Inside Out: Behind Closed Doors

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Ideally,” he continues, sounding intensely focused for a man who’s naked and in a shower, “we have sex in an elevator.”

  I laugh. “We can’t have sex in an elevator. There are cameras.”

  “I have a beach house in Rhode Island, with an elevator and cameras that only we can access.” He slides a hand behind me and molds my naked body to his, his erection at my hip, my hand on his chest. “But I think we should ensure the shower never becomes a problem, right here and now.”

  His heart thunders beneath my palm, or maybe my heart is thundering so fiercely that I feel it for both of us. “That’s what I want from now on,” he says. “For you to be right here with me. Not there with whoever made you feel those things.”

  I’m barely able to breathe, so very affected by how this man, this stranger, feels like someone I need this badly. It’s frightening. It’s right and wrong. It is here and now, I tell myself. This isn’t about forever. But I think now that it might be about healing. He’s like the balm to my wounds, which seem to be bleeding for him.

  He kisses me, a long, deep, luxurious kiss, his fingers gently caressing my nipples, my breasts, my waist. And when his lips part from mine, he lingers there a moment, breathing with me, as if he’s ensuring I really am just with him. “And now,” he finally says, “I’m going to make sure the shower is always about good memories.”

  “We don’t have a condom in here, so—”

  “We don’t need one right now.” He leans in and presses his lips to my ear. “Remember how I said I like control?”

  “Oh yes. I remember.” And I wonder how, after Greg’s demands and selfishness, this arouses me. And yet it does.

  “That means for a tiny window that you allow me, you’re mine. Nothing else can have you.” He leans back to look at me. “For the tiny window that you do what I say, you trust me to give you an escape, it’s all about pleasure. It’s about freedom from everything else.”

  My lashes lower as I feel the seduction of his promise, as if he’s peeling away some layer I’ve used as a shield, and again, I’m both frightened and excited.

  He cups my face, forcing my gaze to his. “You’re mine right here and in this moment. And I take care of what’s mine.”

  “I don’t need you—”

  “Process things in the moment, baby.” He strokes my lip. “Stay right here with me.”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “I am.”

  “Not yet. But let’s get you there. And I really want you to need me.” He lowers to his knee, his hands on my hips, his handsome face tilted up to mine. “Do you need me now?” He presses his lips to my belly, flickering his tongue there, the velvety, rough sensation drawing a moan from my lips, and I can feel him smile against my skin. “Maybe not yet,” he says, his hand caressing my hip, his fingers sliding into the V of my body. “Now, though. Now you need me. Don’t you think?” He presses fingers inside me.

  I breathe out and whisper, “Yes,” fairly certain I already need him way too much, but right now I can’t seem to see why that’s a problem, especially when his tongue is flickering over my clit. Most certainly when he suckles it, drawing deeply. Absolutely when that sweet ache of release rises, and I fight it, trying to stay in the moment, but it’s impossible. I am there, in that hot spot where he’s taken me, shaking, clenching around his fingers. Trembling all over, until my legs are weak.

  He catches me, pressing his lips to my belly, slowly easing up my body to hold me close, and I don’t want him to let go. I don’t think he wants to, either. He holds me almost too tight, and I have this overwhelming sense that he’s afraid of losing me before he’s really found me. Like he needs me too. And it’s powerful, so very powerful, to realize that two people can be strangers one day, and fate, or some destiny, starts weaving bonds between them the moment they meet. But newly formed, they are fragile and without history to secure them, easily ripped apart and destroyed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  WHILE JASON AND I DRESS, I try to contact Ella, to no avail, in between pulling on the dark denim jeans in my bag, a pink V-neck blouse, and expensive sleek black boots left over from my solvent days. I plug in my phone in the bathroom, keeping it close in case Ella calls, while I apply makeup in shades of pale pink and flat-iron my hair until it’s shining brown, and falling smoothly to my shoulders.

  “Hey, baby,” Jason says, appearing in the doorway, looking sexy as hell, and like no man I’ve ever dated, in faded jeans, a light blue Children’s Diabetes Charity T-shirt, and biker-style boots. “We need to head out.”

