“Do you think you are the only person in the world to have trouble come knocking at your door, Hayley? Maybe we have never had a killer turn our lives upside down, but you were there with Kurstie and me after Mom died, and you know damn well being rich did not guarantee us a charmed existence. Your old man may have taken off, but at least your mother was there to cheer you on in any endeavor you were involved in. We had a father who was too fucking busy to just once watch his son play sports or see his daughter act in a school play." He stood over her, sucking in and expelling ragged breaths. "So I drank and generally acted like an asshole, and Kurstin married the first sweet-talker who offered to take her away from it all. Neither was a winning solution."
Hayley blinked warily when Jon-Michael calmed down as abruptly as he had erupted, speculation gathering in his dark eyes. He studied her closely. His right hand slid away from the window casing to fiddle with a lock of her hair. He wrapped it around his middle finger, stretched it out and rubbed his thumb over the shiny strands.
"What about you?" he asked in a voice so smooth it made the hair on her nape stand on end in alarm. "Since you're so hot to exorcise private demons, why don't we sit down and get cozy while you tell me all about your feelings on the death penalty.”
Her heart gave a tremendous thump. Simultaneously, the doorbell pealed, and with a growl of frustration rumbling low in his throat, Jon-Michael unwound the curl from his finger, pushed back and went to answer the summons.
She blew out a soft breath of relief. Saved by the bell might be a cliché but she would grab her reprieves where she could.
Kurstin breezed into the main room of the loft, pumped up on success and adrenaline. "I can't think of any other creatures quite so easy to bamboozle as city folks convinced they’re dealing with a country rube," she said with a grin, tossing her purse on the coffee table. Shoulders rocking, she punched the air overhead with pointing index fingers and wiggled her hips in a little victory dance. Brought up short, however, by the palpable wall of tension hovering between Hayley and her brother, she dropped her arms back to her side.
"Whoa," she said, looking back and forth between the two. "What have I interrupted here?"
Hayley opened her mouth to say not a blessed thing, but Jon-Michael was faster. "Have a seat," he invited, flopping down on the couch. "Hayley was just about to share her feelings on the death penalty issue."
"No, I wasn't."
"Oh, yeah. You were." His eyes hardened. "Or maybe you would rather run away."
She glared at him and Kurstin blew out a breath. "Hoo boy. I really did miss something, didn't I?"
"Only an analysis of my character by the resident expert here," Jon-Michael said. "Hayley thinks I don't deal with my problems very well, that I prefer to run away instead of sticking around to face them head on. She, on the other hand, is a much more evolved individual than I am, aren't you, sweetpea?"
"Go to hell, Johnny."
His hand flashed out to grip her wrist and he gave her a yank, causing her to stumble forward and tumble onto the couch. She sprawled half on, half off, his lap. "I have told you more than once not to call me Johnny."
She pushed herself off his lap and onto the cushion at the far end of the couch. Taking a furious swipe at her flyaway hair to shove it off her face, she wrapped her arms around her shins, hugged her knees to her chest, and glowered at him. She didn't say a word.
Her best friend did. "Jon-Michael!" Kurstin remonstrated indignantly and was gearing up to say more when he cut her off.
"Stay out of it, Kurstie," he said without taking his gaze off Hayley. "You and I both know she has a shitload of conflicted feelings when it comes to this issue. If she’s going to be Ninja quick to assassinate my character, she should damn well be prepared to put her money where her mouth is." He drilled Hayley with his narrow-eyed gaze. "How about it, hot shot? Care to expound for a change on something that is difficult for you to talk about?”
"Fine," she spat. "You want to know how I feel about capital punishment? I will tell you exactly how I feel." Then her bravado stalled out like a bad spark plug, because this was an issue she had a tough time acknowledging even to herself. "I-I-I..." She swallowed hard, took in a deep breath, and tried again. "I have mixed feelings about it, okay?"
