Keep You (16 page)

             
Randy was strapped down with luggage like a pack mule, towering over his wife who hurried to keep up with his long strides, her face flushed. Their kids fanned out behind them, laboring under their own bags. Walt and Gwen had brought their boys, but he didn’t see Tyler, which was just as well – two-year-olds and planes didn’t go together.

             
Tam scanned all their faces before he allowed himself to latch onto Jo. She was walking side-by-side with Jordan, the two of them talking about something – they’d always been the closest, the “twins” – and Tam fought a smile when he took stock of what she was wearing. Jeans, a tall pair of those leather Dublin boots she’d always talked about wanting, a thin, gray zip up hoodie over a white tank, a baseball cap, her hair streaming loose beneath it. With those big sea-foam eyes of hers, the fair skin, she looked like an Irish native and not a tourist. Like some farm girl he might run across on a rutted dirt road, a slop pail in each hand, mud all over her boots.

             
This week, he decided, was going to be torture. And that was before Ryan Atkins stood and called out to Jo.

             
Then Tam decided he’d be convicted of murder before the seven days were up.

**

              As they moved through Hartsfield-Jackson International like a disorderly herd of cattle escaped from their pen, Walt and Gwen’s boys – Chase and Logan – shouting and leaping and surging ahead of the group, all their wheeled suitcases clacking against the tiles, Jo felt her trepidation build and build until she realized she was breathing loudly through her mouth, her skin clammy and hot beneath her clothes, her face flushed.

             
At the security checkpoint, Jordan sidled up to her and started asking about the research she’d conducted on their destination in a clear attempt to distract her. She wanted to hug her brother.

             
“The castle was built in the 1200s by an Anglo-Norman lord,” she told him as they progressed through the concourse. Starbucks, Pizza Hut/Taco Bell, Arby’s and the newsstand were open, but there were very few customers trolling around at this hour. The other passengers making their sleepy way down to the gate were in sweats, bleary-eyed, grumbling to one another. Jo’s heart was cracking in her chest like a snare drum.

             
“Really?” Jordan asked beside her.

             
Who knew if he gave a shit, but the talking was the only thing keeping the dry heaves at bay. “Yes,” she continued. “Its original name was this long French thing I can’t pronounce. DeMarco – the lord – built a series of keeps around the same lake, but Billingsly was the real prize. He lost it to native Richard Billingsly after a battle in 1590. Billingsly was the one who started the major renovations.”

             
“How do you renovate a castle?”

             
The cluster of chairs and benches at the gate drew into sight, as did the people sitting in them. Jo swallowed. “Over the centuries, Victorian and French additions have been built on. There’s a vineyard now. A stable as big as a castle all in itself. Billingsly is a mammoth of a structure, right on the lake. Portions of it are relatively new, but the main wing is seven-hundred-and-eighty-four years old.”

             
“That’s amazing,” Jordan said. They were closer now, Jo could make out the faces of the waiting passengers. “I mean, the castle, sure, but mainly the fact that you’re still pretending you give a shit about it.”

             
She drew in a shaky breath, her steps slowing. “It’s expensive, but it’s fascinating.”

             
Jordan snorted and drew her gaze. His brows were lifted over his large eyes, his curly hair was still damp and clung to his forehead. “I know. But right now, that castle is the last thing on your mind.”

             
“I know.” She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “Is it too obvious?”

             
He shrugged. “Only to me.”

             
Which meant, only to someone who knew her well. Someone like, oh, say, Tam.

             
Without wanting to, her head swung forward, eyes searching for him among those sitting at the gate. They were close enough now that she recognized some of Mike’s coworkers, Ryan Atkins among them, unfortunately. And then there was Tam.

             
She saw the bright green of his Mountain Dew bottle first, and then her gaze traveled up his arm, clad in red-and-black lightweight flannel, to his messy collar, his white undershirt, up the familiar, strong column of his throat. He was wearing aviators with mirror lenses, his solid, slightly roman nose supporting them well. He had serious bed-head, short dark spikes sticking up at all angles, the edges soft without gel. When his head turned toward her, she wished she could see his eyes, read what was flashing through them. Because she was having a physical reaction to him as it was: her chest getting tight, her throat burning, her breath catching.

             
Jordan’s hand touched her shoulder and she nodded, understanding the silent communication that she had to be tough about this.

