purse snatchers. You don’t go after the big guys, the ones who leave trails of destruction everywhere they go. That’s what the FBI offered me.”
There was something in the way he spoke that suggested he had a more personal connection than his answer indicated. I decided not to dig, however, and instead take a different tack.
“What else do you do now?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“When you’re not working. What does Jackson Eastman do for fun?”
“Nothing.” He waited a beat too long before answering, and I latched onto it.
“There is something!” I exclaimed, hitting him lightly in the arm. “Come on, tell me!”
He rolled his eyes at me. “Drink your beer and leave it, Alice.”
“Nuh uh.” I finished my pint, reached for the second. “I’m beating you on drinking, anyway. Catch up, and tell me what your secret, embarrassing hobby is!”
That earned me another sigh before he finished his beer to keep pace with me. “You’re just going to mock me over this, I know it,” he groaned.
My smile widened. “Ooh, that means that it’s really good. Come on, spill! Tell me!”
“Has anyone told you how annoying you are?”
I grabbed his arm and squeezed it. “Never. Tell me, tell me – or I’ll start guessing! Do you carve wooden whistles and hand them out to orphans?”
“No.”
“Do you dress up in leather and chains and take tastefully posed bondage photos?”
That made his eyes widen. “Lord, no.”
“Aww, too bad. I bet you’d look sexy in a pair of leather undies. Like Conan the Barbarian. Do you go out on speed dates, searching for the perfect woman?”
He opened his mouth but didn’t even have words to respond to that guess. I seized on his silence.
“That’s totally it!” I exclaimed. “And I bet the perfect woman for you is someone who’s just like you, but female! Super-efficient in everything, absolutely no sense of humor, totally logical, like a robot. Probably an icy Nordic blonde, so you can have perfect blond blue-eyed children.”
“Don’t forget a compatible charging port,” he added.
I blinked at that. “Oh my god, Agent Eastman, did you just make a sex joke?”
“Of course not. We robots have no concept of sex. I reproduce asexually through budding.”
I could just see the hint of a smile on his lips. “Now we’re getting somewhere!” I exclaimed, beaming. “I knew there was a real human buried somewhere under all that armor! Now, tell me your embarrassing hobby, or else I’ll keep making things worse.”
“How are you going to do that?”
Oh, he was going to regret asking. “My god, Jack, you’re so romantic!” I cried out, intentionally raising my voice so that everyone on our side of the bar could probably hear us. “You go to the bathroom first, and then I’ll sneak in and meet you so you can show me just how big it is!”
Eastman’s eyes went wide, and he slapped his hand over my mouth. “Are you crazy?” he hissed, staring.
“Maybe! You’ve heard my past!”
“I…” he groaned. “I make puzzles. There. Happy?”
“Not yet,” I replied once I got his hand off my mouth. “What do you mean, puzzles? Like jigsaw puzzles?”
He shook his head. “No, three-dimensional ones. Like blacksmith’s puzzles, with bent metal. It’s a good way for me to help my brain unwind, focus on something besides a case.”
How was that embarrassing? I could totally imagine Eastman working as a blacksmith to create a puzzle, sweaty as he hammered on metal to bend it into shape, maybe wearing a leather blacksmith’s apron over his shirtless torso…
I squeezed my eyes shut. What was I doing? Why was I suddenly feeling attraction to this robotic FBI agent, of all men? Had it been that long that I was going crazy for any guy I could find? Why now?
I did have to admit, after a second’s recollection, that it had been a while since I’d last done anything of note with a man. Beyond Sawyer, I couldn’t even remember the last guy who’d flirted with me.
“Well?” Eastman was still waiting for my reaction, probably wondering how I’d tease him next.
“I think that sounds really cool,” I told him instead. “I’d like to see one of them, sometime, if you’re willing to show me.”
He just stared at me for a second. “What?” I asked. “I’m being nice to you!”
“I realize that,” he answered. “Women. Just when I think I might be starting to understand you, I’m proven wrong. Every time.”
This time, I was the one to roll my eyes at him. “Look, just be supporting and comforting. That’s what I need right now. There’s kind of a lack of that in my life, and even though you clearly don’t want to provide it, you’re all I’ve got.” I tugged at his arm, pulling it around my shoulders. “Just go along with it. Think of it as making your informant happy.”
I waited for him to object, point out that I wasn’t technically an informant because I hadn’t yet told him anything of note. But Eastman surprised me. He tightened his arm around me, pulling me in against him in the closeness of the booth. I leaned in, felt the warmth of his body. It was nice, comforting. I felt strangely protected with him holding me.
