Bossy Brothers: Jesse

by JA Huss

  And sure, everyone’s got a telescope so we would all spy on each other when the summer festivities really get rolling. But it’s early June right now and most people don’t show up until the week before Fourth of July. So it’s pretty quiet tonight when I pull onto Lake Road and start winding my way through the trees to our house on the far west side.

  Lake Road is really just a big loop. And it’s a pain in the ass to get anywhere by car around here, which is fine. Because everyone has boats. There’s a floating restaurant in the middle of the lake. Busy as fuck during the summer. There are even live bands out there sometimes. And there’s a little—not quite town, but area, I guess—on the North side of the lake that has a bait shop, and a little grocery store, and a bar. Shit like that.

  We’re like our own self-contained community out here.

  Like the Hamptons, I guess. Except there’s a whole different vibe. Sure, everyone’s rich here, just like there, but it’s different. Everyone out here is mostly new money. People who aren’t so full of themselves yet that they think they’re above swimming and boating on a lake.

  “Damn,” I mutter.

  “What?” Emma asks.

  “I wish we still had a boat. I could take you out on the boat.”

  “I have a boat. I have a house here too.”

  “You do?”

  “Why are you so surprised?”

  “I… don’t know. I guess I never thought of that. But yeah, makes sense. When did you buy out here?”

  “A few years ago. It’s not just mine. My partners and I got it as a retreat house for the company.”

  “Cool. So are you inviting me onto your boat?” I ask.

  “Umm… well. I guess I’d have to make sure we… had insurance.”

  “What?” I laugh.

  “For non-employees,” she says.

  But then I glance over and catch her shaking her head and then notice I can see her face in the reflection of the window and see her mumbling something.

  “Something wrong?” I ask. “You’re not mad because I kissed you, are you?”

  “No,” she says, turning to face me. She touches her lips unconsciously, then catches herself and puts her hands in her lap.

  “No, there’s nothing wrong? Or no, you’re not sorry I kissed you?” I ask, teasing her for more information.

  “The kiss,” she says, smiling at me.

  “So there is something wrong. But not the kiss.”

  “No, I meant—”

  “It’s fine,” I say, reaching over to grab her knee. That makes her jump and squeal a little and I have a flashback to another girl I did that to once. Long time ago. Can’t remember when, and don't really want to. Back then, all those girls I dated—shit, ‘date’ isn’t even the right word. ‘Fucked’ is more like it—I don’t want to think about them and Emma in the same breath.

  She brushes my hand off, but I can tell it’s not a rebuke. She’s ticklish.

  I just grin and grin as we weave our way along the dark Lake Road.

  Finally, we arrive at the gate to our property. “Shit,” I say.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I hope I can remember the code. Totally fucking forgot about this and I haven’t been up here in years.” I pull up next to the intercom and start punching numbers. None of them work. I look over at Emma and say, “I’m gonna be so fucking embarrassed if I can’t get in.”

  She laughs, and then there’s a crackle on the intercom. “Mr. Boston,” a man’s voice says.

  Emma and I look at each other with raised eyebrows.

  “Mr. Boston?” the voice says again. “Is that you?”

  “Uh, yeah. Who’s this?”

  “I’m Stan. Joey’s butler for tonight. He told me you might not have the new code. I’ll let you in. One moment.”

  “Butler,” Emma says, waggling her eyebrows.

  I point at them. “More innuendo.”

  She laughs again. And damn. That laugh comes out easy now. “You’re funny, you know that?”

  I grin, then pull forward as the gate opens for us. “I do my best.”

  Our driveway is long and winding because most of our acreage is out here between the house and the road. The house is right up alongside the lake and when we finally come around that last bend and see it all lit up and pretty, Emma and I both say, “Wow.”

  “What are you saying ‘wow’ for?” she says, pushing me on the shoulder. “It’s your house.”

  “I know,” I say, pulling up in front, underneath the huge porte-cochère canopy of massive wooden beams. “But I forgot how amazing it was.”