"You used to be vehemently opposed to it," Kurstin said softly. She sat down on the coffee table, which sent Jon-Michael rolling to his feet to fetch her a chair.
"Yeah. I did," Hayley agreed, watching them move back the table and drag forward a leather sling chair. "It seemed so simple then. Taking a life as reparation for another was wrong. Period. End of discussion." She emitted a little huff of derision. "Well, you know what? It is a whole lot easier to take the moral high ground when you have not had to personally view the result of New Hampshire's rehabilitation program." She lowered her forehead to her knees for a moment. Then she turned her head and looked at Kurstin, ignoring Jon-Michael entirely. She wasn't ready to forgive him for forcing the issue. "Lawrence Wilson is an animal," she said flatly.
"Nobody disagrees with that," Jon-Michael said.
A fine tremor shimmied down her frame. "He deserves to die," she whispered fiercely to Kurstin.
"I agree," her friend said gently. "Jon-Michael agrees. But neither of us shared your convictions when it came to the death penalty in the first place." She reached forward to brush a wayward lock of Hayley's hair behind her ear. "The question is not what we believe. I think the problem stems from the fact that way down deep inside you do not fully agree."
"No," Hayley protested. "Huh-uh, not true. I do agree."
"Do you? Or do you have a conflict between what you know he deserves and some gut-registering basic value you have held your entire life?"
Her tremors escalated into sturdier shakes. "Oh, God," she said. "I get this horrible queasy feeling every time I remember it is my testimony that is going to trip the trap door or depress the plunger on the needle." She gripped her knees tighter and began to rock. "Why do I feel so guilty, Kurst? I didn't commit the atrocity—he did. I only testified to what I saw."
Jon-Michael's hand wrapped around her ankle, staying her and spreading warmth up her leg. "Would you change your testimony if you could?"
For the first time since he had started her down this path, she turned her head to look at him. "I cannot shake the feeling that Wilson’s execution will be nothing more than state sanctioned murder. You don't kill the killers to teach them not to kill."
"But if you had a last minute opportunity to do so, would you change your testimony?"
"No," she said flatly. "I told the truth. Finding him guilty was just." Then she rubbed her temples. "God. Listen to me. First I am on this side of the issue, then I’m on that side of it. I don't know where the hell I stand."
"You did what you had to do. The verdict was up to the jury and sentencing was mandated by the judge. You don't have to love the outcome, darlin'. You told the truth, so you have nothing to feel guilty about."
She glared at him. "Well, thank you for pointing that out, Jon-Michael. Now I can rest easy."
"Hayley, I’m only trying to help."
"Well, do you suppose you could try to be a just little less insulting about it?"
His hand tightened around her ankle. "Jesus. What'd I say?"
"'You told the truth, so you have nothing to feel guilty about'," Kurstin supplied. Seeing her brother's blank look, she said gently, "You think she doesn't know that?"
"I am not completely lacking in intelligence," Hayley agreed. "I have not been sitting around this past year just waiting for some big, strong man to come along and point out the error of my feeble feminine reasoning powers. 'Don't feel guilty, Hayley,'" she mimicked in a voice she deepened to approximate a man's. She made the face of an airhead who finally gets the connection. "Oh! Okay."
"Dammit, I hate it when you two start in on that 'insensitive male boob' routine," he growled. "I do not produce estrogen so I can't possibly understand a woman's anguish,
is that it?"
"But you do not seem to understand, Jon-Michael." Hayley realized she had stopped trembling and felt a surge of affection for him. "I appreciate that you would like to solve my problems for me. But I know my guilt is misplaced, and you know what? I feel guilty anyway." Bracing her elbows on her knee caps, she scooped her hair back off her face and stared at him. "Maybe if I had allowed my beliefs to be known from the beginning I’d have an easier time letting myself off the hook now."
It sounded like psycho-babble bullshit to him, but nobody had to hit this kid over the head before he learned his lesson. Jon-Michael kept his mouth shut.
"What?" Hayley demanded.
"What, what? I didn't say a word."