“Drink your beer, Alice,” Eastman said softly, his head resting against mine and his words making it vibrate slightly against my scalp. “No one’s going to take you anywhere.”
We finished our second (well, technically our third) beers in silence, but it didn’t feel awkward at all. I found that I liked Eastman’s arm around me, liked just sitting with him, not saying anything, just knowing that he was there. Maybe, after this job was done and I had a bit more flexibility, I’d get back into the dating pool, I considered. If I could find a man who made me feel comforted like this, perhaps with a little more of a sense of humor, I could see keeping him around.
Outside the bar, Eastman
insisted on walking me back to the entrance to Sawyer’s building. We hadn’t said more than a dozen words since he first put his arm around me. I started to object that I could see myself home, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
“Thank you,” I said, when we reached the building.
“For walking you home?”
I shook my head. “For… being a friend.”
“It’s nothing.”
I looked up at him. He’d kept his arm around me as we walked back, and I stood close to him now, his warmth helping to ward off some of the chill of the night air. “No, it’s not. It’s just what I needed, and I didn’t have anywhere else to turn. So it’s you or nothing.”
I was close enough to him where, if he tilted his head down slightly, we’d be about to kiss. I suddenly found myself imagining, in vivid detail, what it would be like to kiss Eastman. Would he be hard and unyielding? Or was passion hiding beneath his stony exterior? Would he be a frozen statue, or would he sweep me off my feet?
He looked down at me. For a moment, I thought his eyes flicked to my lips, and I wondered if he was imagining the same things I was. Surely he wasn’t interested in someone like me, chaotic and messy and constantly pushing his buttons?
Maybe he leaned in, or maybe he just took a breath, expanding his chest. I felt our lips start to draw together, as if pulled by magnets – and then either he blinked, or I did, and the spell was shattered.
“Talk to you tomorrow, Alice,” he said, and gave me one last squeeze with his arm before releasing me and stepping back.
I slipped into the building but watched through the lobby’s glass windows as Eastman walked away. He didn’t glance back. I wondered if that meant anything.
Chapter Sixteen
* * *
“I’m not ready!”
The words burst out of my lips as I sat bolt upright in bed, staring wildly at nothing. My alarm was still beeping on my bedside, and only after a second of shallow breathing did I find the presence of mind to reach over and silence it.
A moment later, Sawyer poked his head inside my bedroom. “You say something?” he asked.
I looked at him, eyes still wide. “I’m not ready! It’s happening tonight!”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, perplexed. “You’re totally ready – I’ve reviewed all the plans that you’ve made! You’ve got all the vendors, you’ve double-checked on every detail, and this is all going to go smoothly. It’s all planned out. Why are you panicking now?”
“Because now it’s really happening!” Didn’t he get it? All of it had been hypothetical until now – but tonight, it was going to be real! I might have screwed up, have not realized all this time, and now my error would come back to bite me in the butt!
The last few weeks had flown by in a flurry of preparations, calls, and hounding of vendors. I lived my life in a constant state of overwhelm, occasionally jerking awake in the middle of the night with my chest heaving and my heart thumping wildly, convinced that I’d forgotten to make some all-important call or confirmation. But I didn’t screw anything up, and bit by bit, the gala started to come together.
A couple times, I considered that, almost ironically, I welcomed the chaos of the event planning for the distraction it provided. While I was running around making sure that the drinks vendor hadn’t stiffed us with cheap wines or that the furniture vendor had the right tablecloths to match the rest of the gala’s color scheme, I couldn’t spare a thought for anything else. I went entire days without thinking about my family, what they might be doing to try and find me.
I hadn’t heard anything from my sister, which I supposed meant that she’d decided to keep her mouth shut. Just reflecting on that fact made me feel guilty, like I needed to be a better older role model to her. Maybe, after this event was done, when I could have some time to myself, I could try and figure out how to help get her out from under my mother’s spell, just like I’d escaped on my own. I hated the thought of Lily getting married off to someone in my place.
I also managed to, for the most part, keep myself from dwelling overlong on that confusing night out with Eastman. We’d seen each other several times for our afternoon check-ins, but the discussion was all business, and he didn’t make any sort of romantic gesture. A part of me wondered if I’d imagined any possible connection between us on that night, if it had just been a delusion fueled by multiple beers plus family-driven worry.
But now, the fateful day had finally arrived! Tonight, the gala would take place – and either everything would go smoothly, and Sawyer and I would get the second half of our hefty commission for planning all of this, or things would fall apart, and I’d need to once again go on the run.
