The Closer You Come

“What’d Jase hire you for, anyway?” Jessie Kay asked, running a fingertip along the top edge of a chair. “What is it he needs?”

“Help around the house.” From someone just desperate enough to agree to slave labor.

“So you’re his maid?”

“Executive assistant. Now, go home. Please. And actually wait there this time. I’ll be right behind you, and we’ll talk about everything that’s happened.”

Jessie Kay protested.

“One,” Brook Lynn said.

Her sister hurried onto the porch. “Dude. You are such a pain.”

“I know. We can discuss that, too, if you so desire.” She shut the door. In the kitchen, she waited for the casserole to finish baking, and when it did, she placed the sizzling dish on top of the stove before writing a note to Beck. Short and sweet.

Had to leave, BL

Outside, darkness had fallen, the only light spilling from the porch. She switched her implants to a lower setting, allowing more sound than usual to filter into her ears. Despite the discomfort, she needed to be able to pick up on certain noises, like the snap of twigs or the grunt of the undead. She clutched her industrial-size hand sanitizer close to her chest the entire trek, making it to the RC parking lot without incident—

Only to find Jase standing beside her car, his own parked behind it. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a violent windstorm. His hair was disheveled, his clothes wrinkled and askew.

Had he tangled with a tornado?

When he spotted her, he crossed his arms over his chest.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her heart pounding wildly.

“Beck called me. Said you’d taken off...that you were walking. Alone.”

And that was a crime? “He didn’t lie.”

Motions clipped, he opened her door for her. “If I don’t like you walking out of Two Farms at night, what makes you think I’d like you walking three miles through a forest and down a darkened street?”

Had Jase feared for her safety? “Well...”

“Do not ever leave my house on foot again, Brook Lynn. Do you understand?”

All she could do was blink over at him. “Or what?” Seriously. She wanted to know.

“Or...” He cursed under his breath. “You’ll get a very stern lecture. Now go home and drive safely.” He climbed inside his own car and backed away from hers, but he didn’t speed away. No, he waited until she was sealed inside her own vehicle.

“He’s a closet gentleman,” she muttered, awed by that fact. Yes, he’d done other nice things for her. Helping her search for Jessie Kay. The job. The pay. But for the most part, he was emotionally closed off or running hot and cold, and he seemed to care about nothing.

Who was the real Jase?

She waved as she passed him, even smiled. He didn’t wave back, and he definitely didn’t smile. But he did follow her home and take off the moment she made it inside.

She had no idea what to think about this new revelation of his character...actions mean more than words...but she would be lying if she claimed she wasn’t looking forward to their next interaction.

CHAPTER SEVEN

JASE’S MEETING WITH his parole officer had gone better than expected. He’d been placed on unsupervised parole, which meant there would be no more monthly meetings and fewer random drug tests. He could mail in his dues and wouldn’t be subjected to monthly inquisitions about his activitiesCHAPTER ONE finances and future plans.

Almost over. Less than six months to go.

Finally. An end in sight.

Jase longed for the days he would no longer have scheduled reminders of a youth spent behind bars and the reason he’d been sent there. Or of all the times he’d been placed in the shoe, forced to spend twenty-three hours of every day by himself, locked inside a too-small room, his “good days” taken away from him.

In prison, every thirty days of excellent behavior earned an inmate forty-four days off his sentence, while every infraction meant those days were tacked back on. Needless to say, he’d had a lot of infractions.

He now sat on the sidelines of a field, watching West and Beck coach the Strikers, a youth soccer team the two had sponsored long before earning enough money to actually do so, made up of boys and girls trapped in the system, whether through foster care or simple financial aid.

“Edward, my man,” West called from one of the goals. “That’s the way. You’re doing great.”

A little girl approached him and asked a question. West listened intently before demonstrating the proper way to kick a ball. Beck—who loved playing soccer but had always hated being teased about his name—was currently helping a redheaded boy improve his goalie skills.

Jase envied his friends. He would have loved to share his own knowledge of the game, to actually make a difference in someone’s life, but these kids had dealt with enough crap. They didn’t need the hassle an ex-con would bring to the table. And as soon as their guardians learned about his past, there would be a hassle and he would be asked to leave.

“Which one is yours?” A thirtysomething brunette placed her lawn chair next to his.

He spared her a brief glance, noticed the yellow sundress hugging generous curves—but he wasn’t even close to tempted. “I’m friends with the coaches. Just waiting for them to finish up.”

“Ah. The coaches the mothers can’t stop talking about. I swear, more moms watch the Strikers practice than any other team on the planet.”