Sidecar Crush Page 4

  I’d thought about Jameson so many times over the years. Wondered how he was doing. What his life was like. It was a relief to find him still here. If Jameson Bodine had left Bootleg Springs, the place would have lost some of its magic. It steadied me to know that some things hadn’t changed.

  Wrapping my hands around my hot mug, I wandered outside. The breeze was soft on my face, and the sun sparkled on the water. It smelled like summer here, in a way no other place did. It reminded me of those magical summers I’d spent here. Reminded me of Jameson.

  I wanted to see him again. Not just a brief meeting in a convenience store. I wanted to talk to him. Find out about his life now. I didn’t have his number or know where he lived, but it wouldn’t be too hard to find out. The cabin we were staying in belonged to Scarlett, his younger sister. I hadn’t talked to her—Kelvin’s assistant had made the reservation—but I was sure I could find a way to get in touch with her.

  I resolved to find out where Jameson lived and go say hello. It probably wouldn’t work out today, but tomorrow for sure. Kelvin was busy, anyway. Depending on when Jameson had time, I could meet him for lunch and see my dad after. Or have lunch with Dad and grab coffee with Jameson in the afternoon. I’d be back in time for dinner with Kelvin.

  Satisfied with my plan, I took my tea back inside and sat down at the table across from Kelvin. “What’s keeping you so busy?”

  He kept his eyes on his laptop screen. “A lot of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Other than running a multi-million-dollar modeling agency?” he asked. “And trying to salvage your career?”

  “Salvage?” I asked. “What do you mean, salvage?”

  “You’re at a crossroads,” he said. “You’re not getting any younger, and you’ve never reached supermodel status. It’s a miracle your modeling career has lasted as long as it has.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s not personal, Leah,” he said. “You know the trajectory of a model’s career as well as I do. You make it when you’re young and fresh-faced. You do your best to stay relevant. A lucky few get to the top and can still get work in their late twenties. Even fewer will go beyond that. You’ve had a great run, but you’re not at that level, babe. And every year, more and more new faces arrive on the scene. Teenagers with flawless skin. No retouching necessary.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve aged so terribly,” I said, my voice thick with sarcasm. “I’m surprised you can bear to look at me.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be like that. Why do you think I’m working my ass off to get this acting thing going for you? Roughing It came at the perfect time, but we need to work fast to capitalize on the attention.”

  “I’m not so sure the attention I’m getting is good. I think people are starting to hate me. They think I was trying to take Brock away from Maisie.”

  “Good.”

  “What?”

  He sighed, like he was explaining something to a stubborn child. “Everyone loves to hate a villain. You can’t buy that kind of publicity. If you’re lucky, they’ll fabricate an entire relationship between you and Brock on the show. Babe, you’ll have offers pouring in.”

  I gaped at him. “I don’t want the world to think I seduced Brock Winston and convinced him to cheat on his wife.”

  “Who cares?”

  “I do. Because it’s awful,” I said. “I would never do that. It isn’t me.”

  “You want to be an actress, right?” he asked. “If your sweet little country-bumpkin self can pull off the part of the vixen on Roughing It, you’ll prove you can nail any role.”

  I let out a long breath. He had a point. Although it was supposedly a reality show, I’d definitely played a part. The producers had coached me to act a certain way, so I had. I’d been given the part of the sex kitten—the sultry single girl flirting with all the men on the show. That wasn’t me, but I’d figured it was good practice. And even if the public didn’t know how staged the show really was, casting directors and producers would.

  It was why I’d agreed to go on the show at all. Kelvin had a point about my modeling career waning. In modeling years, I was ancient. My career in the fashion world had an expiration date, and it was fast approaching. Acting had always been what I’d wanted to do, so it was the perfect time to make that transition.

  Kelvin had been trying to get me auditions, but until Roughing It, nothing had come through. I couldn’t understand why. I wasn’t some vapid model with nothing going for her but a pretty face. I’d had years of acting classes. Dialect coaching to get rid of my Appalachian twang. I’d starred in plays and musicals all through my teens.

