by Karr, Kim
If it’s a confession—it won’t be from me.
I’m at a dead end.
Standing, I place both my hands on the edge of his desk to steady myself. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I have to get going.”
The detective jots “Bank statements” on his pad of paper.
Slowly, I start for the door.
“Miss Lane,” he calls.
I look back.
“I’ll be in touch.”
And I’m certain he will.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
OVERHEATED
Jasper
I CONFESS—I get angry in confrontational situations. And this trait is often disastrous. I blew my cool with Hill earlier today and it was more than detrimental because he blew his cool too, and then walked out.
Not cool.
Not cool at all for either of us.
“He just called and said he wants to give it another try,” Todd Carrington tells me the minute I walk into his office after being summoned to return.
“Shit!” I throw my arms in the air.
“Calm down, Jasper, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. We get a do-over, and this time you’re going to remain even-tempered and answer his questions about that night in a straightforward manner without all the emotion.”
Balling my hands into fists, all I can do is nod. Now that I’ve had a chance to go home and shower and think about things, I realize I shouldn’t have lost earlier today the way I did.
The best criminal defense attorney in Detroit points his finger at me. “I mean it, Jasper—you have to learn to control that temper of yours. He’s not your arch enemy, but you’ll turn him into one if you keep it up.”
Placing my elbows on my knees, I look out the window. “I didn’t do it, Todd. I didn’t kill Eve.”
“I know that, Jasper; if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be representing you.”
I feel slightly better. “So when are we doing this thing?”
He looks at his watch. “It’s Friday, so it won’t be tomorrow. I’ll let you know when. Go home, rest up over the weekend, and we’ll hit it again on Monday.”
I nod. His plan sounds perfect.
Fifteen minutes later I’m in my car with the windows down, speeding down the highway, but I’m not heading home, not to my current home anyway. I’m heading to Eastpointe. My childhood home has been on my mind all week and for some reason I feel the need to see it. Remember what my life was like back then. How happy I was. Reconnect with who I once was.
Why I want to torture myself, I don’t know.
What I do know is that I can’t get her out of my head.
It’s been five fucking long days since I saw Charlotte.
Every day that passed I wanted to forget the fact that I shouldn’t be involved with her during this dark time in my life, but then every day I remembered just how bad things are. It’s not the right time.
Between lawyer visits and trips to the police station, my head is a fucking mess and my temper is at an all-time high. Then there’s the damage control Will is working on. Soon enough the story of that night will break, and let’s just say I’m not going to look good. As it stands now, a few of the investors Jake had secured to back the plant have already pulled out.
Whitney, Will’s girl—that’s what I call her now instead of the naughty secretary—suggested hiring an image consultant. Will being Will, he got right on it. In fact, he’s been interviewing firms and getting estimates on how much it will cost. The prices are astronomical. But in true Will form, he hasn’t given up and is interviewing a few more firms on Monday.
There is plenty of sun in the sky left, but nothing seems bright. Before I know it, I’ve passed the Eastpointe exit. Loving the feel of being on the open road, the freedom it gives me, I drive and drive and drive. Faster and faster, and faster still.
That storm within me raging almost out of control, I feel completely torn. I can’t stop thinking about Charlotte, and not in an oh-I-miss-my-friend kind of way.
My thoughts are dirtier.
Picturing her naked beneath me, screaming out my name as I take her to the edge over and over and then finally let her fall. How good her sweet pussy would feel. Fucking her all night long as if my need for her is insatiable. These are thoughts I shouldn’t be having. Nothing good can come of them. There is too much bad that would accompany the good, and in the end, regardless of what everyone always says, good does not defeat evil. The truth is the bad has a way of taking over the good and tarnishing it.
The sound of my phone ringing jolts me out of the fog I’m in. “Hello,” I answer.
“Hey, Jasper, it’s Craig from the body shop.”
“Hey, man, what’s up?”
“Listen, I hate to bother you, but you know that car you had me pick up last week?”
Instantly I go on alert. “Yeah, the black Honda Civic.”
“Well listen, I need to get it out of here but I can’t get the owner to call me back. Is there any way you might be able to get in touch with her and ask her to call me?”
I answer without hesitation. “Sure, I can do that. What’s wrong with the car?”
“Transmission issues. She said she had to see if she could get the money together and I haven’t heard back from her. I left her a message earlier in the week that she has until Friday to decide.”
A quick glance in the rearview mirror tells me no cops are around, and I swerve onto the median and do a U-turn so that I can head back home. “Do me a favor, let me get in touch with her and hold on to it until Monday. Can you do that?”
“Yeah, sure, but then it has to go.”
“How much is it to fix it?”
“Over three grand, man. The entire thing is a mess.”
“Ouch. Is there any cheaper fix?”
“There probably is, but nothing I could guarantee.”
“I understand. I’ll call you Monday.”
“Cool. Take it easy,” he says and hangs up.
Minutes later I’m back at the Eastpointe exit.
Screw it.