  Fucking Joey. He must’ve been taking care of this place all these years because it wasn’t me. And it sure as fuck wasn’t Johnny.

  There’s no valet—not that I expect one—but when we get to the front door it opens automatically and Stan, wearing a typical butler face frown, stands aside and says, “Welcome home, Mr. Boston.”

  “Thanks, Stan. This is my date for the weekend, Ms. Emma Dumas.”

  Stan bows at the waist and says, “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Dumas. Would you like to start with champagne on the back patio, Mr. Boston?”

  He winks at me. “Sure,” I say. “Sounds pretty nice, actually.” I turn to Emma and say, “Shall we?”

  She’s looking around nervously and I wonder if it’s too much? The gate, the driveway, the house, the butler. Maybe it’s too much?

  “Emma?” I say. “You all right?”

  “Sure.” She rallies, wiping her hands on her dress. “Yes. Drinks on the back patio sound fabulous.”

  I offer her my arm, and unlike the first time I did this back in the city, she accepts it with grace and maybe, possibly, even eagerness.

  The grin on my face just gets wider and wider as we make our way through the house and out the back French doors.

  “This is quite lovely,” Emma says as I lead her down several stone steps to the covered patio area behind the house. It’s really an outdoor living room. Has a kitchen and everything.

  “Thanks. I can’t take credit for it though. This is all Joey, I guess. Someone obviously spends a lot of time out here. And no way is Johnny keeping up with the landscaping and shit.”

  There’s a small table set up in the center of the room. Not a patio table though. Round but made out of raw-edged wood. And the chairs aren’t plastic or that resin you typically find outdoors. They are plush and deep. Like living-room chairs you’d find indoors.

  I wave my hand at one, waiting for Emma to take her seat, then walk around to the other one and sit.

  “Nice,” she says, leaning back into the cushions. “You really know how to impress a girl.”

  “Again,” I say, picking up the bottle of champagne from the ice bucket to check the label—it’s a good one—“I wish I could take credit. We’ll have to send Joey a thank-you note on Monday.”

  I pop the cork as she chuckles, then pour her a glass and pick up the other bottle.

  “We’re not having the same drink?” she asks. Confused.

  “No,’ I say, twisting off the cap on the bottle of sparkling cider. “I quit drinking almost five years ago.”

  Her face goes a little pale.

  “Don’t worry,” I laugh. Pouring my cider into a flute. “I’m not a buzz kill. You enjoy yours. I’ll enjoy mine

  She takes hers and I hold mine up, thinking up a good toast. “To the best ice-cream date ever.” I stare into her brown eyes a little longer than I should. Then add, “I hope it’s the first of many,” and it doesn’t even sound like a pick-up line.

  Because it isn’t.

  Yeah.

  I like her.

  “To many more,” she says, taking a sip.

  Then her phone buzzes. Which is a little bit confusing, because she’s not carrying a purse.

  “Oh,” she says, feeling up the skirt of her gown until she produces a phone from a hidden pocket. “One sec. It’s just the office.”

  She texts back quickly, then shoves
the phone back in her dress. “Now where were we?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - EMMA

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Everything OK?” Jesse asks.

  “Sure. Yes. Absolutely. Why?”

  He chuckles. God. How did I get here? I mean, two hours ago I was fuming at this man. He was number one on my hate list. I loathed him. With a passion. So much of a passion, I put together this ridiculous kidnapping scheme to ‘teach him a lesson’.

  I’m an idiot. For so many reasons.

  One, kidnapping is illegal and comes with prison time if you get caught. What the fuck was I thinking? This is the dumbest plan ever. How could four super-smart, super-capable, super-logical fucking women ever think that this was a good idea?

  And two, he is nothing like I expected. Like not even a little bit. Not one teeny, tiny fucking morsel of that asshat he used to be is present and accounted for tonight.

  And that story.