             
“Gentlemen,” Randy boomed as they reached their destination. “Morning!”

             
The rest of the groomsmen stood and shook hands with the rest of the family. All but Tam. Jo nodded woodenly at men whose names she didn’t even try to remember. She cringed when Ryan shouldered his way through the others.

             
“Hey, Jo!” His voice was waaaaay too loud for ten till six in the morning. He was in a crisp white Polo shirt and khakis, coppery brown loafers. Jo looked up at his wide, white smile and his unsmiling eyes, his cartoonishly broad square jaw, and felt nothing but dread. He spread his arms in a gesture that clearly said
hug me
and closed the distance between them.

             
Jo forced a smile that hurt her face and stood still while his arms clapped around her, grateful when he backed away.

             
“Hey, girl.” His eyes devoured her and she knew it wasn’t because she looked good. She’d purposefully dressed for their destination: her favorite old painted-on jeans, her tan and brown Dublin boots that she wore to work in the winter, a plain white tank, hoodie, and a baseball cap from work with the red and white check Purina logo on the front. No, he looked at her with the predatory callousness of a man who thought he had a desperate, easy girl dangling on the hook, someone plain who’d lap up the attention of a stud like him. “Gosh, you look great. You excited about the trip?”

             
“Super excited.” She was having trouble being polite.

             
Her father saved her. “Who are you?” he asked, putting a meaty shoulder and arm between them.

             
“Oh, um…” Ryan blinked in shock a moment before he offered his hand to Randy. “Ryan. Ryan Atkins. I’m going to be escorting Jo to the wedding.”

             
Randy took the shake, Ryan’s barely hidden grimace indicating how hard Randy gripped his smaller fingers, but frowned. “Escorting? My Jo never needed an escort to anything. You hearing this, Jo Lynn? I don’t believe it.”

             
“Yeah, Dad,” she said, “he’s my - ” she wanted to gag “ – date.”

             
He made a loud snorting sound like a bull. “We’ll see…oh, there he is! Tammy! Hey, kid!”

             
Her heart squeezing like there was a fist around it, Jo watched her dad go to Tam and watched Tam, unable to remain slouched down in his chair with Randy around, get to his feet and get pulled into a back-slapping man-hug.

             
“How you been?” Randy asked, giving Tam a hearty, affectionate slug on the shoulder. Tam’s smile looked sad to her, but it was genuine. She didn’t get to hear his response because Ryan spoke to her, his voice like auditory sandpaper.

             
“Guess I’m gonna have to work hard to get on your dad’s good side, huh?” He chuckled.

             
You owe Tam nothing
, she reminded herself.
You’re getting a little peace
. But she couldn’t pull her eyes away from him. “I dunno,” she said more to herself than to Ryan. “Dad’s always had pretty good taste.”

**

              Delta Charity Brooks had twelve bridesmaids and two straight-from-the-yacht-club parents. They all arrived at once, in a cloud of Dior perfume and a flutter of thousand dollar fabrics, Louis Vuitton luggage in tow.

             
“You know what this is missing?” Jordan said. “A little Darth Vader theme music.”

             
Jo bit her tongue to keep from laughing.

             
“Hey, y’all!” Delta called. “Happy wedding week!” She waved to the group with both hands as she walked, bracelets rattling, rings catching the light. She took quick, mincing steps in her Louboutins, their red soles clipping across the tile. She was tall, elegant, with slender, shapely legs and small but perky breasts. Delta was built like a Victoria’s Secret model and dressed like royalty. Her smoke gray pencil skirt was fitted like a glove and belted at her middle, cinching her gauzy white, high-priced dress shirt to her narrow waist. She’d gone to great lengths to arrange her brunette locks into a breezy, effortless style that said
I just woke up looking like this
. Her makeup was perfect. Her brown eyes vivid against a backdrop of smoky shadow. She was stunning in a wicked sort of way, in a way that left no doubt she would stop nothing short of obtaining everything she’d ever wanted.

             
Mike walked alongside his bride-to-be, a hand floating behind the small of her back, towing his bags with the other. They made for a country club newsletter couple; she was like a sculpture of God’s ideal woman, he was blonde and tan and square-faced, at home in khakis and a dress shirt with the sleeves folded back, looking every inch the all-American, handsome accountant from a Lifetime original movie.

