But now, that was done. Finito. Poof. His fun football Saturdays had disappeared into thin air, along with his girlfriend, three of his closest friends, and his apartment.
He took a sip of his bourbon before answering Wes. “Just move football to Saturday afternoons. I was the one always pushing to do it in the mornings.” His tone turned wry. “And I think it goes without saying that I’ll be sitting out this football season.”
“Yeah . . . I figured that.” Wes sighed, and both men fell quiet, awkwardly fiddling with their drinks. “God, our team’s going to suck this season.”
Despite everything, that got a half smile out of John.
Wes shared the smile. “I know. I’m terrible at this stuff. The whole situation is such a mess. The five of us have been friends for almost fifteen years, Shep. It sucks that it’s come to this.”
Yes, it did. And while John appreciated that Wes was doing what friends did—real friends, that is—and trying to commiserate over the shittiness of the situation, he’d been hoping to avoid any maudlin heart-to-hearts tonight. It was awkward, and every time he thought about Rob and Alicia sneaking around behind his back, he felt like a fool.
“It’s the end of an era,” he said sarcastically, hoping that would encourage Wes to drop the subject.
He didn’t get so lucky.
“What Rob did with Alicia . . .” Wes looked at John. “I hope you know, I’m done with him, too. I’ve lost all respect for the guy. But as for Matt and Lucas . . . this past month, while you’ve been MIA with your HRT tryouts, I hung out with them a couple of times. And it was weird, because I felt like I was cheating on you or something.” He shrugged, with a self-deprecating smile. “You know what I mean.”
John appreciated Wes’s sense of loyalty, but he wasn’t trying to stick his friend in the middle of all this. “I don’t expect you to stop hanging out with those guys. This is between them and me.”
“You know they want me to try to talk to you, right?” Wes asked. “They’re hoping that if they give you some space, eventually this’ll blow over.”
John ran a hand over his mouth, debating whether to respond to that. Then he looked at Wes. “Two months ago, the five of us met for drinks at that bar in Lincoln Park—the Barrelhouse Flat. Remember that night?”
Wes nodded. “I remember.”
“We were all hanging out, having a good time, and Rob mentioned that he’d sold a house that day, an expensive one that he’d had on the market for a while. So to celebrate, I bought him a drink.” John leaned forward in his chair, his voice dipping lower. “And Matt and Lucas knew. They knew Rob was screwing my girlfriend behind my back—and they still let me buy him a goddamn drink.” He paused. “Maybe they were caught in the middle at first. But that night, they chose a side. And it wasn’t mine.”
Not having anything else to say about that, John turned back to his drink.
And . . . now a really uncomfortable silence fell between them.
Then a hand rested on John’s shoulder.
“So? What do we think about the meat loaf sandwiches?” his brother asked, standing behind him. “Good stuff, huh?”
Saved by the bell. John turned around, grateful for the interruption. “I’m a fan.”
Nate moved his hand to the back of John’s bar stool, as if planning to hang around for a while. “I’ve been meaning to ask—what happened with that stuff we talked about for your investigation?” He turned to Wes to explain. “I’ve been doing some consulting work for the FBI.”
John fought back a smile, thinking that was overstating things a little. “You looked at one restaurant blueprint.”
“And? Did you go with the sexy red leather on the banquettes, like I told you?” Nate asked.
“I did. The people I’m working with loved that part.”
“Of course they did.” Nate looked almost insulted, as if this had never been even a question. Then he turned to Wes. “Speaking of John’s new investigation . . . does the name ‘Jessica Harlow’ mean anything to you?”
For chrissakes. “We’re back to this?” John growled.
Nate gave him a careful once-over. “You get tense and shifty every time her name comes up. I find that curious.”
Tense and shifty? John fought back a laugh as he adjusted his position on the bar stool.
He caught his brother watching him and froze. “I’m just stretching out my legs. You try being six-four and sitting on one of these damn stools.”
“I’m six-three and sit on them every day.”
“It’s a crucial inch,” John grunted.
“Anyhow . . .” Nate turned back to Wes. “Jessica Harlow is John’s new partner. But I feel like I’ve heard that name before.”
Wes considered this. “It does sound familiar. Although it might just be one of those names that has a ring to it.”
John threw Nate a satisfied look. “I told you.”
“A female partner? That’s a first for you, isn’t it?” Wes asked.
“I’ve worked with special agents who are women before. But yes, this is the first time I’ve been assigned one as my partner in an undercover op.”
“So what’s with all the shiftiness?” Wes grinned slyly. “Is she hot or something?”
Nate slapped the back of John’s bar stool. “That’s it! Jessica Harlow—the hot trainee from the Academy.” He turned to John, pointing. “I knew that name sounded familiar.”
John threw up his hands in disbelief. “How do you remember that? You don’t even remember the names of our cousins.”
Nate waved this off. “Only the second cousins. Those random ones in Minnesota.”
“Missouri.”
“Whatever.
Wes jumped in. “Wait, this is all coming back to me now. Jessica Harlow was the smart one in your class, right? You thought she was flirting with you, so you made some move on her at the firing range—”
“Uh, no. I was just trying to fix her stance.” John quickly corrected him, having discussed this before, six years ago.
