She looked at him as if he had suggested she shuck out of her clothes for a stroll down Front Street. "Sacrifice the tiny bit of privacy I've managed to hang on to?" she said incredulously. "Let my private-most dilemma be turned into a thirty second sound bite?"
"Actually," Kurstin interposed, "it's not a bad idea. No, think about it, chickie," she said when Hayley's astounded gaze swung to pin her in place. "Not a sound bite, a half hour or an in-depth show. You could pick one person to talk to—maybe Barbara Walters would come out of retirement. Or a journalist whose work you admire. The point is to sit down with someone and explain how not only the murder, trial and appeals, but the constant bombardment by the press as well, has kept you on the ragged edge of your emotions for a couple of very long years. Talk about your feelings regarding capital punishment. Who knows? Maybe it will assuage the guilt or, failing that, start a national dialog on the subject. And as an added bonus, once you have given an exclusive, the rest of the carrion-eaters might actually leave you alone." She peered at her friend's still face. It was a viable idea. It made sense.
Except, Hayley was private. It had taken a great deal of pushing and shoving on Jon-Michael's part just to get her to open up to them. And she sure as hell had no history of airing her feelings for public consumption. "What do you think?" she asked when Hayley remained silent. "Hayley? Say something."
Hayley looked up at her, and Kurstin knew what a butterfly must feel like, pinned to a entomologist's board.
“It will be a cold effin’ day in hell."
"Where the hell have you been?"
Kurstin turned from disengaging her key from the lock in time to see Ty bearing down on her. "Well, hi!" she said in surprise. Her lips curved in a spontaneous smile. "I thought you would be fast asleep by now—"
He pushed her up against the closed door, hands tight on her shoulders. "Asleep? Bluey's closed down more than an hour ago. Where the fuck have you been?"
He could feel the facade he had spent so many years perfecting melt away. At this moment, however, pressing her up against the door, his labored breath blasting her in the face, he didn't give a shit. His usual slightly detached amusement was nowhere to be found. And the last thing he felt like was the scion of old school-tie wealth he'd been portraying ever since he had hit town. He felt like who he really was, the son of a long line of West Virginia miners that had worked hard, aged early and died young.
"The media clowns were hassling Hayley," Kurstin explained breathlessly, not even attempting to stop him when he began roughly removing her clothing. "So Jon-Michael and I set up a false trail for them to follow." He pushed her panties down to her ankles and dropped to his knees to remove them. "I led them round town while Jon took her back to his place. Then I joined them for awhile. We had quite a talk." She was uncertain if he was listening or not; his mouth had found itself an occupation. "Oh, my God." Her head thunked back against the door.
He pulled back and looked up at her. He had heard her, all right. For once, he just didn't care. He had been scrambling up the ladder for as long as he could remember, clawing his way toward the top. Now, for the first time since he had set his course as a scholarship student back in college, he didn't race to take advantage of the golden opportunity she had just offered him. He rose to his feet, freed himself from his fly, and thrust into her.
"What?" he demanded, his fingers gripping the backs of her thighs, pulling them high to make her take him deeper. "You never learned to use your goddamn cell phone?"
Fifteen
I twist the ornate Adams bell-pull next to the front door and listen as the bell peals in the depths of the Olivet mansion. Spying a speck of lint on my skirt, I brush it off, then straighten, my shoulders squared, hands calm, a pleasant smile on my lips.
Several days have gone by since I have seen Hayley. We have both been busy, but it is important to make time for close friends. Which is why I have squeezed forty-five minutes out of my schedule for a quick visit before heading to work this afternoon.
I wait expectantly but no one answers the summons, so I give the bell latch another twist. Stepping back, I take a discreet peek through the leaded glass side light. The view is distorted, but I can make out most of the entry. It looks cool, dim, and empty of inhabitants. No one appears from the kitchen located at the far end of the hallway. No one comes down the sweeping staircase.
An irritated sigh escapes me. Because, really. How inconsiderate. I specifically timed my visit for after the noon hour in order not to interrupt Hayley's rest. I know my friend sleeps later than most, given her late-night schedule. But honestly, it is high time she gets out of bed. It doesn't do for her to sleep the entire day away.
Unfortunately, inconvenienced as I feel, there is nothing I can do about it. As usual with Hayley, I am forced to wait. Again. I turn away. Pounding on the door until she awakens is not a dignified solution. And clearly Ruth, the Olivet’s cook, has not arrived yet and Richard and Kurstin are already at work, so no one is available to let me in. I consult my watch, then march back to the top of the circular drive where I left my car.
There is no use bemoaning what I cannot change and time spent unproductively is time wasted. I still have forty-one minutes left of my allotted time and there is dry cleaning to be picked up and groceries and personal items that need restocking. I will accomplish what I can during this unexpected block of time, then sit down with my day-planner when I get to the office.
And schedule Hayley into another time slot.
Hayley jumped at the heat spreading across her back from the male chest suddenly snugged up against it. Before she had quite recovered from that, warm lips nuzzled her neck.
"Mornin' petunia," murmured a sleep-husky voice. Hard-skinned hands reached around her to lightly grip her bare thighs.
Desire tugged deep and she jabbed her elbow half-heartedly behind her. Her lips curled in a tiny smile when it actually connected with a vulnerable spot below Jon-Michael's ribcage and air oofed out of his lungs. His hands slid away as he stepped back.
"And a good morning to you," she murmured congenially. Shutting off the water she had been running for a drink, she turned to face him.
He gave her a wounded look and made a production of rubbing his injured side. "You didn't have to slug me," he muttered.
Right. The muscles in his stomach were so lean and defined bullets probably bounced off them, but she was supposed to believe her puny little jab had done him grievous harm? It was all she could do not to grin at him.
And that would never do. Damn. Where had all of last night's anger gone?
She had been so angry with him and Kurstin, first for insisting she explore feelings better left unexamined, then suggesting that spilling her guts for the delectation of a nation of TV viewers might somehow help matters. They had compounded their treachery by leaving her stranded here at Jon-Michael's for the remainder of the night. Kurstin could easily have dropped her off at her car when she left, but oh, no. Both she and Jon-Michael insisted the journalists would have the car staked out for her eventual return.
And, fine, that was likely true. It didn’t mean she was thrilled at being stuck here.