Best Laid Plans - Robyn Kelly (red white and royal blue hardcover .txt) 📗

class="subsq">The thought of Jackson owning a church is so mind-boggling it makes me smile. Jackson mistakes my smile for something else, and puts his hand on my thigh.

“And who knows, maybe I’ll start my own religion. Would you like to join my flock?”

“I don’t think your ego needs any more devoted worshippers.” I picture the little black dress. “But I do like the habit.”

The car comes to a stop. Jackson opens his door, steps out, and offers me his hand. I grab it and realize we are at my apartment building.

“We’re not done here, Ms. Whitkins. Dinner tonight. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“What for? Are you thinking of buying a restaurant, and need my opinion on that, too?”

“You and I have unfinished business about last night.”

I’m about to ask for a little more information, but he disappears back into the car and drives away. He just assumes I’m free on a Saturday night? It makes me even madder that he’s right.

I take the long, slow ride in the elevator, sending positive refrigerator energy to my kitchen. I’ve never had any supernatural powers, so I’m not surprised when it’s still not working.

I go through the mail, pay the bills (which I can afford to do now that his check has cleared) and grab a load of clothes for the dry cleaner, with the little black dress on the top of the pile.

I normally do my errands during the week, so I’m not used to the longer lines on the weekend. It’s three o’clock by the time I finish. I think about getting a sandwich, but if Jackson is taking me to dinner in a few hours, I guess I can wait.

I decide to call my dad. I look at the clock and do the calculation for the time difference. It’s only six in Maryland.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, honey. How are you? Any earthquakes?”

Our conversations always go about the same. He asks me about earthquakes; I ask him about the weather. Then he tells me what he’s done, and I talk about what I’ve done. What I’ve done usually takes more time.

“What do single women like you do on a Saturday night?” His question surprises me. He’s never asked that before.

“I’m going out to dinner tonight.”

He’s on that like a bloodhound. “With a man?”

“Yes. A client.” He might be listening in right now, so I change the subject. “I’m not looking to date. I don’t even know if I can afford to stay in the city, since I don’t have any jobs lined up. I may have to come live with you, unless you’ve got a girlfriend.”

“Well, I’m volunteering at the senior center, so most of the women I meet are old enough to be my mother. There’s always room for you here, honey. You know, I’m an odd duck, and I think you’re the only person who could put up with me. Do you remember Mrs. Condon? She lives two doors down. Her husband passed away a year ago. She’s been flirting with me. But, you know, she drinks.”

The words hang in the air. We both know what it’s like to be in a relationship with someone who drinks.

I try to lighten the mood. “How’s the book coming?”

“Oh, I had the greatest interview this week. I met a woman at the senior center whose father worked there!” Dad is writing the definitive (and probably only) book on the Deluxe Record Company—it started in 1920 and went bankrupt in 1931 during the Great Depression. “She said she used to have a bunch of records, but tossed them when she had to move into the center. It broke my heart.”

Ever since I can remember, my dad has collected every record put out by the Deluxe Record Company. His grandfather had been a recording engineer there, and had left him both his record collection, and his house in Baltimore. Now that Dad’s retired, I’m starting to worry he might be a little obsessive-compulsive about his hobby. I suspect he volunteered to work with seniors to get access to their attics, looking for records.

“Well, Dad, I always check thrift shop for 78s.”

“Just remember, I still need the elusive 44211.”

My dad has been searching for Deluxe Record 44211 since I was a child. The 44000 series were their spoken records. Deluxe would record performers touring the vaudeville theatres in Baltimore. He has his grandfather’s log that shows the missing record number was recorded in May of 1923 with the initials RV. That’s when Rudolph Valentino was in Baltimore—and Dad thinks it’s a record of him. He’s come up with scenarios worthy of a Dan Brown novel to explain its mysterious disappearance.

But I also know when he gives me his shopping list, he’s ready to hang up.

