Small Town Spin (15 page)

“If I lose my ABC license, I’ll have to close down,” she said.

“I’m not looking to print where I got this particular information,” I said. “I just want to see if it’s the same kind.”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

The waitress set food in front of us just as Bobbi stood up.

“You two enjoy your dinner,” Bobbi said. “I’ve got work to do, anyway. Just come over to the bar when you’re through.”

She excused herself. Parker bit into a rib and chewed thoughtfully, smiling at me as he swallowed.

“This is good barbecue. Hey, don’t take this wrong, but are you sure the moonshine thing isn’t just an interesting side story? I’ve met you. Poking into criminal crap that people don’t want you nosing around in is kind of your schtick.”

“I’m not sure about anything,” I said. “The more I think about this, the more convoluted it gets. All the what ifs and possibilities are enough to give me a headache. I mean, start with the most obvious one: what if the sheriff is right?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But you’re too close to the story to see that clearly.”

“Are you? You told me you thought something was off from the get-go.”

I chewed a mouthful of beans while I considered that.

“I did. I do.” I sighed. “But, I have my own baggage with this story, Parker.”

“I caught that when we talked to Bob this morning. You feel like sharing?”

I shook my head. “Way too long a story for a place this loud and crowded. But I’ve been playing devil’s advocate with myself, trying to figure out if I’m projecting into this case, and I really don’t think so. Trouble is, the puzzle is entirely too blurry for me to see what’s going on if we’re right and the sheriff’s wrong. Some days, I miss good old-fashioned homicides. Smoking guns and open and shut cases are way less stressful.”

He finished the ribs and moved on to his chicken. “Seriously, what is in this sauce?”

“Crack?” I grinned. “I think it’s in the tea, too.”

“Maybe. Anyway. I don’t know how you do your job and stay off antidepressants. And I know you’ve caught shit from Bob before about some of your detective stories. But I’m with you on this one. Something’s not right, and we seem to be the only people who give a damn about that. I’m really glad I have you in my corner.”

“I’m not sure how much good I’m doing you. I can’t figure which end is up, but something’s definitely weird.”

I wolfed down the rest of my food and another glass of tea and stood. “I’m going to go check out the local firewater. Be right back.”

“Don’t drink it,” he called as I turned.

Check. I’d never tried anything stronger than a whiskey shot at a frat party once, and that made me sick.

I spotted Bobbi behind the bar, trying to help keep up with drink orders, and waited at one end until it looked like she had room to breathe.

I waved, and she crooked one finger and raised the walk-through on the far end.

“I can trust you, right? You didn’t make us look like smut peddlers in the paper, despite what Dorothy told you.” She offered an uncertain smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “This place is everything to me.”

“I get it. I really do.” I squeezed her hand. “These children were everything to their parents, too.”

She nodded, pulling the jar from its hidey-hole and handing it over. “I’ve never heard of it making anyone sick,” she said. “I mean, other than normal, hungover sick.”

I turned the jar over in my hands. It didn’t have a label.

“The one I saw at the bridge had a label on it,” I said. “Does this ever have one?”

“The Sidell boys say that’s stupid, because it makes it traceable,” she said, shaking her head. “But I know some of them do. I’ve seen more moonshine than you can shake a tree limb at.”

I looked sideways at her. “You grew up here,” I said. “The sheriff said the kids have parties on the beach and at the bridge all the time.”

Bobbi Jo laughed. “What else are they going to do?”

“Are there always a lot of kids?” I leveled a serious gaze at her. “Could you kill someone without being noticed?”

Her eyes widened. “I’ve never had occasion to wonder about that. I suppose it depends on how you went about it. Is it loud enough to mask gunfire? No. Someone would call the sheriff. But could you drown someone, or strangle them, maybe? If you were strong enough and got them away from everyone, sure.”

I unscrewed the cap and smelled the contents, totally clearing what was still blocked of my sinuses. I shoved the jar and lid back toward Bobbi, my eyes watering again. “People drink this?”

“Never understood it myself, but it’s a time-honored tradition. That’s why I keep it. A lot of the guys who come in won’t drink anything else.”

“Maybe it burned off all their taste buds years ago.” I swiped at my nose.

She laughed. “Could be. My granddaddy ran moonshine back in the day. Had the fastest car in ten counties. You know that’s how NASCAR got started, right? Moonshine runners souping up their cars to outrun the law?” She screwed the lid back on the jar and stashed it.

