Wordless

by Sabrina Stark

I didn't need to tell them twice. Already, they were hustling forward like they'd just won the line lottery.

  As far as their names, I had every confidence that Jack could handle the logistics just fine. As for myself, I had a different problem entirely.

  I watched with growing concern as Imogen claimed the spot where the two girls had just been standing. Immediately a chorus of complaints broke out behind her.

  The loudest came from the next person in line – an older lady in a postal carrier uniform. She looked to Imogen and said, "What the hell are you doing?"

  I spoke up. "Nothing. She's moving to the back."

  Imogen said, "No, I'm not." She gave the woman a dismissive look. "Don't you know who I am?"

  "I don't care if you're Princess Buttercup," the woman said. "I was here first."

  Imogen smiled. "Yes. But I was here better." She threw back her shoulders and announced. "I'm a V.I.P."

  From somewhere in the back, a deep male voice hollered out, "You mean S.O.B.!"

  I frowned. S.O.B.? As in son-of-a-bitch?

  Weird. I'd never heard a woman called that before.

  Imogen turned and glowered at the crowd. "Who said that?"

  A woman's voice called out, "I did!"

  "You did not!" Imogen yelled back.

  "Well, I am now!" the woman hollered.

  Yikes. As much as I agreed with the sentiment, I didn't like the way this was going.

  In the calmest voice I could muster, I called out to no one in particular, "Don't worry. Everything's under control."

  This wasn't exactly true. Imogen's face flushed a deep red as she turned to glare at me. "Aren't you going to do something?"

  "Yeah. I just did."

  "I meant something better."

  I scoffed, "Like what?"

  She made a little fluttering motion with her hands. "Oh, I don't know. Kick them out or something."

  I almost laughed in her face. "If anyone's getting kicked out, it's you."

  Imogen gave another huff. "We'll see about that."

  Yes. We would.

  When Jack finished with the teenagers, I motioned the postal carrier forward. I didn't even bother getting her name, because my primary concern was keeping the line moving – without causing a riot.

  Unfortunately, just as the woman moved toward the table, Imogen did, too. They jostled for position until the postal carrier gave Imogen an elbow to the side and kept on moving.

  With a grunt, Imogen staggered sideways like she'd been hit by a linebacker. When she caught her balance, she turned accusing eyes on me. "Did you fuckin' see that?" she said in a voice that was all American. "I was totally assaulted."

  I threw up my hands. "Sorry, no one cares. And what happened to your accent?"

  She froze. "Pardon?"

  "Nice try," I said. "And as far as the line, you might as well give it up. You're not going next."

  The guy behind her said, "Got that right."

  True to his word, he hustled forward even before Jack had finished with the postal carrier. Imogen glared daggers at the guy before saying in a voice that was all duchess, "Well, I never!"

  If this were remotely funny, I might've laughed. Did people actually say that in real life?

  I had no idea.

  I just knew that this wasn't going well. I snuck a quick glance at Jack. Judging from his expression, we were in total agreement.

  Chapter 60

  Jack

  It was a shit-show if I ever saw one. And there she was in the middle of it – the girl I loved, even if she was a magnet for trouble.

  Screw it.

  She could beg all she wanted. This wasn't happening. I pushed back my chair and stood. A few strides later, I was at the front of the line.

  I looked to Imogen and said, "You're leaving."

  Her lips formed a familiar pout. "Oh, so now I have your attention?"

  "Yeah. For twenty seconds." I glanced toward the main entrance. "Ten if you hustle."

  With a jerk of her chin, she replied, "I'm not 'hustling' anywhere."

  Becka edged her way between us and gave me a tense smile. "How about this? I'll just escort her out. Easy-peasy."

  From behind her, Imogen muttered, "God, you are such a yokel."

  Becka whirled around to face her. "Yeah. And you're a big faker. So I guess we're even."

  Imogen looked ready to snap. "What?"

  Becka rolled her eyes. "Oh, please." And then, in the worst English accent I'd ever heard, she continued by saying, "Oh, look at me. I'm all fancy and English. Oh, do bring me some tea, and a…" She paused as if thinking. "Crumpet?" She turned and gave me a questioning look.

