Notorious

by Susan Andersen

  Leaving her nowhere left to run.

  Fourteen

  "Give me your keys," Kurstin said a short while later, her voice pitched low to prevent anyone from overhearing.

  "Why?" Hayley pulled her purse out from under the bar even as she asked.

  "Because Jon-Michael and I are going to see if we can do something about helping you avoid the jackals when the bar shuts down."

  Hayley, who had far more experience with media persistence than she cared to think about, bit her tongue to keep from blurting, I won't hold my breath then.

  Good thing she did, too, for she had seriously underestimated the Olivet siblings' ingenuity. After the bar closed and the till was balanced, Kurstin exchanged tops with Hayley. Bending from the waist, her friend brushed her hair briskly upside down, then straightened, tossing it back and fluffing it out to get an approximation of Hayley's volume. She bound it loosely in a scarf and slipped on a pair of dark glasses. Then she eased out the back door.

  Jon-Michael and Hayley waited by the front door. Faintly, from around the corner, they heard someone yell, "There she is!"

  The media who had been hanging around the parking lot waiting for her to come out stampeded in a mass exodus from the front parking lot. Jon-Michael snagged her by the wrist and dashed for his Harley. Strapping his sax case to the back of the Soft Tail with one hand, he pulled his World War II German leather helmet free with the other. He tossed it to her and swung a long leg over the gas tank, straddling the bike. "Get on."

  The engine turned over with its distinctive, deep throated growl and they peeled out of the lot. Hayley clutched his waistband with one hand while slapping the helmet to her head with the other and awkwardly manipulating the strap beneath her chin.

  They roared through the quiet streets, flashed past the blink-and-you've-missed-it downtown district, then continued on to the only slightly more substantial industrial sector. Jon-Michael killed the engine and coasted down an alleyway, rolling to a stop behind a brick warehouse. They dismounted and he unlocked a door set deep in the brick wall.

  "Come on." He pushed his bike inside and kicked the door closed behind them. After rocking the motorcycle back on its kickstand, he accepted the helmet Hayley silently held out to him and hooked it over the handlebars. Then he collected his sax case and ushered her to the freight elevator.

  They did not speak until they had stepped inside and he’d tugged down the top half of a steel-mesh door. Its bottom glided up to meet it and the sound of heavy metal gates clanging together shook Hayley from her silent introspection. She turned to him as the elevator jerked and groaned its slow way up one floor. "Where are we?"

  "My place."

  "What about Kurstin? Are we abandoning her to the ravening hordes?"

  "Yep. If she can shake free of the journalists, she'll meet us here. Otherwise she will go home or to the new boyfriend's place." He gave an indifferent roll of his shoulders. "Wherever she intends to spend the night."

  The elevator ground to a halt and he manipulated the doors again. He ushered her out, then preceded her to a door a few feet away. Unlocking it, he stood back and waved her inside.

  It was dark and Hayley took only a few hesitant steps over the threshold before she halted. In a distant part of the vast warehouse she could hear a rhythmic thumping and the muffled tones of a woman's voice. Behind her, she heard the door close and the ping of Jon-Michael's key landing in something. Then she felt his fingers, warm and rough-skinned, slide along her skin to cup her elbow. He steered her around a glass brick partition and deep into the gloom of a cavernous room whose ceiling soared into invisibility high overhead.

  "Wait here a sec," he commanded and left her. In the stygian darkness, over the sound of his retreating footsteps, the rhythmic thumping was more pronounced and the woman's voice clearer.

  "Oh! Baaby," the voice crooned. "Yes, right there. Harder, baby. Harder!" The rhythmic thump grew louder, more persistent. "Oh, God, yes. Yes! Just like that."

  A lamp flicked on across the loft, illuminating Jon-Michael's left profile while casting his right side in shadow. One lean cheek was highlighted by the play of light as he straightened. He looked at her across the room and smiled wryly, accentuating the soft groove that framed his mouth. His way-beyond five o’clock shadow, where it curved down from his upper lip just inside that raised groove, was a dark slash that dissolved into shadow on the side farthest from the lamplight.

