Page 80 of Fluke
Damn you, Jess.
Damn you, Jess.
17
JESS
Iplace a pod in the dishwasher and close it. A few quick presses of buttons and the machine starts whirring.
“Done.” I grab a kitchen towel and dry off my hands. “Kitchen cleaned. Suitcase packed. Trash out to the road for pickup Wednesday morning. And I think that’s it.”
I toss the towel on the counter and start toward the living room. But as I move, I catch a glimpse out the window. Banks is walking down the road toward my house.
“Nope. Not tonight.”
Racing through the sitting area and to the foyer, I snap the locks on the front door. Then, before he can see me, I make sure the door to the garage is locked and the slider in the backyard too.
I wouldn’t put it past him to hop the fence and get in that way. Again.
The knocking begins. “Jess! You home?”
“No, I am not,” I say, grabbing my phone and heading into my office. I open my call log and press the top name.
“Hey,” Pippa says. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Then come over.”
She laughs. “I can’t. I have too much stuff to do.”
I sigh dramatically.
“Stop it. I can’t go away with you for three days if I can’t get my to-do list done.”
“Need help? I’m helpful.”
“If you come over, the only help you’ll be is helping me find what room I like you fucking me in best.”
“That’s necessary information. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
The sound of her giggle is music to my ears.
I can’t imagine if this life wasmy life. What would it be like to have access to Pippa all the time? To know, for a fact, that I’m going to see her. To be assured that she’ll call me at some point in the day. To be able to send her flowers or lunch—to know she expects me to be there if she needs me.
There have been points in my life where all of that sounded like the worst thing that could ever happen to me. Most of my life, that’s been the case. The idea that someone thinks they can just call me up and change my plans for the day was annoying. I wanted no part of the pressure of making sure a woman felt special. All those things were more of an irritation than a privilege—until now.
The doorbell rings through the house, and I groan.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“One guess.” I reach over and flip on the surveillance system. It takes it a second to connect. “But I’m pretty sure that you’re so right that it’s not even a guess anymore.”
“What’s Banks doing?”
I rest my elbow on my desk and watch him on the front porch. He’s looking right up into the camera.
“You can’t do this to me, Jess. I know you’re in there,” he says, pointing at the video recorder.
“Oh, Banksy—I canand I am.”
