The Stopover

by Swan, T L

  “Of course. He’s not here, though.” I stand back to allow them access.

  The police search the apartment and come back to me in the living area. They hand me a business card. “As soon as you hear from him, you need to call us. If you don’t, you may be charged with obstruction of justice. Hiding a person of interest from authorities is a very serious offense.”

  “Okay.” I storm to the door and open it in a rush. “Good night.” The officers leave, and I close the door behind them with a slam.

  I put my two hands over my mouth in horror and dial the number.

  Jameson’s phone rings out . . . he wouldn’t answer my call anyway. “Damn it.”

  In a panic, I call Tristan.

  “Hello.”

  “Tristan,” I stammer. “Do you know where Jameson is?”

  “What’s wrong?” he says.

  “The police were just here, and Jameson apparently assaulted Ferrara. They’ve issued a warrant for his arrest. Do you know where he is?”

  “What?”

  “He’s not answering my calls, and witnesses said he ran off across the park.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “What do I do?”

  “I’ll try calling him and call you back.”

  “Okay.” I hang up and begin to pace . . . where are you?

  Moments later Tristan calls back. “He’s not answering. I’ll come over.”

  “Thank you.”

  An hour later Tristan and I walk through Bryant Park. We haven’t talked other than about finding Jameson. He’s angry with me about Jake and obviously doesn’t want to discuss it.

  I’m angry with me.

  It’s one o’clock in the morning, and now I’m getting frantic. My eyes roam over the park in the darkness. “Where could he be?” I whisper.

  “I don’t know. Try calling him again,” he says.

  I dial his number and keep walking through the darkened park when we hear something.

  Tristan’s eyes widen, and he holds up his hand. “Shh, listen.”

  From the darkness, we can hear a faint ringtone. It goes silent, and I redial his number.

  We both look around frantically, and then we see the white glow as the screen lights up. “Here.” I run over to the side and see a phone lying in the grass. My eyes widen in horror as Tristan picks it up. He swipes it on and puts in the code, and the screen lights up.

  His eyes rise to meet mine. “It’s Jameson’s phone.”

  We both look up across the darkened park as a sense of fear sweeps through me. “What the hell has happened to him?” I whisper.

  It’s four o’clock in the morning, and Tristan and I are frantic. We’ve walked for hours. Alan, Elliot, and Christopher are all out looking for Jameson.

  “He’s probably just hiding out from the police somewhere. He’ll be fine,” Tristan tries to comfort me. I’m in full-blown tears now; there’s no hiding my distress.

  “This is all my fault,” I whisper as we walk. “If I didn’t go to that setup, none of this would have happened.”

  “What do you mean, setup?”

  “Jake told me that he had information on a story that Ferrara was publishing the next day about Jameson and that he would tell me out of work. I didn’t want to worry Jameson, so I lied and went to meet him. He just wanted to get me alone, and he kissed me. I slapped him across the face and left, and then the next day . . .” I shrug. “You saw the pictures.”

  He frowns. “So you weren’t seeing Jake?”

  “No,” I snap. “I’m in love with fucking Jameson, you idiot.” I sob. “And he won’t let me explain.”

  “Fucking hell, what a mess.” His phone rings, and he quickly answers. “Hello.”

  He listens. “Yes.” He listens some more. “Is he all right?” He gasps. He puts his hand over his chest. “Thank God.”

  “What?” I mouth.

  “Thank you. I’m on my way.” He hangs up.

  “What?” I whisper.

  “Jameson is in the hospital.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was hit by a car.”

  My hands fly over my mouth in horror.

  “He’s okay—just a concussion.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “I’m going to go get him.”

  “I’m coming,” I demand.

  “Em . . .” He pauses. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The paps will be everywhere after this Ferrara bullshit, and Jameson doesn’t need more publicity. Who knows what reporters are at the hospital? Jameson specifically wants you kept out of the spotlight. Let me talk to him, and I’ll call you when we get home.”

  Hope blooms in my chest. Is he trying to protect me?

  “But I didn’t do anything wrong, Tristan. I want to see him.”

  Empathy wins, and he takes me in his arms. “Let me get him home safely, and I’ll call you.” He pulls back and holds me by the arms as he studies me. “I promise I’ll call you. I’ll drop you home and then sort him out, and then I’ll call you. You have my word.” His eyes search mine.

  “Okay.”

  We walk for a moment in silence.

  “I’m going to find out who stole the money if it’s the last thing I do,” I whisper.

  “Emily, that’s a bad idea. Leave it to the detectives. You’re tired and emotional. Let’s get you home.”

  I nod, knowing that he is right about everything and hating it even more.

  Jameson

  I watch the nurse take my pulse as she holds my hand, and I inhale deeply. She’s older and motherly, the kind you want looking after you.

  “How’s the headache?” she asks.

  “Still there.”

  She smiles and gets her flashlight and shines it in my eyes to inspect my pupils. “You have a serious concussion. You’re very lucky to be alive, young man.”

  I hear chatter from outside, and Tristan appears at the door. “Hey.”

  “Hi.” I smirk at the worry on his face.

