13. Jonah
13
JONAH
“Do you have any questions before we get there?”
I turn my head on the leather seat to look at Claire.
She’s got her straight, shiny brown hair pulled into a clip, a thin rose gold chain decorating her neck, and matching rose gold hoops in her earlobes. She’s wearing a pair of designer sunglasses, but I can tell she’s not looking at me. I’ve noticed that she keeps her eyes off me as much as possible. The only times she’s looked at me—really looked at me—were when we were arguing, and she was sizing me up. Everything else can be compared to a cursory glance at best. I can’t tell which I hate more—being seen or being ignored.
There’s something eerily familiar about her blue eyes. Reflective in a way that feels revelatory. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s also intriguing. I find myself oscillating between wanting to hide from her and wanting to do something that attracts her full attention.
When I don’t respond to her question, she turns her head toward me just as I knew she would. I can tell the moment her keen gaze lands on me. I dig my fingers into my thigh to distract from how my heart picks up pace.
“Jonah. Questions?”
“You’re taking me to volunteer at a youth center.” I shrug. “I assumed they’d instruct me on what to do when we get there.”
Her lips curve down slightly, and I laugh .
“Are you shocked that I’m cooperating, Trouble? D’you expect me to throw a tantrum?”
Her eyebrow arches over the top of her sunglasses, but she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t like when I call her Trouble, but she won’t admit it.
“The video was a good call,” I say honestly. “I’m intrigued. Figured I’d see what else you have up your sleeve.”
I do my best to plaster sincerity on my face. I’ve fooled people with this look for years, but being scrutinized by Claire Davis is higher stakes. She’s unbiased, and that will make her harder to convince. But if I can’t scare or threaten her away, I have to try a different tactic.
I have to charm her.
The car pulls to a stop outside of a large brick building before she can respond, and I’m surprised to see a lack of flashing lights when we park.
“Where are the cameras?” I ask as I wait for José to open the car door. “We meeting them in there?”
“There are no cameras. We don’t want it to seem like we set this up as a media stunt.”
I furrow my brow. “But it is a stunt, and we need the media to know about it.”
“They will, but we’re controlling the narrative.” Her lips quirk up at the side, then she hooks her finger in the cuff of her blouse sleeve and tugs. “It’s all up here.”
I can’t help but chuckle as I follow Claire out of the car. It’s all up her sleeve .
The moment I’m free of the car’s cab, I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with air not tainted with lavender and sugar. I spent the entire drive taking small breaths through my mouth. Any longer and I might have passed out.
“Ms. Davis,” a short, older woman with a Swedish accent greets us as we step up to large wooden doors. “Mr. Hendrix. Welcome.”
“Hello, Mrs. Nilsson.” Claire shakes the woman’s hand, then turns to me. “Jonah, this is Ebba Nilsson. She runs the Stockholm Youth Center.”
I give the woman a genuine smile and take her hand in mine. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Nilsson. I appreciate you letting me come in today. ”
“Yes, thank you,” Claire says. “We’re grateful you could accommodate us on such short notice.”
“It’s not every day the kids get to hang out with a celebrity. And don’t worry, they’ve all been told the rules. Come on in. I’ll bring you to them.”
I follow Mrs. Nilsson into the building and give Claire’s arm a nudge with mine.
“Rules?”
She nods. “They’re allowed selfies and autographs but no live streaming, and I’ve asked that they don’t post anything until after you’ve left.”
My eyes widen, and she taps the sleeve of her blouse again. I huff out another laugh. Controlling the narrative. The media will be learning about my visit secondhand, so it will seem organic. It will seem genuine .
Another simple yet brilliant move.
Calculated, yes. Manipulative? Maybe. But brilliant just the same.
Mrs. Nilsson leads me into a large room full of kids, and then she introduces me in Swedish. She also introduces me to an interpreter who will shadow me while I’m here since I only speak English, and a lot of these kids don’t.
The first fifteen minutes are just them asking me a ton of random questions. Where’s my band? What’s my favorite video game? When did I start playing guitar? Do I like kladdkaka? Have I seen the new superhero movie? What’s Sav Loveless like? Can I skateboard?