  Kelvin had assured me that being on Roughing It would open doors. The show was only half over, but so far, I hadn’t seen any doors opening. And I was afraid more were going to keep closing.

  “I’m just worried this isn’t turning out the way we thought it would,” I said. “If I’m the hated vixen, no one’s going to want to work with me. Have we heard back from Burberry yet? About the winter line?”

  “They’re passing on you.”

  “What?” I’d been working for Burberry for ten years. “They passed on me? Why?”

  “Babe, we’ve talked about this,” he said. “It was going to happen sooner rather than later.”

  “You think this is about my age? Not about the show?”

  “It’s probably both.”

  I stood, the chair scraping across the wood floor. My career was starting to slip through my fingers. I could feel it happening. No matter how many times Kelvin assured me things would be fine—I’d make a seamless transition into acting—I couldn’t help but worry. This was my livelihood. And seeing how my dad was struggling with his health made it all the more important that I keep working. Someone had to take care of him, and the time when he’d need it was approaching sooner than I’d thought. I’d found out from Betsy that he hadn’t worked more than part-time since last Christmas. I didn’t know how much longer he could support himself.

  He didn’t have anyone else. He’d never remarried, and I didn’t have any brothers or sisters. It was up to me to take care of him.

  Kelvin closed his laptop and came over to stand in front of me. He ran his hands up and down my arms. “Babe, don’t worry. I have some things in the works that are really exciting. You’re going to be fine.”

  I nodded. I’d trusted him with my career for most of the past decade. I needed to keep trusting him.

  Someone knocked on the door and Kelvin groaned. The first day had been quiet, but yesterday Millie Waggle had stopped by with a plate of brownies, and Maribel Schilling had brought a tater tot casserole. I’d tried to explain that this was just the Bootleg way. Bootleggers were equal parts friendly and curious—bordering on nosy. And it wasn’t my fault he refused to eat Millie’s brownies. His loss. They were amazing.

  “Knock, knock,” a chipper woman’s voice came from the front. “Y’all home? Can I come in?”

  I couldn’t help but smile at the petite brunette who came in wearing a tank top and cut-off shorts. “Scarlett Bodine?”

  “Leah Mae,” she said. “You know, I heard it was you stayin’ here and I wasn’t quite sure if I believed it. After all, your name wasn’t anywhere on the reservation. But here you are. Look at you, Leah Mae Larkin, pretty as a picture. And famous to boot.”

  “It’s so nice to see you. This place is yours? It looks like you’re doing well for yourself.”

  “Can’t complain.” She came in and put a foil-wrapped package on the counter. “That’s safe to eat, I got it from Clarabell over at Moonshine. Pepperoni roll.”

  I gasped. “Oh my god, I haven’t had one of those in years.”

  Scarlett shook her head, clicking her tongue. “Honey, you’ve been missing out.”

  “Thank you. That was really sweet of you.”

  “Sure,” she said brightly. “Cabin treating you all right?”

  “Yes, it’s lovely.” I glan
ced at Kelvin to see if he had anything to add, but he was back at the table on his laptop. “Scarlett, this is Kelvin Graham.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Scarlett said.

  Kelvin looked up and nodded, then went back to his laptop.

  “Well then, just let me know if there’s anything you need,” she said. “I won’t keep you. I just felt bad that I hadn’t been by yet. Not very neighborly of me, but it’s been a busy week.”

  I walked toward the door just behind Scarlett. “Thanks, I’m glad you did.” I paused for a second, suddenly nervous to bring this up. “Um, Scarlett… I was wondering about your brother, Jameson.”

  Scarlett froze and turned slowly on her heel. “What about my brother Jameson?”

  “Well, I thought it might be nice to see him. Say hello.”

  A slow smile crept over Scarlett’s face. “Would you like his number?”

