by S. A. Austin
Last night, they sat in the patrol car and waited and waited for some wild action that never arrived. Considering O’Rourke fell asleep at the wheel, it was just as well they’d made a wasted trip. Jacob wished some badasses had of shown up. He felt angry enough to have taken them on single-handedly.
He gently massaged his forehead. Allowed his mind to continue on its backward spiral. Jacob had spent many hours surfing the internet. Marilyn, the woman he pursued a few months before he met Sue, toyed with his emotions in the same way Sue had. Out of the blue, he lost her. He assumed, because she abruptly stopped visiting the chat rooms, her husband may’ve seen her typing cybersex stuff. Jacob never got around to asking Marilyn for her email address and phone number, much less making a plan for them to meet in person. He foolishly believed he had plenty of time.
He had sent a lot of emails to Suite Sue. How much of what she told him was pure bullshit?
“Eh. Look at all the lies you told her.”
The memory brought a smile to his face. He knew he’d been quite clever. He’d learned a thing or two by reading crime novels.
A topless dancer strutted her wares out to the center of a wooden platform. He put his legs up on the seat, crossed his ankles and leaned back. Drinking beer, ignoring two other dancers, he stared at her with the eyes of a lecherous man. In a red thong and a matching pair of stilettos, long blond hair hanging off her shoulders, she gyrated erotically for all the horny Joes.
Swinging his feet to the floor, he straightened up. Studied her general appearance before returning to her chest. He guessed her tits were around a size thirty-four. He pulled his hungry eyes away from her breasts, and stared more intently at her face.
She could be Sue.
In one of their earlier emails he asked her about her bra size, mainly to form a mental image of her. Sue typed 34. He recalled thinking her honesty was cute and refreshing, for the most part, after kinda-sorta meeting her in person.
Although seeing her at a distance, he clearly saw her boobs but not her face.
Damn frickin’ gigantic sunglasses.
He didn’t want to approach Sue. Not then. Shadowing her was much more satisfying.
Jacob ogled the woman’s dance moves until a familiar throbbing sensation distracted him.
“She’s Suite Sue if I want her to be,” he muttered.
He slid the beer mug aside. Holding his cap over his crotch, he went to the end of the bar closest to the stage. Ordered a bottled beer. Eased onto a black vinyl stool.
The smoky room gave her and the other dancers a strange surrealness.
A cheesy overhead strobe light, a remnant of the days of disco fever, came on when some drunk guy accidentally hit the switch when he put his hand on the wall to steady himself.
The harsh brightness broke the spell Jacob and the Joes were under. The band leader chose that moment to take a break. Dancers and musicians milled about, each doing their own thing.
The blond came to his end of the bar. Asked the barman for a gin and tonic. Slung her hair back, lightly slapping Jacob’s cheek.
Turning to face him, she smiled. She had a very toothy grin, which surprised him. Many of the dancers were crack addicts who’d lost one or more teeth. He returned the smile, observing her facial appearance was different up close. She definitely wasn’t Sue. Pretty, but not gorgeous.
“You’re a good dancer.” He lied, knowing he’d never get to first base with her if he told the truth. He made believe she’s twenty-six.
Same as Sue.
“I’m okay, I guess.” She shrugged, dispassionately. “None of this matters. I’m not going to do this for the rest of my life.” She cast a sidelong glance at the other dancers. “Soon as I graduate law school, I’m leaving this place for good. Heading northeast. Boston, maybe. Lots of big-time lawyers up there, I heard.”
He didn’t give a damn about her little pipedream. He’d already made up his mind she wasn’t Sue. Only thing that remained was to find out if she’d let him take her somewhere close by and screw her brains out.
He took pleasure in the roundness of her ass. Fantasized about kissing and fondling the soft flesh. Jacob chewed his bottom lip, glanced around the room. No one paid him any attention. He got closer to her. Whispered what he had in mind.
She smiled.
Perfect.
