The Set Up

by Kim Karr

  Whatever.

  Once in park, he looks again at the address Whitney had texted him and compares it to the one entered in the GPS. As if he too is uncertain, he scans the building and then points to the obscured sign. “This is it.”

  With a shake of my head, I rub my hands down the black slacks that Will insisted I wear, and smooth the buttons of my white shirt, that he also insisted I wear.

  Turning, I give Drew and Jake a quick glance. Jake hasn’t said more than five words since we sobered him up and told him about the statement we believe came from his father, who Will discovered through some research on the airplane still lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. “You cool?” I ask him.

  A nod.

  I didn’t expect more.

  There are no placards in the lobby that point to specific offices. It is the kind of building where to get around, you have to know your way around.

  Don’t judge, I remind myself.

  Drew punches the elevator button harder than he needs to. Inside, floor two is marked reception and the others aren’t marked at all. Drew gives two an equally hard jab, and then looks to Will. “We have five choices here, so I thought I’d start at the most likely place.”

  Jake lets out a small laugh.

  Surprised, I look over at him. He’s freshly showered, and he smells so much better. He’s also dressed, but I think he forgot to use a comb. That blond hair on his head is still a fucking disaster. It’s sticking up everywhere, and when he talks it moves with him. “I can’t believe we haul our asses all the way to California and end up at a fucking old tire warehouse.”

  “How do you know this used to be a tire warehouse?” Drew asks.

  “The Michelin named carved in the brick outside was my first clue.”

  I raise a brow. “Wow, man, good catch for someone who’s half dead.”

  He grins at me. The first since last night, but I don’t miss the way his muscles bunch in his shoulders; his entire being radiates with hostility about why we’re here.

  Good reason too.

  The door opens and he bangs the wall, all wound up and fucking on edge. Tension noticeably emanates from him. And perhaps a little over anxious, he’s the first to stride out of the elevator.

  “Holy fuck! What is this place?” he sneers.

  With my stomach twisting in about twenty knots, the only response to repeat what Jake just said. “Holy fuck!”

  Drew’s jaw drops. “Where the fuck are we?”

  Will brings his fingers to the tip of his nose. I can tell the stress is hitting him hard too.

  “May I help you?”

  Too busy focusing on the gleaming white floors, the pool tables, the television screens with pictures of fish on them, and the pinball machines in the back of the room, I never even noticed the reception desk.

  Will beelines for it. “Hi, I’m Will Fleming. We have a twelve o’clock with Brad Pearl.”

  She glances at her computer screen. “Oh, yes, Mr. Fleming. Give me one minute.”

  The woman behind the desk is dressed professionally in a blouse and skirt with her hair pulled back, which doesn’t match the recreation center atmosphere—at all.

  Jake and Drew are still trying to understand what they are looking at.

  I’ve given up.

  The receptionist hangs up the phone and looks up. “Mr. Pearl will see you now. He’s on the 5th floor to the right.

  Will thumps the desk. “Thank you.”

  This time in the elevator, Jake pounces on the number pad.

  Averting his gaze to the floor, Jake grasps the bar behind him, seemingly contemplating something. “If we can’t stop him from making that statement, I’m resigning effective immediately.”

  I edge forward. All too familiar with the martyr role, having lived it my whole life. Every step is calculated. My fuck this attitude somehow lost over the past weeks, I approach with sympathy and understanding.

  The door dings and before Jake can bolt out, I grab his shoulder. His eyes meet mine, as if bracing himself for the spew of shit that would normally come from my mouth.

  That’s not what he gets.

  “Jake, my brother, we’re in this together. If the ship goes down, we all go. I think I speak for all of us when I say if we aren’t in this together, I’m not interested in being in it at all.”

  Silence fills the space.

  And then Will clears his throat as if emotion is clogging it. “I couldn’t have said it better.”

  Drew puts his hand in the middle of the small space. I cover it. Will follows. Jake is the last to join us. “All for one, and one for all—that’s how we roll,” Drew chants.

  The door starts to close and this time I let Jake lunge for it.

  “You must be the men from Lightning Motors,” a voice booms.

  We all turn to see a very tall, very distinguished looking gray-haired man waiting for us. “Yes,” Will answers extending his hand. “I’m Will Fleming, we spoke earlier.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  In tandem we all extend our hands.

  “Jasper Storm.”

  “Drew Kates.”

  “Jake Crown.”

  “It’s nice to meet you boys. We have a lot of work ahead of us, so what do you say we get started?”

  His office is decked out to the nines. Huge, spacious, couch, bar, three televisions, and a conference table. “Have a seat,” he says, motioning toward the sitting area where a black leather couch and two chairs are located.

  Like a bunch of chumps, we all sit on the long sofa. Brad sits in the cushioned chair near an intercom. He presses it. “Sally?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Would you be a doll and bring us some beverages?”

  Still feeling nervous, I rub my hands on my pants again. “You have a nice place here.”

  A humidor is beside him and he removes a cigar. “Anyone?”

  Again, a bunch of chumps acting like we’re in the principal’s office, we shake our heads no.

