Page 7 of Blade’s Edge (L.A.S.T. Defense #1)
Jasper
I flip over to Monday Night Football and head for the kitchen. Emi wasn’t lying about her “big story.” Fowler practically threatened her before he stormed off. Piece of shit.
I could see the Empress Hotel construction site from my physical therapist’s office. They tore down the old community center while I was fightin’ to get my strength back on the treadmill. Every week, I had to fight my way through the protestors to get a rideshare.
Sliding a pan of frozen lasagna into the oven, I pick up my cell phone and text my brother.
Jasper: Did you watch the news tonight? Emmylou Marsh is going after that big developer, Eugene Fowler. He’s dirty as fuck. You ever hear his name mentioned in the same breath as the cartel?
One of the construction workers in the background while Emi was interviewing Fowler looked a hell of a lot like the guy who shot the gas line all those months ago. I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to this story than bribes and kickbacks.
It’s none of my damn business, but when I haven’t heard from AJ by the time the lasagna’s ready, I reach out to the only other person in the Department of Public Safety who might take my call.
Parker Elmore picks up on the first ring.
Without her, I wouldn’t know anything about my brother anymore.
During the endless days I spent in the hospital—after AJ walked out—Elmore checked up on me.
Since then, we’ve had coffee once a month.
She tells me how ornery my brother is, and I let her vent without gettin’ herself fired—since AJ’s her captain.
“You know anything about Eugene Fowler?”
“Well, hello to you too, sunshine,” she drawls. “Who you askin’ about now?”
“Eugene Fowler. The developer. Emmylou Marsh from Channel 5 is doin’ a story on him. She says he’s dirty as fuck.”
The sounds of silverware and conversation carry over the line. “Oh, she does? And how did you get to talkin’ with Emmylou Marsh?”
“Parker, pay attention. And get somewhere quieter. I need information.” I ignore the oven timer and limp back out to the main room with my phone tucked between my shoulder and my ear.
“Fine. This better?” she asks. Now, all I hear is some light traffic. “Spill it, Jasper. Is Emmylou Marsh as beautiful in person as she is on TV?”
“She’s drop dead gorgeous. But I didn’t talk to her about Eugene Fowler. I watched her story on the six o’clock news tonight. I need to know if he has any cartel ties.”
“ You need to know? Jas, you’re retired. I can’t give you details on an active case. Don’t ask me to.”
The call drops, but I got what I needed. There is a case involving Eugene Fowler. I sure hope Emi knows what she’s gettin’ herself into.
The lasagna burned to a crisp while I was talkin’ to Elmore—and tryin’ to figure out if what I learned warranted a visit to Channel 5 News.
I worry Emi’s in over her head, but she’s a grown-ass woman—and a damn good reporter.
If I try to get her to back off the story, she’d probably shove my hat somewhere the sun don’t shine. I’d deserve it, too.
So I head for one of the quieter sports bars off of Sixth Street. The one with the best nachos in town.
Most of the tables are taken. There’s only a single two-person booth close to the door. I’m heads down staring at the menu when a burst of cold air stirs the napkin in front of me. Seconds later, a shadow flickers in the remnants of my peripheral vision.
“Jasper?” Emi—no makeup, her hair mussed from the wind, and cheeks tinged pink—stares at me like she’s seeing a ghost. “What are you doing here?”
“A man’s gotta eat. Didn’t expect to see you in a place like this.”
Her eyesnarrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Fuck. Boot, meet mouth. I rub a hand over my short beard with a sigh. “That I’m an ass? I just meant?—“
Her laughter shocks me. “Jasper, relax. I’m off the clock.
Can’t you tell?” She waves her hand up and down her body, and shit.
No makeup, black yoga pants and a soft blue sweater, tennis shoes…
This is the real Emi, and she’s fucking gorgeous.
“I get takeout here every couple of weeks. Their enchilada plate is to die for.”
I don’t know whether to be relieved she ain’t meeting someone or disappointed she’s only here for takeout. Sweeping my gaze around the bar, I nod at the bench across from me. “Enchiladas are better hot. It’s full up in here, but that seat’s empty. If you’d like to join me.”
Emi plays with a lock of her hair, twisting it around her index finger. “You don’t mind?”
“Nope. Though, I don’t get out much. Or talk to many people. My ‘polite conversation’ skills are a little rusty.”
With a chuckle, she tosses her bag into the corner of the booth and slides in across from me. “You’re in luck, then. Because I talk to people for a living. I’ll ease you back into it.”
Fuck. This isn’t gonna end well. She’s the most beautiful—and successful—woman I’ve met in a long damn time. One slip up, and she’ll walk right out of here and never give me the time of day again.
The server comes to take our order—an enchilada plate for her and loaded nachos for me. She asks for a club soda, so I give up on the beer I was planning and stick to water.
