Roman Holiday

chapter Twenty-Six

John extends a friendly hand. It's big and tan, and the ugliest peace offering I've ever seen. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m John, John Birmingham.”

"I know who you are." My voice is as cold as ice as I glare at him.

His darker-than-coal eyes sparkle with amusement. "Ah, see that's where the misconception comes in. You know of me. See, I'm actually a pretty nice guy."

"That's funny."

"I'm not very much of a joker." He retracts his hand and slips it into his pants pocket. His gray fedora is resting beside a glass of water on the table. Slowly, he eases down into his chair, expecting me to do the same, but I hover behind mine and wrap my fingers around the back of it. A table and a chair isn't nearly enough space between us. He studies my white-knuckled grip. "You dislike me."

"No shit," I snap. "This is all your fault!"

"My fault? I didn't buy you ice cream. I didn't make you get into his car. The only part of this that is my fault is the tabloids, and those I will gladly take responsibility for."

I clench my jaw. "You're sick."

"Nonsense. I'm only interested in people worth my time, and apparently, you're worth it."

"Was Holly worth your time?" I ask bitterly.

His eyebrows raise a fraction in surprise, but he doesn’t take my bait. "I have a proposition for you, Junie," he says instead.

"I don't want to hear anything you have to say."

“Now, now, don't assume. At least, not until you hear me out,” he tsks. “Picture this: you and me...”

“As I said, not interested.”

“And a great deal of money.”

I open my mouth to reiterate the fact that I am so not interested, that every word he’s saying is shooting blanks, when my voice comes to a complete and sudden stop.

At my hesitation, his grin grows. "See, I knew you'd come around. It might even be enough to save your father's bar—what's it called? The Silver Lining?"

My stomach churns. "Who told you?"

"No one had to tell me anything, Junie. See this?" He taps his nose. "I know good stories. And you are a good story. You're an even better story now that you can save your poor dead daddy's bar with just one word..."

I think my fingers have gone numb from clutching the back of the chair so hard. I can feel the indentions of Made in China on my fingertips. "It won't be enough."

"Can't it? Just think about it. You get off scot-free, I push the trite little dirty bits of you I've strung out over the tabloids under the proverbial rug, and give you enough money to resurrect your dear old Dad's trash-heap!" He raises his hands into the air as if he's just scored the winning touchdown. "And all you have to do is give me back what's mine."

Which I don't have anymore. My fingers release from the back of the chair as I sit down in it. "How much?"

"Five-hundred thousand dollars."

"You don't have that money."

He leans in close. "You'd be surprised what money I can get from a few well-placed stories."

"You mean lies."

Lacing his fingers together in front of him on the desk, he leans back in his chair. "Then, option two. I take your little naked escapade viral."

"Go ahead, I'm already slut-shamed."

"You are," he agrees, "but your friend...what's her name? Magdalena?" The way he says her name as a threat turns a sick feeling in my stomach. How much does he know about us, exactly? "She's on the fast-track to NYU, isn't she? I'm sure they wouldn't think twice about revoking her application after this debacle."

The fate of Maggie rests in my hands?—and in a memory card I don't even have anymore? He couldn't be that cruel, and NYU wouldn't be that shameless. What did I do to deserve this sort of karma, and what did Maggie do? My mind races with something, anything, I could give him instead of that stupid memory card. Maybe—wait.

I narrow my eyes. "So, let me get this straight, I give you the card" —which I don't have anymore— "and you give me the money to save the Lining, or I don't give it to you and you throw my friend under the bus?"

He throws his hands into the air again. "Touchdown!"

"But why help me out with the bar? Why don't you just give me the second ultimatum? What is the Lining to you?"

His grin drops a fraction. "It's just a little extra cushion."

"So that I'll give you the card."

"You got it."

"And you'll give me the money from a few 'well-placed stories,'" I quote him.

"You betch—" Then he stops himself and curses. "I mean, no. That isn't—"

"The answer is no." I shove my chair out from behind me. "And if you do start spreading rumors about Maggie? You'll have her to deal with, and she'll make your life a living hell with that card. Goodbye, John." With that, I bang on the door for the Officer Nesky to open up. John doesn't know my threat's empty. All he knows is that I was the last one to have the card, and that's enough leverage to make John jump after me.

The door opens and I duck out under the officer's arm. "I don't know him, sir." I shake my head, not having to fake fear because I really am afraid of John Birmingham. "He's insane."

"Get her back here!" John roars, but another officer blocks him inside the room.

Officer Nesky escorts me back to my holding cell with an apology, saying that John said he knew me. Gave my date of birth and everything. Note to self: buy pepper spray.

Back in the cell, Maggie is stretched out over our bench. She sits up when I come over, and take a seat. She gives me a once over before asking, "What the hell?"

I shake my head. "It was John Birmingham."

"No f*cking way."

"Yes f*cking way." I slouch against the cold wall and shut my eyes tight. "He said he'd give me the money to save the bar if I handed him the card."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

I chose to save a secret, instead. I hope he's okay wherever he is. Is he flipping a coin between his knuckles and staring out of the window, listening to NPR shit while Boaz drives the first stretch? Are they humming the song on that CD while sitting in a terminal at the Myrtle Beach International Airport, waiting for their plane to Paris, or Spain, or Italy? Or are they checking into a Super 8 Motel somewhere in Marion and drinking beers on the hood of Holly's Rabbit? And I'm sitting in a jail cell paying time for a man I never should have met.

None of this would've happened if I'd never gone out for ice cream with him...but that was never my choice, was it? He made a guess, and he guessed right. "Hey, Mags...remember why I don't like ice cream?"

She gives me a strange look. "That's what John wanted to know? That time some snot-nosed brat made you cry?"

"No. That's how Roman knew what ice cream flavor I liked."