  "Sorry about the sound effects," he said. "Carol-Anne has a new boyfriend, and they have been going at it hammer and tongs for three weeks now."

  "Oh, bay-bee," Carol Anne growled. "OH. Bay-bee. Uh-huh. Uh-huh." The headboard pounded against the adjoining wall. "Oh, God, baby, yes. Yes, yes, yes!"

  Jon-Michael cleared his throat. "I'd, uh, like to tell you it will be over any minute now, but the guy has prodigious stamina." Carol-Anne's enthusiasm rose yet another decibel higher and Jon-Michael, stared across the room at Hayley.

  She had no doubt the heat she felt spreading upward from the scooped neckline of her borrowed top stained her chest, her throat, her cheeks a brilliant red, even in this low lighting. A fear she felt justified when he said a little desperately, "Music! I'll, uh, just put on some music. Make yourself at home."

  A week ago, she might have cracked a joke and then pulled up a chair to critique the show. Well, with Kurstin she would have. Maybe not with Jon-Michael. At the moment she did not find all the rampant sexuality coming through the walls particularly amusing. It was too hard on the heels of the other night's debacle on the dock, and it made her feel flushed and uncomfortable. Edgy.

  "Mind if I look around?" she asked as Jon-Michael toyed with a stack of CDs.

  "Go ahead." More lights sprang on and the sound of John Coltrane's saxophone drifted out of speakers mounted overhead. Jon-Michael turned up the volume in an attempt to drown out his neighbor. He succeeded in submerging Carol-Anne's voice beneath the wailing sax, but the rhythmic pounding was not as easily ignored. It lent a carnal counterpoint to the music no amount of volume could alter. The knowledge of a whole lot of unleashed pleasure transpiring on the other side of the wall suffused the loft like a lush, musky perfume.

  Hayley tried her best to ignore it. Sexual awareness was the last thing she needed tonight, and she determinedly shoved it aside as she wandered Jon-Michael’s condo, checking everything out.

  The floor plan was mostly open concept, with pockets of privacy provided by glass brick dividers. The floors were planked hardwood, the perimeter walls brick broken up by tall, multi-paned windows, and the interior walls rough-textured plaster painted a warm, creamy café au lait. At the far end a curved granite breakfast bar delineated the kitchen area. Wide oak-plank stairs midway down the long interior wall rose three steps to a landing before it turned right to hug the interior wall and climb to a loft overlooking the main room.

  Knowing without being told Jon-Michael's bedroom was up there, she confined her curiosity to the lower floor.

  "You want a cola or a club soda, Hayley?"

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. "No. Thanks." What she wanted was to keep him as far away from her as possible until the atmosphere became a little less volatile. "You have a nice place here." She squatted down to study an old leather steamer trunk on the stairway landing.

  "Thanks." He had kicked off his shoes and socks and, looking down, seemed to be studying his long, narrow feet. She, too, watched as he flexed his toes.

  Then he looked up at her again, smiling slightly when he caught her crouched down to poke through his stuff. "I'm gonna have a beer. You sure you don't want something?" Without awaiting an answer, he padded barefoot to the kitchen.

  Hayley went very still. "I thought you quit drinking," she said, rising to her feet and coming down the stairs. She took a few steps toward the kitchen.

  "I did. Oh, the beer, you mean?" He pulled opened the refrigerator door and withdrew a bottle. Twisting the top off, he held it up for her to read the label. "It's non-
alcoholic."

  She rolled her shoulders. "I knew that."

  "Uh huh." His smile grew more crooked.

  The sexual activity on the other side of the wall was louder down at this end of the loft and it seemed to be reaching a crescendo. Hayley ducked behind a glass brick divider in hopes of putting some space between it and herself. She found herself in Jon-Michael's office.

  It was very businesslike and looked well used, immediately intriguing her. Who would expect a saxophone player to give space to such corporate and workroom looking paraphernalia? Hayley stared at a shelf that held some kind of mechanical stuff with what looked like movable parts. Having no idea what they might be, she started sifting through a black wire 'In' basket.

  "Find what you're looking for?" Jon-Michael inquired.

