Never Die Alone

“As I said, you didn’t know me.”

“I paid attention.”

“To a freshman girl?”

Again, the crooked smile.

Again, the stupid racing of her heart. Oh, God, she hoped to high heaven she wasn’t blushing.

“I paid attention to all freshman girls.” He hesitated, thought a second. “Really, come to think of it, to all girls. It’s a guy thing. Isn’t that what women say?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted, and even chuckled a little. She was surprised that he’d noticed her; hadn’t dared believed he’d even registered that she’d walked the same overly polished halls of the same school he barely attended.

“You ever marry?”

The question surprised her, but it probably shouldn’t have. Shaking her head, she studied the dark depths of her wineglass. “I got close once,” she said. “I was engaged.” Briefly. Like for ten seconds!

“What happened?”

“Didn’t work out. I got cold feet.”

More like ice-cold frigid-as-hell feet.

“Runaway bride?”

“More like never-made-it-near-the-altar bride,” she said. Then, refusing to think about that time in her life, she threw it back at him. “You?”

“No, never even got close.” He scratched the back of his neck. “There were a couple of girls, well, women who might’ve worked out, but I don’t know . . .” He paused, leaning against the back of the booth, and she guessed that he did know but was equivocating to avoid discussing a subject that bothered him. “I guess I didn’t have much of a role model for a relationship. My old man raised me. Never knew my mother, and my grandparents . . .” He shrugged. “They were just old, you know? Then again”—he reached for his bottle—“maybe I just never found the right woman.”

“Oh, I smell a cop-out,” she said, hiding the fact that her pulse leaped whenever their eyes met. She buried her nose in her glass.

“Probably.” He cocked an eyebrow. “So you’re single?”

Very. “Yeah. Sorry, no rich husband is at home in some grand antebellum home with a pitcher of martinis. No, wait, you said mint juleps, right? Well, he’s not there with those either. And by the way, that grand Southern mansion? It’s a little two-bedroom cottage.” She set her glass on the table. “Guess you were wrong about me.”

“Then that makes two of us, doesn’t it?” he said with an ever-widening grin that told her he’d been lying to her about his supposed fantasy of her life. He hadn’t really cared about her life, but wanted her to realize her preconceived notions of him were as false as his might be. The fact that he wasn’t all that interested stung more than it should have, but the truth was he just hadn’t liked her calling him out on his high-school bad rep crap. Fair enough.

“Okay, I get it. Sorry. You’re a reporter. On the straight and narrow. My bad.”

He laughed a little, a deep chuckle she remembered from her youth. “Just not too straight,” he said with a wink that caused her silly heart to leap. “So, are you go

“So that you can whitewash Bentz and keep track of me? Isn’t that what this is all about? Damage control. So you can look good for the cops and land that job with the department.”

He let out a sigh. “What do you think?”

She met his gaze and was reminded again of the boy he’d once been, a teenager who had never let anyone control him. “I don’t know.”

“I told you, I want to work with you.”

“For an exclusive?”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “That wouldn’t hurt,” he admitted. “Sure. But I do really want to find out what happened to your friend’s daughters. And didn’t Selma De

“She did.” She nodded. “But there’s a difference between information and exploitation.”

“A fine line, but I’m willing to walk it to help those girls,” he said as if he meant it. “So, to answer your question, it’s not just about me reporting the story.”

“Good.” She hoped he wasn’t lying, but couldn’t quite believe him. Besides, maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was a good thing. His story, through the print newspaper and online services of the Observer, would notify the public. It would help spread the word, hopefully catch the eye of someone who’d seen Zoe or Chloe De

“What about the girls’ father?” he asked.

“Still around. Divorced from the mom. He’s remarried with kids. A new family. Well, sort of. He married Selma’s niece.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, major ouch. Anyway, I’m sure Carson’s concerned about his daughters, but not much support to Selma.”

Jase nodded, taking it all in.

Bria

The waitress returned with the check and when she reached for her purse, he reminded her that she’d insisted he buy. After a brief protest, she let Jase pay the bill.

“This way you owe me,” he said. He dropped a few bills on the table, then found a business card in his wallet. “Here. You can call me on my cell. Any time.” He slid the card across the table.

“Any time?”

“Day or night.”

“Three a.m.?”

Again the flash of a smile, a quick spark of humor flashing in his eyes. “Try me.”

“Promise you won’t bite my head off?”

“Never.”

“We’ll see.” She fished in her purse, found her keys, and made her way to the door.

Outside the air was heavy, rain threatening, though the temperature was still hovering near seventy. Cars and trucks rumbled down the street.

“I’ll talk to Selma.”

“You know where to find me,” he said as they crossed to her car.

“Yeah.” She unlocked the Honda with her keyless remote, then slid inside to leave him wedged in the open space with one hand on the top of her door and the other on the roof, preventing her from yanking her door shut.

“Then call. I’m available.”

From inside her car, she glanced up at him quickly, expecting a grin to indicate the double entendre, but his face held a guileless expression that she couldn’t read. For a second she got lost in his gaze.

“Okay,” she said, noting that she sounded a little breathless. God, she was an idiot. “Got it.”

He tapped twice on the roof, stepped away, and she, all the time trying to get her stupid racing pulse under control, tugged the door firmly shut.

She flipped on the A/C even though it would take several minutes to blow cool air, then went about trying to pull out without nicking either of the two monster pickups that had wedged her in. After several attempts, inching backward and forward, she was able to finally pull away from the curb just as her cell phone went off. Ignoring the call, she checked her rearview and saw Jase Bridges standing where she’d left him, his hands in his pockets as he stared after her.

What was his deal? she wondered.

Why did she feel that he wasn’t being completely honest with her, wasn’t entirely on the up-and-up?

“Because he’s one of the Bridges boys,” she told herself as cool air began to blow from the car’s vents. Then, silently, she added, And you’re paranoid, anyway, Bria