CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

STEELE

 

“I’m heading out for the day,” Crash says to Jaggs, who’s bent inside the hood of a red Porsche that probably has a few other names after it like Boxster or Cayman. She pops her head up, grease smudged across her pale cheek. Her bright violet eyes flash to us. Aside from the blackish purple spiky hair and tomboy outfits, she really is a pretty girl. I don’t understand why Crash isn’t sleeping with her. At least, that’s the impression he leaves without saying the words. Hate the quiet him. I think Jaggs is the only person he talks to now, so they must get along. Why else would she hang out with him? Can’t be just to learn about cars.

“’Kay, I’ll lock up,” she calls out, waving some tool.

Crash and I head for the door. He thrusts out a mechanic-scarred hand. “I’m driving.”

“I can drive.” I bump his shoulder, wincing from the immediate pain in my side. “Shit!”

“Yeah, right.” He snorts. “You’re injured.”

“Yeah, right.” I snort back. “And your driving is what got me injured. So, I think it’d be safe to say⸻”

“Fuck you.” Crash pushes through the door. “I’m driving.” He opens and closes his palm. “Come on, give ’em to me.”

“You always drive. What the fuck, dude?” Not about to win this battle, I drop the keys in his hand.

“Quit your cryin’ and get in the car.”

“I’m not cryin’, just stating a fact⸻” I stop, realizing the little shit can’t hear me any longer. He just closed the car door. As I crawl in the passenger side, I’m glad he’s driving, though. My side is killing me.

I settle into the seat and rest my head back, ready to proceed in complete silence.

“So Jay went back to Chicago?”

My eyes pop open surprised, first, by the conversation spark, and second, by the question itself. Crash doesn’t usually get involved with anything unless it’s got something to do with cars. “Yeah, she left a week ago.”

“When you were in the hospital?”

“Think so.” I sit up and roll my neck, rolling the lie from my head. There’s no doubt about it; that’s what happened. She got on the plane and took off. I don’t know what hurts more—the fact that she left while I was still lying in a hospital bed, or that she hasn’t reached out to see how I’m doing.

“I like her,” Crash says, rousing me for a second from my thoughts.

“Me too.” I turn to look out the window, paying no heed to the passing cars, trees, houses, or anything else that flashes by my eyes. My mind’s back on Jay. All I see is her. She’s been in my head, chipping away my ability to concentrate or think about anything other than her. Her bright blue eyes, beautiful smile, her smell, the taste of her lips, and the way she feels inside my arms as if our bodies were carved to fit together perfectly. It’s fucking me up. I gotta stop it. I need to forget about her ’cause she’s obviously forgotten about me.

“So that’s it?”

“What?” I look at Crash. His expression flat, eyes focused on the road ahead.

“You’re gonna let her go?”

“I don’t know.” I rub a hand over my head. “The dude she was with, when he died, it fucked her up. I don’t think she’s ready. Stone tried to warn me.”

“Stone?”

“Yeah, he’s close friends with a widow, the wife of one of his Army buddies. Shit! I don’t know what to do.” I drop my arm back onto the edge of the car door, the breeze from the open window helping to cool my heated anger. “Should I call her? Get on a plane and go see her? I’m not even sure if she went back to Chicago. She could have been sent to another location or some shit.”

“She’s in Chicago.”

“What?” My eyes missile to his staunch side profile.

“She called me a few days ago to tell me my contract was at the site. They wanted it before they’d release my check. She asked how you were doing. Told her good, and after some small talk, from my understanding, she’s home for the rest on the month.”

“Really?” My heart flutters. “She asked how I was?”

“Yeah.” He parks the car in front of the studio. “Go to Chicago. Go see her, asshole.” He pulls his cell from his pants pocket. His eyes don’t reach mine again, they’re too busy tapping the screen of his cell like he’s done with me and the unexpected conversation. “I gotta make a few calls. Can you get my shit while you’re in there?”

“Sure.” I get out and close the door. He talked to her, and he didn’t tell me. I’ve been sick thinking she doesn’t care, and she asked about me days ago. I should call her. I don’t know what I’m afraid of.

