The Hearts Series

by L.H. Cosway

  “Ask me, then.”

  We stay there for hours, and he tells me everything. How it took him years to conceive of his plan. How in the beginning he never actually thought he’d go through with it, but just the idea of revenge, of relief, was soothing to him. The possibility that he would one day make things right. He’d pace each night before bed, reciting his plan, sometimes adding on new bits, and it helped him to sleep.

  Then came the hard part. He knew that some of the things he needed to do would require the help of some questionable individuals, so he sought to make a connection with a man named Seamus Crowley, a powerful crime lord in the city. This was the same man I’d seen him meet up with that night at the docklands with the shifty-looking bodyguards. The one who came to me in the park.

  Jay paid Seamus to help him forge the documents he needed to make it look like David Murphy had died. He also helped Jay ensure those documents went missing before the case got to trial. And that’s why he took something from Brian Scott that day outside The Daily Post offices. It was his access card, and Jay needed it to get into the newspaper’s file rooms. The idea of Jay having associations with a crime boss makes me worry, but he assures me that his debt to Seamus has been paid in full. Seamus threatening me that day was him flexing his muscles, ensuring that Jay paid his debt to him.

  Both David Murphy and the cameraman, Blake, who was acting as Una Harris’ informant, were in on the plan. Like Jessie, they had been good friends of Jay’s for years, owed him for many favours he’d done for them, and so they agreed to help him. Blake started working as Una’s informer long before they started filming, gaining her trust in order to ensure she’d believe him about the death.

  In regards to the TV show, Jay had only a small number of people working on it with him, people he knew he could trust with the secret that David Murphy wasn’t dead. The television executives only put a pause on the show after Una Harris’ article had come out, and Jay let them believe her, simply never correcting them that David was, in fact, still alive. Since it was mostly his own money invested in creating the show in the first place, the channel didn’t lose much in finally cancelling it several months before the trial.

  So, how did he know Una would even pick up the story in the first place? Now, that I’m under strict instructions not to reveal. But I will say this:

  My dad’s sudden interest in renovating our spare bedroom and renting it out was NOT his own decision. Neither was it the decision of the three volunteers at Jay’s show to write down the band, book and painting that they did. It’s all very clever and the power of subconscious suggestion is a fascinating thing. So no, Jay is not actually magic, nor does he possess “godlike super minding-reading skills.” (Jerry Burke, 2013, Hotmail.) Let’s just say, if you could crack open the man’s brain and take a look inside, it would be a truly illuminating experience.

  My head actually hurts by the time he’s finished telling me everything.

  “I can’t believe how much time you invested in all of this,” I tell him. “How much effort. I feel unworthy.”

  Jay’s arm rests along the back of the couch. He runs his hand through my hair. “Never doubt your worth to me, Matilda. My whole life, my entire career, is investing vast amounts of time for one single result, a result that sometimes only lasts a moment. Every illusion takes hours, weeks, months of planning, and each one is worth the time. In a lot of ways, what I did to get justice for our families was a mirror of that process, and I don’t regret a single moment. You know why?”

  “Why?” I whisper.

  He locks eyes with me. “Because every step brought me here. To you.”

  His mouth is so close to mine I can practically taste him. Our breaths mingle, full of need that we’ve been suppressing for months. I lick my lips, and he watches the movement hungrily. Between that second and the next, his mouth descends on mine, and he’s kissing me with a fiery passion. My body melds to his, my hands grasping for his belt, wanting his pants gone.

  “Been a real long fucking time,” he murmurs as he sucks on my neck. “Do you know how badly I’ve wanted to kiss you, taste you, these past few months?”

  I moan. “A lot.”

  “Yeah, a lot,” he rasps. “So much I’ve now got a master’s in masturbation.”

  Giggles burst forth. “Jason, please never use ‘master’s in masturbation’ ever again.”

  “Why not? It’s got a good ring to it.” His hand goes between my legs, up under my skirt, and straight past my underwear. I whimper when he slides his fingers deep inside me and swears loudly.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “You love it.” One pump.

