Page 44 of Heavy Hitter

“You know what.” Lacey rolls her eyes, irritated all of a sudden. Stop being such a fucking baby, she wants to tell him. This wasn’t the playoffs. This was barely a Wednesday.

“No, I mean—I don’t know.” Jimmy shrugs. “It was just a weird night, that’s all. Performing it, like that. I knew you brought me here to put on a show, obviously. I guess I just didn’t realize it was going to be so—so—”

“So what, exactly?” Lacey asks. “Since when are you uncomfortable in the spotlight?”

“I’m not uncomfortable in the spotlight,” he counters, sounding a little offended. “I am extremely fucking comfortable in the spotlight.”

“Okay,” Lacey says, “then what? Is it that thing that Claire said, is that the problem? Is it because I’m more famous than you?”

Jimmy guffaws. “Are you serious right now?”

“I’m just asking!” she protests, though there’s a part of her that knows she’s being snotty on purpose, that’s leaning into her own ego a little bit. “It’s a valid feeling.”

“It’s not my valid feeling,” he insists. “I don’t care about that.”

Lacey throws her hands up. “Well then, what?”

“Lacey—”

“Because not to keep beating this drum or whatever, but you’re the one who made this whole thing public to begin with, so—”

“I know that, thanks.” Jimmy’s eyes flash. “Believe me, you and your team of lady avengers have made abundantly sure that I know that. But apparently that also means I’m not entitled to feel any kind of way about this whole thing—”

“Any kind of way about the two of us being public?” Lacey interrupts him. “Or any kind of way about me?”

Jimmy doesn’t answer for a moment—perching uncomfortably on a media console at the other end of the living room, visibly too big for this space. Lacey closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the sofa. “Look,” she says finally. “If you don’t feel like the lift is worth it here, or you’re thinking maybe you made a mistake, then by all means—”

“That’s not what this is,” Jimmy says immediately. When she opens her eyes he’s himself again, his expression hot. “Are you kidding me? I—Lacey. Yeah. That’s not what this is.”

“Then what?” she asks—or starts to, anyway, but is cut off by the sound of her phone ringing, the screen lighting up with Javi’s name.

“Sorry to bother,” he says, when Lacey answers. “But the guard at the booth just called me. There’s somebody asking for you at the gate.”

***

“MOM,” LACEY SAYS FOUR ENDLESS MINUTES LATER, WATCHING from the doorway as her mother wobbles up the front walk. “Hi.”

“Hi, sweet pea,” her mother says, then turns to Jimmy—looking him up and down, openly appraising. “Well, I will say this much about you, cutie: they certainly weren’t kidding about you being tall.”

“Jimmy,” Lacey says before he can answer, trying to keep her voice from shaking. Her mom has never done this before, just waltzed right in with no warning; it’s true she doesn’t generally require an explicit invitation, but normally she at least calls before she arrives. “This is my mom.”

“Janine,” her mom says, holding a manicured hand out before turning to Lacey. “I had dinner with some gal pals,” she reports, which Lacey immediately knows is a lie. Much like her only daughter, Janine Hall Logan has very few friends. “So I was in the neighborhood, and I thought—”

“Did you drive here?” Lacey interrupts, horrified by the thought of it.

“Of course I drove here,” her mother says, like Lacey is the one who’s being unreasonable. “Not all of us have twenty-four-hour chauffeurs.”

“You know I would get you a driver if you wanted,” Lacey protests. In fact, she would love it if her mom would accept her offer of a driver, if only so that Lacey could stop worrying about her drunkenly crashing her fucking car into a family of four out for a celebratory dinner at Culver’s. “We can set that up whenever you want.”

Her mom ignores her, turning back to Jimmy. She smells like white wine and perfume, her hair in a perfect updo and her lipstick just the tiniest bit smudged. “My daughter has been trying to keep us hidden away from each other,” she confides with a conspiratorial grin. “Which one of us do you think she was more embarrassed of, you or me?”

“Me, definitely,” Jimmy says without missing a trick. “My table manners are abysmal. And I almost wore Croakies on our date.”

“Oh, come on now,” Lacey’s mom says, giggling girlishly. “I doubt that very much.”

“I’m going to get you some water,” Lacey announces.

“You don’t have a bottle of wine open, do you?” her mom asks, sitting down on the sofa and making herself comfortable. “I would love a glass of sauvignon blanc.”

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