The Lover’s Promise (No Exceptions #3)(25)
Author: J.C. Reed

It was too late to back off anyway. My fingerprints were all over Gina’s stuff and I didn’t have the energy or time to carry it all back inside.

I jammed the car into first gear and was about to pull out of the parking lot when my gaze glimpsed the police car parked at the corner and the two uniformed guys exiting the car.

Holy shit.

I stared at them, my body instantly hitting panic mode. Every part of me screamed to drive away, but my hands were frozen in place and my legs wouldn’t listen to my brain’s command. My heart began to hammer in my chest as I watched them walk over to Jett’s building, their strides determined and full of purpose.

Please don’t go in. Please.

My intuition told me they had come for Jett, possibly with the intent to search his place again, except I would have expected a special unit rather than mere uniformed officers, which led me to the assumption that they might have come to arrest him.

I held my breath as they entered the building and through the huge glass panels I watched them chat with the concierge, and even though I couldn’t make out their expressions I was convinced that they were hard and determined, even grave. A minute passed. Then another, and the next thing I knew they disappeared from my sight. The concierge held up a blue book that I remembered was the visitor log and began to scribble.

I swallowed hard and floored the accelerator. The car instantly stumbled forward, the engine sputtering in protest. Whatever their business was, I decided to get the hell away as fast as possible before someone spied me and I was forced to answer questions I didn’t have the answers to, or worse yet, taken in, just because I happened to have Gina’s stuff in the back of my car.

I laughed darkly.

It was no longer just a girl’s stuff. They were a murder victim’s belongings—vital evidence that might be presented in court—and they now had my fingerprints all over the place.

And, oh wait, my one and only alibi just so happened to be the primary suspect.

Great. Just great.

I didn’t know what was worse. That I was helping a suspect with no real proof that he was innocent. Or that Jett had transferred a lump sum of money one day after Gina’s death, and everything could lead back to me, not least because I was helping him by hiding evidence.

I cleared my throat to get rid of the sudden dry sensation inside it, wondering why the heck I hadn’t thought of bringing a bottle of water with me.

Oh God.

People would draw the conclusion that he was paying me off. Talk about a mess.

What if I was wrong in my assumptions that Jett was not involved?

The realization hit me hard that I could lose everything by protecting him.

I stifled the sudden need to hit the first church on the way to my destination and confess that instant because it felt like it was the right thing to do. My hands itched to call Sylvie to ask for help, but that wasn’t a possibility either. Not when she’d most certainly ask the one question to which I had no answer. A question I couldn’t even ask myself.

So, why are you helping him?

I was doing it—for well…

Crap!

Jett being in deep shit was worrisome, but more worrisome was the fact that I loved him. But the worst—the worst of all facts—was my stupid attempt to protect him in spite of having no proof of his innocence. It was like knowing that disaster would unfold and doing it anyway, like wanting him to be good when he wasn’t. Hoping to end up back together, when his intentions could be deadly. Loving him in spite of all the pain he had caused me, even when it killed me slowly. Maybe I was no exception in his hunt for love and sex, but Jett Mayfield was, simply put, the love of my life. As much as I denied it—as much as I wished it weren’t true—I was protecting him for all the stupid reasons of love, willing to harm myself by messing with an ongoing investigation.

And that’s how I knew how madly I loved him.

Clutching at the wheel for support, I ignored the need to bang my head against it in the hope it would shake some sense into me. Everything I did for Jett was based on instinct, on suppositions—nothing concrete, really. Just wishy-washy stuff, where my heart was leading the way, and my mind was adamant in the belief that Jett wasn’t like his brother. But did I really know him? Someone had still spiked my drink and I couldn’t just overlook the fact that the small time frame between 2 a.m., the time I fell asleep, and 5 a.m., the time Gina died, would have given him ample time to leave and commit a crime.

I groaned again. All those possibilities—those endless, ever changing theories—were insane. Until I didn’t talk with Jett, my mind would continue spinning in a circle while my feelings would continue to be clouded by fear, making me to conclusions.

Slowly, I made a decision. Jett wasn’t home, which could mean he might be anywhere. But for some inexplicable reason I knew he wasn’t working late or hitting some bar.

I had to see him now, and give him a chance to explain. And I knew exactly the place where I might find him.

If Jett thought he could pay me for any particular reason, he was wrong. Maybe he had the money to buy himself immunity, but I harbored no wish of being like a prostitute, always at his service. There was no way that money would buy my silence, my love, or my help.

Just this once, I would help him out of love, giving him the benefit of the doubt because I honestly believed that he was innocent. But if I found out that he had sided with his psycho brother, I wouldn’t hesitate a second to bring the evidence to the police and free myself from all ties to him.

Throughout the drive to Jett’s gang, I kept wondering why someone would take such great care to remove all of my things—all but one picture frame—and replace them with Gina’s belongings. The image of the necklace covered in blood kept circling in my mind, rendering me almost unable to concentrate on the traffic, until I pulled into one of the parking lots and killed the engine, ignoring the guy who patrolled the entrance.

Even though I had lived with Jett’s gang for a few weeks and they had accepted me, I still had to get used to the whole “gang thing” idea. Originating from New York, it was hard for me to envision that one of the most successful and most renowned men in the world had such a shady past. Were it not for his tattoos, the scars, and brazen attitude, I would never have believed that Jett might be friends with people harboring the inclination to break the law.

Long before I stepped out of the car, I could feel the cold stare from the high-tech security cameras at the top of the fence recording my every move. As I passed one of them, fighting hard not to feel threatened by the usual blinking dot, I made sure to peer into one, then waved in the hope whoever sat behind the screens would recognize me rather than mistake me for a possible intruder and gun me down.