I tried to not second-guess my decisions. I found myself looking into the little closet in my bedroom, vacillating between a couple different dresses, before I snapped out of the fugue. I grabbed the smooth, simple black dress I’d been intending to wear ever since I bought it a couple weeks ago. Decision made.
Of course, I wouldn’t be showing up this morning with the black dress. I folded it carefully before slipping it into a bag, along with my heels and makeup case. I’d get ready at the museum, just before the party was set to start. But before that point, I had a long day ahead of me of chasing vendors and running around. I wasn’t going to doll myself up until the last minute possible.
Sawyer took note of my nerves when I climbed into the car. “Take a breath,” he suggested, watching as I clutched at the handle of the car door. “You look like you’re about to pass out, Pom.”
I didn’t have any sort of fancy retort. I opened my mouth and tried to suck in air. I breathed out, but it came out in spurts, a series of little gasps instead of a proper exhalation.
Sawyer sighed. “Better than nothing. Maybe no coffee this morning? Not sure you really need any extra caffeine in your system.”
Still no response. Maybe my brain really was overloaded from this – but I didn’t have any other option at this point but to proceed.
We arrived at the Institute of Arts and I began working my way through the long list of activities I still needed to complete. Galleries had to be closed off early so that we’d have time to get everything set up. Tables and chairs needed to be moved into place, currently stacked against walls in the rooms where they’d be spread out and set up this evening. I found Rudy watching several burly men unload tables and chairs from a truck, almost spasming with excitement.
“It’s happening! Oh, it’s all happening!” he exclaimed when he saw me, his voice filled with far more childish glee than I felt. “This is great! Look at it all!”
“Yes, we’re going to be very busy today and tonight,” I said, trying to put at least a little bit of enthusiasm into my voice so that I didn’t sound totally concerned compared to him.
He snapped his fingers. “Oh! That reminds me. I have that finalized guest list that you wanted.”
The tension in my stomach eased ever so slightly. It wasn’t my only concern – not by a long shot – but I’d been pestering Rudy to get me the final guest list for weeks, and he’d kept on delaying. Thankfully, I’d already planned most of the seating arrangements and had the seating cards printed – and made sure to order plenty of extras so I could hand-write in any last-minute additions to the guest list.
Rudy fetched the list from his office. He wandered off as I started scanning it for new names. He’d nearly made it out of earshot when I landed on one new name. A name that made my blood freeze in my veins.
“Rudy!”
He spun around at how loudly I screamed his name. “Is something wrong?”
“What is…” I couldn’t bring myself to say her name. “What is she doing on the list?”
He returned closer, peered over his large nose at where I pointed. “Constance? Oh, she’s quite the big political player in Chicago, I understand. I hadn’t heard of her, but someone pointed out to me that she’s got plenty of money and probably would be a fine patron of the arts, if we could
convince her.”
“She’s not going to come, though. Not all the way from Chicago, certainly.” Please, please let that be the case. My mother hated any sort of road trip, or even driving to anywhere further than fifteen minutes away. She often chose to pay masseuses, hair stylists, and other service industry professionals to come to her mansion, rather than venturing out into public.
Rudy, however, was already shaking his head. “She was quite interested, especially when I name-dropped some of the other attendees! She’s definitely coming. Oh, isn’t this fun? It’s as if each person I convince to come helps me further convince others to come!”
The director of the Institute wandered off, still happily prattling, but I’d blocked out his words. I just stared down at that one name, the name that spelled disaster for my escape. My entire, foreseeable future had shortened to less than eight hours.
Constance Melton.
My mother.
My mother was going to be attending the gala that I was planning. She’d see me, recognize me instantly, and I’d be toast. I knew she wouldn’t make a move right away, probably wouldn’t even acknowledge me in public. After all, there would be people of real importance, and she wouldn’t want to embarrass herself by pointing out that her daughter was working in a real job, not just something handed off to the idle rich who wanted to claim a “career”.
No, she’d wait. She’d spot me, wait, and start planning. The next day, I’d find that she’d shown up, probably accompanied by a couple of her “personal friends”, just enough to convince me to come back with them. She’d promise me forgiveness, and I’d believe her. It was like a mouse being hypnotized by a snake; I knew what was happening, and I was powerless to do anything to prevent it.
She’d bring me back to her home. I’d somehow convince myself that this was what I wanted, would ignore that screaming little voice in the back of my head shouting out that I needed to escape, that I couldn’t let myself get trapped once again in our toxic family situation. I’d put on a fake smile and insist to the few remaining points of contact with the world that everything was “totally fine.”
Cutting Loose Page 11