  Jesus Christ. He comes from a mob family? Or something? I don’t know. I’m not really sure. And his father and uncle were murdered and his mother just… like… fucking disappeared after he was born. Just what the hell was I thinking?

  We’re going to be killed for this. Fuck prison time. Johnny Boston is gonna show up at Bright Berry Beach next week with a shotgun and blow our heads off!

  “Emma?” Jesse asks.

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you sure you’re OK?”

  “Yup,” I say, smiling. Then take a sip of my champagne. Then down the whole thing and grab the bottle because I need another one.

  “Was that bad news in the text?”

  Bad news? Only if a message stating that my best friends and partners in crime are on their way across the lake in a boat to make moving his body easier is bad news.

  “Nope,” I say, forgetting about the drink. I probably do not need another drink. “All news is good news. But can I say… or ask you… will that butler be here all night?” I crinkle my nose at him.

  Jesse looks over his shoulder at the butler, who is standing sentry at the edge of the outdoor living room.

  “Stan should take the night off, don’t you think? I mean, we’re fine, right?” And, I don’t add, I need him to be gone by the time my crazy kidnapping partners pull up in a boat in ten minutes.

  “Oh,” Jesse says, leaning forward in his chair a little. “Sure. Yeah. I don’t know him either. No big. I’m sure Stan would appreciate a night off, wouldn’t you, Stan?”

  “Whatever you wish, Mr. Boston. The food is ready. I can serve it before I leave.”

  “No, no,” I say quickly. “Totally unnecessary.” Jesse is squinting his eyes at me now. He has to know I’m acting weird. “We did just eat,” I say.

  “Just ice cream,” he says. “You’re not hungry?”

  “Are you?” And I have this feeling. I just know he’s going to say, Starved. So I waggle my eyebrows at him. And this time there is no way to mistake that this waggle is pure innuendo.

  “Oh.” He smiles, then chuckles. “Oh. OK. Hey, Stan. Do a guy a favor and beat it, will ya?”

  “If you wish, Mr. Boston.”

  “I do wish.” Then he leans across the table and takes my hand in his. “Ms. Dumas and I would like to be alone.”

  And even though I know this whole night, from top to bottom—with the exception of the ice cream—is wrong on every level possible and I should not lead him on or let him hold my hand, I do lead him on and I do let him hold my hand.

  My heart actually thumps in my chest. Three times. Real hard. And my head goes a little bit swoony.

  Because I’m falling for him. I’m falling for Jesse Boston all over again. Like I’m eighteen years old. Like I’m still that same innocent, naive, gullible girl who fell for him thirteen years ago.

  “Hey,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze.

  “Hey,” I say, a chill running up my spine as my hand slides inside my dress pocket and plays with the two roofies. We weren’t sure how many to use, so we decided on two. But now I’m pretty sure zero is the correct answer.

  Yup. Zero roofies is definitely the way to go.

  My phone buzzes again.

  “You’re popular tonight. You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?” He lets go of my hand and sits back in his chair as he rakes his fingers through his thick, dark-blonde hair.

  “Boyfriend? No,” I say. “It’s just… work. My partners, I mean. They’re just texting to make sure I’m OK.”

  “Ah,” he says. “Yeah, I get it. You were less than thrilled about coming on this date with me.”

  “But… I’m thrilled now. Really. I’m actually having a good time with you.”

  “I hear another ‘but’ coming. What is it?”

  “It’s just… um… well. Maybe I am a little hungry. Are there any hors d’oeuvres?”

  “Oh,” he says, looking for Stan.

  “No, don’t call Stan back. I don’t need them that bad." And then, as if on cue, and the whole world is plotting against me—because of course it is, that’s how shit like this shakes out when you’re stupid enough to plan a kidnapping and then chicken out at the last possible minute—my stomach growls.

  Loudly.

  “Oh, shit!” Jesse says. “No, you gotta eat. Let me go get the tray. I’m sure there’s a tray. Joey thinks of everything when it comes to dates. Be right back.”

  I check my phone once he disappears from view.

