CHAPTER 33

 

Facedown in a Sticker Patch

 

 

Stuck between my cheek and my pillow was a crumpled brown candy wrapper. I brushed it away. Cloud Wine’s fermented grape goodness punished me with a thump inside my head. Being confined to the edge of a narrow twin bed had stiffened my neck, but being jammed against the wall wasn’t all bad, since I nestled next to Jackson Kimball’s chest. Maybe I’d given Valentine’s Day a worse rap than it deserved.

From outside, daylight brightened the room, and I sank deeper under the covers. Hangover symptoms and the commentary inside my head that asked, What have you done? threatened to overtake my Jackson Kimball euphoria. What I had done was simple. I’d let Jackson Kimball ravish me. At the time, it seemed like a good idea. Now I wasn’t so sure. From the little I knew, he had a shady entrepreneurial background and befriended unstable creative types. Being in bed with Jackson, having done the business with him, was an error in judgment, and I should’ve felt some shame. The man lying next to me wasn’t stable boyfriend material. He shouldn’t have even been one-night stand material.

“Mornin,’” Jackson said, curling his arm around my back and planting a kiss on my lips.

In my defense, the beer and wine I’d consumed slowed my reflexes and I forgot to hesitate or pull away. Maybe if we spent the morning together, then the one-night stand would be expunged from my record.

“So what are your plans today?” I asked.

He nibbled at a ticklish spot behind my ear. “My plans involve staying in bed with you for round two.”

“No, no, no. We had rounds one, two, and three last night.”

His hand slid across my navel. “Nope, that was all round one. This is the start of round two.”

As we both lay flat, our breathing quickened. Wind tapped newly budding oak branches against the window as though it wanted to give me a talking to. You’ve had your fun. Time to get up and get a move on it before your roommates reappear.

“I should eat something, take aspirin,” I said.

A wisp of my hair found itself tangled around his finger. “How’d I ever meet you?”

“Clambakes and artwork have a way of sparking things,” I said.

“Doneski and the stolen painting,” he grunted under a breath.

My ears pricked. The Cassandra was a pricey painting my grandmother owned. Over the summer, Edmond, my Dad’s right-hand man at the restoration shop, and I had cleaned the piece before it was stolen.

I pulled back, and my hair unwound from his hold. Clambering out of bed, I grabbed a t-shirt and underpants. “I am going to ask you a question, and I expect an honest answer. What do you know about the Cassandra?”

He blinked, searching for magical words. But magic is an illusion, and he didn’t manage to pull a dove out of his sleeve. Jackson looked beyond me, at the ravaged box of Whitman’s, empty beer cans, sideways wine bottles, and the scattered clothes that littered the floor. “The chocolates are all gone. No more questions.”

“Did you steal the Cassandra painting from my father’s restoration shop?”

“Raz.”

I backed up. “Don’t.”

He made a smirky face, a last-ditch attempt, and a good one, to distract me from the rage that had begun to boil.

Opening a window, I inhaled sweet air that had the new scents of green springing to life. Bringing my head back inside, I asked, “Am I a business transaction? A means to valuable artwork?”

Jackson shook his head. “That’s not what this is about.” Unfolding the covers, he hiked on his boxers. “You have this—us—all wrong.”

“Explain it to me.”

He moved toward me with open arms.

I held up a flat palm to stop him. “Answer my question. Did you steal my grandmother’s painting?”

“I didn’t steal it. I didn’t know it was yours, and I didn’t know it was stolen. After taking a look at it, I just offered to buy it, but apparently you made Doneski a better offer.”

My jaw fell. “You partner with Billy Ray, then Doneski? What kind of person…?” I stopped, gathered up the closest thing of Jackson’s I could find, his pants, and pitched them out the window of our eight-story dorm room. “Get out.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Funny thing about Francine: for being a plus-size intimidating black woman, she has the silent stealth of a big cat. Hands on the hips of the same pants she’d worn last night, she said, “Oh, she’s serious.” Scooping up his boots, wallet, and shirt, she hucked them into the hallway. “Time to gather your chips and leave the table.”

“Raz, let me explain.”

A breeze from the open window collided with the warmth that erupted on my cheeks. I’d been duped by a con, and I felt like a fool.

Francine held the door. With the aid of my roommate’s intimidating scowl, Jackson’s tanned chest and red polka dot boxers backed toward the door. “This is not what you think. We need to talk.”

“Talk is cheap,” Francine said before giving him a shove and slamming the door.

Dusting her hands, she moved toward me.

I had hopped into a pair of sweat pants, and the candy box and empty bottles of Cloud Wine divided us. With pursed lips, she poked an empty Leaping Lilypad bottle with her toe.

My head pounded and my throat pricked.

“Well, well, well,” she said. “You two were busy. Does the pied piper have a name?”

I plopped on the edge of my bed and sank my head into my hands. “That was Jackson Kimball.”

“Wait a minute. The ringleader of the New Bern art forgery scam? The man who took money out of my great-memaw’s pocket?”

“Yes.”

She marched to the door and opened it to reveal an empty hallway. Closing the door, she began to wind her crank. “He was the one resellin’ fake Clementine Hunter paintings. I should’ve done more than slam a door in his face.”

She huffed back and forth in the room.

I attempted to quietly open a cold soda.

She ambushed my path back to bed. “Did you sleep with that good-for-nothing?”

I bit my cheek.

Francine turned on her heel.

“Where are you going?”

“That Jackson Kimball needs to hear a word or two from me,” she said. When she opened the door, Katie Lee spilled in.

“Y’all, Billy Ray and Jackson are goin’ at it.”

 

“CALL CAMPUS SECURITY,” KATIE LEE said to the desk sergeant in the lobby of Grogan Hall.

Not bothering to look up from her nail file, she asked, “What for?”

“Two guys are fighting.”

“I don’t see anything,” Francine said.

“They’re around the corner near the parking lot. I passed them on my way in.”

The three of us bolted out the front dorm door. I hadn’t taken the time to put on shoes and ran across the cold cement three paces behind Katie Lee and Francine.

Two bodies rolled in a ball on the campus lawn. My feet locked. Billy Ray was using his bulk to pin Jackson, but Jackson had Billy Ray’s head in a tight grip. Jackson countered with a knock to Billy Ray’s jaw that sent him backward. Jackson had managed to find his pants, but his boots and shirt were scattered across the grass.

“Y’all knock it off!” Katie Lee shouted.

Holding a can of something aerosol, Francine moved within spray can distance. In unison with the scuffle, she swayed back and forth. The moment they stood still, she gave a swift kick to Jackson’s ass and blasted Billy Ray’s face with Final Net.

The two pulled apart. Pinching his eyes, Billy Ray choked, and I noticed blood drip down his chin. Blinking wide, he inhaled deeply and sent a sharp blow into the side of Jackson’s ribs.

“Break it up, break it up!” I heard voices from behind shout.

Tuke Walson from campus security and two other men hustled to intervene. Pulling the two apart, they pinned their arms behind their backs.

“Settle down!” Tuke shouted. “You boys students?”

There was silence. I looked from Billy Ray to Bubba Jackson.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, Billy Ray?” Katie Lee asked.

Billy Ray glared at my bare feet. “You give pretty boy here a slice of nice?”

“What monkey mama raised you?” Francine said.

“Call the police,” I said. “That’s Billy Ray. He’s in violation of a restraining order.”

 

NOTE TO SELF

Never underestimate the usefulness of a box of Whitman’s. I never expected that Bubba had known Doneski, let alone considered buying GG’s Cassandra painting.