by Clara Stone
“I love you, Jessica Owens,” I whisper.
Her breath hitches, and her mouth parts slightly.
“I’ve been in love with part of you since the day we first met. And ever since, I’ve been falling more and more in love with every part of you, little by little. I never thought I’d see the day when I fell in love, but I have. I’m in love with you.”
This time, she kisses me, her arms wrapped around me, and my heart squeezes in a good way.
When she pulls back, she’s smiling, her lower lip clasped between her teeth. Her gaze drifts from my mouth to my eyes.
“I don’t understand your specific kind of crazy, and you annoy the crap out of me. But you know what? There isn’t anyone I’d rather spend every unbelievable, irritating moment with than you. I love you, Harry, for everything you are. Your crazy, your humor, your heart . . . every single thing.” Her voice gets softer as she speaks, like she’s being choked with her own emotion. She kisses me gently and then whispers the next words, though they echo as loud as ringing bells in my head. “I love you, Harrington Brad Lovelly.”
I kiss her then, deeply, losing myself in a joy more pure than anything I’ve ever felt.
“LAST PRACTICE BEFORE our big show on Friday, kids,” Tom reminds us.
I took the entire week off from Blue Tango so I could spend more time practicing with the guys. I owe it to them. Heck, I owe it to myself to give it my best. Especially if I want the chance to stay in the band permanently. Which I do. This is my dream, and if this show goes well, it could put The Torque on the map.
So, for the next few hours, we work on fine-tuning the songs and lineup, rehearsing our set forward and backward.
The boys eventually take a break to go out and grab something to eat, but I don’t. I grab my headphones instead, and play back the spot in my new solo that I keep having trouble with over and over, trying to figure out why I can’t get it right and ignoring my knotting stomach. I don’t know how many times I listen to those same thirty seconds. But I’m finally so frustrated by my inability to get it right that I scream in frustration, flinging my drumsticks across the room.
A moment later, they appear in front of my face, held by a hand wearing black nail polish and a spiked wristband. Jarod. Embarrassment licks my skin. I remove the headphones and look up at him, nervous. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you guys were back.”
He gives me a lazy grin. “We’re not. They’re taking extended break, so I thought I’d come back with some food.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, taking the foil-wrapped offering and setting it on top of the speaker behind me. “I’m really not hungry, though.”
He runs a finger along the rim of the snare drum with a reckless shrug. “No problem. Still having trouble?”
I sigh and nod, defeated. “I just can’t figure out why I can’t get it right.”
“Here, let me hear it,” he says, crossing his arms and standing off to the side. He closes his eyes and waits, the very picture of listening attentively.
“Okay.” I pick up the drumsticks and twirl them once. I close my eyes and tap the sticks together, counting myself in. And then I play. I concentrate on the music in my head and the way my wrists respond to it. I’m almost at the end, I realize and it sounds much better than it did even a few minutes ago, but then . . .
My eyes spring open as I fumble the last couple beats. “Damn it.”
“I see what you mean,” Jarod says. He studies the drums, like they’re a sculpture he needs to mold. I suppose he is kind of Torque’s Michelangelo, seeing as he’s the one behind ninety percent of our music. “How about we try something a little different?” He moves behind me, gesturing for me to scoot forward on the tiny stool.
Confused, I get up, but he places a hand on my shoulder and swings in behind me. He pulls me back down, and I perch rigidly on the edge of the stool. “Jarod—”
“Just watch.” He wraps his arms around my body and takes the sticks from my hands. He starts to play, but I can’t pay attention. He’s too close. His chest is plastered against my back, and his arms and legs cage me in.
“Okay,” he says when he’s done, offering me the drumsticks. “You try it now.”
I swallow, my hands shaking as I take the sticks. He places his hands over mine, like he’s about to teach me how to play, and his breath fans against my neck. I’ve had it.