“Saw your ‘big story’ tonight,” I say once we’re alone again. “Fowler was a real dick to you.”
Emi’s lips flatten. “He’s the worst kind of asshole. Thinks he can buy his way into—or out of—any situation. He’ll get his soon enough. When my series is done, he’ll be lucky if he’s not in jail for a very long time.”
“You’re goin’ after him again tomorrow?” Worry crawls up my spine. “Emi, I think you should?—”
She leans forward, something akin to desperation in her brown eyes. “Can we talk about something that’s not my job? I’ve been living and breathing this story for almost a month.”
Well, shit. I should tell her about my phone call with Elmore, but I can’t ignore her plea.
Or the emotion in her voice. “We can talk about anything you want. But remember those rusty conversation skills I mentioned?” The bar erupts into cheers, and I glance up at one of the TVs in the corner of the room.
The Ropers just scored a touchdown. Sports.
Sports is a safe topic. “You follow football?”
Her laugh lights up her entire face. “Only enough to joke around with the camera crew in the studio. I’m more of a baseball fan. You want to know the box scores from the last run the Austin Stars made for the World Series, I’m your girl.”
“I can do baseball. Spent most of the summer at the ballpark.” I rub my hand across the back of my neck. I’d been nursing a headache all day, but after ten minutes with Emi, it’s almost gone. “Too bad they finished in last place.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t bail after the All Star break.” She settles back in the booth and takes a long pull on the straw in her club soda.
Damn. I never thought something so simple could be so sexy.
“Bein’ outside in the sun was worth the heartache. It was either that or never leave my apartment.” The admission is easy—too easy. And too much.
Emi’s brows curve up. “You’re not…uh…working?” At my flinch, her cheeks flush crimson. “Oh, God. That was incredibly rude. Ignore me, Jasper. I don’t have much of a filter after a big story.”
“Ain’t no never mind. And it’s a fair question.
I couldn’t go back to the Rangers after…
what happened. Bum leg, traumatic brain injury, and my shoulder’s permanently fucked.
” The headache’s back now, ten times worse than when I walked in here.
The pity in Emi’s eyes doesn’t help. “I got lucky, though. The owner of my apartment building comps most of my rent in exchange for me handlin’ a lot of the day-to-day maintenance issues.
Between that and disability, I do okay. Just don’t get out much. By choice.”
“I don’t either,” she admits with a small smile. “Unless it’s for work.”
“That’s hard to believe. Someone who looks as good as you did in that dress should be paintin’ the town every weekend.”
Another laugh—almost a snort a little too close to a sip of club soda—and Emi dabs at her bare lips with a napkin.
“That sounds like the worst kind of torture. I’m an ‘in bed by ten’ sort of gal.
Saturday night wrecked me for a full twenty-four hours.
I spent all day Sunday in my pajamas working from my couch. ”
The server drops off our food, and I wonder just what kind of pajamas Ms. Emmylou Marsh favors. And if I’ll ever get to see them.
The game is almost over by the time I convince Emi to let me pick up the check. She argued with me for a full twenty minutes before I told her my mama would never forgive me if she found out I let a woman pay for dinner when I’d invited her to sit down.
“Can I walk you to your car?” Offering her my elbow, I fully expect her to refuse. While we’ve been flirtin’ on and off all night, I still don’t know much about her. But she wraps her fingers around my bicep with a smile.
“You’re one of those honest-to-God good guys, aren’t you?” she asks once we’re outside. “Kind to strangers, kids, and the elderly. You rescue kittens and puppies in your spare time. Or return all the loose shopping carts to the grocery store.”
“Shopping carts are a fucking menace to society,” I mutter. “Don’t matter how new they are, one wheel is always broken. Never thought much about getting a cat or dog while I was working, though I’ve got the time, now.”
We reach her car—a pretty powder blue Mustang convertible—and Emi digs her keys out of her bag.
“Tonight was fun, Jasper. I don’t think I realized how much I needed…
fun.” She levers up on her toes and presses a quick kiss to my cheek.
Jasmine and vanilla swirl around me, a heady, sweet scent I’ll never forget. Never want to.
I hold open her door, then lean down so I can meet her gaze. “I’d like to see you again. Would you consider giving me your phone number? Or I could give you mine.”
Emi pulls a small notebook and pen from her center console. “Write it down, Blade. When I’m done with this story, I’ll give you a call.”
I can’t get the digits on paper fast enough. Our fingers brush when I hand the pen and paper over. Hers are soft and warm against my calluses. I’ve got it bad, and we’ve only spent a couple of hours together. “Get home safe, Emi. And…thanks.”
“For what?” she asks as the engine purrs to life and she fastens her seat belt.
“You weren’t the only one who needed…fun.” I tip my hat and back away before I can tell her tonight was about more than “fun.” Spending time with Emmylou Marsh reminded me that I might be damaged goods, but I’m still very much alive. And I need to start acting like it.