A month and a half into the training program, he and the other trainees had been given the weekend off to go home and see their families. John had spent that Saturday night hanging out at Sheridan’s with his friends and his brother, who’d wanted to know all about the Academy. Somewhere in there, someone had asked whether there were any cute women in the program, and John had offhandedly mentioned Jessica’s name in passing.
It was a comment he’d quickly come to regret, seeing how his friends and brother (a) had been all over him with lame-ass comments—Just how cute is she? (Very), Are you tapping that? (No), Do you get to practice frisking techniques on her? (Also no, but this may or may not have been the subject of a lurid classroom daydream he’d had during a snoozefest of a lecture on the behavioral analysis of gang graffiti)—and (b) had been all over him even more when he’d come home for a second visit ten weeks later, after he and Jessica had moved into the overtly hostile phase of their relationship and he’d pissily told his friends and brother to kiss his ass every time they brought up her name.
And now, here they were again.
“So, the two of you are working together undercover. Sounds cozy,” Nate said.
Wes began to sway in his chair, singing, “‘Reunited and it feels so good.’”
John looked up at the ceiling.
Shoot him now.
“For the life of me, I can’t remember why I ever avoided talking to you two about this,” he said.
Nate grinned. “All right, all right. We’ll try to be more sympathetic to your hot-nemesis problem. Is she a nightmare to work with?”
An image popped into John’s head, of him kissing Jessica against the hotel room wall in Jacksonville. He could still feel the softness of her skin and hear her breathy moan as he slid his hand underneath her dress.
Hardly th
e stuff of nightmares.
“It’s been . . . interesting.” Leaving it at that, he took a sip of his bourbon and deliberately changed the subject. “By the way, what’s this crap you’re telling people, that I’ve been at a ‘superhero role-playing camp’?” he asked his brother.
“Somebody has to keep you grounded.” With an easy grin, Nate sauntered off in the direction of the hostess stand.
After that, the conversation between John and Wes returned to normal, both of them avoiding any mention of Rob, Lucas, and Matt. The evening ended with Wes—who’d had several drinks by that point—declaring that he was heading over to Claire’s place to put his foot down about running a marathon.
“Best of luck with that. Although you might want to save all that hot air for the twenty-six miles. You’re gonna need it,” John said, as Wes headed toward the front door.
Wes answered that with a middle finger as he walked away.
John planned to head out himself as soon as he finished nursing his drink. Alone with his thoughts, he found his mind drifting back to the past two nights he’d spent in Jacksonville.
I can’t believe I kissed you.
Well, whether she believed it or not, that kiss had been hot. And if Leavitt hadn’t called right then, John was pretty sure things between him and Jessica would’ve gone a hell of a lot further than a kiss.
And that was a rather intriguing notion.
Objectively, he didn’t disagree with her that the safest course of action would be for them to pretend like the whole thing had never happened. Hooking up with a co-worker was always risky—and he and Jessica already had an incendiary enough relationship without adding sex to the mix.
That said, would he personally have stopped things if Leavitt’s call hadn’t interrupted them? Hell, no. That train had left the station, with its fireman gleefully shoveling every last bit of coal into the furnace to make it race down the track even faster.
But he’d seen the look of panic on Jessica’s face afterward, and she’d made her feelings clear. I think we both know it’s best if it doesn’t happen again. And since he agreed that things would be simpler if they kept it platonic, going forward he would keep his mind out of the gutter whenever he was around her.
Or at least he’d fake the shit out of it.
16
The following afternoon, Jessica walked up the steps to her parents’ house, an Arts and Crafts prairie-style home located in the Frank Lloyd Wright district of Oak Park, a suburb ten miles west of Chicago. Forgoing the doorbell, she braced herself as she pushed open the front door.
Her parents’ security system chimed automatically, and all hell broke loose.
Two golden retrievers came barreling around the corner from the kitchen, with a huge black Newfoundland—her sister’s dog—following right behind. Barking excitedly, they bombarded her, a tangle of wagging tails, panting tongues, and wiggling, furry bodies.
“Did you guys miss me?” Jessica asked, being sure to pet each of them equally as they jumped all over her.
Her gray sleeveless top and jeans now covered in fur, she brushed herself off and followed the dogs into the kitchen. Renovated a few years ago with sleek black granite and cream cabinetry, it was easily the most modern room in the house, the rest of which still maintained much of the original natural wood and art glass from when it had been built in 1906.
The dogs darted through the open sliding door that led outside. Hearing several voices out back, Jessica helped herself to a glass of ice water before stepping out into the eighty-five-degree heat.
Through the window over the sink, she surveyed the scene in the yard. From the look of things, someone had just turned on her parents’ sprinkler—the old rotary one she and her brother and sister used to run through, in this same yard, when they were kids on hot summer days just like this. Her parents’ dogs were going nuts, trying to attack the sprinkler; Finn’s two kids were laughing as they ran through the spray; Maya was trying to dodge the water as she picked up the sprinkler and moved it farther away from the house—which, presumably, explained why the other adults on the patio were shaking off wet bags of potato chips and pretzel rods; Finn was yelling at a now partially soaked Maya to move the sprinkler even farther back and getting a glare of death in return; and Oliver, Maya’s three-year-old son, sat under a tree in the corner of the yard, letting the Newfoundland lick his Popsicle before sticking it back in his own mouth.
