“That’s… disturbing, am I right?” he asks before continuing his humming.
A pair of older women come in, twittering about the display of butterflies being replaced by noses. The southern guy, who may or may not work here… I mean, he’s shoeless… wanders their way. “Ladies, have a look around. Any questions, just let me know.”
Huh. I guess things work differently here than back at home.
He starts to string wire between nails to hang a painting. When he turns towards me, he says, “I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Joshua Jameson. When I’m not a slave to school, I’m usually here helping out the owner. Not quite an official employee.” He winks at me.
Walking to his side to help hold up the level, I respond, “It’s nice to meet you. Can I call you JJ? You look like a JJ.” I bite my bottom lip as a blush blooms over my cheeks. “I’m Bizzy.”
Where did JJ come from? Or the urge to call him that? It was more of a compulsion than anything else.
He stills beside me, his arms slowly dropping to his side. Instead of turning to look at me, his voice lowers. “Well, about damn time…”
I’m probably imagining tears in his eyes when he turns to me with a big smile. “My closest friends call me JJ. I guess that means we’re fast-tracking this shit, right?”
Chapter Five
JJ (Josh)
There is no other explanation…
And there is no one I can tell.
Locking the door of the gallery, I kick myself for not insisting on walking her back to the residence hall at Cornell. It may only be a few blocks, but the sun is setting. Still, if I come on too strong, she’s going to get freaked out.
I sure as hell would.
Hart answers on the first ring, “JJ, if this is bad news, I don’t want to hear it right now.”
“I’ve missed your anal-retentiveness.” My tone is glib as he almost growls. “Just saw your missed call.”
“We’re playing at eight.” My heart sinks hearing it.
For the third year, I find myself in the strange position of both predicament and privilege as one of the House of Eights members. Our small secret society is a whisper, nothing more than Rockefeller Amherst folklore.
It needs to remain that way.
“I’ll be there.”
“Good. It’s a tie breaker.”
These secret little code phrases seemed juvenile when I was initiated, but I’ve come to appreciate that we don’t say what we mean most of the time. He’s acknowledged my check in, and that it’s not optional. Our next meeting is on Saturday at the headquarters located in the basement of the Great Hall at Rock Am.
He barks orders at someone in the background before asking me, “Tell me again why Laird can’t follow a basic request?”
“No ridges, or lumps, or valleys, or bumps… he’s got a smoooth damn brain,” I sing into the phone, letting my mind travel back to Biz… Bizzy.
Elizabeth.
Hart’s going to eat her alive.
We’ll deal with that when the time comes.
In the meantime, I need to figure out what this means. Not just for the House of Eights, but for her too.
Doessheknow?
I have her number. How much trouble would I be in if I hired her to work here? It would give me a reason to spend time with her. To find out what she might know… or remember.