They walked to a decent hotel twelve blocks from the bar. Damn place set him back fifty bucks, but ça c’est bon! That’s good, since he had no intention of paying for services rendered.
Jacob helped her remove her coat, thong, and shoes, savoring each and every moment of the experience.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he kicked off his shoes. Fluffed up the pillows, stretched his legs out, made himself comfortable. He pulled a transistor radio out of the thigh pocket of his tan cargo pants. The radio seemed so much smaller in his hand than it did when he was a kid. He glided a thumb over the rough edge of the black wheel to switch it on, increased the volume. Put it on the nightstand, angled it in her direction.
“Dance for me?” Jacob smiled.
She gawked at him in disbelief.
Are you for real? He figured she was thinking.
“No, what I do in the bar stays in the bar.”
Jacob tried not to laugh. He furrowed his brow in mock confusion. Much to his surprise, she grinned. He patted the mattress. She started to come forward. Hesitated.
“Get your ass over here, girl.”
Giggling while also trying to act sexy, she placed a knee on the edge of the bed then took her good easy time crawling across his legs, her ass swinging back and forth. She wrapped her arms around his neck, brought his face close to hers, and kissed him on the mouth.
An inexperienced kisser, he gently pushed her off of him.
Standing next to a small round table, he began undressing. Slung his shirt over a chair. She smiled. Excited beyond belief over how well things were going otherwise, his shaky fingers kept losing their grip on the zipper pull of his pants.
The song about a bad man with blue eyes came on the radio.
Jacob’s attitude changed.
His features hardened.
He laid down on the bed next to her.
His mind went blank.
He didn’t intend to hurt her, but shit happens when you’re having fun.
Right?
Jacob reminisced about Kelly Murphy as he zipped up his pants with ease. Heard the blond whimpering when he reached back to pull the door closed to activate the lock. There was no remorse. He’d gotten what he’d come for.
It wasn’t his fault she wasn’t woman enough to handle it.
It wasn’t her fault she resembled Suite Sue.
Whistling the song about the man hiding his badass self behind his blue eyes, he strolled out of the hotel with his hands tucked in his pockets.
“I guess I should’ve told her I’m an old farm boy, and I’m as good at getting what I want as any other rooster in the henhouse.”
CHAPTER 19
BJ Donovan learned her debut novel had received favorable reviews. It was just the kind of encouragement she needed to proceed with her plan of a continuation of the Suite Sue story.
With so much going on in her life now, she’d nearly forgotten the disturbing side of her life. For quite some time, there’d been a number of hang-up calls, at her home and even at her restaurant. She felt certain it was Jacob calling. Felt equally sure that it was not Roger, as he had respected her decision to part company.
Had Frank received any of those calls?
The last call, four days ago, there was nothing but the first three words of a song lyric. “I’m missing you.” The same song happened to be playing on her radio at the same time. She changed the station to jazz music. Continued printing out inserts of a new entrée for her menus: baked Italian eggplant parmesan.
She’d already ended the chapter on Jacob.
If he had any real intentions of harming me he’d have already done it.
&nbs
p; Her only friend, Cyndi Nortman, had recently returned to New Orleans. Over lunch she confided in Cyndi about Jacob. She needed to tell somebody about him in the event something awful did happen to her.
When BJ was eighteen and had fully recovered from a car accident, she met Cyndi while working in the same store at the mall. At that time, BJ had also become an assistant to a legendary chef, plus a part-time waitress, and she had signed up for culinary school.
A few months later Cyndi abruptly quit her job, and moved away to Memphis, Tennessee.
BJ was the only other person who knew a very intoxicated Cyndi Nortman had hit and killed a pedestrian, and then fled the scene of the crime before the police arrived. The information was damaging enough that she was positive Cyndi would never betray her trust and tell Frank what she’d been up to.
Tell your secrets to a servant and you make them your master.