“I heard that. This place is full of interesting history.” I smiled. I liked Bobbi, but more than that, I respected what she was trying to do for her hometown, and the creativity with which she’d gone about it.

“My grandaddy used to tell a story about John Lennon coming into town once,” she said. “He and Yoko wanted a retreat where no one would bother them, and they bought a place on the bay. A historical landmark with a mill that dates back to the revolution and was used to grind grain for Washington’s troops.”

“You’re kidding. John Lennon lived in Mathews?”

“Well, no. He was killed before they got the house renovated. It sat empty for years. The story goes that Yoko gave it to charity. The charity sold it to the current owners. But it’s a fun bit of trivia.”

I nodded, filing that away. I might be able to fit it into a story in passing, or maybe look it up and do a sidebar if I ever figured this mess out.

Bobbi stared at me for a long second. “Do you really think someone murdered those kids? I can’t remember the last time there was a murder in Mathews.”

“That’s because it was before you were born,” I said. “I checked. I know it doesn’t happen out here very often. And I’m not really sure what I think. All I know is my gut says there’s something funky, and I seem to be the only one who thinks so. Funny, I usually hope I’m wrong when I’m doing stuff like this, but here, I’m not sure what to hope. The whole situation is just sad.”

“That it is. TJ was a good kid.”

“You knew him?” The way most folks seemed to feel about newcomers, I was a little surprised by that.

“My boyfriend is an assistant football coach at the high school. I wish I could’ve gone to the service today. I was going to, but then things went bonkers here and I couldn’t get away.”

I nodded. Everyone really did know everyone else. I kind of thought that was better in theory than in practice.

“Thanks for your help, Bobbi.”

“It didn’t look like it was much help,” she laughed.

“Do you know who else makes moonshine? The jar I saw had three x’s across the middle of it.”

“That came from the Parsons place,” she said. “They’re on the island itself, and very—you ever see
Deliverance
?”

“I have.” I raised my eyebrows. “I’m not sure I want to meet the living version.”

“Probably best to stay clear unless you’re packing,” she advised. Fabulous.

I dodged pinching fingers that had been through another round of drinks and found Parker downing the last of his beer, all the food baskets empty.

“You find what you were looking for?” he asked.

“Of course not. It couldn’t be that easy. There’s moonshine, but it’s not the same kind Syd had. Moreover, Bobbi says the dudes who make the one Sydney drank are bad news.”

“The kind of bad news that means you might get hurt messing with them?”

“But also the kind that means there might have been something wrong with the damned alcohol. So I really want to check that out. But I like breathing.”

“What about your friend—the federal agent guy? Can he help?”

“I don’t know. I’m working on that.”

Kyle would be a good person to have along. Except, of course, that he would never agree to let me tag along to a call like that. And what if he got shot chasing a lead I took him? I’d never get over that.

“You ready to get out of here?” I asked.

“Anytime you are,” he said. “We’re not telling Mel where we had dinner, right?”

“Mel will not give a rat’s ass about you watching girls dance around in bikinis. But whatever you say.”

He dug a few bills out of his pocket and dropped them in the pickle jar on the way out. “Just the same,” he said.

My Blackberry binged as we stepped outside and I pulled it out. I had seventeen texts from Bob.

“WHERE ARE YOU?” The most recent one read, all caps.

“Shit. That’s never good.” I flipped my scanner on when I got in the car, but it didn’t pick up Richmond feed out there.

I dialed Bob’s cell.

“What’s wrong?” Parker started the engine.

“Don’t know.” I held up one finger.

“What the hell have you done?” Bob demanded when he picked up.

“I was covering the Okerson funeral all afternoon, just like you told me to,” I said. “Didn’t you get my email?”

“Of course I got your email,” he barked. “And I don’t appreciate you playing coy with me. Nichelle, this was supposed to be an exclusive. And you always play your investigative stuff close to the vest. So why the hell did the
Post
just tweet a teaser for a story questioning the suicide claim?”

I caught a breath and held it. “I have no idea.”

“I’m supposed to believe that?” he asked. “How could they have gotten it? You, me, and Parker are the only people who know about it.”

And Bobbi Jo. And the Okersons. And Sydney’s mother. And Joey. And Kyle. But I didn’t think it pertinent to mention that.

“The sheriff?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine why he’d tell another reporter something he’d been vehemently denying to me all week.