  He rushes to my side. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “He is not fine,” the nurse interrupts. “He got hit by a car. He could have been killed. As it is, he has a very serious concussion.”

  Tristan drags his hand down his face. “Jesus.”

  “He’s staying in for the night, and as long as all his preliminary tests come back clear in the morning, he can go home.”

  “Okay . . . thanks.” Tristan slumps into a seat beside the bed.

  “I’ll be back in an hour with some pain medication.” She smiles.

  “I don’t need it,” I reply.

  “I’ll be back anyway.”

  I roll my eyes, and she leaves us alone. “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “Fucking hell, Jay, we’ve been out of our head with worry. Searching for you all night.”

  I puff air into my cheeks.

  “The police came to Emily’s, and then she called me, and then we found your phone in Bryant Park.”

  “Emily?” I frown. “Why did you involve her?”

  “She’s frantic, Jameson. She wanted to help find you.”

  I roll my eyes. “I seriously doubt that.”

  “You know, I don’t think she is on with that fuckwit Jake. This was a misunderstanding.”

  “Shut up,” I dismiss him.

  “No. You shut up. Why won’t you even talk to her?”

  “Because she lied to me. Straight to my face about seeing another man.”

  He watches me.

  “And I don’t need that fucking shit in my life. I have enough going on, if you didn’t notice.”

  “She wants to see you.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t want to see her,” I snap.

  “Then you need to end it with her; she’s frantic.”

  I screw up my face in annoyance. “Just fucking go home. I’ll get Alan to pick me up tomorrow.”

  “Why won’t you even talk about this?”

  “Because this is none of you
r business. Emily and I are over. It was over the moment she started lying to me.”

  The nurse reappears. “I’m tired,” I announce.

  She smiles. “Yes, okay.” She turns her attention to Tristan. “We will call you in the morning when he’s ready for release.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Tristan replies. His eyes hold mine, and I know that he knows I’m not tired at all.

  The nurse goes into the bathroom.

  “And what am I supposed to tell Emily? She’s waiting for my call,” he whispers angrily.

  “I don’t give a fuck what you tell her—she’s not my problem.”

  He drags his hand down his face. “You’re a selfish son of a bitch sometimes.”

  “And your point is?”

  He stares at me for an extended time. “See you tomorrow.”

  Emily

  My phone dances across the coffee table, and I pick it up in a rush.

  “He’s okay.” Tristan sighs.

  “Thank God.” I close my eyes in relief. “Can I see him?”

  “He has a bad concussion and is going to be in the hospital for a few days.”

  “What?”

  “He said it’s best that you don’t come down; he doesn’t want the media circus.”

  My eyes fill with tears. Damn it. It feels like all I do is cry at the moment.

  “He’s sleeping now.”

  “Did he say anything? About me?” I pause as I try to articulate my thoughts. “How do I get through to him, Tristan?”

  He exhales heavily. “I don’t know. He’s got a lot of shit going on, Em. I don’t think he’s thinking straight at the moment. I’ll try and talk to him tomorrow.”

  I screw up my face in tears. “Okay,” I whisper. “Can you call me . . . please?” God, I sound like the world’s biggest loser, but I don’t know what else to do. “I’m so worried about him, Tristan.”

  “We all are, Em. I’ll call you tomorrow. Just try and get some sleep.”

  “Okay, good night.” I hang up and get into the shower, and tears of relief begin to fall.

  At least he’s okay, and tomorrow is another day. He will come back to me. I know he will.

  I slide down in my chair as I peer across the street. I’m on Operation Spies Like Us.

  Hayden is my stalking subject. I don’t know why, but I can’t let this go with him.

  I called in sick to work. I figure this story may be the most important story of my entire career to crack.

  I still haven’t spoken to Jameson, and with every day that passes, I lose a little more hope.

  It’s seven o’clock in the evening. I’m wearing a blonde wig and dark glasses, and I have even rented a car. I’ve been sitting here for eight hours, with no sign of stupid Hayden.

  He lives in a busy part of town in a nice apartment block; the street is bustling, and people are everywhere. I have to concentrate on not missing anything.

  Damn it, come out already.

  I’ve eaten all my snacks. I’m hungry and dying to go to the bathroom, but damn it, I want a lead or something . . . anything . . . throw me a bone here.

  I look down the darkened street and back up the other way. God, Hayden’s probably on his way to Istanbul by now. That’s what I would do if I got fired from my job for stealing. Although apparently, he has no idea he’s still being investigated. He thinks being fired is as far as it’s going to go.

  I lie back in the chair and let out a deflated breath. I glance over my shoulder and see Hayden stopped and talking to a woman on the sidewalk.

  Shit.

  I scoot down in the chair. They must be getting back from somewhere. They seem to be deep in a serious conversation, and she has a large bag over her shoulder. I take out my phone and snap a picture of the two of them. I zoom in and take a few shots. Who is she? Is that his girlfriend?

  I text Aaron and Molly in a group chat and send them the picture.

  Do you know this girl?

  I keep watching as they continue to talk. For five minutes, I watch them, and then Molly texts back.

  I’ve seen her before, but I don’t know where from?

