I swallow nervously. At some point in the next few minutes, I’m going to have to decide whether I want to fake-date Jett Carter.
And I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to say.
* * *
The question isnot, apparently, whether I want to fake-date Jett Carter.
No, therealquestion I’m facing, it seems, is how much trouble I’m prepared to get into if Idon’t.
It’s about 20 minutes after the conversation in the pantry, and things have gone rapidly downhill.
Despite his earlier reluctance, Jett seems to have resigned himself to the fact that we’re going to be fake dating. His eyes are closed as he leans back against the sofa, physically present, but emotionally detached from the scene that’s unfolding as Asher places the sheaf of papers he’s been clutching like they’re his firstborn child onto the low coffee table in front of me.
“What’s this?” I ask, feigning disinterest. “Your life story?”
“Yours, actually.”
My stomach flip-flops with sudden fear as he reaches over and spreads the papers out like a fan on the table.
“We didn’t have a lot of time, obviously, but this is everything we were able to find out about you in the last few hours. Want to take a look?”
“Here’s an idea,” I say, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “Why don’t you just tell me whatever it is you want me to feel worried about, and I’ll do my best to look worried about it. How does that work for you?”
I flip my hair over my shoulder in a show of nonchalance, but the truth is, I don’t have to try to look worried. Iamworried. Because, judging by the way he’s sitting there with his eyebrows raised like the James Bond villain he clearly dreams of being, Silver Fox has got something on me.
And I have a pretty good idea what it is, too.
“It’s the small matter of your visa,” says Silver Fox, with a “gotcha” look on his face.
Bingo. Got it in one.
The issue with my visa is that I don’t actually have one: and I’m not talking about a credit card here either. Idefinitelyhave one of those.
No, my good friend Fox here is talking about a work permit, of course. The one I need to work legally here in the U.S. The one I don’t have, because… well, because I didn’t bother applying for one.
Imeantto do it. No, really, I did. But, the thing is, when I arrived here, on the same three month tourist visa as everyone else who comes to California for a sunshine break, I didn’t plan to stay. I just needed to get away from Heather Bay for a bit. Away from the shocked faces who looked at me like I was something less than human. I wanted to get away frommyself, really — but I brought myself right along with me, as evidenced by the way I got here and immediately got myself into trouble: not only by outstaying my welcome, but also by getting a job — which definitely wasn’t allowed under the terms of that visa.
My tourist visa lasted three months.
At the end of month one, I met Amy, who told me there was a spare room available in the house she was renting.
At the start of month two, I met Summer, who’d just moved in, and who was looking for bar staff to help out at work — cash in hand, no questions.
By month three, I was pretty much settled in, and Heather Bay felt like it was in anotherworld, not just another country.
By month four, I was officially over the limit of my tourist visa, but by month five, my head was firmly buried in the sand about it. I knew I should do something to make my stay legal, but I had no idea where to even start, and anyway — who was going to know? I’d done something wrong, sure, but the world hadn’t ended. A bunch of men in black suits hadn’t come beating down the door, ready to throw me out of the country. I was safe. And, well, alsoterrified.Well, wouldn’tyoube? Just because those men in black hadn’t arrivedyet, it didn’t mean they weren’t going to — and going by the look on Silver Fox’s face right now, I’m guessing he knows exactly where to find them.
Oh. Merde.
“No need to look so worried, Miss Steele,” he says pleasantly, surprising me. “No one needs to know about this little… discrepancy in your paperwork, shall we call it?”
“No?”
My heart leaps with hope, then immediately sinks again as I realize what he’s about to say to me.
“Of course not,” Fox tells me, with a smile made of ice. “Jett and his father have a lot of contacts, you know. And a lot of money. They can make all of this go away. They just need you to do something for them in return. I’m sure you can guess what it is.”
He sweeps a hand over the papers on the table, and, all of a sudden, I understand how perfectly ordinary people can be driven to commit murder.
