by Freya Barker
“You were supposed to stay with Grant and I saw you take off on your own,” Jake interrupts, before directing his glare at my friend. “And you were supposed to make sure you didn’t lose her from your sight.”
“All right. Enough!” My voice is loud enough to draw the attention of not just the guys at my table, but the rest of the place as well. Lowering my volume to a more discreet level, I focus specifically on Jake. “I had to use the bathroom and didn’t think it would be an issue, but I bumped into a not so friendly Kyle Steele at the elevators. Grant was just looking around the lobby for me when he happened to see that encounter, so he left his post and followed me straight into the bathroom. And now I’m buying him coffee by way of an apology for scaring him.” I lean over and nudge Jake’s shoulder with my own. “Seeing as I scared you as well, maybe I should buy you one too?”
He turns to me and bends close. “Scared the piss out of me,” he whispers, his voice gruff with residual emotion. Grabbing my hand under the table, he tightly laces his fingers with mine. “Not losing sight of you again.” I give his hand a squeeze.
“I should get back upstairs,” Dimi says, getting to his feet, immediately followed by Grant, who grabs his cup and muffin.
“Yeah, I should get back to work too.”
“Hold up,” Jake says, putting a hand on Grant’s arm as he starts walking away. “I owe you one.”
“Sweetheart,” Grant coos, batting his eyelashes, but I can still see the steel in them. “You owe me much more than that, but don’t worry; my spectacular black ass will come collecting one of these days, and you’re gonna need to bring your A game to satisfy me. Pun intended.”
I DON’T KNOW WHY I’M nervous as I follow Jake down the corridor to the small conference room on the other side. If the prospect of sitting in the same room with Steele isn’t disturbing enough, I’ll also be faced with the producer and his legal counsel. For someone who doesn’t particularly enjoy confrontation, this promises to be a very uncomfortable encounter.
Jake assures me I have the entire PASS team to back me up, but I still feel like I’m walking to my execution.
“It’ll be fine,” he promises again as we stop outside the door of the conference room. Voices can already be heard on the other side.
“Hope so.”
Gathering my courage, I let go of his hand and push the door open, leading the way inside.
“What the hell is she doing here?” The angry, carefully cultured voice comes from my left, and I turn toward the source. I caught glimpses of Phil Drexler before, so I know what he looks like, but he looks particularly intimidating in business attire, flanked by a clearly angry Kyle Steele, and an equally well-dressed man I don’t know.
“You’d do well to hold your horses,” Jake warns the man as he steps around and in front of me.
Once again I appear to be stuck between two angry men, and frankly it’s becoming tiring.
“Have a seat.” Yanis comes to the rescue, pulling out a chair beside him. Grateful, I ignore the three scowling men on the other side of the table and slip into the seat, Jake taking up sentry behind me. “She,” he annunciates pointedly, his eyes on Drexler, “is here by my invitation. I believe the only people you haven’t met are Bree Graves—” He gestures to an almost nondescript brunette with a solid build, but with a smile that turns her from plain to stunning. I automatically smile back. “And Simon Berry is counsel for Guild Film Productions.” I look over at the unfamiliar man at the other end of the table, who simply nods at the introduction, ignoring my tentative smile. Well then. “As you all know, we heard from the blackmailer again, a few hours ago,” Yanis continues, taking his seat. “This time we were ready for it, and my team was finally able to trace the phone the message was sent from.”
“You could’ve saved yourself a lot of trouble,” Drexler pipes up, clearly irritated. “We all know Ms. Perkins was the only one with knowledge, motive, and opportunity.”
My stomach rolls at the pure venom in his tone. I don’t have to sit here and take this, but before I can react, Jake’s hand comes down heavy on my shoulder.
“Actually,” Yanis retorts calmly. “Every single person in this room had knowledge and opportunity. It won’t take too much imagination to come up with a motive for most of us. Ironically, only two people in this room can be excluded safely; Jake Hutchinson, and...Rosie Perkins.”