“There he is. Mr. Unbreakable,” Kip says as I wander into the large, empty studio room.

“Oh, I break.” I clutch my left side. “It’s been a week, and this cracked rib still hurts like a mother.” I glance around the room. “It’s a wrap, then, huh?”

“Yep.” Kips nods. “Just finishing with a couple of quick retakes. What are you doin’ here?”

“Had to sign a few things. So what’s next?”

“Fuck”—he blows out—“Bridget’s pushing for some romcom film directed by Mitch Lobo. Thinks I need to switch it up. How ’bout you? Got anything lined up?”

“I’m looking into a few things but nothing solid yet.” I pause to watch Jessica Gables give Chris a long, lip-locking kiss. Holy shit! He got the girl. Good for him. At least, someone got the girl. I laugh and look back at Kip. “Maybe I’ll take a couple of months off. Let this old body heal a bit.”

“Shit.” Kip pulls his eyes from the odd couple leaving the room and shakes his head. “You ain’t old.” He nods to me. “Look at Britt Bonner and Richard Durant, they’re still doing it in their late thirties, mid-forties.”

“Yeah.” Ken steps into the conversation as he walks around the set, clearly looking for something. “But look at Freddie Kendrick paralyzed at the age of thirty-four, or TJ Banks dead at the age of twenty-four.”

Kip and I both stare at him. He’s such an asshole. I shake my head; better to leave well enough alone and get what I need from the dickhead. “Hey, I have to pick up some contract Jay left here for Crash. Any idea where it might be?”

“Ask Jenni; she’s still here doing paperwork up on the second floor,” Ken says, still sweeping the room.

“Thanks,” I reply with a trying grin.

“So you and Jay?” Kip smiles, nodding his head. “What’s up with that? Anything going on there?”

“Shit, nothin’.” I rub my hair again. “Didn’t you hear, she’s back in Chicago.”

“Yeah,” Ken says, again inviting himself into our conversation as he picks up a harness from a chair. “I was surprised you even tried to go out with her.”

“What? You think because she worked for the insurance company that that’d detour our boy here?” Kip thumbs at me with a chuckle.

“Well, there’s that, but no, I figured you’d realize she wouldn’t be interested in you, ya know, considering your job and all. Wait.” He stops and takes a harder look at me. “You don’t know who she is?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” My body tenses, fists ball, preparing to smash the fucker in the face. He thinks he knows Jay better than I do. He thinks he’s got something on her. I step forward.

“Oh, man. I thought …” His hand lifts. His cocky tone wanes as he turns to Kip. “What about you?”

“No!” Kip’s shoulders rise. “I didn’t know about one eyebrow camera guy and the bitchy makeup artist, and I’ve been working with them for the past few months.” He throws out his hands. “So who the fuck is she?”

Ken looks at me, and not only does his voice change, but his arrogant attitude ebbs as well. There’s a glint of compassion in his eyes. “She was TJ Banks’ girl.”

“TJ Banks’ girl?” Kip repeats what Ken just said, and I’m thankful for it. I needed to hear it a second time. I needed Kip’s confirmation that I didn’t imagine it.

“No.” I shake my head. “Makes no sense. She can’t be. They were married, and she was⸻” I stumble back.

“Pregnant,” Ken finishes for me, nodding his head. “Yeah, it’s her. I know. I was on the set at the time, and that girl was showing. She was about six or seven months along. You’re right, though. They were engaged when he died, not married.” He glances at Kip. “She was there when it happened.”

“Where? When he … the accident?” Kip asks, representing my voice for I can’t find mine, too busy trying to figure out how I’m still standing. I’m numb from the toes up.

Ken nods. “She saw the whole thing.”

A steady flow of fucked-up questions bombards my brain. Where’s the fucking baby? It’d be around three years old now. Where is it? Why didn’t she tell me about it? Fuck, Trevor and TJ Banks are one and the same? That’s why it’d never be me. That’s why she won’t let it be me. That’s why she won’t let herself fall in love with me.

I never had a winning chance.

In her eyes, I’m just another Trevor.