What am I going to do? I’m 5’0” and approximately 115 pounds. What if it’s the crazy person who has been stalking Jameson?
I grab my phone and call Jameson, but he doesn’t answer. What do I do? What do I do? I see the baseball bat that Jameson forgot over here on Thursday after his weekly baseball game. I roll my shoulders back, put on my brave face, and grab the bat.
Once I’m outside, I am feeling significantly less brave than I was ten seconds prior while standing safely in my living room. My heart is pounding so hard that I can hear it in my ears. I’m shaking like a leaf, and I think I might pee my pants. Is this how Jameson feels when he has to go arrest bad guys? How does he live like this?
I tiptoe to the edge of my front patio and peek around the corner of the house. There’s no one at my house, but I look across the yard in the direction of Jameson’s house and see a shadowy figure.
I hold my breath as I watch a man dressed in all black scurry around outside of Jameson’s house. I flatten myself against the wall to hide myself from the man’s view and try to call Jameson again, but he still doesn’t answer.
Peeking around the corner again, I see that the man has a backpack full of who knows what. For all I know, he’s planning to set off a bomb. I have to do something. I can’t just stand here and watch him hurt the man I love.
I raise the bat and take off in a run like a crazed lunatic ready to do battle. The problem with this tactic, I quickly realize, is that it is incredibly noisy. The man hears me and turns and points a gun right at me.
“Stop right now, or I’ll send a bullet through you,” he says in a low venomous voice. He’s angry, and I don’t know if it’s with me or Jameson. Or perhaps both.
“Jameson! Jameson, help!” I shout. The man steps closer, and I can see the barrel of the gun more clearly now. My entire body is shaking with fear. “What do you want? Do you need money? I’ll give you money. Just leave,” I beg.
“What I want is for you to shut your trap,” he growls. He starts pacing in front of me. I’m guessing he’s trying to figure out what to do about me. He probably wasn’t counting on a witness to whatever crime he’s got going down here. I slip my phone out of my pocket and dial 911 while he’s distracted trying to figure out a plan for me. I refuse to be kidnapped without a fight. Lo’s spending the night with Amy. She wouldn’t even know what happened to me.
I hear an operator pick up, and that’s when I start talking to him. In a voice that would be louder than necessary if I were only speaking to him, I say, “So, what are you going to do to me?” I can only hope that the operator can hear what I’m saying.
“Shut up or I will shoot you. Do you not understand? This is a gun!” he says. He’s too quiet, though. The operator won’t hear that.
“Yes, I understand that it’s a gun. And I also understand that that is my boyfriend's house you’re trying to break into.”
Suddenly, headlights shine on me, and the sound of an engine fills my ears. A car door slams behind me, and running footsteps approach. I’m too scared to turn and see who it is.
An arm pushes me behind a solid body, and before I can process what’s happening, Jameson is in front of me, pulling a gun out of his holster. He’s not working. He’s in normal clothes. Where has he been? Why didn’t I even notice that his truck wasn’t in his driveway?
“You’re under arrest—” Jameson begins to say as he starts to step forward, but he doesn’t get to finish what he’s saying. The man pulls the trigger of his gun, and Jameson doubles over.
The man is so focused on Jameson in that moment that he seems to have completely forgotten about me. With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I run to him faster than I’ve ever moved before and swing the bat right at the man’s gut.
Jameson is able to come over and hold him down with a knee to the man’s back. I see now that the shot landed in his arm, and I’m watching blood drip from the wound. I’m frozen in fear and don’t realize he’s speaking to me.
He grabs my arm forcefully and gives me a quick shake to get my attention and instructs me on where to find his handcuffs in his house. After he hands me his keys, I run inside and fumble around for longer than I’m comfortable with, trying to find the handcuffs.
Jameson—my Jameson—is outside with his knee in the back of a man who just tried to kill him. He’s injured. Is there an artery in the arm? I’m pretty sure there is. Could he be bleeding out right now while I’m in here? I should have paid more attention in science class. Focus, Millie. He needs you!
Finally, I find the handcuffs—not where he said they would be. Fine time to not put them where they belong. I run out of the house to find the two of them fighting in the yard. I walk over and kick the guy right in his goods and hand the handcuffs over to Jameson while the man writhes in pain.
He gets the handcuffs on the guy and then pulls him up from the ground and marches him over to his patrol car parked in the driveway. The man is still trying to fight him, so Jameson uses the arm and leg restraints to keep him down.
“You’ve ruined my life. She’s gone. I can’t find her because of you!” the man shouts at Jameson from the patrol car. It dawns on me who this man is. This is the man he told me about one day. The man who beat and kidnapped his wife. Jameson arrested him and helped her get on her feet, and this is who has been stalking him for months.
“I can’t get arrested. I’m on parole! I can’t go back to prison!” he continues to yell.
Jameson pulls his phone out of his pocket to call for backup, but before he can place the call, a police car, an ambulance, and a fire truck pull up in front of the house. I forgot about my phone sitting in the grass still connected to the 911 operator. I pick it up and let her know that everything is now under control. She breathes a huge sigh of relief and asks a few questions before we hang up.
