Stop Me

by Brenda Novak

  She sighed. “Somewhere between Indiana and Illinois.”

  “Most people are able to come up with a more specific answer to that question.”

  She glanced at the battery-powered clock over by the small generator-run refrigerator. “I think I should be heading out.” She knew she was going to feel stupid asking for money after everything that’d happened, but she had no choice. Clearing her throat, she broached the subject, trying to get it over with quickly. “Is there any chance you could lend me forty bucks?”

  When he didn’t answer right away, she hurried to explain. “I’ll send it back to you, of course. You can pick it up at the motel in Portsville since you don’t have mail service out here. I have a friend who’s wiring me some money, but it’s in New Orleans, and I need gas to make it back.” She faltered as she began to realize he might not have money. “If you don’t have it, maybe you’d vouch for me so I could borrow it from someone you know. I’m good for it.”

  “Fishing is a living,” he said, obviously offended. “I’ve got money.”

  “Great.” She smiled in relief. “So…”

  “No problem.” Getting up, he started clearing away the dishes. “But right now, we’ve got to get ready or we’ll be late.”

  She frowned, her coffee cup halfway to her mouth. “Late for what?”

  “Dinner at my parents’.”

  “I’m not going to your parents’,” she said. “I have to get back to New Orleans.”

  “It’s Christmas.”

  “So?”

  “You can’t have that much to do.”

  “I have a lot to do.” She gave up on her coffee, too, and carried the rest of the dirty dishes to the sink. “In any case, Christmas isn’t my favorite holiday. I don’t mind skipping it.”

  “It’s not mine, either. But it’s important to my parents.”

  She threw their paper napkins in the trash. “Wonderful. I’m sure you’ll have a nice visit with them.”

  “You’re not returning to that hotel room alone,” he said. “And I can’t go with you until tonight.”

  Jasmine pulled up the sweats he’d lent her because they were puddling at her feet and probably made her look too small to take care of herself. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t need you to come with me. I just need forty dollars. If you’ll risk the loan, I’ll get out of your way.” She started from the room as if to change and leave, as if it’d already been decided, but he caught her elbow and turned her toward him.

  “Listen, I understand that you’re finished with me, that you wouldn’t let me touch you again even if I begged. I screwed up and now you can’t wait to get the hell out of here. I deserve that. But regardless of what you might think of me, I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  Funny that he’d been the only one to hurt her in years. “I appreciate the sentiment,” she said. “But I’m not your problem.”

  He laughed softly, almost bitterly, and dropped his hand. “You came to me.”

  “Then we both got what we wanted and now I’m ready to leave.”

  Something passed through his eyes, but Jasmine couldn’t identify it. She was too busy struggling with her own emotions. “I’ll give you the money when we get back,” he insisted.

  She couldn’t spend the whole day with him. Every time she looked at him, she craved another taste, another touch. It was like being mesmerized by flames, like reaching out to them even after she’d been burned. “But your parents aren’t expecting me,” she said, trying a different approach.

  “They’ll be glad to see you. If you’re there, my sister and I will have less of an opportunity to ruin the big feast.”

  “Your sister?”

  “She’s visiting, along with her family.”

  Jasmine remembered that Black had mentioned Romain’s brother-in-law, but it was such a long shot that said brother-in-law would have any involvement in Kimberly’s disappearance—or anything else of consequence to her—she wasn’t willing to take the risk of accompanying Romain just to meet him. “I don’t know them. They don’t know me,” she argued. “And I don’t have anything to wear.”

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  “I’m definitely not wearing your clothes.”

  “I know a girl about your size.”

  “A girl? Don’t bother her.”

  “She won’t mind.”

  He was being far more stubborn about this than she would’ve expected. “Why don’t I stay here and wait for you, then?” She waved at the dishes they’d stacked near the sink. “I could finish cleaning up.”

  “You wouldn’t wait. You’d walk to Portsville and hitchhike from there.”