             
The parents, Dennis and Louise, could have been brother and sister: both slender, both elegant with wide-set shoulders and dark eyes. They had regal, upturned noses they’d given to their daughter. Louise was in a navy pencil skirt and ivory, translucent lace top that put her plastic rack on display. Her hair was eight different shades of blonde with dark to black lowlights, her tan something from
Jersey Shore
. Dennis was in black pants, a crisp yellow shirt and yellow and black striped tie. They were ridiculously overdressed.

             
And then there were the bridesmaids.

             
Jo had met them at all the various showers and parties. She knew some of their names: there was a Donna, a Bev, a Tabitha and two Jennifers. She could never keep them straight, though, and she and Jess had taken to numbering them instead: one through eleven. Because there was no forgetting number twelve; the maid of honor. Maid of honor Regina who fit the bill for bride’s esteem booster. Regina Malone was on the heavy side, and bottom-heavy to boot. Her golden Koosh ball of hair was forever frizzy, her complexion suffering thanks to whatever her sweet treat of choice was. Her brows seemed permanently fused together in a scowl and she was always winded, always perspiring. She pulled up to the seating area huffing, her hair caught in a colored scarf, half-moons of sweat peeking from beneath the arms of her blue dress shirt. She was not a fan of the Walker girls and had let it be known on several occasions. For Jo, the feeling was mutual.

             
“Isn’t everybody so excited?” Delta asked, overbright, as she shot a smile at everyone present like a laser guided missile. “I am just
soooo
excited, y’all! This is gonna be - ”

             
“As fun as diarrhea,” Jordan said under his breath.

             
“- so
amazing
!”

             
“Amazing like the bubonic plague,” Jordan said and Jo had to turn around, fist pressed to her lips to keep from laughing aloud.

             
When she did, her line of sight collided with Tam’s. He’d pushed his shades up into his hair and for just a moment, a fraction of a second, she saw something haunted and hurting flash in his blue eyes.

             
Then he glanced away and pulled his sunglasses back into place.

             
The PA system crackled.
“Flight 182 to New York City is now boarding first class passengers. First class passengers only.”

             
Louise Brooks grabbed her husband’s sleeve. “That’s us, dear. Come on.”

15

Now

              Somewhere along the Eastern sea board, Jo began to regret her decision to sip on a Sprite on the way to the airport in the hopes of settling her stomach. Her stomach was still doing aerobics and now she had to pee.

             
“You know the best thing about sitting in the exact middle in business class?” Jordan asked to her right. He was sandwiched between her and Walt’s oldest, Chase –  who was engrossed in Angry Birds on Jordan’s cell – and was employing his usual brand of complaining: bitching disguised as quips and one-liners. He reached forward and tapped the screen of the tiny TV that was sunk into the headrest in front of him. “Kardashians without the sound. Thank God Delta has E! for my viewing pleasure,” he deadpanned. He turned to Jo with the most serious look on his face. “And of course I mean Delta Airlines. Delta Brooks can go fuck herself.”

             
“Shh!” she admonished with a wave. “Virginal ears.” She pointed to Chase who she, in truth, doubted had heard them.

             
“Little dude’s gotta grow up sometime, right bud?”

             
Chase grunted, fingers flying over the touch screen of the iPhone.

             
Jordan shrugged. “See? He can’t hear a goddamn word we say.”

             
She rolled her eyes.

             
“Now, speaking of virgins and ears and your ex-lover - ”

             
“Jordie,” she groaned. “Don’t.”

             
“ – what’s your game plan this week?”

             
“You haven’t heard?”

             
He shook his head.

             
Jo sighed. “I’m Ryan’s date.”

             
His brows jumped up and disappeared into his drying, now-bouncy curls. “
That
Ryan?” He waved over his shoulder to indicate the trio of groomsmen sitting two rows back on the far right section of seats. “The one who ‘accidently’ grabbed the stewardess’s ass when he reached for his pretzels? Yeah.” He coughed into his hand. “He’s just swell.”

             
“I’m not going out with him,” she said the obvious. “I’m just gonna use him to…you know.”

             
“Make,” he mouthed
Tam
, “jealous? Seriously? I thought you were better than that.” He feigned disgust. “You know what, don’t talk to me the rest of this flight.”