  “Do not.” Another one.

  “Yeah, ya do.” His fingers move fast now, in and out, and I don’t want to be talking anymore. Still, I can’t let him have the last word.

  “Don’t.”

  “You do. You fucking love it, and you love me, too.”

  I gasp, and our eyes lock. He stares at me, still finger-fucking me. “Try to deny it. I dare you,” he goes on with a dark, sexy look.

  “I do….”

  He puts his other hand to my lips to shush me, then picks me up and carries me into his room. I’ve only been in his bedroom here a handful of times, and it thrills me when he lays me down on the bed before stripping off every last item of clothing I have on.

  I lie there, chest heaving, as he moves away from me. Seconds later, he’s gloriously naked and crawling back up my body. He spreads my legs, his mouth going straight for my sex. I cry out the second his tongue makes contact with my clit.

  Jay’s right. It has been way too long.

  He works on me in a frenzy, the both of us desperate for each other. He looks up at me, his eyes smouldering, and my cheeks heat. I love how quickly he can strip me bare, literally and figuratively. I brush my fingers through his hair in adoration, my heart so full it could burst. My body coils tight, and I know I’m going to come soon.

  The orgasm hits me hard and quick, and as the pleasure is shattering through me, I blurt out a fervent declaration, “I love you, Jay. I love you so much.”

  He smiles up at me, a crooked, dashing smile, and replies, “Yeah, ya do. Love you, too, Watson.”

  “Come here,” I murmur, and pull him up my body, dragging his mouth to mine.

  Our tongues collide as his erection teases between my legs. With one swift, hard thrust of his hips, he’s deep inside me. We break the kiss, and our gazes lock.

  His hand cups one side of my face, his eyes reverent. “You’re my home, Matilda,” he breathes, his words a vow. “I feel at peace now. You’re mine.”

  I moan as goose bumps break out all over my body. “Say it,” he demands.

  “I’m yours,” I choke out, feeling like I’m fit to burst with the love that runs through me for this man. “I’m yours.”

  A glorious smile splits his lips as a sheen of sweat forms at his temples. His mouth is over mine as he whispers, “Yeah, you are, and I’m yours.”

  For hours he consumes me with his body, his passion overwhelming, his soul the perfect match for mine. He makes love to me until the sky starts to brighten, marking a brand-new day.

  Thirty

  A couple of days later, a letter arrives in the post for me and Dad. I immediately recognise the handwriting on the envelope, the frenetic, messy scrawl that belongs to Jay, and it makes me smile big. It also makes me even more eager to open it and see what’s inside. The tiny heart stamp with a six inside on the corner of the envelope is also a dead giveaway.

  For several days he’s been a man of mystery, setting up some kind of show. In all honesty, I’ve been dying to know what it’s all about, and I’m imagining whatever’s inside this envelope is going to be a clue.

  Opening it up, I pull out the small square card. It’s an invitation.

  Miss Matilda Brandon and Mr Hugh Brandon are cordially invited to join Mr Jason Fields for an exclusive evening at The Paint Cellar this Saturday, February 8th, at 8
p.m.

  I turn the card over, but it’s blank. The Paint Cellar is the same venue where he had his show the last time, but the invitation doesn’t mention a performance, so I’m not entirely sure what we’re in for.

  Dad glances over my shoulder. “Ah,” he says, “a mysterious invitation from your boyfriend. I wonder what he has in store for us.”

  I turn to Dad and grin. The other day I sat down with him and told him that Jay and I are together. I didn’t really know what to expect, but I certainly didn’t expect his one-word reply to be, “Finally!”

  I think that when it comes to me and Jay, Dad has always seen far more than he let on.

  He squeezes my shoulder and takes the invitation from my hand, turning it over to see if there’s anything on the back, the same as I did.

  He lifts his head then and smiles at me whimsically, the faint sheen of emotion in his eyes. “Young Jason will take you on an adventure, Matilda. Promise me you’ll let yourself enjoy every moment of it.”

