CrissCross (Crossroads Book 1) Page 17

  “I know, peaches,” he said grimly. “I understand.” Stepping back, he informed her, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get the cops up here before they leave the building.”

  She had forgotten about the scene they had left downstairs. “Alight. I’ll be okay,” she assured him.

  But that was before she decided to walk down the hallway to investigate the rest of her apartment while he was gone. When he came back—two of the four officers in tow—he found her dropped to her knees and sobbing in the doorway of her weaving room.

  Whoever was responsible for the vandalism had pulled balls and skeins of yarn from their cubbies. Most had been pulled apart, unraveled and left in knotted masses. The worktable was turned over and loom parts scattered—some broken and splintered. The worst of the damage, though, was the pottery pushed off the shelves and left in shards on the floor . . . and the beautiful half-finished plaid piece on the loom that had been destroyed. They had taken knives from Jimi’s own butcher block to the weft strands. Not one was left intact. What she had already woven was lying on the floor and most of it had been ripped apart until it was a mess of blue, green, black and white yarn and cord. There was maybe only a one-foot square of the plaid left intact on the floor.

  Chance felt someone push him aside and saw Roscoe crouch down to gather Jimi in his frail arms. “Lawdy,” he murmured. “Come on, honey,” he coaxed, pulling her to her feet.

  She had no fight in her so she moved like a zombie along with Roscoe out of the room, down the hallway, through the living room, out her front door and into the corridor. Chance followed.

  Officer Riley, who had questioned them in the entryway earlier, joined them after her quick walk-through and asked Jimi if she felt strong enough to go through her place with them to see if anything was missing.

  Chance was impressed yet again when she squared her shoulders and fought back the emotions that had driven her to her knees. She took his hand and they accompanied the police, taking stock of everything in her place. Nothing of real value was missing . . . only a half empty bottle of wine from her ‘fridge, a few DVDs, and some cheap quirky costume jewelry from the jewelry box on her dresser. She didn’t have expensive jewelry, so it couldn’t have been stolen to be fenced.

  “Kids again,” Chance muttered to Roscoe in annoyance.

  Officer Riley commented, “This one feels like it’s personal. They weren’t here for stuff. Do you know anyone who would want to vandalize your place like this?”

  Jimi shook her head.

  The officer shot a quick glance toward Chance. “Any exes that might be upset that you’ve moved on from them to someone new?” she asked.

  Jimi choked out a laugh that was more like a sob. “No. No exes that would care about that.”

  Chance wondered again how that could be. He wouldn’t do such a thing, but he’d sure be upset and would give it his best shot to win her back if he lost her. He shook his head. Now was not the time to wonder about his quickly developing feelings for her.

  Riley continued, “You have family involved with the Vagabonds MC,” she remarked. “Any kind of . . . oh, I don’t know . . . vendettas between the club and anyone?”

  Jimi expelled that same laugh/sob sound. “No,” she scoffed. “Vagabonds are all about a good time. They don’t tangle with other MCs. You’re a cop. You’d know that the kind of trouble they find wouldn’t lead to anything like this.”

  Riley nodded. “I just have to ask. I know they all attended a rally last weekend and sometimes the clubs can bump heads.”

  “Nothing like that happened,” Jimi assured her.

  Chance stepped in. “Shad Tyler,” he stated firmly, startling everyone.

  “What?” Jimi and Roscoe gasped simultaneously.

  Officer Riley’s eyes went sharp. “Shad Tyler? You mean the Crosswinds building manager’s son?”

  “I’m not saying I’m sure it was him, but he’s upset with Jimi. Last time I saw him he was staring daggers at her.”

  “Why would he be mad at Ms Alexander?” the officer asked.

  “Oh, no . . .” Jimi protested. “I don’t think he’d—” her voice choked off on a gulp.

  Chance stared into her eyes. “This feels like something an angry kid would do to get back at someone. Just fill Officer Riley in and let her look into him. If it wasn’t him, she can clear him and find out who really did it.”

  Jimi blinked at him. “I just can’t believe he would do this . . . it seems like it would require more effort than he’d be willing to make . . . but, alright.”

