Jonquils for Jax: The Rousseaus #1 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 12) (14 page)

…make out for hours.

He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers again. “I promised you greasy fries and cold beer. Besides, don’t you want to know what I think about your script?”

Her eyes flared open, all her blissed-out dreaminess taking flight. The project! Wow, he’d distracted her so much, she’d almost forgotten!

“Yes! I mean, yes, I’m dying to know what you thought!”

Sliding his hands from her face, he punched the address of Club7 into her GPS, then leaned back into the supple leather and smiled at her. “Then let’s get out of here.” Lowering his voice as she pulled onto Blueberry Lane, he added meaningfully, “We’ll stay in another night, Duchess. I promise.”

A delicious shiver sailed down Jax’s spine as she put the car into reverse to head into the city.

It was a forty-five-minute drive from Haverford to Northeast Philadelphia where Club7 was located, which would give Gard more than enough time to talk to her about her script. But first, he’d decided to tell her about what had happened on that fateful day two years ago. He took a deep breath and let it go slowly, forcing himself to stay calm as he prepared to recount the details of the worst day of his life.

“Jax,” he started, as she merged onto the highway, “I gotta tell you a little more about my eyes. Could come up tonight if we run into someone I know. I’d rather you…you know, hear it from me.”

She glanced over at him in surprise, but her voice was gentle. “Okay.”

He looked away from her, concentrating on the broken white lines on either side of the highway lane. “Two years ago, my partner and I were called to the scene of a domestic abuse situation. Mother and two children livin’ with her brother, who was high on meth and wieldin’ a loaded weapon.” He looked over at her and noted the set of her face—deep in concentration, no judgment, no repulsion. He continued. “My partner, Gil, he knocked on the door. We had our firearms cocked and ready. But when Miguel Santiago opened the door holdin’ a rifle, he was—he was hopped up and paranoid, and he discharged his shotgun immediately. Gil’s face was mostly blown off by the blast. Mine took a good bit of birdshot to the upper half.”

She gasped, wincing as her right hand released the steering wheel and reached blindly for him. He caught her fingers between his, lacing them together, holding on tight.

“Go on,” she said in a small, breathy voice.

“Paramedics tried to save Gil, but he died an hour later after endurin’ so much pain, it makes me…makes me…” He blinked against the sudden burn in his eyes, but her fingers squeezed his, giving him the strength to finish. He shook his head and sighed. “Ahhh. Anyway, I—I was relatively lucky by comparison. The skin of my face was peppered with shot, but somehow, by some miracle, I only got one pellet in my left eye and two in my right. They were able to remove them.” He gulped, flinching at the memory of his eyes on fire, his face filled with tiny lead pellets, the scalpel and tweezers plucking them out until the drugs kicked in and he passed out from the intense pain and welcome relief. There were still some pellets of birdshot there, lodged in bone or too deep in the muscle to get at. He’d have them forever. “But they did a lot of damage. Lot of damage. Even after several surgeries, they weren’t able to restore my vision. Ophthalmologist said he’d go another two or three rounds, but he was honest with me—it was a matter of degrees at this point. I’d maybe get a slight bit of the peripheral back or—or some slight measure of the distance. Not enough to matter. I called uncle. I’d had enough.”

She took a deep breath and held it a moment before he heard her release it. When she spoke, he could tell that she was trying hard not to cry. “What…um, I mean, where were you living during that time?”

“Here. In Philly.” He shook his head. “I took early retirement and disability. Blind man ain’t much good to the force.”

“And who was—I mean, who was looking after you?”

“
I
was lookin’ after me,” he said, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the softness of the skin on the back of her hand.

“You were all alone?”

Gard looked out the window and sighed, shaking his head. His voice held an edge of warning he couldn’t help. “Don’t pity me, Jax.”

She cleared her throat and lifted her chin. “I don’t. I’m just mad at your mother and sisters.”

Looking back over at her, he chuckled with surprise. “Is that right?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “They couldn’t come up and give you a hand? Take care of you?”

“I could still walk and talk,
cher
.”

