Notorious Page 5

Lucy's jaw dropped open. "He raped you?"

  "No, no, Lucy, that is not what I said." Had anything been capable of amusing her in that moment, that would have been it. She wasn't sure how Lucy's take on her words had made the leap to that particular conclusion, but wouldn't it just serve Jon-Michael right if he were on the receiving end of a rumor for a change?

  She was, unfortunately, still much too furious at Kurstin's duplicity to see any real humor in the situation. "There was always a boatload of chemistry between Jon-Michael and me, and both parties fully consented to the act," she clarified. "Of course, he was too drunk to remember any of it the following day—"

  "Oh boy."

  "But not so drunk he failed to divulge all the sordid details to the entire soccer team before he blacked out."

  "Shit, oh, shit. That must have made life at school fun."

  "Yes, ma’am. It was a laugh a minute. He graduated and went off to college. I was the sweetheart of Lincoln High for another year and then some. But, hey, looking on the bright side, I never lacked for dating opportunities." She placed the drink that completed Lucy's order on the tray.

  Lucy slid off her stool and picked it up. But she lingered for a moment to contemplate Hayley. "So what are you going to do?"

  "Nothing." Hayley shrugged. "Not a damn thing. Well, except maybe smack Kurstie around a little for allowing me to walk into the situation blind." She shook her head, blowing out the calming breath she had drawn. "No, really, it was all a very long time ago, and too much has happened in the years since to make it that important anymore. It’s an annoyance, is all.” She shrugged a bare shoulder. “But what the hell. I’ll pretend I'm an adult and just handle the situation as it arises. I am sure Jon-Michael will, too."

  Very mature, she congratulated herself when Lucy walked away. But what was he doing here? She could not help but gnaw on the question during the band’s set like a puppy with a knotted rag. The last place she had expected to run into him again was Bluey’s bar on Eighth Street. Not that she had run into him yet, of course—and she assiduously avoided so much as glancing in the stage’s direction precisely so she would not have to see him. Still, it was only a matter of time.

  Too little, her oh-so-adult words to Lucy notwithstanding, than she might have hoped for. She could have used a bit more time to prepare herself, she discovered during the band's first break.

  Could have used a helluva lot more time.

  She saw him before he saw her. A redhead sitting at the far end of the counter stopped him as he made his way to the bar, detaining him with a soft grip on his forearm and an admiring smile. Jon-Michael didn't hesitate. In the inimitable style Hayley remembered, he draped himself against the corner of the bar and plunged feet first into a full blown flirtation. Sneaking covert glances while she hustled to fill the sudden deluge of orders, Hayley inventoried the changes that time had wrought.

  His face was leaner, more mature, these days, which, okay, was hardly a huge surprise considering over a decade had passed since she had last seen him. He still had the same over-long dirty-blond hair she remembered, darkened a bit now with sweat, and the same Hershey Kisses-colored eyes with thick lashes that slanted the lids down so heavily in the outside corners he always appeared sleepy. Bedroom eyes, the girls back in high school had called them.

  The dark stubble was new. From his upper lip, it angled down just inside the creases bracketing his mouth and joined its brothers on his strong chin and lean jaw. It was almost long enough to be an honest-to-god beard or goatee, or whatever, but was just the other side of that. Hayley smiled politely at a customer as she counted back change and handed over his drink. She had never cared much for stubble.

  She sneaked another glance at Jon-Michael as she poured two pitchers for Marsha. Okay. As much as she hated to admit it, the style looked pretty good on him. It complemented the long, lean bones of his face.

  She noticed he still had the same old habit of leaning against the nearest piece of furniture. Jon-Michael never had stood if he could sit or sat if he could lie down. He had always moved so slow and easy it could fool the unobservant into thinking he was lazy.

  In truth, he could cover more territory and accomplish more business giving the appearance of standing still than most people could in a flat-out sprint.

  "Rum and coke," a quiet voice said, pulling her attention back to the job at hand, and Hayley looked up at a man about her own age. He was smiling at her and she responded automatically with her own polite version, but there was an expectancy in his eyes that caused her to study him more closely as she poured ice into a glass, added a shot of rum, and reached for the soda gun. Pushing the cola button, she divided her attention between the glass she was filling and the man's face.