  “That would be great.” I grabbed my phone out of my handbag, hanging by the door. “If you don’t think he’d mind, that is.”

  “Oh, no, I’m quite certain Jameson won’t mind one bit,” she said. “I’ll give you his address too, if you want.”

  “Yes, please.” I wasn’t sure why she was smiling so big, but I entered Jameson’s number and address into my phone. “Thank you so much. It would be nice to catch up with him a little bit. It’s been a long time.”

  “That it has,” she said, still smiling. “Y’all take care, now. Enjoy your visit.”

  Scarlett left, and I went back into the kitchen. Kelvin eyed me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “How many people are going to show up on the doorstep with food?”

  I shrugged. “Hard to say. A few more at least.”

  He rolled his eyes. “What is with this town?”

  I ignored him and looked down at the entry in my phone. My heart fluttered a little, seeing Jameson’s name there. Which was silly. He’d been my friend when we were kids, but he was a basically a stranger now.

  It was hard to get those blue eyes out of my head, though.

  “I’m going to see my dad,” I said. “I’ll be back for dinner.”

  Kelvin mumbled something, sounding distracted. I grabbed the car keys and my handbag, and slipped on a pair of sunglasses. Maybe I’d call Jameson from Dad’s house. Or wait until morning. Now that I had his number, I was suddenly nervous about using it. What if he didn’t want to see me? Or he was too busy? It would be so disappointing if the only time I saw him was for a hasty few minutes in line at the Pop In.

  I’d give myself a little time to work up the courage, and then I’d call. Or maybe I’d just send him a text. That seemed more Jameson’s style. He’d never liked talking on the phone, and he probably wouldn’t answer a strange number.

  With that settled in my mind, I got in our rental car and headed over to my dad’s.

  5

  Jameson

  The heat from the forge beat at me. Droplets of sweat beaded on my forehead and slid down my spine. The quiet of my workshop surrounded me. Nothing but the clink of metal on metal, the low roar of flames in the forge. I was at peace here, alone with my work.

  I pulled the metal disk out of the heat with a heavy set of tongs and brought it over to the anvil. It had once been part of a piece of machinery, long since discarded. But with some heat, and shaping, I’d give it new life. It was what I loved to do. Take something that had been thrown out and use it to make something beautiful.

  With two sets of tongs, I bent and shaped the disk as it cooled. It would take several passes through the heat to get it looking like I wanted. Working with scrap could be painstaking. I always added a tremendous amount of detail to my pieces. But that’s how they existed in my head. I could see every curve and angle. It was just a matter of bringing the vision in my mind to life.

  My phone buzzed on the work bench. I put the tongs down and wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my forearm. Checked the call.

  It was Deanna Silvers, my art dealer. She’d discovered my work a few years back and now she found buyers for me, especially for my larger pieces. She’d secured the commission I was working on, an installation for a brand-new building in Charlotte, North Carolina. It was the biggest thing I’d ever done, and the most expensive. The client had given me a surprising amount of creative freedom, simply asking for a piece that would look beautiful in front of his building. He liked my style, and he trusted me to come up with something amazing.

  For what he was paying me for it, it needed to be spectacular.

  I picked up my phone and answered. “Hey, Dee.”

  “Hi, Jameson.” She had a slight New York accent. “How’s the piece coming?”

  “Just fine.” I was hedging a bit, because I still wasn’t quite sure what the finished piece was going to look like. Until last week, I’d had it all worked out. But there was another vision in my head that I couldn’t shake. It was making it hard to stay focused on this one. I usually knew exactly what each piece was going to look like, but this time was different.

  “If you’re going to have trouble delivering on time, you need to let me know as soon as possible,” she said. “This commission is a game-changer. The client loves your work, but I wouldn’t count on him being very forgiving of a missed deadline.”

  “Yeah, I know. You don’t need to worry about it.”

  “All right,” she said, although I could tell she wasn’t sure. “There’s something else I need to run by you, and you’re not going to like it.”