  I shrugged. "Hell if I know."

  We both looked to Imogen.

  She said nothing.

  Becka made a forwarding motion with her hand. "Go on. Tell us."

  Imogen drew back. "Pardon?"

  "Well, surely you know," Becka persisted. "What's a crumpet?"

  A guy near the front of the line said, "It's a donut."

  "It is not," a female voice said. "It's a pastry."

  "Yeah," the guy said. "Donut, pastry – same thing."

  "You're so full of it," the woman said. "I'm telling you, it's more like a croissant."

  A third voice, female and older, chimed in, "No, it's a muffin."

  The first woman snapped, "If it's a muffin, they'd just call it a muffin."

  "Yeah, but it's an English muffin," the older woman said. "Except they only toast it on one side."

  The donut guy said, "Oh come on! That's not even a pastry."

  The older woman replied, "I never said that it was."

  The first woman said, "It isn't? Are you sure? Muffins are pastries, right?"

  They were still debating it when Imogen turned and yelled out to the crowd. "You know what? You're all idiots!"

  Next to her, Becka gave a snort of derision. "At least we know what a crumpet is."

  Imogen whirled to face her. "You do not!"

  "Well…" Becka said. "We do now." From the line, there was a chorus of agreement.

  Imogen turned once again to the crowd. "Yeah, and so do I. Big whoop!"

  The donut guy spoke up. "Hey, how come you're not English no more?"

  "Oh, shut up!" Imogen yelled. "How come you're still an idiot?"

  Enough was enough. As the guy returned an insult of his own, I moved forward and reached for Imogen's elbow. "Time to go."

  She yanked it away and announced, "And I suppose you're going to make me?"

  Shit.

  From the gleam in her eyes, this was exactly what she wanted – a nice public spectacle for her social media followers. Apparently, I'd be playing the role of Bad Guy.

  I didn't give two shits about her followers – or the bad publicity. But the concern in Becka's eyes made me pause.

  Not for long.

  One way or another, Imogen was leaving.

  With a slow smile, I lowered my head until my lips nearly brushed her ear. In a casual whisper, I said, "Oh, I don't know, Rachel. I think you're gonna head out on your own."

  She gave a hard swallow. "What?"

  "Or should I call you Ms. Krepke?"

  With a gasp, she pulled back. Our eyes locked, and she swallowed again. Her surprise was obvious, but she shouldn't have been.

  Her accent was sloppy, and her back story was paper thin. On the internet, or hell, even on TV, she did a fine enough job. But here, in a crowd of hostiles, she was way out of her league.

  I flicked my head toward the entrance. "You've got ten seconds."

  "Fine," she said. "If that's what you want." And with that, she turned on her heel and stalked toward the entrance.

  Silently, the others watched her go.

  When she pushed open the door and walked through it, a cheer erupted from the crowd. At the sound, Imogen whirled back and flipped all of us the double bird before turning and stomping away for good.

  When I looked to Becka, she gave me a tentative smile. "
You know," she said, "that didn't turn out half as bad as I feared."

  What could I say to that? Hell, I produced words for a living. But Becka – she left me tongue-tied and wordless, even when I should've been ranting.

  And now I couldn’t help it. I smiled back.

  Talk about messed up.

  And if I knew Imogen, this wasn't over.

  Chapter 61

  Becka

  From the car's passenger's seat, I stared at the image on my cell phone. "A trollop?"

  From behind the wheel, Jack said, "What?"

  I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "A trollop – that's what she called me."

  Even worse, Imogen had done this on her infamous social media account, which meant that a few hundred thousand people were now under the impression that I was a boyfriend-stealing ho-bag.

  Jack frowned. "When?"

  I checked the time of the post. "A couple of hours ago."

  Until now, I'd been utterly oblivious. The book signing had ended only fifteen minutes earlier, and we were on our way to the airport.

  I'd just powered up my cell phone, only to discover that I had at least a dozen voicemails and a whole slew of texts.