I heard a female voice in the background. A distinctly whiny, high-pitched voice that hit my ears like railroad ties on a chalkboard. Shelby. I couldn’t understand what she said, but Bob’s voice tightened more, if that were even possible.

“They’re running it tomorrow morning. I want something from you by nine. And I need the funeral write-up, too.”

Crap. Since that was an exclusive, I’d planned to send it in after I got home. I checked the clock. “Bob, it’s seven-fifteen.”

“And I am holding the front for copy I expect to have in my email by nine. Nichelle, I—” He stopped. “I don’t want to believe you leaked this to the
Post
to try to impress them. I think I know you better than that. But you better hope you have more than they do, and that they have some other source. Because Andrews has gotten an earful of your D.C. ambitions this afternoon, and he’s not happy.”

Dammit. The publisher on my case was not what I needed.

“Bob, I would never—”

“I told him that. Do not let me down,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” I hung up, my mind frantically spinning through what I might be able to do with what I had in an hour. And what I should give up and what I should keep quiet.

“What gives?” Parker asked when I slung the phone into the dash.

“The
Post
has a story on possible foul play in TJ’s death,” I sighed, digging for my notebook. I paused. “Tony played in D.C. Do you think he might have talked to someone?”

Parker shook his head. “Not likely. I went through things with him. He promised he wouldn’t talk to anyone but you. But I don’t know that for a hundred percent.”

I chewed my lip. “I don’t want to intrude, but is there any chance we can go there and I can borrow a computer to write a story? Bob wants mine on the web tonight.”

He laid on the gas and headed for the island. “They won’t mind. And maybe someone else looking at it will wake the sheriff up?”

I nodded as the fields, nearly swallowed by the night, blurred past the windows. I wanted someone to take my theory seriously. But I also wanted the story to myself. Would it be good or bad if I beat the
Post
to this headline?

14.

Leaks

We fought through the media circus at the gate and I huffed out another aggravated sigh.

“I should learn to keep my mouth shut, and maybe the universe will quit feeling it necessary to prove me wrong,” I said. “I was just telling Bob they’d all take off after the funeral. I bet they got ten miles outside town before the tweet from the
Post
hit and they turned right the hell around.”

“I wish they’d leave Tony and Ashton alone,” Parker said, steering past the cameras and through the gate, watching the rearview for hitchhiking reporters.

“That, too.”

Inside, Tony handed Parker a Corona and swore to us both they hadn’t talked to a soul besides me and their families. He even called both sets of grandparents and quizzed them. No one admitted to having leaked their suspicions to the press. Since the story wasn’t up yet, I couldn’t see what the
Post
had, so I was writing blind when I sat down, trying to pick what to reveal and what to hold back.

I wanted to beat them. But I didn’t want to give away too much until I had the whole story.

Two-time Super Bowl MVP Tony Okerson and his wife, Ashton, buried their only son Monday, both unconvinced that local law enforcement in Mathews County are correct in their assertion that Tony Junior took his own life.

“I know my son,” Ashton said in a tearful exclusive interview with the
Richmond Telegraph
. “My baby did not do this.”

Ashton holds a degree in psychology from the University of Virginia and said her son had none of the signs of being suicidal.

“He was a happy kid,” she said, her husband sitting beside her and nodding agreement. “I’ve been over every detail in my mind, looking for what I might have missed, and there wasn’t anything. TJ was not depressed. He wasn’t bullied. He was happy.”

I quoted the sheriff last, purely so I could tell myself the story was balanced. No reason to believe it was anything but what it looked like, he insisted. I left out the moonshine, because I knew damned good and well no one but me knew about that. I wondered as I read back through the story if Lyle was the one who’d talked to the
Post
. He’d been around all week, and his stories were good, peppered with the kind of local flavor and insider comments that an out-of-town reporter would never know to look for. I’d seen him at the funeral that afternoon, too. But why would he talk to them? He didn’t seem interested in notoriety. He’d said he wanted everyone to go away and leave the town alone.

I fired through my exclusive on the funeral next, my mind still half on the
Post
. What if they’d talked to someone I hadn’t?

Sitting back in the chair, I sent both stories to Bob at five to nine, then clicked into Tony’s web browser. I pulled up the
Post
’s twitter feed and found the tweet that ruined my evening. “Was it really suicide? Why some suspect foul play in the #TJOkerson case, only in tomorrow’s edition.”

What. The. Everloving. Hell?

I dropped Parker at the office a little after midnight and grabbed my Blackberry as soon as he shut the car door behind him.

“Miller,” Kyle said sleepily.