  He looked familiar somehow. He was nice looking, with blue eyes and straight brown hair that had receded only to the point of giving him an intellectual look. Her gaze was drawn back to the expression in his eyes. "Do I know—?" Eyebrows furrowing, she passed him his drink. "Joe?" she queried uncertainly. "Joe Beal?"

  "The same." He grinned at her. "It's been a long time, Hayley."

  "Yes, it's been over a dozen years. That will be eight dollars, please." She took his money and rang it up. When she turned back it was to a temporary lull in the activity.

  "You look exactly the same," Joe said and took a large sip of his drink, staring at her as Hayley's pleasure manifested in a grin.

  "Well aren't you the sweet talker," she said. "Full of blarney right up to your pretty brown eyebrows, but sweet, no doubt about it.”

  "No, I'm serious. You haven’t changed a bit. No one would ever know to look at you all the crap you've been through these past several years.” Dull color climbed his throat. "I'm sorry. That was incredibly tactless of me."

  She bit back a sigh. "Don't worry about it, Joe. I have waded through a lot of crap, and pretending otherwise doesn’t change the facts." At least he hadn't asked for particulars. That happened to her frequently. Due to the massive publicity surrounding Dennis's death and the sensationalized trial that had followed, people didn’t seem to comprehend it was insensitive to demand the details of a matter that was, to her, extremely private and painful.

  He leaned in and lowered his voice so the two men loudly dissecting a call on last night’s Mariners game wouldn’t hear. "You were the sole witness to your husband's murder?"

  Well, there went his points for being more understanding than most. And the kicker was, she couldn’t simply ignore the question. As much as she might love to tell Joe that the details of Dennis's death were truly none of his business, she knew she would not. She had become a realist over the past several years. And realistically, she could not afford to offend a client a mere three hours into her first shift.

  "I didn’t see Wilson commit the actual murder," she replied without inflection. "I saw him leaving our house." Which had scared her to the marrow and she’d pulled back against the siding, in the dense shadow of a maple tree, until he had climbed into a car and driven away. Then she had run inside to find Dennis on the kitchen floor.

  God. There had been so much blood. All over the place: on the floor, on the walls, smeared across the counter and the cupboards. Pooled under Dennis's body.

  Hayley swallowed dryly but managed to say levelly, "My testimony placed him at the scene of the crime, which turned out to be fairly crucial as all the rest of the evidence presented by the Prosecuting Attorney was strictly circumstantial."

  Fairly crucial. The words mocked her. It was, in fact, her testimony that was most likely responsible for Wilson's death sentence. Not a soul in the world knew how she felt about that. In all honesty, she wasn’t certain how she felt half the time.

  Joe looked at her across the bar and must have noted her rigid posture, her white knuckles and what she feared was a sudden pallor, given the way she felt, because he proved to be less insensitive than many Hayley had encountered.

  "I'm sorry," he said with sincere contrition. "I really am tactless. T
o me it's like having an opportunity to talk to the author of one of those true crime novels. I forgot for a moment that for you it is all too real. You didn’t write it, you lived it. Please accept my apologies. What I should have said is I’m sorry for your loss."

  "Thank you. That's why I came back: I could not seem to put it behind me in New Hampshire and I’m hoping to do a better job of it here." She gazed past him into the crowd and then looked back at his face. "Speaking of people who haven't changed much, I saw Patsy last night. Is she here with you?" She gave him a crooked smile. "I heard you two got married."

  His expression seemed to cool somewhat, but his tone was so equitable when he said, "She didn't come with me tonight," Hayley decided she must have imagined the slight change in his attitude.

  Lucy elbowed up to the bar and rattled off her order. Hayley gave Joe another watered down version of her smile. "I better get back to work," she murmured. "It was nice seeing you again." She turned away to fill the new order.

  He stuffed a dollar into her tip glass and backed away from the bar. "Thanks, Hayley," he raised his voice to call over the din. "Hope I see you around real soon."