"Yeah, and you look as if you’re ready to explode, too. What thoughts are boiling around in that fertile little brain of yours?"
"Well, if you are so all-fired hot to set the record straight, Hayley, it seems to me you have a golden opportunity right at your fingertips. The town is lousy with journalists."
She looked at him as if he had suggested she shuck out of her clothes for a stroll down Front Street. "Sacrifice the tiny bit of privacy I've managed to hang on to?" she said incredulously. "Let my private-most dilemma be turned into a thirty second sound bite?"
"Actually," Kurstin interposed, "it's not a bad idea. No, think about it, chickie," she said when Hayley's astounded gaze swung to pin her in place. "Not a sound bite, a half hour or an in-depth show. You could pick one person to talk to—maybe Barbara Walters would come out of retirement. Or a journalist whose work you admire. The point is to sit down with someone and explain how not only the murder, trial and appeals, but the constant bombardment by the press as well, has kept you on the ragged edge of your emotions for a couple of very long years. Talk about your feelings regarding capital punishment. Who knows? Maybe it will assuage the guilt or, failing that, start a national dialog on the subject. And as an added bonus, once you have given an exclusive, the rest of the carrion-eaters might actually leave you alone." She peered at her friend's still face. It was a viable idea. It made sense.
Except, Hayley was private. It had taken a great deal of pushing and shoving on Jon-Michael's part just to get her to open up to them. And she sure as hell had no history of airing her feelings for public consumption. "What do you think?" she asked when Hayley remained silent. "Hayley? Say something."
Hayley looked up at her, and Kurstin knew what a butterfly must feel like, pinned to a entomologist's board.
“It will be a cold effin’ day in hell."
"Where the hell have you been?"
Kurstin turned from disengaging her key from the lock in time to see Ty bearing down on her. "Well, hi!" she said in surprise. Her lips curved in a spontaneous smile. "I thought you would be fast asleep by now—"
He pushed her up against the closed door, hands tight on her shoulders. "Asleep? Bluey's closed down more than an hour ago. Where the fuck have you been?"
He could feel the facade he had spent so many years perfecting melt away. At this moment, however, pressing her up against the door, his labored breath blasting her in the face, he didn't give a shit. His usual slightly detached amusement was nowhere to be found. And the last thing he felt like was the scion of old school-tie wealth he'd been portraying ever since he had hit town. He felt like who he really was, the son of a long line of West Virginia miners that had worked hard, aged early and died young.
"The media clowns were hassling Hayley," Kurstin explained breathlessly, not even attempting to stop him when he began roughly removing her clothing. "So Jon-Michael and I set up a false trail for them to follow." He pushed her panties down to her ankles and dropped to his knees to remove them. "I led them round town while Jon took her back to his place. Then I joined them for awhile. We had quite a talk." She was uncertain if he was listening or not; his mouth had found itself an occupation. "Oh, my God." Her head thunked back against the door.
He pulled back and looked up at her. He had heard her, all right. For once, he just didn't care. He had been scrambling up the ladder for as long as he could remember, clawing his way toward the top. Now, for the first time since he had set his course as a scholarship student back in college, he didn't race to take advantage of the golden opportunity she had just offered him. He rose to his feet, freed himself from his fly, and thrust into her.
"What?" he demanded, his fingers gripping the backs of her thighs, pulling them high to make her take him deeper. "You never learned to use your goddamn cell phone?"
Fifteen
I twist the ornate Adams bell-pull next to the front door and listen as the bell peals in the depths of the Olivet mansion. Spying a speck of lint on my skirt, I brush it off, then straighten, my shoulders squared, hands calm, a pleasant smile on my lips.
Several days have gone by since I have seen Hayley. We have both been busy, but it is important to make time for close friends. Which is why I have squeezed forty-five minutes out of my schedule for a quick visit before heading to work this afternoon.
