Текст книги "A Lot Like Love"
Автор книги: Julie James
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
Four
JORDAN HURRIED TO catch the light at Van Buren Street, thinking that if she never again laid eyes on Metropolitan Correctional Center after next week, she’d be just fine. The building was an eyesore: an ugly, gray triangle that shot up over thirty stories high with tiny vertical slats for windows.
She visited Kyle every Wednesday, having worked out a routine with Martin that allowed for that. She’d been extremely appreciative that her assistant had made it to the store on time that morning despite the near foot of snow the Streets and Sanitation Department was still struggling to clear off the roads. Because her car was snowed in and taxis were always a rarity on bad-weather days, she’d had to ride the L train downtown, which took extra time. Since visitors were permitted at the prison on a first-come basis, she liked to arrive promptly at noon, the start of visiting hours.
Jordan checked her watch as she approached the building and saw that she was right on time. She pushed through the doors and entered the lobby. At least it was warmer than the frigid thirteen degrees outside; at a minimum, the prison had that going for it. At the front desk, she filled out a Notification to Visitors form and handed it over to Dominic, the lobby correctional officer, along with her driver’s license. Having visited Kyle every Wednesday for the last four months, she was familiar with the routine.
“So I’m halfway through season two of Lost,” Dominic told her. Other than getting to see Kyle, the lobby guard and their chats about television shows were pretty much the only things Jordan liked about MCC.
“Wow, you really flew through that first season,” she said.
“What’s up with the Others?” he asked. “They’re creepy.”
“You’ll find out in about another hundred episodes. Sort of.”
“Aw, don’t tell me that.” Dominic handed back her driver’s license. “Are you and your brother sure you’re not missing a triplet? Because the resemblance is uncanny.”
Jordan smiled. Ever since Lost had first aired, people had commented that her brother looked like a certain well-known character on the show – which Kyle hated. Probably for that reason, the prison staff and other inmates made sure to tease him about it as much as possible. Personally, she found the whole thing quite amusing.
“I’m pretty sure there’s no relation,” she said. Either that, or her father had some serious ‘splaining to do.
Dominic gestured to her neck. “Don’t forget to leave your scarf behind when you check in your things. I’ll see you next week, Jordan.”
Not if all goes as planned. She felt very covert, having secret knowledge of her deal with the FBI. She realized she needed to be careful not to show that around Kyle. Too often, he could read her like a book.
Per MCC rules, she checked her coat, purse, scarf, and gloves into one of the lockers behind the front desk. A second correctional officer escorted her and several other visitors into one of the elevators and rode with them to the centralized visiting room on the eighth floor. The elevators opened and she and the other visitors were led into a security clearance area. She passed through the metal detectors, waited for a third guard to unlock a heavy set of doors made of steel and bulletproof glass, then stepped into the visiting room.
She’d been surprised the first time she’d visited Kyle at MCC. Perhaps the consequence of too much television, she’d thought they’d be separated by glass and would have to talk through telephones. She’d been pleased to discover that the inmates were allowed to meet their visitors in a large common room. Sure, the entire time they had four armed guards watching over them, but at least she could sit down with her brother face-to-face.
Ignoring the bitter sludge they called coffee – a mistake from her first visit never again to be repeated – Jordan opted for bottled water from one of the vending machines. She chose a table in front of a window encased by metal bars and took a seat. As she did every week, she tried to mind her own business and avoided paying too much attention to the other visitors waiting at the surrounding tables, assuming they preferred some modicum of privacy as much as she did. Her mind wandered, knowing she had several minutes to wait while Kyle made it past his various security checks before he could be processed through to the visiting room.
Jordo – I fucked up.
Those had been the first words out of Kyle’s mouth when he’d called her that fateful night five months ago. She’d had no clue what he’d done, but in the end it came down to one thing.
“Can you fix it?” she’d asked.
“I dunno,” he’d groaned worriedly. There was a hard thumping sound, which she’d guessed was his head hitting the wall.
“Where are you? I’ll come get you and we’ll figure it out.”
His words were slurred. “Tijuana. Gettin’ verryyy drunk.”
Oh boy. “Kyle. What did you do?”