Weaving in and out of traffic, I take it. Not much longer, I pull up in front of the house I used to live in and shut the engine off. My gaze flickers between the brick house and its matching twin, the one the Lanes lived in. To the window I used to sneak into. The backyard we played in. The front porch we sat on. The sidewalk we rode bikes on.
We—me and Charlie.
To the people who live in these houses now they might be just bricks and mortar surrounded by grass and trees. For me, they represent the only happiness I can remember as a child, and that happiness will forever be tied to Charlie Lane—Charlotte.
The girl I always took care of.
The girl I shouldn’t turn away from.
The girl that needs me now.
The girl I can’t turn away from regardless of my situation.
How to handle the car?
I know she won’t let me pay for it. She thinks she’s needy. She’s not; it’s just years of negative reinforcement drilled into her head. As I look at her house the memories of why she thinks that way, what was instilled in her from such an early age, come rushing back.
“For Christ’s sake, Charlotte, you’re almost nine. You can stay by yourself for a few hours while I go out.”
“Mommy, please don’t go—it’s scary when you leave me home alone at night.”
Mrs. Lane shakes her head at Charlotte. “Stop with the weeping, will you? It’s not that big a deal. Besides, you’ll be asleep soon enough.”
Charlotte sucks in a breath and I know she’s being brave, trying not to cry.
Her mother huffs in frustration. “You act like I do it all the time.”
She did.
I shuffle my feet, biting my tongue so that I don’t say what I’m thinking out loud.
As if just noticing me, she glances in my direction. “It’s getting late, Jasper—you should probably be getting home.”
“I can stay with Charlie.”
Her lip t
urns up in a snarl. “Your parents won’t like that. Besides, Charlotte needs to learn some independence.”
I nod, knowing I need to be going before Charlotte gets yelled at. “’Bye, Charlie,” I say and look at her.
She bites her lip, and I tuck only one hand in my pocket. They’re signals. How we communicate in front of adults. When she bites her lip it means she needs me. When I put one hand in my pocket it means “leave the window open for me, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” We have other signals too. A wrinkle of her nose means she’s fine. Two hands in my pockets means I probably can’t sneak out because my dad is home and he might notice. A twirl of her finger around her hair is to let me know she understands. A fake sneeze alerts me that her dad will be home.
The windows are open as I walk out the front door and cut between the houses to go in my back door, and I hear her mother say, “Charlotte, why are you always so needy?”
Even then I knew Charlotte was anything but needy.
Neglected? Yes.
Lonely? Yes.
Frightened? Yes.
But needy? No.
I blink out of it. I hate remembering those times. I hated that there were days when there was nothing I could do to help her. This feels like one of them. I have to figure out a way to help her. Fuck the storm within me. Fuck my worries about what might be. Good and bad be damned. I’m done fighting this. Done.
My body buzzes thinking about her, and without another thought about why I shouldn’t call her, I just do it. I need to talk to her. To hear her voice. To make sure she’s okay.
“Hello?” she answers, a little breathless.
Her voice is sweet and I want to reach through the line and lick it. “Charlotte, it’s me, Jasper.”
She’s silent.
“Charlotte, it’s Jasper,” I repeat.
“I know who this is.” Her tone is curt.
“Don’t be mad.”
“Why would I be mad?” There’s a hint of sarcasm in her voice this time.
“Come on, you know why.”
“No, tell me.”
“Because I said I’d call you and I’m just doing it now.”
She’s quiet.
“I . . . I . . .” I stumble for the right words. “I told myself I wouldn’t soil you with all my shit, but I don’t want to stay away from you, either.”
“Jasper,” she sighs.
Over the horizon the sun blazes like a huge orange halo and I look at it anyway. “I want to take you out tonight . . . on a date.” No more dancing around.
She sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry, Jasper, I can’t.”
“Look, I know this is last minute and I’m sorry I haven’t called you sooner, but please let me make it up to you. Don’t shut me out.”
“I’m not. That’s not why I’m saying no. I know you have a lot going on. I don’t hold anything against you.” She sounds genuine. “And I’d really like to see you, but I have to work tonight.”
Wondering what kind of job she got so fast, I ask her, “Where are you working?”
Her sigh sounds resigned. “At the Bronx Bar.”
Alarm floods me. Putting my car in gear, I ease on the gas and head toward the highway. “Charlotte, I don’t want you working there.”
I can hear her breathing pick up and know she’s getting upset. “I appreciate your concern, but it’s really none of your business.”
I ignore the comment and zing—I have the perfect idea. “What if there was a different solution to your money issues. A better one.”
“What, like stripping?”
Horrified, I snap. “No!”
“Relax, I’m just kidding. But if there was a better job, I would have taken it.”
“What if you come work for me instead?”
“Jasper, be serious.”
Flooring it on the main road, I hit 60 in no time. “I am. More than serious. We could really use someone like you right now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Will is trying to hire an image consultant and the cost is sky high. What if you came to work for us? You could write press releases. Help set the record straight. Provide updates. Write articles about the community. Even set up a blog like we were going to do with The Detroit Scene until I had Will fire that douche’s ass.”
“Jasper,” she gasps.
“Charlotte, please, we could really use someone like you on our team.”
“I don’t know.”
