Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

LAINEY

Something is wrong with me.

Because Jake is a self-admitted criminal, a thief and a con artist, and I rocked against his hand with as little self-consciousness as if it were made of purple silicon. All it took was him touching me like that, his talented hand strumming me, invading me, his lips and teeth on me, and I nearly fell apart. Right here in the kitchen.

Years and years of no orgasms with a partner almost ended with him, and he barely even did anything.

Maybe it's because I don't care what he thinks of me.

With Todd, I felt like I had to constantly assess myself. To try to see myself through his critical gaze. But it's not like that with Jake. I know he's not someone I should be with, and that means I don't really give a shit if he thinks I drink sexy or walk sexy or eat sexy.

So maybe I should have enjoyed myself without considering the consequences—but a voice in my head had objected, loudly. Because I'd never been so out of control with a man. Truthfully, I've barely ever been out of control with a man, other than a few wild days in college. And if I fell apart around his fingers, I probably would have had sex with him. My logical side insists it would be colossally poor decision-making to sleep with the thief who's a sort-of prisoner in my home. And, yes, dangerous things are inherently exciting, but the Jake situation has expanded beyond myself. Other people are involved, like Nicole and Damien. Even Claire and Declan and Rosie, living right next door.

When Nicole and Damien come in, Nicole shouts, "Honey, we're home!" They act like it's no big deal that they went off on an errand that should have taken twenty minutes, tops, and were gone for well over an hour. Then again, it's hardly the first time this has happened. They're not people who like to be bound by rules and schedules.

Neither are you , a voice deep inside of me whispers.

They lock Jake's keys into a drawer to which I possess the key and then get settled on the couch, Nicole practically in Damien's lap. I explain my decision to leave Jake's door unlocked, and why. I do not, obviously, admit that he finger-fucked me in the kitchen. Nicole's mouth quirks with obvious amusement.

"You don't think that sexy son of a bitch is playing you like a fiddle? You have a habit of lying to each other."

Is it possible? He did somehow turn things around from being locked in his room to finger-fucking me in the kitchen. My mind rewinds to the way Jake reacted to being in the locked room, to the absolute desperation in his voice, the rat in a glue trap expression in his eyes.

That was real. Or at least I think it was. One of the legacies my parents gave me is that I can never know for sure.

"No, I don't think he was pretending. There must be some—" Trauma , I think but don't say. Pretend therapist or not, I don't think he'd like me talking about him like that. "History there."

"Maybe he's been arrested previously," Nicole says, looking way too happy about the potential arrest record of our house guest. "That would make it easier for us to find him and the brother."

"Maybe," I agree, but I don't really believe it. Being locked up would make anyone's skin itch, but this was different. This was primal. "Either way, I don't think it's necessary for us to keep it locked. We want him to cooperate, and he seems willing." I clear my throat. "He told me a little more about his history. "

My mouth feels dry as I share what he told me about his brother's kidnapper and the old man with the watch. It feels wrong to share his story, but he must have known I'd tell them, right?

Also, I can tell from the way Nicole and Damien are eyeing each other that they don't buy it. It's a good reminder that he might have been lying to make himself look better. For all I know, he's a very active thief who doesn't even have a brother

"His name is Jake, and his brother's name is Ryan," Nicole says, holding my gaze.

"That's what he told me," I agree.

"Jake Ryan," she muses. "That's the name of the fuck boy in that eighties movie. What's it called? Pretty in Pink ?"

" Sixteen Candles ," Damien says with the sigh of a man who's been forced to watch eighties' movies and apparently retains them better than the one who did the forcing.

"You think he made it up," I say, my gut churning, my body still aching from the almost orgasm.

"Eh, maybe," Damien says with a shrug. "It's not the most obvious cultural touchstone for a thirty-something man."

Nicole snort-laughs, nudging him with her shoulder. "You loved it."

"No, I did not," he says, smiling back at her. "But I do love you."