The questions come in rapid fire. My poor interpreter can barely keep up, but it’s the most fun I’ve had doing an interview in a long time. I even lose track of Claire for a while because I can’t look away from the crowd of kids vying for my attention.
When the questions die down, they take me to a large table where they’ve been working on crafts. Paint, tissue paper, pipe cleaners, glitter, little googly eyes. Any craft material you can think of, they’ve got it on this table, but my attention zeroes in on a bin of small wooden baubles and figurines.
“What is this for?” I ask a little girl.
She waits for my translator to ask her in Swedish, then she answers me with a smile .
“Jewelry,” my translator says. “They use it to make ornaments and jewelry. They were donated by a local woodcarver.”
I nod and take a seat next to the little girl, snatching a small wooden figurine out of the bin. She scoots a tin of paintbrushes in front of me, so I grab one of those, too. I scan the paints on the table, then point to a few bottles in front of the girl.
“Can you pass me those blues, please?”
She does, and I get to work. The figurine is small. It doesn’t take me long to cover it in a spiral of light and dark blue swirls. I set it aside to dry, thank the little girl, and let the kids pull me through a few other activities.
I win three games of tic-tac-toe, get my ass handed to me in a game of Wii Bowling, and am reminded just how out of shape I am when they force me into a game of basketball. Obviously, Thor is not a miracle worker. I’m a panting, gasping, pathetic mess. A walking billboard for the dangers of smoking and drinking. Don’t be like me, kids. Just say no to, well, everything.
Then I’m mercifully brought a beat-up acoustic guitar and asked to play.
“Okay,” I say as I throw the leather strap over my head and take a seat on the edge of a table. “Do we have any requests?”
I tune the guitar as the kids talk over each other excitedly. I glance at my interpreter, and he shrugs with a laugh.
“Just play what you like.”
I nod and think for a moment, then my eyes catch on Claire. She’s standing alone on the far wall, just outside of the crowd, but she’s got her attention on me.
And she’s smiling.
It’s a small smile, lips curved slightly higher on one side, but she’s definitely smiling, and it’s not taunting or forced. It’s happy. Playful, even.
It’s beautiful.
My fingers freeze briefly before I catch myself, and her smile grows a fraction of an inch. She arches a teasing brow, so I narrow my eyes and give her a smile of my own before fingerpicking the opening chords to “Blackbird” by The Beatles.
It takes effort to tear my eyes from hers, but I make myself do it. I don’t like the way my heart starts to race the longer I look at her. I don’t like the way my neck starts to heat, or the way I can almost smell her lavender and sugar scent from across the room. I don’t like the way my motives start to blur at the edges.
I don’t like any of it.
I avert my gaze and don’t look at her again until I’m handing the acoustic back to an employee and saying my goodbyes to the kids. Mrs. Nilsson asks if I would mind taking a group photo, and of course, I agree. That’s why I’m here. It’s a PR stunt orchestrated by my father’s manipulative, evil-genius employee.
By my babysitter.
My babysitter who has a boyfriend who’s probably cheating on her with some sidepiece named Dierdre.
Finally, I let myself look back at Claire, this time controlling the way my mind catalogues what it sees. A pleased expression. A keen eye. A need to succeed.
And a strong desire for acceptance.
I can use this.
I find fulfillment in a match well-played, she’d said back in that New York hotel room. Because this is a game to her. This is chess. I need to remember what a formidable opponent she is.
I smile at her again. I give her the same smile I give Sav and Mabel when I want them to believe I’m sober. The smile I give my therapist when I want her to believe I’m stable and improving. The smile I give Torren when I want him to believe I’m not harboring feelings of rejection and jealousy when it comes to his girlfriend.
I give Claire the smile I give everyone else when I need to get what I want, but because I don’t expect her to buy it as easily, I throw in a wink. She blushes, and I mentally draw a tally in the Jonah column where I’ve been keeping score.
She’s ahead, but I’ll catch up quickly.
“Thank you again for having me, Mrs. Nilsson,” I say, shaking her hand once more. “I had a great time.”
“We did, too. Thank you so much. Feel free to come back anytime.”