  He doesn’t light it, but chews on it. “Yes, my partners and I have worked hard to create an atmosphere that allows our clients to de-stress. They are often dealing in highly volatile situations and often spend long hours waiting for answers. The lobby is a place they can wait, and hopefully relax, if only for an hour or two.”

  “Interesting concept,” Will comments.

  “It works,” he says around his cigar. “So, I’m going to get right down to it. If everything you told me is true, we have a simple case of intent to commit malice. I’m suggesting, due to time constraints, we hit him straight on and have a gag order served today. I already had one drawn up.”

  “What exactly is a gag order?” Jake asks.

  “It’s a legal document prohibiting Nicholas Crown from committing malice with ill intent against Lightning Motors.”

  Jake shivers. “How is that going to stop him, though?”

  “It’s pretty detailed, but basically it lays out the consequences of committing irreparable damage.”

  The door opens and a woman close to Brad’s age comes in with a tray of tumblers, a bucket of ice, and a bottle of scotch. She pours five of them and hands us each one. I take it without a second thought. Jake declines, looking a little pale just seeing the liquid sloshing in the glasses. Will shakes his head informing us all he is driving. At least Drew and Brad join me.

  With his drink in one hand and cigar in the other, Brad takes the time to go over every line of the document on the table in front of him. An hour later, we’re still talking and Brad looks at his watch. “If we are going to have my guy over at county clerk of Nevada deliver this summons today, I have to call it in.”

  “What if Nick’s not there?” Jake chokes on his father’s name.

  “My guy will find him. For what I pay him, he’ll cross state lines or jump in the middle of a cockfight. Whatever it takes.”

  “What if I want to be there when he does?”

  All of us dart our gazes to Jake.

  “
Man, let’s talk about this,” I say.

  Jake ignores me and looks at Brad. “What will it take?”

  Biting on the cigar, he pretends to breathe in. “Besides cash, you getting your ass in a car and getting to Vegas. I can have my guy locate Nick and be waiting for you.”

  “Do it,” Jake says without taking his eyes off Brad.

  In stunned silence, we say nothing.

  After a round of goodbyes, we take the elevator down to the lobby.

  The place makes a fuckload of sense now.

  “Drop me off at the car rental place,” Jake directs Will as we get in the Jeep.

  As if in practiced unison, the three of us say, “Fuck that, we’re going with you.”

  STALLED

  Charlotte

  THE FIRST THING I do, after I somehow manage to drive Mrs. Storm back to her house without completely freaking out, is stop at the pharmacy, buy five different tests, and go directly home.

  Five plus signs are staring me in the face. I glare back at them waiting for the minus sign to appear. Some kind of false alarm to blink across the stick. None of that happens though.

  My heart is beating too fast. Dangerously fast. I clench my fingers to keep from shaking. I shut my eyes tight, so I don’t have to see the counter.

  How did this happen?

  I missed one, maybe two pills when my toiletry bag was reprimanded in police custody the night of Eve’s murder. By that Monday, I’d gone and refilled my prescription and gotten back on track. Jasper and I hadn’t even had sex for the first time until almost a week later.

  I swallow hard.

  I’m begging myself not to burst into tears and I don’t think it’s working. I’m everything broken and glued back together, and not exactly secure. How can I possibly be a mother? I wouldn’t know how to be one, anyway. I never really had one.

  And Jasper.

  Oh, Jasper.

  He is going to completely lose it.

  Jake’s warning from the day I confessed my reason for coming back to Detroit pops into my mind, the one that lives in the back of my head, the one I’m so very careful to make certain I don’t cross.

  Jake is standing beside me. Very much at home, he opens the refrigerator and grabs a beer bottle. There’s a snicker in his laugh as he closes the door and twists the cap. “Jasper and I tell each other everything, and I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Charlotte—you’re an anomaly.”

  Insulted isn’t sufficient to describe how I feel right now. “I’m a what?”

  He steps toward me. “You’re an anomaly, and the thing about anomalies is no one can figure them out, and therefore, no one likes them.”

  Feeling a little crowded, I round the island and take a seat on one of the bar stools. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

  Jake leans back against the cabinets. “I’m talking about you. Jasper never goes after a woman, and for some reason you have him jumping through hoops.”

  My face scrunches. “That’s not true.”

  “But it is. Don’t worry, though—I’m sure it won’t last long because there’s one more thing about him you should know: that as soon as a chick shows signs of being too needy or getting too attached, he’s gone. Like out the door, running far and running fast. The last thing he wants is for anyone to count on him for anything.”

  Anomaly or not, the one thing that can’t be denied is that a woman pregnant with your baby who lives in your apartment and works for you is a walking, talking, billboard of need.

  I’m petrified.

  Not about Jasper though.

  Something inside me tells me Jake is wrong about Jasper. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. He’s the one who’s been building our relationship, piece by piece, step by step, he’s the one who’s let his walls down and let me see who he really is.

  He’s not the issue.

  It’s me.

  I can’t be a mother.

  I don’t know how.

  What if I’m just like her?

