Jackson fumed when he saw the second cash advance on his card, but this time, he had a destination. A place to go find his girl.
"And of course, kitten, you're always dumb enough – or smart enough – to come home. It would have been preferable if you'd come right to me, but I suppose I can drive a bit." He punched up a hotel reservation in the French Quarter, knowing it would be far away from anything Meg had picked to live in or near, which was just fine with him. Meg had always described her preferred housing as earthy. She came from people she described as 'salt,' whatever the fuck that meant, and he came from people who described salt as flaked, exotic, imported, and on chocolate-coated truffles, thank you.
Jackson prowled his bedroom as he packed, having no real pattern as he moved, packing a dress shirt here, a pair of slacks there, hurling a picture frame into a wall as the mood struck him. "You turned me into such a disaster, Meg," he murmured, "But that's about to be all over. You're coming home soon, and we can fix all this. Pick up right where we left off." Jackson bent down to lift the photograph out of the broken glass and wood of the frame, shaking off the shards as he moved. "I was happy when we took this," he remarked.
In the photograph, Meg was pushing herself away from his chest, turning her head, her face contorted into a pucker that could have been construed as teasing avoidance. To an outsider, the photo was playful and lighthearted, a couple engaged in horseplay. To anyone who knew Jackson and Meg, she was trying desperately to force Jackson away from her, her face a grimace of revulsion. "Happy," Jackson emphasized, "And you took all that, you stupid bitch." Clicking the locks on his suitcase, he drummed his fingers on its edge. "Time to take a few things back, Meg."
Joe, having traded the expanse of the parking lot for the linear drudge of the highway, went over and over the night in his mind. Colby, fine, whatever. They'd never been that close, and nearly taking his head off would be good for ratings. 'Besides. I felt...something. Finally. And it felt good.' But later, with Randy and Dave, none of that felt right. Joe's eyes trailed up to the rear view mirror, where any other time Meg's medallion would be dancing from the bottom of necklace as he drove. Now, her – his – medallion was with Randy, wherever he was. 'Maybe she was right. She's ruined my friendship with him, she's taken my focus completely off my work, she destroys things. If she's gone, she's gone. I need to let it be. My fiancee wasn't right for me – and neither is Meg.' Pressing the gas pedal down even harder, Joe continued driving, planning on getting a hotel in a town closer to their next venue. He knew he was trying to get away from his own mind, as it was feeding him ideas he wasn't quite sure he was ready to believe, things he knew he shouldn't have said. 'No, you can't say let it be. Why did you keep that note if you wanted her to be gone?'
Joe pounded the steering wheel as he drove, feeling the slightest twinge low in his stomach. Whether it was from Randy's reaction in the parking lot, driving too much, drinking, stress, who knew. He didn't care. Everything had come apart around him, and all Joe could think about were the two slender, cold hands that, in the past, had pieced everything back together for him.
Randy drove in silence in his SUV, Meg's necklace dangling from one hand as he noodled from lane to lane, far ahead of Joe en route to the next city. Dave, in the passenger seat, stifled repeated yawns while staring at the screen of his phone, waiting.
"She's not gonna call tonight." Randy's voice broke the tension, low and tired. "She was shitfaced when she talked to me. Said she was close to Jackson and...well, you know. Tried calling Joe, he didn't answer, more bullshit."
"Tried calling Joe?" Dave looked genuinely confused. "Look...no offense, but I wasn't paying much attention to conversation. I was more trying to get you not to snap Mop-Hair's head off."
Randy ducked his head, rubbing one hand around his face and behind his neck, trying to organize his thoughts along with Meg's conversation, all while feeling far more of the beer than was safe to be driving under. Giving up, he pulled off to the shoulder and turned to face Dave, who was already rummaging around his triage bag.
"Here. Water, sugar tabs, plain crackers, mint gum, and please don't puke on me. It's a big SUV, but not that big."
Randy, who hadn't realized his hands were shaking as badly as they were, couldn't get the crackers unwrapped or the gum out of the packet. Dave ended up opening the bottle of water, and was surprised at how much Randy spilled trying to get it to his mouth. "You're scared, not sick."
Dave passed the gum over to Randy, who half-smiled at the wrapper before putting it in the console. 'Meg used to make those into paper cranes.' "Fucking right I'm scared."
