The man shined a light in my eyes, studied the knot on my forehead, and asked some questions. Finally he said, “I think you’ll be okay, but you need to keep an eye on her.” He looked at Jackson. “She can go to sleep, but you need to wake her up every two hours.”
“I can do that,” Jackson said.
Every two hours? That sounded miserable. But I didn’t argue. At least I didn’t have to go to the ER. I had other more important things to do.
Things like figuring out why someone had lured me here.
It wasn’t just so Leonard Shephard could watch me. There was something here I was supposed to discover. But what?
Jackson and I had to fight our way through a crowd of people waiting to be seated at the all-you-could-eat buffet. We finally reached the hostess, who was decked out in a pirate maiden outfit.
I wanted to tell the people waiting here that all they could eat was a bad, bad choice. But if I were in their shoes, I’d probably be here too. Because all you could eat might be bad for your waistline, but it was oh so tempting for the tummy.
“How many?” Jacklyn Sparrow asked.
Clever name.
Jackson showed the hostess a picture of Morty. “Have you ever seen him before?”
She stared at the picture before responding with a foreign accent. “I just start here. Ask that swab.”
She pointed to a busboy in the distance. He was a lanky teen with acne and a name tag reading Shivering Timbers.
Jacklyn must be one of the international student workers who came over in the summer to help fill the massive void needed in the job market here. Jumping from five thousand people in town to fifty thousand made it hard to sufficiently fill a lot of jobs.
Jackson cut between tourists with their plates piled high with crab legs and hushpuppies. He reached the boy, showed him his badge, and stopped him in his tracks. “We need to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Sure, man.”
Jackson flashed Morty’s picture. “Seen him?”
“It’s Morty. Everyone around here knows him.”
“Does he come in here often?”
“Here?” He made a face—drawn chin, squinted eyes, hunched shoulders. “Nah, this place is a tourist trap. No locals come here.”
“Has he been in here lately for any reason?” Jackson continued.
He remained quiet and thoughtful for a moment. “Now that you mention it, he might have come in sometime last week.”
Bingo!
“What was he doing?” Jackson asked.
“Eating.”
Jackson stared down the teenager, who visibly shrank back.
“Sorry. I’d forgotten he came in. Really. I did.”
Jackson continued to give the boy the eye. “Was he with anyone?”
He moved his tub of dishes to the other hip. “Yeah, I think he was meeting with someone.”
“Anyone you recognized?”
The teen shook his head. “I can’t say I did. I don’t really remember him. I wasn’t paying attention either. It was a busy evening, and I couldn’t stop all night. You know how many plates the average tourist eating here goes through per night? Five! And I’m right there, picking up every one of them.”
“Do you remember anything about the man Morty was with?” Jackson continued to push.
“No. I’m sorry. I didn’t think much of it. Morty and I weren’t friends or anything. I just knew him from around town.” He paused. “Does this have something to do with his murder?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Jackson said. “Anyone else who may have noticed something?”
“Nah, not really. The rest of the gang is mostly from Europe or something. Sorry.”
Well, we hadn’t found out much information. But at least we knew that Morty had met with someone.
It was better than nothing . . . probably.
Chapter Nineteen
When I walked into Jackson’s house, Ripley greeted me exuberantly—which was to be expected. We’d decided to come here instead of my place, mostly because of Ripley. Besides, this was more secluded and quieter than my condo.
I rubbed Ripley’s head, talked in baby babble, and my efforts were returned with doggie kisses to my cheeks and neck.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Jackson asked, dropping his keys on a little table by the front door.
“If I’m going to be up all night, then how about some coffee?” I already dreaded the waking-up-every-two-hours thing and had decided I’d rather stay awake.
“One coffee coming up.”
As he made it, I paced around in his living room. I paused by a bookcase and saw a picture there. A sad smile crossed my lips as I stared at it.
It was of Jackson and his deceased wife, Claire. They both grinned from ear to ear in the photo. The sun was perfectly cast in the picture, smearing in the background and adding a warm glow to their faces.
Claire was so beautiful—an all-natural blonde bombshell. Her eyes were warm and full of life—life that had been cut short by the ravages of breast cancer.
I felt Jackson behind me. He didn’t say anything.
“You guys looked so happy.” Compassion made my voice catch. Divorce had caused a certain kind of grief and loss in my life, but I knew that paled in comparison to losing a spouse to cancer. I couldn’t even imagine.
He picked up the picture, and a soft smile captured his lips as he soaked in the image. “We were happy.”
I turned around to better face him but was sure to keep everything soft. “What was she like, Jackson?”
I honestly wanted to know. I wanted a glimpse into his past.
He let out a breath and looked at the photo again. His eyes took on a look that I didn’t see on him often, it was a mixture of grief, love, and loss. And the sight of it made my heart lurch into my throat.
As tough as Jackson was, there were some burdens hard for the strongest of us to carry.
“She was great,” he said. “She was kind of an earth mother. She liked everything organic and natural. She thought the beach could cure anything. She loved fiercely, and if she believed in something, she wouldn’t back down.”