  She turned to the officer and filled her in on Shad overhearing her warning Bethany about him and his shady friends. Riley asked more about his friends, but Jimi, Chance and Roscoe didn’t have any information on them except the fact that they often hung out behind the dumpsters.

  At that point, Jock and Nova came barging in and stopped short just inside the door. “What is going on?” Jock yelled.

  Chance pulled Jimi close. “Sorry, peaches. I forgot to tell you I texted your folks.”

  Nova looked like she was about to go off like a firecracker. “What in th—”

  Chance steered Jimi toward her mother. “Nova, why don’t you take Jimi over to my place?” He dug his keys out of his front pocket and thrust them at her. “The cops’ll be leaving soon and we’ll get this cleaned up. She doesn’t need to be here for that.”

  “But—” Jimi began to protest before a newcomer arrived and cut her off.

  A biker babe with even more voluptuous curves than Nova’s (and that was saying something) and a huge cloud of teased black hair came sailing in. “That’s a good idea, hottie,” she directed to Chance. “Nova, get ‘er outta here. We got this,” she bossed.

  Chance grinned despite the circumstances. “Thanks, Gypsy,” he said to one of Jimi’s loved ones he’d met the previous evening.

  Jimi—who was being pulled toward the door by her mother—stopped short and looked at Chance in horror. “Oh no! Chance! Your mom . . . we told her we’d be over there soon for dinner.”

  “Don’t even worry about it, peaches. I’ll give her a call.”

  “Bu—”

  “Peaches, she’ll understand,” Chance assured her.

  When they got to the hallway, more of the Vagabond family came thundering up the stairs. It was obvious that after Chance contacted Jimi’s parents, the word got out to everyone else. Two other bikers led by Zip and Axel stopped long enough to hug Jimi before moving into her place. She could hear the loud cursing even after Nova shut Chance’s door behind them.

  Nova snooped in his refrigerator, but couldn’t find any wine. She tried to push a beer into Jimi’s hands, but Jimi dug a leftover soda out of the cooler she dragged into the apartment when they had entered instead. Once Nova had her daughter settled on the sectional, she went back to Jimi’s so she could keep an eye on the clean up operation. Since she left the doors open, Jimi could hear her family and Chance working inside, Nova moving back and forth between the work and her girl.

  After thirty minutes or so, Jimi sat with her head resting on the back of the sofa and her eyes closed, willing away the massive headache working behind her eyes. She heard the tell tale sound of leather sleeves brushing against leather jacket . . . breathed in the distinct blend of leather, outdoor air, Irish Spring soap and tobacco. It was one of her most favorite blended fragrances and she’d often wished it could be bottled. It was her pops. She opened her eyes and saw him standing next to her with that scrap of woven tartan in his hands, looking at her tenderly.

  “I love it, baby girl,” he said in a choked voice.

  She burst into tears. It felt like forever that she bawled in her father’s arms. He didn’t say anything. He wasn’t a “there, there, it’ll be okay” kind of father. He wasn’t a “buck up, stop your cryin’ and get tough” kind of father either. He was the kind of pops who’d always let her feel her feelings and he’d be there like a rock while she did. He was also the kind of father who wou
ld threaten to call his posse and kill anyone who hurt her, so that could get pretty dicey until she’d talk him down.

  She finally pulled it together and was wiping her face with the hem of his tee he’d offered up when another visitor arrived. Since her face was buried in his stretched out t-shirt, she didn’t see this visitor. She only heard the soft sound of a surprised “Oh!”. She lowered the fabric and looked toward the open door to see Chance’s mother standing there looking beautiful and elegant in a long cashmere sweater coat the color of a glass of merlot over a beige silk blouse and trim black jeans. She was cradling a heavy cardboard moving box and staring at Jimi and Jock in horror and suspicion.

  Jimi pulled away from him and stood on shaky legs, exhausted after the shock and emotion of finding her apartment trashed. “Suzanne!” she exclaimed.

  “Umm . . . uh . . . I’m sorry. I should have called first, but—”

  “No. No, it’s nice of you to come,” Jimi assured her. Realizing her father had risen and was standing close beside her, she motioned toward him. “This is my father—Jock Alexander,” she said lamely. “Pops, this is Chance’s mother—Suzanne Reynolds.”