  “So? What do you care?” she snapped, frustrated by his unyielding refusal.

  He studied her for a moment. “I guess meaningless isn’t meaningless, after all.”

  * * *

  “Do they fit?” Romain asked, standing outside his bedroom door.

  Jasmine didn’t answer right away but, after a moment, he heard her voice. “Close.”

  When he’d handed over the clothes he’d borrowed from Casey’s teenage daughter, she’d shut him out, which disturbed him almost as much as the way breakfast had gone. He wanted to watch her dress. Not because he wanted to see her body as much as he longed to regain the intimacy he’d so impetuously destroyed.

  “Are you going to open the door?” he asked, growing irritated.

  “I’m coming.”

  The door swung open and she stood in the entryway.

  The jeans fit nice and tight, the way he liked them. Unfortunately, so did the sweater. It pulled in front, drawing attention to her breasts, and she kept fiddling with the fabric in an attempt to loosen it.

  “It looks great,” he said, trying to sound believable. It was great, but the kind of great a man would be more likely to appreciate than a woman.

  “How old was the girl who gave you these clothes?” she asked, turning back to the mirror. She’d waited in the truck when he’d gone into Casey’s house—hadn’t met Casey or her daughter. But he knew Casey had peeked at Jasmine through the windows. He’d seen the curtains move as he backed out of the drive.

  “Thirteen.”

  “No wonder.”

  “She’s the only person in Portsville even remotely close to your size.”

  “She’s not my size. This sweater is too tight.”

  He agreed, but telling her so would only make her more self-conscious. “It’s fine. If we find a store that’s open, I’ll buy you something better along the way.”

  “I’ve got to get back to New Orleans to pick up my money,” she grumbled. “I hate being so dependent.”

  “The money will be there waiting for you.”

  With a sigh, she stopped adjusting her top. “I guess this will have to work. Anyway, it beats how I looked in your T-shirt and boxers.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” He caught her eye in the mirror and had a flashback of her staring up at him this morning, naked and on her back, their fingers and other body parts intertwined. Now that was a beautiful sight.

  “Are we taking my car or your truck?” she asked, shifting her gaze away as if she could read his thoughts and they made her uncomfortable.

  “I was thinking it might be fun to take the bike. I have an extra helmet,” he offered.

  Her teeth sank into her lower lip as she considered it. “I’ve never been on a motorcycle.”

  He pulled the keys from his pocket and tossed them in the air. “Alors vous allez à comme le tour.”

  “English, please.”

  “You’re going to like the ride.”

  “That doesn’t mean I won’t regret it later,” she said.

  And he knew she was talking about a different kind of ride altogether.

  * * *

  Jasmine couldn’t get comfortable on the back of Romain’s motorcycle, not when she was trying so hard not to hold on to him. She kept changing the position of her hands, searching for a good grip on the bike i
nstead, but then he’d make a turn or switch lanes, and she’d have to grab him again.

  Eventually, he pulled over to the side of the road and flipped up the screen on his helmet. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Why do you keep fidgeting?”

  “The speed and motion of the bike makes me nervous,” she said, but that wasn’t true at all. He made her nervous.

  He twisted to see her clinging to the backrest. Then he muttered a curse, lowered the screen on his helmet and they took off again. After another few miles, however, he reached back one hand at a time and brought her arms around his waist, and she didn’t move after that because he went even faster and she was afraid she’d fall off if she let go.

  When they reached Mamou, Jasmine was exhausted from two hours of fighting her natural inclination to let her body relax into his. But staring up at Romain’s parents’ neat, middle-class home she felt too tense to worry about the fatigue. His family had already started pouring out the front door—a motorcycle didn’t exactly make a quiet entrance.

  “Here they come,” she whispered as he took her helmet.

  He didn’t respond. He was getting the packages he’d wrapped in ice out of his saddlebags.