“She sounds amazing.” She reminded me a bit of Phoebe, but I had a feeling Phoebe had been the laid-back sister.
Jackson nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “She was. She would make these pictures out of broken seashells—she’d put them on pallets and shape them into crabs and lighthouses. She said it was a stress reliever.”
“You mean those pictures you have hanging up in the hallway?” I’d noticed them last time I was here.
He nodded.
“I had no idea she made those,” I said. “They’re beautiful.”
“I think so also.” He lowered his gaze before setting the picture back on the shelf. “It sounds like the coffee is done. Let me go grab some.”
A new kind of somberness washed over me as I went to sit on the couch. I probably should ask him for some Tylenol as well. I didn’t want to admit that my head was aching, but it was.
Maybe the caffeine would help.
He brought me a mug. It wasn’t a fancy cup, but instead an old beige one that had probably been part of a set at one time—twenty years ago. Silence stretched between us a minute. Not the awkward kind, but the easy kind.
Finally, I tucked a leg beneath me. I’d set a serious tone for the evening, and I wasn’t sure if that had been a good idea or not. I decided instead just to go with it.
“So you asked me about my future last night,” I started. “Now it’s my turn.”
“Okay, let me brace myself.”
“There’s no right or wrong,” I promised. “Are you, Jackson Sullivan, ever tempted to move back to the DC area? That’s where your family is, right?”
He let out another breath and gripped his coffee. “Maybe at times. But Nags Head has become home. It’s worth it to stay, even if it’s just for the sunsets and sunrises.”
I smiled. “They are pretty amaz
ing here.”
Note to self: stop saying amazing.
He turned toward me, examining my face, as he often did. “How about you, Joey? I know I asked you about your future last night, but can you see yourself staying here?”
Oh, he was turning the tables on me. Was I really prepared to answer that question? I didn’t know.
“Of course you know why I came to this area,” I started, glancing at my coffee mug. Now I was the one who sounded somber. “I need to figure out what happened to my dad. I need to somehow make things right. I never expected to like it so much here.”
He stretched his arm across the back of the couch, and his fingers brushed my bicep, sending tingles up my spine.
“I guess the question is, can I be an actress and live here? Am I supposed to keep acting? I mean, I’ve been given an incredible opportunity and platform. I don’t want to take that for granted.”
“I agree. You shouldn’t. As long as you don’t sell your soul for the sake of an opportunity.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m sure it’s hard to stay true to your values in Hollywood, Joey. That’s all I’m saying.”
He hit the nail on the head. “Definitely. I’ve been there. I’ve lived that. And I’d like to say I’m stronger now. But what if I’m not? You can train all you want, but until you’re doing the marathon, you don’t know if your training has paid off.”
He brushed my hair from my face. “You can handle it, Joey. You just need a good support system to help keep you accountable.”
Support system? Could that be Jackson? Was he offering?
“Another part of me can’t imagine leaving you—I mean, this area.” I shook my head and my cheeks heated. Had I said that? Had he bought my explanation?
Jackson said nothing.
Speaking of people not telling the truth . . .
“Actually, I mostly mean you.” I frowned at my truthfulness, yet I couldn’t leave that lie out there. “That was way too honest, wasn’t it?”
I might as well have told him I loved him.
I held my breath, half expecting him to run.
Instead, a soft grin lit his face. “Not at all. Thank you. Because I can’t imagine you leaving this area for a long time either.” His smile faded as he looked around his house. “But could you really see your Hollywood friends coming here for a visit? Seeing you in a little sixteen-hundred-square-foot cottage with a fish-cleaning station downstairs?”
His words caught me off guard. Mostly because I realized that when Jackson dated, he didn’t do it casually. He did it thinking of the future. Of marriage. Of forever.
That thought thrilled me and tried to freeze me with fear.
“Jackson, I grew up in a little house with no flower beds and weeds for the lawn,” I said. “My dad worked for the railroad, we mostly ate microwave meals, and all my clothes were hand-me-downs. I’ve never forgotten my beginnings. They’ve shaped me into who I am today, and I never want to lose that. I’ve been at places in my life where I’ve wanted for nothing, and you know what? I was still miserable. Stuff doesn’t make you happy. It’s the people in your life that make the difference.”
Somehow in the course of this conversation, the two of us had drifted closer together. As in, inches apart.
“Man, do I want to kiss you right now,” he said. “I want to forget what I said before.”
I smiled. Then I remembered his words. He wanted to make sure I was truly over Eric before we dated. And as much as I hated it, I knew it was a good idea. For a little while longer, at least. Because the more I was with Jackson, the less I thought about Eric. And that was a good thing.
“Well, I know you said you wanted to wait to date me, but who said I wanted to date you?” I teased.
His eyes sparkled, and he pulled me closer. “Are you saying you don’t?”
I shrugged, knowing good and well I was giving him a hard time. “I’m just saying that there’s an awful lot you’re assuming, mister.”
“Did you just call me mister?”
I poked him in the stomach with my finger. “Maybe I did.”
