Chapter Eight #2
“You sound as judgmental as Betty,” Ava told him. “Nobody knows the difference between all the needle arts.”
Jack’s eyebrows furrowed. “Most people do know the difference, I think,” he said. “Knitting and crocheting are done with yarn. Cross-stitch is done with a smaller needle and thread. They’re very different art forms.”
“Okay, Betty.” Ava sat up, stretching her arms above her head, groaning miserably as she did so. Everything hurt. “So. We’re killing good old Leafy at the end of the month. That’s the plan. I know you’ve been all horny about planning, so now you have one.”
“Leafy? Horny?” Jack paused his cross-stitch—it looked like the beginning of a motivational quote—and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re saying we do this three weeks from now. I can work with that timeline. But—did you call him Leafy? And who’s horny?”
Ava rubbed her eyes so hard she saw stars flicker at the edge of her vision. “You know, like a leafy green? Since his name is Cale? Like—like kale, the plant? Man, you’re no fun. And I only meant horny, like, you know, excited—”
Jack held up a hand for silence, and despite herself Ava found that the relentless stream of words stilled at the gesture. “Different spelling,” he said. “So? End of the month, then? When and where, and what is the source of your intel?”
“Intel?” Ava snorted, swinging her legs over the side of the couch. She felt wobbly and headachy and sore all over. When she met Jack’s eyes, hers darted away again at the steady intensity there. Instead, she took a bite of the grilled cheese.
A moan escaped her mouth.
“Oh.”
“That sounded horny,” Jack mused dryly, resuming his cross-stitch or whatever the fuck he did.
She glared at him, but she was too busy devouring the grilled cheese to say anything.
Because, holy fuck, holy fuck. It was smoky and warm, and she could taste provolone, maybe, and it was buttery and she was so hungry, so hungry—how had she ever just forgotten to eat?
It was gone in a few minutes, and she devoured the salad next.
“What’s this dressing?” she asked through a mouthful of greens (no kale in sight).
“I made it,” he said. “It’s a honey mustard vinaigrette.”
“You made it?”
Jack O’Sullivan refused categorization at every turn—homemade salad dressing, grilled cheese out of a wet dream, a gun to her temple. Cross-stitch on the couch. Covering her with a blanket while she slept. A look in his eyes that said he would kill her and do it easily.
“Mmm,” he said. “I’d still like to hear about your intel.”
“Intel is such a dramatic word,” Ava told him. “What are we, SEAL Team Six?”
“No,” he said evenly. “They follow orders significantly better than you do.”
“How many Navy SEALs have you ordered around?”
“One.” Jack held up a single index finger. “Now can we focus?”
“No, because are you saying you’ve topped a Navy SEAL?
” Ava stood, crossed the dimly lit living room, and then flipped on the overhead light, wincing at the sudden brightness.
Jack’s look sent her stomach flipping. “Fine, okay. Damn, didn’t know attempted murder left you feeling hungover.
Anyway—Cale has a gala at the end of this month.
A fundraiser for a nonprofit of his. One of those foundations that sends money around in a circle and never really does anything, but they sure get a bunch of tax breaks? ”
“I’m familiar with the type,” Jack said.
He stood and followed her to the kitchen, where he leaned casually against the kitchen island, those corded forearms of his visible.
He had changed clothes, she realized now—instead of business professional and a suit that made her mouth water, he was wearing dark navy blue jeans, a black bomber jacket that was rolled up to his elbows, and a black tank top underneath that clung to the hard muscles of his stomach.
“Ava?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re staring again.”
Ava froze, her hand still on the refrigerator door as if the two were fused together, her mouth slightly open. “I’m not,” she said.
“And I need you to focus on our plan.”
That lower register again. His voice deepening, hollowing her out when he spoke.
What was wrong with her, that she could feel—well, like this—when talking to a murderer? But then again, she was a murderer now, too. Or trying her best to become one.
And was he smirking at her?
“What about the plan?” she asked, yanking the fridge door open with more force than was strictly necessary.
It was meticulously organized, because of course it was.
She snatched a bowl of strawberries, a pitcher of juice, and—was that whipped cream?
Then she moved the half gallon of skim milk over, just a little, so it was blocking the view to the carrots.
That would really get under his skin.
She busied herself making a bowl of strawberries and cream, and poured herself juice while he watched her closely.
“You’re bold, but you’re terrified,” Jack said finally. His voice was soft, dangerous, and it had an edge in it that was driving her mad. “You’re determined, but you have no idea how to do this. You’re angry—and you’re hurt.”
“Are you a therapist, too? A shrink who does murders on the side?” Ava shoveled strawberries into her mouth, buried in whipped cream. “Anyway, you should focus on your own looming problems. Like the fact that I messed up your rigid fridge organization. You’ll never find the carrots now.”
But the lightness in her voice was forced, and he must know it, must know that his words had cut her. Were still cutting her.
Jack sighed and came around the kitchen island. He rustled in the fridge for a moment, replacing the things she’d moved. Then he shut the door and joined her there, leaning on the island again. Right next to her.
“Move,” Ava said.
He didn’t. Just arched an eyebrow at her. “Tell me more about this gala.”
“All his rich friends will be there,” Ava said. “They’ll eat food, celebrate how much money they have, and get sloppy drunk. Probably do a lot of fancy drugs that poor people would go to jail for.”
“Right,” Jack said. “And how do we get in?”