             
“Uh-huh.”

             
“I’m serious.” He made a show of paying rapt attention to the soundless episode of
Keeping up with the Kardashians
in front of him. “Hey, did you see the game last night?”

             
Confident her relationship with her brother was not damaged, she rolled her eyes and stood up as best she could considering the cramped seat space. “I’ll be back.”

             
Jo had been on a plane only once before, and while she didn’t get air sick – turbulence didn’t bother her – and despite her diminutive size, she still felt a little claustrophobic. They were, after all, trapped in this can thirty-thousand feet up, with no escape. You couldn’t crack a window. The air she breathed down into her lungs had circulated throughout the cabin and smelled stale and of people. She caught a whiff of cologne and pizza as she stepped into the aisle and cringed.

             
The wedding party was seated all around her. Gwen gave her a little smile as she headed toward the bathroom. Regina Malone sneered at her. Ryan gave her a
how you doin’?
nod and smile she couldn’t bring herself to return. There was a line, as was typical, and she braced her feet apart in the aisle, trying to get comfortable without leaning against the passengers on either side of her.

             
“I know that look,” a voice said behind her and her stomach lurched.

             
Maybe if I turned around right now and puked all over him, he wouldn’t bother me
. But alas, she couldn’t vomit on command, nor could she keep from turning to face Tam.

             
He’d ditched the sunglasses finally, and the flannel shirt, clad just in a plain white t-shirt that stretched tight across his chest and jeans that were the perfect complement to his long legs and lean hips. His shoes were black skateboard sneaks with white soles. Same old Tam. Her pulse gave a little leap, but she kept her arms folded over her chest.

             
This was going to keep happening, she realized, as he gave her a smile that was downright lethal. All week, they’d bump into each other, be forced into each other’s company. She could either fight it, or make a go at being civil. Since Ryan was her retaliation, she supposed there was no sense being a bitch for no reason.

             
“What look?” she asked mildly, lifting her brows a fraction beneath the brim of her hat.

             
His smile widened, white teeth gleaming. “The ‘get me the hell outta here’ look.”

             
She allowed herself one small scrap of a grin. “That obvious, huh?”

             
“Only because I know you.”

             
Being civil was going to wreck her on the inside, she decided. It really was.

**

             
Easy
, a voice in the back of Tam’s head warned him.
Don’t push too hard too fast
. But that was so hard to listen to. He wanted to enroll them in the mile high club. To say the perfect thing that brought a broad, melting smile to her face. Wanted to hear her say, “you were so stupid to let go of me, but I forgive you. Come back to me.” He felt ten kinds of pathetic and didn’t care; this week would be his last shot. He didn’t deserve one, but if nothing else, maybe he could set some things right. Bring her some closure.

             
He didn’t want closure – he wanted her – but he suspected she wanted an explanation.

             
Jo’s expression became guarded, eyes narrowing. “Did you follow me up here?”

             
He nodded toward the line that was crawling forward. “Gotta take a leak.”

             
Her lips compressed into a non-smile. There was the slightest hint of humor sparkling in her eyes. “Mmkay.”

             
She’d had less of a pleasant expression on her face when Atkins had tried to hug her. Just remembering that moment, Tam felt his hands twitch, longing to curl into fists, longing to put those fists into that motherfucking
GQ
model wannabe’s face. He consoled himself with the knowledge that Jo hadn’t hugged Atkins back; she’d stood like a wooden doll, hands at her sides, and responded to his greeting through her teeth.

             
Tam couldn’t stop himself from asking about it. “You and Atkins looked cozy,” he said, and forced a smile he didn’t feel. Make her think he was teasing. Make her think he was cool with it.

             
Under the brim of her hat, her brows lifted an almost imperceptible amount. “He’s a good guy,” she said in a bored tone. “He asked me to be his date to the wedding.”

             
Tam’s pulse went double-time on him. But he smoothly raised his eyebrows. “And you said yes?” he asked – again,
smoothly
.

             
“Of course.” She lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “No reason I can’t have a little fun on this trip.”

