The Complete Colony Series. Lisa Jackson
Several notices to “occupant,” which really was a pisser, when you thought about it. Couldn’t be bothered to find out who lived in the place. Those went straight to the trash.
And a card addressed to him with no return address: Glenn Stafford.
No Gia listed at all.
Huh?
Gia was smoothing back some of her bleached-blond hair. “I could wait up for you.”
Fat chance. She’d be out cold in an hour if she got into the wine, which she did almost every night now.
Yep. A marriage made in heaven.
“I’ll be late.” Glenn stuffed the envelope in his pocket and banged out the back door to his car. A Honda. He’d traded in his Porsche last year. Traded down. It had hurt like a hole in his heart, but he hadn’t been able to afford the payments along with two mortgages. He kept thinking the damn restaurant would turn around, but it was a hungry alligator and its teeth were planted firmly in Glenn’s backside. His ass was getting chewed off bit by bloody bit, month by month.
He drove to Blue Note, a dark cloud over his head, and he checked his rearview mirror more than usual. All the talk and speculation about Jessie Brentwood was kinda making him crazy and paranoid—as if living with Gia didn’t do a good enough job of that as it was. No one appeared to be following him, at least not tonight, but lately he’d had the feeling that someone was watching him.
Gia. It’s Gia, you idiot. She wants to know where you are every second.
Parking the Civic in a spot at the rear of the building, he cut the engine and spent several moments listening to the tick of the motor as it cooled.
What was he going to do?
What the hell was he going to do?
He was trapped.
No way out.
Angry at the world, he slammed out of the car and swore he saw someone skulking around the bushes flanking the parking lot, but on second glance, he saw only a raccoon lumbering off after raiding the Dumpster.
“Damned pests,” he muttered, circling around and entering through the front door. He liked catching the staff unawares, seeing who was standing where, who was actually working versus who was yakking. Pete was sure a waste of space. The guy schmoozed and glided around, wooing the customers, and he didn’t help out in the least with the grunt work. Why people liked him was a complete mystery to Glenn. He’d already banged two of the waitresses in the back, one up against the wall, according to Luis, who could barely speak English. But Luis had communicated the incident well enough so Glenn had had to confront the oily Pete, who simply smirked and said it was beyond his control. Glenn would have fired him on the spot, but Scott had stepped in. Pointed out that Pete brought in good business, which, damn it all, was the truth.
Glenn felt Mr. Ready twitch at the thought. His sleeping penis could rise from the dead with the right incentive. Like a lusty waitress or two. Glenn wouldn’t mind slamming one up against the wall and screwing her brains out, but he couldn’t afford to. That was just crying for a lawsuit. Sexual harassment, and then Gia would divorce him and take everything that the lawsuit didn’t eat up.
He was stuck with Gia, the wallowing termite queen, he thought for the thousandth time. No matter which way you cut it. He thought about the meeting they had here. Becca, Tamara, and Renee had all looked hot. Trim. Fit. Beautiful. And interesting. Jesus, any of them would be better than Gia.
Inside, the dark rooms buzzed with conversation and the clink of glassware. People were laughing, eating…drinking. He passed by several curtained alcoves where diners were deep into their meals. Blue Note was surprisingly busy, and everyone seemed to be in their right places as Glenn took in the place with practiced ease. Except for the people by the far window. They looked as if they hadn’t been served in a while, and their entrees and their appetizers were long over. Glenn was about to rectify the situation himself when he saw the footsie they were playing beneath the table and realized the staff was simply giving them a little extra time as they really weren’t interested in food.
Probably having an affair, Glenn thought with a hint of jealousy. But he was proud of his wait staff. Discernment. That’s what Blue Note needed. The ability to read the customers and discern their needs, whether those needs be drink, food, or something else.
He strolled through the kitchen. Luis and crew were getting out the meals like a well-oiled machine. They’d lost their top chef a month earlier, but then Patrick had been more of a head case than a head chef. Luis, with little experience, was pinch-hitting. He was a quick learner, but Blue Note had no signature dishes, no standouts, nothing to make it rise above the hundreds of other restaurants in and around the city.
And if they didn’t find that special uniqueness that would make Blue Note the name on everyone’s lips, it would be in serious trouble. It already was.
Glenn grabbed a short glass at the bar, filled it with ice, and poured in a couple of ounces of bourbon. He took a sip, felt instantly better, then headed to the back office where he sat on a worn leather chair. His domain. Old pictures lined the wall. Photos of him. Scott. Even a few from about a million years ago—the friends from St. Elizabeth’s. He saw one, the color faded, of the smiling faces of Zeke, Garrett, Hudson, The Third, Scott, and himself…no girls. No Jessie.
He wondered about her and really hoped it wasn’t her body that had been located at the old school. Glenn liked to think that she’d escaped, gotten away from whatever demons had been chasing her. Hudson’s girl.
Yeah, right.
A chick like Jessie…so mysterious and damned sexy, she didn’t belong to anyone. Shit, she’d been hot. Hot!
So what had happened to her? Glenn thought again about missed opportunities as he clicked on his computer to pore over the books. Man, they owed a lot of accounts payable.
His stomach nose-dived as he glanced at the total.
It was shocking, how many places had offered them supplies on credit, but then Scott could be a silver-tongued devil when he needed to. Pascal was a closer. He could charm, cajole, and squeeze vendors like a virtuoso. Sometimes Glenn wondered where and how it was all going to end. If things didn’t improve, not only the lease wouldn’t be paid, but payroll was going to be a problem. And shouldn’t there be more funds available? Sure, the restaurant had off days, but when they were on, they were on, man.
Look at tonight.
Determined to get to the bottom of their cash-flow problems, Glenn examined the accounts as best as he could. He’d had no formal training in business and finance, but he knew when something was owed and whether the restaurant had enough money to pay it.
A couple of hours later after juggling figures and making minimal payments on overdue bills, Glenn remembered the card. He pulled it from his pocket and examined the light blue envelope with the typed address. It was postmarked Portland. Almost looked like an invitation of some kind.
He sliced it open with a letter opener, and pulled out a piece of plain white card stock:
What are little boys made of?
Frogs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails.
That’s what little boys are made of.
Glenn dropped the note as if it had scorched him. His heart pounded hard and painful in his chest. The spit dried in his mouth.
Jessie!
What the hell?
Panicked, Glenn could hear Jessie’s singsonging voice. Could see her saying those very words. “What are little boys made of…”
He tried to calm down, but once the image was loose in his mind, there was no holding it back. As if high school were yesterday, he could remember how much his fingers had wanted to caress her curves. He’d wanted Jessie with a fiery desire that had plagued him like a curse. Sure, she’d only wanted Hudson. Sure, she’d never looked his way. But she’d teased. How she’d teased.