“I was just noticing that you didn’t need to look up Lucas Morrison’s phone number.”
I feel a guilty flush that I know he can’t miss. “I’m good with numbers, I guess.”
He gives me a vague smile and opens the car door. “I didn’t mean to unnerve you. It’s none of my business, anyway.”
I meet his smile with one I hope is equally enigmatic. “No,” I say. “It’s not.”
“If it ever is my business…” he begins.
A sudden flutter of hope makes me feel more foolish than I must look. “What?” I ask.
I’ve gone too far, pressed too hard against the supervisor-employee wall. But he started it. I stare up at him for an answer.
“For starters,” he says, “I’m going to make you pay for the lunch. How can the company come down on us for that?”
I can’t look at him any longer. Instead, I say, “I might just offer to buy your lunch one of these days.”
“You’ve already promised to,” he says.
Rochelle
She kept the treadmill in the garage, for emergencies. Not that she needed to run today. She’d been to the gym early thismorning, worked out under the watchful eye of Blond Elvis, but she’d also eaten. Jesse had forced her to share part of his scrambled eggs when she’d returned, and watched her chew every bite, even though she’d tried to steer around the yolks. Finally, she’d thrown down the fork, gone into bitch mode and said, “You know I hate eggs.” But the damage had been done.
Now, wearing a long T-shirt over her shorts, she pushed the treadmill to its limit, feeling the rush as the endorphins kicked in and the sweat bled from every pore.
When she worked really long, really hard, she could hear music in the noise of the treadmill, sometimes almost voices. Today it sounded likebanana yogurt, banana yogurt, banana yogurt.She sped up; the sound continued.
God, this was good. Another hour and the eggs would be history. She needed to get some extra time in now. Once Megan got here, she’d be under scrutiny, but at least she’d have her baby. She’d know she was safe.
A chill touched her slippery arm as if someone had tapped her. She wasn’t alone in this dim room. She slowed her pace, trying to glance over her shoulder. A shape filled the door between the garage and the kitchen.
“Damn it, Jesse. You scared the hell out of me.”
“Haven’t you been at it long enough?” The noise of the treadmill gobbled his words. He was on edge, too, had been since she’d shown him what had come in the mail.
“When I need another personal trainer, I’ll advertise for one.”
“I thought you might be interested in knowing I got you a part.”
“A part? Why didn’t you say so?” She jumped from the treadmill and threw her arms around him. “Oh, baby, you are the best.”
“Now, hold on.” He struggled to untangle himself from her, but she covered his face with kisses.
“I knew you could do it. You never give up on me, do you?”
He sighed and patted her the way you’d pat a child. “No, I don’t.”
Lucas
He had been hurt worse than Bobby W. He was grateful for that. They talked to the police, who chalked up their attack to too much drinking on the island, and Bobby W seemed eager to agree. Lucas wasn’t so sure.
His aching body still attested to the anger of his attacker, and he’d have to concoct a story to explain the bruises and cuts on his face. He’d told Ellen the truth, of course, and now he was going to have to do something about these messages from Rikki.
He found Bobby W in the gallery, as the old man called it. Ironic, because every room in Bobby W’s life was a photo gallery. Some of the photos were collectors’ items—Mr. Universe John Grimek, Harold Zinkin, the first Mr. California, Jack La Lanne—all of them in shorts that looked clunky, regardless of how brief. They posed while doing handstands or balancing women in swanlike poses. In one bookend pyramid, a young Bobby W balanced on Zinkin’s back and held a white bathing-suit-clad woman in a handstand.
As he entered the room, he thought he heard voices, then realized Bobby W was whispering to the people in the photo.
“You feeling better?” Lucas asked in a louder-than-usual voice.
