Chapter 34 Kennedy
kennedy
“What the fuck is going on, Jordan?” My hands shake as I stare at the back of my phone, my knuckles white. “Who is this? How do they have my number?”
He taps his head against his seat as he stares into the abyss of the steering wheel. “I honestly don’t know who this is. But…fuck, I need to tell you something.”
My heart sinks like a boat anchor in the nearby lake.
“Is your…is your family some sort of Canadian Mafia or something? Does that even exist? Am I going to be wearing cement shoes at the bottom of a giant vat of maple syrup?” My eyes flutter closed, my swallow heavy and forced.
“Did you know I hate the smell of that shit? When someone brings a McGriddle on the plane, I need my own barf bag! Oh God. I cannot die by drowning in maple syrup.”
“Kennedy. Okay…just…take a deep breath and stay calm. My family is not in the Mafia. We don’t own any maple syrup factories. And I’m probably going to have my citizenship revoked, saying this, but I also don’t like maple syrup. I just eat my pancakes with—”
“Butter,” we say at the same time. He flashes me a warm, timid smile and, for some reason, that actually calms me down, my hands a little steadier than before.
“Exactly,” he adds. “If it’s a good pancake, you only need butter.”
“Right?” The tension eases a notch. It’s oddly comforting how in sync we are about food. “Or a warm blueberry compote on top. Now that is my dream pancake.”
“Hell yes! Blueberries are my favorite. I swear I can eat blueberry anything.”
“Okay, I know I’m freaking the fuck out, but now I really want pancakes.”
He laughs. “You know what…I’m actually starving after the game and all the excitement at the bar, and now your text.” He hesitates for a moment, looking as if he wants encouragement. I drop my phone, relaxing enough to let him know I’m past the initial panic.
He bites his lip. “There’s an all-night breakfast place not far from here.
You um…you wanna go? We can talk, and I can explain more about my hatred of maple syrup and,” —he runs his hands through his hair, his eyes darting back toward the steering wheel— “tell you about the other texts I’ve been getting. ”
Defeat washes over his face. I’m still unsure what the hell is going on, but for some bizarre reason, I trust him. He’s done nothing other than look out for me.
Just as I’m about to say yes, my stomach lets out the loudest growl I’ve ever heard. “Well,” I chuckle, “apparently my stomach is on board. Let’s go.”
After a short drive, we find a booth inside Millie’s, an old 50s-style diner with red leather booths and a jukebox in the corner, vinyl records spinning inside.
The sound of bacon sizzling on the flat-top behind the counter and the smell of plates on the pass-through window have my stomach itching to dive in.
“How have I lived in Milwaukee for years and never heard of this place?”
He flashes me a smile that’s sexier than I’d like to admit, warmth I don’t want to think about spreading through my chest. Especially after getting a text from a stalker and him telling me we need to talk.
“It’s one of those ‘if you know, you know’ places. They don’t advertise, and there’s no social media. It’s just good food, good people, and pancakes as good as those frites we had in Dallas.”
My eyes nearly bulge out of my head. “You’re lying. No food could be better than that.”
“Wait till you try these pancakes—you’ll regret that statement.”
“I seriously doubt it.”
“Jordy!” A sweet, older-looking woman with long gray hair pulled back in a bun comes over to our table and flips over the coffee mugs before filling each one. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you here for a while with the playoffs. Congrats on the win tonight!”
“Thanks, Beverly.”
“And who is this lovely young lady with you?”
“This is Kennedy. My girlfriend”
A sweet grin crawls across Beverly’s face as she winks at Jordan, then looks to me. “You snagged yourself a hell of a man there, Miss Kennedy. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Jordan Boucher.”
I blink slowly at yet another person talking about how much he’s helped them.
One more piece to the puzzle of figuring him out.
I got the corner piece at Walt’s when he told me he owns Club 414.
Does Beverly have the piece that will help this whole thing fit together?
“What do you mean?” I ask, but before she can reply, Jordan abruptly shifts the conversation.
“I’m ready to order, Bev. I’ll have the usual. Kennedy, do you know what you want?”
I glance between the two of them, wondering what the hell he doesn’t want her to say.
Also wondering if I can test my theory again about us being pretty in sync with food, and the fact that I kind of like him ordering for me.
Why is this a thing? Never in my life have I wanted someone else to order for me.
I close my menu, not having read a word.
Screw it. I make enough damn decisions during the day—he can make this one.
“You know what? Bring me whatever he’s having.” My eyes catch his, my heart racing. “Let’s see if you can go two for two.”
His lips twitch. “You heard the lady, Beverly, bring it!”
“Alright, two Bougie specials coming right up!” Beverly whoops as she waltzes behind the counter to put in the order.
I clasp my hands around the warm cup of coffee in front of me, taking a delicate sip.
I don’t normally drink black coffee, but I feel like it’s going to be the lifeline that gets me through whatever he’s about to say.
“So…we’re here, and food is on the way…explain to me what the hell is going on before I freak the hell out again. ”
He slumps against his seat as he lets out a loud sigh, his gaze dropping to the table. “That text we got that first night with the photo of us at the hotel? That,” —he pops his eyes back up to mine, his body curling in on itself— “that wasn’t the first text.”
I set my coffee down so hard it sloshes over the edge. “I’m sorry…what?”
“Yeah. I’ve been getting them for…a while.
Long before that night at the hotel bar.
Only, there was never a picture included until then.
I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to freak you out.
I thought it was maybe a pissed-off fan or something.
I realize now that was a mistake. I’m sorry,” he trails off.
“I told my security detail about it, and they’ve been extra vigilant about things, but the texts still come in fairly regularly.
But that night…Hannah told me the photo had been leaked online and was going public, so I had to let you in on it.
I didn’t, don’t, know what any of this is about. Please don’t hate me.”
I tap my nails along the side of the coffee mug in a rhythm I’m convincing myself will make this make sense. But it’s not. My fingers still. The warm feeling in my chest from earlier shifts into a fire, and I’m scrambling to find the extinguisher.
“Let me get this straight. You were getting texts from this random psychopath before that night? And now they are texting me?!” I whisper-yell, painfully aware we are in public and desperate to not cause a scene.
Granted, we are practically the only ones in here, but I don’t want to upset poor sweet Beverly.
He nods, his eyes locked on the coffee in his cup, which he’s doctored with cream and sugar. The cream dilutes the color, as it seems he’s been diluting the truth of what’s really going on here.
I take a deep breath, praying it will give me the will to hear him out. “Jordan. I’m trying very hard to stay calm. In fact, it’s a good thing you suggested a public place because, while I’m ready to flip out and call the police, I’ll start with a few questions.”
He flinches. “Got it.”
“First of all, what the hell does any of this have to do with me? Second, the text I got said ‘my boyfriend doesn’t like to listen.’ All I’ve known about is one leaked picture of us.
You said there was nothing else but a photo from a blocked number.
Now you’re telling me they sent you other messages.
What have they said that you aren’t listening to?
What the fuck are they asking you to do?
!” The words race out of my mouth in a rushed whisper.
He clears his throat as he runs his fingers through his hair. “The texts…they always tell me to stay away from you.”