I sigh loudly, depressed by their love and devotion, even though it proves that it is possible for a person to meet their match. That not every relationship is about one person controlling the other, or both people pretending to be someone they're not. "So, basically we have no way to be certain whether any of this is true until you find something. Or don't find something."

"Sounds about right," Damien says.

I think again of that look Jake gave me when I opened his door, so desperate, like he was on the cusp of a panic attack—a wolf who'd bite off its own paw—and say, "I still want to leave his door unlocked. We'll let him come and go, but we'll keep an eye on him."

Nicole and Damien exchange another look, and he gives Nicole a slight nod. She shifts her gaze to me and sits forward on the couch. "He's your prisoner, Lainey. You can do whatever you like with him. You can sneak into his room and watch him sleep like that pervy vampire for all we care."

Damien tousles her hair, his expression amused. "Let's get you to bed before you piss Lainey off."

"Too late," I joke. Then, as they get up, I add, "You think you guys can find information about Jake and his brother?" What I really want to ask is whether they think his brother even exists, but I don't want to admit to having doubt. "Will the watch thing help?"

"Maybe," Damien puts in.

Eyes shining, Nicole adds, "We'll find them, all right. We'll find everything this guy has been trying to tuck away."

I think of his request, of the package tucked beneath the floorboards in his bedroom.

I'd intended to tell them what I was doing, but Nicole will insist on looking at whatever's inside that bag—and I know it's precious to him. Those sketchbooks too. He wouldn't want her flipping through them like they didn't matter.

I shouldn't care, but I understand. When I lived with Todd, I kept a little shoebox on the top shelf of my closet. He would have thought the things in that box were trash—an old hat with a feather in it that Claire had gotten me at a secondhand store one year because it reminded her of Robin Hood, a perfectly smooth stone I'd found at the beach, and that fifty dollar bill that Marjorie Eccles had given me. Never spent. That box had been my touchstone. It had been the only piece of my soul that was mine, mostly untouched by him.

"I have to go to the store," I say. "Do you need anything?"

Nicole turns and gives me a scrutinizing look. "You'd have to drive to Asheville to find a grocery still open this late."

"Jake needs laxatives. He says he has a chronic problem."

Might as well throw him under the bus.

The look on Nicole's face suggests she doesn't believe me but is amused by the lie.

"By all means. There will be no intestinal blockages on our watch. Still…if you get it into your head to make a pit stop and do something potentially dangerous, I'd suggest bringing a friend. Claire and Declan aren't back yet, but I saw the Jeep next door."

The car Rosie's been using.

"Maybe I'll see if Rosie wants to come," I agree. "I could ask her if anything else happened at Smith House."

Nicole grins at me and taps her temple. "Great minds."

She obviously knows I'm up to something, and is letting it lie. Which reminds me again of what she said the other day. I trust you.

Guilt claws at my throat. "I—"

"Goodnight, Lainey," Nicole says with a shut the fuck up look.

Damien nods to me too, and with that, they're climbing the stairs; they're gone.

And I'm left in the foyer with my thoughts twisted into another pretzel. Why didn't she want me to tell her what I was doing? Nicole is usually as nosy as I am.

Shaking it off, I collect a handful of black trash bags from the kitchen, grab the keys from the drawer, and go next door to collect Rosie.

The Jeep is there, as advertised, but it takes Rosie several minutes to come to the door after I ring the bell. Finally, she flings it open, her skin flushed, her hair loose around her shoulders. She still hasn't changed out of the Red Lobster-esque uniform. "You're here!"

"Uh, yeah," I say, wondering if I interrupted something. "You're all…" I gesture to her pink skin, the film of sweat on her brow. "Did you smuggle a guy in because Claire and Declan are out?"

She makes a dismissive sound. "Please. Anthony's friends are all stuffed suits. I was just cleaning."

At eleven p.m. on a Saturday?

From what Claire has told me, she's not a fastidious roommate when it comes to that sort of thing.

