Jackson's Love (Lake Hope Book 3)

by Mel Walker

  “Why does your friend think I’ll be gone…?” Tyrone begins as he licks his lips and turns his attention to me. “Whatever. Anyway, babe, you are looking slamming. I knew you would be.”

  His fancy outfit doesn’t hide his behavior. He’s still the man that tried to break me. “Why are you here, Tyrone?” I snap.

  He’s holding the bouquet that I dropped previously. He pushes them in my direction, but I keep my hands in my rear pockets this time. Manners be damned.

  “I had to see you, babe. It’s been too long.”

  “Eighteen to twenty-four,” I shoot back knowing he will get it.

  “That’s cold, Dana. Damn girl, even after all this time you still fuming. Have you looked at me?”

  He spins slowly, hands extended as he nods toward the watch, his hand touching his designer glasses and then pointing down to his Italian leather shoes. “And the car too. Bought it all cash.” He nods and smiles as if he is expecting applause.

  “Is that supposed to impress me somehow, Tyrone? Have you moved on from stealing money to dealing drugs? I. Don’t. Care.” I punctuate each word with a snap of my fingers. He always hated when I did this, and it’s been nearly two years since I’ve had the need.

  I spot one of the women running late for class racing from the lake, shooting a sympathetic look in my direction. I cross my arms and shake my head side to side. I need to move this sideshow from the front of the lodge.

  I don’t say a word as I stomp down the path, knowing he’ll follow. That was one thing he was always good at, obviously.

  I don’t stop walking until I reach a bench on the other side of the boathouse. It’s quiet, secluded, and the best part is that it can’t be seen from the lodge, not even from the balcony on the top floor of the lodge.

  Tyrone steps gingerly down the path, the dirt from the path clinging to his Italian leather. It wasn’t the reason why I chose this dirty path, just an added bonus. I point toward the bench and remain standing, not wanting to be that close to this man. He slips to the bench without hesitating and glances around at the lake. “This is more like it. Some alone time.”

  He can’t be this dense. Not after what I did to him, my intent clear even to a blind man. “I’m giving you thirty seconds, Tyrone, and then I’m marching back to the lodge. Why are you here?”

  His lips thin into a tight line before he speaks. “Fine. We did it, babe. Just like I promised.”

  “You’ll have to be a little clearer, babe.” I throw in the sarcastic retort. He knows I’ve never liked that term. “You’ve made so many promises over the years that never came true that I stopped caring.”

  “The investment.”

  I kick at the dirt on the ground at his use of the term, our history being rewritten. “It was never an investment, and you know that shit, Ty. It never was. Just call it what it was.”

  He bounces to his feet and reaches toward me. I smack away his hand and take two steps back. “Don’t touch me. You lost that right years ago when you decided to steal half of my life savings.” My hands form fists and wonder if I kill him and toss him into the lake how long it would take before a fisherman stumbled onto his body.

  He shakes his head. “I never stole, Dana. I’ve told you that a million times. It was an investment into our future.”

  “Your future. I was never on board with that shit. Shortcuts are for the weak. The undisciplined.” I can’t believe I’m having the same conversation that I had with him when we were last in the same room. At that time, we had lawyers, a mediator, and the threat of a prison term on the table.

  “We were struggling, Dana. It broke my heart what it was doing to you. To us.” The joy in his voice finally fades as he recalls our end days. “You were trying to start up a yoga studio. A yoga studio? In the hood?” He shakes his head once again. Just like my mom did when I explained it to her. “You quit your job and moved back in with your mom so that you could concentrate on certifications that you didn’t need because no one was ever going to come to that studio.”

  I thought I had taken all the body blows that would ever be delivered when it came to that topic, which also happened to be my dream. But here Ty is, years later, in another state, still throwing haymakers at the one person he should have believed in. “So, you thought that gave you permission to steal my money?”

