Chapter 16
Ethan
The door at the back of the gym opens onto a narrow hallway with a tiny office and a flight of dark, narrow stairs that creak under my feet as I follow Jamie up to a mezzanine floor.
Each step feels ancient, like it might give way.
It brings back memories of my childhood home with its rotting boards. The whole staircase needs replacing.
At the top, Jamie pushes open a door. "Welcome to my humble abode," she says with a wave of her hand. As I go inside, I notice that the door doesn’t open all the way.
The small bedroom has an attached bathroom, and it looks cozy.
Perfectly suited to Jamie. A queen bed sits beneath a window, its cream covers rumpled.
Fight posters cover the walls, a bag of mini chocolate bars is spilled out on the nightstand, and a large bookcase isn’t filled with books, but with photos, sporting awards, signed baseballs, and other mementos.
When I turn, I see the reason the door won’t open all the way. There’s a basketball hoop screwed to the back of it, and beside the bed is a bucket full of foam balls.
“This was my room when I came to live with my uncle,” Jamie explains, leaning against the wall.
He has a tiny apartment, too small for me, so he built this room.
And ever since I moved out, he’s kept it like this for me, like a time capsule.
” She laughs. “I love it here. So when Scarlet shacked up with Balthazar and we gave up our apartment, I decided to move back in for a while.”
I scan the photos on the bookshelf. There’s Jamie with her uncle, with her friends from the security company, posing with some boxers and wrestlers.
Most of the photos show her as an adult.
The only childhood photo is one that’s covered with old creases, like it spent some time stuffed into a pocket.
A young, cute Jamie is sitting next to a slender woman who looks a lot like her.
The woman is smiling tentatively at the camera, but her thin hair is falling over one eye, and she looks shy and nervous.
“Is this your mother?" I ask, picking up the photo to examine the woman’s face.
Jamie's expression shifts, pain flickering across her face. She nods.
“Is she still alive?” I ask.
“I think so.”
I lift an eyebrow. “You think so?”
Jamie hesitates, pressing her lips together.
Then she says, “After Uncle Vito took me in, Mom disappeared. When I got old enough, I tracked her down, found her sleeping rough. Last time I saw her, she was living in a tunnel under Las Vegas.” Jamie’s voice is matter of fact, but her gaze moves away from me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, setting the picture carefully back on the bookshelf.
Jamie sighs, folding her arms over her chest to hug herself.
“She moves around a lot, and I keep looking for her. I’ve arranged places for her to stay, given her money, put her in rehab, tried to clean her up.
But she always runs out on me. She keeps telling me to stop, that she doesn't want my help. She says she doesn't want a home. That she’s okay on her own, on the streets.” Jamie stares down at her trainers, scuffing her toe across the worn wooden floor.
"It sounds like I've given up on her,” she says to the ground.
“I haven’t. But I don't know how to help her. "
"If she doesn't want help, you can't force her,” I say gently.
“No.” She sighs. “I learned that the hard way.”
I put a hand on her arm. “If there’s anything I can do…”
She shakes her head. “Thanks. There’s nothing.”
“I mean it. If you want to pay for?—”
“Thank you.” Her gaze meets mine. “But I don’t think it’ll help.”
It’s what I expected. There are some things money can’t fix. But it’s still frustrating. I hate when there’s a problem I can’t solve, especially something that’s clearly hurting her.
As I step back from the bookcase, an unmistakable musty smell tickles my nose, and my chest tightens. I think of my mother's persistent cough, and how after school I’d turn the TV up, so it drowned out the sound.
"Don't get offended,” I say, "but is your security business struggling? Do you need money?"
She frowns, clearly surprised by the question and a little irritated. “The business is doing well. Why?”
“Why are you living here?”
Her mouth drops open as though she can’t believe I asked that. Then her anger flares. “What the hell is wrong with living here?”
“The roof is leaking.”
“That’s what the boxing match is for! Besides, my bedroom is fine.”