“You know what I do to people who poke me in the stomach, don’t you?”
“What’s that?” My nerves tingled with anticipation.
“This.” In an instant, he was on his feet.
Somehow my coffee ended up back on the table, and Jackson swooped me into his arms. My arms reached for his neck. He twirled me around, and I howled with laughter.
When he set me back down, my throat clenched. How long could I stop myself from kissing this man? I loved everything about him.
His hand cupped my cheek, and his eyes were mesmerizing as they met mine.
He wanted to kiss me just as much as I wanted to kiss him.
I closed my eyes and relished his touch—leaned into it. I anticipated the feel of his lips against mine. I longed for it more than I longed for air to fill my lungs.
I was in trouble, I realized. Deep, deep trouble. The kind of trouble that developed when your heart took on a mind of its own and you felt powerless to fight it.
Chapter Twenty
Then a phone rang.
Jackson’s phone.
We both tensed. Held our breath.
But I knew what the inevitable was.
He had to answer it.
I opened my eyes and stepped back.
It was probably best that someone interrupted us anyway.
“Excuse me a minute.” Jackson stepped away.
As he did, I released my breath, trying to get a grip on my emotions. I sat down on the couch and grabbed a blanket, trying to stop picturing what our almost kiss might have been like.
A few minutes later, Jackson sat beside me.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, it was just about another case we’ve been working.”
“Let me guess: car break-ins and skimmers?”
“It’s exciting stuff. Almost as exciting as people wearing shirts with holes cut in them so they can get polka-dot suntans.”
My eyes widened. Had I just heard him correctly? Based on his sparkling eyes, I had. “No they’re not.”
He raised a hand in Boy Scouts’ honor. “I saw two people doing it, and they were talking about you.”
My bottom lip dropped. “How did they know? That just happened and . . .”
“Have you checked the rag mags today?”
“I try not to,” I admitted. They usually made me mad, which could spiral into something unhealthy.
“Well, I haven’t either, but that’s my best guess.”
I stared at him a moment, my cheeks feeling unusually warm. “So . . . you noticed my polka dots too?”
He made a face—half apologetic, half amused. “It was kind of hard not to.”
Yay for that. Or not.
With the moment broken, I leaned back on the couch. I had some other questions that had been pressing on my mind, and now seemed like just as good a time as any to address them.
“Did you check Zane’s alibi or the gunshot residue on his hands?”
Jackson nodded slowly. “We did. And I don’t know if I’d call it an alibi. Yes, he was at a range practicing his shooting. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t also holding the gun when Morty was shot.”
I supposed he had a point. “How about Abe? Is he still locked up?”
Again, Jackson slowly nodded. “He is. For a few more days, at least. He’s been unable to make bond.”
I leaned back and let that sink in. At least Jackson had told me that much. I’d take whatever I could get.
Jackson raised a DVD. “Confession: I secretly like zombie apocalypse shows. You interested in watching some of The Swimming Dead?”
I nodded, realizing he was done talking about this. But my thoughts would be dwelling on our conversation for quite a bit longer.
In the middle of a dream where I turned into a polka-dotted unicorn wearing bright-blue eyeshadow, I pulled an eye open with a star
t.
I squinted with confusion when there were no rainbows in sight.
What a dream.
Where was I?
I started to shift when I remembered last night. I remembered watching TV with Jackson. Trying to stay awake.
But eventually I must have drifted to sleep. Because right now I was in Jackson’s arms. Ripley was beside me, his head resting on my leg as he let out little doggy snores.
Jackson and I were both sitting upright on the couch. The TV was still on—the local news was blaring, mentioning something about a storm they were watching out in the Atlantic. My head was snug under Jackson’s chin, and I could hear his heart beating against my ear. I could feel his hard chest muscles. I could smell his spicy aftershave.
I probably should have woken him up. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay here a minute longer.
The thing was this. Although I did have some money from Family Secrets and from a network who’d picked up reruns of Relentless, I no longer had a home. I had a ten-year-old car with more than one hundred thousand miles. I had no savings and no retirement, and any money I did have coming in I’d promised to donate to charity. For all intents and purposes, I had nothing.
Yet when I was in Jackson’s arms, I felt like I had everything.
And that thought scared the dickens out of me. At the same time, it made me want to hold him tighter and never let go.
I had a bad history of always having to have a man at my side. Of being in love with love. Of dating so I could avoid my problems.
But this felt different. This felt real. And I had no idea what to do about it.
A few minutes later, Jackson began stirring. His voice had a morning huskiness that I could listen to forever.
“Hey.” He pushed himself up. “I guess we fell asleep.”
“I guess we did.”
He glanced at his watch. “And I slept surprisingly well. It’s almost eight.”
“Is it really?” I hadn’t been paying attention.
He ran a hand over his face, then across his head and against his neck. “What do you say we go grab some breakfast somewhere and then head to church?”
“Sounds good. I’ll just need to run home and change first.”
Blooper Freak (The Worst Detective Ever Book 5) Page 10