  “I’m ready,” I say, sliding my purse on cross-body style, but he doesn’t move. “What’s wrong?”

  His hands settle at my waist. “We could still try to downplay our relationship.”

  “If this is someone close to you, and it is, they already know there’s something between us. So I say ‘fuck them’ poker continues. And the chip I have might be a game changer, literally.”

  His cell phone rings. “They’re looking for me. Are you sure?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “All right then,” he says, planting a kiss on me. “Let’s get downstairs.”

  We exit to the bedroom. “I’m confused about what this event is. A pre-event for the real event?”

  “It’s basically press and prerecording for the TV show, which is putting on a charity tournament next weekend. Abel has one of his clients, a quarterback from the area, showing up to help as well.” I check my text messages again while he opens the door for me. “Ella’s silence is driving you crazy,” he notes.

  “Isn’t it you? She’s completely MIA,” I say as we enter the hallway. “My calls are still going to her voice mail.”

  His brow furrows. “It’s almost ten. I’d think she’d be up by now.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “And who turns off their phone to sleep? I’m worried. I told her about this to protect her, not put her in danger.”

  “Maybe she forgot to charge her phone before she went to bed. It happens to all of us.”

  “Maybe, and she doesn’t strike me as the most cautious person. She’s all about living life free and easy, which I admire, but in this case it could be dangerous.”

  “If we don’t reach her by the time this event’s over, I’ll have the PI we’re working with go check on her. We should have just had him get the chip.”

  “No,” I say. “He’s working with Daniel.”

  We turn the corner to the elevator and he punches the button. “You still think Daniel is guilty in some way?”

  “I’m not pointing a finger at Daniel,” I say, thinking of the lessons I learned with my ex. “But the person who betrays you and gets away with it is not the one you expect to betray you.”

  “I’d prefer to think there’s a player involved in this, not someone in my inner circle. But at this point, I’m not going to foolishly dismiss any option.”

  The elevator doors open, and I inhale, telling myself to just get the hell over this phobia. Jason steps behind me, his hands on my shoulders. “Fantasize about my elevator in Rhode Island,” he says, walking me into the car and pressing the button to the lobby.

  “Your parents have a place there too, right?” I ask, trying to focus on him, not the car that is now moving.

  “Yes. My place is a few miles down the road, gathering dust. Ideally when I retire I’ll spend some time there.” He brushes some hair from my shoulder to my back. “You okay?”

  “I’m great,” I say. “I’m going to beat this thing.”

  “My father always says that you can’t hide from your enemy and win. You have to face him to beat him.”

  “So lots of elevator rides?”

  “That might help.” His eyes light with mischief. “We should go to Rhode Island and test out my theory sooner rather than later.”

  I laugh, thinking how easy it is to relax with Jason. The car stops, and a glance at the lighted numbers above the doors tells me we aren’t in the lobby yet. The car opens and seve
ral people join us. Jason steps behind me again, his hands on my shoulders, framing them. I check my phone and still find no text.

  When we reach the lobby, Jason slides his arm around my shoulders familiarly. “I’ll get the plane on standby,” he says. “If we can’t reach her by the time I’m done, we’ll fly back.” He glances at his watch. “We’ll be about two hours.”

  “Thank you. Because if I still haven’t talked to her by then, I’m going to be a wreck.” We turn into a walkway, and I remove my phone. “I’m going to call my neighbor and see if she saw anyone at the house.” I try to dial out, but get a “no signal” message. “Oh, no, I have no service. I’ll miss Ella’s call.”

  “It’s spotty in the casino, but usually better once you clear the center of the hotel,” he says. And sure enough, as soon as we reach the doors of the event room, my phone is working.

  Daniel is instantly in front of us, his blue suit expensive and perfect, his scowl fierce. “I’m guessing the two of you don’t get the premise of keeping a low profile,” he snaps.

  “I wasn’t aware being on a television show was ever low profile,” Jason says, motioning us forward.

  Abel joins us, and like everyone but me and Daniel, it seems, he’s in jeans and a charity T-shirt. “Any news?”

