Turning Point (The Kathleen Turner Series) (15 page)

“Stay away from Matt,” he hissed.

With that admonition, he disappeared into the elevator as well, the doors sliding shut behind him.

It was several moments before I moved, my mind busy puzzling through Blane’s behavior. At my cube, I sat staring into space, replaying it in my mind. Did Blane think Matt was so dangerous that he didn’t want to even let on that he knew me?

“Got a minute?”

I jerked my head up to see Derrick Trent, the other partner in the firm, standing by my cube.

I jumped to my feet. “Absolutely. What can I do for you?”

Derrick sat in the only other chair in my cube and handed me a manila file folder. I took it and sat as well.

“I’m working a case where a girl has disappeared and her boyfriend’s being charged with her murder,” he began. “There’s no body, all the evidence is circumstantial. It shouldn’t have even gone to trial, but it has. I need you to see if you can dig up anything more on the girl. The boy says he didn’t kill her, and I believe him. Maybe she had another boyfriend, maybe she just got sick of Indiana. But whatever it was, I need to know what happened to her.”

Skimming through the file, something caught my eye. “She worked at the same place Julie Vale worked,” I said. “That’s quite a coincidence.”

Derrick frowned. “Check it out. There might be a connection.” He shrugged. “Or it could be just random fate.”

He left and I got online to check out the place. It was a bar and strip club in a seedy part of the city. Definitely an unusual place for both girls to work, given the fact that they’d come from reasonably middle-class families. The club, called Xtreme, opened at four.

I grabbed a sandwich for lunch and spent the afternoon doing research on the missing girl and Julie, reading through their files again, Googling them, and checking out their Facebook and Twitter accounts. Both girls were pretty and young, barely in their twenties. I made note of the high school that Derrick’s girl, an Amanda Webber, had attended. The town wasn’t far from Rushville, where I’d grown up.

I’d hoped Blane would visit or call me at some point, but I didn’t hear from him. So at four, I headed to the club. Before going in, I pulled my hair up into a ponytail and popped a piece of gum in my mouth.

The inside of the club was nicer than I had expected. Leather booths and dark wood chairs surrounded a raised stage, and the bar top was black granite. A smattering of patrons were seated, watching a young woman onstage. Her movements were sensuous and graceful, as she worked the pole center stage with admirable skill while dancing to the strains of Sade. Barely covered in a G-string and pasties, her body was enviably toned.

Hopping up onto a barstool, I signaled the bartender, a wiry guy with full tattoo sleeves on display. His black T-shirt bore an intricate woven design, but I couldn’t make it out clearly.

“What can I get you, blondie?” he asked.

I smiled and smacked my gum. “Nice tats,” I complimented him. “I’m looking for a friend of mine. We went to the same high school. She told me she worked here, made good money. I just moved into town, thought I could hook up with her.”

“Sure,” he said. “What’s her name?”

“Amanda Webber. Know her?”

He shook his head. “Nah, man. She ran off with some guy. Four, maybe five months ago.”

I pretended dismay. “You’re kidding me! I can’t believe she didn’t tell me!”

The bartender shrugged. “Sorry. She didn’t keep in touch or anything.”

“Now what am I going to do?” I asked rhetorically. “I need a job.”

He nodded toward the stage. “Can you dance?”

“No,” I said. “But I can tend bar.”

“How long have you done that?”

“A few years.”

He studied me, then stuck out his hand. “Name’s Jack.”

“Kathleen.”

“When can you start, Kathleen?”

I grinned. “I’m at your disposal.”

“Perfect. Start tomorrow. Be here by three for training.”

“Great! Thanks!”

I didn’t breathe properly until I was back in my car. My heart was racing and my palms sweating, aftershocks from my performance. Apparently, I was getting better at acting, no matter what Kade had said about me being a shitty liar.

Kade. I wondered as I drove to my apartment if he was okay, or if whoever was after him had caught up to him. When I thought about it, which I tried not to do, it made me sick with worry. I hated not knowing where he was or what he was doing.

I pulled into my parking lot, shut the car off, and grabbed my cell phone. I stared at Kade’s number for several long moments, trying to decide whether or not to call.