  “Yo,” he greeted.

  “Hello,” Suzanne responded awkwardly. She was looking at him like he was the Swamp Thing, but it was nothing Jimi wasn’t used to because he was very rough around the edges with his wild gray/blonde hair and scruffily handsome face lined from a lifetime in the elements on the back of his Harley and landscaping work. “Chance is over at my place,” Jimi informed his mom.

  Jock stalked toward Suzanne with purpose and stopped directly in front of her. He was rough, fit and wiry, but he wasn’t a large man. Even so, her eyes had gone wider and wider as he approached.

  He reached out for the box she forgot she was holding. “Here. Lemme get that for you,” he said in his gravelly voice. She didn’t respond, but he tugged the box away from her anyway. He peered inside. “Smells good,” he complimented before turning on a boot and strolling toward the kitchen. Suzanne’s eyes focused on the Vagabond patch on the back of his leather cut.

  “It does, Suzanne,” Jimi agreed regaining the woman’s attention.

  Suzanne opened her mouth to speak, snapped it closed, and opened it again. “I-I ju-just thought since you couldn’t come by for dinner, I would bring it to you.”

  Jimi approached her and threw her arms around the older woman. “That is so nice of you,” Jimi sniffled.

  “Oh, man . . .” Jock muttered. He looked intensely into Suzanne’s eyes. “You got this, Suzy?” he asked, jerking his head toward his daughter.

  Suzanne blinked at his shortening her name. No one had ever in her life called her Suzy. “Um . . . sure. Yes, I . . . uh . . . I got this,” she assured him.

  He winked at her in thanks, dipped to swipe the tartan off the sofa and folded it neatly. By now Jimi had pulled away from Suzanne and was watching him. He folded that small scrape of weaving carefully before putting in the pocket of his cut.

  “Gonna keep this, baby girl. Alright?”

  “Sure, Pops, but I’m going to restart the piece for you,” Jimi vowed.

  “You don’t need to, Jimi girl. This is perfect.” As he moved past her toward the door, he reached out to run a callused hand over her cheek. “I’ll get back to work over there.” He looked at Suzanne. “Thanks, Suzy. I’ll let your boy know you’re here.”

  “Thank you, Jock. Lovely to meet you.” And Suzanne said that without any trace of irony.

  Jimi and Suzanne took seats in Chance’s living room as Jimi filled her in on the drama. Within a few minutes Chance came in, a look of shock on his face.

  “Mom, you really didn’t need to come by,” he said.

  “I wanted to. It sounded like Jimi was upset and I thought I’d just come sit with her and bring dinner by. Or I could help clean up if you need another pair of hands.”

  “No, we’re good. It shouldn’t take much longer.” He turned to Jimi. “We’ll have to clean the upholstery and strip and stain the entertainment center in the next few days after we get the supplies for that. All or part of the living room rug may need to be replaced.”

  “Wait,” Jimi gasped. “The entertainment center?”

  “Bleach damage.”

  “Oh. The living room rug?”

  “Bleach spilled on your woven rug and the yarn dyes bled into the carpet underneath.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but your little rug is probably a lost cause.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t notice any of that damage.”

  He dropped onto the sectional beside her and ran his hand over her hair. “I know. It was overwhelming.”

  Jimi nodded. “Anything else you need to break to me?” she cracked.

  “Just that they trashed and spilled out a bunch of your girly bathroom stuff. But you saw some of that. There might be more that needs replaced than we realized.”

  She squared her shoulders. “Okay.” Taking a deep breath, she told him, “Your mom brought dinner.”

  Chance looked up to take in his mother’s concerned face. Wow. This was not the mother he had grown up with—or without, to put it more accurately. “Thank you, Mom. That was really thoughtful of you. It might be another hour or so before I’m done, but you two could go ahead and eat.”

  His mother consulted his girl. “Jimi honey, do you want me to fix you a plate?”

  “I’m not really hungry. Maybe when Chance is finished I could eat something. It does smell amazing, though. You should go ahead.”