Talk about a stressful job. I would have lost my mind having to listen to all of that and not know what was going on. I’m not cut out for this. Taking out one bad guy with a baseball bat is the end of my crime-fighting career.
A paramedic wraps Jameson’s arm and loads him into the ambulance. I wrap my arms around his waist and brush the hair from his forehead. I notice the sheen of sweat breaking out on his body. He’s breathing hard, like his entire body hurts.
“He’s going to be fine, ma’am,” the paramedic says. “Will you be riding with us?” he asks. I think he assumes that I’m his wife.
I shake my head and say, “No, I’ll take my car so I’ll have a way to get home later.”
He nods his head and then closes the door. A minute later, the ambulance takes off with its lights flashing. I say a quick prayer that they get there quickly and safely.
The police officer comes over to me to ask questions, and I give him a quick rundown of what I experienced. I have no idea what the man was planning to do once he was inside, and I don’t know his name or much about his history with Jameson, but the officer seems satisfied with the information I give him.
He says he’ll probably see me at the hospital, and then we part ways. He gets in his patrol car and drives away, and I run inside to put on a bra and real pants. I grab a few snacks and bottles of water. I have no idea how long I’ll be at the hospital. What do they do when someone’s shot in the arm?
When I get in my car, I drive like I’m racing in the Daytona 500. Tears start trailing down my cheeks as the adrenaline starts to wear off and tonight’s events come crashing down on me.
I could have lost him tonight. That bullet could have hit his heart or lungs or head, and I wouldn’t have him anymore. I would have never had the chance to tell him how I feel or give my whole heart to him.
I’ve spent so much time being afraid to love someone because they might be taken from me. Tonight, I learned that it’s far scarier to hold back and then find out that you want someone with every fiber of your being when it’s too late. I don’t intend to make that mistake again. As soon as I can, I’m laying it all on the line for him.
Joan, Eilleen, and I have been at the hospital for hours. Jameson has been in surgery for about an hour now, and all three of us are nervous wrecks. The surgeon wasn’t sure if he was going to remove the bullet or not, so he did call and give us a short update once he got in there and saw the damage. The bullet is coming out.
The surgery shouldn’t take too much longer. There wasn’t a ton of damage, according to the surgeon. We got lucky. So many things could have gone differently and ended in a much different outcome.
I don’t know exactly how things will turn out after all of this. Will Jameson be able to work? Will his arm heal properly? The only thing I do know is that I’m never taking another moment with him for granted.
A little bit later, the surgeon comes out and tells us that Jameson is out and in recovery. It will still be a little while before he wakes up, but we can all breathe a sigh of relief that he’s out and doing well. I settle into what can only be labeled as the world’s most uncomfortable chair and try to get a little sleep. I’m not going anywhere. I will be here when he wakes up.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jameson
I feel like I’ve been run over by a tractor and then stomped on by a herd of cattle. Everything in my body aches. I open my eyes, and the entire room spins, so I snap them shut again. If someone would have told me that this is how it feels to be shot, then I wouldn’t have stood in front of a loaded gun.
Images of last night’s events begin to flash through my mind. Millie standing in front of that madman with the gun, trembling in fear. She had my baseball bat as her only weapon. She’s either insanely brave or has a death wish. What was she thinking, facing him like that?
I would step in front of her again, even if I knew the man had better aim. I’d step in front of a thousand bullets for her. I thought I could be patient with her and let her take her time figuring things out. But after last night, I have to tell her how I feel. She has to know that I would do anything for her. I’d move mountains for her. I’d lay down my life for her.
I wish she were in this room with me right now. I can’t wait another minute to tell her all of the things going through my mind. I open my eyes again, and hazy light filters in through the window. It must be early in the morning. A rustling on the other side of the room captures my attention, and I turn to see Millie curled up in a chair that was not designed to be slept in. Her leg falls from the chair and startles her awake.
Her eyes lock with mine, and she hops out of the chair and crosses the room in half a second. “You’re awake,” she says in a breathless voice.
I nod my head because my throat feels dry and scratchy. She watches me with concern before calling for the nurse. I want to talk to her, but it seems it will have to wait. The nurse comes in and checks all of my vitals before deeming me well. She helps me into a seated position and places my arm in a sling to keep me from moving it and disturbing the wound.
After she gets me situated, she offers me something to drink, which I accept with immense gratitude. My stomach feels queasy and could use something to help settle it. She leaves with a promise to come back and see how my stomach is feeling in a few minutes.
Finally, now is my chance to tell Millie my feelings for her. But then there’s a knock on the door, accompanied by the actual words, “Knock, knock.” It’s Mama. I’ve never understood why she does that.
Millie rushes over and meets her at the door. “He just woke up about fifteen minutes ago, and the nurse says everything’s looking good,” she tells Mama. She looks relieved and comes to sit next to me. She’s restless, and I know she wants to ask me five million questions about what happened.
I never told her about the threats or the person parked outside Millie’s house watching me. I didn’t think it would ever come to this, and I didn’t want to scare her. Mama’s a constant worrier. I’m going to give her all the details, just not right now. I’m exhausted and still a little dizzy, and I’d like to give her some time to calm down.