“I’m sorry I woke you, but I need a favor,” I said hurriedly, pointing the car toward my house.

“Nichelle? Hang on.” The line was quiet for a second and then he came back on. “Sorry. I’m here. What’s up?”

I wondered for a split second why he’d put me on hold, then told myself I had no reason to wonder about such things. And I didn’t like the bite of jealousy that came with the thought, so I flipped my attention back to my story.

“I need tox results on TJ Okerson and Sydney Cobb. Like, now. The sheriff in Mathews has less than no pull with anyone at the lab. I’m hoping you have a friend you can light a fire under for me.”

“I might.” His hedging tone sent one of my eyebrows up.

“You don’t sound sure about that,” I said.

“I guess I’m not sure you want me to work the angle I have,” he said. “There’s a biologist there I’ve talked to about a couple of cases. She’s cute. Seems to like me.”

I didn’t like the sound of that one little bit. And wanted to smack myself for feeling that way. Kyle was a good guy. He deserved to be happy.

“If she can process the samples they have faster, take her to lunch or something,” I said, trying to unclench my teeth as the words slid through.

“I’m not interested—” he began.

“It’s fine,” I interrupted. “Really. Sorry. It’s late, I’m beat. I could really use that report. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Kyle? One more thing?”

“Yeah?”

“If you’re going to go charm her, ask for a full panel. I’d bet my shoe closet Sheriff Zeke asked them to screen for Vicodin and blood alcohol content. I’d like to know what else is there, if there’s anything.”

“You got it.”

I went inside and fed Darcy, then tried to forget about Kyle’s friend the biologist and focus on how the hell the
Post
was onto my story as I pulled the covers over me.

Tuesday was spent dodging media calls, appeasing my neglected Richmond sources, and avoiding pissy glares from Spence and Bob both. Thankfully, the
Post
hadn’t printed anything about the moonshine, but they had so much of the rest of it that I was afraid it was only a matter of time. They quoted the sheriff as having confirmed that Ashton and Tony suspected foul play, but who tipped them off in the first place was anyone’s guess.

Aaron had an arrest in Monday’s armed robbery, and my friend Donna Jo at the prosecutor’s office had a seventeen-year-old going up on a capital murder charge over a drug deal gone bad. I sat through the opening arguments, fighting to keep my mind focused on the trial. Speeding back to the office, I didn’t bother to work up a lead for the trial day one, instead running mentally through everyone I’d seen in Mathews in the past week.

By the time I’d filed both the trial and the robbery arrest stories, most of the other reporters were unplugging their computers and heading home, the section and copy editors talking about space and layouts. I clicked into my Internet browser, setting my scanner on my desk and turning up the volume. Being as I was in Richmond, I didn’t want to miss anything else coming out of the PD. All I needed was to get on Aaron’s shit list trying to help the Okersons.

I checked the clock. It was only a little after five, and Joey wasn’t picking me up until seven-thirty.

Google, don’t fail me now. I pored over public records for Mathews County, trying to figure out both what was going on, and how the
Post
knew there was anything going on.

I got nowhere on either front for a good while.

Pulling up the property tax records, I searched for the name Bobbi had mentioned as running triple-X moonshine. The family owned a house on the island that had passed through at least four generations. Cross-referencing the address in Google maps, I stared at the aerial satellite view. Trees obscured most of the property, save a little chunk of the roofline.

I slammed my hands down on my desk, wondering if it was possible for me to catch a teensy break on this one, and the silver frame that held a photo of my best friend Jenna’s children clattered to the desktop. I stood it back up, staring at their adorable little smiles.

Family.

Everyone knew everyone.

Hot damn.

I pulled the marriage records for Mathews County and checked the last name from the property records, following the family tree all the way to Sheriff Zeke. He was second cousin to the Parsons boys.

His whole “that’s ABC police business” number made so much more sense as I stared at the trail on my screen. Sure, he was right about that, but at least now I knew why he was using it as an excuse to turn a blind eye to an illegal booze operation in his town.

Of course, it also meant I needed to tread carefully and make sure I had the story sewn up, because accusing the sheriff’s cousin of murder could piss off said sheriff. Which I did not want to do.

Still mulling that, I noticed the clock and slapped the computer shut, shoving it into my bag and running for the elevator. I wanted to touch up my makeup and swap my white silk pants and coral top with matching strappy Manolos for a sexy dress and my newsprint Louboutins before Joey arrived.

