Sighing, I shake my head. “Don’t know what game you’re trying to play here, babe,” I say. “But you can take it somewhere else. I’m not interested.”
The girl is silent for a moment, gawking, before she finds her voice and whispers, “Asshole.” As soon as the word slips out, the color drains from her high cheekbones and her pretty eyes widen. Obviously, she hadn’t meant to say it out loud and she looks at me, horrified. “This was a bad idea,” she says, taking a step back, and then another. “I think I’m just going to go now.”
“Yeah,” I say right away. “You should probably go on and do that.”
She freezes, stalling out on her retreat, and looks at me with big, hurt-filled eyes, before her expression morphs into something blank and cold and distant.
Suddenly, there’s no indication of what she’s thinking or feeling, and when I search her face closely, I realize that those expressive eyes of hers are completely free of everything. It’s as though she just simply stopped feeling—anything.
My chest tightens, and I don’t know why, but that look … it guts me.
In that second, I can’t imagine anything that could be worse than seeing that look.
Realization slams into me like a runaway freight train. She isn’t some young girl looking for a fun night. She isn’t playing a game. She expects me to know who she is.
I’m here to meet you.
Goddamnit! Someone sent her to me.
I stand up quickly, my chair teetering, before clapping back in place against the floor. I take a step toward her, and she takes another back. “Someone referred you, yeah?”
She flinches, as though she felt my question physically, but doesn’t say a word. She inches back another step.
And another.
And another.
I follow; my mind works fast, trying to think of something, anything, to say that will stop her from leaving. “You want to go somewhere?” I ask. “We can talk for a bit.”
“No,” she says, her voice cold and harsh. She raises her hands, indicating for me not to come any closer. “I’m just going to … It was good to meet you both.” And then she turns, sets her glass down on the nearest table, and she runs.
Chapter Two
Elena
“Hold up there, darlin’,” his voice calls from behind me.
I don’t stop. I can’t. I’m ten seconds away from full-out running. I push the door open, rushing out into the humid night air.
A small group of people stand just outside the doors, smoking. They barely glance my way as I skirt around them, and cut through the dimly lit parking lot toward my car.
The sound of heavy footsteps follows me. Faster. Louder. My hands are trembling, my fingers tingling. I don’t know if it’s from anger, or disappointment, or from the ever growing fear that maybe, just maybe, the guy really isn’t Jason.
Maybe the guy chasing me is his brother or a cousin. It’s possible. Someone close enough to him to know his friends. Someone blood-related that could share similar features. It would explain why Wesley looked so amused during our brief interaction.
But maybe it is Jason. Maybe Mr. Chapman didn’t get a chance to fill him in as he was supposed to. Maybe Jason didn’t see the email.
Maybe Jason Pierce is just an asshole.
I expected him to be a dick. Mr. Chapman warned me that he wasn’t the most agreeable person, but I didn’t expect him to act as though he doesn’t have a clue who I am. He could have just told me he wasn’t interested in the job.
I might be disappointed, but I wouldn’t blame him for it. It’s not as though I can pay him. At least I can’t pay him until I get back home.
“Stop,” he shouts, the sound of his shoes hitting the pavement coming faster. “Just stop for a minute.”
Quickening my stride, I keep my eyes on my car, as I rifle through my purse for my keys and call out, “Stop following me.”
Where the hell are my keys? Pushing back a swell of anger-fueled anxiety, I keep searching. My fingertips brush against the metal ring. I clasp onto it, pulling them out, just as a large hand wraps around my bicep and I’m jerked to a halt. I yelp, and stumble, rocking on my heels, and dropping the keys. Another hand settles on my hip, steading me.
Then, I’m pulled around to face Jason. His eyes flicker over my face a few times, doing what looks like a silent assessment, and whatever he sees makes him draw his lips tight and his brow dip in a frown. “Are you okay?”