  Running from the mountain of truth slapping me in the face, I end up in our room and toss myself on the bed and start to cry.

  What am I going to do?

  What am I going to do?

  What am I going to do?

  No answer comes to me no matter how many times I ask, but the sound of my cell phone dinging with a text message brings on an onslaught of all new questions.

  Where would we put a baby—we have no spare room.

  How would I be able to work?

  Does Jasper even want kids?

  Would he want one with me?

  Will he accept the pregnancy?

  Can I?

  I can’t be a mother.

  Look at the role model I have.

  I’ll turn out just like her.

  Pain. Bitterness. Anger.

  That’s all I feel.

  My cell beeps again and I dig in my purse for it. I can’t find it, so I dump the entire thing. Finally, I locate it. On my screen is a message from Jasper telling me something has come up that they have to take care of. It’s going to take a while. And he’ll call me tomorrow.

  Somehow I manage to type a quick response. When I toss my phone back onto the pile of stuff from my purse, I see the smooth linen business card with gold scrolled font.

  My mother’s business card.

  I pick it up.

  I read it. It has her name as Allison Lane. Not Worth. She’s a realtor with Sun County Reality. And she lives in Leamington, Canada. The only two things I know about Leamington are that it used to be where the Heinz Ketchup Factory was located, and that it is on the water.

  It has her business address on the front. I flip it over to find her residential address hand written across it.

  I hoist myself off the bed.

  My heart fails for a moment when I decide I’m really doing this.

  I’m going to see my mother.

  NO PASSING ZONE

  Jasper

  WHAT HAPPENS IN Vegas—stays in Vegas.

  Or that’s what they say.

  Jake spent the first nine years of his life living there until his father was arrested for molesting a young girl and sent away. He pleaded innocence. That’s all Jake ever knew. His mother took Jake and fled shortly after that, and somehow ended up in Cass Corridor.

  To get out of town, we follow the signs to Barstow and pick up Interstate 15 through the mountains that border LA. It’s not long before the palm-treed oasis that is Los Angeles gives way to the desert.

  Damn, it’s hot out here.

  Not quite two hours later we’re making a pit stop at an In-N-Out Burger and are back on the open road within ten minutes. The long stretch of highway looks the same mile after mile. Will’s moving pretty fast, and at this pace, we should be there in well under the four hour trip time.

  Everyone is eating, even Jake who has yet to eat a morsel of food since dinner last night, but no one is talking. We all have a lot on our minds.

  I can’t stop thinking about Charlotte. She’s done something to me. Something terrifying and completely right at the same time.

  It’s like my world is tilting.

  Changing.

  I can’t control it.

  And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

  In fact, I’m okay with it.

  Images of life and work are no longer the same images—my work isn’t my life.

  Those mounds of curly blond hair keep flashing before my eyes. The way I love to run my fingers through it and even get lost in it for hours, days, weeks, years . . . a lifetime. The scent of her skin. So intoxicating. The sweet taste of her lips. How much I yearn for it. And that body, the way she moves, how she doesn’t even know what she does to me.

  How is that possible?

  The thought makes me smile, then makes me want to laugh, then makes me want to cry.

  It’s because she doesn’t think anyone can love her.

  That’s why! It’s not so much the fear of people leaving her
like she told me, she doesn’t think she can be loved. I want to bang my head against the window right now. How had I not figured it out before now?

  Time to man up, asshole, and just tell her. What are you afraid of? Being rejected. Fuck that. Think about her, not yourself. Prove to her you’re not going anywhere.

  Exhaustion and adrenaline are a dangerous combination for anyone left in their own head too long. And my mind won’t shut down. I hate that I didn’t just do it when I started to say it.

  Slurping the last of my soda down, I finish my fries and then resume staring out the window thinking of the best way to prove to her I’m hers. She’s mine. That those two kids who lived next door to each are meant to be together.

  Bring flowers.

  Take her out to eat.

  Make love to her.

  Is there a fucking rule book for this kind of thing?

  I’m out of my league here.

  An hour and a half passes with my mind flipping between different ideas and still the landscape hasn’t changed. The three-lane highway that gives way for us to move faster is the only thing I like about any of this.

  Will is really moving now. Weaving in and out of tractor-trailers and passing mini vans. And then, out of nowhere, billboards start popping up. More and more still, closer together with each passing minute. And then bam, just like that, high rises can be seen in the distance.

  Traffic is stop and go for the next couple of miles and then the strip comes into view, as all of the casinos pop up to my right, but then we pass by them and veer left onto I-95.

  The GPS tells us to exit. The sprawling flatland of the residential area looks run down. Populated mainly by low-slung, ranch-style homes and aging apartment buildings. Soon enough, we’re headed into the mountain range.

  Our rental car is climbing steadily at twenty miles an hour, and the slow pace is beginning to agitate me.

  “Where the hell are we going?” I ask, but not to anyone in particular.

  “Take a right up here,” Jake mutters.

  “The GPS says not to turn right for another two miles.”

  “Trust me, just do it.”

  Will does it.

  The paved road is in disrepair. Every pothole we hit makes me wonder if this is the right way.