All I want is some privacy with the pretty woman across the room. The one with the long, honey-brown hair and big brown eyes. The woman watching me with love and gratitude etched all over her face.
However, I don’t get a moment alone with her. The next few hours at the hospital are filled with nurses checking vitals, checking my wound, giving me care instructions, setting up follow-up appointments with my doctor, and discharge paperwork.
I’m hopeful that Millie will drive me home, but Mama insists on taking me. “I’m your mother! It is my God-given right to fuss over you after YOU’VE BEEN SHOT!” she shouts at me when I protest.
Millie, Nana, and Pops stop their chatting in the corner of the room and watch the two of us warily. I decide it’s best not to argue with Mama at the moment. As soon as she’s done with all of her doting, I’ll get my chance with Millie. She does live just next door.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Millie
I’m going to lose my mind. I’m going to combust. Joan will not leave Jameson’s side. She has stayed at his house for the last three days. She cooks for him, she cleans for him, she organizes his pain meds and antibiotics for him, and she answers his phone for him. All stuff that I’d love to be able to help him with if she’d just leave for a little while! Except for answering his phone. No idea why she keeps doing that.
I love Joan. She’s a fabulous woman. But I want to talk to my boyfriend without his mama chaperoning. Jameson has told her repeatedly that he’d be okay if she left for a little while, but she insists that she’s perfectly content to stay right here next to his side every time.
I get it. I really do. Her child was shot right in his own front yard by a psychopath. That would put every mother in the world on high alert. I don’t blame her one bit. If it had been Lo, I would have marched into that jail cell he’s being held in and beat him with that baseball bat one more time. And Lo isn’t even my child.
I just really want to profess my undying love for her son! And I want to do it right now! I wanted to do it days ago. How much longer can she stay here without being forced to run home for something? Doesn’t her fiancé miss her?
I thought she would eventually have to go to the grocery store, but to my great disappointment, she had them delivered. Yay for the modern age.
The three of us are sitting in the living room together, watching some barbaric TV show with guns, explosions, and an overabundance of violence that Jameson picked out. I think I must have PTSD, because I can’t stop flinching when I hear the gun sounds.
Joan is nodding off in the recliner and jolts awake every time the action picks up and the TV gets loud. Watching her is proving to be more entertaining for me than the show.
“Mama, go take a nap in the bedroom,” Jameson suggests. I sit up a little straighter, hoping she’ll take the bait. I’d much prefer her just leave for an hour or two, but this might be the best chance I get.
“Oh, no. I’m okay right here,” she says, and I deflate a little. What does she think is going to happen? She’ll still be in the house. I’ll be right here with him. She doesn’t think I’m a good enough babysitter for her grown son?
Well, Joan, I heard the same care instructions you heard. Keep the arm in the sling and still. Keep the wound dry. No lifting. Pain meds as needed. I got this!
“Mama, I insist. Go take a nap,” he says in a commanding voice I’ve never heard from him before. I start to stand up to go take a nap, but he grabs my hand and pulls me back down next to him.
Joan takes a moment to observe me and Jameson side by side on the couch. A worried expression settles on her face. She’s never going to leave. But then she surprises me and asks to speak to me alone for a moment.
I follow her back to the bedroom she’s staying in, and she closes the door behind her. We stand and watch each other for a few seconds as she gathers the words she wants to say.
“My son cares for you a great deal,” she settles on. This is not what I thought we were going to talk about. I assumed she
was going to go over a list of all the things I should do for him while she’s napping.
“Do you really think so?” I ask.
“Yes, I do. Which concerns me.” My heart immediately plummets to my stomach. I’ve never heard her say anything that would lead me to believe she didn’t want me with her son until now. I thought she would be happy for us. Right now, she sounds almost angry.
“Why are you concerned?” I ask hesitantly, not entirely sure I want to know the answer to this question. Joan has the potential to ruin my chances with Jameson. He’s not an absolute mama’s boy, but I know he trusts her judgment, and he cares about her. He would at least hear her out if she went to him with her concerns.
“You’ve said, more than once, that you have no interest in being in a relationship and settling down. That scares me because I see the way my son looks at you. I’m worried you’re going to break his heart,” she says with a crack in her voice.
“I won’t!”
“You will. I’m not going to lie. I did hope for a relationship between the two of you for quite a while. But I’ve watched him pine after you, and all you’ve done is string him along for months. It’s cruel.”
I’ve never in my life been called cruel before this moment, and it hurts to hear it from Joan. I like her. She’s kind and giving and vivacious. She’s someone I can learn from. Her words swirl around in my head as I try to contain my emotions.
“Before Jameson, I did not want a relationship. I didn’t want to give myself to someone and have them ripped away from me. I never thought the risk would be worth it before,” I say, watching her reactions carefully.
“Has that changed?” she asks. I nod my head, and relief washes over her face.
“Jameson is so patient. He has been giving me time to think and consider what I want. But after what happened the other night, I don’t need time to think anymore. All I’ve been able to think about is the what-ifs.”
The Nice Guy Next Door Page 18