“Maybe next time we’ll bring the rest of the band,” Claire adds, and then we’re climbing into the back seat and waving goodbye as the car drives away .
“I’m starving.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and pull up the hotel app. “I’m going to order room service so it’s at the room when we get back. What do you want?”
“I’m good.”
My thumb hovers over the dinner selections and I glance at Claire. She’s got her attention on her phone, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s texting her boyfriend.
Rich, cheating prick.
“You sure?” I bump her leg with my knee. “We were there for hours. You’ve got to be hungry.”
She shrugs but still doesn’t look at me. “I ate the cookies.”
My jaw drops. “There were cookies? Why didn’t you get me some?”
“It’s my job to manage your PR, not feed you,” she says dryly, and then she changes the subject. “You did great today, by the way. I think it went really well. And if all goes as planned, word of your visit should start trickling online within the next few hours. It will probably be global news before we leave for Lisbon tomorrow.”
“You writing up a statement?”
She shakes her head. “No. We won’t be making a statement.”
“Why not?”
“Subtlety is key to making this seem organic.”
I turn my head on the seatback so I can watch her fully. She’s swiping and typing frantically, working nonstop and chewing on her lip anytime she’s not talking to me. She’s got these cute little lines between her eyebrows as she focuses, and a flash of her smile from earlier pops into my mind. Soft and sweet. Small, but so much more than I could handle.
Without overthinking, I reach into my pocket, pull out the wooden figurine I’d painted, and hold it out for her.
“Here, Trouble. I made you this.”
She stops typing and looks down at the chess piece in my hand. Her forehead scrunches, and she lifts questioning eyes to mine. Instead of giving her an explanation, I arch a brow and wiggle the piece, drawing her attention back to it. Then slowly, she puts her phone in her lap and takes it.
I watch closely as she studies it, twirling it around between her delicate fingers, a myriad of emotions passing over her face. Confusion. Surprise.
As soon as I saw the small wooden queen, I thought of her. I grabbed it and painted it blue, like her eyes. It’s strategy. It’s a stealthy move.
I remember the way she reacted when I complimented her social media idea the other night. I saw the dejected look on her face when she’d finished that phone call with her cheating boyfriend.
Claire Davis is starved for praise, for attention, and that is something I can use.
She’s too talented and smart, too beautiful, to be this insecure, but it is what it is. Insecurities aren’t logical, and I have to calm the strong desire to pick her apart right here and now. To discover why she’s like this. I want to crack her skull open and sift through her memories. I want to find every trauma. Every weakness. I want to know everything. What or who broke her confidence? A parent? A boyfriend? Something else?
Despite the protective surge I feel in my stomach—the yearning to find the people who hurt her and punish them for it—I can’t deny that this discovery works in my favor. Women like Claire Davis just want to be seen. To be thought of.
This is strategy. This is chess, and I need to play the whole board.
When she sinks her teeth into her pillowy bottom lip—a move that goes straight to my dick—I let myself mentally draw another tally in the Jonah column. When she blushes again, my throat tightens, and I look away.
“Thank you,” she whispers, putting the queen into her bag. “That was really...nice.”
I nod, then pull out my phone to scroll on it as I speak to her. I don’t know why, but I can’t bring myself to look at her again. Not right now. I can’t risk it.
“Yeah, well, I just wanted you to know I’m not going to fight you anymore. I doubted you and was an asshole, but you’re proving me wrong. You’re smart, and you’re good at this, and I appreciate you. So...” I shrug. “Claire Davis, I’m glad you’re my queen.”
I hear her laugh, and I imagine that smile again. The happy one. The real one. And for the first time in years, I feel sleazy. I turn my body away from her and close my eyes .
“Wake me when we get to the hotel,” I say abruptly.
I don’t want to talk to her anymore.
“Okay.”
Claire goes back to her phone, and I spend the rest of the ride listening to her breathe. I time my breaths with hers, each inhale like a knife to the chest. Filling my lungs with lavender and sugar. Taking hits of her like I need a fix.
I’m in control , I tell myself.
She’ll be gone soon, and things can go back to normal.