  We’re here!

  Dammit! How the hell did they get across the lake so fast? I strain my eyes, peering out over the water, searching for the little boat.

  And yup. There it is. Silent. No motor, as we discussed. Bobbing just past the long, Boston Brothers dock.

  My phone buzzes again.

  Did you do it?

  No, I text back.

  Do it now!

  And just by the tone of the text I can tell it’s Mila talking to me.

  I don’t think we should.

  Too bad! We voted. Everything is in place. Now drop those pills into his glass. He’s already coming back.

  I look up towards the house, but I can’t really see it. There’s a hill in the way. But then I see the top of his head and my phone buzzes again, and I don’t know what comes over me, but my fingers have the roofies and then I’m dropping them into his glass, which, unlike mine, is still full.

  I grab the champagne bottle and fill my glass back up so we can have a toast when he gets back. And then I just stare at the pill at the bottom of his glass… and… and I can’t do it.

  I switch glasses just as Jesse comes into view.

  “You’re in luck!” Jesse calls as he skips down the steps towards me. “I found a whole tray of meatballs on a stick!”

  He’s laughing so hard at this I forget that we’re in the middle of a kidnapping and start laughing too.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask, as he sets the tray down in front of me.

  And then he sits, picks up his glass and takes a sip.

  Spits it out. Looks at the glass and makes a face.

  Fuck.

  He was not drinking champagne. How did I forget that? He just fucking told me like five minutes ago he’s sober!

  “Oops,” he laughs. “Wrong glass. I picked up yours by mistake.” And then he takes mine—which is his—raises it to his lips, and downs it all in a single gulp.

  I’m reaching for his glass, consumed with second guesses, and hedged bets, and regrets when he sets it back on the table.

  He looks at my hand and I withdraw it quickly. “What are you doing?”

  I just shake my head. Because it’s too late. “Um… the meatball story?”

  “Oh, fuck! Fuckin’ Joey. Sometimes you can’t help but love that dude. He came up with meatballs on a stick back when we were kids and my dad still had parties on the lower living floor in the building. I know, I know. Inside joke. Not so funny. But… whatever. I think it’s funny that he was gonna serve his date meatballs on a stick. And oh shit!" He laughs again. “I just
did serve my date meatballs on a stick!” He sighs. Loud and long. Smiles at me like he’s never seen a woman before in his life. And says, “Goddamn, Emma Dumas. Where the fuck have you been?”

  “What?” I say. Because for a second I think he’s remembered me.

  “My whole life. I don’t know what it is about you. But I just… feel like we know each other. Where did you go to school?”

  “Um… for high school?”

  “Any school. Tell me. Tell me everything about you. I’m fucking dying here.”

  “I went to…” And I pause and wonder if he’ll figure it out and remember me. And do I want him to remember me? Or don’t I? “I went to Key West High.”

  His head backs up in surprise. “Key West. Really?”

  I nod. “Born and raised down there.”

  “I was there once. Did I tell you that already? I can’t remember.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “You said you were racing boats down there when your uncle died.”

  “Yachts,” he corrects me, smiling. “And I wasn’t racing. I was on a break and just taking it easy.” Then he sinks back into his chair.

  And holy fucking shit. Do those roofies work that fast? Because he definitely looks dizzy.

  “What year did you graduate?” he asks.

  “Long time ago,” I say.

  “How long?” he asks. And now he’s not smiling.

  I shrug. “Like thirteen years.”

  “Like thirteen years? Or exactly thirteen years?”

  “Does it matter?” I ask.

  He narrows his eyes at me, then sits up and leans forward, his elbows on the table. “Yeah. It does.”

  “Exactly then. Exactly thirteen years ago. I was eighteen,” I say. Because he does remember me.

  “And I was twenty,” he says. “That’s the year…” But he doesn’t finish.

  “That’s the year what?” I ask.

  His eyes flutter and then close. He opens them just as fast. Stares at me. “We did meet before, didn’t we?”