“Jarod, stop.” I get abruptly to my feet, nearly knocking him on his ass. I step away from both him and the drums, putting at least five feet of space between us. “I don’t know what—”
“Let’s just cut to the chase, Jess,” he says, cocky. He gets to his feet and saunters toward me, his expression one of lust. “I like you. And I know you like me.”
“I—”
He puts up his finger, cutting me off, and takes another step. I take one back. “I know you do, Jess. Every time I’m near you, every time my hand brushes your skin, you flush and shiver. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I have. Many times.”
“Yeah, because you creep me out,” is what I want to say, but don’t. He advances again, and I retreat.
“And I couldn’t help but notice that your boy-toy hasn’t been to our practices for a little while, so I figured you broke things off with him. We can be together, now.”
“Are you delusional?” I spit, as my back hits the wall. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Delusional?” He scoffs, placing his hands on either side of my head. I try hard not to flinch, to stand tall though everything in me is wishing I could shrink into the wall behind me. “Hardly. Especially now that I’ve stopped taking my medication.” He runs the back of his hand over my cheek and I struggle to keep my composure as my stomach roils with revulsion. Medication? What medication?
“I don’t like you, Jarod.” I wanted it to sound strong, sure, but instead it comes out just barely above a whisper.
“Then why are you still here?” he challenges, his face coming closer than ever before. The smell of alcohol fills the air between us.
“Because I love playing the drums.”
“Yes. Exactly. Can’t you see it, Jess? You and me, together. Making beautiful music on and off stage. We’re perfect for each other, baby.”
I’ve had enough. He might be the lead singer of The Torque, but I’m not willing to sell myself to be part of it. I shove at his chest, and instead of taking it as the rejection it is, he takes it as the exact opposite, pressing his mouth to mine.
My muffled protests fill the air and my hands beat at his chest. When he doesn’t budge, I bite down hard on his lip.
“Ouch!” He wipes his lower lip with his thumb and checks it for blood, anger and confusion mixing into something dangerous in his eyes. “What was that for?”
I swing my hand across his face in response. “Don’t ever touch me.” I shove past him, heading for the exit, just as the rest of the guys walk in, soda cups in hand.
“Hey, Jessica!” Joel lifts his hand up to give me a high-five.
I give him a weak smile and slap it as I walk past them, hoping they can’t see how badly I’m shaking.
“Where are you going?” Jackson asks, while Tom’s smile disappears. He looks to Jarod, then to me.
“Break.”
I make it outside, just past the barn door, before I let out a scream, my head cradled between my hands. I fight back the tears ready to pour out from deep inside my chest. Why? Why can’t I ever escape my past?
“Jessica?” Tom’s voice comes from behind me. I pivot and find him standing in the doorway, his face scrunched with concern. I don’t know what he sees in my face, but the next moment he’s running toward me. “What happened? Everything okay?”
I shake my head. “I’m fine. I just—I just need some time.”
“Jess—”
“It’s fine. I handled it.”
He sighs, rapping his hands on his thighs like he’s not quite sure whether to believe me, comfort me, or slap me. “Okay. Are you . . . you ready to come back i
n?”
“Yeah. Just a few more minutes,” I say.
He nods, his lips pursed in a grim line. He pulls the barn door open and then stops. “Whatever Jarod did, I’m sorry,” he says, his hand on the barn door as, he avoids making eye contact. “And I know this is a dick thing to ask, but, whatever he did, could you please not tell Killshot about it until Sunday? I have a feeling it won’t go all that well. For Jarod.”
I’m shell-shocked. I hadn’t even gotten that far yet. But he’s right. What am I going to tell Harrington?
He hangs his head and draws a long, painful breath. “I’ve known Jarod for as long as I can remember, so I know what he’s like. I know he fucked things up, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
I wrap my arms around my waist, not sure how to respond.
“Okay. Well”—he takes another deep breath—“I’m going to go back inside. Come in when you’re ready, Jessica.”
Then he leaves me to my thoughts.