Am I okay? I laugh. I don’t even know how to answer that question. I probably should be. I know that. I’ve waited a year for this chance, to have someone like him help me, but right now, after the exchange in the bar, with his hand locked around my arm and another on my hip, I don’t feel okay. Not even a little.
“Yes, I’m good,” I stammer, taking a hasty step back, yanking myself free of his grasp. “Everything’s just fine.”
He doesn’t look reassured by my answer. Actually, he looks a little annoyed. He arches a questioning brow and folds his arms over his chest.
I stand there, hesitating, contemplating whether or not I should turn around and run. My car isn’t far. Another twenty, maybe thirty steps. Will he chase me again if I do it?
“Can I go now?” I ask, not ready or wanting to endure another chase.
He shakes his head slowly. “If you want to make a lie believable, you gotta weave it with the truth.”
My brow furrows, confused by the comment. “What?”
“Two truths and a lie, babe,” he says. “Makes the lie harder to pick up on.”
Is this guy for real? He looks it, serious, a little brooding. He’s watching me, waiting for … I don’t even know.
“Okay, fine.” I throw up my hands, exasperated, and sigh, long and loud. “I’m fine, just in a hurry to find a hotel and grab a shower.” I bend down and snag up my keys; then, I meet his eyes. “Better?”
He laughs under his breath, but there is not a stitch of humor in the sound. “Yeah, but I’d rather you didn’t bother with the lie.”
I scoff. “Well, I’d rather you didn’t chase me through a parking lot.”
He’s quiet for a moment, giving me a peculiar look, as though I’m some sort of an anomaly and he wants to figure me out.
“Why won’t you tell me your name?” he asks.
Why is he doing this to me? Am I just a joke to him?
The thought burns through my throat as I try to swallow the pent up anger and frustration and the growing ache in my chest that seems to double with each second that passes by.
“Stop it,” I hiss. “Just stop pretending you don’t know who I am. If you don’t want the job, then fine. But you don’t have to be an ass about it.”
He lifts his hands in a peace offering. “I honestly don’t have a clue who you are,” he says quietly, sounding a little uneasy. “I get you think I’m supposed to, but I don’t.”
“If you didn’t come to meet me then why are you here?”
He lets out a light laugh. “Come here with the boys pretty much every Friday night, darlin’.”
He looks serious, but I’m not sure. He’s hard to read, but his eyes are soft, concerned, and a little confused. Jesus, I think he’s telling the truth.
The realization should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. My stomach is in knots, and the uneasy thought that maybe he really isn’t who I thought he was slams into me again. But he looks so much like …
“Let me see your driver’s license,” I demand.
“Why?”
Why? The words ‘because I’m freaking out and I’m starting to feel a little crazy’ are on the tip of my tongue, but it feels like there’s way too much truth in that statement to actually spit it out.
“Because Jason Pierce is supposed to know my name,” I say. “He’s supposed to know why I’m here and he’s supposed to be here to meet me.”
“I’m Jason Pierce,” he says. “But I don’t have a fuckin’ clue who you are or why you’re here.”
“Prove it,” I say. “Show me your driver’s license.”
He stares at me for a moment, contemplating, and then shrugs. Giving me an amused smirk, he reaches into his back pocket, withdraws his wallet, and pulls out a small stack of plastic cards from the bill area, shuffling through them before handing one over.
I snatch it up quickly, scanning the details under the dim light in the parking lot. Last name: Pierce. First name: Jason. Address: Sacramento, CA. Date of birth: June 19th, 1986.
I think I’m supposed to be relieved. It would be a rational feeling to have, the expected one.
But I’m not.
All I feel is flustered.
This isn’t me.
I’m not this girl. I never used to be and I don’t want to be her now. Over the last year, while I’ve been on my own, I’ve fought, I’ve struggled, and I’ve survived. I don’t want to be nervous, and stress, and jump over the littlest bumps and thumps.
It’s crazy how scared I’ve been since I walked into that bar. I know that.