Luckily, it was still too cool outside for me to have sweated off much of my makeup, so touching up only took a minute. I stepped into the last shoe as the doorbell rang.

Fixing a smile on my face and pulling in a deep breath I hoped would slow my pulse, I strode to the door. We’d never been on anything that seemed so much like a date. I might as well have been sixteen, waiting for a boy to come pin a corsage on me for the first time. Well. Except that boy had been Kyle.

But when I opened the door, I forgot all about Kyle. Joey leaned against the frame, looking downright dashing in a light gray suit, the emerald of his shirt perfect against his olive skin. There went my pulse again.

“You look beautiful,” he said, his voice soft and low. He handed me a single, long-stemmed violet rose and laid a soft kiss on my cheek. Jesus, he smelled good.

I turned for the kitchen, looking for a vase for the rose, and he chuckled behind me. “I thought we were going out?”

“I have to put this in some water,” I said.

“You like it? It’s nearly the same color as your eyes.”

I smiled, spinning back to him. “I love it. It’s beautiful. Thank you.” Stretching up slightly, I only meant to brush my lips across his.

He pulled me to him, slanting his mouth over mine in a much more serious kiss.

I melted into his strong frame. The flower dropped to the floor, dead teenagers and moonshine falling away as I buried my fingers in his thick, dark hair.

One thing about Joey: he’s a great kisser. Major league caliber. One arm cradled my shoulder, the other tightening around the small of my back as his lips parted.

I returned the urgency, lightning flashing behind my eyelids as his tongue slid over mine.

Sparks sped across my skin as his hand trailed up my spine, molding me to him. My toes scrunched inside my shoes, and I moved my hands to his chest, pushing the fabric of his jacket back over his shoulders.

He pulled back a millimeter, his eyes half-lidded and smoldering. “We are going out, aren’t we?”

I swallowed the “we don’t have to,” before it popped through my lips, leaning back in his arms and trying to catch my breath. Dinner didn’t sound nearly as appetizing as it had a few minutes earlier.

“We should.” I trailed a row of tiny, soft kisses along his jaw and laid my head on his shoulder, taking long, deep breaths. His hands moved to stroke my hair.

“You sure? I still want to hear about those fantasies you were talking about the other night.”

I let my breath out by degrees, reveling in the moment. I loved the way his voice rumbled in his chest when he talked, deep and strong and safe. It was an easy leap to wonder how it would sound if we were more horizontal.

I closed my eyes, letting the fantasy play for a few seconds.

Joey’s lips. His hands. The things he could do with those lips and hands.

Moonshiners. Dead kids. Grieving parents.

Dammit, the things I sacrifice for my job.

I squeezed him for another second before I harnessed every ounce of willpower and stepped out of his arms.

“Where are we eating?” I asked, straightening my fitted forties-inspired black Calvin Klein dress. Hopefully nowhere I’d want to consume more than a few ounces of food, because the dress was already breathe-shallow snug.

“Well...” He let the word trail, his dark eyes flicking down the hallway toward my bedroom.

My heart jackhammered a few beats. I better get a Pulitzer for this.

I knelt and picked up the rose, laying it on the shelf of beach glass behind me. “I’ll press this,” I said, not trusting myself to stay in the house a millisecond longer. I stepped around him and walked down the steps. He pulled the door shut and locked it, following me to the car and opening my door.

“What are you hungry for?” He flashed a grin as he slid behind the wheel of his sleek black Lincoln.

“You cannot possibly understand how not hungry for food I am.” I smiled as we started driving. “But I have to get this story. Not only do I have Tony and Ashton, grieving and wondering, now the
Post
has everybody and their dog out there looking for a killer.”

“I saw that this morning. What happened?”

I sighed. “I got a big head? I had the exclusive with the parents and thought I had the story cornered. But, you know, I’m not the only nosy reporter around. Apparently, the
Post
has some folks who are better at being nosy.”

“You’re good at what you do. You’ll get it.”

“I hope so.”

I wondered how, watching the familiar storefronts pass as he turned into Carytown. “Where are we going?”

He took a left into the parking lot at a chic French cafe. “This place good?”

“They have amazing bagel things they make fresh every day from French bread,” I grinned. “I’ve only ever been here for breakfast.”

“I have it on good authority that dinner is great, too.” He shut off the engine and rounded the car to open my door, pausing when he saw the lines creasing my forehead. “You’re worried.”