“But you couldn’t
see
. You couldn’t
drive
. And you were in
pain
. I would’ve…I would’ve…”

“What would you have done, Jax?”

“I would have been here. I would have taken care of you!”

His stomach flipped over and he held the breath in his lungs, the fierce promise of her words affecting him more deeply than she could ever imagine. She was kind and loyal, strong and good. She was a fucking work of art, this woman. And for tonight, at the very least, she was with him.

Finally he exhaled, concentrating to keep his voice even. “I didn’t want them here playing nursemaid. I did okay on my own.”

“With bandages covering your eyes? And constant doctors’ appointments? You lost your partner. You lost your job. You were
shot in the face
. Oh! I could scream!”

“Take a breath, Duchess. It’s okay,” he said, adjusting their fingers to hold hers tighter. “I wasn’t all alone. Gil’s sister, Mary, kept an eye on me. Drove me around. Took me to the hospital. Bought me groceries.”

“Oh,” said Jax, flicking a sour glance at him. “How kind.”

Gard nodded. “Yes, she is.”

“Is?”

“Alive and well.”

“His
married
sister?”

“Very
un
married,” said Gard, guiltily loving every bit of her jealousy. But
merde,
it was hot as hell.

“She spent a
lot
of time helping you?”

“She did.”

“Morning, noon, and…night, I guess.”

“You guess right, Duchess.”

She wrangled her fingers from his, clamping them around the wheel. “Well, thank goodness for sister Mary,” she muttered, fuming.

“
Mon dieu!
Do you know her too?”

“Know her? No!”

“Because that’s exactly what I call her. Sister Mary. Because, you know, she’s a nun.”

“W-What?” She shot him a quick look before sliding her eyes back to the highway. Her lips twitched, though she tried to stop them from turning up into a smile. “You’re a jerk.”

He reached for her hand, gently prying it away from the wheel and drawing it to his lips. Kissing the soft skin gently, he murmured, “Aw, Duchess, if you saw the way your emeralds flash when you get a little jealous? Glory Lord, you’d understand. You’d even forgive me.”

She didn’t look at him, but her tongue darted out to lick her lips and she didn’t pull her hand away. “My…emeralds?”

“Your eyes.
Tes yeux, j’en reve jour et nuit
.
”

I dream of your eyes day and night.

His crush on her was making him goddamned cheesy. But Jax? His duchess? She didn’t seem to mind a bit. Her cheeks pinkened and she razed her bottom lip with her teeth.

He opened her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. “Do that again and I’ll make you pull over so I can kiss you again.”

“We’re on the highway,” she gasped, darting him a wide-eyed look.

“I don’t care.”

“You’re distracting me,” she said, shaking her head, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“Good.”
Except, also…not good.
She was driving, and he’d never forgive himself if he was teasing her and she got into an accident. He placed her hand back on the steering wheel and sat back in his seat. “We should talk about your script.”

“Good. Yes. What did you think?” she asked, her voice tentative.

“It has a lot of promise.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely.”

“You liked it?”

“Yes, I did. I think the premise is solid. I know a ton of third-generation cops, and a lot of them are Irish. The twist of her showin’ up for work the first day and bein’ asked to go undercover is great. How’s she goin’ to sidestep turnin’ tricks? How’s she goin’ to get the girls and johns to trust her? How’s she goin’ to stay safe? Great questions. And her father was a department chief back in the day. Fantastic. He’s goin’ to have real mixed feelin’s about the way she’s doin’ her job. Not to mention her boyfriend’s a firefighter. He’s goin’ to be real pleased to find out what his woman’s doin’ every day…or night. There’s a lot goin’ on. It’s good, Jax. Real good.”

“So you think I should pursue it?”

He shrugged. “I mean, I’m an ex-cop turned part-time gardener, so what do I know about Hollywood and TV? But yeah, I was certainly entertained.”

“You’re…what? Thirty?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Thirty-two-year-old college-educated male. Gard, you’re our target market. If you’re entertained, that means something to me.”