His voice rose in anger. “I juz shut down Twitter, thaz what I did. The ho damn thing. The hell with Dani.”
Jordan hadn’t caught all of that, but she’d grasped enough to understand that her computer geek of a brother had done something very, very bad because of Daniela, his girlfriend.
Kyle had a knack for attracting the wrong kind of girl – meaning vapid, money-seeking, skanky ones – and, as Jordan ultimately came to find out through her brother’s inebriated ramblings that night, Daniela the Brazilian Victoria’s Secret model ultimately was no exception. They’d met in New York at a gallery exhibition for an artist who was a mutual friend. They dated long distance for six months, a record for Kyle. Then Daniela flew out to LA to shoot a music video – a great opportunity, she’d said, because she wanted to become an actress. Of course she did.
On the second day of the trip, she stopped calling Kyle. Worried, he left messages on her cell phone and at her hotel, with no response. Late on the fourth night, he finally got a reply.
Via Twitter.
@KyleRhodes Sorry not going 2 work out 4 us. Going 2 chill in LA with someone I met. I think U R sweet but U talk too much about computers.
Twenty minutes later, in her next tweet, Daniela posted a link to a video of her in Hollywood making out with movie star Scott Casey in a hot tub.
It was tough to say which bothered Kyle more, the fact that he’d been dumped over Twitter, or the fact that Daniela had no qualms about publicly cuckolding him. Given his wealth and her minor celebrity status, their relationship had been talked about in gossip columns in both New York and Chicago, and had been mentioned several times on TMZ.com.
Kyle worked in technology; he knew it would only be a matter of time before the video of Daniela and the A-list actor went viral and spread everywhere. So he did what any pissed-off, red-blooded computer geek would do after catching his girlfriend giving an underwater blowjob to another man: he hacked into Twitter and deleted both the video and her earlier tweet from the site. Then, raging at the world that had devolved so much in civility that 140-character breakups had become acceptable, he shut down the entire network in a denial-of-service attack that lasted two days.
And so began the Great Twitter Outage of 2011.
The Earth nearly stopped on its axis.
Panic and mayhem ensued as Twitter unsuccessfully attempted to counteract what it deemed the most sophisticated hijacking they’d ever experienced. Meanwhile, the FBI waited for either a ransom demand or political statement from the so-called “Twitter Terrorist.” But neither was forthcoming, as the Twitter Terrorist had no political agenda, already was worth millions, and had most inconveniently taken off to Tijuana, Mexico to get shit-faced drunk on cheap tequila being served by an eight-fingered bartender named Esteban.
Late the second night, after an unpleasant encounter with a cactus to the forehead while bending over to throw up outside Esteban’s bar, Kyle had a moment of semi-clarity. He stumbled to his hotel room and called Jordan, then, realizing the error of his ways, powered up his laptop computer. Determined to right his wrongs, he hacked into Twitter a second time and put a halt to his earlier attack.
Only this time, Kyle wasn’t as careful. Drinking cheap tequila served by an eight-fingered bartender came with its price. And the next day, when a sober and chagrined Kyle flew back to Chicago, he found the FBI waiting on his doorstep.
Despite all the attempts by his lawyers to dissuade him, Kyle steadfastly insisted upon pleading guilty. He’d done the crime, so he would do the time, he said. Jordan had found this to be an admirable sentiment, albeit one that would essentially cost him a year and a half of his life.
The heavy double doors swung open, jolting Jordan back to reality. The very real reality of bulletproof glass, barred windows, and armed guards.
The inmates entered the visiting room single file. Jordan watched as the first two men spotted their families and headed over to nearby tables. Kyle, her computer geek of a brother, was third in line.
His grin was the same every time she came to visit: part embarrassed to see her given the circumstances, and part happy just to see her. He walked over in his orange jumpsuit and blue tennis shoes as she stood up.
“Jordo,” he said, his nickname for her ever since they’d been kids. Having obviously stolen all the tall genes from her upon conception, something she still hadn’t forgiven him for, he leaned down to pull her into a hug. This and another brief embrace at the end of the visit were the only contact permitted.
“I’ve decided that orange becomes you,” Jordan said teasingly.