Will this Friday be the last time I ever play in a band? That possibility troubles me more than the fact I got assaulted by the lead singer, and I don’t know what that says about me. Am I willing to risk everything for music? Or am I just so conditioned to being the mishandled plaything of men that it doesn’t even faze me anymore? God, how messed up does that make me?
I scoff out loud and shake my head, trying to clear it of the dismal thoughts circling my mind like vultures.
I just need to take it one day at a time. Same as always. For now, the only thing I need to concentrate on is going back in there, getting back on that chair, and playing the drums.
Not Jarod. Not his hands on my skin. And definitely not that kiss.
I turn around and take a huge breath. I let it out slowly. I’ve got it. I’ve got this. I wipe my hands on my pants and walk back into the barn.
My head held high. One foot in front of the other.
“CAN YOU CHECK up on these names for me?” I slide a piece of paper across the table to Neil. We’re holed up in a warehouse on the outskirts of Jacksonville, getting everything set up for the last leg of the race. In ten days’ time, we’ll have Stamos and the other crime lords tagged and bagged.
And then finally, finally, Jess and I can be together without feeling like a gun’s trained on our backs.
Benson comes into the room and the conversation around me comes to a stop as everyone turns to look at her.
“Assistant Director Benson,” Wilson says. She looks around casually, as if she’s done all of this, coordinating a high profile strike team, a million times before. I suppose she probably has, given that she’s been in the bureau for thirty years already.
“Agent Wilson.” She returns his greeting before turning to me. “Agent Lovelly.”
“Ma’am.” I give her a firm handshake.
“Looks like you’ve done it, Agent,” she compliments, looking around at the diagrams and strategy notes littered across the table and posted up around the room.
“Did you doubt my prowess?”
She smiles. An honest to God smile. She picks up a piece of paper and asks, “So, tell me, what’s the plan here?”
I look to Wilson, quirking my eyebrow in question, and he gestures for me to go ahead and explain.
“Okay, yeah. Sure.” I pick up a map and lay it on the table, over Neil’s laptop. He gives me an incredulous look as he shakes his head and gets up. “I needed the space . . . ? Thanks, man.”
“All right, so this is where the fight’s supposed to happen.” I pick up a marker, place the cap end between my teeth, and pull off the bottom, marking the appropriate building with a bright red circle. “And here is where Team A, B, and C will be positioned.” I place an X where each of the teams will be. “The fight doesn’t start until eleven p.m. Saturday night. But thanks to our man Harris, we know that there’s a large number of private jets coming into town, all within a two hundred mile radius and between Friday and Saturday.” I look at Benson, then to Wilson. When I see I still have their rapt attention, I continue. “Since I’m expected to be in-house by nine p.m. that night, for drinks and pre-party celebrations and what not, I’ll be inside ground zero.”
“What about backup?” Benson asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, here’s the thing about that.” I shoot a quick look to Wilson, who nods slightly, and then turn back to Benson. “Since we don’t really have anyone else at ground zero, and don’t have time for another agent to infiltrate their way into the private event, I want Fisher Young as my backup.”
“I thought Agent Young was suspended? And how the hell will you sneak him in, if we can’t get other agents on the VIP list?”
I lick my lips. Here goes nothing. “Assistant Director Benson . . . Fisher has been acting as my inside man all this time. He’s the reason I went looking into Stamos in the first place, and I have no doubt that he’ll have my back no matter what.”
A muscle pops in her jaw, and she looks like she’s about to lose a tooth or two from the way she’s grinding her teeth. “Did you know about this?” She shoots the question to Wilson.
“Yes, ma’am. As did you. I filed the paperwork authorizing Agent Fisher to act as a consultant a couple weeks ago,” Wilson responds. But what he doesn’t say is that I’d already been using him as backup long before that.
Benson grumbles, glaring. “You know I don’t have time to look over every requisition form. You were banking on the fact that I wouldn’t notice until after this mission was over, weren’t you, Wilson?”
