Jersey Six(71)

“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling, a vibe I get when I’m around him. But you’re my new news story, the next chapter in my saga, and I have no clue how this happened. Do you?”

He studied her—every blink, the focus of her gaze, the curve of her spine, and the tension in her jaw.

“No.”

He nodded slowly, lips twisted, eyes unblinking. “Can I trust you?”

“No.” Her answer fell from her lips with no emotion but complete resolution.

It knocked the wind out of him for a moment.

Jersey untied the sash to her robe and slipped it off her shoulders, letting it pool at her ankles. As Ian searched for a response, she pulled on her clothes and tied her hair back into a ponytail.

“Why?” he finally asked, feeling the ache of disillusion in his chest.

She stood between his legs and pressed her warm palms against his cheeks for a few seconds before dragging her fingers through his hair. “The first time Mr. Fisher touched me—made me touch him—I cried for hours. G carried me from the basement to her bedroom. I told her how I trusted him because the lady with social services promised it was a good home and I could trust the Fishers. G told me to trust no one. Not ever. She said trust is what we do when we have no other choice. Death or trust? Go with trust, but you might end up dead anyway.”

“G sounds like a cynic.”

Jersey squinted.

He twisted his lips. “Someone who has little faith in mankind.”

“I suppose it’s hard to have faith in mankind when you spend your whole childhood with men who are anything but kind.”

Ian rested his forehead against her chest, his hands on the back of her legs, and he closed his eyes. She continued to run her fingers through his hair. Ian loved that so much he tried to keep from moving or speaking. Could a killer’s hands bring such pleasure, calm nerves, soothe souls?

Yes.

Her stomach growled. Ian ignored it. It growled again. He looked up, ending the perfect moment. “When did you last eat?”

“Not sure. On the plane. They offered me food all the time. And drinks. Everything was free. But it was weird traveling on a big plane with so many people. Not as much room to myself.”

He chuckled. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to trust her, but he liked her. He liked her in a way that made him feel more vulnerable than he’d ever felt in his life. Horrible men tried to rob her of her innocence, but they didn’t succeed. Jersey had a light, an innocence that no one could take from her.

“You’re unknowingly a plane snob.”

“A what?”

“Your first plane was a private jet, an experience most people never get. It’s the most luxurious way to travel. Really wealthy people, including ego-driven rock stars, travel that way. You flew here first-class commercial. It’s how most fairly well-off people travel. You had all the luxuries of a commercial airline. But …”

She kept her eyes slightly squinted—the innocent side of Jersey Six.

“A majority of people travel coach. They get pretzels and pop, maybe one meal on an international flight. The seats are smaller and recline approximately two inches, less legroom, and no warm towels before your meals.” He leaned up and kissed her neck. “I’ve spoiled you.”

Jersey blinked several times, jaw slack. “Huh. I had no idea.”

“I’ll send you home coach, just so you can experience all forms and comfort levels of air travel.”

“Mmm…” Jersey nodded several times, concentration etched into her expression. “When I go home …” she whispered as if she didn’t say it for his ears.

“But I’m not sending you home—yet.” He pulled her closer, forcing her to fall into him, straddling his lap, arms around his neck. “I haven’t shown you the world—yet.”

She returned a sad smile and a slow blink while letting her gaze fall between them, chin down. “Coop, I’m afraid.”

His hand slid around her neck to the back of her head, pulling her closer, so his lips grazed her ear. “So am I,” he whispered.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR





Paris, France

Esc-sur-alztte, Luxembourg

Amsterdam, Netherlands

Berlin, Germany

Cologne, Germany

Gothenburg, Sweden

Stolkholm, Sweden

Five weeks and eight stops after Jersey arrived in Switzerland, they hit the tour’s halfway point in Liverpool, U.K. It didn’t matter that Jersey refused to call herself Ian Cooper’s girlfriend. The media stamped her with that label and a lot of other labels that were much worse. But … they didn’t know her name and that was a silver lining for the Ian Cooper camp.

No name meant no way to dig up more dirt on her than what had already been mysteriously leaked about “the woman in his bed.” Jersey gave Chris a little bit of credit for not entirely destroying her in his attempts to bring down the rock star. She liked being a no name to the media.

Ian let Max and his manager know that Jersey wasn’t going anywhere, and they needed to deal with it along with the rest of the world. He kept her close to his side, holding her hand, kissing her at will with no concern for the flashing cameras and gossip frenzy.

Jersey played the part, drawing him into her world, priming him for a confession. She took her clothes off anywhere, and at a moment’s notice, whenever Ian felt the need to have her—which was often. It was her favorite part of the plan—and the most dangerous part. Every time she let him inside of her, he took a piece away. As the weeks passed, she felt herself changing, weakening, missing those pieces that held her together and kept her strong. Resolute.