“I’ve been in prison.”
“Oh.” Well, shit, that explained a lot. Jack cleared his throat, embarrassed to have trod into something so personal. “Well, fortunately, Jamie understands that men make mistakes.”
He shut up, not sure what else to say.
“Listen, do you have a few minutes? I need someone to talk to, and you obviously care about Jamie.”
“I do.” More than he could express without sounding like a cream puff. “And sure, I have time.”
“Thanks. Name’s Jim, by the way.” He stuck his hand out.
“Jack.”
They shook.
And by the time they were done talking quite a while later, Jack had another new roommate, and a pretty good idea that Jamie was going to kill him.
By the end of the day Jamie had seven new voice mail messages on her cell phone. Walking to the subway, feeling sluggish and slow, her peasant skirt trailing on the sidewalk, she curiously listened to her messages. She couldn’t imagine there were seven people trying to get ahold of her in one afternoon.
First message. Sent at one-twenty-two P.M., the robotic female voice said in her ear. Then, “Sugar, I had another vision. I saw ice, I saw coffee, I saw anger. Call me.”
Jamie played with the amber beads on her necklace. That prediction meant nothing to her, so she waited for the next message.
Next message. Sent at two-twelve P.M. “Why haven’t you called me back? You need to give me your new work number. There are times when I have to talk to you and I don’t like being put off with this cell voice mail bullshit.”
Jamie would have to be insane to give Beckwith her new work number. As it was, she was lucky he hadn’t just shown up at her office.
Next message. Sent at two-seventeen P.M. “You know, you’re lucky I’m getting my nails done or I’d just come down there. There’s a great disturbance in the force,” Beckwith said in his deep yet somehow feminine voice. “There’s like a Darth Vader moment right around the corner for you.”
That made Jamie grin. Darth Vader? Geez, Beckwith certainly had a flare for the dramatic.
Next message. Sent at three twenty-one P.M.
Jamie didn’t need psychic powers of her own to guess it was going to be Beckwith again.
“My crew keeps saying, “They’re here…” like that freaky little girl in Poltergeist. Why the hell am I seeing your future in movies? And who are they? Jams, you’ve got to call me before I have an aneurysm.”
If he’d stop leaving voice mails, maybe she would have time to call him back.
Next message. Sent at three forty-seven P.M. “Whatever you do, do not go to Jack’s apartment, do you understand me? I sense criminal feelings…like death, prison. Maybe the doorman has a violent past or something, but do not go over there, do you hear me? I repeat, do not go to Jack’s apartment.”
The frightened tone in Beckwith’s voice made Jamie shiver a little, even as the sun beat down on her bare arms. He was great at drama, but he wasn’t usually prone to hysteria. Yet she couldn’t believe she’d ever come to harm in Jack’s presence. Despite his lying, she felt in her heart that she could trust him not to ever hurt her physically. He could shred her heart like mozzarella if she let him, but physically she’d be fine.
Next message. Sent at four-oh-one P.M. “Jamie, this is Jack. I was wondering if you could come over to my apartment tonight after you get off work? I need to talk to you…” Jack hesitated. “It’s about your father.”
Jamie sucked in her breath. That must have been the feeling Beckwith was getting. He was mixing sensations about her father with Jack. Prison, a crime…dark shadows of the past like Darth Vader.
“You can come over any time. I’ll be here.” There was another pause like he was going to say something else. But he only ended with a soft, “Thanks, Jamie.”
“Damn,” Jamie whispered out loud, heading down the steps into the subway. She wanted to blow Jack off. To hold on to her anger over the lies, and her irritation with the way he’d taken over handling the situation with Austin. But she couldn’t. She had a heck of a time saying no to anyone, and Jack had been comforting to her when she’d seen her father.
And no matter how far apart their lives were, or how many issues lay between them, part of her would always remember the night they had shared, when everything was simple and it had just been amazing between them.
She hesitated on the platform. Maybe she should run home and change into a fresh outfit. Maybe her yellow sundress.
Next message. Sent at four-twelve P.M. “Okay, sugar, fine, don’t listen to me. Go over there and get murdered. But at the very least, have pity on me and do not wear that yellow dress. It makes you look like a banana.”
Okay, apparently she wasn’t changing. Jamie stepped on the train and glanced down at her green skirt, and smoothed her red hair.
Watermelon. Banana. Same difference.
“Okay, just hear me out,” Jack said when he met Jamie in the lobby.
Met her in the lobby. That was not a good beginning to the evening. Like there was something so utterly horrible and depraved about to blurt from his lips he needed to say it to her in a public space.
“What?” she asked cautiously, sliding her camel-colored hobo bag in front of her. Not that she intended to beat him with her purse or anything, but it felt safer to have a barrier between her and those pleading, pretty eyes.
“Sit down,” he suggested, his hands in his jean pockets as he nodded toward the red chairs.
“No, thank you.”
One, she wasn’t going to be staying that long. Two, those chairs reminded her of that night, which she’d rather not be reminded of, thank you very much. Too much contemplation on that morning’s particular activities and she would either start crying or spontaneously orgasm.
“Okay, then I’ll just get right to the point.”
Please do, God, he was going to drive her to drink.
“Your father is upstairs in my apartment and he wants to talk to you.”
Maybe she should have sat down. Jamie’s cheeks went hot, and her legs turned to rubber. “I’m sorry?”
Jack reached out like he was going to touch her, but he hesitated. “He was outside Beechwood, and I talked to him, told him you knew who he was, and that maybe it was time for him to speak to you. He told me he’d just wanted to make sure you were okay, but didn’t want to bother you. I convinced him that it would be no bother. That his daughter would like to speak to him. Was I wrong?”