"Look...I know you care about her...but is there something else I need to know about?"
Randy bunched her necklace up into his hand. "Bad timing. That's all. Move on."
Dave pressed his eyes shut tightly. "Is 'stubborn' a disease with you three? Jesus Christ. Fine, fine. So she was calling Joe? Then I don't get it. Why was she telling us to make sure he didn't call?"
"She didn't have callback numbers. They're all private or blocked when they show up, remember? Call cards, burner phones, that kind of shit? Joe wasn't picking up her calls, probably because of how they displayed, and if he called her but she found Jackson and it rang in front of him, it'd be bad. She gave up after a while, I guess. That was when she told us to make sure he didn't bother."
Dave was silent for a second, seemed to grow tighter, smaller, more tense as he pressed himself into the seat. "That asshole." Dave's voice exploded into the interior of the SUV. "She would have come home by now if he just...he could have told her...I don't know! Anything!"
"I know, man. I know." Randy's eyes were fixed on her necklace in his palm. "And now I think we're gonna put this on a corpse, if we even find her at all." He shook his hands out one at a time, passing the necklace between them, and then restarted the SUV. "Let's just go. Wherever she is, she is. She'll call tomorrow."
"Let's hope you're right." Dave's voice held no optimism.
Jackson threw his suitcase down on the floor, tossing a fifty-dollar bill dismissively at the busboy behind him who lugged a trunk with no small degree of effort. "Right. There." Jackson pointed to the foot of the bed. "Then leave."
The busboy pursed his lips together, pushed out a toneless, "Merci," and backed out of the room. "Mon dieu. Asshole," he muttered quietly once he was a goodly distance from the room. "Et mon dieu, a trunk full of merde besides. I need a drink." Thankfully, the end of his shift was near and he could head to his favorite dive in the bottoms, and to his favorite bartender.
If only Jackson knew how close he really was to Meg.
Taking out a local phone directory and making short work of crossing out the places that were too expensive, too formal, too close to high-end neighborhoods, too close to the airport or anywhere else she might run into someone she knew, too touristy, anything attached to a strip club, and anything not "low" enough – Jackson was left with a list of twenty or so different bars to cover in his time in New Orleans. Official bars, anyway. He'd have to...encourage...the locals to give up the names of spots that weren't officially sanctioned or were after-hours, just to be sure he turned every rock to look for her.
He'd be sure she knew he was looking for her, too. Sometimes, that was all it took. "Maybe, kitten, you'll just show up on my doorstep. Like the stray you are." Jackson phoned for a rental car. "And, you're too much fucking driving, Meg. Far too much fucking driving."
Meg ran between tables, dodged behind the bar, kept herself busy all night, and slugged down shot after shot, all gifts from her regulars, until the floor started to float underneath her. 'Perfect,' she thought, 'This is just what I need in case he shows up. It can't be much longer. He knows I'm here, I just ran him for two large. It won't hurt so bad.'
The door jangled open, and in floated Albain, still in his uniform from his hotel shift. "Meggie! Maintenant, il est temps de celebrer!" He wrapped her up in a quick hug before scooting onto a bar stool. "Mon dieu, what a fool we had at the hotel today, my Meg. A fool! A man and his trunk needed to be parted, tout-suite! The thing was heavy, and the suite, top floor, of course." Meg's hands gave out as she poured shots, and she dropped the bottle onto the floor behind the bar.
"Al...Albain...what did the guy look like?"
"Ah, cheri, what do they all look like? Tall, dark, and too much money. Threw a fifty dollar bill at my feet. Like I am some common dog! Lucky for us both, it all will spend here tonight, eh? Bonne nuit, my Meg!" Albain pushed the fifty across the counter to her, and pulled the over-filled shots toward himself, oblivious to the massive tremors going through Meg's hands. Picking up the money like it would set itself on fire, Meg looked it over carefully. No message in the margin, no phone number, nothing. She went to put it in the till, but then her hands – they reeked of Jackson's cologne. Nobody she'd ever met, ever in her life, had ever worn the stuff. Citrusy sandalwood with an awful leaf-smoke undertone, it stuck to everything it touched.
He was here. He was disturbingly close, exactly as she both wanted and never wanted.
