The Bodyguard (26)

“Can I whisper things in your ear?”

“That might depend on what you’re whispering.”

“Maybe it’s better to ask: Is there anything you don’t want me to do?”

“Well, I prefer you to keep your clothes on.”

“That’s a given,” he said, “while hanging out with my parents.”

“But just broadly,” I said. “In general. No surprise nakedness.”

“Agreed. And right back at ya.”

“And I can’t imagine that you’d need to kiss me…”

“I’ve already thought about that.”

He’d already thought about that?

“We can use stage kissing,” he said. “If we get in a pinch.”

“What is stage kissing?”

“It’s what you do in a play. It looks like a kiss, but your mouths don’t actually touch. Like I could cup your face and then kiss my thumb.” He lifted his hand off the steering wheel and kissed his thumb for demonstration.

Ah. “Okay.”

“Probably shouldn’t try that today.”

“No.”

“Those take some practice.”

Practicing fake kissing with Jack Stapleton … “Got it.” Then I added, “And obviously, of course, if you need to do a real kiss for some reason—that’s fine. I mean, I’m fine with it, if it’s necessary. I mean, I won’t be mad.”

Good God. I sounded like a loony bird.

“Noted,” Jack said, moving right along as if he encountered this particular brand of looniness all the time. Which he probably did. He went on: “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I appreciate what you’re doing for me—and my mom—and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll try not to make any wrong moves, but if I mess up, just tell me.”

“Same,” I said.

And with that, he cranked up the radio, rolled back the sunroof, and found himself a fresh piece of cinnamon gum.





Eight


THE STAPLETONS’ RANCH was many long, labyrinth-like roads from the highway—deep in farm country. You had to pass fields of corn and cotton and pastures full of cows. There was even a field with real live longhorns.

When we arrived, Jack turned onto a half-mile, gravel entry road that started at a cattleguard, crossed a wide-open field, and seemed to go on forever.

“How big is this ranch, anyway?” I asked, starting to suspect that it was not small.

“Five hundred acres,” he said.

The sheer size made it more real for some reason. This was an actual place. Those were genuine barbed-wire fences. Bona fide humans lived here. This was really happening.

But it didn’t really happen, in the end.

We never made it to the ranch house.

I saw the house up ahead in the distance—white stucco with a red Spanish-tile roof—but halfway up the gravel entrance road, we spotted a guy out in the field who could only be Jack’s brother. I don’t want to call him a poor man’s Jack Stapleton, but that’s about right. Same jawline. Same posture. He had on brown ropers and a plaid shirt and a blue gimme cap.

“Is that your brother?” I asked.

Jack nodded. “Yep. Meet my folks’ ranch manager and my own personal nemesis, Hank Stapleton.”

Jack stopped the car and shifted to Park right there in the one-lane road. We watched as Hank pulled a hay bale off the back of a pickup bed and dropped it by his feet. Then he looked up and saw us.

He went still and stared. He didn’t wave. He didn’t walk toward us. Just pulled off his work gloves and watched us, all wary, like he’d seen a coyote or something.

And I’ll tell you this: The minute those guys locked eyes, every muscle on Jack’s body tightened. It was downright animalistic.

Estranged? Yeah, that about captured it.

I thought about those rumors that Kelly had never been able to confirm. The car accident. The possibility that Jack had been driving after drinking. Did Hank Stapleton seem like he might be looking at a drunk-driving manslaughterer who had covered it all up to save his career?

Sure. Why not?

He certainly wasn’t looking at someone he was glad to see.

“Stay here,” Jack said. And as he got out and walked into the field toward his brother, it definitely had a Shootout-at-the-O.K.-Corral vibe. I could almost hear the spaghetti-western theme music.

Were they going to have a fight out there, with Jack all sockless in a pair of Italian loafers like a city slicker?

I put my fingers on the door handle, ready to spring out if Jack needed me.

Then I waited, watching.

Was I going to eavesdrop on them?

Most definitely.

I rolled down the windows and cut the motor—and, at first, I thought I couldn’t hear them. Until I realized they weren’t actually talking. Unless you could call hostile silence a type of conversation.

Finally, Hank said. “I see you brought an entourage.”

“Just my girlfriend.”

Hank glanced my way. “That doesn’t look much like Kennedy Monroe.”

I cringed. No shit.

Jack shook his head. “Stop reading People. We broke up.”