Why'd I have to pour that perfectly good whiskey out?
A light laugh echoes behind me. “I know the feeling.”
Jonathan stands in the doorway.
I give him a sheepish smile. “Shouldn’t have said that.”
“You don’t have to watch your words. I’m a big boy. I can handle it.” He pauses, shaking his head as he slowly approaches me. “Usually. Spent a lot of rehab working on that. Bad words don’t need to lead to bad deeds. Guess I’m still a work in progress.”
“We all are.”
“I don’t know about that,” he says, eyeing me. “You seem pretty well put together.”
“Who, me? Assistant Manager at the Piggly Q?”
“You aren’t your job.”
“Good thing, because I don’t know if I’ll be working much longer. If they found my father, they probably found my job.”
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault. I would've quit eventually. Just planned to be stubborn for a bit longer.”
He laughs at that, leaning against the counter beside me. “You always were the most hardheaded person I knew.”
“Yeah, well, you gave me a run for my money on that one. I met my match with you.”
“Match made in heaven.”
“Or hell. Depends on who you ask.”
“You,” he says. “I’m asking you.”
“I’d say a bit of both, then. We were fire and gasoline. We burned hot for a long time.”
“Past tense.”
“What?”
“You said that in the past tense.”
“Guess I’m used to talking about us that way.”
It gets quiet.
My hands are still shaking.
I’m tinkering with the glass, sipping on the water, trying to wrap my mind around what’s happening.
“I can go,” he says quietly. “I’ll understand if you’d rather me not be here.”
“Why wouldn’t I want you here?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t really know where your head is, Kennedy. Sometimes I think I do, but other times…”
Setting the glass down, I grab his hand. “How about I show you?”
"Show me?"
I nod.
I pull him into the bedroom.
I push him down on the bed.
The clothes disappear, scattered along the floor, as our bodies tangle up in the sheets together. I’m on top of him, and he’s inside of me, my hands pressing flat against his bare chest, feeling the heat of his skin.
The fire? It still burns.
Something tells me it always will, no matter who tries to put it out.
Footsteps pad around the apartment when I wake up. It’s early. I try to slip out of bed, but Jonathan grumbles and clings to me.
Laughing, I pry myself out of his arms and throw on some clothes. I’m halfway down the hall when I hear a clatter in the kitchen before a small voice says, “Uh-oh.”
“What in the world?” I say, seeing Maddie sitting on the counter, holding the box of Lucky Charms, a bowl on the floor. “What are you doing?”
“Breakfast,” she says.
I pull her off the counter and commandeer the box of cereal. “Why don’t you go find some cartoons to watch? I’ll bring you something to eat in a moment.”
“Okay, Mommy,” she says, skipping off to the living room. I pour her some cereal with milk and turn to leave the kitchen when a knock sounds through the apartment from the front door. Crap.
My heart drops.
I step that way, tensing when I see Maddie unlocking the door. “Sweetheart, wait!”
She yanks it right open. “Whoa.”
“Madison Jacqueline,” I hiss, starting toward her. “How many times do we have to talk about not opening—?”
The door.
I don’t get to say those words.
I stop dead in my tracks. A police officer stands there, on my doorstep, in full uniform. Whoa is right.
“Uh, hello,” I say. “Can I help you, Officer?”
“I’m actually looking for somebody,” the officer says, glancing past me, around my apartment.
“Who?” I ask.
A gritty voice chimes in behind me. “That would be me.”
I spin around. Jonathan stands there, still half asleep, only wearing sweatpants. “You?”
He nods.
I turn back to the officer.
He nods, too, confirming it.
It takes a second for things to make sense. When it clicks, I hand Maddie the bowl of cereal. “Take this to your room.”
“But you said we can’t eat in our rooms, ‘cuz that’s not what rooms are for.”
“I’m making an exception. Go play.”
I’m grateful she doesn’t put up a fight.
I don’t want her to see what I think is about to happen here. I don’t even want to see it, even though it won’t be my first time.
“You mind if I get dressed?” Jonathan asks, his voice casual. “I’m sure there are lurkers.”
“Go ahead,” the officer says. “Just don’t take too long.”
It only takes him a minute, maybe two, before he returns, fully dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, leather jacket, shoes on. I stand here in shock as Jonathan approaches the officer.
“What’s the warrant for?” he asks. “Assault?”
The officer nods. “And criminal mischief.”
Jonathan turns around, putting his hands behind his back. He’s placed in handcuffs, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it, nor does he look surprised.
He kisses me, just a brush against my lips, before he says, “I’ll be back when I can.”
Chapter 22
JONATHAN
Cliff is typing away on his Blackberry.
I’ve always hated that damn thing.
He’s never been married, which is no surprise, considering so much of his life is spent glued to that screen. A string of flings is all he has time for. He always says his work is his wife.
It didn’t take too long, after I called from the police station, for Cliff to make it up here from the city, where he was busy working.
Working on fixing my other messes, while I was busy creating more of them.
We’re sitting in an interrogation room, just him and I. I’ve been free to go for half an hour, but Cliff wanted to talk somewhere private, so the police offered this space up—you know, in exchange for some autographs.
Problem is, Cliff hasn’t said a word since we sat down, too busy typing whatever it is he’s typing.
“So… good talk,” I say after a long stretch of silence. “Captivating conversation we’re having.”
“Oh, am I boring you?” he asks, still not looking up. “Sorry, I’m a little busy talking to PR about coordinating a press release to explain your arrest. I’ll try to do better next time.”
“Not sure there’s anything to explain,” I say. “Video makes it all pretty self-explanatory.”
He shakes his head. “What were you thinking, Johnny?”
“He called my daughter a bastard.”
“So? They're just words. Don’t punch the guy while he’s recording. You just gave him grounds for a lawsuit, which means a settlement, which means more money out of your pocket.” He sets down his Blackberry and starts shifting through his briefcase, pulling a stack of papers out and sliding them to me. “Your lawyer sent these for you to look over.”
I glance at the top sheet.
Confidentiality Agreement.
“What’s this for?”
“To ensure Miss Garfield's continued discretion.”
I blink at it for a moment before looking at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” he asks as he picks the Blackberry up.
No, he doesn’t.
“I’m not asking her to sign this,” I say, shoving it all at him without even reading any of it.
“Would you rather me ask her?”
“It’s unnecessary. She doesn’t need one.”
“I disagree. Better safe than sorry.”