"Listen," my sister said, "there's something I need to tell you, but it's sort of a secret."
I perked up. "Oh yeah? What?"
"You remember when I mentioned the book tour, right? How the cities made no sense?"
"Yeah, so?"
"And the only one that did make sense was the event in Atlanta, where you are now?"
"Right."
"Well, the thing is…" She hesitated. "I just discovered something, and I'm feeling a little guilty."
"What is it?" I asked.
"Did you know, Jack wasn't originally scheduled to do that event?"
"Really?"
"Really," she said. "He was a substitute for someone else. And the thing is, the only reason Jack's doing the Atlanta thing at all is because the other person had something he wanted to do instead, and asked Jack for a favor – a big favor, considering how reclusive Jack is."
It wasn't hard to figure out who she meant. "You're talking about Flynn, aren't you?"
"Uh, yeah."
Suddenly, her change in attitude made total sense. My sister – heaven help her – was way too nice for her own good.
As I listened, she went on to tell me that Jack had agreed to do this event as a favor for Flynn because it fell during the week of Flynn and Anna's one-year anniversary as a couple. Apparently, Flynn had been determined to spend the full week alone with Anna, away from prying eyes.
And Jack had stepped in to make that possible.
I had to admit, it was pretty nice.
Anna finished by suggesting that I try to make amends, if only to ensure that I didn't have a miserable summer.
Of course, she was right, even if it wasn't what I'd wanted to hear.
When the call ended, I sank back onto the bed and tried to think. Jack was such a mess of crazy contradictions, with so many sides to his personality, I hardly knew what to think.
But then, I brightened.
Today was that Q&A. I'd be there the whole time. Surely, I'd learn something useful – maybe some new details about his private life or some insight into what made him tick.
Turns out, I was wrong. In the end, I learned nearly nothing – except that he was really good at dodging questions.
Chapter 31
Jack
The center stage wasn't my thing. Now don't get me wrong. I was grateful to my fans and not just for the money. But I didn't enjoy the spotlight – and enjoyed lying even less.
Everyone had a history. As for mine, there was the real version and the one written by the publisher's P.R. people.
Those histories didn't match.
That was fine by me. The less people knew, the better. But that didn't mean I enjoyed standing on a stage, shoveling shit to people who deserved more honesty than I could give them.
As Becka handed the microphone to a gray-haired woman in a flowered dress, I smiled to put the stranger at ease. She'd been waiting with her hand raised for a while now as Becka went from person to person, trying to give everyone a fair shot.
I had to admit, Becka was doing a good job of it, too. She had a way of putting people at ease, making them smile through their nerves. I'd seen it yesterday at the book-signing and more so today as she dealt with a crowd of people all wanting the same thing at the same time.
She was better at this than I'd expected. Smarter, too.
This would've been a good thing, if only I hadn't counted on the opposite – meaning someone who saw only what they were meant to see.
But that wasn't Becka. She was too curious, and noticed far too much.
Across the crowded auditorium, the woman in the flowered dress turned toward the stage and clutched the microphone tighter. "I was wondering… " She gave a nervous giggle. "Do you write your own sex scenes?"
The crowd laughed, and I smiled. No need for me to be a dick about it.
Okay, my books had sex. Not a lot, but enough to keep it real – and to balance the brutality of the other parts. The truth was, my characters were more likely to lose their heads than their hearts – and I didn't mean metaphorically.
With my smile in place, I replied, "I write it all, the good and the bad."
She was still holding the microphone. "If you ask me, it's all good." Her eyes brightened. "Especially those scenes."
My gaze drifted to Becka, whose cheeks had just gone rosy.
She was a blusher, all right.
I liked it.
And I hated it.
The truth was, I was more attracted to her than I should be, even if she was a pain in the ass.
When the laughter died away, I thanked the woman for the compliment and waited for the next question. And then, the one after that, and so on.
Most of the questions were fairly basic. Where do I get my ideas? How do I name my characters? What's the back story of this character or that?
These were the easy questions.
But others, they were more complicated.
My books – I could talk about just fine. But when it came to the topic of myself, I said as little as I could without being a prick. The questions continued hard and fast as Becka hustled from person to person.
Where did I call home? A cabin in the mountains.
Except the cabin was more like a fortress. And it was large enough to host a small army.
Favorite color? Black.
Not because it made me happy, but because it was best for melting into the shadows.
Favorite reading material? Non-fiction.
Not because I didn't enjoy a good story, but because information equaled power, which could be used for good or bad. And then, there were the murky spots in the middle, where people did good things for bad reasons, or vice versa.
Favorite food? Burgers.
Nothing more to that. Just hey, I liked a good burger as much as the next guy.
By the time the session ended, I was ready to move on. And hey, the audience seemed happy enough.
But Becka? She saw more than she should, and I had no doubt that soon, she'd be asking more questions of her own.
I wasn't wrong.
Chapter 32
Becka
Talk about frustrating. I'd just spent over two hours listening to Jack talk – first during his introductory remarks, and then during the Q&A session that followed.