  She glanced up to see him leaning as usual against the nearest convenient surface—in this case the glass brick divider. He had crossed his legs at the ankle, one hand loosely cradled his beer, and the thumb of his other was hooked in his front pocket.

  She shot him an unrepentant smile. "Dunno. I just got started." Picking up a thick report that was clipped together, she flopped down in the chair behind the desk. She turned on the green-shaded light and sat back to read, her feet propped atop the mahogany desk.

  She had only read a couple of paragraphs before she realized she'd hit pay dirt. Her feet slid off the desk and she sat up straight. After skimming through the rest of the report, she looked up at him.

  His current pose was not nearly as indolent as he stared back at her.

  "This is a proposal for the expansion of Olivet's," she said slowly.

  "I know."

  "Your proposal."

  He cocked an eyebrow and remained silent.

  She blew out a frustrated breath. "If you have all these ideas for expanding your family business, Jon-Michael, why are you working at Bluey’s?"

  "You have a Masters degree in psychotherapy, honey-chile. I am sure you can figure it out."

  She studied him for a moment and then nodded. "Ah. Richard doesn't like your ideas, huh?"

  "Richard would rather run the business into receivership than take advice from his punk kid."

  "Is Olivet's in trouble?"

  "It's headed there, but the old man cannot see past the current quarter's financial statement." He came into the room and opened a file drawer. Pulling out a folder, he tossed it on the desk in front of Hayley, then dragged over a chair and sat, bending over to point out aspects of the financial report. "See, here and here," he said, indicating the areas he was most concerned with. "Right now it looks good, at least on paper. But—“ He proceeded to explain what the problems were and what needed to be done to ensure continued profits.

  Hayley was fascinated by his enthusiasm. "So, you're going to submit this report to who? The board? The stockholders? Well, good for—"

  "No," he said flatly and sat back, his expression suddenly blank.

  "—you," she trailed off lamely. Her eyes narrowed on his impassive face. "What do you mean, no?"

  "Just what I said.” Spine growing rigid, Jon-Michael stared at her. “What part of the word do you not understand?"

  "They’ve already turned you down? Is that why you left the business?"

  "I left because Dad wouldn't even consider my ideas."

  "Well, Richard doesn't have total autonomy, does he? He has to account to his stock holders. What did the rest of the board have to say?"

  "I didn't bother showing it to them. They're in Dad's pocket anyhow."

  Shoving her chair back, Hayley snapped ramrod erect, her arms crossed under her breasts. Her toe tapped an impatient tattoo against the floor as she studied him through narrowed eyes. "You didn't bother to show it to them," she repeated flatly.

  "Well, actually, I didn't have anything to show them. I talked up a few of my ideas to Mildred Bayerman at the Fourth of July function at the club, and she ordered me to work up a proposal."

  Hayley smiled. "Okay, so you are going to—"

  "No. I just developed the thing to get my mind off other matters." Namely you.

  She thumbed through the pages of drawings, charts, and text. Then she arranged them in careful stacks on the desk and looked up at him. "I don’t know a blessed thing about business, Jon-Michael, but even I can see you have some very workable ideas here. Why on earth would you go to all this effort simply to let it collect dust on your desk?"

  "I told you," he said without heat. "It is a waste of time. My old man has the board all sewn up."

  "So that's it? You just accept defeat without making a single attempt to change their minds?"

  “Yep.”

  "My God." Her head drew back. "I do not believe you."

  His jaw tightened at the hint of contempt in her voice. He could tell her about the part he had developed. He knew he could sell it to any number of people in their client base in a nanosecond, because he was pretty damn sure it was going to be a game changer in the industry. He would give it to Olivet’s for free if his father would just give him one second of respect. But he had lived with years of having to sell himself—to no real effect—and he was sick of it. So he merely said, "Yeah, well, believe it."

  She shoved to her feet, the chair rolling across the floor with the force of her movement. She looked down at him with undisguised disdain. "You keep telling me you are not the same man you used to be. Well, that’s a crock. You haven't changed a damn bit."

  He watched as she turned and stormed from the office. Then he surged to his feet. “The hell you say!”