  Jon-Michael's head snapped up. Here? Hayley was here? His eyes scanned the dimly lighted lounge but he didn't see her.

  "Well, listen, I hate to cut this short but I gotta go," he interrupted the redhead's discourse on this year’s fashions and straightened from his indolent slouch against the bar.

  "Oh, don't go, Jon-Michael."

  "Gotta." But her hand on his arm kept him in place and, propping his elbows behind him on the bar, he leaned against it for a moment's support while he explained, "I need something to drink before the next set begins and then I have—"

  She called down the bar for the bartender.

  "—a few things I need to attend to," he trailed off lamely. Shit. She was already raising her glass to indicate another of the same to the bartender. Turning to him, she inquired, "What will you have?"

  "I'll take my usual, Bluey," he said absently while his mind raced for a way to gracefully ease himself away before the break ended. He continued to scan the crowd for Hayley but couldn’t find her.

  "Well let's see now, you have all of five minutes before the next set is scheduled to begin," a feminine voice replied sarcastically from behind the bar. "So does that mean I pour you a single shot of Black Velvet or just bring you the bottle?"

  He swiveled around, feeling his cheeks creasing in a big smile. "Hayley Prescott!"

  Without returning his smile, she gave him a subtle, so-what-is-it-gonna-be look, and he said, "How have you been, darlin'? I see you still have a mouth on you." He had always liked that about her. "Just bring me a club soda, please."

  Eyebrows elevating in unspoken amazement, she turned away. Grinning, he leaned forward on his forearms to keep her butt in view as she walked the length of the bar.

  He was still draped over the corner of the bar when she returned with the drinks a moment later. She set them down in front of them. "That will be eight fifty for the Collins."

  The redhead waited expectantly for Jon-Michael to pay for her drink, but he merely sipped at his club soda and smiled lazily at Hayley. With a little huff of impatience, she reached in her purse for her wallet.

  "Suave as ever, I see," Hayley murmured as she accepted money from the redhead. Jon-Michael looked up from contemplating the modest cleavage exposed by her turquoise vest to give her a sleepy smile. Then slowly, he pushed himself upright.

  "Guess I had better get back to work," he said, drank down the rest of his club soda in one long swallow, and set the glass on the bar. He said, "See ya," to the redhead, winked at Hayley, and ambled away.

  Behind him he heard Hayley make a rude noise, then walk away in response to the summons of a patron down the bar.

  Climbing up on the stage, Jon-Michael picked up his alto sax and licked the reed. He started to wrap his lips around it but was interrupted by Brian.

  "Was that Hayley Granger I saw you talking to?"

  Jon-Michael's gaze located her behind the bar and he nodded. Lowering the sax, he corrected, "Prescott. It's Prescott now."

  "But it's still Hayley of the 'skin like velvet, pussy sweeter 'n wine,' right?"

  His eyes narrowed. He wished to hell he could remember that night. An entire high school soccer team from back in the day knew more about it than he did…to his eternal shame. He’d heard his words repeated back to him over the years but could not recall a thing about the event leading up to his having uttered them.

  He really wished he could remember why she’d agreed to sleep with him at all. He had been so full of himself in those days, and where other girls had stroked his ego and told him what a super special guy he was, Hayley Granger had poked little sharp sticks at his ego and enticed him not to take himself so seriously. But she had lain on a blanket with him one night in the woods off Lake Meredith and surrendered up her virginity.

  "Yeah," he replied and then pinned Brian in place with his gaze. "But bring it up again and I will knock your teeth down your throat. We aren’t in high school anymore and it is way past time to let that shit go. If anyone else says something about her tell them to shut the fuck up."

  "No problem." Brian shrugged. "So, what is she doin' back in town?"

  "Avoiding the press." The look Brian gave him was blank and Jon-Michael rolled his shoulders impatiently. "Don't you ever pick up a newspaper or turn on the news?"

  "Nah. It's got nothing much to do with my life." He showed signs of interest. "Why, she ice somebody or something?"