He was a big boy, he could take care of himself. No doubt he would not appreciate my checking up on him like a nagging mother.

Even with all these recriminations and warnings going through my mind, I saw my finger move to dial the number.

I waited, barely breathing, as it rang—once, twice, three times—before voice mail picked up.

“Leave a message.”

“Kade… hey… it’s me… Kathleen.” My tongue stumbled over the words. I had no idea what I was going to say on this impulse call. “I just… just wanted to call. See how you were doing. If everything’s okay.” My voice faltered as I wondered if things might not be okay at all. “Um… anyway. I’ll… uh… talk to you later, I guess. Bye.”

I ended the call, leaned forward, and knocked my forehead against the steering wheel. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I muttered to myself, wishing I’d just hung up when the voice mail had kicked in.

My phone rang and I jumped. Had Kade called back?

Looking at the screen, I saw that it was Blane, not Kade.

“Hello?”

“Kat, where are you?”

“In my parking lot.”

“Have you had dinner yet?”

“No.”

“Okay. I’ll pick something up and be by shortly.”

“Sounds good. See you soon.”

I could smell the smoke from the club on me, so I decided to shower and change before Blane got there. When he knocked on my door, bearing a large pizza box, my hair was wet and I had on my flannel pants and T-shirt.

“Isn’t it a little early to be going to bed?” Blane asked, setting the pizza on my kitchen table before taking off his jacket and tie. “Though I guess you didn’t get much sleep last night.”

I stiffened. Blane hadn’t brought Chance up again since we’d argued, and I didn’t want to reopen the discussion.

“I could say the same for you,” I replied evenly, grabbing two plates and putting pizza slices on them. “Matt seems like a real charmer. What were you doing last night?”

“He had a couple of hookers at his place. One of them realized who he was, what he’s on trial for. She panicked, and called the cops.”

“Did he do anything to her?” I asked as Blane uncorked a bottle and poured two glasses of red wine.

“He said he didn’t,” Blane answered noncommittally.

As we sat down at the table, Blane’s presence made me acutely aware of how small my apartment was. He didn’t seem to fit, though he’d never said a word about where I lived. His house suited him. Grand and reeking of old money, he fit in there.

“What did you do today?” he asked.

I took a sip of wine before answering. Blane was something of a wine snob, which I could appreciate, and it was
a good bottle. “Derrick asked me to look into this case he’s working on.”

“The Webber case?”

I nodded. “Turns out both she and Julie worked at the same strip club. Did you know that?”

Blane stopped chewing for a moment, then took an abrupt drink of wine before answering. “Yes, I did. I’m looking into it.”

I frowned. “Maybe you should tell Derrick you’re looking into it, since he didn’t seem to know.”

Blane only nodded, so I continued.

“Anyway, I went by there and got a job bartending. I figured that might get me more information about Julie and Amanda.”

Blane choked on his wine.

Alarmed, I watched as he recovered. “You okay?”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

His anger scared me and his words ticked me off. “Thanks a lot, Blane,” I replied coolly. “Way to show some confidence in me.”

“You met Matt today,” he retorted. “You saw what he did to Julie. I’m doing everything in my power to protect you, and you waltz right in to the lion’s den and ask for a job. How did you think I was going to react?”

I stiffened. “To protect me? From what? From Matt?”

Blane didn’t answer.

“Since when did I become a part of this? I can be careful. I know how to protect myself, and I know what to look for.”

We sat in silence, regarding one another. Blane leaned back in his chair, studying me. I waited uneasily, wondering what he was going to say, how he’d react.
Between our argument last night and the one we were currently embroiled in, now more than ever I was expecting that proverbial shoe to drop. Surely at any moment Blane would tell me it wasn’t going to work, that it was over.

Instead, he shocked me.

“Why don’t you come live with me?”

I stared at him, speechless. When I finally found my voice, I could only say, “What?”

“Come live with me,” he repeated.

My mind was trying to process this. What did it mean? Other than the short time I’d spent recuperating at Blane’s, I had never lived with a man before, had never been asked. I wasn’t sure what to do or say.