Something's up with her, but I don't call her on it. She obviously doesn't want to be straight with me, and I keep too many secrets to resent hers

"That was some game of hide and seek, huh?" Rosie continues. "It got pretty scandalous. One of the dudes got caught with another dude's wife, getting it on in a closet, and this other guy tripped and twisted his ankle. He seemed pretty salty about it until Mrs. Rosings said she'd ‘personally handle any medical bills.' I know a payoff when I smell one. And Mrs. Rosings's daughter actually showed up after all that fuss, or at least I think she did. I saw someone who looks like her photo behind the house."

"What, seriously?" I ask, feeling mental whiplash. "When?"

Rosie's face scrunches up. "It happened sometime after the lights went off."

My mind latches onto that detail. After . But that doesn't mean she didn't arrive before that and keep herself hidden away. Someone could probably hide in Smith House for twenty years without anyone realizing it. At the same time, I know Anthony was the one who cut the lights. So if Emma took the necklace, were they in on it together?

Rosie shoves my arm. "I heard you went home with the hot therapist." Her eyes avert to my house, to the light gleaming in the guest bedroom. "Or did he go home with you ? Is he there now ?" Her gaze finds the trash bags stuffed into my purse. "Please tell me you're not here because you killed him and need help dismembering his body. I've been on my feet all evening."

A laugh escapes me. "That's not why I'm here. But I did want to talk to you about him."

Her gaze narrows. "I have to say you don't look like a woman who had her world rocked."

"I'm not." But I could have been. I almost was, and my core aches painfully from the orgasm that wasn't—the need pulsing through me on repeat, like a song that won't leave your head. His offer has been spiraling through my mind too. If you decide to stop thinking and start acting, you know where I'll be . "I'll fill you in on the way."

I'll fill her in on some stuff, at least. I have no intention of telling her that I wanted to climb Jake Not-Jeffries like a tree and refuse to come down until the fire department showed up. While I like Rosie a lot, it would be a betrayal of the laws of best-friendship to tell her any of that before I tell Claire.

"Where are we going?" she asks, already stepping out of the doorway. This is something I enjoy about Rosie—she's always up for anything, no questions asked.

A delivery of penis balloons?

Abso-fucking-lutely.

A late night trip to a stranger's apartment?

Whose car are we taking?

"We're going to collect a thief's belongings," I answer.

"Uh…you neglected to tell me these apartments are dope," Rosie says, glancing around Jake's front room, taking in the open kitchen.

"Are you scoping this place out for yourself?" I ask, feeling on the edge of laughing. Just on the edge, though, because I'm self-conscious about having brought her here. Jake said he'd prefer it if I didn't look at whatever's under the floorboards. It goes without saying he was hoping no one else would look at it either.

Rosie can keep a secret, but she isn't exactly…discreet.

Or interested in listening to directions.

Still, I'm glad I asked her to come. It felt good to talk to someone else about everything that had gone down at Smith House—and Rosie was appropriately shocked by the episode with the necklace. She asked how much it's worth, and all the color drained out of her face when I told her.

I'm inclined to agree with Jake—the biggest suspects are Anthony, Nina, and Mrs. Rosings herself. Emma too, if she was really at the house.

"I mean…Jake's not coming back here, right?" Rosie asks, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

I laugh. "I regret to inform you it's an Airbnb."

"Bummer. But there was a sign on the bulletin board in the hallway. Someone named Joy's looking for a roommate. Maybe we can stop by on our way out."

I stifle another laugh at the thought of whirlwind-made-human Rosie moving in with Joy. "I met Joy when I was here on Monday. She's an elderly woman who makes tea."

She shrugs and heads into the kitchen. "I like old people. If she brings the tea, I'll make the crumpets. Plus, I'm guessing there's a lower probability she'll have loud animal sex in her room."

"Don't be ageist."

"Fair point. But I'm guessing I'd mind less if the loud animal sex didn't involve my brother."