  “Stephanie’s sister in Texas filed a missing persons report,” Daniel says. “Apparently she hasn’t heard from her in two months.”

  “And she’s just missing her now? I smell a fish,” Abel says.

  “Adult family doesn’t always stay in touch,” I point out. “My mother was in Paris last I heard. The question needs to be, how unusual is this?”

  Daniel narrows his eyes on me. “Weekly,” he says. “I asked the same question, but the sisters did have some kind of falling out.”

  “In other words,” Jason says, “this tells us nothing, on top of nothing. What about the waitress?”

  “Nothing yet,” Daniel states, seeming to cringe at his word choice.

  “We need a new PI firm,” Jason says, his voice low, tight in a way that is a telltale sign of his stress, and I don’t think he shows that to anyone but this little circle. Daniel knows all his weak spots, of which there seem to be few.

  “These people are the best of the best,” Daniel says.

  “And yet they can’t even find the waitress we know was in this hotel last night,” Jason says. “That doesn’t say ‘the best’ to me.”

  “This is what they said to me,” Daniel states. “There are only two ways this is possible. Stephanie is dead, or she has professional, skilled help. They want a list of anyone you think could be working with her. I gave them my and Abel’s names, so you don’t have to. You need to know you can trust everyone around you. And I want this over so you can retire on top of your game, like you planned.”

  Either Daniel’s really, truly as innocent as I hope or he’s a master bluffer. I think he’s innocent. He’s also now looking at me. “And I gave them your information.”

  “Good,” I say, now thinking he was using himself to justify having me investigated. “One step closer to you being nice to me.”

  “Daniel, man,” Jason starts, “this isn’t—”

  “This is fine by me,” I say, certain he’s about to insist I won’t be investigated.

  Daniel gives me a hooded inspection. “Then you won’t mind giving them the key to the storage unit.”

  Red alert, I think, concerned again about his ever-so-urgent need to get inside that unit.

  Davie chooses that moment to step to Jason’s side. “We need you on set, man,” he says.

  “Hi,” I say, deciding his vibe is decidedly nice-guy producer today, not creepy, Peeping Tom, ratings-hog guy. And after that call Jason had with him, my gut says creepy guy is gone. I hope I’m right.

  “I’ll be right there,” Jason tells him, and when Davie looks like he wants to physically pull him along, Jason adds, “Two minutes, Davie.” Davie grimaces and walks away, while Jason focuses on Daniel. “Skye and I will meet the PI at the unit. Have him text me and we’ll set it up.” He looks between Daniel and Abel. “Keep an eye on Skye.” He wraps his arm around my waist, leans in for a quick kiss, and murmurs, “We’ll talk about what just happened when I’m done.” And then he’s walking away.

  “What the fuck was that, Daniel?” Abel snaps, his voice low, his tone gravelly with accusation, and it’s only now that I realize he’s been unusually quiet.

  Daniel gives him one of his scowls. “What the fuck are you talking about, Abel?”

  “I’m fine, Abel,” I say, thinking he’s defending me, but Abel doesn’t even look in my direction.

  “You want him to retire on top,” he replies, “but you’re going to make him doubt everyone around him?”

  “He pays me to look out for him, Abel. And he’s a man, not a boy with toys, and only this game on the line. He has substantial financial assets, and his parents, to think about. So back the fuck off.”

  “Abel!” Davie shouts, hurrying toward us. “Your damn quarterback is being a little bitch. Come get him under control. This is for charity, not his personal press op.”

  Abel shoves his dark hair from his face, which is now a bit red, looking at Daniel. “When he goes down, blame yourself. I will.” He then walks away.

  “Are you going to attack me now?” Daniel snaps, looking at me.

  “No. I think you did the right thing.”

  He studies me, his expression unreadable, which tells me every scowl he delivers to anyone is intended. “You’re in this now,” he says. “I don’t know what that means for any of us, but it’s smelling really bad to me. So you stay in this room. If you leave, even to go to the bathroom, you tell me.”

