by Jc Emery
“Can you at least tell me when he will be available for visitors?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s the policy of the department that I can’t give that information out.”
He blows out a frustrated breath and curses quietly. I sit in my seat, uncomfortable and hoping he leaves. Something about him gives me the creeps and makes me want to scream for help. With every passing moment, he becomes more and more jittery. I want to know what the hell his deal is with Jack. From what I see of his dress, he’s not wearing any identifying logos that give his delivery story any validity. It could be my paranoia, but I don’t like this one bit. We get enough visitors in here asking questions about the house, particularly tourists who just start snapping pictures of everything in sight. The worst is when they try to take pictures of the memorials in the garage when the doors are open. Chief Delgado prefers to keep those private and not have them end up all over the internet.
The front door swings open behind the man, and he jumps. I lean over to see who it is and immediately regret taking this volunteer job. Okay, I didn’t “take” it. I asked for it—more like begged, really—and let Daddy work his magic. As if it isn’t bad enough working in the same space as Jameson Hayes for thirty hours a week, seeing his Cranky Pants girlfriend walk in randomly—and having to speak to her—is really killing my mojo.
“Lydia, hi,” I say with a forced smile. Lydia’s dark hair is pulled up in a perfectly orderly bun that I’ve never been able to achieve. Her makeup is minimal, and she’s wearing a sexy sun dress with wedge sandals.
“Melanie,” she says with a tight jaw. Her eyes fall to the wishbone at my neck, and when they fix back on mine, her gaze is icy.
“Are you here for lunch?” I ask her. It’s about that time. I would normally ask if she wants me to call Jameson, but I don’t. Jack is out on a call right now, but I can’t tell his visitor that—it’s against policy.
“Coffee, actually,” she says and sucks in a deep breath. “We need to talk.”
The man with the packages interrupts and slaps his hand down on the ledge.
“I’m still waiting on Lieutenant Hayes,” he says strongly. I ignore him for a beat, making eye contact with Lydia and trying to maintain my composure.
“Great, I’m sure Jameson will be out in a few.” I gesture to the empty seats behind her. She shakes her head and levels me with a flat stare.
“No, we need to talk.” I stare at her blankly for a long while, unsure how to respond. What do you say to the girlfriend of the man you’re in love with?
“I don’t think we need to talk. Do we? No offense, Lydia, but you and I barely know each other and have little to talk about, I’m sure. I mean, I don’t think we have much in common. After all, I’m an undergrad and you’re a . . . whatever you are, and I’m at work, so . . .” I stop my embarrassing rambling because it’s obvious how nervous I am from the way I’m tripping over my words and is practically advertising what’s in my heart.
Man-stealing whore.
Man thief.
Thieving whore.
Any variation of thief and whore will do at this point. That’s what this feels like—because that’s what this is. I want what’s hers, and I’m doing a terrible job at being an ally for women everywhere because I should be all “hoes before bros,” but every fiber of my being wants to jump that ship and hitch my wagon to the “all for love” cause.
“We’re in love with the same man. That’s commonality enough.”
Chapter 9
Melanie
We’re in love with the same man. That’s commonality enough.
“Oh, that,” I mumble and clumsily grab for the PA system to call Chief Delgado to the desk because I have no other idea what to do. I’m not calling Jameson down here to kick his crazy girlfriend out. “Chief Delgado, will you please, please, please for the love of all that is holy, come to the house watch desk, please?”
I’m begging into an intercom system that broadcasts throughout the entire house, over three stories. Everybody inside will hear. My message is about ten levels of unprofessional, but oh well. They can fire me, sure, but the way this week is going, that might not be the worst thing ever. My eyes dart around the small space, doing my best to totally avoid both Lydia and the stranger. It doesn’t work. Lydia’s eyes brighten slightly at my increasingly panicky demeanor. Shit. I might as well wear a sign that says GUILTY across my chest.
“I have other deliveries to make, so can you just page Lieutenant Hayes?” The man’s eyes are growing cold, and he’s getting even tenser. What the hell is his deal with Jack? I mean, seriously?