  Ty had temporarily forsaken pacing to stand at the bedroom window overlooking the carport. He had been there for a solid fifteen minutes.

  Bluey's was closed; it had been closed for a while now. So where the hell was Kurstin?

  Headlights swept the trees lining the green as a car rounded the curve down by the driving range. Straightening, Ty smoothed his hair but then slumped again when the vehicle turned off before reaching the complex containing his townhouse.

  Dammit, she had said she'd be back to spend the night, so why wasn’t she here? He wanted to find out what happened at the bar tonight. Besides, it was late and the roads were dark and deserted at this hour of the morning.

  What the hell was keeping her?

  Jon-Michael caught up with Hayley in the living area. She stood at the window leading to the fire escape, her back to the room as she stared out at the dim pools of illumination cast by the street lights stretching down Davis Drive. Her spine was rigid and her face without expression when he caught her by the elbow and spun her around. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, I haven't changed a bit?" he demanded.

  She twisted her elbow free of his grip. "It means you still run away the minute you’re faced with a problem. God forbid Jon-Michael Olivet should ever stick around long enough to deal with one of his messes."

  He reared up, fury driving him several steps closer until he towered over her. "That's bullshit."

  "If you say so."

  "Damn straight I say so. It is total bullshit. You don't have the first idea how I have handled the problems that arose at work between Dad and me, so where the hell do you get off telling me I’ve dealt with them by running away?" He looked her up and down. Then he nodded. "Oh. I get it. We aren't talking about the proposal any longer, are we, Hayley? You're referring to the way I handled that whole fuck-up I made of our night by the lake." She merely looked at him and he said furiously, "I tried to talk to you about it! For years I tried, every damn time I saw you."

  "You came to my house once!" Stabbing her fingers into his chest, she gave a shove, but he didn't budge. "One lousy time you tried, and then you took off for college and never looked back."

  "The hell you say!"

  "No, the hell you say, Jon-Michael! If we happened to be thrown together, if we had to be in the same room after that night, you would put on that Mr. Personality dog-and-pony show you're so good at and offer up some slick, facile apology. But you nev
er once made a serious attempt to get me to listen—"

  "What was I supposed to do, tie you up and gag you so I could say my piece without you screaming me down or slamming the door in my face?"

  "Oh, hell no. That would have taken too much effort."

  "Jesus!" Frustrated and furious, he smacked his palm against the window’s wooden casing beside Hayley's head. He glared down at her, breathing heavily.

  She barely even flinched. "The only time you attempted an apology was if I was already somewhere you were and it was convenient," she continued implacably and with a bitterness she had honestly believed long forgotten. "Then—and I will give you this, Johnny—you could certainly blather on with the best of them. But I have news for you, bud. Charm only goes so far when you don't back it up with any real effort. And not once did you exert yourself to make me comprehend why you had done what you did."

  Whipping her hair back with her forearm, she blew out a ragged breath. "You never went out of your way to do that. You never explained how you could have made love to me, how you could have told me you loved me, only to turn around and give the entire soccer team a blow by blow description of me losing my cherry."

  "I was ashamed!" he yelled, moving as if to slap the casement again. Pulling his hand back before it made contact, he scrubbed both palms across his face until his cheeks stretched. Then, hands dropping to his side, he stared down at her. "Christ," he said hoarsely. "I was all but paralyzed by shame, okay? I didn't know what to say to set things right."

  "So you took the easy way out and didn't say anything at all. And you are still taking the easy way."

  "You don't know the first damn thing about it."

  "I know that when you're in doubt, you walk away. I know you haven't had to fight for a thing in your life."

  "I haven't had to...?” He heard himself parroting her words and broke off, swearing roundly. Then he braced both hands on the casement, caging her in and bending over her until they were eyeball to eyeball. "Let me tell you something, sister," he said between his teeth. "I have fought every single day of the past thirteen years to stay sober. I have fought not to be the irresponsible little shit I was then. I was a self-absorbed eighteen-year-old budding alcoholic who messed up your life in a big way, and for that I am sorrier than you will ever know. And when it came to making a choice between straightening things out with you or getting myself clean and sober, I freely admit I chose to fix me.