I think I’m going crazy.
The idea—the hope—of not having to run any longer is driving me insane.
Scratch that. I think it’s probably the solitude over the last year that’s made me crazy.
Hesitantly, I hand the card back to him. He takes it, stuffs it back in his wallet, and puts it back in his pocket. Then, he gives me a look and says, “Will you please tell me your name now?”
I shake my head. “Did you, or did you not, receive an email from Richard Chapman two days ago?”
He stares at me, unblinking, eyes scanning my face as his expression turns serious. “Who are you?” he asks, his tone suddenly low, threatening, unnerving.
My breath hitches. Warning bells sound in my head, urging me to move, run, vanish, hide, but my feet are glued to the pavement. Unmoving and frozen.
A door squeaking open draws my attention to the bar where Wesley is exiting.
“Who the fuck are you?” Jason demands. His voice is scathing, almost a shout. His hand jumps out, gripping my bicep in a surprisingly gentle hold.
The gentleness confuses and terrifies me. It doesn’t pair with his heated glare or his tone. My heart hammers hard in my chest. Don’t tell him, a part of me screams, the small, scared girl inside wanting to run fast and far, but I swallow it down. “Elena Reed.”
And then Wesley is there, pulling Jason away. He says something to Jason, his voice so low that I can’t make out anything other than the furious, whispered tone.
But I don’t wait to find out what’s being said. I turn tail and run for my car.
Jason
“What the hell are you doing?” Wes growls, dragging me away from the girl—Elena Reed. “You’re scaring the shit out of her.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” I say, yanking out of his hold.
Turning my head around, I scan the parking lot for the girl. She’s already running. Fucking running. Her heels slapping against the pavement.
I move to go after her, only making it a step before Wes is in front of me, both hands pressing against my shoulders, holding me in place. “You need to calm the fuck down,” he says.
Calm down? Calm down! What is it about those two words that makes the fury inside me burn hotter? It’s as though a match is lit, setting every muscle, every nerve ending in my body, in flames. Calm down. Those simple words cause an entirely different response in a person than they should.
I grit my teeth, watching as she yanks open a car door, hops in, and slams it shut. A rattle, a grind, her Honda sputters, and then turns over. She reverses, her tires squeal, and then she’s pealing out of the parking lot.
I watch as the beat up car takes off down the street. My muscles are taut. I can feel them straining, clenching. Goddamnit! I shouldn’t be this pissed off. Richard fucking Chapman shouldn’t be able to get under my skin like this anymore.
But he does.
Just hearing the name sets me off, and I feel like I’m spinning … Spinning out of control.
“Jase, the girl was just looking for some help,” Wes says calmly. He’s watching me carefully, closely, and after a moment, he drops his hands from my shoulders, taking a step back. “You said it yourself before you ran after her. Someone sent her. She’s a referral.”
“A referral.” I laugh, but there’s nothing funny about the way I’m feeling. That girl, young, seemingly innocent … Sending her was low even for him. “Richard Chapman sent her.” The name tastes like acid on my tongue. Pure acid.
He eyes me warily for a moment. “Your dad sent her?”
“Yeah,” I say. “My dad sent her.”
Cursing, he shakes his head. “I guess that explains why she was so nervous talking to you.”
“Yeah, I guess it does.”
“She’s not what he usually sends to get your attention,” Wes points out. “Did you get her name?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s Elena Reed.”
He pulls out his phone, but doesn’t go to use it. Instead, he stares at me, studying me, as though maybe he’s not sure if I’ve got my shit together enough to deal with her. “Maybe we should just leave this one alone.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m fuckin’ sick of this shit.”
Chapter Three
Elena
“Come on, come on, come on,” I whisper as the phone rings and rings and rings in my ear.