Ah . . . she’d missed these guys.
Los Angeles had been an experience, no doubt. Professionally speaking, she was proud of the work she’d done with the field office there, and on a personal level, her life certainly had never been more glamorous. She and Alex had lived in a beautiful, classic estate in the Hollywood Hills, she’d gone to film premieres and private screenings, and she had dined with some of the biggest film and TV stars in the business. It had been a fun ride—well, some of it—and more than a little surreal at times, but she’d never stopped thinking of herself as a Midwestern girl at heart.
She headed outside. “Should I grab a hair dryer?” she joked to her mom, who was shaking water off a package of hot dog buns.
Her mother looked up, her face shaded by the wide-brimmed hat she wore over her blond, bobbed hair. “Look who’s here.” She beamed. Hot dog buns in hand, she walked over and hugged Jessica. Her parents had been on a Mediterranean cruise for the last two weeks, so this was the first time she’d seen them since moving from L.A.
“AUNT JESS!!”
The kids shrieked and ran over. Jessica spent the next several minutes saying her hellos, including to Finn’s wife, Kim, and Maya’s wife, Camila.
“Yikes, did the dogs do that?” Finn teased as he greeted her, pointing to the frayed knees of her boyfriend jeans.
“Ha ha.” She turned next to her dad, who’d left his perennial spot at the grill long enough to pull her in for a bear hug.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” he said, squeezing her tight.
Jessica smiled, noticing even more gray mixed in with his light brown hair. She cleared her throat, suddenly feeling really glad that she was back in Chicago. “Thanks, Dad.”
She spent the afternoon relaxing and catching up with everyone as they ate lunch outdoors, under the pergola. Maya and Finn were in such good moods they managed to only get into three heated arguments (one political, one child-rearing-related, and one over the best filter to use on Instagram), and no one mentioned a word about Jessica’s divorce, her reasons for moving back to Chicago, or anything related to her personal life.
At least until after dessert.
Her father launched the first salvo, when the two of them were alone in the kitchen, rinsing off their ice cream bowls.
“How’s your new place?” he asked.
“I like it. It’s fun being in the middle of everything. In Los Angeles, our neighborhood was so secluded.” It felt odd, saying the word our in reference to her and Alex, although my neighborhood didn’t feel right, either. Just because she was divorced from the man didn’t mean she was trying to pretend like he’d never existed.
Her dad stacked both their bowls inside the dishwasher. “It’s a one-bedroom condo, you said?”
Jessica leaned against the counter. “Yep.”
Her father frowned. “Meanwhile, that ex-husband of yours goes on living in his Hollywood mansion.”
“Well . . . yes. We had a prenup, and Alex had bought the house before we started dating.”
“Prenups are just opening offers in a divorce negotiation.”
Her father was a former civil litigation attorney, not a divorce lawyer, but that was beside the point. “I wouldn’t have wanted any of Alex’s money anyway.” Even when they were married, she’d always been aware of, and slightly uncomfortable with, the disparity in their incomes. They’d lived a certain lifestyle because Alex’s film career paid for it, and sin
ce the perks of that lifestyle—including the Hollywood Hills house, the designer clothes, and the nice cars—were so far from anything she could ever afford on her own, none of it had ever felt like hers to begin with.
Obviously, it would’ve been a different negotiation if they’d had kids. Or maybe even if they’d been married longer than three years. But since that wasn’t the case, she didn’t need—or want—anything else from Alex. She might not have been rolling around in Hollywood-producer money, but she made a good income as an FBI agent. And in many ways, it had made the transition easier, knowing that she was starting over in Chicago on her own two feet.
“You could’ve at least taken his Porsche,” her dad grunted.
“I’ll keep that in mind for my next divorce.” She smiled when her father gave her a look. “Kidding, Dad.”
Hopefully.
Later, her sister accosted her when she was in the living room, checking her e-mail to see if there was any update from Agents Leavitt and Todd about a second meeting with Blair.
“Check it out,” Maya said, in a hushed voice, holding out her own cell phone for Jessica to see. On the screen was a photograph of an attractive, dark-haired man on a treadmill.
Now this was getting out of hand. “You took a picture of the guy while he was working out?” Jessica asked. “Give the man a little privacy.”
Maya dismissed this with a wave. “Do you see this body? And he’s a surgeon. If we were back in the days when I still pretended to like boys, this guy totally would’ve been at the top of my fake-crush list.”
Jessica doubted that, seeing how Maya had stopped pretending to like boys on the day she’d turned eighteen and the guy in this photograph looked about thirty-five years old. But before she could comment, Finn walked into the room.
Seeing Maya with her phone in hand, he pointed. “We’re doing this now?” He gave his twin a smug look. “Well, then, I have a picture, too.” He pulled something up on his phone and then showed the image to Jessica and Maya.