  I stare at him, trying to decipher his meaning, before squeezing his hand and replying simply, “I will.”

  My whole life I’ve been careful, never fully letting go. I think this is my dad’s way of telling me to throw caution to the wind. Ride the roller coaster.

  And I plan on relishing every up and every down.

  On Saturday we arrive at the venue promptly as requested. There are only about thirty or forty people in the audience, scattered out in random seats. Unlike the enthusiastic droves of fans I encountered at his first show, these people don’t seem very happy to be here. In fact, there’s an atmosphere of grudging acceptance among them.

  I spot Jessie and Michelle sitting a few rows back from the stage, so I link my arm through Dad’s and lead him over with me to join them.

  “Hey, you two,” I say, taking the seat beside Jessie, “any idea what this is all about?”

  Jessie shrugs. “He’s kept me in the dark about this one, actually. So I’m just as clueless as you are.”

  I nod at her. “And what about these people? I get the feeling they aren’t too happy to be here.”

  Jessie grins. “Yeah, I get that vibe, too. I’m sure all will be explained once Jay decides to show his face. Oh, and by the way, did you hear that Brian’s being charged for attempted murder, and charges are being filed against Una for the whole computer hacking thing?”

  “Really!” I exclaim, my jaw dropping.

  “Really,” says Jessie.

  Some strange satisfaction forms inside of me. It feels inherently right that those two are finally getting what they deserve after all the lives they’ve destroyed. And I have Jay to thank for it.

  Before we can talk more, the house lights dim, and a video is projected onto the screen at the back of the stage. The video that plays is for last week’s lottery numbers, a pretty blonde presenter coming on and calling out the selected balls. There are murmurings among the audience, and then the short video is over. Another video starts up, this one showing Jay standing in the living area in his apartment. He looks into the camera and begins to speak.

  “So, I guess you’re all wondering why you were invited here tonight.”

  A man in the front row snickers disdainfully. “Yeah, you’d be right about that.”

  “I suppose it’s accurate to say that I’m not your favourite person. You all lost your jobs because of me. My court case had your newspaper shut down, and I’m probably the last person you want to see right now, so I’ll make this quick. I investigated each and every person who worked for the newspaper, and the thirty-three of you are the only ones who came up clean. So, the question that I’m going to ask you all now is, did you play the lottery last week? I’m guessing you’re going to say no, or that you did but didn’t have much luck. Well, I actually beg to differ on that. All thirty-three of you played.”

  A few surprised sounds come from the audience, but mostly everybody’s still sceptical. Video Jay pulls a small piece of paper from his pocket and holds it up to the camera.

  “You see these numbers. Anybody recognise them?”

  I let my eyes drift over the paper. It’s a lottery ticket, and the numbers selected are the exact numbers called in the previous video. The winning numbers! Gasps of disbelief fill the room. I stare at video Jay in awe, not understanding how this can be real. It’s not possible to predict the lottery. It just isn’t.

  Almost every single person is confused. Video Jay’s smile reaches Cheshire cat territory as he goes and picks up the camera. He carries it over to his kitchen table, where there are dozens of envelopes spread out neatly across the surface, all containing addresses and stamps. Jay pans across the envelopes and continues talking from behind the camera.

  “Anybody recognise these locations?” he asks.

  One woman speaks up, rising from her seat. “That’s my address!”

  “If you look real closely,” says video Jay, “you’ll see that each envelope is addressed to those of you in the audience. Inside each envelope is a check made out to the receiver. Last week’s lotto amounted to just over four million euros. Since you all played and won, each of you is now one hundred and twenty-five thousand euros richer. I hope this makes up for the stretch of bad luck you’ve all been having lately.” He puts the camera back down so that it’s on him again. “If you look to the bottom left-hand corner of this video, you’ll see that I filmed this yesterday, and I am now going to pay a visit to the post office. Tomorrow morning, check your post — you might just find a little surprise waiting for you.” He smiles into the camera, and then the video shuts off.

