Dying by the Hour (A Jesse Sullivan Novel Book 2) (40 page)

“What?” I ask, but I’m already smiling. I know her too well not to see where this is going.

“Sex. Really hot lesbian
sex
.” She bats her eyes at me and I feel something inside me soften.

“Jess—”

“Wifed up already,” Jesse says. “That’s my luck of course.”

“I’m not your rebound.”

“No, you’re my best friend,” she says. “Which is why the sex would be so good.”

“If I didn’t have a girlfriend.”

“She’s your girlfriend?” Jesse asks, brow furrowing.

“Not officially,” I say.

Her face brightens. “So we could have sex—theoretically.”

“Nikki and I could have sex
theoretically
if someone would quit cockblocking me.” I’m getting angry again.

“I’ve never heard you say the word cockblock before. How crude,” she says, but she’s smiling. “And I don’t know
what
you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t.”

Jesse turns toward someone I can’t see. Gabriel I’m sure, who must be leaning against the deck banister, judging by her gaze. She smiles suddenly as if he’s said something funny.

“Yeah, I can’t control my shield. You can’t blame me for your bedroom problems.”

I’m about to argue that when a text buzzes on my phone.

Jeremiah:
All is good at Olivet’s. Jesse can return whenever she likes.

I forgot he was going to see Kirk today. In exchange for rescuing her daughter and relocating them both safely, Regina helped us to flush out the person responsible for the brick threat. He was arrested and Regina spoke to the remainder of the congregation, urging them to leave Jesse alone. I’m not sure if they listened, or just getting rid of the harasser did the trick, but things have been quieter.

Jeremiah also fixed all of Jesse’s electrical problems and the glass. In fact, he replaced all her glass with bulletproof glass and installed a state of the art security system. There are even motion sensors in every room.

“Jeremiah?” Jesse asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Kirk’s place has been secured. You can go back anytime you like.”

Jesse smiles. “Take that bitches! Nashville is mine!”

I can’t help but smile.

“Can I have another root beer?” She asks, cuddling up to me.

I gently shove her off, playfully, but not before her ponytail brushes my cheek and I warm, soften.

No
, I say.
You’re not someone’s rebound.

“Don’t push your luck. Just because you were tortured doesn’t mean I’ll let you torture me.” I scoop up the empty mug.

“I would never.” She grins. “Unless you asked me to.”

In the kitchen I place the used mug in the dishwasher and take out a fresh mug from the freezer. Before I can find the bottle opener for the root beer, the security panel by the door gives a chirp. I look up and see the motion sensor blinking for Jesse’s bedroom.

I rush to the back door to find Jesse out of her seat, talking to air again.

I throw the door open.

“Gabriel says Caldwell is in the house,” she says.

“Should we call someone?” I ask. But already the shield around me is shimmering in the sunlight.

“He’s gone?” Jesse asks the banister. “Are you sure?”

I look over my shoulder at the security panel and sure enough. It’s no longer flashing red. All lights are green.

“We have to go look,” I say. “Or if it is a bomb, we should have someone else go look.”

“It’s not a bomb,” Jesse says.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Well, Gabriel is.”

It takes me a moment to consider whether or not that is good enough for me.

Jesse and I—and I assume Gabriel—creep quietly through the house. Jesse brings Winston which I think is ridiculous given the circumstances until she explains there is no way she is leaving him alone with Caldwell popping in and out of her house as he pleases.

“If he takes my dog I will
really
kill him,” she says.

Jesse throws open the bedroom door and it slams against the wall behind it. “Whoops.”

No one is inside.

“Are you sure? What if he’s invisible?”

I don’t respond because I know she isn’t talking to me.

“He’s not here?” I ask.

“Gabriel doesn’t think so.”

Then I see it. On the end of Jesse’s bed is an envelope. At first I panic, thinking it’s Brinkley’s envelope.

The idea that Caldwell popped into the house, took it, emptied it and left it tauntingly at the end of Jesse’s bed.

But when I get close I realize this envelope is bigger with different dimensions and much lighter. Jesse snatches it from my hands and opens it, shaking the contents out onto the bed.

Photographs. About a dozen photographs of me and Jesse. Jesse alone. Me alone. Jesse sleeping in her bed at night. Me sleeping in my bed with Nikki. I feel shaky.

“Why show us these?” I ask.

“He’s threatening us,” Jesse says. “He wants us to think nowhere is safe. That he can get as close as he wants to us and we’ll never know it.”

“He could just pop up behind me right now and kill me if he really wanted to,” I say. I think of Brinkley, of the last moment I saw him alive. “Why pictures? Why the manipulation? He’s messing with us.”

Jesse puts her arms around me. She is so incredibly warm, but I’m still shaking.

“He’s definitely a sick dude but it’s more than that,” she says.

Jesse lets go of me and lifts a photograph from the bed. She turns it over and shows me the message I missed at first glance.
Still closer than you think.

“He threw the brick?” I ask.

“No, the writing is different,” she says.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Is he threatening you?”

She turns toward the empty air. Then nods. “Yeah, he’s making me an offer.”

“Why would he do that?” I ask but my heart is pounding with fear. It feels right. The message. The way he has held himself back. He could kill us at any moment. He could kill me now. But he hasn’t—which means he has a reason not to. “Why?”

Jesse looks at me over the rim of the photograph, her grin sinister. “Because he can’t do it without me.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to gratefully acknowledge my first readers, Kathrine Pendleton, Angela Roquet, Katharine Tighe, Sharon Stogner, G.R. Shelley, Carmela Gillette, Victoria Solomon, and Mandi Hooley Kaufmann—and others whom I’ve surely forgotten. (Sorry!) You guys were indispensable. All mistakes are my own.

Many thanks to family, friends, bloggers, and Twitter-ers who showed love for
Dying for a Living
and no less enthusiasm for this sequel. In particular, Kriss Morton, Rebecca Poole, Elizabeth Poole, Leslie Church, Shelly Burrows, and A.B. Shepherd—but there were
many
more. You rock my socks!

Thanks to John K. Addis for his help with the cover and author photo.

Thanks to The Four Horsemen of the Bookocalypse, my critique group, who continue to challenge and improve my writing every day. Let’s ride!

And thank you Kimberly Benedicto. As if your laughter and patience weren’t enough—
here you are, standing there, loving me/Whether or not you should/So somewhere in my youth or childhood/I must have done something good.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kory M. Shrum lives in Michigan with her partner Kim and a ferocious guard pug, Josephine.

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