“I’m bringing a date. Romantic castle equals horny chick, equals blowjob.”
That’s what Atkins had said at poker night. And if Jo was his date…

Tam swallowed and felt like there was a knot the size of a potato lodged in his throat. “Yeah, no reason,” he said lamely. It was like someone had dripped a couple squeezes of red food coloring behind his eyes, crimson swirling across his field of vision. The tang of jealously was bitter. It threatened to choke him. He could see Ryan Atkins, a sneering smile across his playboy face, his fingers di
gging into Jo’s scalp as he took a nasty hold on her hair. He flashed back to her watery eyes and trembling lips on her prom night, all those years ago, when she’d sniffled and leaned against him and been so distraught over what an asshole named Nick had tried to force her to do.

That had been a seventeen-year-old, inexperienced Jo. The twenty-three-year-o
ld who stood in front of him on the plane now had lots of experience, maybe even more than he’d been responsible for. He wanted to think, based on things she’d whispered to him back then, that she was a hot-blooded, sex-starved creature in his hands alone. But maybe that wasn’t the case anymore. Maybe she’d been with dozens since him. Maybe Atkins really did look like “fun” to her.

The murder rap was becoming a solid, looming event in his future.

“Did you bring anyone?” she asked, all innocence, and he started to wonder if she was yanking his chain.

“No.” H
e forced another smile. “Guess that leaves me free to hook up with the bridesmaids then.”

Her face twitched. “Guess so.”

The line moved forward and it was Jo’s turn. Tam watched her wrinkle up her nose at the sight of the tiny bathroom cubicle. She braced both hands on either side of the sliding door. “Here goes nothing,” she said, pulled in a deep breath – reminding him of pre-teen her preparing to launch off the diving board at the neighborhood pool – and entered.

Tam propped his shoulder against the wall opposite and waited. That was the headspace he lived in now when it came to Jo: he was waiting. Not so patiently, but devoted.
Totally devoted.

**

              Being in a major city’s airport was not the tourist experience of being out on the streets of that city. JFK was a bustling, frenzied airport full of execs and what looked like celebs, rushing around with hands held in front of paparazzi cameras, giant sunglasses and hats hiding their identities.
Good Morning America
was in house, filming a segment, and the group had been surrounded by the obligatory sign holders trying to get birthday wishes for their grandmothers on TV. But Tam was thinking that a visit to the restroom – with Johnson who apparently knew nothing about not speaking at the urinal – was not the real NYC trip of a lifetime.

             
“Which room are you in?” Johnson continued to yammer away as they washed their hands.

             
Tam studied his face in the mirror as he worked soap between his fingers, frowning and wishing for the first time in his life that he had one of those big anvil jaws like Ryan Atkins.
Pathetic
, he told himself. “What’d you say?”

             
“Which room are you in?”

             
He shrugged as he rinsed. “Mike set it up. Fifty-something maybe? Dunno. I’m sharing with somebody.” And what fun that was going to be.

             
“Fifty-four?” Johnson asked. “That’s where I am. Maybe we’ll be together.”

             
Tam shut off the tap and sincerely hoped not.

             
The restroom had a switchback hallway in lieu of doors and it dumped him out across from the women’s restroom and a water fountain. Jessica was there, pouring the remnants of a cold cup of coffee down into the fountain. She glanced up at the sound of his footsteps and gave him one of those rather emotionless smiles he remembered.

             
“Hello, Tam.”

             
“Hey, Jess.” He paused, hands in his back pockets, thinking he ought to say something more than “hi” to the woman.

             
Her big green eyes followed Johnson as the guy faltered and then continued on, merging back into the steady flow of foot traffic moving down the hall. “How’ve you been?” she asked, eyes still on Johnson.

             
“Can’t complain I don’t - ”

             
“Listen to me, Tameron.” She took an aggressive step toward him, her eyes snapping to his now that Johnson was out of sight. Her face hardened up into a commanding, stern mask of authority. “This week is your last chance, do you understand me?” Her brows lifted in challenge.

             
“No.” He scowled back at her. “I don’t.”

             
She sighed through her nostrils like a horse – a horse who thought he was a dumbass. “Your last chance to kiss and make nice with my sister. If you’re still as madly in love with her as I think you are, then don’t be a freaking idiot and let her get away.” She maintained eye contact as she chucked her empty coffee cup into the nearby trashcan, making the shot, nothing but bag without even looking. “I’m serious,” she said, and then gathered herself up for an elegant storming off.