  Jasmine smiled politely as a tall, rather austere-looking woman, who had to be Romain’s mother, drew close to shake her hand.

  “Romain, you didn’t tell me you were bringing a date.” His mother was obviously pleased, so pleased and acutely interested in Jasmine that Jasmine immediately felt the need to explain.

  “I’m not a date,” she said. “I’m just…someone who—” She glanced at Romain, seeking his help. She didn’t want to mention Moreau or the investigation, didn’t want to bring up a difficult subject. But he didn’t fill the gap in the conversation. “I’m someone who didn’t have anywhere to go for Christmas so Romain dragged me along,” she finished lamely.

  She’d said it with a laugh, but it didn’t come off as funny, which made her feel like even more of an idiot. She’d engaged in passionate sex with this woman’s son for no real reason except that she’d wanted him too much to say no. And now she was wearing the clothes of a thirteen-year-old girl while trying to explain her unexpected appearance at their house for dinner. Never in her life had she felt more out of place, even the year she’d gone to visit Sheridan’s family for Christmas and they’d forgotten she was coming and given the guest room to a cousin.

  “You’re welcome here,” his mother said. “Any friend of Romain’s is a friend of ours.”

  Romain handed one of the packages he’d taken from his saddlebags to his mother. “Shrimp,” he told her. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Do I want to know what happened to your face?” she asked.

  “Accident. Nothing big.”

  “Accident,” she repeated as if she’d heard it too many times. But her expression as she hugged her son suggested she’d hold him longer if he’d let her.

  “Jasmine, this is my mother, Alicia,” he said. “Mom, this is Jasmine Stratford.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fornier,” Jasmine said.

  “Please, call me Alicia.” She gestured toward the man with thick white hair and broad shoulders who had accompanied her down the front walk. “This is Romain’s father, Romain, Sr.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Jasmine said with a nod.

  His large hand swallowed hers, and she sensed an inherent strength in the elder Fornier that reminded her of his son. Embittered or not, Romain gave the impression that he could hold his own in any kind of battle. Now she knew where he got it.

  “Welcome to our home,” his dad said.

  Their smiles made Jasmine feel a bit better—until she caught sight of the woman coming up behind Romain’s father. This had to be Romain’s sister. With their streaked blond hair and nice even features, they looked too much alike to mistake the connection. Unfortunately, the way she pursed her lips and lifted her chin suggested Romain wasn’t on good terms with her.

  “A little late, aren’t you, T-Bone?” she said with a taunting lilt to her voice.

  Romain’s face took on a look of indifference, but not before Jasmine caught a flicker of hurt. She suspected he cared as much about this member of his family as he did the rest but, for whatever reason, he wasn’t about to let on. “Jasmine, this is my sister, Susan.” He tilted his head to see the child trailing behind her. “And her eight-year-old son, Travis,” he added.

  Susan cocked an eyebrow at her brother. “And?”

  “And what?” he said.

  “Could we get a frame of reference here? This is the first woman you’ve brought home since Pam died. What is she to you? A friend, a lover, a wife?”

  “None of the above,” Jasmine quickly interjected. “As a matter of fact, we don’t even like each other very much.”

  Susan clapped as she laughed. “Perfect! You and I will get along great.”

  Romain shot Jasmine a glance that seemed to challenge her denial of lover. Or maybe it was only a guilty conscience that made her interpret it that way. But she offered him a serene smile she didn’t feel, and he turned to his sister. “Where’s Tom?” he asked.

  “On the phone, talking to his parents.” She rolled her eyes. “They hate it when we leave Boston.”

  “So does he,” Alicia said under her breath.

  “What about the other kids?” Romain asked. “I thought they’d be running all over the place. Mason’s three by now, isn’t he?”

  “He’ll turn three next month. He and Curtis are in front of the TV. Mom and Dad gave them a new game system for Christmas, and it’d take a lot more than a visit from an uncle who never calls or writes—an uncle they barely know—to pull them away from it.”