  In one of those texts, a friend had included a link to the original post, where Imogen had shared a photo of me, obviously taken sometime during the book-signing.

  The photo's caption read, "Becka the Trollop."

  Underneath the photo, Imogen had gone on to announce to the whole world that I'd run off with her guy. She'd even included my last name.

  How very helpful.

  I sighed. Yup. That was me. Becka Burke, Trollop Extraordinaire.

  Stupidly, I couldn’t help but wish that I'd spent more time on my hair and makeup. It's not like I looked terrible in the photo or anything, but given the photo's description, I couldn’t help but feel that my appearance was just a tad disappointing – to me in particular.

  Seriously, shouldn't trollops be glamorous?

  Scrolling through the comments, I saw links to other news articles. I clicked on a random link and saw an image of Jack and Imogen at a charity thing in New York.

  In the photo, Imogen was clinging to him and smiling for the camera. As for Jack, he was neither smiling nor clinging. He didn't look happy.

  Earlier today, Imogen had called him a stone-cold bastard. In the picture, he actually looked the part.

  When I glanced in his direction, he had that same look. Yikes.

  I asked, "Is something wrong?"

  He glanced toward my phone. "You've gotta ask?"

  I tried to look on the bright side. "Yeah, well, it could always be worse."

  When he made no reply, I lowered the phone and said, "But it does make me wonder…were the two of you serious?"

  He shook his head. "Not even close."

  I was glad to hear it. Still, I was curious. "Did she know that?"

  "She should've," he said. "Trust me. I never gave her reasons to think otherwise. But forget Imogen. We need to talk."

  I tensed. That sounded ominous.

  Bracing myself, I asked, "About what?"

  "The next time trouble breaks out – and I don't care what it is – you're not gonna argue with me, okay?"

  "But—"

  "And," he continued, "I'm not gonna give in. So don't waste your time begging. It's not gonna work. Not again."

  My face grew warm as I recalled that yes, I had actually begged for him to let me handle today's commotion. Still, I couldn’t quite regret it. After all, I'd only been doing my job.

  "But why should you handle it," I said. "You're the one signing the books."

  "Yeah? And you're the girl I love." He gave me a serious look. "So give it up – unless you want me to hire someone else."

  My jaw dropped. "Are you seriously threatening to fire me?"

  "If you're not more careful?" he said. "Hell yeah."

  Talk about offensive. Working hard to keep my cool, I said, "I thought we were past all of that."

  "Past what?"

  "You threatening to send me packing."

  "You can't have it both ways. You know that, right?"

  "Just what are you getting at?"

  "Ask yourself this," he said. "Would you have pulled that stunt if I was a regular boss?"

  "A stunt?" I said. "What stunt?'

  "Looking at me with those pretty eyes of yours and asking for something stupid."

  "Stupid?" I sputtered. "Did you seriously just call me that?"

  "Not you," he clarified. "But your idea to handle it alone? Yeah, that was stupid." He shook his head. "And me? I was dumber for listening."

  I muttered, "Well, at least we were both stupid."

  When he made no reply, I said, "But I was doing it for you."

  From the look on his face, this wasn't welcome news. "That doesn't make it better."

  "Well, it should."

  "Not the way I see it."

  I made a sound of frustration. "But I really did want to do my job."

  "Tell me. You ever see a crowd get ugly?"

  "Yeah," I scoffed, "a few hours ago."

  "That was nothing."

  "Well, if it was truly nothing," I said, "I don't see why you're all worked up."

  "And I don't know why you're fighting me on this."

  By now, I wanted to scream. "Because I love you, that's why."

  "Yeah?" he shot back. "Well I love you, too."

  He sounded so pissed off saying it, that I fought a sudden urge to laugh.

  I glared at his profile for like thirty whole seconds before a snicker escaped my lips. And when it did, Jack's mouth twitched in a reluctant smile.

  At the sight of it, something eased in my heart. "Don't you get it?" I said. "I want to look out for you, too."

  "Yeah? And you wanna know what I want?"

  "What?"