* * *
BJ put on the clean white chef jacket she found in her private closet next to the kitchen in her restaurant. Tied her apron. Twisted her ponytail up into a bun. Washed her hands. Feeding dough to a pasta maker she remembered something dumb she said to Jacob in an email, a long time ago.
He told her he was thinking a lot about doing a full 180-degree turn and chucking everything in his life, including his wife. His plan was to move to Hawaii to open up a cruise service strictly for the rich and famous. He wanted Sue to strap on a teeny bikini, and do her best to separate old men from their old money.
In her reply she didn’t point out that he’d forgotten about his children. She simply told him that if they never got together she hoped he’d still pursue his dream.
He laughed out loud. LOL, he wrote.
Reading his reaction to her message she felt foolish for all of five seconds.
The only thing that mattered was that Frank never heard about Jacob. But if he ever did, she finally had a ready-made lie for how she’d met the guy when she was doing research for a story.
I hope Jacob drowned in his ocean.
“Take over for me, Leo,” she told her newly promoted chef.
BJ fixed a cup of coffee, brought it to a bistros style table in the corner of the kitchen. Once again, she turned over The Times newspaper and found her face staring up at her. A brief article about her upcoming appearance at a local bookstore accompanied the photo.
* * *
BJ turned the key, pumped the gas pedal.
Why won’t the damn thing start?
She gripped the steering wheel with both hands believing she had the strength to snap it in two. Frank promised he’d come by and take her car to get it serviced before the book signing.
Obviously, he didn’t.
“Dammit.”
So typical of him to spoil things for her.
Before the signing, she wanted to roam around the bookstore and observe anybody and everybody who showed an interest in her novel.
“I can’t if I’m late, dammit,” she said, grumpily.
Calm down. The bookstore is only a taxi drive away.
Her eyes sought the digital clock on the dashboard. Twelve-fifteen.
She closed her eyes. Concentrated on the car. Whispered a plea to the Ancient Ones, near and far. The engine roared to life.
* * *
Jacob picked up the newspaper on his computer desk. He’d left the paper folded to the page with her photo. In a couple of hours he’d finally meet her face to face.
If it hadn’t been for the title of her debut novel, Suite Sue, along with the name Donovan, he probably wouldn’t have paid much attention to the article.
Tearing his gaze away from BJ Donovan’s pretty, bespectacled face photographed a short distance from where she’s standing in the shade of a large tree draped with Spanish moss, he skimmed over the flattering article again about the local author. He guessed the newspaper had a good reason for not mentioning Vieux Carré, her place of employment.
He re-read the bold print: Book signing. Wharf’s End Bookstore. Saturday 1-4 PM.
“Today.”
In his bedroom closet, he brought down the navy blue sports jacket he’d purchased some time ago just for their first real meeting. Had a last look in the mirror. Smiled again over the good fortune of having the day off without having to ask for it.
Jacob drove his own car to the bookstore, confident the department would frown on him for using an official police vehicle for unofficial business. He timed his arrival to forty minutes before her session ended.
Interested in her, not her book, he barely looked at her when he bypassed her signing table near the entrance of the store. He entered the café. Bought a coffee and a praline. Chose a table with a clear view of her. With so much blond hair covering the sides of her face, and tinted reading glasses hiding her eyes, there wasn’t much of her to see. But it was she, all right. Exactly the same as her photo. He was suddenly curious if it was the same photo she had taken to the park? He’ll have to ask her. Through mirrored sunglasses, he observed her with ease.
Jacob wrinkled his forehead. Is she wearing a wig?
To avoid unwanted attention, he moved his head in another direction every so often, pretending a local author doing a book signing was of no concern to him. His eyes, however, never wandered far from her.
Physically speaking, this was the closest he’d ever gotten to her. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something familiar about her.
Was it because she’s a lefthander, too?
Was it the manner in which she slanted her head, the way he would’ve, just before asking the name of each and every autograph seeker?
