fairness in that? Frank wondered. Not that wondering would change anything. Wasted energy, his mamma would say. He had bigger problems.
Like keeping the James brothers out of prison.
Jesse stood at the chipped enamel sink washing his left hand with anti-bacterial soap. Not surprising. He’d been on the phone, and even though he’d disinfected the receiver, his fears wouldn’t subside until he’d ridded his skin of germs, real or imagined. For a smart man, the kid was a real head case. Frank didn’t bother to ask if his broken hand was paining him for fear of setting him off on a tangent. Best to keep his mind on business. “How’d you make out?”
“I must’ve called twenty hotels. No Sofia Marino.” Jesse used his elbow to shut off the faucet, and a clean towel to dry his hand. “Crapped out with the car rental agencies too. Not that I expected different. We’ve got her purse, Frank. Her airline ticket and her wallet. She’s got no ID, no cash or credit. I say she’s still in the area. Shacked up with another friend, maybe.”
Frank’s gut said different, and his gut was almost never wrong. “I say she found a way home. If I were her, I’d dig out my passport, deplete my bank account, and disappear. Then again, there’s a chance she has bolder plans. Either way she needs ID, money, and maybe the help of a close friend.” He reached into his pocket and plucked out the photo strip he’d found in the woman’s purse. A result of squeezing into one of those arcade-type photo booths. Frowning, he studied the four black-and-white snapshots of the dark beauty kissing and mugging with a shaggy-haired white boy. On the back she’d written “
Me and JP, two stars on the rise
”.
“Think that’s her boyfriend?” Jesse asked.
“I’m thinking it’s possible, seeing they live at the same address. Found a Jean-Pierre Legrand listed in her little address book. Same home address as the one listed on her driver’s license.”
Jesse nodded, confirming he caught Frank’s drift. “So, we’re driving to LA.”
“Can’t spare the time. We’ll fly.” He hated to fly, but unlike his brother, he wasn’t ruled by his fears.
Jesse quirked a wicked smile while maneuvering the fingers of his busted hand. “California, here we come.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Los Angeles, California
J ean-Pierre was ticked. No, he was pissed with a capital P. Instead of giving Rudy hell last night, he’d placated him with a string of reassurances and sugar words.
“But of course, I understand, Bunny. Plumbing and wiring issues,” he mimicked, while hurling underwear and socks into his suitcase. “Repairmen traipsing in and out. No privacy. Not a good time. Ah,
oui
, sweetie, we can reschedule. No problem.”
Except, there was a problem. Jean-Pierre was tired of walking on egg shells while the man he loved worked through some insane life crisis. He was tired of being the strong one. Tired of waiting. He was just plain
tired
. He’d been struggling with his own personal and career crisis for months. Suffering with insomnia for weeks. Last night he’d tossed and turned, imagining tasty-cake handymen taking turns cleaning Rudy’s pipes and electrifying his nights. Not a good sign. It meant that Rudy’s one indiscretion still preyed on his mind. Deep down, he questioned the one time King of Quickie’s ability to remain faithful.
He’d forgiven the slip months ago. Everyone makes mistakes. But apparently he had a lingering issue with trust. Otherwise, his mind wouldn’t be spinning these lascivious images. Dr. Mitchell was right. He needed to confront Rudy about that night. Face to face.
“Wiring issues, my pansy tush.” Furious, Jean-Pierre shoved random shirts and pants into the suitcase. He didn’t fuss with coordinates, didn’t bother folding properly to prevent wrinkles. He just crammed articles of clothing into the case and slammed it shut.
He grabbed the handle and stormed out of the bedroom, his pulse
Like keeping the James brothers out of prison.
Jesse stood at the chipped enamel sink washing his left hand with anti-bacterial soap. Not surprising. He’d been on the phone, and even though he’d disinfected the receiver, his fears wouldn’t subside until he’d ridded his skin of germs, real or imagined. For a smart man, the kid was a real head case. Frank didn’t bother to ask if his broken hand was paining him for fear of setting him off on a tangent. Best to keep his mind on business. “How’d you make out?”
“I must’ve called twenty hotels. No Sofia Marino.” Jesse used his elbow to shut off the faucet, and a clean towel to dry his hand. “Crapped out with the car rental agencies too. Not that I expected different. We’ve got her purse, Frank. Her airline ticket and her wallet. She’s got no ID, no cash or credit. I say she’s still in the area. Shacked up with another friend, maybe.”
Frank’s gut said different, and his gut was almost never wrong. “I say she found a way home. If I were her, I’d dig out my passport, deplete my bank account, and disappear. Then again, there’s a chance she has bolder plans. Either way she needs ID, money, and maybe the help of a close friend.” He reached into his pocket and plucked out the photo strip he’d found in the woman’s purse. A result of squeezing into one of those arcade-type photo booths. Frowning, he studied the four black-and-white snapshots of the dark beauty kissing and mugging with a shaggy-haired white boy. On the back she’d written “
Me and JP, two stars on the rise
”.
“Think that’s her boyfriend?” Jesse asked.
“I’m thinking it’s possible, seeing they live at the same address. Found a Jean-Pierre Legrand listed in her little address book. Same home address as the one listed on her driver’s license.”
Jesse nodded, confirming he caught Frank’s drift. “So, we’re driving to LA.”
“Can’t spare the time. We’ll fly.” He hated to fly, but unlike his brother, he wasn’t ruled by his fears.
Jesse quirked a wicked smile while maneuvering the fingers of his busted hand. “California, here we come.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Los Angeles, California
J ean-Pierre was ticked. No, he was pissed with a capital P. Instead of giving Rudy hell last night, he’d placated him with a string of reassurances and sugar words.
“But of course, I understand, Bunny. Plumbing and wiring issues,” he mimicked, while hurling underwear and socks into his suitcase. “Repairmen traipsing in and out. No privacy. Not a good time. Ah,
oui
, sweetie, we can reschedule. No problem.”
Except, there was a problem. Jean-Pierre was tired of walking on egg shells while the man he loved worked through some insane life crisis. He was tired of being the strong one. Tired of waiting. He was just plain
tired
. He’d been struggling with his own personal and career crisis for months. Suffering with insomnia for weeks. Last night he’d tossed and turned, imagining tasty-cake handymen taking turns cleaning Rudy’s pipes and electrifying his nights. Not a good sign. It meant that Rudy’s one indiscretion still preyed on his mind. Deep down, he questioned the one time King of Quickie’s ability to remain faithful.
He’d forgiven the slip months ago. Everyone makes mistakes. But apparently he had a lingering issue with trust. Otherwise, his mind wouldn’t be spinning these lascivious images. Dr. Mitchell was right. He needed to confront Rudy about that night. Face to face.
“Wiring issues, my pansy tush.” Furious, Jean-Pierre shoved random shirts and pants into the suitcase. He didn’t fuss with coordinates, didn’t bother folding properly to prevent wrinkles. He just crammed articles of clothing into the case and slammed it shut.
He grabbed the handle and stormed out of the bedroom, his pulse
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