“Sir, for the last time, I told you that Lieutenant Hayes is occupied right now. I can’t allow you to tour the facility, I can’t page him, I can’t give you his schedule, and I can’t tell you when he will be available. How many different ways do I have to say it?” My chest is heaving as I snap out the words, having grown totally fed up with everything. Monday. Fucking Monday.
“I’ll be back when you’re not so busy,” he says and turns on his heel, darting out the front door just as Chief Delgado approaches from the opposite end of the lobby.
“Lydia,” Chief Delgado says with a smile. He pushes through the swinging door and gives her a friendly hug. Well, that’s one person on this island who seems to like the woman. “Are you intimidating my new volunteer?”
Turning to me, he asks, “You’re not afraid of Lydia, are you?” His eyes are twinkling in a teasing manner.
“No,” I say quickly on a lie. “Of course I’m not afraid of Lydia. Sweet, darling Lydia. No reason to be afraid of her.” My lie spirals into an unintentional insult the way it flies out of my mouth. Of course I’m afraid of Lydia. I kind of, sort of kissed her boyfriend.
We’re in love with the same man.
Moving on.
“A guy came in looking for Jack. He demanded a house tour and Jack’s schedule. He just totally freaked me out. Yeah, he was scary.” I nod my head like it will make my story that much more believable. “He left when you came in.”
And I can’t shut up. Mom used to say she always knew when I was being evasive because I couldn’t stop myself from babbling incessantly more than I usually do. Claire, on the other hand, was great with the short and simple lies and rarely got caught.
“Well, he’s gone now. That all you need, Kincaid?”
“Melanie and I would like to go for a coffee. Would that be okay, Roger?”
My eyes widen as Lydia’s words register. I start moving the papers around my desk frantically, searching for a lifeline to not go anywhere with Lydia. If I were in her position, I’d have a pair of cement shoes for me to wear right into the Hudson.
“I have so much work to do here. You’re sweet—so sweet—to ask, but I don’t want to get behind. Civil service, lots of paperwork.” Again with the nodding and the not shutting up. Fuck. I wonder if I could clear the room before anyone stopped me if I were to just make a run for it?
“Kincaid, you need a break. You’re acting weird,” Chief Delgado says and pushes his way back through the swinging door. Up the steps and right behind me, he stands and shakes the chair I’m in.
I rise to my feet and turn to face him. With panicky eyes, I telepathically beg for him to spare me. But he doesn’t. Roger Delgado is a middle-aged man with no clue what I’m trying to say. Lydia understands the “get me the fuck out of this” eyeball lingo, I’m sure. She’s a woman. We know these things. And because she knows these things, she knows she has the upper hand and she knows that I’m about half a second from pissing my pants for a perceived slight against her that I haven’t even really made but really, really want to.
“Chief, I don’t have to go,” I say quietly with a tight jaw.
“You deserve a coffee break.” He pats me on the back and nearly pushes me out of the booth. I grab my purse on the way down the steps.
“I thought you liked me,” I hiss as I pass Lydia and head out the door.
The humidity immed
iately assaults my senses. The warm early afternoon sun feels glorious on my skin. I regret not bringing my sunglasses with me. Lydia steps beside me and turns to the left on the sidewalk and moves down the block. I follow quietly behind her, still trying to figure out why in the hell I’m doing this. Part of it must be this sick need to validate what’s going on between Jameson and me. Sometimes it feels like a stupid childish fantasy that I’ve made up in my head. I pull my hand away when I realize I’m touching my necklace again. I wonder how often I do that.
We walk in silence to the end of the block and make a left. At the next corner sits a tiny little coffee shop that I’ve never seen before. It has a green and yellow canopy above the tall windows, and inside are wicker chairs tucked under marble tabletops. The menu above the counter almost reads like another language entirely. It’s cute and unique but doesn’t look terribly trendy, and there are no hipsters in sight. And until this moment I thought I was reasonably cool because of my way complex order at Starbucks. Ugh. Jameson’s girlfriend wears cute sun dresses, can do a perfect bun in her hair, and favors quaint little coffee shops. I’m leveling up on pathetic. It’s one thing to want her boyfriend but another entirely to be jealous of her clothing, hair, and beverage choices.