  “No, I can wait too.”

  Chance added, “Mom, really . . . you don’t need to wait around. If you need to get back hom—” He broke off when her expression changed.

  She looked like he’d slapped her. Had he hurt her feelings because she was afraid he was rejecting her? He thought about the people across the hall that had dropped everything to be there for family. Hadn’t she just done the same? His impressions of her were spinning, her character changing into something completely different than it had ever been . . . like those optical illusion drawings that looked like a rabbit one second and a horse’s head the next.

  “But if you want to stay and keep Jimi company, I’d really appreciate that,” he amended.

  Her face cleared and Chance thought he’d never seen her more beautiful. “Yes, I think I’d like to. Then I can reheat our dinner and we’ll eat late.”

  Jimi had been watching the two of them and a sense of satisfaction came over her. Maybe there was hope for the Loughlin-Reynolds family. “Chance?” she called to him as he turned for the door. “Why don’t you take your mom over and show her the mess. You can introduce her to the rest of my family. She hasn’t met my mama yet.”

  Chance seemed doubtful at first, but then agreed. “Yeah, alright. Mom, do you want to come over for a few minutes?”

  “Well, only if you’ll be okay alone for a little bit, Jimi.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Jimi assured her. “The doors are open, so I can hear a lot of what’s going on over there anyway. I won’t feel alone.” She watched the two of them walking away. “Suzanne?”

  “Yeah, honey?”

  “They’re really good people. They’re not as scary as they might first appear,” she warned, biting her lip and hoping against hope that this wouldn’t turn her off and cause her to discourage Chance from staying in a relationship with Jimi.

  Suzanne nodded, gave a little smile and went to meet part of the Vagabond family.

  • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

  Chance, Suzanne and Jimi were relaxing in his living room after the clean up was done, the Vagabond crew had left, and they had enjoyed Suzanne’s excellent roast. Chance hadn’t had that since he was a little boy and marveled at the fact that she remembered that he preferred mashed potatoes to the ones she roasted with the beef. She even fixed his plate the way he had liked it . . . a bed of mashed potatoes topped by shredded roast and smothered in gravy with roasted carrots surrounding the
whole mess.

  While the women had been waiting for Chance to finish the clean up, several neighbors dropped by to check on Jimi and to offer their sympathies. Willy even brought coffee and a little plate of generic store brand vanilla wafers for them. The coffee was instant, but Jimi went on and on expressing her appreciation and drank every drop. Suzanne had followed suit.

  Now Chance had his mother and Jimi laughing over stories of the food that Willy had made him over the past couple of years.

  Suzanne chuckled, “Well, it’s the thought that counts.”

  “It is,” he agreed. “And I think tha—” A sudden knock on the door interrupted him.

  Axel was standing there holding a doubled up plastic grocery bag when Chance opened the door. “I started to knock on your door, but I heard you laughing over here,” he said to Jimi.

  “Come on in,” Chance invited.

  Axel walked over and handed the bag to his cousin.

  “You met Chance’s mom, Suzanne—right?” Jimi asked him.

  “Yeah. Hey, Suzanne. Sorry . . . Jock said it was Suzy.”

  To Chance’s surprise, she smiled and commented, “Either one works.”

  Jimi was digging around in the bag. She pulled out a bottle of wine, three-pound bags of sugar and flour, a can of coffee grounds, and a gallon of banana ice cream. She shot Axel a comically exaggerated horrified look. “Holy frig! Did they get the banana ice cream too?!”

  “No,” he snorted. “But haven’t you been on my case to replace the ice cream you accused me of stealing.” He slumped down next her—taking Chance’s spot.

  “You did steal my ice cream. I never thought you’d pay it back though.”

  “I’m not admitting to stealing it. I’m only bringing you more out of pity.”

  Jimi grinned and planted a smacking kiss on his scruffy cheek. “Thanks, cuz. Anyone want ice cream?” She took a visual poll and got negative head shakes. “Wine?”

  Suzanne smiled, “Not me. It’s late and I should be getting home.”

  “So, that’s a no to coffee too, I’m assuming,” Jimi inquired as she shook the can in the air.