“Tricky filmin’ it out there,” he said, referring to California and purposely reminding himself that she’d be going back to Hollywood someday to make her TV show and he’d be left behind. It hurt to think about it, but he needed to be realistic about their time together.

“On the streets?” she asked. “Yeah, I guess. I’ll need to have the production staff look into permits and all. But a lot of the filming would take place at night, I’m thinking. Probably easier to get it approved.”

“You’ll have to be careful with the sets. You know, to keep it authentic.”

She nodded, flicking a grin at him. “Maybe we can take a field trip to some of the more authentic neighborhoods? You know, a little scouting trip? For inspiration?”

Those emeralds sparkled as she glanced over at him, an excited smile brightening her beautiful face. He felt it deep inside, in that place where sacred things are realized, that he’d do just about anything to see her shine.

“Whatever you want, Duchess,” he said.

For as long as I’ve got you…
anything
you want.

***

Tucked protectively into Gard’s side, with his arm around her shoulders, Jax watched his one-time coworkers rally around him, telling stories about his time on the force. They’d been at Club7 for an hour, and though he’d made good on the promise to buy her a cold beer or two, they still hadn’t managed to sit down at a table. Every time they moved an inch toward the dining room, it seemed liked five more guys appeared, all wanting to buy Gard drinks, tell him how good he was looking, and gab about the old days.

Being Jax Rousseau in Hollywood had nothing on being Gardener Thibodeaux at Club7. That was for sure.

It seemed he was universally liked and respected, with cops and detectives from all units of the police department swinging by the gleaming mahogany bar to buy him a drink and welcome him back to the fold.

“Where you been, Gard?” asked Johnny Sanders, whom Gard had introduced to her a moment before.

Johnny’s partner, Phil, chimed in. “Gil and Gard. Gard and Gil. Hear about you two all the time. You were a couple of badass motherfuckers.”

“Hey,” said Gard, squeezing Jax’s shoulder. “Lady present, huh?”

“Yeah, right. Sorry, miss.” The young redhead took a second look at Jax and grinned. “What the heck you doing with this old-timer anyway?”

“Old-timer!” whooped Frankie D., whom Gard had introduced as a fellow detective. Frankie elbowed the gray-haired man, Saul, who stood beside him. “You hear that, Saulie? Gard’s an old-timer. Guess we’ve got one foot in the grave!”

“Know what I miss about Gard?” asked Saul, winking at Jax.

“No,” she said, “but I’d love to know.”

“Come on, Frankie. You know what I’m about to say!”

Frankie nodded, then cupped his hands around his mouth. “GUMBO NIGHT!”

All four men laughed, raising their beer glasses to toast.

“To gumbo,” said Saul. “May it pass through our lips again!”

“Sooner than later!”

Gard lifted his glass in cheers, then they all finished off whatever was left of their beers, slamming their pint glasses down on the bar as Phil ordered another round.

From behind them, Jax heard a slurred voice ask, “Did I hear someone talking about gumbo night?”

While the other four men drinking with them were still laughing and reminiscing among themselves, Jax felt Gard tense beside her, his whole body—every muscle she could feel—flexed, tightening, ready to pounce.

“Brad,” said Gard softly—the sound a curse, a swear—as the man rounded the group and came into view. He was overweight, his belly hanging over the lip of his navy-blue pants, and he had some beer suds clinging to his mustache. He looked harmless, laughable even. But Jax glanced up at Gard, watching his face harden, his lips tightening into a thin slash.

“Gardener Thibodeaux,” said the man in an exaggerated Southern drawl, giving Gard a shit-eating grin. “What y’all doin’ back here at Club7, honey child?”

Jax shifted her glance to Frankie D., who gave her what appeared to be a sympathetic grimace before asking the bartender for a cup of strong black coffee.

She looked back at Brad, who flicked his glance to Jax, his eyebrows riding up with appreciation as he licked his slick lips, leaning toward her. A little of his beer sloshed onto her shoes. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Gard’s voice was lethal. “No.”

“Still holding a grudge, huh?” asked the older man, smirking at Gard.