The guys at the back table are already up and moving to secure the area. A few other guys are trying to direct people out in an orderly fashion, but they’re not listening. In this moment, it’s easy to differentiate between the uniforms and the civilians. The uniforms—which is about half the crowd—try to keep control of the situation, but the civilians, mostly women, create mass chaos. Fucking badge bunnies.
“Mel! Sweetheart, come here!” Ernie shouts and grabs ahold of my hand. He gestures for me to crawl over the bar to get to the back. In the distance, I hear the sirens approaching. A sick, sinking feeling forms in my gut. What if this was because of me? What if I caused this because I didn’t listen? Oh God, if anybody is hurt . . .
I crawl up on top of my stool and reach for Ernie across the bar top, but I’m knocked off by the crowds of people pushing their way to safety. I fall directly into the sea of people exiting and get shoved and jostled to a point of confusion. I want to be afraid because I don’t know what’s going on, but my brain is so far behind processing it all that I can’t really be scared. Not at least until I land with a painful thunk onto the hard floor. My cheek presses into the sticky surface as a boot covers the other side of my face, effectively keeping me where I am and creating a thundering pain in my cheek. Everything hurts—especially my neck—in this position, but I don’t have room to move. The boot lifts, and a man hisses in my ear in a thick East Coast accent that I can’t totally place. I’m not exactly a linguistic specialist, but it’s not a New York accent, I’m pretty sure of that. His words ring in my ears again and again until the bar’s cleared out of almost all the civilians and it’s only the uniforms who are left to fight the fire. I gasp for air and claw at anything and everything, but it’s all so blurry that reality slips away and I fall into a peaceful blackness.
Should have listened to me, Lulu.
Chapter 17
Melanie
“You don’t have to babysit me,” I say.
Jameson looks at me with a displeased expression. His mouth is turned down, and he shakes his head. At the very least, he hasn’t been that cold, distant guy I hate. He’s back to being my Jameson, even though he has short bouts of weirdness, but it’s nothing major. He just gets quiet every now and then, and it’s a bit unnerving because it’s like he’s just checking out of conversation halfway through. But he’s here.
I think he’s starting to drive both Mom and Dad a bit nutty, but they’ve been good sports about his constant presence in our house for the past two days. I caught him and Dad having a conversation about security that turned into a conversation about baseball before Dad segued back into security where he mentioned he’d hired a private investigator to see if he can help track down the guy who’s targeting me.
I’d like to say they’re being overprotective, but they’re not. Having my face stepped on in a crowded bar showed me how out of my league I am. I was a fool to think I could handle this on my own. I guess it was a stubborn na?veté to think it wouldn’t escalate—or maybe I just never thought it would escalate that quickly and that violently. But it did.
“I’m always going to watch over you, make sure you’re safe,” he says quietly and brushes a piece of hair back from my eye. His eyes focus on the slight bruising of my neck and the scratches on my cheek. They don’t hurt me, but the sight of them seem to cause Jameson pain, so I’ve tried to cover them as best I can with makeup.
He’s so thoughtful and quiet and loving that it’s making being cooped up in this house way less difficult than it could be. Unfortunately, he has to go back to work tomorrow for two days, but then we have the weekend at the beach house. I’ve decided I’m going to tell him I love him this weekend. I just have to stop being such a baby about it first. I want it to be perfect and just right. I know he loves me—he has to—and whatever his problem was early summer can’t be such a huge issue for him if he’s here now. I haven’t told him I’m not seeing Hennessey yet, but I don’t think he’d be surprised that nothing is going on. He probably already knows. It’s just that with the way scary fire bomb that went down at Port of Call and the whole being injured—even slightly—with a horde of loving, well-meaning, people watching over my every move, it hasn’t felt like the right time to bring that up.
“I think it’s time I show you something,” he says. “I’m granting you a two-hour furlough, and then you’re coming right back here where I know you’re safe.”
“I’m so desperate that I’ll take it without arguing.” I hop up from the couch. Jameson leans back and laughs lightly at me. “Let me go change.”
I rush to my bedroom where I put on a pair of capris and a cute peasant top. I toss my hair up into a quick ponytail and grab my sunglasses, mobile phone, ID, credit card, and some cash. My handbag is bulky and kind of heavy, so it’s not worth the strain to carry it around, especially if we’re only going to be out for a few hours. Jameson the Dictator won’t allow for any longer, no matter how much I beg. I already know that. He’s just so . . . bossy.