Chapter 14
Jamison's Guide to Rot and Rumors
Ryder
Jamison greeted me with a flashy grin. "I can't believe you said yes."
He practically quivered as I stepped out of the car and onto what used to be a smooth circular drive – now cracked and crusted with gravel and weeds.
For once, I agreed with Jamison.
Even I couldn't believe I'd said yes.
Seriously, what the fuck was I doing here?
For weeks, he'd been nagging me to see the place. And for weeks, I'd been putting him off.
But now, a few short hours after returning from Mackinac Island, here I was, Johnny-on-the-spot, checking out what Jamison called his hottest property even though the place was colder than the corpse we'd surely find in the basement.
I mean, just look at the place.
From the road, it might've been a rich guy's country estate. But up close? It looked like the rich guy had died and never moved out. The thing was a horror flick waiting to happen.
Ivy strangled the brick like it had a vendetta, and the once-grand portico leaned left, like it had one whiskey too many. The roof was sagging, the windows were cracking, and the front door was off-kilter, like it was missing a couple of hinges.
The name of the place, Miss Lavinia's Academy for Young Ladies, was still carved into the stone archway like a tombstone for every debutante who had ever walked through that door.
The carving might've looked classy, even now, if not for the fact that some genius had tagged it with red spray paint, changing Lavinia to Vagina, using two G's instead of one.
I was still shaking my head when Jamison sidled next to me and said, "Told you it had character."
I gave him a long, sideways look. Jamison had the overgroomed vibe of someone who spent way too much time in front of his mirror. Today, he wore tailored slacks, Italian loafers, and a black button-down, crisp enough to cut glass.
His black hair was too slick, his teeth were too white, and his fingernails were too glossy for me to believe he didn't have a bottle of nail polish stashed in his car.
But hey, even Jamison had his uses.
I returned my attention to the property. "Character's one word for it."
Next to me, Jamison laughed long and loud, like the ghost of Miss Lavinia was tickling his privates. When he finished laughing, he said with an elbow to my ribs, "Man, I forgot how funny you are."
What a kiss-ass.
A shameless social climber with more hustle than taste, Jamison Banks was the kind of guy who name-dropped like a Hollywood agent and gossiped like a teenage girl.
But every now and then, he turned up an off-market property so crazy brilliant that I hadn't yet blocked his number.
Today could be one of those days. But I wasn't holding my breath.
When I didn't reply, he said, "So? You ready to be wowed?"
I was already wowed, as in, Wow, what a shithole.
But in the spirit of blind optimism, I ventured inside. It wasn't politeness – or even curiosity – propelling me into the gloom.
It was practicality. Sometimes, a shitty exterior hid a real treasure past the front door.
Not with this place.
As we toured room after room, Jamison kept up a steady stream of commentary on the woodwork, which was rotting, the high ceilings, which were sagging, and the vintage chandeliers, which looked one spark away from disaster.
What he didn't mention was the smell, making me wonder if we'd be finding that rich guy after all.
And yet, I couldn't help but smile as I took in the crumbling plaster and faded walls. As shitty as the place was, it was still nicer than my first flip – an old hotel that was half as big, but ten times uglier.
I'd come a long way since then. These days, I didn't even look unless the profit was in the stratosphere.
This raised an odd question. Why exactly was I here?
This place? It was small potatoes compared to my usual fare. And yet, I must've had my reasons.
Call it a gut feeling. Call it instinct. Whatever it was, it had never steered me wrong.
I was still wondering when we reached another wreck of a room, a windowless space Jamison called the upstairs parlor, as if some fancy-pants name would change the smell.
But hey, it did have a fireplace, so who knows? I moved closer and stopped at the sight of a busted-up bottle of booze. The pieces lay scattered on the hearth like someone had hurled the empty bottle in a fit of rage.
I kept staring as my thoughts started to click.
And then it hit me.
This wasn't about the place.
It was about the person – Jamison.
I had wanted to see him, and I'd been searching for an excuse.
Shit.
And that busted-up bottle? It was the opening I should've been waiting for. I pointed. "You know what that reminds me of?"
Jamison turned to look. "You mean the fireplace? Yeah, it's a classic, right?"
"No, the bottle." I laughed. "It reminds me of that management consultant – Tara or maybe Tina? You know? The one who raided that hospitality bar?" Was I playing dumb? Hell, yeah.
If I knew Jamison – and I sure as fuck did – getting her name wrong would be just the thing to get him talking.
But he wasn't talking yet.
With a frown, he asked, "You mean like…in a hotel?"