  The audience bursts into animation, exclamations of disbelief filling the venue. By some strange feat, Jay has just won the lottery for all of them.

  That’s some magic trick. Or was it a trick at all?

  I want to ask him how he did it, but there’s no sign of him anywhere. Then, as if by magic, I sense somebody’s eyes on me. Turning around, I see Jay standing at the back of the venue. He smiles, gives me a nod to follow him, then turns and walks down the hall that leads outside, his back to me. I rise from my seat and hurry after him. Jay walks slowly to let me catch up, stepping out onto the cobbles of Temple Bar. The Saturday-night crowds are out in droves, filling the streets with their drunken shouts and excited laughter.

  He turns to me, his eyes lit up with their trademark post–magic trick mischief. I beam up at him, shaking my head. He links his arm through mine.

  “Good evening, Watson. Care to take a stroll?”

  Silently, I nod, and we walk down the street until I stop and turn to face him again, placing my hands firmly against his chest. “Okay, I have to ask. Was that real? Did you really just magically win the lottery for all those people?”

  He grins. “I’d like to hear your theory.”

  “Hmm, I was thinking maybe you used the money from your settlement, but that was two million, not four.”

  One eyebrow raised, he tells me, “I’m actually donating my settlement money to a charity for victims of domestic abuse.”

  I gape at him. “You are?”

  He swipes his thumb over my chin. “Yes. I’m certain some of your goodness must be rubbing off on me,” he murmurs, almost absently, as his eyes trace my features.

  “Don’t give me that. You were always good. Too good. But please, tell me if what I saw on that video tonight was real.”

  Jay looks at me for a long moment, eyes shining brown and green under the street lights. “Do you really want an answer?” he asks back. “Isn’t it more exciting not knowing, just letting the possibilities be endless? Like, maybe I’m a genius and figured out some mathematical formula of probabilities to predict the lottery. Maybe I bribed the ball guy to rig the system.” He pauses to laugh and pulls the same ticket he’d shown on the video out of his pocket. “Maybe I faked this ticket, and I’m just giving them my own money. Maybe I’m psychic. Maybe I had a real good time at the poker tables. The maybes could go on forever, Watson, but we both know that my
stery is better than the truth. So why not live with the magic? Be a kid again and believe in the fantastical. Life is more fun with a little smoke and mirrors.”

  He gives me a devilish wink.

  I shake my head at him, unable to keep my smile from growing wide. I point a finger into his chest, beaming up at him. “You, Mr Fields, are insufferable.”

  He laughs. “That’s a lie. You find me charming. I know when you’re lying, remember?”

  “Have I ever mentioned how much I hate that?”

  “You don’t have to,” his voice is full of affection. “I can tell when you hate it, too.”

  Something pops into my head, and I wag my finger at him. “A-ha, but I lied to you once, and you never knew.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he says indulgently. “And when was this?”

  “The night I was attacked by the thug. It wasn’t random. Una was there.”

  Slowly, his smile grows wider. “I knew you were lying then, too. Didn’t you notice my knuckles were fucked up the next morning?”

  “No, I didn’t. And what does that mean? You spent the night on the couch.”

  “Not the whole night. I snuck out, found the fuck Una paid to threaten you, and made sure he wouldn’t be doing it again.”

  I stare at him, awestruck. “How did you know?”

  “I asked you a few innocent questions, watched your reactions, and figured the rest out for myself. It takes a lot of practice to be able to lie to me.” He pauses, voice going soft and sexy. “And I’m too obsessed with you not to know every single one of your tells.”

  That answer both endlessly pleases and irritates the hell out of me at the same time.

  “That’s…okay, that’s kind of cool.”

  He chuckles tenderly as his arms go around my waist, pulling me flush against his body. I press my face into his shoulder, breathing him in. “And I love you,” I whisper.

  He lifts my chin and takes my mouth in a slow, lingering kiss before coming up for air. “Yeah, ya do.”