During his actual speech, which had lasted barely thirty minutes, I'd been watching and waiting, thinking that I might finally get some clues into what made him tick.
I hadn't.
Mostly he'd talked about his characters and the process of getting his books made into movies. The audience had been utterly enthralled. But me? I'd been waiting for the good stuff, meaning clues as to who he really was.
No clues came – or at least no clues that told me anything I didn't already know.
Seriously, didn't this guy ever talk about himself?
Apparently not.
But if he thought he was fooling anyone with all of those non-answers, he was crazier than I was. And just for the record, I was feeling pretty darn crazy.
Other than a tense hello, we hadn't said more than two words to each other before his public appearance. And, in spite of my lingering curiosity, I hadn't mentioned the stolen paperback or the fact that he hadn't returned it.
As for Jack, he hadn't mentioned the fact that I'd been – in my sister's words – rather nosy last night.
By mutual agreement, we were apparently pretending that last night had never happened.
There was just one tiny problem. I wasn't feeling all that agreeable. Even worse, I'd come to realize that my sister was right. I had been rather intrusive, which meant that I owed him an apology whether I felt like it or not.
As Jack left the stage to thunderous applause, I stood near the main door, thanking people as they filed out, chatting and laughing like they'd actually enjoyed themselves.
As they did, I tried to put myself in their positions. A week ago, I would've been thrilled, too.
But now, I was mostly unsa
tisfied. This was Jack's last appearance in Atlanta. Tomorrow morning, we'd be flying out to our new destination – some mid-sized town in Eastern Tennessee.
When the auditorium finally emptied, I turned and strode toward the private area behind the stage. By the time I reached it, Jack was already heading out, leaving through a rear exit.
I called out to his receding back, "Wait."
He stopped and turned around, giving me a look that wasn't exactly welcoming.
I hustled forward and asked, "Is there anything else I should be doing?"
"Yeah," he said. "Enjoying yourself."
"What?"
"Do whatever," he said. "You're off the clock." Again, he turned to go, without so much as a goodbye.
Probably I should've just let him leave. But like a moth to the flame, I fluttered forward, drawn by a sudden urge to put all of this unpleasantness behind us.
"Wait," I said for the second time.
Once again, he stopped and turned around, looking even less enthused than he had the first time.
I cleared my throat. "Listen, about last night, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to be rude."
"Forget it," he said. "Anything else?"
The question was way too tempting. Against my better judgment, I said, "Well, since you asked…"
In the back of my mind, I knew I should stop. But I didn't. I couldn’t. Bracing myself, I said, "I am still a little curious. How'd you get that book?" I forced a laugh. "Did you find it on the sidewalk or something?"
His mouth tightened. "No."
So much for that theory.
"Uh, yeah," I stammered. "I didn't think so."
His gaze hardened. "So what did you think?"
At his sharp tone, I almost flinched. "Nothing."
"Wrong answer."
"What, why?"
"Because you're lying."
"You don't know that."
"I do," he said. "So go ahead. Just say it."
I wasn't following. "Say what?"
"What you're thinking."
Yeah, right. "You're not serious."
"Wrong again." He made a forwarding motion with his hand. "So go on. Tell me your theory."
"You mean about the book? And how you got it back?" My stomach knotted, and my spine grew twitchy. I so didn't want to say. But he had asked, so I took a deep breath and just tossed it out there. "Well, if I had to guess, I'd say that you probably, um, charmed her out of it."
His gaze darkened, and the knot in my stomach grew. From the look on his face, he wouldn't know charm if it bit him on the ass.
In a tight voice, he replied, "Yeah? How?"
"What do you mean how?"
"Do you mean I said pretty words and made her blush?" His gaze dipped to my lips, and something in his expression changed. "Like you."
Absently, I reached up to touch my face. It felt warm. Too warm. Suddenly distracted, I murmured, "I'm not sure Darbie's the blushing type."
"So, you wanna know if I fucked her? Is that it?"
I drew back. Talk about cutting to the chase. I wasn't sure what was more shocking – his language or his bluntness.
I stammered, "Well, I wouldn’t have put it that way, but yes, it would make sense. At the book-signing, she, uh, made it pretty clear that she was yours for the taking."
"Yeah? And how about me?"
"What do you mean?"
"Did I make it clear that I was interested?"
"No," I grudgingly admitted. "But people change their minds all the time."
His gaze sharpened. "Do they?"
"Yes, actually." I was living proof of that, because right now I was wishing that I'd been smart enough to leave with everyone else.
But I hadn't.
And now that I'd started this, I felt compelled to finish it.
In a fit of pique, I said, "I don't know why you're acting so funny. It's not like you murdered her to get it." I made a scoffing sound. "Or did you?"
He looked for a long moment before saying in a dangerously quiet voice, "You might want to make up your mind."
"On what?"
"Your theory," he said. "So tell me. Did I fuck her? Or kill her?"
His words were so cold, I stifled a shiver. But if he thought he could scare me off with that attitude, he had another thing coming.
And besides, two could play at this game.
I forced a smile. "Hey, why not both?"
