Play It Again (15 page)

“Okay,” I say, nodding once to myself. “Okay,
this is good. It’s more than we had before.”

“It is,” he agrees, smirking, as he leans
over the table, closer to me. His gaze flicks down to my lips,
holding there for a second, before meeting my eyes once more. “Now
what do you say we get out of here and get you home?”

Those words, although I know they’re
completely innocent, send a tingle down my spine. I’m not sure if
they’re from nervousness or excitement. It’s probably both. But
hearing him say those words in that low, deep voice of his, when
he’s looking at me the way he is, makes my head come up with a
whole lot of interesting scenarios involving us somewhere a lot
less public with a whole lot less clothing.

I lean into him, seeing the pulse in his
throat jump and it makes me grin. It’s nice to know that he isn’t
immune to me either.

He kisses me then. It’s quick, just a small
peck on the lips, but Jesus, if that little kiss doesn’t make my
heart sputter and race.

I have a feeling he’s going to wind up
breaking my heart by the time this is over, but in the moment I
don’t care. In this very second in time, I’m certain any pain that
comes later will be entirely worth it.

Piper

“That’s it.” A cell phone flies across the
room, hitting the wall so hard I’m certain it leaves a nick in the
drywall. “I can’t take it anymore.”

I don’t look up, keeping my eyes trained on
the computer screen in front of me, only vaguely listening to
Jimmy. I’ve flipped through these images at least a dozen times
over the last hour, thinking that maybe if I look at them enough,
one will jump out at me. I hope it happens soon, because I’m
running out of time. Vance is going to be here in a little over two
hours to take me to dinner, and I really need to finish this last
cover before then.

Jimmy’s cell phone chimes again.

And again.

And again.

He lets out a stream of curses, glaring at it
from across the room, but he doesn’t move to retrieve it.

Taking a deep breath, I click the next page
in my search results.

Inhale, exhale.

Breathe. Relax. Focus.

There’s no point in trying to talk to him. I
already know what he’ll say. I’ve heard it all repeatedly over the
last few days.

She’s not really pregnant ...

You don’t understand ...

I don’t want to talk about it …

“She’s nuts,” Jimmy continues, ruining my
focus once again. “Completely bat-shit crazy.”

I try to ignore him, because honestly, I
don’t want to get in the middle of his baby drama. He’s a good
friend and I want to be supportive, but each time I open my mouth
to say something to him, all that wants to come out is a slew of
curses and nasty remarks about being a deadbeat dad. So instead of
ruining our friendship, I figure it’s better to pretend that he’s
not here and stay out of it, at least until he steps up and talks
to Tara.

But ignoring him has turned out to be a
useless effort.

He’s been rambling on like this since he woke
up and planted his butt in my office. He’s supposed to be in here
helping me, but so far all he’s done is distract me.

I click the next page in my search results as
I mutter, “Maybe you should just pick up the phone or return her
text messages. I bet if you’d just acknowledge her she’d chill
out.”

He makes a noncommittal sound from the back
of his throat, but says nothing.

His lack of response doesn’t surprise me in
the least. He’s been shaky, and edgy, and moping around here for
days, avoiding Tara, avoiding his new girlfriend, avoiding …
everything.

Shaking my head, I focus back on the computer
screen. The last few days have been … hectic. I’ve been alternating
between hiding in my office and venturing out with Vance, working
on trying to find the jerk that has been messing with me and caused
our accident.

We’ve made progress—sort of.

We got an ID on tattoo guy.

We canvassed my neighborhood.

Each day it’s something new: a new lead, a
new place to check out, a new contact to confer with.

Vance is driven and apparently very much in
demand. His phone rings constantly, and he’s always on the run to
meet a client or handle a crisis with the guys.

It never seems to stop.

Jimmy’s cell phone rings and buzzes,
vibrating and rattling against the floor, and he groans, long and
loud. “I’m telling you, Pipes, she won’t give up. It doesn’t matter
what I say to her. It’s like she completely forgot I was there when
the doctor told her there was no way she could have kids.”