God, my chest is going to explode. The pressure … the unbelievable pressure is too much. Who would have thought disappointment would hurt so badly. I really believed Mr. Chapman. I believed him so thoroughly, so fully. Jason’s a good guy, he told me. He’ll help you. He doesn’t know how to turn away someone who needs help. He ain’t built that way.
And I believed him. I believed every word. I needed to. I needed that hope that there really were people out there, good, kind people, who wouldn’t look the other way. Who wouldn’t let greed or fear or anger stop them from doing the right thing, the decent thing.
Believing was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
What’s wrong with me that I actually thought Jason Pierce would help me just because I needed helping?
It shouldn’t hurt this badly. It just shouldn’t. Not after everything I’ve faced over the last year. I should be stronger than this. More resilient to the disappointment.
But I’m tired. So, so tired.
Why? Why! Why can’t I ever catch a break?
I feel sick. Sick with nerves. Sick with anger. Just sick and shaky and cold.
Voicemail clicks on and I promptly hang up, only to call again.
The phone rings.
And rings.
And rings.
I rest my head on the steering wheel, listening to the ringing, and waiting for the voicemail to pick up once again. The line clicks and I’m about to hang up and redial when a groggy, rough voice answers. “Hello.”
Relief washes over me in a hot wave of emotion. I sniffle. I try to say hello back, but it only sounds like a louder sniffle. Good God, what’s wrong with me? Ten minutes of sitting at the side of the road, calling the same number over and over, and the only sound I can make when I finally get an answer is a sniffle?
“Is that you, baby girl?” Mr. Chapman asks, sounding instantly alert. “Elena?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice coming out as an angry whisper. I clear my throat and swallow. “It’s me.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “What happened?”
“He didn’t know I was coming,” I say, accusingly. “I trusted you. If Peck finds me. If I have to go back there—”
“Elena,” he says, cutting me short, his tone firm, controlled. “Peck ain’t gonna find you. Now tell me what happened.”
“Jason was an ass,” I say. “Or I guess, maybe he wasn’t really. I thought he was jerking me around, but I don’t know …” I pause, suck in a deep breath, and let it out. “I don’t think he listened to your voicemail or read the email. When I mentioned you sent one, he got all pissed
off.”
Mr. Chapman lets out a light laugh. “I’m not surprised. Jason doesn’t like me much.”
I stall at those words, feeling ice freeze my blood. “You’re not surprised? How did you even know he’d be there?”
“He’s there every Friday night, baby girl,” he says and laughs again. “I knew you’d find him even if he didn’t know you were coming.”
“Why did you send me here?” I demand sharply. “Why would you do this to me?”
He makes a sound somewhere in between a grunt and a sigh. “Let me talk to him, baby girl.”
“I can’t do that,” I say. “I … uh, he grabbed my arm and started yelling and then Wesley pulled him away and I, well, I sort of took off.”
He’s silent for a few breaths. “Wes was with him?”
“Yes, he was,” I confirm.
“Good,” he says. “Here’s what you need to do, baby girl. You go find somewhere to sleep for the night. Let Jason clear his head. He’ll get it together. He always does and then he’ll come find you. I promise you. Wes will make sure of it.”
Before I can respond, the line goes dead and my phone begins to beep. I sit there hesitating, contemplating, before I start my car and ease back onto the street. I’m not entirely sure I want Jason to come find me, and I’m not sure I want Wes to, either. But I do need sleep. And a shower. I could really use a shower.
Jason
Elena Reed is a missing person.
It’s all here. Easy enough to find. Article after article. Pages and pages of search results.
Except, she didn’t seem missing to me. She was shy, nervous, and yeah, she even seemed desperate, but nothing about her screamed see me. If anything, I’d have to say Elena Reed doesn’t want to be seen.
So she ran … Ran from someone or something.
I’m not going to lie, this isn’t what I expected to find. I thought there would be something incriminating. Something that would shed some light as to why that timid girl would team up with my old man. But she’s clean. No record. Not even a parking ticket.
Two Truths and a Lie Page 2