  “Our money, babe. It was our future.” His voice becomes animated with the word Our. His possessive nature hasn’t evolved an iota. “You wouldn’t listen to reason. When my friend came along with the startup looking for investors, I knew we had to jump in. I didn’t have any money, but you were sitting on a nice nest egg.”

  “One that I’d worked my ass off for years to get. I thought you understood that, Tyrone. What the hell happened to you? We started out on the same page. You had dreams too.”

  He fiddles with his damn watch. “And then I grew up. I had to put away those dreams and enter the real world. And look at me now.”

  I spit on the ground, wishing I had directed it to his designer shoes, “I should have never agreed to the no-contact rule. I should have stuck to my guns and had them throw your ass in jail.”

  “Damn, Dana, I still can’t believe you called the police on me. That was our money. Even your own mother saw that.”

  I wince at the mention of my mom. She never respected my profession. Worst still, she had been charmed by Tyrone, his devilish tongue working on her constantly to the point that she advocated for me to drop the charges. The no-contact agreement was the only way for me to get some sense of justice as my money was gone, locked into the startup. Tyrone had no clue that the contract had an ironclad no-early-exit clause which protected the firm. He obviously didn’t waste any time as the no-contact agreement expired last month. I’m sure he called my mom that very next day, and this retreat provided the perfect opportunity as she promised me on dad’s grave that she wouldn’t give Tyrone my new address if he ever contacted her.

  “I’m back, Dana, and our investment paid off. Better than paid off. It’s soaring. Look at me.”

  I’ve heard enough. “Tyrone, take the money. It was yours the minute you stole it from me. I don’t want a thing from you. As you can see, I’m doing just fine without you.”

  His eyes soften as he attempts another step toward me. I cut him a look I haven’t had to use in over eighteen months, putting the fear of God in him. He freezes. “Babe, I’m not here just because of the money. I’m back for you.”

  The longer he speaks, the more methods I construct in my mind of ways to dispose of his body. “You’re out of your mind.”

  “Hear me out.” He’s pleading, but I don’t need to hear it. I begin to pace back and forth, my mind racing to how much time I have before the yoga session ends. “All of our problems began because of money.”

  “Money was never the issue, Ty. Why don’t you get that through your head? Our issues were lying, stealing, deceit, and worst of all not supporting one another. We were done well before you stole that money. Let me make this perfectly clear—there is no coming back from that. I’m building the life I want right here, and it doesn’t include you and it never will.”

  I can’t state it any clearer. Each sentence is like a swing of an ax to a redwood. Slowly it begins to sink into him, the life escaping from his eyes as if he never imagined this as a possible outcome.

  “You actually like it out here in the middle of bumfuck?” he pivots. His carrot not having worked, here comes the stick. “I understand that if you actually wanted to have a yoga studio, you would need to be near white folk, but this is a little extreme, Dana. Indiana? I drove for two hours without seeing a person of color. Is that where you see yourself?”

  “We are done here.” I march up the dirt path, but I feel the pull of his hand on my elbow.

  “What’s the story with you and that chef? I saw the look in his eyes, the way you chased after him.” He twists my wrist, my arm turning at a painful angle, “Don’t tell me…”

  I don’
t let him finish the sentence as my fist smacks across his face. A blinding flash of pain shoots through my hand which I try to ignore, and a small part of me is impressed when Ty falls to one knee holding his lip, but it doesn’t deliver the satisfaction I’d always pictured in my dream.

  “Shit,” I mutter toward my hand. The shooting pain returns. This is bad.

  Tyrone spits blood to the dirt as he rubs his jaw. He stares up from one knee with a look of disbelief on his face. I don’t allow him to speak. “Gather yourself and get the hell out of my bumfuck town, Ty. I never want to see you again. The statute of limitations on that theft is seven years, so if I see you again, I will be pressing charges, I don’t care what the fine print of our agreement says.”