Was it how she seemed detached, perhaps having more important matters on her mind?
Or was BJ Donovan just some smug writer with a big ego who thinks she’s entitled to all of this attention?
Jacob shrugged without meaning to, quickly changed positions to cover up the shrug.
“Mwen grangou,” he mumbled when his stomach growled. “Very hungry.” He had a big bite of the sweet candy patty. Sucked the last of his coffee out of the cup.
BJ thanked the store manager. Purchased the last available copy of her book, and tucked it inside a large handbag. Exited the building by way of the main entrance.
Jacob hurried to his car.
Followed her to the luxurious Armand Hotel.
* * *
BJ dined on Creole onion soup, tossed green salad with bleu cheese, and blackened redfish.
At a distant table Jacob had, unknowingly, ordered the same meal.
After dinner, a glass of brandy took the edge off of not being able to smoke in that restaurant. He glanced her way, interested in knowing if she had put it together that they were at the same hotel, he had told her about in an email, where he wanted to bring her for a night of rough ‘n’ ready sex followed by more sex? The place was classy yet affordable.
BJ paid for her food with cash. Entered the adjoining lounge.
Jacob tried to wrap his head around calling her BJ now, and not Sue. Questioned why he was hesitant about really meeting her in person.
CHAPTER 20
BJ was well aware she flirted with danger by coming to the same hotel Jacob wanted to bring her for a little huggin’ and lovin’. In the public restroom outside the lounge she finished drying her hands, and used the paper towel to pull open the door. Threw the white paper in a black trash can. Had a little déjà vu moment.
At five-thirty in the evening, the lounge was near empty. She cut across the room to the short side of the smooth and glossy rectangular bar. On the opposite end, three men chatting amiably fell silent. The tall, thin man with a head full of red hair did a low wolf whistle when she climbed up on the barstool.
Jacob strolled into the lounge decorated in crimson red, brass, and dark-colored wood. Winced at the lingering smell of brass polish. He made sure BJ didn’t see him by taking a seat at a dim lit table behind her, in case she’d already seen him at the bookstore or in the restaurant.
The bartender
heard the three men snickering. Searched for the source. Surprise rounded his eyes. “Oi! Hiya,” said Barnaby Thomas with a British accent. “I haven’t seen you in ages. Where’ve you been, love?” He stepped closer to her.
BJ groaned, quietly. “Hi, Barney. Nice to see you again, I suppose. So, how long have you been working here?”
“Too long. Blimey, I don’t think I’ve seen you since we worked together at the mall. I quit a couple of years after you did. Oh, and it’s Barnaby, by the way. Not Barney. It has been a long time, eh?” He saw the man sitting alone in the corner. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
Jacob ordered a draft beer.
Two out of the trio held up their empty glasses when the barman returned. Barnaby collected their glassware, and set them in the sink. Placed two highball glasses side by side on the bar. Filled each with ice, one jigger of whiskey, and a splash of cola. Stabbed each glass with a thin red stirrer straw. Brought a frosty draft beer mug to the man in the corner. Answered the phone that started ringing after he rang up the man’s beer order and deposited the change in the tip jar as instructed.
The man sitting between his companions called out to BJ. “Hello, you sweet little thing.” Pushing his long blond hair off his shoulders, he waggled his head to disperse the mane he was so proud of. Rolled up his long sleeves to show off tanned biceps.
“Are you speaking to me?” BJ asked, coldly.
“Well, duh. You’re the only sweet little thing in here.” He spread his arms wide to encompass the bar. His friends laughed.
She glared at the assholes. “I’m not a thing, and I don’t appreciate you saying so.”
“Oooh, she’s a hottie,” cracked one of the others, a thirty-something guy with thick black hair combed straight back and held in place with what appeared to be a whole can of hairspray. He and his friends wore two-piece suits, the jackets hanging off the backs of their barstools, open-collared dress shirts with a loose necktie, and shiny gold wristwatches.