“Bob is annoyed with me. The publisher thinks I told the
Post
about TJ, thanks to our copy editor.”

“You wouldn’t do that.” He dismissed the idea without a second thought, putting out a hand to help me out of the car. I grabbed it and hung on tighter than I should have, grateful tears pricking the backs of my eyes.

I blinked them away, clearing my throat. “Thank you.”

“You have more integrity than anyone I’ve ever met,” he said, holding my hand as we crossed the parking lot to the cafe door. He turned to me as he pulled it open. “It’s one of the things I admire about you. Anyone who really knows you knows it. Your editor is nervous about losing the story, not about you being a mole for the
Post
. He’ll come around.”

I smiled a thank you at the hostess as we sat down, reaching across the table to squeeze Joey’s fingers. “I needed to hear that today. Thanks.”

“Glad to help.” He returned the pressure, the look in his eyes making it very difficult to avoid crawling across the table and kissing him again.

But the way my pulse and emotions were surging, that would lead to other things. Things that, there in the cushy booth, would lead to jail. So I kept my seat and smiled, instead.

He let go and tapped the menu, and I quickly settled on the rosemary chicken and turned my thoughts back to my story.

“The
Post
might have someone smarter than me, but they don’t have you. Tell me about the guy we’re talking to.”

He sipped his water, and I found it easier to focus on his words if I skipped my eyes around the art on the walls or the pressed-plate ceiling, only stealing glances at him every few seconds.

“He does transportation and sales for a moonshining outfit out of Mathews,” Joey said. “We have some mutual associates. There are several dry counties in Maryland and North Carolina, and a couple in Virginia, too. There are also a lot more places than I would have expected where you can’t buy booze on Sundays.”

“I saw that online. But why is it a big deal? That’s what I don’t understand. People can’t stock up on Saturday?” I pulled a roll from a heavenly-smelling basket the server laid on the table and scooped butter onto my knife.

“I guess some people end up with hooch emergencies? Or don’t live near enough to a liquor store, maybe?” Joey slid a knife into his roll. “I can’t imagine. But I’m just the customer today. We’re looking to buy a case from him. It was a good excuse for a meeting. Not exactly an interview, but I think you can get some useful information out of him.”

“I can. And it’s a good reason to spend the evening with you.” I grinned, and his face lit up in response.

“There’s that, too.”

The waiter set our food down in front of us. When he left, I glanced at Joey.

“Maybe if you have time, we could pick up where we left off when we’re done buying contraband alcohol.” I twisted the napkin in my fingers, slightly amazed that I was brave enough to say that. And I hadn’t even had any wine.

“Yeah? Well, let’s go get it finished, then.” The corners of his full lips edged up in a sexy smile, and my pulse took off at a gallop.

Lord, let’s.

I picked at my chicken, and objected when Joey handed the server a credit card before the guy had even brought the check.

“You’re doing me a favor,” I said. “The least I can do is buy you dinner.”

“On our first real date? I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “Next time, we’ll talk about it.”

My heart pounded. “Deal.”

“Does that mean we’re dating, now?” His dark eyes were serious.

I stared at him, my thoughts whirling. I wanted to squeal and say of course and wear his class ring (or whatever the grownup equivalent of that was). But...how would it ever work? And there was Kyle. I couldn’t brush off the fact that I had feelings for him, too. I just didn’t know how deep they went.

“We’re trying things out,” I said finally, choosing words carefully. “I like you. Probably more than I should. And not just because you can get me exclusives with shady characters. But it’s been a pretty long time since I’ve done anything like this. I’m not sure how it works, period. Let alone how it works with so many complications.”

He nodded. “I understand that. And I’ll take it. I like you more than I should, too. I’ve tried to be your friend, but I want more. We’ll see where it goes?”

“I’d like that.” About as much as I like breathing.

“What about your,” he paused, clearing his throat, “federal agent friend?”

“I don’t see where it’s any of his business. At least, not the particulars of it.” I twisted the napkin again. “Kyle is complicated.”

“I don’t give up easily.” Joey took my hand, trailing the pad of his thumb over my knuckles. “And I’m used to getting what I want.”

My breath caught when his eyes finished that sentence before he spoke the words. “As hard as I’ve tried not to, what I want is you.”

Oh. My. God.

The waiter appeared with the credit card slip and Joey signed it, then stood and offered me a hand. “Ready to get this over with?”

I took his hand and returned his smile. “I haven’t wanted to get through an interview more since the serial killer I saw on death row five years ago.”