Those words draw my attention away from the
computer. I look over my shoulder toward the lounge chair in the
corner of the room where Jimmy sits, laptop on his knees. “What do
you mean she can’t have kids?”

He makes a face at me, one that would
probably be comical if it wasn’t for how clearly frustrated he is.
“She had cervical cancer. The radiation therapy she had to have
caused her ovaries to stop working.”

Those words stall me and my stomach sinks. I
gape at him. Cancer? Tara had cancer? Why don’t I know this? “What?
When did Tara have cancer?”

Jimmy sighs and his expression shifts, all
the frustration dying away at my question. His shoulders sag, his
jaw clenching as he regards me with so much pain and guilt it makes
my chest ache. “About eight months ago.”

“I, uh ... I didn’t know.” I don’t know what
else to say. I make a move to go to him, wanting to comfort him,
needing to erase that devastating look on his face, but he lifts a
hand, silently asking me to stay where I am, and I drop back into
my chair.

“She didn’t want anyone to know,” he says and
sighs. “She didn’t want it to be a big thing, to have people
stressing and worrying over her. Being the center of attention
always freaked her out. But she’s good now. They got it all with
the radiation. She still has regular checkups, but that’s pretty
normal.”

“So you, uh, it was just you helping her
through it?” I ask incredulously.

“What else was I supposed to do?” he asks,
arching an eyebrow in question. “It’s what she wanted.”

“You could’ve told me and Kim,” I say. “Even
if she didn’t want our help, we could’ve been there for you. My
God, Jimmy, I don’t ... I can’t even imagine how hard it must’ve
been on you both.”

“I could have, but I didn’t.” He hesitates
for a moment, his expression turning guarded. “Look, this is
probably going to make me sound like an insensitive jerk, but we
were over a long time ago. I stuck around because she begged me to,
because of all the shit she was going through, but you know what,
she’s not my problem anymore, and her spewing these goddamn lies
about being pregnant is not going to change anything between us.
It’s over and I’m done letting her guilt me into sticking
around.”

I stare at him as his words sink in. Ignoring
the fact that I’m completely in shock, and that I don’t know how to
process all this, I feel a strange sense of relief. If what he’s
telling me is true, and I have no doubt it is, then he isn’t
turning into a deadbeat dad. He’s just a guy, trying to end things
with a girl who isn’t ready to let him go.

“So she’s not really pregnant,” I say. “She’s
just what ... using it to try and force you to come back to
her?”

He merely nods.

I eye him peculiarly, and once again, I’m at
a loss for what to say. I feel a little foolish, just sitting here
while one of my best friends clearly needs something, but I
honestly don’t have a clue what that is.

Jimmy’s phone buzzes once again, and he lets
out a stream of curses as he sets down his laptop and stands,
thumping across my office to retrieve it. He taps the screen,
bringing up the message that just came in, and swears again, this
time, under his breath, before powering the phone off completely
and shoving it into his pocket.

“Sorry about the wall, Pipes,” he mutters,
turning back to me. “I’ll pick up some paint and touch it up.”

I shrug. “I want to change the color in this
room anyway. You just gave me the perfect excuse to do it.”

He smiles at that, a real genuine smile, and
lets out a light laugh. “Thank you.”

I nod, suddenly not trusting my voice. I know
he’s saying thank you for more than just the wall. I can see the
emotions brimming in his eyes, hear the sincerity, and all the
meaning behind those two words in his tone.

He’s saying thank you for listening.

Thank you for not judging.

Thank you for being his friend.

Silence hangs in the room as he crosses back
over to the chair and takes a seat. He picks up his laptop and
opens it back up, before looking back at me.

He laughs awkwardly, biting down on his lip
ring. “I should probably already know this, but Vance’s cop friend
got an ID on the guy who loosened your tire, right?”

I hesitate, not responding right away. I
don’t want to burden him with my problems when he’s already dealing
with enough of his own, but Jimmy just sits there, eyebrows raised,
regarding me patiently, if not a little pleadingly.

He doesn’t want to talk about Tara
anymore.