He chucked her under the chin. “I missed you, too, sis.”
As they took a seat at the table, Jordan saw some of the female visitors not-so-subtly checking Kyle out. In fifth grade, her girlfriends had begun handing her notes to give her brother after school, and the attention hadn’t waned since. Frankly, the whole thing flabbergasted her. It was Kyle.
“Is it as bad out there as they say it is?” he asked. “From my six-inch window, it looks like we got hit with one hell of a storm.”
“It took me nearly an hour to shovel the sidewalk this morning,” Jordan said.
Kyle brushed his neck-length dark blond hair off his face. “See? That’s one of the positives of being in prison. No shoveling.”
Her brother had long ago set the rules regarding their visits. Jokes about being in prison were expected and encouraged, sympathy was not. Which was good for both of them, considering her family had never done particularly well with the mushy and sentimental stuff.
“You live in a penthouse condo and haven’t shoveled snow for years,” she pointed out.
“A deliberate choice I made because of the trauma of my youth,” Kyle said. “Remember how Dad used to make me shovel the whole block every time it snowed? I was eight when he came up with that plan – barely taller than the shovel.”
“And I got to stay inside making hot chocolate with Mom.” Jordan waved off the retort she saw coming. “Hey, it was good for you – it built character.” She paused for a moment, taking in their steel-barred surroundings. “Maybe Dad should’ve made you shovel the next block over, too.”
“That’s cute.”
“I thought so.”
An inmate shouted at them from across the room. “Hey, Sawyer! Sawyer! When are you gonna introduce me to your sister?”
An annoyed look crossed Kyle’s face as he ignored the voice.
“Yo! Sawyer!” The inmate was quickly silenced by the approach of an armed guard.
Jordan made no attempt to hide her grin. “I think someone’s trying to get your attention.”
“I don’t answer to that name,” Kyle growled.
“Maybe if you would just cut your hair,” she offered faux-sympathetically.
“Fuck Josh Holloway,” he nearly shouted in frustration. “I’ve worn my hair like this for years.”
“Getting a little loud over here, Sawyer,” a guard warned as he passed by their table.
Jordan watched, amused, as her brother simmered at a low boil. “But the hair worked for Sawyer, because they were roughing it on the island. Although I think there had to have been some sort of salon or spa in the Others’ camp. I mean, they performed surgeries on people; I would assume they could’ve rustled up a decent pair of scissors for a haircut somewhere – ”
“I swear if you don’t let this drop, I’ll ban you from my visitation list.”
She laughed at the likelihood of that ever happening. “You’ve been stuck to me like gum on the bottom of my shoe since birth. What would you do without my charming wit to cheer you up every week?”
She peered up as an inmate in his midthirties stopped at their table. As soon as he spoke, she recognized the voice of the man who’d been yelling across the room.
“So you’re the sister.” He looked her over appraisingly and smiled, managing to look harmless enough despite the black snake tattoo coiled around his right forearm. “Help me out with an introduction, Sawyer – let’s do this proper.”
A guard called over from across the room. “I’m not telling you again, Puchalski. No talking to the other guests.” With a regretful look over his shoulder, the inmate shuffled off.
Jordan turned back to Kyle. “I take it Dad was here on Monday?” Unless something urgent came up, her father was as regular a visitor to MCC as she was.
“Sounds like business is better. I think the fallout is finally subsiding,” Kyle said, referring to the fact that their father’s company had not surprisingly taken a hit the previous financial quarter. Strange, how people tended to get ticked off when the vice president of a computer software corporation – and the CEO’s son – was indicted and imprisoned for hacking.
Jordan was about to answer when Kyle turned in his chair to get more comfortable. She noticed something – a faded yellow bruise along the left side of his jaw. She looked down at the table and saw the telltale cuts on the knuckles of his right hand. “You got in another fight.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“Doesn’t look that way to me. Let me see that.” She reached out and touched his chin to get a better look.
“Jordan, you know you can’t – ”
Just like that, the guard stood beside their table. He frowned at Jordan. “Sorry, ma’am, no contact.”