  “Because what? You think I’m up to something?”

  “Because you affect him. It’s obvious, and if this is bigger than Stephanie, I do not want you becoming a target. Which is exactly why the fuck he shouldn’t have gotten involved with you.” And on that note, he also turns and walks away.

  I stand there a full minute, shell-shocked by both Abel and Daniel, and remembering some of the courtroom cases I sat in on with my old boss, as well as his advice—I need to dissect every word just spoken. Actually, I need a journal, or a pad of paper, to take notes on everyone in Jason’s life. For now, though, I reach for my phone and dial Ella, and get voice mail again. I pull up my neighbor’s number and punch it in, frustrated when she doesn’t answer, and leave her a message to call me, too.

  “Skye!”

  I look up to find Mandy and Sheila waving for me to join them on the bleachers, with a pretty blonde by their side. As much as I don’t want any part of their “girl talk,” the more people I know and talk to, the greater chance that someone will screw up and let on that they’re involved in this.

  I walk in that direction, and Sheila pats the seat next to her. “Sit. I’m so glad to see you. You might distract Jason from winning all those games.”

  I shake my head and repeat what he told her. “Dream on.”

  She cackles. “And she has claws. Love it.” She motions to the woman behind her. “Devon Michaels. She’s dating ‘the Stockbroker,’ who is Aaron, the guy in the suit, but she’s made her rounds in the poker scene. Unlike you, she really is a groupie.”

  Mandy elbows her. “The resident whore.”

  “Bitches,” Devon says. “I get lots of sparkly things, so whatever.”

  I instantly think about Stephanie, and I want to know if these two know each other.

  “Speaking of sparkly things,” Devon says, “for the record, I have never been with Jason, despite the hot jewel that he is. And believe me, I tried. Oh, I tried, but I failed.” She grabs a lock of blond hair. “Apparently he likes pretty brunettes, like you.” She holds up her hands. “Now you don’t have to hear about it from somewhere else.”

  “Thank you for that,” I say, appreciating her frankness.

  “You’re still standing,” Sheila points out.

  “Don’
t sit next to her,” Mandy says, motioning to the seat next to her. “Sit next to me. I want to tell you about this idea Davie has.”

  “The answer is no,” I say, sitting next to her.

  “All things are negotiable,” Mandy insists.

  I move and sit next to Sheila, and laughter erupts.

  • • •

  AN HOUR LATER, there are still no calls from anyone, and Jason is finishing up a mock game of poker with Cowboy, while Sheila makes snide jokes. Her snarky side is growing on me, and I can’t say why. Mandy, on the other hand, still rubs me wrong, as does her pitch for a show she admits she wants to be a part of and just needs to make interesting. Devon truly owns the title of groupie, chatting about the bedroom habits of a list of players that’s mind-boggling. I try to get to some tidbit about Stephanie, but it just isn’t plausible without saying too much.

  My cell phone rings and I glance down to find my neighbor’s number. “Molly,” I say, standing and walking to the back of the room. “Thanks for calling back.”

  “Honey, your place got robbed,” she says. “I’m so sorry. The police are here. They want to talk to you.”

  My heart falls to my feet. “Did my friend Ella stop by? She has red hair, in her twenties.”

  “No, I didn’t see anyone. But your furniture is ruined.” She stops to say something to someone, and then a man comes on the line.

  “Skye Montgomery?”

  “Yes,” I say, keeping my voice calm, but I barely hear what the officer is saying. All I can think about is Ella and my need to get home. I scan for Jason, who has cameras shining on him right now. I inhale and try to hear what’s being said to me.

  “Nothing valuable was taken,” the officer says. “They shredded furniture like they were looking for something. Any idea who would do that, or what they’re after?”

  “No,” I say. Sheila is now glancing over her shoulder at me, and I worry that my panic might be more obvious than I think.

  “No?” the officer asks, repeating my reply and sounding rather irritated. “Just ‘no’?”

  “No,” I confirm. To get out of the spotlight I head for the door, exit to the casino, and start walking toward the elevator. “They must have had the wrong address. I’m boring.”