“Preposterous! Your man is probably in cahoots with that trailer trash. Clearly your company is biased, you are protecting a criminal!”
Yanis calmly stares down a fuming Drexler, who has jumped to his feet, and I’m surprised the counselor beside him is not voicing his own outrage. Instead, Mr. Berry has slightly turned in his chair and is scrutinizing his client, obviously unhappy.
“I would strongly suggest your counsel cautions you before you deign to open that particular can of worms. May I remind you, covering up a crime is what landed you in hot water in the first place?” Yanis finally says.
“Sit down, Phil,” Berry says, pulling on his sleeve. Drexler shakes him off, looks around the table, and finally complies when he realizes there’s no support to be found in this room. Not even from a clearly confused Kyle Steele.
“Let’s put the cards on the table, shall we?” Yanis suggests. “It started with a hit-and-run that left a very unfortunate homeless man dead. We have a hotel employee who was almost run off her feet just seconds later, by your leading man—” He points to a thoroughly subdued Kyle Steele. “—who had slipped his security detail to visit a titty club and get drunk. On your orders, we try to cover your star’s tracks, and keep an eye on Ms. Perkins.”
I squirm uncomfortably in my seat as sympathetic eyes land on me. Jake moves his hand from my shoulder to my neck and rubs his thumb along the throbbing vein there.
“And here’s where it gets interesting, then Kyle decides to make a hard play, up at the pool area, for the woman who holds the power to damage his career and your production.” I look up and notice the surprise on Drexler’s face as he turns to the actor, who is staring down at the wringing hands on his lap. “Rosie Perkins turns him down but still he persists, making it necessary for his own protection detail to pull him away. Curiously, just days later, Ms. Perkins is attacked in that same pool, and if not for Hutch, she may not have survived.”
The heavy silence that has fallen over the room is broken by the scrape of castor wheels over the laminate. Interesting that Simon Berry, for all intents and purposes Drexler and Steele’s lawyer, pointedly moves his seat away from his clients.
“And somewhere in there, Kyle receives his first mysterious blackmail note, shoved under his suite door,” Yanis adds. “But only when the second comes in the form of a text, does he finally decide it might be a good idea to sound the alarm. Right off the bat, you accuse Rosie, loudly and insistently, when there isn’t a shred of evidence supporting that claim,” he directs at Drexler.
I’m definitely warming up to Yanis. His supportive words go a long way to making up for making me feel like a criminal. I’m not sure exactly what he’s driving at with this synopsis of events, but I know it’s making the men on the other side of the table decidedly uncomfortable.
Kyle glances my way furtively, looking away when I catch his eye. Was he behind the attacks on me? Was Drexler? Hearing Yanis lay everything out; I have to admit, it seems like a pretty strange sequence of events that appears to have the star at the center.
“What is odd, though, is that there was never any follow-up from the blackmailer on that second message. Not until after another mysterious hit-and-run injured Ms. Perkins, and we took her in protective custody for her own safety.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Drexler finally reacts to Yanis’ presentation. “I know nothing about any attack on this woman.”
Dimi, who is leaning against the wall beside the door, staying in the background, suddenly moves forward and leans across the table.
“Nice shades,” he says, reachin
g over and fishing a pair of folded sunglasses from Drexler’s jacket pocket.
JAKE
“Do you like baseball, Phil?” Dimi asks, as he studies the glasses in his hand.
“Dimas,” the boss warns under his breath.
His brother ignores him, perching his hip against the heavy boardroom table as he twirls what look to be expensive designer shades between his fingers. “You know? Baseball? The bats, the balls, the caps? Do you wear a cap? Are you a fan?” He continues to badger Drexler, whose face is turning an unhealthy shade of red.
“What the fuck are you on about?” he finally snaps, looking around in what appears to be confusion. “Can someone explain what baseball has to do with this?”