“Until you have a new roof, you should stay somewhere else.”
“You’re unbelievably arrogant, you know that?
” Her back is straight, her arms folded over her chest, her eyes blazing.
“You rich guys think you can tell everyone what to do. It’s thanks to Balthazar that I came back here in the first place.
When Scarlet moved in with him, everything changed.
He offered me another place, but I decided to come here instead.
” She gestures around the room, her voice turning defensive.
"I’ve always loved it here. This is home. ”
I get it. She feels safe here. After moving around so much as a kid, she must crave a sense of security. But that doesn't change the fact that the dampness in this room could be dangerous. And though I know she’s not going to like it, I say what I’m thinking.
"There could be mold in the walls. You need to move out until it’s renovated.”
“I didn't invite you up here for a building inspection."
“Hear me out. Breathing in mold?—"
"You know what? I'm not really in the mood for dinner." Her jaw is set. "You can see yourself out."
"Jamie…"
"I mean it, Demolition Man. Go."
I take a deep breath, fighting down frustration. "Fine. I'll wait downstairs while you shower."
Her eyes narrow. "I said I’m not going out.”
“I heard you. But I'm not leaving until we discuss the latest threat against you and decide what to do about it.” I head for the door, adding over my shoulder, “Come down when you’re ready.”
I go back down the narrow stairs, trying not to obsess over Jamie's bedroom. She's made it her sanctuary. But what if it’s killing her?
If she’s not ready to be warned about it yet, I’ll bide my time. Soften her up first.
Once in the gym, I pull out my phone. It’s after hours, so instead of calling Rachel, I call her evening stand-in.
Hillary answers on the second ring. "Sir?"
"I need you to organize some things," I say, already pacing. “Get hold of Marcus and ask him to prepare dinner for two. Jamie loves chocolate, so ask him to include desert. We’ll eat it here, and I need a small table, chairs, tablecloth—the works."
I give her the address, and twenty minutes later, she’s managed to transform a corner of the gym into a dining space. A small round table draped in crisp white linen holds elegant place settings. Two chairs face each other across a flickering candle.
Hillary has just left when I hear Jamie's footsteps coming down the stairs, and I turn to watch her reaction. She's changed into faded jeans and a sweater, her wet hair hanging loose around her shoulders. My breath catches at the sight. Her hair is down. I don’t know why I love that so much, but I do. I’ve never been turned on by hair before, but even wet, there’s something sensuous about seeing it unrestrained.
It’s like I’m seeing the softer, more open side of her, and I bet not many people get to see behind the tough wall she throws up.
She stops short at the sight of the table, her lips parting in surprise.
"What’s this?”
"If you won't go out for dinner, dinner will come to you." I watch her for signs of irritation, but to my relief, a reluctant smile tugs at her mouth.
“You always get your way, don’t you?” She folds her arms, lifting an eyebrow.
“One way or another.” I pull out one of the chairs for her. "Shall we?"
As she sits, I breathe in her scent.
“Red or white wine?” I ask. “Or would you rather have beer?” I lift the lid of the case next to the table to show her the selection Hillary brought from my cellar, and she picks a bottle of wine. After pouring us both a glass, I take the seat opposite her at the table.
“What’s for dinner?” she asks, glancing around.
“My chef is on his way.”
"Your chef." She rolls her eyes. "Of course you have a chef." Then she takes a sip of her drink, and her eyes widen. “Oh my God. This is really nice wine.”
I taste it. The Chardonnay she chose is thirty years old, as smooth and rich as butter. But the best part is watching the way she licks her lips, half closing her eyes to savor the taste.
There’s a knock at the gym’s entrance, and Marcus puts his head in. “Hi Ethan,” my chef says. “Are you ready for dinner?”
“Come in, Marcus.”
This dinner had better soften Jamie up. She won’t want to continue our conversation about the gym, but I’m determined to have it anyway. She thinks I’m pushy, but she has no idea. I’m going to get my way if it kills me.