She pulled back her hand. “Sorry.” She took a deep, steadying breath. Normally, she handled the whole prison routine as well as could be expected, but every once in a while it got to be a bit much. Like when she couldn’t even check to see if her brother was hurt.
“What happened this time?” she asked Kyle after the guard left.
“Just some talk that got out of hand,” he said dismissively. “Some people have nothing better to do around here than run off at the mouth.”
“Kyle, you’re smarter than that.”
“That’s what Mom said to me when I came home after fighting Robbie Wilmer in the sixth grade. My first black eye.”
“Well, since Mom’s not here, you need to hear it from someone else.”
“I’m not trying to get in trouble, Jordo.” Kyle looked her in the eyes. “But this isn’t Jane Addams Elementary School. There are different rules here, and if I want to survive the next fourteen months, I’ve got to play by them.”
How tempted she was right then to tell him about the deal she’d made with the FBI. Not another fourteen months. Just one more week. But she kept her mouth shut. “Did the fight get you in trouble again with the guards?”
“A little disciplinary segregation never hurt anyone. You were about to say something else right then.”
He really did know her too well. “I was going to yell at you some more, but decided it would be a wasted effort.”
“Why do I think there’s something you’re not telling me?”
“Because you … have a lot of time on your hands these days so you look for mysteries where there are none?” she suggested.
“Or maybe I’m just really insightful. And if you’re hiding something from me, Jordo, I’ll figure it out.”
“Thanks for the warning, Mr. Insightful. If only you could use your ‘insight’ to keep yourself out of prison from now on, that would be helpful.”
Kyle squeezed her hand. “Aw, I’m so glad you came, sis. You have no idea how much I enjoy these little visits of ours. Ah … crap.”
The guard was back at their table.
Kyle took his hand off hers. “I know, I know. No contact.”
Jordan peered up at the guard. “What’s with all the rules? You’d think we were in prison or something.”
The guard’s stoic face remained unchanged as he turned and walked away.
Jordan turned to Kyle. “Seriously, I don’t even get a smile for that? Tough crowd.”
Kyle looked around at the inmates in orange jumpsuits and armed guards. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
She caught his eye and smiled. But she was more careful this time not to let her thoughts show.
Just one more week, Kyle. Hang in there.
Five
“SO HOW’S KYLE doing?”
Jordan poured three glasses of wine and handed one each to Melinda and Corinne. “You know Kyle. He says he’s fine.” She set the wine bottle off to the side and picked up the third glass for herself. “But judging from the bruise on his face and the cuts on his hands, I’d say that his definition of ‘fine’ differs from mine.”
She and her two friends had met at DeVine Cellars after the store closed, and were seated at a table near the racks of sparkling wine and champagne. As per their usual routine, Jordan provided the wine, and Melinda and Corinne brought dinner and dessert.
“He got in another fight?” Melinda asked. “What’s the deal with this prison? Don’t they have any guards there, or are the inmates running the asylum?”
Corinne was a bit more tactful. “Can’t they separate Kyle from the guys giving him a hard time?”
“Kyle says he doesn’t want special treatment. He thinks it will go away if he doesn’t back down, like it’s some kind of rite of passage. He told me that if these guys were ‘serious’ about hurting him, they’d use a weapon.” Jordan swirled her glass, letting the wine open up. “I can’t believe the current upside of my thirty-three-year-old brother’s life is that his fights don’t involve weapons.”
She saw the concern on Melinda and Corinne’s faces. “Sorry. Enough about me and my family problems. Let’s talk about something else. What’s going on with you guys?”
As they ate, the three of them chatted about work. Both Melinda and Corinne were teachers: Corinne worked at a public high school in the one of the poorest districts in the city and Melinda taught musical theater at Northwestern University, where the three of them had gone to undergrad.
Melinda took another sip of her wine and tipped her glass to Jordan. “This is really good. You said it’s a merlot?”
“From South Australia. A 2008 Marquis Phillips.”
“I like how fruit forward it is.”
Jordan was impressed. “Look at you, breaking out the wine terminology.” She dabbed her eyes with a napkin, feigning tears. “It’s like seeing a child take her first steps. I’m so proud.”