He wants a distraction.

“Yeah, he did,” I say after a moment. “The
guy’s name is Chad Miller. He’s like some career criminal or
something like that. Theft, robbery, drugs. He got out of lock up
like three weeks ago, right around the time all the vandalism
started.”

“Do you know him?” he asks curiously.

I shake my head, looking away from him,
glancing around the room, not wanting him to see the sudden unease
twisting me up. The whole thing is befuddling. I stared at a copy
of his mug shot for hours on Monday, hoping for some kind of
recognition to spark up, but I’ve never seen the guy before in my
life.

I don’t know who he is.

I don’t know why he’s messing with me.

It’s frustrating, outright maddening.

The worst part about it is, he’s still out
there. Vance and the guys are looking for him, so are the police,
but so far, they’ve come up with nothing. Not that I expected them
to find him overnight or anything. It’s Thursday, a little more
than ninety-six hours since Detective Cruz provided Vance with the
guy’s ID, and tracking down someone who most likely doesn’t want to
be found takes time, but still ...

“Can you get a copy of his picture?”

“Um ... yeah,” I say. “I’ve actually got it.
Vance emailed his mug shot to me on Monday to see if I recognized
the guy.”

He grins. “Awesome. We can make some reward
posters. Offer up like five hundred bucks to the person who can
provide the information that leads to his location and arrest. We
can post them around the neighborhood, pin them up in stores. I bet
that’ll help find him quicker.”

I’m quiet for a moment, pondering the idea.
“Do you think five hundred is enough?”

Jimmy shrugs. “I think it’s enough to get
some people talking. Why don’t you send me the picture and I’ll
draft something while you work. It’s easy enough to change the
reward price later if you decide to.”

I grin at him, feeling a peculiar sense of
excitement as I turn back to my computer and bring up my email.
Although Vance has let me be a part of a few things, like
canvassing my neighborhood, or the briefing meetings with the guys,
he’s kept me out of the majority of the investigation.

Right now, he’s out following up on leads to
Chad’s location. I tried everything I could think up this morning
to convince him to let me come along today. I pleaded, I bribed, I
nearly got to my knees and begged, but nothing worked, he wouldn’t
bend, wanting me to stay home and rest.

His worry, although completely sweet, is
extremely annoying.

I’m fine. Feeling great, actually, aside from
the painful pinch of the stitches in my scalp and the bruising on
my cheek and ribs.

But even if Vance doesn’t want me out working
on the case with him, a reward ... that’s something I can do to
help.

I send the picture to Jimmy, considering how
much to give for the reward. Aside from buying my house and paying
off my student loans, which barely made a dint in my trust fund, I
haven’t touched the money. My design work pays the bills and gives
me a little extra to have fun with, so I’ve just been saving it for
a rainy day.

And if this isn’t a rainy day, I don’t know
what is.

So what’s a good number? Five hundred ... A
thousand ... Two? Maybe I should just wait until tonight and ask
Vance what amount he thinks would be enticing enough. I’m sure he’s
offered rewards before in his line of work; he’ll know better than
me.

Right, okay, just ask Vance.

Decision made, I pull up the photo stock site
and get back to work, starting my search again.

An hour slips by in a blink. I actually make
progress, finishing off a draft and sending it off to the author
for approval. Jimmy shows me a couple of options for the flyer, and
I end up settling on one that has both, a picture of Chad and a
close-up of his Trixie Starr tattoo. The caption is simple,
reading: Reward for information leading to discovery or arrest.

I’m just about to shut down for the day, and
go take a shower, when my phone chimes. I pick it up, tapping the
screen, and bring up the new text message.

Vance: Sorry, freckles, I’m gonna be late. Found
Trixie Starr.

Vance

Trixie Starr is not a stripper.

The short brunette standing before me,
dressed in pink floral scrubs, is so far from what I expected, it’s
almost laughable. She’s pretty, small, and a little timid looking,
and although her name hints at a career working the pole somewhere,
in actuality she’s a nurse and works at a retirement home in the
city.