“Perhaps you can enlighten us,” his counsel finally puts in a word. “Otherwise, I’ll have to insist this meeting is over.”
“I’d be happy to,” I jump in, having remained silent so far, although not without some painful restraint. The brothers are good at this: Yanis lulling people into knowing exactly where he’s taking them, and Dimas poking at them from different directions, keeping them off-balance. It wouldn’t be the first time they managed to crack a suspect. “There was a witness in this last attack on Rosie. A neighbor watched helplessly as a large SUV steered deliberately into the driver’s side door of her car. She had pulled alongside the curb when her car stalled, and as luck would have it, was not in her seat, but about to check under the hood.” I pause, and observe the varied body language with interest. Drexler impatiently taps his fingers on the table in front of him; completely disengaged from the scene I’ve painted them. Steele continues to sneak peeks at Rosie, restlessly shifting in his chair. And Berry shows the only expected response, one of shock and concern as his eyes immediately go to Rosie. “The witness saw the driver,” I finally continue, drawing their attention. “But that’s not all, we also have some interesting camera footage that confirms his description.”
“I still don’t see—“ Drexler starts, but Yanis cuts him off.
“Isn’t it true you’ve been a Colorado Rockies fan for years? Ever since you were part of a movie production that shot on location at Coors Field? In fact, you own a VIP box, don’t you?”
“Technically the company does, but yeah,” he responds, bewildered. “I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.”
“Rosie’s attacker was wearing a white baseball cap with the new Rockies logo,” I clarify.
“We’re in Colorado,” the lawyer points out. “I’m sure at least three-quarters of the state are avid Rockies fans, what are you implying?”
“Your turn. Take it away,” Yanis says to Radar, who is grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“Right. So not all ball caps are equal,” he explains. “When the Rockies introduced the new logo, they had a limited number of caps printed specifically for their skybox owners. It has the new logo on the front, but the outline of a golden star on the back of the cap.” He pulls up two, side-by-side close-ups taken from the video feed, showing the front of the suspect’s ball cap, as well as the back. Clearly he did some work to improve the quality because you can clearly identify the Rockies’ logo and VIP star. “At about forty boxes, and four caps issued per box, there are only a total of one hundred and sixty of these ball caps worldwide. Even just in Colorado, the odds of randomly bumping into one of these are very slim.”
ROSIE IS QUIET ALL the way to my truck. She barely acknowledges Grant, who is waving at her from behind the front desk. It’s not until we pull onto Third Street that I decide to break the silence.
“What’s going through your mind?”
“I’m still trying to wrap my head around what just happened,” she finally says, followed by a deep sigh.
What just happened was instead of taking what we pulled together to the authorities, who likely would’ve taken one look at the thin circumstantial evidence and dismissed it as grossly insufficient, we successfully negotiated an agreement. Without anything concrete to pin on one person or another, Yanis had suggested unbalancing both Drexler and Steele with what little we did have—which was mostly conjecture—to such an extent, when we offered them a way out, they would jump at the opportunity. Contingent on that had been Rosie’s cooperation.
Per the agreement, Guild Film Productions would wrap tomorrow, and pull up stakes immediately. Drexler, Berry, and Steele would be on a plane back to LA before sunset, and only a handful of people would stay behind to finalize and clean up. They would also compensate Rosie for the loss of her vehicle and one year’s salary—that had been Dimi’s idea—and in return Rosie promised to retain her silence.
She surprised everyone, including myself, when she proposed to include a separate clause. One that stipulated the old warehouse by the railroad—which had been used as a makeshift studio for the movie—would be turned into a homeless shelter for the disenfranchised, in and around Grand Junction. The cost of renovations to the building should be paid by Steele, as restitution for the hit-and-run, causing the death of the unidentified man in the alley that night.
“You did good,” I tell her, reaching over to take her hand in mine.
“Did I? I keep thinking I’m letting them off the hook. Perhaps it would’ve been better to let justice take its course.”