  I march up the path and my mind runs through the checklist and the location of the seven first aid kits in the lodge, praying that this man hasn’t destroyed my dream yet again.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jackson

  Aaron races into the kitchen with a sense of urgency. I know he had an afternoon rendezvous with Mia over at Candice’s cabin, on the other side of Lake Hope. They all have put everything on hold to make Dana’s retreat a success. Their relationship is the model we all should follow: mutual respect, understanding, trust, and communication. He apparently has the balance part right in his life as he is beaming ear to ear. His hair is still damp from the two-minute shower he must’ve taken before hopping in the car and racing back here.

  He grabs his apron off the hook and rushes to the prep table and begins scanning the dinner menu. “Apologies for running late, Chef…”

  I growl toward him, “I told you before, you don’t need to call me chef. It’s just us. Besides, tonight you are chef.”

  He finally looks in my direction. I’m on the other side of the prep table with a basket full of ingredients, my hand still wrapped in a towel. I hold it up.

  “What happened?” He races around the table and reaches for my hand.

  I lift it up out of his reach and turn a shoulder in between us, blocking his touch. “Nothing serious, just a burn. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Let me take a look,” he says, and I slowly lower it. He unwraps the towel like a surgeon to a patient after a procedure. His bedside poker face, however, is far from perfected as his face scrunches when he sees the angry red burn on my palm. “That’s a nasty one. What was Dana wearing?”

  “What?” I don’t understand his question.

  He pokes the center of my palm, testing the blister to make sure it hasn’t burst. “Dana. I know something is finally going on with you two. I’ve seen you in the kitchen, Jackson—you are a model of focus on all things except one. I see the way you look at her every time she enters the kitchen.” There is no judgment or humor in his voice. He states the declaration as if he is describing the weather; it just a known fact.

  I let his words sink in. Up till an hour ago, his observation would have been welcomed and true. “Speaking of distractions, I hope you’re rested up and can take the lead tonight. I’ve made some notes on the main courses. Hope you can read it as it was kind of hard to hold a pencil, and my left hand sucks at writing.”

  He nods as he tosses the towel into the garbage. “You need to get some antibiotic or aloe on that and then wrap it in gauze. There’s a first aid kit out by the registration desk, I’ll go grab it.”

  “I got it,” I stop him. Aaron has shown his skill as a sous chef over the last few days, but I really need him to get started on dinner if we stand half a chance of getting through the rest of this evening. “I need you to get started. We’re going to be flooded by hungry yogis before we know it.”

  His tap on my shoulder causes me to pause. “Thank you, Chef.”

  I hold up my injured hand, “You’re good, Aaron. Better than me with one hand tied behind my back.”

  His laugh is a combination of joy and anxiety. I watch the lines around his eyes tighten and recognize the look; he’s getting into focus mode. Hopefully he’s up to it as he’ll need to stay in that zone for hours. “Let me go take care of this hand. I’ll be back in five, Chef.”

  With the mention of the chef term, Aaron’s face brightens. We’ve chatted enough for me to know what that means to him. He went to culinary school and thought at one point in time of becoming a chef. But he had the curse of being good at nearly everything he touched. His history is littered with him mastering skills and then moving on to something else. Three months ago, he was the top location scout for Universal Studios. He is now studying cinematography, looking to cut down on his travel in order to spend more time with his girlfriend, Mia.

  The image of Mia and Aaron stays with me as I exit the kitchen and head through the lodge in search of the medical kit. They are a shining example of overcoming obstacles and finding a way. In many ways, I’ve held them up as an example for me and Dana. That was before. Back when I thought we had a future. Before I found out that she had a fiancé.

  Thankfully, the lodge is still quiet. The afternoon session run by Candice is still in session. I turn the corner of the hallway and stop in my tracks. Bending behind the desk with an opened first aid kit is Dana, her back to me. She turns upon hearing me approaching. She plasters a strange look on her face and I follow the movement of her hand. She is holding gauze and an ACE wrap in her very bruised hand.

  That bastard.

  “I’ll kill him,” I growl and turn and storm toward the parking lot.