"Albain, that monsieur with the trunk," Meg shouted over the din of the TV and pool tables, "When you see him again, tell him to come here for drinks."
"Oh, non, non, Meggie. He is not for this place, mon cher, you have to see that."
"I know, Albain. Just...consider it a favor to me, oui?"
It took a few days – Meg knew Jackson wouldn't take well to being told to do anything – but he did show up, camping out at a table in the corner of the bar until near closing time, not understanding that "closing" was something that, while legally required to be posted, was not always legally followed, especially in that area of town. An extra half hour passed, then an extra hour and a half, and by the third time Jackson dramatically flicked his wrist watch out from under his shirtsleeve, Meg knew she was in trouble. Already drunk – 'Just like every night. Just hold it together. Have faith and hold it together. It doesn't work if you don't. You can handle this, Meg' – Meg threw back a few extra shots and lit a cigarette for good measure, being sure to hide her lighter far under the counter. 'If he can't find it, he can't...use...it' she reasoned.
With the last regular finally out the door, Jackson rose from his chair, the legs scraping thickly against the sticky floor. Not bothering to put cash on the table, he made his way to the bar, where Meg stood shivering in the heat, counting out the drawer for the night. 'Never thought I'd hate closing out alone.'
"Kitten."
Meg swallowed hard and dared a smirk. "Took y' long 'nough." 'Sound the part, Meg.'
"Don't fuck around with me, Meg. Shut your smart fucking mouth unless you're going to do something useful with it." He grabbed her arm and hauled her over the counter, sending the drawer to the floor, throwing Meg down to the floor on the other side, taking down several stools with her.
From her tangled heap on the floor, Meg moved slowly, trying to buy time to consider her options. 'I have to keep him interested enough to come back a few times. Just a few. He's gotta get comfortable.' "'Kay. 'Kay, Jackson, y' were right. I was dumb t' go, an' it took a long time t' see it an' come home. He fucked me over. Y' were...good t' me. I should-"
He was right, she should have kept her mouth closed. Her teeth came together violently when his shoe connected with the bottom of her jaw, and Meg had to feel around with her tongue to make sure nothing had chipped or broken.
"Whore. Mouth. Shut it. Where's your room?"
Silently, Meg stumbled to her feet. She wasn't drunk enough to be foot-falling over herself, just enough to take the edge off the pain she planned on feeling and knew was coming. She paused at the bottom of the stairs, not sure how Jackson wanted her to work this – he hated it when she 'led' him anywhere, and she had no idea how functional her mouth was.
"Up there? Wow. You picked a winner, Meg. A fucking attic, over a shithole bar." Jackson pushed past her, fisting her shirt around his hand, dragging her behind him. Try as she might, she couldn't catch her feet on the stairs to help balance her way behind him, and her collar was digging into her throat.
"On the bed. Not a sound. And don't bother undressing, I don't need that much and I'm not staying that long." Jackson's belt buckle made an ominous thump as it hit the floor. "You, though – don't get any ideas. You stay right here until I'm ready to take you back home. No running anymore, Meg, or I'm going to make this very unpleasant."
Meg, numb from the waist down thanks to banging over the bar, through the bar stools, and up the stairs, let her mind drift as she counted Jackson's grunts and wondered idly if he'd be done before twenty or thirty. 'I don't care. He said he's coming back. He's going to get comfortable here. And that's when he's going to fuck up.'
As it happened, it was twenty-three before he was done, and her mind snapped back to the night Joe helped her find a shirt, cradled her, took each piece of glass out of her, made her into Meg and not Jackson's Meg, and she felt a cold tear roll down the side of her face.
"The fuck is that shit for?" The gesture wasn't lost on Jackson, who crushed her cheekbones in his hand, mashing her face back and forth, trying to read the expression in Meg's eyes.
"I missed you, 's'all." Forcing out even those words was beyond painful; Meg's mouth refused to move properly, and her heart wanted to vomit at the thought of voicing that lie.
"Good." Jackson's smile was satisfied. "Very good girl. I'll be back in a few days. Try to clean up; you are a fucking mess."
Silently, Meg turned her back toward him, not moving from the bed, but bunching a pillow up against her chest all the same. 'You have no idea, you smug shit. But this ends here.'