“Except in this case, there likely wouldn’t have been any justice at all. Not for those guys. With the kind of money they have access to, they’d have been able to buy the best representation, and the case probably wouldn’t even have made it past the grand jury hearing. In the meantime, the movie would have been doomed, which would have had consequences for everyone.”
“I realize that,” she mumbles. “Or I wouldn’t have signed the papers. I can’t help feeling guilty, though.”
Guilt is an emotion I understand, since it’s plagued me most of my life, as well.
“Perhaps there’s something you can do to alleviate that,” I propose, an idea forming in my head.
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Run the shelter.”
“You’re nuts! I don’t have a degree, I’m not a counselor, I have no experience. I’m simply not qualified.”
I patiently listen to her list all the reasons why she thinks she can’t, before I list the reasons why I think she’d be perfect.
“To run a place like that, I don’t see why you wouldn’t be. You don’t have to, you can hire therapists, you don’t need a degree, and you have proven you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty. You have plenty of experience in hospitality and you have home-turf advantage. You grew up here and have a lot of connections to the community others might not have, not to mention a fair bit of leverage over the moneyman. Plus,” I add as an afterthought, “you looked after your mother. You may not be a counselor, but you have the patience of a saint. You might just be perfect.”
I glance over to find her looking at me, her eyes wide and face open, and I have to bite down a grin. She looks like a kid on Christmas morning, full of promise and anticipation. That hint of innocence is what drew me to her. The inner light she shines has served to eliminate all the shadows on my soul.
Falling in love with her was inevitable.
CHAPTER 22
ROSIE
On the counter is the result of yet another attempt at home-baked bread.
I think I’m starting to get the hang of it, because on this one the crust is beautifully even with a deep golden sheen. It would make a pretty picture—just don’t try to pick it up.
Today’s sampling could sink a pontoon boat.
I read at the bottom of one of the recipes, if you’re not happy with the results, you shouldn’t throw the bread away, but instead use it for bread pudding. I tried that with Wednesday’s sample. It says to cube the bread—that was hard, I ended up using the meat cleaver from the knife block—and then soak the cubes in milk to soften them.
Well, they soaked. All day yesterday and this morning. I was going to make the bread pudding for breakfast, but Jake had to leave early to m
ake sure the last day on the set went without a hitch. All I remember is the slow lazy kiss he woke me with, just so he could make me promise to stick around for today. I must’ve fallen right back asleep.
It doesn’t matter, it’s not like I have a car. That’s going to have to be first on my to-do list: finding some new, affordable wheels. The amount Drexler had agreed to pay would be transferred some time next week, so I’ll have to dip into the proceeds of the sale of the house for now.
It’s funny how the mind works; this past week, being confined to Jake’s house, being free to go where I want was all I could think about. Now I have that freedom, I find I don’t really want to leave. The small apartment over Grant’s garage is cute enough, and I love being that close to my friend, but Jake’s place is roomy, has these beautiful views, his bed is super comfy, and well—it has Jake.
We’ve just known each other for a couple of months, at best, and haven’t really had a chance to consider the long-term with everything going on. I don’t doubt he cares, but how much of that was for me as a person, or as someone who needed protection. Something that seems to come natural to him. Those lines are suddenly a little blurry.
I poke at the cubes that look no softer than they were before. I bet if I dropped those on Jake’s hardwood floor, they’d leave divots. How is it, someone who can put together a decent meal, bake a passable pie—with the help of a frozen crust—and whip up a tasty batch of chocolate chip cookies—thank you, Pillsbury—I cannot produce an edible loaf of bread?
Disgusted, I shove the loaf away from me. A little too far, and before I can get a good grip on the pan, it falls off the counter and lands on the floor with a loud bang.
“Jesus, what was that?” Jake storms in the front door, a large brown paper bag in his arm. “Everything okay?” he asks when he sees my dejected face. “I thought I heard something fall.”