  Dana is on me in an instant, the bandage unraveling in her hand, the trail flowing behind her like a mummy unwrapping. “Wait, Jackson. Nothing happened.”

  “Bullshit,” I shout and stop to address her. I grab her by her wrist. “This isn’t nothing. What kind of—”

  She pulls out of my grasp and slips her hand underneath her armpit. “He didn’t touch me. I punched him.”

  “What?” I can’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. I can’t picture calm, Zen, don’t-worry-be-happy yogi Dana throwing a temper tantrum let alone a punch in anger. “Is he dead?”

  Her brow furrows, confusion spreading on her beautiful face. “What?”

  “If he’s not dead, then I will kill him.” I turn, but her hand pulls on my elbow, stopping my progress. “Dana.” My frustrated tone fills the air. “He obviously did something for you to react that way. You don’t have to tell me what he did, just tell me where he is so I can finish the job.”

  “I don’t think the lodge’s liability waiver covers murder. I’ve already checked.”

  Her strange response causes me to stop in my tracks. Humor. It immediately deflates my anger. I can feel the heat in my chest tampering down, my breathing following the lead.

  “Trips and falls, pulled muscles, but definitely not murder.” That gorgeous smile returns, and I realize immediately that I had missed it. I had already reconciled that I would never see it again, yet here it is.

  “Can you help me with this bandage? I’m not sure who designed this, but it takes two hands.”

  I hold up her injured limb, honored to be able to touch her like this once again. “Thank god it’s only two. I think between us, we barely have two healthy hands.” I bend toward the floor and lift the end of the wrap as Dana leads me to a short couch near the registration area.

  We sit there silently for a few minutes as we begin to wrap the bandage across her bruised knuckles. She’ll need to keep it clean to prevent an infection. Her familiar scent of vanilla essential oil fills my nostrils as I take my time with the bandage, looking to extend our moment together, no matter how limited.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that, Jackson. I had no idea Tyrone was coming here.”

  She doesn’t look up from her hand as she speaks. “Tyrone?” I scowl at the name.

  “What?”

  “Please tell me his last name isn’t Johnson or Jackson,” I snicker out.

  Her giggle is filled with a lightness that doesn’t match the conditions of our heart. “I guess I see your point. Tyrone is bad eno
ugh.” The laugh fades to silence and I place three pieces of hospital tape to secure the wrap. “It’s been nearly two years, Jackson. I thought he was ancient history—not a necessarily proud piece of my history which is why I’ve never mentioned him.”

  “I get that.” I bite my tongue, feeling like a hypocrite, my own historical demons screaming in my ear. “Dana, you must know you can tell me anything. Good or bad. We all have history.”

  She rubs her knee as she processes my words. I hope she doesn’t pull on the thread of my statement.

  “I didn’t know that, Jackson.” She’s referring to my invite to talk to me about anything. “I’ve felt it, but I didn’t know.” She furrows her brow. “There is so much I feel between us, Jackson, but I can’t assume. That’s a quick way to set up false expectations and lead to failure.”

  “Trust your heart. I do. We have something special between us. Surely you feel it?” My heart begins to race, this time for an entirely different reason.

  “Of course I do.” Her hand moves from her knee as she reaches for my wrist. She twists my hands onto her warm lap. “You really did a number on your hand.” She reaches into the first aid kit and grabs a handful of gauze and the ointment. She taps the center of my palm. “How does that feel?”

  I don’t speak until her gaze reaches my eyes. “If it was anyone else doing that, I would be wincing. But having you hold my hand is pure joy. I don’t feel any pain.”

  She squeezes a touch of ointment onto my palm, taking a Q-Tip to spread it evenly. “I appreciate your patience with me, Jackson.” It feels like she is shifting topics yet again.

  I think back to our very first kiss. “Not like I had a choice. You had me hooked on that fishing line from the very first time you walked into the cafe.” Up this close, I can see the hint of a blush. “There were a million times I wanted to ask you out. You have to know that?”