"Fair point," I say with a laugh. "Still, I'm guessing she wouldn't want visitors at 11:30 p.m. on a Saturday."

Rosie thinks about this, then nods, pulling the purple streak in her hair. "I'll call her tomorrow." She tugs open the refrigerator door and glances inside. "Do you want a beer? I think I need one."

"Nope," I say, though I'm grateful she's distracted. "I'm going to go grab Jake's clothes. Why don't you take a look around the kitchen? See if it passes muster."

She might not need to bake the way Claire does—as an extension of her neuroses—but she enjoys it.

She doesn't fight me on the idea, so I head into Jake's bedroom, feeling a strong case of déjà-vu.

First, I stop at the drawer on the bottom left and gather up the sketchbooks, including the hollowed-out one, which has a different weight. I avoid the temptation to look through them, my heart thumping as I listen to Rosie padding around in the kitchen.

Then I head over to the bed and lift the upper half, finding the loose board. I wrench it up away from the others, making a squeaking sound.

I glance out the doorway to check on Rosie, but there's no sign of her. So I reach in and quickly grab what's inside, tugging it out before I let the board and the bed back down.

My heart's still thumping fast, my mind frozen in indecision. The bag is lighter than I thought it would be, and if there's a weapon inside, it's an incredibly subtle one. No metal. Actually, whatever's inside is soft, like a balled-up sweater, and light.

But why would he care this much about rescuing a sweater or a pair of socks or whatever?

Personal , he'd said.

Nicole would tell me I'm an idiot for not making sure that it's not a soft case containing stolen jewelry—or maybe drugs. Hell, even Claire might side with her, and Claire is the kindest, most understanding person I know.

But here's the problem.

I want to look, which means Jake is interesting to me in a way that goes beyond his cocky smile and nicely defined arms and abs. I want to sit in this apartment for hours and search through his sketches and this bag. To try to log in to the laptop I saw sitting on the coffee table in the living room.

I want to know if he really did quit stealing things before this current situation, and why.

Maybe that's the real reason I brought Rosie. So I wouldn't be able to do that. So I'd have someone in the next room, holding me accountable.

I stuff the bag into the trash bag and return to the dresser, where I start packing up Jake's clothes. Did he bring his own, or did he go to the extent of purchasing a whole wardrobe for Jake Jeffries? Where does his character end and he begin? I find myself running my fingers over some of the shirts, imagining him buying them in a secondhand store while working on his persona.

I've done that.

I've shopped for a person I wanted to appear to be rather than the person I am.

I've thought, He'd like this. Or, This will impress him. Not stopping to ask if I liked it too.

When I leave the bedroom, Rosie's staring into the trash can. "Looks like he threw all the glue traps away. I wonder if this building has a serious rodent problem."

He threw them away.

I think of the look on his face when he was locked in the room earlier and, before that, when he saw that thing stuck to Professor X's side.

I know in the way that I sometimes intuit things that he threw them out because he didn't want anyone to be stuck like that—to be ended like that. He did it because somewhere in his chest, Jake Not-Jeffries has a heart. A soul that doesn't want to be contained or boxed up, and he has empathy for other creatures who are the same way. I feel this knowledge change me.

"I don't like the look on your face," Rosie tells me. "What didn't you want me to see in there?"

I sigh and say, "He had some personal things in his room. He told me where they were but asked me not to look at them."

Her eyebrows wing up, and her mouth lifts into a smirk. "And how will he ever know if you do?"

I sigh again, hating the answer even as I make it: "I'll know."

Rosie whistles, her eyes glued to my face. " Lainey ."

"Are you going to tell Claire about all of this?" I ask.

"No, but you should."

I nod, because she's right, even though I know Claire will realize what I do: this is significant.

It also means that I should stay away from Jake Not-Jeffries. Because fucking a thief who's basically in house prison with you is one thing. Fucking a thief you find interesting, a thief you would like to sympathize with, is entirely another.