We order our drinks—she knows the language and orders without issue, while I stumble over everything from the size to the type of milk I want—and we take a seat next to the window while we wait for them to bring our drinks to our table. Because apparently they do fancy shit like that here.
Lydia offers nothing in the way of conversation—or confrontation—and instead sits quietly with her eyes finding mine every now and then. She seems nervous now, and for some reason I don’t know how to handle this. I want to make this easier.
“This is a cute place,” I say and try to make it sound casual even though it’s so not, because in my heart I’m totally the other woman even if I’ve barely even touched her man. I guess lip to lip action, however very minimal, still counts as lip action though. So, maybe I’m more of a home-wrecker than I think?
“It is,” she says with a soft smile. She sounds happy. A waiter brings us our coffees. Lydia takes a sip of hers while I wait for mine to cool off a bit. “We met in this coffee shop.”
I stop breathing for a good long moment before I can manage to force my lungs to get going again. I’ll give her this—she doesn’t test the waters before diving in.
“If you’d like, I can take you on a tour of the landmarks of our relationship from start to finish. A few blocks away is the diner we ate at the night he told me he loves me for the first time.”
I keep my head down because she’s not stopping and it doesn’t really matter what I say. I’m the villain in her eyes. I just . . . can’t bear to look at her. If I’m being honest—I’m the villain in my eyes too.
“When we met, he and Hennessey were renting this crappy little apartment in Chinatown. It’s probably a mile or so down Broadway. Anyway, he made love to me for the first time in that apartment. It wasn’t the first time we fucked, though—that was someplace else. Would you like to hear about that?”
“No,” I say firmly and raise my head. I give her my full attention now. My heart is racing, palms sweating, and my stomach is freaking out on me. “Whatever you think is going on between me and Jameson isn’t, okay? We’re just friends.”
Friends.
Right.
“Cheating is about more than just touching, Melanie,” she says coolly. Her eyes betray the bored tone she’s going for. They’re wide and teary and the only thing about her that shows me that this conversation is hard on her. Somehow even harder on her than it is on me. “If Jameson just wanted to fuck you, it might be easier to handle.”
“Whatever is going on in your relationship—”
“He has good taste in jewelry,” she says and lifts a hand to the small diamonds in her ears. My hand finds its way to my gold wishbone. I don’t address her comment, because I don’t have a defense.
“I’m torn between hating you and realizing that you’re not the problem. Jameson is. I’ve lost his attention.” She blows out a breath and sniffles. I didn’t realize it was possible, but I feel terrible for her. She obviously loves him, and this is painful for her. I can’t even process what’s happening right now. I haven’t really done anything wrong. One tiny kiss. It wasn’t right, but I know that now. It’s definitely not what she seems to be accusing me of though.
“You’re right. I’m not the problem. Your relationship is your problem. If you have an issue with it, you talk to your boyfriend about it, not me.”
“You love him, so you know how amazing he is. I hope you understand that I’m going to fight for him.”
For the first time since she walked into the house, I don’t feel consumed by shame and guilt. The entire morning’s been one shit storm after another, and this is the final straw. I’m done.
“Let me lay it out for you, Lydia. I like Jameson, and by ‘like’ I mean I like him a lot. He’s smart and funny and sexy and thoughtful in ways I’ve only dreamed about. When I say I like him, I mean that I like him enough to be selfish with him and to want him to want me enough to get rid of you. But I’m just the girl who falls for the wrong guy at the wrong time. He’s yours as long as he chooses to be. I’m not trying to steal him from you, but let me be perfectly clear when I say this.” I clear my throat and make sure I have her full attention before continuing. “You can corner me, shame me, and make me feel two inches tall all you’d like. It doesn’t change the fact that the man you love doesn’t exactly feel the same for you. You want to fight for him? Go for it, but I’m done.”