He stared down at me. And for the briefest moment, he looked almost ready to laugh. But he didn't. Instead, he simply asked, "In what order?"
"What?"
"In this scenario of yours, did I fuck her, then kill her?" His mouth tightened. "Or the opposite?"
It took me a moment to realize what he was really saying. And then, when I caught the gist of it, I did the dumbest thing imaginable.
I laughed.
It wasn't a big laugh, more like a secret laugh, like when someone farts in the library. But I couldn’t help it. His question was so sick and twisted, and yet so stupidly funny.
Right. Because necrophilia was everybody's idea of a jolly good time.
My hands flew to my mouth, and I stared up at him in total horror – not because of his statement, but rather because I fully realized that I was acting like a total idiot. Again.
Should I apologize?
Probably not.
I had to face facts. There was no way on Earth he'd take me seriously now, not with me acting like a crazy person.
And besides, I never had the chance to apologize anyway, because once again, he was heading out the door.
This time, I didn't try to stop him.
Regardless, I decided, it was time to turn over a new leaf, even if my curiosity was killing me – even more so the very next day, when the mystery of the book only deepened.
Chapter 33
Becka
I was in the hotel lobby waiting for Jack when a snippy female voice from somewhere behind me called out, "Have you found your book yet?"
Crap. I recognized the voice.
I turned to look. Sure enough, there she was – Darbie, along with the same brunette as before. They were striding toward me, wheeling fashionable suitcases behind them.
Darbie looked beyond satisfied, and maybe a little smug.
So Jack hadn't killed her. Go figure.
It was a joke, obviously, even if I didn't feel like laughing. And why? It was because I was all too aware that Jack had probably done the other thing while retrieving the book – a book which he still hadn't returned, by the way.
Jerk.
And that went double for the dynamic duo, who'd just stopped directly in front of me. From what I could tell, they were checking out of this very same hotel.
As far as Darbie's question, I wasn't quite sure how to answer. Obviously, she'd relinquished the book. But did she realize that Jack hadn't bothered to return it to me?
If not, I so didn't want to be the one to enlighten her. After all, how humiliating was that?
Looking to reveal as little as possible, I stiffly replied, "Yeah. I saw it. So I guess you deserve a thanks."
From me?
I honestly didn't know. On top of that, I had no idea what she knew either. All in all, I was at a serious disadvantage.
Darbie and her friend exchanged a look. With an odd little smile, the brunette asked, "Are you being sarcastic?"
I felt my eyebrows furrow. Was I?
"No," I murmured. "I don't think so."
At this, both of them laughed like I'd just said something funny. Through her laughter, Darbie said, "What, you don't know?"
All I knew was that my timing sucked. As part of my vow to be a better employee, I'd come down to the lobby fifteen minutes early so I'd be waiting when Jack arrived to leave for the airport.
Apparently, that had been a terrible mistake. Probably I should've waited in my room, or maybe even out on the sidewalk – anywhere the two girls weren't.
With a sigh, I turned away, leaving them to think whate
ver they wanted.
But when I did, they sidled up beside me, suitcases and all.
I had no suitcases, not with me, anyway. A half-hour earlier, a bell hop had come up to my room and retrieved my luggage for delivery to the limo, telling me that Jack Ward had ordered the service personally.
The guy wouldn't even accept a tip, telling me that this, too, had been taken care of by Jack.
All in all, it was surprisingly thoughtful.
Who knows? Maybe I wasn't the only one trying to turn over a new leaf. Still, this whole leaf-turning business would've been a whole lot easier if only the girls had simply ignored me and kept on walking.
But they hadn't. And now, they were sidling even closer, as if they were determined to make me feel as uncomfortable as possible.
It was working, too. Still, I refused to run off like a coward.
As I stood in stubborn silence, the brunette turned to the blonde and said in an overly conversational tone, "Hey Darbie, by any chance, do you have some reading material that I could borrow?"
"Why yes," Darbie replied. "I have a bestseller right here in my carry-on."
Oh, for God's sake. They sounded like bad actresses in a late-night infomercial. I could practically see them appearing on my TV. "Say Darbie, do you have a disgusting social disease? Well, I have just the cream to take care of it..."
I rolled my eyes. Give me a break.
And now Darbie was saying, "The author signed it personally, you know."
Her point was obvious. Apparently, Jack had given Darbie a new book as a replacement for mine. And he'd signed it, too.
I gave a silent scoff. Big whoop.
Still, I had to wonder, if Jack had been willing to give them a signed book, why on Earth hadn't he simply done it at the book-signing? I mean, he'd had a whole stack of brand-new copies underneath his table for just such an emergency.
And then it hit me. Probably he'd wanted an official reason to meet up with the girls later on, away from prying eyes, including my own.
I frowned. What a total faker. To think, he'd actually made a pretty good show of giving them the brush-off.
And me? Like a total idiot, I'd fallen for his act.
Talk about stupid.
It didn't help when Darbie crouched down and reached into the outside pocket of her carry-on. She retrieved an oversized paperback and gave it a little wave. "Oh look!" she said. "I have it right here."
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