  I adjusted the phone, holding it against my ear with my shoulder. “And that is?”

  “There’s going to be a grand opening at the building,” she said. “They’ll unveil your piece then. And you need to be there.”

  “Ah, hell, Dee. They don’t need me there.”

  “This is part of the deal, Jameson. You need to show your face once in a while. People like to see the genius behind the art.”

  “I’m no genius.”

  “I beg to differ,” she said. “Although the fact that you don’t realize it is part of your charm. Don’t worry about it for now; we have time. I’ll be there, too. And you can bring anyone else you’d like—your girlfriend if you want.”

  “Don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Well, maybe we need to get you one,” she said. “A guy like you shouldn’t be single.”

  “I’m not sure being my art dealer qualifies you to comment on my personal life,” I said, my voice light so she’d know I was teasing her. She always commented on my personal life. Or lack thereof, as it were.

  She laughed. “You don’t know how much I hold back with you, Bodine. Boy, would I love to play matchmaker. I know a few girls who—”

  “No, thanks,” I said, cutting her off before she could continue. “I don’t need you going to all that trouble on my account.”

  “Fine,” she said. “But if you change your mind, let me know. My niece—”

  “No, Dee.” We’d had this conversation too many times already. “I’m certain your niece is lovely, but I don’t need you settin’ me up with someone.”

  “All right, back to business. Keep me posted on your progress. And pencil in a trip to Charlotte for October. You’re going if I have to come out there and drag you with me.”

  I had no doubt she’d do just that. “Duly noted. Take care, Dee.”

  “Talk soon.”

  I hung up and put my phone down just as Jonah stuck his head through the door.

  “You about ready?” he asked. “We’re supposed to be at Bowie’s soon.”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll just be a minute.”

  He nodded. “Sounds good.”

  Jayme, our family’s lawyer, was calling to update us on the investigation, so we were all meeting at Bowie’s. The police had taken the sweater Scarlett had found and obtained a warrant to search Dad’s house. So far, we hadn’t heard if they’d found anything new, nor when we might be able to get back into Dad’s place. Hopefully Jayme had some good news for us.


  I took off my leather apron and hung it on a hook. My workshop was housed in a re-purposed old barn next to my house. It had a forge and several work benches. I’d built heavy duty shelves to house all the scrap I collected, and there was a big open area for me to work on larger pieces. Nothing fancy, but it suited my purposes just fine. I liked it in here—liked the quiet. I was in my element when I was creating things. Sometimes the rest of life seemed like it was just a bunch of interruptions.

  Jonah was in the kitchen when I came in the house. One thing I would say for having a roommate foisted on me when I’d been too drunk to say no—Jonah could cook. I was eating a damn sight better than I had been before he’d moved in with me.

  “I just need to change,” I said as I passed him.

  My jeans had a few burn holes and I’d gotten pretty sweaty, so clean clothes were in order. I rinsed off in the shower, then put on a t-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. My going-out jeans, not my work jeans. Work clothes always ended up with scorches and burn holes. My hands and forearms had their fair share of scars, too. Small ones, mostly—I’d never seriously injured myself, but little burns were just part of life when you worked with hot metal all the time.

  Jonah and I drove the short distance to Bowie’s house. He lived in a duplex in downtown Bootleg, not far from the high school. Gibson’s Charger was already outside, but I didn’t see Scarlett’s truck. Bowie let us in and grabbed us each a beer from the fridge. I took a seat on the couch and took a swig.

  Gibson sat on the other side of the couch, glowering at something on his phone. I knew better than to ask him what was wrong. He either didn’t want to talk about it, and he’d tell me to shut up, or he’d let us know on his own. Wasn’t much in between with Gibs.

  “So, I’ve been thinking,” Jonah said as he settled onto a chair. “I’d like to organize a 5K run through Bootleg. What do you think? Would people be into that?”

  “You should make it a moonshine run,” I said. “Finishers get a free drink at the end.”