  Does she work in a café or something??

  Hmm. I text back.

  I have no idea?

  A text comes back from Aaron.

  Yes, she used to work for Miles Media.

  My eyes widen, and I text back.

  How long ago?

  He writes back.

  No idea,

  I haven’t seen her for a while though.

  Shit. I send the photo to Tristan and text him.

  Tristan, this girl apparently worked for Miles Media,

  can you find out who she is from HR, please?

  A reply immediately bounces back.

  Sure thing, are you okay?

  I reply.

  Yes, I’m on operation stakeout.

  He texts back.

  Do you want me to come and help you?

  I smirk.

  I thought you thought this was a bad idea.

  He replies.

  I do, I don’t want you in danger.

  I text back.

  No, can you just text HR for me now, please?

  He replies.

  Ok.

  I wait and wait and wait, and finally a text comes back.

  Her name is Lara Aspin.

  HR are searching for her job title in the morning,

  I’ll keep you posted.

  I smile, excited that I at least have a little lead. I have no idea what it means, but I guess it’s something. I text back.

  Thanks.

  I check my phone . . . no missed calls.

  I turn the car on and pull out into the traffic, and a sense of dread begins to hang over me.

  Nighttime is the worst; my bed without Jameson is cold. There’s a void where he’s supposed to be.

  My heart is aching.

  I’m losing hope for us . . . I miss him.

  I lie on the couch and stare at the television. The cushion beneath my head is wet with tears.

  It’s been three days since Jameson was hit by a car.

  Six days since I’ve seen him . . . I can’t eat. I can’t sleep.

  I’m in hell.

  To make matters worse, I embarrassed myself last night by going to his apartment and crying into the security camera, begging for him to let me in.

  He didn’t, and after half an hour his doorman ushered me out of the building.

  I’m ashamed.

  I don’t know what to do . . . he won’t see me; he won’t speak to me.

  All the love and laughter we shared, reduced to nothing.

  It’s like I never meant anything to him . . . maybe I didn’t?

  I knew he had a reputation for being cold, but this . . . this coldness is next level.

  How could he watch me on camera sob and beg and not even let me in?

  I pick up my phone and text him.

  I miss you.

  I stare at my phone, and then I see the dots. I sit up . . . he’s typing something. My heart begins to race. This is the first time. I watch the dots roll as I wait . . . and then they stop.

  Wait . . . what? Where is the text?

  I wait.

  The dots start again, and I smile through tears . . . yes. He’s replying. I wait and wait.

  Then the dots stop once more.

  “Send the text, damn it,” I snap.

  I wait, and nothing comes through for half an hour. My anger starts to bubble. How dare he not even acknowledge me? Who the fuck does this asshole think he is?

  I angrily text back.

  At least have the guts to say what you want to.

  A text immediately bounces back.

  Move on, I have.

  I read the message and then read the message again through tears . . . what?

  Just like that . . . move on?

  Fucking asshole.

  I get up and throw my phone as hard as I can. The screen smashes on the coffee table. I’m
so fucking furious that I have absolutely no control of the situation. I storm into the bathroom, I get under the shower, and, unable to help it, I cry . . . and cry . . . and cry. Howling sobs, and my chest is heaving hard as I hold myself up against the tiles.

  Tears of anger, tears of frustration, tears of heartbreak.

  I knew it was coming . . . deep down, all along, I knew it was coming, but holy fuck . . . it hurts.

  Jameson

  I drop my shoulders in the back of my limo as I steel myself for what I’m about to do.

  “Are you sure about this?” Alan asks as he opens the door.

  “Yes. It is what it is; I’m not hiding any longer,” I say as I climb out of the car. I look up at the New York Police Department sign above the door, and I walk through.

  The policeman at the front desk smiles. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Yes, my name is Jameson Miles, and I would like to hand myself in.”

  The policeman’s face falters. “You are wanted?”

  “I was involved in a fistfight with a man named Gabriel Ferrara and then went to the hospital. I was unaware until late last night that you were looking for me. My apologies for taking so long to get here.”

  The policeman smiles. “Thank you for coming in.” He opens a door at the side of reception. “Please come this way.”

  Five hours later, I stand on the pavement outside the Ferrara building and look up to the top floors. I dial a number that I’ve had for years but have never called.

  “Gabriel Ferrara,” the deep voice answers.

  “It’s Jameson Miles. I’m out in front of your building. Get down here now.”

  I hang up and inhale deeply. I lean my behind on my limo.

  After having spent the last five hours in the police station, I am not in the mood to wait for this prick, but I need to say what I need to say, or it’s going to keep festering inside of me.

  I told the police that my punch on Ferrara was self-defense and that they need to check the security footage. I’m not sure if it will stick, but it will give me some time. The police were actually okay and told me that seeing he flicked the cigar at me first, I will probably only be charged with common assault and given a good behavior bond.

  That, I can deal with.

  Gabriel Ferrara appears through the front door, flanked by four security guards.

  His eye is black and his cheekbone swollen. I smirk as I see his fucked-up face.

  “You look like shit.”

  “Yeah, well, a madman attacked me,” he mutters dryly.