  "You." He paused. "But from now on, I'm handling security. Got it?"

  Chapter 62

  Jack

  I meant what I said. I wanted her in every possible way.

  During the past few months, she'd claimed a piece of my heart that I hadn't realized was there.

  Still, it was a problem.

  Nearly every day, I considered sending her elsewhere until the book tour was over. And nearly every day, I rejected the idea as too sorry to consider.

  She'd take it personally. And I'd never be able to explain. So we rocked along, going from city to city, with a few unspoken changes after that scene with Imogen.

  It was a rainy night in Vermont, and I was sitting alone in the living area of our hotel suite when Becka wandered out of the bedroom looking sleepy and anxious. When she spotted me on the sofa, she smiled. "Oh, there you are."

  She was bundled up in a fluffy white robe, the kind the hotel provided as a courtesy. She looked cute as hell, and I smiled back. "And there you are."

  Her smile faded as she glanced around. "So, where were you?"

  "When?"

  "Maybe a half-hour ago," she said. "I woke up, and you were gone."

  Shit.

  With an easy shrug, I replied, "Well I'm here now."

  She gave a little frown. "So, where'd you go?"

  I pointed to the mini bar, with its assortment of glasses and bottled beverages. "I went for ice."

  "Yeah, so did I." She bit her lip. "Around midnight, remember?"

  No. I didn't. That was three hours ago, but it made sense. When I'd grabbed the ice bucket, it hadn't been empty. Sure, I'd topped it off, but apparently, I was getting sloppy.

  Not a good sign.

  She added, "I filled it when you were on the phone with Flynn." As she spoke, her gaze strayed once again to the bucket. "Are you sure we needed any?"

  "Hey, we can always use more, right?"

  She chewed on her bottom lip for a long, silent moment before saying, "Yeah. I mean, ice is good." She looked back to me, and her frown deepened.

  I wasn't dressed for bed. But hey, it's not like I'd go out for ice in
my boxers, so I figured I was okay.

  But then she asked a second time, "So where'd you go?"

  "I just told you."

  She gave me a long, careful look. "So, it was raining in the hallway?"

  Fuck.

  I resisted the urge to reach up and check my hair. I didn't need to. It wasn't soaked, but it was damp. I'd noticed that in the bathroom mirror.

  I was definitely getting sloppy. It wasn't like me. But the truth was, Becka was one hell of a distraction – far more than I'd apparently realized.

  With an easy smile, I replied, "Hey, I took the long way."

  She didn't smile back. "Right."

  I tried again. "And I got some fresh air."

  So far, I hadn't lied to her. I had gotten ice. And I had gotten fresh air. But I'd also gotten a list of phone calls and some very interesting documents.

  After a long pause, she said, "You do that a lot, you know."

  "I do what?"

  "Disappear in the middle of the night."

  Her words hit like a hammer. Until now, she hadn't said a thing. And because of this, I'd had every reason to think I was okay. The truth was, more times than not, I remained with Becka all through the night. And on the nights I did leave, I might be gone for only an hour, maybe two.

  Every time I'd left, she'd been asleep. And she'd never said a word.

  Until now.

  I was still processing this when she added, "The first time I noticed was in Seattle."

  Seattle?

  What the hell?

  That was what, months ago?

  Now I wasn't sure how to play it. In the back of my mind, I'd always figured that I'd have some warning. Like maybe she'd notice one time and ask me about it on the spot – at which point I'd go to Plan B.

  But nowhere in my plans, did she remain quiet for months and spring it on me by surprise.

  Just how many times had she noticed?

  And why hadn't she said anything until now?

  I shook my head. "Seattle? You serious?"

  "Well, I'm not kidding." She crossed her arms. "And I know you know what I'm talking about. I can tell by the look on your face."

  That, too, was sloppy on my part. Normally, hiding my feelings wasn't a problem. But with Becka, it was just one more thing that was different.

  With a low curse, I stood and moved toward her. "There's no one else, if that's what you're thinking."

  "Good. But it's not. I mean, that's not what I'm worried about."