“The party will be at his compound,” Ava told him. “The one near the mountains and the border. I flirted with one of his executive assistants and I stole her phone, added myself to her calendar so I can see it from my phone, and then slipped it back into her purse.”
Jack blinked. “That’s—that’s surprisingly good,” he said.
“I’m a librarian,” Ava said. “Well, I was.”
“And that helped you steal a phone how?”
“It didn’t,” Ava told him through a mouthful of strawberries. “I’m just saying you shouldn’t be surprised that I’m smart. Do you know how hard it is to get a job in a library? In this job market?”
He nodded carefully, and then his lips twitched a little. He reached forward, his movement slow, and swiped his thumb on the edge of her jaw. It came away covered in whipped cream.
Ava swallowed hard. “Oh,” she said. “Thanks?”
He nodded at her. “So do you know how people will be getting to his gala?”
“I mean, they’re rich,” Ava said. “Some will arrive in helicopters, and some in fancy cars. Don’t you have a Prius? They’ll spot us immediately.”
“A Volvo. How will staff arrive?”
“Good question,” Ava said. “And no idea. I’d been planning to kill him in front of his little juice shop, same as you. The gala was a backup plan to my backup plan.”
Jack nodded again. “Can you make contact with his assistant again?” he asked.
“I met her at a club,” Ava said, taking another sip of juice. If she had to tell Jack which club, she might sink into the floor with embarrassment. “I don’t have another suitably slutty dress, but if we go dress shopping—”
“We aren’t going dress shopping.”
“You aren’t going dress shopping,” Ava said. “Because you are living a life without whimsy. I am going dress shopping.”
“Do slutty dresses have a lot of whimsy?” Jack asked, folding his arms and leaning his hip against the counter again. It was unfair he was this relaxed, and also hot, especially when Ava was over here vibrating out of her skin.
“I can’t believe you just asked me that,” she said. “That’s incredibly rude.”
“Is it?” he asked. “All right, I am going to this club. Show me a picture of Cale’s assistant, and tell me the name of the club, and I’ll be on my way.”
Well, fuck.
“If I shared all of my—what did you call it? Intel? Then you could just kill me,” Ava said. “That’s the oldest trick in the book.”
“I’m sure there are older tricks,” Jack said. “And I need you, remember? Because he’s seen my face. So we need to do this together.”
That sounded like something a hit man would say if he was using you for nefarious plans, but what was Ava going to do? He might be her only way to reach Cale Jacobson after she’d so royally fucked today up.
“Right,” she said. “So you can frame me for the murder when all this is done. Also, in case you forgot, they have seen my face and happen to know I have an anti-Jacobson vendetta.”
“Framing you was not my plan, no,” Jack said. “I have a different fall guy in mind. And I certainly don’t need you to complete the job. In fact, it would be smoothest if you didn’t come with me at all for that part. But I do need your intel, and possibly your connections.”
“Who’s your fall guy, then?” Ava set her bowl and spoon into the sink.
“You know that dishes wouldn’t stack up if you just washed them as soon as you finished eating,” Jack said. “Otherwise you end up with a pile.”
“Not if you wash them,” Ava said. “And I was going to wash them.”
Ari had often had the same gripe—why put something down when you could put it away? And Ava had never had a good answer, just a tendency to put an object on a surface and then immediately stop seeing it there until she tripped over it or knocked it onto the floor.
“When?” Jack asked. “What moment makes more sense than right now?”
“I’m busy planning a murder,” Ava said. “That’s a silly question.”
Jack shrugged and turned the water on, pushing his sleeves up higher before he started the dishes. “What’s the name of the club? I’d like to go as soon as possible.”
“Let’s go tomorrow night instead.” Ava ignored his question. “She’s there every Saturday, but she works late on Fridays.”
“Can you duplicate the calendar for me?” Jack asked as he finished up the dishes.
“I’d like a copy. I’ll chase down some information on how party staff will arrive, because I think our best bet would be to enter as waitstaff.
I could pass for security usually, but I’ve had face-to-face with his head of security, and the man strikes me as sharp. ”
“Fine.” Ava pulled out her phone. There was a new crack spiraling across the screen, but that was a problem for later.
Or never, if they caught her and sent her to prison.
Did you get to keep your iPhone in prison?
That seemed like something they didn’t let you have.
“And tomorrow, okay? I’ll take you to the club, and point out the girl, and we can—I don’t know, talk to her together? ”
Jack wiped his hands carefully on the kitchen towel, his dark eyes trained on her. “Sure,” he said. “We’ll lie low until then. Neither of us leaves this house, understood? Not even for the hot tub.”
“I can’t do that,” Ava said. “Have you seen the pool?”
Jack set a hand on her shoulder, the weight heavy and commanding, and then he steered her toward the front door. The living room remained dark, the driveway, too. Out here, there were fewer streetlights, but in the distance, she could see it:
Red and blue lights flashing. Searchlights pointing.
The police were nearby, and they were looking for her.
“He’s a billionaire, Sunshine,” Jack said.
“The police are going to be all over this one. So nobody leaves the house. You attacked a very, very rich man, and even being outside the city limits won’t keep us safe—the whole area will be crawling with cops until they find something to work with. Do you understand me?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Ava said, mocking a salute. “Did I do it right? Just like your Navy SEAL?”
The hand on her shoulder squeezed, ever so slightly. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
The words were a rumble in his throat.
“Good,” she repeated, her voice wavering. “Then we have ourselves a plan.”