“Well, I’ll let you go. Have a good night, Dad. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I put the phone down and look around my apartment. I’m antsy, restless, and bored, and it’s not even 3:30. I should probably clean my apartment and change the sheets. It has nothing to do with seeing Jackson tonight. I’m just going to straighten up. I’m not going to clean; I’m just going to straighten.

Two hours later, my apartment is spotless. Purely unintentional. I just started with a light dusting, but was horrified at how dirty the cloth was, so I got the Swiffer, and then the vacuum and then I had to mop the kitchen and bathroom floors, and let scrubbing bubbles take care of the tub (but I did squeegee the shower doors). I also changed the sheets, and finally got around to tightening the screw on the toilet seat.

I’ve been thinking of what to text Jackson. When he says unfinished business, does he mean the bill, or what was happening when we were alone? If we’re in a restaurant, he probably means the bill. He doesn’t turn up the testosterone until he’s behind closed doors. I want my text to sound casual, but I have to start setting boundaries.

“Running l8. What r we meeting 4 2nite?”

His reply is quick and short. “Business then pleasure.”

He needs to stop telling me, and start asking me. I text, “May only stay 4 first. Hoping 2 get 2 bed early.”

When my phone rings two seconds later, I debate answering. I can’t think of a good reason to avoid it, so I take the call.

“I thought I’d phone, since you’re running late. Talking is so much faster than typing. So, if I understand, it’s business and then right to bed?”

I should know by now he’s better at this than I am. “Where can I meet you?”

“I’m picking you up. Your apartment is on the way to the restaurant.”

I can ask the question I didn’t ask Ron last night. “How do you know my address?”

“It was on the W-9 you so thoughtfully provided.”

“How did you know that isn’t my office address?”

“Because I own the building.”

Jackson is my landlord? “Did you buy that today, too?”

“I already owned it. People are going to think you’re stalking me.”

No one would ever believe it’s the other way around. “It must be part of my plot to ruin you.”

He’s silent. Finally, I’ve left him speechless.

“I’m starting to think you already have. At least where other women are concerned. Since you’re running late, I’ll give you an extra half hour. But I’m picking you up at 7:30 sharp.”

I hear his phone disconnect before I can complain about my refrigerator. No good-bye. No “See you soon.” His style is to keep people off balance. Like telling me I’ve ruined him for other women. Does he imagine I believe that? How gullible does he think I am? Gullible enough to let him get his hands on me—and in me.

But business first. He must want his invoice for the party. Did he really expect me to give him a dinner for twenty people and keep the rest of the money? He’s already so arrogant—but it would only get worse if he thought he bought the full-service package.

The caterer is the biggest part of the bill, and then when I add the bar, DJ, church rental, décor, and insurance, I’ve made a hefty dent in the $150,000 he gave me.

The last number to enter is my fee. I’ve never had to do so much in so little time. Well, I didn’t have to do it. Still, I enter the number into the spreadsheet and my first invoice shows Jackson owes me money. I don’t feel comfortable asking for more, so I revise my fee downward and print the invoice. I’ll write a check for the balance I owe him: $1.13.

If Mr. Hunter is not happy with the amount, he doesn’t have to use me again. But part of me likes the thought of Mr. Hunter using me. And part of me doesn’t.

I’m sure after dinner he will be inviting himself up. Or taking me to his place. Or taking me in the backseat of his car. If I don’t want that, I’m going to have to be equally direct—once I decide.

So what do I want? There’s no debating that he knows his way around a woman’s body. And I’m certainly attracted to him physically. Is it enough? Could I have casual sex with Jackson? A better question is what kind of kinky stuff does he like? Is he into bondage, or whipping, or making me get on all fours and bark like a poodle? What would I be willing to try?

I’ve spent the last five years on the outskirts of the San Francisco kink community, and it’s not the scary and strange place I thought it was. Yet, I’ve never had any interest in experimenting with it before Jackson.