  Jasmine held her breath as she waited for Romain’s reply.

  “You told me they didn’t need an ex-con for a role model.”

  For a moment, Susan looked as if she’d retract that statement, maybe even apologize. But then she straightened her shoulders. “They don’t.”

  “Because a philanderer father is so much better.”

  “T-Bone.” His mother touched his arm and angled her head toward Travis, and he muttered an apology. Fortunately, little Travis didn’t seem to be following the conversation; he was merely waiting for a chance to break in.

  “Do all those trophies in our room belong to you, Uncle T-Bone?” he asked eagerly.

  Romain mussed his hair. “For the most part.”

  “How’d you get them?”

  “Track and basketball.”

  “And football,” his father said. “Romain was quite a running back. I think he could’ve walked on to a college team if he hadn’t joined the marines,” he added for Jasmine’s benefit.

  He certainly had the build of an athlete. But Jasmine was trying not to think complimentary things about Romain.

  “I’m going to play football like you,” Travis announced.

  A genuine smile curved Romain’s lips for the first time since they’d arrived, giving Jasmine hope that this might be an enjoyable visit, after all. But his sister cut him off before he could respond. “No, you’re not. Only big dummies who don’t care if they blow out a knee play football.”

  “I never blew out a knee, Susan,” Romain said with strained patience.

  “But you did get a concussion. I often wonder if that’s to blame for everything.”

  “If I remember right, you were the one who encouraged me to play my senior year.”

  “Yeah, well, that was before I realized what a disappointment you’d turn out to be,” she snapped and went inside ahead of them.

  * * *

  Portsville was quiet. A truck passed, going in the other direction, but it was the only vehicle Gruber had seen for miles. The cemetery looked like it’d be more fun than the town.

  He pulled into Portsville’s small grocery store to buy a drink and see if he could glean any information. What business did Jasmine have here? Why did she leav
e New Orleans for rural Cajun country? It had to have some connection to the reason she’d come. She was here at his invitation, after all.

  His car door groaned as he forced it open. He needed to buy a new sedan. He had a truck that was barely a year old, but he mostly kept it around back, out of sight. His old Honda Civic was much more nondescript; he preferred to come and go unnoticed.

  The ice machine in front of the old grocery store rattled, catching Gruber’s attention. Man, what he could fit into a freezer that size! His own freezer was getting too packed, which made it difficult to save everything he wanted—

  “They’re closed.” A ruddy, bowlegged man had just come out of the bar next door.

  Gruber knew he had to look stupid, standing there with his hand on the door, gazing fondly at an ice machine. “What’d you say?”

  “I said they’re closed.” The man motioned toward the clumsily printed sign taped to the door. Merry Christmas! it read. See you on December 26th!

  “Oh.” Gruber blinked at it. How had he not seen that?

  “You visiting for the holidays?” the man asked.

  “Just passing through.”

  “I’m Croc. I own the bar here. I don’t open till four, but if you’re hungry, I’ll make you a burger.”

  Croc? The Cajuns down here were such rednecks. “Actually, I’m…um…looking for my sister.”

  The man’s bushy eyebrows went up. “Does she live in town?”

  “No, but she mentioned coming down this way to, you know, sightsee. Her name’s Jasmine Stratford.”

  Croc chewed harder on the toothpick dangling from one side of his mouth. “Never heard of her. What does she look like?”

  “She’s small, attractive. Part Indian.”

  His eyes were riveted on Gruber’s clearly Caucasian features. “Indian?”

  “East Indian. We have different fathers,” he said.

  “I haven’t seen anyone by that description. But you might check with Henry over at the hotel. He put up a few visitors this past week.”

  Gruber glanced down the dock to see a sun-bleached wooden building on pilings. The words Lil’Cajun were painted on the side. “I’ll do that,” he said. “Thanks.”