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Putting this Jackson situation aside, I’m still hyper-focused on Ben and how things spun out of control so quickly. I think about how much I need him, in more ways than one. I don’t know when he plans to come back from Malibu but Rigger said he’d let me know the second he hits the highway and is headed east.
I’m no sooner out of the shower when I get a text message alert. On my home screen it shows I got a picture from Ben. With no clue what to expect, my chest vibrates as I open the message.
He’s sitting in his car behind the wheel, holding the tracking device in his fist, shooting me the middle finger. I feel the blood drain from my face. Then I feel the slightest of laughs bubbling up from my stomach. He wouldn’t send this if he didn’t want a response. I tap my fingers on the counter and Ritz starts rubbing himself against my legs, finally forgiving me for leaving him.
I want to play the right card. Not be fake, or just do something to get what I want. I still have pictures of my mother, buried inside of a journal at the bottom of my bedside table. I run and get them out, then sort through until I find one of her holding me in her lap at the tender age of five. She’s smiling, I’m laughing, and her arms are hugging me tightly. Casual observers of this photo would say they see nothing more than a mother who loves her child. I don’t know what I see.
I hold the photo next to my face, take a picture, and send it to Ben with a text.
Me with my mother, before King killed her.
I get no response from that one, which doesn’t surprise me, but when Rigger tells me three times over the course of five hours that Ben isstillat some gas station in Simi Valley, I break down and tell him what happened. I start to ask him where the hell he put the device but I don’t bother. I’m sure that Ben took his time looking for it, expecting it to be there.
Don’t fuck with a fucker…
I don’t know why I think of this just then but remembering those words stirs something deep inside of me. Heat blooms between my legs, along with an ache that hasn’t risen inside of me. Ever.
When my phone rings I silently hope it’s Ben, but the number isn’t his. It’s Jackson Dane. I answer right away.
“I got a message that you were interested in my services?”
“I have questions, yes. Can we meet?”
There’s a pause. “Where are you?”
“Scottsdale. I can meet you anywhere it’s convenient.”
“How about Cactus Park. One hour?”
I flick my eyes to the oven clock.5:15. “Sure. That’d be great.”
“I’ll be by the volleyball court. See you then.”
The line goes dead. I get a fresh can of tuna and mix some of the juice with Ritz’s dry food. He scarfs it down and I grab my checkbook and head out the door. I want to beat him there in case he’s one to arrive early.
When I get there, I sit at the picnic table closest to the sand and net. I write out a check to him, leaving the amount blank. And I wait, checking my phone every five minutes for messages from Ben. When Jackson is fifteen minutes late, I can’t tell if I’m more anxious about that or the fact that Ben hasn’t responded to my message.
It’s nearly 6:45 when Jackson finally decides to show up, looking nothing like what I expected. He’s tall, thick as a linebacker, and incredibly attractive. I can see why Devin was threatened by him or jumped to conclusions.
He sits across from me, clasping his hands together and looking off to the side.
“Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”
“No problem. I’m used to getting calls like yours. Always happy to accommodate as best I can, Tove.”
“Well, my situation is a bit—” I stop mid-sentence. “I never told you my name.”
His head lolls to the side and he hollows out a breath, impatient, offended. “I’m a P.I. You think my dropping a business card outside your door was an accident? Please, I’m not that sloppy.”
Damnit.
I slide my checkbook out of my back pocket, open it on the table in front of me. He holds my gaze, refusing to look down. “Why were you at my apartment several weeks ago?”
“I’ve actually been by several times since then. You’re never home.”
“Yeah. I travel a lot.” He pulls a smirk, and I’m getting irritated. “Did someone hire you or do you just randomly select women to stalk?”
Oh, now he’s serious. “Someone hired me, Tove.”