I stand from the table and stomp out of the cute little cafe that I’ll never set foot in again. It’s hard enough feeling the way I do about Jameson and knowing he has a girlfriend, but it’s a whole other ball game to be ambushed by his girlfriend. I’m back at the fire house before I can calm myself down. Chief Delgado is at the desk with his brows drawn together and his eyes downcast.
“Let me give you some unsolicited advice, Kincaid,” he says and lifts my phone in the air so I can see the screen. Texts are pouring in from Jameson, one after the other. Some edging the line of flirty and inappropriate for friends—CHIEF ISN’T AS CUTE AS YOU AT THE DESK—and others panicky—WHERE DID YOU GO?
“It’s not worth it. Whatever it is, it’s not worth it,” he says and sets my phone back down on the desk before he stands, hops down the stairs, and heads down the hall. I pull myself up to my desk and eye the texts that have been coming in since I left.
OUT FOR WALK. BACK NOW, I text back and then put my phone on silent and shove it in my purse. Lydia ambushing me sucked, but the fact that she felt the need to do it sucks even more. Chief Delgado’s words ring in my ears.
It’s not worth it.
Only, I think he might be.
Christmas
Chapter 10
Jameson
One Week until Christmas
“If one more person tries roasting chestnuts over an open fire this season, I’m gonna start roasting their nuts,” Hennessey gripes from beside me.
We’ve just gotten back to the house from a call where a couple of teenagers tried to roast chestnuts . . . in their fireplace. It didn’t end well. There were no injuries, but there’s substantial damage to their fireplace, surrounding walls, and what is, apparently, their parents’ antique spoon collection.
This last call was just the icing on the cake of this crappy day. Yesterday we responded to a hot dog cart fire, which pissed us all off. It was our favorite hot dog vendor, who suffered minor burns, but his cart had been lobbed with a gas-drenched rag that had been lit on fire. I don’t know who the fuck would want to do that to Carlos, but it’s fucked.
And the worst part is Carlos was freaking out and making it hard for us to help him—he was on fire, ya know—and I couldn’t help but think how Mel is going to miss his Italian sausages if he goes out of business. Then I started thinking about how fuc
king stupid it is that she won’t return my calls. And that led to a bad mood where I ended up snapping at some old man for complaining about where I parked the truck. I was putting out a man on fire, so excuse the fuck out of me. So I sent Mel a text to let her know about Carlos—because she’s crazy and wants to know stuff like this. She’s probably been down to the hospital to visit him already. For a woman who professes to have few friends, she makes them everywhere she goes. She’s just nice to almost everyone. Except for me because, again, she’s not returning my fucking calls. Or texts. I tried email, and that was a no-go.
I know she flew in for the holidays two days ago. I saw it on Facebook. And I know the last time we spoke she asked for space, but that was before Thanksgiving, so she’s had space. And my mood isn’t helped by the fact that she and Royal had dinner together last night, and not only did neither of them invite me, but neither even told me about it.
Not that they can’t have dinner without me, but you would think my own sister wouldn’t shut me out when it comes to Lulu.
Only, she doesn’t really know what Lulu means to me.
Not yet, anyway.
Soon enough, everyone is going to know what she means to me. The lease on my apartment is up in March, so after the holidays I’m going to sit Lydia down and let her know this isn’t working. She already knows we’re headed here—I can feel it—but neither of us has had the guts to say it yet. Right before Thanksgiving, I almost did it, but we had this big family dinner planned, and it was too late for her to book a ticket to spend the holiday with her folks in Maine. I almost did it before Halloween. She wanted to go to a costume party, I didn’t, and she went anyway—wearing a tiny fucking schoolgirl uniform—and I didn’t care. I used to care. It used to make me go all caveman and want her to cover up, the idea of men looking at her. Instead, this year I spent the night laying on the couch and looking at pictures Mel was tagged in at some frat party. In one picture, some douche was pinning her to his side and kissing her cheek. She was in a cute kitten suit.