Pulling off near her street, I slow my pace. “Call in sick. Then let me take you out to dinner tonight and we can talk about it. If it’s something that you think might work for you, take the job. If not—” I let the sentence hang because fuck, I can’t stand the thought of her working in a bar with all those lowlifes who will easily prey on someone as beautiful as her. Once again, I remember the horrible stories my mother had spoken of when she’d worked at a bar in the Cass Corridor.
This time her sigh is long.
“You’re thinking about it, I can tell.”
“Jasper, I can get off work tonight. That’s not a problem. I was just picking up an extra shift and the other girls are always wanting extra shifts as well, but is your offer real?”
My car is in front of her place. “I already told you, Charlotte, I never lie.”
“You said you would call and you didn’t.”
“That’s not true—I’m calling you now.”
Silence.
I can hear her breathing. Contemplating. Twirling her hair, I bet.
Still there’s silence.
“Charlotte, please. I read some of your stuff this week from when you were blogging on Mackinac Island. It’s really good.”
The line is still silent.
“Charlotte, please,” I repeat, my voice low.
“What time?” she concedes.
I smile for the first time in five days. “How about now?”
She laughs. “Give me an hour.”
Already feeling better after just having talked to her, I don’t care if I have to wait one hour, one day, or one year to see her. “See you then.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NO U-TURN
Charlotte
I WANT TO look good for him.
For our date.
Not too casual. Not too dressy. Not too sweet. And definitely not too sexy, but just sexy enough.
Any quick glance at me will tell you I’m nothing like the girls he’s been photographed with.
I’m okay with that.
My body isn’t curvy, my breasts are definitely not large, my hair isn’t smooth, and my wardrobe isn’t extravagant.
But it’s who I am.
The tomboy in me never quite left.
Clothes are meant to be comfortable—jeans, shorts, tank tops, and sweaters.
Shoes are practical—sneakers, boots, ballet flats, and sandals.
And makeup? Well, that’s meant to be quick and easy.
Right?
However, tonight I spend extra time on getting myself ready.
A little more eyeliner than usual, an extra brush of mascara on my lashes, a dab of powder to help cover my freckles, and some pink-tinted lip gloss.
My body buzzes with excitement at the thought of seeing him again. It seems wrong to feel this way in the midst of the chaos consuming both of our lives, but being with him . . . I don’t know . . . it sets me free.
Yanking practically every dress I own from my closet, I toss each onto a pile. Too old. Too young looking. Just plain ugly.
Ugh . . . I really need a new wardrobe.
Finally, I find the perfect thing tucked away in the back of my closet. A body-hugging black tank dress that I bought on sale a few summers ago. In fact, I bought three of them in different styles from the Victoria’s Secret catalog.
This one has a racerback. To make it a bit edgier, I select a skimpy bralette so the white straps will show, and then I choose the matching panties with just a hint of lace.
Even if he doesn�
�t see any of it, knowing it’s there will make me feel sexier.
Next a little spritz of perfume. And now the worst part: I have to tackle my hair. I take a little extra time to style it so the wildness is slightly tamed.
Now, I glance in the mirror and can’t help but smile.
Not bad, really.
Then on to my shoes. I pick a pair of silver-studded black sandals that I rarely wear because if I walk in them too much they pinch my toes. But they’re cute and flat, and the silver dresses them up nicely.
Jewelry.
A long but simple silver chain and small diamond studs that belonged to my aunt with a few silver bangles, and I’m ready with ten minutes to spare.
Pacing.
Pacing.
More pacing.
Up the hallway and back down, my mind is in overdrive.
Wondering.
Contemplating.
Weighing my options as I think about his offer.
Was he serious about me working for him? Would I be of benefit or a charity case? I’m not certain about the former and couldn’t stand to be the latter.
Knock. Knock.
I’m right beside the door and even though the sound is gentle, I jump. It makes my body come alive because there is no doubt who is on the other side of that door.
Telling myself to calm down, this is just a simple date, I check my dress and straighten my shoulders, and then I swing the door open.
Hands behind his back, his downcast eyes lift and he smiles at me with a hint of shyness that causes my heart to skip a beat. Just then it occurs to me that the man standing before me isn’t just a man, he’s the boy I once thought of as my hero, and oh, how he has grown up.
Handsome as hell.
Breathtaking.
So very much a man.
Unable to resist, I take him in from head to toe. His black T-shirt clings to his broad shoulders and lean waist, jeans that look like they were made for him sit low on his narrow hips, and those boots he wears that he doesn’t always tie are tied tonight.
I bite my lip subconsciously, not even realizing how much I’ve missed him this week until now. Something that feels like swarms of butterflies in my belly seizes me and I force my gaze up, hoping to calm them.
Bad idea.
Eyes that glimmer with specks of gold, with long lashes that sweep his skin in a blinking motion just before he fixates his stare on me, mesmerize me. Forcing my gaze to widen, I look at his hair. Oh, that hair. It sticks up in just the right places. It looks like he ran a hand through it one too many times or no, maybe it looks more like he just rolled out of bed. Either way, it’s perfection.