  "She fingered the guy who killed her husband and he’s scheduled to be executed the beginning of August."

  "No shit. They gonna fry him?"

  "Lethal injection. It's still being fought out in the courts." And reported faithfully on national television and in the press on slow days.

  "No shit," Brian repeated. "Cool."

  "Jesus, Brian, you’re hopeless." Jon-Michael was grateful when the piano player suggested they get back to work.

  His gaze, during their second set, kept getting pulled back to where Hayley was working behind the bar. Her position as the new bartender was going to throw them together a lot. Unsure what he wanted from her, he didn’t have the vaguest idea how he would handle the interaction that was bound to crop up between them.

  He knew what he wasn't going to do, though. He was not going to apologize again for that night at Lake Meredith. For an entire year after the event, every time their paths crossed he had tried to talk to her about it, to tell her he was sorry. She had refused to have anything to do with him.

  Well, so be it. More than a decade had passed and the episode was a dry skeleton without an ounce of flesh left to lash. The best thing was probably to just give her as wide a berth as possible. Be polite when their paths crossed but do his damnedest to otherwise stay out of her way.

  He headed straight for the bar at the next break.

  "Club soda," he ordered, sliding his butt onto a stool and leaning his forearms on the bar, collapsing from the waist to prop his chin on his fists.

  She plopped some ice in a glass, filled it to the rim from the soda gun and slid it across the bar to him. Then she turned away, busying herself with an order for Marsha.

  "So, how is the car holding up, darlin'?" he asked when she orbited back down to his part of the bar. He swirled ice around in his glass.

  "My Pontiac?" she asked him. "It's fine. Why do you ask?"

  "Not stalling out on you any more?"

  She stopped what she was doing and stared at him. "Oh, don't tell me. It was you, wasn't it?" When he merely looked at her from between his lashes, she huffed out an exasperated breath. "It was you Kurstin got to work on my car?"

  He killed off the soda, smiled at her lazily, and held the glass up for a refill. She snatched it out of his hand.

  "Great. That is just perfect. Out of all the people in the world, you are the last I would choose to be beholden to."

  "Don'
t owe me a thing, cupcake."

  "You have that right, Olivet." She stormed off to make a customer a drink.

  Minutes later she was back. “I’ll give you some money to cover your expenses as soon as I get paid," she informed him tightly.

  He sat up. "The hell you will. I just used some odds and ends that were lying around the garage. My old man's never going to miss the stuff." His eyes went hard. "He can sure as hell afford it."

  "I'll pay for your time then."

  "No."

  "Yes."

  Jon-Michael picked up his glass and slid off his stool. Moving slowly, he reached across the bar, caught her pointed little chin in one hand, and leaned in close. "No," he said with firm finality. Then he turned her loose and sauntered away.

  He could hear her behind him, growling with frustration, and it made him grin. Oh, this was gonna be good. He had forgotten how much fun it was to piss her off.

  And how about that anyway? Surprise, surprise. The old dark chemistry between them was still alive and kicking…at least on his part. It wasn’t something he had expected. It was sure as shit not something he had planned.

  But he could not in all honesty say it was something he minded.

  Four

  "You have to be here for Sunday dinner." Kurstin declared, hoping if she stated it as if Hayley could not possibly refuse, she wouldn’t.

  That worked about as well as usual with her best friend. "I don't have to do a damn thing I don't want to do," Hayley disagreed coolly.

  "Oh, come on,” she protested. “Are you still sulking over my one tiny failure to disclose everything I know? I can't be expected to remember everything. It was an oversight."

  "Oversight, my ass. And I do not—"

  "So, fine," she interrupted. "I neglected to tell you Jon-Michael has a gig at Bluey’s—"

  "—sulk. And you purposefully failed to tell me about Jon-Michael’s gig because you knew damn good and well—"

  "You wouldn’t take the damn job if I did! Yes. All right! I am guilty as charged. So, shoot me. You would have cut off your skinny little nose to spite your face, and after you’d told me yourself you needed a job now." She flopped back on her elbows on the beach towel and looked up at Hayley.