On one hand, the fact that he wanted to make our relationship more permanent made me ecstatic. But on the other hand, I’d never had childhood dreams of a man saying, “I love you madly. Come live with me.” The dreams had usually involved a white dress and reciprocal “I do’s.”

That helped focus my thoughts.

“Blane… that’s really great, really sweet of you.”

His eyes narrowed. “But?”

“But that’s just not for me.” Reaching across the table, I took his hand in both of mine. The calluses on his palm were rough beneath the pads of my fingers. “Please understand. I really appreciate the offer, though.”

“Why is living with me not for you?” he asked.

My face heated with embarrassment. My opinions were probably not the norm, but I wasn’t going to lie. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said. “If we were married, that’s one thing, but we’re not.”

“That can be arranged.”

I stared at him. Had he just said what I thought he’d said?

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘That can be arranged,’” he repeated calmly, taking another swallow of wine. “If being married is what you require to come live with me, that can be rectified with a trip downtown and calling in a few favors.”

I could barely breathe. Blane was suggesting we get married as though he were discussing what movie we should go see. It was an awful parody of what I wanted, and I didn’t know if I could remain as detached from the situation as Blane appeared to be. His body seemed relaxed as he sat in his chair, one ankle resting on his knee, while his fingers toyed with the stem of his wineglass.

I didn’t know what to say. Was he serious that we should get married? Was that what I wanted? Should I care about the completely lackadaisical way in which he’d asked or just go with it? Thoughts of being with Blane—having his face be the first I saw in the morning and the last I saw at night—tempted me. Wispy visions of children and laughter ran through my mind. My dream was within reach. I just had to say the word.

Then another thought occurred to me, one that made the blood drain from my face. My eyes lifted to Blane’s, who was watching me carefully.

“Are you saying all this because you’re trying to protect me?”

I could tell immediately that I’d hit the nail on the head. Blane’s face was a blank slate, and he took too long to speak.

“Kat, that’s not—”

“Oh my God,” I breathed. “You’d actually marry me out of a sense of duty to protect me?” The thought was as demoralizing as it was mortifying.

“I love you—” he began.

“But that’s not what this is about,” I interrupted. “You’re not asking me to marry you because you love me and want to spend the rest of your life with me. You didn’t even ask, now that I think about it. You just suggested. God, Blane, I don’t know what’s more humiliating. Your obvious belief that I can do nothing for myself, or a pity marriage proposal.”

Anger was coming in waves now, temporarily burning away the hurt. I leapt to my feet, needing to put some space between us.

“You’re taking this all wrong, Kat.” Blane jumped up and came after me. His hand landed on my arm. I jerked out of his grasp, rounding on him.

“I’m taking this wrong?
I
am?” My voice was laced with incredulity. He’d just made a mockery of not only me, but of all my hopes and dreams that revolved around him, and I was the one taking it wrong?

Blane pushed his hand through his hair in frustration. “I didn’t mean that. Damn it, I’m not doing this right.”

“You’ve got that right. Get out.” I was surprised at how cold I sounded.

Blane looked at me, his expression pained.

“I mean it. Leave.” I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to hold myself together. I felt like I was breaking apart from the inside out.

His jaw set in bands of steel, Blane finally grabbed his coat and let himself out. When the door closed behind him, my knees gave way and I slid down the wall to the kitchen floor, too stunned at what had just happened to cry.

I
couldn’t sleep once Blane left, and I laid on my couch, staring mindlessly at the television. An old rerun of
Seinfeld
was on, though the humor was lost on me as I replayed the scene with Blane in my head.

I didn’t regret throwing him out. My humiliation and anger still burned inside me. There was a limit to how much Blane could control and protect me, and hearing him using my own dreams of marriage and family against me had been the last straw.

I’d tried talking to him, tried understanding who he was. Yet it seemed he was determined to keep me in a glass box. I didn’t want that, couldn’t live like that.

I drifted off to sleep, not wanting to go to my bed, where Blane had lain with me just this morning. Despair loomed underneath my anger, and the smell of him on my sheets would undo me.