Chapter 6

Lisa wondered if a person could die from humiliation—if so, she had a death wish.

"You okay over there, Leese?"

In the safety of Jackson's darkened car, Lisa allowed her face to redden. Despite her earlier bravado, she felt like a complete idiot. Replaying her behavior during shooting practice made her want to jump into oncoming traffic.

"Yes."

"Funny, the last time you were this quiet it was right before you stabbed me in the throat with a pen."

Lisa could sense him eying her, but she continued to looked straight ahead.

"I'm not taking the bait, Jack."

"Ah, so I'm 'Jack,' now. Suit yourself, but it's a long drive back to sit in silence."

"I like silence," she lied.

Jackson scoffed. He was right, of course, she hated it. To her, background noise was crucial to fall asleep or get any thinking done. As it was, the current silence was so loud that Lisa had to turn on the radio to drown it out.

She punched blindly at the console until the sounds of talk radio blasted through the speakers. Jackson winced, and with one hand on the steering wheel, reached out with his other hand to adjust the station. His fingertips brushed hers in the process, and Lisa dropped her hand as though it had been scalded.

He didn't seem to notice her reaction, and fiddled with the presets until he stopped at a classic rock station. Lisa raised her eyebrows in surprise as she watched him mouth out the words to "Satellite of Love."

"That's different," she said.

"What is."

"I figured you would have stopped at a jazz or classical station."

"Why's that."

"I guess—I don't know," she admitted. "It's not fair, you know. You knowing so much about me, but me not knowing much about you."

It had been nagging at her, she realized, that in the weeks they had spent together she only had granules of new knowledge about him. He hadn't let his guard down once—with the exception of what had happened between them during the shooting lesson.

She coughed uncomfortably.

"What do you want to know about me?" he asked.

"Where to start?"

"Start small," he warned.

"Okay, so is this your favorite kind of music?"

"Yes," he said.

"Who's your favorite band?"

"Depends on my mood," he replied. "It could be anything from Pixies to Velvet Underground."

"Favorite color?"

"Black."

"Black's not a color."

"Fine then, dark blue."

"Where did you grow up?"

"The Midwest."

"Were you an only child?"

"Yes."

"Jackson, did you really kill your parents? You said you've never lied to me."

"Are you serious? I was joking about that—wasn't it obvious?"

Lisa shifted in her seat. It had seemed obvious at the time, but that was until she saw the murderous side of him firsthand. Now, she couldn't help but wonder otherwise.

"I see. I think twenty questions is over for now. We're here anyway," he said as he pulled into the condo garage.

They rode the elevator in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Lisa yawned widely and rubbed at her tired eyes. She couldn't imagine driving home. If only Jackson would allow her to…

"Spend the night."

Lisa blinked in confusion as she followed him into his place. She took a seat at the kitchen table and wondered if this was some sort of trick. Surely, she was imagining things. He watched her, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed. There were shadows under his eyes.

"I'm sorry? I think I just imagined you telling me I could spend the night," she said.

"I did," he shot back. "You've overexerted yourself today, and you're no good to me if you can't function tomorrow. Take the spare room and stop looking at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like anything," she snapped. She stood up, pushed past him, and headed towards the guest bedroom, which happened to to share a wall with Jackson's room.

"Don't get any funny ideas," he said when he caught her glancing at his door.

"Hilarious, Jackson. Maybe I should say the same to you."

He opened his mouth to retort, but she slammed the door and looked around her surroundings.

The first thing Lisa noticed was how different the room was from the rest of the condo. The furniture was old fashioned and made of light wood. It looked like it belonged to someone's elderly mother or grandmother. She touched a patchwork quilt rolled up at the foot of the bed and furrowed her brow. Maybe Jackson's decorator thought it would make guests feel more at home? How weird.

Lisa peeked into the connecting bathroom. An array of products were neatly lined up on the gleaming marble counter next to a stack of folded towels. It was like being at a fancy hotel. She wondered if Jackson had arranged this in advance for her.

Lisa picked up a travel-size bottle of shampoo and unscrewed the lid. The heady fragrance of peaches and roses wafted through the air, and she blinked in surprise. It was her favorite brand. In fact, it was what she used in lieu of perfume. People were always commenting on the 'scent' she wore, and she would thank them with a secret smile.

She wasn't smiling now.

Get a grip, she told herself. Don't read into this.

But it was impossible not to. The shampoo was French, and she special ordered it online. It wasn't a common thing Jackson could find at the corner drugstore. Between this and the weirdness that had transpired between them earlier, Lisa was finding it difficult not to entertain the idea of her feelings being reciprocated. Perhaps this was the Lima syndrome she learned about in therapy. Maybe Jackson was experiencing reverse Stockholm syndrome.

Lisa hugged her body as though it would somehow contain her scattered energy. Sleep. She needed to sleep and stop thinking so much, but first she needed a change of clothes. A cursory look through the bureau and closet yielded no results. She'd have to ask Jackson. Either that or sleep in the nude—she'd rather not take that chance.

She padded down the hallway and stopped outside Jackson's door. Her knock was soft and hesitant, but he was quick to answer.

"What is it, Leese? You need me to tuck you in?"

"Hilarious, Jackson," she scowled. "No, I want to borrow something to sleep in."

He sighed as though the request was the most taxing thing he'd ever heard, but he strode into the closet and returned with a bundle of clothing that he dumped into Lisa's arms.

"Goodnight," he said and shut the door.

"Jerk," she muttered.

Back in her room, Lisa undressed and got changed. As she pulled his t-shirt over her face, the musky scent of Jackson enveloped her. She thought about their closeness earlier in the day and shivered. She knew there was no way she would sleep tonight.

Lisa spent the night tossing and turning, and when she did manage to get a few minutes of sleep, she found herself dreaming of Jackson. Needless to say, she was relieved when morning came, and she heard clattering in the kitchen. She sat up and pulled her hair into a messy bun before joining Jackson in the kitchen.

"Good morning," she said.

"Hey," he responded not looking up from his newspaper. "There's food on the stove."

She picked up a plate and helped herself.

"Thanks for the stuff in the bathroom," Lisa said as she sat across from him at the table.

"Stuff?"

"You know, the shampoo—and stuff."

"You can thank Martin for that," Jackson said as he flipped through the paper. "He's the one who stocks my household."

"Oh," Lisa said, feeling deflated. She stabbed at her eggs.

So it had been Martin who picked out her shampoo, not Jackson at all. She tried to ignore the waves of disappointment washing over her and glanced in his direction. He was brooding over a headline,

"What is it, Jackson?"

"I guess you could call it kismet," he replied as he pushed the paper towards her. Lisa picked it up and stared at the photo of an attractive young couple beaming at the camera. The headline read "Dunsworth's Raises Money for New Charity."

"Kismet?" Lisa repeated. "Who are these people."

"These are the targets," he answered in a low voice. "The agency thinks you're ready."

The fork Lisa was holding clattered to the floor.

"No, I'm not ready. Jackson, please—"

"Sorry, Leese. Welcome to the world of management," he said. "Get your game face on. We start casing them today."