“Not at all. My unbiased opinion is that we should enlist his help during this mission. He’s been an asset to this case so far, and I have no reason to believe he won’t be now.”
“Unbiased? Wilson, you’re nothing but biased when it comes to that boy.” She points at me. “And this one too.”
He shrugs. “Can you blame me? Besides, Agent Young knows Stamos and his men. He’s already in place to act as Agent Lovelly’s backup. I can only see that as an asset.”
“Fine. I’ll think about it,” she responds, crossing her arms and looking down at the map once more.
Wilson winks at me.
“What about eyes and ears?” Benson asks.
“We’ve got that covered.” I snap my fingers toward Neil. He looks up from yet another laptop, one he apparently commandeered from the analyst hovering over his shoulder. “Harris, can you pull up our feed for ground zero?”
“Yes, Agent Lovelly.” His fingers move faster with each passing moment, until he finally slows down to a single click, and then another. “Here we go. Live feed’s pulling up now.”
Sixteen different shots of the building across the street, both interior and exterior, pop up on the bank of fifty-five inch TVs mounted to the wall. “We have a total of sixty-four camera’s hacked, with coverage from the basement to the storage closet on the top floor. As for audio, we have connection to thirty of those cameras, the ones most likely to have heavy foot-traffic,” I say, walking toward the wall and indicating the rotating images on the screen like I’m showing off a game show contestant’s potential prize.
“Impressive. How did you manage that?” Benson asks, and I’m only mildly shocked to see that she actually does seem impressed. It’s almost as surprising as the flush coloring Harris’s cheeks.
“Well, ma’am, the credit goes completely to Harris here. He’s our man.”
She arches an eyebrow, and Harris, if at all possible, turns a shade redder, the blush creeping to the tips of his ears. “Do I even want to know how he gained such experience?”
“No, ma’am. Not really.” I grin.
“Okay.” She turns her attention to the screens and I see Harris breathe a sigh of relief in the background. “Do you have a plan B?”
“Plan B, ma’am?” I ask.
“You’re kidding me, right?” She sounds surprised. “Agent Lovelly, every good agent has a plan B, maybe even a plan C, for when things go wrong.”
“Oh. That plan B and C. Right.” I win
k at Wilson, who suppresses his laughter as Benson scowls, clearly not amused with my shenanigans. I sober instantly and continue. “If things don’t go as planned, then we’ll have Team B go in through the back door. Fisher will get the cards that gain our team access to the club’s inner arena.” I go on to explain how they’ll hit the west wing of the building first, and then the second floor. How we know, from what Roberto told us, the exact location where Stamos will be meeting with the others, and how that meeting’s supposed to take place during the headliner fight. My fight.
“Impressive,” Benson says again.
“And as for plan C—”
“You actually have a plan C?” she asks, clearly surprised.
“You said it yourself, Assistant Director. A good agent always plans for as many outcomes as possible, and I’m one hell of a great agent.” I smile and go into the details for plan C, which involves how we plan to track Stamos and the other bosses if, for some reason, they manage to escape. We also have the local police department on standby, in case we need them to put up blockades on all the major highways leading into and out of the area, and the FAA ready to forward the tail numbers of any unregistered flight plans.”
“Okay. I’m sold,” Benson says, nodding in approval. I grin wide. I can’t believe it actually worked. I mean, I knew my plan was solid—Wilson, Harris, and everyone on the strike team approved of it—but convincing Assistant Director Benson is notoriously more difficult.
“Nice work, Agent,” she says, turning back to the spread of blueprints and files on the table. “Now, walk me through the steps one more time.”
It takes us another two hours to iron out the logistics and answer all of Benson’s Devil’s advocate questions, then we’re packing up, ready to call it a day. But before I leave, I remember I wanted to do one more thing.
“Harris.” I jog over to him.
“Yes, Agent Lovelly.” He doesn’t look up as he continues to pack away his laptop and an assortment of cables and files.