"No," I laughed. "At that meeting at the Halstead Building. What, you didn't hear about it?"
His frown deepened, and I knew exactly why. Jamison prided himself on knowing everyone and everything, and the idea that he was in the dark about something gossip-worthy wasn't sitting so great.
But then, his expression cleared, and he said, "Ohhhh…you mean the blonde who flipped out? The name's Tessa, not Tina. Tessa Sinclair." Then, he chuckled, like he'd been saving the punchline just for me. "Sure, I heard all about that. I saw it, too. I mean…the video was making the rounds."
That made me pause. "What video?"
"What, you didn't see it?"
I hadn't, actually. All I'd seen were a few posts about it, spilling the highlights with nothing to back it up – well, except for that shot of Tessa with that paramedic. And even that had been only a photo.
I told Jamison, "If I'd seen it, I wouldn't have asked."
He cleared his throat. "Yeah, right…well, you want the truth?"
No, I wanted lies.
Dumbass.
But I kept my sarcasm in check and gave an easy nod, because I was dying to hear what he'd say next.
He lowered his voice. "The company – they hushed it all up. Got the videos pulled, too."
"What company?"
"The one she worked for. You know. Thatcher-Hale. They fix reputations, right?"
Did they? Hell if I knew. "You tell me."
"Well, trust me, they do." He snorted. "But it's hard to sell yourself as a fixer when one of your own goes viral."
I nodded along. "Viral, huh? Doing what?" Yeah, I knew the gist, but I was fishing for more.
"For that smash-and-grab – you know, with all those bottles." He chuckled. "And during a pitch, too."
Interesting. Absently, I said, "So, that's what happened."
"Oh, yeah." He gave a low whistle. "And the client – they were pissed."
"How pissed?"
"Well…rumor has it, they're gonna go after her."
My pulse kicked up a notch. "For what? The scandal?"
"Nah, not that."
"Then what?"
He laughed. "You know the drill – sensitive files, company property, yada yada. But get this." He leaned toward me. "She bolted that same day."
"Bolted how?"
"She went straight from that meeting to some bus station, didn't even stop at her apartment."
A bus station?
No fucking way.
I couldn't even imagine. "You're shitting me."
"Not me," he said with another grin. "If she doesn't show soon, you know what's gonna happen?"
"What?"
"That apartment of hers – it's gonna be gone."
I didn't like where this was heading. "Gone how?"
"Apparently, she was on a week-to-week, but she stopped paying, which means, if she doesn't surface soon, she's out of luck." He made a flicking gesture with his fingers, like he was launching a tiny Tessa onto the curb. "Eviction time."
"Oh, yeah?" His attitude grated, but I kept my poker face in check. "And what about her stuff?"
He shrugged like he didn't give two shits if her pots and panties hit the pavement. "Got me."
Asshole. "So, do you know where she is?"
He let out a scoff. "I wish."
A bad feeling settled in my chest. "And why's that?"
"Because Evan Carver – you know him, right?"
That guy? I knew him better than I wanted to. He wasn't just a pompous ass. He was a snake who'd sell out his mother to make a buck.
When I nodded, Jamison continued. "Anyway, he hit me up last week, promising a big commission if I gave him anything useful."
I didn't like it. "Useful how?"
Jamison chuckled. "The same thing you just asked."
I'd been asking a lot of things, so I just waited.
Finally, Jamison said, "He wants to know where she is – and he's willing to pay."
I grew very still. "Is that so?"
Jamison nodded. "He's put out the word to everyone. And I mean everyone. Shit, even my manicurist is on the lookout."
Huh. Maybe he didn't have nail polish in the car – not with a dedicated pro on the job.
But forget his nails. In my head, I was still assembling the pieces.
Unlike Evan Carver, I already knew where Tessa was. But hell if I'd say so. I summoned up a grin. "So, that pissed client was Evan Carver?" It made sense. The guy had his fingers in everything. Or rather, his father did, and sonny boy coasted along for the ride.
Jamison shot me a finger-gun. "Bingo! And you want to know what else?"
"What?"
His grin turned sly. "Rumor has it, she screwed him in more ways than one."
Something ticked in my jaw. "What do you mean?"
"You know. They were a thing."
At the image that slid into my head, I felt my fingers flex at my sides. Tessa Sinclair and Evan Carver? Together?
I couldn't see it.
The guy was a real asshole – and yeah, even more than me. Or maybe I didn't want to see it, because for some messed-up reason, it wasn't sitting quite right.
And while I was at it, I really didn't like the idea of Evan Carver tracking her down.
Then again, I could always track him down first.