I wait expectantly but no one answers the summons, so I give the bell latch another twist. Stepping back, I take a discreet peek through the leaded glass side light. The view is distorted, but I can make out most of the entry. It looks cool, dim, and empty of inhabitants. No one appears from the kitchen located at the far end of the hallway. No one comes down the sweeping staircase.
An irritated sigh escapes me. Because, really. How inconsiderate. I specifically timed my visit for after the noon hour in order not to interrupt Hayley's rest. I know my friend sleeps later than most, given her late-night schedule. But honestly, it is high time she gets out of bed. It doesn't do for her to sleep the entire day away.
Unfortunately, inconvenienced as I feel, there is nothing I can do about it. As usual with Hayley, I am forced to wait. Again. I turn away. Pounding on the door until she awakens is not a dignified solution. And clearly Ruth, the Olivet’s cook, has not arrived yet and Richard and Kurstin are already at work, so no one is available to let me in. I consult my watch, then march back to the top of the circular drive where I left my car.
There is no use bemoaning what I cannot change and time spent unproductively is time wasted. I still have forty-one minutes left of my allotted time and there is dry cleaning to be picked up and groceries and personal items that need restocking. I will accomplish what I can during this unexpected block of time, then sit down with my day-planner when I get to the office.
And schedule Hayley into another time slot.
Hayley jumped at the heat spreading across her back from the male chest suddenly snugged up against it. Before she had quite recovered from that, warm lips nuzzled her neck.
"Mornin' petunia," murmured a sleep-husky voice. Hard-skinned hands reached around her to lightly grip her bare thighs.
Desire tugged deep and she jabbed her elbow half-heartedly behind her. Her lips curled in a tiny smile when it actually connected with a vulnerable spot below Jon-Michael's ribcage and air oofed out of his lungs. His hands slid away as he stepped back.
"And a good morning to you," she murmured congenially. Shutting off the water she had been running for a drink, she turned to face him.
He gave her a wounded look and made a production of rubbing his injured side. "You didn't have to slug me," he muttered.
Right. The muscles in his stomach were so lean and defined bullets probably bounced off them, but she was supposed to believe her puny little jab had done him grievous harm? It was all she could do not to grin at him.
And that would never do. Damn. Where had all of last night's anger gone?
She had been so angry with him and Kurstin, first for insisting she explore feelings better left unexamined, then suggesting that spilling her guts for the delectation of a nation of TV viewers might somehow help matters. They had compounded their treachery by leaving her stranded here at Jon-Michael's for the remainder of the night. Kurstin could easily have dropped her off at her car when she left, but oh, no. Both she
and Jon-Michael insisted the journalists would have the car staked out for her eventual return.
And, fine, that was likely true. It didn’t mean she was thrilled at being stuck here.
At least she had been smart enough to draw the line at Jon-Michael's invitation to occupy his bed. Not that he had suggested she sleep in it with him, but he had tried to insist she take it. He must think she had STUPID tattooed on her forehead in an ornate red-ink font. As if she would get any sleep wrapped in sheets that smelled of him.
She had slept on the couch.
Yes, sir, some of that anger would come in handy right now. She stood in nothing but a pair of panties and one of his T-shirts that she’d been forced to borrow, with Jon-Michael naked except for a pair of raggedy-ass jeans he had not even bothered to zip up. Unfortunately, anger was not in her morning makeup. Instead, she was one of those intelligence-impaired individuals who generally woke up sort of vague and happy. She yawned, still sleepy. It was simply too much effort to pretend belligerence. "Keep your distance," she said without a hint of teeth to what should have been a stern warning.
"You're the boss." Jon-Michael stepped back and dropped onto one of the kitchen stools behind him. Hooking one elbow around the chair’s clean-edged Craftsman-style back, he stretched out his legs and studied her affable expression.
He was bemused by her lack of ire. Her usual tendency was to fight him tooth and nail.
Then he shrugged it off and allowed his gaze one quick trip across her topography. It was far from pinup lush, but it sure got the job done for him. "How did you sleep?"
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