Chapter Seven

Isabelle

“I thought we were getting lunch,” I said warily, looking at the house in front of us. We’d walked past a few storefronts, a church, then down a side street to a cluster of tract houses with scraggly gardens and bed sheets for curtains.

“We are,” he said, leading the way to his front door.

I stood there a moment trying to decide if I was really going to go into a stranger’s house, when he turned to me and asked, “You coming?”

“This doesn't look like a restaurant, though,” I said, my brain still a fuzzy mess. “It looks like someone's house.”

“That's because it is,” Jameson said, opening the door. “It's my house.”

“Well I guess it's a good thing we're not breaking and entering, but why are we here? I'm not going to sleep with you. And if you brought me here thinking that was going to happen, you're out of your mind.”

He laughed, holding the door open for me. “Relax. I figured I could make you lunch.”

“Make me lunch?”

“What? I don't look like a man who can cook?”

“No. Not really. You seem more like a pizza and beer guy.”

“Okay, you're right. I'm a terrible cook, but I can make a sandwich at least,” he said. “Come on, I won't bite.”

“No more kisses either.”

Jameson winked at me. “No more kisses. Scout's honor,” he said. “Unless, of course, you're the one kissing me because I certainly won't object to that.”

“Not gonna happen,” I said, stalking past him.

Stepping inside Jameson's place, I tried hard not to grimace. I stepped over a pizza box on the floor—just sitting in the middle of the floor—and watched my step very carefully, trying not to trip over shoes and books scattered everywhere. The furniture was mismatched and in need of a deep cleaning, so I avoided touching anything. Dust coated every tabletop like it was part of the decor.

It was a small place—a little too small for my liking. Kind of claustrophobic. But it didn't look like Jameson had any need for a bigger place. He had a couch facing a large TV, and a couple of empty beer bottles decorated the coffee table. The thing I found odd, though, was that there were no photos or decorations on the walls. The place was completely sterile and barren of any personal touches. It was almost like he rented the house and didn't expect to stay here long.

We walked through the small living room, and I could see the kitchen from there. I hoped it was cleaner than the living room. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. The trashcan was overflowing with beer cans and a row of empty bottles of Jack Daniels beside it.

“Someone had a party,” I said, glancing at the worn-in couch.

“Huh?” Jameson said, looking around. “Oh, uhm yeah. Had some friends over a couple days ago. Haven't had a chance to clean up much.”

He started piling the bottles into a trash bag and then dumped an ashtray in as well. I walked through the rooms, trying to get some sense of who he was from the home he lived in. But it was just a house, not a home. It seemed like just a place where he laid his head at night. Nothing more, nothing less. It all just felt—temporary. Which in a way, spoke volumes about his state of mind and his life. And frankly, it was a little sad.

“Did you just move in?” I asked him.

“Nah, been here for about two years, give or take,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason.”

As I walked over to the built-in bookcase, I saw something that caught my eye. Something shiny. It was a beautiful heart-shaped locket, which seemed very out of place there. Without thinking, I picked it up and opened it. Inside was a picture of a woman and a little boy. It was from an earlier time picture, and the woman had the same dark hair and blue eyes as Jameson—they were obviously related. Mother, perhaps?

I looked up to find him staring at me, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Please put that back.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean—who is this?” I asked. “Is this your mom? Why don't you have more—”

He dropped the trash bag and took the locket from my hand, closing it and replacing it on the shelf. “Don’t touch my stuff,” he said, his voice low. The room became quiet and Jameson had lost his smart aleck tone.

“I'm sorry,” I said, embarrassed and awkward. “I was just curious.”

He turned away from me, visibly upset, and continued picking up the bottles around the living room. He didn't say another word for a while, so I didn't either. I followed him into the kitchen and he turned toward me and said, “What now?”

His tone surprised me, a little edgy. I didn’t know what to say. This lunch thing was his idea.

“Sorry,” I said, my voice rising, “I didn't mean to be such a problem to you, maybe I should be going now.”

“No, that’s okay,” he said, dropping the trash bag near the rest of the cans. “I promised you lunch.” I could see he was trying to smile but it wasn’t working.

I felt a lump in my throat, but I swallowed it down. “You know, I’m not really hungry. I think I need a nap. I'll just walk back to the motel. You said it wasn't far away anyway.”

I picked up my purse and turned to him. He looked kind of pissed off but I didn’t know what to do. Apologize? For what? “Maybe I’ll see you later,” I said, more confused than ever about Jameson.

I closed the door behind me as I hurried away from Jameson's place, cursing my Jimmy Choo’s and wishing for something more practical on my feet. I needed to go shopping for some clothes, some makeup, cosmetics and a toothbrush. When I left Palm Springs, I'd left in such a hurry, I didn't pack anything. I didn’t know what I was thinking, leaving behind a whole closet full of my expensive clothes and bags and shoes—all for that jackass to sell or destroy. And here I was with one outfit to my name and not even a practical one at that.

I walked to the main road and headed toward the motel, more confused than ever. I’d run away from one guy and now a stranger had my head spinning. Apparently, I had some issues to deal with. Although I wasn’t going to think about that now.

I was starving. My stomach growled and I hadn’t even had coffee today, so I prayed there would be a restaurant on the way. The first place I walked by looked like a roach fest, so I kept going. I heard a motorcycle coming up behind me and I tried to walk even faster. Not that I could outwalk a motorcycle, especially in these damn heels, but I tried.

Jameson pulled up beside me and stopped, but I kept walking.

“Isabelle, I'm sorry,” he said.

I didn't answer him. At this point I wanted to get as far away from Jameson whatever his name was as I could. I didn’t need another psycho on my hands.

“Are you really going to walk all the way back to the motel?”

“It's not that far,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.

“It's far enough,” he said. “Come on, let me give you a ride. One last ride and I'll leave you alone for good.”

I turned around and walked toward him, my feet seriously killing me now. “Is that a promise?”

“Yes, ma'am. Cross my heart and hope to die,” he said. “One last ride and you'll never see my ugly mug again.”

Without a second thought, I got on the back of the bike, feeling almost like a pro at this point, and let him drive me back to my disgusting motel room.