Melinda threw a napkin at her. “Just remind me to grab a bottle before I go. I want Pete to try it. He still won’t touch merlot because of Sideways.”
Jordan heard it all the time. Poor merlot had been disparaged in the film and still hadn’t fully recovered its reputation. “I’ll straighten Pete out the next time I see him.”
“That reminds me – the five of us are still on for dinner next Saturday, right?” Corinne asked.
“Yep. But first let’s talk about this weekend. Any special plans for Valentine’s Day, Jordan?” Melinda asked.
Jordan paused midsip at the question. This weekend? No special plans, really. Just helping the FBI infiltrate the lair of a wealthy restaurateur who launders money for a notorious drug cartel. You?
Corinne chimed in. “Isn’t this the weekend of Xander Eckhart’s party?”
“Yes.” Jordan held her breath in a silent plea. Don’t ask if I’m bringing anyone. Don’t ask if I’m bringing anyone.
“So are you bringing anyone?” Melinda asked.
Foiled.
Having realized there was a distinct possibility the subject would come up, Jordan had spent some time running through potential answers to this very question. She had decided that being casual was the best approach. “Oh, there’s this guy I met a few days ago, and I was thinking about asking him.” She shrugged. “Or maybe I’ll just go by myself, who knows.”
Melinda put down her forkful of gnocchi, zoning in on this like a heat-seeking missile to its target. “What guy you met a few days ago? And why is this the first we’re hearing of him?”
“Because I just met him a few days ago.”
Corinne rubbed her hands together, eager for the details. “So? Tell us. How’d you meet him?”
“What does he do?” Melinda asked.
“Nice, Melinda. You’re so shallow.” Corinne turned back to Jordan. “Is he hot?”
Of course, Jordan had known there would be questions. The three of them had been friends since college and still saw each other regularly despite busy schedules, and this was what they did. Before Corinne had gotten married, they talked about her now-husband, Charles. The same was true of Melinda and her soon-to-be-fiancé, Pete. So Jordan knew that she, in turn, was expected to give up the goods in similar circumstances. But she also knew that she really didn’t want to lie to her friends.
With that in mind, she’d come up with a backup plan in the event the conversation went this way. Having no choice, she resorted to the strategy she had used in sticky situations ever since she was five years old, when she’d set her Western Barbie’s hair on fire while trying to give her a suntan on the family-room lamp.
Blame it on Kyle.
I’d like to thank the Academy … “Sure, I’ll tell you all about this new guy. We met the other day and he’s … um …” She paused, then ran her hands through her hair and exhaled dramatically. “Sorry. Do you mind if we talk about this later? After seeing Kyle today with the bruise on his face, I feel guilty rattling on about Xander’s party. Like I’m not taking my brother’s incarceration seriously enough.” She bit her lip, feeling guilty about the lie. So sorry, girls. But this has to stay my secret for now.
Her diversion worked like a charm. Perhaps one of the few benefits of having a convicted felon of a brother known as the Twitter Terrorist was that she would never lack for non sequiturs in extracting herself from unwanted conversation.
Corinne reached out and squeezed her hand. “No one has stood by Kyle’s side more than you, Jordan. But we understand. We can talk about this some other time. And try not to worry – Kyle can handle himself. He’s a big boy.”
“Oh, he definitely is that,” Melinda said with a gleam in her eye.
Jordan smiled. “Thanks, Corinne.” She turned to Melinda, thoroughly skeeved out. “And, eww – Kyle?”
Melinda shrugged matter-of-factly. “To you, he’s your brother. But to the rest of the female population, he has a certain appeal. I’ll leave it at that.”
“He used to fart in our Mr. Turtle pool and call it a ‘Jacuzzi.’ How’s that for appeal?”
“Ah … the lifestyles of the rich and famous,” Corinne said with a grin.
“And on that note, my secret fantasies about Kyle Rhodes now thoroughly destroyed, I move that we put a temporary hold on any further discussions related to the less fair of the sexes,” Melinda said.
“I second that,” Jordan said, and the three women clinked their glasses in agreement.
Jordan took a sip of her wine, breathing a sigh of relief. Three more days – that’s all she had to make it. Then everything would be back to normal.
